#trying to logic every single thing out

[mandalhoerian]

Fish in a Birdcage ৎ୭

ৎ୭ ⸻ rafayel has quite the storm raging in his mind during his artistic expedition to aridum. which, the root of his crisis he was trying to wean himself off of wasn't supposed to tag along to make him spiral further. funny thing is, you just think he's sick. he is. just infected by something far worse than you can imagine: crippling dependency.

ৎ୭ ⸻ SO MUCH BUILD-UP, momentary sickfic, anxious attachment issues, rafayel being hot and cold with the reader, angst, exhibitionism for like 0.01 seconds bc of bond shenanigans, switch4switch and constantly changing dynamics that comes with it, handjob, slight obedience kink, impromptu bondage play with rafayel's neck piece praise kink, obedience kink blink and you miss it, p in v, CLOTHED SEX ITS SO HOT 2 ME, unprotected sex, multiple rounds.

ৎ୭ ⸻ hello lads fandom, FIRST WORK HERE (it sucked my soul out i've been working on this for like tHREE weeks)!!! this is my adaptation of rafayel's nightly rendezvous card intertidal zone. a lot of it is based on my reading and understanding of the card, i'm so sorry for releasing this when caleb just released but, i hope you enjoy, much love <3 ( lil tag: @comatosebunny09 )

ৎ୭ ⸻ 26K, read on ao3

In retrospect, finding out Aridum was a city in the middle of a desert should have made you stop and think more about how the climate would actually affect Rafayel before diving straight into travel plans.

You know, a Lemurian.

Who, logically, wouldn’t fare well in the dry heat.

Rafayel flicking off your genuine concern like it was a bug on the surface tension of his fish tank was the first red flag you should have paid more attention to. In your defense, since he’d been there before and was confident enough to initiate banter, it was easy to give in and trust he knew what he was doing as he batted his lashes at you with those pretty dual-colored, sparkly wide eyes that left you starstruck in the face and said, “As long as I’m with you, I’ll be fine.”

Well. He was with you now and he wasn’t fine.

Because for once in his life, Rafayel didn’t have enough energy to run laps around you. Just a few minutes outside the hotel, lingering near the grand fountain square framed by towering palm trees that offered scant shade, and he began to deflate pitifully like a garish balloon leaking its vigor into the sweltering air. His usual dynamism, the kind that pulled attention to him as effortlessly as a river carved its path, had dimmed to a sluggish ebb, so much so you found yourself glancing over your shoulder every ten seconds, vigilance heightened by the unsettling absence of his ever-present current. The languid pace like he was moving through molasses made him look like an entirely different person than the one tugging you through the airport with even the luggage excitedly rolling behind him.

And it had been just a single day since you’d set foot in Aridum.

That wasn’t to say the trip had been a disaster or he was in terrible shape — you two were still on day one. Back in Linkon, he was, on paper, enthusiastic about pointing out local landmarks for you to go together like he knew the city personally, but he had quickly lost that energy when it actually came to the execution. You chalked it up to him not being able to get any sleep the previous night because of a mix of jetlag and the discomfort of a new bed, but regardless, it was still concerning to watch him only interested in stopping by street stands where he could buy himself cold water bottles and stand in a shaded corner in order to drink them slowly under shelter, while also dragging you with him, so there wouldn't be even a split-second distance between you two.

You were thankful you didn't have many plans in mind. Rafayel always packed enough enthusiasm for the both of you, but now, as you watched with wide-eyed worry how his spark had suddenly wilted, the drastic shift in his personality left him finding everything he suggested doing utterly unnecessary for the day. On top of that, after only managing to sit still for five minutes or so, it'd become obvious to see that the environment of this city, complete with a sun beating down hot enough to cook you alive, had taken a toll on Rafayel's temperament far more drastically than expected — rendering his eagerness completely sour.

But still, you wanted to cheer him up, you did. It broke your heart seeing someone who brought so much life into every room shrivel down to such a defeated shell. Maybe that's why you couldn't help yourself when you caught him pouting at something on the phone screen as if it'd done him a great offense.

So, you began teasing. “Rafayel, we haven’t even been out for thirty minutes, you're sweating already?"

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” you countered, only to squint at his face more closely. “Wait. You’re not?”

He threw his arms out like he was expecting a grander reaction. “Do you know what that means?”

“That you’re a human raisin in the making?”

He groaned, a sound that was more theatrical than pained, but you still caught the edge of frustration in it. “It means I’m seconds away from crumbling into sand. You’ll have to gather me up and carry me home in a jar.”

You started walking towards one of the fountains near some empty seats where shade was available, while he dragged himself behind you like a zombie. "Let's sit you down before you begin to form cracks."

The fountain’s spray misted faintly in the air, enough to make the stone bench beneath feel less like a skillet. Rafayel took extra care positioning himself on one of the seats before collapsing backward, draping one arm over his flushed face.

He took the bottle of yet another ice cold water you fished out from your bag without protest, but his free hand found your wrist and lingered there — light at first, then tighter, like he needed to anchor himself. The unexpected heat radiating from his skin sent a little jolt up your arm. You were about to comment on it, but then he tipped the bottle back and drank, and you swore you could feel the tension in his throat as if it was your own.

When he finished, he let out a breath — not a sigh, just an exhale that sounded heavy, deliberate, sprawling beside you, one leg stretched out, the other bouncing restlessly as he tilted his head back and squinted at the cloudless sky.

“I think I’m dying,” he announced, as if that wasn’t thr fourth time he’d said it today.

After your attention was made aware that he indeed wasn’t sweating by the dry hairline of his, though, the mood to banter had dissipated like a mirage. You began fussing. Was it normal that he didn’t sweat? If a normal person was like this, they needed to be taken to the hospital. However, Rafayel had done nothing but up the ante in complaining, that had to indicate nothing was seriously wrong, right? He’d know his body the best. Right?

“I told you to put on sunscreen this morning. Did you?”

He scoffed, “I don’t need it,” — and you heard the imaginary Lemurian in his tone rolling his eyes at your human expectations.

“Not with that attitude,” you shut him down, already skimming through your bag at an increasingly faster pace. “Now, keep still.”

Finding what you were looking for, you uncapped the bottle, reaching out with one hand to tilt Rafayel’s head left and right to gauge where to start. His skin under the pads of your fingertips felt almost brittle and paper-thin — unnatural on Rafayel, making you unconsciously rub like it was a stain you could get rid of. Without meaning to, you frowned, and he made a soft, lukewarm grumble, nudging your leg with his foot, reminding you what you were doing. Which was fussing over a grown man who should have been responsible from the start and able to take care of himself.

“Show me your forehead,” you said, wanting to get it out the way first.

He obediently carded his bangs back, silent, half-hooded eyes flicking everywhere on your face going ignored as you rubbed sunscreen in and felt what alarmingly was similar to a fever. It was a relief to hear him humming at the feeling, you hoped it would help as you quickly moved to spread the white lotion over his cheeks and smeared a stripe right across the bridge of his nose as he fixed his hair, squinting at your ministrations.

Though, somehow, he looked contented enough that you had to stop him from nuzzling into your hand. “Rafayel, I’m working here.”

All you got was a breathy, “Mmm,” as if he was speaking through the pleasant haze of sleep.

How contradictory of him, as always. For someone constantly grumbling about the unbearable heat, he leaned into every touch with a docility that defied reason — and worse, he initiated them, either molding against you like water taking the shape of the container it was poured into, or his fingers ghosting over your skin as though drawn by instinct. You couldn’t make sense of it. The mere thought of physical contact when the air was this heavy and oppressive made your skin crawl, but he seemed to revel in it. No, thrived on it.

It wasn’t just the way he didn’t flinch — he leaned in harder, his breaths hitching faintly, brow furrowed like he was wrestling with a need he barely understood. You’d swear the heat radiating from your skin would only make it worse, yet he tilted his face into your touch as though your thumbs brushing his cheekbones offered a balm, a strange, cooling relief.

Maybe, he perceived your skin to be indeed cooler than his.

It had to be something unique to his Lemurian physiology. His reactions didn’t make sense otherwise. What human would ever enjoy the sensation of warmth pressed against warmth in such sweltering conditions? And yet here he was, biting back what suspiciously sounded like a placid sigh, while you struggled to reconcile the peculiar contradiction.

“C’mon, don’t let me do all the work,” you muttered, quieter than you intended, the heat and the moment distracting you entirely.

You must have sounded a tad bit worried, because Rafayel didn’t react with his usual playful defiance or the melodramatic sulking he resorted to when things didn’t go his way. Instead, he fell silent, sinking more fully against your side as though he belonged there, and successfully narrowed the angle you were working with. His head tilted slightly, guiding your hand to the sharp line of his jaw with an unspoken invitation, eyelashes fluttering as he blinked, the haze of his voice turning soft and almost vulnerable. You couldn’t even see his face properly from looking at the top of the purple mop of hair blocking you.

"Do my neck too?"

Before you could decide, his hand encircled your wrist. Not tightly — not forcefully — but with a loose, guiding pressure that was maddeningly deliberate. He led your lotion-slicked hand to curve around his throat, the smooth, simmering heat of his skin pressing against your palm.

You hesitated, the instinct to pull away warring with the strange tension settling between you both, but his thumb found the delicate underside of your wrist and began tracing slow, thoughtful patterns that seemed designed to leave you paralyzed. You knew damn well how tenderly and skillfully he handled paintbrushes, and it was evident by the practiced precision of each touch that he was using the same sensibility on you, whether he was fully aware of it or not, which sent a warm burst of blood rising to your cheeks.

Seeming restless, Rafayel sat up straight and finally allowed you a clear view of him. His head tipped further back, exposing more of his neck to your hand, eyes darkened into to a shade of purple that seemed otherworldly in the harsh light of day. They glittered like faceted amethysts film-burned blue around the edges, soaking in every sunlit fleck of your features with a focus that made your chest tighten, like you were being studied with the assessment of the artist Rafayel before another’s painting, his focus unbroken save for the low hum he let slip, soft and unguarded.

You swallowed hard, aware of how exposed you were. The bustling world of Aridum hadn’t stopped turning just because the two of you had stumbled into whatever this was. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of your neck, but it wasn’t just the desert heat making you feel like you were suffocating.

This shouldn’t have been happening. Not here, not now.

Your breath shuddered as you finally regained enough sense to break the silence. "Do it yourself," you murmured, voice uneven as you pressed the bottle of sunscreen into his chest. You looked away, clumsily rubbing your hands on your arms to mask the way they trembled, pretending to rid yourself of excess lotion while wishing desperately to erase the heat radiating off your skin.

Rafayel sighed, a low sound of reluctant acceptance, as he pulled himself upright. His fingers glided over his neck, spreading the sunscreen where you hadn’t, his movements smooth and unaffected as he worked the lotion over his collarbones and along the nape of his neck. The sight was annoyingly graceful, as though he wasn’t feeling the same unbearable tension you were. If you’d have thought of bringing a small electric fan along today, it would have been inches from your face already.

"Maybe we should’ve gone out at night," you said abruptly, grasping for any lifeline to shift the moment’s focus. Your gaze darted to him as he worked, your cheeks burning hotter than the sunlight that baked the streets. "Now I feel bad."

"What for?"

"Making you come along. This must not be very inspiring.”

Rafayel let out an honest-to-goodness laugh. It rolled from his throat so easily and naturally that it seemed even he wasn’t aware of it until the sound tapered off into a quiet chuckle. Shaking his head, he leaned toward you until his temple rested lightly on your shoulder, his gaze unfocused as he stared absently at the fountain ahead. "I’m not giving up time with you just because the sun here wants me dead."

He completely bypassed the part about inspiration, but the sincerity in his words hit you like a splash of cool water on overheated skin. Your shoulders relaxed as you melted into a sigh, letting your head fall atop his, but the sticky warmth made the closeness unbearable almost instantly.

You promptly peeled yourself away with an, "Ugh.” He had already filled his making-you-feel-hot quota for the day, in every sense of the word.

Rafayel straightened just enough to meet your gaze, "That’s how you answer my heroic declaration?" he asked dryly, one brow arched in faux offense.

He didn’t budge, though, even though the heat seemed to bother him more than it did you. The stubborn set of his jaw spoke volumes, and it took a gentle nudge of your elbow to get him to finally sit upright. Even then, he let out a dramatic whine from deep in his chest as if being forced to separate was a personal betrayal.

"You’re lucky I’m rewarding it with mercy," you shot back, brushing a hand through your hair to vent your own rising frustration with the heat. "Come on, let’s head back. I need to get my fishie in the water before he dries up completely."

"But you wanted to see—"

"There’ll be plenty of opportunities in the future," you interrupted with a wave of your hand. "If anything, this was a good lesson about choosing the time we go out more carefully."

To your relief, Rafayel didn’t push back. He rose to his feet with you, though his sluggish movements and the slight downward pull of his lips suggested reluctance. As much as his leaning on you had been irritating in the heat, the sight of his faint frown made your chest tighten, and without thinking, you looped your arm through his and pulled him closer, even though the contact made your already overheated skin feel unbearable. His shoulders straightened slightly at the gesture, but the small crease between his brows didn’t disappear.

"I hear it’s seafood night at the hotel restaurant," you offered, attempting to lift his mood. He was obviously bummed out, but his stubbornness refused to show why outright. It was cute to a degree — childish almost, so endearing you couldn't find it in yourself to grow impatient with him. But you hated seeing him down. "If we head back now, we might snag a rooftop table.”

"Snag? Puh-lease. Worst case scenario, one glimpse of me and I could get us prime seating any time, anywhere," Rafayel scoffed. Still, the corner of his lip twitched upward as if tempted to smile, and you found yourself mirroring the reaction immediately. “And that whole thing would still be less bothersome than you assuming I haven’t secured us a reservation already.”

Later that evening, after dinner on the rooftop, the mix-up with the room service attendant delivering Rafayel’s envelope to your room turned out to be a convenient excuse to check on him. It had been hours since you insisted he take time to rest, and while he promised to settle in and let you know how he felt after freshening up, you hadn’t heard from him since.

You were greeted by the humidity hitting you in the face like a solid wall of rain when the door got opened though, instead of your boyfriend. Thick as fog like it had its own gravity.

Rafayel stood in the doorway, his hair dripping and clinging to his flushed skin in lazy dark purple rivulets, robe loose, the soft fabric blotched dark with water where droplets had slid from his neck and shoulders.

The room behind him radiated a different kind of heat — not the oppressive dryness of the desert, but the heavy, steamy warmth of someone trying to crawl their way back to comfort in the only way they knew how.

He looked better, at least.

The brittle edge that had been clinging to him seemed softened, as if he’d soaked away some of the tension in the beath he’d clearly stepped out of upon you knocking on his door.

Still, the sight of him — damp like a wet cat instead of a fish in his natural environment, robe-clad, the faint sheen of exhaustion still lingering in the way he leaned against the door frame left an odd twist in your chest.

He didn't look any worse for wear than he had earlier in the day when he’d claimed he wanted to spend the rest of his night marinating in ice cold water, and while seeing him not suffering was a relief, you clearly weren't expecting for him to actually mean what he said, even though the water obviously wasn’t ice cold.

The envelope, as it turned out, held a ticket to the memorial hall and an invitation to an art salon gathering hosted by one of his friends. Neither looked to be sparking any interest in Rafayel, however, despite him having come here for as much stimulation as possible for his inspiration.

You understood. It just wasn’t possible when he wasn’t feeling well.

The room itself was telling the entire story, in fact, chaotic in its stillness against the beauty of the floor-to ceiling windows framing the desert skyline in soft, shimmering lights of the city crowned by the full moon hanging proudly above. Papers were scattered across the floor in uneven piles, some curling slightly at the edges where they’d caught the artificial moisture in the air, blank and untouched, and some haphazardly sketched in a way you couldn't even begin to guess what they would become later. A few uncapped pens sat nearby, ink untouched, next to a can of soda that had long since gone warm. It wasn’t hard to guess what he’d been doing — or trying to do — in the hours since you’d left him.

So, you told him to stop forcing himself. Come enjoy the scenery with you.

It was your first instinct, but the words didn’t feel enough. You weren’t an artist, you didn’t know what would be good for the block he was going through. Even though your concern was genuine, you were clumsy at best at consolation.

But, he did lower himself onto the floor beside you anyway, his hands brushing against the scattered papers as he sat and leaned back on his palms. Like this, it was easy to imagine him search for his vision to come to him among the mess as he was attempting to draw, and end up with his gaze drifting out the window instead.

And then, as if he were a tide and the moonlight was pulling him inexorably to shore, he began to open up. Pushed by your mention of watching the view together, he spoke of sceneries. Of what traveling to discover secret corners of nature meant to him before everything changed — before he started creating. About how he used to just look at the world and feel it. Admire it. He didn’t need to do anything with it back then. A sunset was just a sunset, the sea was simply the sea, and neither asked anything of him but to exist alongside them.

Once he began to create, however...

Those discoveries done from a place of pure enjoyment became material, their beauty and pain turned into fuel. The act of looking became an act of taking. Of extracting. He started to see the world not as it was, but as something that could be stripped bare and transformed. A beautiful, bleeding wound. Every sunrise painted became a slice taken from the sun. Every ocean wave he put down on canvas was a handful of ocean lost. He couldn't experience sceneries for themselves anymore without having to to capture and translate them into a demand.

He didn’t look at you while he spoke, but the portrait of his honesty could be interpreted by even the most art-blind.

It was then that he dropped the bomb on you: “If one day, I become someone who only takes from you… If I were like that, would you leave me?”

That question dropped into the space between you like a stone in still water, sending ripples through everything you thought you understood about this moment.

But Rafayel was watching you in a way that made your pulse trip over itself, dissecting every flicker of your expression, like you were sitting in the middle of a high-stakes exam you hadn’t studied for. His fingers splayed on the ground besides yours were mere inches away, but even in that minimal distance, you sensed him drawing further back — a subconscious, reflexive reaction to fear, as if he needed to protect himself by retreating into some remote part of his mind, distant and closed off from the rest of him.

"Oh you silly fishie..." was your immediate response despite the whiplash he'd inflicted upon you, fondness rolling off your tongue easily, folding over itself into a dull ache for the struggle he was going through. "I won't leave you."

Your hand slid towards him, pinky finger crossing over until it brushed against his — gently, giving him ample chance to pull away before you covered his entire hand with your palm.

He was feverish again, despite all attempts made to soothe him, and the urge to smooth the pads of your fingers over his flushed skin, mapping each ridge and freckle that dotted his knuckles, surged forward within you. And you gave in, trying to make up for what you knew words would never be able to express, as you lightly rubbed lines onto the back of his hand.

It seemed to melt something in him, and he eased into your touch. It was an involuntary response to you reaching out for him — he tilted into you like he always did. It only lasted a second or two, however, before you felt him falter; like he noticed the instinctual motion midway, then consciously pushed down the reaction by gripping his thighs in an effort to sit back and avoid leaning in. Your heart dropped a little, confused, and you stole a peek at his face through the corner of your lashes to try to guess what he was thinking about.

What you saw only amplified how wrong everything felt. His features, which normally softened whenever you reached out for him, tightened, pensive. He frowned, holding back — hesitant about something, unreadable except for a subtle unease creeping in around the edges.

Even before he broke the silence, you had the awful premonition that his next words weren't going to be what you hoped to hear.

"Are you sure?" he asked, measured and quiet, and you knew you were right. This was trouble.

You squeezed his hand lightly despite wanting to do the very opposite, reassuringly, "Do you really think I’d stay even a second longer with someone I know is bad for me?"

He remained unresponsive.

“Rafayel?”

You made it about yourself, idiot, you realized.

Instead of acknowledging him and his cue for more reassurance and affirmation, you'd shifted the attention from him to trust in your decision making. You hadn't meant to, you hadn't done it deliberately — but...

Gosh, you were absolutely terrible at this.

So much so that Rafayel being the more emotionally in-tune of the two of you even in his vulnerable state was setting a humiliating new standard for how low you could go.

It was pathetic, really, how utterly you failed to pick up on what should have been an obvious cue. There wasn’t a shred of doubt in your mind that he’d taken your clumsy words as a glaring sign you found his struggles trivial, insignificant compared to your own convenience. All you’d managed to do was shove him deeper into the spiral of insecurities he was already battling.

This was supposed to help him clear his head. All it had achieved so far was adding onto his concerns.

Despite your determination to pour everything you had into assuaging the gnarled knot of his self-doubt, you were woefully unqualified for the task. Unmoored, you floundered blindly through half-finished thoughts, grasping for ways to communicate your feelings — gracelessly, imprecisely — all in hopes of soothing whatever ugly thoughts tangled around your boyfriend's brain like weeds choking the life from fertile soil.

Your stammering words stuck to the roof of your mouth like taffy, thick, unwilling to yield, and suddenly useless, coming out slow as you spoke. “What I mean by that is… My life has been consumed by you. In the best way possible. You made it ito a beautiful, chaotic mess bursting with life. I couldn’t possibly leave you.”

And he heard it — you felt it in the faint shuddering breath he drew as a silent response.

His thumb swiped over your pinky in absent response, stroking soothingly over the thin bones as he stared at your joined hands. His shoulders hadn't relaxed even marginally, but there was still an immeasurable kindness in the gesture.

“Besides, you’re not someone who takes. That’s not true at all. You’re just…”

He looked up then, turning his head to you, a doe-eyed, half-dazed blink breaking past the glassy stare he'd fixed on the empty space in front of him. His hand twitched underneath yours, flexing as he made a questioning noise, wordlessly urging you to elaborate as he invited comfort from your explanation. The way he tilted his head, the corners of his furrowed brows slightly angled upwards — the effect was childlike, innocent almost.

Receptive.

Breaking through your hesitation to touch him lest he shrink away again, you lifted both hands to cradle his cheeks gently, smoothing your thumbs across the high sweep of his cheekbones until his eyelids slid shut.

A soft sigh fell from his parted lips, his body pliant in your grasp as he melted under your fingertips, as if the gesture were more potent than any reassurance you might offer. The climbing tension within your ribcage dissolved with a single exhalation at the sight — helplessly endeared by his sheer willingless to submit to your awkward, inexpressive attempt at consoling. Subtle adoration burned quietly beneath each featherlight caress you placed along the slope of his nose or the soft patches underneath his eyes.

"You're just feeling a little anxious," you continued carefully, brushing a stray piece of damp hair away from his temple. It stuck stubbornly, refusing to let itself be tucked behind his ear before you tried again, gentler this time, hoping to soothe any lingering reservations you hadn't managed to wash away. “That’s probably why you’re overthinking things.”

In the brief silence that followed, anxiety bubbled low in your stomach once more, especially when he seemed to be focusing somewhere on your neck and ignoring looking you in the eye directly. It came as yet another whiplash and a sinking feeling simultaneously when he covered one of your hands with his, tilting his chin to plant a kiss into the centre of your palm as if making up for the withdrawal from earlier.

"What, were you playing tricks on me?" you murmured.

Shaking his head, "A token of my gratitude," he clarified. A gentle huff of laughter slipped past his lips, so faintly that you would've missed it had you not been staring at him with rapt attention in your bewilderment. "For you. Who accepted someone like me."

You frowned, eyebrows immediately drawing close. “Rafayel—”

He leaned in all of a sudden, one of his arms slid behind your back, while the other stretched across in front of you, caging you in with an unnerving ease. Both his hands rested flat against the floor now, framing you on either side like a living barricade. Your own left arm shot down to slap a palm down so you wouldn't topple over on your side. The droplets falling from his damp hair onto your neck was a sharp, sudden cold in comparison to the alarming heat radiating from his body, making you jolt in place as he loomed close enough for his breath to fan across your face.

"You're burning up again," you said weakly, trying and failing spectacularly to disguise your nervousness with indignance as his lips brushed softly against the apple of your cheek before ghosting lower, pausing just beneath your ear, testing for a reaction.

Meanwhile, him taking your hand that was balled up in a fist on the ground to slowly bring it towards his mouth left you frozen and dizzy from the contradictory sensations prickling under your skin.

Rafayel hummed against your wrist in response, dropping light kisses along the ridge of bone connecting your thumb to the rest of your fingers in the interim. It was impossible to ignore how every one of his touches ignited something different within you — the sensation of him painting the length of each finger with tender brushes of his lips and heated exhales sent pulses of liquid warmth flowing through your bloodstream.

The abrupt shift had left you uncertain about many things, chief among which being whether your previous efforts actually sank in at all or not.

Apparently they had.

The combined assault was distracting, but even amidst the whirlwind of thoughts vying for attention, you struggled to fully comprehend just how drastically the moment had veered off course — how your own worry-stricken attempt at appeasing him ended here instead, with your pulse hammering in your ears as he pressed even closer, draping his arm around your waist to turn you sideways until you were nearly sitting on his lap, faces inches apart.

A glimpse hope of maintaining control over the situation arrived in the form of a can toppling over during his handling of you, clattering on the hardwood flooring and startling you enough to snap free of the strange trance Rafayel had ensnared you in during his momentary lapse in focus.

Being so close gave you a good look at the change in him that manifested suddenly; his features visibly hardened as he turned his head at the disturbance, seemingly irritated to have been interrupted midway — a dark glint shone through his lashes before shifting over to you, misty, hazy, indescribable in its raw complexity.

His bathrobe hung loose, the neckline slouched further down one shoulder from having moved so much earlier, displaying more skin than was appropriate, and you weren’t sure if you were imagining the faintest hint of familiar coloration mottling his chest.

Which was dry.

Not only had his skin absorbed all the moisture that clung to it like a sponge after stepping out of the bathroom, there was no hint of perspiration whatsoever — not a bead of sweat lining the ridges of his collarbone or dampening the strands of hair stuck to his forehead.

As if responding to your inner thoughts, he lamented, "As you said, I'm anxious... Well, more like... Restless," before leaning in further to bury his face in the crook of your shoulder. "Ever since I arrived here, I feel..."

His arms encircled your waist, pulling you flush against the expanse of his chest and filling your nose with the scent of bodywash. It was no less than holding a solid block of heat capable of radiating more than enough warmth to replace an actual human furnace. The sheer amount of radiated temperature seemed ridiculous in such conditions, but the way he tried the loosen the already disheveled robe covering his other shoulder despite coiling around you, which had to be the source of the biggest discomfort concerning heat, was even more ridiculous. Shouldn’t he have let go of you before complaining?

"The air feels like it's burning, like there's not enough moisture anywhere. My heart's racing and I feel so miserable," he admitted quietly, muffled in the material of your shirt.

Yeah, you were taking him to a hospital.

This wasn't normal by any means, especially since you were now a hundred percent sure Rafayel couldn't sweat in order to regulate his internal body heat.

How could you let this go on for so long? He had been suffering these symptoms for a whole day now, hiding it all under layers of petulant frustration and overdramatic complaining to escape having to ask for help.

He was always like this. So secretive and reserved about his struggles underneath all the goofiness, especially those directly related to him being a Lemurian.

You put a hand on his burning chest and pushed yourself away to put some distance between the two of you and this moment, ignoring his quiet gasp and the way he clutched your waist. "I'm taking you to a—”

Suddenly, the world spun off its axis, a dizzying blur of motion that ended with your back colliding against the floorboards.

The impact sent a ripple through the room — drawing pens clattering and rolling away, half-sketched papers crumpling beneath you, while others scattered into the air like startled birds, carried by the gust of displaced air.

As you blinked up, trying to shake the daze from your mind, the world sharpened into focus.

The light cascaded over Rafayel like liquid mercury, accentuating every sharp edge and soft curve of his form. His bare legs straddled your hips, knees pressed firmly into the ground on either side of you, pinning you in place with an effortless authority. His hands had found yours in the chaos, and now your wrists were restrained above your head, his long fingers encircling them with a grip that was firm yet somehow shaky.

The bathrobe he wore hung precariously, one shoulder already exposed to the moonlight’s caress while the other threatened to follow suit, the fabric dipping low to reveal a tantalizing V that stretched from his clavicle down to his navel. Tendrils of lilac hair curled lightly downwards with gravity, catching the light from outside, glittering like morning dew against a canvas of violet satin and plopping down onto your face, each impact making you blink. And his face, suffused with a flush so intense that it seemed to glow under the pale lighting, as if all the blood in his body had rushed to stain his fair skin with an undeniable rosy bloom.

The cool floorboards beneath your skin were contrasting harshly with the heat of his touch, and the helpless position left your pulse racing in a way you couldn’t entirely blame on adrenaline.

Rafayel lowered himself until his nose brushed lightly against yours, his breaths shallow and uneven, eyes caught halfway between hazy drowsiness and burning intensity — a vivid shade of sunless plum made darker not by the shadows cast across his features, but a deeply buried and masterfully concealed emotion on the verge of making itself known to you.

To call it desire wouldn't do it justice.

It was something far stronger than fleeting arousal or casual infatuation — you hadn’t been looked at this way before. Weren’t even sure if a man could look at someone like this. There was nothing superficial or mundane about this particular weight. It sought to consume you. To burn you alive, leaving you to crumble into ashes like incense offered up to a deity. And the worst part? You had no idea what exactly you were being consumed by, or why.

All of this, because you had merely wanted to—

“No. I’m not going anywhere,” he hissed as if sensing your plan, breath dragging along the edge of your ear. "I'm just... restless.”

But—

“In every sense of the word.”

Oh?

Your mind reeled, dizzy from the intoxicating cocktail flooding your senses — from his breaths washing over the side of your neck, to the overwhelming sensation of Rafayel on the verge of draping over you like a living brand, hot and firm, trapping you in place.

"Especially when you're by my side," he purred.

Oh.

He pulled back to stare you down, heavy-lidded and glinting like knives honed razor sharp, yet somehow tender in his approach. If anything, it served only to accentuate the danger of whatever it was simmering below the surface. This was different than his Ebb Day state, but similar enough in its intent to be instantly recognizable — especially since it bore all the marks of the manic rush he fell victim to when succumbing to the lure of his instincts.

It was something primal in you that scattered your thought process into oblivion and made you look away instinctively, averting your attention toward the window off to your left — but the sparkling view of night time in Aridum was soon curtained by a flash of Rafayel's hand as he cupped the side of your face in one smooth motion.

The slight roughness of the pad of his thumb brushed along your cheekbone until his fingers sank into your hair, fanned along the outer edge of your ear, and turned you back to face him. The gesture felt proprietary, like he wanted to make certain he'd captured every last scrap of your undivided attention, like it physically hurt to allow even the smallest opportunity for you to withdraw and escape his grasp.

“Rafayel,” you forced your common sense to come out of its hiding place. “I don’t think—”

"But even so, I can't let you go. I don't want to," he breathed against your lips, punctuating his command with an achingly slow drag of his nose tracing yours. The contact made something molten unfurl in your belly, warm and sticky-slick and pooling in the hollow space below your navel, curling its tendrils through your veins like sweet, syrupy nectar. "What should I do?"

It would be easier than breathing to surrender and give him whatever he was asking for, but... but...

It felt wrong when he was so distressingly hot to the touch, not to mention you couldn't shake off the feeling he was doing his best to distract you from your worry by acting more brazenly suggestive than you'd ever seen him be before.

"You should rest, I don't think you'll enjoy getting worked up in your current condition—"

Your efforts were derailed with the subtle scrape of chapped lips running up the slope of your neck and a bite into the fleshy part below your ear as punishment for daring to answer his plea with platitude.

A shudder shook your frame, nerves firing off confused messages in quick succession throughout your brain, half demanding the sudden pressure recede and half urging more from the tingling heat. Your hand flew to grip his bare shoulder, fingers digging in until the tight bunch of muscle strained beneath his fevered skin — not enough to stop his ministrations, but enough to serve as a weak deterrent.

"Such lovely lips, spinning such pretty excuses," Rafayel huffed, drawing back and sweeping his thumb across your chin with gentle disapproval. "When we both know you don't want me to let you go either."

