#Cheap Flights Tricks

[maal-wave]

Cheap Travel Hacks for 2025

[yasgets]

10 Ways to Save Money on Flights: Travel Tips

Introduction

You daydream about international travel despite feeling restricted by expensive air ticket prices during your dreams. You’re not alone! Travel expenses are mostly determined by the cost of airfare.

When I planned my initial international journey to Thailand, I vividly recall my situation. I felt uncertain because my budget was limited, while flight costs remained expensive at the time. After prolonged research and multiple tests, I managed to purchase a round-trip ticket for less than $400.

This post includes my selection of the ten most effective strategies for finding affordable flights and decreasing travel expenses. This article begins now without additional delay.

1. Best Time to Book Flights

Why It Works:

Prices vary with the airline’s demand. Fruiting on less-demand days (Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays) can help you achieve a 20-30% shroud.

How to Do It:

Use Google Flights’ Date Grid:

Go to Google Flights.

Enter your departure city and destination.

Click “Date Grid” to see prices for an entire month. Example: A mid-week flight from NYC to Paris might cost 450 vs. 450,700 on weekends.

Try Skyscanner’s “Cheapest Month” Tool:

Search your route on Skyscanner.

Select “Whole Month” or “Cheapest Month” to find the lowest fares.

Pro Tip: Pair flexibility with shoulder seasons (e.g., Europe in May or September) for double the benefits to maximise your savings.

2. Book in Advance (But Not Too Early)

The Goldilocks Window:

Domestic Flights: Book 6–8 weeks out (e.g., a Chicago to LA flight booked 2 months early averages 200 vs. 400 last-minute).

International Flights: Book 3–5 months out (e.g., NYC to Tokyo booked 4 months early: 800 vs. 800 vs. 1,200).

Tools to Track Trends:

Hopper predicts price drops with 95% accuracy.

Google Flights Price Graph: Shows historical trends for your route.

3. Use Flight Comparison Websites Like a Pro

Step-by-Step Guide:

Skyscanner’s “Everywhere” Feature:

Type “Everywhere” as your destination.

Filter by budget (e.g., “Under 500”). Example: You might find 500 round-trip flights from LA to Costa Rica.

Google Flights’ Multi-City Tool:

Kiwi.com’s “Nomad” Feature:

Enter your budget and travel dates for a surprise destination.

Pro Tip: Always check incognito mode to avoid dynamic pricing tricks.

4. Set Up Price Alerts Strategically

Tools & tactics:

Google Flights:

Search your route.

Toggle “Track Prices” to get email alerts.

Secret Flying & Scott’s Cheap Flights:

Subscribe to error fare newsletters (e.g., $250 round-trip to Europe).

Real-Life Example: I tracked NYC to Lisbon for 3 weeks and saved $200 when prices dropped during a mid-week sale.

Pro Tip: Use multiple devices (phone, laptop) to check prices—some airlines show lower fares on mobile!

5. Master Budget Airlines (Without the Hidden Fees)

Baggage Fees Tip Ryanair Europe: $25 checked bag. Pre-book meals to save 50%. AirAsia: $15 checked bag Book during mega sales (e.g., $10 flights!). SpiritAmericas $45 carry-on Use their “$9 Fare Club” for discounts.

How to Avoid Fees:

Bring a 40-litre rucksack (folds under seats).

Pre-register for bags online (receive 20% savings above airport fees).

6. Turn Layovers into Adventures

Flight: NYC → Istanbul → Bali.

Savings: $400 vs direct.

Layover Hack: Use Turkish Airlines’ free Istanbul city tour during a 6+ hour layover.

Tools:

AirWander: Finds layover flights and calculates savings.

LoungeBuddy: Access to airport lounges is available for 30 (compared to 50 at the door).

Pro Tip: Use the chance to plan overnight layovers to save on accommodation for a night!

7. Hack Frequent Flyer Programs

Step-by-step point maximisation:

Sign Up for Dining Programs:

Link your credit card to airline dining portals (e.g., United MileagePlus Dining) to earn 5x points at restaurants.

Credit card bonuses:

Chase Sapphire Preferred: Earn 60,000 points (worth $750 in travel) after spending $750 in travel after spending $4,000 in 3 months.

Transfer Points:

Convert Chase points to United Miles for a 20% bonus value.

An example of actual life is that I used 50,000 Amex points to book a $1,200 business class seat in Tokyo.

8. Book Connecting Flights Separately

How to Do It Safely:

Route Example:

NYC → London (300) + London → Athens (300) + London → Athens (80) = $380 total.

Traditional multi-city ticket: $600.

Leave a buffer:

You can book at least 4 hours between the flights to Amsterdam with no risk of missing your connections.

Tool: Kiwi.com’s “Nomad” and “Multi-City” search.

9. Travel Off-Peak Like a Local

Off-Peak Calendar:

Cheap Avg. Flight Europe Jan–Mar, Nov $500 round-trip Japan Late April (post-cherry blossom) $600 round-trip Hawaii Sept-Oct $350 round-trip

One can locate off-peak flight specials on Google Flights through its “Explore” map tool.

10. Clear Cookies & Use VPNs

How Airlines Track You:

Dynamic pricing algorithms raise prices if you search repeatedly.

Fix It:

People can use Incognito Mode along with DuckDuckGo to conduct their searches.

When using a VPN service, set your geographical location to a country like Mexico or India to find cheaper prices.

Real-Life Example: A flight from LA to Sydney dropped from 1,200 to 1,200 to 900 when I used a VPN set to Singapore.

BONUS: Combine Tactics for Maximum Savings

Example Itinerary:

Flexible Dates + Budget Airline Layover:

NYC → London (Tuesday flight on Norse Atlantic: $250).

London → Marrakech (Ryanair: $50).

Total: 300 vs. 300 vs. 600 direct.

Tool: Use Rome2Rio to mix flights, trains, and buses.

Conclusion

You can achieve affordable flight bookings through well-planned strategies that do not require luck. Your combination of travel flexibility, technological tools, and artistic thinking will reveal affordable flight options for more significant travel opportunities and reduced costs. Ready to test these tips? Applying the date grid feature from Google Flights will help users discover meaningful savings. Your successful findings should be shared in the comments section. Post navigation

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A complete Guide to Bali trip Cost

[x1asirene]

f1 driver!caleb as your bf headcanons | sfw ver.

✧ f1 driver!caleb is red bull's golden boy—charismatic in press conferences, lethal on track, and fiercely loyal to the team that gave him his shot. he’s not just known for his precision in overtakes—he’s known for making it painfully clear who he races for. whether he’s fighting for pole or brushing off reporters with sharp charm, the paddock knows one thing for sure: caleb doesn’t go anywhere unless you’re coming with him.

✧ f1 driver!caleb has a delicate imprint of your lipstick, outlined in permanent white, marked on the left side of his helmet visor. it started as a joke after you kissed it pre-race once, but he had it painted on for good—says it’s his version of a lucky charm, but truthfully, it’s just because you’re part of every win he wants to have

✧ f1 driver!caleb will drag you to go-kart tracks at the weirdest times—midnight, early mornings, off-season—and let you win every single time while acting defeated. but if you so much as raise an eyebrow and say, “that’s the best you’ve got, mr bull?” he will race you like you’re his fiercest rival on the grid. dirty tricks, blocking, drifting—full-on war. and he grins the whole time.

✧ f1 driver!caleb refuses to let you wear the standard guest badge. instead, he loops his official paddock pass—his photo, name, team credentials, everything—around your neck like it’s a VIP tag and a public declaration rolled into one. “you’re not a guest,” he tells you. “you belong here, pipsqueak. with me.”

✧ f1 driver!caleb’s car number, gloves, and suit is the date you two got together—an easter egg that fans didn’t catch until long after you went public. when asked about it, he says, “best day of my life,” and “figured i’d carry it into every finish line.”

✧ f1 driver!caleb doesn’t go quiet out of spite after a bad race—he just retreats into his own head. for hours, he replays the race, watches the telemetry, pinpoints every wrong move. you don’t take it personally. you just wait in the hotel room or his driver room until he’s ready—when he appears, he always finds you, folds himself into your arms, and murmurs, “i needed to fix myself before i came home to you.”

✧ f1 driver!caleb tucks little love notes, charms, and silly scribbles you give him into his race suit—usually inside his glove or chest pocket. he swears it brings him luck, even if he rolls his eyes when you tease him for it.

✧ f1 driver!caleb keeps a photo strip of the two of you tucked into his passport. it’s old, a little faded, and taken in a cheap booth before you ever went public. he says it’s the one thing that reminds him where home is when he’s traveling 200 days a year.

✧ f1 driver!caleb gets slightly distracted on track if something reminds him of you—your initials on a fan’s sign, someone playing your favorite song over the loudspeakers. it throws him off for a second. just a second. but he smiles.

✧ f1 driver!caleb has a habit of tapping twice on your thigh with his fingers. in the car, during interviews, while watching telemetry—it’s his way of saying “you good?” without speaking.

✧ f1 driver!caleb brings you along not just to races, but to test days, simulator runs, promo shoots—because he performs better when you’re around. even just knowing you’re waiting in the hospitality suite steadies him. “when you’re here, i don’t miss a corner.”

✧ f1 driver!caleb uses his official race calendar to plan your rest time—circling breaks, underlining low-pressure weeks, building in spa days and lazy mornings for you. he treats your mental health like it’s part of his race prep.

✧ f1 driver!caleb has delayed his own departure for a grand prix just to wait for you to finish packing. his team knows better than to question him about you or schedule things too tight when you’re traveling together. “she’s coming, or i’m not going.”

✧ f1 driver!caleb hates traveling to races without you. he’ll sulk the entire flight, complain to his race engineer, and text you nonstop from the paddock. “it’s not the same without you,” he’ll say, phone resting on his chest like a lifeline between debriefs.

✧ f1 driver!caleb only follows three accounts on Instagram: you, @F1, and @redbullracing. no teammates, no sponsors, no friends. just the sport, the team, and you. when asked about it in interviews, he shrugs and says, “what else do i need? that’s everything i race for.” (he’s lying—he has a private alt where he follows dog accounts, meme dumps, absurdly niche tire compound theories—and the best of all, five nights at freddy’s theory pages. you’re the only one who knows about it—he once begged you not to expose his comment under a post that said, “what if freddy fazbear ran sylus’s tire strategy?” with, “freddy fazbear would’ve double-stacked mediums in the rain like a war crime and still outplaced him.”, and “hard compound freddy would’ve never let ferrari cook. be so fr rn.”)

✧ f1 driver!caleb isn’t afraid of confrontation when it comes to your name being in someone else’s mouth. the moment he hears another driver make a crude comment about you—even if it’s behind closed doors or in front of the cameras—he’ll call them out, cold and sharp: “keep my girl’s name out of your fuckin’ mouth, or you won’t be walking back into that damn paddock.”

# do not repost, translate, or upload my work to any other platforms. tumblr reblogs are welcome and appreciated, but reposting outside of this blog is not permitted !

— ✦ © @ x1asirene, tumblr 2025 ✧

[darnell-la]

REVERSE FAN

pairing: Lewis Pullman x fan!reader

summary: usually the fan is freaking out about the actor they’ve just met, but in this case, Lewis Pullman couldn’t stop thinking about his fan. getting to know her wasn’t on his bucket list for his travels, but he’s glad it is now.

warnings: exaggerated fiction, kissing, neck kissing, hickies, hair pulling, rough sex, smut, etc

notes: I want to express how much I’m obsessed with Lewis Pullman, but I’d rather shut it up before I look weird. enjoy, and thank you!

———

Being able to attend an event with the cast of the Thunderbolts* felt like a dream to y/n. She has always been a Marvel fan, and the new movie that dropped not even a week ago was one of her favorites. She loved Yelena from the start, but Bob — she couldn’t believe how attractive the actor was.

After researching him, she noticed he’s been in many movies she had watched but never paid attention to. She hated how her attention on him had just now begun, but at least it was sooner than later.

Lewis Pullman had become one of her favorite celebrity crushes. It was hard to ignore how attractive the man was, and knowing she’ll see him today, made her heart skip a beat multiple times.

Y/n had gotten a first-class ticket to Vegas. She was excited and even decided to watch a few Marvel movies on the way.

Maybe y/n was too obsessed at this point, but she could have sworn the man next to him looked exactly like Lewis Pullman. To avoid weird eye contact, she stopped checking before the plane took off.

Through the flight, she could only think about how much fun she would have at this event. She had a VIP card for every section, meaning she could spend the night with the cast and get to know them. She couldn’t wait.

“Mr. Pullman? Would you like another drink?” Y/n heard, even with her cheap airport earbuds. “No, I think I’ll cool it for now. I’ve got a big day when I land,” the man replied. His voice made y/n’s heart drop. There was no way. This couldn’t be happening.

Y/n slowly took off her earbuds before looking towards the man who sat next to her, reading a book. “Oh my god,” y/n said low, or so she thought, until Lewis looked towards her.

Y/n quickly turned away, hoping he didn’t notice her being a creep. She didn’t want to make herself look bad before the event. The overthinking and stress quickly overtook her body until the man spoke up.

“So, you like Marvel movies? It’s crazy, because I’m in one,” Lewis said, making y/n dart her head right back at him. She finally got a perfect look at him, and God, he was more attractive in person.

“I-I know, you’re- You’re Lewis Pullman,” y/n said, making the man chuckle with his hands up like he had just been caught, and he has. “In the flesh,” he said, making y/n slap her hand over her mouth.

Within seconds, she removed her hands and took a deep breath, noticing how crazy she may look to him. She didn’t want to look like an obsessed fan, even though she is.

“I don’t want to overreact, I’m sorry,” y/n said, making the man turn her body towards her. “Well, I’d be offended if you didn’t. Haven’t really run into people who notice me within seconds like you before we even took off,”

Y/n’s stomach began turning in an embarrassed way. He noticed. She knew it, but she tried her best to tell herself he couldn’t have.

“I’m so sorry about that, Mr. Pullman, I- I was just making sure my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me,” y/n said, making him chuckle again. She couldn’t get enough of it. She loved it. She swore she loved him.

“No need to apologize, and definitely not need to call me Mr. Pullman. Just call me Lewis — And, you are?” He asked as he held his hand out. “Y/n,” she quickly gave him her hand and slightly shook it.

“So, what is bringing you to Vegas? Alone. — Any friends or family you’re meeting? Maybe, uh, partner?” Lewis asked after taking a look at her hands to see if she was wearing a ring.

Y/n couldn’t help but notice that small smirk that formed in his mouth when he saw her fingers free. Y/n was a pretty girl, and there was no denying that.

“Oh, I’m just coming down- Well, this might seem crazy, but I’m flying down here for you. Wait- Like, for the whole cast, not just you, you know?” Y/n kept stuttering, only making her overthink this whole situation more.

“Well, I’m the main character, so coming for me doesn’t seem too crazy,” Lewis smiled as he scanned y/n, admiring how shy she was. “Yeah,” y/n awkwardly smiled, trying to avoid too much eye contact.

“What hotel are you staying at?” Lewis asked, making y/n’s heart drop. She didn’t know why, but him starting a new conversation and wanting to continue to talk with her made her cheeks burn.

"The same place your interview will be at. I-I made sure to stalk a little before the event was planned so I could book the hotel for cheap around that time,” y/n said, making Lewis nod his head, surprised that she could do that.

“Well, I’m heading there after, so let me drive you. It costs a lot to Uber, and I’m guessing you didn’t rent a car because everything is in the area, yeah?” Lewis asked, making sure he didn’t sound too creepy for asking a random girl to ride to a hotel with him.

“Oh, I don’t want to bother. I know you may have a lot to do before you meet your crew,” y/n said, making Lewis shake his head. “Nah, we’re not meeting until the event almost starts, and even if I was meeting them soon, I wouldn’t have you pay to drive to a hotel I’m going right to.”

The shock on y/n’s face expressed it all. She didn’t know how to react. Lewis Pullman wanted to spend more time with her? She felt like her brain was going to malfunction.

“Unless you wanted to eat before you went to the hotel? I know a few places out here that are pretty sweet,” Lewis basically asked her to eat out with him. He knew if he wasn't famous, this would’ve been too creepy to try on her, but he knew his luck was big.

“I would love- I mean, yes. Yes, that would be nice,” y/n corrected herself, making the two laugh, knowing they both were nervous and two different ways.

After a long day with Lewis, y/n finally got to her room with a huge smile on her face. Lewis refused to let y/n pay anything, and even took her out to a park he said he wanted to visit, but in actuality, he just wanted to get to know her more.

It’s not every day you find a support who respects your privacy, and doesn’t react too loudly when they meet a celebrity they like.

Before Lewis knew it, he was out on the red carpet, looking around for y/n as people tried talking to him. In his mind, he tried telling himself there was no way a fan was making him this happy to see, but that would be a lie. Y/n was interesting and respectful. She grew on him faster than anything ever has.

On the other hand, y/n was in the crowd, watching Lewis Pullman through a big screen for the people who weren’t in the front. His smile, his eyes, and he in general made y/n’s face burn like it has been all day with him.

“I know a lot of people are here for your role in Thunderbolts* as Robert Reynolds, who we know as Bob, but I don’t know if people know where the earlier fans have met you,”

The interviewer pointed to a screen behind the two just to show a variety of photos and videos of Lewis acting in other roles. Y/n watched most of the movie, but seeing him less shy and more outgoing made her feel a certain way, in a good way.

