#so this is the only one that's been properly unpredictable

[galavant-song-tournament]

The leading option for What am I Feeling vs. As Good As it Gets has changed now for a fifth time

[ozzgin]

content: gender neutral reader, violence, sharing is caring

Y'all...I've been plagued by the dream of Yandere!Delinquent!Siblings.

Listen, you happened to become penpals with a young man in his early twenties, currently locked up at your local juvie. One thing led to another, and, well, you're presently dating.

You always get questioned by the guards: are you sure the rascal isn't blackmailing you? He's one of their worst leftovers, violent and unpredictable. It's quite scary how quick his mood shifts, going from a friendly smile to bashing someone's head in with the lunch tray until the nurses have to stitch the skull back together.

Oh, but he loves you so much. He hasn't touched a single inmate since dating you! He's on his best behavior, you see, in order to be allowed some time outside. Sure, he sometimes gets to make out with you in some corner away from the cameras, but sneaking around all the time is no fun. He wants to hold you properly, without handcuffs, without the guards staring and following his every move.

On his first probation leave, he took you to his apartment. That's where you met his older brother, and when you quickly understood that delinquency runs in the family. The only difference between the two siblings was that one got out of prison earlier.

Lucky bastard! The fearsome, heavily tattooed man walked around you, admiring your features with an envious grin. Truly, where did his younger brother find a catch like you? Are you sure you don't need someone to keep you company while your boyfriend is behind bars?

You chuckled, thinking it's a joke, but they were dead serious. The troublesome pair seems to have no trouble sharing, even when it comes to romantic partners.

Consequently, you now find yourself in this strange arrangement of being passed around between the siblings. Hopefully you’re enjoying it as much as they do, because they've gotten rather attached and won't be willing to part with you anytime soon. Or ever, for that matter. They love you too much.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Hi! I'm here to feed your Epic fixation per your request~

Could you write Hermes and his favorite places he likes to fuck you? 🥺 I read your Poseidon one, and I absolutely loved it 😍😍

A/n: I thank you for feeding me this delicious requests

Hermes’ Favorite Places to Have Sex with You

(Because, of course, the God of Mischief and Travel has preferences.)

Hermes is fast, charming, unpredictable—and when it comes to you, he is insatiable.

There is no place too sacred, no setting too inconvenient. If he wants you, he takes you.

But there are some places he enjoys more than others.

1. The Clouds of Mount Olympus – The Realm of the Gods, Where No Mortal Dares to Tread

Hermes is a god of the skies, the wind, the air itself.

And there is something intoxicating about having you beneath him, your body arching against his, as you both lose yourselves in the endless expanse of the heavens.

The first time it happened, he had scooped you up effortlessly, carrying you through the skies, his laughter warm against your skin.

“Where are we going?” you had asked, breathless.

His golden eyes had gleamed mischievously.

“Where no one can interrupt us.”

And then—you were in the clouds.

The air cool against your skin, the world stretched out below you, endless and vast.

You had barely processed the view before he was on you, pressing you down onto the soft, weightless mist, his hands gripping your thighs, his lips tracing the line of your jaw.

“You trust me, don’t you?” he had whispered, his voice rough with desire.

And you did.

Gods, you did.

Because even when the ground was nowhere beneath you, even when you were lost in his touch, his kisses, his hands—you knew he would never let you fall.

2. The Shadowed Corners of Olympus’ Grand Halls – Because Hermes Thrives on the Risk

There is no place more dangerous than the halls of Olympus, where gods and goddesses gather, where power radiates from every marble column.

And yet, Hermes lives for danger.

So it was no surprise when he pulled you into a dark alcove, just beyond the grand throne room, where Zeus himself was speaking.

Your protests had been half-hearted at best.

“Hermes, this is—”

“Reckless?” His smirk was sinful, his breath hot against your ear. “That’s why you love me.”

And before you could argue, before you could remind him that anyone could walk past—

His lips crashed against yours.

His hands were everywhere, fingers gripping your hips, pinning you against the cold stone wall, his body a contrast of warmth and tension.

“You have to stay quiet,” he murmured, grinning against your skin. “Do you think you can do that?”

You had tried.

Failed.

And when he finally pulled back, his golden eyes burning, he had pressed a kiss to your temple and whispered, “I win.”

3. His Temple at Night – When It’s Just the Two of You, and He Can Worship You Properly

For all his mischief, his chaos, his endless energy, there is something almost reverent in the way he loves you in the quiet moments.

His temple, usually filled with prayers, offerings, and the scent of incense, becomes something entirely different at night.

The first time he had taken you there after dusk, he had led you past the marble pillars, through the dimly lit corridors, his fingers laced with yours.

“You always make me chase you,” you had teased.

Hermes had smirked. “Not tonight.”

And then—he was on his knees before you.

His warm hands sliding up your legs, his lips brushing your skin, his golden gaze dark with devotion.

“Let me worship you,” he had whispered, and there had been no mischief in his voice, only hunger, only need.

And he did.

Slowly. Thoroughly. Completely.

4. The Forest, Beneath the Moonlight – Where He Can Lose Himself in You Entirely

There is something wild about Hermes, something untamed, something that does not belong to Olympus alone.

And when he takes you into the woods, beneath the open sky, surrounded by nothing but nature and the whisper of the wind—

He is free.

The first time it happened, you had been laughing, running from him, your heart pounding, the thrill of the chase making your skin burn.

Then, suddenly—he had caught you.

Spun you against the nearest tree, pinning you with a knee between your thighs, his breath hot against your ear.

“Caught you,” he had murmured, smirking, his hands sliding beneath your clothes, teasing, testing.

The moon had bathed you both in silver light, the scent of earth and rain filling your lungs as he pressed you into the rough bark, his body claiming yours, slow and deep.

And when it was over—when you were both spent, tangled together on the forest floor—

Hermes had simply grinned, pulling you close, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple.

“You should run more often,” he had whispered.

5. His Personal Chambers – When He Wants You All to Himself

There are no distractions here.

No gods, no mortals, no risk of being seen.

Just you and him.

Hermes does not often stay in one place, but his chambers are the one place he always returns to.

And when you are there, he is not the fast-talking messenger, not the trickster, not the god always moving from one adventure to the next.

He is just Hermes.

The first time he brought you here, he had pressed you down onto the bed, hovering over you, his golden eyes dark and unreadable.

Then, softly—almost too soft for a god of mischief—he had whispered, “Mine.”

And this time, there was no rush.

No teasing. No games.

Just him, taking his time, learning your body, making sure you never forgot who you belonged to.

And when he finally collapsed beside you, pulling you against his chest, his fingers trailing lazily over your bare skin—

For once, Hermes had nowhere else to be.

Because you were the only thing he had ever wanted to chase.

And he had already caught you.

[solxamber]

jade leech, Romantic, 18 by one director

"I have loved you since we were 18" || Jade Leech

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠: 18 by One Direction

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 560

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: Confessions

You were laughing again.

Of course you were.

Jade watched you over the rim of his teacup, half-lidded eyes tracking the crinkle of your smile like he was studying a rare plant in bloom.

He’d memorized that expression years ago—what angle the sunlight hit your cheek just so, how your voice dipped when you were trying not to laugh too hard, the way your eyes always flicked his way, like even now, some part of you still knew he was watching.

You always knew. Even then.

He should’ve told you sooner.

But the truth was… he loved the waiting.

The quiet unfolding. The way love settled in the bones before either of you named it. He remembered it vividly—those early days at NRC. You, all fire and foolishness, somehow always at the center of chaos.

And Jade, ever at the edge of it. Not detached—just watching. Collecting. Your voice. Your laugh. The way you’d offer him half your drink without asking why he looked tired that day.

He didn’t fall. He grew into love with you, steady as moss curling up the side of a stone.

There were moments that stood out. The time you dragged him out under the rain because “the world smells different when it’s wet.” He’d laughed. You’d spun in circles. And somewhere between your soaked collar and your ridiculous grin, he realized he wanted to see you like that for the rest of his life.

He kept it quiet. Of course he did.

Because Jade understood patience. He understood ecosystems. How love, like any rare thing, needed the right conditions to survive.

So he waited. And watched. And loved you, year after year, in the quiet ways he knew best.

He grew you orchids that only bloomed under moonlight. He remembered your favorite weather. He offered his coat without asking when the wind changed. You never noticed how he always took the side of the path with puddles so your shoes stayed dry. How he always chose the teacup with the crack so you’d have the prettier one.

And now—now.

You were here again. Sitting across from him, older now but still unmistakably you. Still with that smile. That heart. That softness he’d never quite been able to name.

“I’ve loved you,” he said, like it was a simple truth, “since we we met.”

You blinked.

“Since NRC?” you whispered, voice caught between wonder and disbelief.

Jade tilted his head, fingers resting against his chin, thoughtful.

“Since before I knew what to call it,” he replied. “You were… delightfully unpredictable. Strange, in the best sense of the word. You made everything feel—curious. Alive.”

A pause.

“You made me feel alive.”

You looked at him like he’d just rewritten the rules of the world. And maybe he had.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” you asked.

He smiled, slow and warm. “Because I didn’t want it to end. Some flowers bloom once. I wanted you to last forever.”

You reached for his hand then, and Jade—ever composed, ever deliberate—let you. Without a mask. Without pretense. His fingers curled around yours like they belonged there.

And they did.

He leaned in, voice soft as a lullaby.

“Let me love you now,” he said. “Properly. Out loud.”

And when you kissed him, sweet and unhurried, Jade smiled against your lips—because he’d waited years for this.

And it was worth every quiet second.

Masterlist ; Valentine's Event

[scoupsakakitty]

Gym Crush | idol!Mingi x Reader | fluff

Mingi wiped the sweat off his forehead, his heart racing—not just from his workout but from the sight of her. Y/N. The girl he had seen only a handful of times at the gym, yet somehow, she occupied his thoughts more than he would ever admit.

As an idol, his schedule was unpredictable, making it difficult to keep a consistent gym routine. He never knew when he’d run into her again, but each time he did, he felt like the universe was playing matchmaker. And today, fresh off his European tour, it seemed like fate was once again on his side.

She was there.

Same spot, same routine. Mingi took a deep breath, trying to think of a way to approach her. He had never been one to shy away from talking to people, but with her, it felt different. He didn’t want to come across as weird, nor did he want to make her uncomfortable. He watched as she adjusted the weights for her set and—

She struggled.

Without thinking, Mingi rushed over, his hands instinctively reaching out to support her.

“Careful,” he said, his deep voice laced with concern. “Let me help.”

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes wide as he easily lifted the weight back into place. She let out a small sigh of relief, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“Thank you. I thought I could handle it, but guess not,” she admitted with a sheepish smile.

Mingi chuckled, shaking his head. “Happens to the best of us. You okay?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Just a little embarrassed.”

“Don’t be. Everyone needs help sometimes.” He hesitated for a second before adding, “I’m Mingi, by the way.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly, an amused glint in her eyes. “I'm y/n and uhm yeah I know.”

Mingi blinked, caught off guard. “You do?”

She let out a soft laugh. “I’d have to live under a rock not to. You’re Mingi from Ateez.”

His lips parted in surprise. She didn’t sound like the typical excited fan. Instead, her tone was calm, casual. Almost as if she was used to being around idols.

“You’re not surprised,” he pointed out, crossing his arms.

Y/N shrugged. “I don’t want to lie. I am a fan. But I didn’t want to put you in an awkward position or make you uncomfortable by approaching you first.”

Mingi grinned, something warm spreading through his chest. “That’s… really considerate of you.”

They ended up talking for a little longer, lingering near the weights. The conversation flowed easily, and before Mingi knew it, he had invited her for an iced Americano after their workout.

At the café, Mingi sipped his drink, watching as Y/N stirred hers absentmindedly.

“So, be honest,” she said suddenly, looking up. “How bad was my form back there?”

Mingi laughed. “It wasn’t that bad. Just a little off.”

Y/N groaned, covering her face. “I knew it.”

“I could teach you,” he offered. “Form, I mean. Or anything else fitness-related.”

She gave him a skeptical look. “Oh? So you’re a personal trainer now?”

“Multitalented,” Mingi joked, leaning back. “But honestly, I’m better at dancing than fitness.��

“That’s true,” Y/N admitted. “Your dance skills are insane. I wish I could move like that.”

Mingi raised an eyebrow. “You dance?”

She quickly shook her head. “No, not at all. I mean, I try, but I’m terrible at it.”

“I could teach you,” he said again, this time with more enthusiasm.

Y/N looked at him in disbelief. “Mingi. If I couldn’t even lift that weight properly, what makes you think I can handle choreography?”

“Who said anything about choreography? We can start small. TikTok dances.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “That sounds even worse.”

“It’ll be fun,” Mingi insisted. “Come on. Let’s meet up in two days. I’ll take you to the KQ practice room.”

Y/N hesitated, biting her lip. But there was something about Mingi’s excitement that made it hard to say no.

“Fine,” she relented. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Two days later, Mingi picked her up, leading her to the famous KQ practice room. The mirrors, the polished floors, the dimmed blue lighting—it all felt surreal to Y/N.

“So this is where the magic happens,” she murmured, taking it all in.

Mingi grinned. “Yup. Now, let’s see what you got.”

Y/N groaned. “I told you, I have nothing.”

“We’ll change that,” he assured her. “Let’s start with something simple.”

For the next hour, Mingi guided her through basic movements, laughing when she tripped over her own feet. She was hesitant, shy, but Mingi found it endearing.

“You’re adorable when you’re flustered,” he teased.

Y/N huffed. “I am flustered! This is embarrassing.”

“Not at all,” he said with a soft smile. “You’re trying, and that’s what matters.”

Despite her protests, they managed to complete a TikTok dance, recording it just for themselves. Y/N watched the playback with a grimace, while Mingi laughed proudly.

“I give up,” she sighed dramatically. “I’m a lost cause.”

Mingi nudged her playfully. “Nah. This just means we need more practice sessions.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying we should meet up more often?”

He smirked. “Only if you want to.”

Y/N pretended to think about it before smiling. “Alright, Teacher Mingi. Let’s do it.”

Mingi grinned, knowing that this was just the beginning of something special.

[knavesflames]

have you considered: phone sex

I’m back…. Perhaps. Lol. Idk how good this one is, it’s the first proper smut I’ve written since March. I still write (it’s in my blood guys) but it’s all just sad and depressing or poetic and who needs that when you can have: smut.

Anyway here u go my friends (gas this up or I’ll cry) (joking) (kinda)

Word count: 1.7k

Contents: guided masturbation, masochism (a little bit), degradation, praise, yuhh

Nsft utc :]

“I miss you. You’ve been gone for so long, when are you coming back?”

“I’m unsure, dearest. You know this, the missions are unpredictable. This one has been a hassle.” The voice coming from the phone switches from being slightly delayed to clear and sounding like she’s almost in the room with you. Weeks of a new mission has her in Sumeru, with you at home. She hates to leave you alone, truly, she’d much rather spend her days with you, even if she doesn’t say that outright— the way her eyebrows knitted together and the way her mouth turned slightly downwards when she got the call told you enough.

