#it's been bad in ways that are difficult to describe | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cityselcouth · 19 days ago

Text

runway

pairing: rafayel x reader

summary: when your top model meets with an accident that keeps him off his feet for a while, you have no choice but to take on the arrogant Qi Rafayel in his absence. dealing with a creative rut and a temperamental model who has endless amounts of audacity when you have fashion week to worry about is no easy task, and he certainly doesn't make it any better.....does he?

themes: strangers to lovers, co-workers to lovers, mild enemies/annoyances to lovers, celebrity! au, model! rafayel, fashion designer! mc, fluff, angst, slowburn, sexual tension, profanity, alcohol consumption, abadonment issues, petnames, lots of banter, explicit sexual content (fingering, nipple sucking, praise, cowgirl, protected sex), plot with porn, mc is a girlboss with a temper, rafayel is a brat and an asshole, they're both flawed and emotionally constipated lmao

word count: 35.7k

playlist: vogue by madonna, fashion killa by a$ap rocky, xs by rina sawayama, glamorous by fergie & ludacris, fashion! by lady gaga, disturbia by rihanna, louboutins by nesra, city of blinding lights by u2, empire state of mind (part ii) by alicia keys.

lyns notes: i rewatched 'the devil wears prada' (one of my fav movies fr) and this was born 🫡 I am a self proclaimed fashion girlie so this was a total blast to write and celebrity aus are my fav!! unfortunately I have not made it as an intern during fashion week yet, so please excuse the inevitable inaccuracies. model raf you will always be famous to me. enjoy <3

Your coffee was cold.

Simone stared at you nervously, her years of working as your assistant telling her all she needed to know in that moment. She watched as your fingers drummed against the dark wood of your desk, picking up on all the signs of your distress. Your lips pulled into a grimace, the slight tick in your jaw, and how you looked at the cup of coffee before you. All your employees knew that you were strictly a hot coffee drinker.

“How is he?”

She scrambled to answer. “Xavier is….recovering.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, exhaling slowly. “Elaborate.”

“His leg is broken in two places. Some scratches, but thats the extent of his injuries. He was lucky.”

Your frustration with the situation at hand knew no bounds, and your mood soured even further with the new information. Clicking your tongue, you pressed your index finger and thumb against your temple, already feeling one of your headaches coming on. “Send a bouquet with a card to his hospital room.”

“Of course.” Simone pulled out her phone and began making the arrangements. “Anything else?”

“Coffee that isn’t frigid.”

Nodding quickly, she walked over and plucked up the cup from your table, giving you a final nod and stepping out of your office. Out of the dozens of assistants you had had, Simone had turned out to be the most competent and tolerable of all, and unlike her predecessors, had withstood your sky-high expectations and sharp tongue.

One word people would use to describe you is difficult. Others included delightful descriptions such as ‘unreasonable’ and ‘overbearing’, or perhaps the synonyms so many journalists had used in their pieces about you, including but not limited to: uptight, stubborn and ill-tempered. It was to the point where you had to applaud them for their creativity and commitment to the bit, never failing to find a new word to describe you in a bad light, even if you were the fashion world's current darling.

But this world you were so blessed to be a part of was cutthroat and unforgiving. Smiles and pretty manners would have never gotten you out of the tiny apartments you lived in after graduating from fashion school. Even sheer talent wasn’t enough, so you steeled yourself over those arduous years, using your ambition like the sharp tool it was to overcome the hurdles that had blocked your way to the top.

You had built your brand from the bottom up, and it had been worth it. Every tear, every candle you burned late at night, and every nick on your now-perfectly manicured fingers had gotten you to where you were. Some would say you had your success handed to you, but you knew better. You remembered all the times you nearly gave up, all the years you spent running around and interning for brands that treated you like trash. One couldn’t just forget their roots, even if everyone around them insisted on pretending they didn’t exist.

And so here you were, at twenty-seven years old: Y/n L/n, one of the youngest successful fashion designers in the world, and the founder and CEO of luxury fashion label, Lumiere.

For a brand that was merely five years old, it had quickly turned into a status symbol. Owning a single piece of clothing from any one of Lumiere’s high-end collections set one apart instantly. Your designs were exquisite, and your ability to take any fabric and turn it into a work of art was truly extraordinary. Every collection you breathed life into stunned critics and fellow designers alike, cementing your position as one of the most respected creatives in the industry today.

Respected or not, being a woman in power was a tough act to keep up. Sitting on the throne meant you had to rule with an iron fist. You weren’t allowed to slip up or make mistakes.

Especially not with Paris Fashion Week coming up.

The spring and summer collections would be revealed to the world at the most important fashion week. Everything had been going smoothly under your careful watch.

Until, of course, right now.

Yesterday, your top model met with an accident. Xavier Shen had been with you since the very start of Lumiere and was practically synonymous with its branding. Together, the two of you had taken the world's hottest runways by storm with his award-winning walk and your impeccable designs. In terms of real friendships, he might have been the only one you had.

And now, when you needed him, he was out of commission. There was no way he’d be walking for anyone any time soon.

Your black Louboutins pressed into the carpet beneath your feet as you fought off the wave of annoyance that cut through your concern for Xavier. It wasn’t really aimed at him, no, it was because you couldn’t have possibly predicted such a thing happening.

Money– you had lots of it. More than you could count, and enough to never worry about making a dent in your bank balance ever again. What was most important to you now was control.

Simone rushed back in, placing a steaming cup of coffee on your desk with a polite smile. “Anything else?”

Picking up the cup and taking a sip, you savoured the hot, bitter flavour that coated your taste buds. “A closer for the show would be nice. And someone to model the new line.”

Xavier had always been the one to fill in those shoes, sometimes quite literally. Now, you were left to figure out how to replace him temporarily while retaining the integrity of your brand. You couldn’t just take on anybody.

She didn’t flinch at your cold tone. “Sylus Qin?”

You shook your head, resting your elbows against the mahogany of your desk and cupping the mug of coffee, letting its warmth seep into your skin. “He’s walking for the Dior show, which is only an hour before ours. And he doesn’t particularly fit our image.” Sylus was, no doubt, an excellent model and a current favourite, but wasn’t what you wanted representing your brand. “And don’t even think of recommending Zayne Li. He’s been Miu Miu’s poster boy for the last year, and I have no intention of riding on their coattails.”

Simone began listing models, but none seemed fitting. Yes, this was a problem that you had to solve as quickly as possible, but you refused to settle for anything but the best. As she rattled off names, you turned your attention to the floor-to-ceiling window panes that adorned the back of your office, which revealed a stunning view of the city below. The sun was setting, spilling its orange-red rays all over the buildings and buzzing streets of New York.

It didn’t matter how many times you had been met with this view, it would never grow tiresome. New York would forever be your second love after fashion. It was unforgiving as it was generous, a contradictory quality you liked to think you shared with it.

“What about Qi Rafayel?”

You turned back to her at the unfamiliar name, raising a singular eyebrow. “Who?”

“Rafayel,” she repeated his name, tapping the screen of her tablet and approaching you, holding it out for you to see. On it was the cover of the most recent Vogue issue, and on it was a man covered in colour, the white shirt he wore a victim of this photoshoot's concept. Hues of blue and fuchsia painted his cheekbones and neck, and his dark eyes seemed to stare right into your soul, his features somehow striking a balance between sharp and gentle all at once.

“Tell me more.”

“He’s probably the most talked about in modelling right now. GQ named him Model of the Year.” She droned on about everything she knew, and you were once again reminded of her competency. “He’s under the Lemuria Modelling Agency and has achieved supermodel status with how sensational his walk is.”

You hummed, intrigued now. “How come I’ve never heard of him?”

“From what I’ve heard, he’s very selective about who he walks for, which makes everyone want him even more, of course. Word is that he isn’t walking for any fashion week shows yet. He’s refused all offers.”

Oh? Most models jumped at any chance they got to walk for fashion week. It was the pinnacle of the modelling world as much as it was for the fashion world, with every model competing for the coveted few spots on the runway.

Leaning forward, you studied the magazine cover for a few more seconds. He did seem to give off the same regal air that Xavier did, at least from the shoot you were looking at, which meant it was at least worth considering taking him on. Potential was something you’d have to bet on.

“This might do,” you muttered, waving your hand in her direction. “Arrange a meeting with him and his manager and add it to my schedule.”

Rafayel adored a good party.

Sprawled out on the length of his couch with one arm hanging off of it, he lifted his glass with a satisfied half-smile, cocking his head as he observed the chaos that unfolded around him. The mess currently being made would undoubtedly be a problem, but it was one that a future version of himself would have to deal with. Right now, he was content with being the facilitator.

The bass reverberated through his body, the music so obnoxiously loud that it somehow managed to drown out the raucous laughter and chatter that travelled around the large room. He tipped back the glass, savouring the burn of the alcohol that kissed his throat so soothingly. It provided a pleasant buzz, one that he had been carefully maintaining all evening and the night so far.

People were dancing on his coffee table. Corners of the large room were occupied by pairs that were a little too close, but the darkness provided them with privacy. Beautiful women sauntered around, a couple hovering around him like moths to a flame. One even sat on the velvet armrest of the couch, right behind where his head lay and reached out to touch his hair, which would have annoyed him if he wasn’t halfway to drunk already. The attention didn’t faze him in the slightest, he was used to being at the centre of it.

He was the life of every party, the drug that kept it going, and everyone wanted a piece of that sweet high. His parties were all the rage, and anyone with so much as a speck of fame wanted to be in attendance at them, singers, actors and fellow models alike.

Sighing blissfully, he downed the rest of his drink. The delightful thing about alcohol was that once you had had enough of it, you hardly noticed the taste. He looked up at the woman who so boldly played with his hair, watching how she batted her eyelashes and flashed a coy smile at him. A smirk teased at his lips as he entertained the idea of taking his fun a little further.

Nothing could possibly ruin such a perfect night.

“RAFAYEL!”

Oh dear.

He didn’t have to look to know who had yelled his name. There was only one person in the world who could say his name with such astronomical levels of exasperation. His manager spotted him and stormed over, setting one foot furiously in front of the other until he was right beside the couch. Rafayel lazily opened an eye, peering up at the intruder.

“Lovely to see you, Thomas. Here to join in the fun?”

Thomas scowled. “I suggest throwing that expensive phone of yours out if it doesn’t work.”

“It works just fine.”

“Then why haven’t you bothered to answer any of my calls?”

The model sighed and sat up, giving the women at his side an apologetic look. “Excuse me, ladies,” he said, charm oozing out of every syllable that spilled from him. “I need to talk to my friend here, and I’ll be right back.”

With practised grace, he got to his feet and beckoned for Thomas to follow him into the kitchen, which was miraculously deserted. Leaning against the marble counter, he picked up a bottle of gin and poured it into a clean glass before offering it to the frazzled man. When all he received in return was a glare, he shrugged and tipped it back.

“I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day,” Thomas said through gritted teeth, tapping his foot against the floor and folding his arms over his chest. Rafayel barely flinched at his agitation, used to it by this point.

“I’ve been busy.”

His manager scoffed, throwing his hands up in the air. “Busy? You call this being busy?” He gestured to the doorway that led back to the party, making Rafayel wish he was still there, instead of here, facing the wrath of his uptight manager when he wasn’t as drunk as he wished he was for it. Rolling his eyes, he prepared to give his usual excuses and get it over with so that he could go back to his fun.

“Look–”

“No, you look,” Thomas took a step forward. “Your shoot for Vogue was three weeks ago. Since then, you’ve had numerous offers to walk in fashion week. More than any model I’ve previously managed.” The way he phrased it was incredulous, as if he couldn’t fathom how he had managed such a thing. “So I’m gonna need you to tell me why you’ve turned all of them down.”

Ugh. If Rafayel had been just a little faster, he could have been in his bedroom with that woman and avoided this interaction altogether. He placed the glass back down, running a finger along the rim of it as he hummed.

“None of the brands spoke to me.”

Thomas looked like he was about to implode. He shut his eyes, letting out a long-suffering sigh. “You just have to walk. Pose a little. There's no speaking involved. You should know what your job entails by now.”

Rafayel placed a hand over his heart, feeling rather attacked at the moment. “Don’t patronise me.”

To that, he was met with a mirthless laugh. “Patronise you? You’re too smart for me to even try, and yet you still insist on acting like a child.” It was always entertaining when his manager lost his patience like this, and he always turned it into a game of sorts, testing to see just how far he could push back.

“You wound me, my friend.”

“Your aunt expects you to walk for fashion week.”

Of course, she did. Immediately, his easy-going persona vanished, and he clicked his tongue in an attempt to push down his irritation. “Talia wants me to do so much, doesn’t she?”

He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice, but it didn’t matter. His opinion rarely ever did when it was up against his aunts, but he supposed it was his fault. He was the one who had decided working under her would be a good idea, thinking that the familial connection would help further his career. It turned out, however, that while it had certainly given him a headstart, he had become her favourite project.

Back in her prime, Talia had been an extremely successful supermodel herself. After getting married, she didn’t return to the runway, but instead started her own modelling agency: Lemuria Modelling Agency. Since she knew the ins and outs of the business so intimately, she had experienced what felt like overnight success with it.

When Rafayel came along, it was as if she wanted to live vicariously through him, pushing him into shoots and brand deals for fashion houses that she had once worked for herself. It was only recently that he put his foot down and insisted on choosing his projects for himself, refusing to be a puppet for any longer. Surprisingly, she had agreed, and it had somehow worked out even better than before, with his career taking off like never before.

He had no intention of turning out to be another version of her, even if he had technically followed in her footsteps. He was well aware of his worth and he’d be damned if he allowed himself to settle for anything less than perfect.

“You have another offer for fashion week and a contract for a couple of months.”

“I’m not interested.” His answer was immediate. He disliked speaking of work during his downtime, but since he had been ignoring all of his calls, he didn’t have the right to complain about that right now.

“You haven’t even heard who it's for yet.” Thomas groaned. “Lumiere is a highly respected brand. It’s short notice, but you’re lucky you’re being offered the position at all.”

“I don’t care how great they are,” he muttered dryly, reaching for the bottle once again. He despised being told what to do, regarding himself as a free spirit despite his perfectionist tendencies.

For a moment, he thought he had won this argument, taking the other man's silence as acceptance. His presumptuous joy was short-lived.

“Get your head in the fucking game, Rafayel. This whole stuck-up artist thing you have going on might have worked out in your favour so far, but it won’t cut it in the long run.” Thomas snapped, sufficiently vexed. “You will take on Lumiere, and you will walk for them. I don’t care if I have to drag you to Paris kicking and screaming, you're coming.”

Rafayel bit back his surprise at the outburst, feeling his pride take a hit at Thomas’s words. Stuck-up artist? If life had gone the way he had intended it to, then perhaps he would have been exactly that. Not that he was complaining about the life he had now, he enjoyed every second of it thoroughly, for he was nothing if not a patron of indulgence. Still, the accusation stung just a tad.

He was caught so off-guard that he couldn’t respond with his normal unbothered quips. The man in front of him didn’t let up on his glare, but finally moved out of Rafayel’s personal space, clicking his tongue in triumph like a disappointed father would at his child.

“We have a meeting scheduled with them for next week. Don’t be late. And for god’s sake, check your phone. I’ll send over the details.”

With that final statement, Thomas walked out, as eager to leave the party as Rafayel had been to rejoin it just a few minutes ago. With nothing left to do but nurse his bruised ego, he poured himself another drink to keep him company while he sulked over how that conversation had gone so terribly.

You stepped out of the car, immediately holding a hand over your face at a distance that let you see what was in front of you while simultaneously shielding yourself from the onslaught of camera flashes and paparazzi yelling at you to spare them a glance. Forcing a neutral expression, you let your feet carry you to the entrance of the restaurant as quickly as possible, wanting nothing more than to escape the unwanted attention.

Frankly, you should have been used to the paparazzi by now after having dealt with it for five years and counting, but there was something so jarring about having cameras shoved in your face or following you while you tried to go about your daily life. When you started out, all you had wanted to do was create your clothing, but fame had come along with your accomplishments, launching you into a spotlight that was meant for your designs. You had media training and publicists working to keep your image squeaky-clean.

The ambience on the inside provided you with respite from the press, and the tension in your shoulders instantly dissipated. Warm, dim lighting and the pleasant clinking of glasses and cutlery travelled all around you, combining with the smooth jazz that played, creating a melody of its own. This was one of your favourite places to dine, which was precisely why you had chosen it for today.

Walking further into the restaurant, you spotted the person you were here to meet and made your way over. The woman sitting at the reserved table scanned the menu.

“Gabriette,” You smiled pleasantly, making your presence known. She looked up at you, eyes lighting up.

“Y/n!”

Gabriette got to her feet and embraced you politely, giving you a customary kiss on each cheek in greeting. You returned the gesture before removing your coat, draping it on the empty seat across from hers and sitting down.

“I hope I didn’t make you wait too long.” You picked up your menu as a server filled your glass with some water, flipping through the pages.

“Not at all! I’m so glad we could make time to meet.”

Gabriette Dubois was a celebrity fashion designer, much like yourself, whom you had met years ago while in Paris for your first ever fashion week. She was a little older than you but somehow managed to not look a day over twenty-five, petite in every sense of the word. Her own fashion house, Dubois Designs, was all the rage just as yours was. This meant that while you were friendly with her, she was less of a friend and more of an acquaintance.

Competitor would have been the right word.

“How have you been?” She was in New York for a few weeks and insisted on having lunch with you. She was far from your favourite person, but you knew the importance of nurturing and maintaining connections. If not for that pesky reason, you would have cut all contact with her a long time ago. Your temper made it so that you lacked patience when it came to people like her, but thankfully, she lived in Paris, which meant you only had to bite your tongue and force a smile on occasion.

“I’ve been fantastic,” she beamed, her French accent curling the ends of her words. “I’ve been busy the whole time I have been in this city, but you know how it is. The busier you are, the better business is, yes?” The subtle brag was not lost on you.

You suspected she was the one who had called the press. They loved tailing you around anyway, but catching two high-profile fashion designers together? That was the same thing as finding gold to them.

“I know what you mean.” You ordered a glass of red wine after agreeing with her. She opted for some rosé. “Finding time to rest is rare.”

“I bet you miss the days when Lumiere was still a small little thing,” she said with the same smile on her face, but you weren’t naive enough to miss the slight condescending lilt of her voice. While she treated you perfectly well, you knew that she didn’t quite see you as an equal, purposely choosing to turn a blind eye to your achievements. She thought of you as beneath her, even though your success outshone even hers at times.

You didn’t need her approval. All this was a formality anyways.

“Sometimes,” you admitted good-naturedly, choosing not to take the bait. The drinks arrived, and you took a nice, long sip of yours, reminding yourself of why you even agreed to meet her in the first place. “Sorry, I just remembered, I have something I’d like to ask you.”

Gabriette might have had a superiority complex, but this also meant she loved to shove all her accomplishments in other people's faces. Bragging was something she viewed as her birthright, and you had mastered the art of using it to your advantage.

The server returned, and the two of you placed your orders before resuming conversation. “Ask away.”

“It’s about a model,” you started carefully. “My top model is out of commission right now, and I need a replacement for a little while.”

She leaned back in her seat and sipped her rosé. “Oh yes, I heard about Xavier. Go on.”

No doubt she assumed you were about to ask her to help you find someone to take his place. You had no intention of doing such a thing since you were going to meet your potential temporary replacement in three days, thanks to Simone. What you wanted was a little information from someone who had directly had contact with him.

“You’ve worked with Rafayel before, haven’t you?”

You phrased it as if you didn’t know this already, when in reality, you had done your research. It wasn’t your job to do so– you could have easily gotten any of your employees to do it– but this was a big deal. You refused to have just anyone take Xavier’s place, even if it was only for a short while. Simone had already run a background check on him, and you had to admit that from all the surface-level knowledge that you had that he did fit with your brand's image quite well.

Gabriette peered at you from over her glass, raising an eyebrow as she nodded slowly. “Yeah, a couple of years ago. Why?”

“I hadn’t really heard of him until recently.” You placed your glass down, and at that moment, the server returned with your food. She didn’t bother to hide her scoff as she picked up her fork, digging into her salad immediately.

“That’s on you. Rafayel has been around for a while.” She took a bite of lettuce and croutons, taking her time with the morsel before she pounced once more, taking a concealed jab at you. “But I guess it’s expected when you live under a rock. If you weren’t so caught up with insisting on only working with Xavier for even a minute, you would have seen him around.”

You refused to let her get under your skin. So what if you were picky about who you took on? Consistency was something you valued, and you had your reasons, ones that you didn’t have to divulge to her and waste your breath.

A tired exhale left your lips. “I’m thinking of taking him on.”

“Good luck with that.”

Huh. You sat up straighter. “What do you mean?”

“Rafayel is a talented model, no one can say anything about that, but I doubt you’d be able to handle him.”

Handle him? Oddly enough, this statement of hers sounded less like a concealed insult and more genuine. Feigning indifference, you nibbled at your own food. “Why so?”

She laughed curtly, toying with her fork. “He’s a great way to make headlines, that's for sure. The world loves him right now, even with his scandalous behaviour, but when it comes down to it…” You made a mental note to look into what she meant by scandalous behaviour later when she trailed off, silently prompting her to continue.

Gabriette pressed her lips together, a flash of irritation taking over her eyes for a brief moment, but it wasn’t aimed at you.

“He’s a total nightmare to work with.”

Rafayel waltzed into the meeting room ten minutes late, his head held up high like he owned the place.

This did not amuse you, the actual owner.

A man who you could only assume was his manager entered behind him, looking so defeated that you almost felt sorry for him. Almost, because you had no sympathy for people who wasted your time like they had. Simone had gotten you a second cup of coffee to pass the time, and you had just about finished it, ignoring the last few dregs in the cup in favour of narrowing your eyes at the two men.

“I’m so sorry about the delay,” he said quickly, taking a seat at the table after Rafeyel did. “There was– er– unavoidable traffic. I’m Thomas, Rafayel’s manager. Your assistant spoke with me last week.” The excuse was pathetic, and you didn’t miss the brief scathing look he sent the model when he stumbled over the words. The latter looked utterly unbothered, his elbow on the armrest of the chair, his chin resting on his palm.

If you weren’t in such a terrible situation, you would have probably asked them to leave, but not only were you running on a tight schedule, but you were also fresh out of options.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

You looked at Rafayel to finally asses him in person, mild surprise running through you when you realised he was already staring right at you. Most people avoided eye contact with you because of how intense you could be, but he seemed to be having no such trouble; his eyes locked onto yours, a bored look lingering in them.

Now that you were looking at him in person, you had to admit that he was quite breathtaking. You had watched a couple of his most famous runway moments, but the way he looked through a screen did not compare to the real thing. He was positively gorgeous, which wasn’t something you thought all that often, considering you were surrounded by beautiful people all the time. Rafayel, however, was in a league of his own, with soft, dark hair that fell over his forehead and into his mesmerising eyes. Smooth skin that surely had skincare companies begging him to be in their advertisements, lips that were the perfect pinkish hue, and elegant, high cheekbones; he was a work of art.

A work of art whose impudence was currently pissing you off.

“Rafayel,” You finally directly addressed him. “I take it that you’ve agreed to model for Lumiere for the next four months.”

His lips twitched. “It seems that I have.”

“We’re thrilled to have you on board.” You gestured to Simone. “My assistant here has drawn up the contract, which you can take to look over before signing it.” Dutifully, she placed a file before them, which he picked up, flipping through and scanning over the details and terms.

This is where the meeting would usually end. He’d smile, nod and leave, and you’d go back to your office and hopefully review some of the recent sketches you had done. They needed some reworking as soon as possible, especially if you wanted to stay on schedule.

Except it didn’t.

He tossed the contract back on the table. “Thats all well and good, but I have a condition of my own.”

His manager glanced at him apprehensively. Your look on your face must have betrayed how bewildered you felt, because the edge of his mouth quirked upwards in amusement ever so slightly at your reaction.

“A….condition?” You echoed his words incredulously, fingers curling around the Montblanc pen you were just about to hand to him. His smile widened, and he nodded, leaning forward with his elbows resting on the edge of the table like he was about to divulge to you a secret you should have been dying to know.

“Whatever you make me wear, I have to approve of it. I have to like it, or I don’t wear it.”

You weren’t quite sure you had heard him right at first, blinking twice as you registered what he had just said. Honestly, even the idea was so ridiculous that you were sure you had misinterpreted, because this wasn’t a condition. It was a demand, one that he expected you to meet, as if it wasn’t completely audacious of him to do so.

“I’m sorry?”

“You heard me. This is a dealbreaker.”

Thomas looked so alarmed that it would have been funny in any other context. Clearly, he had no hand in this and was just as caught off guard as you were, but nowhere near as outraged.

Simone realised the meeting was going awry, and swiftly swooped in, clearing her throat before you exploded right then and there in the conference room. She was surprised that the pen you were holding hadn't snapped in two yet with how tight your grip on it was.

“I’m sure we can work something out,” she said smoothly, taking over for you as you glowered. “We’re delighted to have you working with us, Mr. Qi.”

No part of you was delighted. Sure, he ticked off all the boxes: attractive, seasoned and acclaimed, but there was something about how he carried himself that didn’t sit quite right with you. This had nothing to do with any of the scandals that he had found himself in, though you had looked into them to make sure it wouldn’t impact your brand. Dating scandals and rumours of him being a womaniser– stuff like that never held any weight for too long, especially not for a man. You didn’t care about his personal life, no, your annoyance stemmed from his haughty attitude.

Rafayel grinned, not bothering to even look at her, winking at you instead for good measure. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

The fucking audacity.

Once they had left, you stormed into your office, your stilettos carrying the heavy weight of the pure, unadulterated rage you felt at that instant. Simone followed, bracing herself for the inevitable downpour of your wrath and clutching her tablet in the hopes it would help her calm you down. Of course, she knew there was no shot in hell of that happening; when you were like this, it would take nothing short of a miracle to placate you.

To say you were a proud person would be an understatement. There were not very many instances where you willingly let someone else have control in a situation, and you were well aware of what your work was worth. There was a reason you were at the top of the game.

It made his condition all the more absurd.

“He has to approve of it?” You seethed, spinning around to glare at the only person around to take the brunt of your fury. “Who the hell does he think he is?”

Simone winced, “It’s certainly….an odd request.”

“A request? A request would be if he asked us for tea, Simone. This is an insult.” He had to have known that, too, unless he was a total idiot. You were starting to believe that because models didn’t choose what they wore. The implication was that you didn’t know how to dress your models, as if all the skills you had honed were worth nothing. “Who the hell does he think he is?”

Despite having just met him, the smug look he had given you was already burned into your memory. You couldn’t remember the last time you had outright disliked someone this quickly.

“Rafayel is eccentric, yes,” Simone said tentatively. He had sounded so confident, like it was a given that you would agree. “But maybe he didn’t mean to offend you?”

“Xavier would never do this,” You groaned, mourning the absence of your darling top model. “Tell me, is there a chance we can get someone else on board instead?”

Unfortunately, you knew the answer without her giving it to you. Keeping your brand's image intact was of utmost importance to you, and you were nothing if not meticulous. Xavier’s sudden unavailability had thrown a real wrench in all your careful planning, and though it wasn’t his fault, it still left you extremely frustrated. Replacing him was nearly impossible, and you were lucky to have chanced upon Rafayel.

Undoubtedly, he would fit in with your curation seamlessly. He’d look fantastic modelling your clothing, and he’d be perfect for the PFW show. The hype that currently existed around him would also help tremendously. Your publicist was about to have an absolute field day with this collaboration.

“He’s our only viable option at the moment. The chances of him disapproving of your clothes are slim to none, anyway.” Your assistant said comfortingly. “It’ll be fine.”

God, you hoped so.

QI RAFAYEL SIGNED WITH LUMIERE?

Word is that the most elusive model of the decade has put down roots with the hottest brand, and boy, does the partnership seem fitting! It’s a wonder, especially with Rafayel's sudden disappearance from the modelling scene right at the height of his career. Known for his fearlessness when it comes to experimental designs and his ability to embody any look, the model is truly at the top of his game, so it makes perfect sense for him to work with a brand that shares that very status.

We can’t wait to witness his comeback with Lumiere very soon!

The fitting room was in chaos when you arrived.

You grimaced at the disarray you were met with; stylists rushing around and shouting various instructions at each other. There were different types of fabric all around, clothing items you could recognise at a single glance, falling off their hangers and display mannequins. Amidst it all stood Rafayel, who looked utterly uninterested, his arms over his chest, wrinkling the deep purple Ralph Lauren shirt he was wearing. The colour suited him.

But why was he still in his personal clothes? In two hours, he was to be at a shoot for the brand's website and social media pages, but here he was, just standing around. At least his makeup was done, you supposed.

“Miss Y/n!” One of the stylists paused her movements and greeted you. “We are right on track!”

Were they? You glanced around at the confusion, stepping over the shoes that were right in front of the doorway and walked up closer to one of the mannequins. Wordlessly, you held your hand out, and immediately they all knew what to do, scrambling to hand you a pin. Placing it between your teeth, you folded over a part of the waist of the pants to readjust the pleating and secured it in place.

“It doesn’t seem like it.” Your eyes sliced back to the model, who was now looking right at you. “He’s not ready.”

Typically, you would never visit a fitting like this, trusting your employees to get the job done. You were too busy to make the time to show up for things like these, simply giving the orders and checking in once the job was done. Even Xavier didn’t get any surprise pop-ins from you, and he was someone you actually cared for.

But no part of you inherently trusted Rafayel to cooperate. The stylist who handed you the pin dropped her voice and signalled towards him. “He’s a little difficult.”

Of course.

Leaving the mannequin, you walked up to Rafayel and levelled him with a stare. “Would you care to enlighten me as to why you’re giving my stylists a hard time?”

He looked around and pointed to the clothing that another stylist held up with a helpless expression. It was a lovely white silk shirt with an asymmetrical cut, the buttons starting at the right shoulder and ending at the left side of the waist. This was paired with trousers to complete the look, but it wasn’t supposed to take away from the shirt, which was the main event.

“I’m not wearing this.”

Irritation was a feeling you were well-versed in. The way it flared up inside of you so quickly when he spoke was still shocking.

“And why not?” You briefly wondered why everyone around you seemed to take pleasure in wasting your time as of late. This was only one of the outfits he had to be photographed in, the others lined up neatly on a clothing rack.

“It’s boring,” Rafayel said casually, as if he were remarking on the weather. “Where's the colour? The life? I look at it and feel nothing.”

Oh, he felt nothing, did he? Briefly, you wondered if he’d feel the slap you were so tempted to give him. All he had done since stepping into your building was insult you and parade around like he was better than everyone, and you didn’t take either of those things lightly. “It’s the highest quality silk and stitching.”

“Everything you’re having me wear is in black and white.”

“I’m so glad you can tell colour.”

Your stylists flinched a little at your apathetic tone, despite being all too used to your snippy remarks. You were hard on everyone who worked for you, but that was only because you held your employees to the same high standards that you did yourself when it came to the work they were supposed to do. Their paychecks certainly made up for it, as did your generosity when it came to granting them leave.

“Black and white is plain.” He sighed dramatically, like the lack of colour was personally offending him. “Chanel already has that rodeo down to the ‘t’.

His audacity left you astounded once more, and you were even more pissed off when you unwittingly realised that he had a point. Still, even if Chanel did have a thing for black and white styling, you liked to think that you had put your unique spin on the clothes that distinguished them from competing brands. You didn’t just think it; you knew your designs were amazing. The man in front of you didn’t allow you to tell him this, since he had already started speaking again.

“If I wanted to wear Chanel, I would have accepted their offer.”

“Why didn’t you?”

You knew damn well that it was a good thing he had agreed to work for you, but that didn’t mean he had to. Rafayel’s lips tipped upwards, as if your annoyance entertained him. “I already told you. I find black and white boring, and even though it’s all I see right now,” he gestured around the room and at the clothing rack, “I don’t think it’s all you’re capable of.”

Was that a compliment? If it was, he was shit at giving them out. Not that you were any better, but that hardly mattered in the grand scheme of things. It wasn’t your job to be nice, it was your job to make sure things got done the way you wanted them.

So, against all your severely miffed instincts, you sucked in a deep breath to calm yourself down. “This collection is already public. We just need the pictures for social media.”

He looked disappointed. “Fine. I’ll make an exception just this once.”

How positively saintly of him. You wondered if he expected you to drop and kiss his feet for making such a compromise.

Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t going to get any of that. You pressed your lips together, deciding you had wasted enough of your time already and that it was time to get back to those sketches of yours you had been putting off. Nodding curtly, you moved to leave, but he opened his mouth again.

“A word of advice?”

Well, wasn’t he chatty today? You sighed, pressing two fingers against your temple and rubbing in the hopes it would soothe you. “You’re going to give it to me even if I say no, aren’t you?”

He proved you right. “If your Paris Fashion Week collection is going to be as uninspired as this, then I suggest you start rethinking it.”

The stylist closest to the two of you gasped.

Uninspired? This was a collection you had revealed recently at a show a couple of weeks ago, and critics had been all over it, practically kissing your feet with the amount of praise they had dished out. Uninspired definitely wasn’t one of the words they had used to describe it.

You didn’t miss the smirk on his lips as he watched you react to his harsh words. He had gotten under your skin, and he knew it. It had been so long since someone had managed to do so that you forgot how it felt, and you despised the feeling. Your eyebrows raised in fury that was plain as day, leaning away from him like his presence stung just as much as his words did.

Rafayel didn’t want to admit it, but he was having way too much fun with this. The day he first showed up at the Lumiere building, he was pretty much dragged there against his will by Thomas. He had heard of it in passing and was expecting yet another high-fashion brand that had lost all its integrity in favour of stagnating and staying relevant through its namesake. When he had looked into its previous seasons, however, he began to begrudgingly appreciate the creativity of their clothing, as well as its authenticity.

Finding out that Lumiere was only five years old came as a surprise, as did the news of the meeting with the founder and head of the company herself. To say that was unconventional would be an understatement. Typically, these types of meetings consisted of him only meeting an assistant or two, but never the designers themselves. Sure, eventually he’d speak to them at a show or afterparty he was obligated to be at, but never had he met them upfront like this.

Moreover, he certainly hadn’t expected the designer to be a beautiful young woman. Rafayel had always had an eye for pretty things, so one look at you was enough for him to see that you were just that. Beautiful didn’t even cut it, actually, so much so that you could probably walk in your own fashion shows.

So you were pretty. Rafayel was aware enough of it, and although he tended to gravitate towards that, you weren’t exactly his type. He typically went for women who were generous with the smiles they gave him and found pleasure in his reputation, the type who giggled at everything he said and touched his arm to make sure their intentions were clear. As far as he was concerned, a type meant there was a pattern involved, and that would be the best way to describe the women he had gotten involved with in the past.

You were too intense for his taste, with your calculating gaze and perfectly pinned-up hair without a single strand out of place. Breathtaking in the most intimidating way. He was all for dancing through life while having a good time and breaking a few rules if he had to. You, on the other hand, looked like you had written the rules and expected everyone else to abide by them.

It was probably a good thing that he didn’t want to get with someone who was technically his boss.

But you were oh-so easy to rile up.

“Uninspired?” You hissed, and if looks could kill, the one you were giving him right now would have probably landed him six feet under. “Excuse me?”

Feisty. My, my, he was going to have a blast with this. Shrugging, he started unbuttoning the front of his shirt, and the stylists, who had been standing frozen while the two of you had a stare-off, jumped back into action. They seemed relieved that he was finally cooperating, one of them assisting him with his shirt and the other holding the one you designed open and ready to slip onto his body.

Your eyes dropped to his now exposed torso as the shirt was peeled off of him for just a second before you sliced them back up to his. That infuriating smirk remained on his face throughout.

“Need some clarification?”

So this is what Gabriette meant when she said he was a nightmare to work with.

“There is nothing uninspired about my clothing,” you snapped, unable to keep your temper from flaring up anymore. “From now on, keep any advice you have to yourself.”

Everything that had come out of his mouth so far had been unwanted, and you were starting to think he was doing it on purpose, especially with how he was watching your every reaction like a hawk. Refusing to dignify him with one, you turned and walked out of the room, emerging into the hallways of the Lumiere building. The familiarity of the decor and soothing warm lighting should have helped with your agitation, but nothing of the sort happened.

Now, you understood why Gabriette said all that stuff about not being able to handle him.

Four months of this madness before everything would go back to normal. In comparison to other things you’ve dealt with in the past, this was trivial. You were a professional, considered a damn genius for your work and the sheer levels of success you were graced with at such a young age. There was nothing you couldn’t do, even if it was dealing with a self-important model that seemingly took pleasure in irking you.

In any case, you could refrain from pushing him out of a window.

“Oh, these are great. I’m gonna have to hide them from Jeremiah.”

Xavier placed the box of chocolates you had gotten him on the coffee table in front of where he sat on the couch. You joined him there, eyes lingering on the cast on his leg that spanned from his ankle up to just below his knee. He caught you staring at it in contempt and grinned.

“Wanna sign it?”

You scoffed and leaned against the throw pillows. “You know I don’t.”

Despite your hectic schedule, you had made sure to set aside some time to visit the injured man now that he had returned from the hospital. His roommate had let you in when you arrived, since Xavier was strictly instructed to stay off his feet as much as possible. The irony of that wasn’t lost to either of you.

“Worth a shot.”

He was pretty much homebound and stuck in that cast for twelve weeks, and after that would have to go through physical therapy for a bit before he was back on his feet. It was certainly a blow to his career’s momentum, especially since it quite literally depended on his ability to walk. Eventually, he’d get back onto the runway, you knew, but you couldn’t help but feel bad.

Considering all this, he seemed to be in a good mood, smiling gently at you. Xavier, unlike you, had endless amounts of patience and had a temperament that was as angelic as he looked. He was plenty successful, and Lumiere was by no means the only fashion house he modelled for, even if it was the one he worked with the most. He had seen the ambitious girl who powered through all the doubts thrown in her face when you had taken the leap and started your brand, and had stuck by you ever since.

This was why he was your only true friend. He had seen something in you when you hadn’t quite figured yourself out just yet. For the past five years, he had stayed by your side without wavering even once, and as a result of this, he could read you like you were an open book.

“You’re upset with me.” He noted. You sighed, shaking your head.

“No, I’m upset with the circumstance.” You gestured towards his leg. “The timing is terrible.”

Xavier quirked an eyebrow in amusement. “Apologies. The next time I plan on breaking my bones, I’ll let you know in advance.”

“Please let there never be another time,” You let out a tired sigh. “Replacing you is a hassle. Get better. I need you back at work.”

“And here I thought you missed me for me.” He lightly teased.

“You know I do.” You looked at him meaningfully. “You know what I mean.”

He did. You had never been the best at being vulnerable or expressing yourself, but he had long since learnt how to read between the lines.

