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[uth0ttm]

Domestic beach Rhea domestic beach Rhea domestic beach Rhea domestic beach Rhea

Painting shit, cooking, child (?), swimming, early mornings, having sex on that balcony you talked about, conjoining their properties, gardening, gardening, painting shit, chores

The Sky Looks Better From Her Porch-

Coastal Town AURhea Ripley X Reader

The night is perfectly still except for the hush of the ocean. The small seaside town lies quiet behind you — windows dark, doors closed, everyone long asleep with the exception of some rowdy teenagers driving through and staying the night behind obnoxious at the motel. Warm summer air clings to your skin, the cicadas buzz around like they were made to fill silence and everything around lingers heavy with the scent of drying salt and distant honeysuckle. Above, a high moon drips silver light across the sand and gentle waves. After the long, hot day you and Rhea spent working around the house — sweat and laughter shared over repairs and rearranging furniture — this peaceful beach feels like another world. You kick off your sandals at the dune’s edge and sigh as the cool sand squishes between your toes. The heat of the day still radiates faintly from the ground, mixing with the ocean’s damp chill. Beside you, Rhea slips her hand into yours, lacing fingers with a familiar ease, chunky rings and calloused palms. Her thumb strokes over your knuckles in a small, absent circle, a quiet gesture of affection. In the moonlight, you glance up at her and find she’s already looking at you. A soft smile tugs at the corner of her lips.

“Come on,” she murmurs, nodding toward the water. Her voice is low and warm, sending a little shiver of anticipation through you. Together you walk toward the shoreline, hand in hand wobbling on sinking sands as your legs protest from hours of work. The rhythmic rush of gentle waves grows louder, and a cool breeze lifts strands of your hair from your neck. You still feel the day’s warmth simmering under your skin — not only from the summer heat but from the way Rhea has been with you all day. There’s a quiet intimacy between you now that wasn’t there a few days ago, a knowledge in every shared glance and touch. Whether you were scrubbing floorboards or fixing that loose shutter left rattling by the storm, you felt her eyes on you, felt the heat of unspoken promises in her smile. Every accidental brush of arms or playful touch when passing tools only stoked the already lit, slow-burning fire between you. By the time night fell, the air itself seemed to throb with unspent tension and desire.

Now, standing at the water’s edge, you grin and squeeze Rhea’s hand, excitement fluttering in your belly. The ocean stretches out before you like a dark, beckoning mirror for the moon. A small wave rushes over your feet, cool and shocking. You gasp softly at the contrast against your hot skin. Rhea huffs a quiet laugh at your reaction and releases your hand. “Cold?” she teases.

You shake your head, determined. “Refreshing,” you correct with a playful smile. The truth is it is cool, but deliciously so. After such a sweltering day, the water’s caress feels heavenly. Another wave foams around your ankles, and you bite your lip, already eager to go deeper. But before you can take another step, Rhea’s fingers hook gently under the hem of your t-shirt.

“Let’s get this off you, sweetheart,” she says. Her tone is soft — not a question, but a tender directive. Confident, protective, affectionate. The dominating note in her voice sends warmth blossoming in your chest, then lower. There’s no hesitation in her movements as she helps peel away your clothing. You raise your arms willingly, heart fluttering at the reverence in her eyes. Rhea lifts your shirt up and over your head, slow and careful, as if unwrapping a cherished gift. The moon’s glow washes over your newly exposed skin. A balmy breeze skates across your bare midriff, raising a trail of goosebumps. Rhea’s gaze follows, and you feel seen — completely, worshipfully seen — under her eyes

She tosses your shirt to a dry patch of sand above the tideline, then steps closer. Her fingertips, still a little rough from handling tools earlier, skim down your arms and ignite sparks beneath your skin. When her hands find the waist of your shorts, you inhale sharply. Even now, after all the intimacy you’ve already shared, being undressed by Rhea makes your pulse quicken and cheeks warm. Maybe it’s the open air, or the moonlight, or just her. She has a way of looking at you like you’re something precious.

“You sure?” she asks softly, hooking her thumbs into your waistband. The glint in her dark eyes is playful, but there’s an undertone of earnest care. Always attuned to you — making sure you’re comfortable.

You answer by covering her hands with yours and guiding them further down, giving a cheeky little push. “I am if you are,” you murmur. Your boldness earns you a quiet chuckle.

“Oh, I’m definitely sure,” Rhea replies, a grin flashing over her face. In one smooth motion, she kneels in the sand as she draws your shorts and underwear down. The fabric slips down your thighs, then your calves, until you can kick them off. Before you can feel too shy about standing naked on the beach, Rhea tilts her head and presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your hip. A gasp catches in your throat. Her lips there are warm and reverent, the scrape of her piercings just barely grazing your skin. It sends a thrill through you. She lingers, nuzzling the sensitive spot just below your navel, her strong hands caressing the backs of your thighs. Soft possession. You tremble, fingers finding their way into her hair for balance — and maybe to silently beg for more. Rhea’s hair is thick and slightly damp at the ends from the humidity, the dark strands sliding between your fingers.

She plants one more kiss — just above your belly button — before rising to her feet. The naked hunger in her eyes as she looks you up and down makes your breath stutter. Under the moon’s silver gaze, you feel like the only two souls on earth. “You’re so beautiful. Let me see you.” There is such genuine awe in her voice that all your nervousness melts away, replaced by a liquid heat of desire and trust. You let her ease your arms open. She rewards you with a slow smile, then surprises you by suddenly tugging her own tank top off in one fluid pull.

Your eyes roam appreciatively over Rhea’s revealed form. Moonlight etches every line of her toned body — the defined muscles in her arms and shoulders, the curve of her waist, the swell of her breasts. She is breathtaking. Scattered tattoos darken her tan skin. You’ve traced those tattoos with your fingers in daylight, but under the soft night glow they look almost magical, sigils of shadow and light on a goddess. A spattering of old scars and new scrapes mark her here and there, tangible proof of her strength and tenderness combined.

Rhea notices your admiring stare and quirks a brow playfully. “Like what you see?” she teases. You don’t even have the wits to feel embarrassed at being caught; instead, you nod slowly, drinking her in.

She chuckles, stepping out of her loose jeans and kicking them aside. “Good,” she purrs. “Because I’m all yours.” In the darkness, she extends a hand to you once more. Her rings catch a glint of moonlight — faintly cool against your heated skin as she takes your hand. All yours, she said, but the way she carries herself — the quiet command in her voice, the sure grip of her hand — makes it clear that you are hers as well. The thought sends a delicious little thrill through you.

Completely bared to the night and each other, you and Rhea wade into the ocean. The first higher wave splashes at your knees and you squeal softly at the temperature. It’s cooler than bathwater, but the day’s heat in your body quickly adjusts. Rhea wraps an arm around your naked waist, steadying you as the sandy seabed slopes downward. Her touch is reassuring and strong. She leads you in, deeper and deeper, until water foams around your hips, then your ribs. When a small wave breaks against your back, you lurch, but Rhea is there, holding you close with a protective arm. You both dissolve into quiet laughter as a bit of saltwater sprays your faces. You sputter, wiping droplets from your lashes.

Rhea’s dark hair is slicked back now, dripping at the ends; a few rivulets trace down her neck and chest. You watch a bead of water roll between her breasts and disappear, your mouth turning dry despite the ocean all around. The sight stirs boldness in you. The two of you are alone, entwined in moonlit water — free and half-dreaming. With a mischievous grin, you crane up and plant a sudden kiss on Rhea’s jaw, just shy of her ear.

She hums at the affection, tightening her arm around you. “Mm, what was that for?” she asks, voice rumbling pleasantly from her chest.

You shrug coyly, running a hand over her shoulder underwater. “Just felt like it,” you say. Your fingers drift to toy with a lock of her wet hair at the nape of her neck. “Plus, you had a drop of water… right here.” You kiss the spot again, slower this time, lips lingering against the pulse point beneath her ear. You feel more than hear the soft intake of Rhea’s breath.

Before she can respond, you suddenly twist out of her hold and dart a couple of steps away, laughing. The water resists your movement, but you push through it, creating an arc of spray. Rhea blinks in surprise at the loss of you in her arms. A wicked thrill dances in your belly at her confused look. You splash her lightly, giggling. “Catch me, if you can,” you challenge, eyes flashing with daring.

For a split second, Rhea just cocks her head, that lopsided grin of hers spreading across her face — half amused, half predatory. Playful dominance ignited. “Oh, you’re in trouble now,” she drawls.

You let out a squeal and try to paddle farther out, but the water makes you slow and Rhea is incredibly fast when she wants to be. In two powerful strides she’s on you. A delighted shriek escapes you as her arms come around your waist from behind. You’re lifted off your feet as easily as if you weighed nothing. Water cascades off your limbs as Rhea spins you around and draws you flush against her slick body.

“Got you,” she growls softly against your neck. Her voice is rich with triumph and something darker that makes your stomach flip — the darker side of her coming out to play. Your heart skips and then races as she holds you caged against her front. One of her arms crisscrosses your front, just beneath your breasts; the other circles your hips, keeping you pinned to her. The cool waves lap at your lower bodies, but everywhere Rhea’s skin meets yours, you feel heat. You stop squirming, melting into the solid warmth of her. In truth, you never really wanted to get away. This was exactly what you wanted — to stir her up, to feel that confident power in the way she touches you.

Rhea nuzzles into your wet hair, her lips finding the shell of your ear. “Naughty girl,” she murmurs, the affectionate chastisement sending a hot flush through you. Her teeth graze your earlobe and you gasp, hands coming up to grasp at her forearm that’s banded across your chest. She’s holding you so securely, as if daring you to try to escape again. But all you do is whimper softly, leaning your head back against her shoulder and you spot the night sky above, a smear of stars and moon, as Rhea begins to pepper slow, teasing kisses down the side of your neck. Each press of her lips, each flick of her tongue against your skin, draws another trembling sigh from you.

“You think you can just tease me and run off, hm?” Rhea’s voice is a low rasp. You can hear the smile in it, though, wrapped in desire. The hand she has across your front slowly drags upward, and your breath catches as her palm cups your breast. Her fingers find your nipple, already peaked from the cool water and arousal, and she rolls it in a gentle pinch. Pleasure spears straight from that tight bud to the pit of your stomach; you cry out softly, arching your back. Your ass rubs against Rhea’s hips as you writhe, and you feel, unmistakably, the shiver that runs through her at the friction.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” she groans against your neck. There’s a slight strain in her voice now — she’s as turned on as you are. You grin breathlessly, loving that you have any effect on this confident, breathtaking woman.

“That was kind of the idea,” you manage to gasp, even as her hand sends another wave of sensation through your body. You reach back with one arm, looping it around Rhea’s neck to hold on as she torments your nipple with deliberate tenderness. If the cool of the water then runs down her neck from your arm bothers her she doesn’t mention it. Your other hand covers the one she has splayed at your hip, and you lace your fingers through hers under the water. The gesture makes her pause for a heartbeat. Slowly, she interlocks her fingers with yours, both of you holding tight while her other hand continues its slow, sensual circles over your breast. The mix of sweetness and sinful touch makes your head spin.

Rhea’s lips curl against your throat. “Such a brat tonight,” she chuckles, affection thick in every word.

“This was your idea,” you point out, she gives your nipple a firmer pinch. You whimper and press your thighs together under water, seeking relief for the ache building there. Immediately, Rhea’s hand releases your breast and skims down your torso, as if she read your mind. Her fingertips trail over your stomach, then trace the curve of your hip. She grips your thigh, urging one of your legs to hitch up

“Here,” she whispers. “Put your leg over mine, love.”