The words trailed off into something softer, tender, almost wistful, and were followed by the pad of his finger slipping past your parted lips, stroking along the underside of your tongue before drawing back and skimming across the wet patch he'd left glistening upon your bottom lip. As if magnetized, his smoldering stare followed, entranced by the minute trembling of your mouth, darting occasionally upward to capture your own hooded eyes at the sudden boldness of his gesture. He licked his own lips slowly as if thirsty, mirroring the same lazy stroke he'd used against your mouth, allowing you to take your fill of the sight.

No.

Before you could fall into his enticing trap again, your palm pressed firmly against Rafayel's chest until he eased back obediently, giving you space to rise, every single sensation previously pink at the edges quickly melting into clarity about taking care of him properly.

"This isn't the right time," you insisted breathlessly once you managed to catch your breath and speak, steadfast with the strain of iron will alone — pushing forward when your mind threatened to wander where his moistened lips had been just seconds before.

The mood was quickly dispelling, much to Rafayel's clear irritation, judging by the petulant slouch of his shoulders. You emphasized your point by putting your hands on his forehead, cheeks, neck, every patch of skin you could reach, the clear intent of medical examination being communicated silently until he relented with a dramatic sigh, turning his face upwards to expose more of his throat as if giving permission.

"It's fine," he groused reluctantly, although his grumbling somewhat relenting in volume under your gentle inspection. "I'm not dying."

"That's the opposite of what you said earlier today. Are you sure you don't want—"

His hands closed firmly around your wrists, tugging you off gently before you could finish speaking. "It's really not that bad.”

You’d be more convinced if he'd just told you about how miserable he was feeling.

"Is it a Lemurian condition?" You frowned up at him, taking note of how carefully he cradled your hands in his palms, stroking the insides of your wrists. "If it's making you feel awful, shouldn't we see someone about it?"

Rafayel tilted his head at you with a peculiar sort of fondness written across his features. It was difficult to identify what precisely made his smile curve upward into something distinctly knowing, yet warm — something infinitely affectionate yet impossible to quantify.

"Already doing that," he answered cryptically, tilting forward until he met your forehead with his own, nuzzling into the creased spot directly between your brows, eyelashes fluttering shut.

Ugh, this man.

"Do you know for a fact if you'll be okay?" you asked as delicately as possible without sounding too overbearing. That would definitely push Rafayel closer to defensive territory again and have him brush off any attempt at assistance, or even conversation, so you needed to walk the tightrope of concern while still keeping it mild enough for him not to clam up. "This trip still has a few more days left. What if you don't get better?"

The corner of his mouth twitched faintly with a ghost of a smile, perhaps pleased by your attentiveness —— "I enjoy this kind of concern."

—— which was starting to irritate you a little. "Well, I don't. Seeing you suffer and not doing anything isn't enjoyable."

He had the audacity to grin at that, broad enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes as he ducked his head coyly before turning it sharply to brush the tip of his nose against the shell of your ear and murmuring, "Not enjoying seeing me suffering does imply some enjoyment in seeing me otherwise."

"Rafayel!" You snapped finally, jerking out of his embrace with exasperated incredulity, only to meet an unrepentant smile waiting for you beyond your escape. He wasn't deterred whatsoever, which was a little unnerving.

Or rather, the rapid shift to your own pent-up restlessness was about to become in the next two days.

The limbo between then and the memorial hall day unfolded in a whirlwind of contradictions, each more puzzling than the last — starting from the abrupt ending to your interlude in front of the window, where he suddenly pulled back without any warning at all, leaving you cold and stunned with the excuse that he wanted to go to sleep, subsequently kicking you out of his hotel room as if possessed by a demonic force capable of inducing selective amnesia.

Like he wasn’t asking to fold you in half like a laptop mere moments ago.

The result was you forcing mandatory house rest until the day of the memorial hall visit came, settling awkwardly between coddling and hovering — a weird blend of fussing over his health like a mother hen and trying desperately not to make him feel infantilized as a result of said fussing.

All of that only ended with him either clinging close or deliberately distancing himself in confusing waves that seemed to occur at random intervals with little rhyme or reason.

It was simultaneously bewildering and heartbreaking. You had no idea how to react when he gave you zero insight into his thoughts and behaviors unless coaxed open, and even then, his answers were cryptic.

(So much for enjoying your concern.)

Really, this was your fault.

Maybe you shouldn't have pushed. But you worried.

Especially when he was dismissive like that despite being openly going through something other than a fever and a creative block, made worse by his inability to leave the hotel due to the hostile environment. Both of which you could do nothing to help with.

He would sit at the edge of the bed, his sketchbook propped open but untouched, pencil hovering above the page as though waiting for some divine spark that refused to come. At times, he’d stand by the window, reminding you of a cat sitting by its food dish for its owner to fill it with dinner, paw swiping irritatingly at its empty confines. Then, just as abruptly, he’d abandon his spot to sprawl across your lap instead while you were busy with paperwork online, one arm draped loosely over his stomach as he stared blankly at the ceiling in defeat, and demanding you play with his hair.

Then, some time later, it was back to deciding being near you was unbearable, pulling away entirely whenever you reached out for reassurance, no matter how casual or friendly your intentions, retreating back into his personal bubble to focus on attempting to get something on paper mindlessly, pages fluttering with restless action, crumpling here and there under the rough treatment before being smoothed out hastily.

The cycle continued nonstop. Restlessness, fatigue, clinginess, building you up while you didn't let it show because time and place, solitude, then back again — you never knew what Rafayel's whimsies were going to bring, and the uncertainty of it wore you thin, fraying your already wan nerves.

The humidifier was a desperate, last-ditch effort, the kind born out of sheer frustration and the kind of exhaustion that makes rationality optional.

You’d bought it from a small local shop at the crack of dawn, spurred on by the memory of walking into Rafayel’s suite only hours before, where he’d bullied the hotel staff into delivering two oversized sacks of ice — each roughly the size of a small child — and ordered them to be dumped unceremoniously into his bathtub.

At 3 AM. In the dead of night.

By the time you returned and set it up, the machine had barely begun spitting out its first gentle stream of cool mist before Rafayel sat down beside it, legs folded beneath him like a solemn monk meditating in front of some sacred relic. His quiet intensity as he stared at the thing made you wonder if he was grateful, resentful, or some combination of both — because with Rafayel, it was never as simple as one emotion at a time.

Still, the day turned out to be noticeably easier on him, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, the worst had passed.

He still looked like death warmed over, often pink on the face and worn, but at least he wasn’t on the brink of staging another late-night ice-bag heist.

He even tolerated your awkward attempts to distract him, accepting your offerings of snacks, endless glasses of ice water, iced tea, whatever cold beverages you could scrounge up, and a marathon of that one TV show the two of you had been meaning to watch together.

And, of course, there was the doting.

So much doting.

Which was rare for you.

You were not, by any stretch of the imagination, the kind of person who showered people with attention. You weren’t the mom friend. You didn’t hover. But something about Rafayel in this state, rightfully whiny, subdued, far too fragile for your liking, made you want to roll him over in bubble wrap and shove him in your pocket to keep him safe from everything.

In some ways, you were more anxious than he was.

The helplessness swung at you like you were a tree and it was an axe, the inability to snap your fingers and fix him, to just make it better was torture. Worrying felt inevitable, but useless. And the not knowing what to do with yourself in between bouts of fretting? That was worse. Still, he wasn’t showing any signs of further deterioration, which felt like a victory you didn’t want to jinx.

You were so relieved you briefly considered leaving all your savings to the shop clerk who’d sold you the overpriced humidifier. She had probably thought you’d lost your mind, judging by the way you thanked her like she’d just handed you a ticket to salvation, practically singing her praises as she rang up your purchase. And honestly, if you could go back in time, you would’ve thanked her even more profusely.

Because it worked. Rafayel was better — well, better-ish. Better enough that you decided it was safe to move forward with the plan to visit the memorial hall.

Which, eventually, became a visit to the ocean.

An ocean.

In the middle of a desert.

The sheer impossibility of it left you breathless, like you were standing at the edge of a fever dream made real. The water stretched out endlessly, shimmering beneath the brutal sun, and you couldn’t stop marveling at the sheer absurdity of it — a body of water so vast, so alive, nestled in a place it had no right to be. It felt like a miracle.

It was a miracle.

And just when you thought the desert couldn’t surprise you further, the skies proved you wrong soon enough later, crowning the experience with snowfall at the end of the trip. Snow, delicate and silent, drifting from the sky like a benediction.

You couldn’t help but marvel at it all — at how the world had managed to gift you two impossibilities in the span of a single day. It felt like the desert itself was defying logic, bending over backward to offer something beautiful, something extraordinary, as though it wanted to prove it wasn’t all hardship and sunburnt misery.

But Rafayel stood by the edge of the ocean with a look that made your chest ache — a look that spoke not of wonder, but of mourning. To you, it was a miracle, but to him, it was a tragedy: a dying ocean trapped in a place it could no longer thrive, its very existence a reminder of something slipping away. An everlasting eulogy engraved into reality.

He didn’t look away from the canvas of pain he had set up and started painting for himself until you voiced all of what you thought out loud for him to see.

And this time, you truly felt like you had broken through — like you’d reached him in a way that mattered.

It was there, in that rare, fragile moment, that Rafayel dove straight through your hesitation, sidestepping the awkward pauses you were fumbling with, and pulled you into an embrace before you even had the courage to ask if you could. It was as though he had heard the unspoken thought aloud, plucking it out of the air with startling precision.

And then he’d confessed — softly, almost too softly — that at the time, he had wanted to come here before, with the most important person in his life.

Those words lodged themselves in your chest, a bittersweet ache blooming alongside the unmistakable joy bubbling up within you. You hugged him back as tightly as you could, pouring all the gratitude you didn’t know how to put into words into that one simple gesture. Gratitude for trusting you enough to share that. Gratitude for showing you yet another new side of himself, something unguarded and rare. A treat, indeed, one you hadn’t expected but cherished all the same.

Relief flooded through you, so potent it felt like a physical weight lifting from your shoulders. You hadn’t even realized how tense you’d been until that moment. Your body relaxed, and with that relaxation came fatigue, the kind that crept up on you and left no room for resistance. Before you knew it, you had fallen asleep during the entire way back, lulled into a rare sense of peace you hadn’t felt in days.

And yet.

Like clockwork, he withdrew the instant you arrived back at the hotel.

Rafayel never thought he’d truly understand what it meant to drown.

As a creature of the sea, he wasn't meant to in the first place.

Not until you.

The realization had hit him like a storm breaking over still waters — not all at once, but in slow, rumbling waves that built. He didn’t even feel himself breaking; it was more like a slow erosion, the kind that wears stone into sand. Quiet, but irreversible. Your optimism. Your touches. Your encouragement. Inching in and in and in one step at a time.

(It was snowing in the desert.)

He had been holding himself together in the driver's seat, hands knotted around the steering wheel and knuckles bloodless with how tightly he gripped. Every inch of him vibrated with anxiety, away from where you lay fast asleep beside him, breathing shallow and uneven like he was afraid of exhaling too loudly. But there you were, oblivious, asleep, your head leaning softly against the window as if his world hadn’t collapsed in on itself.

(It was snowing in the desert.)

It wasn’t the desert heat that was killing him, though it might as well have been. (Everything about this place grated against him — the air, the dry scrape of his skin, the silence of the fading ocean that was too vast to be comforting. Too big. Too empty. Fading. Fading. A warning from cities away that this land was no place for a creature like him.) He wasn’t meant for this — for the cracked earth and the relentless sun and the suffocating absence of water. His body ached for moisture, for the cool, familiar embrace of the sea, but it ached even more for you. (He didn’t even realize how long he had been watching you from the corner of his peripheral vision — how long he had been unraveling, thread by thread.)

You’d tilted his world off its axis, turned everything he thought he knew into something unrecognizable. Once, pain had been his anchor. It was always there—constant, unyielding, something he could hold on to when nothing else made sense. It had driven him, fueled him, given him purpose when nothing else could. He had sought it out like a man dying of thirst seeks a mirage, and it had never failed him. Pain was constant. Pain was reliable. Pain was everything. Inside. Outside. It was all he had ever known, and it had kept him alive — fed the anger that gnashed his insides with teeth and claws, soothed the beast that prowled just under his skin, tempered the instinct that drove him relentlessly onward. Toward destruction. Towards home.

He had used it as a shield, as armor, as the whip he wielded against those who dared to clip the tails of his people. A weapon. A tool. A brush.

And then there was you (who he'd willingly sought out, angry and grieving and resentful and hurt.)

You, who didn’t fit into his carefully crafted world of suffering and art and revenge. You, who had made him forget (as easily as you forgot him) what it felt like to hurt, to ache, to yearn for something greater than himself. To hate. To see others bleed while his fingers flew across canvas after canvas, leaving only beauty in their wake — only soaring wings, only gleaming scales, only flowing water, only living fire, only reaching skies, only rushing wind, only rising floods...

Only you.

(It was snowing in the desert.)

Except now, he did yearn. He yearned in a way that was foreign and unbearable, in a way that felt like drowning — not in water, but in light, in warmth, in the overwhelming weight of wanting something too much. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that he wanted you this much — needed you this much — when he didn’t even know who he was without all the hurt and hatred inside. It wasn’t fair that he felt something hot and ugly churning under his skin whenever you smiled up at him in admiration, filling his stomach with lead until he thought he might collapse beneath its heaviness. It wasn't fair that there were times when he thought it might actually be better not to have met you again at all.

(That thought filled him with dread so immense it threatened to crush the breath from his lungs; the possibility of having spent his entire life stumbling aimlessly through darkness towards a destination he was no longer sure even existed — )

He watched you sleep, the rhythm of your breathing steady and unbothered.

His gaze lingered on your hands, resting loosely in your lap, fingers twitching faintly as if even in sleep, you were reaching for something. (Reaching for him?) He wanted to take them in his own, to press them to his lips, to hold on so tightly he’d never have to let go. But he couldn’t. (He wouldn’t.)

Because the moment he did, he knew he’d lose whatever fragile standing he had left.

(“Isn’t it a surprise that there’s an ocean in the desert?”)

His thoughts spiraled, looping back on themselves in a tangle of contradictions that refused to resolve; questions without answers, fears without resolutions. What had he become, to need you like this? To depend on you like this? To depend on you so completely that even the idea of your absence felt like the loss of something vital — something essential — an emptiness he wasn't prepared to face.

(What must you think of him? Did you even know what you did to him? What would you think of him?)

He had told himself he could manage it, that he could stay close enough to feel your warmth but far enough not to burn. But that was a lie, wasn’t it? He was already burning. He had been burning since the moment he met you. An addictive pain — the kind that made him ache for more even as it seared him from the inside out.

And before he knew it, the car was parked beside the hotel entrance around the far corner of the garden, and Rafayel didn’t remember driving there at all.

He blinked, confused for a moment as to how exactly he had managed to pilot the vehicle, when you stirred quietly in the passenger seat, drawing his attention like a moth to flame.

You groaned softly, eyelids fluttering, but remained firmly locked within slumber's grip as he unbuckled your seatbelt for you, as gently as if he were handling fine china. Your head leaned sideways against the headrest and faced him, slack and soft with sleep. His fingers twitched around the plastic buckle, curling into a fist until he thought they might cramp under the strain.

He leaned forward, forehead coming to contact with the cool leather surface of the steering wheel, squeezing his eyes shut tight enough to blot out your presence entirely.

There was too much to process — too many feelings, thoughts, sensations threatening to overwhelm him if he looked directly at them, instead swirling through his head like debris caught in a vortex, invisible yet disorienting nonetheless.

But they all blipped out of existence the moment he turned his head around, following the impulse to look.

(“Isn’t it a surprise that there’s an ocean in the desert?”)

The urge struck Rafayel with all the force of a lightning bolt — bright, sudden, unavoidable — and suddenly the knuckles of his fingers were sliding across your cheek, feather-light in gentle arcs along the arch of your cheek, savoring every inch of satin flesh as it shifted beneath his caress.

The sensation of touch buzzed pleasantly underneath his skin previously starved, reveling in the sweetness of contact after so many days of withdrawal.

The artificial light coming from outside bathed your sleeping form in a glow that cascaded like a gentle waterfall, chiaroscuro shadows casting angles upon your features, emphasizing every line and curve, and for a long time, all he could do was stare. He could feel your breath against the tips of his nails, warm puffs of moist exhales against his calloused flesh, and found himself fixating on the gentle undulation of your chest as you breathed — unconsciously, mindlessly unaware of what such a simple act did to him.

The memory of your voice echoed in his mind, soft and certain, cutting through the chaos like a beam of light.

"Isn’t it a surprise that there’s an ocean in the desert?"

You had a way of reframing everything, of taking the pieces of his broken world and rearranging them into something that almost looked like hope. (He hated it. He loved it. He hated that he loved it.) It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair.

You hadn’t asked to become such an integral part of his existence — so intrinsic and fundamental and irreplaceable. Yet somehow, here you were. Here he was. The absence of water, the grief of it. The grief of what it meant to lose something so essential, so intrinsic, that one didn’t know how to live without it. And that grief had found a new home in you. You, who had become his ocean, his escape, the source of every ache in his chest and joy in his heart.

(Isn't it a surprise that there's an ocean in the desert? Isn't it a surprise you're the muse calling to him and not the muffled, fading cries of the dying ocean in pain, not the skeletal remains of an era he'd never get back?)

He gazed, and gazed, and gazed, drinking you in like a thirsty man lost in a sea of golden sands, watching the subtle play of lights over the curves of your face — the delicate angle of your chin, the arch of your nose, the graceful slope of your neck as it curved into collarbone and shoulder — memorizing every detail he could, without the pressure of having to wrench himself back before he drowned in your wake, without the need to pretend to your face he was anything less than desperate to be with you all day, every day, in every way possible. And that the sound of your voice in his ears was enough to get the paintbrush running across paper from the sheer momentum of his imagination.

But he couldn't keep going like this.

Somehow, somewhen, between the start of your journey and now, this thing had begun shifting irrevocably past his ability to contain it any longer. Had grown exponentially until it seemed to dwarf his capacity to handle it. All it would take was being away from you for a mere few hours to bring him to a level of misery that was honestly embarrassing.

And you had no idea.

No idea that orbiting around him in these past few days like a second moon had only served to exacerbate the foul joy of watching you fawn over him.

It made him sick to his stomach to admit it, but soaking in the knowledge (in his soul, through the bond) that you cared so deeply for him went straight to his head like some drug he hadn't realized he needed.

It felt so despairingly good that he would wrap himself around you like a vine climbing towards sunlight if he could for the rest of his days, absorbing your rays of affection like photosynthesis... or a parasite.

(Was he being punished by the sea that this love was eclipsing his fury and vengeance? Or rewarded that he held both equally in his grasp despite how terribly wrong it felt at times? Regardless, his inspiration was the punchline, once only capable of singing into the canvas elegies of lament and sorrow, now composed ballads and odes that poured out effortlessly.)

You would hate him if you ever found out just how perversely his emotions swung in every direction; so high one moment that the ecstasy of relief nearly shattered his reserve of control, and so low the next that he feared he'd choke to death from the guilt that clawed up the back of his throat like a strangled animal's cry for mercy.

This entire ordeal had flipped the script completely — instead of keeping you at arm's length as he normally did (regarding… everything), Rafayel now clung onto you desperately like Tantalus to a branch of fruit he’d finally gotten a grasp of, and what if he was exposed? The question rose like bile in his mouth whenever he began slipping.

“I won't leave you.”

Liar, his grudge wanted to answer.

It remembered. It never forgot. It told him you'd flee and never look back if he let a sliver of this dependency that bound him tighter to you with each passing day slip out from his fingertips — if he allowed you even the tiniest insight into the strange workings of his head and his heart.

Because you didn’t understand. You couldn’t. You had no idea what you were talking about when you told him you wouldn’t leave. How could you, when you didn’t know the depths of what you were promising to stay for? You didn’t know the true nature of Lemurian love, its ferocity, its weight, its cost. The all-consuming, all-encompassing reality of it — how they loved as if it was the only thing tethering them to existence itself. How they lived for it, how they died for it. How he had been dying for it.

If you saw it — if you saw him — you would run. He knew you would. Because if he laid bare just how much he depended on you, how much of his breath, his will, his very being hinged on you, you’d be overwhelmed. You’d leave.

Why else would he be tearing himself apart like this? Miserably trying to wean himself off you, forcing himself to let go only to grasp harder each time he felt you’d finally come to hate him and slip away?

He didn't know how long he sat there in silence.

Just a bit longer, he would keep watching you with these feelings out in the open. Just a little bit longer. He couldn’t bear to wake you up.

By the time you stirred, groggy and disoriented but blissfully unsuspecting, it felt as though several eternities had passed in the span of minutes, and he had to struggle with all the strength of a raging current to force himself back into this skin of his that felt too tight and suffocating around him.

But, still resting his temple against the steering wheel with an arm slung on top of it and another hanging lazily at his side, feigning ease, nothing betrayed his inner turmoil.

He watched quietly as you slowly regained your bearings, resisting the temptation to reach out and brush aside that one piece of hair out of place on your head, letting you find the words first.

(So adorable. So endearing.)

(It was not only snowing in his desert. There was also an ocean in there.)

"Rafayel..?"

"Yeah?"

"How long was I asleep?" You blinked at him blearily, one hand lifting to rub the lingering tiredness from your eyelids as you peer into the darkness of night beyond his silhouette. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

Everything he'd been thinking about vaporized and left behind nothing but softness, so tender it scared him; it seeped into the spaces in his heart left vacant and curled inside them, filling every corner, until it made the next smile he offered you come free of burden. "You were sleeping so well, cutie. I didn't want to disturb you."

The unconscious put of your lips and the way that strand of hair bounced around when you slid down your seat a little had him leaning in before he knew what he was doing, smoothing the unruly thing, fingertips betraying him by skating across the outer edge of your ear while he watched you tilt your cheek instinctively.

His body warmed immediately, gravitating towards you in a half-hug that kept you cradled close to the side of his frame as he nuzzled into your hair above your temple with a hum, dipping his nose deeper into the crown of your head near where your neck curved gracefully upwards before inhaling deep — greedy, thirsty, like he’d die if he couldn’t seep up all the scent of you.

Your breathing hitched a bit, and that’s what halted him right at the corner of your mouth with a sharp exhale — he couldn’t be doing this, he was just thinking about how he needed to pull back and —

Art salon.

Yeah, the art salon gathering.

He was supposed to be on his way to there like yesterday.

If only his body didn’t move like a most willing pupped tethered by strings to yours and refused to walk away whenever he tried.

“…Rafayel?”

It suddenly hotter in this car like a tide pool at noon. So stiflingly hot he was breathing fire even with the snowy weather outside. So unbearable the deepest V-cut known to mankind that had his whole chest out for the world to ogle did nothing to help.

He could… He could skip.

Yeah, he needed this. It had been literal days of non-stop withdrawal and a push-and-pull of his frustration that you wouldn’t touch him (because oh noo, he was sick — which, he wasn’t!) and stubbornness to not let you touch him. He’d gotten to a point that he was drunk off your scent alone and he couldn’t keep doing this forever, and why should he? Why did it matter about this event at all? Who cared — who cared about some stupid gathering? He wasn’t functioning anyways until he—

Stop. He had to stop. He was already so late.

He imagined catching himself by the scruff of his neck and yanking himself back to the driver's seat, within safe borders. Far away from your mesmerizing lips and wandering eyes and cute squirming in your seat under the thin cover of innocence.

And pulling away and practically fusing with the car door was exactly what he did.

He needed to prove to himself, just this once, that he could function without the constant reassurance of your presence — that he wasn’t helplessly anchored to you, no matter how much the pull of your moon whispered otherwise.

He had to dilute himself. This — and his inspiration problem, involving you or not, was his to figure out. And he had to figure it out if he wanted you to stay by his side.

"...Do you wanna go back to your room first?" he heard himself ask you quietly.

"You're not coming with me?" The tiny furrow of worry between your brows spoke volumes about your confusion, and despite wanting to reach out and smooth it away, to wipe every ounce of uncertainty from your face with a tender kiss, Rafayel clenched his fingers around the door handle of the vehicle until they cramped, his heart aching strangely inside his chest as you stared quizzically at him.

He brought out the invitation that came with the memorial hall ticket, waving it a little with little to no enthusiasm, "I still have to attend my friend's art salon thing."

The way your shoulders deflated and face dropped at the mention made him waver in — not enough to follow through with ditching the whole thing, but certainly making his resolve weak enough to crack like glass under pressure. "But you don't look well. You need to rest."

How could someone manage to resist getting spoiled like this, he thought miserably as he closed his eyes while you continued fussing, peering worriedly up into his face with the cutest scrunch to your forehead, palms searching along his cheeks heat before trailing down the length of his arms, and he wanted nothing more than to give in to that impulse of being coddled to bits by your hands alone.

He was a weak man.

You nearly lifted off the passenger seat and fell into his lap the way he embraced you, his arms coiling around you like kelp around a rock, holding fast as though you might slip away with the wind. His face buried into the crook of your neck, breath warm and uneven against your skin, his grip snug yet teetering on the edge of too much — like he didn’t trust himself to let go. There was a desperation in the way his hands trembled slightly, his fingers pressing into your sides, not hard enough to hurt but enough to leave the faintest impression of how badly he needed this. When your pained whine broke through, it was like snapping a thread, he instantly loosened his hold, guilt washing over his features as he pulled back just enough to make room for you to breathe. But he stayed close, his forehead dipping to rest against your shoulder as a heavy sigh rumbled deep from his chest, raw and apologetic. You leaned heavily into him, your fingers threading into his hair in a gesture that should have comforted him, but instead left him drowning deeper in the tangled sea of his emotions.

"See? You're burning up again," you mumbled as your cool lips grazed his temple in a comforting kiss. He was no better than a child. He knew it. And he hated how much he basked in your coddling, reveled in the unspoken message behind your words: Don't hide it. Tell me when you hurt. I care. "Maybe we can go together? Will you feel okay if I'm there?"

He would. He would feel more than okay, because that's what made him function.

But he couldn't keep being like this.

"Do you wanna turn me into a sea creature beached on the sand after the ocean recedes," he whispered, mostly kidding except not really, hiding in the dip of your neck just below your ear, hand tracing absent shapes into the small of your back above your tailbone. "Unable to breathe on my own, waiting helplessly for your tide's return?"

Your fingers stroking through his hair slowed, then stilled entirely at the edge of his nape. You pulled back only far enough to meet his lowered stare, confusion dancing within your own, bright and clear and genuine. You had no inkling of what was going on with him, and he didn’t want you to find out either. He would be fine. He was going to handle it.

"Don't you trust me?" Rafayel said. "How about we make a promise? I promise... I'll be okay without you tonight."

It hurt to lie to you so directly, but seeing your doubt dissolve to appease him helped soothe that sting considerably. (Even if it felt a little too convenient to rely on such flimsy methods.) You nodded, seeming convinced in spite of yourself, and his stance firmed — strengthened with your faith and affirmation alike, like he'd just taken a double shot of espresso. He would be okay. He wasn't going to keep imposing his feelings upon you even if a part of him desperately yearned to, no matter how difficult the prospect seemed.

(Say no, a small part of him whispered traitorously, selfishly, insistently. Ask me to stay. You know I can't say no to you, he wanted to plead. Needed to be affirmed once more, reassured that he was welcome to indulge, to remain, to lean into the comfort you offered freely.)

"Okay..." you echoed uncertainly, but gave him another soft smile — tentative yet warm, gentle encouragement. He watched quietly as your expressions shifted in quick succession, cycling through shades of hesitation and worry before settling on resignation. You nodded again, firmer this time, seemingly steeling yourself against whatever doubts you harbored. He wanted to kiss it all away.

But instead, he gently pushed you back, sinking further into his seat, looking out the view beyond the windshield to gather his wits against the force that was your presence beside him.

"You can head back," he repeated, not turning to meet your searching stare. "I can handle it."

The art salon had an air of cultivated elegance, grandiosity reflecting into soaring ceilings and walls adorned with curated artworks, with conversations floating in fragmented pieces, the occasional laughter punctuating the steady hum of "cultured" discourse — all the while Rafayel stood at the periphery, his posture consciously maintained with the kind of deliberate nonchalance that masked a profound discomfort, one hand buried in his pant pockets and the other holding a flute glass of champagne, ghosting the suffocating room with an expression of aloof disdain, attention drifting from painting to painting without ever settling. Humans circled him like murmuring specters, their faces a study in muted curiosity and empty civility. He loathed their presence. (Yet, here he was.)

The room's overwhelming sensory overload grated against his composure — cloying mingling of varnish and wine, sharply polished sheen of curated lighting, artifice of smiles that never reached their eyes...

He should leave. (No, he had to stay.)

The dichotomy was a pendulum swinging between contempt and an unspoken compulsion to endure. He’d insisted he didn’t need you here, insisted on proving — to himself as much as to you — that he could function without your constant presence. But the more he replayed his own words in his mind, the more it was obvious the joke was on him.

He rolled his eyes as an overly enthusiastic laugh erupted nearby, a sound sharp enough to pinprick through his already thinning out patience. His hand twitched in his pocket, the movement a reflexive manifestation of his barely-contained frustration.

(Focus.)

The art, exquisite as it was, did little to distract him as the chatter blurred into a meaningless drone, the edges of the room constricting him under the weight of pretense.

And then. The tug.

At first, it was delicate — an unsuspecting tremor sifting through his awareness, like the faintest ripple across an otherwise still surface that he thought he was imagining and hoping this was you. But it swelled rapidly, a deluge of sensations sweeping him off his feet towards your pull with a force that left his breath stuttering and the floor wavering beneath, erupting into vivid, agonizing clarity.

His lips tingled, a ghostly imprint of a kiss not yet given.

Heat bloomed under his skin, first at the base of his throat, spreading like a slow, insidious current. The faintest pressure, then, at his collarbone, radiating outward, like silk dragging over sensitive skin, a tingling warmth that prickled and spread, until it seemed to rewrite the very contours of his form, leaving him trembling with phantom caresses that lingered far too long to ignore.

He could feel the press of your palms against his chest, the drag of your nails over the planes of his stomach, each sensation so precise it made his breath catch, and the ache in his hands mirrored the way you gripped at yourself. Every brush of your hand — every hurried, seeking stroke — burned through him like smoldering embers, and he swore he could hear the faintest hitch of your breath, feel the tremor in your thighs.

A siren song of need that echoed his own, calling him under, drowning him in you.

Come to me, come to me, stay with me.

His breath hitched with the oxygen turning into lava-hot needle prickling in his lungs, his legs going limp as noodles and giving way. He collapsed into the nearest chair with a jarring lack of control, the motion abrupt, almost violent.

One hand clamped onto the edge of the table as he hastily discarded the champagne glass to cover where the bond was glowing, fingers digging into the wood as if it were the only thing keeping him from being swept away.

A single candle at the table’s center responded instead of Rafayel, its once languid, uninterested flame quivering violently, and then erupting into an erratic flare, a burst of light so sharp and sudden it cut through the room like a gasp. The activity drew murmurs from those nearby, heads turning, eyes widening as the flame seemed to writhe with a life of its own as wax spilled over the edges of its holder, dripping down in frantic rivulets, glistening like molten gold beneath the trembling glow.

"Hey, Rafayel, man, you good?"

A hand on his shoulder made him flinch violently and slap it away, the contact snapping him partway out of his spiraling thoughts. "Don't."

He was already rising, the chair scraping noisily against the floor as he pushed himself upright with a force that bordered on frenetic. The friend stood as well, confusion clear, but Rafayel didn’t wait to explain — with a curt shake of his head, he turned on his heel and strode toward the exit, leaving the other man standing there with his hand half-raised, a bewildered, "Hey, where are you going, come back!" hanging unanswered in the air.

The murmurs of those left behind — curious stares, the faint scrape of chairs and clothes ruffling — faded into irrelevance, they barely even registered. The bond burned like a tether, yanking him back to you, and he had neither the strength nor the desire to disobey.

By the time he reached the cool air of the night outside, he was seething. He had heard you loud and clear.

You merciless, cruel, horrible witch of a woman, punishing him with your sweet truth in an act so loving yet selfish, selfless yet entirely possessive, driving him completely to his wit's end until the only remaining thought was yours — to worship you wholly, thoroughly, obsessively, as deeply as he wanted.