“Oh, god,” Lewis blushed as a video of him shirtless popped up, and the whole crowd started yelling and saying his name. “Yeah, that was interesting. One of my favorite roles, if I think about it,” Lewis admitted.

“And, why is that?” The interviewer asked, making Lewis sigh with a smile and head shake, knowing this would get all of the fans spanning social media. “Well, as Bob, I’m sweeter and slower when it comes to being myself, but in these movies I feel more — Alive. I love working out, and I love getting dirty in a non sexual way,” Lewis winked, making the crowd go wild once again.

After a long night, y/n finally made her way back to her room. She could still hear the crowed outside and the event going on, but it was getting late, and she was getting tired.

Seeing Lewis one last time in the VIP room felt like a dream she had been living all day. You’re only allowed two minutes, but he made sure to take her for a full ten minutes. He almost told his assistants to cancel the rest of his meetings so he could spend more time with her.

“Hey!” A familiar voice called behind y/n as she pushed the elevator button. “Lewis?” Y/n said as he caught up to her with a bright smile. “Hey, I just got done with the meetings and saw you walk out. Are you calling it a night?”

“Yeah, it’s getting pretty late, and I’ve met everyone else,” y/n said as Lewis leaned onto the wall to catch his breath. “Well, I was planning on going to the club or bar after this with my friends. I was wondering if you’d like to tag along? And, trust me, they wouldn’t mind,”

Y/n’s eyes widened, surprised that Lewis wanted to be around her so much and barely knew her. She wasn’t complaining, though. She loved this. Maybe a little too much when they all got to the club.

“Shots aren’t really my thing, but these taste amazing,” y/n said before taking another shot with Lewis and his friends. She wasn’t drunk, but she also wasn’t sober enough to drive if she had to.

“They’re kind of sweet,” Lewis said, making everyone laugh. “They’re supposed to be, so you can get drunk faster without noticing. I bet they have more alcohol percentage than everything else,” y/n said before taking another.

Throughout the night, y/n kept having fun with everyone. She hadn’t thought Vegas would go like this, especially with Lewis Pullman, a man she’s been heavily crushing on for a while now.

“I’ll be back,” y/n whispered into Lewis’s ear before getting up to leave for the bathroom. Tonight has been a lot of fun, but by the way y/n’s head began to spin, she knew her sleep tonight would feel amazing.

For a while, Lewis debated on following y/n, but ended up making up his mind and getting up to follow her. He wanted more time alone with her. Something about being with her and watching her smile and have fun made him want to extend his stay and perhaps use them to be with her.

This isn’t how it should work. He shouldn’t be fanning over her, but he couldn’t stop. He felt like a fan. At the end of the day, he couldn’t care less. As long as his time was with her without any interruptions, he’d call that a perfect day.

“Oh, hey,” y/n said as she came out of one of the back bathrooms in the club that usually no one goes to. “Hey,” the man smiled as he scanned the younger girl. She was beautiful.

“You have to use the bathroom too?” Y/n asked, making him shake his head quickly with an awkward laugh. “No, no, I just wanted to keep up with you. You know, maybe have our alone time,”

Y/n had been getting surprised all day by Lewis’s words. At times, she’d think he’s only doing this in a you’re a fan, so let me have you have a great time with me, but that wasn’t it. Y/n slowly felt like Lewis felt a way about her. Even if it was a tiny bit.

“Y-Yeah, we can, uh, we can spend some time alone,” y/n smiled as she avoided eye contact, allowing Lewis to know her cheeks must be burning. At times, he could tell if she was nervous around him, and a part of him loved seeing her like that.

“Well, c’mon,” Lewis reached his hand out to bring y/n along. “Oh, okay,” y/n said as she reached out to grab his hand and walk with him, but in seconds, Lewis pulled her into him and laid his lips right on top of her as softly as he could.

Within seconds, the two began making out roughly, teeth clashing against each other and hands roaming each other's bodies. Lewis made the move to pull them both into a nearby unlocked bathroom.

“Is this okay?” Lewis asked as he continued to kiss y/n. “Y-Yes, yeah, this is better than okay,” y/n said right before her mouth parted to the feeling of him nibbling on her neck. “Just know I’ll have my assistants extend my stay, then we’ll have time to talk about all of this.”

“All of what?” Y/n asked as she pushed Lewis back a little just to look him in his eyes. “I’m not just going to hook up with you and leave? I’m an adult and famous. All of that will come back to me once I’m done with you. Plus — I really enjoy you. Maybe a little too much,” Lewis explained.

“Oh- I was just thinking this was just, uh, a secret hookup because you’re famous and all of that. I-I was actually prepared for anything, even you leaving rich in the morning like you mentioned earlier today,”

“I would never do that to someone, especially you. You’re too perfect to not try things out with,” Lewis continued to kiss at y/n’s neck, sucking and licking to make sure to leave a mark or at least make her feel it for the rest of the week.

“Fuck,” y/n sighed low, feeling her stomach twist and turn at the situation she was in. Her celebrity crush basically told her he wanted to date her, meaning he wanted to be with her. If this wasn’t a dream, y/n didn’t know what this was.

Nothing like this just happens. Lewis Pullman has plenty of other people he could be with, yet he’s like to be with a random fan he met on a plane.

“You taste you,” Lewis spoke into her neck as he pulled her dress up to get a feel of rhetorical ass he had been staring at all day. Her face was all he needed, but her body was just a bonus.

“Turn for me, princess,” Lewis said as he helped her turn around. “Damn,” Lewis couldn’t hold himself back after seeing her bare ass pressed up against his clothes print. “I’ve honestly been waiting all day for this exact moment. Wanted to make it more comfortable after a dinner date and in my room, but this will do for now.”

Lewis began unzipping his pants to pull himself, and when he did, y/n gasped low at the size she could feel. Lewis chuckled, knowing she may be surprised at his size.

“Feel that?” Lewis whispered in y/n’s ear as she leaned back and he pulled her panties down. “Mhm hm,” y/n said as she pressed up against him, trying to seem like she had confidence, but in reality, she was shy and too shocked.

“Yeah? I can’t wait to feel you,” the way he spoke to her made her feel lightheaded. This was perfect. Even though they were in a club bathroom, feeling him all over her body and hearing everything he had to say to her was perfect.

Before you/n knew it, Lewis began pushing through y/n’s walls. “Fuck,” y/n cussed low, trying to keep herself together. “I barely touched you, and you’re just so wet,” Lewis spoke as he filled y/n with every inch he had.

“Tell me, y/n — Do you like it rough or soft?” Lewis asked, wanting to make sure she was agreeing to everything he wanted to put her through. “Rough. I want it rough,” and with that, Lewis’s hand was full of y/n’s hair.

“Are you sure, princess, because I’ve been waiting all day to fuck you,” Lewis asked, making y/n nod her head as much as she could. “Well, aren’t you perfect?” Lewis snuck his hand onto her waist just to grip down and start pulling her into his hard and rough thrusts.

“O-Oh,” y/n’s words fumbled as her body jolted against the sink in the bathroom. “Can’t take it back now. I’m not shopping until I feel you leak down my thighs,”

Y/n moaned at the instant dirty talk Lewis started. All day, he’s been sweet, and now he’s talking her through their sex so nasty, she could cum any second.

“I-I would love that,” y/n sighed as his hand on her waist came up to her neck. “Oh, would you? You’ve been loving your time with me so much, you’d make a mess all over me? What would my friends think when they see you’ve claimed me? What would the news reports say that are outside the club waiting for us?”

Y/n has no words to say. All she could do was choke on her moans as he tightened his hand. “It’s only been a day, and I’ve been so stuck on you. I’m going to make us last. Maybe if you let me fill you up, we can get to planning, yeah? How does that sound?”

Y/n tried speaking, but all that came out was a cry as her legs began to shake.

“Gonna let me fill you up before we walk out of here? I beg no one will ever know until months pass by — Fuck, I just can’t stop thinking about what this can be. I don’t want to fucking pull out,”

The main thing that left y/n’s mouth was loud as she came all over both of their legs. Nothing was holding her back. She needed to let loose, especially with the way he pounded into her and spoke to her.

“That’s it, fucking take it — I know you’ve thought about this before. Now you have it. No more imagining. Just ask me, and I’ll do anything for you.”

[orphicmeliora]

ISHQ MUBARAK

PAIRING: Rafayel x Desi!Reader

SUMMARY: Amid the whirlwind of a grand Desi wedding, a wandering artist finds unexpected inspiration in you, someone who hums old songs and wears their heart like bangles. In the spaces between celebration and silence, love takes root—soft, slow, and impossibly tender.

WORD COUNT: 11.5k

NOTES: Owned up to my ethnicity with this fic, the motivation? Do it messy, do it cringe, but don't give up. Also, desi wedding galore.

You don’t remember the moment your motherland stopped feeling like home—only that it happened quietly, like the way bangles lose their shine without you noticing. 

Your phone buzzes with another voice note from your sister—her voice crackling through bad signal and laughter, layered with the chaotic clamor of a house overrun with wedding prep.

"And don’t forget to bring those gold jhumkas! The ones from Ammi’s collection? Yes, those. And for the love of everything holy, DO NOT show up in sneakers this time!"

You smile to yourself, forehead pressed to the airplane window as the clouds scatter below like torn cotton. The sun casts long fingers across your lap. You're almost home. Almost.

It's been two years since you left for your master's degree. Two years of cheap takeout, solo library marathons, homesick breakdowns, and video calls at odd hours just to see your baby cousin learning to walk or your Dadi yelling about the price of onions. But nothing—not even the rigors of academia or the pride in your independence—quite soothes the ache you feel now.

You press your palm over your heart, feeling the thrum of it. Your childhood echoing in a language your mouth still dreams in.

You don't realize you're crying until the plane begins to descend.

Not the dramatic kind—just a quiet leak from the corner of your eyes, like your heart forgot how to hold its shape and is spilling through the seams. You swipe at your cheek, pretend it’s nothing. No one notices. Everyone’s too busy adjusting tray tables and waking up their kids. Somewhere behind you, a baby shrieks. Ahead, a flight attendant hums an old song under her breath.

Below you, the land stretches like a story you used to know by heart but haven’t read in years. Dry fields. Slow rivers. Crowded rooftops and ancient roads. You inhale, and it smells like recycled cabin air, but your mind tricks you—it smells like incense and heat. Like dust and sweat and the inside of your Dadi's spice drawer.

It smells like home.

You've been gone for too long. Long enough for your tongue to wrap around a new language, for your silence to grow roots. Long enough to know what it's like to eat alone, cry alone, celebrate alone. Your degree is somewhere in your bag, folded between old receipts and melted chocolate. People will clap you on the back and say they’re proud.

But no one knows how hard it was.

How many nights you watched weddings through your screen, bangles chiming through pixelated videos, your sisters laughing in outfits you'd never worn. How often you let a Desi song play on loop just to fall asleep, the lyrics whispering in your ears like an apology.

Maybe you’re being dramatic. Maybe it’s the altitude.

You didn’t mean to drift. Life just kept pulling. You forgot the names of streets you once knew like the back of your hand. You forgot how loud your family gets when they’re happy. Or angry. Or hungry. You forgot the colors.

And then—an invitation. One of your cousins is getting married. You're not even sure which one. You stopped keeping track when they all started sprouting kids and growing beards. But it’s a month-long wedding and everyone will be there. Everyone. Your siblings. The aunties who’ll definitely judge your weight and your unmarried status. The cousins who still call you by that embarrassing nickname. Your Nana. He's the one you miss the most. 

You haven’t even landed yet and already your heart feels too big for your ribs. You missed this place like you miss an ache—constant, dull, a part of you. There’s a fear too, coiled in your gut. What if you’ve changed too much? What if it’s not the same?

What if it is—and it hurts?

The plane touches down.

You reach into your bag, reapply your lipstick, and whisper a silent prayer.

Let this month stitch something back together in you.

Let it feel like home again.

The heat hits you first—thick and cloying, like a shawl draped around your shoulders the moment you step out of the car. The driveway is already full, colors blurring as cousins pour out like a flood. A kaleidoscope of voices tumbles over each other: squeals, shrieks, the holler of your Chacha shouting “Move, move! Let her breathe!” as someone tries to shove a laddu into your mouth before your suitcase has even touched the ground.

“Oye hoye! Look at her! Gori hogayi hai!”

“Do you even eat there, or just survive on air?”

"Beta, you remember me, right? I'm your mother's chachi's devar's wife."

You blink. You're not sure who to hug first. A tiny cousin is already clinging to your leg like a koala. Another one, maybe eight, is dragging your bag toward the door while telling you about how she’s getting her ears pierced next week and do you want to come?

There’s laughter from every corner. Someone’s phone is playing a song on full volume. An uncle you barely recognize is wiping his forehead with a handkerchief and asking about your thesis. 

By the time you enter the house, your cheeks ache from fake smiling and your ears are ringing from the overlapping chaos of children crying, elders blessing you, and someone setting off fireworks even though it’s 3 PM on a Tuesday.

Then you see him.

Your grandfather.

Sitting in his usual chair, white shalwar kameez freshly pressed, glasses perched low on his nose, a bowl of peeled oranges in his lap like always.

“Meri beti,” he says, arms open.

You bury your face into his chest, the scent of sandalwood and old paper wrapping around you like a lullaby. The noise fades for a moment. His hands tremble slightly as they hold your shoulders, but his smile is steady.

“You’re home,” he murmurs, like it’s a truth the universe should bow to.

“I missed you, Nana.”

“I can tell. You’ve lost weight. And that glow—where is it? We’ll feed you. Don’t worry.” His eyes twinkle. “You’ll be shining again in two days. Just you wait.”

You laugh, and for the first time in months, it doesn't feel hollow.

Behind you, your sisters are already arguing over which lehenga you’ll wear to the wedding. Your brothers are negotiating who gets the guest room. Your mother is shouting from the kitchen. Somewhere, a child wails about someone stealing their last gulab jamun.

The house is bursting at the seams.

And in the middle of it all, you exhale.

This—this chaos, this noise, this life—it fits into your bones in a way your quiet studio apartment never could. You’d forgotten what it was like to belong so loudly.

Nana leans in conspiratorially, whispering, “Don’t tell your mother, but I saved the last gulab jamun for you. Come. Before your sisters sniff it out.”

You follow him through the courtyard, dodging small feet, a rogue football, and a chorus of voices calling your name.

In your chest, something cracks open.

Your room still smells like jasmine and old notebooks.

The bedspreads have changed, but the walls are the same—covered in faded posters, hand-painted memories, and glow-in-the-dark stars your childhood friends insisted would help you sleep. It’s chaos and comfort all at once. There’s barely space for the four of you to sit, let alone stretch, but somehow you’re all sprawled on the floor, feet tangled, arms overlapping.

“Remember when she tried to run away because Ammi wouldn’t let her buy that glittery purple sharara?” your oldest sister snorts, pointing at you with a tube of lipstick she’s stolen from your makeup bag.

“I was ten!” you protest, laughing.

“You were dramatic,” your second eldest sister smirks, flicking her braid over her shoulder. “We found you sulking behind the swing set with a granola bar like it was your last meal.”

“She still does that,” the middle sister teases, nudging your knee. “Only now it’s over men and deadlines.”

You groan, flopping back on the rug. “I regret coming home.”

“No, you don’t,” your eldest murmurs, softer now, brushing your hair out of your face. “You missed us.”

The room quiets for a beat. There’s no music, no screaming relatives, no henna fumes or wedding bells—just the sound of four hearts syncing up again after too much time apart.

You missed this. The shared language of glances. The way you don’t have to explain your silence here. How your sisters know when to pull you into a hug without asking why your voice trembles.

There are binders. Color-coded. Made by your middle sister who’s taken on the role of wedding planner with the precision of a military general.

"You're wearing yellow for the haldi, green for the mehndi, red for the shaadi, and blue for the walima. No negotiations."

“Don’t even think about escaping wedding shopping tomorrow,” the other two warn. “We’re going to that madhouse bazaar. And you are wearing yellow.”

“Why yellow?”

“Because,” they say in unison, “it makes your skin glow.”

You don’t argue.

The laughter rises again, old and new, stitched into the seams of the night.

You fall asleep to the sound of your sisters breathing next to you, lulled by the hum of belonging.

The market is loud enough to make your teeth vibrate.

Rickshaws honk like they're being punished. Street vendors chant their deals in an unholy chorus. The smell of frying pakoras, gasoline, and rose garlands drapes itself over you like a second skin. It's sticky, messy, and somehow—it’s exactly what you needed.

You haven’t walked these streets in years, but your feet still remember the way the uneven tiles make your sandals catch. The colors around you scream in every direction: turmeric yellow, chili red, emerald green, sequins that wink in the sun like mischief.

Your mother is already fifteen steps ahead, deep in bargaining mode with a vendor who looks like he hasn’t smiled since 2004. Your sisters flank you like a desi SWAT team—one arguing about blouse necklines, the other snapping photos of lehengas to send to the family group chat that currently has 472 unread messages.

Your ears ring with:

“Aunty, yeh last price hai!”

“Beta, is mein lining nahi hai toh thoda dhekhna padega…”

“No, not that dupatta! It looks like mosquito netting!”

You’re half-listening. Mostly trying not to sweat through your kurti. The dupatta keeps slipping off your shoulder. Your bangles ring with every breath. A rogue toddler grabs your hand thinking you’re his mom. You're exactly three seconds from turning around and running straight back into the AC of the car when—

Everything quiets.

