#the plot sucks. the “plot” if you will

[cityselcouth]

runway

pairing: rafayel x reader

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

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

word count: 35.7k

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

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

Your coffee was cold. 

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

“How is he?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Coffee that isn’t frigid.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Especially not with Paris Fashion Week coming up. 

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

Until, of course, right now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about Qi Rafayel?”

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

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

“Tell me more.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rafayel adored a good party. 

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing could possibly ruin such a perfect night.

“RAFAYEL!”

Oh dear. 

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

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

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

“It works just fine.”

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

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

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

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

“I’ve been busy.”

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

“Look–”

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

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

“None of the brands spoke to me.”

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

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

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

“You wound me, my friend.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/n!”

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

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

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

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

Competitor would have been the right word. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good luck with that.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This did not amuse you, the actual owner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except it didn’t. 

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry?”

“You heard me. This is a dealbreaker.” 

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

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

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

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

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

The fucking audacity.

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

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

It made his condition all the more absurd.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, you hoped so.

QI RAFAYEL SIGNED WITH LUMIERE?

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

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

The fitting room was in chaos when you arrived.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course. 

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

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

“I’m not wearing this.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m so glad you can tell colour.” 

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

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

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

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

“Why didn’t you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A word of advice?”

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

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

The stylist closest to the two of you gasped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you were oh-so easy to rile up. 

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

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

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

“Need some clarification?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wanna sign it?”

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

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

“Worth a shot.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That bad?”

“Rafayel is impossible.” 

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

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

A great model. An exasperating person. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s more than a handful.”

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

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

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

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

Behind a camera, Qi Rafayel was more than tolerable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it seemed they had just wrapped up. 

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

“Would you like some coffee, miss?” 

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

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

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

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

“What is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

A lot like him, you supposed. 

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

“I’m good.” 

“Suit yourself.” 

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

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

“Yes, we wouldn’t want that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It felt uninspired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh no. You knew that voice. 

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

“Rafayel?”

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

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

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

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

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

Right into a dark, dingy alley.

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

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

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

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

“I was trying to outrun the paps.”

“By running into me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MROW!

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

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

Rafayel yelped.

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

“Are you…okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

You burst into laughter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your hair is curly.”

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

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

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

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

“Only if you lose the cat.”

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

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

“Wow. Do you just live here?”

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

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

Perhaps you had been a little too lenient.

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

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

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

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

“Most days, yes.” 

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

Definitely too lenient. “We are?”

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

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

“I’m busy.” 

“You’ll be just as busy tomorrow.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s a surprise.” 

“I don’t like surprises.”

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

“Not if I can help it.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Ready?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anonymous.

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

“Thank you.”

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

“You made these?” 

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

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

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

“You’ve never given me a reason to.” 

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

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was past ten when Rafayel dropped you back home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There’s just been a small delay–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What a lonely existence that must have been. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe he was rubbing off on you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rafayel was rendered completely speechless. 

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

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

“Y/n,” he breathed out, “This is…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A glass of Dom Pérignon, please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why are you here?”

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

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

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

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

Brilliant. 

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

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

“You seriously pay attention to these things?”

“What does it look like?”

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

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

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

“I’m fine.”

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

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

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

“Rafayel, I am in no mood for your–”

“Tell me about the Spring Collection.”

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

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

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

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

Rafayel’s lips parted. “I do?” 

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

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

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

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

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

What the fuck was wrong with you? 

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

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

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

Oh my god. Were you flustered by Qi Rafayel?

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

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

You didn’t know what to say. 

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

Day one of Paris Fashion Week was a whirlwind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/n! You made it!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Devilishly handsome, temptation incarnate.

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

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

“I didn’t think this was your scene.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Dance with me.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You look beautiful.”

“Thank you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, I know.”

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

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

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

“Mr. Qi?”

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

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

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

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

“I see.”

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

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

“How many times have you been to Paris?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your car?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When do you not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then you better make it worth it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You quickly became addicted to the drug that was Rafayel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know very well that I’m busy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It never did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Raf- oh, fuck.” 

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

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

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

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

“That’s it,” he cooed. “Come for me.”

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

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

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

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

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

He was a total goner. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Hmm?”

“I think you might be my favourite muse.”

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

“What an honour that is.”

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

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

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

You said he was your muse. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

He picked up his phone. 

You didn’t see Rafayel after that. 

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

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

Nothing. 

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

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

“He isn’t here.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the fuck?

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

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

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

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

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

Clever woman. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Isn’t it?” 

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

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

“Are you really that surprised?” 

Something in you cracked wide open. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he wasn’t.

“Was it supposed to?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You felt the betrayal before you processed it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The city of love had never looked so dull. 

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

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

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

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

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

And down the runway she went.

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

Operatic.

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

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

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

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

You didn’t want to know why.

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

The perfect closer for a sensational show.

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

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

So why did you feel so hollow?

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

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

New York was as unforgiving as ever.

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

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

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

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

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

Rafayel threw a party.

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

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

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

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

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

He would have to go to you. 

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

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

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

Funny. 

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

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

“Huh. You really do live here.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Would you have read it?”

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

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

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

“Scared of what? Me?”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t you dare.”

“–I’m in love with you, Y/n.”

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

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

“I think you should leave.”

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

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

But you didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

And when had anything good been easy?

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

And why the hell were you there?

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

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

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

Your breath hitched.

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

It was you.

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

“Y/n?”

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know.”

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

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

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

“How?”

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

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

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

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

“You know why.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“God, you’re going to regret that.”

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

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

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

fin.

[nanamisgirly]

Body hair?? not stopping him from his meal! ྀི

CW oral (f. receiving), kento calls her 'greedy thing' & honey, he's eating wellll, hairy reader!, college au., once spitting, I had young nanami in mind with his pretty blonde bang, established relationship, pussy drunk!, a bit of plot ig either we're diving right in 😼

you're kissing

messily, hungrily—your lips part with a wet pop as you gasp for breath. kento's full weight is pressed against your body, his thigh slotted between your legs, his lower stomach grinding hard against your core. one of his hands cups your jaw roughly, angling you where he wants it.

“i didn’t know we would go further…i didn’t shave and uh..im quite hairy. even my stomach” you mumble shyly. “i didn’t even shave my armpits. or down there.” your fingers threading through the long strands of his blonde bangs—trying to get his attention. 

you gently push them back, letting your hand slide into his hair until you’re gripping a handful at the nape of his neck—a deep groan escapes his throat at the tug.

doubt is creeping in you…

“i didn't know we were gonna go this far tonight…” you repeat. “i didn't shave. like, anywhere...”

kento pulls away from where he was attacking lovely your neck with wet kisses. his eyes met yours—heavy-lidded, pupils blown so wide they almost eclipse the warm brown of his irises. his brows furrow, not in judgment, but because he genuinely has no idea what you just said.

“honey, i quite literally have no idea what the problem is,” he says, and then drags his fat tongue sloooowly, obscenely, all the way from your collarbone to your jaw. as he feels his glasses slide down his nose, he adds : “actually, take my glasses off. . don't want them in the way while i’m tasting you.”

“but kento—”

“i said. remove. them.”

“it's probably not hygienic,” you whisper. “i mean—body hair and, like… going down on me?”

kento's lips curl slightly. “who said that?” he mutters,  then sinks his teeth a bit harshly into the crook of your neck. “society?” he continues, words muffled against your skin. “tell me this, do you wash your pussy properly?”

“y-yes—” you gasp.

“then where the heck is the problem?” his voice dips into something dark so sure of itself, it turns your whole body to liquid. one of his hands slip under your shirt and slides up, palm pressing against your stomach—and when he feels the soft trail of hair leading down…

“fuuuuck,” he breathes in the soft hair of your neck. “you smell like soap and lavender, your skin's clean and soft. i don't shave either, by the way. i'm not exactly hairless under this button-up.”

he presses down harder, strong abs pressing deliciously against your heated core.

“now stop worrying.” his teeth graze the skin above your waistband as he mouths hungrily at your stomach. 

he's already undoing your pants with one hand, the other braced beside your head like he needs leverage to keep himself from just tearing them apart. he doesn't even slide them down—he rips them past your hips in one desperate motion, underwear bunched and clinging wet to your center. 

there's a split second where he just stare—jaw slack, lips parted.

the soft dark hair above your slit glistens with the damp warmth beneath it, “fuck. fuck—fuck..” he spreads your legs wide—too wide that they ache instantly. he loses no time to bury his face between your legs, nose hitting your dripping folds and sniffing. he swipes his tongue devastatingly precisely, from your clit to your entrance and back again, groaning into the slick mess he's creating.

as your hips jerk up violently, he brings his hands to your hips and pin you down, keeping you in place. his tongue works in filthy little circles, mouthing and sucking enthusiastically your clit. when he pauses to speak, his voice is hoarse and soaked in spit. “this…this hair—” he pants, dragging his tongue right through where you have them the most. “don't you dare wax this pretty pussy. you taste divine, honey.”

he presses two fingers to your puffy hairy lips, spreads them open, and spits—watching it drip down between your folds. he dives back in, slurping so loudly it’s the only thing you can hear in the room.

kento can't help but grind onto the mattress—his hips rutting in rhythm with his tongue that trusts into your hole. The friction against his huge cock, trapped tight in his slacks, is maddening. he's not even trying to hold back the pleasure he’s having from this—choked and whining noises leaving his lips :(

“kento, please—” you sob, pleasure crackling up your spine.

“mm-mmmhh” he hums against you, tongue getting sloppier. to have better access, he lifts your hips, tilts them just right and devours you from underneath, tongue circling your clit only to drop and lap at your dripping hole again, wide flat strokes followed by desperate, suckling kisses. 

he moans loudly as his rough fingers part your folds once again, exposing that sensitive bundle slick and twitching for him. “greedy little thing,” he grins.

“ken—ken…i—t-too much,” you whines.

“too bad,” he growls, voice deeper than usual. he bites into your inner thigh, rough and claiming, then licks over the sting. “thought i'd care about some hair…?” he shakes his head in disapproval. “i want it messy. sooo messy, you have no idea.”

he’s glassy-eyed when he looks up at you—dazed. drunk on taste and scent.

“i’m gonna fuckin’ lose my mind if i don’t stay down here,” he mumbles, voice hoarse, tongue darting back out to drag one more slow, obscene stripe through you. “look at this. look at this mess. it’s all mine.”

“you're just so pretty, honey. i need more.”

  ˶‾᷄ ⁻̫ ‾᷅˵ 

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: it’s a soft morning with bob, until he needs you.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: bob reynolds x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.4K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni) , porn with little plot, cute shower antics/fluff at the beginning, yearning & needy bob, switch!bob, breast sucking, making out, hair pulling, bob’s praise kink, spit kink, unprotected p in v sex, missionary position, breeding kink, overstimulation, cockwarming, creampie. this fic is filthy.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: wrote this on a whim because I’ve been missing bob a lot (and I was freaked up ngl). not gonna apologize for how freaky this is. anyway. i hope you all enjoy! 🫶

Loving Bob is easy — it’s gentle, clean.

It’s the sort of love that murmurs from your heart, calling his name, a song that you continue to loop somewhere in the recesses of your mind.

There’s a safety you find within him, even through the darkness he keeps caged, a warmth that reminds you of a thousand splendid suns. A shared sanctuary; he finds it in you, too.

At the root of your relationship, it’s two hearts, craving to touch, craving one another, intertwined. It’s built upon an initial friendship that had spiraled into something more, something warm.

He’s attentive, compassionate, selfless — for his numerous qualities, you find yourself infinitely grateful for him, for how lucky you are to have a partner as good as he is. Bob has a wonderful heart, and despite his past, it’s still just as good.

You think about him often, especially when you first wake up, left smiling to yourself at the thought of how much you adored him. It left a lightness in your heart, one that you hadn’t experienced in years.

Within the gentle hours of morning, you feel the sparse indenture beside you, the bed left empty where he’d slept. It wasn’t common to find him absent, a twinge of concern sinking into your chest.

Swallowing the thickness present within your throat, you turned, listening to the gentle trickle of water from the shower. Relief followed soon after, inclined to follow the sound.

Dawn’s first sigh whispered through tinted window panes, slivers of an ember-orange pooling over the foot of your bed, passing over marble floors. It struck beside your head, causing you to tilt away from the glow.

It spread over the skies with tendrils of vibrancy, veiled through darkened glass. Twilight began to dissipate, with not an ounce of haste, dismal darkness giving way to violet, the celestials clinging to the horizon.

In a gentle clamor, you slither from your bed, still ensnared in a haze of half-sleep as you make for the bathroom. Nudging the door aside, you make your presence known with a stirring of your throat and a yawn.

“Morning, Bob,” Stretching, you can see him somewhat through the fogged pane of glass, and he perks up, even then. “Do you mind if I join you?” You ask, a lazy smile molding to your features as the shower door creaks open.

He’s there, soap still lathered into his crown, flushed and pink, musculature glistening as if he’s spent entirely too long marinating beneath the water. “Hi,” He greets, smiling when he sees you. “Oh, ah — Yeah, come inside.”

Bob’s brows furrow when he realizes how strange that sounded, countenance one of mild embarrassment. Nevertheless, he shuffles over to make room for you, throat thick as he swallows the sudden swell of excitement.

The nakedness is something you’re more accustomed to by now, having been together for several months. Though, whenever he sees you, it’s like the first time all over again — you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

Undressing, you’re shedding your clothes outside of the shower door, kicking the remnants of your underwear aside. Steam floats in tepid wisps, clinging to the mirror, coating the bathroom in a humid haze.

Once inside, streams of hot water splash over your skin, body brushing against his. It sends a muted buzz through your spine, running a hand over your face as you reach for your shampoo.

“How did you sleep?” He asks, tone saturated with an amiable warmth. Bob is often one to inquire about your wellbeing, and he’s attentive when he does, gaze trailing over your visage.

“Good,” With a soft hum, you feel his hands ghost over your spine, the gesture fleeting, enough to make you shiver. “What about you?”

It’s idle conversation, affectionate murmurs spoken through the haze of the shower. Bob stepped back beneath the spout, water cascading through soap-laden tresses.

“Fine,” Lashes kissed the skin beneath his eyes, washing the existing suds from his scalp. Spitting water aside, Bob cleared his throat. “Sorry for not waiting on you. You looked so pretty, I didn’t want to wake you.” He murmured, smitten.

Through a tender smile, you dismiss his apology, gazing up at him, mesmerized. He’s so handsome — pretty when he’s doing anything and everything. “It’s okay,” You mused, nose wrinkling. “I think I needed the rest.”

Relaxation was crucial for you in the downtime between missions, and you were appreciative that Bob had let you sleep for a little while longer.

His countenance softened, lingering on the curve of your mouth, over the bridge of your nose. He soaked you in as you splashed water over your body, droplets rolling over your chin.

Sluggishly, Bob dips down to plant a chaste kiss to your lips, reluctant to pull away; thankfully, you’re eager to tilt inward, reciprocating. It’s sweet, gentle — you often feel a sense of comfort, never uneasy whenever he kisses you.

Warm water sticks to your crown, tresses glued to your skull as you run a palm over his bicep, feeling goosebumps beneath your fingertips.

Bob only draws away when you’re reaching for the soap, hoping to clean up. He’s gentle, digits tracing along your spine, gooseflesh spreading like wildfire over your flesh.

Steam ripples over his musculature, wisping through the taut grooves of his abdomen, over broad, freckled shoulders. Content, he seems more relaxed than usual, drawing patterns into the small of your back.

“I can do it,” Bob offers, gentle yet pitched with a twinge of nervousness. “I’m happy to do it for you.” He perks up when you offer him the shampoo bottle with a smile, seemingly receptive to the idea.

“I’d like that,” Through an idle hum, you stand in front of him, partially shielded from the barrage of water, patient as ever. “Thank you.”

Fingers massage over your scalp with a disarming gentleness, handling you with a care that you’d grown intimately acquainted with. Eyes flutter shut as you relax beneath his touch, letting him lather soap into your crown.

Any initial distance becomes thin, swallowed by the closeness of bodies, his chest brushing against your back. A subtle hitch forms within your throat, a pang of excitement, but you keep yourself docile.

His embrace is kind; it makes you feel coveted, seen in a way that transcends everything else. Bob is focused on the task at-hand, dark-blue hues fluttering across your physique, drinking in every detail, committing it all to memory.

Digits rake over the base of your skull, working in the shampoo with ease, satisfied with his handiwork. “Here,” He awkwardly shuffles aside, and you jolt when you feel his cock brush your backside. “I’ll let you finish.”

Admittedly, the brief embrace sends electricity through your veins, scorched by want, but you’re unwilling to ruin the moment.

Rinsing the shampoo from your hair, soapy remnants and all, Bob quietly appraises you from where he stands, jaw slack, his visage blotched with a bright shade of rose. Water rolls over your chest, down your navel, lower.

Some sliver of him gnaws with desire, but he’s never been good with asking. Instead, he resorts to ogling you as if you’re the sun itself, warm and glittering.

His lungs fill with sweetness whenever he’s near you, tender gaze following every dip, every curve of your body, as if you’re a river worth wading through. He’s clean, content to watch, only looking away when your eyes flutter open.

Scrubbing the last of the product from your tresses, you give yourself one final rinse, body washed clean, prepared to start your day. “Finished?” You asked, hand hovering over the switch.

“Yeah.” Bob speaks as if he’s clawing for air, chest burning from the sight of you, tongue absentmindedly wetting his bottom lip.

As the shower fizzles to a crawl, he steps out, steam clinging to him. You follow suit, towel dragging over your warm flesh, collecting any bit of water left behind.

In a similar fashion, you’re watching him, tendrils of warmth snaking over the back of your neck, damp tresses disheveled around you. He’s beautiful, handsome in a way that makes your knees wobble, heartbeat pounding away.

“You okay?” The innocuous nature of your question leaves Bob flustered, even still. With a towel slung low around his hips, there’s little left to the imagination — and your thoughts are rampant.