He was in love.

You were in Rafayel’s room.

Because for his sanity to be tested like you intended it would be, of course you had to be in there of all places.

He was able to crash in the way he wanted like a dam bursting without knocking holding him back. In fact, he didn’t even bother calling out at all.

And honestly, he wasn’t even lucid enough for coherent thoughts such as those the moment his vision tunneled on your frame in the middle of his space, your back turned to him, an unaware and unintentional siren in a fluffy white robe loosely tied at your hips.

His robe.

Rafayel was moving before he registered the full picture — prowling the distance between you within seconds, hand snatching up yours and spinning you around. Just being this close and touching you uninhibited got the synapses firing faster than bullets in his head. He pushed forward into your space with no preamble, crowding you against the floor-to-ceiling window. He spared another two or three precious seconds taking in your startled expression with vindication (“Rafayel, what are you doing here?” before putting a stop to all the unnecessary talking with a kiss.

How could he expected himself to stay away from this?

One knee pushed between your thighs, a subtle but undeniable acknowledgment of what he’d felt, and you faltered, clutching the sides of his shirt so abruptly the lily decorations peppered through out clinked. A quiet noise escaped past your lips, muffled by his own and intensifying the building pressure simmering in his gut as he played with the collar of your robe — his robe — and drank greedily from you.

He felt a push at his chest.

The separation between you that couldn’t be more than a tight space to breathe each other’s air brought the world rushing back into focus — Aridum’s quiet, serene snowfall materialized behind your head like a mockery of their frenzied tangle of limbs, the ambient sounds of the city bustling in the distance dampened.

Your eyes searched his, glazed and hazy with steadily-building arousal, yet waiting nonetheless for an answer, shiny lips parted in wordless wonder.

Rafayel could say nothing. The words were there, soda fizz under the surface threatening to erupt into something incomprehensible at best if he opened his mouth.

His palm engulfed your cheek and drew you right back in, continuing the kiss with more urgency to prevent you from tumbling out from his grasp again — let the action speak for him.

The need that thrummed deep beneath rendered him mute, save for strained sighs and grunts of effort louder than the rustle of fabric and the thuds of feet shuffling around on the floor as he plundered your mouth, tongue chasing yours. It tasted like toothpaste and chapstick, like fresh mint leaves, like nurturing warmth cooling his into something calmer.

Rafayel’s hand left your face and slid down your back to seize your waist, dragging you closer, flushing your hips against his firmer and pushing his thigh more brashly. Not even a second later, his other hand bracing your wrist against the window pulled your arm into him to spin you around like in a dance, switching positions without breaking away.

And you bit him.

He recoiled with an “Ah,” that was more surprised than pained, drawing away just enough to swipe his thumb over the curve of his bottom lip where your teeth had punctured him.

“Why are you here?”

Something rotten and vicious was about to bare his fangs at you through a smile he barely stopped from telling on himself by holding back, ‘You called,’ from slipping.

The other, more acceptable answer came in a quick and effortless sweep of your legs off the floor, draping them over either side of his waist, one palm supporting you underneath like the cradle of a hammock as he pivoted towards the bed. “This is my room,” he said — low, simple, keeping eye contact to witness your frustration. “You’re the one who walked in here.”

He saw in the curl of your mouth that you would’ve continued arguing semantics if not for Rafayel bending to deposit you gently atop the bed for you to settle safely beneath him. The mattress creaked under his shifting as he eased further and started descending to resume getting lost in your kisses until a finger landed upon his lips.

“What I meant was,” you started, and Rafayel exhaled against your touch and nuzzled into it like an obedient pet coming to heel with a lowered tail before his master. “Shouldn’t you be at that art salon?”

He stared, blood about to keel over the boiling point.

His beloved was pouting. So adorable that he wanted to bite down.

You’d been so patient with him, hadn’t you? The little divot between your brows called out to Rafayel, begging to be kissed.

“I regret going in the first place,” he said, getting closer to breathe those words directly against the curve of your ear, savoring its delicate shell and the heat emanating from it against his lower lip — basking in the short tremble he could pull out of you that told him all he needed to know. “Stay here with me—”

His arm dipped around your waist and tugged you insistently closer, shakily eager, while your hands scrambled at his biceps, the side of your neck stretching upward to meet his halfway and melting further into him like candle wax molding against Rafayel and pooling liquid sweetness inside him like a basin filled.

Ring — ring — ring — ring — ring — ring — ring!

What the hell? Now?

A surge of irrational anger flared inside Rafayel, sharp and sudden, as if the hotel room phone had personally wronged him so bone-deep that his ancestors themselves had been insulted by its shrill, untimely ring. He clicked his tongue sharply against the roof of his mouth, a frustrated noise brimming with disdain as he reached out with the intention of silencing the nuisance immediately.

But before his hand could reach the red button, your fingers curled gently around his wrist, halting him mid-motion. The touch was soft, warm, and unassuming, yet it cut through his irritation more effectively than words ever could. His breath hitched as he glanced down at your hand, stilling under the quiet weight of what you were going to say next.

“Wait,” your dulcet murmur came. “What if it’s something important?”

More than this?

The irritation got you a side eye for that — but he quickly caught onto where this was heading from the way you gave him a pointed, sultry glance under your lashes and the faintest devilish curl at the corners at your lips. The grip around his wrist turned into your fingers interlacing with his as you guided him to accept the call, holding his gaze so intensely throughout that the beginning of the reception’s announcement went unheard in his ears.

“The guest of this room is unable to answer. Please leave a message."

Rafayel hadn’t even found a chance to breathe, let alone process what was even happening when you pushed him off and knocked him flat onto his back, straddling his hips with surprising speed which elicited an involuntary jolt from him.

He froze, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and the thick, burning, moistureless air that was overheating him. A thousand words tumbled in a rush into his mouth at once, all died under his breath in a sigh as his senses swam and short-circuited in response to your boldness, the sheer power radiating off your figure captivating him. For a single, stretched heartbeat, all he could do was look up — look at you.

The light from the ceiling framed your form in a way that bordered on divine, spilling past the loose strands of hair that fell around your face and catching on the curves of your silhouette like a lover's caress. Shadows slithered around you, dipping into the soft folds and valleys of the bathrobe that clung to you in all the places his gaze couldn’t help but follow.

And then the vision struck, slicing through his mind like a blade dragged cleanly through water.

No, you brought it to him, conjuring it as surely as though you had whispered it directly into his mind.

The blues wouldn’t just be blues — shadowy cobalt would bleed into the depths below, heavy and still, fading into fractured glacier blue as the water grew lighter near the surface, where the sun struggled to break through. The greens would soften into glassy jade, shimmering faintly, caught in the shifting light as if the water itself pulsed with life. Shadows would stretch in drenched charcoal, not oppressive but endless, framing the brightness above almost like curtains opening.

And there, close to the surface, you would hover like the sun underwater, light spilling from you in ripples and shards. Your form would glow with submerged gold, warm and radiant, a halo of sunlit pearl surrounding you where the sunlight hit the water and scattered around your silhouette. You wouldn’t simply stand still — you would drift, your movements impossibly fluid, arms outstretched in a gesture that could be comfort or inevitability, a quiet invitation to a homecoming. Shadows would gather around your curves in bruised honey, soft and subtle, fading into the glow that surrounded you, the kind of light that looked almost too warm to belong in the cold ocean.

The person who the painting was drawn from the perspective of would see you not as a person, but as something greater. His arms would float above him, slack and surrendered, the only movement from his fingers angled upwards, glowing faintly with washed ash gold, the last vestiges of warmth clinging to his skin, while the rest of his form darkened in the embrace of storm-drift gray. Faraway air bubbles would be glacier silver-blue catching the warm light as they ascended toward the unreachable surface, reflections flickering like distant stars against the background of salt-shadow teal.

This was a homecoming.

The bursting of colors landing on his imaginary canvas came to a head when the branding heat of your mouth found his ear, screeching into stuttered motion and scattering like seagulls afterwards. His head lolled sideways under the zapping pressure, inviting more of the world-halting caress that left him all limp.

Then it was gone — only a cool tingling remained where yout moist breaths once ghosted him —

"Hey bro, why'dya leave? Get back here—"

Shocked as if he had short time memory about it being a voice message, he squirmed for a beat, eyes flitting in panic between the call display and you with the mortification of every single drop of blood in his body rushing southwards.

His friend’s voice fractured into static buzzing under the pounding of his ears when you bowed forward once more, towards the red mark on top of his mark that was practically vibrating under his skin, trailing kisses across its glow. Every skin contact point with you burned even with the layers of clothing in-between, melting into an acute throb as you reached the base of his throat and dipped into the hollow between his collarbones — fingers dancing along the strip of his neckpiece before delving underneath, dragging down and delicately, deliciously tugging.

That was all it took for Rafayel to flip your positing and roll you beneath his body, propping himself up with one forarm and holding your wrist to just — stop you for a minute, expression tight as he asked, “Are you sure?”

Your intentions were crystal clear, but it was necessary to check in before continuing any further even though he needed this like air right now, and the prospect of hearing it straight from your lips that he was wanted —

Looking somewhere off to the side, you replied, “Otherwise you’ll actually go back,” thoughtfully, but there was something resentful in there, the statement almost bitter sounding in its delivery.

The overjoyed press of his lips to hide the smile he just knew would annoy you betrayed what he was thinking on the spot.

“So cute,” breached containment however, full of affection as he moved aside your hair behind your ear tenderly, fore and middle fingers taking your love’s sensitive edge between them and caressing, causing you to turn your face further away from him. “You must have missed me quite a lot.”

That sentence was accompanied by the press of his knee into the junction between your inner thighs, innocent enough unless you factored in that one certain revelation of earlier that entirely changed the context in intent. Especially when your pupils dilated visibly before him as you choked out a tiny gasp of surprise, revealing your guilt in glaring clarity.

“What, not pleased you got caught?”

A wicked impulse seized him — one daring him to keep playing this card to unlock so many possibilities as to how he could have you tonight.

He could have you show him what you’d done while he watched until you begged to be touched — on your back with legs wide open for his viewing pleasure, or hovering right above his face in 4K Ultra HD quality that he could just lay down and enjoy and perhaps contribute with his breath if he felt generous enough. You were having fun all on your own, yeah? He just wanted in on it. Not knowing wasn’t a sin, but not learning was.

If you didn’t think you were ready to bear the consequences of this decision of yours, you should have rethought before choosing the room he frequented, shouldn’t have turned him into a fish out of water in public by calling out to him like that, should have known better that Rafayel could be the vilest when he was provoked.

“Or, are you?”

His words were a double-edged knife. Pick the surface-level meaning and you ended up with him teasing you about missing him quite literally, nothing more, nothing less. Take him for what lay beneath, however...

Unfortunately, or, fortunately, you were one slippery fish.

"Why should I be ashamed?" The confidence that dripped from your reply rang genuine. You were so unbothered by his instigation that he realized this was going to be harder than expected, perhaps more rewarding as well. A delightful prospect. "Do you wish I wouldn't miss you?"

Oh, your pride, your grudge was truly an impressive sight —

gleaming razor-sharp even under scrutiny, glittering steel reflecting his image in fragments, and yet tempered by enough warmth to invite him closer instead of warding him off.

"Not at all." His heart sang. "But it couldn't compare to how much I missed you."

"And you still left," came a mumble, sounding more dejected than anything, carrying the weight of his deeds for the past two days.

It was that easy to change his mood.

Rafayel cooed instinctively, rubbing soothing circles into the skin above your knuckles as he pressed a string of quick kisses into the curve of your wrist — lips brushing tender apologies along its path until he reached the palm of your hand cupping his face, where he lingered to feel you stroke delicately over his lower lashes.

"I'm here now," was his gentle promise, one spoken nuzzled against the backs of your fingers. "I'm not going anywhere."

"What are you going to say to your friend? You didn't even pick up his call," you admonished softly, drawing his attention towards where the voicemail was still being displayed on the hologram screen hovering from the nightstand, accepting a prompt about how to proceed.

Rafayel made a show of leaning back to sit back on his heels, staring down at you as he slipped his fingers underneath the tightly-belted thick, sash-like band to pop the clasp to the side apart, the metal closure disengaging with a small clack as the ends slid free and exposed the zipper underneath.

He drank in your every reaction — every detail of you sprawled out before him: your robe coming undone ever so gradually, tantalizing glimpses of skin peeking between its parted folds, a little bit of collarbone here, the curve of your breast there, teasingly hinting at the shape of a nipple underneath the white fabric, then another flash of thigh, an exposed inch of inner leg from your feet shifting restlessly alongside his shins.

He pulled the whole belt free in one smooth yank — the sudden momentum making it snap with a harsh crack. It curled like a ribbon in his palm as he surveyed you, gauging your reaction; watching your widened stare catch onto cloth held loosely in his fist as he flung it haphazardly to the side.

Then, he started tugging at your ankle to raise it higher — dragging his knuckles along your heel, the sole of your foot, caressing into the arch of your instep, traveling along the softness of your calf all the way down to your knee, a single fingertip trailing underneath, slinking gradually but surely toward the inner side, tracing hypnotic spirals into the silky flesh that made your breathing hitch unevenly.

The ends of your robe were riding further up past your thigh along with the slow march, your naked skin revealed in gradual increments the higher his palm slid — revealing more and more until his hand stopped at the underside of your thigh, entirely disappeared from view because of the bunched up cloth, and pulled your leg up gently to drape it over the curve of waist.

Falling right back in on instinct, he leaned down, propped above your splayed form on his forearm beside your shoulder and bent to drag his nose upwards along the line of your cheekbone, saying, "I'm busy."

Your answering snicker was endearing and familiar, drawing forth a swell of warmth inside him like the sun rising over a tranquil ocean's horizon. "Still trying to run away?"

“Just returning to the original plan.”

There would be no running away now — not anymore, not ever, at least not from you and what you made him feel. He'd tried; failed, obviously, as evident in his return here, where the answer awaited him with open arms.

"Who says I'm going to agree? I still haven't forgiven you.”

Rafayel adored that one pout of yours, the one that curved at its edges like the swoop of a bird's wing, delicate and lovingly rounded in its downturned shape. It drew his mouth upward to meet its match, slotting perfectly against its twin seamlessly in the union of a kiss, lingering as if they belonged together like puzzle pieces. You melted sweetly under the fondness contained within the gesture, sighing quietly in surrender; every angle of his mouth was drawn to yours inexorably, it was gravity pulling falling stars back to their courses.

"Not yet," he amended dutifully once he could manage words again, and felt your smile widen before sealing his mouth over it. "Let me."

"If you beg," you shot right back, the curve of your mouth pronounced against his chin, smug satisfaction dripped from every word and its delivery as you pulled away again just enough to meet his half-hooded stare evenly — daring him to refuse you. "Properly."

You kissed the little groan that was about to spill past his lips, but it wasn’t enough to satisfy him. Neither was it intended to.

"How would you like me to repent?" He dragged the question into an offer, a honey trap ripe for plundering. "On my knees? On my back?"

He let his arousal to show on his fact at those mental images, conjured by practiced ease, crafted to seduce. The soft puff of your exhale danced across his chin, sending his nerves tingling. A sign he was on the right track? Or did it merely betray surprise at whatyou had in mind? Either possibility stirred his blood.

"You know what someone in your position shouldn’t do?" you whispered, low and hushed, conspiratorial yet laced with a dangerous authority that quickened his pulse. His brows rose involuntarily, the shift in your tone sending anticipation skittering down his spine. Your lashes swept low, casting faint shadows on your cheeks as your pointed stare locked onto him, sharp enough to pierce. "Ask me what to do when you’re supposed to be coming up with ideas on your own. That’s weaponized incompetence."

His head snapped back so fast that something audibly clicked in his neck.

Mouth wide open.

"Weaponized in—" The sensual, submissive haze he’d been wrapped in evaporated like morning dew under the brutal heat of the desert sun, vanishing so quickly it left him sputtering. The words faltered on his tongue as insult overtook every carefully cultivated mood, his composure fracturing into clumsy indignation. Propped up on his elbows above you, his face twisted into a comically muddied mix of offense and disbelief, his tone taking on an incredulous sharpness as he glared down at you.

"Say that again and I’ll spit bubbles at you!" he snapped, his threat hanging in the air like a gauntlet thrown by a petulant prince.

"Pffft!"

The insolent brat you were being in that moment, daring to laugh straight in his face, was both impossibly cute and maddeningly infuriating. He stared down at you, eyes narrowing with mock offense, the knowledge that your laughter was entirely at his expense gnawing at his frayed patience. He was torn between kissing you senseless or flipping you over and finding some other way to wipe that smug, adorable smirk off your face.

"What do you mean weaponized incompetence?" Rafayel shot back, the words almost trembling with disbelief. "You think I can't please you properly without you guiding me through it step-by-step? Is that what you're saying?!" His irritation swelled, a balloon of indignation puffing up and threatening to burst as he fought, tooth and nail, to keep the whine rising in his throat from escaping. "I like you telling me what to do because I enjoy indulging in your desires! Not because I’m incapable of being creative in bed!"

A frustrated huff crowned his ranting, "Stop laughing!" he barked, though his rising pitch only seemed to add fuel to your uncontrollable amusement.

You shook your head firmly, slapping your hands over your face to muffle the sounds of your laughter, but it was no use. Your entire body curled inward instinctively, knees drawing up as you rolled to your side, burying yourself deeper into the cocoon of your mirth. It only made it worse for his pride — your stifled giggles shaking through you like tremors, every failed attempt to contain yourself sending them bubbling up again.

Rafayel let out a growl of frustration, throwing his body off yours with an exaggerated thud, landing face-first into the pillow beside you in utter defeat. The mattress jolted slightly from the force, but the muffled yell he buried into the pillow caused a chain reaction that only made your laughter harder to suppress. The giggles came fast and bright, and he swore they sounded far too gratifying for his current temperament, his scowl deepening with every shake of your shoulders and every wheezing gasp for air that he felt in the bed, he didn’t even need to look.

The fact that you were utterly immune to his wrath, impervious to every “Stop,” he threw your way, made it all the more maddening. How was he supposed to maintain the upper hand, to reestablish even a shred of dignity, when he couldn’t even intimidate you?

"I'm sorry," you gasped finally, though the apology was weakened by the cracks of laughter still slipping through. You managed to sit upright, though it took visible effort, your hands brushing away tears from the corners of your crinkled, joy-stricken eyes. A few lingering giggles escaped as you cleared your throat, attempting to sound sincere but failing miserably. "I didn’t think you’d have such strong feelings about this topic."

Rafayel lifted his head from the pillow, his hair disheveled, his glare shooting daggers your way, though the deep flush blooming across his cheeks betrayed his struggle to keep his composure. He opened his mouth to retort, to say something, but instead all that escaped was a muffled, irritated groan as he flopped back down into the pillow.

“Rafayel.”

He rolled onto his back with dramatic flair, hands folded primly over his stomach and ankles crossed, the picture of theatrical innocence. The pout he wore, however, was pure spite, lips pushed forward just enough to make his point. “If you think I’m sooo weaponizing my incompetence, maybe I should actually start doing that. Let you handle everything yourself. Clearly, you’ve got it all figured out.”

“Rafayel…”

“No, no, go ahead,” he cut in, stubbornly resolute, almost belligerent in its exaggerated persistence. “I’m useless, right? I don’t know what I’m doing. Teach me. I won’t even lay a single finger on you.” He puffed his cheeks, a childish act of defiance paired with the way he turned his head away, sulking with the finesse of spoiled royalty.

The exaggerated display drew a sigh from you, long and exasperated, but tinged with a quiet amusement that he didn’t miss. He wasn’t fooling you — not for a second—but he relished the moment all the same.

“Well,” you began, feigning hesitation, with false reluctance. “Since you’re already laid out, I guess…” You trailed off as you shifted to straddle him, slow enough to test the limits of his so-called resolution, the soft white robe you wore parting ever so slightly as you moved, revealing tantalizing glimpses of skin before your knees closed firmly around his hips, framing him like twin prison bars.

His eyes darkened as he watched you, taking in the sight hungrily, every detail sinking into him like a drug he couldn’t resist. His hands betrayed him almost immediately, fingertips skimming the hem of the robe where it hung loosely, their touch feather-light as they ghosted over the tops of your thighs. It was instinctive, reflexive — completely unrepentant.

“I thought you weren’t touching me,” you teased with a playful lilt that interrupted the heat thickening the air between you like an unwanted knock on the door.

His hum was deliberately innocent, his head tilting as though to feign ignorance. But the dark gleam in his eyes and the smirk curling at the corners of his lips told a different story entirely. “I really like this robe,” he murmured with a calculated drawl. “What, I can’t touch my own clothes now?”

The claim was absurd — blatantly so — but it made you pause, his fingers grazing the fabric in question as though testing its texture, when in reality, it was clear he was savoring the warmth of your skin beneath it.

(Truthfully, it was also you who looked lovely draped in what was his — but that went without saying.)

Your mouth opened, the gleam of a retort on the tip of your tongue, but the words dissolved into nothingness as his hands shifted, palms hot against your sides, skirting along your ribs in an intentional, testing motion. He knew the heat of his touch stole the breath from your lungs, burning through the fabric like a spark setting fire to paper.

“You go on,” he said, infuriatingly smug as he leaned back into the pillows, his hands never straying far from your sides. “Help yourself. Take as long as you need. I’ll just… be appreciating this fabric in the meantime.”

His fingers traced the lines of your ribs, the motion slow, languid, before sliding downward to hover just above the curve of your stomach. They lingered there, resting near the knot of the belt holding your robe together. The edge of his thumb dipped just slightly beneath the fabric, brushing over its folded loops, a movement so subtle it was barely there, as though he wanted to test how much he could push you. He toyed with the fabric, rolling it between his fingers like he was unraveling a puzzle.

The pause in his pent-up desire — the break that had proven to be a blessing — was wearing thin. The front he was putting on, all casual indifference and smug bravado, was crumbling, betrayed by the way his gaze kept flickering back to you, and, of course, the growing press of his impatience beneath you, hard and neglected, made it abundantly clear that he was more than ready to pick up where you’d last left off.

You broke first.

With nary a warning, your hand shot out, snatching the ends of the thin, ribbon-like scarf draped loosely around his neck. You wound the fabric around your fist once, twice, tightening it just enough to make your intentions clear…

Then you yanked.

The pull wasn’t violent — no, it was far too calculated for that. Enough pressure to catch him off guard, to tip him forward slightly, but not enough to hurt. It was a demand, plain and simple, one he found himself surrendering to before he even had the chance to consider resistance. His wide-eyed surprise melted almost instantly like cotton candy in water into something darker, something sharper, as his lips curled into a grin that spoke volumes about just how much he was enjoying this game.

"First, you ask to beg for my forgiveness," you continued, pulling him a little closer, and his chest tightened as though the leash around his neck extended all the way to his lungs.

Your gaze pinned him down like a blade, your lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, wasn’t quite a smile — something far more addictive.

"And then," you murmured, sweet but laced with unmistakable bite, "you start ordering me around like a brat."

A jolt of concentrated heat shot through him, not from embarrassment but from the sharp edge of thrill that ran through his veins. He let the tension in his body slacken just slightly, a calculated move that allowed him to lift from the bed a little, meeting your challenge with his own. The faint tug of the scarf against his neck only heightened the electric energy between you, and he found himself biting back a grin.

“Well," he said at last, letting his weight sink into the bed with a noncommittal shrug, the barest shift of his shoulders enough to convey his defiance. "I’m just playing my part." He tilted his head just enough to make the scarf strain, wanted to see what you’d do with the provocation. “The sleazy husband.”

“You want a reward for that?”

“Acknowledgment of how committed to the role I am would be nice.”

“Oh yes, the most infuriating actor—”

“Aaand you goofed it—”

“—impossibly—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah—”

“—handsome," you went on, and his smirk faltered ever so slightly. “Disarmingly clever, annoyingly witty," you added, the sharp edge softening with each word, though the grip you kept on the scarf didn’t loosen. If anything, you pulled him closer, closing the space between you inch by inch. "—and worst of all," you finished, dropping into something softer, something so intimate, "Completely, devastatingly, undeniably competent."

“Well, aren’t you good at apologizing…” he said into himself, embarrassingly beet-red at having fallen for your trick.

“I’m still waiting for yours, you know,” you pointed out distractedly, playing with the crystal flame lilies scattered on his wine berry shirt, tracing the petals of a bloom while seemingly entranced, following the silvery droplets dangling in a chain. “But I’ll be graceful this time and keep going with mine...”

Before he had a chance to blink or register the motion — your free palm slipped underneath the thin fabric covering his heart, caressing right alongside the pulsing red mark — and squeezed with a vengeance (such a fierce boob grab!), applying enough pressure that the pads of your fingers sunk into flesh, then widened the buttonless V-cut of his shirt by yanking, no, downright ripping it open by the lapels with both hands, and Rafayel damn near felt like a virgin at how scandalous that single action was that he almost covered himself up.

But then again, he could hardly claim innocence right now, could he? He was practically a champagne bottle about to pop down there. Just from that. Who was he, the main female character getting her corset ripped in a bodice-ripper novel?

“Ohmyg—hi? What happened to hello? How are y—”

“Shut up or no head.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Kisses were rained along his collarbone, the length of his neck, and nipping gently at the spot behind his ear that got the hairs on his nape rise to attention. It would’ve been funny what a child’s play it was to tease him until his ears matched the scarlet blossoms on his shirt, except nothing about this particular situation bore humor — least of all, his response to it.

Which was practically none at all. Because he simply lay there, stiff as a plank from how turned on he was, and you worked him diligently as if he was an instrument and you were the virtuoso.

It was also because he was zeroed in on the cleavage peeking out from the gap in your robe as you made your way further downwards, tongue flickering along the dips and bumps of his upper abdomen — surely able to feel more than hear each inhale and exhale getting closer to moaning territory the longer you kept teasing. He even caught a nip slip here and there, getting impossibly harder in response, culminating in him twitching and tightening beneath you whenever you — purposefully! — brushed against his erection.

“Rafayel,” you sighed dreamily, and he moaned for real this time at how his name fell softly past your parted lips, pouring into a pleased hum against his navel where a trail of wetness gleamed — followed by fingertips curling gently around the hem of his pants’ band. “You’re so quiet. Not leaving it up to chance, huh?”

And the only response he gave was an impatient roll of his hips toward your head, granting you permission — eager acquiescence, even — while a loud, unabashed gasp slipped into his lungs as your hands found the zipper of his pants. With a practiced tug, you freed it from its track, and his pants slid low on his hips, just enough to reveal the waistband of his underwear. Your fingers followed immediately, hooking under both fabric barriers to ease them down until they rested tautly just below his hips. The motion tugged on his shirt as well, once secured by the overlap tucked into his waistband, and with nothing anchoring it anymore, the luxurious fabric parted effortlessly, exposing the sculpted expanse of his chest and abs in one sweeping reveal. His stiffening length, freed from its confines, ached visibly — leaping subtly toward contact, as though craving the touch it had been denied for far too long.

"See? You're being so good... why do you keep wanting to provoke me?" came your lilting reproach, spoken against the soft skin of his pelvis, lips fluttering teasingly across its planes in playful grazes of their silky plush. "

“Permission to talk?”

A sharp, in-drawn breath escaped him the moment a single finger traced along the underside of his shaft, lingering over a wildly pulsing vein — evidence of the frenetic race of his heart currently pumping pure liquid lightning straight through his veins — but he recovered quickly, allowing it to dissolve into an exhale long and drawn-out instead.

“Go ahead, handsome.”

His hips lurched instinctively in search of something tangible, of a sensation besides the torturous tickle of warm breaths dancing lightly along his arousal, "Give me my reward, then. I've waited so long for this, it's been torture."

“Doesn’t sound like you minded the wait. You left me, didn’t you?”

Ah, yes. The grudge. You were becoming like Rafayel the longer you stayed by his side.

"You know I hate waiting. Let alone like this," he said, all whiny and punctuated with a shudder — one that was met with an accompanying jolt that surged straight from the base of his erection when your lips brushed teasingly alongside it. "I didn't think you'd be this cruel..."

"Are you really asking?"

"Can you give it to me instead of wasting time talking?" came his blunt retort, brows drawn together in an impatient furrow that radiated ‘I’m being wronged,’ energy.

"Not wasting time at all, just wanted to spend more time with you. Feels nice, right? You deserve this,” you murmured comfortingly against the swell of his abs rising and falling with each heavy breath — and oh, he almost melted into a puddle at that, visibly deflating with his chest cavity just filling up all warm and fuzzy with love.

It did feel nice but — just — just — fuck — he needed to be touched or he actually was going to disintegrate into sea foam. Not joking.

A brief kiss landed on on the left side of his Apollo belt in consolation before a drag of your tongue along its path followed, transitioning into you breathing more warmth directly into his base, then placing a loving peck to his tip — eyes twinking at the tremble that surged through him. “I really love seeing you so reactive. Does it feel that good? Just breathing on you like this?”

His hips pushed upward in tiny nudges, bumping insistently against your cheek, practically begging to be held properly inside your mouth. "It doesn't feel good at all — just, come on, hurry... I keep my lube in the top drawer on the left... It's edible, you know..."

Thankfully, you didn't smirk at him. Didn't stop to tease him about his eagerness, either, wordlessly going about reaching over to rummage for a bottle in his nightstand — an act that forced you to draw away from his straining member completely, your warmth vanishing suddenly in one agonizing instant, causing him to nearly whine from the loss.

You popped open the lid to squirt some lubrication into your palm and recapped it while staring down at him with a curious gleam. "You had something like this with you the whole time—"

Your words got cut off upon him grabbing your dripping hand and directing it straight where his impatience stood angry at the delay, shuddering out a moan at how incredibly silky the glide was.

"Finally... yesss," he hissed, thrusting upwards to feel more friction — the delicious slickness spreading across your enclosed grip driving him absolutely wild. "Ahh—kkhfff... Keep going, you have to keep going, don't let go... Please. Please?”

Something in your face twisted weirdly at his breathy begging, making his heart flip at the unflinching lust in your widened gaze trained firmly onto his jerking hips.

He had your fist trapped around his swollen cock, urging you into pumping it once you settled into a steady rhythm stroking its turgid crown, twisting and curling into each new swipe upwards along his pulsing flesh; encouraging you by squeezing tighter every few strokes until you took over completely. Then, he threw his arm over his forehead haphazardly, basking in the blissful waves flowing through his veins at long last, watching you watch yourself pleasure him through fluttering lashes, breathing hard through half-parted lips.

"That's it," he sighed huskily, rocking his body into the hand rubbing and grinding against his dick's ridge with expert motions; thumb circling its glistening head and caressing alongside its slit where precome beaded out generously, smoothing over the entirety of its surface and working into the underside, swirling tantalizingly over the bulging vein there until all his thoughts melted into a haze of pure sensation, mind wiped clean of everything except the singular, simple fact that he desperately needed to come. "Like that — nnhhh, yes! That feels amazing — feels perfect — love those sweet little fingers... So close already, I can't, I can't—"

At his muttered groans, your pace stuttered noticeably before resuming its previous speed, which wasn't fast enough according to the stretching throb inside his core, his blood rushing loudly through his ears like boiling rapids. "No, faster..." he urged you, rutting into your palm even harder in a frantic effort to increase the pressure and bring him to the precipice quicker. "I can't hold on much longer — need more, I need more. Tighter. Tighter."

The corners of his vision pulsed white and Rafayel whimpered as he jumped inside your curled fist when the unexpected sensation of having your forefinger slide through his sticky fluids gathered at its tip, swirling clockwise before ascending back up in an unhurried stroke that carried a slippery coating alongside it to smooth out the glide to put pressure right into the slit — a sensation that lingered for seconds afterward with ghostly echoes, drawing a sudden choked gasp from his lips at how intensely good that single touch felt.