Not literally. The market is still chaos incarnate. But your mind blanks for a beat—just long enough to feel like something shifted in the air.

Across the narrow, crowded street, in the shade of a peeling blue storefront, someone is watching you.

He’s sitting on a wooden stool, a sketchpad balanced on his knee, a pencil paused mid-stroke. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, collar open, dark hair messy like he ran a frustrated hand through it too many times. His skin catches the sunlight in that golden, almost unfair way.

And his eyes.

His eyes are the sea right before a storm. Quiet, searching, endless.

You blink.

He doesn’t.

His gaze is fixed, not on your face, but on your earrings. Your jhumkas—the same ones your Nani gave you when you were fifteen. They're old, oxidized gold with tiny red beads, and they swing every time you move. You feel suddenly hyper-aware of every motion, every breath, every step. Like you’re under glass.

He tilts his head, sketchpad now forgotten on his lap.

And you—you don’t look away.

You should. You should say something to your sisters, fake a call, pretend you’re not affected. But there’s something magnetic about the way he looks at you, like he’s not just seeing you, but seeing through you. Like he’s been starved of color, and you just walked into his line of sight wrapped in a hundred shades of it.

A scooter zips between you, breaking the line of sight.

You gasp a little, startled, and look down—finally breaking the gaze.

Your heart is hammering. Not out of fear. But something… unspoken. Ancient. Like your soul recognized something your brain hasn’t caught up with yet.

Your sister bumps your shoulder. “What are you looking at?”

You glance back. He’s still there—but now, sketching. As if the moment never happened. As if you didn’t just crash into a silent kind of thunder between two strangers in the middle of a chaotic market.

You turn back to your family.

But you feel him still—like a thread tugging at your wrist.

Rafayel wasn’t supposed to be here for long. He came for pigment—something earthy, something unnameable. He thought the reds would inspire him, or maybe the deep indigo he heard came from this region. He didn’t expect... this.

He didn’t expect you.

You are standing in the middle of all this noise, holding up a sky-blue sari to the light, and laughing. There’s a smear of haldi on your wrist. A streak of kohl at the corner of your eye. You’re trying on glass bangles that catch the sun and break it into prisms.

And he cannot move.

It isn’t a thunderbolt kind of moment. It’s the kind that creeps up his spine and sets his chest aching.

It’s the way your laugh folds into the bazaar’s song and yet stands out.

It’s the way your sisters shout over one another, but you tilt your head and listen; patient and amused.

It’s the way you look radiant even when you're scolding a rogue child.

Paaon tale mere zameenein chal padi (The earth beneath my feet has started to move) 

Aisa toh kabhi hua hi nahi (This has never happened before) 

He doesn’t know the song. He doesn’t understand the lyrics playing from a rickshaw parked nearby, but the melody sticks to his skin like paint.

He hears his name being called distantly—his guide, confused, trying to tug him back toward the dyes. But he’s rooted. Drenched in the color of you.

He watches you laugh, mouth full of stories he doesn’t know yet, voice lifted in that language he hasn’t learned.

He steps back.

He’s an intruder here. A guest.

But oh, how his fingers itch to draw you—no, paint you—with every shade the sun left in this country.

You pass him without seeing him again. The crowd swallows you.

Rafayel is left standing in a pool of spilled marigold petals and longing.

And for the first time in months—his fingers twitch.

Inspiration bleeds through the haze of his block, like color finding water.

It’s three days later.

You’ve barely slept. Between pre-wedding events, endless fittings, and relatives using you as a glorified errand runner, you’re running on three hours of sleep and one aggressively sweet cup of chai. You’re back in the market—again—because your younger cousin decided she hates her mehndi outfit and apparently you’re the only one she trusts for “aesthetic guidance.”

“I swear I’ll owe you for life,” she says, fluttering her lashes.

“You already owe me for when I lied to your mom about you sneaking out to that concert,” you mutter.

You're too tired to dress up. Hair in a braid. Simple shalwar-kameez. Just your everyday silver jhumkas, because you feel weird without them now. No makeup, no pretense. You’re not here to be seen.

Which is, of course, why he finds you now.

You’re crouched by a rack of embroidered dupattas, texting your sister and regretting all your life choices, when you hear a low, thoughtful voice just behind you:

“You dropped something.”

You look up—and there he is.

Closer now. Too close, maybe. The kind of close where you can smell the faint sea-salt in his cologne and count the tiny flecks of light hidden in his dark eyes. He holds out his hand, palm up. In it is a single silver jhumka.

You feel for your ears, finding one bare. You hadn’t even noticed it was missing.

“Thanks,” you say, reaching out.

His fingers brush yours as he passes it over. Not by accident.

Not subtle.

He doesn’t let go right away. Just an extra second—barely long enough to call attention to it. Long enough to make your skin burn.

You straighten, suddenly aware of how much taller he is. He’s dressed simply—white shirt, sleeves rolled again, one button casually undone at the collar—but there’s something meticulous about him. Like a man who knows exactly how to exist in a frame.

His sketchpad is slung under one arm. His eyes never leave your face.

“I saw you here a few days ago,” he says, voice calm, eyes sharp. “You were… hard to miss.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Because I was yelling at a shopkeeper?”

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Because your earrings sounded like a song I forgot I knew.”

You stare at him.

He doesn't blink.

You break eye contact first. “That’s dangerously close to a line.”

“Wasn’t one,” he says softly. “If I were trying to impress you, I’d have quoted poetry. Or lied.”

“You’re not trying to impress me?”

“No.”

He pauses, tilts his head.

“I’m trying to remember the exact curve your bangles made when you laughed.”

You forget how to breathe.

Your cousin chooses that exact moment to shout your name from two shops down, waving a hideous magenta lehenga like it’s a victory banner. You don’t look away from him, but your mouth curls into something that’s halfway between a smirk and a smile.

“Duty calls,” you say.

He nods but doesn’t step back. “You’ll be back?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“If you keep staring at my jewelry like it owes you answers.”

That smile again, this time more open. “Only if it keeps making music.”

You take a step back, heart beating far too fast for someone who just met a man whose name she still doesn’t know.

But as you turn to leave, he says, “Wait.”

You look over your shoulder.

“I’m Rafayel,” he says. “Painter. Traveler. Terrible at remembering things.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Things?”

“People.”

You hold his gaze.

Then, with a half-smile, you say, “Try not to forget me then.”

“I already tried,” he says quietly. “Didn’t work.”

You're sitting on the veranda with a bowl of cut mangoes, trying to ignore the sound of your cousin playing “Sheila Ki Jawani” for the seventh time this morning. The shaadi countdown has entered a new phase of intensity—someone’s having a breakdown over missing heels, someone else is sobbing about flowers, and a child just ran past you naked holding a samosa.

Typical Thursday.

Your phone buzzes. It's your sister.

come outside

RIGHT NOW

ur not going to believe this

You’re already outside, but you get up anyway, curiosity prickling down your spine.

Then you see it.

The house next door—your grandparents’ old neighbor’s bungalow that’s been empty for months—is open. Curtains drawn back. Movers bustling. A man standing at the gate, talking to your mother.

Not just any man.

Him.

Rafayel.

White shirt again. Sunglasses pushed into his hair. A small smile playing on his lips as your mom gestures wildly, no doubt trying to understand who exactly this foreign-looking man with art-supply-colored fingers is and why he’s moving in next door during a wedding.

You freeze.

He glances toward you, and his smile shifts—something quieter, softer, almost smug.

Your stomach does a flip it has no business doing.

Of course, your mother clocks the silent exchange. She calls out your name like she just uncovered a scandal.

“Come say hello! Our new neighbor just arrived! Artist banda hai, you’ll like him!”

Before you can fake a phone call or a divine intervention, your entire extended family flocks to the gate like vultures spotting free pakoras. Uncles. Aunties. Cousins. At least three toddlers. Your sister’s already live-tweeting it in the family WhatsApp group.

Someone asks if he’s married.

Someone else asks if he’s single.

Your chachi squints suspiciously. “Artist? Matlab, kya karta hai full-time?”

Rafayel doesn’t flinch. “I paint.”

“Paint? As in walls or...?”

“Canvas,” he says, deadpan. “And sometimes silence.”

Your mamu side-eyes him like he just spoke French.

A cousin snickers. “Do you also paint feelings, bhai?”

“Yes,” Rafayel says. “But only the unspoken ones.”

The chaos halts for one holy second as they invite him into the house. He walks in like a man accepting a dare. Hair a little too perfectly tousled, expression unreadable—but his hand brushes yours lightly as he passes.

You feel it in your wrist.

Your grandfather is already seated at the head of the room, his cane leaning beside him, newspaper folded with surgical precision.

“Artist sahib,” he says, voice low and amused. “Come. Sit. Tell us—what exactly are your intentions toward our pigment?”

Rafayel blinks. “My... intentions?”

Cousins snicker.

You groan. “He means what color you’re looking for.”

“Ah,” Rafayel says, lips twitching. “Ultramarine, if I can find it. And maybe vermilion. Something that bleeds a little.”

That shuts them up. Slightly.

Nana nods, eyes gleaming. “Good answer. Sounds expensive.”

One of your younger cousins leans in and whispers—loud enough for everyone to hear— “He looks like a drama hero. All broody and tragic.”

Another pipes up, “He’s hot. Is he rich too? Or is this a starving artist situation?”

You elbow her gently. “You all have no shame.”

“We just care about your future, sis,” she says sweetly, then looks straight at Rafayel. “Do you like chaat?”

He nods. “If it burns the roof of my mouth and makes me question my decisions, yes.”

They love him. Instantly.

Tea arrives. Biscuits. Then laddoos. Then a plate of steaming samosas. Rafayel is juggling a cup, a plate, a toddler in his lap, and three questions from three different relatives at once.

But he keeps looking at you.

Between bites, between glances, in that moment when your jhumka catches the light and you sip your chai with both hands around the cup—he watches. Not like a man who wants to undress you with his eyes. Like a man who wants to learn you like a language.

Aisa lagta hai kyun teri aankhen jaise  (Why do I feel as if your eyes) 

Aankhon mein meri reh gayi  (Have settled in my eyes)  

Nana clears his throat loudly. “You know,” he says, tone casual, “in my day, a man came home only if he meant to stay.”

The entire room goes still.

You make a strangled sound into your tea.

Rafayel’s mouth quirks. “Then I hope I’m not offending tradition. I was told there’d be snacks.”

Nana sips his chai and gives a secretive smile.

And you know you’ve lost this round. Rafayel has officially infiltrated.

It’s nearly midnight, but the house is still humming.

The elders have finally gone to bed, the kids tucked away like mismatched socks in spare rooms and floor mattresses. From the rooftop, faint laughter still drifts—your cousins playing antakshari. A fan creaks overhead as you sit cross-legged on the bed, brushing your hair out with slow, absent strokes.

The day is still clinging to you in pieces—Rafayel’s fingertips brushing yours at the doorway, his long lashes lowered as he sipped chai, the way your Nana watched him like he was trying to read a painting that kept changing under his gaze.

You try not to smile.

But then the door creaks.

“Knock knock,” comes the sing-song voice of your eldest sister as she slips in uninvited. “Or should I say... Rafayel Rafayel?”

You groan. “No.”

“Oh yes.” She plops down beside you, stealing the brush from your hand. “Explain to me how the world’s most expensive painter just so happens to be hanging around our living room? Looking like a Renaissance sculpture with abandonment issues?”

“He’s here for pigment,” you mutter.

She wiggles her brows. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Your second sister pokes her head in. “Are we talking about the mysterious artist who doesn’t eat sugar but somehow accepted two laddoos from Dadi?”

You chuck your pillow at her. She dodges, cackling, and climbs in beside you. “Oh, you’re blushing. This is historical.”

You bury your face in your hands.

The third walks in dramatically, arms crossed. “I just want to know if we’re getting an international jiju. I need to update my Snapchat story accordingly.”

“There is nothing going on!” you yell, tugging the dupatta over your face in mock shame.

But they know better. They’ve seen the way you looked at him. The way you didn’t look at anyone else. The way you spoke a little softer around him.

The way his gaze lingered even after you'd left the room.

“You know what he told Nana?” your eldest sister says, smirking. “That the light in our courtyard reminded him of Florence. Florence, yaar. Who talks like that?”

You mumble through your scarf, “A pretentious idiot with a brush addiction.”

The second sister hums. “A pretentious idiot who kept staring at your jhumka like it was whispering secrets.”

Your third sister nudges you, “Are you gonna kiss him or sketch him?”

You groan again. “Can I have one peaceful night in my own house?”

But when they finally leave, trailing whispers and giggles behind them, the room is too quiet again. You lie back, fingers still warm from brushing your hair, the ghost of a gaze heavy at your wrist.

The courtyard isn't special.

It’s cracked tiles, uneven shade from a too-old neem tree, and the constant whir of a dying pedestal fan set up for the caterers. But somehow, in the late afternoon light, it feels like the only place untouched by wedding chaos.

You escape here more often now. Everyone’s too busy with haldi prep, last-minute fittings, sifting through bangle boxes and earring piles. The aunts are arguing over oil brands, the cousins are choreographing dances with the passion of Broadway stars. You’re slipping away before someone hands you another gift basket to decorate.

There’s a rustle—fabric, leaves—and then him.

You don’t startle. You’re almost used to it now. His quiet arrivals. The way he steps into a space like he was always meant to be part of it.

Rafayel.

Squatting on the ground this time, surrounded by ceramic bowls—actual hand-thrown ones—filled with powders that shimmer like magic. Ground turmeric, dried marigold, beetroot, crushed hibiscus, even something that smells faintly of cardamom and ash.

He looks up but doesn’t speak.

Just watches you as you approach, the corner of his mouth twitching in recognition. His eyes flick to your anklet when it chimes faintly against the stone. His gaze lingers. Longer than polite.

You sit without asking. Without needing to.

“Are you starting a spice shop?” you ask, picking up a pinch of burnt orange powder.

“I’m making a base for coral,” he murmurs. “The kind that dries dusky, not bright.”

“And that requires... cooking ingredients?”

He dips a brush into water, adds a swirl of powder. The hue that blooms is molten. Dreamy. “Natural pigments have soul. Artificial ones lie.”

“You sound like my Nana when he talks about real ghee.”

That earns a chuckle.

Then, a quiet beat.

“You always come here after everyone else is busy,” he says. Not a question.

You shrug. “Hard to be the youngest. Loud family. I disappear and no one notices for ten minutes.”

“I notice.”

It’s soft. Not performative. Like he’s telling you he breathes. A simple fact.

You glance at him. And this time, you really look.

He’s beautiful, yes—but not in the obvious way. Not in the way your cousins whisper about, half-laughing. There’s something in the curve of his mouth when he concentrates. In the quiet reverence with which he holds pigment. In the way his knees are dusty from squatting too long and he hasn’t even noticed.

“Why do you keep showing up wherever I go?” you ask, not sharply.

He doesn’t flinch.

“I think I was always going to end up here,” he says, still mixing. “You just happened to be in the frame.”

You should roll your eyes.

Instead, your fingers tap absently at your bangles.

“That’s a line.”

He glances up. “Maybe. But it’s true.”

You want to say something back. Something clever. Instead, you reach out and swipe a finger through the coral pigment he’s just finished blending. It stains your fingertip a shade deeper than the sunset.

“Will it stay?” you ask.

“Days,” he replies. “Weeks, if it gets under your nails.”

There’s a pause.

Then—

“Better than henna?” he asks.

You go still.

He doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t say how he knows.

Maybe you had mentioned it once, offhand. At the bazaar. While he handed you a tissue for your chili-stung mouth.

You hadn’t thought he was listening.

He was.

You look down at your coral-stained finger.

“It’s different.”

“How?”

You hesitate. Then:

“Henna… feels like a promise. This feels like a secret.”

He nods. “Some promises lie. But secrets—secrets always tell the truth.”

Your eyes meet. Not flirting. Not play. Just that pull again.

You rise to leave—because if you don’t now, you’ll stay, and if you stay, you’ll say something you aren’t ready for. But as you brush past him, he lifts his hand like he might reach for your wrist. Stops. Thinks better of it.

Still, you feel it.

The warmth of him. Close. A little too close.

“Next time,” he says, quietly, “tell me what color you want. I’ll make it for you.”

You pause, turning just slightly.

“And if I want a shade that doesn’t exist?”

His smile curves, slow and knowing.

“Then I’ll invent it.”

You don't remember agreeing to be the haldi handler, but somehow your arms are covered in it and your cousins are weaponizing rosewater like it’s war paint.

The inner courtyard is a riot of flowers, steel thalis, and three aunties yelling conflicting instructions. There’s singing, of course—off-key and heartfelt—and a cousin blasting Punjabi remixes from a Bluetooth speaker taped to a potted plant.

You’re wiping your hands on the edge of your dupatta when he appears.

Rafayel.

Again.

Leaning against the carved stone archway like he walked out of a Mughal painting and forgot to go back in. His sleeves are rolled up. He's wearing a kurta—pale ivory, thin enough that the shadows of his movements peek through. His gaze is easy but intent, scanning the courtyard until it finds you.

You freeze. Your cousin, of course, does not.

“Oh hello again, Sketchboy.”

You groan.

Rafayel’s lips quirk, just barely. “It’s Rafayel.”