Breathless, you obey, lifting one leg and hooking it back over her strong thigh. The water buoys you slightly, making the position easier as she half-supports you. This motion opens you up, and the next gentle wave that rolls by causes your body to press more firmly against Rhea’s front. You feel the heat of her center briefly rub against your backside and it makes both of you moan softly.

Rhea slides her hand from your thigh inward, fingertips gliding through your folds under the water. She groans appreciatively against your ear at what she finds. “So wet for me already… and not just from the ocean,” she purrs. It’s true — your arousal has been steadily building, mixing with the saltwater on your skin. When her fingers part your slick folds, a deep shudder wracks through you. The water’s coolness contrasts with the searing heat of her touch. Your free hand claws lightly at the arm still bracing your upper body, fingernails digging in as pleasure spikes.

“There you go,” Rhea soothes, kissing along your jaw as two of her fingers tease your entrance, circling slowly. “I’ve got you. Let me take care of you darlin.” The nickname drips from her lips as richly sweet as the feeling coiling in your core. You surrender utterly, every muscle in your body going lax against her. You trust her completely — with your body, with your heart, with this moment.

She slides one long finger inside you and you both gasp. Even with the water easing the way, the sensation is intense. She doesn’t rush it, giving you time to adjust as she curls that finger inside sends sparks flying behind your eyelids. Your head falls back on her shoulder, and she turns to capture your parted lips with her own. The kiss is slow and consuming. You taste salt on her mouth, taste the faint mint of the tea you both had after dinner, taste a hunger that matches your own. Her tongue finds yours in a languid dance, and you moan into her mouth when she adds a second finger inside you. Your leg around her trembles, supported firmly by her thigh, and your joined hands under the water clutch each other desperately.

The night folds itself around you — the susurrus of waves, the distant cry of a night gull, the shimmering moonlight — all of it blurs as Rhea steadily works you open. The pleasure she builds in you is deep and tidal, like the ocean itself. Her thumb finds your swollen clit and begins to rub in slow, deliberate circles that make you keen against her lips. She swallows each of your soft cries with gentle kisses, murmuring praise: “That’s it, love… I know it’s good… I’ve got you… let it happen.” Her fingers curl inside you just right, pressing on that spot that makes your toes curl into the water. Heat licks up your spine, your body tensing as the wave of release draws near.

You break the kiss, gasping for air. “Rhea— I’m…” is all you manage. Your voice is thin, trembling with need.

“I know,” she whispers, forehead resting against yours now. Her dark eyes are locked on your face, observing every flicker of pleasure that crosses it. “I can feel it. Come for me, sweetheart.” The command in her voice — gentle, encouraging, yet unquestionably in control — is all you need to tumble over the edge.

Your climax crashes over you like a sudden wave. You cry out, the sound lost to the open air as your body jerks in her arms. Rhea holds you tightly, anchoring you against the storm of bliss. Your inner walls clench around her fingers; she groans at the sensation but keeps them moving, drawing out your pleasure, coaxing you through every pulse of ecstasy. Stars dance behind your closed eyelids. You’re distantly aware of your fingernails digging into the back of her hand (the one still intertwined with yours), and you loosen your grip, but she only squeezes your hand harder, letting you ground yourself in her.

“Good girl,” Rhea murmurs as aftershocks ripple through you, making you shiver. She slowly stills her hand, buried deep between your thighs, and holds you as you come down. You’re breathing hard, body limp and sated. If not for her firm embrace, you’re sure you’d slip under the water, boneless and spent. Rhea presses feather-light kisses along your hairline and temple, murmuring soft, sweet things you can barely process but feel all the same: praises, soothing sounds, your name mixed in with little endearments. You blink your eyes open finally, and realize they’re stinging with tears — not of sadness, but overwhelmed emotion. Perhaps it’s the intensity of it all: the setting, the tenderness, the way she cherishes you. It’s almost too much, in the best way.

Rhea gently withdraws her fingers, eliciting a final aftershock quiver from you. She unwraps your leg from her thigh and turns you in her arms so you’re facing her now. Your knees feel weak, so you cling to her shoulders, and she supports your weight without question. “You okay?” she asks softly, peering at you in concern when she sees the shine in your eyes. Her strong hands slide up and down your back reassuringly.

You answer by leaning in and kissing her — a tender, grateful kiss. Your lips still tremble against hers, but you pour everything you feel into it: Yes, I’m okay. More than okay. That was incredible. You’re incredible. She seems to understand. When you break apart, both of you smiling, you rest your forehead against hers.

A breeze skims over the water’s surface, stirring a slight chill now that your passion has warmed and spent itself. You shiver, and Rhea immediately rubs her hands briskly over your arms. “Let’s get you warmed up,” she says. Ever the protector, she won’t have you catching cold on her watch. You nod. As blissful as the water is, your body is cooling and starting to crave a soft towel and Rhea’s even warmer embrace on dry land.

You tilt your face up to look at Rhea. Her gaze is on the horizon now, where the moonlight dances on the water. Her profile, lit softly in silver, is peaceful. Loose strands of her dark hair stick to her cheek and forehead. Gently, you reach up and brush them back. She turns her attention to you, and the smile that curves her lips is pure adoration. Your heart gives a little flip; you don’t think you’ll ever get used to being on the receiving end of such a devoted look.

Rhea touches your cheek, tucking a damp lock of your hair behind your ear. “How’re you feeling my love?” she asks quietly. The question is laced with meaning — physically, emotionally — all of it. Her other arm stays wrapped securely around your waist, as if even now she can’t bear to let you drift an inch away.

You snuggle closer, covering her hand on your cheek with your own. “Perfect,” you say, and you mean it wholly. Your limbs are pleasantly heavy, your heart light. “Maybe a little tired,” you add with a soft laugh.

Rhea grins. “I wore you out, did I?” There’s a hint of smugness in her voice. You roll your eyes playfully and pinch her side in retaliation. She squirms with a chuckle, then retaliates by kissing the tip of your nose.

“You sure know how to show a girl a good time,” you quip, feigning lightness, but there’s unmistakable sincerity beneath it.

“Anytime you need a midnight swim…” Rhea winks. Then she grows a touch more serious, brushing the pad of her thumb over your cheekbone. Her eyes search yours as if making sure you truly are alright, that you’re happy. Whatever she sees in your face makes her expression soften even more. Her next words come out a bit quieter: “I love you.” It’s the first time she’s said it out loud. Your heart seems to stop and then surge with joy in your chest.

You feel your eyes burn again, and you bite your lip, smiling so wide it almost hurts. “I love you too, Rhea,” you whisper. Saying it feels like finally exhaling a breath you’d been holding for days. She lets out a little content sound — halfway between a laugh and a sigh of relief — and pulls you even tighter against her.

You rest your head on her shoulder, tucking under her chin once more. Her embrace is your safe harbor; you could stay here forever, listening to the steady beat of her heart beneath her damp skin. After a moment, you mumble, “We should probably head back soon…” You think of the cozy house down the road, of dry clothes and the bed that surely misses you both. Yet you make no move to get up just yet. Neither does she. “Stay over tonight?”

“Couldn’t make me go home tonight if you tried,” Rhea replies. She isn’t ready to let this moment go, not quite yet. And truth be told, neither are you. One of the towels has slipped from her shoulder, but she doesn’t seem to notice the night air anymore. She just rubs warmth into you, up and down, her palms broad and soothing. You’re exhausted and blissed out, and if you’re not careful, you might actually fall asleep right here in Rhea’s arms on the sand. Not the worst fate, you think with a smile.

Rhea tilts her head and presses a lingering kiss to your hair. Her lips move against your crown as she speaks, voice velvety and earnest: “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.” It’s as if she sensed the last flicker of insecurity in your heart and needed to banish it. Perhaps she’s reassuring herself too — that this is real, that neither of you is dreaming.

Your throat tightens with emotion at her words. You slide your arms around her waist beneath her towel, holding on as if to silently say me neither. A gentle night breeze ruffles the edges of the towels around you, cocooning the scent of salt and sand and her. You let your eyes drift closed, knowing that when you open them, Rhea will still be here.

Wrapped in Rhea’s embrace under the moon’s tender vigil, you have never felt more safe or more loved. The two of you remain curled together on the shore, whispering the kind of sweet, quiet promises that only midnight and the ocean will ever know. In the morning, the sun will rise on a new day — but for now, time is suspended for you and the woman who holds your heart, each of you secure in the knowledge that neither is going anywhere without the other.

—

Rhea stands barefoot in the soft hush of dawn, hands wrapped around a steaming mug as she leans against the kitchen counter. Through the open window of your coastal cottage drifts the scent of the sea, salty and cool, mingling with the rich aroma of fresh coffee. She smirks as if she can still see the two of you wading last night, your head thrown back against her shoulder. Pale golden light spills in with the sunrise, painting long stripes across the wooden floor and warming Rhea’s skin. In the quiet, she allows herself a rare moment of stillness. Her dark lashes flutter with each slow blink as she gazes over the rim of her mug to where you lie sleeping.

You’re curled up on the couch just a few steps away, tangled in the sheets the two of you pulled from the bed at some point in the night to “watch a movie before bed” knowing full well you wouldn’t be getting back up. One bare shoulder peeks out from the linen folds, gilded by the early sunlight. Your face is half-hidden by a tumble of hair, and your lips are parted in the gentlest sigh with each sleeping breath. Rhea’s chest tightens at the sight. She watches you like a secret she doesn’t want anyone else to find, utterly mesmerized by how serene you look in this fragile sliver of morning. In this light, you are all soft curves and warm glow, and God, Rhea thinks, you’re beautiful.

The cottage is still except for the quiet tick of the old clock on the mantel and the faint crash of distant waves outside. Last night’s bouquet of crimson roses sits in a vase on the kitchen table, perfuming the air with a sweet, floral note beneath the smell of coffee. Beside it, two empty champagne flutes catch the dawn light, a leftover sparkle from the celebration you shared. A pair of your heels and a little black purse lie discarded near the couch, their glittering details now still and calm after the excitement of yesterday. Each detail of the room feels sacred to Rhea—the scattered evidence of laughter and passion, of you in her life. She rolls her sore shoulders and smirks to herself at the dull, pleasant ache in her muscles. It’s the kind of ache that has nothing to do with her usual workouts or the long hours at her shop, and everything to do with how close the two of you were last night. A flush of pride and tenderness warms her from the inside out.

Rhea takes a slow sip of coffee, trying not to make a sound. The strong, dark roast is laced with a drop of honey—your preferred way to sweeten it, she’s learned. The taste makes her smile against the rim of the mug. This is what she never knew she needed: a quiet morning bathed in gold, the taste of salt and honey in the air, and you—you still here, dreaming peacefully after a night in her arms. She can hardly believe she gets to have this. A part of her is afraid to blink, worried the entire scene might vanish if she does and she’ll wake up surrounded by the floating dust of her shop with a home she can’t fill. So she keeps her eyes on you, memorizing every detail: the way the sunlight turns your hair into a tousled halo, the gentle rise and fall of your blanketed form, the subtle twitch of your fingers as you begin to stir. Rhea wanted to kiss you so bad in that moment that it’s a physical ache—an ache deeper than muscle, nestled somewhere in her heart. She chews the inside of her cheek, suppressing the urge to crawl back into those sheets with you and press her lips to every inch of your sun-kissed skin. Not yet, she tells herself. Let her sleep a little longer. Still, her pulse quickens at the thought.