“You’ve been there for weeks.” You murmur, pouting slightly and looking at your phone screen. You’re propped up on her hotel room desk, the karmaphala wood old and worn. Paperwork is strewn around, a half drunk water glass is what you balance on. She doesn’t even use her phone often. Truth is, she doesn’t know how. Arlecchino chooses to use it only to contact you and to receive calls from whatever subordinate chooses to bother her.

“I’m painfully aware, angel.” Her eyes flit up at you, moving from a piece of paper she holds between her thumb and forefinger. Red crosses move over the phone screen, and her eyebrow arches in one quick movement when she takes in exactly what you’re wearing, or rather, what she thinks you’re wearing. “Are you wearing the red bra? Underneath your shirt.”

“Yes.”

“Why? I’m not there.” Her voice, though flat, holds some sort of tease only you can pick up on. It makes you grin, and you glance away to try and contain it.

“Makes me think of you.”

“Good,” Arlecchino’s eyes glance back down at the paper before she sighs almost inaudibly. She drops it, and looks back up. “You should think of me. How often do you think of me?”

“All the time.” You adjust your position. Your phone is propped on your coffee table, you’re sprawled out on the sofa, and you move so you can properly face her. “When I wake up, when I go to sleep. Of course I do.”

“Yeah?” Arlecchino’s voice quiets a little bit, and her voice takes on a certain tone you can’t truly describe, but you know what she’s doing, especially when her eyes lock with yours, and all you can do is swallow.

“Yeah. Of course.” Your own voice is quieter, but it’s only because the eye contact makes you lose your breath for a second. She knows that. She revels in it.

“Good girl! That’s good, mon cœur.”

“You can’t. You can’t do that, Arlecchino.”

“Can’t I?” Her head tilts slightly to the left, her eyes not leaving you. The crosses have a sort of challenge to them now, it seems, they’re shining the way they weren’t a few minutes ago. “Why?”

“Because. Because I’ll get all… and you aren’t here.”

“You can’t fix it yourself?”

Your cheeks warm, and you look at your hands. You can’t. You’ve tried, if you’re honest with yourself. It works, sure, but it’s the weakest fucking orgasm you’ve had in your life. It just isn’t the same. You think it’s because it’s the fact you need her to watch you, to comment on the little reactions you have, the way your teeth graze your lip and the way your breath catches. You don’t realise you’re so lost in your thoughts that you’ve been silent for a minute or two, until her voice cuts through them.

“You can’t, can you?”

“I-“

“How pathetic,” she chuckles, but it’s a mocking laugh, and you can hear it. Her chuckles, albeit rare, are warmer than one would expect, and this one is cold. Cold in a way you like too much. Cold in a way she knows you like too much. “You can’t even fuck yourself without me? Do you need me that much, angel?”

You can only nod, mouth slightly agape, eyes wide. Arlecchino leans closer, eyes narrowing as she looks at something. You realise your eyes have dilated and she’s watching it happen. You can’t hide your reactions even if you tried to. Not with her, at least.

“What, can’t speak? Are you all brainless already? I haven’t even done anything. Are you that desperate?”

You stay staring at her, chest rising a little faster than before, and you hide the shocked grin when her voice turns into a barked command.

“Fucking answer me.”

“Yes.”

“Good! That wasn’t hard, was it?”

“No,” you feel your voice turning into a whimper, and it’s hilariously embarrassing, but she seems to have ruined you, because you don’t have shame the way you once did. “I need you. I miss you.”

“Yeah? Does my little whore need me? What a shame I’m not there, dearest,” she leans back, chair scraping the floor, and moves her legs so she’s sitting the way she does when you’re kneeling in front of her. “So let me watch, hm?”

Unsure if you’ve heard her correctly, you freeze for a split second before grinning, moving yourself once again until you’re laying with a blanket over you. You get it halfway covering you before—

“Remove the blanket.” Arlecchino says it in a way that sounds bored, but you know very well she’s perfectly entertained. When you freeze, hand on the blanket, her eyebrows raise. “You speak English, don’t you? Remove. The. Blanket.”

You’ve always liked it when she’s a little mean. You’re a masochist, after all, at least a little bit. So when she commands you, you do what she says (after being a brat for ten minutes). This time, it’s been so long that you don’t wait, you want to be good for her, so the blanket comes off, revealing the shorts you wear often as pyjamas.

“Touch yourself for me, angel,” Arlecchino’s eyes pierce you as your hand slides down your body, eyes focused on her. When your hand reaches the place you want it to go, your face doesn’t change. Not for a few seconds, anyway. When it does change, it’s as minute as your eyebrows furrowing. “Feel good?”

“How…”

“I just know, do not question my intelligence.” A warning, a stern one. She can tell your mouth is about to open, about to give some snarky remark, and her head shakes almost imperceptibly. “I wouldn’t, if I were you. You know where it’ll get you.”

So you say nothing. Instead, your breath catches and you swallow down the first noise of the evening, your hand moving under the layers of cotton. Your eyes stay locked on hers, barely blinking, head tilted to ensure that you don’t lose her gaze amidst the sensations flooding your body.

“What are you doing to yourself?” She hums, feigning curiosity. She knows very well what you’re doing, you don’t do anything unless you’re told to. In this situation, anyway.

“Just touching myself,” you breathe, voice trembling. You try to suck in a breath to calm yourself, but it shakes, and receives an “aww” from the phone.

“Was that a shaky breath I heard?”

“Be quiet.”

“Watch it,” Arlecchino warns. “Finger yourself for me.”

You stare at her dumbly, but your hand moves anyway. Her eyes watch, and her own chest heaves with whatever emotion she’s trying to hold back. The few other times she’s done this with you, she’s touched herself at the same time, and she doesn’t speak much, save from the whispered praises or degradation or whatever it is she’s chosen for that specific time. Tonight, however, she chooses to focus on you, no matter how difficult it is to not give in to her own urges. You have missed her, awfully, and you’ve been so good for her, have you not?

You gasp and your head tilts back when your fingers slide into yourself with ease. For the first time, she smiles, a genuine smile. It’s rare that she does, but it’s warm and fits her perfectly in a way that makes your heart flutter. A giggle escapes you, but it slips into a whine you can’t hide quick enough.

“What, dearest? Are you pretending I’m fucking you?” When you nod frantically, jaw slack and harsh breaths wracking your body, she speaks again. “So pretend I’m there. Slap yourself for me.”

You freeze, lifting your head up a couple inches, shock on your features.

“You like it, don’t you? You’re the one begging me to do it when we’re together.”

She has you there, and you both know it. You hesitate still, choosing to curl your fingers quickly, causing your head to flop back down. When she continues to stare however, becoming more and more unimpressed, your hand raises. You hesitate again, and then slap your cheek. It isn’t super hard, it stings, sure, but it’s not going to leave a mark, and the noise you make after tells her that you enjoyed it (too much, perhaps?).

Your fingers keep moving, curling inside of you the way she’s done to you countless times before. The familiar knot in your lower abdomen grows bigger, and your noises grow more frantic, you begin looking at her desperately.

“I can hear how wet you are, and I’m not even there. Do you understand what a pathetic whore you are for me? You’re so obedient, too,” she muses, legs spread comfortably on her chair, arms resting on the top of the chair as she sits on it, the way she sits when she knows you’re staring at her. “Think you can cum for me?”

Nodding frantically, you whimper a string of ‘pleasepleaseplease’ and ‘please don’t make me stop,’ and other unintelligible things until her voice softens and she gives you permission.

So you unravel, barely aware of the praise she’s softly muttering to you. The only thing you know is that if she were here, you’d worship her like she was the only archon in Teyvat. You cum so hard that you’re dizzy for a second and laugh breathlessly when it’s over, hiding your face.

“We don’t talk about that,” you murmur behind a hand covering your face, shoulders shaking with embarrassed giggles. Arlecchino only hums incredulously. You both know she plans to bring it up later, when she’s finally home.

“Interesting. That only took you 17 minutes,” she notes aloud, knowing the reaction it gives you— more embarrassment. “I’ll get it to 15 next time.”

[futureperfectchanges]

The Pride Pin

"Have you got a little rainbow flag? Or maybe a rainbow handkerchief?" Edward asked the man behind the counter. He was on his way to a gay wedding and had seen a large pride flag in the window of this store which had given him an idea. "Basically something that I could put into my breast pocket for a wedding i'm going to." Before quickly adding: "To show my support to the grooms that is."

"Ah, how nice, although I'm afraid I only have large flags at the moment, but I do have a few pins left over from Pride, would one of those work for you?" replied the shopkeeper as he pointed to a box a little further down the counter.

"Looks perfect" Edward said as he picked up one of the pins.

"Just to check - you did say you wanted it to show you're an ally of the gay community didn't you? It's just that some of the items in this store can be a little, well, unpredictable, so just wanted to be clear about things before you try it on."

"Of course" Edward lied.

In truth Edward hadn't wanted to go to this wedding at all. He worked with one of the guys getting married, John. They had joined a law firm at the same time so had met during their induction and had been good friends for a while - at least until John had come out as gay and started dating guys. Edward was glad that John was happy, but had since mostly avoided hanging out together unless it was a work event. He had gone to one dinner soon after John's engagement to his boyfriend, Miguel, but had spent the whole meal feeling embarrassed. Everyone else at the table had been so obviously gay and they had made no attempt to talk quietly, so he was sure all the surrounding tables had been judging him all evening.

When Edward had received the invite to the wedding he had initially planned to decline it. What had changed his mind was the fact that a lot of John's straight female friends were going to be there, and with most of the other guys at the wedding being gay, it was almost guaranteed that he would hook up with one of the girls. He hoped that the pride pin was going to be the 'icing on the cake' with regards to getting attention from the girls. How could they turn down a guy who was so supportive of his friend? With any luck he would be back at home with a lady before the happy couple had even cut the cake.

"Here, let me put it on for you" the shopkeeper offered.

Edward had intended on keeping the pin out of sight until he had entered the wedding, but he didn't want to offend the shopkeeper so let him reach over and place the pin on his lapel - he'd just take if off as soon as he left the store.

Edward looked at the mirror behind the counter and his first thought was to worry that the pin might make the girls at the wedding think he was gay too. He started to wonder if it was a bad idea, and as if to confirm that he felt the pin prick his chest. Soon after he felt another prick and he wondered if the shopkeeper had failed to cover the back of the pin properly. When he started to feel more and more pricks on his chest, and not just where the pin was, he began to worry that something was wrong.

Edward felt like he was being stabbed with needles all across his chest and he felt like he had no choice but to pull his jacket off. He didn't know what was going on, but he needed to stop whatever was causing the pain.

Edward was confused. He had taken off his jacket and the pricking sensations had stopped, but when he looked down at his chest he didn't understand what he was looking at as it. What he first saw on his chest was a mix of colors that hadn't previously been there. It was as though someone had covered his chest in paint.

"¿Cómo?" Edward said aloud whilst continuing to stare at his chest. He had never had a tattoo so didn't understand what he was looking at. As he reached up to rub off whatever was on his chest it quickly dawned on him that the colors were not going to come off easily.

"What is this? Is this a tattoo? How do I get this off?" Edward asked in increasingly frantic tones, all with a slight Spanish accent. He had been so fixed on the new tattoos that he hadn't noticed that the rest of his body had taken on a subtle tan.

The shopkeeper didn't reply, he knew that if an item from his shop was not used as intended it could cause a little confusion for the customer, so he just waited to see what would happen.

"What is going on? And what's wrong with my voice?" Edward asked as he started to get angry. "I'm a dancer at Infernos nightclub and if you want to see me shake my ass... wait... no I meant to say i'm a dancer, no a dancer..." Edward had wanted to tell the shopkeeper that he was a lawyer at a powerful law firm and would kick his ass if he didn't fix what was going on but he didn't seem able to get the right words out.

Whilst Edward's mind tried to deal with what was going on, he started to wonder what sort of options he had to get rid of the tattoo, or what he could do just to cover it up. It was then that he looked back at the mirror and realised how much else had changed across his body. His heart sank as he knew there was no way he could cover everything up.

Edward sighed as he thought again about what to do with the tattoos, but was then confused. Why was he thinking of covering them up? He loved showing them off. He had spent so much of his life hiding who he was, but now there was no one who was going to stop him from being his true self. He was Eduardo - a proud Latino twink.

Eduardo felt the jacket he was holding and then remembered that he had come in to buy a new shirt. "Hey, do you have any dress shirts?" he smiled as he asked the storekeeper. "My best friend is marrying some fancy lawyer today and I want to look good for the occasion!"

[seresinhangmanjake]

Different is Better

Tyler Owens x Reader

Summary: Javi invites your ex back with Storm Par amidst the flirtation between you and Tyler. 

Notes/Warnings: This was a combination of requests, so it's not exactly what everyone asked for, but I got it as close as I could, sp hopefully it satisfies in some ways. Allusion to smut. Cursing probably. Scott sucks (sorry to the Scott lovers), Javi sucks a little too (sorry to the Javi lovers).

Words: 2850

Tyler Owens Masterlist / Main Masterlist / Tag list

The second the Storm Par team finishes settling on the schedule for tomorrow, you remove yourself from the rest of the chasers in the parking lot, Wranglers included, and press your back into the outer wall of the motel. Perfectly out of sight and free to feel how you want without judgment.

You can’t breathe around him. You can’t think properly. And damn him for fucking loving it. Damn the smirk that slices into your skin. Damn fucking Javi for requesting his participation on the team after swearing up and down that he wouldn’t. Damn him for not warning you, forcing you to spend the last half-hour since his arrival in wild discomfort.

It had been so good without him. The best chasing you’d done in years. Relaxing, free from tension despite the chaos of rolling into the heart of unpredictable weather. In his absence, you chased with excitement; you chased with that tingly zingy feeling in your gut; you chased with a pounding heart, with hands shaky not from nerves but from raw, untainted energy shooting throughout your entire body. 

The last two months of chasing renewed your love of the craft and proved more than anything that Scott has been—and still is—a soul-sucking, life-draining leech….to you, anyway. 

But everyone already loves him, just short of instantly obsessed with him, especially the females of the group who neglect that ‘award-winning’ personality he’s managed to display in only thirty-two minutes. Shamefully, it almost makes you wish the team Javi assembled had fewer young college girls and a heck of a lot more mature, determined women. They would easily see past his looks and recognize that his intelligence does not surpass that of anyone else on the team. He is not some rare, fascinating, genius savior who has come to solve all of the data-collecting problems the team’s been having; he’s just an extra helping hand that, frankly, you firmly believe you don’t need. 

But no…as has been the case each time you’ve worked together since you ended your little college fling—or whatever the fuck it was—he gets to be Mr. Perfect, and you’re stuck as the angsty bitch who whines over him being here. 

“So…that’s the guy, huh?” Tyler asks as he rounds the corner and joins you under the cover of near-darkness. 

He practically shines under the damaged streetlamp’s thin, flickering light. You’re not looking at him, but you don’t have to be to see that much clearly. He glows in your peripherals, and with another step closer to you, your heartbeat stumbles within your ribcage. 