“Thaaaaat’s it, yeah, I love that, you have such a beautiful voice.” Your free palm swept up alongside his ribs to rub gently against their curve as though to soothe the ragged sounds ripping past his throat; traveling upward to cradle his head against yours where your cheek brushed alongside his temple, holding him still with tender care and easing some of the tremble wracking through him. "Can you feel how much I'm enjoying us being together like this — how badly I've missed you? Please let me hear those pretty sounds, I wanna hear them loud and clear. Will you be generous for me and share it all?"

His reply died in his throat in favor of a low keening sound — something raw and broken — when you squeezed tighter.

The way your nails dug ever so delicately into the sides of his cock, applying pressure just shy of pain was truly exquisite torture, making his head swim and rise up from the bed so he could crush his lips against yours, biting hungrily into your plush mouth and delving deep into its depths until oxygen became nothing but an afterthought. Every neuron of him burned alive in chain reaction as your tongue wound and slid alongside his, curling along the underside before retreating for him to suckle on your lower lip eagerly until it swelled red.

"Mmnghhfuck! Hhhaaa—keep—" Words spilled past his slackened lips like ribbons unfurling, senseless as he struggled to convey how excruciating it was to contain his euphoria within, desperate for any sort of outlet to relieve the pressure rising inside him rapidly —

— and then broke off suddenly on a low moan when he caught a flash of your unoccupied hand that was just cradling his neck having found its way between your thighs, the view out of sight because of the robe —

Then, Rafayel saw the pearly gates.

His orgasm slammed straight into him, so unexpected and yet wholly expected all the same that he gasped around it like he was in a headlock, utterly disoriented by the sudden assault on his senses, soaring impossibly higher with each jerk of his hips into your fingers' grasp and shooting thick white streaks across his stomach; leaving behind faint smears wherever it hit its mark — warm, sticky ropes landing atop his defined abs and even reaching as far as his sternum.

He knew something was wrong when it didn't stop.

Far from it, really: each pulsing contraction seemed to force more of its fluid past his cock's narrow slit, painting your pumping digits liberally with his release — even staining the lapels of your robe in messy spots. It lasted so long that Rafayel started seeing stars sparkling around the edges of his blurring vision; making everything appear fuzzy like static. "Nggh—too much—ah! Aaa—hhh! Nnhhfff... Khhffffcking hell... Can't believe—still going—"

"Don't hold back now, just ride it out, nothing wrong with it," you murmured fervently, brushing some hair back from his sweat-soaked temple and — then — kisses, so many kisses. "I know you wanted this so badly, it's okay... You deserve this. Let go for me, yeah? Can't you let go for me? All this stress will go away. Isn't that nice?"

What came out instead was an embarrassingly high moan, hoarse with overuse, entirely at odds with the self-assuredness he'd wanted to project with each thrust of his hips, spurred onwards by instinct alone in a mad dash for euphoria.

Just how pent-up was he?

He couldn't recall the last time he'd felt pleasure this acute, sharp as shrapnel beneath the layers of desire, making him so out of it that he wasn't even aware of the embarrassing mess he made like he’d just wet himself being cleaned up with a tissue by you.

And it still wasn't nearly enough.

He surged forward, wound his arm around your waist and tossed you to the side gently so your back lay flush against the sheets before following suit in a tangle of limbs that ended with you under him — where he belonged: cradled between your thighs, seated fully inside their heated clasp as he hovered above you — one elbow propped beside your shoulder while the other wandered aimlessly downwards and undid the trusty knot holding your robe together in one go.

"Rafa—"

“Sorry, I'm sorry, I can't, I'm so thirsty," he said, as he raised the lube-and-come-sodden hand of yours up to his mouth to lap at the trails trickling over your wrist; sucking on your fingertips in apology — no trace of shame coloring his cheeks as he did, far too focused on the task of cleaning them thoroughly to be distracted by something as trivial as embarrassment. He didn’t even taste himself. Just the blueberry.

So engrossed in it that he didn’t even notice you burning holes with your gaze at his lips sealing around your thumb while he ran his tongue underneath it in short, quick flicks until it was glistening once more, except this time with spit instead of lubricant.

All the while, he traced the clean strip of skin revealed by the parted folds of your robe with a searing hand, starting from the valley of your cleavage between your breasts all the way down the slight convex curve of your torso leading towards the V that marked the point where your thighs began, drawing delicate circles into your navel, slipping downward inch by tantalizing inch in search for hidden oasis.

Taking notice of how wrecked you looked through the curtains of your fingers splayed over his eyes and forehead, Rafayel rewarded you an equally debauched looked as his lips curled into a smirk against your palm.

A loud, viscous pop of your wetness echoed in the room when his fingers tenderly made contact — positively dripping for him. Your mouth flew open upon feeling him draw his forefinger's pad gently against your entrance, lingering teasingly at the seams in an excruciating crawl, tracing lightly around it as you pulsed hungrily against his fingertip.

"So thirsty," he mumbled absentmindedly to himself — mouth watering.

Rafayel pushed open your legs by the backs of your thighs to allow his head better access. If he was on a normal day, he would plant feverish kisses on the insides of your quaking knees and thighs and mark you everywhere, made it more sensual, more teasing, but he was borderline parched — not to mention more impatient than a driver stuck behind a cyclist in a one -lane road.

You yelped at his mouth diving between your legs in reckless abandon. His tongue lapped up your slick in deep, obscene flicks, then plunged inside into the warm haven awaiting him inside, devouring your sweet nectar in loud slurps, uncaring of how sloppy and unrestrained he was currently acting; far too hungry to concern himself over anything save for indulging greedily in your flavor.

"Rafayel, shit, that feels—oh my god..." He had to push your hips down by splaying his hand along the plane of your stomach as you arched helplessly, otherwise you would have simply lifted right off from his greed ravaging you without mercy or restraint. "That's so—you're so—fuck! What—what’s gotten into you? Ahh...!"

Any hope of responding to that died the second your hand tangled itself tightly into his hair and tugged to bring him impossibly closer against you, his head blanking. It felt so good when your heel planted itself onto his shoulder blade and pressed insistently there in a silent plea for more, sending ripples of heat fanning out across his nerve endings in their wake.

Without hesitation, he latched his lips around the swollen bud peaking proudly from beneath a layer of velveteen flesh and flicked upwards, suckling hard before closing around it fully — then rolled his tongue in circles around its rim with the intent to render your world spinning madly with each passing stroke. The fingers locked around your trembling thighs kneaded deeply into their skin, coaxing the delicious, involuntary spasms coursing throughout you until the only thing you knew was the blissful torment his hot mouth wrought.

"You're so delectable on my tongue, did you know? The prettiest moans come pouring out from your lovely lips when I'm between your legs like this," he said, the sentences pieced together like beads on a pearl necklace fragment by fragment between licks and sucks, sounding just short of reverence. "Your taste drives me wild, I swear it's addictive... Am I making it up to you yet? Please say yes. Tell me it's working."

"Yesyesyesyesss—" A sharp inhale cut off anything else you tried to babble further as Rafayel rewarded you with another generous helping of his enthusiasm by diving back in and running his tongue in earnest up through your center. "You feel amazing, you — feel — so — g-good—"

"—don't think that's enough, though. Didn't you call me incompetent earlier?"

"What," you choked out angrily when a puff of warm breaths skated dangerously close to where you were most sensitive. "Oh my god—"

"I hold grudges, cutie. You taught me that," he said in a sing-song reply, lighthearted in tone, nearly drowned out by the thready groans bleeding through.

"I apologized already — what more do you want? Stop teasing, Rafayel!"

A pregnant pause followed as he stared up at you from between your legs, and saw your eyes widen with realization at just what you'd requested.

"As you wish," he relented, a dark edge to his mischievous grin when he rose back up and braced his knees against the mattress better, pulling your hips tight into the cradle of his thighs until one of your legs was thrown over his shoulder. "Have it your way — and don't forget you asked for this."

The slow sink inside your wet heat was traitorously misleading: a gentle, sweet meeting at first that masked what was brewing underneath.

A dragged out whine fanned his flames as you threw your head back. “You asshole—”

"I could have made you come once, twice..." he said, in a smooth purr that dripped sinfully past his lips.

Your mouth fell open on a silent gasp; the first wave of pleasure rolling through you upon being filled suddenly in one deep plunge. Your torso twisted to allow you to hide your face into the curve of his forearm draped next to your shoulder.

"You know I love taking my time with you," he continued, pausing to bury his face into your hair to breathe you in deeply, adjusting your leg to fall from his shoulder straight onto his hip. You took advantage of Rafayel getting close, grabbing onto his back so quickly that you missed the first time and yanked his shirt down to bunch halfway down his midsection and get stuck at his elbows. "And you just had to take that from me. I don't know which one of us is greedier... "

An apology was voiced, muffled by the crook of his elbow, almost incoherent by your gasps.

He cupped your chin and made you look at him. “Are you comfortable? Not hurting you, am I?”

Your throat clicked audibly. Then you shook your head rapidly in answer to both inquiries: yes — no — everything was okay — and Rafayel breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

And then, out of nowhere your fingers started moving around the expanse of his upper back, and before he could question the non-sexual way it came across when he was literally inside you, you said, "You're sweating."

"Yeah...?" Confusion muddled his hazy mind clouded with dull pleasure begging for him to start moving again, but you looked at him with wide, eager expectation dancing behind your expectant eyes — as if you couldn't quite believe what you'd seen.

"No — your temperature. It's still high but you're sweating now," you told him excitedly. "Rafayel — that's huge! This means your body is cooling itself down!"

He huffed.

"Of course it is, I've got the hottest woman in the world under me," he said with a roll of his hips, earning an enthusiastic moan from you in the process. Your arms snaked themselves around the back of his neck tighter until both forearms crossed at their crease, palms moving upwards in an intoxicating drag through the back of his skull. "You the cure to all of this..."

His forehead dropped unceremoniously yours where it stayed, and he sucked in an uneven, shaky groan that tapered into something resembling a whine as he started rutting steadily against you, driving into that spot where you liked it the best with growing desperation with the occasional staccato grunt at the fluttering squeeze and murmured encouragement.

At some point, his mouth wandered towards your pulse, scraped his teeth against it gingerly before latching on it in an open-mouthed kiss that was hard enough to bruise.

You tilted your chin skywards with a sigh to give him better access and tangled your fingers encouragingly deeper into his hair, and something inside him sparked awake in response, a fiery need demanding him to paint every inch of your skin violet, rose and mauve so that it may glow evermore brightly for everyone to see —

"Way too beautiful for your own good... Driving me crazy... Every single day... Couldn't keep my hands off you the moment I got in here..." he hissed furiously as though he were possessed, snapping his hips harder upon finding the angle he desired, searching relentlessly for something within you both to satisfy the frenzied race to the peak taking control of him completely; searing kisses littering everywhere he could reach along the underside of your chin and neck whilst spewing senseless litanies into your skin in between them. "Can't believe I could have this forever... Right? Say I can have this forever. It'll drive me insane if you don't, I swear—"

"Forever," you echoed hoarsely, your nails digging tightly into his scalp as his pace increased once more. "Y-you can have me forever—anytime, wherever—"

Your assurances came with a startled cry of ecstasy as he sank his teeth into the juncture connecting your shoulder and collarbone in a bite that bordered on a savage instinct to ensure he was there, he'd been there, and would always be there. "You're not leaving, are you? Aren't gonna leave me anytime soon, right?

Every syllable was marked with a measured grind into you as if determined to force every word inside your head by burying it deep in your core — imprint it permanently into your brain; until the only thing filling your thoughts was him and him alone. "Not letting you — I'm not letting you. I can’t let you go, it’s too late — too late. Say it. Say it.”

"As — many times as I ne-ed to," you panted underneath him, arching upwards so beautifully for him as his grip loosened marginally to let you find that perfect angle that caused your back to bow like a perfectly tuned instrument in his hands; singing nothing but divine music. "'S not changing, ever. Won't change... Agh!"

His hips bucked in answer to your nails sinking deep into the skin of his shoulders as though clawing for dear life. "Yeah? Yeah? Promise—?"

All you could do was sob into his mouth hungrily swallowing yours — a mess of moans falling endlessly past your lips swallowed whole, accompanied with plaps and slaps of wet thrusting. There'd never be a time when he wasn't craving the taste of your flesh burning scorching white hot against his own, craving more and more until everything blurred into a haze of delirium.

"Tell me... Tell me—hah, tell me, princess. Let me hear it..." His chest rumbled deep within where yours rubbed deliciously against his bare flesh with each fervent roll of his body. Even then, it wasn't nearly enough; couldn't possibly be, not with how ravenously thirsty he was for anything and everything having to do with you: your sounds, your expressions, those intoxicating stares filled with nothing but need for him and only him. Not while his stomach twisted itself in knots tight enough to tie sails and yet remained impossibly empty at the same time, yearning for the sweet relief of gratification flowing freely and quenching his deepest thirst. "Wanna hear you, gotta hear you say it—"

"I'm right here, m'here, not going anywhere, not leaving... I'myours, just don't let go, don't let go of me—"

He heard it as though you were underwater; faint, muffled underneath the thick fog clouding his senses, so indistinct yet simultaneously loud enough to drown out anything else within reach.

Every coherent thought vanished from his mind, melting into thin ribbons streaming across an ocean of red flames, then bursting forth anew into embers scattering throughout his vision in a dizzying display, igniting behind his eyelids with blinding light every time he blinked them closed. When he opened them, new constellations blossomed instantaneously; bright orange ones with maroon tinges shining bright among the black canvas.

"M'not gonna—! Can't let go—couldn't even if I tried. They wouldn't even be able to pry you away from my cold, dead hands."

More vivid blotches appeared before him at random intervals, painting his desert landscape in abstract patterns shifting so erratically they threatened to form fractals at any moment, jagged shapes overlapping and warping themselves until they resembled colorful stains splattered across walls in chaotic messes; or perhaps simply the shadows of clouds skirting the edges of his sight drifting past without a care — all blending together and merging seamlessly as though water droplets bleeding into fine lines until none could tell where one ended and the others began.

"Gonna be... gonna be stuck with me for life," Rafayel said, sounding entirely half out of his mind with the way he was babbling endearments (something about a bride) in-between little laps that trailed upwards along your quivering sternum toward your heaving chest; kissing you so fervently as though possessed, driven wholly by base instincts demanding he give in to whatever compulsion overtook him. "Always been mine. Always. Always—can't ever leave, yeah? I won't forgive you—won't forgive you this time—"

"Rafayel, I'm gonna come, please..." you whispered hoarsely against the crown of his head nestled between your breasts, your hands grasping onto his shoulders helplessly in an attempt at anchoring yourself. "I can't keep going, I'll fall apart. Please, don’t stop, don’t stop—"

One of his fingers slid down to repeatedly flick through your swollen folds, teasing and circling around your clit while his tongue swirled around a nipple; pulling and sucking hungrily with fervent desire, giving a pointed twist once he'd latched on.

"Come for me, then, do it, c'mon, cream all around me, let me have it, let me have this — you can do it, I’ll help you along.” His lower body lifted suddenly, pulling back until only his cockhead remained caught inside; followed by a quiet pop indicating his lips breaking contact from where they were buried in your chest. "I need you so bad I can hardly stand it anymore... Wanna feel you — feel all of you — need all of you..."

All it took was one sudden shift after a steady build-up of rhythm of shallow, quick thrusts: the smallest rotation of his pelvis and thrust straightwards, hips knocking against yours in a violent shove of flesh meeting slick flesh for you to fly apart spectacularly when he buried himself into that specific area right below your cervix.

With a shuddering breath that dissolved instantly into a shrill cry tearing through your throat, your thighs locked tight around his waist — holding him prisoner while your nails sank fiercely into his scratched back as your entire body trembled uncontrollably through the aftermath.

“Yeah, there you go, cutie.” A comforting, grounding caress landed on your forehead, tracing the arc of its curve towards the back of your ear; then repeating itself multiple times in slow, unhurried strokes — to remind you he wasn't going anywhere, anytime soon. “There you are, that was beautiful. You got me seeing stars.”

"It's... It's snowing outside... In the desert," you said faintly, eyelids slow in their blinking, and Rafayel thought how utterly gorgeous you looked, all worn down and exhausted and so drunk in your post-orgasmic euphoria to talk nonsensically about what was happening outside.

"Yeah," he agreed, equally hushed as he peppered a trail of soft kisses across the bridge of your nose. You closed your teary lashes instinctively against the ticklish sensation. "It's so soft... and beautiful..."

You were the snow in his desert. Though, too blissed out to pick up on what he was implying.

Too busy stiffening up when you felt his cock jump inside you.

"You... you're still hard?"

“I didn’t come in the first place, whoops. Busy being too competent, I guess,” he said breezily, tilting his hips so that he pressed deep inside, directly into the tender spot inside you where pleasure flared to life unbidden.

"Let me... Let me rest, fuck, give me a minute..." Your hands scrambled for purchase against his scarred back; anchoring yourself by clawing surface level trenches down along its expanse and dragging red tracks as he continued his grinding in torturously slow and shallow rolls. "Need — I need to catch my breath, you're gonna make me pass out, shit, hold on — !"

Rafayel had you for three more times after that.

The first was the short prologue to what was coming, picked up from where he’d left off in the same position — head buried in your neck, making you tightly embrace him like he’d fly off the earth if he wasn’t held. No sooner did his hips start bucking roughly against yours before he spent himself inside in long pulses that coated you inside in heated spurts, sending sparks rippling out into your limbs from where you clenched weakly around him through your own release that hadn’t yet run its full course.

The prettiest sounds in the whole entire world spilled from him as he pulled out with a schlick, dripping his neglect-thickened seed onto the sheets, and you were naive as to think this was it. You both had indulged yourselves enough for the night, fucked through the absence-abstaining makes the heart fonder phenomenon, it had been fantastic to witness him get so serious. Surely now would be a good time to cool off and step into the bath together now that you’d been able to make him sweat and the sex-heavy humidity clinging thickly to your body was getting more comfortable the more you became aware of it. The room was absolutely boiling, stuffier than a sauna like he’d projected all the heat trapped inside his body everywhere. Perhaps opening up a window wouldn’t hurt…

“That was one,” he said then, staring down at his flushed erection straining proudly between his legs like a compass needle pointed north — the faint strand of semen connecting his tip and stomach swaying and snapping apart. “This isn’t anywhere near enough.”

To your shock, Rafayel got off the bed, hauled you in by your legs until your bottom half was dangling from the bed, and folded you completely in half with no warning. Your legs were pushed against your chest and were hooked over his shoulders, and the speed of with which all of it happened punched out a wheeze from you.

"Can I? Are you okay?" he asked urgently, patting your thigh rapidly twice, pausing — then adding another firm slap there before you nodded hurriedly in confirmation rather than a verbal response, because fuck, his weight holding you down felt absolutely incredible like this.

Your ankles started bobbing in sync with his hip thrusts as he drove deep inside your heat, the sink easy, smooth and soft and the mess you both made between your legs pouring out and splattering everywhere as he kept mumbling, “I can’t stop, I’m sorry, I can’t stop, can’t stop—”

This round lasted longer, though it was the worst frenzy you’d seen Rafayel in. Nothing was slow about it, he was mercilessly pistoning himself into you and unpredictably switching between shallow and deep that had your clit being scraped against and A-spot drilled into. You couldn’t even keep your eyes open from how intense pleasure was kneading you violently like a dough. If it wasn’t for his mouth gluing itself onto yours, the entire floor and the poor downstairs guests probably would have heard what was happening with how loud his moaning became — because he was downright voluntarily overstimulating himself.

With one particularly desperate sob, Rafayel finally buried himself to the hilt within you — throbbing — in harsh jets of liquid fire with jerking, abrupt twitches of his hips, milking himself into your body as he found yet another release that was as intense and concentrated as the previous. You cried brokenly, shuddering as that final thrust abused your clit over the edge of orgasm number two, involuntarily flinching and trying to get away when he pushed all the accumulated, positively flowing stringy mess right back into your puffy cunt with a strange, entranced look on his face. You had to slap his hand away and kick his weight off you, powerless and exhausted and fully feeling like your vagina was gaping and would never close back up.

A soft kiss on your cheek brought you back to earth.

“Still alive?” he croaked, gently maneuvering you higher up the bed and laying you back comfortably. You had to avoid the giant, wet and shining spot that had to be dripping down on the floor at the edge of the bed, face burning as Rafayel’s sweat-drenched forehead leaned against yours. “I’m not going easy on you… I have to say I’m impressed how good you’re taking it.”

You realized, once more with feeling, that he was rock-hard against your hip despite having already come three separate times — two of which had filled you to the point of pouring out of you — and had no sign of calming down any time soon.

He was beyond insatiable.

Though the third and final time was far sweeter, the pace much slower and drawn out as though he’d suddenly regained some sense and clarity. By that time, you were growing deliriously tired, the earlier carnal fucking accommodated itself to you by morphing into tender lovemaking. Rafayel had you on your side, comfortably able to hug pillows and anchor yourself, while straddling your thigh and hooking your other calf over his waist and held it there firmly, out from your space to let you breathe with his back straight. Just looking down at you with obvious, sensual longing to lean down for kisses the entire time and looking so fucked out had been enough to rekindle your desire.

He was driving himself languidly into you, either eyes closed and head thrown back, or focused dead-on at the spot between where he was slipping in and out of you — watching your cunt eagerly swallow his white-coated cock and attempt to suck him right back in each time he pulled out until only his tip remained buried. Over and over.

And eventually, his shaky breaths and sweet sighs started turning into fast-paced, restrained moans. You saw him hanging on the precipice of wanting to go fast again, the tension his body pulled taut like a bowstring about to snap.

At one point, your robe and his shirt had found themselves slingshotted into the far, opposite corners of the room at some point but he still had his pants and was positively drenched in sweat like he’d just taken a bath and shining under the dim lighting.

"Drained all of my stamina, I'm empty, completely dry... I’m gonna need an IV drip. I can’t believe it. This is crazy, you know... I could die happy like this... But I wanna come. I wan—nnah come inside you so bad again, wanna fill you up—make you full with me—"

He went completely motionless and stayed burrowed in you when your palms cupped his face gently, forcing him to look down at you with his shiny eyes. "You've got to calm down first."

“I don’t think I can,” he murmured, panting, “I really can’t. You feel so—”

Your thumbs stroked the outer corners of his eyes with aching tenderness. “We’ll stop and try to calm you down a bit continuing then, okay? Try for me. No need to rush when we have time to ourselves. No one’s going anywhere.”

He stumbled and nearly fell to his elbows on top of you. “Tell me to,” he said, in a begging voice. “You can just tell me to calm down. Anything you want, anything. You know I’ll listen.”

All these months of living with the revelation about the bond and it still came as a shock to you, but you figured if it was for his own good...

So you ordered him: "Calm down and relax, Rafayel. Everything’s fine, you’re okay."

And god, did he listen well.

You were shocked, as you always were each time, to see just how willingly compliant he was. Seeing his body literally change its chemistry to conform itself to your desires and let go of all tension was unbelievable. You immediately felt bad that you’d forced it on him somehow like some admitted, invasive tranquilizer, because you could have made him relax naturally, with your own labor, a glass of water and massage, maybe, gradually work him through it—

“There’s nothing to worry about. Don’t think about it too much. Just focus on me, yeah?” A quiet command that lacked any real intent to order accompanied an equally soft kiss planted softly against the corner of your mouth, and all thoughts went flying out of the window when you saw how mellowly at peace he was, gazing dreamily at you without the slightest care in the world.

After that, everything became a blur once again. But a pleasant one. Slow, like molasses trickling lazily throughout your bloodstream at room temperature — soothing all aches into pleasure-flavored coziness at being joined, no rampant race towards a climax involved. There was no concept of time whatsoever: just the two of you together.

After your pillow talk about what he believed inspired him — what he wanted would, you internally filled in the blanks — and how he was running out of reserves exclusively saved up for the purposes of his art, you had to make it clear to him that there would be no pain involved in your relationship.

You didn’t know if he expected to be hurt by you in the future or implied he had no problem with that happening, but you couldn’t even tolerate him saying those things for the sake of love, or whatever it was. Him being intimately familiar and nonchalant with the concept bothered you down to the bones.

Not only were you trying to work around the huge rock he’d just dropped on top of your heart with the revelation that Aridum had to represent pure suffering to him as a Lemurian, you were also slightly upset he’d wanted to subject himself to it because he was lost more beautiful things in life had made their way into his life to inspire him as well. His paintings, all of them, had taken a new context and an additional layer of tragedy with that revelation, despite the fact that he’d basically said you made him draw from a different fountain and clogged up the other one.

It was a bittersweet happiness to hear Rafayel wanting to explore brighter, happier sides of life together when the sketch he showed you he was working on while you were sleeping depicted a man drowning in the sea and a figure beckoning him from above, close to the surface. Something still very painful.

“That’s one bleak drawing.”

“Depends on what you see.”

“I see a dying man hallucinating. Maybe that’s someone close to him and his brain is comforting him with a vision. I don’t know.”

“Interesting take. Maybe it’s not just a man at all. Maybe it’s a reunion. It looks peaceful, doesn’t it?”

Now you looked again, it did look peaceful. Just like Rafayel was right now, next to you on the bed with his forehead almost touching yours.

"I'd like to think he isn't drowning, then."

Rafayel just smiled.

[flwrkid14]

Love and Obsession: The Tim Drake Way

part 2

Everyone in the Batfamily knows Tim Drake has… issues with boundaries. They’ve spent years trying to teach him what’s appropriate and what’s—well—deeply unsettling and completely invasive. To be fair, he’s learned. Mostly. He doesn’t stalk his family anymore (much), and he no longer pulls up files on every single person they talk to (okay, maybe just sometimes). But it’s progress.

But then Tim starts dating Danny Fenton. And, oh boy, a few screws come loose.

It starts small, as always. Just little things. Tim’s a detective, after all—background checks are second nature. Danny’s living in Gotham, and Gotham isn’t safe. So, really, what’s the harm in knowing a little more about Danny’s friends? And his professors? And maybe also his classmates? It’s just standard protocol. Okay?

“Tim, you’ve run a full dossier on my entire biology class?” Danny asks one day, laughing as he flips through a file on the coffee table. Tim shrugs. “What if one of them is dangerous?” “Pretty sure the most dangerous thing in that class is the midterm.”

Danny doesn’t think much of it. He’s a little flattered, even. Tim’s protective. It’s sweet.

But Tim’s mind doesn’t stop there. Danny’s too handsome. Too charming. What if someone tries to hurt him? What if someone tries to take him away? It’s not obsessive—it’s just concern. So, a tracker on Danny’s phone? Necessary. Cameras in his apartment? Standard. Monitoring his sleeping patterns and hangout spots? Logical.

Tim tells himself it’s love. And maybe a little insecurity.

“You have a tracker on his phone?” Dick asks, trying not to sound alarmed. Tim nods, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Of course. What if something happens to him?” “And the cameras?” “Safety.” “The background checks on his professors?” “Gotham U isn’t exactly known for its stellar staff, Dick.”

It doesn’t stop there. Tim knows everything. Danny’s eating habits, his favorite places to go when he’s stressed, his childhood allergies. Tim’s mapped out Danny’s entire life. He knows about Danny’s ghost powers too—of course he does. He’s Tim Drake. The moment he realized Danny was Phantom, it just… clicked.

Danny being half-ghost? That’s just one more reason to worry. Tim’s up late at night, watching for any signs of ectoplasmic interference. He tracks the energy spikes. He monitors Danny’s fights.

He doesn’t think Danny knows. He’s terrified of what will happen if he finds out.

But then he does.

One evening, Danny walks into Tim’s apartment and casually drops a folder on the table. Tim’s heart stops.

“What’s this?” Danny asks, raising an eyebrow. Tim swallows hard. “I… it’s just…” “You’ve been tracking me?” Danny opens the file, glancing through pages of surveillance reports, background checks, even analysis of his ectoplasmic energy. Tim feels like his world is about to shatter.

“I… I can explain,” Tim says, his voice tight. “I’m just… worried about you. You’re in danger all the time, and I—” Danny walks over, cupping Tim’s face in his hands. Tim braces for the worst.

But Danny just smiles. “Can I put a tracker on you too?”

Tim blinks. “What?” Danny kisses his cheek. “If you’re watching my back, it’s only fair I watch yours. I need to make sure you’re safe too.”

Tim stares at him, speechless. Danny doesn’t look scared. Or angry. He looks… fond. Like Tim’s obsessive tendencies aren’t a problem at all.

“I’ve never had someone care about me this much,” Danny says softly. “I trust you with my life, Tim. This? This just proves how serious you are.”

Tim thinks he’s just fallen deeper in love.

-------------------

The Batfamily? They’re worried.

Jason corners Tim in the cave. “Okay, so let me get this straight. You’ve got cameras in his apartment. You’ve mapped out his entire life. You’ve got a tracker on him and a heartbeat monitor. And he’s… fine with it?” Tim nods, a dreamy smile on his face. “Yeah. He even wants to put a tracker on me.” “That’s not… healthy, Tim,” Dick says carefully. “That’s—” “It’s mutual,” Tim interrupts. “We’re protecting each other.”

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. “Tim, this isn’t how relationships are supposed to work.” Tim shrugs. “It’s how ours works.”

Damian watches the whole thing with narrowed eyes. “This is deeply unsettling,” he mutters.

They try to talk to Danny. Intervention style. They invite him over, sit him down, and gently (or not so gently) try to explain that Tim’s behavior isn’t normal.

Danny just laughs. “You guys do know I’m half-ghost, right?” “That doesn’t mean—” Dick starts. “I spent my entire life being hunted by ghost hunters. I’ve had worse invasions of privacy.” Danny smiles. “Tim cares. He keeps me safe. That’s all I need.”

The bats don't quite know what to say.

-------------------

Tim and Danny, two slightly unhinged souls who think mutual surveillance is the ultimate act of love.

The bats? They’re just trying to keep up.

(“At least they’re happy?” Barbara offers weakly. Bruce sighs. “For now.”)

Gotham’s version of love was never going to be normal. But this? This is a whole new level.

[inkskinned]

these days when you close your eyes, what else do you want but to be loved in a warm and permanent way. the open soft hand, the lowered voice, the blanket around your shoulders. you want to be loved like hot chocolate, like spring flowers, like dawn. you want to go to sleep protected and wake up fully rested. you want the wounds in you to matter, you want someone who is patient around your scars.

how greedy. these days when you look around, how many little ways are you assaulted by the notion that it's wrong to need others. individualism! capitalism! bootstraps! every time you try to language it, you need to cover up your desire into a carefully-worded soundbite: of course no single person can fulfill every need and we must invest in communities and i must be responsible for my own mental health and

but the yawning in you doesn't understand logic or sound or reason. it only sees sundays, only sees what you do-not-have, only sees the look others share and that you so desire. sick with dread at it, sick at how it makes you want, how you yearn in no direction.

no matter how many people you take with you to bed, no matter how many hands touch the tattoo you share with your sibling, no matter how many times you kneel with your knees bleeding. always, the ache that never stops chewing, the desperate sick loneliness that never quite abates. it never stops humming, i need i need i need. you burn your inner child for warmth and scatter the ashes into your morning coffee.

so you shut up and you load your life like shotgun shells and you try to make yourself whole in the way that others are whole. you let your father's words spill out of your mouth. you make a quick joke rather than tear your heart open. you sing into the mic and go home with stars in your eyes. your life is beautiful and you're lucky! you have everything a person can need!

but it would be nice, is the thing. to have a love that feels like peace.

[mangooes]

Arguments and understanding

“Don’t raise your voice at me, Sylus.”

(Name) stood in the middle of the living room, arms crossed, her hair spilling down her shoulders like defiant flames. Her eyes sparkled—not with their usual mischief, but with frustration.

“You’re being unreasonable,” Sylus shot back, pacing like a caged storm. His crimson eyes burned. “You always run headfirst into things without thinking!”

“And you always try to control everything! I’m not one of your pawns, Sysy. I’m your wife!”

The name on her lips softened the edges of the fire—but only for a second.

Then it happened. He didn’t mean it.

But his voice rose. Not in anger—but in panic. In fear.

“You could’ve gotten yourself killed, (Name)!”

Silence dropped like a hammer.