He nods, lashes flitting, lips pulled agape as he marvels at you, the difference in height more apparent now, in the rawness of things. “You’re so beautiful,” Bob utters, awestruck. “It’s mesmerizing.”

The sincerity of his compliment makes you preen, a smile creeping onto your features. He’s called you beautiful a thousand times — this one carries weight, as if he’s reminding himself that you’re real, that what you have together is real.

“Mesmerizing?” Echoing his statement, you do little to suppress the sheepish smile that curls at the corners of your mouth. “I don’t think I’ve heard that one before.” You muse, reluctant to accept the compliment.

Bob stares, visage tinged with scarlet, throat thick; he swallows and steels himself, hand reaching to cup your jaw. “You should hear it more often.” He concedes, tone disarmingly low, enough to make you shiver.

Whenever he wants something, he gets this way; a little flirtatious, still attempting to formulate his own wants into words. Sometimes he feels undeserving, but you know that isn’t true, and so does he.

Something charged splinters the air, desire thinly-veiled, want echoing in his eyes, screaming. Emboldened, he initiates this time, dipping dangerously close, eyes flickering over your mouth.

As his large palm cradles the delicate slope of your face, you’re drifting closer, body bundled in a towel, standing flush against him. A slight hitch forms within the bottom of his throat, and it’s his turn to become bashful.

“You think so?” You hum, tone warping into something sweet, desirous. Bob gawks, shuddering when your hands splay flat over his ribs, tracing circles into his abdomen.

With a lackadaisical nod, he’s getting flustered, soothed by the caresses lavished to his skin. You’re still smiling, nails ghosting over his flesh, goosebumps erupting in the wake of it.

The distance is closed by the both of you, dipping halfway, meeting in the middle. Mouths connect in a sudden flurry of passion, and you can taste the desperation on his tongue, even then.

He is a chiseled adonis, and you can’t help but marvel at him as if he’s molded from marble, made flesh and blood beneath your hands.

Bob kisses you as if he’s racing against time, digits flexing over the nape of your neck. A sharp exhale stings his lungs, pushing through his nose as you press closer; the towel tempts him, able to be ripped apart with ease.

The crass knot of fantasies that jump around within his brain makes him blush, neediness unfurling from deep within his stomach, his bones.

All it took was one glimpse of you, kissed by dawn, visibly enamored with him — and he collapsed.

Lips carry on, eager; you’re kissing him with an overwhelming sweetness, fingertips tracing upwards until they’re hooked beneath his arms. He shivers, holding steadfastly to your jaw, thumbs circling your cheeks.

Stirring against your navel, his cock strains beneath the fabric of his towel, prompting you to gasp whilst kissing him. It snares between lips, and he immediately slows to a crawl, doing little to mask his embarrassment.

“Sorry, m’sorry.” Bob mumbles, flesh hot with embarrassment as it ripples through him in waves. Neediness follows suit, a gnawing desire to hold you, root himself inside of you.

Burying his face within the crook of your shoulder, his breath emerges in warm, winded sighs, hips ghosting over yours. The friction simmers within your blood, a jolt of electricity that sets your nerves ablaze.

“It’s okay,” Soothingly, your nails lightly grace the muscle of his abdomen, stroking in circular motions as you keen into his embrace. He cages you in, nose tickling your throat, lips sealing to your jugular. “Bob.”

His name is sharp as it spills from your mouth, pitched with a twinge of exhilaration. Hushed, he lavishes kisses over your neck, open-mouthed and wet, groin grinding haplessly into your own.

Even the towel does little to veil his obvious erection, and you can taste the urgency as his hands mold themselves to your hips.

Pathetically, he ruts into you, grinding bodies tangled into an amalgamation of limbs, and he’s still huffing, noises tapering off into a whimper. “Need you,” He pants wantonly. “Please — I want to be inside of you.”

Hunger reveals itself viscerally, and Bob falls victim to his own baser instincts, stomach pulled taut into a coil of excitable heat.

He’s always been one to yearn silently, wanting you in hushed gaps and longing glances, but this time, his desire is screaming. Bob isn’t particularly good at being blunt about what he wants, but this time, he takes action.

Arousal pools between your thighs at his confession, sending tingles of bliss throughout your body. Fingers hook into your towel as you peel it away, a shiver gripping your spine when you press closer.

Pupils dilate, expanding with black as he traces the shape of your physique, breath hitching within his throat. “So pretty.” He sighs, reverent as he feels your hand close around his wrist.

Guiding his hand to the warmth coalescing along your cunt fills his brain with static, a violent hum that only rouses his desire further. Two fingers find the heat present over your cunt, swiping over weeping folds.

“That’s what you do to me,” The whisper that leaves your tongue is enough to offset his balance, heady — your stomach gnaws with heat. “That’s all for you.” Tempting him further, he pushes a sharp exhale through his nose.

“For me,” Bob repeats, tone tapering off into a pitiful half-whine. There’s a sense of guilt he feels, undeserving of you, but when your hips push into his fingers, it proves a worthwhile distraction. “God, you’re so — so beautiful, you’re mine.”

The sudden claim of possessiveness stuns you, but it isn’t unwelcome; you like it, and you want him to take what’s his. “I’m yours?” It’s posed as a curious inquiry, one that Bob perks up at.

“Mm-hm,” His mouth skirts over your jugular, planting kisses there as his digits idly rut over your cunt. Crass noises reverberate through your steam-laden bathroom as he fingers you. “You’re mine.”

There’s an inherent sweetness to his cadence even when he’s attempting to be assertive, and it makes your stomach erupt with butterflies.

Clinging to him, your thighs twitch when he picks you up, gait one of exhilaration as your legs kiss the foot of your mattress. He lays you down, towel still bound around his hips, riding dangerously low.

Veins course from his navel toward his groin, accompanied by a still-damp abdomen, water glistening over raw muscle. Golden tendrils of morning curl around his body, and he’s beautiful.

He’s more god than man, but he’s yours — and that means everything.

Cerulean hues sparkle with excitement, jaw slackening, hands coiling together when you begin to move toward the pillows.

He’s enraptured, the image of a man enthralled, preparing to crawl to you if that’s what it takes. A pink tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, gaze never wavering from you.

“I need you, Bob.” Through the hush of labored sighs and crackling tension, you tell him softly, accompanied by a look of affection. Bob’s throat jostles as he swallows, tilting forward to join you on the bed.

Damp, brunette ringlets frame his face, mouth agape, irises eclipsed by black as he surges forward, slotting himself between your legs.

As his musculature parts your thighs, he abandons the towel, hovering above you. Mouths clamor for one another, messy and desperate, a clash of wet tongues and lips.

Bob openly moans into your kiss, rutting into your leg as if he’s in heat, flushed cock gliding over the silky flesh of your inner thigh. A gasp snares within your chest, hands gripping his biceps, tugging him close.

Pearls of precum ooze over your skin, slick across your thigh as you kiss him hard. It’s open-mouthed, wanton as bodies tangle together, nails digging light crescents into corded muscle.

A scarlet flush blankets his features, as if he’s been burning beneath the sun for too long. Bob can feel the coil settle within his belly, a tangle of heat that’s pulled tight, something visceral and real.

Beneath him, you’re stunning, heartbeat one of erratic excitement, a lullaby that he can hear. Kisses continue to devolve into a mess of want, sloppy and wet as your back arches from the mattress.

The brush of your nipples ghost over his chest, a shiver simultaneously gripping the both of you. It gives him pause, gaze trailing to your breasts as his lips untether from yours, kissing a scorching trail toward your chest.

Hips urge forward, cock incessantly grinding against your thigh, followed by a string of breathy whines that catch in the open.

“So handsome like this, baby,” Your tender praise makes him groan, keening beneath sweetly-spoken compliments. One hand rakes toward the nape of his neck, fingers scraping over brunette waves. “So perfect, feels s’good.”

Lips passionately brand themselves to your throat, collarbone, sternum — Bob leaves no inch of your chest untouched. He worships your body, loving you so viscerally, so deeply.

He kisses his way to your right breast, breathing in your saccharine scent, senses swimming in you. He’s drowning, but it’s something he welcomes, mouth slipping over your nipple.

Taking the pebbled peak between his lips, Bob lavishes your breasts in attention, gingerly kneading at the other, keeping his mouth busy. He’s whining, flushed cockhead drizzling with precum.

It’s akin to torture, waiting to be inside of you — but he does it anyway, tending to you before anything else. He softly sucks at the sensitive bud, drawing preening moans from your mouth, and he shivers.

Trembling fingers quiver with excitement as you push them through his hair, still slick with water, fisting into damp waves. “Bob,” You moan, back beginning to arch, following his mouth. “S’perfect.”

A muted buzz shoots through his cock as his hips jerk forward, hot air pushed out through his nose as he teases your breasts. He’s passionate, never resorting to anything harsh, and he’s needy.

Through a half-lidded stare, his eyes find your face, contorted into one of bliss, lips parted, jaw slackening. Bob moans around your breast, cock throbbing incessantly.

“Mm, you’re so pretty,” He groans, the sound throaty, husked as it curls deliciously around your ears. His lips are eager, never ceasing as he kisses a wet trail between your breasts. “Please, I want to be inside of you.”

He’s talkative, attempting to vocalize what he wants without reproach. Each keening whine and desperate plea sends shockwaves of bliss through your belly, arousal hot and slick over your cunt.

With a jostle of your head, you’re nodding, welcoming him closer as he continues to kiss his way back to your mouth. As lips collide, you’re absently rocking into him, feeling his body tense.

“Please,” It’s all that needs to be said, and he’s crawling, thoroughly and utterly razed as he presses close. “Need you so bad.” Your cadence is disarmingly tender, something that scratches at his brain.

The flushed head of his cock slips over your cunt a time or two, gathering the slick that’s permeating there, pulling a groan from his chest. He steadies himself on one hand, the other caressing your ribs.

Even when he’s snugly on top of you, he’s entirely subservient, a wanton mess, needing you more than anything else.

A shiver grips his spine when his hips fall flush against yours, cockhead splitting past your folds, still oozing with precum. He grinds himself into you a time or two, letting that friction tug at the coil in his stomach.

Bob’s visage contorts into a look of sheer want, the face of someone who’s desperate to be needed, wanted — and you do, more than anything else.

Shifting closer, you suck in a sharp inhale as his hips urge forward, cock sinking into you. It’s a brief adjustment, cunt clenching around him with ripples of bliss.

Hands fall toward the nape of his neck, threading through still-damp, brunette tresses, giving them gentle tugs. Coaxing him closer, Bob groans at the sudden influx of pleasure, pace somewhat erratic, to start.

He likes it messy, sloppy — it’s all an amalgamation of limbs, bodies clawing for one another as if you may never touch again. Mouths meet in a snare of tongue and ardor, spit slick over swollen lips.

Bridging the gap, you let your tongue slip through his parted lips, tangling with his own in another bruising kiss. A low moan catches in Bob’s throat, swallowed by another barrage of kisses.

As he draws his hips back and pushes forward, the rhythm he sets is needy, quick; a glistening string of saliva connects his mouth to yours.

The wet tendril falls over your chin, a sheen of intermingled spit that Bob greedily kisses over, pulling a moan from your throat. Crass noises emanate from between bodies, your cunt taking him perfectly.

One hand shifts to grab your leg, smoothly hitching against the back of your knee, caressing the skin there as he pushes it toward your abdomen. It isn’t uncomfortable, the new angle allowing him to fuck you deeper.

A tremulous moan splits your diaphragm, shuddering as your cunt pulses, clenching around his cock. He fills you up, leaving no room for space, heat exuding from him like an open flame.

He’s strong, capable — there’s something steady beneath the erratic slam of his hips as he pushes his cock further, bottoming out. Ringlets of brown brush over your brow, foreheads coming to press together.

“I love you,” Bob groans through another snap of his hips, and you’re dizzy from the pleasure, body tangled into a knot of bliss. It sits heavy in your belly, wanton and waiting. “Love you so much.”

The bulk of his musculature blankets you, larger, each urge of his body bristling with an enthusiastic passion. You take it all gleefully — every kiss of his cock to your cervix, every breath that feathers over your mouth.

As he lavishes you in half-whimpered confessions, you hold tightly to him, his cock lewdly slapping away at your pussy. His eyes are closed, mouth slack, making room for throaty, husked groans that cause you to shiver.

“Doing so well for me, Bob,” You croon between thrusts, the wind ripping from your lungs, exhilaration stinging your nerves. “Love you.” It’s all you’re able to force out before he’s kissing you again.

Bob shivers at the feeling of your cunt, tight and warm around him, clenching around his cock with each roll of his hips. You took him perfectly, as if you were made for him, molded together.

Kissing you hoarse, it’s all passion — bleeding heat that coagulates in the pit of your stomach, coil wanting to unfurl. Arousal slicks your cunt, noises crude as he fucks into you, eager.

He isn’t rough, but he’s fast, cock pounding away at your aching core as if time is nonexistent. You never sway him from it, hitching your other leg up around his hips, knee pressing to his ribs.

Despite his position, caged in around you, contorting you in ways that allow him better access to you, he’s subservient, still. His lips untether, face coming to nuzzle beneath your chin.

“So tight, all mine.” Something shadowed eclipses his voice, something possessive; it makes you shiver with delight. He finds his footing, and that husked purr makes your head spin.

A myriad of throaty groans, whines, and hot sighs plume over your neck, allowing you to fist at his brunette crown. “Bob, Bob,” You moan, leg constricting his hips as he fucks you deep. “Please don’t stop.”

Bob shudders at the praise, cock lewdly clashing against your slick cunt, wound up into tight knots that seem on the precipice of bursting.

“I — God, m’close,” He huffs into your collar, knowing that he can’t hold himself back for much longer. His voice is stretched thin, frayed — it’s ragged with desire, splintering at the seams as he pushes into you again. “Please!”

His cock pulses inside of you, stretching you out, every ripple of your cunt sending him into a borderline frenzy. Every sensation is electrifying, addictive — he’s lost within you.

He’s had flings before, something to fill the gaping hole within him, something distracting just to feel; with you, it’s everything. Bob can feel how much you love him through touch alone, how much he needs you.

He kisses the drool shining against your chin, tongue warm as he laps it up, prompting you to kiss him again, bruising. Moans snare in the mouths of another, and he’s hammering away at your pussy.

Through excitable half-babbles, Bob groans about how good you feel, how pretty you are, how you make him feel alive.

Wisps of brown stick his temples from mere exertion and anticipation, lips ghosting over one another as he presses his head to yours.

Each urge of his hips sends him deeper, cock nearly kissing your cervix. His mouth is wet with his own spit, pooling within his maw as he continues to piston into you with a raw excitement.

“Y—You’re drooling, Bob.” You whisper, sweet breath pluming over his lips. He gets somewhat bashful when you point it out, but he can’t help himself, features scarlet.

“You feel so — so good,” Bob huffs, overwhelmed with ecstasy; everything feels hot, as if he might explode into a thousand pieces. “Yeah.” He chokes, still bitten by the sting of embarrassment.

The incessant pulse of his cock warms your cunt, filling you up, his ministrations beginning to slow in intensity. “I want you to share.” You whisper, broken and hoarse, strung-out with desire.

There’s something intimately razed about your cadence, the wanton ardor that seeps through the cracks, and Bob moans your name. He knows what you’re asking, and he’s wrecked.

With a fervent nod, he’s visibly charmed as you open your mouth, tongue warm and pink. Bob’s hips stutter, jagged and strained.

Saliva gathers in his mouth as he spits into yours, watching it fall like sticky tendrils onto your tongue. His body shudders from the sight, eyes impossibly wide, eclipsed by desire.

A twinge of possessiveness swells within him, tying you to him, binding both of you together. He watches as if his gaze might burn through you, thoroughly mesmerized.

Open-mouthed and half-lidded, you swallow his spit, feeling his hips draw back and push forward again.

“S’good,” Through a soft purr, you lavish your boyfriend in sweet praise, carding your fingers through his hair. “Keep going.” You croon, planting a wet kiss against his jaw.

Bob nods, shaky and exhilarated, pushing his cock back into you with a sudden haste. He starts again, hammering into you like a man starved, face flush against the side of your neck.

He’s blanketed in a delicate shade of crimson, lips parted, pressing open-mouthed kisses over your throat. Each urge of his hips sends you soaring, cock lewdly slapping into your pussy.

“Tight, you’re — Mm, you’re perfect,” Bob pants, his release hot and fervent as it trails after him, preparing to crash into some exploding star. The coil in his belly unfurls; messy and wanton. “Close.”

“Bob!” A throaty moan rips through your throat, cunt tight and pulsing around him, causing the both of you to shiver. He’s needy, clawing — something ravenous consumes him.

He doesn’t deserve to breathe your air, and yet he’s inhaling your scent, the sweetness of your flesh, the perspiration that licks over your jugular.

“Need to — I need to …” Bob pants, knowing that he’s being torn apart, splintered into slivers. His cock throbs incessantly, and he’s crescendoing with a plethora of grunts and whines.

“Stay,” You weren’t asking — you were telling. A husked, simpering groan echoes through his diaphragm, hips erratic, hand clenched into the sheets beside you. “Stay, Bob. Cum in me.”

Something snaps — that coil he fights against comes undone in one devastating wave. He gasps, nerves ablaze, body teeming with a buzz of ecstasy that pulses through him.

There’s something else, something dark; for a moment, he envisions you, full of his seed, something he’s never dreamed of.

That fantasy spreads like a festering plague, saturating the corners of his mind, feeding into something lustful. Bob’s release is messy, excessive — his hips surge again, fucking you full of his cum.

He paints your cunt with hot ropes of his spent, spasming, tense; his lips lavish your jaw in a myriad of sloppy kisses.

It oozes out of you, smattered over the insides of your thighs, his cock, your cunt. Your name burns his tongue as he says it again and again, desperate.

“Jesus,” Bob huffs, brows pinched together, countenance warped into a look of sheer bliss. He looks content, as if his release brought him some semblance of comfort. “Sorry, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” A sigh of elation escapes you, digits sweeping through his tresses, planting a kiss against the corner of his mouth. “That was amazing, Bob.” You hum, mouth twitching into a smile.