“I’ve heard that you managed to find someone to fill in.” He circled back to your point about replacing him and looked at you expectantly, waiting for you to fill him in on all the happenings he had missed. Things were progressing slower than you would have liked, but smoothly, nonetheless.

Except for one little thing. One person, more accurately.

If you were being honest, you didn’t particularly want to talk about the cause of all your recent headaches. Instead, you eyed his cast again, trying your best to keep the bitterness out of your voice. “Does it hurt?”

“It’s just a dull ache now,” he reached down and scratched over the plaster. “And it’s uncomfortable, but it doesn’t hurt.” Then, he gave you a pointed look. “Do you think I can’t tell when you’re changing the subject?”

Damn. You pulled your hair free from its tight ponytail, letting it cascade over your shoulders and letting your scalp breathe. It wasn’t often you let your guard down like this, but you knew you were safe with Xavier. You also knew that you needed to be as relaxed as possible if you were going to talk about your latest problem.

“I did find someone to fill in.” Your lips twisted in displeasure. “But I’m counting down the days till you return.”

“That bad?”

“Rafayel is impossible.”

Xavier cocked his head to the side. “Thats new. You generally comment on someone's incompetence.”

“Oh, he’s plenty competent.” It was the truth. You almost wished he were terrible at his job, but that wasn’t the case. The pictures for your social media had turned out amazing, and you had spent quite a lot of time looking over them, trying to find a reason to be unsatisfied, but to no avail.

A great model. An exasperating person.

Over the past two weeks, you had seen too much of him. He was constantly complaining about something, showing up late, or making snide comments and going out of his way to make everyone’s jobs harder. You had heard of models that thought they were untouchable, but Rafayel was a whole other level, a bona-fide diva.

If you weren’t so desperate, you would have already fired him. Desperation was not a feeling you enjoyed, but you didn’t want to go through the hassle of having to select someone else to fill in the void Xavier had left in his absence.

“So, what do you mean by impossible?” He propped an arm on the couch's backrest, rubbing the back of his neck.

You indulged Xavier with the details, telling him all about Rafayel’s complaints about your clothing and all the ways he had managed to drive you up the wall. You were frustrated with his behaviour, but also with yourself for being so caught up about it when you had more important things to worry about.

A charity gala you were supposed to attend next week. Prepping for Paris Fashion Week.

“Oh, Y/n. He does sound like a handful.” Xavier muttered sympathetically after you had aired out all your grievances. His admission made you feel a lot better about the situation.

“He’s more than a handful.”

“But I’ve never seen you back down from any challenge.” He remarked. “And thats basically what he’s doing. Challenging you.”

He was right, you weren’t someone who backed down easily. Your conversation drifted to other things: his time at the hospital, the terrible food they made him eat, and other such tragedies. You realised how much you truly missed having Xavier around, being able to talk to someone like this wasn’t something you were able to do often.

You made a mental note to visit him as much as possible.

“It’s a challenge,” Xavier reminded before you left, popping one of the chocolates you had gotten him in his mouth as he gave you one last piece of advice about your Rafayel problem. “Don’t let him win.”

Behind a camera, Qi Rafayel was more than tolerable.

So much about the man pissed you off. From his slow manner of speaking that tested your patience, to the lazy half-grin he seemed to perpetually have plastered on his face, you could probably list out all the things about him you disliked. He made it so easy with his incessant attempts at driving you up the wall.

Still, it was evident that even with all his antics, he was a professional.

Now, he was in archival Lumiere, one of the collections from the start of your career. There were only a few pieces of the structured jacket he wore in circulation since they were handmade. In fact, he was wearing the very piece that had appeared on the runway all those years ago. It hung from his shoulders as he posed, staring into the camera as it shuttered.

You had personally chosen this piece for this shoot, asking your stylists to work with it because you knew he wouldn’t be able to complain. It was a stunning jacket, and apparently, he agreed.

Every few seconds, he’d change the pose, each more dramatic than the last. A hand raised in a flourish near his face, back facing the camera, with him looking back at it, legs spread with his arms behind his head as he stared straight ahead through a half-lidded gaze. Watching him go through the motions like it was second nature was mesmerising.

You were starting to understand his appeal. There was a certain playfulness to his sensuality, and he knew exactly how to use it to his advantage. Something about him felt dangerous, unpredictable in an exciting way, and that quality of his was his greatest selling point.

The makeup on him was bolder this time, accentuating his siren-esque features. His hair was artfully slicked back, different from his normal look and showing off his forehead.

He was going to be on the cover of Elle, styled with Lumiere, of course. In this particular issue, they were going to include a one-on-one interview with you as well, which was why you were present at the shoot. After they were done with him, they’d be taking a couple of shots of you to include with your interview.

And it seemed they had just wrapped up.

The intense expression on his face immediately dropped, giving way to a relaxed one, his eyes travelling around the room until they met yours. The photographer thanked him for his time, but he was already moving towards you. As he approached, a staff member popped up at your side.

“Would you like some coffee, miss?”

You turned to the woman who asked you the question. “Hot, without any sugar.”

She nodded and looked at Rafayel, who had stopped by your side. “And for you, sir?”

“Cold coffee. As much whipped cream and sugar as you can manage.” He dropped a wink in with his order for good measure, and the staff faltered ever so slightly, trying to hide how charmed she was as she left to get the drinks. Once she was gone, he looked at you, his perfect pink lips twitching.

It was obvious that he wanted to say something, and it would no doubt be something that ticked you off. Still, you relented and finally asked.

“What is it?”

He studied you for a moment. “Nothing. It’s just so predictable that you take your coffee plain.”

You bristled. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“I never said there was,” He drawled, and then dropped the subject. “Seems like it's your turn to get behind the camera, Miss Designer. Ready?”

“It’s not my first time,” You said as the staff returned with your coffees. Grabbing yours, you took a slow sip and continued. “We had to model quite a bit in fashion school for various projects and assignments.”

It wasn’t as if you were claiming to be better than him, but you did have some experience. He hummed an idle tune, bringing the straw of his drink to his mouth and sipping it in delight.

You had to bite back a frown at the monstrosity he received, the swirls of whipped cream over milky coffee. There were even sprinkles on the damn thing. You understood his comment about your order being predictable because that being his somehow made a lot of sense. Globs of the whipped cream spilt over the side of the glass and slipped down its length, the entire thing was over the top and messy.

A lot like him, you supposed.

“Want some?” He asked cheekily, tilting the glass in your direction. He knew you were going to refuse, but the way you scrunched your nose and did such a terrible job at hiding your aversion was too entertaining to pass up on.

“I’m good.”

“Suit yourself.”

You shot Rafayel a displeased look, scanning him from top to bottom. The jacket you had so carefully handstitched was unbuttoned and open so that his abs could peak through in the pictures. You didn’t let your eyes linger there, snapping them back up to his.

“Don’t stain the jacket.” You muttered sternly, adjusting the collar of your top and centring your jewellery with one hand, the other gripping the handle of your cup. He was holding his coffee too close to himself for your liking, especially with the way the top of the whipped cream was leaning to the side, as if it was about to tip over any second now.

“Yes, we wouldn’t want that.”

The patronising lilt of his voice told you that he was trying to get a rise out of you, but you knew he liked the jacket. When he had been made to put it on, he had looked at it appreciatively and hadn’t complained even once, which felt like nothing short of a miracle. You purposely looked anywhere but him, instead opting to watch the photographer set up for your turn.

But Rafayel wasn’t someone you could just ignore. His presence was magnetic and all-consuming, and even when he was silent, he was distracting. The effect he had was strange and inexplicable, cutting through your general dislike towards him.

Thankfully, the photographer turned to you and nodded. “Whenever you’re ready, miss.”

Without sparing Rafayel another glance, you handed your coffee to the staff member closest to you and strutted over, taking your place behind the camera. You took a seat on the stool they had put out for you as a makeup artist came over to give you a touch-up and fix your hair. Focusing on the camera lens, you reminded yourself what you were here for in the first place.

But when your traitorous gaze flickered back to Rafayel, he was already looking at you.

Pages filled with sketches lay strewn out over the desk of your home office, with you hunched over them in concentration. You ran your fingers through your hair and tugged at the ends, your other hand gripping your mechanical pencil.

You may have looked like the picture of productivity, but right now, you were feeling the complete opposite. It was nearly one in the morning, and you had skipped out on dinner in favour of trying to get the conceptual designs for the spring collection done. You had been procrastinating working on them for a while now, but with only three months left before the show, the pressure was starting to set in. You usually never left things to the last minute like this – last year you had the clothes ready by this time – but for reason reason, you were having trouble with it.

All you had added to the sketches were a couple of idle lines that changed absolutely nothing. The ideas were good, very reminiscent of the typical silhouettes you tended to go for, but it felt like something was missing.

It felt uninspired.

Not that you’d ever admit that out loud. It was bad enough that you were struggling with what you were supposed to be a genius at, but to use the very words Rafayel did to explain your predicament? That was just humiliating.

Groaning, you ran a hand over your face and leaned back in your chair, your back sore from the horrible posture you had been maintaining for the past two-ish hours. You were distracted, but you couldn’t figure out why, because the only sounds around were the ticking of your clock and the drumming of your foot against the floor.

Finally, you gave up, emerging from your office and into the living room of your penthouse. All the lights were off, but the large ceiling-to-floor windows you had lit up the place just enough, casting shadows around in the moonlight. You had bought the place when Lumiere had just taken off, and you had more money than you ever had in your life. As a result, you ended up with an apartment on the top floor that the elevator opened directly into, that only you had access to and too much space for your good.

The muffled sounds of New York City in the distance kept you company as you padded to your kitchen. Your appetite was non-existent – a result of your hyper-focused state – but you knew you had to eat something.

You had been feeling unsatisfied with your sketches for a while now, and Rafayel’s comments about ensuring nothing was uninspired had hit too close to home. The last thing you wanted to do was release something you were unhappy with or considered subpar.

God knows you hated to admit that insolent man had a point, but he did.

And you had to figure out a way around it fast.

The thing you loved more about New York was how alive it felt.

You walked down the streets, sunglasses perched on your nose. It was a Saturday, and you had decided to take a day off for yourself in the hopes that the reset would grant you some motivation for the spring collection.

So far, you had had no run-ins with the paparazzi. Maybe this was one of those days when they had decided to be more subtle with their approach to getting content, but whatever it was, you were grateful for the sense of privacy it gave you. Realistically, even if it wasn’t the paparazzi, you knew someone would get a picture of you walking in and out of stores and post it online. That was fine, simply part and parcel of the life you had made for yourself.

You were enjoying the peace, the cacophony of the city melting into a song so uniquely New York. You were someone who knew how to enjoy your own company, but perhaps that stemmed from the fact that you had no one else to share it with. Sure, Xavier was there, but you knew the moment the two of you hung out for extensive periods anywhere but his or your place, or the Lumiere building itself, there would be dating rumours springing about everywhere.

Neither of you had the time nor the energy to deal with that nonsense. At least like this, you had control of the narrative, and that peace you loved so much.

Ah, yes, peace. The very thing that shattered immediately as a man ran into you.

Okay, so you hadn’t exactly been paying attention, lost in your thoughts as you walked, but words laced with annoyance immediately tumbled out of your mouth. “Hey! Watch where you’re going!”

“Jeez, lady, I’m sorry, okay– wait, Y/n?”

Oh no. You knew that voice.

You peered up at the offender, taking in the butter yellow cap that sat over his smushed hair, long lashes framing those beguiling eyes that were currently wide in shock. His hands flew to your arms, gripping them as he steadied both of you at the same time. You had about two seconds to acknowledge the way he was up in your personal space, pushing your sunglasses up to see if you were seeing things correctly.

“Rafayel?”

He swore under his breath, releasing your forearms as he jerked away, glaring. “Could you not yell it out for the entire street to hear?”

Why the hell was he annoyed? He was the one who had walked into you. If anyone had the right to glare like that, it was you. You blinked up at him in exasperation, wondering for the umpteenth time where he got the gall.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” You bit sarcastically, “My bad for being the unsuspecting soul you run into. Next time, I hope it's a pole.”

He cast you a droll look that you were sure was meant to last longer, but he seemed skittish today. This was the most casually dressed you had ever seen him, a simple sweatshirt over jeans and….were those sneakers? All you had seen him in up until this moment were shirts and clothing you designed.

Then, without warning, he grabbed your hand and pulled you along with him.

Right into a dark, dingy alley.

“What the fuck?” You blurted, more puzzled than anything else, as you yanked your hand out of his touch, holding it close to your body. “Are you high? Why on earth have you–”

“Sorry,” he breathed, holding his palm out in a manner that told you he needed a second. Not that you cared in the slightest, narrowing your eyes at him and propping a hand on your hip.

“You have two minutes to explain why you’ve dragged me with you here.”

A vibrant blush spread across the apples of his cheeks and ears. Well, at least he had the decency to look embarrassed. He interlaced his fingers behind his neck and glanced up a the sky, before looking back at you.

“I was trying to outrun the paps.”

“By running into me?”

“I didn’t plan that!” He snapped, and you had to admit that it was nice to see him be the irritated one for a change. His eyebrows knitted together, an indignant pout taking over his usual, nonchalant countenance. All things considered, it was kind of cute.

“I’m not hearing any explanations.” You reminded him impatiently, raising an eyebrow. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose for two whole seconds like he was contemplating whether you were worth explaining it to. You were tempted to tell him that his two minutes were swiftly passing by.

“I ran into an ex of mine.” He confessed finally. “Cassandra Corin. Cassie.”

The name was vaguely familiar– an actress, if you remembered correctly. Blonde, blue-eyed, gorgeous. You were sure you had seen some of her work in passing, and so you nodded, prompting him to continue. “I’ve heard of her.”

“Yeah. Well, we were together for like a month, but she’s a very, uh…..dramatic person, if you will. I happened to walk out of a store, and she was right outside with the press, who she had obviously called.” There wasn’t an ounce of fondness in his voice as he spoke about the woman.

“Did she plan for you to be there?” You asked, bewildered.

“I don’t think so, but she’s the type of celebrity that subscribes to the ‘all publicity is good publicity’ agenda. A pic of us together would certainly help with that.” He explained with a surprising amount of patience. “I’ve kind of been lying low as of late, so they’re hungrier than usual to get a couple of shots. I had to run out of there, and I don’t like running.”

Ah, there it was. You should have known he couldn’t go more than five minutes without complaining. Still, you could sympathise with his predicament, having had your fair share of experiences with trying to avoid the paparazzi.

“Right,” you raised an eyebrow. “I still don’t get why you’ve forced me into hiding with you.”

Rafayel mirrored the unimpressed look you were currently giving him. “It would be ten times worse if they saw us together. I was trying to be inconspicuous and you–” He paused, gesturing towards you from top to bottom, “–look anything but.”

Glancing down at your outfit, you let out an offended sound. “Excuse me? I can be inconspicuous.”

You were a vision, dressed in what only someone with too much money would consider casual: a light pink Chanel cardigan over a t-shirt and Prada loafers on your feet. You carried a Hermes Mini Kelly bag on your arm, Miu Miu shades pushed up on your head like a headband as you stared at him, poorly hiding your displeasure.

“No.” Rafayel had to fight back a smile, shaking his head. “You really can’t.”

It wasn’t a bad thing, per se. He knew a thing or two about having a commanding presence, having used his own to his advantage his entire life. Unfortunately, that meant that the two of you in one place at the same time was a recipe for disaster, especially when he was trying his damnedest to avoid it.

Your scowl deepened. “You’re insufferable, I hope you know that.”

“I’ve been told it brings out my eyes.”

Unbelievable. His ego had to be sky-high, taller than the Empire State Building. Never before had you wanted to knock someone down a couple of pegs so badly. His tone was light and airy, as if he now found the ordeal funny, and while that infuriated you, there was something melodic about his voice that you couldn’t ignore.

“You love wasting my time, don’t you?” You grumbled under your breath, wondering how on earth you managed to get yourself into such a position and, more importantly, why you were still in it. You could have easily walked out of this stupid alley already. His eyes sparkled, but before he could say anything aggravating, another sound cut through.

MROW!

You startled at the high-pitched yowl, dropping your gaze to find an orange cat sitting by your shoes. It looked fat and happy, like too many restaurants had taken pity on it and fed the little thing leftovers. Its black eyes stared up at you, as if waiting for you to give it something to eat as well, before letting out another pitiful meow.

And how did the man standing in front of you react to this?

Rafayel yelped.

Loudly. Embarrassingly, even. He practically jumped away from you and the cat, hands in front of him in a protective stance. You blinked rapidly, unsure of how to react to that.

“Are you…okay?”

“Do I look okay?” He hissed, the action seeming very catlike. “Where the hell did that thing come from?”

That thing? You looked down at the cat that had busied itself with rubbing against your ankles, weaving in between your legs before settling back down into a seated position.

“Rafayel,” you did your best to keep your voice level, speaking slowly, as if you were talking to a skittish animal. “Are you afraid of cats?”

“Nonsense. Why would I be afraid of them?” He eyed the cat with such disdain that one would think it had personally murdered one of his family members, or something along those lines. Regardless of what he had said, he looked terrified, his body language stiff and unnatural. You had never seen him like this, so used to his cavalier attitude and manner of carrying himself. He sniffed, still maintaining a safe distance. “They’re vile creatures. I just don’t want them anywhere near me.”

His mouth was twisted downward in horror, and his eyebrows were raised so high they looked like they disappeared underneath the cap he had on. It resulted in an expression so comical that you had to bite the inside of your cheek in a genuine attempt to keep a straight face, but failed miserably.

You burst into laughter.

It was so sudden that it stunned Rafayel, his lips parting in shock as the sound washed over him. It felt like someone had dumped cold water on him because your laughter was intoxicating, so much brighter than he had anticipated, not that he had. It made you look younger, so much more carefree than you did with the tight-lipped facade you typically donned. Your lips stretched upwards, the edges of your eyes crinkling as you giggled at his expense.

A rare crack in your carefully crafted exterior. Intrigued, the urge to know more about you rose out of nowhere, but he clamped it down immediately.

“You’re laughing at me.” He accused, trying to keep the indignation in his voice.

“I’m sorry!” You managed in between puffs of laughter, and now he knew something had to be very wrong with him, because he nearly told you not to apologise for it. “It’s just–it’s so adorable!” You bent down and scooped up the cat into your arms, forgetting yourself for a moment as you watched the animal snuggle against you. “How can you be scared of this?”

He thought this was ridiculous. A woman like you, dressed head to toe in designer clothing, letting a stray cat all over her. It was completely unexpected and strangely alluring.

“Put that thing down.” He narrowed his eyes at the cat as you scratched under his chin. Just as quickly as it had slipped off, he could see you compose yourself once again. You straightened out your posture, your smile fading and turning less genuine and more polite, practised. He couldn’t help but immediately miss the unfiltered version of you he had just gotten the briefest of glimpses of.

“It’s not a thing, Rafayel, it’s a cat.” You sounded amused. “Look at how harmless it is.”

You held out the cat, and he recoiled away from you, glaring at the feline. He took his cap off, shaking his head and huffing. “It’s a viscous beast. If it scratches or bites you, don’t expect me to help you.”

The quick reply he expected from your end never came, because when he met your gaze again, you were staring at him – at his head, specifically. For all he knew, you were taking note of how terrible he looked now that he had lost the cap. Those things always made his scalp sweat, but they were his best bet at hiding his face without coming off looking too suspicious.

“Your hair is curly.”

Your cadence was back to being clipped, short, but there was something different there as well. Softer.

“Wow. Ladies and gentlemen, we have with us the real-life Sherlock Holmes.” He snorted, running his fingers through his tangled locks, before offering up the explanation you were clearly expecting. “Stylists usually end up straightening it. Something about it fitting my image better.”

“I see.” You studied him for a moment longer before looking back down at the cat. You quite liked his natural hair, but then again, he could probably pull off a trash bag and somehow make it look stylish. Not that he’d ever agree to that, but the thought almost made you laugh again.

Speaking of trash bags, you looked distastefully at your surroundings. “Can we get out of here now? I’m sure the press would have moved on by now.”

“Only if you lose the cat.”

You sat behind your desk, going over some paperwork. It was the less exciting part of your job, and you always ended up letting it pile up until you had an unreasonable amount to get through all at once. Most of your employees had gone home already, and you had sent Simone on her way as well.

The bright light of your office made your eyes hurt after the long day you had had, and you pressed your palms against them, sighing deeply.

“Wow. Do you just live here?”

The hell? You glanced up to see Rafayel standing by the door, leaning against the doorway with his arms folded, looking right at you. The sight of him made something in the pit of your stomach turn.

Ever since the incident with the cat from a week ago, being around him no longer boiled your blood as much as it once did. He had been going out of his way to interact with you a lot more, and you hadn’t done anything to discourage it. Make no mistake, he still got on your nerves, but you tolerated him for some reason, even when he got too casual with you.

Perhaps you had been a little too lenient.

“What are you doing here?” You demanded, pushing the paperwork to the side and narrowing your eyes at him. He pushed off the wall and walked over to your desk, plopping down in the seat across from you without any invitation to do so.

“I could ask you the same question. I had a meeting with Andrew about rehearsals for fashion week, but I left my jacket behind, so I came back for it. Your office is the only one with the light still on, and my curiosity won. Your turn to tell me why you’re still here since it's–” he glanced down at the Rolex on his wrist. “ –Nine p.m.”

You waved your hand over the papers in front of you. “Work.”

“But you’re the only one here. Do you do this often?” He frowned, and if you paid close attention, his voice had a note of disapproval. That made sense, he seemed like the type of person to abhor working even a second overtime. Unfortunately, you were well-versed in it.

“Most days, yes.”

He blinked. “Okay, no. Get your things. We’re leaving.”

Definitely too lenient. “We are?”

“Yep, come on. You can do….whatever you’re doing now tomorrow.” He got to his feet and stared at you expectantly, evidently waiting for you to follow suit. “I don’t think you know what a break is, but you’re going to take one right now.”

Wow. Truly, the man had unprecedented levels of entitlement to try and boss you around when technically, you were his boss. Scoffing under your breath, your defiant gaze met his stubborn one.

“I’m busy.”

“You’ll be just as busy tomorrow.”

This was ridiculous. No one dared to speak to you so brazenly, and yet there he was, doing just that if there wouldn’t be a single consequence. What you should have done was tell him to piss off and leave you alone so you finish your work like you had set out to do.

So why on earth did you grab your coat and follow him out of your office instead?

“Is this another instance of you wasting my time, Rafayel?” You asked as you approached his car in the parking lot. You still weren’t sure what possessed you to actually follow him, but it was too late to back out of it now. A smirk teased his lips.

“Maybe.” His response resulted in you grumbling under your breath, and he laughed, fishing his keys out of his pocket and pressing a button to unlock his sleek, black Mercedes. He slid into the drivers seat and cocked his head in your direction. “Get in.”

God help you, because for some reason, you complied. “Are you going to tell me where you’re taking me?” You settled in the passenger seat, taking in the interior, because, of course, the seats were covered in bright red leather. It was as unashamedly flashy as he was in every sense of the word.

“It’s a surprise.”

“I don’t like surprises.”

Rafayel started the car, smoothly pulling out of the parking lot and onto the road. With one hand on the gear stick and the other on the steering wheel, the scene of him driving was ridiculously attractive for something so normal. You told yourself it was just because he was a conventionally attractive person. “Of course, you don’t. Relax, Miss Designer, don’t you ever loosen up?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“I figured. You look like the type to not know the meaning of fun” And clearly, he was a stranger to the concept of holding his tongue. One glance at the offended look on your face only made him want to tease you even more. Not too long ago, he was convinced the only expressions you were capable of were scowls and glares, but he had recently learned that you had an entire arsenal of them. Your nose would scrunch when you were disgusted, your lips would part when you were caught off guard, and if something happened to amuse you, you wouldn’t smile immediately. Instead, the smile would start in your eyes, and oftentimes stay there.

It felt like he was slowly but surely unlocking new sides to you, and he wanted nothing more than to unravel all of them. Most of all, he wanted to figure out how to get that pretty laugh out of you once more.

For no reason in particular. He was just a naturally curious person.

“Look,” he reasoned with you. “You’re gonna have to trust me on this one, alright? It’s not far off and it's worth it.”

“...Fine.” You finally relented, relaxing just a little as you leaned back in the passenger seat and busied yourself by looking out of the window as he drove. Minutes later, he pulled up by a modern-looking structure that consisted of only a ground floor. Once he parked, he cleared his throat.

“Ready?”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to be ready for,” you said dryly, undoing your seatbelt and getting out of the car. He grinned like he had won the lottery.

“That’s what makes it even better.” Faulty logic and all, he led you to the entrance of the building and opened the door, sauntering inside like he owned the place. You lingered outside, noting how all the lights were off, and it clearly looked like it was closed.

You couldn’t not be suspicious. “Are we trespassing?”

“Nah. Trespassing would mean we’re here without permission.” Rafayel gestured for you to follow him into the darkness, the moonlight filtering in through the door and letting you see just enough of him to not lose your bearings. He reached out and felt around the wall before humming triumphantly and flipping a switch. “There we go. Stop thinking so much and trust me, yeah?”

Squinting to readjust your eyesight to the now-bright lighting, you were left even more dumbfounded than before. “We’re in an….art gallery?”

White walls with frames hanging on them surrounded you, each with little plaques under the art pieces with the artist's information. Some of the walls were constructed in the centre of the room for people to walk around as they inspected the art. There didn’t seem to be any sort of theme with the current display, from what you could tell.

“Again, with those deduction skills,” he teased, and strangely enough, you didn’t want to slap him for it. “I’ll have you know that art can be very therapeutic. Great for taking a break from working”

It wasn’t every day you found yourself spontaneously being dragged to an art gallery, and having company was something even rarer. You had long since made peace with your lifestyle and its lonesome nature, but you were admittedly enjoying his presence, even if it was a little too chaotic for your liking.

“I’m pretty sure thats to do with creating it.” You almost smiled when he glared at you for your rebuttal. Huffing, he turned and walked further into the gallery, leaving you with no choice but to follow along. You were well aware that you were encouraging his crazy behaviour, but it wasn’t like you could stop now.

So you picked up your pace, pulling your coat around yourself tighter as you took in the different art pieces. Portraits, landscapes and some abstract pieces, the different art styles captivated you. You had always had an affinity for art, since fashion was so intrinsically intertwined with it.

Lost in your thoughts, you almost walked right into his back. Fortunately, he turned around at the perfect moment and reached out, hand on your shoulder. The contact snapped you out of it, and you looked up at him only to find an apprehensive look in his eyes. That didn’t make much sense though, considering how cocky and self-assured he was.

Raising your eyebrows in silent question, he sighed and moved out of your line of sight, revealing a wall.

Your eyes widened, all the air in your lungs leaving you at once.

The wall was covered in artwork of the sea. Every single piece was extremely detailed, some moody with their depictions of storms and deadly waves and others painting a picture of the sea at its calmest.

It was stunning, and even that word felt like an understatement. It simply did not do what you were currently looking at justice. The artist had captured the terrifying beauty of the sea so perfectly that looking at it stirred something akin to inspiration inside of you.

To you, the seafom resembled lace. The wheels in your head began to turn as more comparisons burst forth – the sand could be chiffon, and the waves themselves draped like silk. It had been so long since you had felt creativity like this that all you could do was stare, letting your skills take over and work through all the ideas that rushed forth, feeling overwhelmed and delighted all at once.

A singular plaque on the wall sat low and hidden away, tucked under all the art. You crouched down slightly, eager to know the person who had inspired you once more.

Anonymous.

You blinked, rising to your full height as you looked back at the art, dazed. “It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

You spun around, unable to stop yourself from gaping at him. His stance was relaxed, hands in his pockets, and his eyes trained on the artwork. At first, you had thought you had misheard him, but the tone of his voice and the way he was looking at the paintings with what could only be described as pride told you otherwise.

“You made these?”

Your disbelief was unmistakable, and it stung a little. He chuckled at the incredulity in your voice as you asked the question, nodding slowly. “Surprised?”

“Very, yes.” You glanced between the art and him. “Why have you shown me this, Rafayel?”

“You don’t think very much of me,” It was a statement, rather than a question. He said it with a small simper, but it was unlike the one he usually wore. It was genuine, if not a little sad, no traces of that signature smirk of his as he met your eyes now.

“You’ve never given me a reason to.”

“Well, there you go. Here’s your reason.” His voice was oddly quiet. “To think of me better, that is.”

You truly didn’t know what to make of that. Only one question remained in your mind as you eyed the artist's plaque that held no information about the man beside you. “Why have you chosen to be anonymous? Your work is wonderful.”

Pride flickered to life in his eyes once more, like your compliment meant something. “Because this way, people will appreciate my art for what it is, without my affiliation. I’m not an idiot, Y/n, I know the entire world knows who I am. The moment they find out I’m the one who painted these, it won’t just be about the art anymore. It’ll be about me. Sure, it would get a lot more attention than it does here, sitting in the back of a barely known art gallery, but at least whatever attention it does get is real.”

Oh.

Rafayel was shallow, with a silver tongue he didn’t know how to control. He infuriated you to no end and thought much too highly of himself for his own good. He was vain, arrogant, and about a dozen other things that you thought of as faults.

But he was so much more. As of late, you were beginning to see who he was past all of that. You saw the man who was irrationally afraid of cats and, for some reason, went out of his way to talk to you. You saw the artist behind the model, curls and all. The softer smiles and perceptiveness that you would have never attributed to him before.

“I won’t say this often, so don’t get used to it.” You said slowly, glancing back at him. “But you were right, I did need a break. Thank you for this.”

He and you weren’t so different. Both of you were artists in your own right, seeking control over the art you created. The only difference was that he held that control by distancing himself from his work, whereas you were the very essence of yourself. Both of you had pride that clashed and egos that didn’t take kindly to bruising.

You no longer knew what to make of Qi Rafayel. That should have scared you.

But when he flashed you a boyish grin at your admittance to him being right, you realised that it didn’t.

It was past ten when Rafayel dropped you back home.

You made a beeline for your home office, forgetting to take off your shoes in your frenzied state. Within minutes, you were hunched over new, fresh pieces of paper, your old sketches discarded in a trash can and forgotten about. Your pencil flew over the pages as you frantically began to draw out new designs, eager to capture the ideas that had been swirling around in your head the moment you saw those paintings.

Inspiration was powerful, but fleeting. For the next two hours, you poured everything out onto those pages, and it felt like you were submerged underwater, unable to come up for air until you were finished. Your newest collection came to fruition that night, born from an unexpected muse.

When you were done and the sound of waves in your mind receded, you were left with the sounds of the city and a sense of tired satisfaction.

Jimmy Choo's were meant to be savoured. They were the type of shoes that people glided in, they made the simple act of walking an experience to remember.

They were not meant for the furious strides of one very livid fashion designer.

“Andrew!” Your model's manager flinched at the sharpness in your voice as you addressed him. “Why on earth are they not walking yet?”

“There’s just been a small delay–”

“I am in no mood for excuses.” You snapped, sweeping your gaze over the lineup of models standing ready but doing absolutely nothing. “Honestly, I’m starting to think I’m surrounded by imbeciles. First, I find out that the hems of an entire rack of shirts have been messed up and have to spend my entire morning explaining how to fix that problem to people who apparently don’t know how to do their jobs. Then I come here to check on how rehearsal is going, only to see that it hasn’t even begun.”

Andrew scrambled to appease you. “We’re starting right away!”

With that strangled declaration, he jumped into action, snapping his fingers in the direction of the models. “All of you! Behind the curtain, stat! In order, I want all of you walking out like you will for the show, understood? Chop Chop!”

Rafayel watched you from the end of the line, moving along with it until he was positioned correctly. This was the first rehearsal for the Paris Fashion Week show that was rapidly approaching, with only about two months left before the final day. Today, all that was taking place were run-throughs of the walks and setting the order of the models walking. His position was confirmed since the start, he would be the last one to walk, the much-anticipated closer of the show.

He noticed your tense shoulders, the way your lips were pressed together in a thin, displeased line. The first model walked out, and you studied her like a hawk, no doubt mentally filing away all your criticisms. Imposing as ever, your bad mood was evident.

For some crazy reason, he wanted to help alleviate it. He had seen past this untouchable facade you put up and had peeked through the cracks in your walls a couple of times now, when your pink lips curled upward just slightly, and your eyes glimmered a little brighter than usual. When you were just yourself, instead of the persona you played to stay at the top.

It seemed to him that you didn’t let anyone see that side of you. Instead, you did everything in your power to avoid letting it show.

What a lonely existence that must have been.

He walked out onto the practice runway when it was his turn, one foot in front of the other as he glided smoothly, focusing on a spot on the wall directly in front of him. It was the same old routine he had practised and perfected for years now.

When he reached the end, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other before turning around. His view shifted to you, and he let it linger, savouring the way you stared at him. For a split second, he was sure your expression softened, but just as quickly, that softness vanished. He continued his walk until he disappeared behind the curtain once more.

Another run-through with Andrew yelling out the changes he wanted each model to make, and then they were all afforded a generous ten-minute break. Rafeyel did not know why he found himself gravitating towards where you stood.

“Shouldn’t you be with the rest of the models?” You raised an eyebrow as he approached you, trying your best to sound as indifferent as possible. That wasn’t something you typically had trouble with, but now it felt a little harder to do when faced with the intensity of his attention.

“When have I ever done anything I was supposed to?”

You exhaled, shaking your head bemusedly. “Don’t sound so proud of it.”

“You look stressed.” Rafayel's voice was low and thoughtful, almost as if he actually cared. You snuffed out that thought. He had been on your mind a dangerous amount as of late, but there was a perfectly rational explanation for that: he had inspired you.

“I’m always stressed. I’ve been on my feet all day.” You rubbed the spot between your eyebrows with your index and middle finger, smoothening out the frown that had formed.

“Have you learnt nothing from being around me? What happened to taking breaks?” He groaned, but it was more theatrical than genuinely perturbed. “Or do you need me around to make sure you take them?”

Absolutely not. Having Rafayel around was proving to be detrimental to your sanity for reasons entirely different to those expected. You tilted your head towards the other models and waved your hand in their general direction. “What I need you to do is your job, not loiter around here.”

He laughed like you had told the world's funniest joke, pinning you in place with a knowing look. “Oh, just admit it already. I’m the most entertainment you’ve had in a while. You love being around me, even if you don’t want to admit it.

You pursed your lips. “The jury’s still out on that one.”

“Is it, though?” His habit of incessantly questioning you was getting old, but that addictive drawl of his voice pulled you right back in. “You’re smiling.”

To your mild dismay, you realised he was right. Now that he pointed it out, you could feel how the apples of your cheeks were raised with the upward curve of the sides of your mouth. Scoffing, you tried your best to erase any evidence of the sort as you turned away, but to no avail.

“Your break is over, you can stop pestering me now.” But your tone was lighter than it had been all day. He rolled his eyes good-naturedly and walked off, joining the group of models who were gearing up to practice their walks once more. As the distance between the two of you increased, you realised with a start that you unfortunately did quite like being around him.

But there wasn’t a rule that said you had to admit to such a thing. Rafayel was like a breath of fresh air after almost drowning, or a lagoon in the middle of a desert. Unpredictable and against everything you knew to be true about life, and yet…

There was something undeniably charged between the two of you, from the way he sought you out and how you let him linger. Neither of you dared to acknowledge this, however, keeping your distance literally and figuratively.

As he paraded down the runway once again with the elegance of a swan but the flamboyance of a peacock, you couldn’t help but wonder if it was that predictability and control you so desperately clung to that held you back. The second you let yourself go for just a little while, you found the inspiration you had been so desperately waiting for.

The past week had you being more productive than you had in months, your designs for fashion week already in production. With how everything was going, the collection for the runway would be ready by next week, which would finally put everything back on track. You had to constantly check in to ensure things were going exactly how you wanted them to, but for the first time in a long time, it felt like you could let go of your tight hold and just breathe.

And if a certain pretty boy was plaguing your thoughts, well, that was no one else's business.

Maybe he was rubbing off on you.

“This way.” You turned the corner into yet another hallway, causing Rafayel to wonder just how big the Lumiere building was. You had summoned him there out of the blue, giving him no explanation as to why you wanted him there and only reminding him to be on time. The request was definitely unlike your usual self, more aligned with his impulsive nature, but he couldn’t bring himself to refuse.

And so there he was, following you through the endless corridors. When he had asked why he was there, all he received was an uncharacteristically mischievous look in your eyes and nothing more. When he probed for answers, you only said one thing: “I thought you liked surprises.”

Never in a million years had he expected you, of all people, to throw his words back in his face. You had successfully piqued his curiosity, and he trailed behind you now, eager to see what you had in store.

Finally, you stopped in front of a door and brought out a pair of keys. “Currently, only select individuals have access to this room,” you informed him as you unlocked it, before pausing and looking at him. “You’ll be the first and only person who isn’t from Lumiere itself to witness what I’m about to show you. It goes without saying that it’s a secret for now.”

“I feel like the Sherlock joke has gone a little too far,” he muttered dryly. “You have a thing for suspense now.”

Your lips twitched, and you pushed the door open, letting him enter first. When he did, he froze in place, jaw falling open as he made sense of what he was looking at.

Mannequins filled the room, the same number as the number of models there were for the fashion week show. Each form had complete outfits on, and each one was exquisite in ways he couldn’t properly describe the way it deserved. Navy blue satin gowns with hand-stitched embroidery and ivory-coloured lace hems, intricate golden beading on cream corset tops, deep turquoise shirts made of the finest silk, and skirts that looked like waterfalls, layered with intent, short in the front and long in the back. Netted tops and coats with the most gorgeous pearl detailing he had ever seen, flowy chiffon shirts that were artfully tucked into white pants – every piece was thoughtfully designed and lovingly put together.

Rafayel was rendered completely speechless.

“Introducing Lumiere’s 20[XX] Spring Collection.” You announced, stepping beside him and regarding your work with pride. Your hands were tucked behind your back, your stance bashful, but he could tell you were anything but. You knew what your work was worth, and you weren’t shy about it.

He wasn’t the type of person who was used to having nothing to say – quite the opposite – but there he was, rooted to the spot in awe as you walked over to one of the mannequins and slightly adjusted the skirt on it. The simple action told him just how much each piece meant to you, how well you knew them. He intimately understood the familiarity an artist had with their work, but seeing that mirrored in you was something else entirely.

“Y/n,” he breathed out, “This is…”

“I’m hoping you’re going to say ‘impressive.’ It might be a little too late to walk for Chanel now.” There you were again, throwing his own words back in his face, and he couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out why he liked it so much. It was so completely unlike you.

“It’s more than impressive, you’ve outdone yourself.” He said, finally managing to break out of the reverie he had found himself in.

“Is that so?” You looked over your shoulder back at him, the slightest of smiles teasing your lips. “You haven’t even seen what you’re going to wear yet.”