Her expression broke—not entirely, but enough that the hurt cracked through. No witty comeback. No sarcasm. She just… stared at him, the silence between them so loud it rang in his ears.

Then, without a word, she turned.

Walked out.

The door clicked behind her.

And Sylus… let her.

He stood in the suffocating quiet, heart pounding like war drums. His pride told him to let her breathe. His logic told him she’d be back soon.

But something deeper—the dragon part of him, the soul that remembered a girl wrapped in light—twisted in warning.

Minutes passed.

Then an hour.

Then two.

By the third hour, Sylus was pacing like a storm god barely contained. The moment Luke and Kieran passed by, catching sight of his expression, they froze mid-step.

“Where’s the Missus?” Luke asked slowly, already fearing the answer.

“She’s not back yet.”

The twins didn’t need to be told twice.

Without a single order, they bolted—checking city surveillance, phone pings, familiar haunts. Sylus called Mephisto to life with a hiss of his Evol, the mechanical bird’s eyes flashing as it shot into the night skies.

And Sylus?

He grabbed his helmet, swung onto his obsidian-black bike, and rode like hell.

Street after street blurred into streaks of neon and darkness. He searched alleyways, rooftops, the hidden corners of N109 where shadows whispered danger. His Evol flared with every heartbeat, a restless mist of crimson and black wrapping around him like a cloak of rage and desperation.

She was gone.

And all he could see in his mind was her again—that past life, when she left to protect him and never returned.

His hands shook on the handlebars.

He couldn’t lose her again.

He wouldn’t.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When dawn broke and the search turned up nothing, Sylus reluctantly returned home, jaw clenched, every muscle in his body wound tight.

The manor was quiet.

Too quiet.

He stepped through the front door, and for the first time in hours—he saw her.

There she was.

Curled up on the couch in her coat, cheek pressed to a throw pillow, a soft rise and fall in her chest.

Sleeping.

As if she hadn’t just ripped the soul out of him for the past five hours.

Sylus didn’t move at first. He just stood there, frozen in the doorway, trying to make sure it wasn’t some hallucination. That she was really here.

He stepped forward. Then another. And another.

Until he dropped to his knees beside her, breath catching in his throat as he reached out, gently tucking a few stray strands of her hair behind her ear.

She stirred slightly. Her lips were parted. Her cheeks faintly flushed from the cold. She smelled like winter wind and sugar.

Sylus exhaled—long and shaking—and leaned down, kissing her forehead with trembling lips.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against her skin. “I’m so damn sorry.”

Carefully, he picked her up, lifting her effortlessly into his arms and sinking onto the couch with her sprawled across his chest. She shifted instinctively, nuzzling closer, her arms wrapping loosely around his middle.

Sylus rested his cheek against her curls.

Only then did he allow himself to close his eyes.

Only then did he breathe again.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sun was just rising when (Name) blinked awake.

She felt warm.

Safe.

Trapped.

Because she was completely, utterly caged in by her husband—Sylus's strong arms wrapped tight around her as if she’d vanish again if he so much as loosened his hold. Her legs tangled with his, and her cheek was pressed to his bare chest where his heart beat like a war drum.

She shifted, squirming slightly.

Sylus stirred.

Eyes fluttered open—burning crimson in the early light. The moment he realized she was awake, he sat up halfway, holding her face in both hands.

“Sweetie,” he breathed, voice ragged. “Gods—I thought I lost you.”

“I just went for a walk…” she mumbled, guilt instantly sweeping through her when she saw the raw emotion in his eyes.

“For hours,” he said, voice cracking. “Without a word. No Mephisto. No calls. I searched the entire goddamn city for you.”

Tears prickled her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I was being selfish. I didn’t think… I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Sylus didn’t reply.

He just pulled her in and kissed her—deep and fierce and full of everything he didn’t know how to say with words. She melted into it, fingers clenching in his shirt, tears slipping down her cheek.

“I’m here,” she murmured against his lips. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Not unless you want me to lose my mind again,” he said softly, kissing her forehead.

Meanwhile, outside the hallway…

Luke and Kieran dragged themselves into the manor, looking like war survivors.

Kieran squinted at the living room. “You seeing what I’m seeing?”

Luke groaned. “Yep. Boss and Missus making out on the couch. Again.”

“…They couldn’t even pretend to be traumatized with us.”

Luke shook his head. “I want a raise. A big one. With hazard pay.”

“Same. Let’s go lie down before one of them starts baking ‘apology cookies’ again.”

The twins retreated with groans while peace finally returned to the mansion.

And on the couch, Sylus held his wife like a lifeline—his soul finally, finally whole again.

HI IM SORRY IF THIS IS NOT TOO ANGSTY I TRIED OKAY AKSDNASK I CANT WRITE ANGST FOR GODS SAKE LMAOO

[noredemptionhere]

𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙳𝙲𝙰𝙽𝙾𝙽𝚂 ⋆˙⟡♡ 𝚆𝙸𝙵𝙴!𝚂𝙴𝚅𝙸𝙺𝙰 𝚇 𝙵𝙴𝙼!𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙳𝙴𝚁

no warnings—just fluff

ᡣ𐭩| sevika isn’t ticklish. except in one spot. you found it by accident, barely brushed your fingers there, and she flinched. the realization hit you both at the same time. she narrowed her eyes. “don’t.” you grinned. “got your ass.”

ᡣ𐭩| sevika is secretly the biggest hypocrite. tells you to “be careful” but gets into fights twice a week. says she “doesn’t like sweets” but always steals bites from your dessert. acts like she’s all serious, but the moment you’re out of sight? she’s wrapping herself in your blanket like a burrito.

ᡣ𐭩| sevika rarely gets sick, but when she does? she’s miserable. won’t admit she’s sick, won’t take medicine, just sulks in bed with a blanket over her face. you try to help, and she just groans, “leave me here to die.”

ᡣ𐭩| sevika makes the worst coffee. it’s either jet fuel or straight-up bean water—there is no in-between. and yet, she still drinks it like it’s fine. if you complain, she just slides the cup toward you. “all you jealous bitches got nothing on me.”

ᡣ𐭩| sevika is good at cards. too good. it’s infuriating. she doesn’t even try. she just sits there, unreadable, waiting for you to make a mistake. when you finally do lose, she just smirks, shuffling the deck with lazy precision. “wanna go again?”

ᡣ𐭩| sevika does not ‘scoot over.’ if you want to sit beside her, you make it work. you push at her, wriggle into the smallest available space, throw a leg over hers—and she still won’t move. just lets you struggle until you’re satisfied, smirking the entire time.

ᡣ𐭩| she does not like sticky things. syrup? hate. honey? disgust. the one time you kissed her after eating a popsicle, she physically recoiled. you had to follow her around the apartment with sticky lips while she threatened to throw you out.

ᡣ𐭩| she talks in her sleep. not often, but when she does, it’s nonsense. once, she mumbled, “no, i don’t want the frog,” and you spent weeks trying to figure out what it meant. she refuses to acknowledge this ever happened.

ᡣ𐭩| her sneezes are terrifying. she tries to hold them back, but when they come out, it’s like a gunshot. the first time it happened, you screamed. she laughed so hard she had to sit down.

ᡣ𐭩| sevika’s hands are always warm. annoyingly so. you press your cold fingers against her just to hear her complain, and she always does. “fuck’s sake—” but she doesn’t pull away. just sighs and lets you steal her warmth like the menace you are.

ᡣ𐭩| she has a soft spot for the dumb things you love. that one stupid tv show you’re obsessed with? she’s seen every episode. that weird little stuffed animal you’ve had since childhood? guarded with her life. she pretends to be indifferent, but then you catch her muttering about the plot holes in your favorite series like it personally offended her.

ᡣ𐭩| she grumbles when you move too much in bed. full-on, deep-chested grumbling, like a bear being disturbed from hibernation. you shift once? she sighs. you shift again? she tightens her grip. the third time? “seriously?” and suddenly you’re locked in place.

ᡣ𐭩| sevika has the world’s worst sleep schedule. she’ll tell you she’s going to bed early, and then you’ll wake up at 3 AM to find her standing in the kitchen, eating leftovers with her fingers and flipping through a book she has been obsessed with like she’s solving a murder case.

ᡣ𐭩| sevika cannot whisper. she thinks she can, but her whisper is just her normal voice, slightly lower. if she tries to say something discreet in public, people from across the room will turn to look. you’ve stopped letting her tell you secrets in quiet places.

ᡣ𐭩| she refuses to eat the last bite of anything. no explanation. no logic. just a deep-seated refusal to finish a plate completely. she’ll sit there, arms crossed, staring at the single remaining bite like it personally offended her. you’ve started eating it for her out of spite.

ᡣ𐭩| sevika hates when you’re mad at her. not because she can’t handle it—she can. but because she doesn’t know what to do. she just kind of… hovers. pokes at you. drops things near you so you have to pick them up and acknowledge her existence.

ᡣ𐭩| she thinks she’s subtle when she checks you out. she is not. she does the whole slow, full-body glance, then immediately acts like she wasn’t just devouring you with her eyes.

ᡣ𐭩| sevika sighs like she’s got a mortgage and three kids. you’ll say something mildly annoying, and she’ll exhale like she’s carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. you once asked her why she does that. she just looked at you and sighed again.

ᡣ𐭩| she pretends she doesn’t like sweets. but every time you get something sugary, she takes a bite. every. single. time. and if you ever try to call her out on it, she just shrugs. “tastes better when it’s yours.”

ᡣ𐭩| sevika acts like she’s above petty behavior—but she’s not. one time, you jokingly called another woman “pretty,” and for the rest of the night, sevika miraculously forgot how to do anything for herself. needed help unbuckling her belt, unbuttoning her shirt, everything.

[sossolei]

things that have helped me shift ⊹₊⟡⋆

DISCLAIMER, Just because I have shifted before doesn’t mean I am the Library of Alexandria. I’m a person just like you, learning as I go so I don’t have the answer to everything but I do try! I’m also not saying any of this will absolutely, 100% make you shift, but hopefully it can provide some perspective or insight into something you hadn’t thought about! !!! ANTIS DNI !!!

LANGUAGE — I’ve noticed since I first got into shifting that shifters will talk about/treat these realities like fanfiction or a role playing kinda thing??? It confused me before I had shifted because if this is real then why are people talking about themselves in the third person, or referring to others as “npc/non main characters”, or scripting in some crazy trauma for “fun”??? If you read anything of mine, you will notice I do not use words like “main character” or even “desired reality” because for me personally, it’s just reinforcing in my mind that this is not something that’s real or even close to something I can achieve.

Cut out third person language entirely. Stop referring to your “failed shifting attempts” as such, in fact, stop referencing it AT ALL. Stop keeping track. Stop referring to people in these realities as “main characters” or “npcs.” Stop coming back from an attempt thinking “damn I didn’t shift.”

INSTEAD, start saying that you shifted every time you attempt. “But I woke up in my O.R” who says? only you have a say in whatever reality you want to live in. Fake it til you make it. Start talking about people as they are, people. Use their names or nicknames. Watch a TikTok and think to yourself “yeah I’d send this to them.” FEEELLLLL IT. MAKE IT REAL TO YOUUUU.

LOGIC — After successfully shifting, I don’t tend to think about the “science” or “spiritual” side anymore BUT this is the logic that makes the most sense to me and is the simplest explanation I can think of. When you wake up in the morning, do you first check your phone or stand up to brush your teeth or stretch? Whatever path you choose is a shift in your reality. Every single choice you’ve ever made is a shift in your reality. As far as you know, if you checked your phone instead of stretching, you might pull something later on in the day that you wouldn’t have pulled had you stretched. But you didn’t. And now there’s a reality where you stretched, did the exact things, and didn’t pull a muscle because you stretched that morning.

THAT is reality shifting in its simplest form.

Manifesting can even be considered reality shifting because you’re shifting your current consciousness into one that is receiving said manifestion. The universe is infinite. Do not let the constrictions of others constrain you too.

“Yeah you can shift realities but not to those fantasy places like hogwarts, that’s not possible” why not? If you’ve just admitted can shift realities, why are “fantasy” realities so different to you? Because HERE in THIS reality, they are fantasy. In that reality, it is everyday, it is normal, it’s just another Tuesday. Shifting is simply becoming aware of your consciousness in another reality, similar to switching characters in video game like The Sims 4, from one plumbob to another and yes, that easy.

MEDITATION — You don’t need anything to shift realistically, but the one thing I recommend for anything is meditating. It’s a skill and, like any other, one that can be refined and perfected over time. Learning to get into a state of pure consciousness is a practice that existed for centuries, anybody can do it and doing it will only ever benefit you. You can meditate when you wake up, before you fall asleep, when you’re sitting up, WHENEVER! I’ve always felt better after a meditation, shifting related or not. It also helps me feel better when I don’t end up shifting because at least I’ve honed in and practiced that meditation technique, yk? Positives in everything!

OTHER PRACTICES — If nothing else, I recommend trying different spiritual practices and adding a lil sprinkle of shifting in there! This applies to religion as well in case that isn’t clear lol. If you don’t follow any specific spiritual practice, try pegan spell work (with protection and research ofc), research any herbs that aid in things like enhancing spiritual energy. If you pray to a God, you can “work” with your God in a sense to aid you in this personal journey, whether that be through journaling or actual prayer, prayer is an amazing manifestion technique and I do believe it can help with reality shifting considering it’s not against any religions. And if you don’t want to do any of this, come up with something for you and you only! A ritual can be anything you make it. You decide what works for you at the end of the day.

REMOVAL — This helped me the most in my opinion, I completely stepped away from online communities doing anything with reality shifting ( specifically shifttok ) and followed my own intuition of how to go about shifting, doing shadow work to figure out any blockages/questions I had, and just overall made shifting fun again for myself! The main thing I did was learn more about manifesting because the manifestion community does NOT play, they do not believe in limitations and they love LOA(ssumption) which is my fav so!

LUCID DREAMING — Not the actual act of lucid dreaming but learning about lucid dreaming and astral projection really makes you understand that anti shifters are so ignorant to what these things actually are it’s insane! People didn’t even believe that you could control your dreams 10-20 years ago, they genuinely thought dreams were just something that happens to you. Nowadays, we obviously know that you can control your dreams but this is just proof that nobody knows what they’re talking about fr. I guarantee you, a few years from now, people are gonna be talking about reality shifting the same way they talk about lucid dreaming, CASUALLY. Reality shifting is not some big thing of grandeur that only “special” people can do, the same way everyone can lucid dream, is the same way everyone can reality shift, and astral project.

All this is to say, stop fucking listening to other people LMAOOO. That’s gonna be my advice every single time because too much of anything will become a problem. Advice is good when you’re starting out and I don’t mind giving advice on that, but nobody knows you better than you know yourself, even if you don’t think you know what to do, I PROMISE you on everything, you know what’s best for you. You know what works, and you know what doesn’t, YOU KNOW. Believe yourself. Nobody else matters.

“you are the light. it’s not on you, it’s in you. don’t you ever in your motherfucking

life dim your light for nobody.”

[cuteandhughesy]

I’ll Be Home For Christmas ╰┈➤ NH13

summary: nico hischier acting as your fake boyfriend to try and get your family off your back this holiday season seems like the perfect solution - or so you thought.

[word count] 14.9k

warnings: SFW! fake dating | friends to lovers | suggestive themes and dialogue | kissing | jealousy | angst | fluff | mentions of anxiety |

a/n: based off this request! is this a plot i’ve seen before? absolutely! do i eat it up every time? ABSOLUTELY! hope you guys enjoy my third fic of my christmas special—I cant believe it’s almost christmas 🎄 this was originally supposed to go up on Christmas eve, but i finished it early 😘

🎵 i’ll be home for christmas by michael buble, christmas morning by megan moroney, someone like you by van morrison, run rudolph run by chuck berry, little saint nick by the beach boys, christmases when you were mine by taylor swift, blue christmas by megan moroney, + my only wish (this year) by britney spears

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"I think the only way to solve this is if I jump off the highest mountain in jersey."

bree pauses her stirring hand, glancing at you sternly over her shoulder. "don't jump off anything, y/n/n."

you let out another unsatisfied grunt, a disgruntled noise that has come out your mouth many times since you arrived at your best friend's apartment - and you've only been here an hour.

the sound of the wooden spoon scraping along the metal soup pot starts up again, bree continuing to mix her homemade chicken vegetable soup she coerced you over with.

you watch the blonde with a pout on your slightly chapped lips - but it matches the rest of your appearance, so you're not even bothered that they are dry. resting your chin in the palm of your hand, you can't help but zone out and drown in your own dreadful bubble.

you've been feeling overwhelmed and stressed since last night. it started as you'd just finished eating your sad excuse of a frozen meal dinner, beginning to queue up the next episode of stranger things - when your evening was interrupted with your mom’s call.

"mom? is anything okay?" you answer quickly, brows pulled together in a curious manner.

you can hear her gentle laughter through the grainy line. "don't sound so scared to speak to me, honey. everything is fine."

you sigh. "just wasn't expecting a late night call is all....what's up?"

"well," she singsongs, and you can practically hear her wide smile through the phone. "you remember my friend susan, right? from work?" you hum once, so your mom continues. "well she has a son named scott, and he's around your age."

"why are you telling me this?"

she tuts her tongue like it should be obvious. "they are staying at same same skii cabin resort as us this christmas! and you're still single so I want you to meet each other - get to know one another."

that has you sitting up in a hurry, she's blown wide as you take in your moms words. "mom, no i'm not going to entertain this."

"why not? he's nice and cute-" your moms familiar voice fades into the background, as you can't focus on anything but the swirl of panicked thoughts in your head.

you've been single for three years - three years since your last boyfriend cheated on you with his macdonald's co-worker. honestly his first red flag should've been working at macdonald's at his big age of 28 - you should've broke up with him right then and there.

since then, your mom has been wanting you to get back out there, and 'give her grand babies' - you try to not shutter just thinking about it. she's been trying to get you to meet a million different young men, changing between her friends kids and even random baristas she meets at her local starbucks. and honestly you're just tired of it.

you won't find the love of your life through your mom - and it seems that only you can see the logic behind that.

you'd been looking forward to the few days away from the city for christmas, especially with your boss really coming down on you about upcoming new year business proposals that were honestly out of your job description. now your extended weekend that was supposed to relaxing and festive was tainted by your mom and this mysterious scott dude.

you come back to, your mom still lengthly explaining the christmas plans and scott and everything else in between. you huff anxiously, and before your brain can stop the word vomit that is festering on your tongue, you interrupt her.

"i'm bringing someone to christmas."

the blabbering in your ear comes to a quick stop, your mom going completely silent on the line.  "who?"

you swallow, "my boyfriend."

the conversation went on for a bit longer, and you had blabbed about your fake boyfriend without giving away any type of physical details- heck you even avoided giving him a name. when your mom had asked, you told her that you didn't want to give anything away - the element of surprise much more enjoyable.

you cringe thinking back on it, closing your eyes tightly. you are so screwed.

the front door opens quickly, alerting you and bree to her boyfriends arrival. it's only a few seconds following the thud of his hockey bag hitting the hardwood floor that dougie saunters into the kitchen, hair still damp from his post-practice shower.

he looks up from his phone, finding you sitting with a frown at his kitchen island. "what's up with you?"

this time it's bree who groans out. she takes the spoon out of the soup and sets in on the countertop, spinning on her heels to look at you and her boyfriend properly—without straining her neck. "don't get her started."

you squawk. "bree! you're supposed to be consoling me."

she pouts at you, "I know - i'm sorry." bree swiftly moves towards you, wrapping her small arms over your shoulders sweetly. she smells like broth and caramel perfume, which is an oddly comforting scent. "I just don't like seeing you so stressed."

dougie peeks in the soup pot, humming softly at the sight of the various vegetables swimming among perfectly shredded meat. he turns back to you both, leaning back against the counter as he stares you down. "so are you going to tell me? or do I have to wait for you to leave, which inevitably will have bree spilling her guts."

"dougie!" your best friend screeches, eyeing her boyfriend wildly.

you all but whine, letting your eyes fall closed in pure embarrassment. "I'm screwed." you manage to mumble, one eye peeking open to look over at dougie.

he looks rather amused at your dramatics, and you kind of want to get swallowed up and never be let go. "why?"

you take a deep breath. "because....because I told my mom that I had a boyfriend and was bringing him to christmas."

dougie snorts and bree sends him a warning glare. immediately he stops, playing off the laugh with a small cough. "you don't have a boyfriend."

you eye him irritatedly. "you think I don't know that?" bree, like the most amazing and supportive friend she is, begins gently rubbing your shoulder, grounding you. you take another shaky breath, your earlier pout returning. "I just...my mom was all pushy and wanted me to meet her co-workers son and I just panicked."

bree gently pipes up. "you didn't give him a name or talk about his appearance, y/n/n - it gives you some freedom in trying to find someone. maybe you should re-download hinge and make it known in your bio that you're needing a christmas date."

you pull a face, the thought of scrolling through medacore men who don't meet your ethical standards and are most likely teetering on borderline homophobic doesn't sound appealing - like, at all. "i'm going to pretend I can't go - i'll just tell my mom something came up."

"hold on," dougie steps forward, resting his palms on the island. he looks between you and bree, his brows pulled together as he gathers his thoughts. "you didn't give your mom a name?"

you hum. "or any physical attributes."

a ghost of a smile tugs at his lips, and he looks rather pleased with what we thought he's conjured up in his mind. "hear me out here...what If you take nico?"

you blink once. and then you blink again.

behind you, bree gasps. "that's a good idea!"

you shake your head, clearly confused. "he's not going home for christmas?"

dougie shakes his head. "no, the schedule didn't work in his favour, and his parents can't come out for a four day break. he was telling me today he was just going to be alone at his apartment....but maybe he could go with you."

it's....its actually not a bad idea. you like nico, he's always been so kind and sweet anytime you two have been together - which, granted, was quite often. surprisingly enough, nico and dougie were really good friends, and anytime you, bree and him wanted to go out, dougie would have nico join along. it's been like that for a few years, and the dynamic between you and nico was easy.

but...."no, I can't put him through that. you know how my mom is, and she's going to be all over him! and my sister and her husband, and god I can't have my niece getting attached....I just can't."

"you can." dougie hums, pulling out his phone from his sweatpant pocket. "you're just making excuses - nico won't care if your family asks questions. he's a team player who will easily help you with all your problems." he's busy swiping on his phone, barley glancing at you as he talks. "plus, it's not like he'll be out of your life after this - I already know he will be your fake boyfriend as long as you need him to be."

"dougie, no." you sigh.

"yes."

"no."

"too late," dougie hums, "i'm face timing him right now."

you left watching in horror, dougie coming around to your and bree's side of the kitchen island. you squawk, "absolutely no - dougie don't." 

he's setting his phone up against the vase of flowers in the middle of the counter, displaying all three of you on the ringing face time screen. dougie looks at you, and grimaces. "try and look pretty. you look like a mess - c'mon."

bree smacks his arm. "dougie!"

you're not even going to disagree with him, because you do look like a mess. your hair is slicked back with your own oil - too lazy to get into the shower before coming over. your face is bare and you're in the middle of your period, with lingering hormonal pimples littering along your chin and jawbone. all that combined with your anxious eye bags, dry skin and ice cream stained pyjama shirt - well let's just say you've looked better.

your eyes widen as the sound of the call changes, indicating that nico is picking up the phone. "seriously I don't - heyyy nico." your hushed and panicked whisper towards your best friend's boyfriend quickly changes as nico hischier’s face takes over dougie’s phone screen.

"....hey?" he looks confused, and rightfully so. you're sure the last thing he expected with a call from his assistant captain was to be met with not only him, but his sheepish looking girlfriend and her hot mess best friend as well. his eyes move between the three of you, brows pulled tightly. "you guys okay?"

his accent sounds thicker through the phone, voice deeper....it's kind of comforting and as soon as your brain registers that calm feeling, it lets you spew. you begin telling nico all about your situation, but it seems that dougie and bree has the same idea, and all nico can hear is a jumbled sentence.

"y/n needs your help." dougie says, the words barley reaching nico's ears over bree's - "and she's just really stressed." that combined with your pouty lips as you tell him, "and his name is scott - like what kind of name is scott?"

you all come to a stop, eyeing nico through the phone screen. he adjusts the angle of his phone, giving you a glimpse of his location, which seems to be on his couch. "you're going to have to say that again, y/n. couldn't hear you over dougie's loud mouth."

so you tell nico everything - just you this time - starting with getting the phone call, your mom trying to set you up, your fake boyfriend lie and dougie's reason for the facetime. the entire time nico listens, not even interrupting you once as he digests the spoonfuls of information.

you sigh gently, "and dougie shouldn't of called you, nico. I really don't want to ruin your christmas by dragging you into my mess and-"

"i'll help you out." this time, nico does interrupt you, his soothing voice agreeing to the whole fake boyfriend story you'd thrown at him, cutting off the end of your lengthy ramble.

"really? why?"

he shrugs through the screen, a gentle smile beginning to pull on his face. "i'm not doing anything else. you're my friend, y/n, I want to help you out."

the relief that floods through you is ethereal, and you can already feel some of the stress leave your body. "nico, thank you...thank you, oh my god, okay I'll text you the details."

he grins. "looking forward to it."

the phone call ends just as the soup starts to bubble loudly on the stove, which has bree cursing, skipping back towards her food and turning down the burner. as she returns to stirring the mixture, she shrieks happily, glancing back at you. "no hinge needed!"

"you're welcome." dougie chimes playfully, pocketing his phone before he moves to grab three bowls from the cupboard, ready to serve some of bree’s delicious chicken vegetable soup.

although you're feeling stress free about the actual boyfriend part of finding a fake boyfriend— thanks to the devils captain— there is still the matter of having to prep nico for your family, as well as playing pretend with one another in hopes of convincing your family that you and nico are in love.

....and the stress is back, prickling under your skin in a way that has you jittery. you can only just pray nico doesn't get overwhelmed and ditch you on the side of the road on the way up to the lodge, leaving you to fend for yourself while he speeds back to the city.

bree slides the hot bowl full of soup in your direction, plopping the gold spoon into the liquid before she leaves. you thank her gently, and as you dig in into the meaty broth, you begin to create somewhat of a plan for you and your fake boyfriend.

DAY 1

you text nico after leaving bree and dougie's apartment once you had settled back at your place, assuming your usual lounging position on the living room couch. you send him the main details of your family christmas getaway like the name of the resort and it's location, as well as when you'll be leaving and how long you'll be staying.

thankfully, the devils schedule almost perfectly aligned with your families getaway, meaning that nico would be able to spend the entire holiday season with you and your family—he just has to leave early on the 25th for the boxing day game—which you can't yet decide if you're relieved about or stressed about.

regardless, three days after your impromptu facetime call on dougie's phone, you and nico are packed up in his car, backseat full luggage and various wrapped presents— all ready to head up to the ski lodge.

it’s been 5 minutes since nico pulled out of your driveway, and you still haven't said anything other than your initial greeting. the pressure of the day ahead is knawing away at you, turning your stomach into a wave pool of nerves.

the christmas music flows quietly through the speakers, providing a comforting hum in the background. nico keeps switching his gaze from the road to the side of your face, analyzing your anxious eyes as you zone out, nibbling the skin around your thumb nail.

he sighs gently and with a free hand turns the already quiet music completely off. the lack of the original taylor swift christmas song in your ears snaps you out of your daydreaming, looking over at nico with a tight pull to your eyebrows.

"why does your face look like that?"

you frown, "like what?"

"like you've just shoved your nose full of expired smelling salts," nico smirks at his own joke, glancing over at you once again. "seriously what's going on that head?"

you take a deep breath, your mouth opening and closing like a tiny fish—unsure what you want to admit. you don't want to seem ungrateful for nico‘s help by complaining, and you don't want to look stupid and embarrass yourself for being so nervous about spending christmas with your family. after a moment, you let out a quiet sigh, glancing over at nico.

his flickering gaze is soft—comforting—and it has you faltering, head falling back against the head rest with a thud. "I can't lie." nico huffs a laugh, and you almost scoff at the sound. "i'm serious - I can't lie."

"technically, you're not lying."

you eyes widen comically, looking over at him wildly. "what part of this trip isn't based on a lie."

he sighs gently, fingers flicking on the cars turn signal as he approaches the highway lane. nico has always been so nonchalant in your presence, the complete opposite of you at any give moment, and honestly you're envious of that. he glances at you quickly, pulling onto the highway. "I mean, it's not like we are strangers—we're friends."

you don't say anything, too busy trying to understand what he actually means by that. nico smirks easily at you, "so we only have to pretend that we kiss and well....fuck."

you blush. "nico!"

“it’s true.” amused, he looks at you. "and, well, you can't turn red anytime someone makes a suggestive comment.”

groaning, you pull your knees to your chest, creating a spot for you to hide your burning face, tucking your head between your kneecaps. "can't help it." you say, but all nico can hear is your muffled voice making no sense as you talk into your legs.

"it's okay." he reassures you lightly. "so, what's your family like? what do I need to know?" he changes the flow of topic easily, which successfully has you pulling your head up.

"well." you start, voice a pitch higher than normal—contemplating what to say. “my mom she's very.....out there. she's not shy, and her social awareness isn't very high, meaning she doesn't care about strangers or what they think of her." your eyes flicker away from the busy highway infront of you, looking over at nico to gauge his reaction.

he hums, "what else?"

you sigh, eyes finding the road once again. "she also loves me...too much I think. and she always wants what's best for me — even if she thinks that's scott."

"she sounds fun." nico's words take you by surprise, because fun usually isn't the first word that comes to mind after describing your dear mother. you quickly turn your head, but much to your surprise, nico isn't joking. he's being sincere—smiling softly. "honestly she sounds like my mom."

the mention of nico's family has you feeling a bit hallow, and you remember the only reason he's able to help you out is because he couldn't fly out to be with his family. you tuck your bottom lip between your teeth, nibbling the skin until it feels sore. "i'm sorry about your family, nico. I really wish it would've worked out for christmas."

he shrugs once, glancing back over at you. "it's not your fault. besides, i'm here with you, right? so my christmas is coming together." you deflate slightly, nico's sweet and almost vulnerable words leaving you feeling rather soft. "so who else will be there? besides your mom and this scott guy?"

you huff a laugh, "well I don't know how much of scott we will be seeing now that i'm bringing you, but I do know that my older sister, tammy and her husband brody will be there. along with my niece, taylor - hence the disney princess wrapping paper." you thumb over your shoulder where there are multiple oddly shaped presents, all wrapped in disney paper.

nico snickers, sending you a teasing look. "thought you were just wrapping your own gifts."

"nico!" you laugh sweetly, "you’re ridiculous."

he smiles. "okay, okay. how old is your niece?"

"she just turned 6, back in november." you hum, leaning over slightly to turn the radio back up—only at volume 2—letting the familiar jingles add to the ambiance of the snowy jersey weather.

one of nico's brows raise. "so you've got a birthday twin?"

"wha-how do you know my birthday is in november?" you're clearly baffled, looking at nico like he just told you he met your long lost twin.

he glances at you wildly. "I don't have a brick for a brain! c'mon y/n/n, just because dougie is a stupid hockey player doesn't mean I am."

a dig at your best friends boyfriend never fails to make you chuckle, and you wrap your arms around yourself tighter, keeping yourself warm. although nico was joking around, you still aren't sure how he knew the month you were born in—how he remembered when your birthday was. it's just not something you thought nico would take note of. you don't do big parties for yourself, and you don't even post to social media—bree being one of the only people to celebrate you online.

your laughter dies down gently. "i'm just suprised that you'd remember."

his lips tug downwards in the beginning of a frown. "why would I forget?" nico's eyes flicker to yours once again, holding your gaze with a soft and warm expression. you take in a shaky breath, unable to find yourself wanting to look away from nico. his words, although nothing that deep, feel like the bottom of a warm lake, heating your chest with his question. it's a bare minimum that you've yet to experience with any boyfriend, real or fake.

he clears his throat quickly, eyes flickering away from your face and back through the snowflake covered windshield. "okay, what are our rules here? I don't want you to be uncomfortable with any of this fake dating stuff."