“I’m not finished,” With a peculiar grit sinking into his voice, you bend to him, breathing hitching within your throat. He’s half-hard again inside of you, jaw slack, eyes wide. “Please — please, just let me.”

His hand drags over your leg, caressing and squeezing, hooking around the back of your knee. The other digs into the pillow beside your head, fisting until the fabric begins to tear.

With a lackadaisical nod, you’re delighted to let him continue, heat pooling within your belly, oozing between your thighs. “B—Bob,” You whine, grasping at his shoulders. “Bob!”

A wet, glistening sheen of white sticks to his groin, your arousal intermingling with his cum as he pushes into you again. A moan escapes you, body tingling with waves of pleasure.

Bob looks as if he’s soaring, at the pinnacle of ecstasy, thrusts beginning to mount in pace. As bodies collide again and again, the lewd clash of flesh reverberates, wet and filthy.

He’s beautiful like this — beautiful when he’s unraveling, coming apart above him.

Readjusting your position, Bob places your legs up against his broad shoulders, bending you, but not breaking you. He doesn’t manhandle; he moves, touch tender and rapturous.

The newfound angle sends you into some white-hot snare of pleasure, back arching, head rolling back against the pillows. He fucks you deep, cock pistoning away at your pussy, groaning with each thrust.

It was almost overwhelming, fraying your nerves, making you delirious as he hammered into you, mumbling a string of apologies and half-sentences.

“B—Bob, it’s too much,” Your cunt clenched around his cock again, rippling with the aftershocks of your orgasm. Everything feels too sensitive, as if you might wither away. “Slow, slow.”

Bob moans, fucking another rope of cum into you before stopping, meeting your gaze with a heated one of his own. He slows, knowing your stamina is only a fraction of his.

He nods, swallowing the lump within his throat before he comes to a crawl, gently setting your legs back down onto the bed.

He stays inside of you even still, coming to lay his head against your collarbone. “I love you.” He murmurs, content and no longer wound-up, a lazy smile glued to his features.

For a moment, you’re too blissed-out to say anything, chest heaving with labored sighs. “I love you too,” You hum, shivering as his mouth idly travels over your chest. “You’re so perfect.”

The bulk of his musculature covers your body, bleeding with heat, eyelashes fluttering as you caress the base of his skull. “Wanna stay here, like this,” He exhales. “Is that okay?”

“Mm-hm,” His cock twitches inside of you when you give your consent, and he’s elated. “Stay here with me.” You exhale, the noise finally beginning to climb down from your peak.

Bob feels your chin tuck over the top of his head, and while the gesture is sweet, he’s grasping at your waist with an obvious possession.

“I think we should get back in the shower.” You suggest, a soft chuckle escaping you. Bob seems a touch flustered, peering at you with a placating smile.

“Yeah,” He agrees, leaning in to press a kiss against your lips. “After you.”

[mingyuonlyfans]

new study habits

featuring: Tutor!Mingyu x Horny, bimbo-ish!Reader

genre: smut, public exposure (sucking and fucking in the library), porn absolutely no plot.

note: HEAVILY inspired by this audio (augustinthewinter 🔛🔝). gyu is a nervous little nerd, you're horny and feral. would be a shame if something happened in this little corner of the library.

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“So, you need to ace two midterms to bring your grade to the goal we set at the beginning of the semester.” Mingyu tells you matter-of-factually, genuinely concerned that you’d forgotten your own goal. He continues speaking, telling you the outline of the unit you’ll be studying while you nod along almost mindlessly. Well, totally mindlessly– but it’s not your fault!

You see, when one of your friends suggested you get a tutor– to which you desperately agreed– you didn’t exactly expect the one you’d get.

Mingyu was all shy, kind smiles and polite, appropriate behavior when he first met you– until now, actually. He still can’t seem to sit so closely next to you without being nervous, nor accidentally touch you by grazing his hand against yours or his thick, meaty thigh against your own without his breath hitching and that adorable pink dusting his cheeks. He also seems to have trouble keeping his eyes off you, specifically how good your chest looks in those cute tops you’re always wearing, but he’s quick to avert his gaze and continue teaching you.

And now...Well now he’s just a blur of pink hearts in your eyes and his voice is just a nice soothing hum in the background while you admire him when you should really be listening to whatever he’s saying beside you.

It would be a bold-faced lie to say you didn’t have an inkling of a crush on him. Yeah, sure, he’s a bit nerdy, losery, really– but god, would you look at that face and those arms and that goddamn body? It doesn’t help that he chose to wear a deliciously-fitting black polo shirt and some black jeans today, topped off by those delicate metal-framed glasses framing his beautiful face.

Who the hell could focus on studying with that?

You absolutely cannot, and Mingyu can easily tell. So, in a last ditch effort to maintain his composure (because god, you look so cute with that little smile on your face and your eyes all glazed over), Mingyu clears his throat and scoots closer to you, closer than he’s ever braved. He taps your shoulder twice to get your attention before sighing, “Y/N, are you even listening to me?”

You nod, blinking innocently at him, “Uh-huh, I have to... pass two midterms and all that.”

Mingyu clicks his tongue, bringing up a hand to run through his hair. The action makes you clench your thighs and lick your lips; Mingyu notices this but only shakes his head in frustration. His voice drops, deep and husky and making goosebumps on your skin rise in its wake. “Ace. You have to ace these midterms if you want to even make a dent on your average.”

You remove your cheek from resting on your fist and use that same hand to pat his. You croon, voice sweet as you stroke that large, veiny hand of his, trying your best not to think about what he does and can do with it  “I know, gyu, I know. Do you not have faith in me or something? Why are you so tense, baby?”

There he goes again, breath hitching at your touch and the pet name. Now it’s his turn lick his lips, eyeing your own before flitting up to your eyes. You were fucking batting your eyelashes at him and Mingyu felt like he was gonna combust.

“N-nothing, I’d just really hate for all this studying to be for naught.” That makes you giggle. Mingyu isn’t sure why but it does and suddenly his pants are tightening around him. He clears his throat again, fixing his unmoved glasses. He watches you with wide eyes as you lean forward, your low-cut top doing nothing to hide your cleavage, some lace peeking out.

“Eyes up here, babyboy,” You lift his Chin up with a finger, smirking at his flustered state. Your other hand finds his thigh, the thick and firm muscle tensing underneath your touch. Batting your eyelashes at him, your smile turns sweeter. “Do you think I'm pretty, Gyugyu?”

Mingyu blinks up at you; he processes your words rather slowly. He opens his mouth to answer but you’re already pouting by then, puppy-eyes making his chest warm and his heart flutter. As if on instinct, Mingyu’s hand reaches out to get a hold on your waist; Your eyebrows raise at his sudden confidence. “You are-! No, I mean I do! Wait-”

He cuts himself off with a gasp; in his ramble-y haze, he didn’t notice your fingers unbuttoning his pants and unzipping it. His heart hammers against his chest as he watches you palm the growing bulge in his underwear, but a rustle from a few shelves over startles him.

“Y/N, someone will see-!” you shush him with a kiss, and Mingyu has to bite back a moan when you slip your hand into his underwear, hand wrapping around his fully hard cock and using the precum leaking from his tip.

It’s like he’s in a haze, all logic thrown out of the window. His hand travels from your waist to your thigh, sneaking past the hem of your skirt. He squeezes lightly; you respond with a kiss to his jaw, whispering lowly, “it’s okay, baby, Don’t worry.”

You rest your head against his shoulder, muffling yourself against his shirt when he squeezes your thigh once again, firmer and closer to where you needed him most this time. Gyu presses the pads of his fingers against your clothed heat, gasping when wetness seeps through the cotton. “you’re so wet,” he whispers, breath hot on your ear.

Smiling against his neck, you start to pump him faster, loosening your grip when you go up and tightening when you go down. His low whines are music to your ears, but you can’t have him being noisy so you shift yourself and capture his lips with yours.

Mingyu moans into the kiss as you continue pumping him, now emboldened to push your panties to the side and push a finger into your tight heat. He feels your wetness gush out, the palm of his hand getting stickier and warmer. His thumb finds your clit and rubs it as he pumps you, adding a second finger when you start to rut against him. Gyu shifts in his seat; He brings his free hand into the mix, thumb leaving your clit before quickly replacing it with said free hand’s fingers.

You jump at the contact, moaning against his lips when he quickens his pace. Heat pools in your abdomen, toes curling at the stimulation you’re receiving– you know you’re not too far from your orgasm. So you stop, completely pulling away from Mingyu before standing up.

He watches in bewilderment as you swing one leg over his lap, effectively straddling him. His hands find your hips, stopping you from lining up his leaking cock from your entrance. Mingyu nervously looks around. “W-we might get caught, Y/N-”

You react quickly. A pout once again finds your glossy lips and your eyes widen innocently, eyebrows knitting together to top off the look. Your arms circle around his neck and you arch your back, pulling his face until it’s almost mushed against your tits. “Just trust me, Gyuyu. Please? I need you so bad, babyboy.”

Again, all logic is thrown out the window. Mingyu simply cannot deny you, not when you look so cute and your cunt’s literally dripping on his dick– he can feel how wet and warm you are and it’s just fucking with his nerdy, pretty head. When is he ever gonna get laid like this again?

“Do you have a condom then? I’m clean but-” he really wishes you’d stop interrupting him, but he doesn’t complain.

“We don't need one, Gyugyu,” you hum before pecking his lips. “I'm clean and on the pill... and I just really want you to fill me up with your cum already.”

With a nod, he lines himself up with your entrance and pushes you down onto him. Mingyu watches as you throw your head back, eyes rolling to the back of your head and your mouth opening as you take all of him. Looking down, he sees how your cunt stretches to accommodate all of him, your tightness hugging him so snugly that he wonders how you’re supposed to bounce on top of him.

His dark jeans turn even darker as it’s soaked up by your juices, but he can’t even think of complaining. Not when you’re pulling him even closer, his face now buried into your cleavage. His glasses pressing against his face would usually be so uncomfortable if his dick wasn’t getting sucked in so good by your walls. You start moving your hips, swiveling and stretching yourself even further– Mingyu feels your chest vibrate with the noises you’re trying to hold in.

You finally start bouncing, and Mingyu understands why you basically trapped his face between your tits. You’re fucking gripping him, soaking him, and just fucking him so good he can already feel his abs contracting as his orgasm builds up. If your tits weren’t muffling him and reminding him to be quiet, he’d be babbling and whining so loudly you’d be caught in no time. Mingyu knows he won’t last long with how fucking good you feel around him.

You can feel him twitching inside you and tensing up underneath you. He has an iron grip on your hip; You Don’t need him to tell you that he’s close. The mere thought of Gyu cumming inside you has you grinning, eyes rolling to the back of your head as the blunt head of his cock nudges at the spot that has your toes curling in bliss. In your haze, you pant out to him. “Touch me, Gyu. F-fuck, please.”

His fingers find your clit, rubbing the nub quickly. Mingyu stifles a groan when you clamp down around him. He barely processes as his orgasm washes over him, his cum filling you up with every spurt.

The feeling of his release inside you combined with his frantic rubbing on your clit triggers your own orgasm. Your body stills on top of him but your mind and your mouth, in your haze, ramble on lowly. “Fuck, that’s it, baby. Hah, that’s it, cum inside me, Gyu. Fuck me so fucking full of your cum, oh god. So full, ngh, so fucking full...”

Gyu holds you against him as you calm down, slumping your body against his and your head resting on his shoulder, absentmindedly peppering his neck and cheek with kisses. “Gyugyu...” you mumble, head filled with cotton and hearts swimming in your eyes as you look up at his side profile. “Gyugyu, I think you’re pretty too.”

He rubs your back soothingly, a nervous chuckle leaving his lips and the red on his cheeks deepening. “Thank you, Y/N.” he pulls away slightly to look at you, stricken by your afterglow beauty and the way you’re looking at him so fondly. “D’you... Do you think you’d focus better if we studied at your place?”

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inbox is open <3

[i-love-ptv]

Hand Prints and Good Grips…✱*.:｡✧

Elias ‘Stack’ Moore x Childhood Best friend!Reader

Trouble brews once Mary walks into the twins’ juke joint, and you just wanna be the girl Elias likes.

wc: 6,102

warnings: porn with lots of plot, jealous!dom!Elias, sub!reader, clit slapping, face-sitting, cunnilingus, unprotected p-in-v, dirty-talk, degradation (not tew much but it’s there), overstimulation (r receiving), rough sex, manhandling, slight tit sucking/licking, marking, creampie (gulp??), language, one klan mention, shitty southern writing

an: HEY GUYS!!! THIS IS MY LONGEST FIC EVER WOOHOO! (ignore how it took me a month to make it, i’ve been going thru it man) i’m literally obsessed w sinners so hopefully i did stack justice! do y’all even read these? anyways

feedback is always appreciated n welcomed <3

Your hair was starting to cling onto your forehead as if you were drenched in sticky molasses.

The air was humid and dry; of course, this was a Mississippi custom, but it doesn’t help that there’s dozens of bodies stomping and prancing around.

Though you can’t complain much, considering that you were right here with them—dancing as if you hadn’t in years.

In a way, you haven't. You haven’t felt a rush of autonomy and euphoria quite like this before.

With everyone being nothing but working busy-bodies, there’s been little to no time to plan big events such as tonight. The lack of excitement has been a major factor too.

Hence why as soon as the Moore twins came back into town with the intention to open up their very own juke joint, everyone was on board.

The pair hadn’t been seen here in seven years.

Seven long, cruel years without the twin you’ve grown to love.

Stack.

Well, he was Stack to everyone else. But to you? He was still Elias. Your ‘Lias.

Seven years without his lingering touches and pearly smiles.

You weren’t the only one that missed him, it seems.

Your sister told you that when she went down near the train station, she was right there waiting for your Elias.

Mary was waiting.

You don’t have a clue as to how she knew he was coming home before you did, considering that nobody from the Delta had heard from him except for you. And a letter from him was rather rare.

Mary had nearly thrown a fit once she saw him; it didn’t help that Elias had turned down her persistent advances.

The lack of contact obviously sent her over the edge.

Apparently she mentioned their former relations; their connection being a secret to none.

You were envious of this; never jealous, but overcome by a feeling of want.

Growing up with the twins meant that the three of you were as close as can be. That being said, though, they looked at you as if you were their little sister. It was fine when Elijah assumed the role of a family member, but Elias?

Just thinking about it makes your heart ache.

You longed for the flirtatious remarks that he’d give off to any and every woman, a night filled with intimacy plagued your mind constantly.

But you got over it.

You had to. Not only for the sake of your friendship with Elias, but also because of his prolonged absence from town.

That’s why tonight—right now, you had to pump the breaks and focus on celebrating the twins’ success.

Speaking of success?

You making your way over to the bar with your wobbly heeled-covered feet was a success. Surprisingly.

“Someone’s been dancin’ a lil too hard, huh?” Annie chortles, looking at you with nothing but sisterly-love, and a bit of amusement.

“Only dancin’ I was doing was during my cooking—nothin’ like this in a while,” you exclaim with bliss through a beaming smile. You huff as you sit down in front of the bar. “Y’got anythin’ good back here?” You motion to the bottles Annie has surrounding her.

“Better than good,” Annie replies before ducking down and searching below the counter.

You brace your hands on the counter and slightly peer over at the woman, but then she pops up quicker than you can plop back down onto your chair. She quirks a brow at you before placing a bottle down in front of you.

“What’s this?” You question; if Annie didn’t know any better, she would’ve thought that it was Christmas morning with the way you were looking at the bottle.

“Authentic Irish beer; straight from the north side of Chicago. Different from the rest they’re sellin’.” She replies. “Your man brought it specifically for you—made me promise I wouldn’t give it to nobody else, no matter how much they was payin’.”

You bite back a smile at her words; you knew exactly who she was talking about.

“He fixin’ to be Mary’s.” Your lips straighten, it’s bittersweet.

“That so? ‘Cause that ain’t what I heard,” Annie muses, making you pause. You savor Annie’s words as if they were your holy grail. Was there a chance that Elias looked at you the same as you did him?

You crane your neck and your gaze is set over your shoulder—over at him.

He catches your eye and he gives you a cheeky smile, to which you return rather eagerly.

You hadn’t had a single nonchalant bone in your body it seems.

Your shared staring was cut short as Mary forced Elias’ attention back onto her, but it wasn’t exactly a hard task for her.

Something about her was just so easy and simple, despite the ring shining on her hand that matched another man’s being anything but simple. The way that they connected even after all these years made you feel as if you swallowed a jar of mud.

After a few sips of beer, you can’t help but let a smile rest on your face. Elias knew you’d love it, and it makes your heart dance.

Speaking of dancing, your dearest friend Pearline struts up to you with a grin that soared for miles.

“What’s got you cheesin’ all hard?” You raise your eyebrows at her, making her giggle.

“Y’know the Preacher’s boy? The one that was just singin’?” Pearline’s nearly jumping out of her skin with excitement.

“Lil’ Sammie Moore? Course I do, why? What’d you do Pearl?” You gape at her and hold her hands tightly in yours.

“Well…” She trails off. “Let’s just say, he showed me he ain’t a boy, but a real man.”

Your eyes nearly bulge out of the sockets as you exclaim a Pearline! that could probably be heard for miles.

Pearline gushes, “He made me feel things I ain’t never felt before.”

“Not even with your mister?” You gasp.

“Not even close. And that’s not all,” she pauses before looking around, then leaning in towards you.

“I wasn’t even able to freshen up. He didn’t want me to,” Pearline whispers.

You shout, then look around in embarrassment at your outburst; you shake Pearline vigorously by her shoulders and giggle some more.

You decide to look around the joint, and you coincidentally catch Sammie looking right at the back of Pearline’s frame in utter awe.

You nudge Pearline, and she looks over at him with you. The look that she throws his way is nothing short of flirtatious.

“He looked at ya like he wanted t’take a bite,” you snicker.

Pearline looks at you mischievously, “Funny, considerin’ he already did.” You can’t help but laugh.