Quietly, Rhea sets her mug down. The porcelain clink is barely audible, but her eyes dart to you to make sure you haven’t woken. You only snuggle deeper into the pillow with a soft murmur, and Rhea’s lips curve into a gentle grin. Mine, she thinks, the word reverberating like a prayer. It surprises her, how fiercely true it feels. She steps closer, drawn helplessly to your side. The floorboards are cool under her feet as she moves carefully avoiding the creaky boards, but the sunlight spilling through the sheer curtains guides her path. Rhea sinks down to a crouch beside the couch, bringing herself level with you. With a careful hand, she adjusts the sheet to cover your shoulder where the morning breeze had kissed it chilled. Her fingertips can’t resist brushing lightly over your bare skin as she does—just a whisper of a touch, tracing the line of your shoulder to the curve of your arm. Your skin is warm and impossibly soft under her thumb. Rhea’s throat tightens with affection so acute it almost hurts. In sleep, you subconsciously lean into her touch, and she feels her heart slip a beat.

Her gaze falls to your hand resting just above the blanket’s edge. In the pearly light, she notices the way your fingers are curled loosely, palm turned up as if waiting to be held. There’s a faint pink mark on your ring finger— a scratch from moving a book shelf that had it out for you. She lifts your hand gently, her much larger hand enveloping yours, and with her thumb she tenderly smooths over that little mark on your ring finger. What would it be like… The thought unfurls before she can stop it. What would it be like to actually slide a ring onto that finger one day? Her ring. A promise of forever.

Rhea swallows, suddenly feeling the rapid thud of her heartbeat in her ears. The idea strikes her both as wildly premature and absolutely, undeniably right. A swell of emotion rises in her chest—hope, love, and a tiny seed of fear all tangled together. She pictures it for a split second: you in front of her, eyes wide and shining with tears of joy as she asks you the question that’s now echoing in her own mind. She can almost see a golden band catching the light on your hand, feel the way it would seal the two of you together. The image is so beautiful it terrifies her. Rhea shakes her head softly, as if to clear the daydream. It’s far too soon to be thinking like this… isn’t it? She brushes the thought away hastily, blowing out a slow breath. Yet it stays—stubborn and sweet—hovering at the edges of her mind like the scent of honey that lingers in the air. She leans her forehead against the back of the couch for a moment, closing her eyes. Her fingers are still entwined gently with yours, and she gives your hand a delicate squeeze, grounding herself in the present: you’re here, in front of her, warm and safe now. That’s what matters this morning, she tells herself.

Your eyelashes flutter against your cheeks, and Rhea senses the subtle shift in your breathing as you begin to wake. She lifts her head, watching intently as your eyes slant open, soft and bleary with sleep. For a heartbeat, you look confused—until you spot her. Rhea’s face is inches from yours, a tender smile already on her lips. Good morning, she had planned to say, but the words catch in her throat at the way you gaze at her. A slow, dreamy smile spreads across your face, and Rhea’s world tips sideways. How is it possible that you can look at her like that—as if she is the sunrise?

“Mornin’, sleepyhead,” Rhea finally whispers, her voice low and husky from the quiet. She reaches up to brush a stray lock of hair from your face, tucking it gently behind your ear. The pad of her thumb caresses your cheek in the aftermath, savoring the heat blooming there. You nuzzle into her touch like it’s the most natural thing in the world, a contented little hum escaping you. The sound makes Rhea’s heart do a slow flip.

You begin to push yourself up, intending to sit or reach for her, but Rhea is quicker. With a soft growl of disapproval—more a rumble in her chest than a truly stern sound—she presses her palm lightly against your shoulder to keep you down. “Ah, ah,” she chides gently. “Stay right there. I’ve got you.” There’s a playful authority in her tone, a gentle dominance that makes your pulse quicken beneath her hand. You relent with a quiet laugh, sinking back into the cushions. Rhea hovers over you, her dark hair falling forward a bit, her eyes searching yours. In them, you find only adoration and a hint of that confident mischief you love so dearly.

Satisfied that you’re not going anywhere, Rhea lets her hand drift from your shoulder to cradle the side of your neck. Her thumb traces the outline of a faint bruise she left just below your collarbone—a tiny mark from last night’s passion that deepens her smug smile. “How’d you sleep, darling?” she murmurs. The endearment slips out without a second thought; in the golden quiet of this morning, it feels as natural as breathing. You bite your lip, pretending to consider, and Rhea arches an eyebrow, waiting. “Perfect,” you whisper at last, one of your hands coming up to rest over the strong hand she cups at your neck. Your fingers can’t even circle her wrist completely—she’s that much bigger—but you squeeze her hand in return. “Though waking up to you is the best part.”

Rhea’s breath hitches. She’s never been one to blush, not outwardly, but your words send warmth flooding through her that has nothing to do with the sunlight. “Yeah?” she rasps softly. Her thumb sweeps along the line of your jaw now, a reverent, lazy stroke. “Lucky me.” There’s a rough honesty in her tone, cracking just slightly at the edges with emotion. You see it in her eyes: Rhea is marveling at this as much as you are. The formidable, confident woman who usually greets the world with a smirk and raised chin is now looking at you like you hung the stars. It makes your chest ache. You tug gently at her hand, guiding her down toward you. “C’mere,” you whisper. It’s as much an invitation as it is a plea.

Rhea doesn’t need to be asked twice. She yields, lowering herself until her weight is partially against you, half beside and half atop, careful not to crush you against the cushions. The couch dips under her as she shifts, one arm slipping beneath your shoulders to pull you close. The sheet twists between your bodies, but neither of you care. All you feel is the warmth of her bare skin where it meets yours and the steady thump of her heart as she presses her chest to yours. Rhea’s face hovers above yours for a deliciously tense moment. She studies you, her green eyes flickering over your features—the curve of your lips, the blush high on your cheeks, the way your own eyes flutter shut in anticipation. She realizes she’s smiling, a slow, almost predatory grin at how eager you are for her kiss. God, I love you, she thinks, the words blazing through her like sunlight. Her hand at your jaw tilts your face up just so, holding you exactly where she wants you. And then Rhea kisses you.

It’s a gentle kiss at first—her lips brushing yours in a soft, searching caress. You taste coffee and sweetness on her mouth, and underneath that, something uniquely Rhea. A quiet sound escapes you, and that’s all the encouragement Rhea needs. She deepens the kiss, pressure growing just enough to make your toes curl under the sheets. Her dominance is subtle but sure: she captures your lower lip between hers, suckling lightly in a way that makes you gasp. Her arm around you tightens, keeping you firmly against her as she claims your mouth with slow, deliberate passion. Each move is unhurried, savoring. She’s kissing you like she has all the time in the world, like she plans to still be kissing you when the sun is high and even when it sets again. And you, blissfully caged in her embrace, wouldn’t dream of stopping her.

When Rhea finally pulls back, it’s only because you’re both breathless. She presses one more small kiss to the corner of your mouth, an almost shy gesture that contrasts with the heat that just passed between you. Your eyes flutter open to find her gazing at you, face close and haloed by the morning glow. Neither of you speaks for a moment. Foreheads touch, noses brushing in an intimate nuzzle. You feel her fingertips drawing light circles on your hip now, just above where the sheet covers you, a promise of affection with no rush for more. This quiet is comfortable—golden and sweet—filled only with the faraway call of gulls outside and the shared rhythm of your breathing.

Rhea’s mind drifts, as it has a habit of doing when she’s this close to you. She remembers the thought that struck her minutes ago, the one she tried to dismiss. With you warm and pliant in her arms, your lips still tingling on hers, it returns now with full force: forever. A lifetime of mornings just like this one. Waking up to your sleepy smile and the soft rasp of your voice. Bringing you coffee in bed and stealing kisses that taste of salt air and honey. Slipping a ring onto your finger that glints as bright as the sunrise—making you hers in every possible way. The intensity of that longing makes her tremble, just slightly. Instinctively, she holds you closer, as if anchoring herself to the present moment. She’s not ready to voice any of this, not yet. It’s too new, too sacred a dream to put into words. But as you cradle Rhea’s face between your hands and kiss her once more—sweet and light, a silent I love you—she knows the idea isn’t leaving her. It nestles itself into her heart, turning fear into a gentle anticipation.

“Hungry?” Rhea asks softly, her lips curving against yours in a playful smile. There’s a rasp of emotion still in her voice, but also a brightness now—a quiet excitement for the day ahead. You grin, recognizing the spark in her eyes. Whether she means for breakfast or for something else entirely, you’re not sure, but either way you nod. Mmhmm. Your stomach flutters as Rhea eases back, rising to her full height and scooping you up with ridiculous ease. You squeal in surprise, arms looping around her neck on instinct. She chuckles, low and pleased, cradling you against her chest as if you weigh nothing. “I’ve got you,” she repeats, and the confidence in her tone makes your cheeks warm. Standing tall in the soft morning light, Rhea holds you like a bride in one arm while grabbing the forgotten coffee mug with the other hand. The picture of domestic bliss with a touch of her playful strength—it makes you laugh in pure delight.

She carries you the few steps back into the kitchen area. Gently, she perches you on the counter, and you gasp at the cool marble against your thighs. Rhea smirks, stepping between your knees to shield you from the morning chill. Her hands find your waist, thumbs rubbing reassuring circles there. “Stay,” she commands softly, and you do—your legs dangling, arms still around her shoulders, utterly content to let her take care of everything.

For the next few minutes, you watch Rhea move about the tiny kitchen, refusing to let you lift a finger. She reheats the coffee and pours a second mug for you, adding just the right touch of honey the way you like in a pastel mug, its siblings still hidden in the cabinet with the rest of your ginormous mug collection. Every so often she glances back at you, and each time her eyes soften in a way that makes your heart flutter. Sunlight catches in her messy dark hair and dances over the tattoos that coil along her arms. There’s a small scratch on her back—your doing, from last night—that peeks out beneath the hem of the old band tee she’d thrown on. The sight of it makes you smile lazily, pride and affection welling up. Mine, you think, echoing her earlier sentiment, though neither of you speaks it aloud.

When the coffee is ready, Rhea returns to you. She hands you your mug, then wraps an arm around your back to steady you on the counter as she leans in to clink her cup softly against yours. “To us,” she says in a half-joking, half-tender toast. Her breath ghosts warm against your cheek. To this morning, her eyes seem to say. To every morning that might follow. You beam at her, nudging your mug against hers once more. “To us,” you echo, and take a careful sip. It’s perfect—hot and sweet, and exactly what you need.

Rhea watches you drink, her arm still secure around you. There’s a subtle pride in her gaze, as if making you happy is the most important job she’s ever had. You take another sip, then another, savoring the way the honeyed coffee spreads warmth through you. Outside, a golden sunbeam breaks through a passing cloud, flooding the kitchen in light. Dust motes dance around you both like tiny stars. Rhea squints slightly at the brightness, but she doesn’t move away; instead, she only tucks you closer into her side, sheltering you from the glare with her broad shoulder. The gesture is instinctive, protective—so Rhea. You bite your lip to hide a smile as you lean your head against her strong shoulder.

In the comfortable silence, Rhea’s thoughts wander once more. She realizes she isn’t scared anymore—not right now. The fears that nipped at her earlier have quieted, soothed by the simple reality of you here beside her, warm and content and hers. Maybe the future is uncertain. Maybe the idea of forever will always be a little frightening. But as Rhea presses a kiss to your temple and hears you sigh in bliss, she knows one thing with unwavering clarity: every bit of that future, every sunrise and salty breeze and slow kiss, she wants to share with you.

Her free hand finds yours atop the counter. Gently, she interlaces your fingers, her thumb brushing over that same ring finger once more. She smiles, a private, hopeful smile that you catch just a flicker of when you tilt your face up to hers. Someday, she thinks, heart swelling as you smile inquisitively back at her. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow—but someday, she’ll find the courage to ask. And if the answer is as golden and sweet as this morning, then Rhea knows it will be worth every ounce of daring.