“I know. She told me.”

You send her a glare. She ignores it.

He walks in further, cautious not to step on the wet haldi puddles. “I was looking for your grandfather,” he says, to you.

Her eyes gleam. “Nana’s upstairs. But since you’re here—do you want to help?”

He raises an eyebrow, and she thrusts a bowl of turmeric into his hands.

“You are always hovering around her,” she says with a wicked grin. “Might as well get your hands dirty.”

You open your mouth to protest—to save him—but he just nods. Calm. Graceful. Hands the same golden bowl back to you, and another box on top of it, like it’s a peace offering.

“For your bangles,” he says, eyes warm. “So they match the rest of you.”

Your cousins howl.

Another one whistles. “He’s got lines! Who gave this man lines?!”

You flee before they start chanting wedding shlokas.

He follows. But only after you’ve gone far enough that no one can see how your cheeks burn beneath your earrings.

That night, you escape to the rooftop.

The city is hushed, just the whisper of distant car horns and the soft rustle of leaves. The stars blink lazily. The fairy lights from the courtyard glow below like grounded fireflies. You breathe in silence.

And then—

You know it’s him before he speaks.

He doesn’t say your name. Just steps beside you, a safe distance away, holding two steaming cups of chai.

“Your sister cornered me,” he says mildly. “Asked if we were in love yet.”

You snort. “I hope you told her we weren’t.”

“I told her we weren’t yet.”

Your laugh catches, half a sound.

He hands you a cup. You wrap your fingers around it slowly.

The night presses close. The chai smells like cardamom and something darker—clove, maybe.

“You were looking for Nana?” you ask.

He nods, gaze distant. “I asked him about indigo. Real indigo. He told me a story about how it dyes memory, not just cloth.”

“That sounds like him.”

“He said…” Rafayel turns, voice quieter, “...some colors never leave the skin. No matter how hard you scrub.”

You don’t reply.

You just drink.

The wind teases the hem of your dupatta. His shoulder is only inches from yours now, even though neither of you moved. You can feel the warmth of him in the space between.

“I remember the sound of your anklet before I saw your face,” he says, out of nowhere.

You turn your head sharply.

He’s not looking at you.

Just the city.

“But I think…” he adds, barely audible, “...I would’ve found you either way.”

And your heart does something reckless.

You shift your hand slightly. It brushes against his on the cement railing. He doesn’t pull away. Neither do you.

Neither of you say anything about it.

But you don’t let go.

The house is a riot of colors and movement.

Marigold garlands are being strung across doorways. Plates of samosas, mithai, and chai pass from hand to hand with military precision. Your eldest massi is in a standoff with the decorator over the exact shade of pink for the drapes. The children are being bribed with mango juice to stop climbing the stage pillars. Your cousin nearly sets his kurta on fire trying to light a candle.

And you’re in the center of it all—trying to fasten a stubborn anklet that refuses to cooperate with your patience or your Garara.

“Uff, I swear I’m going to cut it off,” you mutter, crouched on the low veranda step.

“Would that be considered an act of war here?”

The voice is low, amused—and far too close.

You freeze.

Looking up, you find him standing above you, bathed in the golden hue of the setting sun. Rafayel. Dressed simply—white kurta, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair is tousled like he’d run a hand through it one too many times. His eyes, though—sharp as ever—are focused only on you.

He kneels slowly before you, tilting his head up. “Need help?”

You blink, heart thudding. “You know how to tie an anklet?”

“I know how to observe.” His voice drops a little. “You were pressing too hard. The clasp just needs a little patience.”

He reaches forward before you can protest. His fingers brush yours, gentle, cool.

It’s suddenly very quiet despite the chaos around you. Like the volume’s been turned down on the world just so you can hear the sound of your own pulse.

He fixes it carefully, then lets his hand linger a second longer than necessary against your ankle, his thumb grazing skin. Your breath catches.

When he finally looks up, there’s something unreadable in his eyes. Something reverent.

“You wear color like it was made for you,” he murmurs. “Sound, too.”

You blink. “Sound?”

He gestures lightly. “Your anklets. Your bangles. That jhumka. You don’t just move. You announce yourself.”

You try to laugh it off, but your cheeks are warm. “Bit poetic for someone who paints with mud and beetroot juice.”

A flicker of a smirk curves his lips. “You haven’t seen what I can do with turmeric and heartbreak.”

You’re saved from replying by the sudden shriek of your sister yelling your name from the terrace. “OYE—stop flirting! We need help with the gajre!”

Rafayel’s eyes crinkle with silent laughter as you groan and get up, brushing off your hands.

“I’m not flirting,” you shout back automatically, already turning away.

But you feel him watching you go.

The anklet chimes with every step, traitorous and delighted.

The courtyard is transformed.

Fairy lights drip from the trees like liquid stars. Orange and pink drapes flutter in the breeze. Someone’s playing the dhol like their life depends on it, and the beat rattles through the ground and into your ribs. Laughter crashes like waves—loud, unrestrained, warm.

This is what you missed.

Home.

Family.

And right now, the stage belongs to you and your sisters.

You’re twirling, lost in rhythm, dupatta flying behind you like fire, bangles clashing with the music. Your sisters flank you, all of you laughing, dancing in sync, every step a memory coming alive. Anklets sing with every movement. Across the crowd—near the water fountain where the elders have congregated—he stands.

Rafayel.

Wearing deep blue, like storm clouds threatening to pour. Hair swept back now. A quiet shadow among all this noise. But his gaze never wavers.

Not even for a second.

It’s not just admiration. It’s... hunger. The kind born not of lust, but of longing. His eyes drink you in like he’s found the muse he crossed oceans to chase.

And for a moment, you dare to meet his gaze mid-spin.

The world doesn’t slow—it stutters. Your breath snags. The dance fades into background noise. His lips twitch at the corner, not quite a smile, not quite a challenge.

He looks like he wants to walk straight into the fire of it all.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he stands rooted, one hand curled around a cup of chai he’s forgotten, the other clenching loosely by his side like he’s holding back something urgent. Something unruly.

The music swells. You turn away, cheeks burning, heart loud.

You shouldn’t be thinking about him this much.

You shouldn’t be wondering how it would feel to rest your head against that chest, warm and steady like thunderclouds before the rain.

Tu hi tu hai joh har taraf mere (Now that you are there all around me) 

Toh tujhse pare main jaaun kahan (So where can I go far from you) 

You mouth the lyrics with the music, not realizing how they cling to you like a secret.

Later that night, when the guests begin to trickle out and the lights grow softer, you pass him by in the corridor. He’s leaning against the arch, one leg crossed over the other, gaze unreadable.

“You danced like you were trying to set something free,” he says quietly.

You pause, heart skipping.

“And did I?” you ask.

His voice is low—dangerous. “No. You caged something else instead.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

But neither of you moves. The moment stretches like silk—thin, shining, threatening to snap.

Until your little cousin barrels down the hall screeching, “SWEETS!”

Rafayel glances up, chuckling. “Always the dramatics in this family.”

You smile, but it trembles a little at the edge.

Because you know it now.

This isn't just a crush.

It’s something deeper.

The smell of mehndi hangs thick in the air—earthy, sweet, nostalgic. The house is glowing with fairy lights, cushions thrown everywhere, dhol beating loud enough to shake your ribs. Cousins are dancing. Aunties are gossiping. Kids are high on sugar and unregulated enthusiasm. Everything is bright and loud and spinning.

Except you.

You sit on the edge of the steps, hands folded neatly in your lap. Bare.

Everyone else has swirls of deep brown trailing up their arms, names of lovers hidden in curls, flowers blossoming across skin like poetry. You? Nothing.

Because in the chaos—between fixing someone’s ripped lehenga, calming your crying niece, and being sent to find a charger for the henna artist’s phone—you missed your turn.

By the time you got back, the artist was packing up. Everyone else had gone back to eating, laughing, taking selfies.

No one noticed your hands were still empty.

No one asked.

You don't cry. That would be stupid. It’s just mehndi, right? You’re not the bride. You’re not even the sister of the bride. You’re just... here. The guest. The helper. The fixer. The extra set of hands.

But god, it hurts.

You slip away from the crowd, down the back path that leads toward the garden. It’s darker here. Quiet. Your bangles don’t jingle. You’ve stopped moving like music.

That’s when you hear him.

“You look like someone punched your soul.”

You turn.

Rafayel stands leaning against a tree, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a small paper cup of juice. He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t try to crowd you. He just looks.

You try to laugh it off. “What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you were invited again.”

“I wasn’t,” he says. “I was summoned. By your grandfather. Said there’d be sweets.”

You snort. “Of course.”

He walks forward slowly. Stops beside you, close but not too close.

You look down at your bare hands.

He sees.

“What happened?”

You shrug. “Nothing. I was just—busy.”

“With everyone else.”

You look away.

He’s quiet for a long beat. Then:

“Would you let me?”

He reaches into his satchel and pulls out—of all things—a fresh, sealed henna cone.

“I heard you say how much you wanted it. I may have… spent the last few days learning.”

You stare at the tube. Then at him. Then back.

“You what?!”

“I watched tutorials. Got a few lessons from the lady who sold me the bangles. Look, I might’ve accidentally stained my hands orange in the process, but…” he shrugs, sheepish. “I can try?”

You stare.

And then you laugh.

Loud and full and stunned. “You? Want to do my mehendi?”

“I figured…” He rubs the back of his neck. “If I can paint on canvas, I can paint on you.”

Just then, your cousins stumble onto the terrace. Spot the henna cone from above. Spot Rafayel.

“Oh my God, look at him! He’s going to do her mehendi?!”

“I thought he was a foreigner!”

“He’s not even Desi and he’s trying! What is this, a fanfic?”

“Bhaiya, please marry her—”

Rafayel, flustered and surrounded, gets to his feet. “Okay—I take it back, this was a terrible idea—”

You’re laughing so hard you have to lean against a pillar.

But eventually, you pull him by the wrist and escape up the back stairwell, breathless and grinning.

“I wasn’t joking,” he murmurs when you’re alone again. “I really want to do your henna.”

You look at him—at his stained fingers, at the sketchbook peeking from his bag, at the way he’s looking at you like you’re the most sacred canvas he’s ever seen.

“Okay,” you whisper.

“Okay?”

You hold out your hand.

He takes it like it’s made of glass.

And begins.

You sit cross-legged on the marble balcony, the air sweet with mogra and anticipation. Somewhere behind you, your cousins are whispering by the window, spying, no doubt—but for once, you don’t care.

The moonlight falls soft on your arms as you extend your hands toward him. Your skin glows under its silver wash, and for a second, Rafayel just stares.

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice low. He’s already kneeling in front of you, henna cone poised delicately between long fingers.

You nod.

“Positive.”

His gaze lingers on your face—eyes searching for hesitation, for teasing. There’s none. So he exhales, rests his hand lightly under your wrist, and begins.

The first line is slow.

Tentative.

You hold your breath as the cool trail touches your skin. His touch is featherlight, reverent. The henna’s earthy scent begins to bloom between you as intricate curves unfold beneath his steady hand.

You glance at his face—and your breath catches.

He looks... different.

Focused, yes, but something else flickers there too. A sort of awe. As if your skin is sacred and this—the act of decorating it—is worship.

“You’re good at this,” you whisper, half-teasing.

He smiles faintly. “I practiced on oranges and my own leg,” he murmurs. “This is... better.”

You laugh softly. “I should hope so.”

The pattern snakes up your palm in elegant spirals. Your fingers twitch once, brushing against his wrist, and his entire body stills for a second too long.

“I didn’t expect...” he starts, then stops.

“Didn’t expect what?” you ask.

“That I’d care this much about doing it right.”

He doesn’t meet your eyes. You don’t press.

The air between you grows heavier as he works. The world shrinks to nothing but the warm hush of your breath and the cool glisten of henna tracing lines over your skin.

It’s too much—too quiet, too close, too everything.

So you break it.

“Did you come really come this far just for color?” you ask, softly.

His hand pauses for a moment.

“No,” he says. “Not anymore.”

Your heart stumbles.

“I came for inspiration. I was blocked, empty. Nothing made sense on canvas. But now...”

He glances up.

“You do.”

And there it is.

The truth, plain as stars.

Your throat tightens.

“Rafayel—”

He gently lifts your other hand. Brushes his thumb over your knuckles. “May I?”

You nod, breath caught between your ribs.

He begins again, slower this time, more deliberate. Every curve of henna—a confession he isn’t ready to say out loud.

As he draws, you realize what he’s weaving into your palm. A crescent moon, delicate and shaded, blooming from a sea of waves and lotuses—an ocean of you and him.

And hidden in the swirls of your wrist, nestled between the paisleys—

A single stroke. He signs his name, woven into the intricate design.

You don’t say anything.

Not now.

Instead, you close your eyes.

You don’t need words.

The henna speaks for you.

You wake to the scent of dried henna warm on your skin. The morning sun slices through sheer curtains, dancing over the gold trim of your pillow.

You sit up slowly.

Your hands are dry now, the patterns stained into your skin like secrets.

You lift them to the light—and stare.

You had seen it forming last night, glimpses between breathless silences and the brush of his fingers. But in the full glow of morning, it’s mesmerizing.

Waves. Lotuses. The crescent moon—so delicate it looks like a smile. Everything twined with the tiniest, near-invisible strokes of text—

His name. Hidden in the curve of your wrist. Not loud, not bold. Secret. Intimate.

You run your thumb over it. Your chest aches in a way it shouldn’t.

Outside your room, the house is already alive—laughter, clinking dishes, someone shouting about roti. But here, it’s still quiet. Still yours.

You press your palm to your cheek and smile. Just a little.

You weren’t planning to wear anything that would draw attention.

But your sisters had other plans.

Somehow, you ended up in an emerald-green lehenga and so many churiyan stacked on your arms, you feel like a walking wind chime. They curled your hair, pinned your jhumkas just right, and lined your eyes with a black liner so sharp it could cut.

“You look like heartbreak—personified,” your cousin said, snapping your picture.

You didn’t say it, but you were already holding it.

Because on your hands—woven into your skin like a soft, silent rebellion—are Rafayel’s designs.

His ocean.

His name.

You weren’t going to tell anyone. You were just going to survive the event, perform the group dance, maybe eat a gulab jamun or four, and avoid thinking too hard.

But the universe had other plans.

You walk into the courtyard.

Someone sees your hands.

And the chaos begins.

“OHHH MY GODDDD!”

Your middle sister grabs your wrist like its evidence. “Yeh kisne banaya? This is NOT the henna artist’s work.”

Your aunt peeks over her shoulder. “Arey haan, this is too modern.”

Your youngest cousin squints, snatches your hand, flips it over. “Kya likha hai yahaan…? R… A… Rafay—”

You pull your hands back. Mortified. 

“RA-FAY?” she shrieks. “WHO. IS. RA-FAY?”

You freeze. For once, you have no comeback.

Your sisters are SCREAMING. Your chachis are huddled like spies in a Netflix crime doc. One of your brothers actually drops his phone and shouts “Plot twist!!”

You try to mediate the situation, but it’s too late.

You're in the spotlight now.

“You didn’t even TELL us?”

“Is he rich?”

“Is he tall?”

“Are you in love?”

“Kya kahani hai?!”

“Show us his picture!”

“NO NO, call him HERE.”

You’re backing away when you bump straight into a very solid chest.

Rafayel.

Wearing—of course—a black kurta with the sleeves rolled up and a subtle smirk playing on his mouth like he knew this would happen. Like he planned it.

Of course he did.

The entire family goes silent.

Your chachi is fuming.

Your sister whispers, “No. Freaking. Way.”

A cousin mutters, “Ladka hot hai. You’re excused.”

And Nana?

Sitting with a cup of chai, cross-legged on the divan. Watching.

He smiles. Doesn’t say a word.

Just sips.

You, somehow, find your voice. “What are you doing here?”

Rafayel’s tone is innocent. “Nana invited me.”

Nana, not your Nana, not your grandfather. Just Nana, as if—

Your grandfather raises his cup in the air like he’s won.

The rest of your family stares. You brace yourself for questions, for teasing, for death-by-curiosity.

But Rafayel just turns to you, eyes steady, and says:

“You didn’t wash it off.”

You don’t blink. “You wrote your name on me.”

“I asked permission.”

“You did not.”

“You didn’t stop me.”

Your mouth opens. But you’re short-circuiting. The lehenga’s too tight. The night’s too loud. The mehndi is still dark.

And Rafayel, without even touching you, has you unraveling.

Your aunt whispers to your mother, “Ab inki shaadi krwani hai.”

Nana nods sagely. “Larka acha hai. Artist hai, lekin acha hai.”

You look at Rafayel. “You’re enjoying this.”

He leans down, voice low, just for you. “More than you know.”

The music's gone thunderous again—bass so heavy it could realign your spine. Everyone's dancing now. A blur of color and sweat and wildly offbeat choreography.

You duck out, breath catching in your throat, heat rising in your cheeks, pulse still tripping over Rafayel’s words.

You didn’t wash it off. You didn’t stop me. He said it like a fact. Like a challenge.

You need air.

The side courtyard is quiet. Just fairy lights and the faint echo of Raataan Lambiyan bleeding through the walls. You press your back to the cool stone and try to remember how to inhale like a normal human being.

“Running away again?”

His voice cuts through the quiet like silk.

You don’t open your eyes. “I’m not running.”

“Then what are you doing out here?” he asks, footsteps soft as he approaches.