“So, y’thinkin’ bout singin’ like he said?” You ask.

Pearline hums, “Maybe. ‘M thinkin’ you should too.”

“No, not happenin’. Not a chance,” You scoff playfully.

Pearline whines and grabs your wrists. “C’mon, sista! When’s the last time you got the chance to do this?” She pouts, and tries hardest to make puppy-dog eyes at you.

“Besides, this could be y’chance to make a move on Stack. Ain't that whatcha been waitin’ for?” She drags.

You falter at the question she poses.

“Tonight’s the night, sista.” Pearline murmurs softly.

It’s crazy how you always get in your head when it comes to him.

The thing is, you weren’t one to throw yourself out there just to entertain a man. No, that just wasn’t your style.

But God—tonight? His suit was fitting snug in all the right places, his grills glimmered dangerously in the dim lighting, and his eyes always found yours, recklessly.

You couldn’t resist Elias Moore.

And right now, you’re starting to wonder if you ever could.

“Y’better wrap that scarf on tight, Pearl,” you say as you grab her arm and start walking with her to the front. Pearline shrills and claps her hands with glee.

You saunter towards the stage with a pep in your step and your arm linked with a perky Pearline. Your heels clack on the wooden floors as you come face-to-face with the band and none other than Delta Slim, who’s now grinning at you.

“Been tryin’ to getcha to sing for years girl, what’s with the change o’ heart?” He questions with a smirk, as if he already knew the answer. You’re sure that he did with the way that his eyes looked past you and towards Elias.

“It’s a nice night, figured I’d try sum different,” you shrug, trying to mask your sudden embarrassment. Pearline intertwines her hand with yours and uses her other one to gesture to the band. You inhale deeply while looking at her; she gives you a look of reassurance.

The patrons of the juke joint grow silent at the sight of you two taking your stances and the band readying their instruments.

Pearline starts humming and you lightly stomp your feet on the stage, starting to form a beat as the band follows.

Elias feels as if his heart was being weighed down by a ton inside of him. He held his breath—scared that the rise and fall of his chest would make him miss the steady view of you: parading around as if everything outside the joint had come to a halt.

You looked completely, and utterly divine up there; moving swiftly and effortlessly, as if you owned the very ground you were stepping on.

You were absolutely ethereal in Elias’ eyes.

And he’d be lying if he said that he wasn’t falling even harder for his sugar as of right now. He was the only man that could get away with calling you sugar; he knows it, so does everyone else in the Delta—and Elias can’t help but let his pride swell every time he thinks about it.

Your body sways carelessly as if you were one with the words that escaped your lips, but your eyes are grounded—powerful, even. Speaking of them: your glittering orbs meet his, your gaze nothing short of a vixen’s.

Though, the interlocking of your sights is interrupted when Mary makes her presence known yet again at Elias’ side. He can’t help but sigh at the intrusion.

Luckily, Elias’ ever-growing agitation fades when the patrons of the juke let out their elation around him. The band’s playing picks up, as well as you and Pearline’s voices.

Don’t let it shine, shine, shine once more

Pale, pale moon, pale, pale moon

Everyone chants and stomps rhythmically.

“I wanna sing, like I hear the crickets do,” Pearline sings seductively while peering at Sammy as she struts.

Pale, pale moon, pale, pale moon

“I wanna hoo,” you and Pearline sing simultaneously, harmonizing beautifully as your backs meet and you both slide to a crouching position.

Pale, pale moon, pale, pale moon

“I wanna howl,” the two of you sound as if you were straight out of a folktale—like one of those myths of the sirens that Annie had explained to Elias once before. You and Pearline then reside in a crawl as you look at the crowd with a sense of hunger in your eyes.

Mary gets ahold of Elias’ tie, but he quickly removes her grip from him—without even breaking eye contact with you. He knows she’s interested in spending the rest of the night with him; maybe in hopes of rekindling an old flame.

But how could Elias be interested in another woman when his woman—his sugar—was looking at him so deliciously.

You grin slyly at him, biting your bottom lip before licking your teeth.

Pale, pale moon, pale, pale moon

“I wanna scream,” Pearline sings, as you mouth the three words to Elias.

Three little words that have Elias fucking mesmerized, hypnotized even. You have him in a trance, right where you want him, and you both know it.

Elias wishfully thinks that the pick up in your breathing isn’t just from all the dancing you’ve been doing tonight. He bites his lip at the thoughts running through his mind.

Mary can’t even say that she recognizes the look that Elias gives you, for she has never been on the receiving end like you have been. Her frustration and jealousy boils over, and she eventually huffs before walking away from Elias, and out of the juke joint.

Elias doesn’t mind one bit, and he sure as hell doesn’t when the song finishes and you hug Pearline with excitement as the joint nearly turns upside down. You’re jumping up and down and Elias can’t help but smile til his cheeks hurt.

Elias feels a hand slap somewhat roughly on his shoulder. He knows good and well it’s his brother, with or without the wave of tobacco radiating.

“Came out here after the game finished, saw the way she was lookin’ at’cha, too.” Elijah grumbles.

“Breathtakin’, ain’t she?” Elias remarks breathily, not even turning to his brother—keeping his sights on you, as you hug Slim and the rest of the instrument players.

“Not ‘bout how I feel, ‘s ‘bout how you feel,” Elijah sighs. This makes Elias turn towards his brother.

“Don’t know what’chu waitin’ on, already been years,” Elijah then pauses before continuing, “Don’t be surprised when somebody see what’chu see.” Elijah trails off, almost ominously, and nods his head in your direction.

Elias follows his twin’s trail of sight and spots you: talking to a man he ain’t even seen before. You were beaming, your hair a little frizzed up by the humidity, your lipgloss smudged a little onto your shimmering skin.

Speaking of your lipgloss—whoever you’re talking to decided to rub his finger below your lip to wipe it away. Right now, Elias’ demeanor resembles the snake him and his brother killed earlier: cold and unmoving.

You glance around the sea of bodies, and Elias takes this as a sign. He starts to walk up to you, but not before having to mumble several ‘excuse me’s while side-stepping quite a few people—who seem to not be able to hold their liquor.

He finally reaches you, and he gets a glimpse of you over the guy’s shoulder, who has no idea he’s even there.

“We got a problem?” Elias murmurs, making the stranger nearly jump out of his skin.

“N-nah man,” the man chuckles awkwardly as he faces Elias.

“I reckon we do, since y’talkin’ to my lady,” Elias replies, sizing him up as he takes a step closer to him. The man takes a step back in return.

“I ain’t know, I-I’m sorry, Stack,” the man trembles meekly. Elias only hums. The man glances between the two of you before making himself scarce.

Elias stays in the same spot for a beat, before turning and giving you a look that says let’s go, before walking towards one of the back rooms of the joint. You hesitate, before inching behind him.

“So I’m y’lady now?” You don’t bother to tone down the sass in your voice.

“‘S what I said, ain’t it?” he mumbles, not even looking at you.

You scoff, “Yeah, well, y’got a funny way a’ showin’ it.”

Elias pulls you into a dimly lit room and finally faces you as you stand before him. “What’s that s’possed to mean?”

You narrow your eyes at him before speaking. “Means I saw you messin’ with ole Mary.”

“She don’t mean nun to me,” Elias guaffs. “Why d’ya think she left already?”

You roll your eyes and begin to head out the door you just came from. You’re not sure where this attitude just came from, in all honesty. The moment your eyes met him while you were on stage, it felt as if everything else had faded away, and it was just the two of you.

Maybe it was the irritation caused by Mary that left you in a sour mood now, you’re not sure. You know it won’t be beneficial to you nor Elias in this moment, but you can’t help it.

Elias grabs your wrist before you can get too far away from him.

“She ain’t nun, y’hear?” If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he almost sounded desperate. You stay quiet.

“Asked you a question, sugar. ‘N with that attitude of yours, I ain’t fixin’ to repeat myself.” His lips ghost the shell of your ear as he speaks, and heat twinges through your stomach. Elias seems to take notice of the subtle switch in your demeanor; he smirks and his chocolate brown irises darken even further.

“I…I don’t believe you,” You almost whisper, but still meet his gaze.

Almost immediately, he responds with, “What I got to do to convince you, baby?” Elias matches your tone, but there’s still a hint of assertiveness conveyed through his words.

You don’t speak—it’s almost like you couldn’t, but you release your wrist from his grasp gently.

Elias’ jaw clenched slightly, but you still spot it. He looks as if he’s pondering his next words.

“‘S not makin’ sense, darlin’. I mean, you were acting like a whore on stage, now you don’t want me to touch you?” He cocks his head at you and your lips part—like it was reflex, and maybe it was. Elias clicks his tongue.

Your breath picks up, and if your mind weren’t turning fuzzy, you would’ve chided yourself for making a fool out of yourself in front of a man—Elias at that.

The man you’ve yearned for longer than you can even remember.

“I ain’t no whore,” you speak, finally regaining your senses.

“That right, sugar?” You can feel Elias’ breath on your heated face, and all you can do is nod in return.

“Y’wanna know what I think?” Before you can answer the question Elias poses, he murmurs lowly, “I think that deep down….You are a whore—and you needa be fucked like one.”

Despite the vulgarity of his words, the way that Elias places his palm across your cheek is soft—loving, even.

You press your thighs together through your dress unconsciously, desperately seeking even an ounce of friction to cool the impending heat between your legs.

Elias takes the hand that rested upon your cheek and moved it to the stiff rim lock that resided on the door’s surface.

Thank god—You’d hate for the likes of someone such as Sammie barging in and being witness to sin hotter than the Mississippi sun.

Elias then starts to walk you back to the table that remained bare in the dingy-lit room, removing his suit jacket and vest, followed by his tie. The backs of your knees meet the edge of the firm table, making you stumble just a bit. Elias takes it upon himself to lay you down onto the table.

You rest on your elbows as you look up at the six-foot-something man in front of you, and you can’t help but swoon. His beating eyes look down at you lustfully—almost as if he were a predator, and you his prey.

It made you weak.

Weak at the hands of a man you’d been waiting on while he had the time of his life in Chicago, with all sorts of Italian customs. Your actions are beyond halfwitted, but you make no effort to straighten yourself out anymore.

Elias takes his warm hands and spreads your knees with ease after unbuttoning his shirt, making you yelp involuntarily at the near-abrasiveness. He licks his grillz and lets out a short, deep chuckle; you feel it vibrate your bones, while he aligns himself so that almost he’s eye-level with your warm core.

“Elias, wait—“ You whimper meekly,

He hums disapprovingly, letting out a firm ‘mm-mmn’. He rips his gaze from your thighs to your eyes, “Been waitin’ for years, sugar, not sure if I can any longer.” He repositions his hands, lifting your dress and hitching it up to your upper thighs, nearly to your pelvic bone.

Elias massages your thighs with an iron grip, it’s not yet rough, but not exactly gentle either. His switch between the two is making your mind reel.

He kisses up from your knee almost to where your dress bunches up as he removes his button-up, leaving him in his undershirt. He then says, “…So, m’sorry if I lose m’manners,” he breathes hotly against your skin, “But I don’t think I can live without destroying this pussy for a minute longer.” He damn near groans.

His mouth hovers above your clothed cunt—he purposely breathes in a way that makes you squirm at the feeling you’re unable to run from. As you shudder and tilt your head back, you suddenly hear a rip and you feel a gust of air.

You gasp and look down, where you’re met with Elias looking up at you cheekily, with one half of your panties in his mouth, and the other in his hand.

“‘Lias!” You exclaim.

Elias feigns innocence, “Told ya I ain’t mean no harm.” He then averts his focus to your legs, and he leaves a kiss to your mound.

“Y’not gon let me freshen up, will ya?” You ask quietly, already knowing the answer.

Instead of answering, Elias takes his tongue and trails it from your hole to your clitoris, and you puff out the air you didn’t know you were holding in.

Elias seems to enjoy your reaction, for he then gives you another long lick.

And another,

and another,

and you guessed it, another.

You press your lips together, muting your sounds, and Elias ‘tsk’s at the sight.

He nips a bit of the skin next to your lips, making you choke on your own spit. “Don’t like how quiet you’re bein’.” Elias reprimands you.

“Stop t-teasin’ then,” You manage to huff.

Elias chuckles in disbelief, “Wanted to be gentle, but y’makin’ it hard,” he then lifts you up from the table, and places his back where you once laid. He hooks your legs over the sides of his head, your pussy now inches away from his plump, shining lips.

Elias’ typical, million-dollar smirk is back on his face, but there’s something more sinister behind it—your legs would’ve buckled if he weren’t holding them.

“You’re a whore, jus’ like I said y’were.” His southern drawl makes your stomach twist in knots, despite the familiarity. Before you could get a word out, Elias placed you onto his face.

You mewl at the feeling of his tongue swirling around anywhere, and everywhere.

Your clit, your lips—it was almost as if he were starving.

There was no rhythm, no harmony and contentment, just the actions of a man on a mission.

A mission to make you scream louder than the birds on your farm.

Then, abruptly, Elias leaves a small, yet firm slap to your clit. “Admit it,” he says between licks. “Admit that you’re a whore.” He leaves another slap.

You don’t respond, too caught up in both the pain and pleasure. Your head hangs back and your eyes are clenched shut, and Elias grows impatient.

He removes his mouth from you with a ‘pop’ and almost snarls at you, “Thought I told ya Ion like repeatin’ myself.” He slaps your clit again, this time with more force.

“Okay—Okay! I was bein’ a whore tonight, ‘m sorry!” You cry out as your back arches.

Elias starts to lower you towards his grinning face, and you shiver at the feeling of his cold grillz.

Instead of teasing kitten-licks, Elias sucks at your slit and lets his tongue roam freely, without a care in the world. You writhe and whine on top of him, your body bending back and creating a dull aching sensation.

His advances are relentless, and you have no chances of escaping his grasp; he readjusts his grip as soon as he feels you start to slip away from him. You don’t know whether to clench around his tongue as he fucks you with it, or to cry–you end up doing both, and this continues on for who knows how long.

You’ve stopped counting the number of orgasms you’ve had after the second one–you think–but you think Elias has been keeping track. He’s muttered ‘jus’ one more, sugar’ maybe three times now, and you don’t know how many you have left in you at this point.

After what feels like hours, Elias finally lifts your hips up, allowing you to slide down and straddle his hips with your head resting upon his chest.

The beating sound of his steady heart fills your ear, and you try to match your breathing with Elias’. You feel a vibration as he shakes with laughter. You slightly drag your head up just enough to peek at his face, and he looks down at you with amusement.

“We ain’t done, not yet, peach,” he chuckles breathily at the wave of surprise that washes over your face.

You fumble with your words, “What d’ya mean? ‘L-Lias, I-I’m spent!” You continue to tremble in his arms.

“Y’still talkin’, ain’t ya, sugar?” He scoffs, it’s antagonizing. And before you can utter anything else, Elias flips you around onto the table, so you now lay with your back on the wood once again. Your dress rides down a tad at the sudden movement, and Elias holds your back, lifting you so that he can push your dress up past your breasts.

Elias lowers your back, before leaning peck your nipples. You bite your lip, but quickly let out a moan once he blows air onto your nipples, watching almost menacingly as they harden. One hand tweaks one of your nipples, as the other drags down your rib cage.

His hot, glistening tongue swishes around your tits, as he leaves sloppy, open-mouthed kisses to your skin.

He sucks harshly as you whimper beneath him. One of his hands leaves your body and goes down to his slacks, he unbuttons them with ease without even looking, as he continues to leave hickies on your chest.

He untucks himself from his underwear, and you can’t help but buck towards his cock in anticipation.

“Easy, girl. You’ll get it when ya prove y’deserve it,” Elias mocks, you whine in response.

“I deserve it, more than anybody else–y’know that, ‘Lias,” You plead in hopes of him giving you what you want.

“That right, baby? All this yours, nobody else's?” He challenges, starting to stroke his length.

You squeeze your eyelids together, almost as if you were personally pained by the question.

“Damn right,” You huff as you look at him with a sudden wave of fire blazing through your eyes. Elias scoffs with a mixture of incredulity and mirth.

“Yeah, baby–always been yours. Glad ya finally came to y’senses.” And with that, Elias pushes inside of you, and you let out a broken gasp.

Elias quickly finds his pace as he thrusts in and out of you rapidly. He nearly pulls entirely out of your dripping cunt–and you think he’s going to tease you again, but he then slams back into you roughly, making you cry out as your back arches into him.

You’re now chest-to-chest with Elias as he continues to pump into you with little regard to your overstimulation. The contact of skin makes your toes curl in your heels. Elias grunts at the feeling of you clamping down on his cock and bites forcibly at the flesh of your neck.

Elias groans–almost as if fucking you were the key to heaven’s gates. He takes his large palm and pushes it down onto your torso, making your sweating body meet the barely-covered, rumbling wood.

You weep helplessly and squirm as he keeps you pressed against the shaking table.

“Mmnf–”Lias! Please!” You cry yet again, but without knowing the reason behind it this time.

He doesn’t respond to your watery blabbering, instead putting your legs on either side of his shoulders. Elias slowly–and almost lovingly–kisses your ankle, before unclasping the latch of your heel and sliding it off of your foot, letting it hit the floor with a thump that neither of you seem to catch through the sounds of your bodies meeting.

You two damn-near become one.

He repeats his actions on your other leg, but this time he kisses from your calf to your ankle before removing your heel and letting it meet the ground with your matching one.

His hand grips at the ankle he just kissed, using it as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded; like an anchor. He then sucks and nips at your leg, quickly marking just above your ankle with a red bruise, which you know will be purple by the time the sun rises for morning.

You hiss when he bites a little too roughly, and he shows his sympathy by licking at the irritated skin, soothing the tender ache.

“That feel good, darlin’? Tell “Lias how much y’love it, peach, c’mon,” Elias coos, lifting his shirt up so he can get a proper view of your sex.

You babble through sobs intelligibly, mewling something along the lines of ‘so so good, ‘Lias!’—at least that’s what Elias makes of it.