Tyler is the one thing you credit for reviving you. What started as a less-than-friendly rivalry changed when you accepted a challenge to chase with his crew one day, and though Javi was displeased, you were too curious about Tyler’s methods to turn him down. 

With one ride in his truck, the spark you thought had long died reignited. Now you have a respect for Tyler that the rest of your team does not. Respect…and a bit more. 

Though you would never abandon your team, you became increasingly hooked on the idea of chasing with Tyler again, and it was so stupidly obvious. And with that obviousness, an unspoken essence of sorts developed between you. A forbidden attraction you’re both aware of but have yet to fully act on, though not for lack of trying.

You take turns almost breaking that final barrier—heavy breathing, noses nearly brushing, lips a hairs-width away from connecting, but something always gets in the way: his team, yours, the weather. But not this time. Cock-block of the day? Scott Miller. 

Tyler’s eyes stay on your cheek as he stuffs his hands into his front jean’s pockets. “I didn’t know that was your type.”

When you look at Tyler, your brows knit at the disappointment on his face. He offers a smile, but it’s far less convincing than what he is capable of, like he didn’t even bother trying to give you one of his good ones. And you’ve seen a good smile from Tyler Owens. It can knock anyone off their feet. 

“It isn’t,” you tell him as you turn your attention back to the miles of grass in front of you. At night, under such little light, the eye gets tricked and the blades blend into a vast span of blackness, like a giant hole in the ground just a few feet away. One you might consider jumping into it if you could. 

“I mean, it was,” you continue, “but not anymore.”

He nods. “You have to work close with him?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.

“Unfortunately.”

Tyler blows out a breath. His hand runs through his hair before his head falls back against the brick wall of the motel, eyes closed and chin tilted toward the night sky. 

“Fuck,” he mutters. 

“Yea.”

Cicadas fill the following silence. Lightning bugs sprinkle throughout the space around you, thriving in the intense humidity that adds a thin sheen to your skin. You can see him thinking. Questioning. His fingers tap against his clothed thigh and your stomach clenches with dread. The last thing you want—the thing that would crush you—is Tyler sizing up whether or not you are worth the trouble of an ex even cockier than he is and more arrogant than you once believed him to be. One thing Tyler and Scott have in common: the adoring attention from young women. You’ve heard the stories from Lilly and Boone, and at any point, Tyler could tip his hat in adieu and return to his many fans to seek the encounters you’ve been hoping to share with him.  

Tyler turns his head to you. “You still like him? At all?”

“No,” you answer, trying not to be offended by the question he has a right to ask. To you, it’s absurd, insulting. To him, it’s covering his bases and understanding what, if anything, he is getting in between by pursuing you, or considering pursuing you. “The way he approaches relationships mimics the way he approaches chasing,” you continue. “Controlling, nit-picky, demanding. I couldn't stand it.” He’s nothing like you, you want to say, but for some reason, don’t.

Your heart’s discomfort eases with the slow spread of a smile across his face. You step toward him. “Look, Tyler, I know we haven’t really talked about us, but I–”

“There you are. I was starting to think I ran you off.”

The intruding voice snatches your attention and Tyler immediately pushes off the wall, positioning himself closer to your side. “I'm not sure you're threatening enough for that,” he says. 

Scott smirks, one eyebrow arching. “And you are?”

“Tyler,” he says, reaching out his hand in a play-nice gesture. “Owens.”

Realization dawns on Scott. “Oh, of course,” he replies, a mocking grin forming as he accepts the handshake. When he takes his hand back, he crosses his arms and cocks his head to the side. “Your reputation precedes you. How many followers have you managed to stack up by playing around for entertainment?”

“Subscribers,” Tyler corrects. “A mil.”

“Must be validating after failing to make it professionally.”

Your gut twists, fists almost clenching, but you restrain yourself from showing his effect on you. “That’s not why he does what he does,” you scold your ex sternly. Tyler’s head whips to you. You can just barely detect the gentle smile on his face. 

Scott hums, nonchalantly advancing closer to hover over you. His eyes penetrate like lasers into yours. “You know, you should really think before you fraternize. You wouldn’t want to make us look bad,” he says, running a knuckle down your cheek. You flinch away from his touch and he grins. “That’s all,” he says. “Good night, you two” And then he turns on his heel and returns from where he came. 

“Charming,” Tyler sarcastically snips. “I see the appeal.”

—

He fucking left you behind. 

You were trying to finish up his job after he failed to properly secure Javi’s tech, but as you were doing so, the tornado’s size grew and its speed picked up and it was headed right for you. Scott screamed at you, panicked in a way you’ve never heard before, but when you weren’t quick enough for his liking, he slammed your door and drove off, leaving you to looming disaster. 

If not for Tyler, you’d be dead. He spotted you in his crew’s attempt to flee, and though it was an insane risk, he came for you, leaping out of his truck and grabbing you as he yelled for Boone to take the wheel. 

He practically threw you into the back seat before crawling in after you and wrapping your shivering body in his arms.

“Tyler, man, I don’t know if we’re gonna be able to outrun it!” Boone called back, eyes darting between the blurry road in front of him and the rearview mirror. 

“Then drill us into the fucking ground!”

And that’s where you stayed, huddled together, your face in his neck as the storm tried to tear you apart. 

—

Are you out of your fucking mind!” Tyler shouts, stomping through the parking lot of the motel refuge. 

To your relief, the small, aged structure was out of the tornado's path, if just barely, and in the aftermath, the owner offered free rooms to those in need. Except for Boone, who holds you steady as Tyler storms off, the Wranglers pass out whatever shirts and food they have available, providing what comfort they can.

Javi inserts himself between Tyler and Scott, his hands up to keep Tyler back. “Woah, woah, calm down.”

“He could’ve fucking killed her!”

Javi’s concerned brow settles from shock. “W-What?” he asks. “What are you talking about?”

Tyler’s as vicious as a lion, his teeth bared, claws out as he tries to side-step Javi to get to Scott, who has backed up a step. “He left her out there!”

You can see the Adam’s apple bob in your ex’s throat. His composure is on edge. He’s never been called out before, not even by you. “She was being stupid.”

“She was doing your job!”

Scott scoffs as Javi blinks, trying to adjust to the rapid-fire information being thrown at him. He’s never been good at an onslaught of facts, needing that adjustment period for things to properly sink in. He’s careful that way. It’s his methodical mind. He takes his time with his planning, and that extends past his inventions. “Look, everyone’s safe. Everyone’s tired. Let’s just get some rest and we can deal with this tomorrow.”

“You’re letting him stay? After what he did?”

“Right now, no one has anywhere to go,” Javi explains, and though true, it doesn’t mean Scott has to remain here now that the threat is gone. Javi’s eyes dart past Tyler’s shoulder to your shaken form. He sighs an exhale that deflates his entire chest, his eyes close, and he shakes his head. He brought this on. He knows it. Scott was a mistake, and while it wasn’t Javi who put you in danger, you don’t mind him absorbing some of the guilt of what happened. “Just…take care of her.”

Tyler huffs and says, “That’s more than you people do,” before turning around and coming for you. Boone passes you off with a nod. Tyler’s arm goes around your body, his hand rubbing up and down your bicep. You wonder where he stored the rage so quickly, but you appreciate that he didn’t set any of it aside for you. After all, you’re the reason he almost died. You’re the reason his friend almost died. Just because it was not a potential consequence of your choices, the stress of near death can keep anyone on edge. But not Tyler, apparently. He has other priorities.

“Come on,” Tyler says. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” And he guides you to your room, the very same one you’ve been tempted to invite him to since your first chase together. You didn’t imagine this was how he would come to join you.

—

Tyler’s jaw slackens when you exit the bathroom in a small towel that barely covers your body, and he quickly rises from where he is sitting at the end of your mattress, wiping his palms on his jeans as if to remove the moisture collected there. His eyes go wide, but they can’t seem to meet yours, his green orbs trailing up and down your body. 

“They’re a bit short,” you tell him.

“Yea, I, uh,” His hand runs over his hair down to his neck. “I know,” he says, instantly conjuring the image of a bare Tyler, water droplets covering his skin, a measly towel wrapped around his waist held together by one hand; a hand that, if removed, would cause the towel to drop to the ratty carpeting. “Do you, um…you need anything? I can try to get you–”

“No,” you stop him. “I’m alright.” A beat passes, and then he nods and blows out a breath. “Thank you, for saving me. You didn’t have to risk yourself like that.”

His eyes find yours then. “You can’t possibly think that I wouldn’t.”

“I know you’re kinder than most. Braver than most. But you’re not stupid, and saving me was a bit–”

“Don’t say that. I’d do it again,” he says. When he steps toward you, the towel suddenly feels much smaller. You feel exposed under his gaze, but to your surprise, not embarrassed. Scott had a way of making you feel less than in what seemed like a thousand different ways, but not Tyler. His eyes marvel. “And again.”

You take a deep breath, releasing it slowly out your nose. 

“Are you still shaken up?” Tyler asks you. 

You shake your head. “Not really.”

He stops directly in front of you. “Can I finally kiss you then?”

Your lips part. The towel falls, not necessarily with intention, but you can’t hold the thing up and wrap your arms around his neck at the same time. And, right now, one is more important than the other. 

Tyler tastes like the cola from your fridge that he must’ve had while he waited for you in the shower. His teeth nibble at your bottom lip, and you open for him. His hands settle on your bare waist for what seems like all of two seconds before they’re sliding lower, squeezing flesh, and pulling you in closer. Your fingers pick at the buttons of his shirt, the first few coming free. 

“You sure about this?” is muffled out between kisses.

You pull apart just long enough to say yes before you’re kissing him again, helping him out of his clothes, and falling into bed together. 

—

A knock wakes you. You turn over under Tyler’s arm and, careful not to wake him, rise from the bed. You grab his shirt off the nearby chair and pull it over your head, then slip on some sleep shorts before heading for the door. 

Javi smiles when he sees you, a sense of relief allowing the muscles to release their tension in his body. “Hey,” he says before his eyes fall down to your—Tyler’s—shirt. He raises a brow. 

You shrug. “I like him.”

Javi clicks his tongue. A modest sign of disapproval. “Right, well…I just came by to apologize and let you know that I kicked Scott off the team. He left about an hour ago.”

You hum in acknowledgment. At least you’ll avoid the drama of your ex figuring out you ‘fraternized’ with the leader of the other team. Being storm chasers, dramatics runs through your blood, and it’s not as if Tyler would shy away from any remarks Scott may throw at him or you, but this just happens to be one issue you’d rather not waste the energy on. It’s not his business, anyway.

“Thanks, Javi.”

“I really am sorry,” he says. “I never would’ve imagined he’d–”

“I know. Me either.”

Javi sighs in the silence that follows, then he says, “You sure about Owens?”

You nod. “I’m sure about Owens.”

“I guess we can’t be on opposite sides then, can we?”

“That would be nice,” you say. Javi gives you another smile. “They’re not so bad. I mean, I know they do stuff…differently, but they don’t leave anyone behind.” When a twinge of guilt flashes across his face, you say, “It wasn’t your fault.”

You can’t tell if he believes that’s how you truly feel, but as you nod in reassurance of that statement, he nods with you. 

“Ok,” he says. 

“Ok,” you repeat, and then with one final grin, Javi disappears down the hall. 

You close the door and strip yourself of the clothes you’d thrown on to get back into bed. Tyler’s still asleep. His breathing is soft, even, comforting, and luckily, your spot beside him has maintained its warmth from where you’d been laying all night. 

“I’m sure about you, too,” he suddenly says, voice groggy and eyes remaining closed. He lifts his arm, and you tuck yourself back into his embrace. 

[reilemon]

♥︎Amore Immortale♥︎ Ch.4

Chapter Title ♥︎ Silk Dress and Soft Lips ♥︎ ch.3

♡︎ synopsis: Your first steps beyond the mansion lead to more than you ever anticipated.

♡︎ pairing: vampire!Xavier, vampire!Zayne, vampire!Rafayel, vampire!Sylus x fem!reader (separately and together)

⚠ MINORS DNI (18+ ONLY) ⚠

♡︎ tags: there's nothing that spicy going on here

♡︎ word count: 7.3k

♡︎ a/n: i'm so sorry for the delay. this chapter had at least ten different outlines, and when i finally settled on one, i had to plan an outline for the chapter five. i hope you'll enjoy this chapter.

♡︎ Thanks to my dearest friend and beta reader ♡︎@its-de♡︎ for helping.

divider by @/strangergraphics

When your eyes flutter open, morning light has already begun to bleed through the heavy velvet curtains. The bed beneath you still holds the warmth of sleep, cocooned in sheets that smell faintly of lavender and rose. For the first time since arriving at this secluded manor, you wake without fear. There's a faint ache in your muscles that reminds you of the day before. A dull throb stirs behind your eyes - an echo of overstimulation, as if your body is reminding you that too much pleasure, too much attention, comes with its own price.

Your mind, still fogged with sleep, begins to gather specks of memory:

Xavier’s fingers tracing underneath your blanket, Rafayel’s teasing grin, Zayne’s attentive gaze.

And then it dawns on you -

Today, you are meant to return to your home in the village. Zayne will accompany you. You hadn’t set a time, but you already feel a flicker of guilt at sleeping in. With a small sigh, you throw the heavy duvet aside and swing your legs over the edge of the bed, letting the chill of the floor remind you that this house is never fully warm.

That’s when your gaze falls on the nightstand.

A single folded note rests atop the dark wood. It hadn’t been there when you fell asleep.

You reach for it, fingertips brushing the thick parchment as you unfold it. The handwriting is neat and formal, though a bit hard to read. The small flicker of excitement you hadn’t even realized you were holding begins to dim.

I’ve been called on an emergency case.

I sincerely apologize for breaking our agreement.

I hope you will understand.

- Zayne

Your shoulders sink before you’ve even reached the signature. Zayne is a doctor, or something close to one, as he’d said. His schedule must be unpredictable. Emergencies do not wait for convenience.

You understand this. And yet…

You were looking forward to this morning. Not just to seeing your house again, but to his company.

You fold the note carefully and set it back on the nightstand.

Perhaps Xavier has returned from wherever Sylus dragged him last night. Maybe he would accompany you. If only you knew where you were - if the roads from the mansion weren’t still a mystery - you would go alone.

With a deep sigh, you rise from the bed, reach for your silk robe, and gather yourself for the day. The hallway is still dim when you step toward the bathroom.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

You emerge sometime later refreshed, having washed away some of the disappointment.

Then you stop - a yelp escapes you before you can suppress it.

Leaning casually against the wall across from the bathroom door with arms crossed is Rafayel.

You exhale, one hand flying to your chest.

His grin widens, entirely too pleased. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” he says, in the tone of someone who absolutely meant to scare you.

You glare, but your pulse is already calming.

“Well,” you murmur, “I’m fully awake now. So… mission accomplished.”

You notice, then, his appearance - less careless than usual. His shirt is buttoned properly, with a tailored vest snug over his waist, and his long coat folded over one arm. His boots are laced, polished. He appears as if he’s ready to go somewhere.