Without so much as another glance in his direction, you gracefully weaved through the mannequins to the back of the room. It was all he could do to follow along, doing his utmost best not to knock anything over as he gaped. As he passed each outfit up close, details he hadn't seen before revealed themselves, and he had to resist reaching out to touch.

And in the back, on the final mannequin, was the garment that took his breath away.

A shirt made from blood red organza silk that had an iridescent quality to it, shifting colours when the light hit it from different angles. From red to blue to violet, Rafayel found himself entranced by its ever-changing nature, eyeing the pale blue pearl details on the collar with deep appreciation. It was completely sheer, with subtle winding patterns stitched into the delicate fabric that resembled coral.

“I hand-stitched this one myself, and in three weeks, you’ll be the one wearing it to close my show.” You said softly, trailing your fingers over the sleeve with care. You toyed with the end of it, watching how his eyes went wide and lips parted in something close to reverence.

“It’s phenomenal. All of it is.” He couldn’t tear his eyes away from it, taking a step closer to you and the mannequin. “It’s so different from anything I’ve seen, especially from you.”

“Yeah, well, I realised that I didn’t just want to put out a collection that meant nothing.” It was true, the very thing that had driven you as you had put the collection around you together. “Fashion is more than just clothing. It’s an art form. It’s supposed to evoke a feeling, to be able to tell a story and have its own identity.”

The devotion you possessed towards your work was admirable, it was so plainly obvious that this was exactly what you were meant to do. Utterly enamoured, he spoke, “It’s gonna be one hell of a show.”

The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. You had been around him long enough to know he wasn’t someone who took anything too seriously, but the earnest look he was giving you that he definitely took this – and by extension, you – very seriously.

“Good, but I don’t want to just want to put on any show. I want it to be a performance.” You aimed to leave an impact, for people to leave the show and think about the experience for weeks, maybe even months, after. Rafayel realised that you were trusting him with enabling that by divulging your vision to him.

“Then it’s an honour to be one of your performers.”

That earned him a proper smile, not just the hint of one. It was small but mighty, starting in your eyes like your smiles always did, but this one was the rare type that reached your mouth and lit up your features. He found himself feeling winded for the second time in the past ten minutes, but this time it was because of you and not the clothing. At least he could explain the latter option.

“In that case, what do you think about a more permanent position at Lumiere?”

It wasn’t like this was the first time he had been offered this, but shock infiltrated his system anyway. “Like Xavier Shen?”

You nodded. “Like Xavier. A brand ambassador.” Waving a hand around, you continued, “You fit with Lumiere’s image and the vision I have for my brand, so I believe you won’t disappoint. I don’t say that lightly, or to every model. Of course, I’m not forcing anything on you, and you can take your time to think about it.”

Such plainly stated praise from the impossible-to-please Y/n L/n was practically unheard of, but there you were, staring at him with finality in your eyes. Arms folded over your chest, hair pinned up in that perfect bun as always and stiletto-clad feet, you were the same as always and yet he couldn’t seem to perceive you as he had in the past.

Thomas would be overjoyed at him finally taking something seriously. His aunt would certainly approve of the collaboration, and he’d be walking for a fashion house he actually cared about. It seemed perfect.

“I don’t need time.” Rafayel looked at the shirt that he would soon be wearing. “You’ve got yourself a new brand ambassador.”

The airhostess led you to your seat in first class, dragging your carry-on suitcase behind her. Once your bag was in the overhead cabin and you were settled in your seat, she returned a couple of minutes later with the drinks menu and a cart, patiently waiting for your order. You leaned back in the plush seat and scanned over the available options.

“A glass of Dom Pérignon, please.”

God knows, you’d need the drink. Alcohol now acquired, you took a leisurely sip and tried your best to relax, but that was easier said than done. Boarding was still going on, and in about half an hour, you’d be airborne. The thought caused your stomach to churn.

To say you weren’t a fan of flying would be an understatement. Sure, you had to do it a lot for work and should’ve probably been used to it by now, but that wasn’t the case at all. Oftentimes, you found yourself clutching at the armrests for dear life during take-off, which, in your opinion, was the worst bit, and remained on edge throughout the flight. Even the comfort of first class didn’t help very much.

When you landed in Paris, there would be exactly ten days before the start of Fashion Week. You would be at your busiest since NYFW, and the added stress of anticipating that only added to your jittery state. Sighing deeply, you closed your eyes for a moment to ground yourself, index and middle finger rubbing against your temple.

“Well, hello there, neighbour. Fancy seeing you here.”

Your eyes flew open, settling on the culprit of the voice.

Rafayel stood in the booth right next to yours, looking the opposite of how you felt, completely at ease in this setting.

“Why are you here?”

He raised an eyebrow. “The same as you, I presume, to get to Paris. Did you expect me to take a boat or something?” And then, as if he owned the place (which was his usual way of carrying himself), he rested his arms over the walls of your small enclosure, chin propped in his palm. “I guess Thomas booked the same flight as yours.”

“It certainly seems that way. Are you going to bother me the entire flight?” You felt mildly embarrassed at how you had blurted out the question so disgracefully.

“As much as I possibly can, yes.” He beamed like he had delivered the best news of your life. “Isn't it lucky our seats are so close?”

“Such a blessing,” You deadpanned, needing another drink despite your current one not being anywhere close to finished. The rest of the first class was completely empty, which meant you were stuck with his relentless pestering, whether you liked it or not, confined to the same space as him for the next seven and a half hours.

Brilliant.

Rafayel snorted. “I’m going to pretend that you meant that.” The airhostess appeared once again with her cart, and he opted for whiskey, neat and on the rocks. Once he had obtained his drink, he turned to you and held his glass out. “Cheers.”

You were too busy giving him an unimpressed look to remember your flying anxiety, until one of the airhostesses stepped into the first class section and announced that the takeoff would be soon. Immediately, you put your drink in its holder and frantically gripped the armrest as she went through the motions of the safety debrief. Rafayel sat down in his own seat, but looked over at you in amusement.

“You seriously pay attention to these things?”

“What does it look like?”

“I mean, haven’t you been on enough flights to know the basics by now?” He fastened his seatbelt as the safety instructions were done, and the lights dimmed, the plane getting ready for take-off.

“It doesn’t hurt to be reminded.” You muttered under your breath, but the cadence of your voice had taken a shaky turn, which was a far cry from its usual firm, clipped nature. Rafayel shot you an inquisitive look before noticing the death grip you had on the armrest and the tense set of your shoulders.

Whatever teasing comment that lay on the tip of his tongue dissolved as he dropped his voice. “Hey. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“That was the most unconvincing ‘I’m fine’ I’ve ever heard.” He tilted his head and studied you for a moment. “You’re pale.”

The plane began to pick up speed, causing you to dig your manicured nails into the leather of the armrest and stare straight ahead at the blank screen in front of you. Usually, you always started a movie by now to distract yourself from your fear, but this time, you had paid so much attention to Rafayel that you had forgotten your routine when it came to flying.

But your silence told Rafayel everything he needed to know. “Hey. Look at me.”

“Rafayel, I am in no mood for your–”

“Tell me about the Spring Collection.”

You whipped your head to him, considerably confused by the sudden change of topic. “What? Why? You’ve seen the entire thing upfront.”

He sighed theatrically and gave you a pointed look. “Just do it, will you?”

This bizarre man. You didn’t think you’d ever be able to understand how his brain worked. Still, if there was one thing you allowed yourself to brag about, it was your work. Crossing your legs, you tried your best to relax in your seat.

“It’s inspired by the sea, which actually, you have yourself to thank for,” you said, getting straight to the point without beating around the bush.

Rafayel’s lips parted. “I do?”

“Your art.” You clarified, giving him a meaningful look. “It really struck a chord in me. One look at it and I knew exactly what I wanted to do for the collection, which was surprising considering I had been going through a bit of a creative rut.” You recalled how your creativity had come rushing back to you all at once, the moment you set your eyes on his paintings.

He told himself he’d dissect the warm feeling in his gut later, a smug look taking over his features. “I am nothing if not inspiring.”

You scoffed under your breath, shaking your head in disbelief at his conceitedness and wondering why-oh-why you found it somewhat endearing now. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Too late.” A slow, languid smirk stretched out on his lips as he took a sip of his whiskey, the amber liquid swirling around in his glass. Your eyes betrayed you, dropping to his mouth and watching as his tongue darted out to lick his lips. “I’m gonna brag about this forever. Where is the show going to be held?”

“In a cathedral.” You averted your gaze, feeling heat creep up your neck and onto the apples of your cheeks. Clearing your throat, you sipped your champagne in an attempt to soothe your ruffled feathers, hoping it would cool you down and keep your face from flushing.

What the fuck was wrong with you?

“A cathedral, huh? You’re really going all out.” He rubbed his chin in thought. “It’s gonna have a very operatic feel to it.”

“That’s exactly what I’m going for,” you admitted, pleasantly surprised that he had grasped exactly what you wanted to put across without you going in depth at all. It was as if he had reached into your mind and taken the words out of your mouth. Even Xavier wasn’t this perceptive.

Now, why on earth were you comparing him to Xavier? This was madness. Something was obviously very wrong with you since your train of thought had never been this outlandish before. You couldn’t make sense of it at all, simply because you had never been subjected to feeling this way before. Why was there a fluttery sensation in the pits of your stomach? What was this warmth that seemed to simmer underneath the expanse of your skin every time he looked at you?

Oh my god. Were you flustered by Qi Rafayel?

As that absolutely insane possibility made itself known, the lights in the cabin flickered back on, pulling you out of your thoughts and back to reality. Rafayel was already watching you, amused, taking another leisurely sip of his drink and blissfully unaware of your inner turmoil. Blinking rapidly, you realised that you were already airborne and had made it through take-off without a hitch.

And that was when it hit you: all this talk about the collection and the show had been for your benefit. The model had been distracting you on purpose, somehow picking up on your fear. His presence, one that you had previously considered as bothersome, had been the very thing to calm you down.

You didn’t know what to say.

“Now then,” he picked up the bowlful of salted nuts one of the airhostesses had gotten upon his request, eyes twinkling as he popped a handful into his mouth. “Tell me more.”

Day one of Paris Fashion Week was a whirlwind.

You had been invited to watch two shows that day, the first of which was a Marc Jacobs runway show. The second show was for Dubois Designs, after which Gabriette had made sure to personally meet you and insist that you attend the afterparty as well. The new addition to your schedule gave you less than an hour to get ready for the aforementioned party, since right before it, you had a talk and presentation with Anna Wintour.

Between the glitz and glamour and one too many coffees, it was only the first day, and you had been thrust right back into the chaos you so loved and thrived in.

Dubois Designs was huge in Paris, being the home city of the brand and the founder. Even with your conditional friendship with Gabriette, you could admit that her show had been incredible. The exaggerated silhouettes had been eye-catching, and the craftsmanship was truly remarkable.

You descended the stairs and found yourself in a large, crowded basement. The party itself was in full swing, moody red lighting bathing the entire room while simultaneously keeping it dark. It fit the edgier aesthetic that Dubois Designs tended to lean towards, despite being a luxury fashion house. A DJ was tucked into a corner, mixing the electronic music as the backdrop for people to drink and dance to their heart's content.

Familiar faces stopped and greeted you as you made your way to the bar, knowing you’d definitely need a drink to enjoy all this. The darkness made it a little harder to recognise people, but most of them were well-known faces in the industry, from models to actors and even some well-known influencers. Having to be social at almost midnight was not something you particularly enjoyed, but it was the start of fashion week, and your adrenaline was at an all-time high, making all of this much more tolerable than usual.

Getting yourself a gin and tonic, you began consuming it at a pace that would ensure you had a pleasant buzz in about twenty minutes. The energy around you was palpable, the ebb and flow of it was surprisingly infectious, forcing you to subconsciously loosen up.

“Y/n! You made it!”

The French accent gave her away before she even stepped into your line of sight. Gabriette appeared seemingly out of nowhere, throwing her arms around you and giving you air kisses on both cheeks. You returned the gesture, tentatively returning her hug before pulling away.

“Of course I did. How could I ever refuse a personal invite from you?” You smiled the commercial smile you practised for events such as these. “After a show like that, I knew the afterparty would be just as spectacular.”

It was obvious that she was still riding off the high that the success of her show had brought, but you couldn’t blame her. She laughed, the sound a tad bit too shrill, “You are too kind. I have people to meet, but please, enjoy yourself.”

And with another exaggerated air kiss, she left you to your own devices, continuing on her mission of making rounds through the party. Events like these always tended to be impersonal, interactions were short and fleeting, and the more connections you managed to make in one night, the better. The industry was filled with young people looking to connect, and this was the best way to do so.

You finished your drink while chatting with the creative director of Louis Vuitton, who expressed their excitement for your upcoming show. As you engaged in conversation, you observed the scenes going on all around you, a sense of wistfulness taking over you. There was a point in your life when you thought you’d never belong in this world, back then when it felt too out of reach for a young aspirant such as yourself.

As your eyes swept across the room, they snagged on a familiar pair staring right back at you.

Rafayel cocked his head to the side when he caught your eye, immediately excusing himself from the conversation he had been having and making his way over. Unsure of what compelled you to do the same, you slipped through the crowd until you met him halfway.

“I did not think you would be here,” you admitted once within earshot. You hadn’t seen him for the past two days, with him being busy with photoshoots and other such events, his manager had added to his itinerary at the last minute (to his dismay).

Now that he was before you, his gaze dropped, slowly dragging over your figure from bottom to top like he was committing it to memory. The act sent inexplicable shivers up your spine, and you gripped your glass to show yourself from physically reacting, but that was harder said than done.

He wore a dark red shirt that had shimmery lilies embroidered across it, mostly unbuttoned to expose the smooth skin of his chest and torso. With his hair slightly dishevelled in a way that made him seem effortlessly attractive and the dark lighting casting sharp shadows over his face that brought out the intensity in his typically soft visage, he was truly something to behold.

Devilishly handsome, temptation incarnate.

“Gabriette invited me.” He waved his hand dismissively as he explained, like he didn’t really care. “Something about nurturing goodwill.”

“She’s all about that, isn’t she?” You muttered dryly. The loud music almost made your quip inaudible, but he caught on anyway, delighted at the hint of the sassy nature you possessed under all that seriousness.

“I didn’t think this was your scene.”

You wore a blue drop waist Lumiere mini dress and Isabel Marant fringe boots on your feet. Signature Vivienne Westwood earrings dangled from your ears, glinting through your styled hair whenever the light caught them. The entire outfit was in stark contrast to what he was used to seeing you in, devoid of any formality and primness.

“It’s not, but you know.” A playful smirk adorned your lips as you swayed to the music, looking so much more relaxed than normal. “Goodwill and all.”

God, he could get addicted to that. “Shame, you secretly being a party girl would have made you even more interesting.”

“Am I not interesting enough for you?” Your voice teetered on the edge of mockery with the question, shifting your weight from one foot to the other and staring up at him defiantly.

“Trust me, Y/n, you have no idea just how interesting I think you are.” He said smoothly, plucking your drink out of your hand and placing it off to the side, but before you could reprimand him for doing so, his hand cupped your elbow gently and pulled you along with him.

“Dance with me.”

It wasn’t a request, but rather a statement he was annoyingly sure you would comply with. You supposed you didn’t have much of a say in the matter with how he was basically dragging you with him, but it had been a while since you found yourself able to be properly irritated with him.

Even in the dim lighting, you were acutely aware of how people watched the two of you, eyes following your every movement, but you knew who they were actually looking at. You might have been Y/n L/n, the fashion industry's darling, but he was Qi Rafayel. You didn’t live under a rock; you knew of his reputation as the life of the party, but now you could see that play out in real time. A party wasn’t a good one without him. In all honesty, that was probably the reason Gabriette invited him in the first place.

Rafayel was made for the spotlight. Wickedly charming with levels of confidence that some would spend their entire life chasing, he basked in the attention being thrown his way like it was a form of currency. Perhaps it was, in a sense, what they exchanged to be able to admire such an alluring soul in his element.

The entire room watched him, but Rafayel? His eyes were locked on you.

You felt your mouth go dry, and a hammering began within the confines of your ribcage, slow at first but building up to a crescendo. His hands slipped from your elbows down to your waist, holding you gingerly. Everyone begged for even a speck of his attention, but all of his was on you, and the effect was downright dizzying.

“You look beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

How proper of you. Mirth danced about in his expression as he pulled you just a tad closer, knowing fully well he was pushing your limits. “Aren’t you going to pay the compliment back?”

“You’re a world-famous model, Rafayel. I harshly think you need me telling you how good you look.” You looked over his shoulder, unable to hold any eye contact with him.

“No,” he mused, dipping his head until his mouth was just by your ear. “But you could tell me how hot I am.”

Every syllable dripped with that delicious, insufferable cockiness you desperately wished you still loathed. You could feel the warmth of his breath tickle the skin of your neck, and you turned your head until you were face to face with each other, so painfully close it felt illegal.

One thing was becoming quickly apparent to you, and that was that whatever you felt towards Rafayel wasn’t the plain old, run-of-the-mill attraction. That was just one aspect of it, especially in this moment, running through the charged air between the two of you like an electric current. The tension was almost tangible, like a live wire you were tempted to wrap your fingers around and tug.

But there was so much more. His willingness to share his art with you, even though he kept it a secret from the rest of the world. Distracting you on the plane. Challenging you to be better, even when you hated how he went about it. You, turning him into your muse, letting him inspire both you and your work.

You had disliked him because he was out of your realm of control. He wasn’t someone you could put a leash on and expect to follow every order; no, he did things his way and forced you to see the good in it. Now, however, you realised that you didn’t want to try and control him. You liked the unpredictability.

“I’d never do that.” You whispered, hating how breathless you must have sounded. Still, you made no effort to reclaim your personal space, addicted to the close proximity from the second you had been exposed to it. You finally understood why everyone wanted this. Wanted him.

A knowing smile stretched across his face, and in spite of your best efforts, you found yourself utterly enraptured by it.

“Oh, I know.”

Rafayel was tipsy, just about aware of the bass-boosted music, with a lazy smile on his face as he ordered two drinks at the bar. You were somewhere out there waiting for him to return with them, no doubt ready with a scathing remark about how long he was taking.

He didn’t know what he was doing. He couldn’t recall the last time he felt so bewitched by someone, solely because he never let anyone get close enough. Keeping people at arm's length was something he was well-versed in, but for some reason, he had only pulled you closer. His attempts at breaking down your walls had resulted in him letting you through his.

You, and your scrutinising gaze and sharp tongue. Beautiful. Unforgiving.

“Mr. Qi?”

He turned to the source of the voice, finding a man standing there with a determined look on his face. Rafayel raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Lovely to make your acquaintance, sir, I’m Gabriette Dubois’ assistant.” He adjusted his glasses and continued. “Miss Dubois is overjoyed that you made it, and she would be here herself if something hadn’t come up. She wanted me to pass on a message.”

The drinks arrived. Rafayel tugged them closer to where he leaned against the bar, nodding. “Go on.”

“Miss Dubois is interested in working with you once again.” The assistant held out a business card, evidently not picking up on the man's surprise. As far as he remembered, the collaboration between Dubois Designs and him had been a couple of years ago and a roaring success, but there had never been any talk of extending it. He had expected that, since he had been his usual difficult self, Gabriette hadn’t appreciated it very much. Moreover, this was before he had catapulted into being considered one of the world's hottest models, so she had had no reason to keep him on for any longer.

“I see.”

“She awaits good news from your end. Take the time to think about it.”

And with that, the man left Rafayel alone once more. He toyed with the business card for a couple of moments before slipping it into his pocket. Then, he picked up the drinks and made his way back to you.

“How many times have you been to Paris?”

You stitched your eyebrows together in thought. “Four times, maybe?”

Rafayel looked scandalised, eyes widening and mouth falling open like you had personally offended him. “And this is your first time exploring?”

“I come here very briefly and only for work, Rafayel,” You spooned a heap of thick cream into your hot chocolate. “I should be working right now, but someone insisted I accompany him to the middle of nowhere.”

“I insisted you take a break, since you clearly don’t know how to take one yourself.”

That much was true. After a gruelling rehearsal (one that ended in you talking sternly to your employees about not ensuring the practice runway was to scale), he had caught up to you and demanded you drop everything and follow him. Maybe all the stress had been getting to you because you let him convince you, but not without complaint. You made your annoyance with the situation quite obvious, even if it wasn’t genuine at all.

He had suggested taking a walk, which is what this insane outing had started as, but when you admitted to never having actually explored the city, he acted like you had personally offended him. He decided to take matters into his own hands, which was how you ended up in a small boulangerie that was hidden away in one of the Parisian streets.

The hot chocolate was rich, and the croissant you had ordered was perfectly buttery and flaky. By no means did the bakery look like a place a celebrity would frequent, with its old-timey decor and peeling paint job, but it had a certain charm to it, run by a lovely old lady who immediately began fussing over Rafayel the moment the two of you arrived. Later, he told you that it was a secret gem and one of his favourite places to frequent whenever he was in Paris.

It turned out that was quite often, so much so that he even had an apartment here. He absolutely loved the city of love, which was why he was so flabbergasted at you not knowing much about it despite having been there several times.

“Fashion week is a very important time for me. I can rest after it's over.”

“Workaholic.” He jibed at you, stealing a piece of your croissant. “I’m going to take you around.”

You tried to protest, “That’s unnecessary-”

“Trust me, it’s necessary. Besides, I already asked Thomas to bring my car.”

“Your car?”

He gave you a too-innocent smile. “Did I not mention I have a car here? Don’t worry, it's very nice. A convertible, too.”

“You’re ridiculous.” You looked off to the side to conceal the grin that was threatening to break out on your face. There were about a million other things you could think of that you should have been doing, and yet here you were, going along with his shenanigans.

Once you were done eating and emerged from the bakery, his sports car was indeed waiting out for both of you with the roof pulled back. He ushered you into the passenger seat, going so far as to open the door for you before taking his place behind the steering wheel and pulling out of park.

Rafayel had no destination in mind, simply wanting to spend more time with you and keep you away from your precious work. Due to the late hour, they were mostly empty, which made the drive pleasantly smooth. He switched the radio on, the latest and greatest pop music filling the comfortable silence that had settled between the two of you.

The lamps cast a dim yellow light over the Parisian streets, and you took it all in, watching intently from the car as they passed you by. By no means was this the greatest tour in the world – far from it. He didn’t tell you what you were looking at, too busy humming along to a Taylor Swift song, but it stirred up a feeling deep within you that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

The sounds of late-night Paris mixed with his voice, turning into a melody you would have never thought was worth listening to before. It wrapped around your senses, and little by little, you let yourself go. Your posture relaxed, your jaw softened from its perpetually clenched state, and you let out a breath you didn’t even know you had been holding in.

And for the first time in a long time, you realised that the loneliness you were so used to carrying around was nowhere to be found.

The only other person who managed to lessen the sense of isolation you harboured was Xavier, and even he couldn’t do it all the time, and yet, the headstrong man driving you around had somehow managed to break down all your walls and let you out of the prison you had built for yourself. While others expected you to break from the pressure that came with your position, he made sure you didn’t, even when you refused his help.

You sat forward in your seat, shutting your eyes as the cool night air blew against your face. Perhaps it defeated the point of the ride if you weren’t looking around anymore, but you couldn’t help it. It had been so long since you had been able to completely let go around someone else that you wanted to savour every second of the moment.

Rafayel glanced over and found it almost impossible to look away from you. Eyes fluttering open with shadows cast from your eyelashes and dancing on your face. Wind in your hair, hair that was finally let out of its perfect updo and allowed to freely fall over your shoulders. The way your head was tilted up just slightly as you stared at the starless sky, focused on the crescent moon overhead.

God, you were a painting he could never do justice to, but desperately wished he was able to.

Forcing himself to look away, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and focused his attention back on the roads he cruised down. “I should take you back to your hotel."

“Yeah,” you mumbled, leaning back against the seat. “I have a lot to do tomorrow.”

“When do you not?”

“Just drive!” You forced exasperation into your voice as you put in the address of the hotel into his GPS. This moment was one you never wanted to end, but your feet were firmly rooted in reality even when your head was in the clouds. You clamped down on that wish and settled back in the seat, watching the streets pass you by.

But it festered anyway, latching onto you like wishes so great tended to. You had everything you could have ever wanted: money, fame, and you had achieved all your dreams, but now here you were, with a new dream blooming from the remnants of old ones, a dream you never thought would see the light of day.

If not for him, would you have let another trip to Paris pass you by with your head stuck in your schedule until it was time to board that flight back to New York? The notion of that had made him go out of his way to remedy it, even when you put up a fuss and tried to talk him out of it.

Unfortunately for you, you were rather easy to convince when it came to him.

When he pulled up to the hotel, he ignored all your protests and accompanied you to your room door. With every step you took towards the elevator, you did your utmost to keep a safe distance between your body and his, reminding yourself that this wasn’t something you could get used to. You hated the giddy feeling in your chest and the way it seemed to consume you when he was around. The back of his hand brushed against yours as you stood side by side, and even though the contact was minuscule, you could feel it everywhere.

The doors of the elevator opened, and you walked out with purpose, desperate to put as much space as you could between the two of you. He sauntered behind you, hands casually shoved in his pockets, completely and blissfully unaware of the storm waging in your head. You stopped outside your room and turned to face him.

“Don’t expect me to invite you in.” You warned, crossing your arms over your chest as you regarded him warily, expecting him to push back once more. “You’ve already taken enough of my time today.”

Your tone was reprimanding, but he could tell it was all just for show. There was a glint in your eyes that told him you more than enjoyed yourself today, even if you’d never admit it. He knew you well enough by now to know that you said one thing but meant something else entirely, and that solidified you as one, if not the most confusing person he had ever met.

And yet there he was, trying to decode you. “I wouldn’t dare ask for even a second more.”

Taking a step forward, he looked down at the floor for a second before lifting his gaze back to your face, staring at you intently. The silence stretched on for a beat too long, and in that fleeting moment, those mesmerising amethyst eyes of his dropped down to your lips. Briefly, he wondered what it would be like if he just leaned forward and–

He would have dismissed that deranged thought entirely if he hadn’t caught your breath hitching. “Actually, I might need a couple.”

Rafayel’s eyes flickered back to yours, realising you hadn’t moved away. You swallowed, too proud to be the one who looked away first, and instantly, you knew what this was: weeks of flirtation disguised as tolerance and arguments coming to a head. A silent question hung in the little space between him and you, weighted and with far too many strings attached for you to even consider. He was waiting for permission, you realised, or any sort of answer.

It was a bad, terrible, no good idea. A desire that was nothing more than a moment of weakness, one you would surely regret somewhere down the line.

But around him, succumbing to moments of weakness was so easy.

“Then you better make it worth it.”

His hands found your waist, tugging you closer and pressing his lips to yours without another word. He stole your breath with his, leaving you to gasp against his mouth as it moved against yours oh-so gently, like you were made of glass he refused to let shatter. You could taste the subtle sweetness the hot chocolate had left, and smell the scent of his expensive cologne, struggling to process all of it as he kissed you.

And fuck, how he kissed you. The world around you went silent as Rafayel’s lips fit perfectly against yours, like two pieces of a puzzle finally coming together. They were soft and a little chapped from the night air, but intoxicating nonetheless.

When the two of you broke apart, he made no motion to move, keeping his hands on your hips. Your eyes fluttered open, your noses brushing against each other, and the warmth of his breath fanning over your lips. You hadn’t quite returned to reality just yet, still existing in the few seconds prior.

Rafayel let go after a minute or so and took a step away from you. You could see it now – the way he looked at you like you were the sun and moon and stars, a type of fondness you were wholly unused to. It had been there for the past couple of weeks, but you had mistaken it for mirth.

“Times up,” he muttered with an impossibly soft smile adorning his face, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Goodnight, Y/n.”

You watched him walk away from you, down the hallway and back to the elevator. As the doors shut, he gave you a cheeky little wave, causing you to stand there flabbergasted and more confused than you had ever been in your life before. You lifted your fingers to your lips that tingled from the ghost of his kiss.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like it.

You quickly became addicted to the drug that was Rafayel.

Secret touches. Lingering glances. It had been two days since he first kissed you, and you had made no efforts to get him to stop. In between interviews and rehearsals, he somehow managed to grab hold of you and steal you away from the world, even if it was just for a couple of minutes.

His apartment in Paris was on the fourth floor, in a building with older elevators. You walked out of it and to the numbered apartment that he told you was his, knocking and waiting for him to answer. He had texted you just after you finished filming a video with Vogue, insisting that you absolutely had to come over as soon as possible.

When he opened the door, looking completely at ease, you suspected your mild concern had been for no reason.

“There you are,” he hummed, holding a glass of wine precariously in between his fingers, sloshing it around before taking a sip. “I was wondering when you’d show up. Come inside.”

You stepped over the threshold and into his apartment, following him to his living room. For someone as over-the-top as himself, it was quite the quaint place, with wooden furniture and the original paint job still intact. If you asked him about it, you figured he’d just say something pretentious about preserving the Parisian integrity of the apartment.

Pulling off your gloves, you tossed them on his coffee table and shrugged off your coat. He leaned against the island that separated the kitchen from his living room, watching your every move like it was a dance sequence he was trying to memorise. Once you were done, you turned to face him with an expectant look.

“From the urgency of your messages, I assumed there was an emergency.”

He smiled coyly, pressing the edge of his glass to his lips. “Is wanting to see you not emergency enough?”

You wanted to scream, to push him out of a window and kiss him senseless at the same damn time. That conflict inside of you bubbled over, leaving a confused bout of need in its wake because no one had ever driven you this crazy before. Narrowing your eyes at him, you walked over until you were standing right in front of him.

“You know very well that I’m busy.”

“And yet, here you are.” He reached out to you, taking your hand in his and pulling you closer. His hair fell into his eyes, the deep purple ends of it kissing the high of his cheekbones like wisteria hanging down from tree branches. Unable to resist, you cupped his face, brushing your thumb over the mole on his cheek with tenderness that surprised even yourself.

“I think you’re distracting me on purpose.”

“There she is,’ he murmured fondly, turning his face into your palm and pressing his lips against it in a soft kiss. “The queen of cynicism.”

He gripped your wrist and slowly began peppering kisses from the centre of your palm down to your wrist, his eyes sweeping to yours. Something about the action felt strikingly intimate, sparking a fire inside of you that you hadn’t known could ever exist. Your fingers curled around the back of his neck, drawing him into you for once and meeting his lips with your own.

You were hooked. Every brush of his mouth against yours was electrifying, precise and addictive in ways that left you wanting more every time. Wine entirely forgotten, his hands lifted to your face and held it, turning you around and pressing you against the edge of the island as he took the lead.

When Rafayel kissed you again, you blossomed under his touch like a flower exposed to the sun for the first time in days. His fingers entangled in your hair and cradled the back of your head delicately, his nails scratching against your scalp and sending delighted shivers down your spine. He tilted your head back so that you could meet him better, the nature of the kiss dissolving into something much more intense as his tongue swiped over your lower lip, eliciting a soft sound from the back of your throat.

“Jesus,” he mumbled against you, pained and breathless, pulling away for a singular moment that somehow felt too long despite probably being not more than a second. When he leaned back in, his lips found the side of your mouth, trailing down to your jaw and finding the spot below your ear that made you sigh and tip your head back. He made good use of the access you had so willingly given him, leisurely leaving hot open open-mouthed kisses over the expanse of your neck, knowing exactly what to do to have you fall apart while simultaneously doing barely anything at all.

Your hands gripped the collar of his shirt at first, then slid down the silky fabric until they met the cool metal of his belt buckle. Emboldened by the situation, you hooked your fingers in his belt loops and tugged him even closer, until his hips were flush against yours. Your eagerness induced a dry chuckle from him, soft and barely there, puffs of his breath tickling against your pulse point. His thigh slotted between your legs before he paused, letting the gravity of what was happening hit either one of you.

It never did.

“Don’t you dare stop.” You almost snapped, but it lacked that authority your voice usually possessed when delegating tasks at work, instead laced with avid desperation for something only he could give you – a thrill only he could provide. Your permission was all he required, gripping your hips and lifting you onto the kitchen island and stepping in between your legs.

“So bossy,” you could feel him grinning against your neck. “You can’t resist ordering people around, can you?”

Before you could even think about refuting, his mouth was back on yours with a renewed sense of want, demanding and dizzying all at once. The beginnings of a retort died on your tongue when his meets yours and his hands slip under the hem of your skirt, sliding up your thighs maddeningly slow. All you could do was whine impatiently, leaning into him and giving in to that magnetic pull of his. He lifted his head, peering down at you with darkened eyes, so close that you could still taste him.

“Tell me what you want,” he asked, squeezing your thighs in a manner that told you knew knew exactly what you wanted. “You can do that for me, can’t you?”

You glared, though it was weak. “Don’t play dumb.”

“Fine. When was the last time someone made you come, Y/n?”

You exhaled sharply at his question, one he phrased so innocently, although it was nothing of the sort. “Rafayel.”

“I thought you liked it when people were straightforward with you.” He smirked down at you, running his thumb over your lower lip and applying a little pressure, enough to have your mouth part. His other hand slipped further up your inner thigh, fingers languidly tracing the edge of your panties. He could feel you stiffen, anticipation running rampant through your veins as a wave of arousal crashed over you, rendering you pliant and wanting.

Dipping his head to your ear, he whispered, “You’re always so wound up, baby. Let me help you relax.”

With that, the spark he had lit inside of you roared to life, the flames burning your blood, making you feel hot all over your body. You were wet, embarrassingly so, soaked through your underwear as a haze of lust enveloped your mind. His knuckles brushed against your clothed core, and the minimal contact made you whimper needily, flattening your palms against the flat of his chest.

“Please, Rafayel.” Never, in a million years, did he ever think he’d have you begging for anything, but there you were, with your legs spread. “Touch me.”

Rafayel didn’t think he’d ever been this turned on in his life.

Manoeuvring your panties to the side, his fingers dipped in between your folds, a hungry gleam blazing to life in his eyes as he watched you jerk into his touch, drinking in the way your cheeks flushed and eyebrows furrowed. Your slick coated his fingers, and he groaned, the sound low and deep as he brought them up to your clit and circled it, tantalisingly slow.

“You’re so wet for me.” Shame filtered through you at his words, but it came secondary to the want that coursed through you. It wasn’t like you could deny the claim anyway; you could feel it firsthand. “Gonna make you feel so good.”

“You better,” you breathed out, clutching at the ends of his shirt in a futile attempt to keep your sanity somewhat intact, but he was doing an excellent job of chipping away at it, with how expertly he rubbed your clit, increasing the pressure of the circles he rubbed against the bundle of nerves.

“Oh, I will.” He flashed you a cocky grin, hooking his finger in the center of your panties and tugging them down your legs. “Don’t you worry your pretty head about it.”

His other hand travelled underneath your top and pushed the material up your body, and you raised your arms, helping him pull it off and leaving you in a simple black bra. Still, he looked at you like you had a matching lingerie set on, humming in appreciation as he pulled your panties down your legs. They caught against one of your heels, which fell to his floor with a soft thud, but neither of you cared enough to even comprehend that. Immediately, he was back on you, middle finger pressing against your entrance as he nipped at your throat, soothing the sting his teeth left behind with licks of his tongue and wet kisses.

Finally, finally, he pushed one lithe finger into you and provided you with some relief, revelling in the moan you gasped out. His lips made their way down your neck and to your collarbone, kissing the swell of your breasts unhurriedly, as if he had all the time in the world to do with you as he pleased. He set a lazy pace with his finger, introducing a second one to your cunt with ease on account of how wet you were, gushing all over his hand.

Impatient, you reached behind and unhooked your bra, letting it fall off your shoulders and took in the appreciative look on his face when you tossed it to the side.

“Fuck,” he looked like you had positively wrecked, like you were a witch that had put him under a spell. “You’re killing me here.”

Rafayel attacked your chest again, this time with a little less precision. His pretty pink lips dragged across your breasts, tongue flicking out and swirling around one of your your pebbled nipples, taking it into his mouth and sucking. You arched into him with a whimper, your hands finding purchase in his soft hair, holding his head close to your body. His fingers moved in and out of your cunt fast, the palm of his hand rutting against your clit rhythmically, having your toes curl out of pleasure.

“Raf- oh, fuck.”

He looked up at you through his eyelashes, biting down on your nipple just hard enough for sparks of pain to shoot through you, mingling with the pleasure until you were left with a heady mix of both swirling inside you. You cried out, your hips bucking up against his fingers on their own accord.

For someone usually so well put together, it was hypnotic to watch you fall apart for him – and because of him. His mouth slipped from your nipple for a moment in favour of staring at you in wonder. “God, you’re so…”

You never found out what he meant to say, eyes rolling to the back of your head when his fingers curled inside of you, the tips of them stroking against the spot that made it hard for you to hold back your moans and whimpers. The sounds tumbled out of you like a waterfall, combined with the wet ones from your pussy, and filled the silence of his apartment, spurring him on even further as he fingered you so diligently. He went right back to lapping at your breast, his free hand kneading your other one, rolling that nipple under his thumb and pinching it.

“Oh my god,” you whined as you helplessly ground against his palm, the heel of it digging into your clit and applying delicious pressure on it that had you losing your damn mind. You could tell you were close from the coiling sensation in your gut, and from the way your legs were trembling, he had picked up on it as well.

“That’s it,” he cooed. “Come for me.”

Seconds later, your orgasm hit you hard, a choked moan of his name leaving you as you clung onto him, overwhelmed at how good it felt. He held you against him, his ministrations never letting up for even a moment as he helped you ride out your high to the fullest. Once he was satisfied, he pulled his fingers away, staring at the mess you left on them in awe.

And then he looked at you, and he realised that the mess of you was far prettier. Lips swollen and kiss-bitten, hair all messed up just like how he’d imagined far too many times for him to willingly admit to, and eyes blown wide with desire. The sight of you like this – so perfectly wrecked – almost made him moan aloud, but he stopped himself by kissing you once more, messily now, all teeth and tongue and heat.

“Y/n,” Rafayel rasped out your name against your lips, “Fuck, I need you.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer until you were flush against his chest, locking your legs around his hips. “Then take me.”

Bossy as ever, it only made him want you more. Gripping the underside of your thighs, he picked you up and carried you to his bedroom, lips locked with yours. He didn’t know how he made it to his room, but once there, he set you on the mattress and climbed over you, taking a moment to admire you in all your glory.

He was a total goner.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” you huffed in between kisses, tugging impatiently at his collar and fumbling with his buttons. Rafayel laughed, finding your indignation so fucking adorable that he almost forgot what the two of you were doing, so consumed with the fact that he had you like this. When you managed to undo most of his buttons, he leaned back and pulled the shirt off, discarding it to some corner of the room and unzipped his pants.