“Can’t hear ya, baby. Ya gotta–fuck! Ya gotta speak a ‘lil louder f’me, hm?” Elias manages to speak through his panting and groaning. You bawl, hot tears dripping from your cheeks down to your chin.

“It feels so good–oh god—‘Lias!” You shriek, not caring about the volume of your crying. “Please don’t stop! Please, please, please–” You ramble with a slur.

If Elias ever felt guilty at the way he man-handling you, seeing your fucked-out expression made all his worries wash away at the sight of you: tongue hanging out, as your tears dribble into your open mouth.

Your panting grows more frantic, little ‘uh-uh-uh’s being let out more frequently as you feel another orgasm course through your veins. “‘Lias—cummin’! S-sh-it, I-I’m cummin’!”

Elias firmly plants his feet on the floor, repositioning the arm on your stomach onto your other leg so that he can fuck you even deeper–deep enough to create a slight bulge in your stomach with his throbbing tip. “Yeah, that’s it. Fall apart on this dick, y’know y’want to, sugar. Been dreamin’ ‘bout it f’years, huh?” He taunts.

You try to answer him, honestly! But he’s hitting your cervix just right and his abs rub against the backs of your thighs–it’s too much.

Elias thought you’ve learned by now that he doesn’t take silence for an answer, so to remind you, he gives your spent cunt a more forceful slap than before.

“Fuck—Yes! A-always been wantin’ you, ‘Lias,” you wail. “I-I never let nobody touch me! Nobody but you!” You exclaim without thinking.

This fuels Elias to quicken his pace; he almost fucking growls at your words, and he tightens your legs around himself–right now, as he feels himself getting closer and closer to climaxing, he has no plans on pulling out.

He continues to heave words of encouragement as fucks you ruthlessly through your orgasm.

You moan and blabber as your vision turns white, and your ears start to ring. Your toes curl and flex, and your nails scratch at the table, hands desperate for something to hold. Your voice then gives out, as your tongue lolls out of your mouth yet again.

Elias gives you a few more earth-stattering thrusts, before his seed fills your puffy, aching hole; the guttural groan that leaves his throat ups in pitch–nearly turning into a whimper.

He pumps his cum into you once more, before releasing your legs from his grip and laying down on top of you. As he half-lays-half-stands against the table, he feels as if a cold bucket of water was dumped onto him.

He can no longer focus on the tingling feeling that shoots from his skull to his toes, but now on the fact that he was the first man you’ve been with.

You spent your first time with him–in a rickety building he bought from a Klan member, on an even dingier table.

Elias then taps your face, just enough to get you to come back to your senses. You open your eyes with a lazy grin at the feeling of his seed mixed with yours, but when you’re met with his panicky expression, you quickly push yourself up–to the best of your ability.

“What? Wha’s wrong, ‘Lias?” You question worrisomely.

He allows himself to catch his breath before speaking, “Y’serious?” It’s all that he says.

You furrow your brows and tilt your head at him, “Bout what? Y’scarin’ me, Elias,” you chuckle awkwardly.

Had you said something you shouldn’t have?

A million thoughts run rampant throughout your mind.

“‘Bout all this,” he flails his hand, motioning to where your bodies had just met. “Was that really ya first time?” He speaks loudly, and you feel mortified.

Your breath catches in your throat. You confirm his worries, your voice softer than a freshly picked feather, “Yes.”

Elias takes a step back, and it takes everything in you not to reach out for him. Instead, you sit up fully and push your dress back down to your thighs. You twiddle your thumbs idly, seeking for even an ounce of comfort as Elias pushes his shirt back down and tucks himself back into his boxers after wiping himself off with a rag. Despite his glowering, he hands you a rag so that you can wipe away the slick from between your thighs.

Did he regret spending the night with you? Did he find the fact that you remained a virgin because of him embarrassing?

“Why you ain’t tell me, girl?” He exclaims, “I wouldn’t have said and done all that foolishness if I knew you ain't never been with a man before!”

You feel your soul come back into your body. “You would’ve been all sweet with me? That whatcha sayin’, ‘Lias?” You can’t help but giggle.

“Ain’t nothin’ funny, woman! I was all rough with you ‘n–” You cut him off with a kiss to his lips, wrapping your legs around his hips and pulling him closer to you. You fold your arms around his neck, and you feel his hands drift down to your waist and squeeze lightly. Your nose nudges his, his breath fans your face as yours does his.

You break the kiss when you feel yourself losing your breath, and you gaze at Elias lovingly.

“You were perfect, I couldn’t imagine it any other way,” you whisper.

“Well for starters, could've gotten you a bed in the house ‘stead of a table in this dark ass room,” Elias grumbles.

You grin, “I think the lightin’ was just fine. Added ambience ‘n all that.” Elias pouts, and you peck his lips.

“I don’t care ‘bout the details, “Lias. Long as it was with you.” Your tone is as sweet as the finest honey in Clarksdale, and it pulls on Elias’ heartstrings.

“Y’really waited all these years….For me?” He whispers.

“Course I did, couldn’t imagine bein’ with anybody else.” You speak just as softly. You recognize the guilt that crosses his face, despite his best efforts to mask it with his bravado. “Don’t feel guilty, please. I don’t blame you for nun.” You caress his hair. Silence fills the room as Elias deciphers what to say, you just hold him tenderly until he’s ready.

“I-I love ya, more than y’know, sugar…” He trails off before finishing his sentence, “I jus’ want ya to know that. I have since we was young.” He looks at you with adoration and love in his eyes.

“I love you too, Elias Moore. Have since you stood up to my daddy on his farm f’me when we was seven.”

He smiles, but it’s tight lipped, making you frown. “Jus’ wish I could’ve admitted it sooner. Then this would’ve went down differently—would’ve been better.” He sulks.

You take your thumb and index finger and pluck his lips, making him shout ‘hey!’ with a laugh.

“Stop beatin’ y’self up, Elias. I told you, I’m perfectly happy here, right now. Ain’t nun gon’ change that a bit.” You scold him.

“If ya stop all that moppin’, I’ll let ya try again tomorrow, however y’want,” you giggle mischievously. Elias’ eyes light up almost immediately, the way he perks up reminds you of a puppy that was just given a treat.

Elias roars with laughter and squeezes you, before lowering you back down onto the table, he presses nearly all of his weight onto you.

You squeal and cackle as he tickles your sides, “‘Lias!”

You lay wrapped up with Elias, you felt as if you could lay there forever, and honestly in this moment, you wanted to.

Clarity and revelations do the body good.

Everything was good.

Until you heard a commotion on the other side of the door.

[girlballs]

genuinely i think it's worse for a piece of media to be Almost Not Bad than just Completely Bad

like oh you made a show that has bad pacing and none of the characters are compelling and the plot has nothing interesting going on? whatever. don't care

but as soon as you make a show that's all of that but there's clearly a trace of a good idea that got intensely fumbled it's like. "well hang on this objectively still sucks as much as the other thing but now i'm actually mad about it. how did you fuck this up"

[revelboo]

Lookin at the bugsbands (bug husbands), ah yes, the fucked up how i met your mother stockholm syndrome meet cute. Glad there’s drama but it really drives the interspecies supernatural alien romance relationship. These are not humans, they think similar and have concepts of our ideals and ideas, but they’re very much not human. Lovely work as always, Revel.

Thanks and yeah, that human is due for a nervous breakdown at some point.

You (Don’t) Know Me Pt 16

Insecticons x Reader

• Pretending to care and that you’re not plotting escape, you nod along as Kickback tells you about the sites they’ve scouted out for the new nest. About how nice and grand it will be. And you smile, playing along as you try to figure out if they’d told the truth or lied about the bonding thing. Because apparently you chose to full bond these psychopathic, alien bugs, even though you don’t know how you did it. If it’s not all bull, then you’re stuck with them until death. Though, you’re not sure whose or how long they live.

• Clawed servos flexing as he enters the hive, Bombshell hisses spotting you and his brothers sitting and talking like you didn’t just try to abandon them and your duties. Lip curling behind his mask, he tosses the skinned chunk of meat and bone at your feet and you recoil into Kickback with a yelp. Nose wrinkling and unappreciative that he hunted for you to set his temper off all over again. “What is that?” You demand and he rumbles a warning at your tone. ‘Meat,’ he growls, stalking past without offering to start a fire for you if you’re going to be like that. You can eat it raw.

• “I’m not eating it if I’m not sure what it is,” you say, tone angry and Bombshell whirls on you with a clicking hiss that makes Shrapnel clear his vents tiredly. And you’re scrambling to your little feet as Bombshell storms over, claws flexing as he looms over you. ‘It’s meat,’ Bombshell snarls and Kickback chirps nervously, looking from you to their leader. Probably ready to rescue you. “From what?” You demand and Shrapnel laughs. Realizing what you likely think, though honestly, it wouldn’t really surprise him if Bombshell decided to be that petty.

• Trembling as you glare up at him, because they’ve pretty much told you that humans are on the menu. The deer, there was enough to tell it was a deer. This? Could be anything. Or anyone. And Bombshell makes a chittering, clicking noise that shifts into low laughter that’s somehow so much creepier than the bug noises. “Ignorant, little queen,” he growls, reaching to cup your chin in his servos as his head tips. “You don’t know what a dead human looks like?” Like you should know? You’re not eating whatever that is. Was. He’s definitely still pissed at you as he lets go and stalks off. Without telling you what that is bleeding all over the ground.

• Watching Shrapel wordlessly crouch and start a fire for you, Kickback vents. Understands Bombshell’s anger and knows his brother is proud. Before he can try to go coax Bombshell with the lie about you looking for a new nest site to ease the tension, you turn. “The bond thing,” you say and he freezes. “Is it whoever’s death comes first?” And Bombshell turns to stare at you. “How long do you guys live?” Not liking your tone at all.

• Something about the way you’re suddenly smiling puts him on edge worse than dealing with Shockwave. ‘Cybertronians can live for millennia, millennia,’ Shrapnel volunteers and you’re staring right at him, not even acknowledging Shrapnel. “Sucks to be you guys then. Humans usually make it about eighty years tops,” you say with a little, bitter laugh, as Shrapnel hesitates in the act of getting the meat on the crude cooking rack he’d made for you. ‘How long is a year, year?’ Shrapnel asks. And Bombshell really doesn’t like your little smile as he turns and glares at Kickback, his brother wilting slightly. Because he’s the one that wanted a human mate.

Previous

[skaruresonic]

Apologies for rambling, but I feel the need to get this off my chest.

I decided long ago I wouldn't hold my breath waiting for HL3, to the point where I had no idea Half-Life: Alyx had even been a thing until my boyfriend notified me of its release the day that it dropped. There are several reasons for this.

Firstly, because putting all of your hopes and dreams in the hands of a corporation is seldom a good idea, even if it is Valve we're talking about. What if they make something mediocre? Then we'll have waited and wished and hoped for nothing over the past seventeen years.

Secondly, because good art takes time. If they never drop HL3, cool, because I'll still have had mods and art and fanfic to fill that hole. If they do, also great, but overall my emotional well-being shouldn't hinge on it. I would be fine if HL3 never arrived. At this point it would be a pleasant surprise, but it's not like I'm going to die without it. I actually kind of think if my attitude was more the latter, it'd only sour the experience if anything was less than perfect with the game.

Thirdly, because it's annoying to see people work themselves into a lather every time Valve so much as moves their desks around.

There's getting hyped, there's making memes, and then there's visiting a psychic while mentally LARPing as Gordon Freeman just to get a crumb of information on a game they may or may not be developing and writing a freaking VICE article about it:

In fact, I'd wager this kind of self-sustaining hype bubble may be part of the reason why the team's creative enthusiasm for HL3 has waned over the years. Not to say they don't bear any culpability in the delays and such, but it is understandable that the sheer conspiracy surrounding the title would become off-putting.

Ending stories is difficult even in the best of circumstances, and they'd be developing the game in a pressure cooker. There are so many loose ends they'd have to tie up, so many mysteries to solve, all while providing an entertaining experience and implementing innovative gameplay and bringing the entire series to a satisfying conclusion.

Given Valve's general standards of quality, it's almost like they fear anything short of an orgasm in digital form will crash and burn: a notion the internet does absolutely nothing to refute when people tweak out over the most minute of signs.

Of course they drifted toward lower-stakes projects. You can't create anything with room to grow and breathe when your fandom is constantly setting the stakes that high.

Which brings me to my next point: why are we waiting on Valve to tell us how this ends, anyway? Any version of HL3 they could make will never live up to the version of HL3 you have in your head, by simple virtue of their inability to mind-read.

Especially salient, since I genuinely believe the tone of HL3 will retroactively dictate the tone of the rest of the series. Was it always a treatise on human resilience? Cosmic horror? Who knows? It's still up in the air. They still have space to back out of any corners they've written themselves into. Once they commit to a plot, that's it. They can't walk it back.

Valve have waited too long to put a period on that sentence; the hype that has built up in its absence is astronomical. And while I generally respect their policy of "suck is forever" and agree that it'd be better to wait for high-quality games than to see them pump out slop at a faster rate, they might also be shooting themselves in the foot by thinking every new title needs to be a genre-bending pioneer. Perfect is the enemy of good and all that.

And, frankly, between Epistle 3 and the fact that HLA was essentially a means of retconning the end of Episode 2, I'm starting to doubt that Valve themselves even know how the story ends. This is like, the fifth game now where G-Man swoops in to pluck the characters off the tabletop and set them down elsewhere, without a single hint as to where any of this leads. The constant kicking of the can down the road is starting to wear a little thin.

That being said, I wouldn't want them to conclude the series unless they had a crystal-clear vision of what they wanted to do, and only if they had a deep intrinsic desire to work on the project. Which, honestly, at this point may be impossible.

I mean... They were surprised that players grew emotionally attached to Barney Calhoun, a comedic relief side character who they probably didn't put much thought into, over more major characters they spent time fleshing out (cough, Alyx). If HL3 had released back in 2017 and followed Marc Laidlaw's written treatment, Barney wouldn't have appeared, which probably would have gone over like a lead balloon. The creators' priorities inherently are not going to 100% align with fan interests.

I literally could not think of anything worse than an HL3 made just to shut us up, you know what I mean? Not that they ever would, of course, but seeing various other IPs deteriorate due to a desire to keep the tapes rolling has made me appreciate the value of a good self-contained story all the more.

All this to say, if you want HL3, don't rage against Valve for failing to deliver on promises they never purported to make in the first place. Channel that energy toward more productive ends. Write fic. Read fic. Support promising mods like Interlude. You have more control here than you think.

look at the r/halflife subreddit Right Now, so that every time youre dissappinted at your unrealistic expectations of a nintendo direct, you can remember back to it and realize it could always be worse

[encasedinobsidian]

honest work

lucien de leon, 3.4k words, explicit 18+

summary: every thursday, five women let lucien ease their stress tags: dumb porn with plot, no the uninvited spoilers, deconstructed gangbang, infidelity, sex volunteering one could say, 1 man 5 married women, cucking with consequences, fucking sucking riding etc a/n: i never post full fics on here, only on my ao3, but this one was so short and stupid i didn't feel like making a whole ao3 post. enjoy the freebie lmao

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

One can find anything they need on the internet these days. 

Need to order groceries? Book a cleaner? Have flowers delivered?

It’s simple, it’s two clicks away. Credit card number, expiry, CVC. Place order, it says. No fuss.

Dog sitting? A bright pink acrylic table with five chairs to match? Click. Click. Click. It’s at your doorstep. 

Need to become a phoney licensed counselor to have an alibi for fucking five different women in an abandoned massage therapy office every Thursday evening? 

No problem, baby. The internet is here to help.

LUCIEN DE LEON Licensed Somatic Counseling Practitioner* 

It’s a bullshit title. You can just as easily become an ordained minister. There’s even an asterisk next to the professional title saying as much. 

*Does not refer to any licensed profession in any state or country. Fine Print Inc. is not an educational or professional institution, nor is it a governing body for any of the careers or professors for which they produce licenses. These are strictly for personal use, and protected under US parody law. 

But all of that is on a document that nobody reads. All that matters is this: Lucien de Leon calls himself a licensed counseling practitioner if he has to, and nobody will ever ask him where or by whom he’s licensed, so none of it matters. 

On Thursday evenings at seven PM, five women gather at the Sunrise Springs Professional Center, in an office on the third floor. The sign outside the door says Anisha Jacobs Wellness Center, but Anisha took off when the IRS began to snoop around her tax forms and, well, she’s been back in Lapland ever since. 

Everything stayed in the office when she left, and Lucien happened to push the door open in search of the men’s room when he had attended an audition in one of the adjacent offices. It looked like the lobby of any new age-y, warmly lit spa. 

And there was a key in the door, somehow. A key that worked. 

He pocketed that key, and a few days later, returned to the space to see what was left behind. The number on Ms. Jacobs’s business card was no longer in use, and the place had stood empty long enough for the plants to wither. The office had two rooms: a lobby, and a treatment room. 

It isn’t interesting how it got to this point, but as of now, the office looks like this: in the main room, six chairs of different styles, including a small loveseat, are arranged in a circle. On the sign beside the door, a piece of paper has been taped over with writing that says SOMATIC THERAPY SPACE. 

It’ll do. 

In the next room, there is not much to note but a massage table that sits collapsed up against the wall, and it looks, by all means, like a room that is not in use. It looks left behind, in fact, just entirely forgotten. 

And Thursday evenings look like this: 

The computer left behind on the desk by the window no longer turns on. It is little more than a prop. There’s a water dispenser on the side of the room next to a few new plants and various blown glass vases. Beside the open window, wind chimes clatter in the breeze. A plastic-wrapped Costco order of tissue boxes sits up against the wall. One box is on the coffee table that has been arranged in the middle of the chair-circle. 

Paper cups, a trash can, a key to the bathroom on the same floor. 

Tia arrives first, peering past the open door to see Lucien behind the computer. “Hey!” she chirps, pushing a silky mass of brown curls over her shoulder. 

“Hey,” he says, and gestures towards the chairs. “Have a seat.” 