“Hiding from my family. They’re about five minutes away from planning our engagement.”

He laughs, quiet and real.

“Would that be such a bad thing?”

You open your eyes.

He’s standing in front of you now, too close for comfort, but not close enough to touch. That maddening in-between space where the air buzzes and you don’t know whether to step forward or step back.

You go for sarcasm, because that’s safe. “Do you always move this fast?”

He shrugs. “I don’t move fast. I move when it feels like I’ll regret standing still.”

You hate how that lands. You hate how it feels true.

He takes a half-step closer. “Why does it scare you?”

You meet his eyes. “Because you’re—we're—”

We're too different. You don't say but he realizes nonetheless. 

Something flickers in his expression. He doesn’t respond.

And then—just as you’re about to turn, to leave, to end this before it spills over—

Your dupatta catches.

Snagged, pulled, stuck—right on the button of his kurta.

Classic. Cosmic. Catastrophic.

You both freeze.

His hand lifts slowly, carefully brushing over the embroidery. You feel it in your chest, not your shoulder.

“It’s delicate,” he murmurs, eyes still on the fabric. “Like you.”

“Don’t,” you breathe. “Don’t make that a metaphor.”

“I wasn’t going to.” He finally looks up. “I don’t need metaphors. You’re already the art.”

You exhale sharply, but you’re not smiling.

You’re bare.

No sarcasm. No shield. No exit.

“Why me?” you ask. “You could have anyone. You could walk into a gallery and have a dozen muses lined up.”

He leans in just enough that you forget how to stay still.

“I don’t want a muse,” he says. “I want a mirror.”

You go still.

Your heart has the audacity to lurch.

And then—just like that—he untangles the thread. Slow. Gentle. His fingers ghost over your shoulder as he frees you. Doesn’t linger. Doesn’t press.

He steps back.

But you feel it like he touched your soul.

“You’re dangerous,” you whisper again.

This time, he smiles like he agrees. “So are you.”

And with that, he leaves you standing there—wrapped in green, stained with his name, and completely unraveled.

You should’ve seen it coming.

It started with your sisters plotting by the sink. Then whispering way too obviously during dinner. You knew they were up to something—your family doesn’t whisper, they scheme.

So when the plans for the “pre-wedding cousin trip” were announced—beach day, whole squad, bride, groom, chaos—you weren’t surprised.

What did surprise you?

The moment you climbed into the rental van and found Rafayel, already seated by the window, sipping Rooh Afza from a paper cup, like he belonged there.

“Kya— Why are you here?” you ask, switching languages without realizing, clutching the doorframe like it might save you.

He shrugs, deadpan. “Don't look at me like that. Your sisters practically kidnapped me. I'm a victim”

Your middle sister grins from the driver’s seat. “We needed an adult to supervise.”

Your eldest sister chimes in, “And someone hot for aesthetics.”

You stare at them.

They wink at you.

You climb in, praying the universe has a sense of mercy.

It does not.

Because Rafayel ends up beside you.

Because the van is packed.

Because fate is dramatic like that.

The beach is wild.

Desi playlists blasting from a Bluetooth speaker. Cousins racing into the water, someone trying to fly a kite, the groom being bullied into a photoshoot, and your dupatta turning into a weapon in the sea breeze.

You try to fade into the background. Let the younger ones scream over one of Atif Aslam’s songs and the older ones debate biryani vs kadhai. You sit near a rocky patch, toes buried in the sand, finally breathing.

Rafayel appears like a ghost beside you.

Shoes off. Sleeves rolled up. A soft salt-touched breeze threading through his hair.

“Didn’t take you for a beach person,” you say.

“I like water,” he replies. “It never lies.”

You glance at him. “Is that how you paint?”

He nods. “Water remembers things the canvas forgets.”

You don't know what that means, but it sinks into you anyway.

“Do you swim?” he asks suddenly.

You raise a brow. “Do you?”

His smirk is dangerous. “Want to find out?”

Before you can answer, one of your cousins yells, “WE’RE DOING A SANDCASTLE CONTEST—COUPLES EDITION!”

Your sisters immediately point at you and Rafayel.

“THEY’RE A TEAM!”

You open your mouth. “We’re not—”

Too late.

You’re being handed a bucket, a mini shovel, and more pressure than a family dinner.

Rafayel just chuckles. “Let’s win.”

You glare. “I hate you.”

He leans close. “Puh-lease, you love me.”

You blink.

Then he grabs the shovel and starts building like he didn’t just drop an emotional grenade on you.

—

The tide creeps in slowly. Your team lost (your youngest cousin's “Shrek castle” won by sheer chaos points). Everyone’s packing up.

But you’re still standing at the edge of the water, ankle-deep, jeans rolled up, watching the waves.

You hear him before you see him.

“Come on,” Rafayel says, walking straight into the tide like a painting coming alive. “One dip won’t kill you.”

“You don’t have extra clothes.”

“I’ll dry.”

“Your shirt’s linen.”

He grins. “Then let it wrinkle.”

You stare.

He walks farther in.

The ocean wraps around him, warm and gold and endless.

“You’re insane,” you call.

He looks over his shoulder, hair damp now, smile soft and sure.

“Come anyway.”

And somehow—you do.

You step into the water.

And it feels like everything else—your name, your past, your aching chest—gets washed back to shore.

He doesn’t touch you.

He doesn’t need to.

You’re already drowning.

And for the first time in weeks—you want to be.

The day of the wedding it's like there’s gold in the air.

Not just in the shimmer of embroidered sarees or the edge of the bride's red veil trailing behind her like a royal train, but in the laughter, the glint of bangles clinking like tiny bells, in the chaos of cousins running wild with stolen stage props and half-baked plans.

Music weaves through the air—old Bollywood, newer remixes, and a few chaotic mashups that only your loudest cousins know how to dance to. Your aunties are shouting across tables, bargaining over bets and rules like they're trading on the stock market.

And Rafayel?

He’s seated quietly at the edge of it all, in a crisp sherwani you still can’t believe he agreed to wear. It’s ivory, with subtle hand embroidery at the collar, and when he shifts in the golden sunlight, he glows like he belongs in an oil painting. A silent observer, sketching it all with his eyes.

But then his gaze finds you, and he forgets how to breathe.

You’re helping your niece with her bangles, bent slightly forward, the jhumkas by your ears swaying like they have their own rhythm. Your hair is pinned up in an updo. And that smile—God. You look like a moment he wants to paint into forever.

You catch him looking. He doesn’t look away.

Tera dil woh shehar hai  (Your heart is a city) 

Jis shehar me ja ke lauta na main kabhi  (A city I went to once and have never returned since) 

—

The joota chupai begins like a war. Your cousin army steals the groom’s shoes, hiding them under a sea of lehengas and fake distractions. The groom’s side retaliates. There are negotiations, ambushes, ransom demands. Rafayel watches it all unfold with mild horror and deep fascination.

“You people are intense,” he mutters when you pass him, breathless and triumphant with one stolen shoe in hand.

“We’re efficient,” you say. “You’d better watch your shoes.”

“If you want me, just ask nicely,” he retaliates.

Your breath catches at the implication—but you don’t stop walking.

—

Then comes the game.

A table is laid out with dozens of objects—glass bangles, a peacock feather, a toy gun, a spoon, a fake mustache, lipstick, a paper crown. A speaker blasts snippets of Bollywood songs and everyone rushes to pick the object that best matches the lyrics. It’s madness. It’s brilliant.

“Kala Chashma”—a cousin dives for the sunglasses.

“Bole Chudiyan”—you grab the glass bangles.

“Desi girl”—he snatches a bindi and sticks it between his brows with a flourish. The entire family howls.

Rafayel doesn’t win most rounds. But when “Ishq wala love” plays, he doesn't reach for anything. He just looks at you.

And that… is enough.

—

Later, after the crowd has dispersed for dinner and the courtyard is quieter under strings of fairy lights and the stars above, you find him sketching near the tree.

He looks up.

“You look beautiful,” he says, as if it’s a confession. “Not just tonight. Always.”

You feel your throat tighten.

“Rafayel—”

“I’ve tried not to,” he says softly, stepping closer. “I told myself this is temporary. A trip. A burst of color. A muse.”

He exhales like it hurts. “But it’s not. I love you.”

The world stills. The lights flicker. A firecracker cracks in the distance.

You close your eyes.

Because you want to believe it. God, you want it.

But what happens when the trip ends? When you go back to your studies, your deadlines, your life? He’s famous, traveling the world. You're rooted in something smaller, softer, real.

“It’s not enough,” you whisper, stepping back. “We won’t survive. Not for the long run.”

And before he can speak again—before he can soften your doubt into something brave—you slip away, heart thundering.

—

Days pass. 

The wedding is over. The chaos settles into memory.

Your room is quiet. His suitcase is still in your foyer. Neither of you reach for each other.

Nana watches you mope around, pretending not to stare at your phone every ten minutes. Watches Rafayel sketch for hours but never finish a single piece.

He huffs.

“Enough,” he mutters one morning. “I didn’t survive three bypasses and a youth of British colonial nonsense to watch two idiots destroy their own love story.”

Nana’s plan starts like most historical disasters do: with the elders whispering in corners.

You should’ve been suspicious when your aunties started wearing their fancier clothes to breakfast. Or when your second cousin first removed—who usually dresses like a teenager on laundry day—showed up in a sherwani and borrowed your brother’s perfume.

You definitely should’ve noticed when your mother gave you the look. That silent, smug “don’t-ask-just-go-wear-the-red-one” look.

But you were tired, still aching from how things ended with Rafayel, still pretending not to notice how your phone stayed silent. So you let yourself be dressed, fed, ushered into a car.

“Whose wedding are we going to, again?” you finally ask.

Your brother shrugs. “Distant cousin. Friend of a cousin. Someone’s son. I don’t know.”

You narrow your eyes. “You guys don’t not know things.”

No one answers.

The venue is decorated like a fever dream. Red and gold and ivory everywhere, fountains flowing with rose petals, dhol beats rolling thunder across the marble floors.

There’s a wedding chair up front.

Two.

One of them is empty.

The other is ocuppied by you.

“I swear to God,” you whisper, turning to your sister, “if this is a prank—”

“It’s not,” she says sweetly. “It’s a plan.”

And that’s when you see him.

Rafayel. Wearing a sherwani—how many has he bought?—looking utterly bewildered and completely beautiful.

“What sort of mating ritual is this,” he asks, blinking at your grandfather, “if I may ask?”

“An intervention,” Nana says smugly, holding the sehra. “Sit down.”

—

You are mortified. Beyond mortified.

There are aunties placing flower garlands around your neck. Cousins taking selfies. Your niece is live-streaming. Nana is pretending he’s hard of hearing when you question him.

Rafayel is frozen in place, eyes darting between you and the absurdly ornate garden. “Are we… getting married?”

You pull him aside by the wrist.

“No! God, no. It’s not real. They’re messing with us.”

“Are you sure? These rituals look too real.”

“Just—ignore it.”

He looks at you for a moment too long.

“I wouldn’t have minded,” he murmurs.

Your heart does a backflip.

“What?”

“If it were real.”

You forget how to breathe.

Eventually, you manage to escape the fake-wedding-ambush with your dignity mostly intact. The others cheer like a cricket match has just ended. Nana looks annoyingly pleased with himself.

But the damage is done.

Rafayel walks you to your room that night. The air is quiet again, heavy with things unsaid. The corridor is dimly lit. Soft golden sconces cast shadows against the marble, catching on your bangles as you fidget, still breathless from the mayhem.

He leans against the wall just outside your room, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. He’s always been like this—wrapped in riddles, walls so carefully constructed you never thought you’d see past them.

But tonight… tonight he looks wrecked in the way only someone in love does. Beautiful and broken. Holding himself still like the wrong word might make you vanish.

You speak first. Quietly.

“I thought I was protecting myself. Maybe even protecting you.”

His gaze flickers to you. “From what?”

“From falling too deep. From making it harder when we part ways. From hoping.”

A long silence stretches between you. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t interrupt. Just listens, and that alone makes your throat ache.

“You’re Rafayel,” you say with a hollow laugh. “The world’s darling. Painter. Traveler. Terrible at remembering things.” 

“Things?” Rafayel raises an eyebrow. 

“People,” You acquiesce. “And I’m just… me. The girl with an entire extended family who thinks you’re my groom now.”

His lips twitch, almost a smile. “That was chaos.”

“That was Nana.”

He laughs, finally. It’s low and warm and you’ve missed it more than you’ll ever admit.

Then his voice drops. Soft. Bare.

“Do you really think I care about any of that?”

You blink at him.

“You think I look at you and see someone ‘lesser’? I see the girl who made me forget I was lost. Who walks into a room and makes everything brighter—even when she’s holding grief in her chest like a second heart.”

You feel your eyes sting.

“You think I planned this? You think I came to this country looking for inspiration and expected you to be it?”

His voice catches. “But there you were. With anklets that sang like wind chimes. With that laugh that makes me forget my own name. I didn’t mean to stay. But I did.”

Your fingers tremble against your bangles. 

“I missed you,” you whisper.

He exhales shakily. “You tore through my silence like a monsoon.”

His hand lifts, slow and reverent, and tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“And I haven’t been able to breathe the same since.”

You swallow thickly, wanting to believe it, wanting so badly to let it all go and just fall—into him, into the soft promise of his hands and his voice and his everything.

“We live worlds apart,” you murmur.

“Then I’ll build a bridge.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“No,” he says, “it never is. But you and I? We’re worth the complication.”

The air between you is charged, your hearts beating in tandem like two instruments tuned to the same storm. You step forward, and he does too, and for a moment the distance shrinks until only choice remains.

You look up at him, eyes wide and soul trembling.

“What now?”

“Now,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your cheekbone, “we try.”

“And if we fail?”

“Then at least we did it holding on to each other.”

The salt-laced wind rushes past you as you stand at the edge of the dock, bare feet grazing warm planks, the scent of sea and paint lingering on your skin. Somewhere behind you, laughter echoes—Rafayel’s, low and lazy, like sunlight stretched across a hammock.

A seagull calls overhead.

In your hand, a half-finished sketch of a bustling spice bazaar in Marrakech. On your wrist, a silver bangle you picked up in Istanbul, etched with waves. Next to you, a weather-worn travel satchel stuffed with fabrics, pigment jars, dried flowers, postcards. Places you've seen. Places you've lived. Together.

You hear footsteps.

“You’re sketching again,” he murmurs, peering over your shoulder.

“Trying to keep up with your genius,” you tease.

He rolls his eyes dramatically. “Please. Your mango vendor has more soul than my cathedral.”

He slips his hand into yours.

Your rings clink.

Cities blurred past. Paint on his collar, your poetry scrawled in margins, nights tangled in hotel rooms with rain drumming against old windows. Bickering in markets. Singing old Bollywood songs while doing laundry in some forgotten corner of Prague.

Once, he painted you wearing bangles and jhumkas and nothing else. You framed it in the kitchen of a houseboat you rented in Kerala.

The world doesn’t feel so wide now. Not when you’ve danced in its shadows with someone who speaks in art and sarcasm and glances that set your pulse racing.

He presses a kiss to your temple.

“Where next?” he asks, voice muffled against your skin.

You smile. “Wherever the color is.”

He bumps his shoulder into yours. “Wherever you are.”

You turn to face him. Sea spray in your hair. Love in your eyes. The kind that didn’t arrive with fireworks or grand declarations. Just persistence. And softness. And staying.

Somewhere, a song plays in the distance, wafting from a small celebration down the beach.

Ae mere dil mubarak ho (Congratulations to you, my heart) 

Yahi toh pyaar hai (Only this is love) 

You both freeze.

Then you laugh. Loud and bright and free.

He groans. “That song is going to haunt us for the rest of our lives.”

You lean into him. “It brought you to me.”

He grins, his eyes soft with something eternal.

“No. You brought me to you.”

And just like that, with the sea behind you and the whole wide world ahead—you walk forward, fingers intertwined, hearts unafraid.

TAG LIST: @datfangirl

[kannouo]

This Is Halloween!

fandom: obey me pairing: demon brothers x gn!reader. summary: how each of the demon brothers celebrate halloween. warnings: slightly suggestive on some parts, but not much. A/N: nobody asked for this i just really love halloween. had a lot of fun with writing these!

LUCIFER

• Predictably, Lucifer is very vocal with his complaints about this holiday. However, no matter how much he has to say about how pointless or childish these traditions are, you will always catch him going along with it anyway.

• "I don't see the appeal of these silly decorations," he says, and then spends the evening decorating the front lawn with elaborate props. "Why should we spend so much money on sweets if we're just going to give it all away?" He asks right before buying multiple bucket-fulls of candy because he wasn't sure how quickly they'd run out. "These costumes are ridiculous," he sighs, and later you find him trying on some newly-bought fake vampire fangs.

• He would only fully dress up if there was some kind of costume party orchestrated by Diavolo or the like. And when he does, he goes all out. Did you think the Avatar of Pride was going to settle for cheap, store-bought costumes? No — he's going to make sure his look is spectacular. You aren't sure how he's so good at special effects make-up.

• Dressing as a vampire is a pretty standard and basic choice, but Lucifer really brings it to life. To be honest, he already sort of dresses like a stereotypical vampire anyway, but he goes all-out this time. A long black cloak and formal outfit with red accents, some foundation for the illusion of paler skin, and some very well-done fake blood dripping from his lips. He probably carries around a goblet full of red wine just to really sell it.