His cock sprung to life as he kicked off his pants, and you were awestruck at the sight of him. The tempting lines of his abs you had forced yourself to look away from several times, now on display for only your eyes, and the flushed tip of his hard cock claiming all your attention because not only was it pretty, it was big. You bit your lower lip in anticipation, propping yourself up on your elbows to get a better look.

“Like what you see?” He drawled out the question with a lazy grin as he slipped on a condom, his smugness riling you up even more. Licking your lips, you pushed him away until he landed on his backside, expression morphing into one of confusion.

Aha, so it was possible to wipe that look off his face after all.

“Sit up against the headboard,” you instructed, getting to your knees and slipping the skirt that you still had on off your body, both of you completely naked now.

Although surprised, he complied fairly quickly, the smirk returning with full force. “Yes, ma’am.”

To Rafayel, this made sense. You always had to have a modicum of control over any situation, and this was how you established that here. You threw a leg over him, straddling his lap. His breath hitched when his cock came into contact with your bare cunt, unable to hold back a groan when you began to grind. The sound fired off every synapse in your brain, your body working on its own as you rolled your hips harder against him.

“God, fuck,” his honeyed voice was strained with the effort it took to not just hold you still and fuck up into you. “I’m going to lose my mind if I’m not inside you soon, pretty girl.”

The nickname did something to you, going straight to your head like a strong shot of tequila. You lifted your hips, reaching between your bodies and aligning his cock with your entrance, wetness coating the tip. Circling your hips, you savoured the way he sucked in a breath between his teeth.

But you were a woman who had virtually no patience. Teasing him, while fun, only succeeded in making you more desperate than you already were.

So you steadied yourself by placing your hands on his shoulders, slowly sinking onto his length. You hissed in pleasure at the burn of the stretch, nails sinking into the skin of his shoulders and most definitely leaving marks. The near drunken sound that left him when you took all of him was the most gratifying one you had ever heard. He gripped your hips, tipping his head back against the headboard and breathing heavily.

“You– fuck– you feel so perfect,” Rafayel stuttered in wonder, but you were still adjusting to his size to comprehend the praise properly. He was buried to the hilt, and you felt delirious, clawing at him as you tried and failed to keep yourself together. You needed him so bad it scared you, somehow growing even wetter with him inside of you because of how fucking good it felt.

Lifting your hips once again, you came down on him, mouth falling open at how he filled you up so easily. He groaned, dropping his head to the crook of your neck and ravishing it once more, both of you far too gone to even think about the consequences of leaving marks.

“Raf,” you whined, rocking your hips into him as you chased your high, in turn pulling his along. “Shit, it feels so good.”

“I know, cutie, I know,” His mouth was on your nipple again, wrapping his lips around it and sucking harshly, sending shocks of pleasure right down to your core. Instinctively, you clenched around him, and his grip on you tightened imperceptibly, a silent warning. Naturally, as you did with most things, you took it as a challenge, this time clenching on purpose.

“You little-” In retaliation, his thumb found your engorged clit and flicked it, causing you to screw your eyes shut and squeal with the extra stimulation.

“I can’t– god, it's too much,” you whimpered, feeling that familiar tug in your core build rapidly. Still sensitive from your first climax, it was no wonder that you were close already. Wanting to come again, you bounced faster, earning you a pleased groan from him.

“You’re incredible,” he crooned against your skin, hands running up your sides reverently as he stared at you through a half-lidded gaze. The sight of you on top of him, bare, looking so gorgeous, was enough to have him come undone, and he wanted it imprinted in his brain forever. He wanted to paint you like this, to turn you into art for his eyes alone.

You came hard, crying out his name in between the many of sounds that fell from your lips in ecstasy, gasps and moans alike. All you could think of was Rafayel, Rafayel, Rafayel as your high crashed over you like a wave crashing onto the shore.

Immediately, he took over, flipping your positions so that you were pressed into the mattress, his hips snapping to yours with a renewed sense of urgency. You mewled at the instant overstimulation, pawing at his torso in a weak attempt to get him to slow down, knowing damn well you didn’t want him to. He grabbed at your wrists and pinned them above your head, thrilled at the gasp-moan it elicited.

“You sound so fucking pretty,” Rafayel mumbled, sheathing himself inside of you with one final thrust, unravelling with a low moan. The two of you stayed like that for a couple of seconds, still connected, recovering from your mutual high.

Carefully, he pulled out, discarding the used condom and climbing right back into bed with you. His arms wrapped around your body, gathering you against his chest with all the tenderness in the world, limbs so entwined with yours that you didn’t know where you started and he ended anymore.

“Hey.”

You glanced up, finding him staring down at you with a soft, satiated smile, tracing soothing circles on your back. Like this, Rafayel was at his most irresistible to you, with his hair all mussed because of you, cheeks flushed, and every ounce of his attention on you. Try as you did, you couldn’t fight hints of your own smile from showing, so you nuzzled into his neck to hide your face. “Hi.”

“There isn’t a single reason for you to be shy,” he whispered playfully, propping his fingers under your chin and lifting your head so you were looking at him once more. “That was– you were amazing.”

“I don’t get shy.” Nonetheless, your cheeks flushed at his praise.

He chuckled quietly. “Of course you don’t.” And he kissed you again, like all the times he had just done so weren’t and would never be enough for him. Cupping your jaw sweetly, it was the most innocent press of his lips to yours, not needing any more from you. You certainly didn’t.

“Rafayel?” You breathed his name, pulling back and looking into those captivated eyes, hues of dark fuchsia and sapphire twinkling back at you. Entranced, you realised that your heart was no longer yours to control, free from the clutches of your mind, belonging to the man who held you. It was terrifying and freeing all at once, falling without knowing when and if you’d land at all.

“Hmm?”

“I think you might be my favourite muse.”

The words were honest, tinged with a vulnerability that hit home for Rafayel. He knew you didn’t open up like this to anyone, but you were staring at him now with that same look you gave him after asking him to stay on at Lumiere as a brand ambassador. Something in the confines of his ribs constricted as he brushed your hair out of your face.

“What an honour that is.”

It was early morning when Rafayel padded to his living room. The sun hadn’t risen yet. You were still in his bed, curled up under the sheets, looking so peaceful amidst your slumber. When he slipped away, he made sure not to disturb you.

For as long as he remembered, he had thrived on attention. It was something he had been handed even before his breakout into the mainstream as a top model. People constantly told him how he was meant for the limelight, standing proud at the centre of attention.

He settled on his couch, elbows on his knees and palms pressed into his eyes as he tried to think. His mind was racing, running at a mile a minute, and he was struggling to catch up.

You said he was your muse.

He had been a muse his entire life. For his aunt, for other designers and brands, he was used to it. The prospect of being a muse had never scared him before, but now he was yours, and he wasn’t sure how to navigate that role anymore. You, who said his art had inspired you to create your clothing, clothing he would soon wear and show off to the world. It should have thrilled him because he rarely resonated with a brand like he did yours, and even less with people.

Up until you, of course. You were a force of nature, obstinate and stubborn and spectacular too, like a storm that crashed into his town and swept him away. He meant it when he said it was an honour to be your muse.

But he knew that after a while, people got bored of their muses. Periodically, they moved on and found a new one to devote all their time and effort to. He was used to being wanted, and he often used that to his advantage, but being the one who wanted your attention was not a role he knew how to fill. The script had been flipped on him, and he felt like an actor with zero experience, wading in waters that were much too deep for him.

Walking away had always been easy. He wasn’t the type to be tied down to anything, all about living in the moment and having a good time. Now, he found himself wanting to stay, and that endlessly frightened him. What happened when he finished serving his purpose as your muse and you pushed him to the side?

He didn’t want to stick around and find out. He couldn’t bear to.

A business card lay on his coffee table. Lifting his head from his hands, he reached out and picked it up, turning the thin cardboard over in his fingers and reading the number on the back. The Dubois Designs logo glared up at him, as if taunting him with what would come to pass if he went through with this.

He picked up his phone.

You didn’t see Rafayel after that.

There were many things you could attribute this to. Your swamped schedule, the dinners, afterparties, showcases and fittings that you’d never hear the end of, his own endeavours – it made sense.

What didn’t make sense was the radio silence. He had gotten very comfortable with messaging you, even though you never entertained his overzealous texting style and only graced him with the driest of responses. Now, your phone was filled with communication from everyone except the man you were admittedly waiting to hear from.

Nothing.

Smack dab in the middle of one of the busiest weeks of your year, you didn’t have the time to dwell on it. The Lumiere show drew closer, and you were heavily involved in every aspect of the preparations to make sure everything was exactly how you wanted it to be.

You called him once, but he hadn’t picked up. It made you frown, but it wasn’t like you had the right to his time. Hadn’t you told him how precious yours was time and time again? Satisfied with that reasoning, you continued, pushing all thoughts of the charming man away for as long as you could.

“He isn’t here.”

The observation slipped out of you flatly, a little too loud and emphatic even for your own ears. It was the night before the show, and the final rehearsal was underway, held right in the cathedral that would serve as the set. Typically, these run-throughs were held a couple of hours before the actual show, but that would have disturbed the normal proceedings of the church, and you had no intentions of undermining the sanctity of it.

You turned to your assistant and models' manager. “Where is Rafayel?”

Simone jumped in quickly, knowing well how you hated being left hanging. “Andrew didn’t see him come in, and I contacted Thomas, but he hasn’t been able to get hold of him either.”

“What on earth…?” You muttered mostly to yourself as something in the pit of your stomach twisted, tight and unpleasant. His absence lately stung, but up until this moment, you had graciously let it go, figuring that there was a reason for it. Now, however, it was impossible to let it slide because he wasn’t just ignoring you, he was skipping out on rehearsal, and that was a professional commitment.

“I heard he was difficult to work with,” Andrew commented, rubbing his chin. “But I didn’t think he’d be irresponsible.”

You wouldn’t stand for it. Nodding stiffly, you spoke. “I’m leaving the rest of the rehearsal in both of your hands. I have something to check on.”

Neither of them questioned you, absorbing your instructions and carrying them out efficiently. You grabbed your coat and left the cathedral, your shoes clicking against the cobbled footpaths as you hailed a cab. Your best bet on where he was would be his apartment, and that was exactly where you’d go to get your answers.

When you reached, the scene you were met with wasn’t what you expected at all. The door to his apartment swung wide open, loud music reaching your ears from where you stood as the elevator doors opened. Swallowing down your bafflement, you slowly approached the entrance, an uncomfortable feeling settling in the middle of your chest the closer you got.

Once you were inside, it only got worse. The music made it hard for you to think, your eyes sweeping across the room and taking in the sight: people laughing, mingling and dancing, some of them you even recognised.

And in the eye of the storm was Rafayel, lounging about at the centre of the chaos around him.

What the fuck?

He looked so at ease, lounging on his couch with his head tipped back on the back of it, eyes closed like he was unaware of what was going on. His serene expression only stirred up your frustration, and it mixed with your confusion and the crumbs of dread that swirled around your gut. Brushing aside your discomfort, you stormed over, knocking your leg into his to alert him of your presence.

Rafayel’s eyes fluttered open, dazed and unfocused. At the sight of you, something flickered in them, but it disappeared just as quickly. “Y/n,” he slurred your name, barely audible over the volume of the music. “What are you doing here?”

God, he was drunk. Clenching your jaw at that fact, you narrowed your eyes and set him with a glare, taking in his inebriated state.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Déjà vu was what Rafayel felt at that moment, but instead of it being Thomas coming to scold him, it was you who stood before him, looking so furious and beautiful at the same time. There was nothing gentle about the way you phrased the question, your tone harsh and accusatory, like you had already decided he was in the wrong without giving him the chance to explain.

Clever woman.

He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to pull his scattered thoughts together through the haze of his tipsiness. His lack of answer seemed to piss you off even more, and while that might have once amused him, all it did now was make his heart sink. Grabbing his wrist, you pulled him through his apartment and back out into the hallway, not caring if you were making a scene or about who was staring.

“I’m going to ask this once, and only once. What the hell is all this?” You let go of his wrist, spinning on your heel to face him once it was just the two of you. The music was softer out here, making the clipped tone of your voice all the more apparent.

“It’s a party, sweetheart. I’m sure you know what that is.”

“Don’t call me that,” you snapped, furious at how cavalier he was being. It felt like you were back at the beginning, when you first met him, with his audacity and you struggling to keep your temper in check, except so much worse. Now, you were personally involved with him, which caused all of your emotions to lash out all at once. “Don’t you know what day it is?”

“You’re asking such odd questions, but if you must know, it's Thursday.” He looked completely uninterested in the conversation you were trying so hard to have. You grit your teeth, taking a step forward.

“First, you ignore me,” you seethed, your perfect facade crumbling bit by bit in his presence. “Then you don’t show up for the show rehearsal, that is going on right now, mind you, and throw a party instead? What the fuck is wrong with you?” Your disbelief was palpable, and it grew exponentially when he scoffed, like your questioning right then was a major inconvenience.

“Oh, please, you and I both know I’ll be fantastic on the runway whether I’m at the rehearsal or not.” He leaned against the wall to hide how unsteady he felt on his feet right then, the paradox almost making him laugh. Almost.

“Thats not the point!” You took a step toward him. “You know it's not.”

“Isn’t it?”

You exhaled shakily. “No. It’s about–” Us, but was there an ‘us’ for you to even refer to? From the way he was looking at you right now, so cold and aloof, you doubted it. “You’ve been avoiding me.” You let the statement hang between him and you, not bother to tack on the question that sat on the tip of your tongue, letting the rhetorical nature of it take over and do the work for you.

Rafayel was aware of how it looked because he was the one who had made it so. He had kissed you, held you, slept with you and then disappeared. He hated the look on your face right now, the way you were staring at him so pleadingly, waiting for him to explain why, too proud to outright ask for it. He averted his gaze, staring at his shoes.

“Are you really that surprised?”

Something in you cracked wide open. “What?”

“Come on, Y/n, you’re smart. I’m sure you’re aware of my reputation.” He knew he was being an asshole, but what was one of instance of that to him? That was what the world perceived him as anyway– a playboy with a penchant for partying and a pretty face – so why not live up to it? If it were going to protect him from getting hurt, then by all means, it would be worth it.

With how your face swiftly collapsed at his insinuation, it certainly didn’t feel worth it. He wanted to take it back immediately, to take you by the shoulders and tell you the truth and hold you like he had just days ago.

He couldn’t. Everything about wanting you terrified him because of the intensity of that desire. He had never felt like this before, and the thought of you someday not wanting him back was unbearable. He knew how he was: selfish, self-serving to a fault, difficult and exhausting at times, so very skilled at pushing people away. Eventually, you’d get tired of him and leave.

The idea of you walking away scared him so much that he opted to run away first to save himself from that pain.

“Did–Did everything that happened between us mean nothing to you?” You despised the way you stuttered, the stilted rhythm of your speech that betrayed the emotion behind it, because it made you feel weak. Out of control.

Perhaps if he were a better man, a stronger one, he’d tell you the truth. He’d tell you that it had meant the most to him, and how nothing had ever mattered as much as you did.

But he wasn’t.

“Was it supposed to?”

You couldn’t conceal the sharp gasp that left you at his cruel words, staggering away from him like you had been shot. The man in front of you was one you didn’t recognise, a mere phantom of the one you thought you knew. He had Rafayel’s eyes and hair and stature, but it wasn’t the same Rafayel that had torn through your walls and coaxed the real you out into the light, the part of you that you kept hidden away from the rest of the world. Instead, it was a man who held those secrets and threw them back in your face like they had meant nothing.

You had let your guard down and let him in, forgetting how easy that made it for you to get hurt. Those walls that once towered so high around had come crashing down, and you didn’t know how to rebuild. Hot tears burned your eyes, heartbreak mingling in with your rage toward him, but you refused to cry. You wouldn’t give him any more of yourself than you already had.

All you had left was your dignity, and you’d be damned if you let that go.

He was right; he had a reputation for a reason, and you should never have expected anything more. You pulled yourself together, momentarily wondering how you ever let yourself be so stupid.

“You will walk in the show tomorrow.” You forced yourself to sound steady, fingers curled into fists at how enraged you felt. “And then you will never walk for Lumiere again. Do you understand?”

The cold fury in your cadence wasn’t lost on him, and neither was the way you were shutting him out and shutting down. You had gotten used to expressing yourself freely when around him, and even now, it was like all your feelings were plastered across your face for him to see. It was awful to watch you blink away your tears so rapidly, knowing that they were because of him, how your lips twisted downward at the sorrow you felt but refused to give in to.

Rafayel hated that he was the one who had caused you this pain, but he couldn’t backtrack now. He had come this far, he might as well finish the job. Maybe it would be easier if you hated him.

“That won’t be a problem. I’ll be signed with Dubois Designs.”

You felt the betrayal before you processed it.

It started as a dull ache in the centre of your chest, gradually worsening until it felt like someone was standing on top of it, making it hard for you to breathe. When it– what he had done– finally hit you, you could no longer think straight, unstable on your feet despite being the sober one. You had spent your entire life keeping your cards close to your chest, only for the one person you had let peek at them to burn the whole deck.

There was a lump in your throat and a knife in your back.

When you spoke again, your voice was dangerously quiet. “After tomorrow, I never want to see you again.”

With your head held high and heart sinking low, you turned on your heel and left, stepping into the old elevator without sparing him another glance. Part of you wanted nothing more than you shake him and make him feel the way you did right then, but that would require casting your pride aside, and frankly, you didn’t have it in you. You wouldn’t let him take that away from you.

Rafayel watched you leave, frozen in place. The irony wasn’t lost on him; he had run away from the future possibility of you walking away from him, only to have you do exactly that right now. The party continued in the background, but all he could think of were the tears in your eyes and how fucking hurt you looked because of what he had just done to you. To himself.

You emerged back into the Parisian streets, the cold air nipping at the exposed skin of your neck. Pulling your coat tighter around yourself, you looked up at the sky and then at your surroundings, those tears you had so valiantly fought against finally trickling down your face.

The city of love had never looked so dull.

The models were lined up and in place. Every seat was filled, celebrities and critics alike taking the front row. Photographers had their equipment in place, ready to capture the results of your hard work. You stood backstage, and despite having done this so many times, you felt a little nervous.

Everyone looked fabulous in your clothing, the stylists carefully draping them in the delicate fabrics and complicated pieces. Both the women and men models had little Swarovski crystals embedded in their hair that would shimmer when the light hit them, with the women’s hair being done in beach waves. Last-minute touch-ups to the makeup, some models having to be quite literally stitched into their outfits– it was that unique brand of madness that only existed behind the veiled curtains of a fashion show.

This was it. The end of a season for Lumiere. Months of fretting over details and extensive planning, hours upon hours of work and stress and obstacles would culminate in the twelve minutes that your models took the stage for.

“On in ten,” Simone announced, taking her spot beside you. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” you mumbled, both your hands over your stomach in an attempt to calm its churning. The lights came on all of a sudden, signalling that the show was about to begin. The music began playing, and the first model rolled her shoulders, straightened her posture, and lifted her head just slightly, a look of concentration dawning on her face.

And down the runway she went.

She glided down the runway with grace, and a hush fell over the audience at the magnificent sight, fabrics shimmering as the dramatic lighting hit them. Once she reached the end, she twirled gracefully and turned to return as the next model emerged into the spotlight. They passed each other on their respective paths, hums of appreciation arising from the onlookers. Haunting organ music accompanied the models as they walked one by one, dramatic and exquisite.

Operatic.

It was funny how only one person had ever been able to capture the essence of what you had envisioned so perfectly and put it into words. It was fitting, you supposed, the muse would understand what he inspired. He now stood at the back of the line, waiting his turn to take the runway and blow everyone away with the final piece of the collection.

Rafayel’s eyes met yours across the backstage area one final time, so brief that you would have missed it if you weren’t already looking at him. For his look, you had instructed the stylists to leave his hair in its natural curly state, and with the crystals in it, he truly looked like a character from a fairytale. When you looked at him now, though, his beauty wasn’t what you were transfixed on.

It was the look in his eyes. Forlorn, longing and….defeated? The combination resulted in something inexplicable, but it chipped away at a suspicion you had been harbouring ever since the night before, one that you had buried deep to save yourself from the pain that would come with trying to understand it. For how well he could read you, it seemed that you could do the same for him, and now, that split second of eye contact told you everything you needed to know.

Everything that had happened between the two of you had meant something to him, and for some reason, he lied to you and said it didn’t.

You didn’t want to know why.

Rafayel stepped out and onto the runway, his expression morphing into one you had seen in magazines and on your website. The dark red organza silk of his shirt shimmered in the light like light upon ocean waves, hints of blue and purple making a show as he walked. Captivating as ever, he brought your clothing to life with every step he took.

The perfect closer for a sensational show.

When it was time for you to walk out, you plastered on a smile and waved, placing one foot in front of the other like your life depended on it. Cameras flashed, and thunderous applause was heard throughout the cathedral, especially when you took your place in the middle of your models as they lined up for a final bow. You joined then, a weight rolling off your shoulders as the show came to a spectacular close, undoubtedly a resounding success.

You had done it. This show was unlike any other you had put on, and no doubt everyone would be talking about it. You had stepped out of your comfort zone when it came to designing and achieved your goal of putting on a spectacle that made the audience feel.

So why did you feel so hollow?

After surviving a swarm of paparazzi shouting questions at you, desperate for even a sliver of your attention and a glance at their lenses and shaking the hands of impressed critics, you found yourself at the Lumiere afterparty. People you called loosely called friends for appearances' sake, celebrities, influencers, and fellow designers were all in attendance, showering you in congratulations and complimenting your work. They said the show would go down in fashion history as iconic and asked how you managed to do it once again. You smiled and drank and tried your best to bask in your well-deserved glory at a party you didn’t want to be at, in a city that was tainted.

And at this party, Qi Rafayel was nowhere to be found.

New York was as unforgiving as ever.

Your life resumed its regular course when you returned; fittings, photoshoots, interviews, and so much paperwork. You threw yourself into your work, filling every spare moment of your day with something to do, fix, or delegate, an arguably pathetic attempt at keeping yourself from thinking of him.

The cacophony of the city accompanied your every solitary step, and you took comfort in it. The incessant honking while stuck in traffic and the chatter of pedestrians filled your senses, whether you were sitting in the back of a cab or running errands. It served as background music to your loneliness, and while you might have once been satisfied with it, you found it hard to go back to that blissfully ignorant state.

Because now you had a taste of what it felt like to not be quite so lonely. Rafayel had waltzed into your life like the tempest of allure and insolence he was and drenched your world in colour. He had taken you out of your box and painted you a new perspective, one you had so foolishly assumed he’d view by your side.

Early mornings and late nights – your days began to blur together until you weren’t sure when they started and ended. Your voice lacked the bite it usually had when reprimanding your employees for any stupid mistakes. If your coffee was cold, you drank it anyway, perplexing Simone. You walked through the hallways of the Lumeire building during those long work days and returned to your penthouse in the dead of night, moving under the heavy silence that completely claimed the large space.

You loathed him for making the life you had so carefully built for yourself feel so miserable. More than anything, you hated how you wished he were still in it.

Rafayel threw a party.

He didn’t even want to be there anymore. Everything about it felt wrong. His drink wasn’t strong enough, the music was too loud, and there were too many fucking people around. He didn’t even like any of them; it was the usual crowd that showed up whenever he hosted one of these things, and while he could usually get along with them, right now all their presence did was remind him that the one person he truly wanted beside him wanted nothing to do with him.

A pitiful try at filling a void he had created himself. He didn’t want anything to do with himself either.

God, he missed you. He missed that rare smile you seldom let show, the ridiculous updo you always had your hair done in, and the passion in your eyes when you spoke about your work. He missed your voice, your crimson painted lips and scrutinising glare that made everyone it was directed at shrink. The way you’d scowl when he teased you, and the softness with which you told him he was your favourite muse.

As he glanced at the doorway of his apartment, he almost willed you to walk through it like you had in Paris, on that fateful night when he ruined everything. He imagined you appearing there, huffing in displeasure at the pandemonium of this stupid party and wanting to see him. Idiotically, he braced himself for exactly that, waiting and watching like it was something that would actually happen.

But he knew it wouldn’t. Instead of waiting around for it to happen, he realised that for the first time in his life, he’d have to work for what he wanted.

He would have to go to you.

Walking into the Lumiere building after two months away was a strange experience.

It seemed like nothing had changed, not that he expected it to. He had almost become an ambassador for the brand, and now there he was, walking down its hallways as nothing more than an exiled stranger.

His feet carried him to your office, knowing that was where you’d be, always holed up in there with a thousand things to get done. Passing the conference room where he first met you four months ago, he wondered how things had gotten to this point. Back then, he had been reluctant to get involved with Lumiere.

Funny.

When he reached your office, you seemed to be in conversation with someone. One glance at the silvery blond hair on the man, and he recognised him as Xavier Shen, the model he had replaced. Now, the man seemed perfectly healthy, standing on his feet as the two of you conversed. The sight reminded Rafayel that he truly might not be needed by you anymore, in every sense of the word.

Still, he steeled himself and pushed the glass door open, not bothering to knock. He never did in the past, so why start now?

“Huh. You really do live here.”

Both Xavier and you turned to him, and the first thing he noticed was how tired you looked. Your shoulders looked like the weight of the world rested upon them, slumped just a little bit, and prominent dark circles under your eyes. It seemed he was right in assuming you were running yourself ragged; he knew your habits well enough. Still, even with all that, to him, you looked positively radiant.

At the sight of him standing there with his hands in his pockets, your heart stuttered before it twisted in pain. He was the same as ever, his presence commanding the entirety of your office like no one else but you could, still a sight for sore eyes. That ever-present playful tone to his voice, however, was weaker than you remembered, just barely hiding the thick layer of vulnerability just below the surface.

“I thought I said I never wanted to see you again.”

Xavier glanced between you and Rafayel before clearing his throat. “I’m gonna take my leave. See you tomorrow.” He gave you a sharp nod and slipped out. Rafayel barely comprehended the other man leaving, so focused on being in the same room as you again.

“I know.” Those words were fresh in his mind even after all these weeks, eating away at him. They were the reason it took him so long to come here, so afraid you’d turn him away the second he showed his face, but he knew he’d regret it for the rest of his life if he didn’t try. “I know, I just…” He trailed off, not quite sure what to say now that he was face to face with you.

“What do you want, Rafayel?” You took a seat behind your desk and defensively folded your arms over your chest, keeping your guard up. “To waste more of my time? To remind me how little I meant to you? Take your pick, and do it quickly because I don’t have all day.”

He looked pained. “I want to talk. Please.”

A bitter laugh escaped you. “And why should I listen to anything you have to say?”

“You shouldn’t,” he admitted, walking to your desk. “But I’m asking you to, anyway.”

You scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief as you looked off to the side. He somehow had the gall to walk into your building and ask to talk to you when he had no right to do so. It was just so like him, selfish with total disregard for your feelings, and as much as you wanted to tell him to get out, a small, hopeless part of you wanted to hear what he had to say.

You supposed that was what you got for falling for someone like him. “Fine. Talk.”

Relief flooded his system. He sat down on one of the cushioned chairs in front of your desk and tried to gather his thoughts. There was so much he wanted to say, but he hadn’t the faintest idea of where to start. “I’m sorry.”

That had seemed like a pretty good place to begin, but with the way your eyes narrowed, he wondered if he had already made a mistake. Lord knows it wouldn’t be his first or last one. “That could have been an email.”

“Would you have read it?”

You clenched your jaw at his rash question, opting to stay silent. Rafayel wanted to slap himself, knowing he was being an asshole even now, the one time he was actively trying to avoid doing so. He didn’t deserve even a second of your time; he should have walked out of your life and stayed away to avoid causing you any more pain.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and forged on. “I fucked up, I know that. I’ve never– I lied and said that none of it mattered, but– fuck, this is coming out all wrong.” He rubbed a hand over his face, frustrated at his inability to say what he wanted in a manner that made even a sliver of sense. “I was scared.”

All that self-assuredness you were so used to was nowhere to be seen now as he stumbled over his words. It was jarring to see Rafayel admit to being scared when you had only ever associated him with unshakable confidence.

“Scared of what? Me?”

There was something fractured in the way you asked that, fragile even. He immediately refuted the claim, feeling awful that you would even consider it a possibility. “No, god no, not you. Never you.” His eyes snapped to yours, full of earnestness that made you instantly believe him. “You called me your muse.”

You let out a slow breath. “I remember.”

Rafayel gripped the armrests on either side of him, looking off to the side, his throat bobbing with uncertainty as he contemplated whether this was a good idea anymore. “But muses are temporary. They can’t inspire forever, and god knows I’m not someone who thinks about forever.” A huff of forced laughter. “But with you, I did. I wanted to be the one that inspired you forever and that scared the shit out of me.”

Here they were, answers to questions you had been too proud to ask. He ran his fingers through his straightened hair, pushing it back and out of his face. Regardless of how restless he felt, he continued, knowing that the truth was the least of what you deserved. “For the first, fuck, maybe the only time in my life, I wanted to stay. I was so afraid that you’d wake up one day and realise I’m not worth being your muse and you’d walk away. Pick someone else.”

“Do you really think so little of me?” You asked quietly, unable to look anywhere but him.

“I didn’t know what to think,” He said honestly. “I’ve never cared so much, and the thought of you leaving because you didn’t find me inspiring enough for your creations–” He cut himself off and dropped his head, as if suddenly realising how fucking awful his assumption sounded out loud. “I thought the only way to avoid that would be to leave first, and I know that that makes no sense, but I….I’m so sorry.”

You had been called a lot of things in your life: difficult, stubborn, unreasonable, and yet somehow, this stung the worst. He had made the decision for you, leaving you to deal with the repercussions of an outcome you didn’t have a hand in choosing.

“You thought I saw you as a means to an end.” Your voice was devoid of emotion, hollow, anguished eyes never once finding his. “When I only ever thought of you as a beginning.”

For something that was a concept, it was funny how his regret manifested itself as a physical ache, ripping through his chest and causing his throat to close up on itself. Your words cut through him, reminding him of how he was the one to rush to an end that you hadn’t even considered.

Maybe this wasn’t salvageable. Maybe all he was destined for was to live with the knowledge that he had finally loved someone other than himself, and ruined it.

“I know what it feels like to be loved.” It took everything in him to keep looking at you when it seemed like you couldn’t bear to even glance at him. His tongue felt like it was made of lead, heavy and uncooperative as he tried to say what he had known for so long. “Adoration, infatuation, whatever. I know when someone is in love with me, but I’ve never felt the same way. I don’t know how to, but I think whatever I feel for you has to be pretty damn close, and–”

“Don’t you dare.”

“–I’m in love with you, Y/n.”

A shattered breath left you, your composure faltering completely at the confession. Nothing about this was fair. Your heart was bruised and battered, but it fluttered to life completely against your will when he said it, and you detested it. You wanted to hate him so badly, even when it was so clear that you loved him. Why else would all this hurt so bad?

They said pride came before fall, but in your case, you fell first, and now it was your pride that stopped you from letting him back in. You knew he didn’t deserve a shred of forgiveness, and you also knew that if you looked at him right now, you’d let go of the anger you were so desperately holding onto. It was the only thing keeping you from being totally vulnerable, so you kept your gaze on your mahogany desk, trying your hardest to stay strong.

“I think you should leave.”

Quiet enough to conceal how choked up you truly felt, you knew you didn’t mean it. You needed the time and space to think about everything that had happened. You couldn’t just forgive him even if you wanted to, so skilled at holding a grudge as you were, the bitter realisation that you were perhaps as scared as he was right then making itself known.

Rafayel had never been good at doing what he was told, but there was no place for his sense of entitlement here. He had done enough damage, and if you wanted him to leave, then that was exactly what he’d do. Getting to his feet, he stared at you one last time, waiting, wishing and hoping you’d look up.

But you didn’t.

So he left your office, complying with your wishes without argument. It should have pleased you, considering how you hated rebuttals when it came to people following your orders.

But as you watched him walk through those doors, you had never wanted someone to defy you more than in that moment.

When a storm comes to an end, it does so in parts.

First, the wind stops howling. As it does, the heavy showers relent and turn back into the light drizzle it started as, gentle and harmless. The darkened clouds clear up, giving way to clear blue skies and the warm, golden rays of the sun.

Resentment worked differently when it came to someone you loved. It turned out that both those feelings– resentment and love– could exist simultaneously, even when it seemed nearly impossible, but when the latter was real, it made it exhausting to hold on to all that anger. Love itself was confusing, contradictory, and so difficult to navigate, especially when it was good.

And when had anything good been easy?

The art gallery was pretty much empty, seeing that it was almost eight p.m., which was when it closed. You swept through the different hallways, procrastinating, approaching the showcase you were truly there for.

And why the hell were you there?

Because, despite everything, Rafayel was still everything you wanted, and you were so tired of pretending he wasn’t. You had spent night after night going over everything that had happened over the past six months and trying to convince yourself of the opposite, but when it came down to it, one thing was abundantly clear: he made you happy like no one else could. He could accomplish the opposite as well, but one extreme would not exist if the other didn’t.

He was flawed, but so were you. Your pride made it impossible for you to see that at first, making you punish yourself and stay miserable, even though the one thing you wanted was within reach. You turned it away, thinking that refusal would help you forget him and the way he made you feel, but it didn’t. Maybe it didn’t make any sense, but maybe it wasn’t supposed to. You had spent so much of your life making sure everything went exactly how you wanted, caging yourself within your own expectations.

Stepping into the back, you were in front of the very wall he had shown you all those months ago when he had dragged you out of your office. Even when you weren’t sure of him, he was the only person in your life who had ever forced you to live.

Your breath hitched.

The paintings had been rearranged with a new one in the centre. The colours stood out against the others, this one bathed in warm oranges and yellows, a faceless woman leaning out of the roof of a car with the wind in her hair. There was something distinctively wistful about it, like she was being viewed from the lens of another.

It was you.

You took a hesitant step forward, instinctively looking at the artist plaque despite knowing that it would read ‘anonymous’. Not that it mattered, of course, because you knew exactly who had made it.

“Y/n?”

You turned, and there Rafayel was. It had been a while since you had seen him, and during that time, he had stayed out of the limelight completely—no articles in tabloids, no rumours, nothing. Your pulse picked up at the sight of him, and you felt like a child being caught doing something they weren’t supposed to.

“What are you doing here?” The ridiculous question left you before you could stop it. His lips twitched slightly, a hint of amusement bleeding into those all-consuming eyes.

“Forgot already? I’m a little insulted.” He spoke gently, cocking his head towards his artwork. He studied you for a moment. “Why are you here?”

When it came to him, you always found yourself wanting to do opposite things at the same time. You wanted to run away, but more than anything, you wanted to run right back into his arms. If that made you an idiot, well, wasn’t everyone allowed to be one every once in a while?

“I don’t know.”

A soft smile, so much like the one he gave you that night when he first kissed you. “No, you do. You of all people don’t do things without a reason.”

There he went again, reading you like a book without your permission. You looked back at the painting of you, skillfully evading his question with one of your own. “When did you make that?”

“Recently.” Hesitantly, he made his way to your side, like he wasn’t sure if he had a spot there anymore, but in typical Rafayel fashion, he took it anyway. “I’ve had time on my hands.”

“How?”

“I haven’t been modelling that much lately. Thomas is just about fed up with me.” His attempt at levity wasn’t lost on you. You were quite aware of his absence from the spotlight as of late, but something nagged at the back of your mind, telling you that you had a piece of the puzzle missing.

Then it hit you as your eyes swept to him, once again succumbing to the gravitational pull he possessed. “But what about Dubois Designs?"

He slipped his hands into his pockets, not meeting your eyes. “They sent over a contract.” He admitted, clearing his throat. “But I may have thrown it out.”

“Why?” It felt like all you were doing was asking questions you already knew the answers to. Rafayel clicked his tongue in a mixture of mild annoyance and something else, something you couldn’t quite pinpoint, giving you a knowing look.

“You know why.”

Fuck. Both of you, stubborn, impossibly prideful people, holding each other back because of each other. It was almost laughable. Swallowing thickly, you shifted closer to him, your gaze darting back to his depiction of you. “It’s a beautiful painting.”

“Yeah, well, you can thank my muse for that.”

You were breathless. “I’m your muse?” Another question lay under this one: Do you still love me?

“If that’s okay with you,” His eyes never strayed from you, watching you like you were the very essence of the sun itself, or the most perfect pearl in the ocean. “I wouldn’t blame you if you don’t want to be. I may have given it a bad rep.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, facing him properly now that you had finally worked up the nerve. “You’ve made me a fool, Qi Rafayel.”

Fondness sweeter than the ripest of peaches spread over his face. “No one could ever make you a fool, Y/n. Especially not me.” He took a tentative step forward into your personal space, and you never wanted him to leave again. “So I’ll ask you again, why are you here?”

There were a few things in this shallow, pretentious world you were certain of. Your faith in your abilities as a designer was the first, knowing that no matter what, your skills and talent would always speak for themselves more than your words ever could. The second was your preference for coffee that was piping hot, without sugar, so that the bitterness would shock your system into functioning.

And the third, in a sick, unfortunately fortunate twist of fate, was Qi Rafayel, the model who had traipsed into your life without so much as a warning and had turned it upside down.

“Because you’re still my muse.” You whispered. “And as it so happens, I love you too.”

When your lips met, you knew right then and there that you’d never let him go again. Your palm cupped his face as you pulled him closer, reaquainting yourself with the feel of him against you, how the two of you fit together so perfectly as if you were made for each other. One of his hands slipped around your waist, the other coming to rest over your own over his face, keeping it trapped there as he leaned into your touch, whispering I love you’s back.

“I’m going to fuck up,” Rafayel mumbled against your mouth, resting his forehead against yours like he couldn’t bear to be any further from you. “I’m going to piss you off and I’m never going to be easy.”

You squeezed his forearm. “I know. Those are your most endearing qualities.”

“Will you love me even then?” He held you close, but you could feel the slight tremble in his touch. You saw him for what he was under all that indifference and chutzpah: a man who desperately loved you through his fear. Lucky for him, you were a woman who loved him through his mistakes and all the madness he brought into your life.

“Rafayel.” With a tender whisper of his name, you pressed your lips to his reassuringly. “I love you because of it.”

Love was messy and imperfect, but so were the two of you. Neither he nor you were easy people, but when had you ever taken the easy way out of something? You wouldn’t mind never getting out of this, content to stay with him for as long as he’d have you. The colours rushed back into your life, starting with the pinks and blues of his eyes as they crinkled with a smile. He’d break every one of your rules with a smile, and you’d let him.

“God, you’re going to regret that.”

But he was laughing, and so were you, giddy with the thought of a future with him. The sound of his laughter was so enchanting that you wanted to memorise it, and perhaps now you could, with him by your side for what you hoped would be a beginning without an end.