It’s only six-fifty-four. 

Jasmine, Georgia and Ingrid filter in one by one, taking their seats and beginning to fill out their arrival forms. 

What is your name?

What do you wish to get out of this session? 

Before they leave their houses, they tell their husbands that they are going to their weekly women’s discussion group. If pressed, and with great reluctance, perhaps a few tears, they say it is group therapy and that there is a confidentiality agreement that cannot be breached. 

A few rules are followed: 

The meeting lasts for two hours. Each participant is given twenty minutes of time devoted specifically to them, with five minutes of downtime in between. 

No payment is exchanged — the sessions are part of Lucien’s ongoing professional development, and both he and the women involved agree that voluntary participation is integral. 

The order is randomized every week, however those trying to get pregnant — with a man at home who hasn’t seen a vegetable in three years and blames his wife’s age for their fertility issues — go first. Those who only want oral are scheduled in between those who want a full fuck. Lucien gets a bit of a breather that way. 

While the massage room is occupied, a clipboard is passed around in the circle where a prompt is written out in lazy handwriting at the top, and everyone writes their reflection. The other group members’ answers are to be halfway memorized, as well as the short summary script that Lucien provides on the second page. 

Today’s prompt reads as follows; If I try to picture my ideal life, how does this feel in my body? And what can I do to make this a reality? How do the people around me affect my hopes and dreams?  

There’s also a shredder under the desk. 

The participants are allowed to do whatever they want before their slot, and after, until the meeting is officially over. Their phones stay on silent. 

When Jeanette has arrived, the door is locked and the session begins. Lucien collects the arrival forms and sets a schedule for his dedicated attention. There’s also a whiteboard that sits on the floor, leaning against the front of the desk. He grabs the black marker and writes out the schedule.

JASMINE

INGRID

TIA

GEORGIA

JEANETTE

Once they see the schedule, two of them pull their laptops out of their handbags and grab their Airpod cases, ready to catch up on work. Tia folds open a book, marked halfway finished. Jeanette stretches out on the loveseat and closes her eyes. 

“Jasmine,” he says, and nods towards the open door to the room where the massage table has been unfolded. 

There’s nobody else left in the building by this time, and the overnight cleaners don’t show up until eleven. 

Leaving her bag on the chair, she follows him into the room and closes the door behind her while he sits at the edge of the bench.

“Did you test?” he asks. 

Jasmine nods. “Peak.”

With that, Lucien pulls her between his spread thighs and begins to unbutton her blouse. 

Jasmine’s son just turned three. He looks more and more like Lucien for every month that passes. 

It was just the two of them and Tia at first. Only two women with grievances about their husbands’ lack of ability to take direction, three bottles of wine and an old friend who offered to help just that one night. He also didn’t mind helping when Ron’s test results came back fucked beyond belief and he somehow remained steadfast in his belief that he was virile. 

It just became a thing after that, and he has never minded being shared. 

Twenty minutes isn’t much but it’s enough to get the women where they need to be, and Lucien is hard within a minute, dropping a pair of slacks and throwing them to the floor. He knows well what Jasmine wants, learning her over several years and utilizing his time as best as he can. Kisses up and down her neck, his tongue on her nipples, on her pussy, then his cock inside, deep thrusts on her hands and knees until he comes, bare and unprotected. 

He assumes the ladies on the other side of the door can hear the two of them, but nobody seems to mind, and he can’t say he does either. There’s a window as well, mostly covered by venetian blinds, only leaving a gap at the very bottom, through which he can see them typing and reading and sleeping while he strokes a hand down Jasmine’s spine, staying inside until the time runs out. She keeps his semen in her as long as possible, getting dressed and laying down on the couch after Jeanette gets up and offers it to her, switching to a chair with a wickered backrest. 

“Ingrid?”

The brunette pops up, laptop already slipped back into her handbag, and she begins to shimmy her skirt down while he shuts the door behind them. On her ring finger, a large, rectangular diamond shines next to a gold wedding band. She doesn’t need much warm-up, he finds, laying down on the bench and letting him slip off her panties, spreading her legs and laying back, waiting for his fingers inside and his tongue on her clit. 

“How’s your day been?” she asks, pushing a hand through his hair. 

“Living the dream,” he says, eyes closed, tongue sliding over her opening. “And you?”

She tips her head back and he pushes his fingers further in, curling them while they withdraw. Back in, and back out. 

“Good,” she exhales, “Great.” 

And then she doesn’t say anymore, except when she whispers that she’s going to come, the quick first time and the slow second, a third before time is up and Lucien wipes his wet mustache and lips on his forearm, hard as steel when she kisses him and skips back out of the room. 

He cleans up at the sink in the corner of the empty space again, where hand soap and intimate wash is placed before the session starts every week, before he opens the door and waves for Tia to join him. He’s flushed, he looks just-fucked, chest reddened and hair messy. She likes that, though, touching his hot skin and smelling his sweat, making out while he slides down the wall with her in tow, until she’s straddling him. 

The timer starts again, just a clock in his peripheral vision ticking while clothes are ripped off as fast as possible, and she’s sinking down on his bare cock, riding him for a few strokes before she rolls her eyes at herself, groans, and reminds them both of the condoms that sit above them on a shelf.

She watches him put it on, gliding a big hand down thin, shiny latex, that hand lifting and curling two fingers, middle and ring finger coaxing her close again, up on her knees and then back down onto his cock. 

Tia wants it the hardest, wants one hand grabbing roughly at her tit and another gripping her ass tight, Lucien’s legs bent for leverage, his tongue constantly in her mouth. She likes to be overwhelmed, he thinks, fucked into the floor and into the massage table, against the wall, bent over the bench with her hands on her back. Droplets of sweat slide down his temples from his hairline when she’s in the room with him, the air is thick and her inner thighs are covered, slippery and wet. He grabs a towel from the underside of the bench, slips it under her, catches when she begins to squirt from the beating of his cock, soaking the white cloth. 

That’s when he can’t hold back any longer, feeling that spray on his own thighs, and comes inside of the condom. He slips it off, ties it, tosses it and cleans her up. She’s boneless after that, breathing slowly, taking a minute to get off the bench and into her own clothes. It’s always a half-awake thanks, Lu he gets before she leaves and curls up next to Jasmine on her phone, then promptly falls asleep. 

Georgia wants the same thing every week, and Lucien doesn’t question it. He slips off her leggings, her panties, and eats her for the full twenty minutes she is allotted. Though today, halfway through, when he stands up for a moment to readjust, she looks down at his pants and sees the bulge that is ever present whenever his tongue is on her — an erection she has only ever seen behind the secrecy of fabric. 

“Can I see it?” she asks, sitting up. 

He takes it out then, unbuttons the pants with no boxers underneath, and lets it bounce between the sides of his zipper. 

Her eyes flick up, seeking permission, and he nods once, lifting his eyebrows while he holds up the bottom of his shirt.

She just touches it gently at first, runs her fingertips down his shaft and his head. It twitches in response, bobs a little in the air, more blood streaming to his mostly-hard cock. A clock ticks outside the door, and Lucien stands quietly with his hand over bunched-up silk fabric, just lifting it enough to show a cover of trimmed, dark hair, and then a long, thick cock. 

Georgia leans forward, with a hand lightly touching his underside. She runs her lips up the side of his shaft, and he twitches again, gets even harder, but he breathes calmly while the woman begins to kiss and smell at him. He pushes his pants down a little bit further, letting his balls hang firmly in open air.

She spots them, gives them a kiss too, and Lucien licks his bottom lip, bites it, watches her sit on the bench with nothing on from her waist down, kissing and licking softly at his cock. She reaches his tip, licks there too, and then pulls away with her eyes still on it. 

“Can you put it in a little?” she asks, and her hand is already between her legs, the tips of her fingers disappearing between her folds, touching herself gently. 

Lucien nods, his voice hoarse when he says, “Yeah… Yeah.” 

“I just wanna feel it,” she says, gazing down.  

His cock bobs once more, veins popping out of his skin to form little bulges all along his length. “You want me to, uh—” He clears his throat. “You want me to wear a condom?” 

Georgia nods, chewing on the inside of her lip, and Lucien steps over, grabbing a foil packet off another small shelf. While he opens it, while he threads the latex on and glides his hand over his dick to roll it down, her fingers slip in and out of her, arousal leaking onto the leather of the bench. 

“Lean back,” he says, hand coming to the inside of her thigh, “Spread your legs.” 

His hand is still around his root, and he enters her slowly, pushing inside until she gasps and he’s at her end. When he’s there, he lifts the shirt up again, and draws his hips back before he pushes forward. She gasps again, and looks down, eyes widening at the sight of how much she has stretched around him. 

“T— take it off,” she whispers, shakiness in her voice.

“Huh?”

“Take the condom off.”

“Alright,” he murmurs, and pulls out. 

“Jesus, fuck,” she whispers then, at how much cock just fit inside of her a moment before. 

He pushes the condom off, lays it on top of the empty wrapper in the shelf, and before he gets inside of her again, he kisses her, with slow strokes of his tongue, and his hand on the back of her neck, the tip of his cock brushing against her entrance. She sucks him in, his cockhead wet with lube gliding between her folds so easily, smoothly parting them and pushing inside while she arches her back. He kisses her neck then, while he pushes the rest of the way, until all of him is inside once again and he breathes a moan into her shoulder before he begins to slowly thrust. 

“Make me come,” she begs, “Please make me come.” 

With both hands around her hips, he pulls her forward, ass nearly lifting off the edge of the massage table while he leans over her. He reaches across, holds onto the edge of it behind her, and grinds into her, his curled hair against her clit while the table squeaks across the floor. 

“Holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit,” she whines, “There—”

He grinds harder, slower, feels the wet clench of her around his cock, and then the pulsating orgasm that overtakes her, body going limp when it tapers off. 

He pulls out then, and his head brushes along her inner lips. 

“Thank you,” she says, a little bit dazed, and he helps her up with her hands in his, holds up her panties for her to step inside. 

Not what he expected, but a pleasant surprise nonetheless. 

“That was really good,” Georgia whispers, leaning against the door with her fingers curled around the handle, “We should do that again.”

“We should,” he says back. 

Clean-up, clothes back on, a hand pushed through his hair to smooth down the messy waves at least a little, condom wrappers and tissues tossed. 

Jeanette is up last. Her hair up in a bun, pants suit on, bracelets jangling on her wrists. 

“What are you in the mood for today?” he asks. “All it said on the form was ‘cock’ and I’ve never known you to be a woman of few words.” 

“Chef’s choice,” she says. “What are you in the mood for?” 

“Pshh.” He shakes his head, kisses her with a grin still on his face, “What could I possibly be in the mood for after all that?” 

She looks between his eyes and presses her lips together. “Did anyone suck your cock today?” 

Lucien shakes his head, and he’s still hard from before, always hard when he sees any one of these girls. Even run-in’s in public run the risk of an inappropriate boner in the freezer aisle. 

“Looks like I have my work cut out for me then, don’t I?” 

She strips down while he does the same, both of them entirely in the nude while she lays down on the table and takes his cock in her mouth. She has no gag reflex, her and Tia both glad to take Lucien down into their throats, but only until he’s close, forever teasing him, only letting him come inside or on their tits or back or pussy after fucking them. He could call it selfish but he likes it too much. 

He plays with her hair while she spits on him, jerks his cock, sucks at the tip and then swallows around him, only gagging lightly. He pulls her hips up, gets her on all fours, slaps her ass, sneaks a finger down between her cheeks and revels in her muffled moan when he rubs the tip of his middle finger over her asshole. 

“Deeper,” he grunts, thrusting his hips until she’s gagging fully, then draws back and sees the spit covering him, and her soaked lips, smiling while she looks up at him. He holds the underside of her jaw, watches himself slide in and out between her lips, and he lasts longer now. 

She raises up again, slides his cock between her tits and then turns around and angles her ass up for him, ready for his entry into whichever hole he desires most.

—

“Goodnight, ladies.” 

The door shuts behind the last of the five and Lucien wraps up the trash, grabs his things and turns off the light. He drives home along empty streets, between palm trees, past houses and dive bars and surf shops. There’s a thick script laying in the passenger seat with a pair of sunglasses thrown on top. He picks up dinner on the way, taking a seat on a chaise lounge by the hostess’ stand at the restaurant while he waits. Someone recognizes him on their way in, and tells him that they love his work. He thanks them, shakes their hand, touches their shoulder and obliges when they ask for a photo.

At home, he drops his keys and kicks off his shoes, steps through the foyer and makes his way to the living room where he sets the boxes down on the coffee table and he clicks around on a few buttons before the blinds roll up along his living room windows. Flat rocks form a footpath from the seating area to the pool, between lush plants and trees, right outside of where he sits down and turns on the TV.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

hope you enjoyed! if this is your first meeting with my writing, feel free to check out my selection of series and oneshots on ao3, including javi p, joel, and frankie :)

[starkeyvhs]

things we never got over

PAIRING: rafe cameron x ex-bsf!reader

SUMMARY: you were rafe’s best friend since kindergarten, but the inevitable friendship breakup was bound to come. after years of friendship and unrequited pining, 21 year old rafe believes the only way he can rid himself of the emotional turmoil he still feels, is therapy. 

WORD COUNT: 1.6k

WARNINGS: kindergartner rafe and reader content; small mention of blood and wounds

EDITH TALKS: so!!! this was actually the first chapter of this rafe series I was working on and it has been pre written for the longest time 🤧 but! I had another idea for a series, so I ended up integrating parts of both of them to come up with my ultimate plot :) I am actually super attached to this chapter and I wanted everyone to see it 🥹 I hope you all enjoy reading!! feedback and reblogs are always highly appreciated! 🌟

masterlist / join my taglist / requests

“Cherry or green apple?”

You plop down next to Rafe’s figure hunched over the table, a box of crayons opened next to him as he keeps himself busy with a coloring page, his color strokes going often out of the lines, but even then, you still believe he’s one of the best at art. 

His ears perk up at your little voice as you sit down next to him, his eyes falling onto the two lollipops in your hand: one wrapped in a dark red wrapper, and the other in a bright green. He pouts at the choices in your hand, and you are fully aware of the reason for the little pout on his small lips.

“They did not have strawberry,” you mumble. “Only these two,”

He lets out a short sigh, and then with his little finger he gestures to the cherry one. You unwrap the cherry flavored lollipop and hand it to Rafe, who takes it and instantly puts it in his mouth, going back to his coloring task. 

You sit silently next to him with the green apple lollipop in your mouth as you watch him color. Your gaze drifts from Rafe over to the classroom window, out of which you can see all of the other kids running around, laughing, playing, or sitting on the sides to eat their food on the small field. All the swings are occupied, the sand pit is occupied, and there are multiple children at once sliding down the only slide in the field. 

Rafe is different. 

He never spends his lunch breaks outside. He stays in the classroom, finishes his lunchbox, and then always gets  a coloring sheet to keep himself busy. You, on the other hand, always have your lunch outside with a few of your girl friends, but as soon as you’re done, you leave the girls and come to Rafe in the classroom; always sitting in the same seat of his with his sheet and his expensive box of crayons. From the little shop across from your house, you bring a strawberry lollipop for him each day and give it to him as a little after lunch sweet treat. 

The first time you had offered him the lollipop, he was surprised. “What’s that for?” He had asked you. 

“You told me you like strawberries,” you had replied, already unwrapping the lollipop. “So I got this for you,” you finished with a smile, holding out the candy for him. 

A soft blush had started spreading on his cheeks at your words and the offer of the delectable candy. “Thank you,” he had murmured ever so quietly, and he took it from you and put it in his mouth.

Since then, it has become a routine for you. You love to keep him company and watch him in silence as you both eat your candies and he colors in the pages. He doesn’t talk much, just likes to keep to himself most of the time. You never know why he’s like this; so different from the other boys in your class, who just choose to be all rowdy and noisy, but what you do know is that you like to spend these few minutes with him, before your lunch break comes to an end and you get back to go on with your day. 

“You like it?” You ask softly in your slightly muffled voice, gesturing to the cherry lollipop he unfortunately has to have today, instead of his usual sweet strawberry. 

Rafe shrugs in response, quietly sucking on the candy as he carefully inspects his crayon box and picks a color, resuming the coloring. It’s a navy blue, you notice. Hm. He really seems to like that one, you think as you glance at the sheet on the table, most of it colored in the same navy blue. 

The same silence falls on you two again and you just resume watching him color.

The next day though, your luck comes through. 

You get a strawberry lollipop for him, and have been ecstatic to hand it over to him the moment the young woman running the store gave it to you, your small hand securing around it carefully. 

When you are having lunch with all your friends in the playground, you are practically itching to leave and just run to the empty classroom where Rafe, as always, must be hunched over his table, coloring a different sheet than yesterday. After you’re finished with your food, you say goodbye to your girls and begin to make your way across the playground towards the main building.

As you’re walking, you don’t know exactly how it happened; maybe you were way too lost in your own world, or maybe, it was exactly what the boy intended; but you end up tripping over a boy’s foot, falling face first on the ground. A loud yelp leaves your lips as you fall, feeling a shooting pain through your nose. 

Tears are immediately stinging your eyes as a small crowd forms around you, and one of the teachers helps you up. The tears are fully flowing now, and they only increase the moment you feel blood flowing from your nose. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” the teacher tries to calm you down as she helps you up on your feet. Taking your small hand in hers, she carefully leads you to the main building of the school, and enters the first classroom. 

Rafe’s ears perk up the moment he hears the door opening. He watches you enter, your face bloody and tear stained, and just the next second, he’s over to where you’re next to the teacher. 

“She fell down,” the teacher mumbles as she carefully wipes the blood from your face when Rafe reaches you both, a look of pure worry on his face. 

Rafe is silent, but fully worried as he watches you get your face wiped, your eyes red rimmed and tears still welling at your waterline. 

The teacher says something about going to get the nurse, something which neither you in your condition or Rafe really pay attention to, but the next moment, you two are left alone. You’re quietly sniffling, moving your hand to wipe off the remnant tears. 