Which is more than can be said for you.

You tug your robe a little tighter around yourself, suddenly too aware of the thin silk clinging to your skin, the lace at your collarbone. He’s seen you like this before - ill, half-conscious, far from alluring - but now there’s no fever, no excuse. And his eyes… though they wander, they don’t linger. He lets you keep your dignity.

“Do you want breakfast before we leave,” he asks, with casual smoothness, “or in the carriage?”

You blink. “Leave?”

He chuckles as he pushes off the wall and straightens. “I’ll be your escort today.” he says, with a mock bow. “Try not to look so shocked. I can be reliable. Sometimes.”

Your mouth opens and then closes again. Not because you disapprove - but because Rafayel, of all people, seemed the least likely to volunteer for the duty. He doesn’t strike you as someone who wakes up early or offers rides out of the goodness of his heart.

“Oh,” you manage, “Alright.”

Before you can gather your thoughts, he adds, “Also – I need new brushes and decent parchment, so I thought we might take a small detour to Linkon. It's a charming city. You’ll love it.”

A sudden invitation to the city you’ve always wanted to visit. As enticing as it sounds, you should ask questions.

Instead, you say –

“Give me fifteen minutes.”

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

In the carriage, as the village fades behind you, a swirl of emotions brews within you - surprise, relief, and something like confusion. You sit in the comfortable velvet-lined seat, fingers curled loosely around your skirt, watching the trees blur into dusk - stained light.

Your first stop that morning had been your little house. Nothing waited inside but stale air, a thin layer of dust that settled on your furniture. You moved through it methodically, sealing every window, locking every latch.

While Rafayel ventured into the village to gather lunch for the road, you used the time to pack. His voice echoed back to you when you reached for a fifth dress –

“Don’t pack too many. There are beautiful ones in Linkon. ”

You’d protested, of course - you couldn’t afford such luxuries. But he’d only sighed, theatrical and exasperated, like a man offended by your frugality.

“Please,” he’d said. “I would never suggest you spend your own money.”

So you packed only four of your best dresses, the ones you wore rarely. You added underclothes, a shawl, a few trinkets from your shelves, and your journal - still mostly blank.

You were nearly finished when you paused.

The truth was - you didn’t know how long you’d be gone. And you still hadn’t asked the bookstore owner for more time off. You’d meant to use your supposed head injury as an excuse, but now… you wondered if perhaps something truly had been knocked loose inside you.

Despite the comfort of the mansion, despite the attentiveness of the men beneath its roof, you still know nothing about them. You’ve seen their smiles, felt their touch. But you haven’t seen what’s behind the curtain.

You shake your head.

Across the room, your jewelry box glinted on the nightstand - a small reminder of why you fled here in the first place. Inside the bag, the journal, whispered its encouragement. Go. See. Let it unfold.

You’ve been offered something people only read about. Why not take it? How bad can it be?

With a trembling breath leaving your lips, you reach for the bottom drawer of your desk.

From it, you pulled a small bundle of old letters, their pages yellowed with age, tied together with a faded orange ribbon. Though you never wish to return to the life you left behind, there is one part of it you’ve never been able to let go of. You placed them gently on top of your belongings and closed the bag.

Now, the trees whip past the window. The sun is sinking low, spilling hues of rose and amber through the glass, warm light casting soft halos along the velvet seats. Rafayel dozes across from you, arms folded, head tilted against the padded wall of the carriage. Asleep like this, bathed in the pale blush of sunset, he looks ethereal - as though painted in some forgotten century by hands that knew beauty was not simply meant to be seen, but worshiped. You allow yourself a longer glance than you should. A small, involuntary smile tugs at your lips before you quietly look away.

He’d returned from the village with a basket of fresh food wrapped in cloth. You had asked him to wait in the carriage while you stopped by the bookstore - he agreed with a wink, but didn’t hide his amusement at your request.

“You’re worried I’ll draw attention?”

“You do look like someone who stepped out of an opera stage.”

“Flattering.”

And so, he waited, lounging inside the too - grand carriage parked in front of your modest home while you walked to your workplace.

You’d expected the worst - scrutiny, resistance, judgment.

But the bookstore owner had barely blinked. He’d nodded as you explained, gesturing vaguely to the fading bruise on your forehead. He’d even offered to find a temporary replacement, suggesting that you return only when you felt fully recovered. You’d stood there in mild disbelief, muttering your gratitude as a strange pressure rose in your chest - a tight, unfamiliar weight that tasted like freedom.

Now, seated in the carriage, the wheels humming softly beneath you, you lean your head back against the velvet and exhale.

Maybe - for once - the world is giving you permission to want something more. Maybe the stars have aligned, if only for a moment. Maybe this isn’t danger.

Rafayel stirs, his eyelashes fluttering before his eyes open fully.

“Are we there?” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

You smile faintly. “Not yet.”

He stretches, long and catlike, spine arching until the seat creaks beneath him. His coat falls off one shoulder, exposing the fine linen beneath. He blinks at you, then turns his gaze to the window.

“We should reach the inn before dark,” he says, rubbing at one eye with the back of his hand. “Supposedly has a very charming garden view.”

Then he makes a small pause before his gaze returns to you, steadier this time. “Are you truly content leaving your house like that? Unattended, I mean?”

You nod. “I arranged for someone to keep an eye on it.”

He raises a brow. “Someone?”

“My neighbors. Two boys - Luke and Kieran. They live alone, I think. Still young and mischievous, but clever. I paid them while you were out hunting down our lunch.”

Rafayel hums, tilting his head. “I admire your pragmatism. Though I’m now picturing your little cottage being turned into some kind of goblin den by a pair of unsupervised village imps.”

You laugh. “They’re harmless. Just a bit wild. But they’ve always been kind to me.”

His expression softens, just slightly. “Kindness is underrated.”

He shifts again, reclining once more but this time keeping his gaze on the window. His voice is quieter now, almost thoughtful. “Let’s hope they stay that way.”

You glance over, lips parting to ask what he means - but he’s already closed his eyes again.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

By the time you arrive, the sky has fallen into that soft blue hour between dusk and true dark. The carriage slows to a creaking halt before the inn - a modest two-story house, its stone walls covered in ivy.

Rafayel hops down first, then turns and offers you his hand.

Inside, the inn is warm in that old, lived-in way. The scent of stewed root vegetables, fish, ale, and beeswax candles fills your senses as you walk inside.

The innkeeper is an older woman with tired eyes but a kind smile. She welcomes you both as you approach her. When Rafayel inquires about rooms, she shakes her head with an apologetic look.

“I’m afraid there’s only one room left for the night,” she says. “It’s small but comfortable. Meant for two - but only one bed.”

Rafayel turns his head toward you. “Is that alright with you?” he asks, voice low.

There’s a flicker of warmth blooming beneath your skin. You swallow it down, lift your chin just slightly.

“It’s fine,” you say, maybe too quickly. “I don’t mind.”

He nods once and reaches for his coin purse.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

The room is small but charming. The bed sits near a narrow window with a lace curtain swaying faintly from the breeze. The innkeeper lit the small fireplace, its glow painting the walls in gold and its warmth seeping into your limbs. There’s a single armchair, and a small desk.

You set your bag down beside the wardrobe, dust motes flickering in the firelight. Rafayel rests his coat across the armchair’s back, then turns to survey the room.

“I’ll take the floor,” he says after a moment. “Or the chair. Honestly, I may not sleep at all. I spent half the ride unconscious. I might end up sketching until sunrise.”

You glance at him, then nod after a moment, unsure what else to say yet, heart beating a little too fast.

He gives you space, stepping aside to let you prepare however you like. There’s still dinner to be eaten, and bathing to be done.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

You sit curled on one side of the bed, your knees tucked beneath the duvet, the fabric of your nightgown rumpled from being in your bag. The neckline slips a little with each shift of your shoulders, but you are too tired to fuss with it.

A single candle flickers on the nightstand beside you, casting amber light across the open pages of your book. The words blur slightly at the edges of your focus, not from exhaustion, but from distraction. Your eyes read - your mind does not.

Across the room, Rafayel sits in the armchair near the hearth, his posture languid, one leg crossed over the other. He has changed into silk pajamas, the robe over his shoulders loose and open, revealing his collarbone. One hand holds a sketchbook balanced on his knee while he’s sketching something.

The only sounds are the turn of your pages and the soft scratches of his pencil.

You shift beneath the covers, smoothing the sheets over your lap, watching him settle into the armchair once more. You glance toward the hearth, then back to him.

“You barely touched your food earlier.”

His eyes flick toward you. “The fish disappointed me,” he says simply.

You blink. “How so?”

He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “It was too dry and too seasoned for my taste.”

You adjust your pillow and lie back. “Are you truly going to sketch the whole night?” you ask softly.

His pencil stills. He glances up, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That depends. I might borrow your book once you’ve fallen asleep.”

You smile and shake your head. “You’ll be disappointed. There’s not a single scandalous scene in it. No opera ghosts. No masked lovers.”

He chuckles, “I suppose it will lull me to sleep then.”

You watch him another moment. He’s still lounging, still pretending to be perfectly content away from the bed. But the fire is burning low now. The armchair doesn’t look nearly as inviting as the mattress beneath you.

“You know,” you say gently, your eyes returning to your book, “it’s perfectly fine if you want to sleep here. The bed’s large enough.”

There’s a pause, and you can feel his eyes on you. “Are you sure?”

You nod, and then proceed trying to read the words in front of you.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

Rafayel slowly slips under the covers, cautious not to disturb your sleep. He lies on his back at first, his arms fold loosely across his chest, and for a long moment, he doesn’t move - doesn’t even breathe deeply.

Then, slowly, his head tilts. Just enough for his eyes to find you in the half-light, drawn irresistibly to the slow, steady rhythm of your sleeping breath. His gaze traces the line of your shoulder where the blanket has slipped down just slightly, the delicate arch of your collarbone.

And then - your neck. The exposed stretch of skin, soft and unguarded, glows faintly in moonlight. He stares, not because he wishes to - but because he cannot resist.

He swallows.

Then, with a breath so quiet it might have been imagined, he turns away, and his eyes close.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

The road to Linkon city is far longer than you anticipated.

You’d always known the city was distant, but somehow, since moving to the quiet village nestled in the woods, you had assumed it was closer. More reachable. More real.

And now, here you were, halfway into the journey, with another inn stay ahead of you before you’d even glimpse its skyline. Another night, another bed.

Hopefully there will be more than one room available, or at least a room with two separate beds.

Though… you can’t say you’re entirely opposed to sharing again. If you even shared at all last night. You fell asleep with Rafayel still curled in the armchair, and when you awoke this morning, the other side of the bed was cold.

But still - somewhere in the haze of sleep - you remembered shifting in the night. A subtle dip in the mattress. A breath not your own. The faint warmth of someone retreating just before your awareness returned.

Or perhaps it had been a dream.

“Cutie, are you listening to me?”

The sound of Rafayel’s voice draws you back. You blink, lifting your eyes to find him watching you from the seat beside you, head tilted in theatrical disappointment.

He has his sketchbook open across one knee, a pencil poised in his fingers. The carriage sways gently beneath you, but his hand remains steady.

“Sorry,” you murmur, offering a sheepish smile. “I lost my focus.”

His brow furrows, faint and brief. Just a flicker of concern. “Did you not sleep well last night?”

You hesitate, but only for a second. “I did. I think I’m just anxious. I keep wondering when we’ll finally reach Linkon.”

He glances out the window, his features bathed in the golden morning light that makes his skin look almost too smooth, too perfect, like something carved and painted rather than born.

“We should arrive tomorrow before lunchtime,” he says, then looks back at you. “I didn’t know you were that excited to see it.”

You sigh softly, your gaze drifting to the scenery rushing past the window. The world out there feels both impossibly far and achingly close.

“It always sounded like a place where life happens. Loud, inspiring, brilliant,” you say. “A complete opposite of where I’m from.”

You don’t realize you’ve gone quiet until Rafayel shifts beside you, watching you with an unreadable expression.

You blink, shake your head, and smile at him.

“I think I’m ready to draw you.”

That earns you a defeated sigh, yet he hands you the sketchbook.

“Since you were so eager.”

He leans back into the cushioned seat, arms crossed. You start with the shape of his face, tracing the curve of his jaw. You mark the arch of his brow, the slope of his mouth. But nothing sits right. Everything comes out just a little off. His lips are too wide. His eyes too hollow. His nose - good gods, what is that?

He watches the entire time.

At first, he’s quiet, eyes flicking between your hand and your face as if studying which one is struggling more. You can feel the weight of his gaze - not heavy, not judgmental, but patient.

Your strokes grow slower. More hesitant. It’s harder than you expected. He’d made it look effortless - lines gliding into shape, expression emerging from nothing. But now, your pencil skips, your fingers cramp, and the image looking back at you is not him. Not even close.

You stare at it for a long moment, then try to hide it behind your palm.

“No,” he says softly, amusement in his voice. “I saw that. Show me.”

“It’s terrible.”

“I’m your teacher. You must let me critique you.”

You shake your head, but he leans closer.

“Come on, darling. I can handle a poorly drawn nose.”

You exhale, defeated, and slowly turn the sketchbook toward him.

He takes one look, then raises his hand to cover his mouth. Not fast enough.

The laughter doesn’t quite escape him, but the betrayal is written in every twitch of his lips, every tremor in his voice.

He clears his throat, and composes himself. “It’s - charming.”

“Don’t lie.”

“No, no, I mean it. It’s… very expressive.”

You squint at him. “You’re holding back laughter.”

He holds up his hand. “Only because I respect your effort.”

Your cheeks flush, but despite yourself, a laugh bubbles up. “You’re impossible to draw.”

“You’re telling me. I’ve spent ages avoiding mirrors.”

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

After the laughter faded and the sketchbook was tucked firmly back into his satchel, you returned to reading your book. Rafayel didn’t push you to try again. He didn’t tease. He simply went quiet as he started reading a book he picked out before you departed, and the hours slipped by.

Now, you stand before the window of your room in the second inn - a taller, older building with high, arched ceilings. The curtains are pulled aside as you gaze at the deep navy sky. You’re not tired exactly, but there’s a weariness in your bones. It’s the kind of weight that arrives after trying, failing, and wondering if you should have tried at all.

You’d wanted to draw him. Not just because you wanted to learn - but because it felt like a way in. And you failed. You had felt incompetent - with the way your pencil refused to cooperate, the way your hands couldn’t capture a smidgen of his essence.

So, you had just laughed it off. And now… you don’t know what to make of it.

You turn around, ready to curl up in the bed with your book, but a knock on the door stops you. The familiar and distinct knock.

When you open it, you see Rafayel leaning casually against the doorframe, holding the sketchbook and a pencil. His sleeves are rolled to the elbows, and the collar of his shirt is loose.

His eyes meet yours. “Let’s try again.” He continues, as you step aside to let him in. “You do realize drawing a portrait in a moving carriage is something even trained hands deem a challenge?”