You were wholly and irrevocably in love with Qi Rafayel, infuriating quirks and all. Everyone in the industry that the two of you ruled might have thought of him as a total nightmare.

But to you? To you, Rafayel was a dream.

fin.

#love and deepspace #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel x reader #lads x reader #love and deepspace x reader #rafayel smut #rafayel fluff #rafayel angst #lads smut #lads fluff #lads angst #love and deepspace smut #rafayel x reader smut #lads rafayel #rafayel x mc #rafayel x y/n

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searchingwardrobes · 6 months ago

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I have been debating sharing this for some time, but with the new year weight loss ads amping up, I feel it's something I have to say. I'm worried for people's health.

Unless you've been living under a rock, you probably already know about people taking the diabetic drug ozempic for weight loss. You've probably heard the debates about the ethics of taking needed drugs away from diabetes patients and maybe even the side effect of "ozempic face." However, there is one side effect of taking these drugs that, in my opinion, people are not being warned about.

If you carefully pay attention to the television ads, you will hear them mention "pancreatitis" as a possible side effect. If you're like me a decade ago, that word probably means nothing to you. Let me warn you, however, it is no minor thing. My husband suffered from chronic pancreatitis for five agonizing years. The pain is beyond comprehension. Doctors who specialize in the pancreas describe it as the worst pain a human can endure. There is no actual cure. Little is understood about the disease, so treatment is difficult. Doctors who understand it are few and far between. It took my husband forever to get diagnosed. He went through multiple surgeries and procedures, but nothing worked. He had to go on an extremely limiting diet. If he varied from it in any way, he would have an attack. The only way to recover from an attack was to not eat at all for days, then slowly add in broth and jello. Did he lose weight? Yes. As a matter of fact, one day he stepped out of the shower, and I burst into tears at the sight of him. He was skin and bones - I could count every rib. Was it worth it to be thin? If you even ask that question, I'm concerned for your mental health.

They couldn't figure out exactly why my husband got pancreatitis. At that time, they thought only alcoholics and drug addicts got pancreatitis. This made it difficult to get compassionate medical care, unfortunately. Now they know that prescription medication (particularly diabetic medication) and high cholesterol can also cause it. Then there is another group - where they just don't know. But you better believe I would hesitate to take any medication that could cause pancreatitis. I would weigh my options carefully to assess if it was worth the risk. In my opinion, weight loss is not worth that risk.

My concern has been heightened seeing the Hers commercials for these drugs (under different names, but rest assured, it is the same thing). These commercials brag that you can get these drugs from Hers with just a simple virtual call, no questions asked. I wonder if people are fully aware of the risks of these drugs. I also wonder if we even know all of the risks yet. I also fear that the culture around these drugs could develop into an us vs. them mentality. That if it's so easy to be thin, why wouldn't you be? And some are getting dangerously thin on these drugs.

I know some diabetics who are on these drugs, and necessarily so. They tell me that it causes nausea when they eat. That's why they don't eat much. Again, that doesn't sound like a pleasant way to live. If you need it to regulate your blood sugar, that's one thing. But if you don't? Why would you do this to yourself?

My husband is now healed of pancreatitis. It was a miracle. You may not believe in that sort of thing, but I'm telling you, there is no other explanation. We had exhausted every medical solution, then the pandemic hit. We were concerned because hospitals were only taking life or death cases. What if he had a bad attack and needed an iv of pain meds? What would we do? Weeks passed - no pain. A month passed - no pain. Six weeks passed - no pain. He decided to grill a steak - something he hadn't been able to even take a nibble of in 5 years. I watched him take a bite, holding my breath. Nothing. He ate the whole thing. No pain. Five years later, still no pain. The doctors can't explain it, either.

So our story has a happy ending. Not everyone else's does. I hope people take the time to read this. If you do, please, please share it. I don't want anyone suffering needlessly.

#ozempic #weight loss culture #diet meds #pancreatitis

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pythonmoth · 4 months ago

Text

cw: post-traumatic stress disorder. paranoia. anxiety. panic. overthinking. reader is traumatized and unreliable. explicit suicidal thoughts. mentioned depersonalization. the voices. jealous simon. kissing the homies pt2. author was angry while writing.

× framed traitor f!reader x lt ghost. poly tf141.

text is heavily styled to show reader's panic. if it's difficult to read, I can share the normal version tomorrow. ♡

Part 8

Slow.

That's the only way you can describe how the progress has been for you.

Ever since you fell asleep with Simon on a call, you've been feeling so calm. It's like all the problems disappeared. Your therapist is confused, but glad to see you all happy and content, like never before. Your appetite has come back, your nails have been growing nicely. You give yourself a chance to try on comfortable shoes, a little hesitant to make your toenails hurt, but you can actually walk with them now. They're still a little sensitive, but you're running your errands on your own now. No need to be dependant anymore.

To feel like yourself again has given you so much comfort that you find yourself texting the team properly. Even Gaz has been taking your calls when he's available, which has been great for your mental health, and your heart. Price has been mostly quiet, but you're not surprised, as he's always busy; he mostly just shares updates on missions, like Simon. Johnny has been incredibly funny on the phone, sharing silly things and your mutual hatred towards a new movie has been helping you bond again.

Simon, however...

"Hey, I'm serious! Don't you dare using that fucking tea bag!" Simon grunts from the phone.

You turn to him, laughing as you see him frowning. Simon's unmasked face covers your phone screen, his distaste for the cheap tea bags completely clear. His eyebrows are furrowed together, his mouth curled in a little disgusted snarl. You can only grin, mocking him, lazily patting your hands dry on your pants.

"I've no energy to prepare anything else!" you sigh, dropping the tea bag on the mug, getting closer to the phone to turn the volume up.

Your phone is fighting for it's life resting against a little cookie jar on the isle, your hands still a little damp from doing the dishes.

"Well, if you didn't try to do everything at once, you would" Simon voice retorts. His forehead is covering nearly half of your screen, making it hard to take him seriously.

"I can perfectly do multiple things at the same time".

"The stove".

You turn around to see the stove still on. With a grimace, you turn it off, ignoring his little chuckle as you reach out for your tea and your phone, walking over to the living room. The couch is cozy and fluffy, making you sink into it as if it were a cloud. You drag a blanket over your legs as you smile at the screen, staring at Simon.

"Whatever. Now, what did you have for dinner?"

Ever since that night, this has been your new normal. He has time off, you have a videocall. Really, it's a win-win situation, and it makes you happy, so that's fine. He tells you all about everyone, he tells you about how much he misses you and how much he wants to see you. It makes you smile, genuinely so.

The therapist isn't convinced you're okay yet. She says you're still jumpy, still flinch around people, and she even said you're hyper vigilant. But there's nothing wrong with being precautious, so you don't understand how that's a bad thing. However, you can admit it's a little hard to do things with your hands. It's not that you can't use your hands, because you can, but it makes you feel as if you were in a simulation, as if you were part of a game and you're the point of view for someone else.

Perhaps you should've kept that to yourself.

That's probably why the therapist refuses to allow you to go back. She probably thinks you're crazy, when it happens to everyone. She just doesn't understand.

It's no matter, because they're coming.

Price told you a few days ago that they're finally free, and will be having a few months off unless they're strictly needed. It's been nine months since you last saw them in person, so it makes you feel excited, content!

Tomorrow. They're coming tomorrow.

The best part is that you don't even need to ask what they feel like eating. You know them well enough to know just how much they love meat, so you just have to go out and buy everything.

The air is a more than chilly now, your birthday month coming right up, so you decide to put on your favorite jacket and take your car keys. The drive to the store is calm, the music absolutely blasting your ears, though, your enthusiasm sky high with how much you've missed them these past few months. It makes you giddy, to welcome them, to see them again.

Your therapist has been helping you to identify your emotions, helping you to understand how you are genuinely feeling. And having them over... it makes you a little anxious. Only because you haven't gotten any visitors outside your family and friends, really. Of course you want them there, it's just gonna be new.

In just a few minutes, your car if parked and locked at least five times just to make sure, canva tote bags in hand and then you're walking in the store. You're always making sure to come at a time when there's less people, and you're glad it's keeping up the same. Headphones over your ears, music gently playing on then, you move with practiced ease.

Meat. Vegetables. Pasta.

Meat. Fruit. Meat.

And meat.

They would die if you gave them anything but meat, truly.

You smile to yourself as you carry your things back to your car, your headphones now curled around your neck so you can pay attention to your surroundings, your eyes slyly looking around, turning smoothly whenever you feel someone is looking at you from your back. Your eyes wide open, you fill your car with the groceries, quickly closing it once you're done.

Just for precaution, you look around again before looking inside your car, and as soon as you open the door, you're inside and lo ck in g the car.

Just precaution.

It's dangerous out the re.

You're home the rest of the day, preparing the meals you'll be giving them tomorrow morning. Price did say they'll be arriving at 2pm, so you make sure everything is perfect before going to bed.

That night, you sleep with Simon's breathing next to your ear again, your heart pounding in your chest. The an xie ty keeps on growing, but you're sure it's just giddiness. Really, you're just too excited you can't wait.

The next morning, you almost don't want to get up. The woodpeckers are going crazy with the tree just outside your window, the sunlight hitting your face perfectly from between the curtains and it feels peaceful. Your bed is empty, except for your pillows —and a big plushie of a dragon Johnny got for you a few years ago—, and it's so, so warm you just don't want to get up.

With a sigh, you stand up and quickly get ready to welcome the day, and your friends. You're thankful you made sure everything was ready the day before, because just as you're done blow drying your hair, there's a firm knock on your door.

Surprised, you turn to look at the clock. You didn't even realize you spent so long just staring at yourself in silence. You lost so many hours, when you could've been doing something else!

"Coming!" you yell from your room, jumping down the stairs to the kitchen and turning the stove on.

When everything is already getting heated up, you stand in front of the door, your body suddenly frozen. You're sweating, your heart slowing and then racing in your chest as if it couldn't choose what to do. Your throat is closing up.

You can't move.

Don't open the door.

Run.

Why?

What is happening?

Run.

Another knock makes you snap out of it, but your hands are still shaky as you finally open the door. Your shoulders relax as your eyes fall on Gaz, strong arms instantly wrapping around your middle as Price, right behind him, presses the door against the wall so they can all get in.

Gaz lifts you just enough to make room for the rest.

"Hey, sweetheart. Looking good" Gaz says, beaming, pressing a soft kiss to your cheekbones before letting go of you.

However, you're instantly shutting off again. You don't understand why your legs feel like jelly, why your healed fingernails are throbbing. You don't understand at all why the sudden urge to run, far, far away.

Leave.

Price grins down at you, patting your head and gently gripping your shoulder before side stepping you. "Thank you for having us, kid".

When you look up at Johnny, he's grinning down at you, but you can see the way he quickly catches on your reaction, the way your forehead is covered in sweat, and the way your lips are pursed.

Danger.

"It's good to see you" Johnny says gently, nodding down at you and moving past you very carefully, trying not to touch you.

It feels odd. It feels incredibly off. And there's something weird in the air.

Your stomach is twisting and churning. It's confusing. It's weird. Sulfur? Acid?

Fully focused on trying to understand what happening to you, you're suddenly aware that the burning smell you can perceive is coming from your deep in your stomach.

Fear? Pain? Panic?

Your throat is so closed up you can barely breathe. The fear is making your sight turn a little blurry, your breathing shaky.

Bile. You want to throw up.

When you look up at Simon, your hands clench on your sides, swallowing thickly. It feels so, so wrong to look at him like this, especially when you two are supposed to be okay again, but for some reason, you can't handle looking at him. It's making you feel... off. Odd.

You give him a tight smile and a nod, the giddiness turning ice cold in your stomach.

You bring your hand to your mouth, nibbling on your fingernails.

As soon as they're all inside, door closed behind them, Simon takes his mask off, his eyes fixed on you, frowning.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah. I'm okay. Yeah, come on" you reply, maybe a little too quickly, but you don't give him, or any of them, a moment to think about it as you move to the kitchen.

You check on everything by the stove as Johnny fills glasses with wine. It's too early for wine, but with your teeth destroying the growing fingernail on your thumb... you don't really care right now.

"It smells amazing" Price comments, inhaling deeply. He's sitting at the head of the table, looking ready to sink his teeth in anything. If he's oblivious to the tension in your shoulders, or if he's choosing to ignore it, you can't tell. "This is what having a wife at home feels like. All we're missing is a little one".

That manages to make you smile slightly, your shaky hands relaxing at the friendly tone. You reach out to mix the pots, turning to look at him.

"The only little one any of you will be seeing from me is my knee on your balls. Now, be useful and set the table" you grunt. Price raises his hands in surrender and pats Simon's shoulder so they can do as you asked.

It's not the first time they've come, anyway, so they don't have to ask you where you keep things. Johnny stays by the table, claiming he already poured the wine, but he ends up helping Simon and Price with the plates anyway.

Gaz leaves the table to stand right next to you, suddenly smacking the hand on your mouth firmly.

"Stop that shit" he whispers angrily. He's quiet, even gentle with it, so rest don't hear.

"Sorry. I'm... feeling weird" you mumble, forcing yourself to stop.

"Go sit. I've got this" he hums, nudging you with his shoulder until you let go.

You make sure to sit by the isle, just because that ridiculous anxious feeling isn't getting any smaller. If anything, you can jump and cover yourself with the isle, so this place is fine.

As Gaz serves for everyone and they start sitting down again, you nearly jump off the chair when you realize Simon's sitting next to you, instead of where he was sitting on the opposite side of the table.

"Hey, that's my chair. Go sit over there".

You look up to see Simon glare at Gaz, the two of them staring each other down, a silent conversation between the two of them. In the end, Simon simply let's go of the chair and sits away from you again. It helps you relax, but you keep quiet, reaching out to grab your glass of wine.

"Really, though. If you had a kid running around..." Price starts again, his mouth filled with food.

"Back off" Johnny complains, nudging Price still. Price rolls his eyes, waving a dismissive hand. "What a prick".

Simon, however, can't look away from you, paying attention to all of your movements, the way you lean on Gaz, the way you barely seem to be listening.

"If she's marrying anyone here, that's me" Gaz says, suddenly wrapping an arm around your shoulders. "Y'all stand no chance".

It makes you relax, but only a moment, feeling suffocated by their eyes on you, especially with the way Simon's gripping his fork. You hit Gaz on the ribs with your elbow, only to make him let go. He grins, his eyes gentle. You know he doesn't mean it like that, but it's making you uncomfortable again.

"Oi, watch your—" Simon starts, his eye twitching.

"Not playing house by choice, I've been forced to. I'm pretty sure we don't wanna talk about it, so eat up and shut the fuck up" you snap, your tone just shy from screaming at them.

That makes Price's teasing smile die, nodding solemnly, and finally shutting up. You refuse to look at the way Simon and Johnny's faces drop, both of them staring at their plates, suddenly feeling no appetite.

It's an awkward meal, everybody afraid to make a single noise. You can hear the way Simon's munching on the vegetables, you can hear Price's breathing slowing down just the way he does when he's on a mission, and Johnny... he's only mixing his food together, stabbing an innocent carrot.

After a while, when nobody's chewing and nobody even dares breathing, Gaz breaks the silence.

"So..."

The rest turn to him.

Gaz grins.

A movie.

The sun is still high up, but Garrick suggested to watch a movie, and you said yes. In a heartbeat. Really, Simon shouldn't complain if he gets to see you for a little longer. Whatever that means, anyway, because you don't want him near you at all. Fuck, you didn't even let him sit next to you.

All these months, he thought he'd been helping you, he thought therapy was going well, because during the constant videocalls you've been cheerful, your old self. You smiled at him, you laughed. He had made you laugh at his fucked up jokes again.

But this?

Johnny went with Price to buy crisps, soda, more drinks, and sour candies for you. Those two bastards really couldn't handle a single comment and bolted immediately. Pair of cowards. Simon wasn't stupid, he had seen the way Johnny nearly burst into tears, the way Price's jaw clenched, felt his own heart break inside his chest, but he has to sit here and take it. Because he wasn't a coward.

And this?

You're leaning on Garrick. Heavily.

Simon eyes the way Garrick interlocks your hands together, checking on your fingernails. His eye twitches as he hears you talk, both of you fully focused on each other, as if he wasn't there. It's not that that's a new concept for him, he often only talked so much.

But this?

His heart pounds in his chest when Garrick grips your jaw with a hand, kissing your cheek loudly after you pout at him.

It makes you smile.

That's it, he thinks. I'm getting up and I'm beating him up. Who the fuck does he think he is? Stealing my girlfriend right in front of me.

In the end, he only shifts, his face betraying nothing, looking down at his beer, hoping the other cowards arrive soon so he doesn't have to see the way he keeps losing you.

Losing you, all over again. Over a fucked up mistake, for following an order. And the worst part is that he genuinely gets it. Garrick is the only one who didn't hurt you, of course you're okay with his touch and not the rest.

Fucking hell. He wants to stab himself in the gut to end his misery.

But no.

He did that.

There's no changing it.

Simon looks up at the two of you.

His anger dissipates when he hears your soft laugh, Garrick's hand on the back of your neck, keeping you steady as he pokes your side, clearly sharing a silly moment. Simon grimaces and turns away again, sipping his beer.

It takes Price and Johnny half an hour to come back, and Simon couldn't be happier to see them.

With the snacks covering the coffee table and their laps, Simon genuinely tries to ignore the fact that you're still pressed against Garrick's side, happily munching on your sour candy. Johnny's sitting on the floor right between his legs, occasionally feeding him orange gummy bears or crisps. Price, between Garrick and himself, is staring at the movie, seemingly content with sipping on his beer, and stealing some of Simon's gummy bears.

Every time he hears your low laugh, Garrick's hands on you, Simon wants to die. He grips Johnny's shoulder, his nails digging slightly into his skin, trying his best to pay attention to the movie, but he isn't able to understand what it is about. He doesn't know what's happened in front of him for the past hour. He knows how many times Garrick's lips were pressed to your cheek. He knows how many times you laughed with Garrick. He knows how many times you've shifted, closer and closer to Garrick.

He can't do anything but dwell on his own regret, on his anger. His pain.

He doesn't blame you, he doesn't blame Garrick. Hell, he doesn't even blame Price, or Johnny, or anybody else. Just himself.

He could've done this so much better, but there's not much he can do. He needs to be alone with you so he can talk properly, apologize again, but every time he looks at you, even without the mask, you flinch. It doesn't matter how hard you try to hide it, he can see it.

Johnny gets up, snapping him out of his thoughts. He sees him take the empty plate, walking towards the kitchen.

Not even a minute later, Johnny's cursing and there's a shattering sound echoing on the house. Simon stands up, moving to go check on Johnny, but he freezes when you stand up abruptly, your face in complete shock as you walk away, your arm bumping onto the walls as you rush away.

He's torn for a whole second too long, thinking if he should follow you or check on Johnny first, and that's enough for Garrick to beat him to it. Simon can only stare at Garrick follows after you, sprinting.

After a moment of hesitation, he walks over to Johnny. Simon finds him picking up the shattered plate, grimacing when he sees someone walking in.

"Ah, it's you. I tripped" Johnny grumbles, rubbing the back of his neck.

"You hurt yourself".

"Just a tiny cut, 's nothing. Where did she go?" Johnny questions, bringing his thumb to his mouth, sucking a little on the blood.

"I don't know. Practically bolted when you dropped the plate".

Johnny stares at him, blinking. "And what are you doing here? I must've scared her" he sighs, standing up. "Where to?"

"Garrick already went after her".

"So?"

"They're getting along. A lot".

Johnny blinks again.

Smack.

"What the fuck? What was that for now?" Simon growls out, rubbing his head. Johnny shakes his head, still expecting an answer. Simon sighs. "Over there. Come on".

Simon guides Johnny, their feet barely making any noise, used to being quiet and, also, because they don't want to spook you any longer. He finally spots you, the door of the guest bedroom ajar.

He freezes.

Johnny's hand grips his arm, his whispered curse falling on deaf ears.

Simon stands there in complete silence, his blood, and stomach, and his heart and his brain falling to his feet as he can only stare.

Your cheeks are wet with tears but it's barely visible because Garrick's hands are covering them, his lips on yours.

It looks peaceful.

And Simon wants to die all over again.

Johnny quietly shuffles away, but Simon can't look away. Not now.

Garrick pulls away and kisses your cheek, then your forehead, then grips your nose, making you huff, a small smile on your lips. He's grinning, rolling his eyes, as if that kiss didn't just happen.

Simon isn't breathing. He's not even sure he's here anymore. Perhaps he did die, and this is his personal hell.

Must be.

chingue a su madre emilia pérez y todos los involucrados. I was pissed writing this and I wanted chaos.

-ˋˏ✄——————————————————

Masterlist | Part 9

Buy me a coffee

anyway, so there's that ♡ thank you so much for reading!!!

taglist: @euphoricn @lilg101010 @enfppuff @carolchaotic @silas-fanfic-favs @nina-from-317 @an-ever-angry-bi @kittygonap @dorothy-rainbird-deactivated202 @adventurerabby @defronix @sheepispink @iambuttwodaysold @blackhawkfanatic @malevolentghoul @thriving-n-jiving @literallegendicon @echo9821 @angel-bugz @ssc7514 @clickbait-official @hades--baby @blackhawkfanatic @sirbonesly @saki---chan @skeletonsucker @nnsissys @kukavittu @tessakate @honestlymassivetrash @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @rayrayyio @diseasedclitoris @alex1011sdzfgh @thebumbqueen

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teaandspite · 10 months ago

Text

The Great Goodreads Diss List (Part 1)

Context: For many years now, I have been collecting funny lines from Goodreads reviews to share with my coworkers. (I do collection development, reader's advisory, and weeding at a public library, so I read a LOT of reviews)

Are some of these, perhaps, rather mean? Yes, but they are also very funny, and come from a place of honest frustration. In the tradition of Bargepole threads and lists everywhere, names and titles have been censored.

"First, I want to say that I understand how hard it is to write a book and how amazing it is when it is actually published. Congrats to the author for that accomplishment. That said--"

"Warning: This review will be lengthy due to pure hatred."

"I found myself feeling really, really annoyed with the world that this book is allowed to exist. We live in a universe where the passenger pigeon is extinct but this book goes along merrily being read by unsuspecting lovers of words and ideas and stories? It just seems like too much, you know?"

"Don't do it. Don't spring the cash for the hardcover. Instead, eat an entire bag of Twizzlers, spend some money you don't have at a high-end department store, look up on Facebook the shady college boyfriend that made you cry, research the current value of your home or 401K and then read all about how the big hedge fund managers are faring during the economic crisis. You'll feel about the same stomach pain if you waste your time reading this book."

"This wretched novel begins with the mugging of an old lady and it appears I may be in the process of repeating that loathsome crime as [author] was 78 when she wrote it. It is not nice to put the boot into such a poor defenseless old creature lying there with only a damehood, a Booker Prize and a few million quid. It’s a nasty job but somebody has to do it."

"I think this is the way dead people would write, if they could."

"I am considering setting up SPABB: Society for the Protection of Accurate Book Blurb. This blurb appears to have been written by someone from the publishers who met [the author] the night before, got very drunk, lost his notes and then constructed something in a fug of hangover the next morning."

"I congratulate [the author] on the early half of his book, which was thoroughly fun and made me laugh and think. I congratulate [the author] on the second half of his book, for finishing it. It reads like that was difficult."

"…a woman whose taste in contemporary literature has roughly the same batting average as a pitcher in the National League."

"The author is a pompous windbag."

"Recommends it for: No one. Recommended to me by: A friend who apparently wished to cause me great suffering."

"Makes me wonder: is it possible to obtain similes at a volume discount?"

"The repeated phrases made me want to mail a thesaurus to the author."

"I'm disappointed in myself for finishing this book."

"if the author described [character's] eyes as "obsidian" one more time I was tempted to write her and ask if her thesaurus broke."

"They say that an infinite number of monkeys with an infinite number of typewriters would, if given infinite time, eventually produce the complete works of William Shakespeare. [This book], on the other hand, would probably take the average monkey just under two hours."

"I can't imagine what the author had to do to get this nadir of Western literature printed on innocent trees, but he does seem to know a LOT about being well-connected in New York."

"This book is so bad it is almost worth reading just to make you appreciate the other books you are reading."

"Reads like it was written by a brilliant author, the night before it was due."

"raises interesting questions, like: can a book be so bad as to constitute an act of terrorism"

"has this author ever spoken to a human woman"

"This acorn has fallen so far from the tree that it can’t even see the forest."

"I’m guessing they are touted as ‘beach reads’ because no one will care if they get dropped into the ocean."

"This book begins with all the energy of a hand vacuum near the end of its battery life, and the pace doesn't quicken much from there."

"At least everybody’s eyes stayed the same color this time around.”

Part 2

Part 3

#the diss list #book review #goodreads #tumblrarians #literary criticism #library #bargepole

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potatobugxo · 5 months ago

Note

Hello <3 I see your requests for Poppy Playtime are open. May I request Yarnaby being somehow turned into a possible reluctant ally by The Player? ( Personally, It sounds better to describe it in that way rather than Yarnaby being tamed. ) I haven't gone through all of Chapter 4 but this lil(?) guy captured my heart since his teaser!! I'd imagined The Player would have to be very strategic and crossed their fingers for dear luck in their pursuit of convincing Yarnaby enough to not hunt them.

Thank you! 🎀

sure thing!

warnings: brief mentions of abuse

pairing: platonic!ally!yarnaby x player!reader

-when you traverse through the prison portion of the factory and encounter yarnaby, the rainbow-maned lion proceeds to hunt you down under the doctor's orders

-you avoid him at all costs at first, the thought of being torn to shreds by the lion-like toy scared you to no end

-until you had a thought, a rather risky one. maybe you could get yarnaby on your side

-yarnaby has been psychologically tortured to follow the doctor's orders, to hunt and to kill, so breaking down the feral barrier of the toy may prove difficult, but did you have any other choice?

-you couldn't kill him, you felt too bad for him to do that. if there was a soul trapped behind those large black eyes, then you had to reach it, for both your sake and for his

-so when he is hunting you through the lower depths of the playtime prison, you grow tired of playing cat and mouse and decide to take your chances with the beastly toy

-you boldly jump in front of yarnaby, splaying your arms out as if trying to make yourself look bigger than him. he lets out a startled growl, his face opening to reveal his multiple sets of teeth

-"whoa, whoa, there! I'm not going to hurt you, I promise. But *he* will."

-yarnaby swipes at you with his claws and you jump away with a yelp

-"just hold on! we can help each other out! I know there's someone in there, you're not just a monster like the doctor says you are. We can get out of this place together, what do you say?"

-the small bit of consciousness yarnaby has left settles him down, tilting his head as if heeding your words.

-he sits like a little cat as you reach your hand out toward him. you're still partially terrified, but he was just a big toy animal after all, and maybe he could be swayed over with a pat like any other dog or cat (maybe)

-to your surprise, yarnaby lets you pet him, and you stroke your palm over his rainbow mane of yarn

-"there we go. see? we can be friends! you won't have to be trapped down here anymore. I'll help you find a way out."

-yarnaby lets out a noise, and then lowers his head to your level. maybe whoever was in there was listening after all.

#poppy playtime #poppy playtime x reader #yarnaby #yarnaby x reader #hcs

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hope-for-the-planet · 8 days ago

Note

Perhaps it's just me. But right now, with the rapid global transition towards green energy, reforestation and conservation efforts, laws, genuinely crazy and huge innovations that can help us adapt to the changing world... it feels like we're on the right track.

Perhaps it's just me. But the geopolitical insanity that I see and learn from my peers all over the world, doesn't feel like the end. No, it... it feels like change. The last horrible and panicked gasps of the dying old, because it refuses to accept that it is not sustainable anymore, and the world is moving towards the better, through protests and unity and human goodness. I've seen this before - in stories from the older generation, and in history books.

But I also feel terribly guilty whenever I start thinking like that, for some odd reason? I feel guilty whenever I try and rationalize that despite it all, the world will continue existing, and even in the worst case scenario (which we already have avoided), there would be forests and oceans and species and biodiversity and ecosystems and people and cities and countries to see and love, because after all, nature is resilient and adaptable - just like our species are.

I feel guilty for feeling this cautious curiosity about what the future might hold for us, the bad and the good. Because I feel like I am obligated to be grieving and panicking and angry, like many people are - but that's just... so tiring.

Hi Anon,

This is going to be a long one because I think your ask gets at something difficult that I have a lot of thoughts about.

Your phrase “cautious curiosity” made me think of psychology researcher Jamil Zaki’s idea of “hopeful skepticism”. Which is not assuming that everything will inevitably get better, but open to the possibility that it could and curious to see the paths it might take to get us there.

Our society tends to view a cynical outlook as more intelligent or even more moral, but research shows that a cynical outlook actually makes people worse at predicting outcomes, worse at cognitive and problem-solving tasks, less likely to vote or protest, and even measurably harms their physical and mental wellbeing.

I think the guilt you describe is likely coming from the feeling that while we have been significantly improving conditions for humanity on this Earth and will likely continue to do so in the long run, in the present there are many real humans suffering--it can be hard and uncomfortable to hold these two truths together.

Even if this last dying breath is temporary and brief, it is destroying real people’s lives and many more live in fear that they will be next. The fact that child mortality has absolutely plummeted even just in my own lifetime is both a miracle of humanity and means little to the parent who has lost their child to a preventable death. To quote the philosopher Max Roser, “The world is much better; the world is still awful; the world can be much better.”.

You don't need to feel guilty for having hope for the future. Carrying feelings like hopelessness, grief, and fear all the time is entirely valid, but like you said it is also exhausting—and there is nothing inherently moral about emotionally suffering particularly if it’s harming your ability to live your life or take positive action.

You are right that we are still making progress in the correct direction in many ways. You are right that history is rife with examples of forward momentum provoking a reactionary backtracking but that the forward momentum usually ultimately prevails.

The key here, is to understand that the future path you describe is possible—even likely more probable than a lot of people think—but it is not inevitable. We still have to take action to make it happen. The arc of history bends towards progress only because so many millions of mostly unnamed unknown people have put the work in to bend it in big and little ways.

I’ll end with one of my favorite quotes from Rebecca Solnit: “Hope is not a lottery ticket you can sit on the sofa and clutch, feeling lucky. It is an axe you break down doors with in an emergency. Hope should shove you out the door, because it will take everything you have to steer the future away from endless war, from the annihilation of the earth's treasures and the grinding down of the poor and marginal... To hope is to give yourself to the future - and that commitment to the future is what makes the present inhabitable.”

Reminding others that progress is still happening and that there is hope for a brighter future is important work in getting members of your community to pick up their own axe and make that future happen. Hope in dark times is not just ok or reasonable--it is a precious, vital tool.

#ask #anonymous #hope #cynicism #doomerism #climate change #global warming #climate anxiety #future #inspiration #climate action #hopepunk #hope for the future #hopeful skepiticism #optimism #radical optimism

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targaryenluvs · 1 year ago

Text

RAVAGE

pairing: dark!president!coriolanus snow x innocent!wife!reader

summary: he’d won the election, much to your elation. now you’d have to navigate the fame, fortune and status as the first lady of panem. but coriolanus just wanted you all to himself, and he’d do anything to scare you into his arms.

warnings: possessiveness, murder, robbery, bad smut, controlling, tears, babying, kisses, fingering, oral (f receiving), p in v, kinda subby corio/dom, praise, sense of entitlement? breeding kink, tummy bulge, overstimulation, little bit of aftercare

word count: 2k

a/n: i’m such a bitch for making everyone wait so long for a delicate part two 😌 and i finally have the confidence for smut so heheh - yes i’m using tvd names a lot - corio/coryo use - tried out a new layout 👀

part one of delicate

you couldn’t believe it.

coriolanus snow, president of panem.

all of his hard work has finally paid off and you couldn’t be more happy for him. you wanted to give him a gift but you still had no idea what he would want. it seemed the two of you practically had everything overnight, so a measly gift seemed to be difficult to acquire, one that he liked? even harder.

so you’d decided to go out, the idea of surprising him exciting you so much you’d forgotten to tell coriolanus where you were going to.

so imagine his surprise when his assistant told him you’d left the house, viewing you on the security cameras.

which you had no idea were there.

coriolanus saw it as an act of defiance.

he had to move about this correctly, he couldn’t have you injured, but he needed to scare you back into his arms. to remind you of the horrible place that panem was.

over twelve stores, and nothing. so you’d decided to enlist the help of one of your few friends. “not a single clue of what he’d want?” elena asked as you stabbed at your fries, “nope.” you answered as you placed a fry in your mouth.

“well if he has absolutely everything then his gorgeous wife should be a nice gift after an extremely long day no?” you looked up at her, confused, “what do you mean?” she giggled, “oh god, i forget how you don’t know that much. you, y/n.” at your adorable puppy face she leaned in, “your body.” you jumped back at her words, “i… i’ve never.”

“you’ve never?!” elena slapped her hand over her mouth at your admission, “how? i mean you’re absolutely stunning sweetheart, how hasn’t he yet?” you played with the table cloth in your hands, “i don’t know.” elena twisted her fork around her pasta, “okay has he never made a move, or, have you never noticed the signs?” you took a sip of your wine as you stared back at her, “what signs?” elena sighed, rubbing her temple, “there are signs, moments. the two of you, sitting on the couch and his hand trails higher. his breath quickens at the sight of you in a dress. the little things.”

“and what happens if you notice these signs, act on them?” and this was exactly her expertise, she wiped her face with her napkin before paying the bill. “if i’m going to explain this in detail then we need to go to my house. or a dirtier part of town. my dear girl, i’m taking you to your first ever bar.”

coriolanus has to hold on to his mask of self-restraint, you’d been spotted at a bar, with one of your friends that he despised. but at least his plan could take full effect without a hitch.

your mind had been blown, irrevocably and utterly blown. the way elena had described it all, she made it sound like heaven. but she did tell you about other men, some care for themselves more so than the girl. and you had no clue what type of man corio was in bed.

you’d been so absorbed in your own thoughts you hadn’t noticed the man following you, not until he attacked you. he’d been going after your bag of course, but it was a gift from coriolanus. the man was unrelenting as he shoved you against the cold wall, grimy hands pushing and pulling with you as you tried to regain hold of your purse. “let go!” you cried out before he slammed you into the wall again, loosing grip on the purse coriolanus had just gifted you.

what would he say? it was his gift to you!

you woke up with a throbbing headache and corios hands brushing away strands from your face. “there you are sweet thing. you feeling okay?” you peered up at him, unable to move due to the millions of blankets on you. noticing your struggle he smiled before shifting them off, “better?” you nodded before sitting up with his help.

“corio, i lost the bag you gave me. the bad guy he- i’m so so sorry. please don’t be mad with me i didn’t mean to-“ he laughed, although it didn’t reach his eyes, “you think i care about the bag y/n/n? i could buy you a million bags, better bags. i’m just glad you’re okay. those guys, they won’t bother you again.” all you could do was sob and hug him, pondering the meaning of his words.

AN HOUR AGO

“hey, what the hell man? you said to attack the girl and take the bag!” the man shouted as coriolanus undid his cuffs, adjusted his sleeve, pushing it back on both arms. “i told you to go for the bag, yes. but i specifically remember drilling it into your head not to hurt her. and now she’s lying in bed, has been for the past three hours with bruises everywhere. and for that?”

shouts and screams of pain echoed through the abandoned building as coriolanus struck the man with a hammer, over and over and over. the job had one guideline. and this idiot couldn’t get it right.

don’t hurt his delicate girl.

PRESENT

you’d been so absorbed with worrying over the purse and apologising for your tears you hadn’t noticed corios hungry eyes. “i really did like that purse.” he murmured, “oh corio, i should’ve tried harder to keep it. what can i do?” hook, line and sinker. he had you where he wanted and he’d finally get what he deserved.

“let me fuck you. please.” and who were you to say no? your naivety led to him laying you down on the bed, head between your thighs. you’d heard about it from elena, a man pleasuring a woman, but it was a million times better than you could’ve imagined. coriolanus was messy, and desperate. he’d been waiting for so long and god was it worth it.

his heart raced with both excitement and nervousness as he held your thighs in his own hands, tracing up and downwards, feeling the warmth against his own skin. coriolanus couldn't resist the opportunity to tease you. “you wanna cum?” corio mumbled as he continued sucking on your swollen clit, “mhm.” you could hear him laughing at your pathetic excuse of agreeing.

coriolanus wholeheartedly believes you belong to him. the second you were married, and even before, you were his. your submission would prove it, and he would do anything for it. you were his and he was yours. his bold blue eyes ravished you, all of you, “who’s making you feel this good?” your hips squirmed away from him but he just pulled you back, pushing two fingers into you.

corio reveled in your naivety, the way you responded to his touch, the way you whispered dirty words as if it were a sin. and right now, you still couldn’t bring yourself to name what you needed. his pace was brutal as he lapped at your cunt, a third finger curling inside of you as they went in and out. your gasps and cries were music to his ears, he’d been denied this all too long, and he wasn’t sure how he’d ever done it. “cmon, say it.” and you did, over and over again. “it’s you! you, coryo.”

“coryo, ah, your fingers feel so good,” you mewled, tilting your hips more trying to lean into his touch. coryo withdrew his fingers to play with your clit, rubbing circles around your sensitive nub that resulted in you crying out in pleasure.

“such a good girl, getting all wet for me,” you nodded along dumbly, “for you, all you.” you babbled as he kissed you deeply.

coryos hand dragged up and down your folds, “your pussy is soaked, baby. look at that,” you whined at the feeling of him not touching you, your cheeks flushed at the sight of your arousal. coryo pulled his pants down, throwing them away over his shoulder. you hid your head into the pillow as coryo tutted, “you have to look pretty girl, look at the mess you made.” coryo taunted as he rubbed your slick juices all over his dick, trying to humiliate you, get a rise out of you. coryos hand holds onto your neck, tightening as you clutched on with both hands, “please, coryo, i’ll be so good.” he rested his forehead on yours, noses touching.

“i love you, i love you, i love you.” he whispered in your ear, “my beautiful wife, you’d look so good with my baby in you.” the idea of having his baby had you pressing your lips to his as he bit down on your lower lip, making you gasp as your lips part, his tongue pushing inside your mouth, exploring every bit of you he’d ever wished to. his hunger hadn’t fallen, only increased.

“ i need to fuck you,” he panted, you having stolen his breath. coryo teased your folds with the head of his cock, “need to fill up this pretty little pussy of yours,” he pushed into you, warm walls coating his cock as he groaned, “you feel so good.” he moaned into your neck as your hands clutched onto his broad shoulders. he wasn’t sure if he’d last long but then again he didn’t care, it’s not like you knew it was a short time.

the way you clenched down on him was more than enough proof of your virginity. your cries fueled him on as he pinned your hips down into the mattress, rutting against you wildly. “you feel that?” he was everywhere, filling you up. his dick making an appearance through the bulge in your tummy. “uh-huh. too much i can’t-” he stopped you before you could finish by pressing down on it with his palm, “yes you can baby.” you shook your head, “coryo i can’t, you feel too good.” you begin, crying from how good he was making you feel, from how dumb and desperate he was making you.