You look up at Rafe through your blurry vision, wiping at your eyes again. “Oh,” you mumble softly, moving your free hand to your pocket and pulling something out. Rafe watches you curiously as you fish into your pocket, and the next moment you open your fist to show him a candy with its stick cracked, and the wrapper crinkled. 

It’s a strawberry lollipop. 

“I got it for you today,” You mumble quietly, looking at the broken lollipop. “But it got crushed when… I fell down,”

Rafe furrows his brows as he gently takes the lollipop in his hand. He sees the candy is completely cracked beneath the crinkled paper. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmur quietly, looking at the broken candy in his hand. 

He quietly shakes his head and fists his hand around the candy, holding it safely. 

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, “I love it.” 

You feel bad about giving him a broken lollipop, and he can see that. Before he can say anything else, the teacher’s coming back with the nurse, and they both are quick to take you from the classroom to the nurse’s office. 

Rafe watches you being taken away quietly, the candy safe in his hands. 

Later on, when he goes back to his coloring, he carefully unwraps the candy on the table and looks at the broken pieces. He picks them one by one to eat them, quietly chewing on them as he goes back to coloring. He can’t help but glance at the empty seat next to him, feeling your cold absence deeply, the way you’d just quietly sit next to him, watching him color and you both would eat your lollipops. 

He can feel his interest slowly degrading in the coloring without you sitting next to him. Quietly, he keeps the crayon aside and gazes at the half colored sheet in front of him, eating a small broken bit of the pink candy. 

⊹₊⋆.˚୨୧⋆.˚₊ ⊹

“So it was as if you basically started realizing how important she is to you, but you couldn’t really understand those feelings at that time because of how young you were?”

Vera’s gentle sound echoes in his ear, his gaze fixed on his shoes, suddenly the dark brown of his converse being the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. 

“Yeah,” Rafe mumbles quietly, his fingers gently fiddling with the hem of his shirt. 

He can hear Vera sighing softly, the soft sound of a page of her notebook being turned and the scratching of the pen following suit. 

God, how much do these therapists have to write? Rafe thinks to himself. 

“So, there’s no contact between you two anymore? None?” Vera asks. 

Rafe sighs softly, leaning back against the couch. He tilts his head up, looking up at the ceiling. He’s tired of this question. 

At this point, he can’t even count how many times he’s been asked this question in his life. 

“None.” He mutters quietly.

Another silence falls over the both of them and the sound of writing fills the room once again, as Rafe opts to simply close his eyes, his head still leaning back and his arms crossed over his chest. 

But closing his eyes seems like the worst option, because there you are again, the warmest orange aura surrounding you, radiating complete comfort. You raise your hand, almost touching him but never really doing it, always falling a few inches short. 

“We’re gonna be here a long time.” 

Vera’s sound is a mere background noise, but it’s there, anchoring him back to reality, far away from his dreams. 

Yeah, we are.

⊹₊⋆.˚୨୧⋆.˚₊ ⊹

taglist: @oxpogues4lifexo / @inthelibrarybtw / @mccaffreyswifey / @chenslucy / @totalswag / @wearemadeofstardust0 / @percysley / @superswaggycooch / @kaileashiftz / @weirdowithnobeardo / @chimchimjiminie16 / @ursovaine / @mariamadison6-blog / @snowtargaryen / @htlkira / @acidfeens / @cherrys-muses

tagging a few moots: @runningfrom2am / @ilyrafe / @zyafics / @nemesyaaa / @ladyinbl00d / @jjsbank444 / @b1mb0slvt / @maddsxfall / @congratsloserr

[valleyian]

Thoughts on Tom Felton and Cursed Childs new casting

Oh boy, time for another long rant nobody asked for because I legit cannot go any longer without expressing my utter devastation and anger at this.

Let’s start with this. I hate JKR, and due to Toms connection and support of her, I hate him by proxy. Here’s what made HPCC stand out from the regular franchise. The casting was diverse, nuanced and even bold at some times, with multiple trans and queer actors having gotten lead roles. What does adding Tom Felton to the mix do? Ruin that “safe” environment that previously was made by trans/queer actors to spite JKR. The entire rewrite, the actors who helped shape the show for I inclusivity, that’s all gone now.

And before it’s mentioned, I know HPCC could never be a truly safe space for queer and trans people due to it being a part of the HP franchise. However in all of its years running, there have been so many castings of specifically queer actors to the point it feels like type casting. The changes to the script issued by trans/queer actors is also so important to acknowledge, because it combats at least SOME of JKRs stances. Previously I had assumed the HPCC show had taken their stance by doing these diverse castings. Now it is clear they’d rather prioritise money and profit.

Which leads to the next point, being that this is so obviously a cashgrab. I know HPCC isn’t selling well, especially because these past few months they’ve been doing so many collabs with old actors in a desperate attempt to stay relevant, in addition to the Brazil prod being cancelled. What breaks my heart is that HPCC BW does Genuenly have good and specifically queer fan base, that see nuances and good in the show. Not to sound sappy, but the “actual fans” of the show are what makes being in this fandom so fun. People who go to see the actors and appreciate what the show has previously stood for, especially after the rewrite.

Now the show is going to infiltrated by Draco fangirls who couldn’t give to shits about the actual show, and are only there to thirst over a middle aged man past his prime. Stage door is a nightmare, and rip to ANY new actor, especially Draco actors that will cover for him, because nobody is going to acknowledge em anymore. The fact the show is about ALBUS and SCORPIUS, yet the show is advertising more about Draco now, who mind you has like 30 min screen time in the films and even less on stage. Plus I bet there will be an influx of hate towards the actual plot of the show, because BW is running with the new even shorter script, which in my honest opinion sucks.

Lastly, Toms involvement in the show I believe will force the BW actors to be more careful about their outspokenness against JKR, in addition to NDAs being stricter. Previously BW had gotten away with so much, like nearly kisses on stages, and so many other things that and undeniably queer coded. Having Tom, and then by proxy JKR be this close to the show will ruin all that. Not only that but I doubt and hope no trans/queer actor would feel safe sharing a stage with him. Idc if he’s not directly transphobic or homophobic, he has chosen to side with JKR and that’s enough for me to not like him. Previous actors, and current ones now at West-End, constantly repost stuff about trans rights and are vocal about their political views. Being political is a part of theatre, and queer identity and the creative arts. This casting ruins that entirely, and just goes to show how in the end they’re willing to negate 4 years of the progress they made for a quick buck.

Good luck to my US fans out there 🫡🫡

[juletheghoul]

Not sure if you're up for ideas, but I had an idea for your Marcus and girl!Wife series (absolutely obsessed with it it's all I can think about)

Basically, girl!wife and their daughter are setting up a small celebration for Marcus’s birthday, or something he accomplished. Including little gifts drawn or made by their daughter 🥹 (my heart)

I had to share this idea because I couldn’t stop smiling

Absolutely obsessed with this 😭 slipping this in before the next big chapter-💕

Warnings (allusions to sex, some birthday makeouts, Marcus being a suck for his daughter, oranges being referred to as a nameless fruit -call back to him telling you they’re his fave, Marcus getting cock-blocked by his daughter, reference to sacrifices made, as was the custom for birthdays) *felix natalis is how they used to say happy birthday, or so google says*

—

Whispers greeted him at every turn, echoing through the halls of his house along with the sounds of Atticus’ cries, and Diana’s laughter. He rounded the corner and narrowed his eyes at the reactions of his family. His wife, the Sun in his sky bit her lip, gave furtive glances to their daughter who was even less covert.

“What are you two plotting?” He crossed his arms, honed his gaze in on Diana but she only looked to her mother.

“Whatever do you mean?” His wife spoke, gently rocking the child in her arms, calming him the way only she seemed to be able to.

“I mean–there is a plot in this house, and I will sniff it out.” He stalks, holding in the smile at the widening of his daughter's eyes.

“You forget that this is not the battlefield, Marcus, there is no plot.” His wife lies to him, he appreciates the fact that she does not crack.

“And you little one? Do you mean to keep secrets from your father? Who spoils you rotten, may I remind you?” He digs his fingers into her sides and she bursts with laughter, squirming out of his grip.

“There are no secrets, I have lessons!” She runs off down the hall and he shakes his head.

“You have taught her to lie to me.” He cannot hold the smile any more, and his tone is playful.

“I have taught her no such thing, it is you that has taught her to keep her thoughts and plans close to the chest.” Her eyes shine in the sunlight streaming into the room and he is, not for the first time, struck by her beauty. He would let her tell him a million lies, keep a million secrets if it meant she still loved him, if it made her happy.

“Very well. The two of you may have your plots, I will find out soon enough.” He pulls her to him, presses his lips to her temple and cradles the child's head in her arms.

-

It was hard to take care of the preparations with Marcus in the house, he seemed to hear through the walls. Diana was excited enough that you almost feared she might ruin the surprise.

“Remember, we must keep it a secret, he already suspects.” You whisper to her, guiding her stitches in the breezy peristyle.

“Yes Mother, I know. I will not tell him.” Her tongue sticks out, so concentrated is she on her work that it makes you smile. “What gift will you give him?” She asks, head still down.

“Aside from the traditional sacrifice, I have a special gift coming in–follow the line, not here, but here.” You gently shift the needle, and she nods.

“He will be so surprised, won’t he?” She smiles up, Marcus’ dimple on her face and you nod with a smile.

“Yes, if we can pull it off he will be.” She gets back to work, and you sit with her, enjoying the soft breeze.

-

He hums when you hug him tightly, sleepily smiling as you press kisses to his cheeks.

“How does it feel to be another year older?” You cuddle up close, burying your face into his neck.

“It feels much the same, I must admit.” His hands drift across your skin, sweeping from your shoulders, down your ribs to grab at your backside. “Much better company than I had in my younger years.” He kisses your forehead, pulling you even tighter to him.

“How much better?” You raise an eyebrow, lifting your head to look him in the eye. He laughs, groaning.

“Forgive me my love, I misspoke. What I meant to say was that in my younger years I was usually alone on this day, the poor company I kept was my own, or soldiers in a dirty camp. You are a goddess in comparison.”

“That does sound like an improvement.” You push him onto his back, straddle him in your bed.

“Oh it is, I am a very blessed man.” He bites his lip, settles back, openly enjoys the sight of you naked, sitting on his half-hard cock.

“I would say you are, General Acacius.” You rock against him, enjoying the pressure of him against your clit.

“I am about to be blessed again, by the way your cunt drips for me.” He surges up to meet you, the wall of his chest pressing tightly against yours.

“You are, my love, I ache for you.” His mouth claims yours, swallows the moan borne of his kiss. His lips travel down your neck, his tongue following the long line of your neck.

“How do you want me?” Your fingers curl into his grey curls, your hips swirling in his lap in an unhurried manner. He groans, big hands squeezing at the meat of your hips.

“I want you—“ the door to your chambers bursts open, and Diana runs towards the bed, ignoring Sabina’s words of caution behind her. Sheets that had pooled around your waist are pulled up and covering your nakedness in seconds.

“Diana my love, how many times must I remind you not to barge in when your father and I are alone?” Carefully, you shift away.

“Apologies mother, I could not wait.” She bounces on her heels, smiling big, looking to her father. He narrows his eyes, but smiles all the same.

“Father, may I give you my gift?”

“A gift? For me?” Why ever for?” He teases.

“Father!” She practically vibrates while you dress in your robes.

“Very well my little love, may I dress first?” He pulls her close, tickles her with scratchy kisses to her cheeks. The sound of her giggles fills your heart.

“But my gift—“ she pushes his face, smiling while catching her breath when he finally relents. “Mother helped me quite a bit, but I made it myself.” She moves towards Sabina, taking the neatly wrapped bundle from her hands and placing it in her father’s outstretched arms.

“I only guided, she did all the work.” You smile, adjusting your robes before standing beside her.

He shakes out the bundle, and his mouth falls open. It’s a snowy white toga, beautifully made, with gold thread woven through in symbols of protection. Three letters woven into the piece that would fall near his chest.

“Diana my love, why don’t you wait outside a moment, and I will help your father dress in it.” You press a kiss to her forehead and she complies, runs outside of the room with Sabina in tow.

Silently he rises, inspecting the fabric, studying the cut and the letters he’s found. He says nothing while you help him put it on, adjust and drape and fold so it sits just right. His palm presses against the letters, a curious expression on his face.

“She worked so hard on this, put her blood, sweat and tears into it.” You speak to him quietly, finishing the final draping while he feels the fabric between his fingers. With a final sweep, you leave him to open the door for her. She runs past, and stands before him, expectant.

“Diana, this is beautifully made.” He turns for her, showing her how well it fits.

“Truly? You truly like it father?” She holds her hands together, clasped together nervously.

“Like it? My darling girl I love it. It is perfect, the detail is so precise, and the letters—“

“One for mother, one for me, and one for Atticus.” She says softly, smiling a small smile.

“One for each of the members of my family. For the ones I love the most.” He crouches down to look her in the eye. “It is perfect, and I love it very much.” She wraps her arms around his neck, hugs him tightly. Emotion swells in both him and yourself. His eyes glisten and you know his heart is as full as can be.

“Felix natalis father.” She smiles, kisses him on the cheek before hugging you around the middle, and running out the door for her duties.

He is speechless when the door closes, overcome with emotion in a way you have not seen since she was born.

“I am truly blessed.” He smiles, wiping his eyes before pulling you close.

“The surprises do not stop, you must be ready to entertain.” You kiss his cheeks, “There is to be a gathering in your honour, people who love you will begin to arrive any moment.” He shakes his head in happy disbelief.

“I knew the two of you were plotting!”

“Yes we were, right under your nose.” You adjust his robes once more before kissing him softly. “As for my gift...”

“I pray it is just you, naked and wet.” He places a kiss on your shoulder.

“Aside from myself, and the sacrifice to be made to your health, your gift should be coming now.” The knock on the door signals your perfect timing, and a slave comes in with a tray of fruit.

He gasps, shocked at what the tray holds.

“Is it correct? Is it what you remember?” The tray is placed onto the table. “I confess I did not have much to go on but I sent letters to a few who I thought might be able to help me. Some of the men who went to battle with you. I pray I did not overstep.”

“I cannot believe you found them.” He peels the strange fruit and a lovely perfume fills the air.

“I have not eaten of this for years—“ he tastes it and smiles, eyes closed before offering a segment to you. The texture is much like a lemon, but so sweet, filled with juice. You can see why he loved it so much.

“Are you happy?” You finger-comb his waves back, stroke his brow with your thumb.

“I could not be happier.” He kisses you, tongue sweet both with love, and the fruit.

“Felix natalis my love.”

-

[kirkwallguy]

honestly emmrich being so rigid about his beliefs was something i was SO sure was going to become relevant and then was just never addressed. there's a cutscene with him where you discuss the mourn watch or something (i've actually completely forgotten the context lol?) where he asks how rook would like to be treated after they die, i was actively excited to make an actual roleplaying character choice for the first time in many hours so i jumped to pick cremation (in my head my rook was ferelden 💔) and emmrich pretty much acted like rook had taken a shit in front of him. again this got me excited because it was the first time i felt like a companion had disagreed with rook on anything meaningful that wasn't related to the main plot. i was really ready to start seeing the cracks with other companions where you could pinpoint a superiority complex or need to be right, because surely at least one of these characters has to have a meaningful flaw right??? and then it was never addressed again.

and it sucks because giving emmrich an intolerant streak makes him SO much more interesting. he preaches how good he is and has a general aura of being kind but when he finds out someone disagrees with a core belief of his he acts like he personally is being attacked, which is why he butts heads so much with taash, who is actually very similar to him in that way. if this was a trait they actually dwelled on it would work so well with him having thanatophobia, which does often manifest in a need for control. like making him actually a shitty hypocrite once you peel back his first layer of professionalism makes him an actual character rather than a two dimensional old man for people to thirst over.

[sereia4skz]

hey, feel free to ignore. Iwas wondering;

could you write a smut, with a brat tamer/tease reader with either brat!minho and/or brat!seungmin?

oneshot | silk & consequences

pairing: brat!minho x dom!reader

genre: smut

warnings: orgasm denial, restraints, dom/sub dynamics, brat taming, power play, degradation, oral (m!receiving), mild overstimulation, porn no plot

word count:

masterlist: A-Side (texts) | B-Side (written)

The bedroom lights are dimmed low, golden against the skin of your waiting brat. Minho lounges at the edge of the bed, legs spread, arms crossed behind his head like he owns the world, or maybe just this room. He smirks when you walk in, cocky and dangerous, sharp tongue already curled like a blade behind his teeth.

"Finally. Took you long enough," he drawls, lifting a brow as you shut the door behind you. "I was starting to think you were scared I’d make you beg tonight."

You hum, slow and unbothered, slipping your robe from your shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. His smirk falters, just for a second, but he quickly masks it with another quip.

"Don’t tell me you dressed up just for me. How desperate."

You walk closer without a word, and Minho watches every step like he’s waiting for a spark to catch fire. You stop between his knees, reaching down to cup his chin between your fingers, tilting his face up.

"Minho," you purr, tone syrup-slick and dangerous. "If I wanted desperate, I’d just look at you when you’re whining for my fingers."

He growls under his breath, eyes flashing. “I don’t whine.”

“Mm,” you hum thoughtfully, pushing him back until his spine hits the headboard. “We’ll see.”

You bring out the silk restraints next, and he scoffs, even as his eyes flicker with something needier, something he’s not ready to admit yet. You catch that look and smile, letting it stretch slow across your face like warm molasses.

"Color?"

His tongue pokes at the inside of his cheek. “Green.”

“Good boy,” you whisper, and oh, does he twitch at that.

You crawl up the bed and straddle his hips, wrists already in your grasp before he can run that mouth again. The silk slides snugly around his wrists, tying him to the headboard, beautiful, obedient, but just enough room for him to squirm.

“This won’t hold me,” he grits.

“You don’t want it to,” you whisper in his ear, and he shudders. “You want to be good.”

"I want to come," he counters, defiant, cock already swelling against your thigh.

"Then behave."