There’s no trace of mockery in his voice. “You were ambitious,” he says, setting the sketchbook down at the edge of the bed. “Not foolish.”

With your permission he settles onto the bed, balancing the sketchbook on one knee. You follow, smoothing the fabric of your nightdress as you sit beside him, close enough for the heat of his thigh to brush yours when either of you shift.

“Start with pieces,” he says, glancing at you. “They’re easier to focus on. Less overwhelming than the whole.”

Then he begins to draw. You watch as a single eye begins to take shape on the page. First the almond curve of the eyelid, then the sweep of lashes, the iris unfurling effortlessly.

You can’t look away. It isn’t just how well he draws. It’s how easily it comes to him, how everything seems to obey his hand.

“Here,” he says, nudging the sketchbook gently toward you, “your turn. Just replicate this eye. Nothing more.”

You take the pencil from him, your fingers brushing his. You try to draw it exactly as he did. But it is so embarrassingly different than his.

He leans in - breath soft against your ear.

“Don’t think about making it beautiful,” he murmurs. “Just make it real.”

You nod, biting your lip slightly, and start over.

Somewhere between the third and fourth sketch, he shifts, stretching out his legs with a quiet groan, and you do the same, both of you sliding down off the bed to sit on the floor, backs resting against its edge. Now, you’re shoulder to shoulder.

You start to feel more confident, and now you’re itching to try your hand at drawing his eyes again. You steal a glance upward, then look away too fast. You try again, tracing the shape in your mind before putting it on paper. But when you lift your eyes for the third time, he’s already watching you.

“You’ll have to keep looking,” he says, voice teasing. “It’s difficult to draw something while avoiding it.”

Your eyes meet his. The candlelight reflects in his irises, painting them with impossible color-ocean blue melting into fuchsia dusk. They look unreal. Like they were never meant to be captured by anything as clumsy as your hand.

Your breath catches. You glance back down at the page, heart skipping once. But you try again.

His gaze doesn’t waver. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t tease - he simply lets you look.

You lose track of how long you spend on his eyes. The candle burns lower, the air cooler, and yet the heat in your cheeks doesn’t fade.

When at last you stop, your hand aching, your page smudged and worn at the edges, you look up at him. He leans closer, observing your work.

Then he nods once, “You’ve learned,” he says, his voice quieter now. “It’s good. Truly.”

You sigh in relief.

He looks at you a beat longer, then glances down at the sketch again.

“Shall we move onto the lips?”

The heat floods your cheeks at once. You close the sketchbook a little too quickly and give a small, flustered laugh.

“It’s late,” you murmur, unable to meet his eyes. “I think… we should leave that for tomorrow.”

You can hear the amusement in his voice. “Of course.”

He stands up from the floor, and then extends his hand. “Come on, artist.”

You take it, your fingers slipping into his palm, letting him pull you upright. His strength is effortless, his grip warm.

“Thank you,” you say, still holding his hand for a moment before letting go. “For the lesson.”

His brows lift slightly, and then he gives a soft laugh, “Cutie,” he murmurs, stepping back toward the door, “I’m more than happy to be your inspiration.”

When you reach the threshold, he doesn’t move immediately. He pauses, one hand resting against the doorframe as he turns to face you again. The corridor beyond him is dim and quiet, lit only by a line of low-burning sconces.

He looks at you then - not with mischief, not with bravado, but with something that feels almost like admiration and makes you hold your breath. He leans in, and then - his lips find your cheek.

He pulls back slowly, and he meets your eyes again, “Goodnight.” he whispers.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

The kiss still lingers, somewhere beneath the surface of your skin.

You didn’t need to dream about it - the memory was vivid enough, playing on a loop behind your eyes as the morning sunlight spilled through your window, as your breakfast was served, as the two of you sat across from one another at the carriage. He hadn’t mentioned it. Neither had you.

And yet every glance, every word passed between you was tinged with something new.

Now, the city opens before you like a stage, and you step into it not as a dreamer but as a living part of it. Linkon.

It does not welcome you gently.

The streets are alive in a way you’ve never known - the clatter of hooves on stone mixes with the thrum of chatter and bartering voices, the rustle of silk skirts and crisp boots, the slap of linen being drawn back from market stalls. Color spills from the awnings of cafés and apothecaries, bookbinders and watchmakers, their storefront windows glowing with early afternoon light.

Perfumes drift through the air, mingling with pipe smoke, expensive leather, roasting nuts, varnish, the sweet tang of grapes and pomegranates from a vendor’s cart. Somewhere not far, a woman is singing in another language, her voice soaring above the clamor with eerie beauty, like a siren refusing to be drowned out.

Your steps are slow. You want to see everything. And you do - but perhaps too much.

You try not to show it. You keep your shoulders back, your hands at your sides as you walk, your eyes wide but not darting. Still, the sheer density of the world pressing around you begins to press inward. There are too many windows to peer into, too many conversations half-caught, too many directions to look.

And all of it is beautiful.

But it is also… loud. You’ve spent too long in rooms where the loudest thing was your own breathing. The hush of your cottage. The murmur of turning pages. The quiet hands of four strange men who moved with fluid elegance.

You should feel exhilarated. Instead, your breath quickens in your chest, just slightly. The noise doesn't grow louder, but it closes in. Your thoughts scatter like spilled seeds, struggling to hold onto anything grounding.

Rafayel, walking beside you with one hand in his coat pocket, slows his pace. He glances at you sideways, with quiet attention.

You feel his presence shift closer. Then, his voice - silky as ever - “Would you like to take my arm?”

You blink, staring at him for a moment. Then you nod, looping your hand around his elbow, the gesture settling in your chest like a soft exhale.

He leads you through a narrower street now, the crowd thinning just slightly. He guides you beneath a small archway, the stone overhead carved with faded floral reliefs. At the end of the alley is a wooden door painted in rich red color. A bell chimes when he opens it.

Inside, the air shifts and the city falls away.

The art supply shop is quiet - saturated with the earthy scent of aged wood, varnish, paper, and pigments. Shelves rise to the ceiling, stacked with hand-bound sketchbooks, jars of powders, brushes, wooden palettes.

A silver-haired man lifts his head from behind the counter, his face brightening with a respectful smile. “Ah. Mister Rafayel. It’s been too long.”

Rafayel inclines his head, smile faint but genuine. “You know how it is. I lose time when the seasons change.”

The man’s eyes drift to you, polite but curious. “And is this your apprentice?”

You flush at the word. Rafayel glances at you, amused.

“Something like that.”

You look around slowly, drinking in every corner of the shop. You exhale, deeper this time, and only then do you realize how tightly your lungs had been held.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

In your hands, you hold a new sketchbook and a couple of new pencils, wrapped neatly in brown paper. Rafayel carries his own bundle beneath one arm, mostly brushes. The two of you return to the busy city center, and your hand found its place back around his arm.

Then, a smooth, male voice calls out from behind.

“Rafayel!”

He stops mid-step, spine straightening with an audible sigh that seems to come for exasperation.

“Thomas,” he says, turning on his heel with a tight smile.

You turn as well, and your gaze lands on a tall, hazelnut-haired man in a crisply tailored suit.

Thomas’ attention turned to you for a moment as Rafayel introduced you, and then it returned almost immediately to Rafayel.

“I was going to send a letter,” he says, “about the new patrons. A few rather wealthy collectors with a particular interest in your work.”

Rafayel exhales through his nose, his voice dry. “Sending a letter still sounds good.”

Thomas lets out a slow, theatrical sigh. You catch the dynamic between them immediately -business tangled with camaraderie, wrapped in mutual irritation. It makes you bite back a smile.

“How about tonight?” Thomas offers, brushing imaginary dust from his lapel. “My wife and I will be attending the opera. You’re both invited to our box.”

You feel your expression brighten before you can stop it - Rafayel notices at once.

With a soft shrug that was far more graceful than indifferent, he says, “That might make the conversation tolerable.”

Thomas nods. “We’ll see you there. Half an hour before curtain. You remember the place.”

With a small bow he walks away, disappearing into the crowd.

Your excitement is short lived as reality settles in.

“Rafayel?”

He slows beside you, eyes flicking to you. “Yes?”

“I don’t have anything suitable to wear. Not for the opera.”

He chuckles and then without a word, slides his arm gently across your shoulders. The pressure is light, but firm enough to turn your path.

“That is easily remedied, cutie.”

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

You sink into the soft, velvet-lined chair beside Rafayel. Just in front of you, seated slightly lower in the the private box, Thomas leans toward his wife - a sweet-faced woman with a softly rounded belly, her gloved hands folded neatly atop it as she murmurs something to him.

You glance down at your dress, still in disbelief that you’re wearing it.

It had all happened so quickly. Once you and Rafayel arrived at the atelier, he had requested something ready-made and elegant, but capable of last-minute alterations. The dress he picked out from the selection for you was a silk unlike anything you’d worn before, paired with gloves with pearls for buttons.

You had tried to protest, voice wavering with unease as the seamstress circled you, pins in her teeth. You’d told him the dress was too much. That you didn’t need it. That you’d rather miss the opera entirely than having him spend so much on you.

But Rafayel hadn’t even looked at you when he responded - just nodded at the modiste to continue, and said, simply, “No one should miss beauty for the sake of modesty.”

And now, here you sit, the silk with intricate details molded to your figure.

The opera house itself feels like another world entirely - its domed ceiling painted in lavish murals of gods and goddesses, the balconies dressed in red velvet and trimmed with gold, chandeliers gleaming like constellations overhead.

On stage, the first act unfolds in a fever of color and music.

You hadn’t expected to be captivated. Opera, in your memory, had always been too distant, too slow, even boring. But here, in Linkon, it’s different. The voices rise and fall like ocean waves, filling every corner of the space with raw, glittering emotion. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until the curtain lowers at the end of the first act and the world exhales around you.

Beside you, Rafayel’s attention remains elsewhere. He speaks with Thomas, the two men conversing in low, imperceptible voices. You try not to listen, and even if you wanted to, you wouldn’t be able to comprehend their words.

Meanwhile, Thomas’ wife battles against sleep, her posture slowly slumping, her fan drooping ever lower with each yawn. By the end of the second act, during the intermission, she lets out a delicate sigh and leans toward her husband, murmuring something you don’t quite catch.

The two of them rise from their seats, and Thomas turns to Rafayel.

“We shall take our leave. You two stay and enjoy the rest.”

With that, he offers you both a shallow bow, and leads his sleepy wife out of the box, her gloved hand curled around his arm, her eyes already half-lidded.

The two of you are left alone in the private box - surrounded by hundreds of people, and yet cloaked in velvet shadows.

The third act unfolded in slow, aching brilliance.

The soprano’s final aria echoed through the vast chamber, her voice breaking just enough on the final note to shatter the silence before the ovation. You sat still, breath caught, eyes wide. You’d never seen anything like it. You weren’t sure you ever would again.

Beside you, Rafayel didn’t move.

He remained composed, hands folded, posture relaxed, but more than once you felt his gaze shift to you.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

The air outside had cooled considerably, but you barely notice it. Not with your skin still tingling from the heat of the performance, from the music that still rings in your chest. Now, with your arm tucked through Rafayel’s once more, you walk through Linkon’s midnight streets, and it feels like the entire city had softened.

“Did you hear the way she held that note?” you ask, turning to him, your voice bright with awe. “I thought she would lose breath.”

Rafayel chuckles low in his throat, his gaze resting on you rather than the road ahead.

“Her name is Angelica. She’s very good at pretending to die.”

You laugh and continue talking - your words a cascade of impressions, hands gesturing as you try to describe the sets, the costumes, the singers.

“I thought I’d be bored,” you admit, shaking your head. “Or lost. Or tired. But I couldn’t blink. I didn’t want to miss a single moment.”

“I noticed,” Rafayel murmurs, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “You leaned forward so far, I thought you might tumble from the box.”

“You wouldn’t have let me fall.”

“No,” he says softly. “I wouldn’t.”

You falter for just a breath. But the moment passes quickly, with the next wave of your excitement. You tell him about your favorite line - you try to quote it, mangling the phrasing, and he corrects you with the original cadence, eyes glittering when your laughter echoes the quiet street.

You didn’t realize how much you’d been smiling. How light your body felt, even in the heavy silk of the new dress. How much the city stilled, becoming nothing more than lamplight and his presence beside you.

Rafayel said very little. You didn’t notice it, but his gaze was warm, indulgent, like someone being handed the chance to rediscover the beauty of something he thought he’d grown numb to.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

The hallway of the inn is quiet, dimly lit by wall sconces casting golden light across marble floors and rich green wallpaper. Your steps slow as you approach your door, but you hesitate for a moment.

Your hand lifts, to the base of your spine, where the fine silk of your dress was drawn tight with laces and buttons. You were too wrapped in the performance, in the city, in him, to think about changing out of the dress.

You turn toward him.

“Rafayel,” you say, your voice quiet.

He turns to you.

You try to sound casual, your hand gesturing vaguely behind you.

“Would you… mind helping me with this? I just need someone to… free me from the dress.”

The silence that follows isn’t long. Then he nods.

You open your door and let him inside.

Drawing the curtains closed and lighting the candles, while he sets up the fireplace for you, you stand in the center of your room, your spine impossibly straight as you turn your back to him.

You remind yourself that this isn’t new. He’d seen you sick. He’d brought you warm cloths, tucked you beneath blankets. He’d seen your bare shoulders before. Yet your heart fluttered in your ribs as he moved behind you without a word.

The first button slides free with a delicate tug, and then another. But it’s the laces he pauses over, his fingertips resting just below the knot.

When he finally begins to loosen the laces, he does it slowly - painfully slow. The fabric resists at first, tight from the wear of the evening, but his hands are diligent. With every loosened part, your breath deepens, your chest swelling against the bodice as it begins to give. Cool air brushes your skin where the fabric parts, making your skin prickle, but you don’t shiver.

With a slow exhale, you let the dress slide over your hips, letting it pool around your feet, leaving you in the soft silk underdress, the shape of your figure no longer hidden.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, your back still turned to him, as you step over the dress. “For helping. And… for tonight.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Instead, you feel him step closer, your bodies only a breath away now. You turn to face him, and he is so close you catch the firelight in his eyes, the bright blush high on his cheekbones, even the tips of his ears.

He doesn’t try to look away, and you don’t think you can.

Without a word, he reaches for your gloved hand. His own are steady, but there’s a tremor in his breath as he works the pearl buttons free. When the second glove finally peels away, his lips meet your knuckles. Then, he turns your wrist upward. The kiss he leaves there is hotter, hungrier, his tongue grazing the blue river of your pulse. The skin there is sensitive, thinner, and the way his lips brush across it makes your knees go weak, but you stay still.

His mouth travels higher. Another kiss, slow and careful, against your forearm. Then higher, where the strap of your underdress rests on your shoulder. His lips press there, and he breathes you in, like he’s trying to commit the scent of you to memory. A fractured sigh escapes him.

His other hand rises, steady and warm, and finds your chin. His thumb brushes your cheek, tilting your face up until your eyes meet his. His eyes are midnight storms, flickering to your mouth.