“m’ gonna fill you up, gonna give you my baby.” he was driving you crazy, his heavy panting, hands on either side of your head, his voice was deep and filled with fire. “yes, yes please inside me.” coryo’s eyes squeezed shut and his brow furrowed you were too much, fuelled on by the idea of a pregnant wife, pregnant you. swollen belly, heavy breasts, relying on him to help you out of bed. his hips stuttered and faltered as he came inside you with a low groan. he didn’t care about pulling out and neither did you as your release came down on you again. “feels so good coryo, thank you.”

he couldn’t help his smile as you continued to thank him for making you feel so good. his ego was sure as hell swelling as he pulled out of you, collapsing on the bed. his hand caressed your face, kissing you all over, praising you.

“you did so well f’me. proud of you baby.” you grinned up at him as you snuggled into his neck. “only for you coryo.” all for him. “i’ll clean you up okay?” you nodded along as he got out of bed.

coriolanus deemed the night a success, but for some reason he didn’t feel complete. he wanted more. but as he looked up at your sleepy eyes and tired out body he wanted to let you rest. but the idea seemed to slip out of his head once he was levelled with your core again, his release spilling out of you and the warm towel forgotten. he didn’t stop himself when he began to lick at you, his tongue working his way into your entrance as your hand shoved at his face.

“coryo, i’m sensitive. coryo please stop.” you attempted to crawl away but his hands dragged you to the edge of the bed, legs around his head. your body fell limp against the sheets as pleasure took over. your hands laced with his hair as you cried out.

it was going to be a long night.

#hunger games x reader #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow x fem!reader #coriolanus x reader #dark!coriolanus snow x fem!reader #dark!coriolanus snow #dark!coriolanus snow x reader #yandere coriolanus snow #yandere coriolanus snow x reader #hunger games fic #coriolanus snow fic

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yulin-pop · 2 months ago

Note

Hi hi!

Forgive me if I'm wrong (and feel free to delete this if it's wrong) but I see your requests are open +_+

Can I ask for headcanons about Sebek, Silver, Malleus, and Leona with a reader who gets lost super easily? Like they just get distracted and walk in one direction and suddenly they have no idea where they are kinda lost (if that makes sense)

Also, I would like to say that I love your writing! You're actually the first person I followed when I got on Tumblr because of your twst writing!

Anyway, I hope you take good care of yourself and there's no rush to answer!

⤷ ✧ 𝐃𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞

order 90 | headcanons | Leona, Sebek, Silver, Malleus | GN

❀ NOTE: this request was so cute AND OMG YOURE SO SWEET it means a lot and my hobby of writing is motivated by people who enjoy it thank you so much cries

༻ Leona Kingscholar

When you first met and he told you to leave, you obeyed reluctantly only to come back not even 5 minutes later. In fact you don’t even realize until he calls out to you again.

“I told you to leave.”

“I know, I didn’t want to be here!” You boldly said before walking off into a randomly direction. Then ending up right back in front of him. He assumes you’re messing with him.

Once he does get to know you, he realizes it’s out of your control completely and you simply lack awareness. It’s a major problem because of how large the campus is, more often than not end up late to everything.

His sense of smell isn’t the strongest but it’s the only thing he can rely on to find you. Especially if it’s late at night and all else fails, he goes out of his way.

“There you are, your friends were throwing a fuss because you got lost again.” He said from behind you, clueless as ever. “I didn’t think you’d end up here though.”

You looked embarrassed as you approached him, “How did you find me?”

“When you have a brain bigger than a pea, it’s not difficult, herbivore.” He said with a deep breath before grabbing your hand.

“Don’t get lost again.”

-ˋˏ Sebek Zigvolt

It is aggravating to him how one can be so hopeless with locating things. He assumed you were a careless student late to class everyday but as he got to know you he realized it was likely due to you being lost.

The first time he was confronted with the fact was when you had to walk somewhere together. “Human, let’s hurry to Mr. Trein’s class immediately.”

“Okay, so why are you just standing there?” You pointed it out and he crossed his arms.

“He is a teacher of yours, is he not? Lead the way.” He haughtily demanded and you nodded. But you went in circles for 10 minutes, bickering about it the entire time.

“I know where I’m going.”

“Clearly you don’t, what room number is it?”

“112.”

“We’re at 203 right now, you fool!”

“I thought that said 103?” You looked at the nearest number in shock.

From then on he would never trust you to lead the way, he couldn’t even trust you to bring yourself to the correct destination.

“What class do you have now, human?”

“Science with Crewel.”

He took a sharp turn and looked back at you, “I’m taking you there, you’ll be late otherwise.”

-ˋˏ Silver

He never got an opportunity to see how bad your sense of direction is, he could only assume based off of how others describe you. He admits he understands because his habit of dozing off is also out of his control.

With that in mind he does try to make things easier for you when giving you directions. Just simple instructions like “go straight until you see the yellow sign, then turn left” is dumb enough for you to not somehow misinterpret as long as you pay attention.

The most notable time was when he had been training alone in the forest alone and inevitable dozed off without realizing. When he woke up he saw you sitting beside him.

“[Name]…” He said while sitting up.

“I tried waking you up but I’d feel bad if I did.”

“Sorry, but… why are you here?”

You tensed up and laughed, “I’m lost, I couldn’t find the mirror room.” You quietly said. “I saw you so I just stayed here until you would wake up.”

“You do realize the mirror room is a simple path from the main campus.” He says with curiosity but you shrug.

He stands up to gently take your hand and pulls you along. “Let’s go, I’m sure Grim is worried about you.”

-ˋˏ Malleus Draconia

It is one of the many quirks about you that shows how all humans are different. You specifically are very different in terms of how much awareness you lack in a place you roam around everyday.

The late nights at Ramshackle, you somehow emerge from the darkness and you seem exhausted. He questions you naturally.

“I missed a few turns and I walked into the forest and it took a while for me to find home.” You admitted with leaves in your hair, proof of your travels through the forest. He can’t hold back his laughter. He does feel bad for you though.

Oddly enough, your bad direction ends up leading you two together. If you come home late you naturally run into him, and when you’re lost going out and about he spots you.

“It’s as if you have a talent to find me.” He says while appearing behind you.

“I really don’t, it’s all a coincidence. I’m just trying to find my way back to the library!” You proclaim before crossing your arms and heading your way.

“I’m afraid the library is in the opposite direction.” He says and you stop in your tracks to turn around and scurry that way.

“Perhaps it would be efficient if I guide you there myself. It wouldn’t be a waste of my time to check out the library.”

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twst #leona kingscholar x reader #leona kingscholar #sebek zigvolt x reader #sebek zigvolt #silver twisted wonderland x reader #silver twst #silver twst x reader #malleus draconia x reader #malleus draconia

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marauder-misprint · 7 months ago

Text

'You were important'

additional content

Sirius Black x Fem!Slytherin!reader

9.5k words

cw: Minor use of y/n, fluff, swearing, mentions of Walburga’s great parenting, hurt/comfort, swearing

You’re not exactly sure when you first met Sirius. You both came from unhappy homes. His was just empty of love in general; his parents, cold and disconnected, held impossible expectations of him. Yours was a broken love; parents that had onced loved each other but only stayed together out of obligation to you. You knew your parents tried to hide their growing distaste for each other from you, but they were bad at it. Their arguments filled the house almost nightly.

Your friendship with Sirius was born out of literal escapism. You had taken to going to the park near your house whenever you couldn’t take being in the house anymore. At one point, the curly haired boy started showing up and you’d sit on the swings together. It wasn’t until a while later that you actually talked to him. And the two of you became friends, disparaging your parents together.

“Some people just shouldn’t be parents,” you had said to him once.

He agreed. The two of you made your own fun as two unsupervised kids did: he liked to break things and you liked to set things on fire. You weren’t always causing trouble, sometimes opting to go exploring down every alley within the surrounding neighborhoods. But at the end of the day, you’d always go back to your own homes. You could easily be described as best friends, despite not knowing his last name and he yours.

Your friendship hit what you thought would be a minor bump at the end of the summer after you both turned eleven. You were hanging out at your usual park, chatting at the swings like you always did. He told you that he had been enrolled in a boarding school. You stared at him, silent for a beat, but then you told him that you had been too.

“So… I’ll see you at Christmas?” he asked.

“Yeah. Don’t go forgetting about me.”

“It’s just school. I won’t forget you.”

Little did you know that you would be going to the same school as him. You had managed to not see him on the platform, on the train nor on the boats. You didn’t see him at all prior to the sorting ceremony.

“Sirius Black.”

The dark curls you were all too familiar with walked up the steps to the tri-legged stool and the sorting hat was placed on his head.

After a few moments, it shouted, “GRYFFINDOR!”

The table of crimson and gold erupted into the cheers while the rest of the hall seemed to fill with whispers of uncertainty. You understood their whispers. You would have to have been a muggle to not know about the Black family. As you waited for your turn to be sorted, your mind spun with questions to ask him when you had the chance. How had he never mentioned his last name? How had there been no accidental magic between the two of you? Was everything he said about his parents true? What about the rumors about him? How come you had never seen his brother?

You were ripped out of your thoughts at the call of your name. You climbed the steps and took a seat on the stool for your sorting. You glanced over at him. He was staring at you with a white face. You were only given a singular moment of eye contact before the hat made its decision.

“SLYTHERIN!”

As you made your way to the green and silver table, you tried to find his eyes again, but he wouldn’t look your way. And it stayed that way. For the whole first week, he wouldn’t look at you and always made a point to not be near you, which wasn’t difficult as he surrounded himself with his fellow Gryffindors. You didn’t speak until he approached you in the library.

“How are you here?” he whispered, pretending to look for a book in the same section as you. His voice made you jump.

“I could ask you the same thing,” you hissed back at him. “Never mentioned you’re a wizard.”

“You didn’t either.”

“Technically, I’m a witch. You never said your last name.”

“Some muggles know my family.”

Silence.

“We’re going to pretend we don’t know each other,” he said.

“What?” you asked, turning to face him despite him still not looking at you.

“You don’t know me. I don’t know you.”

Then he grabbed a random book from the shelf and walked away. You watched him walk away in utter shock. How were you supposed to pretend you didn’t know him?

Sirius took what he said to you very seriously. You were just another Slytherin to him, someone as bad as the rest of his pure-blood-obsessed family. You weren’t friends anymore. Despite making your own friends, the semester felt lonely.

You had hope that over Christmas break he’d come to the park. The promise of seeing each other at Christmas was a spark of hope that lingered in your chest. A spark that was extinguished when he didn’t appear at the park; you were there almost every day for several hours. It was then that you gave up on those years of friendship. You’d have to learn to survive your parents without his company.

---

You wonder if he thought about you as much as you thought about him. You weren’t friends anymore. You hadn’t spoken in years except for minor interactions.

“Excuse me.”

“Can you pass the frog warts?”

“Here.”

“Can I get through?”

“Thanks.”

Yet Sirius still haunted your mind. You weren’t friends. But you cared for him. And caring for him was a distraction from your own home life. You just couldn’t show how much you cared for him in the normal ways, but it seemed as if fate knew that and gave you Regulus. Another boy who lived in the same house as Sirius with the same parents. You made it your mission to befriend him, letting him tell you details about his life and hiding how much you knew from Sirius. He didn’t tell you much, nor did he ask much about you. You had a quiet mutual understanding with Regulus, and that was enough for you. It was that understanding that made you two best friends. His walls slowly came down when he was around you. You were easily the one he trusted the most at Hogwarts and he became yours. It was an easy friendship. You treasured that, even if it sometimes reminded you of what you had had with Sirius.

---

You had gotten used to being at the park by yourself. Sirius was never there anymore. You did a double take when you saw a boy with dark curly hair sitting on the swing. For a moment, you thought it was Sirius, but the hair was too short and not curly enough. His frame was thinner. Then it hit you. Regulus.

You sprinted up to him and stood in front of him. He was silently crying. You had known him long enough to recognize the signs without actually seeing his face; he was an expert at hiding it. You knew he’d rather die than have anyone see him cry.

“Regulus,” you breathe, kneeling down in front of him.

You hear his breath hitch and he looks up from his lap. The expression on his face makes you want to cry. It makes you want to hold him, using your grip to put his broken pieces back together. It hurts your soul to see him like this. The look changes from extreme hurt and sadness to confusion.

“How are… how are you here?” he asks.

You reach out to hold his hands. He doesn’t pull them away.

“Doesn’t matter right now. What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Sirius,” Regulus says, his voice tight. “He ran away. I don’t think he’s coming back.”

You press your lips into a thin line. Even based on what Regulus has told you, which didn’t measure up to everything Sirius had ever told you, you know that him being alone in that house wasn’t a good thing. You give his hands a squeeze, hoping it offers some kind of comfort.

“You’re going to be okay.” Maybe if you speak it into existence, it will be true. “You’re strong. You’re resilient. You’ve done all you can to make your parents proud. They can’t…”

He shakes his head before cutting you off. “They don’t have to be upset with me to be upset at me.”

“Do… do you know where he went?”

“I’m assuming the Potters.”

“Do you have somewhere to go?”

He blinks at you, emotion slowly draining from his face.

“I can’t leave.” It’s a firm statement.

“Regulus,” you say, almost pleading, but he just shakes his head again.

“I have to stay. I can’t leave. I don’t expect you to understand.”

“Regulus.” Your voice is softer, but your grip on his hands is stronger. “What if you had somewhere to go?”

He shakes his head again. “I told you. I have to stay… I should be getting back soon. Mother won’t be happy I’ve been gone so long…”

“Regulus Arcturus Black,” you say, trying to hold his attention. He looks into your eyes and you can see all the pain he’s holding in. “I don’t live far from here. My home’s not much, but it’s better. Safer.”

“Better? Safer?” he scoffs.

“I come here often. I’ll be here if you change your mind,” you say, knowing he won’t. He was too proud and too determined to survive without Sirius.

“I’ll see you at school.”

You watch as he walks away and you just know that you’re going to have to piece him back together when the fall comes. From what you know Sirius endured, you know he’ll need a careful hand.

---

Come the fall, you find you were right. Regulus was numb to the world. He was silent and emotionless as the rest of his friends greeted him, pulling him into the compartment where you were.

“Regulus,” you say as he sits next to you.

His back is pin-straight, like he couldn’t even think about slouching. You reach out to touch his arm when he doesn’t acknowledge you. When your hand touches his bicep, he turns to look at you and you see the sadness creep up into his face. You adjust how you’re sitting so you can pull him into you. He falls into your chest, not bothering to say anything and certainly not attempting to resist your touch.

“I should have listened,” he mumbles into your arm that’s wrapped tightly around him.

“I know,” you whisper.

He stays in your arms for most of the ride to Hogwarts, getting more comfortable as time passes and he shifts to periodically participate in the conversation with Dorcas, Pandora, Evan and Barty. The more time he spends with the group, the more life gets breathed back into him. It’s not much, but it’s something. By the time the train pulls into Hogsmeade Station, he’s laughed once and there’s a hint of a small spark of life in his eyes again. He throws an arm around your shoulder and pulls you into his side as you walk toward the carriages.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his breath hot on your ear.

You turn to look up at him. “Don’t be thanking me just yet, Reg.”

He chuckles softly.

“Love, you were somehow there when he left. That in itself is enough for me to be showering you in gratitude.”

“Going soft on me, are you?” you laugh, leaning more into his side.

He rolls his eyes, a sign his old self is still there.

“I care for you. And I’ll be damned if I ever let you forget that.”

He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I don’t think I can.”

“Good.”

You stay by his side all through dinner and all evening in the common room. You didn’t let the boy out of your sight until you walked him to his dorm and he bid you goodnight. Once the door closes between you, you let your cheerful mask fall. You had tried to catch Sirius’ eyes during dinner but he seemed to look everywhere but the Slytherin table. It soured your mood, but you wouldn’t let Regulus see that. You had to be strong and gentle for Regulus. For the Black that wouldn’t fully push you out of his life. Not that you would give Regulus the option to do that.

You could feel Dorcas and Pandora’s eyes on you as you stalk across the common room towards your dorm. You had been positively beaming when you walked away with Regulus and now, without him, you were scowling. They corner you in your dorm as you brush your hair, preparing for bed.

“So, you and Black?” Pandora asks, her tone light.

“What do you mean, Dory?” you respond, looking at her in the mirror’s reflection.

“Seemed cozy. Close. Almost like Evan and Junior,” Dorcas says.

You snort a laugh. “God forbid a girl has a male friend. He had a rough summer and you know he trusts me.”

“He put his arm around you after you held him the entire way here,” Dorcas points out and Pandora nods in agreement. “That’s something.”

“I assure you, it’s not.”

---

With each passing day, you and Regulus spend every spare second together, as you had in previous years. Only this time, you’re making sure that he is okay and present. It’s obvious to you every time he disappears into his mind. His eyes gloss over and any expression on his face dissipates into the numb expression he had when his parents dropped him off at Kings Cross. When you see him in passing, he has the look on his face and he’s more rigid than you had ever seen him previously. You know he’s just getting through the day and will relax once he’s back in the common room or library with you.

When he’s with you, you see his old self coming back, but there are still the effects of the summer without Sirius. He’s more jumpy and paranoid. You catch him glancing over his shoulder, and your shoulder, periodically, like someone is going to walk up and attack them. He flinches when people raise their voices or a room gets too loud. You do your best to tell people to quiet down or find a believable excuse for you and Regulus to leave. It works well enough and Regulus always gives you a grateful smile.

You’re not sure what possesses to check on Regulus a month or so into the term. You put on your robe before heading down to the common room. A hunched-over form scribbling away at one of the tables tells you that you don’t need to go to the dorms to find Regulus. He’s already up. You walk over to him, ensuring your steps make noise and going to sit across from him.

“What are you working on?” you whisper.

He still jumps at the sound of your voice.

“Reworking a Charms essay.”

“Didn’t I already proofread that for you? I thought it was done,” you ask, narrowing your eyes at the parchment.

“Uh, yeah. It was finished. But it can be better. It needs to be better. I don’t want to settle for an E. I want an O. Mother wants an O.”

He looks back down at his essay and continues to write until you reach over the table to put your hand on his wrist.

“Regulus, you’re supposed to be sleeping. And the essay you already wrote was O material.”

“I won’t be able to sleep until it’s perfect.”

“It is perfect.”

“Then more than perfect. It has to be better.”

“Regulus, look at me.”

He raises his eyes to look into yours. His grey eyes are bloodshot and his face pale.

“You need to sleep. It’s three in the morning.”

He shakes his head. “I won’t be able to sleep.”

“The essay is-” you start to say.

“It’s not the essay,” he cuts you off and then sighs. “I dream of home when I sleep.”

“Oh.”

There’s silence, except for the occasional crack or pop from the dying fire. Regulus stopped working on his essay. You try to think of a solution.

“What if… I stayed with you until you fell asleep?”

“You should be sleeping too, though.”

“I’ve gotten a few hours already,” you remind him.

“What if I dream of there again?” You can hear the fear in his voice and it breaks your heart.

“I can stay until morning, if you think your dormmates won’t mind,” you suggest. “I don’t think Junior would mind, but I don’t know about the others.”

At your offer, his eyes start pleading for you to do so.

“Please stay.”

You nod, stand up and hold out your hand to him.

“Come on then. Let’s get you to bed.”

He quickly collects his items from the table and takes your hand. You lead him back to his own dorm. Regulus lights a small light before he gets ready for bed. The curtains of the other beds in the room are pulled closed, giving the boys their own privacy. You sat on the edge of the only empty bed, obviously Regulus’ with all of the House of Black monogrammed items. You didn’t crawl under the covers until Regulus did. You let him get comfortable first before wrapping yourself around him.

“Just focus on my breathing, yeah?”

“And you won’t leave?”

“I’m not leaving until morning.”

Your presence in Regulus’ dorm becomes more common. He would let you know when he needed you there. Enchanted notes would fly into your dorm and wake you up if he woke up from a particularly horrid dream. You would be there in an instant, helping lull him back to sleep. Dorcas and Pandora said “I told you so” when rumors of you and Regulus dating circled briefly. You shut them down quickly. Whether anyone actually believed you wasn’t the point; it was that no one was talking about it. You did take pride in being scary when you needed to. You knew you had to split your focus between Regulus and lessons, not silly rumors.

Some days were better than others for Regulus. You knew it wasn’t going to be all sunshine and roses, but it was nice when those days came along. And you made sure to be there when a day just went to shit. Things had been trending upward the further you got into the semester. You had been able to become less attached at the hip with Regulus. He had spent some evenings with Junior and Evan and some others that you didn’t particularly care for. But he was opening up again to his other friends and that was good.

Then one of his enchanted notes flutters into your Potions class. Luckily, you are working in the back near the door so Slughorn doesn’t notice the parchment fly in and land in front of you. You quickly read over the note and raise your hand.

“Professor, may I use the loo?”

Slughorn looks a bit shocked at your interruption.

“Yes. Go. Be quick if you can.”

You nod and hurry out of the room. You find Regulus in the alcove he had described. He’s hugging his knees to his chest and visibility shaking. His face is hidden, but you know he’s been crying. You crouch next to him.

“Hey,” you say softly.

He flinches but then lifts his head. You were right; tears were streaming down his face.

“What happened?”

“I-I don’t kn-know. There was a n-noise a-a-and something hit me. I c-couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see. I-I just ran.”

You wrap your arms around him. You hold him for a few minutes in silence, except for his ragged breathing and sniffles. You rub circles on his back and arm where your hands rest.

“Thank you for the note,” you whisper.

He nods. He doesn’t know why you’re thanking him for it, but who else was he supposed to send for? Sirius?

After the rest of classes, you decide to skip dinner. While you’re sure that Regulus would’ve benefitted from your presence, you needed to clear your head. You pace around the castle, corridor after corridor, floor after floor. You come across a door you’re unfamiliar with and you peer inside the room. Your face lights up at the piles of old broken crates. The room looked abandoned and you’re fairly certain you’ve never come across this room before. You crack your neck and launch spells at the crates, making them explode and catch fire. There must be some sort of enchantment on the room because the piles of crates never end. You are able to go through what must’ve been hundreds of crates until you are tired. Your system feels momentarily cleared.

---

Regulus sending for you during class set something off in you. While you had been mad at Sirius for leaving Regulus alone, now you are furious. You know part of your anger is fueled by what Sirius did to you, just casually ending a years-old friendship and never truly acknowledging you again. You waited for the right time, rage boiling inside of you. You hid it from Regulus and the girls, but it was there. You knew it was there.

When the moment presented itself, you approached Sirius and his friends. They had claimed a shady area by the Black Lake and were lounging around. It was secluded enough that you felt no shame in the scene you knew you were about to throw. You had decided that Sirius’ decision that you weren’t to acknowledge each other was done.

“What do you want?” Peter asks with a sharp tone. He is the first one to notice you.

At his question, the rest of the boys look up to see who was walking up to them. You notice a brief look of warning cross Sirius’ face.

“You left him alone,” you say, trying to be firm and steady but it comes out accusingly. You’re only looking at Sirius. You don’t care for the rest of them right now.

Sirius blinks at you. His expression is unreadable, not giving you anything to go off of.

“You two know each other?” Remus asks, sensing the tension you’re giving off.

“How could you leave him alone? In that house with them?”

“Padfoot, what’s she on about?” Peter asks. He’s giving you a wary look.

You know Sirius understands exactly what you’re getting at.

“This isn’t the place,” he says coolly.

“You left him behind and went to hide at the Potters,” you continue. You look at James briefly. “Full offense by the way.”

“Oi, what?” James gasps.

“Padfoot, is she talking about-?” Remus starts to ask.

“Regulus? Yeah, I am.” You shoot Remus a soft smile before turning back to Sirius with the anger bubbling up within you. “After everything, I know they were horrible to you, but how could you leave him there alone? Did you see him when they dropped him off?” A dry laugh escapes your lips and your voice rises. “Wait, of course not! You weren’t there for him. I know you stood between them and him for years but suddenly disappearing? That’s so fucking cowardly, you dipshit. He wasn’t prepared. He wasn’t ready.”

“Regulus is an open book, isn’t he?” Peter mumbles. “Airing the Blacks’ dirty laundry?”

You turn to Peter with a much more harsh look on your face. “I forgot that you all don’t know.” You don’t need to see Sirius’ face to know he’s giving you his own furious look of warning. One that says ‘Don’t you dare.’ “Sirius and I go way back. At least we did until he became the family disgrace and I wasn’t in the same house.”

“Sod. Off,” Sirius says. All calmness that had been in his voice previously was gone. “This isn’t about you.”

“It’s fucking about me when I’m the one putting him back together. When I was the one who found him. When I was the one who offered him somewhere safe. All because you left him.”

“He’s their golden boy. How bad could it be?” Peter asks, leaning back on his elbows as he stretches out.

“Wormtail, you stay out of it,” Sirius warns.

“You called him that.”

“Black, you could learn a thing or two about loyalty. You got a wicked case of abandoning people who care for you. Boys,” you cast a glance around the group, “just know it’s only a matter of time before he leaves you for dead because something better for him came up. Consider yourself warned.”

The boys watch as you stalk off toward the castle. You leave a thick silence in your wake. Once you are a safe distance away, the boys turn their glances to Sirius, who is fuming.

“So Sirius?” Remus asks, his words cutting through the silence.

He didn’t say anything, still staring in the direction you had gone.

“Padfoot,” James tries, “care to explain what that was? Or even, who?”

When Sirius still doesn’t say anything, Remus answers part of James’ question. “Y/N. She’s one of Regulus’ friends, I think. I see them around each other a lot. Slytherin, obviously.”

“Okay, but she said she goes ‘way back’ with Pads, not Regulus,” Peter points out.

“Yeah, because we do and they don’t,” Sirius finally speaks up. “We live… lived near each other. Met at a park when we were small. When being at home was too much.”

The others wait for him to say more. He doesn’t, at least not willingly.

“And?” Remus pries. “What was all of that?” He gestures to the space where you had berated him.

“Suppose the result of mixing my moving in with James and her friendship with my brother.”

“Okay, and the bit of about loyalty?” James asks. “Like, what was that?” He lets out an awkward laugh.

“I may or may not have told her we weren’t friends like a week into first year,” Sirius mumbles, not meeting any of their eyes.

The boys exchange confused looks with each other, not fully understanding.

“Why?” James follows up.

“I… don’t know. Some mix of betrayal of not knowing she was going to be here and her being a Slytherin, I guess. It felt like a connection to my family that I was able to separate myself from by being a Gryffindor, you know?”

Remus shakes his head. “But, mate, if you were friends before Hogwarts-”

Sirius cuts him off. “Try my closest confidant.”

“That’s even worse,” Remus continues. “I’d imagine she was pretty pissed when you left her. Coming here and you see a familiar face that tells you to fuck off?”

“I mean, I was pleasant to her. We just aren’t friends anymore! And we didn’t see each other at home anymore either.”

“I’m willing to bet that’s your doing though,” Peter says.

Sirius sighs and nods.

“Padfoot, Padfoot, Padfoot…” Remus breathes.

“Should you be concerned about Regulus though?” Peter asks, his voice small as he knows talking about his family isn’t Sirius’ favorite thing. “She seemed pretty stressed ‘bout it.”

“Mildly,” Sirius says shortly. “He’s stronger than she knows.”

Remus gives Sirius an unsure look. Remus has seen how often you hang around Regulus and assumes you two were probably as close as the Marauders were. Only differences being you didn’t share a dorm and were in different years. Sirius didn’t see Remus’ look. He didn’t want to feel the judgment of his friends right now. Not when he had been yelled at by his oldest friends, one who knew of his home life better than the Marauders did. You had been there when he was subjected to his parents’ moods and opinions year round as compared to only having to survive a few months with them.

Sirius didn’t sleep well that night. He kept tossing and turning but ultimately failed at becoming comfortable and falling asleep. He tried to just rest with his eyes closed. It didn’t help that his mind was endlessly spinning and replaying your words, your concern for Regulus and fury at him for leaving Regulus behind, rather than being happy for him finally escaping his tormentors.

The next day, he makes a point to find you after class. Being exhausted in class wasn’t conducive to paying attention, nor was still having you on his mind. His friends could tell he wasn’t in it; they mostly left him alone and tried to keep the professor’s attention off of him. Remus had made comments to James and Peter about thinking your intrusion had affected Sirius more than he would admit to them. Afterall, Sirius liked to keep his personal emotions close to his chest.

He finds you in the library with Pandora and Dorcas. He looks around nervously for Regulus, or Barty and Evan. He was more nervous about Regulus, but seeing Barty and Evan wasn’t my favorite scenario either. Luckily for him, it was just the girls. Dorcas and Pandora noticed him right away as he started to approach the table. You had continued working, not looking up.

“Uh, hey, Y/N,” he says awkwardly.

Dorcas and Pandora give him annoyed glares. You look up slowly.

“What, Black?” you all but spit at him. Had he not gotten enough of an earful yesterday?

“Can, uh, can we talk?”

Pandora cocks her head to the side as Dorcas glances quickly from Sirius to you and back. You blink at Sirius, as if bored. The girls next to you have never seen Sirius so unsure of himself, except maybe when he was walking up to be sorted, when the possibility of being a Slytherin still hung in the air.

“I guess,” you say with a sigh. “I’ll be back shortly,” you assure the girls as you follow Sirius into the depth of the shelves.

“How bad is he?” Sirius asks once you’re out of earshot of the girls.

You scoff. “Oh, so now you care.”

“I always cared. It’s just not something I talk about with the guys. He’s my brother.”

“He was wrecked when you left. Rightfully so, if you ask me. And he was ruined when he came back to school. You left him alone with them.” You were trying to keep your voice steady and low, not wanting to start a shouting match with him in the library.

Sirius sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

“Is that all you needed?” you ask. “Pretty sure I told you that yesterday.”

“How is he… now?”

You bite the inside of your cheek before answering. “He’s not the same, if that’s what you’re asking. Barely okay some days. It’s hit and miss, but overall, better the longer he isn’t there, I think. I’m worried about when he inevitably goes back. Christmas? Summer? All of our work this semester is going to go down the drain.”

“Our work?”

You roll your eyes. “Me, Dory, Dorcas, Evan, Junior. You know, the people that care about him.”

“I care about him.”

“The people that care about him enough to be around.”

“Being in that house was killing me. You know that. I had to get out.”

“It never would’ve killed you, Sirius. Drive you mad, yes. But not kill. Even on the worst days, you were never as bad as he is.”

“It’s not my fault he doesn’t have the common sense to get out.”

“He feels like he has to stay. I offered-”

“I know. You said yesterday. So he didn’t take you up on it and you still feel the responsibility to fix him?”

“It’s not a responsibility. It’s because he’s important to me. That’s why I helped fix you. You were important to me.”

Were echoes in his brain. Sirius shakes his head in slight disbelief.

“Still. He turned you away and you’re doing more than he’s asking of you. Why?”

You blink at him slowly and take a deep breath. What you wouldn’t give for it to be appropriate to smack him upside the head, but you needed to keep your composure.

“He came back to me. He’s opened up to me. He didn’t lock me out forever. Like you did.”

You feel like you need to scream.

“Excuse me.”

You turn and leave Sirius alone in the shelves. Pandora and Dorcas give you concerned looks as you take your seat again. They only look away from you when Sirius emerges from the shelves where you had left him. Their eyes follow him all the way out of the library before looking back at you and then refocusing on their own homework. You know they want to ask you what Sirius wanted but your demeanor says you aren’t talking about it now, and maybe never.

---

“What did you yell at my brother about?” Regulus asks you as you sit down next to him at dinner.

“Hm?”

“People are saying you yelled at Sirius and his friends yesterday. I think you scared a first year.”

“Reminded him that he’s a piece of shit.”

“What did he do this time?”

You give Regulus an intrigued look. “Why are you so interested?”

“My best friend chewing my own flesh and blood a new one? You’re kidding, right?”

“He came and talked to her in the library earlier,” Pandora adds, leaning forward.

Regulus turns fully toward you.

“First you yell at him and now he’s coming to talk to you? Darling?”

“Toldhimoffforleavingyou.” You have never spoken more quickly and quietly in your life.

“You did what?” Regulus gasps. Of course he understood you.

“He shouldn’t’ve and you know it,” you say, pointing your fork at Regulus before going to stab another piece of food. “Someone had to let him know and you obviously weren’t going to do it.”

“Because it was his choice.”

“Exactly. He chose to leave. He didn’t have to. He should’ve known better.”

“So you told him off. For me.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t have to…” You see Regulus’ gaze drift over to where Sirius was sitting at the Gryffindor table and he frowns. “Maybe you shouldn’t have.”

You bite the inside of your bottom lip. It was easy to hide behind Regulus being your best friend as the sole reason, but yelling at Sirius had been cathartic. You finally got some sense of revenge for him abandoning you in first year. It felt so good to get that off your chest, at least in front of Sirius’ friends.

“It wasn’t just for you,” you mumble, half hoping that Regulus didn’t hear you.

“Then for who else?” Pandora asks.

Regulus turns back to you. He waits for your answer.

“For me.”

“For you?” Regulus repeats.

“I, uh, I was his friend before I was yours.”

Dorcas snorts from next to Pandora. “Bitch, when? You could barely look at him in first year and then Regulus was here.”

“Before Hogwarts. We live near each other.”

“He never mentioned a friend,” Regulus says softly.

“Okay, but then what happened? You’ve talked more in the past twenty four hours than the past six years,” Dorcas says.

“He said we weren’t friends anymore and yeah, that was that.”

Your friends all stare at you, each with a different expression on their face.

“Excuse me, what?” Dorcas asks.

You shrug. There wasn’t anything more to say; you could’ve mentioned that Sirius told you all about life at home, but you felt that was implied enough for Regulus.

“And you never talk?” Pandora adds.

“Huh,” is all Regulus says.

“So yelling at him was a little for me too. But the purpose was for you, Reg. He knows he shouldn’t’ve left.”

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” Regulus asks.

“I didn’t think it really mattered. The Sirius I was friends with wasn’t Sirius Black. He was just Sirius and I was just Y/N. We weren’t wizards. We were just kids at a park. And then everything changed and the past was the past.”

“Kids at a park…” Regulus mutters, putting two and two together. “The one you said you visit often?”

You nod.

“I suppose… that makes sense…” He’s speaking slowly as he is still processing the fact that you knew Sirius and were friends before he had even met you. “And he was the one who left you?”

You nod again. He hums and puts his arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer to him.

“That’s his loss and my gain, I guess.”

You sigh in relief. Some part of you had thought Regulus would be furious that you hadn’t disclosed your previous friendship with his brother. Although, in your defense, like you had said, the Sirius you knew wasn’t Regulus’ brother. That Sirius had been an only child and a muggle. And if you could have had your way six years ago, you would’ve had both Black brothers as your friends.

---

Once again, what you had said kept Sirius up at night.

Were. Were. Were.

You were important to me.

He knew he was the reason he no longer was important to you. He had been the one to push you away. He had never found himself regretting it until now. As he goes through the next day’s classes, he wonders how he managed six years of ignoring you. You’re in almost every class he has. Your voice and laughter draw his attention. He never realized how much he missed hearing both, and even more so, being the cause of the laugh.

The rest of the Marauders aren’t oblivious to Sirius watching you, but they don’t say anything to him. They don’t understand how close the two of you had been before he ruined it. And they don’t understand that your yelling had really got in his head. That you coming to him, instead of listening to his command, forced him to realize how much he missed you and your friendship. He missed you and needed to fix it. He saw that he made a dire mistake pushing you away.

It takes him time to wrap his head around everything. After a week of trying to dissect your words in his head on his own, he swallows his pride and asks for help.

“What does it mean if someone says you were important to them?” Sirius asks, laying on his bed and staring at the ceiling.

“You need a grammar lesson? Okay.” Remus says. “Were. Used to be. Past tense. No longer important.”

“Is it a lost cause though?”

“Is what a lost cause?”

“Can you re-become important to someone?”

“I suppose it depends on what happened to make you unimportant to them.” Remus pauses, looking over Sirius. “Is this about Y/N?”

Sirius nods. He knows that Remus would be looking at him to see it.

“‘Fraid I don’t know enough about that to really say, Pads. She sounded beyond pissed at you.”

“How do I get her to see that I had to leave and taking Regulus with me wasn’t really an option?”

“You think James’ parents wouldn’t have taken him in too?”

“No, they would have. I don’t think Reg would have come with. Certainly not easily.”

“Did you ask him?”

“No. What if he told Mum what I was going to do? I was able to get out because I had surprise on my side.”

Remus thinks for a moment before responding. “When did y/n say that?”

“Last week, after she yelled at me. I went back to ask about Reg.”

Remus doesn’t say anything. Once again, he needs more information.

“She said Regulus is important to her. And I was.”

“And you want to change that?”

“The part about me, yes. I don’t mind that she cares for Reg. It’s… good he has someone. That he has her, of all people.”

Remus shakes his head and tries to stifle a laugh. Sirius looks over at him when he hears.

“What?”

“Padfoot, it’s really quite simple. I think you need to talk to her. Apologize for being an idiot. Maybe a bit of groveling. See if she has ideas on how you can help Regulus,” he says. “Girls like it when guys admit they were wrong. And you were wrong. Very. Extremely.”

“Shut up, Moony. I know. I know I was wrong.” He takes a breath. “And it’s hit me how much I miss her. I don’t know how I managed six years without her.”

“Tell her that. While you’re groveling on your knees. Begging.”

“Don’t make it sound so pathetic.”

“Can I come with to watch? I think it is going to be pathetic and that’s something I need to witness.”

“So you can tell everyone?”

“So I can tell everyone.”

---

Sirius corners you in the library. Well, not quite corners you. He finds you at a table alone. He sits next to you and turns your chair so you’re facing him.

“I was working,” you hiss at him.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Again?”

“Yes, again.”

“You only have a few minutes. Regulus is meeting me here after Quidditch practice. You need to be gone when he gets here.”

“Actually, I need to talk to him too. But you’re first.”

You narrow your eyes at him and cross your arms. You wait for him to talk.

“Okay. This is long overdue. I’m sorry.”

You scoff. “Sorry for what?”

“I wasn’t finished,” he says. “I’m sorry for pushing you away when we were first years. And for never talking to you. Never going back to the park. I was selfish and stupid. I still am stupid. The biggest idiot you’ve ever met.”

“I could’ve told you that, Black.”

He briefly purses his lips together at his last name.

“Continuing my idiocy, this is going to sound even more stupid. I didn’t realize how much I actually missed you until you yelled at me. I haven’t been able to get you out of my head. I don’t know how I survived the last six years without you. I need you in my life.”