You trail your fingers down his chest, slow and lazy, nails grazing just enough to make him twitch. His hips buck once, seeking friction, but you lift your weight off him with a smirk.

“No grinding. No touching. No finishing until I say.”

He groans, already breathless. “You’re such a fucking tease.”

“And you’re such a needy brat,” you murmur, mouth ghosting over his collarbone, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of his skin. “Lucky for you, I happen to like breaking brats.”

His cock is already leaking by the time you kiss down his stomach, ignoring his little gasps and curses as you blow warm air over his flushed length. He jerks against the restraints when you kiss his inner thigh instead of where he wants you.

"Come on," he pants. "Don’t be a fucking-"

A slap lands lightly on his hip. Not hard, just enough to sting.

“Ah-!”

"Try again,” you warn. “Mouth gets you in trouble. Orgasms get taken away.”

He bites his lip, nostrils flaring. “Please.”

You look up, tilting your head. “Please what?”

He grits his teeth. “Please… touch me.”

You smirk. "That wasn’t so hard, was it?"

You reward him with one slow lick from base to tip, and the noise he makes is absolutely filthy, choked off, half-growl, half-moan. You suck the head into your mouth and swirl your tongue, hands sliding up to press his hips down when he bucks up into you.

His thighs are trembling already. You bob slowly, lips slick around him, letting your saliva drip down his shaft, making a mess. He’s panting, wrists straining in silk, head tossed back against the pillows.

“Fuck… yes, please, more-”

You pull off with a pop.

Minho actually whines. “W-What- why-?”

You sit back on your knees, wiping your mouth, watching his wrecked expression. "Did I say you could come?"

His jaw drops. “I-I didn’t!”

“You were close,” you say sweetly, tapping his thigh. “Too close. Which means you lose.”

His breath hitches. He looks furious. Devastated. And god, so hard it hurts.

“You’re evil,” he spits, flushed and helpless.

You lean in, hovering over him, dragging your tongue slowly over his cheekbone. “And you love it.”

He shudders.

You make him beg twice more before you even think about letting him come. The second time, he’s panting your name like a prayer, hips twitching under your grip, cock flushed and leaking, muscles tense like he’s on the edge of breaking. You press two fingers to the base, squeeze just right, and ruin it.

“No… no, fuck, please-!”

“Not yet.”

He looks like he could cry. You kiss his cheek, brush the hair from his forehead, and coo softly, “You’ll thank me later.”

By the time you finally let him come, legs shaking, wrists writhing in silk, voice wrecked from begging, it’s with your hand wrapped tight around his cock and your lips inches from his ear, whispering, “Come for me, baby. Show me how good it feels to be ruined by me.”

It’s messy, loud, body-arching pleasure, a long-drawn-out sob that ends in helpless laughter. You keep stroking through it, watching him twitch and whimper, overstimulated and spent, until his head lolls back and he breathes your name like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

You untie his wrists slowly, rubbing the red marks with care. He flops boneless against you, eyes half-lidded, sweat-damp hair stuck to his forehead.

“Still think I’m scared of you?” you whisper.

He nuzzles into your neck, groaning. “I think you’re the devil.”

taglist: @diekleinesuesse @tillaboo @felixsonlyrealwife @geni-627 @skz8riley @lezleeferguson-120 @pixie-felix @headfirstfortoro @alnex05 @baby-stay92 @encoredesires @androgynouscrownorbit @channiesluvrclub @my-neurodivergent-world @chims-dimple @bookswillfindyouaway @stellasays45 @angel-writes-skz-here @m-325 @0sunshinecryptid0 @beal-o @hug4helios @oksullen @rileylovescats @dreamyfelix @yxna-bliss

[caramelic3dlatte]

Cherry baby pt2 ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

summary: the Miller brothers have been friends with your father since you can remember. Once you turn 19, you take advantage of it.

warnings: minors DNI!! age gap (19,47,50), oral (m), unprotected piv, praise, use of pet names, threesome, some aftercare lowkey at the end.

w/c: 1.8k (shorter then expected bc i ran out of ideas LOL)

notes: hey again yall. this is part 2 of cherry baby! i hope yall liked part 1. it more attention then i thought so im happy and i will definitely write some more story’s but GIVE ME IDEAS FOR A PLOT PLEASE im not that creative 😟. once again this is not proof read bc i simply can’t. i cringe too much at the thought of writing shit like this lmao so IGNORE any mistakes. hope u guys enjoy mwah

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You still are recovering from your round with Joel. Weak in the knees. Giving you no time to recover, Tommy stands tall above you swapping places with Joel. Looking up in a panic

“P-Please I need a l-little more time” You said looking up at Tommy. Lips pout, Glassy eyes. Joel looks up at you, giving you a small kiss on you lips, still the shuttle taste of your lipgloss. Grabbing your face “You’ll be alright baby, we promise” He says oh so softly.

“You promise” You say letting out a soft cry. Why are you crying? Are you embarrassed?

“I promise baby.” Joel says with a reassuring tone.

You sit up but instantly feel the thick, calloused hands of Tommy flip you onto your stomach. Face down, Ass up. Your heart sinks. This is all still so new to you, you don’t know what to expect. Joel is standing in front of you. You are ready for what’s coming yet you are still so nervous. You feel Tommy’s hands gently caressing you, slowly going down your back. Hands soft like silk, Way more soft than Joel’s. There is a more safe and protective feeling when you are around Tommy.

You slowly relax, Joel’s giving you that look. “You ready baby?” He says quietly into your ears. “Yes” you reply. Now standing tall above you. Joel gives the look of approval to Tommy directly in front of him. You feel Tommy’s slowing push into you.

That pain hits you once again like lightning. The sharp pain mixed with the heat gets too much for you but you remember. You wanted this, you dreamt of this, you begged to yourself for this. Inch by inch Tommy’s goes slowly. Hearing his heaving panting behind you, you wish you could see his beautiful face. Your face slams into your pillow. Joel immediately grabs it with force.

“No baby, you look at me while he fucks you, got it?” Joel says with a little annoyance. You look up at Joel. Your face turns him on even more than the sight of you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tommy's slow yet harsh thrusts have you gripping the sheets like no other. Bodies slamming against each other. You let out more and more whimpering moans. Music to their ear. “Oh you are beyond beautiful when you make those noises for me baby.” Tommy says, leaning over your back, his heavy panting into your ear. Joel now takes his manhood into his own hands then into your mouth. Roles now reversed.

“Look at me baby, look at me while you're sucking my cock” Words rolling off Joel’s tongue. Tommy grabbing your hair forcibly titling your head up to look at Joel. You obey their rules.

Your moaning sends humming vibrations onto Joel, making his eyes roll back in pleasure. Tommy reaches between your legs finding your sweet spot, small gentle circles. You take Joel out of your mouth to catch your breath. Small but powerful whimpers leave your mouth from the immense pleasure you are experiencing from these men. Nothing was better. “Still soaked darling, so needy. Joel comes cop a feel” Tommy says smirking at his older brother in front of him. Joel come to the side of the bed, sitting down beside his brother while he’s fucking you stupid beside him. Joel now reaches for your heat. Pointer finger & middle finger slide up until he reaches your sensitive clit.

“Yeah you aren’t wrong, she’s begging for it” Joel says before taking those two fingers slowly into his mouth, not breaking eye contact with you. He stands up once again in front of you but now Tommy has flipped you back onto your back. “I need that sweet face of yours baby” He says out of breath. Joel standing with his cock above your face. You say nothing and get straight to it. Hands sliding up and down while you fit as much of him in your mouth as you can.

Tommy’s hand never leaving your nub while he continuously thrusts into you. His and Joel’s pace slowly picks up, knowing they are both close. The feeling of them taking such good care of you gets you more and more hot. The same knot from before starts to tighten in your stomach. The feeling is so overwhelming yet you can’t put it into words.

“Come on baby, come on” Tommy says to you but you are in your world. Overwhelmed & Overstimulated. You feel a warm thick rope shoot down your throat from Joel. You feel his hot breath on your forehead as he bends down to your level on the bed to face you. You knew Tommy was close, becoming more aggressive and fast. Your moaning picks up once again. Loud and vocal

“Tommy- Please” You say heaved & sob. He’s gripping your hips with full force, thumbs deep into your pelvis. That’ll definitely leave a bruise. His pace is faster than ever. So powerful yet so intimate. He finally fills you up. The anticipation of it all finally hits you. You still haven’t finished yet but you knew it wouldn’t be a problem when you have Joel & Tommy by your side.

Tommy didn’t stop after he came inside you, Still thrusting but much more gentle. Your Legs are shaking once again, Chest rising up and down as your breathing becomes heavier. “Come on baby, let you. Cum for us sweetheart” Joel says above you. His fingers reach you once again helping you reach your high.

You finally let go over Tommy & Joel. The feeling is euphoric. Once again this feeling you’ve never felt before. Now you understand the hype around it.

“You alright baby?” Tommy said above you. You nod as his words softly graze your ear. You are too weak to talk, too vulnerable-

Joel slides his hand away from your soaked sensitive clit. You whinge as you feel a soft touch move away. He smiles at your state.

Tommy finally pulls out. Everything and everyone was a mess. Leaking from his mess and his mess leaking out of you like a fragmented pipe. The site was everything to them. They were in love. You gently get up slowly, using your elbows as leverage to push yourself up. Your knees were so weak you could barely stand up to get. yourself cleaned up. It was obvious you needed help. Tommy and Joel notice your struggle and immediately stand up to help you.

“H-How are you guys not s-sleepy? Your words slurring as you can barely make a sentence from what just happened. The boys both look at each other and laugh. Why are they laughing at me? God this is embarrassing.

“Baby, We aren’t new to this,” Tommy said with a snicker.

You always forget their age. They’ve probably done it a million times. You frown at the fact you are not the only girl they’ve ever been with and also remembering the ripe age they are both at. It won’t stop you from doing this again. Gee I wonder what lucky girl they both got with?

They both help you to the bathroom to clean you up. Getting you into the bathtub to wash you. Joel starts with cleaning your body while Tommy gets you fresh new clothes. Stepping into the lukewarm water feeling like a reward after the intense shit you just went through. Washing your body first. Joel softly goes around your body with extra precaution as he knows you're still so sensitive, grabbing a washcloth and some soap. When it comes to your pussy, he does nothing but clean you up. You flinch as he’s cleaning you, letting out small whines.

“You know, you took us like a champ. for being a virgin, you did an amazing hun. We are so proud of you” Joel says, smiling at you. His words mean everything to you. The feeling of being praised for something you dreamed about doing with these men makes you feel complete. “Thank you, I hope I did well” You say looking down shy.

He kisses your forehead gently and helps you out of the bathtub. He gives you a towel to dry and wrap around you. Tommy gives you fresh new pyjamas. Pink stain shorts with a thin white tank top that’s a little see through just enough to show your nipples with a little white bow in the middle. You know what he’s doing. Joel and Tommy give you a look of approval.

All of a sudden. The car finally pulls up. You completely forgot about your dad. Tommy and Joel are both still half naked, your heart drops to your stomach. “Fuck! Fuck my dad! I completely forgot!” You say in a panic.

“Tommy, we have to go. NOW!” Joel says in a determined voice. They rush to put on their clothes. Still look very sloppy like they just woke up.

You hear the keys rustle in the door as it slowly opens. Joel and Tommy run downstairs to quickly make themselves look like they are about to leave. You quickly come downstairs and run to the couch and turn on the tv to look preoccupied.

“Oh my god I can not believe how long that took? Can you believe it, they didn't have any more beer so I had to go to the liquor store 30 minutes away. Absolutely ridiculous” Your dad says as he walks in the door. “Oh what? you guys leaving already?” Your dad says disappointed. “Yeah buddy. it-it's late y”know and duty calls” Tommy says awkwardly. God he’s a horrible liar. They say their goodbyes and leave.

“Same time next week?” Joel says to your dad. You look over at Joel as he turns to you, giving you a deathly stare and winking. God he’s playing a dangerous game. “Well i’d like to think so after I bought all this beer asshole!” You dad says in a joking matter. They laugh it out and they finally leave.

“Hey you got dressed I see? Tired huh? Your dad says to you as he’s putting the beer away. “Uh yeah, yeah I was done for the night. You know I think I'm actually going to go to bed” You say walking up to him and giving him a hug. “Oh okay kiddo, love you” Placing a soft kiss on the forehead right where Joel kissed you.

You walk up the stairs at a fast pace. You shut your bedroom door behind you, walking back and forth thinking about what just went down in this house. In your childhood house. The bed your dad used to tuck you in every night. God what were you thinking? I mean in here? this is your room you grew up in for fuck sake? anywhere else could’ve been better, their room god.

“I can’t believe I just fucked my dad best friends in my childhood room” You say to yourself as you stare your ceiling.

You wonder what will happen next weekend. Will anything happen?

[demie90s]

I love you lexi

My request: singer reader X Sydney colson

So reader is a bitch, like straight up bitch but people don't say nun because everything she drops is straight fire. (She's nice to her genuine fans tho) She has a resting bitch face, she hardly smiles, like pictures of reader smiling are so rare. So she goes to a game and Sydney(the face of the League) sees her and thinks she's fine so she leaves the bench (not like they gonna put her in) and goes to sit beside reader to flirt and then just when everyone thought reader would shut it down, she laughs, like full on laughter and every social media platform erupts, even Facebook 👀

🤏🏽🤏🏽🤏🏽😝❤️‍🔥

You're doing good darling, keep working

Smile

Sydney Colson x fem!reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

Summary: Your a certified hitmaker with a mean mug and zero tolerance for nonsense. You rarely smile, rarely speak, and somehow stays undefeated.

Warnings: Resting bitch face, celebrity chaos, flirty banter, social media reactions, unexpected softness

Word count: ~ 0.4k

Everybody got an image. Mine just happens to be real.

Resting bitch face? I invented it. I got a whole award show photo line-up where I look like I’m either plotting or pissed. I don’t smile. I don’t do interviews unless the lighting is right and my edge control is holding. I’m nice to fans ‘cause I’m not evil, but anything past that? Catch me later.

I been in the game since I was sixteen—penning hooks for your faves before I even knew how to parallel park. I write for me now. Been Grammy-nominated, platinum-certified, all that. Every song I drop? Fire. No misses. No skips. So no, I don’t need to smile for you to respect me.

I show up to a WNBA game for vibes. Hoodie zipped, shades on, a look that says “please don’t fucking talk to me” and still? Still I get photographed like I’m performing. Whatever.

I’m courtside. Hair laid, nails sharp, phone untouched, iced-out earrings swinging like I’m about to drop a diss track mid-timeout. My security posted up next to me, not because I’m in danger—but because I’m famous and mean.

And then here come Sydney Colson.

Not walking. Strutting.

Warmup shirt on. Ponytail bouncing. Raspy-ass laugh already escaping her throat even though nobody said shit. She ain’t playing tonight—probably wasn’t even thinking about playing—but she got the whole bench lit. I see her from across the court, clowning with her teammates, holding a Gatorade bottle like it’s a mic, doing a fake post-game interview while the huddle going on behind her.

And then, she locks eyes with me.

I don’t react. Keep my head still, eyes on the court, but I feel her look. That look women give when they about to ruin your whole routine just ‘cause they can.

She excuses herself from the bench like it’s a damn church pew and makes her way across the court. Crowd noise still going, play in motion, and here come this woman stomping like her Jordans got something to prove.

And she sits. Right. Next. To. Me.

Leans back. One arm behind me on the seat like we know each other. Pulls a lollipop out of her pocket like she been waiting all game to pull this shit. Unwraps it. Loud. Crunches it between her teeth and goes—

“So… you allergic to smiling, or is this a fashion thing?”

I turn my head just slightly. My eyes meet hers over the rim of my shades. Her mouth is already curled up in that dumb, sexy grin like she just said the slickest thing in the universe.

I blink slow. “Do you rehearse these lines in the mirror?”

“Nah,” she rasps, chewing like the lollipop talking back. “I get possessed by the spirit of chaos when I see a bad bitch.”

I hold my stare. She raises an eyebrow like she’s the one waiting on me to fold.

Then she adds, deadpan, “Your face look like you murdered your ex and the body still warm.”

I snort. I almost laugh. But I suck it back in, glance forward again.

“You always this bold?”

“Only when I got time. Which, conveniently, I do,” she says, biting the lollipop again. Loud as hell. “They not putting me in. I done brought lip gloss to the bench. This a red carpet appearance, not a game.”

She got me grinning inside. And that pisses me off.

“You talk too much.”

“I heard that from my high school math teacher. She also said I’d never amount to anything and now I got a blue check.”

“Everybody got one.”

“Not like mine, baby. Mine come with flavor.” She leans in like we about to kiss or fight. “What yours come with? Trauma and Grammys?”

And that’s when I bark-laugh.

Full body. Teeth showing. Shoulders shaking. Laughing like she tickled my soul and my knee at the same time.

And the whole crowd turns. Phones UP. Sideline cameras SWIVEL. I see the shockwave ripple like somebody just hit a half-court buzzer beater.

“IS SHE LAUGHING?!”

Someone in the row behind yells it. Then I hear another voice go “Nah that’s Sydney Colson. She got the power of the Lord and a mic.”

Even security’s laughing.

Sydney just sits there smug as hell. Satisfied. Smugger than a villain in a Disney Channel movie. Her legs crossed, arms out like she just hit a game-winner.

“I knew I had one in me,” she says. “You just needed to be handled by a professional.”

“You’re ridiculous,” I mutter, still wiping my eyes from laughing.

“And you’re fine. So here we are.”

⸻

By the time the buzzer sounds? My face is everywhere. Twitter. Instagram. Shade Room. SportsCenter. Even Facebook got the aunties talking.

“Did y’all see that rapper girl SMILE?”

“Sydney Colson got her giggling like they in high school.”

“Oh she in love. I can tell by the way her gums was showing.”

I get a text from my manager like: “Explain???”

I reply: “Blame Syd.”

⸻

Next game? I’m courtside again. Now, when Sydney walks over? I move my bag off the seat before she even asks.

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