For now, she has this moment, and that is enough. The two of you stay like that, wrapped up in each other’s warmth, sipping coffee in the quiet dawn. Outside, the ocean whispers against the shore, and the first gull cries out to announce the day. You rest your head on Rhea’s shoulder, and she turns to press her lips into your hair. Neither of you needs to speak. In the stillness, in the glowing light that turns both salt air and sweet honey into something sacred, Rhea holds you close and silently promises you everything. And as the morning sun climbs a little higher, she dares to imagine that promise shimmering on your finger one day—a secret dream, lingering like the taste of honey on her tongue, as enduring as the sea.

And later that day when you come bouncing out the bedroom in a white sundress ready to go visit Pearl in town you missed the way Rhea stumbled and growls to herself.

—

Rhea stepped cautiously through the door, ears filled by the distant hum of voices and gentle music. At first, the room seemed to be empty – just a soft glow of string lights and the faint scent of jasmine wafting through the air. It felt serene, almost ordinary, until you flicked on a switch and the lights fully revealed the gathered faces. “Surprise!” erupted in unison, and Rhea’s breath caught in her throat.

She froze a moment in the threshold, stunned. Around you, the warm glow of candles and fairy lights bathed the living room in golden softness. Rhea could hardly believe her eyes. There were flowers pinned up like confetti, an intricate banner overhead spelled out with her name in your handwriting, and an array of food laid out on the table – all her favorites.

Buttercream cupcakes with lavender petals, tiny quiches with thyme and goat cheese, a charcuterie board arranged in a sunflower pattern. Rhea could see the careful details: the cups with her monogram, her favorite records quietly spinning in the background, a low hum of music you had lined up – a gentle instrumental her mother used to play. Each element you had thought of. Each detail spoke to how deeply you knew her.

Her eyes found you across the room. You stood in the center of it all, wearing that warm smile that made her heart lurch. You were handing out glasses of sparkling grape juice to friends. You laughed as you met her stunned gaze, raising a hand in greeting. “Welcome, honored guest,” you teased softly, voice full of happiness. Rhea’s lips quivered into a grateful smile even as her eyes filled with tears.

Rhea’s world narrowed to this space you had created for her. She felt the gentle warmth of the string lights as they draped around the room like a protective cocoon. Music floated through the air – soft jazz, her secret love, which you had discovered. The scent of rosemary and lemon thyme from the appetizers mingled with her own perfume and the faint trace of something spicy she couldn’t quite place – was it you, or a favorite dish you’d included? Every sense told her that you had built this moment just for her.

She stepped in fully, crossing the threshold. Your eyes were warm, luminous. In an instant she was rushing across to you. Friends and acquaintances greeted her with hugs and claps on the shoulder as she passed. But there was only one who mattered to her right now, beating in her heart like a drum.

Her cheeks felt hot with emotion as she came to you, slipping her arms around your waist and letting you hold her in a fierce hug. “You—” was all she could manage at first. Over the noise and bright lights, she faintly heard you asking if she liked it, if she was okay. But her world had narrowed further until it was only you and her embrace.

Rhea pulled back slightly, hands on your chest, steadying herself. “You did all this for me?” she choked out, voice thick. You smiled and brushed a kiss to her hair. “Of course,” you murmured. “I wanted you to feel how much we all care. We love you.” Even as you said it, Rhea’s heart cracked open.

Tears spilled down the sides of her cheeks. She tried to wipe them away on her sleeve, but two of your gentle fingers covered her hand to halt the motion, giving her time. Instead, she pressed her lips to them, tasting salt mingled with the sweetest comfort. She couldn’t believe this was happening. Everyone here was happy and smiling at her, not pitying her like she had always expected on past birthdays. It was nearly overwhelming.

Rhea drew in a shaky breath, looking around at the gathering. Everyone was watching, eyes warm. The air was full of soft conversation and laughter. The sight should have made her retreat, the center of attention. But instead she felt like you had built an embrace around her with all these caring eyes, welcoming her home.

She saw people she admired, parts of her life, all here because of you. Even new acquaintances, friends made recently, had come just to celebrate. Some held glasses, raising them as she passed by with you. “To Rhea,” they cheered. A well-wisher handed her a little card, which she accepted with a trembling hand. She felt so seen in every glance, like each friend was a mirror showing her how they saw her – gentle, strong, worthy of joy. For the first time, she began to believe it herself.

Your hand found the small of her back, guiding her through the guests. You whispered, “Let me get you a drink,” and her throat tightened. It was a surprise party – meant to celebrate her – but you were always hers, too. The thought made her head swim with a kind of dizzy happiness, that she was yours as well in this carefully built world.

Rhea managed a few words of thanks to the helpers – “I love the cupcakes,” “Lavender is my favorite,” “Your playlist is perfect.” Each compliment you had earned came out haltingly as if stepping through cotton. Finally she said thanks to you, voice soft. “This is… the kindest, most beautiful thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

You smiled at that, pride shining in your eyes. “You deserve it, more than anyone,” you said quietly. Rhea could feel heat rising in her chest. Deserve? She had always thought so little of what she deserved.

Careful not to break the spell, you guided her gently to a quiet alcove at the back of the room. Rhea’s fingers twined instinctively into yours as you moved away, leaving the circle of guests behind. You weren’t leaving the party entirely – just taking a breath together.

Outside on the small balcony, string lights draped overhead like a miniature Milky Way. The night was warm, still. In the distance, the city lights shimmered and the buzz of the party inside was a muffled glow below. The air smelled faintly of the magnolia tree by the railing, and something earthy from the pot of basil by the sliding door.

You quietly closed the door behind the two of you. Rhea’s senses shifted. The world felt smaller – focused solely on the two of you now. The din of celebration was still there, a comforting murmur through the glass, but this porch was your private sky, your own little world.

Rhea’s not good at this part—receiving. Holding soft things without crushing them. But the ache in her chest when you laugh? When you blush? When you look at her like this moment might be your favorite of the whole night?

It’s unbearable.

It’s perfect.

It’s going to destroy her.

“You okay?” you murmur, stepping closer, voice low. Private.

She nods.

Then shakes her head.

Then reaches out and drags you in by the waistband of your dress, hands firm, grip unrelenting, until your knees knock into hers and your glass clinks against the deck railing.

“Ree?” you breathe.

Her eyes are dark, unreadable. Her voice is lower than it’s been all night.

“You did all this… for me?”

You smile. Tilt your head. “Of course I did.”

No hesitation. No agenda.

Just you.

Rhea doesn’t even mean to pull you in harder. Doesn’t mean to press her mouth to yours like she’s starving. But it happens anyway. Because suddenly her hands are on your hips, her thigh sliding between yours, and you’re already gasping into her kiss like she’s the only thing keeping you tethered.

You let her take the glass from your hand. Set it on the railing. Your fingers thread into her damp curls, still kissed with sea salt from earlier.

She kisses you deeper. Slower.

“Get on.”

You blink, lips parted, heart stumbling in your chest. “Here?”

A nod. A command. Her voice velvet and heat. “Now.”

And you do.

You straddle her thigh slowly, the thick denim rough against the softness between your legs, the pressure immediate. Her hands anchor you there, one gripping your waist, the other trailing up your back beneath the hem of your sweater.

“Atta girl,” she murmurs, proud and possessive and just a little rough. “Take what you need.”

You rock once.

“It’s your birthday yknow,” You remind her, that the night is about supposed to be about her, her happiness, her pleasure. She growls at you like it forced its way from her ribcage and her hands come to hold your hips tightly.

“I know,” she breathes like she’s the one riding watching you, “so give me the gift I want,”

And she watches you unravel.

Your mouth drops open. Your hands find her shoulders for balance. Her thigh flexes beneath you, firm and sure, grinding up as you move. She keeps you steady, guides your rhythm, breathes your name like worship. Like threat.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” she growls against your jaw. “Look at you. Fuck.”

The sounds of the party keep on below. No one knows you’re here—panting against her neck, riding her thigh like it’s the only thing in the world. Your body’s soft, your moans are sweeter than any song the speakers could play.

She presses her mouth to your ear.

“Think I’d let anyone else see you like this?” she whispers. “No, baby. You’re mine.”

Your breath shudders. Your hips stutter. You cling to her like the night’s too big without her touch.

“Good girl,” she murmurs. “There you go. That’s it. Make a mess on me. Come for me, baby. Come now.”

And you do.

With a quiet cry, with your face buried in her neck, with your whole body trembling. You come undone, completely, absolutely hers.

Rhea kisses your temple, your cheek, your lips. Soft now. Gentle. Her arms wrap tight around you, holding you through the aftershocks, through the quiet.

The wind lifts the edge of your sweater. The stars are visible overhead. And from here, the party feels miles away.

When you pull back, breathless and glowing, she brushes your hair behind your ear and says, low:

“Thank you for tonight.”

You smile, eyes soft.

“Happy to make you feel loved,” you whisper.

And she kisses you again.

Because you do.

And she is.

—

The house smells like lemons and margarita rim and you.

Sunlight cuts through the kitchen window in slanted beams, catching on motes of dust and the edges of bubbles floating from the sink. You’re barefoot, of course—always barefoot—and half-drenched in soap suds, your hair twisted up, an old tank of hers hanging loose off one shoulder like it doesn’t belong to anyone anymore, like it was always meant for you.

You’re supposed to be cleaning.

Rhea’s supposed to be helping.

Instead, she leans in the doorway with her arms crossed, hips tilted, watching you slide half across the tile in a way that’s more dance than chore. having far too much fun for someone who did too many jello shots last night. You’ve got a sponge in one hand, your other arm flung wide for balance as you spin once, laughing at your own almost-fall.

“You’re gonna bust your ass,” Rhea calls, voice low, teasing. Still hoarse from a night of singing, sipping and then sleep.

You glance over your shoulder, grinning. “Not if I stick the landing.”

“You’re not wearing socks. It’s a health hazard.”

“Says the woman who climbed a roof barefoot to hang string lights.” Rhea doesn’t respond right away. She just watches.

God, you look like summer. Like joy with a pulse, like warmth people in cold places yearn for. Like the kind of reckless that makes her want to drop everything she’s holding and follow you anywhere.

She walks in slowly, hands dragging through her hair, pretending to be more composed than she is. You’re singing now—half real, half humming—words drifting in and out like you’re too full of light to bother catching all of them.

The floor is slick with soap. A trail of bubbles streaks from the sink to the hallway. One of the dish towels is soaked and abandoned across the dining chair like it gave up halfway through the job.

“You’re a menace,” Rhea says, grabbing another towel to mop at the counter.

You don’t answer.

You slide straight up behind her and wrap your arms around her waist, wet tank sticking to her shirt, bare legs against denim, your mouth pressing a quick kiss between her shoulder blades.

“Bite me,” you murmur.

And that’s how she knows she’s lost.

Rhea turns around, towel still in one hand. She doesn’t even try to keep a straight face. “Oh, you wanna play that game, do you?”

You raise both brows, eyes sparkling. “What game?”

She lunges before you can run.

You shriek—loud and delighted—and dart around the island just in time to dodge her grab. But she’s fast. And tall. And determined. You barely make it past the fridge before her arms wrap around your waist and lift you straight off the ground like you weigh nothing.

Your laughter is breathless. Wrecked. Glorious.

“Rhea!” you yelp, kicking slightly, hands grabbing her shoulders. “Put me down, the floor’s—”

She spins you once, then does exactly that—sets you down right in the middle of the soap-slicked tiles.