"oh. right, ummmm-" you blink, trying to recover from the abrupt shift in conversation and shift in your heart. "well to start, any question that my family asks about us and how we met, just tell them the truth. no need to fabricate some elaborate story—especially considering i've brought you up before...god my mom is going to die when she sees you." you mumble the last part to yourself, already picturing your moms face when you tell her the nico you're dating is also your friend nico.

he doesn't hear the end of your scentence, and only nods understandably, switching lanes. "got it."

you continue, "and this relationship between us is a new thing-- i'm talking’s within the last two months new. if they ask we say that we were just testing the waters of our relationship. and that gives me an excuse of why I hadn't told my mom about us before tuesday."

"that's good" nico hums appreciatively, clearly impressed with the little plan you'd made for you both. "plus it will make us look less insane when we are all over other and acting lovey dovey. that it’s just the honey moon phase."

your belly swoops, and your eyes widen in a slight panic. "why would we be all over each other?"

nico looks almost dumbfounded at your rushed question, his brows practically touching the edge of the hockey branded beanie sitting across his forehead. "because we are supposed to be dating."

you feel a little stupid in that moment, and when the end of nico's reminder is accompanied by a teasing smile you begin to feel very embarrassed. you try not to face palm, clearing your throat. "right, duh! that makes sense then." nico nods in amusement, which really has you wanting to face palm.

wanting to get back to the earlier discussion of rules, you hum in continuation. "I think cuddling and stuff is fine, right? like we can cuddle on the couch and hold hands in town."

"if you're comfortable with that." nico says, shooting you a glance, taking in your face to try and dissect your expression—trying to find an answer on your face before you say anything.

you laugh once, and even that sounds weird—no wonder nico keeps looking at you. "why wouldn't I be?"

"you're turning red just talking about it."

you face falls. "i'm going to throw myself out of this car."

"no, no." nico chuckles. "any other rules you want to lay down?" his eyes twinkle with playfulness as he shoots you another glance. "like what about kissing?"

obviously you blush because what. you don't let yourself react in the way your body desperately wants to, instead you keep your posture the same, humming in thought. "we don't need to kiss unless absolutely necessary."

once again, your eyes fall back to the driver's side, looking at nico as you wait for his response. you watch him smirk softly, eyes still on the busy roadways as he answers. "sure."

the rest of the car ride is filled with easy conversation and multiple impromptu karaoke sessions— nico laughing anytime you turn the music up and claim that it's impossible to not sing along to a justin bieber christmas song. the easiness of the whole dynamic between you and nico has you feeling much more at ease than you'd been when he first picked you up, and the idea of bringing nico to meet your family is becoming increasingly less stressful.

that is until your mom open the door, squealing in excitement at the sight of you and nico parking in the un-shovelled driveway of the rented ski cabin—waving at you both—your stress levels start to rise back up.

you swallow nervously, the sound of the car engine shutting off setting in your ears - there's no escape now.

"hey," nico mumbles, gathering your attention. he gently reaches towards you and gives your shoulder a reassuring and grounding squeeze. "don't worry too bad. it'll be okay."

all you can muster is a nod, watching through the front windshield as you sister peeks over your moms shoulder, her perfectly styled hair blowing in the wind.

"wanna get the bags now?"

"no," you finally speak, shaking your head. "save them for later just incase we need an escape route."

he chuckles. "okay dramatic - let's go."

with another encouraging nod from the devils captain, you unbuckle your seatbelt, getting out the car along with nico. at the sight of your face, your mom screams, waving at you like a crazy woman from the porch—the woman didn't even put on a coat before coming outside, leaving the door wide open behind her. "y/n, honey! you're here!"

"i'm here." you make your way up the pathway, nico's hand providing a ghostly pressure on your lower back as he trails behind you. "merry christmas momma."

she scoops you into a tight hug, kissing the side of your head repeatedly until it feels like all her lipgloss has transferred to your hairline. "merry christmas! and oh, honey don't be rude—introduce us to this handsome man." over your shoulder, your mom catches sight of nico and his ridiculously charming smile.

he looks so relaxed and happy that you're jealous. you're also jealous that nico manages to look that good after spending 2 hours in a car—but that's not important.

you quickly wrap your arm around nico's torso, bringing yourself into his warm side. nico easily follows suit, wrapping his hoodie covered arm around your shoulders, giving you another comforting squeeze. you smile—extra big—at your mom, rubbing your free hand over nico's covered stomach. "right of course, this is nico. my boyfriend."

recognition flashes across her face, eyes darting between you and your fake boyfriend—who you are currently cuddling with on the cold porch in front of your mom, an action that is very out of the ordinary for you. you can only pray she doesn't think too hard about everything. suddenly, she gasps. "nico?! like your friend nico?"

you scrunch your nose through a faux smile, "that's the one!"

she laughs, "is that why you were so secretive over the phone? so it would be a suprise?"

"yes." you say through gritted teeth, arm tightening around nico's muscular torso, grounding yourself through your white lies.

your mom beams again, hands clutched to her chest as she admires you both - granted your shivering and your toes are borderline frozen.

"it's nice to finally meet you, ms. y/l/n. i've heard so much about you." nico says easily, his accent perfectly complimenting his relaxed tone and demeanour. he removes his arm from your shoulders, and you fight the urge to pout from the lack of warmth, watching as nico puts his hand out for your mom.

she dismisses the formality, moving towards him with her arms wide open. "oh, honey, please call me ella - and i've heard so much about you, I can't believe you're finally here."

your eyes close in embarrassment, face flushing a deep pink as your mom embraces nico.

"mom, let them come in! it's freezing." your sisters honey laced voiced calls out from inside the house, and you can see her making her way back towards the front door, taylor on her hip as she easily saunters over.

your niece happily shouts as she catches sight of you, begging to be put down. tammy obliges, but tells her to wait until you get inside, not wanting a coat and shoeless toddler to walk onto the wintertime porch. behind her, your brother-in-law joins you, smiling and waving at you through the open door before pressing a kiss to your sisters head.

"yes, of course." you mom smiles, turning on her heels and walking through the door. "c'mon in you two, before you turn into ice."

too late—you think.

right before you and nico can pass the threshold into the log cabin, you mom puts her hand out, stopping you with a playful smile ghosting her face. you sister looks borderline fed up, closing her eyes at your moms actions, and brody just looks excited.

confused, you quirk a brow. "what's happening right now? you all look very weird."

you mom points up, "honey, you're under the mistletoe!" you smile falters, your eyes slowly moving up until you catch sight of the array of green mistletoe leaves dangling above you and nico. "it means you have to kiss - house and mistletoe rules."

nico laughs awkwardly beside you, warm eyes also on the festive plant.

"mom, no." you follow suit, chuckling through your discomfort as you set your sights back on your mom.

her brows pull together, a frown overtaking her face. "what, why not? just a little smooch?"

"they just got here, mom. at least let them take off their boots before you make them get to business." you sister—ever the saving grace—tries to move on from the discussion, sending you a wide eyed look behind your moms back.

you nod in thanks, "yeah. don't you think that's a little inappropriate?"

"why would that be inappropriate?" she gawks. "nico doesn't mind, do you?"

"I mean-"

"i'm your child, and you just met him." you interrupt whatever people-pleasing answer nico was about to spew, looking at your mom with an expression mixed up of amusement and bewilderment.

"c'mon, y/n," brody chimes in playfully. "it's not like we are asking you to suck his-" tammy smacks her husbands chest, a warning for him to not finish that scentence. "ouch, babe!"

"little ears." your sister reminds, gesturing to your six year old niece, who is still bouncing on her heels, desperate for you to get inside so she can steal you away. "don't egg her on." tammy is talking about your mom, who is still clueless on why making you kiss your supposed boyfriend when they just meet him is a bit weird.

the whole situation is stressful and overwhelming, and you kind of just want to turn around and make a run for the car. as if nico can sense your anxiety, his grip around you—now with his arm around your waist—tightens ever so slightly, reminding you that you're okay.

you swallow nervously. "let's not make nico-"

you're interrupted by the firm press of nico's lips on your cold cheek, kissing your face gently. the action seems to momentarily silence your family, but soon you can hear your mom cheer happily, mumbling something about how she 'should've taken a picture to send to your aunt shirley'

but you’re too distracted to register anything other than the lingering kiss against your cheek, and there's no doubt that your flesh is warming right under nico's lips. he pulls away, an easy smile taking over his face—like he's not even affected.

brody snickers, "see, y/n? wasn't so hard."

it seems that everyone is satisfied after that, your mom too busy texting on her phone to stop either of you from coming inside—thank god because you're pretty sure the inside temperature has dropped 10 degrees from the door being open.

as soon as you shut the door, taylor comes skipping over, her gapped tooth smile wide as she looks up at you. surprisingly, she doesn't attack you with hugs, but instead stops in front of nico. she looks up at him curiously, her hands resting on her tiny hips. "who are you?"

her bluntness has you laughing, even more so as you take in nico's amused expression, looking down at your niece softly. he bends down to meet her level, placing his hand out infront of her. "I'm nico, i'm your aunties boyfriend. what's your name?"

he already knows her name, but the formality of it all has you melting slightly, watching the interaction with an amused look. her tiny fingers splay over his palm, doing her best at shaking nico's large hand. "i'm taylor. you’re my auntie y/n's boyfriend?" her bright eyes flicker between you and nico curiously.

"I am."

she hums. "but you're too pretty for her."

you gasp, hiding your laughter. joining nico in his crouched position, you drag your giggling niece into your chest, lightly tickling her torso. "excuse you missy!"

"I don't know, taylor. I think your auntie is actually too pretty for me."

"yeah." she shrugs lightly, finally breaking free of your tickling. taylor shuffles back towards nico, "do you want to see my stuffies?"

"you have stuffies?" nico beams, "of course I want to see them." it's instantly that taylor grabs nicos fingers, leading him through the log cabin and presumably towards whichever room she's loaded off her stuffed animals in. you can hear taylor's excited babbling all the way down the hall, accompanied by nico’s enthusiastic responses as they disappear out of sight.

"honey can you go make sure she doesn't bore him to death. I can picture the tea party now." your sister sighs, looking at her husband expectantly.

"yeah," brody then looks at you, a teasing glimmer in his expression that you have grown to recognize. already, you're rolling your eyes. "I can't believe you're fucking an nhl captain y/n. good for you."

"go!" tammy hides her laugh behind her hand, but you can still hear her amusement through the muffled sound. brody waggles his eyebrows in your direction, further teasing you as he leaves.

thankfully your mom had slipped into the kitchen in the time you and nico had been talking with your niece—saving you from facing her after your brother-in-laws ludicrous comment. you can hear brody mutter something along the lines of 'course i'll go talk to the professional athlete, fuck kinda question is that?' — but you can't be so sure.

tammy grabs onto your arms, guiding you into the large, high ceiling living room. from what you've seen of the ski lodge so far, you're very impressed. it's got that rustic christmas feel that reminds you of your childhood, with grand windows and entry ways that overlook the winter scenery. with only a 5 minute drive to the hills, the resort was practically perfect.

you let your sister plop you onto the worn leather couch, the plaid throws scrunching behind your back as they slip around. tammy immediately sits down beside you—close enough that you're touching knees—facing you with wide eyes. "what the hell."

you make a face. "what?"

she scoffs a gentle laugh, eyes darting all over your warm face. "how long have you been crushing on nico?"

"what-what do you mean?" you blush timidly. you're unsure why the question has you feeling nervous—feeling caught—because nico is just a friend. a ridiculously generous friend who immediately agreed to spend christmas with your family to help you out, and is currently playing with your niece just because she wanted him to....its fine, really.

"well you've told me and mom that he was just a friend—you've been saying that for years and now you're dating? what's that about."

"oh, right." you really need to get a hang of the whole fake boyfriend thing, because the amount of times just today you've already forgotten is just criminal, and you're practically begging to get called out. you huff a gentle laugh, tucking your loose hair behind your ear shyly. "I don't know something just....changed."

"clearly." tammy laughs brightly. "how long have you been together?"

you swallow nervously, thinking back to the discussion with nico in the car about this very question. "only a few months. we kept it secret just in case...you know—bree and dougie are the only ones who knew."

tammy nods understandably, but a disgruntled expression quickly forms on her perfectly blushed face. "i'm kind of offended you told dougie before me."

"if it makes you feel any better, dougie was the one who set us up - so I didn't technically tell him anything." the twisted truth comes easily, and you give yourself a mental pat on the back for that one.

"fine. I feel a little better." tammy smiles, shifting her body so that she's tucked against your side, loungewear covered legs bent towards her chest as she relaxes into you. her blonde hair tickles your neck as she tilts her head up towards you, eyeing you with a playful undertone. "he's cute."

"hey! hit on your own man." you try and push her off of you gently, but tammy doesn't allow it, wrapping her arms around you tighter as she laughs.

"i'm just stating the obvious, y/n/n." her nickname for you has you feeling warm and fuzzy, settling back into your cuddly position. you and tammy have always been close, even with your 6 year age gap. you've always done everything together, and told one another all your secrets—so you feel guilty for not telling her about nico, even though it's not real.

"you really like him?" tammy's question is a gentle and sweet whisper, looking up at you like she just knows.

you nod, probably too fast and too enthusiastically—but thankfully tammy isn't paying attention to that, only listening to your words and watching the way your eyes change into a more relaxed and emotional state. "of course," you breathe, smiling. "I mean...he's always been really sweet and kind. always making sure I feel comfortable in a crowded room, checking in on me when he hasn't seen me in a couple days. and well, just today he's made me the most relaxed i've felt in a long time...." you trail off, clearing your throat gently. "sorry, god i'm blabbering."

tammy shakes her head softly, gently grabbing a hold of your hand. "it's okay. it's sweet."

"auntie y/n! look at nico!" the tiny and shrill voice of taylor interrupts the rather tender moment, but thankfully it allows you take take a calming breathe and let your heart rate turn back to normal. your niece skips down the hall, dragging nico behind her as they round into the living room.

the sight of nico has you stifling laughter. "oh...wow."

nico smirks, hands held out as if he was showing himself off. the princess aurora tiara nestled in his brown hair catches the setting sun, sparkling in the dimming light. that combined with the bright pink lipstick smeared around his mouth and the lime green tutu that is 5 sizes too small for a professional athlete around his hips is just too much. "handsome right?"

you hum, nodding sarcastically as he gives you and tammy a spin—showing off taylor's work. "oh yeah."

when nico faces you again, he winks—so quickly you're not even sure if it happened. it has your face warming once again, your sister nudging her pointed elbow into your side as she wordlessly teases you.

what have you gotten yourself into?

after a very amusing hour of dress up—which of course you got dragged into—you all had dinner, thanks to your mom and her random bursts of energy that allow her to cook up roast dinners every other day.

dinner went surprisingly well, and nico seemed to fit into the family dynamic nicely. it was a weight lifted off your chest as you watched him easily discuss sports with your brother in-law and excitingly answer all of your moms borderline intrusive questions. it's full of laughter and honestly you're surprised at how well everything seemingly is going—it's a relief you didn't think you'd get to experience this christmas.

after a long travel day for you and nico, you both decide to retire to bed early, leaving your sister and your mom in the living room— your mother shouting out a general explanation of which bedroom is yours as you go.

you're not sure what you were thinking, but the sight of the large bed in the middle of the room has you feeling nervous, stomach swooping at the thought of having to share a bed with nico. you suppose you believed that some part of your mom still pictured you in highschool with a boyfriend and would make you and nico sleep in separate rooms or beds.

clearly not.

the bed looks absolutely heavenly though, with lots of fluffy pillows and a nice duvet with complimenting throw blankets draped over the corner—you can't wait to sink in and pass out.

nico, who had gone and got your luggage right after dinner, drags both of your suitcases towards the dresser, the gentle click of the handle sliding back into place echoing throughout the room. he turns back to you, "I can sleep on the floor if you're uncomfortable."

your eyes snap away from the luscious bedding and over to nico—he must’ve seen your blank stare. you shake your head quickly, "no - no, we are adults. i'm not going to make you sleep on the floor."

you can practically see the relief on his face and in that moment you're completely convinced that nico would've set up camp on the rug if you asked him to.

you continue, ignoring the weird flutter in your stomach. "plus my mom will probably burst in here every morning to wake us up and I don't want to make up some lie about why my boyfriend is sleeping on the floor instead of in the bed."

"of course." he chuckles, the quiet sound settling through the warmly lit bedroom comfortably. "what side do you want?"

you snicker, waving your hand as if you're trying to appear nonchalant. "oh, i'm not picky."

nico eyes you, one brows raised in question as if he can see right through your attempt at coming across easy-going—you've never even been close to that. "are you lying?"

your shoulders deflate. "yes."

he laughs again, watching as you make your way over to the left side of the bed, tossing your phone in front of the pillows as if you were marking your territory. "it's furthest from the door." you hum like it's obvious, looking at nico with timid eyes.

"sure." he hums softly, eyes lingering one yours for a moment longer before turning away.

nico has his back turned to you, digging through his carry-on in search of his toiletry bag. you watch the way his muscles move, his compression shirt giving you the perfect view of the ripples and hard work he's put into his body. you've never really noticed how in shape nico is—I mean sure you've like noticed he's got muscles because he's a professional hockey player...but you've never appreciated them like you are right now.

"y/n?"

you blink. "huh?"

nico smirks, and you instantly realize he's caught you checking him out. you blush wildly, trying your best not to collapse into an awkward puddle. "I asked if you want to use the bathroom first."

you clear your throat, "no go ahead."

he gives you another knowing smirk before disappearing into the on suite bathroom (which, holy, how nice is this place), travel toiletry bag and a new pair of sweatpants tucked under his arm. as soon as the door clicks shut, you let out a deep breath—one you hadn't realized you'd been harbouring.

thankfully you hadn't worn makeup today, knowing that you’d be travelling—the feeling of being stuck with makeup on your face during the couple hour drive here sounded like a living nightmare. so while nico is busy in the bathroom you quickly change into your christmas red striped pyjamas, shoving your dirty clothes back in your suitcase before nico can see.

the door opens again just as you locate your toothbrush, revealing nico is his team branded sweatpants and...oh he's not wearing a shirt. you swallow heavily, eyes quickly flicking over the expanse of his muscular torso. "bathrooms free." he says, easily moving towards the bed.

you nod. "yeah, thanks."

right before you can shut the door, he calls your name, stopping you in your rather frantic pursuit into the bathroom—which is lingering with the scent of nico's cologne. he smiles at you playfully. "i'll keep the bed warm."

that's it - you're going to drown yourself in the toilet.

DAY 2

you managed to not drown yourself last night—shockingly enough. after nico's fluttering eyes and stomach swooping tease last night, you'd made some stupid joke, one that you can't even remember—you're pretty sure you blacked out. you shut the bathroom door quickly, taking as many deep breathes as you felt applicable.

the entire time you'd been brushing your teeth, you just kept going through calming mantras in your head, desperately trying to grasp ahold of the shit show inside your head. thankfully the rest of the night was easy—easy because as soon as your head hit those inanely comfortable pillows you were out.

the reason for waking up this morning—like expected—was because of your mother, who loudly entered your and nico's room with a tinsel covered sweater and bright smile. "wake up love bugs. taylor wants us all to go into town and look at the trees together!"

you're then hyperaware that nico is obviously still without a shirt, and you happen to be tucked against his bare chest like your life depended on it. his peck, although it doesn't look it, is a surprisingly comfortable pillow. your body stiffen's against him, but before you can roll away, nico tightens his grip around you, keeping you in place.

"give us a few minutes." you manage to tell her, practically rigid against the devils captain. "nico isn't wearing pants." you can hear him make a noise of protest beside you, pinching your hip between his fingers.

"take your time you two!" she sing songs, leaving the room with as much pep in her step as usual. as soon as the door clicks closed, you push off nico, but he doesn't let you get too far, fingers wrapping around your wrist to stop you.

"why'd you tell your mom i'm don't wearing pants?"

"I panicked."

"you're ridiculous—you know she's going to think we had sex now." his amusement is clear, and although it's at the expense of his dignity, nico is enjoying the humor of it all.

you shrug, slipping out of the bed. "hate to break it to you but they already think that."

through the mirror you left your bag in front of, you watch nico eye you from the back, his brows pulled curiously. "and why's that?"

"didn't you know? i'm secretly this like crazy minx who brings different boys to family trips and-" you're interrupted when nico tosses a pillow towards you, his laughter echoing throughout the room.

"get dressed freak."

—

you think one of your favourite things about being around nico is that no matter how his comments make your stomach swoop and how his gentle lingering eyes leaves your heart pounding, it's always easy to speak with him and just...be his friend.

which you suppose is normal with friends—you think?—its kind of hard to tell. you've only been close with your sister growing up, and then when you met bree in college she became your only other companion. when bree met dougie and inevitably started dating him, it opened up this new world to you; going to events and games, meeting so many people all with different personalities and backgrounds.

meeting nico was different though, because unlike the catalog of people that had come in and out of your life, nico was a constant. in the four years of knowing him, he's always managed to be that person—that friend—you felt you'd been missing. despite always playing nonchalant about your relationship with nico, dismissing him to be just a casual friend, you did really like him and cherish that friendship...and it kind of scares you.

after you moms abrupt wake up call, you and nico quickly got ready for the day, bundling in your warmest clothes to bare the chilly downtown weather—granting your nieces christmas tree browsing wishes.

the town is decorated beautifully, with stunning icicle lights dripping from every building, red ribbon wrapped around poles and pulled into bows at every corner, and the trees—filled with various sized and shaped ornaments that perfectly encapsulate the christmas season.

it feels like something out of a hallmark movie with the gentle pressure of nico's hand in yours, guiding you both behind taylor as she excitedly makes you look at everything. your sister and brody watch in amusement, very used to their daughters excitable personality. and of course your mom makes you and nico pose for hundreds of photos, because she has to 'capture the beautiful moment and the beautiful couple.'

she evens asks for you and nico to kiss—again—but just before you have to make up another excuse, brody chucks a snowball right at your chest. you immediately start hurling them back at your brother-in-law, distracting everyone from another non-kiss moment between you and nico.

after a few hours in town you all head back to the lodge, stomachs ready for some warm food to heat up that achy cold emptiness.

you place the serving tray full of freshly buttered buns in the middle of the table, next to the sour cream and shredded colby jack cheese—both necessities with your moms homemade chilli.

on the other side of the table, nico places one of the last bowls, the ceramic dishes clanking together—it's a peaceful noise, one that's often heard in kitchens. his eyes suddenly flicker towards you, and when he catches your stare a slinky smile curves at his lips. "are you judging my placement right now?"

the tease—so mundane and playful—has your smile growing, butterflies tickling the lining of your growling stomach. "never."

his gaze narrows, "well i'm definitely judging your butter abilities—that spread is so uneven."

you gasp, "think you could do better, hischier?"

"oh," he laughs, "I know I could."

you smirk, picking up one of the grapes sitting loose in the fruit bowl at the end of the counter, tossing it in nico's direction. but like the coordinated athlete he is, catches it in his mouth, chewing the crunchy grape slowly—winking at you while he chews.

"y/n," your mom looks at you over her shoulder, "do you mind just finishing adding the herbs? I gotta run upstairs quick."

"sure." you hum, making your way over to the stovetop, taking the long handled wooden stirring spoon from your mom. she thanks you with a squeeze on your arm before waltzing out of the kitchen, disappearing up the stairs.

as you begin twirling the utensil through the thick chilli, you feel nico come up next to you, his chest brushing against your arm. "why are you stirring it like that?"

you look up at him with wide eyes, your amusement clear. "you are just tearing my cooking apart today."

he laughs, "you're not cooking anything. you're simply just spreading and stirring."

a noise similar to a scoff falls from your mouth, and you tear your gaze away from nico quickly. "i'll spread something all right." you mutter with faux irritation, turning your shoulder away from him.

nico laughs again, chest rumbling against your skin. "that sounded dirty." his forearm wraps around your torso, holding you against his chest.

you're momentarily speechless with the feeling of nico touching you so intimately. your slow stirring comes to a stop, the end of the wooden spoon almost falling into the pot—but you don't notice. your head slowly falls backwards, resting just under nico's collarbone. "what are you doing?" you ask quietly, looking up at him.

nico leans down, his lips brushing against your ears. "what does it feel like i'm doing?" his breath is warm on you and you feel a static travel over your body—from your ears, down to your neck and shoulders, even reaching your toes.

"it feels like you're trying to hit on me." your words comes out breathily, barley reaching your own ears.

"maybe I am," he shrugs, and like he didn't just send your heart plummeting to your stomach, nico says, "your sister is watching us."

discreetly your eyes dance towards the large living room where you catch a glance at tammy—who is trying to not make it look obvious as she stares at you both lovingly, a cheesy smile on her face.

"so the only reason you're touching me is because of the audience?—that's a bit freaky, even for you nico."

he pinches your side lightly, which sends you squirming backwards, further into his embrace—chilli and herbs long forgotten. "i'll take any excuse to touch you, y/n."

nico looks down at you warmly, that boyish grin on his face that makes him look so warm and cuddly. you feel your face heat up at his insinuation, and you look away from his playful expression, bowing your head so you're looking back to the chilli.

"you're so pretty when you blush," nico mummers against your skin, pulling you back to his chest.

your blush deepens, a light laughter bubbling through your chest as you playfully push him away. "you're distracting me."

before nico can say anything else, the distant voice of your mother approaches. "and this is the kitchen! isn't it just so beautiful susan? I mean not just the lodge but the whole resort."

susan? who the hell is—oh my god.

nico watches your face drop, your eyes darting towards the kitchens entryway as the voices grow closer, this susan lady answering your mother just as enthusiastically.

he's quickly back at your side, a gentle hand brushing against your lower back. "what's wrong?" nico's question is hushed—determined.

you're honestly surprised that you can hear his whisper over the blood rushing in your ears. the rush of anxiety that pumps through your blood is overwhelming, and the reason you'd brought nico to your families christmas vacation comes trampling back. you swallow roughly, "susan...she's my moms friend and-"

"guys, this is my friend susan and her son scott!" your moms chipper tone halts your scentence, you and nico watching silently as your mom gestures to the unexpected company.

scott is...actually not that bad to look at—which is a gold star on your moms part. the dark haired man is standing merely few feet away from you as he moves to greet tammy. he's got that finance bro look to him, with a crisp button up shirt underneath his puffer vest—why men insist to wear vests inside is something you'll never understand.

he greets brody like a typical male would, bringing him in for a quick slap on the back—a smile on his face that shows his perfectly white teeth.

"y/n, honey this is scott." you mom singles you out, which of course she does, pointing towards scott with a wink in your direction.

you can feel nico stiffen against your back, his forearm snaking back around your waist. before you can think, you let your hand rest over nico's, interlocking your fingers between his resting against your torso.

"nice to meet you, y/n." he greets with a grin. "i'm scott. i've heard so much about you."

"you too, scott." you smile politely. "this is nico-"

"her boyfriend." nico finishes your scentence firmly, the hand that wasn't around your body jutting out on the other side of your body for a handshake. 

scott breathes a laugh, shaking his hand. "boyfriend, huh? lucky guy." briefly scott's eyes flicker back towards you, eyeing you with a look you can't decipher. you feel yourself shrinking further back into nico, seeking that comforting aura that is the devil's captain.

"very much so." he agrees firmly, squeezing the flesh of your hip. there's a tense moment of eye contact between the two men, almost like a wordless battle of alpha male energy—which isn't very like nico.

scott hums curiously. "you look really familiar. do I know you from somewhere?"

"must have one of those faces." nico answers modestly, shrugging his shoulders once.

tammy waltzes into the kitchen, followed by her husband who is holding taylor in his arms. hearing the tail end of the conversation, brody pipes in with a quick laugh. "he looks familiar cause he's the devils captain dude—we are in the presence of jersey royalty."

"a professional athlete?" scott questions, that curious but condescending tone still laced in his voice. "bit unstable, no? unpredictable with trades and that?"

"can be. thankfully i've been lucky enough to have been with the devils since 2017."

"lucky indeed." once again, scott's eyes flicker back to you—giving you that awkward and uncertain feeling.

sensing the tension, tammy quickly intervenes. "taylor did you want to show scott and susan your stuffies before dinner is plated?"

taylor glances towards the two guests. "no." then her tiny brown eyes move towards you and nico, and instantly she's skipping towards you both. "nico can you sit beside me at dinner?"

something prideful blooms in your chest at taylor's request and dismissal of scott and his rather uncomfortable presence. "I don't know taylor," you begin teasingly, "I wanted to sit beside nico first."

she laughs, her adorable toddler giggle like music to your ears. "how about we both sit with nico."

you hum in faux thought. "should we ask him? see what he thinks?"

"yes." she giggles.

nico, who has obviously heard the entire interaction, pretends like he was unaware of the conversation happening quite literally in front of him—he ponders the question playfully, index finger tapping against his chin. when he tells taylor that he will sit with both of you, her tiny face lights up, and you can't help the way yours does as well.

dinner is served very quickly after, brody on serving duty as he fills every bowl with a hefty amount of chilli. the dinner runs relatively smoothly, saved for a few condescending questions from scott asking about only nico. for somebody who was seemingly trying to get to know you—despite having a boyfriend—scott seems to be really interested with the man beside you rather than you yourself.

thankfully only an hour after dinner and enduring painfully boring conversation with susan and scott, they end up leaving to go back to their lodge, and thank god because you desperately are ready for sleep by that point—excusing yourself and nico as you head towards the bedrooms for another much needed nights rest.

you pull the duvet back, creating enough space for you to climb in.

nico follows suit, slipping under the cool flannel sheets. "scott seems..."

you interrupt his trailing thought. "like an asshole?"

"yeah." he breathes. "truly what is that guys deal?"

"I don't know." you roll onto your side, facing nico with a huff. "I can't believe my mom still invited them to dinner. even though susan is supposedly her friend—who, by the way i've never heard of before tuesday. I thought she would've at least...I don't know? respected my boundaries? is that fucked up to say?"

nico shakes his head against the pillow. "no, it's not."

you groan, your irritation clear. "and then when she first introduced us and she winked at me? like hello, what is that about? because as far as she's concerned i'm clearly not looking for a relationship. I brought you here for this exact reason and-"

"hey," nico breathes gently, gathering your attention by running his hand over your pyjama sleeve covered arm. "it's okay, you're okay. I understand that you're feeling stressed and frustrated but don't get in your head about this."

you take a deep breath, nodding.

nico continues, "I don't think she had any malicious intentions with inviting them to dinner. I think she was pleasing people—like you would."

"I just wish her people pleasing didn't involve a literal walking bag of crap."

nico breathes a quiet laugh at your insult. "she just wants what's best for you, y/n—like you said. she doesn't realize that it's making you uncomfortable and she's too distracted by it all to notice that scott is 'a literal walking bag of crap.'"

your lip tugs upwards slightly.

"you should talk to her about it."

you groan, face rolling into the fluffiest part of your pillow. "I think as my boyfriend you should talk to her for me."

"i'm not actually your boyfriend." he laughs.

you scoff. "way to ruin the mood."

nico's smile is barley visible through the dark bedroom, but you can still see it, and the sight had you following suit, a grin taking over your face. he rests his head on his bicep, facing you. it all feels so intimate and precious and you never want to forget it.

your heart beat feels like it's bordering on dangerously fast—making you feel the best kind of nervous. you're glad the room is dark because you blush, clearing your throat. "i'm so happy that you're here nico. I don't know what I would've done today if you weren't with me."

his smile falters slightly as he swallows thickening salvia, eyes trained on your face softly through the moonlit room. "i'm happy i'm here too..with you."