And suddenly, the world narrows.

All you can see are his lips - soft, parted, so close you can almost taste them. He doesn’t move yet. He waits. He gives you one last breath to choose.

You don’t step back. You don’t break his gaze.

So he leans in, and kisses you.

It doesn’t feel real at first. His mouth finds yours with a tenderness that steals your breath, his lips pressing softly.

Your heart stutters, and yet the rest of you goes still - utterly still. Because it’s him. Rafayel.

The one who always seemed a little too perfect. Too brilliant. Too untouchable. The man who filled a room with laughter but somehow remained just beyond your reach. And now - he’s kissing you like you’re the one he’s been reaching for all along.

You didn’t expect this. Not from him. Not like this.

His hand stays at your jaw, his thumb brushing lightly across your cheek as his lips move over yours. And when his tongue brushes softly along your bottom lip, slipping past it to meet yours, tasting you for the first time - you melt completely.

Your hands float upward, unsure at first, then instinctive. They curl around his neck, sliding into the soft waves of his hair.

His kiss deepens - still tender, but deeper. He pulls you closer by the waist, your bodies flush now, the hard plane of his chest pressing against your breasts, his breath and yours mixing in the space between open-mouthed kisses.

One of his hands drifts lower, fingers slipping down the arch of your back before splaying at the top of your buttock. The touch sends a jolt of molten heat low into your stomach, coiling tight and needy. Your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. The kiss turns a little messier, your mouths opening wider, breaths coming faster, his grip pressing you against the hard ridge of his thigh.

But he starts slowing down. Bit by bit, the kiss turns liquid, the hand on your butt slides upward, fingertips brushing the sensitive dip of your spine.

He pulls away just far enough to rest his forehead against yours.

His thumb traces your swollen lips, his voice low and ragged. “You should sleep, darling.”

After a moment, you nod, though your eyes remain closed, lips still tingling, breath still uneven. When they flutter open, they meet his. The usual mischief in his eyes has dissolved, replaced by tenderness that makes your heart flutter. Moonlight spills through the window, glinting in his irises, and for a heartbeat, you see a flicker of something unreadable, that he quickly smothers beneath a slow blink. You don’t know if that was even real, or if your mind is playing tricks on you.

Then he leans in and presses a delicate kiss to your cheek, then the inside of your wrist. He wishes you sweet dreams, and steps out of your room.

When you lie in your bed, your body is still thrumming, your chest impossibly full.

And even as sleep pulls you in, the warmth of his kiss stays with you - on your lips, your cheek, your hand - as if he left pieces of himself behind to keep you company until morning.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

@verynormalsstuff @eliasxchocolate @haal07erlj @libriomancer @howvoiceless @celestialforce @tbaluver @zaynesjasmine1 @ladyparamount @xxfaithlynxx @totallytaurus4 @s-ugu @evil-mei @whatarewe-choppedliver @imeverycliche @blackwell-ninja @secretkiseki @kaya-nets @stellablobboo @ssetsuka @celestemcbrim @m00nchildwrites @yournextdoorhousewitch @mysticcoffeebean @beewilko @harmonyrae @animecrazy76 @hanamanefateris @itsmeaudrieee @gravity-valley @raiyuxa @skylaryoung2002 @dekiruxxx @angel-jupiter @daturasflower

[aayakashii]

YALL REMEMBER THIS??! LMAO anyway here's the last part!! ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧

Part 1, part 2, part 3 and part 4

How Tokyo Debunker boys react after receiving a cute little plushie from MC – Yuri and Jiro

Yuri – Hamster plushie

Literally how dare you think he is childish enough to appreciate something like A PLUSHIE

And of a HAMSTER of all things?!? WHAT ARE YOU IMPLYING??

Of a thousand words he says after he receives the plushie, not one of them is a "thank you"

In fact, you get kinda fed up with his brattiness and try to grab the plushie back, already regretting giving it to him

Imagine your surprise when he basically pounces over the toy, protecting it from your grasp as he grips it tightly over his chest

You two just...... stare at each other awkwardly for a few seconds, before Yuri clears his throat and puts the plushie on top of his chair (with a very obvious blush)

"Just because you have less than appropriate gift giving abilities, doesn't mean I will reject your handmade gift! Just do better next time" he stutters, poofing out his chest like a peacock, trying to keep a little bit of dignity

You see right through him anyway

Pursing your lips to keep yourself from laughing and frustrating him further, you just nod and leave his office so he can process the fact that you spent your actual personal time making something for him

Spoiler alert: he doesn't process it well

He keeps the hamster on his bed and still flinches and blushes profusely when he sees its little puffy cheeks and bright beady eyes

(Since he pulls so many all nighters, he actually haven't gotten used to it yet at all)

(When he does sleep, however, his arms unconsciously snake around the round body of the little guy, squishing it against his face with a satisfied sigh)

(It smells good. He can actually sleep properly without thinking about all the articles he needs to write and all the things he needs to do to prove himself to everyone around him)

(He can just be.)

Jiro – Dinosaur plushie

"It's not my birthday"

"I know"

"Hmmm..." a pause as he stares down at the green dinosaur you pushed into his hands "is it a holiday I'm not aware of?"

You sigh, shaking your head. "No Jiro, I made it for you just because. It's a gift."

"Oh. Okay. Thanks."

To be fair, you shouldn't have expected an effusive reaction from Jiro, of all people. It was still a bit upsetting though.

But at least he seemed fascinated by your craftsmanship, staring at every little detail and loose thread on the toy's body

You were unaware of it for a long time until you managed to spot Jiro on campus again, but he actually has been carrying his designated little guy everywhere

If someone is afraid of needles or of doctors, Jiro immediately hands them the little dino so they can hug it (even though his patients are usually not kids)

(He rebutts their embarrassment by saying that there are no studies claiming that adults can't be comforted by plushies now be quiet and get ready for the blood test–)

The way he carries the plushie isn't exactly the most gentle (he just holds it by its head, green chubby body flopping everywhere while he walks fast)

But you're more than happy to see that Jiro appreciated your little gift in his own way

(And you don't know, but when his illness catches him off guard, nausea gut punching him unpredictably, he uses the dinosaur as his only way of grounding – the soft fur being his only solace as he trudges his way back to Mortkranken.)

(Maybe he should ask you to make him a little white coat. It's his assistant, after all.)

[laseracronym]

They Made You Cry (MHA/Fem!Reader)

(Laser: I'm sad today, so I curse you with angst.)

Summary: MHA characters reacting to making their girlfriend cry. (Angst, arguments, and some unhealthy relationship dynamics.)

Characters: Bakugou, Dabi, Aizawa, Shigaraki, Midoriya

MHA-MHA-MHA

Bakugou

Katsuki's heart sinks when he sees the unmistakable wetness that mists over your eyes. What's worse, what really makes him feel like the worst kind of bastard, is the way you shy away from his gaze with a sense of bitter defeat. Like he's getting what he wanted. Like his victory, his intention, was pushing you to tears.

As if he could ever consider this a victory.

"H-Hey..." he reaches out to you, awkward and unsure. He's so bad at dealing with tears, especially yours. It's so much easier to take on whatever piece of shit that's made you cry, but in this case, it's him. He's the piece of shit.

You sniffle, hurriedly brushing past him, equal parts angry and hurt.

"Whatever, Katsuki."

Dabi

The thing about you is that you're so damn unpredictable. Sweet one second, drawing blood the next.

Dabi kind of loves it. It keeps things from becoming boring, getting stale. And you're so hot when your eyes are ablaze with whatever emotion is overcoming you.

Just like right now, in the middle of some pointless, bullshit argument, when something he says makes you snap. You tackle him to the ground, your hands fisting into his jacket as you yell in his face. All he can do is grin up at you dangerously, just as angry, but equally as enticed by just how vibrant you look in this moment.

Then something even sweeter happens.

Big, fat tears begin to drip from your wild eyes, and Dabi sucks in a breath. You sob, frustrated and overwhelmed, and his cold, little heart warms at the sight.

"Oh, pretty girl..."

His arms wrap around you as you cry into his chest, cursing his name all the while. He strokes your hair, twisted affection squirming in his chest like a nest of spiders.

Always so unpredictable and entertaining.

Aizawa

"(Name), I-" Shouta falters, all the anger and frustration from your argument washed away by cold, all-consuming guilt at the sight of the tears slipping down your face.

You hurriedly wipe them away, stepping back, away from him, and the guilt deepens.

He knows you hate crying in front of him, even when it isn't his fault. It makes you feel weak, and he knows you worry he'll think less of you, that he'll find your more emotional way of being "irrational."

You turn, hiding your face as you try to walk away, but he stops you, gently catching you by the arm.

"Wait," he pleads, his voice gentle, "I'm sorry." Because no argument is worth making you cry.

"I don't want you to see me like this," you mutter, your head down. But at least you're not pulling away from him. He takes that as a good sign.

"Don't hide from me," he urges. He takes you by the chin and tilts your head up so he can look at you properly. He brushes your tears away, regretful that they're there in the first place. "Let's talk about this, okay?"

He's always so stubborn, set in his ways. But he'll try to meet you in the middle, to understand your perspective. You're worth it.

Shigaraki

Tomura feels no guilt at the sight of your tears, only vindictive satisfaction. Good. He'd been aiming to hurt you when he said those words to you. He really can't stand the way you make him feel sometimes, so he's happy to return the favor.

"You're seriously crying?" he taunts with a cruel smirk, poking at your cheek with a mocking finger.

You smack his hand away, "fuck you, Tomura, you fucking prick," you hiss, trying not to cry even more in front of him. You turn and storm away from him before things get even worse.

"You're so pathetic!" he calls after you, making sure you can hear him before you slam the door behind you.

He huffs, standing there and scratching at his neck. You're so damn overdramatic, a pain in his ass. You deserve to cry a little for the shit you put him through.

The image of your tear-filled face flashes through his mind. He ignores the way it makes his stomach twist with discomfort.

Midoriya

Izuku feels his own eyes fill with tears, watching you hug yourself and cry in front of him.

"(N-Name)... please don't cry..." he begs, his hands brushing up and own your arms, trying to console you.

"I thought I was never going to see you again," you cry, your words making his heart ache. You scrub a shaking hand over your eyes, "I was so s-scared for you!"

"I'm sorry, (Name)," he pulls you into a hug, his own tears running free. He really scared you this time. It was a close call. "It's okay, I'm okay. I'm here."

He shushes you gently, guilt spreading through his chest at the distress he's caused you. His job is always going to cause you to worry, the only thing he can do is try his best to come home to you at the end of the day.

(Requests)

[adhdduckie]

not the one! g.s. x reader

synopsis ; you're in love with gojo. he doesn't love you back. It takes you awhile to realise this, and you find out in a way you wish you'd never. Tw: ANGST no fluff no comfort #nofluffwedielikemen my masterlist

jjk masterlist

A/N : guys sorry this came out of nowhere and kinda possessed me (did not at all stem from my own lovelife, no not at all, this was just something that came out of nowhere!)

PT 2

1.5k -------

being in love with gojo as his friend was pretty insane, a lot of the time.

the first time you ever even said that maybe you loved him, you cringed. it sounded weird, but even when shoko gave you a weird look, you knew that it was to be true.

sometimes, you'd swear that maybe, just maybe, he'd love you back. you'd read too much into stares, and lingering touches.

you'd think too much of how he just always seems to be just around the corner of wherever you'd be, and how he always seemed to be looking at you and only you.

you'd think that because of the smiles his friends throw your way, the fact that getou had spoken to you about him a lot, and how getou always made sure to wave at you when he was with gojo.

how gojo's eyes would seem to light up when he saw you, but maybe that was just his big baby blues, but honestly, anything would have made him look brighter. If you thought about it, maybe it was the sweets you always seemed to have on you, just always specifically for him.

and getou knew, and maybe gojo did too, but the fact that he never changed the way he looked at you meant that he felt the same way too, but he was just afraid to tell you, because that it's quite daunting! and if he needed it, you'd wait till the end of the world for him. this was so embarrassing, you'd think to yourself, finding yourself talking about him for the umpteenth time that day to your friends, who seemed interest in the conversation enough, but you knew they were just waiting for you to stop!

and maybe if you were more rational, you'd think properly. like, well obviously he was basically around every corner, you'd attended the same school and it was just you four students in the year anyway. and obviously he stares a lot, he's pretty unpredictable, and tends to just be super affectionate with everyone.

and getou's your close friend, of course you're gonna be getting smiles from him, because he's your friend. getou obviously is gonna just acknowledge you, because yet again you're his friend. and when you were away from gojo, you could think pretty rationally. "there's no way he likes me" you'd think, and "I gotta stop liking him, this isn't gonna go anywhere." and you were right, but once you saw him again, it was as if you hadn't even considered this at all in the first place, and it was completely gone from your mind. but all in all, no matter what, there was nothing you could do, because if you'd been reading everything wrong, you'd ruin your relationship, and you could never ever be with him at all, not even as his friend anymore. this is the conclusion that you came to one friday night, and honestly, it really did hurt, but then the next day, when he was sitting next to you super close and leaving absolutely no personal space to you, and then it was gone all over again. but when you finally realised, for the first time, that gojo didn't love you at all, was when you'd gone out to the convenience store with gojo, getou and shoko. You'd been standing in the aisle staring at some quick noodles, and gojo's arm had been slung over your shoulder.

you were trying to pretend that you weren't phased at all, but your heart was thumping non-stop in your chest. Shoko had given you a grin and a thumbs up, discreetly to cheer you on and hold yourself together. it had felt, for a moment, quite domestic and romantic. gojo was tactile, you knew this, but you also knew that he wouldn't do this to shoko, so it gave you some doomed hope. not like the hope was gonna last long anyway.

gojo's standing there, with his arm wrapped around your shoulder, and he sighs.

your attention turns to him from the generic brand quick noodle brand in your hand, and you frown, worried. "what's wrong?" you ask him, turning your attention back to the quick noodles on the shelf. "i got no baes." he says, blatantly.

you pause, very confused. "what do you mean?" "I mean that I can't get a girlfriend." he says, drooping a little as he even pouts, and you can't help but want to hit him.

you're not prepared for that sucker gut punch that it seems to give you, and you wince a little. you hear a smack in the vague distance, and you can only assume that it's nobara smacking herself in the face in exasperation at gojo, but you can't really think about that just now. after awhile, you hear yourself going; "loser." and you walk away. that's it, that's all you say. but you try not to think too much about it because that's rather normal behaviour.

you join shoko at the counter, and she slaps you reassuringly on the back, and she says that : "he's an idiot." and you have to agree, even if it's half-arsed, and you're muttering while you're staring off. it gives you time to think, because, if he did know that you liked him, and he liked you, wouldn't he just do something about it? in the distance, you hear a small cheer, and you manage to snap out of it. "what just happened?" you ask shoko as you watch gojo jump up and down like a kid, with getou standing next to him, shaking his head in exasperation. shoko looks at you with pity evident on her face. "getou said that he'd hook gojo up with someone." shoko tells you. you can hear the heart beating in your ears, and manage to limit your emotions to a small little frown that only shoko can see. "i'm sorry" she whispers to you, pulling you in for a hug. you shrug, not exactly sure what you're supposed to do in this moment. you're there when gojo first meets yuki. it's been weeks, and you hear about her non-stop. it's always yuki this, yuki that, and you can never seem to escape it. gojo always needs to talk to her, and you just can't take it anymore. and you see her, for the first time, and she's gorgeous. she's sweet, and she's everything you want to be, and in every single way. you want to be the one that gojo is all happy to see, he's chasing her like you would have chased him, like you did chase him. but unlike her, he didn't turn around to see you, as she did for him. the first time you see them hug, shoko's there, holding your hand. because she knows you love him, even if you won't even want to say it yourself. but he's happy with her. you tell yourself, the first time you see them kiss. he's happy with her and that's all that matters. it doesn't matter that he skips hangouts with you to be with her, it doesn't matter that he completely ignores you for her, and it doesn't matter that when you both sparred, and had a clash of powers, both of you were injured and ran to her, only helping her as you laid there bleeding. It doesn't matter.

it doesn't matter that you don't even see him anymore, and that he skipped out on your birthday just because she wanted to see him. and it really, really doesn't matter, when you 'jokingly' tell him that you used to like him, and he laughs and he says "that's funny." because honestly, that hurts, and you really hate it.

you want to resent getou for getting them together, but you can't because you can't even blame him, because, it's not his fault. nothing would have changed the way he saw you, not with yuki around at least.

and god, you couldn't stop thinking about them. how they would hold hands, how he'd offer his jacket for her if she so much as sneezed at the slightest cold weather, and how she would look at him as if he had hung the moon and the sky and the stars. and you look at her, and you think, god, is that how i look at him? but it's okay for her to do that, because he looks at her the same way.

and sometimes, you lie in bed at night by yourself, and you're overcome with the thought that she might be with him right now in another bed somewhere else, and it makes you sick to your stomach, that it's someone else. But no matter what, nothing will change how things have played out.

and it makes you cry. it really does. you think to yourself that if hanahaki really existed, you would be affected by it, no questions asked, and that thought makes you so upset, because honestly, what did you do to deserve this? but the fact that he's happy makes it all worth it. at least, that's what you tell yourself.