And you immediately slip.

But Rhea’s hands are still on you, catching you before you fall, holding you steady like she always does. You’re both breathless now, tangled in the middle of a half-clean kitchen with music still playing and the smell of citrus and lavender curling around the open windows.

Your hands rest on her chest, your forehead pressed against her collarbone. Your laughter slows.

“You okay?” she murmurs, brushing your hair back with soap-wet fingers.

You nod, still grinning. “Perfect.”

“Even with the soap floor and the near-death experience?”

“Especially because of those.”

Rhea leans down and kisses your cheek. Then your jaw. Then the tip of your nose.

“You,” she murmurs, “are absolute chaos.”

“And you,” you say, tilting your head to meet her gaze, “are smiling more than I’ve ever seen you.”

She softens instantly.

Because it’s true.

Because you said it like a gift, not a compliment.

And she wants to earn it every day for the rest of her life.

You’re still tangled up when you tug at the edge of her shirt, wrinkling it more than the washing machine ever will.

“You know this means we have to re-mop, right?”

Rhea groans. “Unless…”

“Unless?”

“…We just make it worse.”

And then she’s dragging you down with her—right into the mess you both made.

You squeal as your knees hit the wet tile, as her body presses over yours, laughter and kisses mixing into something that has nothing to do with chores anymore. Just soapy kisses. Damp tank tops. Hands sliding over skin.

The floor never gets finished.

But Rhea doesn’t care.

Because your smile is the only thing in the house worth polishing.

—

The bell above the surf shop door jingled softly as you stepped inside, the familiar scent of salt, cedar, and sun-warmed resin enveloping you. The late afternoon light streamed through the large front windows, casting golden patterns on the wooden floor.

Rhea was at her workbench, focused intently on sanding the curve of a new board. Her hands moved with practiced precision, muscles flexing beneath her tank top as she worked. She looked up at the sound of the bell, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

“Hey, you,” she greeted, brushing a strand of hair from her face, leaving a smudge of dust on her cheek.

“Hey,” you replied, crossing the room to press a quick kiss to her cheek. “Thought I’d keep you company while you finish up.”

“Always welcome,” she said, her eyes softening as she looked at you.

You wandered around the shop, admiring the rows of surfboards in various stages of completion, the tools neatly arranged on the walls, and the sunlight dancing across the metal surfaces. One particular beam of light caught your eye, reflecting brilliantly off a set of sharp shaping tools.

Drawn by the shimmering light, you reached out, fingers hovering just above the polished metal.

“Careful!” Rhea’s voice rang out, sharp with concern.

You jumped, turning to see her striding toward you, her expression a mix of exasperation and worry.

“Why do you insist on injuring yourself?” she asked, gently pulling your hand away from the tools.

“The light was reflecting all cool,” you explained, a sheepish grin on your face.

Rhea sighed, resting her forehead against your shoulder. “What are you, some kind of bewitched crow?” she mumbled, her voice muffled. “Always chasing shiny things.”

You laughed, wrapping your arms around her. “Maybe I am. But you’re the shiniest thing in here.”

She looked up at you, eyes narrowing playfully. “Flattery won’t save you next time.”

“Noted,” you said, leaning in to kiss the tip of her nose.

Rhea chuckled, pulling you closer. “Come on. Let’s get you a safer distraction.”

She led you to a cozy corner of the shop, where a small couch and a stack of surf magazines awaited. As she returned to her workbench, you settled in, content to watch her work.

—

The sun hung high in the sky, casting a warm glow over the backyard garden. Rhea stood among the rows of blooming flowers and thriving vegetables, her hands covered in soil as she tended to the plants. The scent of lavender and rosemary filled the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of freshly turned soil.

You emerged from the house, carrying a tray with two glasses of iced tea, condensation dripping down the sides. “Thought you could use a break,” you said, offering her a glass.

Rhea took it with a grateful smile, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “You’re a lifesaver.”

You sipped your tea, surveying the garden. “It’s looking amazing. You’ve really outdone yourself.”

She chuckled, taking a seat on the edge of a raised bed. “Couldn’t have done it without your help.”

You sat beside her, letting the sun warm your skin. “Remember when we first started this garden? We had no idea what we were doing.”

Rhea laughed, the sound rich and full of joy. “We planted tomatoes in the shade and wondered why they didn’t grow.”

You grinned. “We’ve come a long way.”

After finishing your drinks, you both returned to the garden, working side by side. You weeded the flower beds while Rhea pruned the rose bushes, occasionally stealing glances at each other and sharing smiles.

As the afternoon wore on, you found yourself near the hose, a mischievous idea forming. You picked it up and sprayed a gentle stream of water in Rhea’s direction.

She yelped, turning to face you with a mock glare. “Oh, it’s on now.”

Before you knew it, a full-blown water fight had erupted, laughter echoing through the garden as you chased each other around, getting soaked in the process.

Eventually, you both collapsed onto the grass, breathless and dripping wet. Rhea turned to you, her eyes shining with happiness. “I love you, you know.”

You reached out, intertwining your fingers with hers. “I love you too.”

—

The sun’s barely cleared the roofline when you catch her around the waist a small whine leaving you.

Your arms loop slow, deliberate, just above the hem of her tank. Warm palms under cotton. Fingertips against bare ribs. She’d be lying if she said it didn’t wreck her a little, the way you always know exactly how to melt her spine first thing in the morning.

“Babe,” she warns, voice low and scratchy with sleep. Her keys are in one hand. Her boots are laced. She’s technically five minutes late already. “I gotta go.”

You hum into the back of her shoulder, ignoring her completely. “Are you sure you don’t need help sanding things?”

Rhea turns just enough to glance down at you—your cheek against her back, one eye squinting up like maybe she’ll say yes just to keep you close. You’re in her shirt again. It hangs off one shoulder, too soft to handle. Your legs are bare. She curses under her breath and plants her feet firmer.

“You’re a menace,” she says.

“I’m a muse,” you correct.

“Menace muse.”

You laugh—light and muffled against her skin. “Can I come with you?”

“You said you were painting today.”

“I changed my mind.”

“You were excited last night.”

“Now I’m excited about you.”

Rhea groans. Actually groans. Lets her head fall back with theatrical agony. “Why do you do this when I have to leave?”

“Because it works.”

She should go. She should pull away. But your hands slip under her shirt just a little, your palms flat over her stomach, and she sways into it without thinking. Her chest rises on a sigh. One of your thumbs brushes the scar near her ribs and she has to breathe through her teeth.

“Alright, Picasso,” she says, voice softer now. “What if I bring your paints across the lawn later? Set you up in the back corner of the shop while I work on boards?”

You perk up instantly. “With the radio and the kettle?”

“Sure.”

“And the snack shelf?”

“Don’t push it.”

You lean into her side now, eyes closing like this is the exact spot you belong. “We’d be very productive.”

“You’d be distracting.”

“You like that.”

She grins—can’t help it. Presses a kiss into your hair, quick and grounding. But you don’t let go. And she… doesn’t really want you to.

“Should I set you up a studio upstairs even though you’re across the lawn?” The words slip out casually. Too casually. She’s already halfway through tying the strings of her hoodie when you freeze against her back.

You pull away just enough to squint up at her.

“That space barely fits your bed and dresser,” you say slowly, like you’re unsure if this is a bit. “It’s not going to fit studio stuff, I have like 4 different easels,”

Rhea lifts a brow.

“Okay,” she says, like it’s obvious. “But what if my bedroom stuff wasn’t there?”

The silence hits different this time.

Your lips part. Then close. Then part again like you’re trying to keep up with what she’s just implied—but your heartbeat’s already giving you away.

“Where are you gonna sleep, babe?” you ask, not teasing now. Just quiet. A little unsteady. She shrugs. Turns to face you fully. Her hand comes to rest low on your hip.

“Here,” she says. “With you.”

The back door creaks a little in the wind. The kettle inside the house clicks off. Somewhere down the road, a gull cries sharp and far away.

But in this moment—it’s just you and her. Your wide eyes. Her thundering pulse. And the wordless stretch of morning light between two bodies that already live like they belong together.

You’re still blinking at her. Still stunned.

So she cups your cheek.

Leans in.

And murmurs against your mouth:

“Think about it. I’ve already got the keys.”

—

It’s nearly closing when the bell over the surf shop door jingles, and Rhea doesn’t bother looking up. She’s wrist-deep in polishing wax, sleeves shoved up, sweat glinting at her temples. “Jay,” she calls without looking. “If this is about your board again, I’m filing for custody.”

“I’d like partial visitation rights,” he replies easily.

That earns a grin—crooked, tired. “You’re worse than the tourists.”

Jay shrugs as he crosses to the workbench. “Not my fault I like things smooth.”

Rhea wipes her hands on a rag. “What do you need, wax boy?”

He leans on the counter. “Your girlfriend said you needed help moving a dresser.”

That makes her still. Just for a second. “She did?”

“Yeah. She stopped by the café this morning. Said something about making space today and needing an extra hand “obscenely heacy” with furniture.” He tells her as if it’s just a regular occurrence, air quotes and all.

Rhea blinks. Her mouth opens. Closes.

Jay arches a brow. “You didn’t know?”

“No,” she says. “I—no.”

But she’s already moving, heart thudding hard, pulling the rag from her waistband and tossing it aside. She grabs her keys off the hook by the door without another word.

“So… is that a yes or no on the wax?!��

Jay watches the door bounce on its hinge a couple times, the chimes swinging in the quiet. He glances around the shop, an extra pink mug on the back counter next to her black one, there’s a new throw blanket on the worn sofa, pencils and broken charcoal scattered on the side table. He smiles softly and grabs a post it from behind the small cash counter.

‘Down to help when you’re done being love birds, call me- J’

She’s already halfway across the lawn when she sees the light on in your bedroom window. Your bedroom. Her breath catches.

You’re inside—back to the door, hair pinned up with half a pencil, wearing cutoff sweats and one of her old tanks. You’re dragging a chair toward the corner of the room, eyebrows drawn in concentration.

She knocks once.

You turn.

“Oh,” you breathe with a content smile. “Hey, I was gonna text—”But she steps inside without waiting. Her voice is quiet. Uneven.

“Jay said I needed help moving a dresser?”

You nod, already tagging her to the centre of the room with you. “Your plants can go there,” you say, pointing to the patch of sun-soaked floor beside the window. “I already cleared half the closet.”

Rhea stares at you.

Not like she’s surprised.

Like she’s breathless.

“You want me here?”

“You’ve been here, Rhea.” And that’s all it takes. She kisses you before the chair’s moved, before you finish clearing her bedside table and adding an extra hamper.

Hands still rough from work, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw like she’s checking if you’re real. You melt into it easily, instinctively, fingers looping around the hem of her shirt like you always knew this was the moment it would happen. Her mouth moves against yours with that slow intensity she saves for things she can’t quite say yet. Gratitude. Relief. Want.

When she pulls back, her forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing like you just made it through a storm.

“You cleared half the closet,” she murmurs.

You smile. “Well, I use the other half.”

Her chest lifts in a small, stunned laugh, eyes still closed.

“And the dresser?” she asks.

You nod toward the far wall. “It's shitty. I figured we could use it at the shop but I didn’t want to scratch the floors.” Something in her flickers at that—gentle, sharp, familiar. The kind of emotion she’s spent most of her life avoiding because it meant losing control. But now it just means she gets to keep something. Someone.

You.

“God,” she says, voice quiet, “you really want this.”

You step back just enough to take her in fully. The sweat-damp collar of her shirt. The sawdust still on her boots. The disbelief softening her mouth.