You raise your eyebrows in surprise. “You missed me? Bit too late to be confessing that, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I know it is. That’s how stupid I am! Six years and being called a dipshit to get my head out of my arse.”

Your glare softens ever so slightly.

“So I’m sorry. I’m so, so, so sorry.”

“Okay.”

“Can I try to explain something? Do I have time?”

You sigh and lean backwards to see the clock.

“You have time.”

He smiles before his expression becomes serious again.

“I thought the only way to escape them was to leave on my own. To disappear out of the blue. If they had an inkling that I would actually leave, they might’ve stopped me. That’s why I didn’t say anything to Regulus. I wasn’t sure he’d want to come with, especially to the Potters’. I know I need to talk to Regulus on my own. But I want to try to fix it. I need to work on fixing my relationships with the Slytherins I never should’ve let leave my life.”

“I don’t think he would’ve said anything. Probably wouldn’t’ve gone with you, but he wouldn’t’ve been so goddamn blindsided.” You pause. “I don’t know if you can fix these relationships.”

“I need to try. Please. Let me try.” He got out of his chair and on his knees, as Remus suggested. “Please, Y/N. You were my first friend. The best friend I’ve ever had and I ruined it. Please, let me try to fix it.”

You’re looking down at him with wide eyes as Regulus approaches the table.

“What the actual fuck?” he asks.

Sirius immediately stands up, turning towards his brother.

“Regulus.”

“Sirius.”

“I’m sorry.”

Regulus put his bag down on the table, not breaking eye contact with his brother.

“Are you now?”

“I should have told you.”

“You should have stayed.”

“I couldn’t.”

Regulus sits down and looks away from his brother and at you.

“Regulus, I had to leave. I think for the same reasons you feel you need to stay. I know I was the one who left, but I don’t want to lose my brother.”

“You have James.”

“He’s not blood.” You knew it was hard for Sirius to say that. “You always have a place at the Potters’ if you want to leave. It’s okay to leave.”

“My invitation still stands too,” you say, speaking for the first time since Regulus joined you.

Regulus looks back at his brother and then to you again. He shakes his head.

“What is this?”

“I, uh, I am trying to start mending the bridges I burned with my idiocy,” Sirius says as he slowly sinks back into his chair. He looks at you. “Does he know about us?”

“About what?” Regulus spits.

“We were friends before Hogwarts. When I would disappear, I was usually with Y/N,” Sirius clarifies and Regulus’ face relaxes.

“Oh, that. Yes, I’m aware.”

You laugh, earning a sharp look from the librarian.

“Reg! Do you really think I’d be dating him without telling you?”

You were important. Sirius feels his face grow hot.

“Anyways!” Sirius says. “I want a second chance, even though I probably don’t deserve one from either of you.”

You look at Regulus, trying to read his expression. Sirius’ apology to you certainly felt more heartfelt than his to his own brother. Maybe there was a dynamic you weren’t familiar with between them, but you wanted Regulus to answer first. Your loyalty would be to him first. His face is stoney as he looks his brother up and down.

“Will you be better?” Regulus asks after a few seconds.

“I’m going to try. Whatever you need of me, except moving back in.”

“Of course there’s a caveat,” you sigh.

“No, no,” Regulus says, giving you a soft smile. “I wouldn’t ask you to move back in. But write? Keep me in the loop? Don’t prank me?”

“What about a friendly prank? Like something I would do to James, Peter, them.”

“Maybe.”

“And I will write. Daily, if you want. And even if you don’t stay, you’re welcome to visit the Potters’ or we can spend a day in the city or whatever.”

There is so much desperation in Sirius’ voice as he talks to Regulus that you almost feel bad for him. His apology could have used work, but he seems genuinely wanting to reconnect with Regulus outside of their parents’ grasp.

“And for you?” Sirius asks, turning his attention to you once Regulus seemed satisfied with him.

“What?”

“What will it take for a second chance?”

You look at Regulus, only to find him actively watching you. You can’t tell if he’s encouraging you to give him one or if he’s curious at what you’d require from him. You look back at Sirius with a grim face.

“I don’t know. I was never friends with Sirius Black.”

Sirius gives you a confused and hurt look. “But the park…”

“I was friends with a young boy named Sirius. He didn’t have a last name. He didn’t have a brother at home.” You sigh before continuing. “I suppose if Sirius Black wants to try to be friends, he can try and we’ll go from there.”

“Thank you. Thank you both. I promise I won’t blow it.” A wide smile is adorning his face as he stands up. “I’ll let you two study, but thank you.”

You both watch Sirius leave the library in silence.

“You think you’ll be able to forgive him?” Regulus asks you as he opens his bag and takes out his homework.

“We’ll see. That first year was hard. Guess we’ll see how much effort he really puts in. You?”

“If he keeps his word. We can be pleasant then, I think.”

You smile across the table at the younger boy. “You’re kinder to him than I am.”

“Family, you know.”

You roll your eyes. “You damn well know you don’t have to love family.”

“Then I’m choosing to. He’s Sirius. Something about him is loveable.”

You didn’t want to admit it, but you knew he was right.

---

It’s the little things. Sirius started making a point to say hi to you, and to Regulus. Pranks seemed to avoid you. He would approach you in the corridors and the library to chat. You could tell Sirius watched and cheered Regulus on the Quidditch pitch, when Slytherin wasn’t playing Gryffindor. He was taking the baby steps he needed to.

As much as you tried to hang onto your anger, you couldn’t. It didn’t wash away in one go, but it melted like an ice sculpture without a permafrost enchantment. It probably helped that over Christmas Regulus received the letters he was promised. Both Regulus and Sirius wrote to you, which the latter was more unexpected. They both told you about an adventure into the city that went well, only a few minor tense moments that passed almost as quickly as they appeared. You spent time with Regulus at the park, apparently at Sirius’ suggestion. So when the spring term was starting up and Regulus wasn’t a shell of himself as he had been at the start of the fall term, you really noticed how much effort Sirius had been putting in. He was really trying to not mess up his second chances.

Sirius finds you sitting in a window seat, reading a book you had gotten for Christmas. He leans against the wall and watches you for a moment. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy seeing you so focused and lost in the pages.

“Hey,” he says finally,

You look up. The shock of seeing him evident on your face, but you mark your spot and put the book down.

“Hi.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah. What’s up, Sirius?”

You cross your legs so Sirius can sit at the other end of the window seat.

“If I had invited you to the Potters for a day over break, would you have come?”

You’re taken back by the question. It was unexpected and it felt loaded.

“I just… I almost invited you. I need to know if I should be kicking myself for chickening out,” he adds when you don’t respond.

“Honestly, probably not. I don’t know your friends, especially not the Potters. I don’t think James is too fond of me.”

“He’s come around a bit,” Sirius says. You can tell he’s trying to not look too hurt at your denial. “And how will they learn to love you if you don’t come around?”

“Love? Let’s work on simple friends, or acquaintances at school first.”

“Then Hogsmeade? Next weekend? Would you consider coming with us?”

You hesitate. A full day with Sirius and his friends is daunting. You were just beginning to be friends with Sirius. Jumping into his friend group felt like too much. Again, Sirius talks more when you don’t say anything.

“What if it was just me?”

“I’d consider just you.”

“Then I’ll tell the boys I won’t be going with them!” Sirius exclaims happily, jumping up from the seat.

“I said consider!” you call after him, but he’s sprinting down the corridor.

You did consider it. You thought about it during class and meals. You even talked about it with Regulus, who supported your reformed friendship with Sirius. He said something about the day in London with Sirius was more fun than he’d admit to Sirius so if he has a London day with him, you need a Hogsmeade day. And then you considered it and thought about it more.

You kept doing so until you hadn’t said no and were waiting for Sirius by the ground gates to walk to Hogsmeade. It was cold and snowing and Sirius was a little late. You pull your cloak tighter around your body. You can’t help but smile when you catch a glimpse of Sirius running toward you while attempting to tie his scarf.

“I’m late, I know! Please don’t hold it against me!”

You laugh at him as he huffs.

“Oh, just let me,” you say, grabbing his scarf that wasn’t remotely tied in a way to keep him warm.

You tie it for him and tuck the ends into his cloak so they won’t fly in the wind.

“There. Now let’s go! I’m thinking you owe me a butterbeer for making me wait.”

“If that’s the cost of being late, I can handle that. As much butterbeer as you want.”

Your day with Sirius goes smoothly. Conversations don’t run dry. The camaraderie is just like when you were younger. It’s fun and relaxing. After the Three Broomsticks, he follows you around a bookstore and then you follow him around Zonkos. You end up back in the pub for more butterbeer to warm you up before your walk back to Hogwarts.

“Did your friends even come to Hogsmeade today? I’m surprised we didn’t run into them,” you say, pulling on your coat.

“No. Said something about giving us privacy?”

“Do we need privacy?”

“I mean, I did explain that you weren’t ready to be thrown into a day with the Marauders?”

“Which is true. You have to admit, your group can be a bit much.”

Sirius laughs and holds open the pub door for you as you exit into the cold.

“We can be. I think Zonkos both cringes and celebrates when all four of us walk in. They make sales, but at what cost?”

“That’s the bookstore when I go in with Reg!” you say with a laugh.

“You know his book collection well?”

You nod. “We’re our own little book club, the two of us. And possibly edging on a library. If you ever take up reading, we got you.”

You lightly run into Sirius with your shoulder.

“Maybe I’ll have to. Sure would make Remus’ day to see a book in my hands.”

“If you need recommendations, you know where to find me and Regulus.”

You walk for a little bit without talking. Snow is still falling, flakes getting caught in your hair and on your eyelashes. You’re too busy watching where you’re walking to see Sirius sending sideways glances your way every few steps. You’re about halfway back to the castle when he puts his arm out in front of you to stop you.

“Why we stopping?” you ask, a shiver running up your spine as a gust of wind chills you.

“I’m going to risk my second chance with you.”

It happens before you can process anything. Sirius grabs your face and pulls it closer to his. He presses his lips to yours. He couldn’t help himself. In rekindling your friendship, he realized that something else was caught on fire inside of him. With each letter he sent you, he could only anticipate your response. He had hoped you wouldn’t want to go to Hogsmeade with all of his friends but would accept going with just him. He had been so nervous this morning that it made him late, but you had laughed and fixed his scarf. And then you just looked so beautiful with the white snowflakes in your hair. He couldn’t help himself.

His eyes search yours for a reaction when he pulls away. You don’t seem angry or upset.

“Darling?” he asks softly.

“How long?” you ask.

“A few seconds, maybe?”

“Not the kiss. How long have you liked me?”

“Oh. Sometime after you said you’d give Sirius Black a chance. But I think it would’ve been longer if I had never pushed you away.”

You nod, suddenly unable to form words. Your thoughts are running a hundred miles an hour. Sirius had been one of your first and best friends. Today had been a testament to how easy it was to fall back into the friendship with him. It wasn’t like you had ever truly stopped caring for him, nor that you have never imagined what might’ve happened between you if he had stayed. For Regulus’ sake, you always kept your thoughts about Sirius to yourself. You didn’t dare mention anything to Dorcas or Pandora in case someone overheard or they didn’t keep their mouths shut. Now, here you are, with Sirius in front of you, searching for a proper response after he kissed you. A Sirius who begged for forgiveness after being an idiot for six years. A Sirius who said he was going to risk his second chance.

You lean up and give him a quick peck on the lips. He stares at you.

“We’re lucky I gave you that second chance,” you say with a smile.

“We?” he breathes, leaning forward to rest his forehead against yours.

“We.”

Sirius kisses you again and is smiling so widely that you think his jaw must hurt.

“I guess I need to tell Reg,” you sigh as you reach to hold Sirius’ hand.

#marauders fic #marauders #sirius black #sirius black x reader #sirius black x you #sirius black fluff #slytherin!reader #marauder-misprint

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markscherz · 1 year ago

Note

I'm sorry... snake paper? Are things heating up in the snake researcher fandom?

16 February 2024: A team of researchers (including a generally well-respected anaconda expert) found minimal and partly contradictory genetic differences in green anacondas over an enormous area, summarily dismissed all previous work on the taxonomy of green anacondas, and gave the mitochondrial lineage concerned a new name, along the way making some huge fumbles that show plainly that they have no idea how taxonomy works or what certain technical terms mean. They published the work in a journal from a suspect publishing house that is known to rush, skip, or ignore peer review as and when it suits them. And apparently there was some suspicious funding involved, though I don’t know much about that. They made a media storm with ‘a new anaconda!’ but within minutes there were people raising huge red flags about the paper, for the reasons enumerated above and others.

The response from ‘the community’ has been swift and harsh, but mostly fair, in my view. The discussion on ResearchGate reflects this pretty well. There are some bad takes about keeping ‘wokism’ out of science; I would argue that it remains critical to incorporate native peoples, knowledge, and languages into taxonomic work—just not the way this was done, in flagrant and intentional conflict with the established methods and protocols. There are also responses in the discussion by the lead author that show that he is evidently impervious to all of this criticism, and stands by the belief that the work and taxonomic reasoning is sound.

19 March 2024: two papers were published simultaneously in Bionomia, that both enumerate and rebut the problems of the original paper. And I know there are more on the way, though I don’t know if they are all going to be completed now that two responses have already been published.

The one thing I would weigh in on from my perspective is that it is the *taxonomy*, and not necessarily the evidence presented in the paper, that is the biggest problem. Species are described based on mitochondrial data alone all the time. Some of the results are quite interesting. But the taxonomy of the paper is a mess, full of contradictions, cherry-picking, and terminological errors. In the hands of competent taxonomists, the work might have been much more difficult to dispute. But also, no competent taxonomist would have assigned a new name to this lineage; there are too many existing names that would have priority, if it is worth recognising.

Undoing public perception of there being a new anaconda species will take years, if it can ever really be achieved. Always easier for media stories to go around than corrections.

TL;DR big snake paper made big mistakes, and within a month was dismissed. It has probably done lasting damage to perception of anaconda diversity.

#anaconda #snake #snake paper #Rivas et al. 2024 #taxonomy #answers by Mark #jadeitepandaproductions

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last-words-ofashootingstar · 6 days ago

Text

Hard Times

Chapter Two: Navigating your day-to-day becomes increasingly less difficult with your step-dad proving, time and time again, he always has your back.

RATED X. MATURE AUDIENCES ONLY.

❥Kim Hongjoong x fem reader

"A little girl who needs her Daddy real bad."

-Ethel Cain, Hard Times ♫

♡'･ᴗ･'♡genre: yandere, angst, smut ➯disclaimer: DARK FICTION. DEAD DOVE. 18+, MINORS GET OUTTA HERE.

✫彡wordcount: 13k

ಠ_ಠwarning/content: limited short series; see general warnings in the masterlist: step-dad hongjoong, age gap (reader younger adult, hong in his late 30s), flashbacks are italics and past tense, reader calls hj dad + he's way too into it, like WAY too into it (mmmmboner-), therapy where reader talks abt ptsd from the crash: flashbacks / nightmares / anxiety, grief / survivors guilt / depression, in depth flashback of the immediate aftermath: fear / gore / death / dissociation, mentioned attempted suicide, reader is not described as religious but prays because her mother was, unhealthy attachments + extreme taboo relationship, alcohol consumption, jealousy / possessive behavior, emotional manipulation (lwk both ways), hong dresses reader in traditionally girly + cute clothes, reader kisses her friends on the lips platonically, reader has insane daddy issues + joong takes advantage of it, pet names including: (sweet, pretty, little, ect) girl, angel, sweetheart, baby, honey ಠ_ಠSMUT warning/content: hj is a pervert with a corruption kink and likes making virgin reader: squirm / cry / call him daddy / suck on his fingers, HEAVY HEAVY DDLG THEMES, dirty talk and praise, neck kisses (nnngh-), hj lightly teases reader (calls her needy, naughty, crybaby, ect), overstimulation and subsequent dacryphilia, virginity kink. 1/2: snuggle boner 1: make-out, dry humping, muffling, talk of masturbation and panty stealing 2: tipsy action, fingering, body worship, cunnilingus, hong holds reader down and overstimulates her until she squirts (NNNGHHH-), pussy + thigh job. THIS IS LOWKEY DUBCON. very explicit consent is given, but reader should not be making these decisions in her state of mind + joong blurs the lines

➯a/n: mmm dinner is served 🍽️ i cried like such a little bitch writing the crash scene and readers monologue, grab your tissues lmao ♡masterlist + navigation !♡ ୨ sweet as honey ৎ @m00njinnie @seonghwassii @tinyteezer @whyismingi @emotionallyanaemic @werewolfcrimson @ninjakitty15 @klllerwaifu @a-tiny-thing @pandyandy71 @monstacheol @aurorasjoongie @lxsunshine @peelingpaint-heavyheart @xh01bri @giiouis ₊‧⁺stardust˖⋆ @sousydive @sunnysidesins @onyxmango @devilzliaison @ateezswonderland @queenofdumbfuckery @emilysecresy @kyomiingi @pansexual-and-eating-pancakes

────୨ৎ────

It's been five weeks since the accident.

You've just sat down for your sixth therapy session. Hongjoong is waiting in the lobby for you. Just like he always does.

It's the hottest day of the year so far; but you're dressed in one of your father's larger t-shirts despite the heat. It's a stark contrast to the pleated skirt Hongjoong picked out for you, but your therapist doesn't even look twice.

She's an older woman. Greying hair sported proudly and wrinkles around her eyes from years of smiling kindly at patients — just like she does to you as you sit down.

"Good afternoon, (Y/n). How are you doing today?"

"I'm good, Ms. Cain." You say, maybe a bit too quickly. A bit too practiced.

Because it is.

Over the past few weeks, every single person — save for the brothers, Hiyyih, and Kai — have gotten that answer. When you walked to get the mail for the first time, and your neighbor offered their condolences. When you got a replacement phone and started getting calls and messages.

She looks at you pointedly, a small raise of her eyebrow making your shoulders slump.

"Not so great today..." You admit as you lean back into the plush cushion of the small couch.

"Thank you for telling the truth," she nods, offering a slight smile, "that's the only way this works. Would you like to tell me why?"

You know that you technically have a choice. You could choose to talk about something else. But you're starting to get comfortable with her. She's good at her job.

The first few times, you had to be coaxed into speaking a lot more. She even had to bring in Hongjoong to make you comfortable enough to open up about what had happened — even though she knew.

Everyone knows.

But she gave you the chance to tell her in your own words. And you appreciated that deeply. That's when she earned your respect, trust was a bit different.

You'd never had a therapist before now. You didn't know exactly how it worked. But she helped you understand when you voiced your concern. When you said that you thought it was kind of stupid when you could just talk to Hiyyih.

'Hiyyih knows everything about you, doesn't she? Won't she just say what you want to hear, even subconsciously? I can tell you what you need to hear.' And, 'imagine if she were in your position. You would only want to comfort her.'

And it's true. Hiyyih is subconsciously comforting you, so is Hongjoong. So are Bumjoong and Kai.

Ms. Cain is honest with you. Not brutally, but almost. She tells you it's normal to feel the things you're feeling. But she doesn't coddle you. She's validates you, but she never crosses the line into pure comfort territory.

That doesn't mean it doesn't feel good to talk to her. It does.

Sometimes you get tired of their unshaken kindness and care. Sometimes you start wishing Hongjoong would yell at you again, like he did the night you tried to kill yourself. Just to get you to stop pitying yourself so badly.

So, you find yourself always telling her the truth. Even when it's uncomfortable.

"I had another nightmare last night. It was kind of hard to get in the car today."

"Was this the same nightmare as you've been having?" She asks as she flips through her notebook, "of the crash?"

"Yeah- well... Yes, but it was different." You pick at the cast on your arm. It's become a habit.

"How so?"

"Instead of my parents in the car, it was Hongjoong..."

It's a reoccurring dream — a memory, really. A nightmare that your waking mind has blocked out; coming to haunt you in your sleep instead.

Of that night. In the car. The headlights blurring. The loud honk of the semi-trucks horn, trying to warn your mother that the driver had lost control.

You always wake up screaming, held by Hongjoong tightly, your arm hurting with a soul crushing pain — just like it had when the bone broke through your skin all those weeks ago.

You blink rapidly as the memory comes to you. You don't want it to. You want it to stay in your dreams. Because then, you don't really have to deal with it.

Ms. Cain told you how bad it is to do that — to try to ignore it. But you aren't ready to take that step yet.

"I see. Just you and him?" She asks as she scribbles in her book. It used to bother you, the first few times. But you got used to it after a while; when you figured out she didn't just write down bad things. She wrote down the good too — the progress.

"Yeah."

"And did he survive?"

The thought, the image your mind had conjured up last night, it makes your throat feel constricted. Tears press against your waterline. "N-no."

"Did you?"

"I always do." And it makes you hate yourself.

"I think I understand why you had this dream, (Y/n)," she begins slowly, looking to you. When you look up, urging her to continue, she goes on, "Hongjoong cares about you deeply, right?"

You nod, quickly snatching up a tissue.

"Your brain is crossing wires. Seeing him, who takes care of you, as a replacement — or sort of a stand-in for your parents. Do you have a similar relationship to him as you did them?"

"Uhm," you sigh as you think, "not really? Hongjoong is... he's just Hongjoong."

"Do you see him as a parental figure? As a father figure, maybe?"

"N-" You stop yourself quickly, eyes widening a little bit. "Not- not like my father. But... I've accidentally called him Dad a few times." You look anywhere but her. Thinking she'll judge you — thinking anyone would.

"So, he isn't like your father, but you see him as a father?"

"I guess so."

"I can see how you think of him like that. From what I gather, he's very caring to you." She gives another soft smile, but her question makes you feel like you've been punched in the gut, "how was your relationship with your father? You don't speak of him as much as your mother."

"I don't want to talk about that-"

"I think you should try."

You glare up at her, weakly. "Why?"

"You're calling a man who's not your father 'Dad'. Lots of women have issues with their fathers because of the societal-"

"I think it's just because my dad is dead." You don't really. You called Hongjoong 'Dad' a few times before the accident.

"I don't think so. Is that his shirt you're wearing?" She points with her pen, and you look down at the fabric you're swallowed up in.

"Yes."

"Why did you decide to wear that today?"

"Because..." You don't know. You have no idea. "I just... wanted to."

It's quiet for a long moment. She doesn't say anything, and you don't either. She's been in the game a long time. She sniffed out your daddy issues the second you sat in her office. She just waiting for you to catch up.

"I told him I hated him."

Now you're getting somewhere.

────୨ৎ────

"Ready, honey?" Hongjoong hops up quickly as the door to Ms. Cain's office opens.

She smiles knowingly as you quickly make your way to him, watching the way his arms wrap around you without hesitation when you hug him.

"You two have a good day. Try to work on those breathing exercises, yes?"

"Thank you, Ms. Cain," you mumbles from his shoulder.

"We're on it," he nods, returning her smile as she closes the door.

He pets the back of your head softly, "rough session, angel?" He's given up on holding back all of his nicknames for you, and you don't mind.

"I'm ready to go home." You respond simply, wiping the few stray tears from the corners of your eyes as you pull back.

"Come on," he guides you with his hand on the small of your back, nodding to the receptionist as you exit the small office building.

He opens the car door for you. It makes it easier when you're afraid. You buckle yourself up as fast as humanly possible, already clicked in when he opens the driver side door.

"Do you want to share what you talked about?" He asks as he starts the car, seatbelt similarly strapped across him before he even does so.

Once, he put the key in the ignition before he put it on and you freaked the fuck out. He didn't make that mistake again.

"Not today," you lean your head back with a small groan, "I just want to digest it."

"Alrighty." He doesn't press the matter. He knows you'll come to him when you're ready. He can't ask your therapist, because of patient confidentiality, but there's no rule about not asking you. Ms. Cain even encourages it — sharing your breakthroughs and how he can support you better.

You hold onto the seatbelt, bunching it up in your fist as he pulls out of the relative calm of the parking lot and into the street.

You focus your eyes on the stereo, flipping through the channels. "They do know that saying 'an hour of commercial free music brought to you by blah blah blah' is a commercial in of itself, right?" You groan, switching it off.

He lets out a puff of air, not quite a laugh; but pretty close when paired when the smile he has.

Looking down at your phone, you have a small grin of your own.

"Hey, Hiyyih and Kai are gonna come over tomorrow- oh, if, uhm, if that's okay with you?" You peek over to him, thumb hovering over the send button on your phone until he says it's okay.

Really, you don't have to ask his permission. You're a grown woman and it's your home as well. But you feel the need to.

"I don't have a problem with that," he hums, fingers tapping on the wheel. "Long as Kai sleeps on the couch."

"Really, Joong?" You chuckle quietly, "still with the Kai-hating agenda?"

"I don't hate him! He's a cool kid, I just would prefer that he sleep separately from you for no particular reason..." He shrugs, mumbling the last part, making you laugh harder.

"Yeah, right, no reason," you shake your head, looking back down to your phone.

You go to say something else when a loud honk makes you jump, looking to the source across the road with wide eyes.

────୨ৎ────

The pain was immediate and immense. It didn't creep up. It slammed into you with the force of a thousand suns.

The crack of your bone filled the air. Your scream was ear-shattering as it ripped through your skin.

Your mother's pained gasps. Your father's dizzy groan.

The incessant hiss of something broken in the vehicle, the metal creaking pitifully. The chirping cicadas heard through the lowered windows. The radio quietly continuing, however warbled.

When you had opened your eyes, the world was upside down. Or, rather — the car was. In a ditch, flipped wrong side up; wheels still spinning in the air from your mother's useless attempts to spin out of the way.

"Baby! Baby! Are you okay?!" She yelled through her own pain, shaky hand placed on the roof as she turned her head to look at you. She screamed when she saw you, other hand held to her bleeding stomach. She called your father's name, as if he could do something to help.

He was too busy with the internal bleeding in his head from where he had knocked it. A broken stutter of your name could have been heard if not for your sounds of Earth-shaking pain.

The driver of the truck was unscathed, thanks to the size of his vehicle. He came running, screaming. Into his phone, at you, at your parents. Begging god that you're all okay.

"Three! There's three of them!" He was still yelling as he fell to his knees in the ditch and looked into your car. "A- two women! A man. Oh my god, her arm! Oh, god! We're on —" He never got to give the dispatcher your location.

"Please, please," your mother turned to the man quickly, "help my babygirl!"

He dropped his phone into the dirt, glass crunching under his knees like ice as he crawled forward. "Oh, oh fucking god! I'm so sorry! I- my breaks!"

"Mommy!" You had cried like a blubbering child, clutching your broken arm to your chest as your seatbelt kept you tethered to the backseat, fighting against gravity. The rough fabric biting into your chest and hips.

"It's okay, baby! Mommy's here! I'm right here," she sobbed as she watched the man unbuckle you, a loud shriek breaking in your throat as your arm moved.

"I- I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," was all he could say as he caught you in the short drop. Your legs got cut as he drug you out of the car, your blurry vision catching a glimpse of your father's head rolling towards you.

You didn't hear what he said, but it looked like 'goodbye'. Like he knew he wasn't going to make it.

"It's gonna be o-okay," your mother yelled as he drug you up the ditch.

You were too weak with pain to fight back to your parents as the driver of the truck drug you out of the ditch, laying you on the side of the road. "I'll go- I'm gonna get them."

He left you there. Arm bleeding onto the cement, bone exposed to the elements. The bugs chirping loudly over the thudding of your heart.

And then there was an explosion next to you. Screams. Screams of your name.

And you didn't move. You didn't dare move.

The stars above you blinked down as you stared at them.

You didn't move. Your blood staining the road, your tears sliding down your temples.

There was silence, after a few moments.

The crackling of a fire. The singing insects. A phone ringing somewhere in the distance, going unanswered.

You were cold. You were sweating. You wanted someone to hold you.

Your eyes were drooping as flashing lights came over the horizon, catching your attention with its contrast against the darkness of the sky.

The loud sirens and the screeching of the tires against the quiet of nature made you cringe after having laid there in the calm for half an hour.

"She's alive!" The paramedic had yelled, in absolute disbelief as she ran to you. "She's alive!"

────୨ৎ────

You hadn't remembered any of that.

You only remembered the headlights coming straight for you, the honking — and then you woke up in the hospital.

Now you've just lived through it all over again.

You knew they died. But no one told you how. You were so in shock that they all thought you'd block it out completely.

They thought wrong.

You're lucky Hongjoong pulled over as soon as he noticed your shallow breathes, your far-off eyes shedding tears quickly.

Because you throw yourself out of the car just as he parks it, right into the grass on the side of the road as you scream unintelligibly.

"(Y/n)!" He yells as he unbuckles his seatbelt, not even bothering to take the time to open his door and run over. He climbs over the center console and out of your open door, kneeling beside you.

"Hey, hey," his eyes chase your frantic ones, trying to catch them, "honey! Look at me, please!"

You have tears streaming down your face like a waterfall, gathering at your trembling chin and dripping onto the Earth. You grip the bright green grass so tightly that your knuckles start to lose color. You're shaking your head, mumbling nonsense.

"Look at me!" His sternness breaks through your trance, making your eyes snap to his as he holds your face; your cheeks squished in his palms. "You aren't there."

"W-what?" You're so confused. Disoriented. Lost.

"Look at where we are." When your eyes only stay locked on his, he moves your face for you. Making you look around, "look. You aren't there."

You fall into him, grabbing his thighs as you bury your face in his chest. It seems like that's where it belongs lately. Always being cradled gently and hid from the world.

"What can you feel?"

You shake your head, breathing heavily, "I c-"

"What do you feel, honey? Right now."

Excruciating heartbreak. Unbelievable grief. Guilt. The need to throw up. The need to curl into a ball and never move again.

You push all of those thoughts away, closing your eyes and forcing yourself to breathe. "The wind."

It wasn't windy that night. You were stuck in the heat with no breeze to soothe you, the fire beside you making you sweat. But now it blows around you softly.

"Good, that's good. What else?"

"...You."

He wasn't there that night. You had dug your fingers into the concrete. His thighs are gripped tightly in your hands. You had looked up at the stars. Your face still hidden away in his chest, his hand stroking the back of your head. You were all alone.

"Yeah," he sighs softly with relief as you slump into him, "you're here with me, honey. I've got you."

His hazards still blinking, passenger door open; people slow down as they pass — but they continue on the road when they see it's you.

The local tragedy, pulled into your step-father's lap.

They know better than to interject after the amount of times Hongjoong has slammed the door in their faces when they came to offer their condolences.

"I've got you," he reassures you softly, kissing the top of your head as you slowly pry yourself away from him.

Looking towards the car, you press your lips together. He wipes your tears. He always does.

"I don't, uhm," you look to him, a bit embarrassed. Ashamed, maybe. Or like you're burdening him when you say, "I don't think I can get back in the car."

"We can wait, angel. Take your time. Lets do some of those breathing exercises, yeah?"

────୨ৎ────

"We don't have to do this."

"You don't... I do."

You stand in front of your mother's closed door. It had only been opened once, when Hongjoong went in to fetch some papers. You stayed far away.

He stands right next to you. "Honey, if you aren't ready-"

You grab the doorknob before you can hesitate any longer, pushing the door open quickly.

The light filters in through the open curtains. Her towel is across the back of her vanity chair. Her wedding ring to your father is on her bedside table by a picture of you as a child.

All of her belongings are waiting for her to come home and resume life as normal.

But she never will.

You swallow thickly as you step into the room. It still smells like her perfume. The one you used to steal spritzes of before school. The one that filled the room when she walked in.

"Can-" You look around slowly, eyes welling up with tears, "can I have a moment, please?"

Hongjoong hesitates, lingering in the doorway with the light shining onto him as he watches you. "Y-yeah," he nods when you turn and catch him staring at you. "I'll be, uh, just yell if you need me."

You wait until you can no longer hear him to let your tears start streaming down your face. It's like he has a supernatural sense to know when you're crying — even when you hold your head down or lay with your face away from him.

Pulling back the vanity chair slowly, you take a seat.

And you stay there.

For a long time, you stay there. Hands folded in your lap; staring down at your cast.

"God..." Your voice cracks, lip trembling.

Your mother wasn't deeply religious, but she believed in... something. Something bigger than herself — bigger than any of you.

"Are you there?"

And only the sound of the air conditioner replies.

"Fuck-" You place your elbows on the table and put your face in your hands, "this is so stupid..."

Ms. Cain said that doing something your parents used to do might give you some comfort. Your mother used to pray at her vanity.

Taking a steadying breath, you look up at the ceiling.

"I w- I don’t even know what I’m supposed to say. I should have payed more attention when she prayed out loud... I’m here? I'm here... And- and I don't understand why. I don’t understand why I lived. Why I walked away when they didn't. Why you let me breathe while they- they don't get to do anything. Why am I here and they're all buried? Why I walked away without a goddamn scratch and had to listen to them all burn?!"

You slam your hand over your mouth, tears rolling down your temples as you stare up at the ceiling.

"Why did you make me see that today? I t-tried so hard to block it out... Now, though — it won't leave my head. I keep replaying it. Is this- is this my punishment, God? For surviving? Carrying around the weight of their ghosts in every waking moment? Is that why I survived, just to suffer? Feel them ridicule me from beyond for wasting away? I can’t even take care of myself. Hongjoong is doing everything. Taking care of me because I'm too fucking broken to do it... And I love him for it, I do… But every time he looks at me like that, I feel like a fraud. He didn’t sign up for this, w-"

You swallow your tears and wipe your nose on the back of your hand; looking down and, unfortunately, catching your own eyes in your mother's mirror.

You look and feel pathetic.

"Why did you make me so weak?"

You sneer at your reflection.

"I should be stronger. I should be able to stand on my own by now. B-but I’m not. I can’t. I'm a fucking weak l-little girl and I miss my mommy..."

You sniff up the snot trying to run down your nose and stare at yourself in the blurry reflection.

"I miss my daddy... I w-want to take back all the mean things I said to him! I just want- want one more chance, please! If you do one miracle, please... Please, I've learned my lesson... Just make it stop- make- make me understand why I'm the only one who walked away. I'm so tired of feeling guilty... I don't know h-how to be the lives. I can't bear the weight of it..."

You rest your head on the cool wooden surface of your mother's vanity, sobbing freely.

"Give me a sign. G-give me anything."

Just out in the hallway, Hongjoong sits against the wall with his hand over his mouth — crying just as hard as you; having heard everything.

────୨ৎ────

"Hey, (Y/n)?" Hongjoong knocked gently on your door for the third time as he opened it slowly. "Your mom wanted me t-"

He shut up quickly as he saw you face down in a book, laid on your stomach sideways across your bed.

He pushed the door open and smiled fondly as he came up to your bed. "Honey," he whispered, leaning over and rubbing his thumb on your cheek tenderly to wake you.

"Mh?" You moaned tiredly, blinking up at him a few times while your vision adjusted. "Joongie?"

"Hey, sorry to wake you, ba- but," he corrected himself quickly when he caught himself about to call you 'baby'. "Your mom wants to know where you put the skillet, we can't find it anywhere."

"Oh," you nodded, rubbing your eyes as you lifted yourself up on your elbows.

Your sweater was too big and you looked so comfortable. You had lines on your cheek from resting it on the book. It made his heart warm. Made butterflies flutter in his stomach.

"Under the oven," you yawned, "what's she making?"

"Vegetable soup."

You looked at him confused, sleepy eyebrows pressing together. "In the skillet?"

"I don't know either," he chuckled softly; internally cooing at how you stretched out on your bed, one of your feet dangling off the edge. "You want me to wake you up if it's semi-edible?"

"Mhm, yes, please," you smiled as you closed your book, head falling back down.

"You have a good nap then, honey," he reached and patted your head gently, turning to leave when you called out.

"Joong?"

"Hm?"

"Can you pull up my blanket, please?" You mumbled as you curled up on your side, entirely too comfortable and tired to care if it's a bit of a strange request for the man you've only known a few months.

"Sure," he smiled widely even though you couldn't see it — he can't contain his happiness at the opportunity to do something, if only something small, for you.

He pulls it up slowly, and you sink your grasp into him deeper unintentionally as you smile while cuddle up under the warmth.

"Thanks, Joong~"

"Anything for you, honey."

────୨ৎ────

"(Y/n)?" Hongjoong lifts his head from his pillow and rubs his face before focusing on your figure in his doorway.

The lamp from the living room, where Kai sleeps due to Hongjoongs insistence, shines behind you and casts you in the light in a way akin to a halo.

"Are you girls ok-"

"I can't sleep."

He had thought you wouldn't be able to. He hadn't left your bed since the pill incident.

His own bed felt uncomfortable and unfamiliar as he laid down in it a few hours ago. He can never go back to sleeping alone now that he knows what it feels like to have you next to him. What it's like to fall asleep to the sound of your soft breaths. To wake up in the mornings and have your resting face be one of the first things he sees.

"Me neither." He says truthfully, sliding to one side of the bed and lifting the covers. "Come on, you can lay with me, baby."

Your heart flutters to life in your chest. He's been letting those little nicknames slip so often, like he's been saying them to you for your entire life.

"I can?" You whisper while you enter into the darkness of his room, making your way to the bed with the guidance of the far off lamp in the other room. "You don't mind, Dad?"

You can hear his breathing hitch in his throat, see his fingers twitch in the shadows as he holds the blanket up for you; balling up the fabric in his fist.

You had said it too... purposefully. Like it wasn't subconscious. And it certainly wasn't joking. It sounded like you had meant to say it — you had meant to call him that.

Because you did.

You wait at the side of his bed, swallowing thickly.

"N-no, I don't mind, honey." His response is quick and shaky, and it almost sounds like he doesn't mean it but he does. He means it. "I don't mind at all."

You slide in next to him wordlessly, turning on your side with your back to him; sliding back into him slowly until your back meets his chest. The second it does, his arms are wrapped around you tightly — tightly. Like he's never going to let go. Like he's a snake crushing its prey.

And you melt into his hold with a soft sigh. "Hongjoong..."

"Yes?"

"Do you like it when I call you Dad?"

"...Yes."

And he hopes you can't feel how much he does; his cock is stirring to life in between the layers of fabric of your pajamas separating you.

You do. And for whatever reason, you aren't utterly disgusted like you thought you'd be — like you might have been just a few months ago.

"Hm," you let out a sleepy moan, snuggling your hips back into him. He catches his lip between his teeth quickly, silencing himself as he closes his eyes and presses his forehead against you.

You have no idea what you're doing to him. He thinks with a shaking sigh.

But you do. You started putting the pieces together a few days ago. You're slow and steadily coming back to what's going on around you.

And you know you should be running as far away from Hongjoong as possible as you feel his growing hard-on from you calling him something so... innocent.

But here you are. Willingly in his bed because you couldn't sleep without him. Teasing him. Testing him. Wanting him to pass the test.

"Why?"

It's so quiet between the two of you that you can hear Kai's soft snores from his place all the way on the couch.

"Because," he finally gives in, "I love taking care of you. If you were my little girl, I'd never treat you like he did."