[bella-goths-wife]

How platonic yandere bowers gang view you

Warnings: smoking, violence, weird relationships, obsessive behaviour, yandere tendencies, reader is a bad person objectively

Henry:

Henry’s view of you varies on his mood

Sometimes he views you as something of an equal to him because of his narcissistic tendencies convincing him that the two of you are equally intelligent despite you clearly being the smarter one by a landslide

On the days where he sees you as an equal, he almost views you as his right hand woman

Your an extremely honest person, something that would usually put a target on your back with the bowers gang

But your honesty is another thing that appeals to Henry

You don’t sugarcoat your opinions about his actions and your too bored to lie and spare his feelings when he does something stupid

And while there are some days that Henry will become aggressive with you because of your honesty, most of the time Henry appreciates that you don’t fear him enough to hide your opinions

On the days where he views you as his right hand woman, you’ll replace Patrick for the day as Henry orders you to follow him around and basically just help him in his antics

Which you do, even if it’s at the harm of other people

You don’t particularly care either way, not in a psychopath way but more of a bored just by existing way

But it’s not like this for you all the time considering that your the only girl in the group and your much younger than them, there are some more unkind days

There are some days where because of your age and gender coupled with your inability to look after yourself properly, Henry will view you as the bottom of the food chain and you’ll be treated as such

You’ll get the vic treatment as your mocked constantly, unlike vic though you’ll actually respond back with snark or just fight back more in general

That usually just ends up with you getting some kind of unusual punishment

On the days where your the bottom of the food chain you’ll basically be treated as Henry’s personal assistant as you do his homework and cook and clean for him

You wonder why you even stick to this agreement sometimes but the protection that Henry and the others provide is worth it

Plus they’re less boring considering they’re unpredictable

Patrick:

Patrick views you as a challenge, something he can attempt to manipulate and break

And he gives it his best go

He’ll pull out all the stops in an attempt to get you to fall for one of his tricks or to cry at one of his cruel insults

But you just won’t

Your intelligence makes it almost impossible for you to fall for his manipulation

And sometimes you’ve tried to fake falling for it, but you just couldn’t because it was all so obvious to you

But that only spurs Patrick on

He’s a psychopath, he thrives on watching people act out emotionally to make up for the lack of his own emotions

But you don’t, you don’t show many emotions if he’s honest

Maybe he feels something similar to relation between you because of that

Maybe you could relate to him and why he does what he does

Maybe your like him?

He does treat you more affectionately then he does with anyone else as he’ll put his arm over your shoulders as you walk to platonically be affectionate and show the people around you that your protected

And he definitely views you as a challenge, but only his challenge

If anyone else did anything similar to what he does they’d be killed before the sun could rise to the sky

So in short your treated better than in the ballerina au but still treated pretty badly

Victor:

Victor views you as someone who’s finally below him on the food chain

For as long as he’s been part of the bowers gang, he’s always been the bottom of the food chain and the one whose given shitty jobs and constantly mocked

With you around, he’s free from that fate

He can finally experience what it’s like to have someone to look down on and to laugh at

But he’ll do all this in a sickly sweet way

He’ll condescend you and talk down to you like your stupid, like your IQ isn’t miles higher than his is

He’s the one who coined your nickname ‘smarty’

It started originally because he mockingly called you smarty pants to humiliate him but then he quickly took to just calling you ‘smarty’

Eventually the whole gang started calling you that to mock you but it just ended up becoming your default nickname

You didn’t particularly care about vic mocking you, in a way you sort of pitied him

Because he thought he was higher up in the food chain then he was, and it was slightly pathetic in your eyes

You felt bad for him so you allowed the mockery

But vic’s views on you clashed sometimes as sometimes he viewed you as some sort of naive little lamb considering you couldn’t really fight and you were a heavily picked on freshman girl

So he wanted to guide you, something you also allowed because you pitied him

You fulfil his need to be needed and you feed his ego in the meantime

He’d talk to you sweetly like you were a young child and explained obvious things to you like you were just a babe in the woods

But he also beat up anyone who tried to hurt you, so you allowed it for now

If he pushed his luck anymore though, you were sure you could figure a way out to separate him from the group or just manipulate him into doing something incriminating to get rid of him

Belch:

Belch views you almost a little sister figure

He was the first one to meet you and when you met you were nothing but nice to him, even if you delivered your kindness in your usual monotone manner

You were obviously smarter than him, but you never made him feel bad for it and you never shamed him for knowing less than you

You’d even help him in your spare time, you’ll try and encourage him to complete the work himself before you did it for him

Belch enjoyed spending time with you, he rarely got kindness in his life and even with your abrupt and blunt manner you were always nice to him

So he’d protect you from harm and would purposely seek you out at free times just because he wanted to spend time with you

He even got you some small games to play under the desk for when you got bored in class, which you did regularly because you already knew everything being taught

Belch also views you as someone he has to provide for

Belch is very well off, his family is quite wealthy in comparison to his friends

You on the other hand, were not

You were in the foster care system and living in a group home with twelve other kids and a shitty caretaker who barely registered if you were there or not

And belch always noticed how hungry were looked and how tired you always seemed

So he started inviting you back to his home since his dad worked all the time and he had a fridge full of food

You made a meal that night and you wolfed it down in record time, confirming belch’s theory that you weren’t being fed well at all

So you started going to his house a lot more, during one of these times you mentioned how you struggled to sleep since it’s so noisy where you were living

So belch started to offer for you to stay over in one of the spare bedrooms, which you agreed to after a bit of force from the rest of the gang

You practically moved in with belch after that, sleeping at his house most nights

His father had met you at this point and liked you enough to allow this so belch started insisting that you stay more and more until the spare bedroom become your unofficial bedroom

Belch then noticed the state of your clothes and how worn down they looked, and wordlessly he got approval from his father to spend some money on getting you new clothes

When he gave you them you couldn’t help but give him a small hug in thanks

Belch enjoyed providing for you, it felt nice to have someone for him to take care of

It made belch realise how lonely he was before you, and it made him thankful to have you

You practically living with him also made you more likely to accept the bowers gang manipulation and rules

People don’t give belch enough credit sometimes, he was a lot smarter then people thought

Not smarter then you though

[solxamber]

Hi hi solxamber!! (Is that spelled right?) I hope you’re having a lovely day/night! if you would allow me too I’d like to make a request/ask, ignore this if you wish!

But freshwater stingray yuu! She’s so sweet with everyone (even though she may be such a quiet person) and super calming too! But she’s so misunderstood (◞ ‸ ◟ㆀ). Kinda like how a lot of humans now treat wild stingrays, they think she’s dangerous and always aggressive! But really she just wants a friend (；へ：). Oh! And she’s also very tall too! Like Floyd tall, since freshwater stingrays are some of the biggest known rays in the world! She also has a long, whip-like, stinger (tail) that she can’t control even in the water! Maybe this in a small one-shot form (if you do that!) with Octavinelle and Diasomnia? I feel as if specifically Malleus and her would relate to each other very well with them both feeling isolated and feared because of something that they really can’t control!

Please feel free to ignore this if you wish! You are under absolutely no obligation to respond to my request! Sorry if it was really long (I’m severely hyperfixated on any form of marine life) 人(_ _*)

And do you do anon names? If so could I be a 🪼anon?

Octavinelle, Diasomnia with Freshwater Stingray! Reader

hi! yeah you can be 🪼 anon! and don't worry about the length at all, the more detailed, the more fun i have writing it! thank you for waiting and i hope you like it <3 and it's spelled right! you can just call me sol tho!

Azul Ashengrotto:

You sit in the quiet corner of the Mostro Lounge, sipping tea and trying to keep your long tail from accidentally knocking anything over. It’s always the same—people giving you wary glances, as if you’re a threat just waiting to explode. Your tail, with its unpredictable movements, has always been a point of misunderstanding, and despite your calmness and sweet demeanor, most people steer clear of you.

Azul has been watching you for a while now, his sharp eyes glinting behind his glasses. He finally makes his way over, that ever-confident smile in place as he sets a fresh cup of tea in front of you.

"Everything to your liking?" he asks, voice smooth as ever, but there’s a hint of something more—genuine curiosity, perhaps?

You look up, startled. "It’s fine," you mumble, trying not to let your tail twitch in nervousness. But of course, it does, brushing lightly against the floor. You freeze, pulling it in tightly to your side.

Azul’s eyes follow the movement, and instead of the discomfort you usually see in people, there’s only understanding in his gaze. He leans in a bit, resting his elbow on the table. "It must be difficult," he says softly, "having to be so aware of your tail all the time, when people can’t see beyond it."

You blink, surprised at how easily he’s put it into words. "Yeah," you admit, glancing down at your cup. "People think I’m dangerous. But I just… I don’t want to hurt anyone." Your voice trails off, soft and sincere.

Azul chuckles, though not unkindly. "I understand more than you think. People often mistake strength for malice. They forget that control takes time." He gestures vaguely toward his own carefully controlled smile, his smooth façade of confidence. "And patience."

You tilt your head, meeting his eyes for the first time properly. "You... you don’t think I’m dangerous?"

"On the contrary," he says with a smirk, "I think you’re someone worth knowing. Dangerously misunderstood, perhaps, but aren’t we all?"

You can’t help but smile a little at that. For the first time in a long while, you feel like someone is seeing you, not your tail or your height, but you.

Floyd Leech:

You’re wandering through the courtyard when Floyd spots you, and of course, he makes a beeline in your direction, grinning like a shark who’s just spotted prey.

"Heyyy, Shrimpy!" he calls out, stretching his arms over his head lazily. You brace yourself, knowing that Floyd isn’t exactly one to respect personal space.

"Hi, Floyd," you say softly, still trying to keep your voice friendly despite the knot of nerves forming in your stomach.

As expected, he immediately slings an arm around your shoulders, oblivious to the way your tail twitches nervously behind you. "Whatcha doin'? Lookin' all serious. You plannin' to sting someone with that big tail of yours?"

You blink, startled by how casually he brings it up, but you know Floyd doesn’t mean any harm by it—he’s just Floyd. "No," you say quickly, "I don’t sting people. It’s not like that. I don’t want to hurt anyone."

He gives you a curious look, then laughs. "Aw, I know, I know! I’m just messing with ya!" His grip tightens slightly as he leans closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But y'know, if anyone’s ever giving ya trouble, just say the word, and I’ll help ya take 'em down. Sting 'em, punch 'em, doesn’t matter!"

You blink again, unsure how to respond to Floyd’s unique brand of... support. But something about his carefree attitude puts you at ease, and you find yourself smiling despite everything. "Thanks, Floyd," you say quietly.

He grins, clearly pleased with himself. "No problem, Shrimpy! Let’s go find someone to mess with, yeah?"

Jade Leech:

It’s in the depths of the Coral Sea when you first meet Jade properly. He’s calm and composed, as always, but there’s a calculating gleam in his eyes that makes you nervous. You’ve always been wary of people who observe more than they say—those are the ones who usually misunderstand you the most.

"Ah, you must be the freshwater stingray everyone’s been talking about," Jade says with a polite smile, his eyes scanning your tall form, lingering on your tail for just a second longer than usual.

You nod slowly, unsure of what to say. "Yes. And you must be Jade."

"Indeed," he replies smoothly. "It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard quite a few interesting things about you."

You wince internally, imagining all the rumors about how "dangerous" and "unpredictable" you are. But Jade doesn’t seem fazed. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, his curiosity piqued. "It must be difficult," he muses, "being constantly misunderstood because of something you cannot control."

You blink, caught off guard by his words. "Y-yes," you stammer, "it is. But I try not to let it bother me."

Jade’s smile widens, and for the first time, you see a genuine warmth behind his usual calculating demeanor. "That is a wise approach. I believe there is much more to you than others realize. Perhaps we can... learn more about each other."

You feel a flicker of warmth in your chest. Maybe this encounter isn’t so bad after all.

Malleus Draconia:

You’re floating near the edge of the lake when you sense someone watching you. You turn slowly, and there, standing by the water’s edge, is Malleus, his dark eyes focused on you with an intensity that makes your heart skip a beat.

You’ve always felt a strange connection to Malleus. Both of you are feared for reasons beyond your control, and both of you know what it’s like to be isolated because of it.

"Good evening," he says softly, his voice deep and soothing.

"Good evening, Malleus," you reply quietly, moving closer to the shore. "What brings you here?"

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he gazes out at the water, his expression thoughtful. "I often find solace near the water," he admits. "It’s... calming."

You nod in agreement, understanding exactly what he means. "It’s the same for me. People seem to think we’re dangerous just because of how we look. But the water... it doesn’t judge."

Malleus turns to look at you then, his eyes softening. "Yes," he murmurs. "We are not so different, are we?"

For a moment, the two of you stand in comfortable silence, sharing an unspoken understanding that words could never fully capture.