“Of course I do,” you say, tilting your head. “You asked me and I can’t find a single reason to say no,”

Rhea shakes her head once, slow. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “You’re gonna wreck me.”

You grin. “Little late for that.”

She groans, pulls you into a hug that lifts you slightly off your toes, then sets you back down like she’s claiming space with her body. One hand settles at the small of your back, the other tangling loosely in your hair.

And for a long moment, she just holds you.

No jokes. No teasing. No armor.

Just her.

Just here.

You whisper into the side of her neck, “Do you want to help me finish setting it up?”

She glances around the room. The opened drawers. The candle you’d lit an hour ago that smells like vanilla and driftwood. Her mug already in the sink from the night before. Her boots tucked near the back door.

Her mouth softens again, eyes almost reverent.

“No,” she says, dragging her thumb across your lower lip like a promise. “I want to lay you down in this bed and christen it as ours .”

And when she picks you up this time, you don’t stop her.

You just smile and whisper, “Welcome home.”

—

The morning was already warm by the time Rhea laced her shoes and hit the sand. Leaving you sleeping in the bed you now share with a soft kiss to your crown and a grumble about being safe on your part. Golden light spilled across the tide like a blanket still half-pulled over the ocean’s body. Her tank was damp with spray before she’d made it past the dunes, feet pounding steady along the shoreline, breath syncing with the rhythm of her stride.

It was a run she knew by heart now—soft earth near the waterline, her shadow long in the early sun, gulls flitting overhead and her thoughts slowly uncoiling. A way to burn through the thoughts she’s learning to leave behind, choosing to replace them with what you’re building for her, the images you’re painting behind her eye lids. But today—just past the curve near the jetty—something tore out of the dunes like a small hurricane.

Sand exploded.

Paws thundered.

And suddenly, a massive dog was barreling toward her.

Rhea skidded to a stop, heart jumping.

“Whoa—hey, easy!”

Too late.

He launched straight into her, a blur of grey and ears and uncoordinated limbs. Her knees buckled. They both went down in a whirl of salt and fur and sand.

The dog was enormous. Some kind of Great Dane mutt, with a wide chest, gangly legs, and seaweed stuck to one of his ears. Rhea braced her hands against his shoulders, laughing despite herself as he slathered a lick across her cheek and wagged his entire body with joy.

“Okay, okay! Jesus—you’re bloody heavy.”

No collar. No tags. Just wet fur, soulful eyes, and a tongue the size of a bath towel.

Rhea sat back in the sand, heart still racing as the dog flopped beside her with a groan like he’d just completed a marathon. His tail thumped in the wet sand. She looked around—nobody in sight. No distant voices calling a name. Just early sun, endless dunes, and one very pleased dog panting at her feet like she was the best thing he’d ever found.

“Great,” she muttered. “You’re lost, aren’t you?”

He sneezed in response and rolled onto his back.

Rhea sighed. Swiped the sand off her knees. Then leaned down and rubbed his belly because… well, he was there. And he clearly wasn’t leaving.

Fifteen minutes later, she’d searched up and down the beach. Nothing. No other runners. No beachgoers. No posters on the lifeguard hut. And every time she walked more than ten feet away, the dog followed—bounding, loping, tongue flapping like a flag.

“Alright, you’re mine for now,” she said, watching him plop beside her on the curb outside her shop. “But you better not eat my boards.”

He sneezed again and wagged his tail like a drumbeat.

—

You wake up alone and roll out of bed, going to make coffee for when Rhea gets back. You place your hands against the sink and yawn before rising again. It’s quick but a flash of white catches your eye and sure enough in Rhea’s window.

“Come over when you’re awake baby,” in scrawled writing, you grab her flannel off the back of the kitchen chair and slip on your sandals. Making your way across the lawn to the shops backs door, you knock twice and let yourself in.

“Okay, don’t freak out,” she said the moment you stapled through the door, which is usually Rhea for I did something slightly questionable but undeniably charming—voice breathless and weirdly giddy. “But I think we should keep him.”

“Keep who?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “He found me. He’s sandy, massive, and possibly the size of a small horse.”

You stare at her confused, sleeves rolled, a piece of toast still in your hand. You barely stepped through the door before something tackled you from the side.

“Holy—”

You went down hard, oofing as an enormous grey and goobery blur pinned you with affection. The dog panted happily above you, drool flying, tail slapping the floor like it owed rent.

Rhea, standing near the workbench, tried not to laugh. She failed.

“I see you’ve met.”

You blinked up from under the dog’s bulk, squinting through fur.

“He’s huge.”

“He’s perfect.”

“He just body-slammed me into next week.”

“He’s enthusiastic,” Rhea corrected, already crouching to tug him gently off you. He obeyed immediately, slumping down next to you like he’d claimed you as his second favorite person in the world.

Rhea offered you a hand up.

You took it, brushing off your— her shirt. The dog pressed his head into your thigh and groaned, soulful and adoring.

You looked at Rhea.

She looked at you.

“Dammit,” you muttered reaching down for him. Rhea’s smile was soft, a little crooked. She scratched behind his ears and nodded. “

“Do you think he has people?”

“I looked. Didn’t see anyone. No collar, no microchip.” She reached down, giving his ribs a rub. “But he’s not scared. Not starving. He found us like he meant to.”

You knelt again, this time letting him lean into your chest.

“He smells like seaweed,” you murmured.

“So do you sometimes,” Rhea teased.

You elbowed her.

And then—

Then you caught it.

The way she was watching you, eyes soft and wide, like the sight of you curled up on the surf shop floor with a drool-happy Great Dane was something holy.

You smiled.

“What’re we gonna name him?”

Rhea looked down at the dog. He wagged his tail once. Twice.

“Something big,” she said. “Something dumb. Something that fits.”

You tilted your head. “Atlas?”

Rhea grinned.

Atlas groaned in approval.

And the surf shop—already full of boards and salt and sawdust—grew just a little more alive.

—

The candles are mostly wax now.

One’s burned down to a pool, wick flickering inside it like the last breath of something sacred. Another leans slightly in its glass—crooked but still standing. Rhea doesn’t move to fix them. She doesn’t move at all.

She just watches you.

You’re perched on the stool in front of your easel, legs bare, one foot curled against the rung, the other grazing Atlas whose happily snoring. Your robe has slipped off one shoulder. It’s black—her favorite one on you—and it’s barely tied. Like you forgot to finish the knot after refilling your wine. Or maybe you just didn’t bother.

You’ve got a drink in one hand. The brush in the other.

There’s raspberry pink on your wrist and ultramarine under your thumbnail. Your hair’s a mess. Tipsy and barefoot, skin glowing in the soft spill of candlelight, you look like you’ve been painted already. Or conjured. Or summoned.

And Rhea can’t stop looking.

She’s got her elbow hooked on the kitchen counter behind her, a drink sweating in her palm, one hip leaned lazy against the wood. There’s no music. Just the tick of a wall clock, the wind through the cracked window, and the faint sounds of your breath when you exhale too slow.

The painting doesn’t matter. Not to her. She can’t even see the front of it.

All she sees is you.

The focus in your eyes. The looseness in your limbs. The way your bottom lip drags through your teeth every time your brush moves a little too close to the edge. The way your breath catches when the candlelight shifts the shadows on the canvas.

You’re beautiful when you’re still. But like this?

She wants to fall to her knees for you.

Rhea takes a sip of her drink, eyes not leaving your body.

You sigh—soft, distracted—and set your brush down, flexing your fingers like they’ve just come back to you. You twist in your seat to reach for another color, and that’s when your robe slips.

Further this time.

The knot doesn’t hold. The silk pools at your hips, and suddenly, she can see the entire line of your back, the sweet curve of your waist, the side of your breast, bare and lit by flame.

You don’t notice.

You just hum softly and sip your wine, your fingers streaked with paint, a curl of hair falling across your cheek like it was placed there for a reason.

Rhea forgets how to breathe.

She sets her glass down without looking, stepping forward. Quiet. Careful.

You don’t turn. But your voice is warm, still soft with wine and sugar and sleep.

“You’re staring.”

“Can you blame me?”

You laugh, throat low and open. “Is it the painting or the robe?”

“It’s you,” Rhea says, and you freeze just slightly.

Her hands come to your hips, palms warm against silk. She presses close behind you. She’s still wearing her tank, but her jeans hang loose at the hips, her belt unbuckled, her body heat turning molten where her chest brushes your back.

Your lips part.

She leans in, her breath against your ear.

“You look like a sin someone prayed for.”

You shift in your seat, leaning back into her. The robe slips more. Your head turns slightly—like you want her to kiss your neck. She does. Once. Then twice. Her teeth scrape gently across your pulse.

Your eyes flutter. “Rhea…”

She presses her thigh between your legs from behind, guiding you with a hand at your hip.

“Keep painting,” she murmurs. “If you can.”

You shudder.

Her thigh fits right. Tight. Firm between yours. Her hands skim up your ribs, under the robe, fingers sliding over soft skin, slow and sure and reverent. She doesn’t rush.

You grind against her thigh, slow at first, and she groans softly into your hair.

“You have any idea what you look like right now?”

You shake your head, breath hitching.

“Fuckin’ divine,” she whispers. “Messy and warm and mine.”

Your body moves against her, the rhythm lazy and sinful. Rhea’s hands slide up to cup your breasts, fingers dragging over your nipples as her lips trace the curve of your neck.

You’re gasping now, panting into the air like she’s pulling sound from your lungs.

“You’re not painting,” she teases, one hand sliding down to your thigh, tightening her grip.

“Can’t,” you manage. “Fuck—can’t think.”

She grins. “Good.”

Her thigh flexes. You cry out, quiet and desperate, one hand still clutching your wine glass, the other reaching blindly for the brush—dropping it instead as your hips stutter and her name slips from your mouth like a prayer.

She holds you through it.

One hand on your stomach, the other between your legs now, fingers sliding against you slow, then faster, just enough.

“Come on, baby,” she murmurs. “Give it to me.”

And you do.

She kisses your shoulder when you fall forward, chest heaving, mouth parted, robe clinging to sweat-slick skin.

“Next time,” she growls, voice wrecked, “I make you finish the painting before I finish you,”

You laugh. Wrecked. Warm. Completely hers and allow her to carry you to bed, heavy paws trotting after you

—

Rhea is halfway through her toast—shirtless, barefoot, hair tied up in the laziest knot imaginable—when the scream happens.

Your scream.

She drops the toast immediately.

“Baby?!”

There’s no answer. Just the slam of the back screen door and a yelp that sounds half-laugh, half-absolute-terror.

Rhea bolts.

Atlas beats her there.

By the time she steps out onto the back patio, the Great Dane is mid-sprint—ears flapping, mouth open, legs all limbs and sand—as he barrels toward—

A seagull.

A very loud, very surprised seagull that had the audacity to land next to you while you were watering the basil. You’re frozen. Still holding the watering can like a weapon. The bird squawks, takes off, and Atlas launches himself three feet into the air with a feral bark like he’s auditioning for the Coast Guard.

He lands with a thud and skitters sideways into a lounge chair. You blink. Then dissolve into laughter so hard you double over. Rhea laughs, too—once she’s sure you’re not actually in danger. She jogs over, eyes crinkling. “You okay?”

You nod, wiping tears from your cheeks. “He tried to kill it.”

Rhea places a hand on your lower back and leans into your space, warm and smug. “Told you he already picked you.”

You grin. “You jealous of the bird or the dog?”

“Both,” she mutters. “But mostly the dog. He took the middle of the bed and gets to protect you?”

You nudge her playfully. “Maybe next time you’ll bark louder.”

She growls against your ear in response—low and teasing—and just like that, the whole day begins again: with laughter, soft kisses, and the sound of paws chasing shadows across sun-warmed sand.