DAY 3

you peer down the snow covered hill, gnawing on your lip in an unsure manner. "does it seem bigger from up here?" your hands wrap around the ski poles tightly, desperately trying to keep yourself from moving forward.

nico expertly slides in front of you, his skis bumping yours. "do you want to go back down? we can just walk back to the lodge if you're feeling scared."

you shake your head quickly. "i'm not scared...im just worried about falling on my face." truth of the matter is that you are feeling scared—scared because you actually hadn't skied since you were 10, and you'd actively avoided the actual ski part of your holiday trips by sitting in the lodge and reading whatever book you'd been into since then—but not this year.

nico wanted to get out on the hills, and even though he said that he didn't mind if you wanted to stay at the house or even in the holiday themed ski lodge, you didn't want him to feel alone out there, especially because he's doing you a favour in just being apart of your families christmas—so here you are on top of the ski hill. plus, any excuse to get away from scott, which of course your mom invited him and susan to spend the day with you all, you'd take.

"you're not going to fall on your face." nico tells you, his tone gentle as he looks down at you.

"you don't know that." you say. "what happens if my ski catches a divet in the ice and I go head over heels into the snow?"

he laughs gently. "the only reason you'll fall is because your hairs in your face—here." nico ditches his poles in the snow, and with glove covered hands he reaches towards your face. gently he tucks your hair underneath your hat, pushing away any hairs that have fallen out from your braid.

you swallow, eyes flickering over his face. "i'm a little nervous." you finally admit.

"it's okay to be nervous." nico adjusts the strap of your goggles over your pink helmet, moving it into a proper position. "it's also okay to back out."

"I don't want to back out." you huff. "I want to do it."

his lip tugs upwards in a half smile. "yeah?"

"yeah." you nod. "but you have to do it with me." you both make your way—you very cautiously—towards the edge of the slope. "i'm serious nico."

"I won't leave your side, okay? fix your knees like I showed you earlier...yup, just like that." he watches you intently, making sure you're in a proper position. nico finds your face again, an apprehensive look in his eyes. "you sure?"

"think so." you hum. "it’ll be fine." before you can decide to back out, you manually push forward until your skis take over, sliding down the first dip of the hill, sending your downward.

the sound of your skis slicing through the icy snow is a rather relaxing sound, one that has a smile breaking out on your face. the feeling of quickly moving through time, with the cool air kissing your exposed cheeks is rather freeing, and for a moment you're not thinking about anything other than yourself and nico.

you can hear nico follow suit, following your tracks within a safe distance. "good! keep your blades a little bent! like pizza." he calls to you, voice travelling through the wind whipping past your ears.

"am I doing it?!" you question loudly, eyes still casted forward as you reach the middle area of the slope, continuing the rather speedy descent down the snowy hill.

"you're doing it." nico answers proudly—a boyish chuckle following.

"oh my god!" you scream happily, "i'm doing it." you slide over a small lip on the hill, propelling slightly into the air. miraculously, you land with only a small teeter in your legs, continuing to ski downwards.

in a moment of excitement, you turn to look over your shoulder, eyes wide and full of disbelief as you find nico. "did you see that?"

his face falls. "y/n, watch out!"

as soon as nico's warnings finishes, you feel somebody slam into you, affectively sending you off balance and smacking towards the ground. you feel the snow cover your face as you land, and you groan out, eyes closing as a quick wave of pain washes over you.

"holy fuck—y/n are you okay?" the voice sounds a little distant to your ears, like they are muffled. they help you sit up, gently cradling your biceps with their hands as they pull you into a sitting position.

you squint in attempt to focus your vision, blinking quickly to clear the blur. "what?"

nico's concerned face slowly appears in your eyesight. "are you okay?"

you groan again. "I think so."

he breaths loudly—a sound of relief. his hands move from your arms and towards your face, un-clipping the helmet strap from under your chin. nico pulls the hot pink protective gear off your head, leaving you with your damp beanie and snow coated braid. "you scared me for a second there. does anything hurt?"

"not really, maybe just a little sore and bruised." you swallow gently as you watch nico as he gently moves your head from side to side, checking for external injuries. his gaze is so intense—so focused. the embarrassment and lingering pain in your limbs has you feeling emotional, and your lip trembles. "i'm sorry."

instantly, nico's eyes snap back to yours. "don't apologize." he watches the way your eyes begin to well up with tears, quickly looking around as if you're seeing how many people are watching you. immediately he knows you're feeling embarrassed on top of everything else, and he pulls you into his chest, pressing a quick kiss against your hairline over your knitted hat.

you can barley feel the kiss, but it's enough to where the gesture has you melting—melting because he wasn't doing it because somebody in your family is watching or making him…nico simply just wanted to.

"you're okay." he mumbles against your hat.

"I think I wanna walk the rest of the way." you mumble waterly, attempting to joke.

he smiles against you, "you think so?" pulling back, he meets your eyes, a boyish grin on his face. the sight instantly has you feeling better, and with a small grin you nod.

nico helps you remove your boots from the ski blades, popping open every latch and button so you're easily able to slip out of the boot slot. he follows suit with his own ski's, freeing himself of the blades hold so he's left in only the chunky boots.

a familiar voice calls your name, approaching you and nico. "shit i'm sorry." scott says, stopping in front of you with his ski's tucked under his arm. "I didn't realize it was you."

nico stiffens. "you hit her? seriously?"

"I just said sorry man." scott huffs. "no need to get all annoyed."

his brows raise is pure shock, eyes squinting accusingly in the shorter man's direction. "sorry doesn't help. what if she got seriously hurt?"

"she didn't though."

nico breathes in disbelief. "that's not the point."

scott takes a step back, "relax, dude."

"she's my girlfriend. I can't relax."

"whatever." scott looks back towards your shy face, offering you a sympathetic shrug. "sorry again y/n."

you nod once. "thanks."

that's all it takes for scott to leave again, practically jogging away from the both of you, back down the hill. he disappears behind the slope of the hill, and immediately nico is turning back to you, his expression that was only moments ago hard and strong, now soft. "he doesn't deserve your apology."

"I know." you breathe. "but I was done listening to him."

nico nods understandably, but he looks slightly worried—guilty maybe? "are you upset with me about that?"

"no. i'm glad you were here to defend me honestly. I would've crumbled under the pressure of my own need to be a people pleaser." you laugh lightly.

the ghost of a smile takes over his face. "promise?"

you nod. "help me down the hill? I need you right now—my hips a little sore."

in an instant nico is grabbing you, careful of your sore hip as he wraps an arm around your torso. "let me know if you need to stop at all, okay?"

you both begin to slowly walk down the hill, nico dragging the ski stuff behind you. "you worry too much." you tease him, gaze flickering to his face.

he breathes a laugh, not looking away from the hills. "yeah I worry cause I—" he pauses briefly, a gentle gulp following. "cause you're my friend, y/n."

"your friend?" you question his choice of words quietly—timidly.

finally, he meets your eyes. "yeah."

there's a moment then, where you're looking at one another with eyes that say a million things your mouths can't yet. you're unsure whether or not nico was about to admit to something—deeper feelings—before correcting himself, and you're not sure if you'll ever know.

but you're too scared—to anxious—to find out. because if it's not the answer you're hoping for, your christmas eve will be ruined, and your heart will be broken.

you laugh, breaking the tension. "that's not very fake boyfriend of you to say."

nico blinks once, but soon his expression changes into a more playful one, eyes twinkling with amusement. "c'mon y/n/n."

—

the warm bubbles are slightly ticklish against your skin, but it's a pleasant feeling. you sink further into the hot tub, letting the jets and heat do their job on your sore body.

as the sun started setting through the kitchen window, the pain of your earlier incident was only getting worse, and you could barley move without hissing in pain.

after the 8th groan of discomfort during jim carey's grinch, your mom suggested the hot tub. after all what good were you trying to put presents under the tree if you couldn't even bend over to pick them up.

the almost instant relief from the hot tub was enough to have you moaning out, submerging up to your shoulders and letting the water splash up your neck.

a beat passes and the sliding door sounds, opening into the cool night. "hey, got the presents from my car." nico stands by the entrance, peering through the dimly lit deck over in your direction.

"did you give them to tammy?" you question gently.

"I did." nico hums, gently shutting the door behind him. "you okay in there?"

"getting there." you sigh, eyes carefully watching as nico makes his way through the covered deck—no doubt the cold snow covering his feet in the slides he’d slipped on before getting the presents.

"anything you need from me?"

the nighttime pain reliever you’ve been popping since getting back from the lodge has you feeling a bit sleepy and loopy—completely erasing any kind of filter you have. you raise a brow, squinting at him through the mist coming off the water. "I want you to get in."

he laughs gently, resting his hands against the edge of the tub as he looks over at you. nico takes his lip between his teeth briefly, eyes flickering over your submerged figure. "didn't bring a bathing suit."

"nico." you whine, dragging his name out.

"you can't get upset with me," he smirks, "you didn't tell me there'd be a hot tub."

"okay, well just strip down into your underwear and get in." you breathe, "promise I won't look." you hold your hand up like you’re in scouts, looking up at him with most puppy-dog expression you can manage.

"y/n..." he trails off, almost like a gentle warning.

you continue. "i'll even let you have one of my three towels afterwards so you don't have walk back inside in just your underwear.”

his brows pull together. "why did you bring three towels?"

"I like to be extra warm—just get in."

a moment passes—practically watching the gears turn in nico’s head as he debates your ask. just when you think you’ll have to beg again, desperate to have nico close to you, he sighs, pushing off the edge of the hot tub. in one swift motion he pulls his hoodie off, his muscles flexing beneath his rising t-shirt, exposing nico’s hard v-line and happy trail.

you smile in satisfaction, watching as he continues to shed his clothes until he's left in just his black boxer shorts. you try your best to not stare—you really do—but when your fake boyfriend happens to be that muscular and hot, it's hard to keep your eyes away.

he quickly steps into the steaming hot tub, joining you under the water. "happy?"

you smile triumphantly. "very much. I feel better already."

"I bet you do."

a beat passes, only the sound of the running jets to be heard through the night. it's very relaxing, and with nico with you it now feels 10 times better. under the water you extend your leg until your foot gently nudges his leg—grabbing his attention. "thank you again for today. for everything, I just...i'm really happy that dougie called you for me. because I would've been too nervous to ask you myself."

his brows raise. "why would you have been nervous?”

shyly, you shrug. "I don't know, I just didn't want you to think I was...taking advantage of you or something."

"I wouldn't have thought that—I don't think that." nico moves closer to you, the warm water sloshing around slightly as he comes to a stop in the seat beside you. instinctively you turn your body towards him, eyes curious and knowing all at once.

a beat passes.

"did you know when I was a kid on christmas eve I used to convince my sister that if she didn't let me have her last advent chocolate santa wouldn't come."

you grin. "you didn't."

he laughs. "I so did. and I remember feeling like such a badass about it to. then when she found out that santa wasn't real and I was simply just conning her into an extra chocolate she lost it—and I mean lost it."

"what did she do?"

"obviously she told my parents, which was expected." nico hums. "but she also smashed my game system—like completely destroyed it with our dads hammer."

you gasp, "no."

"yeah and I cried like a baby."

you laugh gently.

nico continues. "looking back now I definitely shouldn't of been so sneaky. and now every christmas I always buy her an advent calendar as an apology."

"that's kind of cute." you coo sweetly.

his eyes soften at the sound, watching your head tilt in admiration. "you would really like her. you two are kind of similar."

you stifle a knowing laugh. "after hearing how she smashed your gaming stuff I think I have to agree—one year I sent taylor's favourite scarf for a trip in the fireplace."

nico snickers, "you little rebel."

"don't laugh," you smile. "she had taken my favourite babydoll I'd opened that christmas and covered the entire face in marker. so instead of going to my parents like I should have, I just threw her scarf right in the fire."

"damn," he breathes. "remind me not to steal your baby dolls."

"oh since then i've kept them all locked away, so you'll never find them." your eyes glisten with a playful shimmer, looking at nico teasingly. he mimics your lighthearted expression, a warm smile pulling on his lips.

your eyes wander to his exposed arm, catching sight of the familiar pattern of ink on his inner arm. "i've always like this one." slowly you reach out, tracing the tattoo with a wet finger.

"yeah?" he watches the way your touch moves over the artwork, your fingers leaving a wake of goosebumps on his skin—despite the heat from the hot tub, chills run over his body.

"yeah." you nod. "does it mean anything?"

"it's my families star signs," he points to the first one, tracing the greek symbol. "they all bleed into one another, almost like it's representing a family line."

“nico that’s…really cool.” you smile gently. "when did you get it?"

he laughs gently, a blush coating his cheekbones. "long time ago."

you snicker, eyes flickering back towards his face and away from the sentimental tattoo on his string bicep. “alright old man.”

he quirks a brows at you, amused. "we're the same age."

playfully you shush him, bringing your finger towards his plump lips in a silencing motion.

quickly, nico grabs your wrist, pulling your tiny hand away from his face. his firm yet teasing grasp around your hand sends your skin into a flurry of flames, igniting under his warm palm.

his eyes flicker between your eyes and your pouty lips as if he can't decide where to look—what to do.

you lean in ever so slightly, scared that if you move too suddenly you'll wake up from a dream. nico's hold on your hand changes, fingers trailing down your wrist and off your arm.

his hand finds your slick thigh under the bubbly water, and your heart feels like it's going to jump out from your ribcage with how hard and intensely its beating. as nico's thumb begins to rub along your skin, pleasantly tickling your thigh, you think you may just die.

your hand inches towards his torso under the water, your fingernails just scraping softly against his abs—

"I should get out." nico mumbles. "I haven't packed yet and I gotta leave before 9."

you swallow the disappointment you're feeling, blinking away your emotions as you pull your hand away. "yeah. sure."

he gets out of the hot tub, and you can't even watch him as he does. nico wraps himself in one of your towels before gently looking back towards you. "i'll see you inside, okay?"

you hum in acknowledgment.

and then he leaves.

you mope in the hot tub a little bit longer than expected, and by the time you finally drag yourself back inside the only person awake is your mom.

she sits on the couch silently, finishing up some last minute wrapping of what seems like a gift for brody—some football jersey for a team you don't recognize. "feel better honey?" she asks.

you nod once. "yeah, thanks." you start to walk further into the home, towards the stairs, but your mom stops you, calling out your name quietly.

"before you go upstairs," she sighs, "I just wanted to say i'm sorry about scott. I shouldn't have even put that idea in your head when I called you and I shouldn't have invited him and susan around the that times I did. he was not only disrespectful towards you, but he was disrespectful towards nico and your relationship."

your chest warms. "thanks mom. it's okay."

"but I already invited them for breakfast after presents tomorrow—honestly susan is kind of a bitch and the last thing I need is for her to fuck me over to corporate because I didn't have her and her asshole son over for breakfast."

you snort, which has your mom joining in on the hushed laughter. you're truly not upset about that, and if anything the whole thing is so authentically your mom that you're almost glad she invited them.

just when you think she's done, your mom continues with a twinkle in her eyes. "I must say y/n, I've never seen you happier or more comfortable in a relationship that what i'm seeing when you're with nico. honey I don't know why it took you so long to realize there was something more between you, because nico is special."

you feel tears well up in your eyes, a million unsure emotions coming to a tilt in your throat. you nod. "yeah. he is."

DAY 4

"do you really have to go?" taylor's tiny voice wobbles with emotion slightly, looking up at nico with her wide animated eyes.

he crouches down to her level, soft gaze unwavering. "unfortunately. I have to work tomorrow.”

"okayyyy." she pouts. "maybe next time you can bring your stuffies for the tea party."

"that's a great idea." he grins at the way your nieces face lights up, already giddy at the thought of the next party.

your mom suddenly cooes, moving towards the front door where nico stands with his suitcase. she frowns at him, "honey thank you so much for coming, you've been wonderful."

he stands to his full height, embracing your mom as she wraps her arms around him in a familiar hug. "thank you for having me."

you watch silently, gnawing the skin around your thumb anxiously. you'd been dreading this since you were awoken at 7 by your niece for presents, and saying goodbye to nico today was weighing on you heavily—even with the lingering unspoken words from last nights abrupt departure.

"safe driving, nico." tammy smiles towards him kindly.

brody chimes in, "yeah man, can't have you going down. the devils need you."

your fake boyfriend laughs gently, nodding. "i'll try my best to get home in one piece." then nico's eyes flicker towards you, a soft yet sad expression pulling at his face. he takes a deep breathe, plastering on a bigger smile. "i'll see you when you're home."

you nod, your own forced smile on. "i'll see you then, nico." there’s an unspoken meaning with the goodbye—one that feels permanent and you hate it. with one more emotional glance in your direction nico waves goodbye to your family….and then he leaves.

the hallow feeling that runs through your bones is almost painful, your eyes trained on the spot he was just standing. a million feelings run through you at once—hurt, anger, confusion, warmth, guilt. it's all one big stressful ball, but yet somehow through all that you know there's real feelings for your friend there, ones that have been making your heart run ramped and your stomach flip around with butterflies for years.

"hey," scott's quiet voice interrupts your thoughts, looking over at you with flirtatious eyes. "if things with lover boy don't work out, ill be here." you’d honestly forgot him and susan were here, arriving just after taylor had tore through all her presents for breakfast.

it had you rushing to open your present from nico—because of course he bought you a present—his jersey and a handbag you’d been wanting for years. a handbag that only bree knew you loved, meaning that he talked to your best friend to get you the perfect christmas gift.

and yeah…you really like nico hischier.

blinking out of your thoughts, you properly turn and face scott. "that will never happen."

you look around the room at your family, who have now all resumed their normal routine throughout the home. taylor’s making your brother-in-law open every new toy so she could play with them, while your mom and susan busy themselves in the kitchen, talking while the kettle boils for another round of coffee.

you catch tammy's eyes and she nods—knowingly. you breathe a sigh of what feels like relief, and a tiny smile begins to pull at your lips. "i'll be right back." you mutter, and before you even realize what you're doing, you slip on somebodies slides, leaving out the front door.

the wind blows right though your gingerbread pyjamas, the cold biting against your skin—but you don't care as the only thing you can think about is him. "nico!"

the sound of your voice has him pausing, rounding from the back of his vehicle where he was loading his suitcase in. nico’s brows pull together tightly, looking and feeling rather confused as you hurriedly make your way towards him—merely slipping out of your shoes as you hit a patch of ice.

"what are you doing?" he questions.

"don't go." you words a rushed, looking up at him with a shy confidence in your eyes.

nico sighs quietly. "I don't really have a choice."

you shake your head, eyes closing in frustration. "I know - fuck don't don't go just stay...for a second."

"what are you trying to say, y/n?"

"I like you - like really like you." finally you break, looking towards nico with nothing but vulnerability on your face. "and I think deep down I always knew that, but something about this weekend...watching you interact with my family and seeing how much they like you—it's amplified everything to 100."

you swallow the lump forming in your throat, trying your best at keeping your voice steady as you continue. "and I really didn't think i'd be chasing after a guy in my pyjamas this weekend, but here I am. because you're not just some guy, nico. you're the guy. and I can't let you leave without saying that because I don't think i'll ever have the courage to say it again."

nico swallows. "I can't believe you just told me that." he pauses, a small laugh bubbling past his lips. "and right when I have to leave. because now I really want to stay."

you let go of a breath you weren't aware you were holding, relief rushing over you body at his words.

he continues. "I like you so much it's not even funny."

"you do?" you question shyly.

"yes." nico takes a step towards you, now close enough to reach out and touch. "you're my favourite."

"favourite what?" you whisper.

"everything." he reaches out, gently taking ahold of your face between his cold palms. his thumbs stoke along your cheeks comfortingly, looking down at you with half-lidded eyes as his gaze moves towards your lips. "what was the rule about kissing again?"

you inhale sharply, your own eyes watching nico's lips inch closer and closer towards yours. "only if absolutely necessary."

"thought so." nico's words are mumbled between you, lips brushing against yours before he finally closes the gap, connecting your mouths in a much desired kiss.

in that moment it's hard to think about anything other than the skillful and practiced kisses nico is giving you, his hand nestled at the base of your skull as he holds you to him, but one thing you do know is that you should've done this fake boyfriend thing years ago.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

[mossy-rock-in-a-field]

Several weeks ago, my retirement-age mother requested that I play Baldur’s Gate 3 for her because she has trouble with controllers/keyboards and wanted “to see what all the fuss is about with that cute wizard boy.” For context, my mother and I have done this sort of thing in the past with certain RPGs (dragon age, mass effect, etc.), but it’s been a few years since she’s personally requested a game like this. Basically, I control her Tav but let her make all the choices so she can determine how the story plays out without worrying about mechanics. She treats it like a choose-your-own-adventure book.

Anyway, here is a list of some of the things my mother has said and/or chosen to do throughout the course of BG3 in no particular order:

She is (obviously) romancing Gale. She is quite smitten with him and his passion for books and learning; she also thinks he’s polite and qualifies as “relationship material.” She also REALLY likes the things he’s said about his cat so far (my mom is a cat lady), so I know she’s gonna flip shit when we meet Tara in Act III.

She’s playing a normal druid Tav with a generally good alignment. Her favorite spell is Spike Growth because she thinks it’s hilarious whenever enemies walk into the AOE and die. I usually end up having to cast it at least once per battle per her request. Sometimes twice.

Contrary to her alignment, my mother tasks me with robbing every single chest, crate, barrel, and burlap sack we come across; this also includes people and their pockets. The party is always at max carrying capacity. ALWAYS. She doesn’t like selling things because “what if I need them.” The camp stash is in literal shambles. There is no hope of organizing it. She’s got like fifty seven sets of rags and a billion pieces of random silverware.

She MUST talk to every animal and corpse in the game. I think five hours of her total playtime so far (47ish) has been spent speaking to animals as many times as humanly possible. Like, I was thorough in my own playthroughs, but this is on a whole other level.

She did NOT get Volo’s lobotomy, but she did let Auntie Ethel take her eye in hopes of a cure for the tadpole. I did not understand the logic then. I still do not understand it now.

She is far more interested in fashion than equipment stats. Do you have any idea how much gold I’ve had to spend on dyes just to make things match? SO much. Same vibe as that “please someone help me balance my finances my family is starving” tweet but instead of candles it’s thirty thousand fucking bottles of black and furnace red dye.

We broke the prisoners out of Moonrise, but they got on the boat too early and bugged the fight by leaving Astarion and Karlach behind. Wulbren Bongle somehow got stuck in combat mode even after engaging the cutscene on the docks below Last Light; he he kept trying to run ALL THE WAY BACK TO MOONRISE nine fucking meters at a time while I frantically tried to finish the fight with the Warden, otherwise Wulbren would have run straight into the shadow curse. (I would’ve let him go; fuck Wulbren Bongle, all my homies hate Wulbren Bongle. But my mom didn’t know that, and she wanted to keep him safe. So.)

She had me reload a save like eighteen times to save the giant eagles on top of Rosymorn Monastery. Wouldn’t even let me do non-lethal damage just to get past things. I think getting that warhammer for the dawnmaster puzzle took us like an hour and a half alone. (Yes, I know you can use any warhammer, but SHE didn’t.)

She’s started keeping an irl notebook to keep track of her quests between play sessions. She writes down ideas and strategies when she thinks of them during the week, then brings them to her next game session at my house. I think she wrote about three pages on possible approaches to the goblin fortress alone.

She insists that I pet Scratch and the owlbear cub before every single long rest, no exceptions. Sometimes I have to do it multiple times until she is absolutely sure that the animals know exactly how much she loves and cherishes them. She has also commissioned a crocheted owlbear plush from a friend of hers and is very excited.

I’m sure there’s a bunch of stuff I’m forgetting, but those are some fun things I thought of. She’s enjoying the game and is telling all of her retired friends to get it and play it for themselves. She asked me “what is Discord” yesterday and I think my life flashed before my eyes.

anyway shout out to my mom for being neat

Part 2 — Part 3 — Part 4 — Part 5

[spitdrunken]

HIAHA I LOVE HOW YOU WRITE MR SCARLETELLA CAN YOU WRITE MORE. so odd and unsettling and obscene m just giggling with delight

HIIII thank you so much for the high praise <3 this has kind of a different vibe from the last one but plays with similar-esque concepts!!!! this is 'weird and obscene' LMAO

Notes: Suggestive, mild body horror, bolded = dialogue in the Other World's language.

==========================

How do you touch a man without a physical form? Or, you suppose, 'man' isn't quite the correct term. 'Apparition' would perhaps best describe him. Though he can reach out to you and make you feel the illusion of touch, you can't actually make contact with him. Your hand passes through him as if he were nothing but air.

You don't think he minds. It's always a bit hard to tell, with him. Mr. Scarletella ususally just stares you down with a dead look, communication relatively limited. But you would like to touch him! So you experiment a little, an action for which no mutually intelligible word exists. Still, he doesn't move as you poke and prod at different parts of his body, coming up short every single time.

You crouch down before poking at his ankle, just in case. When you look up, your heart stops for just a moment. Mr. Scarletella's neck is snapped back, folded in on itself in order to observe you. Vacant-seeming eyes are trained on your every movement. The sight makes you feel squeamish. "God... Not do," you tell him. "Head look hurt. Not funny." There's no other way you can think of to put it. You get up and stick your hand down, waving your hand in the other direction at the side of his head. He seems to understands what you mean, as his skull snaps back in its usual direction. You circle around him. "Sorry. Not want upset you." He says, although you know he'll never really listen or learn, not when it comes to these things. "Me like you. You like me." As if you'd ever forget. You beckon him. Rather than simply leaning down, his form flickers, distorting, before reappearing in the desired position. There's just one place you haven't touched yet. Once again, you extend your hand, the tips of your fingers brushing against the top of his umbrella. The surface is smooth to the touch and wets your skin, accompanied by a small burst of static ringing in your ears. It takes a moment for the significance to register. "Oh! I can touch your umbrella!" You say, forgetting the Other World's language in excitement over your discovery. Even though it's relatively small. You can't touch Mr. Scarletella himself, but the umbrella appears to be 'realer' than the rest of him. ...Actually, maybe the umbrella is a part of his body? He's not human, after all. He doesn't have to exist according to your logic. Your brow furrows. The puzzle pieces of language move in your mind, until they're slotted together semi-coherently. You point at his arm. "Arm you." Then, you do the same for his leg. "Leg you." You wave your arm up and down. "Body you." Finally, you lift your hand in the direction of the umbrella. "Object you? Me can touch object. Touch you?" Mr. Scarletella's smile widens. It reveals a little bit of the void that stretches on behind his lips. "I see. Correct. Object me. Object is..." After which he lowers his umbrella and says a word you haven't heard before. You try to repeat it, and he says it once again, pointing the umbrella in your direction. "Touch umbrella. I want."

It's definitely... Weird. It's genuinely like touching an umbrella. Cold and smooth and slightly wet. But Mr. Scarletella wanted you to do it, and you're kind of intrigued yourself, so you do it. Because there's clearly something happening. As you trace your fingers over the outer canopy, making sure to at least touch every panel a little bit, his visible form starts to flicker and fade. When you apply a bit more pressure, move a little faster, parts of him start to distort and change colour. His arm appears a little dislodged from his shoulder, static rising in the background.

When you pinch one of the metal tips in between your fingers and rub it, he lets out a laugh that is far more high-pitched than you would've expected it to sound like. Clearly, there's some kind of link between the umbrella and the rest of himself. Though you can't envision what it must be like, he's feeling something. Your hand pauses. In the blink of an eye, Mr. Scarletella has materialised even closer to you, nose close enough to touch yours, if it could. The inky darkness of his pupils makes up most of what you can see.

"Me like. Like like like like." He sounds breathy despite not breathing. "Touch more. Again. Me want you."

[flamingpudding]

(Un)fortunate Courting (Request)

Requested by @silverblueglitter

Original Prompt Post this is based on by @diabolichare

A/N: Thank you for the request! I hope this will not disappoint. I am slowly getting back into the grove of writing and out of my block. Also on a side note I am not posting / writing as much right now because work is currently keeping me busy.

Danny was very sure he was doing everything right in regards to ghost culture. Clockwork and Pandora had been educating him very well on that. Sure they did it with some ominous explanation in regards to his future but Danny had shrugged that off. Clockwork had always had a way with words that didn't make sense but somehow did too. Now as he had learned if a ghost wants to cross through another ghosts haunt an offering needs to be made. Ideally the offering is in regards to something the other ghosts likes.

So if he would need, for example, cross through Embers haunt, he would offer her something like guitar strings or something other music related stuff that could be useful to her obsession. With that logic, Danny knew that if he wanted to use the short cut to his collage through Red Hoods haunt he would need to offer the other something. Like he had offered something to Lady Gotham for his stay in Gotham for his collage education. The thing was he would have to offer Red Hood something every time he needed to go through the others haunt, unlike with Lady Gotham who had just accepted a single offer since he wasn't constantly going in and out of her haunt.

But that also left him with what to get the other Halfa as offering.

He had contemplated offering something Red Hood might need for his duty. You know? Maybe some self engineered bullets he could use against ghosts, though Danny knew that was probably unnecessary considering Gotham's protector spirit, Lady Gotham, had a pretty good handle on everything here. Which good, because that meant Danny could fully focused on his studies for once.

That was until Danny realized how much the core of that other Halfa was malnourished. Which gave Danny the perfect chance to catch two ghosts with one thermos, okay bad joke. But seriously, that gave Danny an idea of what to offer for his right of passage through the others haunt. So he made simple care packages that would help the other Halfa. He had thought about supplying some Ecto-Dejecto directly but that felt a little to on the nose and someone who didn't know his family would probably think Danny insane, as if there weren't enough people in his collage thinking that already. Besides he was in Gotham and with villains like Scarecrow and Joker he didn't think a syringe with glowing green contents would be a trustworthy offering.

Anyway, Danny decided to be a bit more discreet, infusing ectoplasm into simple foods, that most importantly, COULD NOT COME ALIVE. So Danny's care packaged ended up consisting of chocolates, snacks and other sweets that would NOT start fighting back. He also figured out how to mix ectoplasm into drinks so it wouldn't taste to overwhelming.

Danny did not anticipate the side effect offerings like that would have or realise what his offerings looked like to someone who did not know about ghost culture.

Jason was torn as he found the n-ed little present box during his patrol route with a little card stating it was for him. He eyed the box having gotten familiar with these boxes over the past month. He lifted the lid and yep.... chocolates.

"Again?" his distorted voice came through his voice modulator as he eyed the chocolates suspiciously. Either he had a very insistent admirer or one of his enemies cooked up a new idea to make him paranoid. Not like his brothers didn't joke about him getting Bruce's paranoia when he had run the sixth box of chocolates through the substance tester to figure out if someone was trying to poison him.

Turned out poison was not in the chocolates but something else. An unknown substance but in small dosages. Jason was currently allowing Tim to run wild in figuring out what was mixed into the chocolates. Also the seasoned vigilante had to admit, that there was something tempting about these sweets. Like something inside him really urged him to eat them. It was only his self-restraint and discipline that helped him resist the urge to taste test some of these chocolates.

Also sometimes there were drink in these packages too. Yes, Jason had run them through the tester too and got the same results like with the sweets and chocolates. No poison but that other strange substance. At first Jason didn't really want to bother with it but these boxes appeared every damn night when he was on patrol, but strangle not on weekend or holidays.

"Oh got another little present, Little Wing!" Jason barely turned around as his older brother dropped onto the roof next to him. "Chocolates this time! How cute! They must really love you!"

Sometimes Jason wished his helmet could portray emotions better as he gave Dick a deadpan stare. "More like wanting to poison me." He muttered his voice changer doing nothing to support the sarcasm in his voice.

"You have to admit it is kind of cute! You have a little fan or admirer! And look these chocolates are even heart shaped! Oh and pralines are in there too!" Dick gushed on about Jason's admirer, while Jason rolled his eyes under his helmet. It would be cute if there wasn't an unknown substance mixed into the stuff left for him. Though he had to admit, whoever left that stuff was getting creative. From what Jason saw they rarely used the same brand of chocolates or sweets to give to him twice. Like they were trying to figure out what he liked. For a brief moment that made Jason wonder, if he actually ate one of these for once, would his admirer present him with the same brand again the next night?

He shock that thought off, no way was he going to eat something with an unknown substance in it. So instead he shoved the box at Dick. "Take that to the cave Dickibird. Gives Pretender more materials to test with."

Dick, to his credit stopped gushing for at that and chuckled. "Can do, but seriously though, what did Oracle say. Did she catch your little admirer on the security cameras at least."