Lilia Vanrouge:

Lilia’s eyes twinkle with mischief as he glides through the air, catching sight of you as you swim quietly near the edge of the lake. He lands gracefully on a nearby rock, grinning widely. "Ah, my dear stingray! How does the evening treat you?" he calls out, his voice filled with playful energy.

You blink in surprise, unused to such cheerfulness, but you offer a small smile in return. "It’s... peaceful," you reply softly. "I like the quiet."

Lilia chuckles, sitting cross-legged on the rock as he watches you, his eyes glimmering with curiosity. "You always seem so quiet and calm. Yet I hear rumors—some people say you're dangerous!" He laughs at the absurdity of it, as if the idea is nothing but a joke to him.

You sigh, glancing down at the water, your long tail swaying gently beneath the surface. "They think I’m dangerous because of my tail. I don’t want to hurt anyone, but… it’s hard to control sometimes."

Lilia hums thoughtfully, leaning forward a bit. "Ah, but isn’t that the way with most things in life? The most wonderful, powerful things are often the ones most misunderstood." He winks at you, as if sharing a secret.

You can’t help but smile at his words. There’s something so comforting about Lilia’s playful wisdom, and you feel your usual anxiety melting away. "Maybe you’re right," you say quietly. "It’s just… hard."

Lilia nods sagely. "Hard, yes. But don’t let that stop you from being who you are. Strength and kindness aren’t mutually exclusive, you know. You remind me of myself in my younger days!" He laughs again, the sound bright and infectious.

You chuckle softly, feeling a bit lighter. "Thank you, Lilia."

He winks again, standing up with a flourish. "Anytime, my dear! Now, shall we play a game? I bet you can’t catch me!" Before you can protest, he takes off into the air, leaving you laughing quietly at his endless energy.

Silver Vanrouge:

Silver is resting under the shade of a large tree when you spot him, his eyes closed as he naps peacefully. You hover nearby, not wanting to disturb him, but your tail accidentally swishes too close to a branch, causing it to rustle loudly.

Silver’s eyes blink open slowly, his gaze finding you immediately. He sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Oh… it’s you," he murmurs, his voice still soft with drowsiness.

"Sorry," you mumble, embarrassed that you woke him up. "I didn’t mean to… my tail…" You trail off, trying to tuck your tail away behind you, but it flicks out again despite your best efforts.

Silver shakes his head, giving you a gentle smile. "It’s okay. You didn’t wake me on purpose."

You feel a warmth spread in your chest at his understanding. Silver is always so calm and kind, never judging you the way others do. "Still, I’m sorry," you say, moving closer to sit beside him.

He watches you for a moment before speaking. "You don’t need to apologize for something you can’t control," he says quietly. "I know what it’s like to be misunderstood. People think I’m lazy because I fall asleep a lot, but it’s just… how I am."

You look at him in surprise. "I didn’t know that. I thought you just liked to nap."

He chuckles softly, leaning back against the tree. "Maybe a little. But it’s more than that." He pauses, then turns to you with a soft smile. "I don’t think you’re dangerous. You’re just… you."

His words are so simple, but they mean more to you than he knows. You smile back at him, feeling a little lighter. "Thank you, Silver."

Silver nods, his eyes closing again as he drifts off into another peaceful nap, leaving you to quietly enjoy the moment beside him.

Sebek Zigvolt:

You’re swimming near the edge of the lake when Sebek marches over, his loud voice cutting through the peaceful air. "Ah, there you are! I’ve been searching for you!" he declares, arms crossed and chin held high.

You blink, startled by his abrupt arrival. "O-oh, hello, Sebek."

He stares down at you, his expression serious as usual. "You must stop hiding yourself away like this! It is unbecoming of someone with such... size and stature!" His tone is as sharp as ever, but you know he means well—he’s just... Sebek.

You glance down at the water, feeling a bit self-conscious. "I’m not hiding. I just like the quiet."

Sebek huffs, clearly not satisfied with your answer. "Nonsense! You should be standing tall and proud! You are far too... graceful to be skulking about like some common creature of the sea!"

You blink in surprise at his words, unsure how to respond. "Um... thank you?"

Sebek’s eyes narrow, as if he’s not quite sure you understand his point. "Do not mistake me! I am simply saying that you are far too formidable to let others fear you so easily!" He pauses, his voice lowering slightly. "It is... their loss if they cannot see that."

Your heart warms at his unexpected compliment. Sebek might be loud and brash, but his words hold a certain sincerity that you can’t ignore. You smile up at him. "That’s... really nice of you to say, Sebek."

He stiffens, his cheeks flushing slightly as he clears his throat. "W-well, I am merely stating the facts! Now, come! We must train! A creature as powerful as you should not waste your time in solitude!"

Despite his usual intensity, you can’t help but smile. "Alright, Sebek. Let’s train."

With a proud nod, Sebek leads the way, his loud voice echoing through the air as you follow, feeling just a little bit more understood.

Masterlist

[revelboo]

Okay well, I juat sat up all night to read your Star x reader x Soundwave x reader fic and now MY HEART HURTS from the last chapter so far. A large part of Mr is desperately hoping that Starscream and Soundwave sparkbond fully to their little human and find comfort together for all three of them, because this is painful, in a good way.

They have to get through the drama first. Normally I’ve got a word constraint of around 70-80k to work within so I wouldn’t have time to properly work out a reverse harem with characters so at odds with each other. They’d need to be at least established to get along to keep the story on track- brothers/friends. No such issue here. They don’t like each other at all and I can take my time getting them at least to a grudging understanding and tolerance of each other

Everything is Alright Pt 84

IDW Starscream x Reader, Soundwave x Reader, Megatron x Reader

• Hearing Starscream tiredly venting, you wonder if this is a mistake. You’re pretty sure he thinks it is, that trusting Soundwave is only going to hurt you. Again. But you want to believe that he really did think he was doing the right thing, that he believed there really was no other way forward. How much of that is just you wanting to believe everything is alright, though? That he’d done this because he had to, not out of cruelty or to manipulate Starscream. Wish you could get into his head again to see the truth there, but considering that had only happened the one time while he was inside you, there’s no way to ask him to have sex with you just to see if he’s lying. “So, Megatron. How do we deal with him?” You ask.

• “There’s no dealing with him. He’s unpredictable at best,” Starscream mutters, sliding a servo between your shoulder blades as he glowers at Soundwave. His presence tarnishing the pleasant hum left over from bonding. “As long as he finds it amusing to toy with you to get at me, you’re, well, not safe, but safer.” Because you mean nothing to the warlord beyond a temporary amusement. As long as he makes it abundantly, theatrically, clear how much he hates Megatron being around you, that should keep him interested in keeping you around. It’s too much to hope that he’ll just return you once he grows bored of his game. Too dangerous to assume he won’t discard you or break you out of spite.

• Tension still humming through him, but easing with every word, Soundwave wishes he could hold you. With how the Seeker is glowering at him, all cold hatred, that’s not going to be tolerated. “Talk to him,” he suggests, seeing the Seeker’s wings twitch upward in affront. Because he’s caught glimpses of Megatron’s mind despite himself. Knows how tired of the fighting and the betrayals he is. That he doesn’t really trust anyone anymore, not even Soundwave. Not completely. So used to putting down schemes, that he assumes there is one behind every smile, every word. But you befriended Starscream, maybe because you’re only human. Only an organic and no threat to him. If so, you can do it again with Megatron maybe. If you’re more than just a pawn to use and throw away, your survival odds are much higher.

• It’s pretty much what you’d already decided to do, but you nod slowly. Feeling better that Soundwave had the same thought. Because you’re not even a person to Megatron right now. He sees an organic, but not you. And you need him to see you, to understand that Star isn’t a threat. At least, you hope not. You’d seen his plots, his desire to usurp Megatron while you’d been bonded to him. His fear that the cause is doomed under Megatron’s tired leadership. Is he still playing that game? Tangled in him, it was impossible to tell past from present, all aspects of him blended together and inseparable. Looking up at him, you wonder if he’s still driven by that ambition, by the belief that his way is the only way forward. No matter what.

• Hates that trust of yours even as it’s what drew him in, because you want this to all be okay and Starscream knows that’s impossible. His spark still aches with you, knows you’d be happy with him as he is now. That you have no desire for machinations. But they’re necessary. Especially now. Megaton’s a threat to you and him. Soundwave is a threat. The only way to ever be safe is to sit on that throne, to seize control. With you at his side to temper him. To be his conscience and moral compass.

• Those eyes and that grief. Why do they linger in the back of his processor? It’s not guilt, Megatron’s done much worse things. Still can’t figure out Starscream and Soundwave’s obsession with you, why they’d risked so much pain to keep you secret. Like you’re not only a pet to them. Like the little human matters even though you’re one of millions. An insect. Gone in an instant. Rubbing a hand against his helm, he sits on the edge of his berth. It doesn’t matter. You don’t matter, but he keeps thinking about it. Thinking that he’s missing something important. Something dangerous. Why protect one human? Why suffer just to save you? Why do you matter to them?

Previous

Next

[risuola]

INFINITY — F. READER x GOJO SATORU

When was the last time you slept? You couldn't tell, but Satoru was determined to get you to rest.

cw: slightly angsty if you squint, just idiots in love unable to communicate properly, death mentioned (the usual jjk content) — 1,3k words

a/n: i'm going through my wips, finishing them finally and posting, don't mind me ❥

“When was the last time you slept?”

Satoru’s soft voice entered your mind and brought it back to reality. You were exhausted, having no sleep for few days already. Your eyes felt heavy, your mind was foggy and as you tried to push through the fatigue, you struggled to concentrate on even the simplest tasks. Everything felt like it’s taking twice as much effort as usual and more and more often you were catching yourself at making silly mistakes that you wouldn’t normally do. It was probably the fact you were standing at the little kitchen unit in the hotel room you share with Gojo for the mission, and the cup you were trying to fill with water overflown already.

“Shit,” you cussed quietly, putting down the kettle and grabbing the roll of paper towels, knocking a bottle while you reached next to it. Of course it was open and another portion of liquid spilled all over the counter and the floor.

“Hey, whoa, I’ll deal with it,” the strongest was quick to take everything from your hands, smiling in amusement at the soft groan that escaped your mouth. “So? When did you sleep last time?”

“I don’t remember,” you grumbled, pinching the bridge of your nose. The job you had been assigned was taking everything from you and it wasn’t because it was hard. It really wasn’t much above the ordinary and your partner turns every task into a child’s play, but it was the unpredictability of the curses you were targeting that made you go without sleep for a week already. You had at most four hours of rest, broken into short naps when you just passed out and now, you were awake for 43 hours straight. It was taking a toll on your mind and body, the fatigue was like a weight on your shoulders, making your movements sluggish and your thoughts slow.

You sighed, rubbing your eyes aggressively, a desperate attempt to wipe away the foggy haze from your sight. It’s been some time since you don’t see clearly anymore, your brain was pulling tricks on you and though you couldn’t blame it for that, you also wished it to keep up for just a little longer

“Go to sleep,” Gojo told you, wiping away the water that you spilled all over the kitchen area. “I’ll deal with anything that might pop up,” he reassured, though his tone was everything but caring. He was teasing you, his playful nature and smugness fronting in his behavior as always. He wasn’t bothered by the mission, he was doing his job flawlessly and frankly, you were sent with him only to make sure people around are safe because Satoru has a habit of not caring too much about casualties.

“You know I can’t do that,” a groan from you only made the man chuckle. You were in the middle of war – it felt like it, at least – there was a plague of curses, most of them reaching first grade, day after day appearing in bigger quantities and it was straight up way too dangerous to let yourself to drift away. Last time you managed to close your eyes for a little longer than an hour, one of the demons broke into the hotel you were staying in and nearly killed you. It seemed like they were just waiting for the right moment to attack, when your guard is down and you’re vulnerable and you knew that once you fall asleep, you’re not going to wake up on time. Even if Gojo was volunteering to fight, you were convinced the moment he’d step away from you, you’d be dead. And that was the last position on your wishlist.

“I told you I’ll take care of the curses while you’re sleeping, don’t be so dense,” the strongest just shrugged, seemingly unbothered but the grin was ghosting over his lips, making you wish you could wipe it off his stupid handsome face. While you were suffering, Satoru was sleeping just fine, not caring about a thing because he didn’t need to care about being in danger when he always had a nice, protective layer of damn infinity around himself. The world could be burning and not a single spark would reach his sleeping form. Rest was a luxury he was able to afford during this mission and sadly, you couldn’t because once you’re not awake and ready to protect yourself, you’ll be swiped off the board.

“Why would you even bother, huh?” You snapped, not sparing him a look while you approached the window. The streets seemed oddly calm, now as dark as the sky above them, and you wished it would stay normal for the next hours so you would have one less thing to deal with during the night time.

Truth is, the very fact of sharing a job with Gojo is a curse in itself, one impossible to exorcise and it was taking every bit of professionalism that you had in you to just push through it. Your relation with the honored one is difficult. It’s complicated and straight up unpleasant, it seemed like you were stuck in an endless cycle of bickering. Every conversation seemed to turn into an argument, and every disagreement seemed to escalate into a full-blown fight. It was exhausting, emotionally and mentally, it was straining but no matter how many times you tried, you couldn’t manage to break the pattern and instead, you just kept going around in circles. The words you spoke to each other were getting increasingly cutting and the anger was growing with each passing day. Even when you did manage to reach a solution, it was always a matter of time before another conflict would arise and you’d be back to square one. It was as if you were trapped in a maze, with no clear path to a peaceful co-existence and that was enough reason for you to be convinced that Gojo would be the last person on earth worrying about your well-being.

“I don’t want you to die on me because of the lack of sleep, come one,” he shrugged, throwing away the wet paper towels and joining you near the window. “Rest, I’ll stay awake.”

“I’ll get myself a coffee,” you said, not convinced at all. Truth is, only few times you allowed yourself to pass out was when Satoru was awake, because you wouldn’t dare to close your eyes when he was sleeping himself, but you couldn’t trust him. And you’d feel horrible if you made him stay awake just so you can sleep.

“No, seriously, no coffee for you,” he grabbed you by the wrist and pulled towards the bed.

“Gojo, do you not understand—”

“Shhh,” he hushed, manhandling you onto the mattress, forcing your shoes off and gathering the covers to tuck you in as if you were a child.

“I hate you…” Was all you could mumble. It was a torture. The soft pillows underneath your head and warm comforter were so perfect, so inviting for you to just let yourself drift off. You wished to let the heavy eyelids down, to give your eyes the rest they need and allow your brain to reset and clear. You felt like your body was betraying you, the exhaustion was seeping into your bones, making it impossible to move.

“Yeah, yeah,” to your surprise, Gojo pushed his own boots off as well and in a moment he was in bed with you, sharing sheets and pulling you towards himself. “Now, here. You are now inside my infinity. You’re safe, sleep.”

Infinity. It felt safe, suddenly, but was it because of infinity or the man that now had his arms wrapped around you? You couldn’t tell and frankly, you couldn’t speak either, so you just hummed something in response as the sleep has taken you away.