—

The porch smells like rosemary and sea salt.

Not a recipe—just life. Just summer steeping into the air. The kind of scent that clings to skin and makes everything feel like it was always meant to be soft.

You’re curled into one corner of the porch swing, bare legs folded beneath you, wrapped in a cotton hoodie that still smells like Rhea—warm, sun-dried, faintly herbal, with a hint of something sharper underneath. Her tank is loose on you, too, one strap sliding off your shoulder every time you lean forward to sip from the cocktail she made. Something tart. Pink. Glittering with melting ice and rimmed with chili sugar.

The sun’s just beginning to dip, and the sky is drunk on it. All honey-gold and orange creamsicle, smeared with clouds that look like they were finger-painted by gods. The porch lights have already flicked on above you—bare bulbs strung between the eaves, glowing warm as candle wax. One of them hums faintly. Another swings just slightly in the breeze.

Atlas barrels past again, all paws and flopping jowls, barking once at a firefly like it personally offended him. He skids into the edge of the grass and gallops back the other direction, chasing it like it’s the moon. You laugh into your drink, your mouth gone sticky-sweet with citrus, and catch Rhea watching you from where she’s leaned against the railing.

She’s still in her joggers from earlier, a sports bra and a loose tee thrown over top—one side hitched up enough to show a stretch of tattooed skin. There’s a faint flush along her chest from the last heat of the day. Her eyes are on you like you’re not just something to admire, but something to hold. To know. To keep.

“You’re in my clothes again,” she murmurs, lazy and fond.

You grin, smug. “Maybe you should stop leaving them where I can find them.”

“Maybe I leave them on purpose.”

“Oh?”

Her eyes glint, and she takes a sip straight from the bottle she’s been nursing for an hour now—something dark and rich that she claimed was too good to mix. She sets it down and wanders over barefoot, slow and loose-hipped, until she’s standing just beside the swing.

She leans down. Plucks your drink from your hand. Sips it with a smirk, tongue flicking across her bottom lip like she’s testing more than just flavor.

Then, without asking, she swings one leg over the bench and drops down beside you—long, lean, solid Rhea, all heat and ink and quiet power. Her thigh presses against yours. She smells like sweat and shampoo and smoke and skin.

You can feel the joint tucked behind her ear before she even pulls it free.

She lights it with one hand and holds it out to you, her fingers brushing your lips as you inhale. The burn is soft. Slow. Like honey gone dark.

You exhale into the air between you, and Rhea watches the smoke drift upward like it’s art.

“Y’know,” she says, voice gone lazy with wine and affection, “this—” she gestures, vaguely, at the swing, the dog, the half-buzzed quiet—“might be it.”

“It?”

“The dream.” Her head tips against yours, heavy and warm. “Fireflies, you in my hoodie, dog with a stupid name. Little bit high. Sunset turning your skin gold. This is it. This is everything.”

Your throat aches, suddenly, in the best way.

“You’re high,” you say softly, teasing.

She hums. “Yeah. On you.”

You roll your eyes but lean into her, body slotted to hers, and when she kisses your temple, it’s slow. Thoughtful. A promise drawn in skin.

Atlas bounds back up the steps, tongue lolling, flops his entire body across your feet like he’s been chasing the secrets of the universe. You giggle and reach down to ruffle his ears. Rhea watches you with something deeper now—something older than the sea.

When she speaks again, her voice is a little rougher.

“You ever think about forever?”

You blink. Look over at her.

“Like… this?”

She nods. “This. You. A house that smells like paint and salt and burned toast. Big dumb dog. Me bringing you coffee before you’re even awake enough to open your eyes.”

Your breath catches.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I think about it.”

“Me too,” she says.

Then she kisses you again—slow, open-mouthed, tasting of sugar and smoke and everything sacred. Her hand cradles your cheek like you’re the most fragile thing she’s ever trusted herself to touch. Like she’s already planning how to love you better tomorrow.

The swing creaks beneath you.

The porch lights flicker.

The fireflies rise like stars.

And somewhere deep in your chest, the moment folds into your bones like it’s always been waiting.

Like this—like her—was always meant to be your home.

—

If you made it this far I am very proud of you, that was a long one! Likes, comments, and blogs always appreciated. Hope you enjoyed see you soon for some regularly scheduled program fics

[uth0ttm]

•─ Midsummer ☾ Masquerade ─•

Day 8 Patron Arcana with Muriel

{wc: ~400} {mc x Muriel, fluff this time, cuddling, cute}

Muriel can’t bear this

This fic is a part of @the-midsummer-masquerade

"Honeycomb? What happened?"

Muriel refuses to come out from his mountain of blankets. Instead he huffs, and the pile trembles.

"Muriel, I want to help you out."

"I had a dream. The Hermit came to me. Said he was giving me the Hermit's blessing. He turned me into a monster."

"A monster…?" You've heard of patron arcana bestowing blessings on their chosen followers, but a monster? That doesn't sound like the hermit's work. But what else would get Muriel so distressed? "Muriel, let me see, I can't help you until you let me see what's happened."

The blankets shake again, and… Muriel pops out! At first, you don't even notice the change. Until you see soft, round, fluffy ears poking out from his hair. His teeth are now sharp, poking out from his soft lips. He even has whiskers. He's… half bear!

"awwwwwwww!!"

"No. Not aww. I look. Scary."

"Scary? Scary?? You look like a teddy bear!"

"Teddy bears don't have teeth like this."

"Why would I be afraid of your teeth? You don't bite."

He huffs, shaking his head. You can't help but reach out and try to pat behind those fuzzy ears. He jerks away at first, but slowly leads foreward, letting you try. "Hmmm" he closes his eyes in enjoyment.

"You're adorable."

"I don't want to be like this forever."

"You won't be. I've read about Patron gifts like this. It will only last until the next moon."

"…that's long."

"Not like we had any plans besides staying at home."

"…but I'm gonna scare the chickens."

"No you won't. They love you to matter what. Bear or no bear."

"……I'm. Hungry."

"Oh? What do you want to eat?"

He blushes really hard. "……berries. And honey."

You try not to tease him for his choice of breakfast. Instead, you leave and soon return with a plate of berries, having drizzled honey on them. The smell finally gets him to creep out of the blankets, showing off the extra hair he's grown in addition to the fuzzy ears. He gently picks up each berry with his claws, popping it into his mouth.

As he eats, you comb his hair, paying special attention to the spot behind his ears. When he finishes, he puts the plate aside, and stares at you. Before you can ask what, he's pulling you into a massive bear hug. He's incredibly warm, soft, and fuzzy. You feel like a blanket just snatched you up. He grumbles as you both return to the mountain of blankets.

[uth0ttm]

Can't stop thinking that after what some of the M6 went through, trauma must have taken his toll on their intimacy. I have some headcanons about how the M6 handle their trauma in smut-fluff situations. Idk, it seems "wrong" to just ignore the fact? We didn't often get the chance to read some trauma-handling that isn't "oooh I couldn't stand the idea of sex but ☆magic love☆ healed me in just one thrust!"

Please note: Not meant to be realistic, let alone feticize it, it's just something that resonates with my idea of them. I'm no professional and didn't experience first hand most of this but if you did and doesn't rub you right please let me know and I'll try to do better.

So here's my headcanons about ~

Handling Trauma

Muriel ♧

Muriel doesn't mind nudity per se. Being shame about it something tied to social modesty, and him being a mountain hermit, it feels kinda natural to him.

But seeing entwined bodies? That's awful for him. The touch, the musle tension, the groping and the expressions, the sight of skin and flesh bending under his hands and a body pressed under him... no.

That's too much, too similar to wrestling for your life. He can't stand it.

... which is very difficult, given that he'd want to hold you tight, drawn his loneliness into your scent and be one with you.

So, you started slowly. Lights off (easy thing in his hut), you touching gently his chest, tracing his features with the lighest strokes.

He touched you as if you were a bubble ready to burst. His caresses were like leaves falling on your naked body, barely heavier than his warm breath on you.

Way later, the two of you discovered that he enjoyed using his lips way more than his hands - that didn't brought anything horrible back to his memory. Your -and his- bodies became maps to be traced with kisses and lingering sighs of desire.

He wanted to see you come, for he needed to see that those body of his was capable of giving pleasure and not just pain. You had to lie still on the furs of his bed, tights spread open to not make him feel chocked between them, your hands in his hair like a breeze.

Coming under his tongue left you shaking, grasping at the furs for comfort. You hurled in a ball, with a racing heart and short breaths that made you look so beautiful in your fragility that he couldn't help to - finally- lay beside you, taking you between his arms.

It's not like that night solved everything, but now the darkness of his hut is heavy with your moans. He still can't bear the sight of your body writhe against his, but now his hands knows all the mountains and valleys of your body, tracing the paths he came to know by heart. Now your curves melts into his, as the patience you took to know each other carved them as water on stone.

Does it work? Idk, I'll keep adding to it if I feel like it does

[uth0ttm]

Muriel with a face full of kisses

Just saw someone else do this for a different character lmao but like, it just SCREAMED our lovely ol' Muri lmao <3

Just crawling into his lap while he's reading a book or just sitting by the fire, taking his face into your hands, cradling his cheeks in your palms as you lean up and spatter his face with kiss after kiss after kiss after kiss.

He's startled, confused, and red as a tomato, sputtering half words as you keep kissing and kissing and kissing and kissing. His hands are raised, startled at the intrusion, but when they finally settle, it's to pull you closer, even while he's still trying to ask you what the heck you're doing. All it takes, however, is a kiss to his lips, longer than the rest, held against him like a finger asking to be quiet. Only your request, is matched, with the gentle little lick of your tongue, testing the waters of how much both you and he were willing to go for this kiss, as well as teasing and taunting your so dearly beloved.

And one of those hands cradling you close slips up to catch you by the neck, pressing you close and keeping you from escaping as he all too eagerly reciprocates. Kissing you in the way you know he loves to do, swapping between tiny needy licks at your lips and chaste kisses that he's so so eager to dole out.

If at any point you push away from him, he'll release you willingly, staring at you with droopy almost dazed eyes, awestruck and lovestruck smiling, faint but warm, like the sunbeams of a dying sun slipping between the trees. It'll take him a moment before he remembers to ask, too busy basking in the warmth of your affection. Keeping his arms tight around you, cuddling in your shared embrace. Hell, he might never ask, honestly, thinking that his chance to has long since passed, or that he would rather not run the risk of making you hesitate to do that again.

Maybe one day he'll ask. If you haven't graced him with another session of sporadic kisses all over his face. He'll ask you why you did it in the first place, after asking of course if you even remembered doing it at all.

and maybe you'd tell him that he just looked like he needed some kisses, or that he was so so pretty by the firelight that you couldn't help yourself. Or maybe you'll just shrug and say you did it on a whim. And a look will cross his face, all too familiar to you as he hesitates to ask.

You however, beat him to the punch, reaching up on your tip toes, to cup his cheeks and guide him down to you, spattering his face with your affection once more, much to his quiet delight, visible only in the way you can feel his lips twitch upwards as you kiss the corners over and over again; at the feel of his arms snaking to hold you tight against him, lifting you up so he can enjoy your kisses without giving his back a hard time, and the way he reciprocates, at every chance he gets, trying to catch up and futility drowning in all the kisses you give him.

Be warned, though, the moment you lean away. The moment you give him an opening, this former gladiator turned soft hermit would seize any opportunity he's given, and be quick to enact his affectionate revenge all over your face and neck. Kiss after kiss after kiss after kiss.