• He doesn't need to do much else. He already has the good looks, black hair and red eyes. If you find him particularly attractive in this costume, you can expect him to teasingly indulge your fantasies throughout the evening and well into the night.

• If you let him buy garden props or decorations around the house, he will somehow find the most genuinely terrifying things out there. He very much enjoys the fear his very well-placed jumpscares and strangely realistic-looking skeletons spark in you and his brothers.

• A downside is his lawn decorations absolutely scare off a good amount of trick-or-treaters. Oh well. Beel will eat all the candy he bought instead, so at least it won't go to waste.

"Where did you get such good fake blood?" You question, wiping your thumb over Lucifer's bottom lip. He smirked, and you caught a glimpse of the fangs you'd helped him put in earlier. Trapped between him and the wall at your back, you allowed yourself to lean your head back as he kissed you. Only... His lips tasted... coppery? You pulled away for breath and stared at him. "It... it is fake, right?" "...Lucifer, please tell me that's fake blood."

MAMMON

• Hell yeah, Halloween! Sexy costumes, parties, sale opportunities! Mammon loves Halloween.

• Takes a bunch of Halloween-themed modelling gigs, since the season means anything related to it will sell way better. He can even make some extra money by making crappy T-shirts and charms and selling them to people who are crazy about this time of year.

• What Mammon doesn't love about Halloween, though, are two things. Horror and witches. Specifically witch costumes, because sometimes they look too realistic to a witch he's had "dealings" with in the past and trigger his fight or flight panic response. Maybe just choose something else to dress up as when you're with Mammon.

• As for horror, Mammon will deny to the grave that he's scared of horror movies, but he is, and he hates the uptick in scary films and horror attractions. He tries to avoid going near them or talking about them in general, because if you were to ask him to watch a horror movie or to come with you to a haunted house attraction, he has to say yes. He can't have his human thinking he's scared of something so silly! So for that reason, he tries to steer clear of the subject altogether.

• Mammon doesn't need a motive to dress up. It's Halloween, of course he's going to. The costume he chooses is likely to be something related to whatever is trending that year. If a new movie just came out that's all the rage online, he'll dress as a character from it. Aside from that, I can see him doing a werewolf look. He might even wear a collar if you ask.

• Will lose all ability to speak if you show up in a costume, too. It doesn't even matter if it's actually revealing at all, no matter what he will be absolutely floored. If it is something a little riskier though, expect him to get kind of possessive and very protective. Especially in public. His brothers think this behaviour is hilarious. "LOLOLOL, MC has a guard dog!" "Shaddup!"

• Super eager to answer the door to trick-or-treaters, but there has to be a rule set in place that he isn't allowed to go out there and demand money in exchange for candy from anyone who looks old enough, otherwise he will do just that.

• Takes all the candy from those "take one!" buckets left outside of people's houses and probably gets some kind of curse put on him because of it. Mammon becomes one of Lucifer's decorations that day.

You approached a smaller house with one hand intertwined with Mammon's, and a candy bag in the other. You were already a little sceptical as there weren't any lights on, but to your delight, there was a fake cauldron set up outside the door with a sign reading "please take one!" You picked out a candy bar of your choosing, only for Mammon to grab the bag from your hands. "Wha—" To your horror, he reached his arm in and scooped out all of the candy into the bag in chunks. "Mammon!" You scolded. "Shhh!" He shoved the — now full — bag back into your arms and grabbed you. "Just go!" ...You're pretty sure you saw the light of a doorbell camera as you both ran from the scene of the crime.

LEVIATHAN

• Levi does not like Halloween.

• I mean, any other time of the year normies make fun of cosplay and refuse to participate in it! But on Halloween night, it's suddenly okay?! And he's expected to greet all these snot-nosed little kids at the door and give them treats?! Absolutely not. He holes himself up in his room until Halloween night is over and done with, but honestly, it's not much of a difference to how he usually is.

• I can see him enjoying the decorations aspect of it, though. Even if he won't willingly participate in anything else, you can expect his room to be fully decked out in Halloween props and decor. He definitely buys stickers off of Akuzon to put on the windows.

• Another aspect he does actually like is the horror marketing, specifically if it's revolved around horror games. His idea of getting into the Halloween spirit is inviting you on a horror game binge in his room, but most of the games he chooses are very obscure and disturbing. If you like stuff like that, great! If you don't... ah... I'm sure he can find one that's a little less upsetting for you.

• He's too embarrassed to wear a costume in public, but if he were to dress-up at all, it'd be in cosplay. Maybe of Ruri-chan or one of his other beloved anime characters. It isn't horror-themed at all, but whatever, it's still a costume. He'll let you see him in it if you ask nicely, but he won't be going outside his room with it on. He also didn't need to order anything, he already had all of these cosplays hidden away in his closet for... personal reasons.

• Might actually get a kick out of one other thing — pumpkin carving! He'll carve a video game character into it instead of an actually frightening or classic Halloween design, but it turns out really good anyway.

• If anyone organises an apple-bobbing contest, he absolutely dominates. You're pretty sure being able to breathe underwater is against some kind of rule because he just doesn't need to come up at all, he'll dunk his head in and not come out until he gets an apple.

• Levi is the house leaving out "take one!" buckets.

After the umpteenth time of Levi insisting that this next game will be "more up your alley," you started to lose faith. All of these Devildom horror games seemed especially gore-y and cruel in a way that would not fly if they were released in the human realm. "Maybe... this one?" Levi hovered over another horror game he already downloaded and selected it. As soon as it booted up, the background 'music' on the title screen had the most horrific and genuine terror-filled screams you'd ever heard in your life. You winced and he immediately went back to the homescreen. "...Let's just play Devilkart," he conceded. "Yeah. Let's."

SATAN

• Doesn't mind Halloween as a whole, but gets really into certain aspects of it.

• Satan is another one likely to get in the "Halloween spirit" by binging horror media for the whole month, in his case, books. Most conversations with him in the month of October will lead back to the latest horror novel he's reading and his thoughts on it. He might recommend it to you if he knows you like horror, but if you don't, he'll also go in-depth about the plot.

• He really enjoys elaborate Halloween props, but if you set up one of those jumpscare machines to pop out at him, he will destroy it on instinct. Will later deny that it scared him at all, though.

• He likes all of the human-world Halloween traditions and tries to organise them for him and his brothers to participate. Apple-bobbing, pumpkin carving, ghost stories, you name it; he'll push for everyone to take part.

• Satan would only dress up if you managed to convince him to do so or if, like Lucifer, there was some kind of event that required all attendees to be in costume. Either way, he figures out he actually enjoys it way more than he thought he would. He dresses in a stereotypical 'detective' outfit and gets really into character. He even carries around a fake pipe.

• ...Might dress up as a cat. It depends on his mood. He would much prefer to see you dressed as one, though. If you do show up dressed in some kind of 'sexy cat' costume, he will drag you away with him at the earliest convenience.

• He and Belphie put a smoke machine in Lucifer's room while he was busy decorating the lawn.

• Doesn't like handing out sweets. If he's the one answering the door, you'll have to stop him from trying to give the kids fruit instead of the candy you already bought. "These are unhealthy. We shouldn't be encouraging such young children to have bad eating habits—" "Satan, just give the kid a snickers."

"Just put them on? Please?" You pouted, holding a black cat headband in front of his face. He glanced between you and the cheap cat ears for a moment, before sighing and grabbing them off of you. You grinned as he put the headband on his head, then stared at you with raised eyebrows and an unimpressed glare. "Happy?" "Very," you nodded. Then you reached to pull out your D.D.D. "Now meow for the camera." "Don't push your luck."

ASMODEUS

• "In girl world, Halloween is the one night a year when girls can dress like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it." — Mean Girls, 2004.

• Granted, he's not a girl, and he'll dress exactly how he wants any other day of the year too. But still, Halloween is special! He has so many things to choose from. Sexy cat? Sexy nurse? Sexy cop? Sexy—

• Like Mammon, he might choose a costume based on a popular or trending movie, just with his own special Asmo-touch. He won't settle for cheap, store-bought costumes — even if he'd still look damn good in them — and probably makes his outfit himself. Try and tell me you can't see him dressing as Barbie. You can't, because he would.

• He does Halloween-themed makeup looks throughout the whole month of October. You can expect his Devilgram to be filled with pictures of cute Halloween nail designs he did, and a matching makeup look. If any sort of event happens and you're going — he'll insist on dolling you up for it himself! He's your personal makeup artist.

• Isn't a fan of horror movies, horror attraction or those creepy decorations Satan and Lucifer keep buying. He might accompany you to a haunted house though, so he can dramatically throw himself at you whenever he encounters something even mildly frightening.

• If you convince him to do pumpkin-carving (despite his insistence that it would ruin his perfectly manicured nails), he carves a some kind of cute design, like a pretty flower. He would carve his beautiful face into it, but... he isn't quite at that level of expertise.

• Asmo is very excited to hand out all the candy! All the kids that come to the door look so adorable in their little costumes! And if you think you saw him sneak a few sweets for himself when he's supposedly on a diet, no you didn't.

"Aaaah! MC, save meee!~" Asmo came running down the hall of the haunted house attraction, jumping into your arms and clinging to you for dear life. As you looked in the direction he came from to see what could have possibly startled him so badly, you saw nothing but a tiny, fake spider prop. "...Asmo, it's a plastic spider." "But it looks ickyyy!" He whined. "Can I hold onto you until we get through this hall? So you can protect me!~" "...Fine." "Oh, MC, my hero!~" He began to pepper kisses all over your face. "A—Asmo! Where do you think you're touching?!"

BEELZEBUB

• You can probably see where this is going, but yes, he will eat all of the candy you buy.

• He doesn't mean it, honestly. But it just smells so good and it's right in front of him. Pumpkin carving is also impossible with Beel for this reason. He will just eat the whole pumpkin. It's best to hide all of the sweets from him until Halloween night, but considering his excellent sense of smell, even that won't work for long if he wakes up in the middle of the night with a craving.

• He does his best to be helpful where he can, however. He's very tall, so he'll help with putting up decorations in high places. He's also capable of carrying large props to and fro with minimal effort, so Lucifer found him very useful for setting up the lawn decor.

• Beel doesn't mind dressing up if it'll make you happy. He also doesn't really care what his costume is. If you take him out to choose, he'll constantly turn the question of what he should wear back on you, because he really can't decide and honestly doesn't care that much. You could point to the most ridiculous-looking Winnie the Pooh costume and he'd shrug and say "okay."

• That being said... a bear costume would suit him pretty well. Imagine seeing an absolute beast of a man dressed as Winnie the Pooh and absolutely downing pots of honey. People are just kind of like huh... that's a really dedicated Winnie the Pooh cosplayer, I guess. Another costume I can see for him is a zombie because... "eating brains"? Idk.

• He also isn't a good choice to compete in apple-bobbing competitions for obvious reasons. If you thought Levi would dominate, wait until Beel starts consuming the entire container of water and apples. The apple-bobbing event had to be cut short.

• He doesn't mind horror movies and attractions. He won't go to them of his own accord, but if you take him along, he'll hold your hand the whole time so you don't get too scared. The only downside is that the scare actors will probably be too terrified of him and his RBF to actually jump out and scare either of you, so... it kind of just feels like a tour of some weird abandoned house.

You flinched and covered your eyes as the screen before you displayed yet another jumpscare. You couldn't help but curse Levi for recommending this movie... what is wrong with the Devildom film industry?! You heard Beel's crunching on chips cease next to you for a moment before he shuffled closer, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you to rest against his side. "Beel?" "Shh," he lifted a few more of the chips from the bag to his mouth. "You're okay." Usually, him talking with his mouth full would diminish how he was trying to comfort you, but... you had to admit, you felt much safer snuggled against him like this. "...Thanks." You try to ignore the crumbs he's getting on you.

BELPHEGOR

• It's Halloween?... Okay? Snooore.

• He's about as apathetic as you would expect. He doesn't care what day it is, he's going back to bed. Will not assist any of his brothers in decoration, except for maybe Beel if he's feeling awake enough. But Beel doesn't usually require that much help anyway.

• Belphie isn't going to buy himself a costume. You'll have to get him one. "Belphie! I got something for you to wear!" "Yeah? What?" The look he gave you when you held up the disney princess gown suggested he didn't quite think it was as amusing as you did. Still, if it's all you got him, he probably would wear it.

• Obviously, the most fitting costume you can buy him is one of an actual sloth. Just make sure it's comfortable enough, and he'll be wearing it long after Halloween is over. Another costume he'd appreciate is a zombie similar to Beel's or a mummy, because then he can just lay down, sleep, and excuse it as the fact the thing he's dressed as is literally dead.

• Is not affected by jumpscares in the slightest. He might watch a horror movie with you, but he probably won't accompany you to any attractions unless you carry him. If you do get him there, though, he'll make fun of you for being scared and keep hiding behind corners to make you think he disappeared or went ahead without you.

• Apple-bobbing? Pumpkin carving? Costume parties? Eh... Beel, MC, can you guys handle this for him? Pretty please?

• Isn't too thrilled about answering the door, but he will do it if you pester him. He kind of just chucks a bunch of random candy into all the kids' bags and probably scares one or two of them off by making a poorly timed, slightly threatening joke. You have to remind him they're children and don't understand he's kidding.

• That doesn't mean he'll stop. He's now just scaring them on purpose because it's funny.

"Belphie, wake up!" You lightly slap the back of his head and he jolts awake, shooting you a glare. You frown right back at him. "We're going to be late to the party." "Why are we even going?" He whined, rubbing his eyes. "Because we were invited? And it'd be rude to not at least try and show up?'' "Whatever..." You hit him again as he went limp. "Stop doing that. I'm a sloth. Sloths sleep." "Get up, Belphegor! I am not carrying you all the way there!"

[thescifiwitch]

You are ugly, and pathetic, and you’re free to block me since you have garnered sympathy …from other pedophiles lmao

Good day to everyone that reads this,

I am proud to present to a scientific break-through in all of tumblr history! Allow me to present...

The Troll: Project UG1Y

As we all aware, it is no surprise that Tumblr is full of truly disgusting people, with trolls being just the lowest of the low. But through an experiment, I figured out a trick that grants immunity to these human rats. Let me demonstrate with live examples from the specimen.

As you can see, the Troll (or UG1Y, as scientifically called) is lying to try to gain the upper hand. Unfortunately, it is failing miserably, as the troll is not smart enough to identify a minor on the internet, let alone hack someone's computer.

In this example, the Troll is trying to use cheap insults that have no affect on the victim whatsoever. This shows the Troll has a significant lack of brain cells and an increase rate of desperation for interaction with the victim. In other words, "bro thought he ate 🤣"

Again, resorting to cheap insults in a pathetic way to get personal with the victim. This did not work.

Another cheap insult, though this one shows a lack of maturity from the Troll

And finally, this shows that the Troll is desperate, in denial and not very smart. Despite being significantly older than the victim, they continue to show a lack of maturity and intelligence. They are not used to not having the upper hand in the drama they cause and in a classic fight or flight move, they accuse the victim and their mutuals of being pedophiles and child cosplayers without any evidence in their claims.

And with that, ladies and gentleman, is how to gain immunity from trolls. And now, if you excuse me, I have a Percy Jackson fanfic to write.

But seriously put this lady on your blocklists.

[candyswirls]

I'd sell my soul to Tzeentch for teleportation, flight, and cheap party tricks.

[pixeldistractions]

content warnings: sims behaving badly, infidelity, little bit spicy, no nudity

“Follow me,” she said, and he did. It was sort of a test. She wanted to see if he could handle a bossy woman. 

She led him downstairs, past the classical art wing where they entered, past the lobby, past the guest services on the ground floor, the family bathrooms and the lockers. Down another flight to the basement, the storage rooms, the loading docks. She opened the door to a boiler room.

“Should I be worried that you’re leading me off to my murder?” 

“I only murder when I’m angry,” Colette joked. “But I can’t answer for your wife, should she find out about this.” 

He didn’t laugh. Colette didn’t take offense. She’d never been known to have a ripping sense of humor. 

The boiler room was noisy and totally empty. It was the kind of room that didn’t get much foot traffic at 9:00 in the evening. Also the kind of room that probably didn’t have any cameras, but Colette wasn’t too shy to put on a show if there were. 

“You know, I could have taken you somewhere,” he said.

A whole hotel room, all that expectation. She’d tried and failed at that already. “No, it’s too much. Does this shock you?” 

She was leaving no mystery to what he’d be dealing with. If he was going to be disappointed, she wanted to know right now.

“I must say, I think I’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

“Well, you can work your way up to more. You can try. Start now. Kneel.”

And his eyes lit up. If he was surprised by her ask, she was equally as surprised by his answer. He knelt.

“Okay, now slide your hand up my leg. Slowly.” 

He took direction enthusiastically. A little too well, maybe. His hand found the long slit of her skirt and the bare skin of her knee, slowly tracing upward.

“There,” she said. “Stop there.”

She didn’t mean to make a whole show about it. Some people did, but it had never occurred to her to try that before. She just wanted to ask for what she wanted without the whole song and dance. Men had such fragile egos—she was learning that more and more every day. She felt silly at first, but then she felt empowered by it, by how he played along.

She lifted her leg slowly, resting her shoe on his thigh. “Now wait,” she said. She slid the toe of her shoe to his groin, teasing him to arousal. “Now beg.”