He doesn't have to specify. You both know he's speaking of your dear departed father. Who was so absent most of the time that he could be considered a deadbeat. Especially after the divorce.

But Hongjoong was always there. Always.

"You're so precious... I'd do — I will do anything for you. I want you to have the world. I want you to be happy, honey..."

You reward his answer with the smallest roll of your hips while you sniffle — he passes the test with flying colors; adding a cherry on top when one of his hands comes up to wipe your cheeks so softly.

"Don't cry, baby-"

"I love you, Hongjoong."

His heart is about to slam out of his chest. His blood runs colds, then boiling hot, then he's dunked back into ice. He knows you probably don't mean it, not in a normal way.

But he doesn't care.

You mean it in your way. You mean 'thank you for taking care of me'. You mean 'I wouldn't have minded if I was your little girl'.

You mean it to say, 'I am your little girl, please don't hurt me like he did'.

"I love you." He says back as fast as he can, pulling you impossibly closer; putting a leg over your hip and breathing out a soft moan, "I love you so much."

You don't know why he does. And you don't ask. You just revel in his touch. You let him press his hard length into your backside, and you relax even further into him when he doesn't do anything but snuggle and comfort you despite it.

────୨ৎ────

"I'm just saying," Hiyyih had shrugged, helping you unpack your boxes as you moved into your new home, "don't you think it's a bit weird?"

"Why?" You huffed, wiping your brow after you sat down a heavier box on the unmade bed.

"I mean... what does he get out of all this? Hongjoong seems a bit... off." He did almost quite literally jump at the opportunity to marry your mother when she had mentioned her struggles now that she had no one to split her bills with besides you — and she hated putting that pressure on you.

"I think he's cool," you replied as you looked around the bare bones room. "He's just a really nice guy. He's worked with my mom for a while."

"Maybe." She did the same, smiling over to you, whispering, "maybe you could lose your virginity to him~"

"Hiyyih!" You yelled, aghast. "He's my step-dad!" You lowered you volume quickly, slapping her arm, "don't be gross."

"Ow! Whaaaat? I'm just teasing you," she shoved you back playfully, "I know you like older men-"

There was a small fumble outside in the hall, sounding like a dropped box. "Everything okay?" You asked as you both made your way, seeing your brand-new step-father lifting a box off the floor with a small blush on his cheeks.

"Oh, yeah! Just, be careful over there," he nodded to the floor, "uhm, loose floorboard."

"I don't s-"

"How's unpacking going?" He interrupted quickly, looking into your room, "aaah. You gotta get busy, kid. See ya!"

He shuffled down the hall quickly, disappearing into what would be his room while you and Hiyyih watched confusedly.

"Yeah," you sighed as you turned back into your bedroom, "maybe he's a bit off."

────୨ৎ────

"I'm just saying," Hiyyih says softly, quietly as you sit at the table the next morning. "I would have cuddled with you." She pouts playfully, earning herself a small smile from your lips.

They've gotten more of those, slowly.

"Didn't have to leave me all alone and go to some old man. I thought we were best friends~"

"He's not that old," you let yourself laugh. Just a little. Just a small huff of amused air. But it lightens the tense sadness that's been in the house ever since you got back from the hospital.

"He's practically ancient," Kai chuckles from beside you, nibbling on his breakfast.

"C'mon, you guys," you laugh a little louder — and Hiyyih can see the light in your eyes that's been void for so many weeks. "You're acting like he's sixty years old, he's only thirty eight..."

Kai chokes on his juice, placing a hand to his chest. "What!? Oh, my god! He's way older than I thought he was. He has such a baby face..."

The genuine, light hearted sound of your giggle makes the siblings crack a mirrored grin; wide and happy.

"You guys are ridiculous." You smile — and it reaches all the way to your eyes.

"Showers open," Hongjoong says as he enters the room, wet hair pushed back and a towel hanging around his neck.

"Me!" Kai stands up quickly, sticking his tongue out at Hiyyih as she slumps back in her chair; having barely stood up. He slides the rest of his fruit onto your plate and smiles down softly at you.

"Thanks, Kai," you smile back, leaning up and pecking his lips, "save Hiyyih some warm water, don't be a jerk."

"No promises," he chuckles before heading off in the direction of the bathroom, squeezing past Hongjoong; who stands in the doorway frozen.

He stays there, still, as you and Hiyyih return to your conversation. Her asking what you would like to do today, you asking if she's okay with watching a movie you've both seen a million times, her saying 'totally!'

"Honey." His voice makes you turn around in your chair.

"Mhm?"

"Come get dressed," he says, already turning around into the hall after tossing his towel onto the couch.

"I'm still eat-"

"Now."

You're a bit taken back. After such a meaningful moment last night, why is he being so... weird? You give Hiyyih a confused look, and she returns it. "Maybe he has to talk to you about something," she shrugs, pushing around her food with her fork.

"I'll be right back, be thinking of a movie we can all watch." You sigh as you get up, making your way down the empty hallway and to your room quickly.

He's there, going through your clothes and picking your outfit out like he always does. "Close the door."

"They've seen me-"

"Close it."

You fight the urge to roll your eyes as you do what he asks, closing the door with a soft click.

"What's going on with you, Joong?"

Whatever it is, you don't like it. He isn't being soft and sweet with you. He's being short and distant.

"Nothing." He hums as he unbuttons your sleep shirt, his eyes avoiding yours. "What makes you ask?"

"You're being weird."

"No, I'm not," he says shortly as he slides your shirt down your arms.

"Bullshit."

His eyes flick up to yours quickly. A staring contest ensues, neither of you backing down even as he slides down your sleep shorts; purposefully gliding his fingertips over the round of your ass.

"Tell me, I don't like how you're acting." You huff as you kick them away, trying to ignore the heat growing up your neck as you stand in nothing but your underwear under his intense gaze.

You gasp as he cups the sides of your face in his palms, quickly backing you up until your back collides with the wall softly. Just a single molecule of air between you as he looks deep into your eyes and asks, "did you do that on purpose?"

"W-"

"Kissing some little boy in front of me?" He near spits the words, like they burn his soul. And maybe they do.

You kiss everyone on the lips. He dealt with it before — shoved his misplaced jealously deep down so it never saw the light of day — because you weren't truly his to be jealous of in the first place; and they were all platonic pecks anyway.

Not anymore.

You're all his. And you should act like it.

"Did that to make me jealous? Hm? Kissing someone else in my house?"

Your eyes widen a bit, watching this all new side of him closely. "Your house? What, I don't p- jealous?" You breathe out; a sweet smelling puff of air that nearly knocks him off his feet.

He presses closer to you. His eyes keep flicking to your lips. Not an inch between you. His body against yours.

"Are you jealous? Joong, it's not like he shoved his tongue down my th-"

Your words get muffled by his lips on yours with more passion than you've ever felt before. His tongue in your mouth before you can even blink. Before you can even think. Staring at his closed eyes for a moment before you follow his lead, letting your eyes close and opening up your mouth just a fraction of an inch.

Even just those words coming from you — the very image of it shoved him off the deep end.

He's the only one who can do that. Him. Him. Only him.

Only he can touch you. Only he can taste you.

You taste like your breakfast, like honey oatmeal and fruit. He can't get enough. He licks every single inch he can reach, moving your lips against each other slowly until neither of you can breathe properly.

He presses your foreheads together, staring into your very soul.

"You- you kissed me." You stutter out through your blissful puzzlement. Eyes locked on his and nowhere else to go while he cradles your jaw.

"Have I not been giving you enough loving, is that it, baby?" He pants against your lips, grinding his hips into you. He just about fucking melts when you let out a shocked little moan, grabbing his wrists for purchase. "You want Daddy to pay more attention to you? That why you're acting out?"

He can see the cogs turning in your head, clanging against each other roughly as they try to sort how you feel about what he just said. What he just called himself.

"C'mere," he smirks to himself as you let him pull you away from the wall without a fight; still processing his words. Still possessing the way he shoved his tongue into your mouth.

"My Honey wants all of Daddy's attention?" You land on your bed with a soft thud — he throws you onto it —arms sprawling out to either side of you and fingers gripping the fabric. "Is that why you're kissing other people when you belong to me? To get me all worked up so I'll put you back in your place?"

"N-no." You gulp, finding your legs spreading with a mind of their own.

"Don't look at me like that, sweetheart... Like you're shocked~" He grins, dark and calculating, as he crawls over you; slotting himself between your open legs. "I know you felt me last night..." He whispers against your lips, holding himself up with one hand planted on the mattress next to your head — the other tracing up the side of your torso ghostly soft.

"We can't-"

"Why not?" He counters quickly, wild eyes flicking all over your face.

"Hiyyih a-and Kai-" His lips silence you again quickly, kissing you deep and rough — but fast, too. Leaving you stunned as he pulls back just as fast as he came in.

"Don't make me spank you..." He groans, hips grinding into you lightly, "say some else's name while your under me and I swear, baby-"

It's your turn to cut him off, tossing your good arm around his neck and pulling him down to your lips. Messy and less refined than his technique — but just as much passion in your movements.

He moans into you, his hand finally continuing its journey and landing on your breast. Giving it a light squeeze; he slips his tongue back into your mouth when you let out a gasp. He stretches it so far from his mouth, into yours, that the intrusion causes a soft gag to bubble up your throat.

"Fuck-" He has to pull back quickly, moving to sit on his knees as he stays hunched over you. He pulls your thighs over his, your hips hovering just over the bed and your pelvises pressed together. "You feel what you do to me, Honey?"

You can only breathe heavily in response, looking at him with... something in your eyes.

You have no idea what you're doing. All you know is that he feels so good against you — your clit is starting to throb, begging for attention.

"Make me cum, Daddy-"

"Don't say shit unless you mean it, pretty girl." He's breathing just as heavy, every fiber of his being having to be held back from yanking your panties down and showing you what else his tongue can do.

He wants to show you what a real man can do. Not all of the little boys, the men your age. The ones who treat you bad and make you come back home to him crying. He can take care of you in life and in bed.

"I mean it," you nod, rolling your hips — and only getting half way because he grabs them tightly; eyes narrowing down on you.

"I'm going to grind my cock on you until we both cum," he says lowly as he leans down to your neck, giving it a soft kiss, "and you'd better keep the volume down unless you want your friends to hear your step-dad making you cream your panties."

You don't think it will be a problem, you're never very loud when you masturbate —

"Oh~" You slap your hand over your mouth quickly as he starts rolling his clothed bulge into you. Slow and deep, pulling your hips to meet his.

"What did I say, sweetheart?" He chuckles airily into your neck, goosebumps raising on your skin. "You want to get caught with Daddy humping your little cunt?"

You shake your head quickly, planting your feet on the bed for leverage to grind into him; meeting his movements with his guidance.

You'd probably be mortified if either one of them caught you. Not because it's Hongjoong, but because it's sex. And you've never done anything like it. And you've certainly never been caught doing anything like it.

You just want him to make you cum. And he's moving towards that goal quickly.

A whine breaks off in your throat as he leaves kiss after kiss on your neck.

"G-god," he grits his teeth for a moment, speeding up as he rubs his bulge against your steadily dampening panties. "You're so fucking cute, Honey..."

"I- gonna-" You grab at his shoulder, meeting his eyes as he looks up from your neck; whispering so needily that he can't help but smirk.

The sight of his lips curling into that dark grin makes you moan — his hand cupping over your mouth as your jaw drops.

"Gonna cum for me, angel? Yeah?" He leans his forehead on yours, practically fucking your hips into the bed now; keeping you pinned as he drowns you in pleasure. His eyes might as well be sparkling as he looks into yours while you nod. "Aww, yeah you are~ My sweet virgin is so needy-" His eyebrows press together, his cock aching for release. "I bet- oh, fuck~ I bet your little pussy is so wet for me..."

Your back arches off the bed, his voice sending you into a shivering mess of muffled moans as you cum — his dirty words paired with the massaging pressure of his clothed cock making your clit tingle. Your eyes roll into your head, so you miss the way he grins like a maniac as he starts grinding into you harder; chasing his own peak.

"Fuck- This is so much better than I ever thought, baby..." He whispers breathily into your ear, "you're so fucking gorgeous when you cum~ I could never have imagined it. Oh-" His hand quickly slides up from your twitching hips, grabbing your waist tightly as he moves to lay completely on top of you — all of his weight in his hips as he grinds into your overstimulated cunt like he's trying to fuck you through the layers of fabric.

You grab his arm tightly, toes curling into the blanket, sounds still quieted by his hand as you start to tremble underneath him.

He laughs softly, cheeks flushing with a blush as he teases himself; dragging the moment out and stopping himself from cumming because he wants it to last forever.

"Do you know how many times I jerked off while thinking of you?" He says it before he even realizes. The words roll off his tongue without hesitation — and apparently he doesn't have to worry about it because you only moan louder behind his hand.

"Oh, naughty little girl~" He kisses your forehead shockingly soft for the situation, "you like that idea? T-thinking about it going to make you cum again? Fuck, what if I told you I did it with your panties? That I wrapped them around my cock and came all over them-"

You know that's incredibly perverted. It's a violation of your privacy.

But it makes you cum so hard you blank for a good few moments, vision going white and entire body spasming.

He isn't far behind; replacing his hand with his lips and muffling your sounds with his tongue in your mouth as he cums into his boxers with a deep whine.

When you've finally stopped moaning every other second, he pulls back slowly and licks your lips gently.

Your vision is blurry when you come back down to your body, and for a moment you wonder if he's fucked you so good — without even taking your panties off — that you've gone cross eyed.

"Shhh," he coos softly as he swipes up your tears with his thumbs, "shhh, Daddy's got you, pretty girl~"

And he's not letting go.

────୨ৎ────

You were sad.

Hongjoong could tell. Anyone who looked at you could have guessed by your slumped shoulders and the large hoodie you hid yourself in as you waited for your food at the microwave. Arms crossed over your chest and leaning against the counter.

"Do you want to talk ab-"

He barely got to ask before you went off, gesturing wildly and rambling about what had you upset.

You'd come to trust him in all these months of him being in your life.

"I don't understand why men are such jerks! No offense, you're chill- but, like... damn! It's like you're the only man I know that isn't a complete asshole! I asked my father to come over and watch a new movie with me and he's like, 'not tonight, I'm going to a friends place to watch the game', like —" You yanked the microwave open to stop it's incessant beeping, "hello!? I'm your daughter! I'm trying to spend time with you and you'd rather go and watch a stupid game!"

You slammed the microwave shut again after you got your food, leaning your hands on the counter and looking down with a sigh.

Hongjoong just watched for a moment; let you vent all of your frustration — anger in his heart but love in his eyes.

"What movie did you want to watch, sweetheart?"

You looked up slowly, unshed tears in your eyes and your chin trembling slightly. You didn't say anything, but he could tell you were asking why he'd asked.

"I could watch it with you, if- if you want me too. I know I'm not your father, but if you want some company-"

You crashed into his chest so fast he didn't even see it coming. Wrapped your arms around him so tightly it made his heart melt for you all over again.

"I'd love some company."

────୨ৎ────

A week later, you sit on the couch beside him in complete silence while he works on his laptop. He doesn't mind the silence.

You, though, can't stand the silence. It leaves you with nothing but your thoughts.

"Hongjoong?"

He looks up quickly, eyes on you within the second, "yes?"

"Do you think... you- uhm," you hesitate a bit, slightly embarrassed, but your need to do something outweighs it. "You think you could come on a walk with me?"

"A walk?" He raises his brow slightly before nodding, "of course." He saves his work document before all but throwing the device onto the recliner across from you.

"Really? Right now?" You ask as you stand, eyes slightly wide.

"Yeah," he smiles, pulling you towards the door by your hand gently. "It's good to get out of the house! I'm glad you finally want to go somewhere, angel," he pulls your shoes from the rack and kisses your head, "we can go for as long or as little as you want to. Can go wherever you want~"

A smile tugs its way onto your lips as you take in his words. "Maybe- maybe just around the neighborhood a few times?"

"Deal," he hums as he kneels and pulls your sneakers over your socks.

The white shirt and colorful shorts he'd picked out for you this morning felt a bit... strange to go out in. But, maybe it's just because you haven't been anywhere besides therapy.

He ties the laces up and pats your foot softly before pulling his own shoes on.

"Come on, Honey," he holds your hand gently as he opens up the door; leading you as you step into the outside world.

────୨ৎ────

A few days pass. You go on a walk with Hongjoong at least once a day.

You start feeling better. More and more each day.

You have less nightmares. Sleep through the night, for the most part. Your arm doesn't have phantom pains anymore. The scars on your legs don't make you want to scratch your skin off when you look at them. You can't take your pills without being reminded of when you swallowed two whole bottles. You feel good.

You feel good enough to cook your famous ramen. Good enough invite Bumjoong and your friends over.

Hongjoong watches you with the biggest smile on his face as you set the pot of noodles at the table with the chicken and beer Bumjoong brought with him.

Bumjoong leans next to him on the wall, similarly smiling as they watch you check your phone; excited for the first time since the accident.

"Good job, Hong," he whispers to his brother.

"With what?" He tears his eyes away from you and looks at him, still smiling as he hears you hum to the music you're playing.

"Taking care of her. Helping her through everything. I know it's been rough..." He tilts his head, looking at Hongjoong intently.

"You love her, don't you?"

The words make him freeze, staring at him blankly; eyes slightly wide.

Bumjoong isn't blind; and he isn't stupid, either. He sees the way his little brother looks at you when he thinks nobody is paying attention. He notices when he places his hand on your lower back while passing behind you — even when there's enough room. He hears the love in his voice when he speaks about you.

He could sense the pure panic the night of the accident, when he got the call from the hospital because you put him as your next emergency contact. Before your own father, it was Hongjoong.

Panic like he'd never seen in his brother before panic. Not something that someone would have when they got the news that the child of the person they married out of convenience was in the hospital with a broken arm. No —

It was axiety like the love of his life had just been shot to bits.

"Hongjoong?"

He swallows, feeling like the world is about to collapse around him.

"It's okay."

"Jesus, fuck you," Hongjoong sighs, relieved, as he hugs him tightly, "you sacred me. I thought you were going to try and scold me."

Bumjoong chuckles as he hugs him back, patting his shoulders. "I get it, man, you've been through alot together. And she's sweet," they both look over to you as you run to the door when the bell rings; the fastest you've moved in weeks. "You, uhm, does she know?"

"Yeah, she does," he grins as you greet the siblings with a kiss — to their cheeks.

────୨ৎ────

"Hey, honey!" Hongjoong yelled over the pouring rain, passenger side window rolled down as he pulled up to the grocery store you work at.

"You came?" You asked, genuinely surprised, "I could have waited for my mom!" You leant a bit further away from the wall, under the awning and protected from the downpour for the most part.

"Nonsense! You'll catch a cold out here, come on," he leaned over and cracked the door open, rolling the window back up; leaving no room for argument.

You ran quickly, and were in the safety of his car within thirty seconds. But you were soaked to the bone nonetheless, your work shirt clinging to you. "Shit, I'm dripping all over your seat, I'm sorry, Joong."

"It's okay," he laughed as he started driving, looking over to you as you buckled your seat belt. "Did you have a good day at work, honey?"

"Eh," you smiled, "same old, same old." You kept pulling the soaked fabric from your chest and torso just for it to cling back onto it.

"Are-" He cleared his throat, fingers drumming on the wheel, "you should take that off." When you looked over to him quickly, eyebrows raised, he hurried to say, "if it's making you uncomfortable! I mean, I don't- I have, uh, a blanket in the back seat you could cover up with."

You relaxed in the seat, letting out an amused huff of air, "sorry. I thought you were being a pervert again."

He laughed, genuine and taken off guard.

He'd been married to your mother for almost ten months now. You'd gotten comfortable with him, enough to joke and let your own guard down. He'd been slow and steadily worming his way into your life.

"God, that's what you think of me? I'm hurt, honey~"

"Yeah, don't get too worked up, old man~" You returned his joking tone as you peeled your soaked shirt off, setting it by your feet, "you might have a heart attack."

He might actually, catching a glimpse of you in your bra with his peripheral vision; forcing his eyes to stay on the road. The little bow in the middle of it caught his attention as you leaned and reached into the backseat.

He could pull over. He could just pull over and tell you to take your pants off as well. He c-

"Why do you have a blanket in your car anyway?" You asked as you pulled it around you, cuddling into the warm fabric.

He swallowed before he answered, taking a breath. Thankfully for the casual conversation to get the image of you in your cute bra out of his head. "I get cold when I work from the office, they keep it fucking freezing in there."

"Ah," you nodded in understanding, "it's comfy... Smells like you." You hummed contentedly as you closed your eyes, bundled up in the dry blanket and feeling so cozy and safe.

"S- what? What do I smell like?" He felt a blush creeping up his cheeks.

You know what he smells like.

"Like that one fancy cologne in the bathroom," you smiled, subconsciously nuzzling your nose deeper into the blanket, "and like... something Earthy. It's nice. I like it."

He could pull over. He could park on the side of the road and h-

"Thanks..." He bit at his thumb quietly while focusing solely on the road, hoping you don't open your eyes and see his blush.

He was starting to get impatient with the more time that went on; and you were starting to get more comfortable with him; and it made him want you more — an inescapable loop.

He doesn't know he won't have to wait much longer.

────୨ৎ────

Your body is warm with the effects of the alcohol, head pleasantly fuzzy as you hug Hiyyih and Kai goodbye; waving to them the entire time while they get into her car and back up before Hongjoong finally pulls you inside with a laugh.

Bumjoong left a little bit before them, giving Hongjoong a knowing smile and you a hug before he did.

"Come on, sweet girl."

"Bye!" You shout with one more wave as he shuts the door.

It's quiet for a moment after the loudness of the small gathering. You turn to him with a smile. "Thanks f-"

His lips are on yours before you can even finish thinking of your sentence. Cradling your jaw and moving against you slowly.

It takes you a moment before you come to your senses, slightly inebriated and lagging behind. You open your mouth against his, following his movements.

He licks at your bottom lip as he pulls back, opening up his eyes slowly. When you do the same — you see his are fully dilated as he says, "you're so pretty when you smile."

"Shut up," you laugh shyly; like you didn't just have his tongue in your mouth.

"I mean it, baby~" He hums, trailing his hands down the straps of your tank top slowly — the one he picked out in the morning.

He can't get over the fact that you still let him dress you even as you're healing and placing yourself back to a somewhat functional human. He hopes you'll never stop. He'd probably cry. And then you'd probably keep letting him.

"You're my pretty angel," he whispers sincerely, making the heat in your face multiply quickly.

"I w-" You scan his expression, searching for any hint he might be lying and finding nothing. Pure adoration in his eyes.

At least, that's what you think it is.

"Will you touch me, Daddy?"

His eyes snap back to yours. "What?"

You hadn't called him that in more than a week — not since he had gotten jealous and made you cum twice in five minutes.

It makes his face just as hot as yours is. One simple word and he's about to rip your clothes off.

You step forward, wrapping your arms around his neck. "Touch me, Daddy." You say again, more confidently as you watch him nearly fall apart from the sound of your voice.

You yelp in surprise as he pushes you against the door, pressing his forehead to yours. "Have you ever been fingered before, baby?" His question, the nonchalant way he asks it, catches you a bit off guard.

"No," you breathe after a moment, "I only... I only ever played with my clit."

"Good god-" He moans, burying his face in your neck and kissing at it just as passionately as he does your lips. "Fuck, Honey," he says between his heated kisses; his hands roaming all over your torso, "you have no idea how perfect you are..."

He certainly flipped the script quickly, making you fall apart with his words and the utter desperation he whispers them with.

"I want to ruin you so badly," comes from his lips as a low whine while he presses his hips against you. "Will you let me? Let me show you how good I can make you feel."

You want nothing more than to feel good; and you don't want it from anyone else, either.

"Yes," you seal your fate with a soft moan as he sucks on your neck. "Please, I wan- I want you to show me..."

"Come on, sweetheart," he lands another kiss to your jaw and takes your hand in his, "Daddy will make you feel so good, promise~"

"Promise, promise?" You swallow thickly as he guides you to your room.

"I promise, promise." He smiles over his shoulder at you, "I'll make you cum so good, pretty girl. Don't you worry, I'm gonna take care of you."

"And we- we don't have to..." You squeeze his hand tightly as he twirls you to be in front of him, sitting you down on the edge of your bed. "Go all the way, right?"

He spreads your knees with his, standing between them and looking down at you — with unadulterated lust, something dark shining in his eyes. "Not until you're ready, Honey," he grins wide before leaning and placing a kiss to your forehead. "I can show you lots of other things in the meantime~"

"Thank you, Daddy," you let yourself smile as you place your good hand on his hip; touch soft as a feather.

Your touch and your voice and the trust you put in him — he's already so hard. He can't stop imagining how warm your cunt must be, how it might taste, what he could do to make you squirm and beg for his cock.

"Be honest with me, angel," he hums as he kneels between your legs. His hands find the hem on your shirt and you quickly lift your arms to allow him to rid you of it. "How much do you know about your own cunt?"

"Wh- huh?" You blank, staring at him with slightly wide eyes; eyebrows raising.

He laughs softly, sliding his hands up your back and undoing your bra quickly. "I mean... You've really only ever played with your clit? You've never got curious?" He trails off slowly while pulling your bra away.

You suddenly feel very exposed. He sees you naked everyday. He has for a while. But this feels different.

You have so much spit in your mouth, swallowing so much; but your throat is bone-dry.

"You've never put... anything inside?" The way he says it is hopeful, but you don't lock in on it. Nor do you realize the smirk that tugs on his lips as you say —

"No... I've thought about it, but- I'm just scared it will hurt."

"Aw, sweet girl," he rests his head on your thigh, looking up at you, "you don't have to be scared when I'm here. Okay? I know what I'm doing, baby. I'll make it feel so good you forget you're even a virgin~" You can't help but moan when he places a tender kiss to your inner thigh. "You trust me, Honey?"

Despite the little skip of your heart that tells you not to — you nod. "Y-yeah."

"Lift your hips." And when you do, he pulls your shorts and underwear down in the same slow, fluid motion; tossing them to the side. Leaving you completely bare and him still fully clothed.

The both of you try to speak at the same time, leaving you to let out an airy giggle. "Sorry."

"You first, sweetheart." He says gently while rubbing your thighs, eyes locked on you like you might disappear if he looks away.

"Can you take your clothes off, too? Just- just a little?"

His eyes crinkle as he smiles, nodding quickly, "of course. How selfish of me~"

You feel like your entire face and neck is sunburnt as he stands up and pulls his shirt over his head. You're so hot you might as well be sweating —

"You're sweating, baby," he coos, swiping the sweat from your brow with his knuckle and feeling how heated you are. "Are you still nervous?"

"No," you say a little too fast, giving yourself away if the way he bites his lip to conceal his laugh says anything. "Just hot in here..."

He turns away and pulls the fan closer to the bed, turning it onto you. "Lay down, pretty girl. Don't be shy."

It's hard not to be when a man who's so clearly aroused is taking off his pants. A handsome man, at that. And one who takes care of you so good.

"Do you want me to tell you what I'm going to do before I do it?" He asks as he crawls over you, straddling your hips.

"Mh, please," you lean into his palm as he cups your cheek. You're starting to be more than wet with all the soft touches he's been giving you. Starting to get more needy.

Just how he wants you.

"I'm going to eat you out, yeah?" He smiles so innocently for the words he speaks, making your breath catch in your throat.

"Y- fuck, please?" You beg, eyes soft and pleading as you look up at him.

"How could I say no to that?" He chuckles as he moves down, leaving a trail of open mouthed kisses in his wake. "Spread," he says; even though he moves to do it for you before you register his words. He pushes your thighs apart, staring down at your wetness.

"Quit it-" You squeal as you quickly cover your heat with your hand, "you- you're staring."

"So?" He deadpans, grabbing your wrist gently and placing your hand over your stomach; out of the way. "I'm about to lick it, baby, and you're shy about me looking?"

Yes. You can't help it. You huff embarrassedly, tossing your head back into the pillow.

"God, you're so cute~" He groans to himself as he lays on his stomach — truly face to face with your cunt now. "Don't hide from me, angel," he says while he lets go of your wrist; trailing his fingertips along your arm. "Let me see my pretty girl."

"Sorry," you bring your hand up to your face instead, rubbing your face. "I'm nervous, still."

"Don't be." His lips graze your mound, kissing just above your slit. "You said you trust me. Were you fibbing, little girl?"

Your hips move with a mind of their own, fidgeting to get closer to his mouth. "No, Daddy..." You whisper without even thinking about it. Aching for his touch which is just inches away, rubbing your legs.

"No? Then relax, Honey~ Daddy will take perfect care of you."

"M'kay," you nod, looking up at the ceiling still as you take a deep breath.

You really have no reason to be so nervous. You trust Hongjoong. You know he won't hurt you.

But it's the first time anyone has been so close to you — had you so exposed. So vulnerable.

Your shoulders relax the second his tongue meets your slit. "Oh, fuck..." You bite down on your knuckle as he drags his flattened tongue all the way up; over your clit so warm and gentle that it makes you shiver. A full body twitch running through you as he points his tongue and circles it slowly.

He's almost as blissed out as you. Your arousal on his tastebuds is sending his mind into overdrive — a million thoughts running through his mind, and none at all at the same time.

"D-do that again," you whine as you roll your hips towards his mouth, "again, Daddy~"

He has to take a deep breath, closing his eyes to stop staring at your chest as it rises and falls. "Again, Honey?"

"Y- oh!" Your hand flies down and grips his hair as he does it again — and again, and again. "Oh my god!" You cry out, fingers curling into the sheet and into his scalp as he licks at your slit; bobbing his head slowly.

The second he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks — your back arches off the bed and your jaw is dropped in a silent scream as you suddenly tumble over the peak of your pleasure.

An unintelligible moan falls past your lips as you slump back onto the mattress, panting softly and clinging to his hair like a lifeline. Your hips twitch as he gives one more slow, steady lick up the length of your slit.

"Didn't that feel so good, pretty baby?" He chuckles, licking his lips and squeezing your thighs gently from where his arms are wrapped under your legs.

"Holy shit..." You respond with a gulp, slowly letting go of his head and letting your arms falls.

He kisses your inner thigh softly, slipping one of his hands down; making you gasp as he slides a finger up your slit. "I'm gonna go slow, baby," he coos as you fidget a bit.

"Mmh," you relax again immediately as he places a kiss to your sensitive clit — and his finger slips right into you. It's a strange and foreign feeling, but pleasant as he slowly thrusts it in and out of you.

"My god..." He moans from between your legs, "you're so h-hot." He takes his lip between his teeth, resting his head on your thigh and watching closely as your hole swallows up his finger.

When he adds a curling motion to his leisurely thrusts — your brain all but short circuits. You shake your head, confused by the sudden rush of intense pleasure that hits you every time his pushes his finger in and curls it. "W-what the fuck- oh!" You whine, bucking your hips into his hand before he places his forearm over your pelvis and holds you down. "No, no, please, it feels so good!"

"Yeah~? Feels so good, Honey?"

"Yes!" You nod quickly, finally brave enough to look down at him; lifting yourself up on your elbows. "I th-think you're touching my g-spot."

His eyebrow raises quickly, "I am?"

"I th-" A groan breaks off in your throat as he slowly sides another finger into you, curling them both right into the same spot that has tingles spreading through your body. "Definitely! Oh, fuck, definitely!"

He curses under his breath, torn between watching your faces little twitches of pleasure and watching his slick fingers disappear inside of you. "I want you to cum again for me, angel," he moans, sliding a bit further down to lick around his fingers; making you squeal and fall right back down into your back.

"G-gonna!" Your hips still squirm under his arm as he presses you to the bed, unsure of what to do with the all new pleasure.

When he spreads his fingers inside of you; you lose your mind. Clenching involuntarily around his digits as you cum, hand slapping over your mouth instinctively as you let out a broken scream. Thighs tightening around his head and eyes squeezed shut.

"That's it, that's it, sweet girl," he rubs your hip softly as he keeps your trembling form held down. "Keep cumming~"

You whine loudly from behind your hand, your cunt tender with ecstasy and he isn't stopping; not even slowing down his steady pace. "Hongjoong!"

"One more, pretty baby," his voice is muffled as he kisses your clit. He chuckles deep in his throat as you cry out — slapping the bed and writhing below him.

When he wraps his lips around you again and sucks rougher than before — you have no choice but to cum again.

You swear you black out for a few seconds, completely taken over by mind-numbing pleasure as you moan incoherently and kick your legs weakly.

He just about cums in his boxers as a small splash of liquid hits his jaw and neck. He moans loudly, vibrating against your overstimulated cunt and making you wail; fingers dug in the sheets tightly. "Daddy!!"

He pulls his fingers away quickly, another low rumble in his throat as another gush comes with his rough motion. He shoves your thighs open and climbs back up quickly, his chin dripping your own arousal onto your body. "Open, baby," his breathes heavily, all but shoving his fingers into your mouth.

"Fuck-" He looks down at you, awe-stuck, as you start sucking on his digits immediately; your eyes closed blissfully and your breath uneven. "Look at my girl~"

You only hum around him, your pussy buzzing and your mind fuzzy.

He's so enamored by you that he can't help but grind on your stomach, a needy whine stuck in his throat. "Suck 'em clean, sweetheart." He rolls his hips onto you as he rubs between the valley of your breasts softly.

Swirling your tongue around his fingers, slipping it between them; you can taste yourself and you don't find yourself minding one bit as he continues to coo soft praises towards you.

"There we go, angel," he smiles as you finally open your eyes, dragging his fingers out slowly. "Feeling good?"

"So good, Daddy," you smile back up at him dizzily, "did-" You try to sit up, falling right back down, "did I squirt on you?!"

He laughs at your sudden realization, nodding, "you did, Honey."

"I've never done that before," you mumble with wide eyes; letting him maneuver your legs and press them together. You've never done any of these things before.

"Aww, really?" He asks with a fresh wave of lust in his eyes, grinding his bulge on your stomach softly. "Daddy was the first one to make you squirt?"

You nod with a whimper as he moves lower, pressing himself against the front of your sensitive cunt.

He cups your cheek in one hand, the other placed by your head; soiling your pillowcase with your spit. "You're such a good girl for me, you know that? Daddy's perfect little girl~"

"Fuck-" You wriggle as the fabric of his boxers drags along your puffy clit. "Sen- I'm sensitive..."

"Shhh, I know, baby," he grins before leaning down and pecking your lips softly. "Can you take just a little bit more for me?"

"Are you gonna... put it in?"

Fuck, he might if you keep looking at him like that — eyes all wide and shiny with unshed tears.

"Not today, Honey," he shakes his head to reassure you, but his next words make you shiver. "I'm gonna have to stretch you out a lot more before I do, or I'd split you in half."

"What?" You stutter, hands going up and fingers clinging to his sides.

"Oh, not really, sweet girl," he chuckles as he pulls his underwear down past his hips. Giving you another kiss before he sits up and rids himself of them completely.

"Oh my god- yes, really!" You gasp as you look down. "What the fuck, Joong? You have a fucking monster cock- that's never going to fit inside me, no fucking way-" You curse as you push yourself up, making him laugh even more.

It is slightly intimidating, especially because it's the first one you've ever seen in person.

"I'm sorry-" He says as he covers his mouth to hide his amusement, "sorry, Honey. You're just so cute... C'mere." He yanks you back down by your ankles suddenly, making you yelp.

"Don't worry, baby," he moans as he kiss your neck, slowly jerking himself off above you. "Daddy will make sure you're all soaking wet and stretched out before you take it~"

"You're h-huge, Daddy..." You sigh as you melt under his lips, "I bet-" You giggle breathlessly, "I bet you could really make me squirt with your di- hmmph~" You press your lips together tightly as his tip meets your aching clit, an embarrassingly loud moan muffled.

"Don't tease me, sweetheart..." He groans as he rubs the head of his cock on you. "Might not be able to stop myself if you say those things."

"I'm sorry," you whine quickly, "I'm sorry, don't!"

He eases your panic before it can fester, "I'm not going to, angel. I'm not. I'm not one of those little boys you've hung out with — I have some self control. Just don't- don't tease, m'kay? I already want you so badly..." He whispers as he glides his cock against your wet slit, looking down at it intently.

"S-sorry," you bite back another whine as he grinds his bare cock against you. "A-"

"Close your legs," he says quickly, helping you bring your wobbly legs together. "Gonna fuck you one way or another," he groans impatiently, fisting his length more roughly as he straddles your thighs.

"How are- oh," you blink up at him with soft shock written on your face as he slots his length between your thighs; right against your wetness.

"So warm..." He pants as he starts a steady pace — laying above you and fucking into your thighs; his cock sliding against you. "G-god, you're so wet~ Making a little mess of yourself, baby."

He buries his face in your neck, sucking at your skin roughly and making you gasp. His arms wrap around your shoulders; pressing you chest to chest. Yours find their way around his neck, clinging to him as another orgasm creeps up on you.

Tears start streaming down your face, your thighs trembling around him and your volume impossible to control as you moan.

"Such a needy girl, aren't you~? You love it, angel?"

"Yes!" You pant out quickly, "yes, yes, please!"

His hips are slamming against yours, filling the room with the sound of skin colliding. If he was inside of you — you're sure you'd actually split in half from his sheer force.

"Fucking hell, baby," he licks up your neck, digging his fingers into your shoulders and pushing your legs together tighter with his own. "I need you to cum," he says as he leans up and presses his forehead to yours.

"Honey," he smiles widely as he registers your tears, "you crying for me? Yeah~? I bet your virgin cunt is so overwhelmed~"

"Sh-shut up," you whine embarrassedly, slapping his back weakly.

"Oh, yeah, it is~ Needy little crybaby never had someone make her feel so good before, don't know how to handle it," he laughs airily, slowing down his hips and pressing closer to your slit; making you sob. "Shhh," he squeezes your shoulders, kissing up some of your tears, "don't try to fight it. I know, it's so much for my sweet girl... But you can do it~ Give me one more, one more, sweetheart. Do it for Daddy-"

You let out an unintelligible yell, trembling like a leaf in the wind below him and crying your eyes out as the overwhelming pleasure washes over you.

"F-fuck, oh, fuck~" He moans loudly, rubbing against you for just a moment longer before he sits up quickly; straddling your thighs and holding your waist tightly with one hand while stroking his length quickly.

His noise is almost as needy as yours as he cums all over your stomach, his fingers digging into you as his eyes roll back. More low whines and mindless praises before he finally lays back over you with a long, contented sigh.

His mess is still on your stomach, and it gets on him as well as he hugs you tightly; but neither of you mind or notice. "My Honey..." He moans breathlessly, rubbing his head against yours gently.

"Good fucking fuck me..." You babble as you hold onto him tightly, "how are you so good at this?"

He presses a kiss to your cheek and smiles, "older men just do it better."

────୨ৎ────

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