And when he meets your lips again, he'll whisper a soft confession, drowned out by the wind rustling through the trees, drowned out by birdsong and animal chatter, drowned out by the rushing river not too far away.

Simple words, that only you would ever be able to hear.

"I love you."

[uth0ttm]

Muriel Cuddling Headcanons

People showed interest, so have Muriel's version! Reader is GN and as always thanks to @/cafekitsune for dividers and such

-While he still gets flustered every now and then, after a while he gets a lot more confident in your relationship and is able to initiate contact easier, though that doesn't mean he won't blush anymore!

-He will still have trouble putting his desire into full sentences though, so he mostly grabs your arm at first, then hug, and eventually you will understand or he'll say "...cuddle" so that you get the message

-Due to how big he is, and presumably him being bigger than you, most positions will have him wrapping his arms around you while you lay on top of him or he's big spoon

-However, maybe, just maybe, he would little spoon

-It would take him a while to realize it and even longer to ask about it because he doesn't want you to get hurt, what if he rolls on your arm? But soon enough he tries asking you, and you assure him that you'll tell him if it gets uncomfortable or if you need a break

-After that he loves to little spoon, it makes him feel safe and know that you love him, even if you say it a lot it's still nice to have it in a physical form as well

-Can't sleep without you now either, doesn't matter your position or anything he just needs you there after getting used to it

-Puts his head between your neck and shoulder, snuggling in tight burrying his whole face there every time

Requests are open for Arcana, so if you want a different character for these ask away, though it may take a while for them to get done @rayisalive @i-like-forgs

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MC: one of the roosters ran up to me, gave me a pebble and did a flirty little dance while making happy noises. Which is the rooster equivalent of a proposal. A truly devastating blow to my boyfriend (Muriel), the man who helped raise him.

Based on this post

[uth0ttm]

This is so real

I GYATTA become an android

But the thought of a face tattoo like that, no matter how small is kinda scary 😔😔

I know I could never pull off a face tattoo but the demons (autism) are telling me that I need the Android tracker chip on my head. I need that blue circle on the right side of my head. I need to become Detroit become human. Siiiigh 😮‍💨

[uth0ttm]

They’re streaming Coachella on WeChat in China and I’m losing my mind at this poor censor who was trying to move this black box around to censor the dancers’ asses while Megan Thee Stallion was performing “WAP.” Someone please find the clip and post it on here, I can’t explain how funny it was to watch this black box frantically bounce around from ass to ass while being controlled by a man desperately trying not to lose his job

[uth0ttm]

Any tip for choosing colors? Is just, i really like the color palette that u use :3

I mainly try to remember the colour wheel and different palette types you get from it. It’s usually in the back of my mind when I’m thinking of what colours to use.

You should limit yourself to a maximum of 5 colours, at least as you’re getting comfortable with colour schemes. Less if often more with colour.

In my art, I lean towards analogous or split-complementary colours and they’re the most common. For Isha and Tashi I use only 3 or 4 distinct colours plus a neutral. Neutral colours like white, grey, black, and brown can be worked into any colour scheme and it’s good to use them to balance the drawing.

Complementary colours schemes work best when used as an accent. You tend to want the majority of the drawing to be one colour and use its opposite sparingly. For example, the majority of the drawing on the left is dark and purple, with the light green used only for the highlight.

Also, when it comes to chosing colours for light and shadow, it works best when one is warm and the other is cool, even with analogous colours. I wanted to keep the drawing on the right mostly warm and pink, but for a more diverse pallet, I used a cooler purple for shadows to contrast the warm orange light.

It helps to keep the different hues in a drawing at different brightnesses. This helps keep them distinct so they don’t fight for attention. Even when you want a piece to be bright or dark, keeping the values distinct is still important. For example, on the left, I kept the reds darker to better contrast the light yellows and mid greens, even if the pallete is overall bright.

In addition to the hue wheel, you can look at the brightness and the saturation of colours in quadrants. To balance a colour palette, I’ve found it’s best to choose from multiple quadrants.

I’d say the second pallette looks better than the first as, despite having the same hues, they have different brightnesses and saturation in contrast to being all heavily saturated and dark.

I hope this can help and if it doesn’t, there are some great resources on colour theory you can find around on the internet and I highly recommend looking those up.

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To celebrate a follower milestone on ig and also so I don’t have to keep a million references open whenever I draw these characters, I’ve made semi-model sheets on all of them, including their general build, face shape, expressions, and fashion styles.

Another comment I’ll make is that Julian and Lucio have quite similar faces, but Lucio is very sharp while Julian’s rounded out.

Each character tends to have a reoccuring line shape throughout their design:

Asra - Semicircles/curves

Nadia - Straight vs flowing lines

Julian - Loose waves

Muriel - Blocky or jagged

Portia - Bubbly waves

Lucio - Sharp and spiky

I hope this can be useful :D

[uth0ttm]

A quick guide to how I now make fan tale videos (asked by @errorcritical and @nabesima)

I use VSDC video editor, which is one of the best free editors I’ve found. It’s not as intuitive as movie maker and it’s more limited than after effects, but it’s versatile enough for editing like this. After some practice, it’s pretty simple to use :D

This could also be used as a general “how to make a fake visual novel” guide, as the scrolling text and sprite animations could be used with any format, or even your original characters, UI, and backgrounds.

[uth0ttm]

Do you have any tips on drawing lips in the Arcana style cuz it's hella hard especially Asra's TwT (love your art btw!!)

....Christ, you had to ask the thing I’ve been struggling with.

Well, first things first, try and research lip anatomy and reference real mouths as the Arcana style draws from a fairly realistic base. I’d recommend drawing from life reference and looking at anatomy photos.

Arcana Lips Tutorial

This is my general process from a 3/4 view as most sprites are from that perspective.

Stylistically, these are the main things that the Arcana specifically uses with the lips, especially the closed cresents for a lot of lower lips (though sometimes it’s only a single line so it’s not universal), and the sharp edge of the corner of the mouth.

Referencing his sprites and CGs, Asra has very nice lips. Unlike a lot of other characters, Asra’s upper lip isn’t a closed line (he also has dimples when he smiles). Sometimes only his cupid’s bow is outlined so it’s important to get an understanding of the 3D shapes that make the lips.

You can vary the shapes and sizes of the lips to make them unique for each character. For example, Nadia and Portia have fairly thick lips, but Portia has more of a defined cupid’s bow. Julian and Lucio have very thin lips, but Lucio has quite a wide mouth that wrinkles when stretched.

[uth0ttm]

Do you have any tips on designing arcana masquerade outfit? I really need ur help >_<

Masquerade outfits are first of all, formalwear: suits, gowns, and other elaborate outfits. What would your character wear to a fancy once-a-year ball? It’s an opportunity for the character to dress their best and flashiest (Lucio might be less bright, but the gold filagree is more detailed than his other outfits) Despite hiding their faces, they’re designed to show off the character and their style.

One crucial aspect of masquerade outfits is theming. Each one represents a character and the symbols they surround themselves with. This is most obvious with the masks, which is what I’d recommend starting with. They come in a variety of styles, from only covering the eyes to hiding the entire head with draping veils, but they’re all animal-themed.

Lucio’s is a good example of how much they can tell about a character. It’s white and gold, showing off his classic colours and love of flashy wealth, it’s a dog to show his connection to Mercedes and Melchior and that, as well as covering half his face, shows how he’s half the Fool. It also draws inspiration from the Phantom of the Opera, alluding to his more dramatic nature and even how he spent years haunting the Palace.

Portia’s is one of the best for how it connects to the rest of the outfit (despite never being worn in her route). They share colour schemes, bow details, and floral patterns, making them feel like a cohesive costume. Similarly, Muriel’s shares the blue and white colour scheme, as well as the patterns, though in gold rather than white to distinguish it.

The devs are open about drawing inspiration from all sorts of cultures and times to design the characters. Nadia’s resembles modern runway fashions while Portia and Lucio are definitely traditional outfits, though tweaked to be more unique. When designing an outfit, think about what inspirations you’ve used to design them originally. Also, while modern fashions are good inspiration, it’s helpful to look at classic ballgowns and suits to get something which feels like it belongs at a masquerade ball.

The devs haven’t shown off much concept art for masquerade outfits so I can’t say much about their process, but it’s good to explore different concepts and colours to see which you prefer. For example, Portia’s was going to be more classically formal with a different hairstyle and Nadia almost had an opposite colour scheme.

tl;dr: Get a distinct theme (usually an animal and tarot card), colour palette, and pattern to design a mask, then create the outfit from that, drawing on different cultural/historical formalwear for inspiration

[uth0ttm]

Hi! I’m not sure if you’ve gotten this question before, but what canvas size/resolution do you use for your CGs? I’m wanting to make some of my own but I’m not sure how big to make my canvas :/

The CGs use a 3:4 aspect ratio. The in-game files are 768 x 1024 px, but I usually draw at twice that, or even ~5x that when I need it to be large enough for prints.

Resolution-wise, it’s good to draw at 300 dpi for the high quality, but my laptop.... kind of dies when I try that. So I instead go for 144 dpi

[uth0ttm]

I’m drawing my own arcana sprite, and I was wondering if you had any pointers for drawing clothes in the style? I love your work so much!

In terms of actually drawing them, there are a lot of common clothing folds. There’s a closed, sharp loop and smooth lines. For fabric which wraps around, often the bumps are outlined, but not closed (like at the bottom of Nasmira’s)

In terms of design, there’s a lot of variation of detail, but generally you won’t get more complex than Asra’s palace outfit and you won’t get much simpler than Asra’s casual outfit. There’s usually always a gradient for visual interest, like in their scarf, and while they don’t go overboard on realistic detail, they’ll usually include buttons and seam lines.

A lot details are outlined (like the gold on Lucio’s suit), but some are painted (like Nasmira’s top). A standard rule is that if it would be a different material or embroidered, it’s lined. If it’s dyed/painted, it’s lineless.

In terms of palette, try to stick to 4-7 main colours, though palettes have a few more with some slight hue/brightness variation for detail.

[uth0ttm]

Hi! Do you have any tips for working with green? I find that colour super difficult to use and place characters in I don’t know why, which is also not helpful when so many backgrounds involve green haha 😂 Thank you!

I can’t really give any specific tips because, like any colour, there are infinite shades and hues of green and what looks “good” is dependent on your tastes. For example, I stick with less saturated greens which either trend towards yellow or blue rather because I don’t actually like how bright green looks.

Try and consider different palettes using colour theory (usually analogous or split-complementary look good) but if you’re stuck for ideas, look at photos of green things in nature to see what looks nice (looking at these, I want to try something with the bird’s palette now)

The last thing I’ll say about green is... don’t be Bangladesh

While some people think they’re classic complementary colours, putting bright red directly on bright green causes eye strain due to their values being too similar. This is also a problem for a lot of colour blind people so it’s something to keep in mind.

If you want to combine red and green, you should usually make one significantly darker/lighter than the other and/or add a different colour to separate them (eg. the equal area of white background and black outlines)

[uth0ttm]

Ok I’m super sorry but I have a question that I know you’ve answered before but I can’t for the life of me find it. What size do you draw your sprites in for your Arcana fan tales, or at least what is a good size to draw sprites in? Sorry for the bother and thank you so much if you decide to answer. Have an awesome day :)

The game sprites are designed to fit in a 1024 x 1024 px space, based on the 768 x 1024 px resolution the game works on. However, the devs initially draw all the sprites at twice this size, then compressing the files to save on memory.

Personally, I find this a good size to work with, but if you want to increase the resolution, you can make it larger. Also, this space is just for the cutoff sprites. If you’re drawing a fullbody picture, you can extend the height to fit