“Yes, Miss Marin. Anything you want, Miss Marin. Please.”

“Good boy.” 

Oh, how he grinned. What can of worms did she open with this one? Okay, maybe it was about ten percent fun. Maybe it could grow on her. 

“The chairs,” she said, her body on fire with power, with possibility. Her body throbbed with the hunger, and she knew just how she wanted it. “You’ll use your hands, and so will I. You’ll unzip your pants and finish inside.”

So he draped her over one of those cheap metal chairs, and he handled her expertly. 

And this was different. She would see him again, she decided, and he could have her in a hotel room next time. She thought to ask him, How many times have you cheated on your wife? But she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer. 

This time, she texted to let Gabby know she was headed home, and she didn’t pull any tricks about it. She gave them twenty whole minutes to finish whatever unruly trouble they’d gotten themselves into, because she honestly couldn’t bear to look her boys in the face after the night she had. 

The boys were thankfully nowhere to be seen and Gabby sat quietly on the couch with her calculus books closed and her phone in hand. Werewolves tonight, the sound turned down low.  

Colette couldn’t believe her eyes. “What did you guys do tonight?”

“Oh, not much. We did the puzzle. It was okay. Then some video games, and we read some books.”

“That’s all?”

“Yup.”

Gabby took her wages for the night, collected her things, and left.

When Colette went to the kitchen to clean up and turn out the lights, she found a book that Gabby left next to the puzzle boxes. She flipped open the cover. A Modern Witch’s Guide to the Craft. After the werewolves, the zombies, the yetis, the mermaids, the ghosts, and now witches?

Whatever, it wasn’t real, anyway. Just another of the many fantastical things these kids filled their head with.

And that was fine. We all liked a bit of fantasy from time to time.

Colette was too tired to make a stink about it. There was lots to care about in life, and this wasn’t it. So she turned out the lights and went upstairs to bed.

— boxes and squares #5.3: hindsight is a bitch, part 11/11

chapter 5.4 coming soon -> // 5.3 start // index

notes: just to keep in mind that occults (spellcasters, etc.) in my story world are only as real or unreal as they would be in real life. But then, all kinds of people believe all kinds of things...

Also, trait reveal for Sebastian. Probably not surprising that he's noncommittal. Then why ever did he get married? We'll find out more about that a few chapters later in the story. Also, bad reputation. Clearly, lol! Colette’s mean trait approves!

Chapter complete! Whew, that one got long! Colette began this chapter with one goal—to get laid. So, score? But the introspection she had along the way, though often unpleasant, will surely be more valuable than the filthy sex.

[yuurei20]

Birthday Present Tracking: Ace

Presents received by Ace: ・Reference book (Riddle) ・A pastry from the school store (Deuce) ・Cafeteria salad (Leona)

・Biscotti (Floyd) ・A feast (Kalim) ・Gold frame sunglasses (Vil)

・Flight techniques (Epel) ・Link to a website selling sneakers for cheap (Ortho) ・Happy birthday serenade (Lilia)

・Sports drinks (basketball club senpai) ・Magic trick supplies (dad) ・Pin badges designed to look like playing cards (parents)

Presents Given by Ace: ・Hand-embroidery of a pansy on a tablecloth (with Deuce, for Riddle) ・Vending machine drink (to Cater) ・Jack in the box prank (to Deuce)

・Notepad (to Jack) ・Pillow (to Azul) ・Pie fight (with Jamil, for Floyd)

・Pie fight (with Floyd, for Jamil) ・Juice (for Epel) ・One or more flamingo feathers (to Rook)

[whatiwishfanfiction]

Chapter 7 (The Wrath of Nature) is up. Excerpt below:

(This specific scene was one of the main reasons I wanted to rewrite the movie).

"If you meant no harm, then why did you put my bed in a river?!"

"I didn't mean harm, my touch was light, a gentle breeze, for the softest flight. I merely meant to float you away, to a land of dreams, to another day."

"ARE YOU STUPID?!" Once-ler exploded. "I FIND THAT VERY HARD TO BELIEVE! OF COURSE THAT WAS A DANGEROUS IDEA! And you're telling me you didn't know there was a waterfall there when you're supposed to be the all-knowing Guardian of the Forest?!"

The Lorax was speechless, caught in his lies. "Remember your promise, I'll hold you to it now. In the river you swore and made a vow."

"I said that because you were threatening my life. Do you really think you've accomplished anything?"

"Hear this important plea, loud and clear," said the Lorax. 'Everyone needs the trees that are here! 'We need the wood,' the voices cry, 'To live and stay, or else we'll die.'"

Once-ler felt a speck of pity when he realized the Lorax really was that dumb. In his simple mind he’d really thought his plan to blackmail Once-ler into a promise was going to guarantee the safety of his sacred Truffula Trees. Typical fey creature.

"Okay, that's it." Once-ler finally grabbed the Lorax by the scruff of his neck. "You've manipulated and tricked me. You've tried to kill me. Let's have this out once and for all. I refuse to be bullied out of this forest. If you can actually give me a logical explanation for why I shouldn't cut down the trees, then I'll stop. How bad can this really be, huh?"

"Fine, have it your way, we'll talk, indeed," the Lorax said. "But know I'm earnest, and please take heed."

"Fine."

Once-ler dropped the Lorax onto a stump, where he stood up straight and cleared his throat. He said in a meaningful voice:

"You think you can chop down whatever you please. But everyone here needs the trees."

"That's too vague," said Once-ler at once. "You have to explain what problem it causes, so we can figure out how to solve it."

"Well," said the Lorax, "my feathered friends have all made nest, in the trees they decided they liked best. You can't impose upon their tweets, and come and steal their cozy retreats."

"Okay," said Once-ler. "Then I just won't cut those ones down."

"Oh, great excuse, I'm sure you know best, but how will you tell which ones have nests?"

"I promise to use my binoculars every time."

The Lorax considered this. "Well, my dear sir, even if that part might be alright, what about the fruit in which Barbaloots delight? This fare is their favorite sweet, juicy treat. They aren't the type of bears that just eat meat."

"Wait," said Once-ler. "There are a bunch of other trees around here that have fruit. So they won't be affected."

The Lorax sighed. "Beyond that, other things are at hand. Trees create fresh air for the rest of the land. Through leaves so frugal, they drink the air, and give it life, don't you even care?"

"Okaaaaay," Once-ler considered. "But counterpoint: there are still lots of other trees and plants around here to contribute to photosynthesis."

"I'm afraid I haven't been explaining this right," the Lorax said frustratedly. "Because the Truffula Trees are a special type. It takes hundreds of years for them to grow. Why waste them on cheap products, I don't know!"

Unfortunately, the insult only distracted Once-ler from his strongest argument.

"Hey, my product is NOT cheap! I put tons of effort into developing it. The Thneed actually took lots of research, and I had to fight and sacrifice a lot—"

"Alright, alright, you're getting offended! This conversation should really be ended. I'm just saying don't waste ancient trees. I don't see why it's so hard to agree…"

(Read the rest on Ao3).

It was really hard not to make the Lorax seem like a psychotic jerk here. I decided to make him into more of an unpredictable fae creature who will show more depth and have his say later.

I wanna try my best to steelman both sides in this, because the movie accidentally made Once-ler the most sympathetic by far. (Though even he didn't go far enough). Gonna give the Lorax his due soon.

The argument was important for me to include here, because the Lorax had no arguments in the movie and only relied on manipulative music.

[wolveria]

The Raven's Hymn - Ch 46

Pairing: SCP-049 x Reader

Series Warnings: Eventual smut, dubcon, slow burn, violence, horror, death, monsters, human experiments, dark with a happy ending

Chapter Summary: “I know it’s a lot to take in, but really, I thought you’d be happier to see me.”

AO3

You bolted, your body acting before your mind could catch up.

SCP-035 was free. You hadn’t quite thought through the implication of releasing all the SCPs and how they might react to said freedom. You’d thought at most you’d have to worry about running into 173, not 035. Especially when all the cells had just opened, which led to one conclusion: 035 had escaped before 079 had opened the doors.

These thoughts flashed through your mind, the implications trailing behind your body’s visceral reaction to his appearance. But 035 anticipated the move and snatched you around the middle, forcing you round to face him. He held you in a mocking parody of an embrace.

“No, no, none of that,” he tsked. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but really, I thought you’d be happier to see me.”

“Let go!”

You tried prying yourself from his grasp, unsuccessful with your panicked attempts, and 035’s face immediately flickered into a frown.

“Brrr. Cold reception.”

A groan came from your left. 035’s frown flipped into a grin in the blink of an eye. He released you, sauntered to the veteran guard who was trying to reach for his gun despite being in a pool of his own blood, and pulled the trigger. A single bullet ripped through the man’s neck, assuring his death but not granting it swiftly.

The white mask turned upward to face you with a grin.

“Stay put, little bird. If you take flight, I’ll have to clip your wings.”

He tapped his rifle in case you didn’t get his meaning.

You looked away as 035 began to pick things off the bodies, specifically the keycards and whatever else was in their pockets. You could try to run, but you didn’t trust him not to shoot you for the inconvenience.

Instead, you picked up the laptop where it spilled from the bag, placing it back inside after checking it over to make sure it was intact. Luck was on your side as none of the bullets had punctured it.

After placing it inside and looping the strap around your neck—an awkward affair with your hands still tied—you held the device to your chest when you caught sight of 035 eyeing it.

“How sweet,” he cooed, “you really do have a soft spot for the strays, don’t you?”

He held one of the keycards, twirling it between his fingers like a cheap magic trick.

“You shouldn’t trust him, you know,” the mask continued, the card dancing across his gloved knuckles. “079 might know how to open some cages, but he doesn’t know the way out.”

“And you do?”

035 snapped his fingers and pointed the magically appeared keycard at you.

“Bingo.”

You weighed your options, but really, you both knew your choices were limited and he was the one with the guns and the keys. You held out your arms, offering up your bound wrists.

“Can you let me out of these? Please?”

He perked up at the plea and rubbed his porcelain chin with a thoughtful hum.

“I’m sorely tempted, especially when you ask so sweetly. But… no.”

He grabbed you by the arm, happily dragging you along despite you trying to plant your feet, the smooth soles of your slippers not adding much traction. Somehow, you’d found yourself in an even worse situation than with the guards.

“035, listen to me,” you tried. “You don’t need me, you can clearly handle yourself and navigate the facility. Let me go—”

“Hush,” he bit out, his face now hidden as he flipped down the ballistics visor. “Stop complaining. And stop dragging your feet. I’m helping you.”

His version of “help” was probably as useful as a hole in the head, but when he gave you a forceful yank, you picked up your feet. He was strong, much stronger than his host body should be. It must have been one of his anomalous properties, but that gave you a chance. If you could only touch his skin or the mask itself, you might be able to pry him away from his host.

“With all the skybridges retracted, we’re stuck in Heavy Containment,” he commented, his pace solid and even, as if he had a destination in mind. “But there’s a way out through the archival section. I know it, and so does your man.”

“…My man?”

He snorted.

“Well, less a man, more a beaky pain in the ass.”

After being caught by the guards and then 035 showing up, you’d almost forgotten about your original rescue mission. Shame heated the back of your neck.

“If he knows a way out, then… we should go to him.”

035 barked out a laugh.

“Yeah, no. You can get your beau after I get the hell out of here.”

You growled and tugged at his hold, but he simply gave another chuckle and continued to drag you along.

“I’ll let you go once I’m free and clear. I’ve gotta look after number one. You understand, don’t you, Reid? You’d throw me under the bus to save your own skin, seeing as you’ve done it before.”

He shoved you inside an opened room, and you struggled to stay on your feet. You caught a glimpse of a bank of surveillance screens before 035 pushed you against a computer console, the grin of his covered mask hovering inches from your face, barely glimpsed past the darkened shield.

“Stay put, sweetheart.”

Your silent glare followed him to where he stood before the wall of screens. 035 began to flip through them, and you realized they were various facility cameras, showing the corridors and mezzanines. None of the cameras had access to the interior of containment cells, as they had their own dedicated observation rooms, especially for SCPs labeled as cognitohazards.

What 035 was looking for, you didn’t know. There was the occasional security guard, and on one screen the actual MTF team, most likely the one that had been stationed underground near 682’s chamber. It was the only explanation for how they’d gotten on site so quickly.

You eyed 035’s uniform, about to ask him how he’d gotten out of containment before 079 had opened the cells, but his full attention was on the screens, working the controls that moved the cameras.

You inched toward the door.

“Do you understand what you are?”

You went still and looked over your shoulder. 035’s back was to you, his focus on the monitors, but you still sensed the uncanny weight of his attention.

“SCP-001.”

“But do you know what that means?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

He turned around to face you, bracing his hands back against the console as he eyed you with a tilt of his head. You almost wished you could see the mask. That blank slate of a shield was somehow more disturbing than his frozen grin.

“Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

You pressed your lips together and stared back.

When enough time had passed to indicate you weren’t going to answer, he pushed himself away from the computers, his steps slow and mocking.

“Would you like to know? I’ll tell you right now. All you need to do is ask.”

“No.”

You shrank against the wall, the solid surface against your back as he crowded your space, towering over you. Of course, he couldn’t pick a host body that was smaller than yours. Showmanship and intimidation were just as important to him as a functioning body.

“I’ll tell you anyway, little bird.” 035 raised a hand to your face, rubbing a gloved finger against the side of your cheek. “You… are the answer.”

You turned your face away from his touch, unease crawling over your skin, though you frowned at his cryptic words.

“But the answer to what question?” he mused. “Now, there’s the mystery.”

You scoffed. 035 was either stalling for some reason you couldn’t see, or he was simply so arrogant as to think the breach would operate on his schedule. Either way, you didn’t have time for this.

Your attempt to push him off was met with an amused chuckle.

“Who do you think locked you in that cell with 049?”

You froze. Your body was locked in place, air trapped in your lungs. 035 tilted his head and gazed off to the side, as if trying to recall a particularly elusive piece of information.

“Who influenced poor… oh, what’s his name. Kevin? Kelly? Kenneth, yes, that’s it. Who pushed the unfortunate boy into sealing the door, cutting off your escape from our good doctor?”

Kenneth, who had been acting less and less like himself as time went on. Kenneth, with his nosebleeds, his unusual fear of 035, and his apparent infection with Pestilence.

Why hadn’t you seen it? Or sensed it? You still didn’t fully understand the extent of your abilities, but wouldn’t you have known if something was wrong with him?

A worse thought occurred to you. What if you had sensed it but had been so focused on 049, you’d simply ignored it?

“That was you?” The words were a wheeze in your throat. “Why?”

035’s tilted head drifted back to you, the shadow of the mask barely glimpsed beneath.

“Maybe I was curious. Maybe I was bored. Maybe I just wanted to see what would happen when 049 dug in his claws. If you would fall prey to his cure and blow this whole fucking circus sky-high, or if you would fizzle out his deadly touch.”

Another sinister chuckle.

“I certainly didn’t expect you to become an adverse amplifier. You’re only supposed to neutralize us. Make us harmless, inert. Not reverse our abilities. It’s all dreadfully fascinating. 049 never spoke of it, did he? There’s a name for what you are, and we all know it.”

Your attempts to shake him off were as successful as the first time, and you bared your teeth at him.

“I don’t care. I don’t care about any of that shit. I’m going to find 049, so either help me, or get out of my goddamn way.”

035’s head moved away as if he was genuinely taken aback, but his words were light.

“Bossy for someone in zip tie bracelets.”

He moved closer, a sinister undercurrent to his words.

“Now, come along, sweet girl. It’s time for you to make yourself useful. You owe me for that lie you told the Site Director. He stuffed me in an airtight, lead-lined box, and I did not care for it.”

He flipped up the shield, the grin spread wide in contrast to his angered words.

“But… I’m a generous man, and you’ve caught me in a good mood. If you give me what I want, I’ll point you in the direction of your precious doctor. Deal?”

You swallowed compulsively, eyeing the smooth porcelain. There was no glimpse of the MTF soldier underneath, nothing but black holes for eyes and a mouth.

“And what is it you want?”

It was dangerous to even let him entertain the possibility of a deal, like trying to barter with the Devil and come out ahead, but if there was a chance he knew where 049 had been taken…

He perked up, previous chipper attitude bubbling to the surface.

“For you to be my meat shield, as it were. Lots of nasties in this place, and I’d rather not have to burn through bodies. You’re the perfect cover for me to slip by.”

Oh. Well, that didn’t seem too bad. Which, of course, immediately raised your suspicions.

“Tell me where 049 is first, and I’ll do it.”

035 clicked his tongue with a playful head-tilt.

“That’s not how this works, little bird.”

“Stop calling me that.”

The grin seemed to spread wider even though it didn’t actually move.

“Well, I can’t call you big bird. That name’s already been taken by our tall, feathered friend. You do know he has feathers, don’t you?”

You said nothing beyond your silent glare. 035’s glee seemed to grow.

“Did you not get him naked enough for that? I had no idea you were both that repressed.”

Bile and rage burned in your throat, equally choking.

“Fuck you.”

“No, thank you. I’d rather not have big bird’s sloppy seconds.”

An angry noise ripped out of you as you launched forward. But 035 was quicker than the Site Director, jerking back before your forehead could collide with his.

He shoved you against the wall without care, a cackle erupting from the mask despite the tragic face that appeared within the blink of an eye.

“For being the one who introduced you two, you’re awfully uncooperative with me.”

“You locked me in!” you screamed. “You tried to kill me!”

“You were already dying,” he hissed, the humor dropped from his voice. “Because of me, the good doctor healed you. Because of me, Kenny-boy let you out so you could go stick 079 in a socket. You’re here, able to whine about how unfair your life is, because of me. You should be grateful.”

Rage burst from your rib cage like dragon fire. You kicked as hard as you could, colliding with his knee and pulling out a surprised grunt. You shoved him off-balance with the force of your full weight behind it, and then you were free, running out the door and down the hall, your rage curdling into biting fear.

035’s voice followed, echoing off the walls as if he surrounded you on all sides.

“Not very sporting of you, sweetheart.”

You didn’t stop. Your breath burned in your chest after months of inactivity, but you pushed your legs, feet pounding against the tile. The corridors were cleared out, empty of personnel, guards, or even SCPs. If you’d been thinking clearly, it might have given pause.

You recognized the double set of doors ahead of you: the entrance to the Heavy Containment cafeteria. Bursting through the unlocked doors, you ignored the stairs to your right that led down into the dining tables and kitchen, instead running across the raised walkway that spanned the spacious room.

A hand clamped around your wrist just as you made the halfway point. 035 yanked you backwards, back to him, and you didn’t resist.

No, you didn’t resist. You ran straight at him, using your momentum and his pull to carry you forward. He realized what you were doing too late.

The walkway lacked any sort of traditional railing, but what it did possess was a glass wall barricade, blocking it off from the cafeteria below. Not acrylic, not polycarbonate, but real glass.

Your shoulder collided with 035’s chest, and he crashed back through the glass, carrying you both over the edge into the open air.

Next Chapter

[specialagentlokitty]

Daryl x reader - no Angels here

Part 12:

It was a fight to the death against two angels who wanted to be rid of the other from the universe.

Close calls, your blades barely just missing one another, even as night fell, your flames lit up the area, the only light to be seen for miles.

You foot collided with Micheal, sending him flying backwards, and you swung your sword forward, your flames barely just barely reaching him.

He blocked your flames with his own, and he stormed forward.

You raised your hand, chains rattling from the ground to try and capture him, pin him to the ground, but as he hit them with the palms of his hands they shattered.

“Your cheap tricks won’t work on me (Y/N), you know they won’t.”

You grinned a little bit, grabbing his sword as he swung for you, and you forced all of your flames into it, the sheer heat of hell flames melting it.

“It was a distraction asshole..”

You swung your sword, grazing his side and he jumped back, wings flared as he tried to intimidate you with them.

Micheal touched a hand to his bleeding side, and he sneered a little bit, pulling a feather from his wings, watching as it turned into another sword.

“I have plenty more.”

“You only have so many feathers Micheal, you’ll run out eventually.”

He hummed a little bit, throwing a few at you and you easily avoided them.

“Perhaps, but I’ll always be faster.”

Micheal gave a beat of his wings, sending dirt flying into the air, and you covered your eyes which gave him the perfect advantage.

He charged directly at you, grabbing you by the throat and he tossed you with all his strength into the air.

He had the advantage of flight, you didn’t and he knew this, so he was easily able to catch up to you in the air.

Micheal went to land a kick, and you grabbed his leg, spinning yourself around you threw him down, pushing your feet into his chest, using your hellish flames to push him down, towards the ground.

You began a free fall straight back down to the ground, but Micheal beat you to it, he jumped back into the air, grabbing you by the arm and he threw you to the side.

Your body went hurtling through the air with that much force that when you hit the ground it shook beneath you, and you bounced, hung tumbling straight into the gates of Alexandra with a loud bang.

You had dented the gates, but you hadn’t broken them thankfully.

With a groan of pain, you pushed yourself up, rolling your shoulders a couple of times.

Micheal landed in front of you, with a smirk on his face.

“I found them…” he whispered.

“You won’t get them.” You snarled.

You raised your hands, trapping you and Micheal in a circle of flames that he couldn’t escape.

You didn’t want to exhausted all your power at once, but you had no choice, if you wanted even the slightest of chances of stopping Micheal from breaking that barrier and getting into Alexandria you knew this would be it.

You threw everything you had at him, and he did the exact same thing, both of you engaging in a dangerous battle right outside the community you were trying to protect.

You had the upper hand and you knew it, because you had harnessed your powers for use on Earth, Micheal hadn’t.

Eventually you threw hit after hit after hit at Micheal, using all your tricks to beat him until you had him on the ground, his face a bloodied mess.

You grabbed your brothers face in your hand, digging your claws into his skin, and you reached above his head, only to grasp at nothing.

“I’m not stupid, I know better than to keep my halo in plain sight.”

Micheal grabbed your wrist, forcing your hand backwards to the point that it snapped multiple bones.

You didn’t even flinch, you just set flames around your wrist to burn the skin of his hand.

“It’s okay… I know you’re too prideful to keep it too far…”

Micheal brought his head up to slam his forehead into your nose, making your fall back and he used this to his advantage.

Micheal grabbed you by the back of your neck, holding a razor sharp feather to your throat as he stared at the top the wall.

He wore a wicked grin on his face as he locked eyes with the very person he was looking for.

“Just like I know humans are too possessive over the ones they care for…”

You tried to move, but it only resulted in Micheal digging the feather into your skin, causing you to bleed.

“I’m going make you watch me kill your human pet, then I’ll finally kill you like I should have all those years ago.” Micheal snarled.

You scoffed a little bit.

“You can’t get in there, you know that.”

He hummed a little bit.

“I don’t need to go in, he just needs to come out.”

Micheal raised his wing, turning all his feathers into weapons and he went straight for your stomach.

Daryl raised his crossbow, shooting a bolt right through Michael’s shoulder and this caused the Angel to laugh loudly.

“Daryl don’t!” You snapped.

Daryl vanished from the top of the wall, and the gate was thrown open.

Balthazar tried to pull him back inside but it was too late, the moment he stepped past the barrier Micheal hand him in his grasp.

“Micheal I swear to father I will turn in you into a pile of blood and bone if you hurt him…”

Micheal hummed a little bit.

“Just as well I don’t plan on hurting him. Gravity might though.”

Micheal took off, hauling Daryl up by his arms, not letting go despite how much Daryl tried to fight him.

“Balthazar!” You yelled.

Your friend was immediately right by you, and he put his arms under yours, hauling you into the air as well to catch up with your brother.

It didn’t take long. Micheal had stopped his flight to wait, a mad grin on his face as he looked at you.

“Aw how adorable your best friend coming to help you, but he can’t help this.”

He dropped Daryl, and without thinking you pushed yourself from Balthazar.

You went straight into a downward trajectory to try catch up with Daryl, but he was heavier, he fell faster than you did.

“Daryl grab my hand!”

You reached your hand out, and he did the same thing, your fingers just brushing against his but you couldn’t grasp his hand.

You tried to use your wings, but they were broken, they didn’t work like they were supposed to.

Your heart pounded in your chest, and tears burned your eyes as the ground drew closer and closer.

Daryl was shouting words at you but you couldn’t heart them, you didn’t know what he was trying to say.

Daryl tried to grab your hand, not daring to look down but he knew from the look on your face it was getting closer and closer.

From up this high he could see everything, he could see the sun on the horizon slowly turning the sky blue.

He could see the tears in your eyes, the desperation of trying to get hold of him before it was too late.

He could also see the black feathers falling from your wings, being left behind as you both hurtled towards the ground.

He could see the sun reflecting on the gold of your feathers, a new light to the morning sky.

You kept frantically flapping your wings to try gain just a little more speed.

You cried out his name, your hand finally grasping his, and you pulling him into your chest, turning you both around.

You wrapped your wings around him, a hand on the back of his neck, the other wrapped around tightly around his waist.

You couldn’t slow down the speed you were going at now, not without hurting Daryl or worse, but you could take the full impact yourself.

And that’s what you did, crashing into the ground somewhere near Alexandria but not inside of it, your body sliding through the ground until you stopped in a dirt hill you had made.

You breathed deeply through the pain, holding Daryl tightly in your arms as if you were still falling.

You carefully unfurled your wings, and Daryl took a shaky breath.

You placed your hand on his head, running your fingers through his hair, your hand on his chest, his hand on yours.

“I.. you.. holy shit…” he whispered.

You slowly sat up, and Daryl sat between your legs, his head on your shoulder.

“I told you to stay away…”

“He was going to fucking kill you….” He grumbled.

You sighed, resting your head on his.

You looked up at the sky, and you slowly stood up, getting Daryl to do the same thing.

You placed a hand over his eyes, and he heard the sounds of crowd and ravens, and you finally moved your hand away from his eyes.

He was back in Alexadria, and you placed your hand on the back of his head, pulling him down to kiss his forehead.

“I’ll make him pay for what he did to you…”

Daryl placed his hand on the back of your head.

“You caught me…”

“Course I did… I’ll always catch you darling…”

You smiled softly at him and he leant forward, brushing his lips against yours.

“Go get ‘em…” he whispered.

You grinned a little, leaning up to kiss him before you pulled away, rolling your shoulders a few times, stretching your now golden wings out and you smiled softly at Daryl.

“I’ll be right back, I promise.”

With that, you were gone, leaving a single golden feather on the ground where you stood.

He walking over and picked it up, sitting down on the curb to see the reflection of the early morning sun against two sets of wings.

Balthazar had already returned, a little beaten but nothing too bad, Micheal was up there in the sky waiting for you.

That’s where you met him, and you glared at him, red eyes boring into his own.

You didn’t say anything to him, you just lunged forward, right into his dagger, and you grabbed his wings, ripping them from his back and he screamed, both of you falling to the ground.

You dug your fingers into his back, breaking through the skin and you grabbed his halo, punching his chest to send him flying back to the ground.

You burned his halo, watching as his body turn into ash, and you rotated your body so your back slammed into the ground in the heart of Alexandria right above your seal.

Your blood created a small puddle around you, and Daryl was the first person at your side, your head in his lap, his fingers running over your cheek.

“I know.. I know.. I know…” he whispered.

Daryl placed his hand over the wound on your stomach, putting pressure on it to try and stop the bleeding.

“It’s okay.. it’s okay…”

He looked around, seeing everybody come running over.

“Balthazar help me!” He yelled.

You tried to move but Daryl wouldn’t let you, he kept you where you were laid.

You cried in pain, and he kept wiping your tears away every time they fell from your eyes.

“I know Angel I know.. I know.. it’s okay.. you’re okay.. you’re okay…”

“I.. don’t.. I don’t.. I don’t wanna go… I don’t wanna go… please… please I don’t.. I don’t… don’t make me go..”

“You’re not going.. you’re not.. nobody is making you go Angel okay.. nobody…”

You weakly nodded your head, your redish golden eyes focused solely on his while Balthazar came to help you.

Daryl just kept wiping your tears away, his hair falling over his face to his his tears from everybody, but you could see them.

You brought your hands up, trembling from the pain as you placed your hand on the back of his head, and he leant down to press his forehead to yours.

“You’re not going anywhere…” he whispered

[milliethesillie]

Unwavering Bravery

A Short Story by MillieTheSillie

The Dark Lord Parox sat on his throne glaring out towards the land he had conquered, thousands upon thousands of worthless mortals purpose in life had been forcefully altered into turning his every desire into reality. The sun had not shined in months as the only light in the sky was now an omnivorous purple glow decorated with thundering clouds that was a result of his unstoppable magic. In reality dark sky had no purpose only to show off his strength to the land. Parox chuckled to himself, he'd already conquered this country without much effort. Perhaps the world should be next.

The quiet rumbles of the storm were suddenly interrupted by a single scream "PAROX!"

The voice was familiar to him. It was someone who was proud to call themselves a thorn in Parox's side, someone who people claimed was the last hope of the land. A young man who had somehow managed to defeat every demon, monster, and general that Parox had thrown at him. Parox laughed at the sound of his rival.

"Well well well, if it isn't Shun" Parox said as he turned his throne to face him. Shun stood tall atop a tall flight of stairs that lead to the throne room. His slender muscular outline was one he was all to familiar with. His shoulder length nimbus shaped brown hair flowed behind him freely from the breeze of the storm. His signature orange vest that he wore seemed to glow on top of his pure white stainless shirt. His black pants held up by a belt that held a single satchel and a scabbard that must of contained the Holy Blade of Garbonox, a legendary blade that people claimed could destroy any source of evil in a single strike but Parox suspected that these rumors were greatly exaggerated.

"Your Reign of Terror Ends today!" Shun yelled boldly pointing at the villian

Parox laughed, "A bold statement from a very bold boy, but bravery without strength means nothing and if you're not careful soon nothing is all that you'll be."

"You're the one who's gona be nothing!" Shun 'cleverly' retorted as he started to walk down the stairs, "after I destroy you the land of Bloog will be safe and the people will be fre-" Shun's brave speech was interrupted by a single mistake he made before walking into the Castle. He forgot to tie his shoes.

Stepping on the lace Shun fell forward, tumbling down the steps like a potato rolling down rocky hill. He bumped and rolled without style or grace, the pain had him make a rather funny face. After several "Ow"s "Oof"s and "ugh"s fate showed Shun a bit of mercy and allowed him to reach the bottom of the steps. Laying on the ground with his poofy hair messed up and covering his eyes.

Parox stared in confusion, unsure what to make of the display he had just witnessed. He had heard that this man was unbeatable yet it seems that gravity had done the work for him, Parox thought he was prepared for anything but he wasn't prepared for this... Before Parox could stop himself he found himself asking a single question.

"Are... are you alright?"

"HA!" Shun jumped to his feet and brushed his hair out of his face, "That was a cheap trick knocking me down the stairs like that. Whats wrong too scared to fight me fairly?" The stupid confident grin on Shun's face was way too genuine for someone who just fell down a flight of stairs.

"That... that wasn't me"

"Nice try but your evil lies can't fool me. I've already seen the kind of monster you are so your words mean nothing to me!"

Parox decided to look past this and pretend that it never happened because he realized this could only end in annoyance. "Oh, a monster am I? And do you think yourself to be the brave hero who will finally slay this monster? That you will succeed where others have failed? Do you truly believe yourself to be so special that y-"

Parox's speech was interupted as a red rectangular object was launched at his forehead. "GAH!" he yelled as it bounced off his forehead. Parox held his head for a brief moment but to his surprise his dark powers automatically started to heal whatever the wound was caused by, he expected him to be struck with a holy weapon but instead he looked to the object that lay on the ground and then back to the hero.

"Was that a Brick?"

"Yeah and theres alot more where that came from!" Shun yelled as he pulled another one out from the magic satchel on his belt.

"Oh you poor innocent child it will take alot more then one measly brick to defea-AHH!" Parox's boasts were interrupted as another brick hit him in the face.

"How about two then?!" Shun taunted in a way that also seemed like it was a genuine question, Another pointless wound by another pointless brick healed itself within seconds, "Surely you jest Shun, for you see GAH-" another brick came, "My powers are beyon-AH" and another and they kept on coming, "Beyond mort-AH mortal limitations that simp-OW!, SIMPLE weapons such as a tho-GAH!... Those PATHETIC BRICKS cannot hope to stop m-AH! ME FOR I AM AN UNKILLAB-AH! OK STOP! PAUSE! HOLD THE CURSED HORSES! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?" Parox asked as he raised his voice to room rumbling volumes and finally stood up.

"I'm... I'm killing you." Shun said looking confused at Parox's reaction,

"WITH BRICKS!?!?!?"

"....Yes"

"WHY!? YOU HAVE THE HOLY SWORD RIGHT THERE! ITS ON YOUR BELT! You know the BLADE THAT SLAYS EVIL!"

"Oh uh...." Shun started looking a little embarrassed as he pulled out the blade, "It kind of broke when I was fighting a rock monster."

Parox stared at the broken blade in utter bafflement"You used the legendary blade... the one rumored to be my only weakness, On a rock."

"I mean it was an evil rock... and it didn't even work so I figured the blade doesn't work either."

Parox began to laugh, "Oh you poor poor fool, You don't realize how much you've doomed this nation. With your last hope now broken in half perhaps I should let you just stand there as the reality of this situation settles in to your foolish mind. I'll enjoy watching despair watch over you as you see that you've failed all your friends who fought so hard to-"

Without hesitation Shun threw the broken sword a hard as he could at Parox, it's hit hitting the villain directly in the eye and falling to the ground beside his throne.

Parox let out another yell as he yelled, "ONLY THE BLADE DOES DAMAGE YOU UTTER MORON!"

"Oh... I see" Shun said as he tried to nonchalantly walk towards the blade. Parox watched in utter amazement as he just walked closer as if it wasn't extremely obvious what he was doing.

"Nope! I'm done!" Parox yelled as he turned around holding his hand up as dark fire engulfed it, "I cannot take another moment of this!" Purple flames shot from his hand and created a portal. "I'm going back to the dark dimension, no reality is worth ruling if you're in it. I don't care anymore take your stupid kingdom I quit"

Parox jumped through the portal and it closed behind him, leaving Shun with nothing but a rude gesture.

Shun stood there for a moment as he looked over the land. The purple in the sky aura in the sky faded away to give birth to the beautiful familiar blues from before the storm clouds blew away and all remaining dark creatures in the land faded to nothing. As Shun stood there he looked over himself as he said only one thing.

"I guess he was too scared to face me! HA!"

[cheaptripsguide]

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