Shaking his head Jason let out a sigh. "No, its like these boxes appear out of nowhere."

"Well at least they are harmless."

"For now." He grunted in response. While they didn't pose a danger, Jason didn't like the implications behind their appearances. For one no matter how much he changed up his patrol routes, these boxes would still appear. There is no video proof of someone placing the boxes. They just appear out of thin air or roofs or his path right when he comes by. If he could believe that the videos that Barbara had showed him weren't manipulated then they just appeared like a couple of seconds before he would find them.

It was suspicious and Jason was determined to find out who leaves them.

Danny hummed his latest earworm song, which happed to be Embers newest hit in the Ghost Zone, as he prepared his next offering to Red Hood. He had thought about leaving these boxes by Red Hoods Safe house during the day on his way to collage but he figured with his own history of being a hero. Secret identities were important and should not be revealed against the others wish.

This time he had gotten the expensive brand of pralines. He hoped Hood would actually like them and eat them hopefully. Danny threaded the moment he would have to try infusing ectoplasm into something other than safe sweets, chocolates and snacks that won't come alive if he didn't find something Hood would eat soon.

The Halfa was so focused on his task of infusing the pralines with ectoplasm that he did not notice the arrival of three of his old ghost rogues, until he got grapped by the collar and throw across his own appartment.

"OW! What the...?!"

"Long Time not seen Pelt." Danny blinked as Skulker stood over him, Ember and Wulf a bit further behind. Wulfs presence explained how the other two managed to show up in his place.

"What are you guys doing here?" He was so not up for a round of ghost body that could potentially destroy his flat.

"Fixing your love life." Ember grinned down at him with Wulf nodding.

"My love life...." Something was definitely wrong. Danny does not remember currently dating anyone. He also didn't have crush, well not a obvious one he thought at least. He was distinctively pushing way that fleeting image of Red Hood out of his mind.

"Yeas your love life Baby Boop." Ember reaffirmed. "Didn't the old ghosts teach you anything. You don't use the human of giving presents when you court a ghost!"

"I... what?" Danny's brain currently really had trouble catching up with what was going on.

"Pelt you need to assert yourself, fight your damn object of attention to proof your worth." Skulker added arms crossed.

"Don't worry we will help you! So you wont fail!" Ember added.

Before Danny could answer or ask what the hell they were going on about though Skulker grabbed him by the back of his collar again and promptly dragged Danny long with him flying out of his flat to who knows where. Distinctive Danny swore he heard laughing that sounded suspiciously like Lady Gotham.

"WAIT SKULKER!" The shout escaped him as his brain finally caught up but before he could go ghost and actually do something he was thrown against someone. Whoever he landed on let out a deep 'oof' that sounded distorted and Danny had a sinking feeling as he hurriedly sat up and came face to face with Red Hood.

"Aw shit...." Danny muttered instantly choosing to turn invisible and hoping that Red Hood had nod seen him long enough to get recognised, worst of all Skulker had dragged him all the way to Hoods haunt when Danny didn't even have an offering! Now he owned Hood two offerings!

"What are you doing Pelt! You are supposed to challenge for the right of courtship first! The courtship presents come later!" Skulker shouted at Danny to which while still invisible Danny choose to flip the other ghost off. Something he would have never done as teen but now that he had come to some sort of understanding with his former rogues was not rare happening, as long as Jazz wasn't there to witness it.

Meanwhile Jason was sitting utterly confused on the roof now, just a moment ago a twig of a man had landed on him and he had seen the other guy for a brief moment before he had disappeared out of nowhere again. He grumbled muttered curses and knew he would have to go though the video footage of his helmet to get a clearer picture of what or rather who had knocked him over.

But he had a feeling it was related to the boxes of sweets and chocolates.

[gayerthanevertbh]

teacher's pet

chapter i: give me what i want

n.r masterlist | teacher's pet series

summary: you start your first day at university and meet the enigmatic professor romanoff in your russian literature class. instantly captivated by her presence, you can’t stop thinking about her—even during a phone call with mj, where you pretend everything’s normal. As you reread anna karenina and scramble to finish the essay she assigned, you realize something’s already shifting inside you: you want her to notice you. maybe even like you.

pairings: professor!natasha romanoff x student!reader

warnings: nothing much, but you could feel the tension between them from this chapter.

author's note: yes i had this drafted a long time ago, i'd say a few weeks? so i hope you guys like it. x

It didn’t always feel like this.

You used to know who you were. Sharp. Focused. Always top of your class — the kind of student who didn’t just chase grades, but conquered them. So when you told your mother you got into NYU, she lit up like she’d been holding her breath. Your best friend barely blinked.

“Of course you got in,” she said. “You’re smart.”

Like it wasn’t a compliment. Like it was just a fact.

Still, you were proud. You are proud. Even if you don’t know what exactly possessed you to enroll in Russian Literature of all things. Maybe it was the challenge. Maybe it was the part of you that couldn’t stand to do the expected. You’ve always been good at learning fast — you figured this wouldn’t be any different.

And then there was her.

Professor Romanoff. Students called her a legend. Cold but brilliant. The kind of woman who could quote Chekhov like scripture and cut your argument in half with a single glance. You looked her up, obviously. Found articles. Interviews. Even a guest lecture she gave with Professor Stark — the engineering icon — who seemed almost cautious around her. That only made you more curious.

You push the door open on the first day and there she is, already seated behind her desk. A paper in hand. She doesn’t look up, not fully — just a flick of her eyes in your direction.

“Take a seat,” she says, voice low. “We’ll begin shortly.”

Okay. So she’s not warm. But she’s not a monster.

She’s wearing a deep plum coat, the fabric tailored to her form like it was made for no one else, and a black pencil skirt that hugs her hips and cuts neatly at the knee, revealing just enough of her legs to look powerful without seeming like she’s trying. Her heels are quiet on the floor, but commanding. Her hair is red — real red — the kind that doesn’t need lighting tricks or filters to stand out. It falls in soft, deliberate waves that frame her face like a painting, too polished to be accidental. There’s something about the way she moves, the way she occupies space without asking permission, that makes it impossible to look away. She doesn’t smile, but she doesn’t need to. She has presence, the kind that demands attention without raising her voice. You don’t know if what you’re feeling is admiration or something more dangerous, but somewhere beneath all your logic and perfectly built ambition, there’s a part of you — quiet, curious, pulsing — that wants to get closer. Maybe it’s attraction. Maybe it’s awe. Maybe it’s both.

You settle into a seat near the back of the room, close enough to catch every word the professor might say, but far enough that if she were to call on you, you wouldn’t be front and center—exposed. It’s a safety net, this distance. A silent prayer that you won’t be noticed until you’re ready. The classroom itself doesn’t offer much comfort. The hardwood floors echo every step, amplifying your uncertainty. The windows are tall and narrow, letting in thin streams of light that do nothing to warm the space. At the back wall, shelves sag under the weight of thick, old books—their spines faded, their titles barely legible—like relics from another lifetime. You shift in your seat, the wooden chair groaning beneath you, and begin to glance around at the others.

Your wandering gaze catches a pair of eyes already locked on you. A girl sits a few seats away, isolated. She’s striking—black eyeliner drawn with such precision it could slice, sleeves stretched past her fingers like armor. Her expression is unreadable, her stare unwavering. It isn’t exactly threatening, but it isn’t welcoming either. It’s the kind of look that evaluates rather than judges. She’s not smiling. She’s not blinking. You turn away, quickly. You don’t want to read into it, but your skin prickles anyway. Something tells you this semester will be more than just lectures and essays.

Then, the room goes still. Like it’s holding its breath.

Professor Romanoff rises from her seat at the head of the table, and the atmosphere shifts immediately. She doesn’t need to speak for the room to pay attention. Her presence commands it. She has a way of standing that feels… prepared. Like she’s fought battles no one in this classroom could imagine and walked away victorious, if scarred. You swallow hard as her eyes sweep the room. “Alright, let’s begin,” she announces, her voice low but firm, brushing over everyone—then landing squarely on you. You flinch, just slightly. “As you may know, I’m Professor Natasha Romanoff. I’ll be teaching Russian Literature this semester. I’m surprised to see so many of you here, honestly. Not many want to study Russian these days. But those who do… might gain something rare from it.”

You can’t look away from her. The way she moves across the room isn’t casual—it’s deliberate, as if every step, every glance is calculated. Her eyes catch yours again, briefly. And then she turns. Just like that. She looks away like it means nothing. But to you, it does. It stings. As if you were reaching for something and had your hand slapped back. You remind yourself it’s just the first day. You’re reading too much into everything. Still, you feel foolish for hoping she might see you—really see you.

Her voice slices through the silence again, heavier now. “Russian literature is not here to soothe you,” she states, her tone sharp but strangely elegant. “It doesn’t comfort. It doesn’t reward. If you want happy endings, transfer to American Lit. I think they’re doing The Great Gatsby this semester.” A few students laugh—nervously, more at each other than at the joke. You don’t. You’re too busy watching her write something on the board. Her handwriting is clean, controlled.

PAIN IS THE PRICE OF TRUTH.

She faces the room again, and her eyes seem to flicker in the low light. “Russian writers gave us some of the greatest works of the human condition—and some of the darkest,” she continues. “This class won’t be about identifying metaphors or discussing plot. It’s about what these stories demand from you.” She lists names—Dostoevsky, Akhmatova, Chekhov, Bulgakov—each one pronounced like a sacred invocation. Her voice is smooth, but not soft. It carries something beneath the surface: reverence, maybe. Or a personal history.

Then she turns the question on you all.

“Has anyone here read Anna Karenina?”

Your heart stutters. You have. Mostly. Enough to discuss it, if needed. You lift your hand, slowly, half-wishing someone else will beat you to it. No one does. It’s just you. Eyes swing toward you—some surprised, some unreadable, some silently pleading what are you doing? But it’s too late to lower your hand. You’re exposed.

She notices you instantly. Her gaze lands like frost.

“You have?”

You clear your throat, trying not to sound too eager. “One of the greatest literary works of all time,” you reply, rehearsed and overly formal. You immediately regret how polished it sounds. It doesn’t feel like you.

One corner of her mouth lifts—not a smile. Something else. “Is that your opinion,” she asks, “or the internet’s?”

The room exhales. You feel it in your bones. Laughter without sound. A kind of collective shift of attention. You force out a quiet chuckle. “Maybe both,” you say. “It’s a beautiful, tragic love story. Very... human.”

Romanoff steps closer, her heels a quiet percussion against the floor. “So you sympathize with Anna, then?”

You nod. “She was trapped. Miserable. In a cold marriage. She falls in love, and she’s punished for it.”

Romanoff tilts her head slightly. “Interesting,” she murmurs. “And yet Tolstoy didn’t seem to think she was the hero.”

The words land hard.

“She abandoned her child,” she continues, her voice still perfectly calm. “She spiraled. She gave in to obsession. Paranoia. And eventually—she threw herself under a train. Is that the character you admire?”

You can’t answer. Your mouth opens, then closes. There’s no mockery in her voice—that’s what makes it worse. She’s not humiliating you. She’s making you realize you’ve only skimmed the surface. You feel stupid. Small. You look down.

“I—I thought that was the point,” you offer weakly. “That it was… tragic.”

Her eyes narrow. “It was,” she says quietly. “But whose tragedy?”

Silence again. The class feels like it’s vanishing around you, and you’re the only one left in the spotlight. You glance down at your desk, your hands clenching around your pen. When you look up, she’s still watching you—calculating.

“Be careful,” she says. Then she turns back to the board. “Sometimes, literature reveals more about the reader than the characters.”

You can’t breathe. It’s like the air has shifted. You can’t remember anything about Anna Karenina now. Not one scene. Your mind is blank.

She writes again.

Assignment: Three paragraphs. Choose a passage that unsettled you. Tell me why. Not what it means. Why it made you uncomfortable. Due next class. No exceptions.

No welcome. No syllabus. Just a demand for vulnerability.

The class remains quiet, even after she sets down the chalk. No one checks their phone. No one whispers. You glance around. Everyone’s still, like waiting to be dismissed from a spell. You’re not even sure if you want to leave.

You pack your notebook slowly, slipping it into your sling bag. You rise and begin walking toward the door—but then her voice cuts through the air like a command:

“Stay. I want to talk to you.”

You freeze. You curse under your breath. What did you do wrong?

You turn around slowly and meet her gaze. This time, her eyes are less ice—more fog. Still unreadable, but not as cold.

“Y-Yes?” you stammer.

She closes her book, leans back against her chair with a quiet sigh. “Where are you from?”

You blink, thrown by the question. “Queens,” you reply, tightening your grip on your bag. “Did I… do something?”

She gives a small laugh, waves her hand. “No. Not yet.”

Yet. That single word coils around your spine. What did she mean? Were you destined to fail? Or to surprise her?

You give a nervous smile. The kind that’s more instinct than confidence.

“What’s your name?” she asks, a little softer now.

You tell her. “Y/N Y/L/N.”

She nods. “You were the only student today who recognized a single Russian author. That’s rare. I was... surprised.”

Your gaze drifts to the worn copy of Anna Karenina resting on the corner of her desk, its spine creased like it's been opened a thousand times. The sight of it catches you off guard, tightening something deep in your chest. It’s not just a book—it’s a mirror, a quiet echo of longing and ruin. You feel a flicker of something—recognition, maybe, or sorrow dressed as affection. A smile teeters on the edge of your lips, but you catch it before it escapes, swallowing it like a secret. Somehow, smiling feels too vulnerable, too honest. So instead, you look away, pretending it didn’t mean anything. But it did. It always does.

“Do you like this book?” she asks.

You hesitate. “Yes. One of the greatest pieces of literature I’ve read.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Because of the scandal? The affair? The suicide?” Her voice teases, just a little. “Go on. Enlighten me.”

You’re not sure if she’s being sarcastic or sincere, but either way, you want to answer. You want to say it’s the desperation you admire, the unraveling of a woman who wanted too much. You see parts of yourself in Anna’s conflict. Her recklessness. But instead, you say: “I liked how conflicted she was. It felt... human.”

“Human,” she repeats, the word soft but weighted, like it carries more meaning than she’s letting on. Then she hums—a low, thoughtful sound that settles between you. You’re caught again in her stare, pinned there like something fragile in a glass case.

Your eyes drop, searching for escape, and land on her hands. They’re veined and delicate, elegant in their age, each line etched like a story half-told. She touches the book in front of her—Anna Karenina—with a reverence that feels intimate, almost holy. As if the pages hold confessions only she’s allowed to hear.

And then, for just a moment, something impossible flickers through you.

You wonder what it would be like to be held that way. To be seen not just for what you are, but for everything you’re trying not to be. To be looked at with quiet understanding, with restraint and reverence and that same aching softness. It terrifies you. It tempts you.

And just like that, the thought slips away—but not before it leaves something trembling behind.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Ms. Y/L/N. Good luck with your next class.”

You nod and slip out the door, letting it close softly behind you.

Once outside, you exhale like you’ve been holding your breath the entire time. Something about her unsettled you—but also, something about her pulled you in. You don’t know why. Maybe it’s the way she speaks. Maybe it’s what she hides. Maybe you’ve never felt this alive in a classroom before. You’re not sure what this is. But it’s already begun.

“How was your first day?”

“Not bad,” you say into the phone, your voice soft as your fingers flip open the book in your lap. Anna Karenina, again. You’ve read it before—more than once—but tonight it feels different, heavier somehow. “How was yours?”

“Y/n, you know I’m fine. I’ll always be fine,” MJ replies, her voice laced with that familiar teasing fondness. You can practically hear her smile. “But you? You get anxious. You overthink. You go into full-on spiral mode.”

“Not this time,” you say quickly, maybe too quickly. “No. I’m good. I met Professor Romanoff today.”

There’s a beat of silence before MJ responds, her voice suddenly sharper. “No shit?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, the corners of your mouth twitching upward despite yourself. “She’s my Russian Literature professor.”

She lets out an exaggerated sigh. “I still don’t get why you picked that class. Makes me think you’re just indecisive.”

Maybe she’s right. Maybe you are indecisive. But it wasn’t just curiosity about literature that made you choose it—it was something else. A feeling. An impulse you haven’t fully named. Something about her name on the faculty list drew your eye, and your gut twisted in that way it does when something is about to change.

Maybe you just wanted to see her. Observe her. Understand the chill behind her voice, the precision of her movements, the warmth she conceals under the weight of her intellect. But you can’t say that out loud. Not to MJ. She’d laugh, or worse—she’d see through you. See how your thoughts are already running too far, too fast, down roads you’re not supposed to go.

“I heard she’s pretty,” MJ says casually.

Pretty doesn’t begin to cover it.

“Yeah. You’re right,” you reply, forcing a small smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. “When I first saw her, my jaw dropped. I wish she hadn’t noticed.”

MJ snorts. “Well, I hope not. Anyway, I gotta go. Peter wants to study with me.”

You say goodbye, listen to the line go dead, and then sit there for a long moment, the book resting on your chest. You don’t move. Your eyes trace the ceiling, your thoughts distant. You wonder—quietly, cautiously—what Professor Romanoff would say if she knew you were rereading Anna Karenina the same night you met her. Would she be pleased? Would she smile at you like you mattered, like you intrigued her?

And more importantly: why does that matter so much to you?

You don’t know. But the need to be noticed, to be liked—no, not liked. To be seen by her—it swells inside you like something shameful and electric. You feel foolish, but also helpless to it.

You remember the essay. The one she assigned, due by morning. Panic pricks at the edge of your chest.

You scramble out of bed, the book falling shut on the mattress as you rush to your desk. You fumble through the drawer, pull out a blank sheet of paper, and grip your pen like it’s the only thing tethering you to solid ground.

All you know is this: you will not stop thinking about her. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Probably not for a long time.

TAGLIST: @aru-son @ihartnat

[thelotusrabbit]

STOP THE MUSIC! Part 3

Stop the music!

[Part 2] [drawing]

Danny is not insane, thank you very much.

He prides himself on how logical he can be, actually. The thing is… that logic is subjective in the Infinite Realms.

Since the only language that matters is the one of intention, a lot of words are left for interpretation. Creatures speak with emotions, something that Danny learned to do pretty quickly.

He had seen some pretty strange stuff in his life already, this wasn’t even top 30.

After some… events, he found himself forced into the realms for a long, long time. What he thought were only green voids, dusted by floating haunts, turned out to be the most incredible collection of veils.

Veils because the Infinite Realms isn’t really a dimension, it’s what is between dimensions. Is what’s beyond every single reality, and Danny got to see a lot of it.

Impossible to see it all, of course, the Infinite Realms were the space of space, the peeping hole of reality! 

Not his fault he got lost in the sauce.

Being summoned to Earth, well, AN Earth… took him a second to remember how it worked. 

The group of people who summoned him wanted him to retrieve a chair that had fallen out of their veil (they probably thought it was some sort of weapon, since it kinda looked like an MK47, but only vaguely), and he actually appreciated the effort they put into the summoning.

He chose every element himself! Powdered milk represented the Milky Way, candy was space debris, glass beads as the planets, and buttons as the stars! Very clever on his part, if he said so himself.

So yeah.

The chair, suspiciously looking like a semi-automatic rifle, was just chilling in a crater, as chairs do, and he forcefully pulled it off the ground.

He should probably try to find the owner later; maybe he'll get a reward...

Danny was ready to go back to his summoners when he accidentally glanced up.

The night sky...was beautiful.

That cloudless, infinite canvas of deep blue, almost black, went from his eyes straight to his dead heart.

A beauty he long forgot.

As air started to fill his dried-up lungs, as his heart started beating, as blood started to flow again, as tears filled up his eyes… he felt like eating something nice.

[Part 2] [drawing]

[unsolicited-opinions]

Is Israel a Settler Colonialist State?

The claim is made so often that it's hard to fault people for believing it without much thought. 

Let's first look at what Settler Colonialism is, then look at the facts to see if Israel fits the definition.

What Is Settler Colonialism again…?

It’s a specific term used by historians and theorists (Patrick Wolfe and his whole "logic of elimination" thing). Features of Settler Colonialism include:

Expansionism, claiming land for its mother country/empire (monopole) and shipping natural resources back to the empire.

Foreign settlers move in to violently displace, erase, or replace the indigenous population.

Any other cultures in the land are suppressed or wiped out

Classic examples include: British Australia, French Algeria, Canada, and North America

Let’s see if the case of Israel demonstrates these features.

A Franchisee?

Settler colonialism is usually a franchise model. Some imperial HQ says, “Go forth and colonize!” and ships people over with guns, flags, and an expectation to reap wealth torn from the colonized.

The Zionist movement started as a grassroots effort by Jews who were tired of getting pogromed every other Tuesday. Sure, they got a nod from Britain in the form of the Balfour Declaration, but that’s a long way from imperial orchestration.

(While Britain controlled Palestine under the Mandate, it hardly coddled Zionist aims - especially after the 1939 White Paper, which locked Jews out even as the Holocaust raged. Zionists didn’t march under imperial flags; they were often clashing with them.)

Settler colonialism involves one imperial power shuttling in settlers from a single source. But Jewish immigration to Israel? It came from everywhere: Yemen, Iraq, Morocco, Poland, Russia, Ethiopia, Argentina, Brooklyn…everywhere in the Diaspora.

This wasn’t a colonial outpost of one empire. It was a chaotic, desperate, and diverse ingathering of people trying to survive and rebuild. Half the Jews in Israel today descend from communities that were literally kicked out of Middle Eastern and North African countries.

If it’s settler colonialism, it’s doing it very wrong.

Foreign Settlers?

Settler colonialism usually involves people showing up in a place they have zero connection to and declaring it theirs. Think: Europeans showing up in Australia and telling the Aboriginal peoples, “Nice continent—don’t mind if we do.”

Jews didn’t just randomly pick Israel from a drop-down menu. They’ve had a connection to that land for, oh, 3,000 years or so. Jerusalem isn’t just spiritually significant; it's central. They didn’t have to invent a historical claim—it’s literally baked into their religion, language, and identity. (Quick Hebrew lesson: “Zion” is kind of a giveaway.)

Jews have maintained a continuous presence in the Land of Israel for over 3,000 years, including communities in Jerusalem, Safed, Hebron, and Tiberias, long before modern Zionism emerged.

Calling Jewish return to Israel “settler colonialism” is like calling your grandma a squatter for moving back into her childhood home.

But What About Palestinian Displacement?

Let’s be clear: Yes, during the 1948 war, a large number of Arabs living in Palestine were displaced. That’s a fact, it's not disputable, and it’s not something to brush aside.

This wasn’t, however, some settler-colonial master plan with color-coded maps and a mission to erase or ethnically cleanse non-Jewish peoples.

The early Zionist movement was buying land legally (much of it from absentee Arab landlords) and building farms, schools, and towns. It was a messy nationalist project, like many others in the 20th century. The displacement of Palestinians came not from a blueprint for ethnic cleansing, but from a war. 

The war was launched by neighboring Arab states who made no secret of their goal: to destroy the brand-new Jewish state before it could take its first real breath.

Five Arab armies invaded in 1948, and local Arab leaders, along with the invading forces, told many Palestinian Arabs to temporarily evacuate, assuring them they could return after the Jews were wiped out. 

Things didn't go according to their plans, because Israel survived. 

Historians like Efraim Karsh and Benny Morris document cases where Arab leaders advised evacuation and cases where displacement occurred amid battle. War is brutal, and real people paid the price.

The tragedy is real, but so is the context. The war wasn’t started by Israel. It was a war of survival that Israel fought while vastly outnumbered, outgunned, and surrounded.

And here’s a twist that is usually ignored in modern retellings:

The term Nakba - which today refers almost exclusively to Palestinian displacement, originally meant something else.

In 1948, Arab intellectuals like Constantin Zureiq used “Nakba,” meaning "catastrophe," not to mourn Palestinian suffering, but to describe the colossal failure of the Arab world to crush Israel. In his own words: “The defeat of the Arabs in Palestine is not a small downfall. It is a catastrophe in every sense of the word.”

The shame wasn’t just about lost land—it was about how a supposedly mighty Arab and Islamic world failed to destroy a state of Holocaust survivors and refugees.

The original "Nakba" was about that failure, not the displacement narrative that would emerge decades later.

History is a lot more complicated than hashtags suggest.

But Israel Sought to Wipe Out Local Culture, right?

If Zionism had been a settler colonial project, you'd expect to see that. Settler colonial regimes tend to come in hot with cultural carpet bombing: banning languages, crushing customs, bulldozing identities.

Israel? Not so much. Israel has official protections for Christian, Muslim, Druze, and Baháʼí religious sites. Ever heard of the “status quo” agreements? They govern holy sites like the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and the Al-Aqsa Mosque. Unlike classic settler-colonial cases like the US, Canada, or Australia where indigenous languages, religions, and identities were suppressed, Israel recognizes Arabic as an official language, protects Muslim and Christian holy sites, and integrates minorities into public life with equal legal rights for all citizens.

Is the situation always perfect? No. Does Israel have a Ministry of Culture Death? Also no.

But Israel stripped the land of its natural resources in the name of their imperial project and destroyed the ecology of the land!

First, there was no empire, no monopole to ship anything to because (again) Israel was not the outpost of a foreign empire - it was a desperate refuge for Jews fleeing pogroms, fascism, and a genocide which had wiped out a third of their people. 

Second, what natural resources could they have stripped the land of? Mandate Palestine was not known for its abundant natural treasures. Oil? Nope. Gold? Nada. Fertile, easily farmed land? Not much.

What Zionists did find was malaria, swamps, desert, and the occasional Ottoman tax ledger. The region was, in the words of Samuel Clemens (AKA Mark Twain), "a desolate country whose soil is rich enough, but is given over wholly to weeds."

Not exactly a paradise ripe for exploitation.

Here's a twist: rather than destroying the ecology, Israel has spent 75 years rebuilding it. The country has planted over 240 million trees, turning arid hills green and reversing desertification. Israel pioneered drip irrigation - watering crops with scientific precision to conserve every drop. It recycles nearly 90% of its wastewater (second place is Spain at about 30%). The Negev Desert is now home to solar farms, sustainable agriculture, and research centers where scientists grow cherry tomatoes in saltwater and build fish farms in sand.

Israel’s environmental stewardship of the land is so advanced that experts have come from Africa, South America, and India to partner with Israeli experts to tackle their own climate challenges. If this is what settler-colonial ecological destruction looks like, the planet could use a bit more of it.

So no, Israel isn’t extracting the land’s bounty and mailing it to a mythical European mothership. It’s been reclaiming wasteland, reforesting hills, and creating the most efficient water system in the world. And it did all that while fighting seven wars and inventing the USB stick. Not bad for a country the size of New Jersey.

It's a Colonial Struggle!!

It’s a nationalist conflict, not a colonial one. Two peoples - Jewish and Palestinian - with deep historic ties to the same land, both claiming national self-determination. That’s tragic, painful, and hard to resolve. But it’s not the same as a bunch of white Europeans setting up a Starbucks on someone else’s sacred mountain.

Trying to squeeze this conflict into the settler colonial box doesn’t make it clearer—it flattens it. It erases Jewish history and Palestinian suffering in one fell swoop.

History Deserves Better Than Hashtags

Calling Israel a "settler colonial state" might feel like a tidy moral label, but history is messier than slogans. The story is way more complex than “colonizer vs. colonized.” It’s about trauma, return, identity, nationalism, war, and a shitload of of mistakes along the way by all parties involved.

But if you want to understand it, really understand it, you’ve got to ditch the buzzwords and look at the footnotes, because the truth won’t always fit in a meme.

Aforementioned Footnotes:

Wolfe, Patrick. Settler Colonialism and the Elimination of the Native. Journal of Genocide Research, 2006.

https://www.kooriweb.org/foley/resources/pdfs/89.pdf

Veracini, Lorenzo. Settler Colonialism: A Theoretical Overview. Palgrave Macmillan, 2010.

https://link.springer.com/book/10.1057/9780230299191

Bickerman, Elias. From Ezra to the Last of the Maccabees. Schocken Books, 1962.

https://archive.org/details/in.ernet.dli.2015.59581

Biblical and archaeological records compiled in Israel

Finkelstein & Neil Asher Silberman, The Bible Unearthed, Free Press, 2001.

https://archive.org/details/bibleunearthedar0000fink/page/n5/mode/2up

Anita Shapira, Israel: A History (Harvard University Press): https://www.hup.harvard.edu/books/9780674047426

Jewish National Fund archives of land acquisition documents.

https://archives.cjh.org/repositories/3/resources/19702

Historical Aliyah data

https://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/total-immigration-to-israel-by-country-per-year

Protection of Holy Places Law, 1967

https://www.bu.edu/mzank/Jerusalem/tx/lawofholyplaces1967.htm

Shapira, Anita. Yosef Hayim Brenner: A Life. Stanford University Press, 2014.

(Documents Jewish labor ethos and rejection of exploitative structures)

https://archive.org/details/yosefhaimbrenner0000shap

On the Nakba

Benny Morris, The Birth of the Palestinian Refugee Problem Revisited:

https://yalebooks.yale.edu/book/9780300126969/the-birth-of-the-palestinian-refugee-problem-revisited/

Efraim Karsh, Palestine Betrayed:

https://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt1npnkg

Efraim Karsh, 1948, Israel, and the Palestinians – the True Story, Middle East Quarterly (2008)

https://www.researchgate.net/publication/258996946_1948_Israel_and_the_Palestinians_-_The_True_Story

Constantin Zureiq, Ma'na al-Nakba (1948):

https://archive.org/details/zurayk-nakba

_____

If you want to argue with this in the replies, please do- but bring receipts.

[graveyard-galaxy]

The way physical violence was focused on and upped in episode 3 really got me thinking specifically about how Ashley actually responds to it. Because, like…

When we start in the flashback at the start of the episode, we get given a clear picture of Renee’s stance on using it as disciplinary action, and for all that she is shitty and cruel and neglectful and spitefully manipulative in every scene that she’s in, one line that she won’t cross with the kids that she’s barely parenting is hitting them, and she tells Andrew as much.

Albeit aggressively, but what she’s saying here is obviously that she doesn’t believe it will make a difference, and that she won’t allow that to be how Andrew is forced to parent Ashley for her. To be fair, it is quite in line with her general methods of getting what she wants usually through manipulation, but it is, perhaps, a single redeeming factor about her parenting style, and represents a line that shouldn’t be crossed.

(It’s also possible indicative of her own childhood, which is interesting considering what her mother had to say about Douglas’s father in the Renee and Douglas vision, but I digress. This isn’t a Renee analysis or apologist post.)

But another piece of backstory that these flashbacks give us is that, perhaps unsurprisingly, Andrew and Ashley lived with their grandparents for a few years, before their actual parents. Renee was kicked out and had no money, so of course Douglas’s parents were left with Andrew and Ashley for an unknown amount of years. And their parenting style was… different. Seemingly not as neglectful as Renee’s, and I do think we get the sense that even if Douglas’s mother is just as much of a doormat as he is, and refuses to stand up to her husband (and given the wife beating mentions, is possibly not in the position to) she does genuinely care about her grandkids. So at their grandparents there’s… parenting. Maybe not good parenting, but still some parenting.

Interacting with the swing in the yard, Andrew recounts a short memory of how exactly his grandfather tended to respond to him (or presumably Ashley) doing anything wrong.

Woohoo, the kids aren’t abandoned, but they’re still blamed for things that aren’t their fault, and they’re beat for their troubles too!

But seriously, this obviously goes to show that before Andrew and Ashley moved in with their parents, physical violence was on the table against them as punishment. Andrew certainly remembers it, and we can speculate to what degree that informs his response to Renee about hitting Ashley later, but in particular, it’s Ashley I’d like to actually focus on here.

I don’t think it’s too big of a logical leap to assume that if Andrew was beaten by his grandfather, so was Ashley, given said grandfather’s horribly misogynistic views and obvious tendency towards beating his wife. And as unfortunate as it would be, I have to wonder… Did Ashley actually respond to this? In some way did she, or perhaps more likely Andrew, ever figure out how to behave to avoid it?

Looking forward to the present day, physical violence hasn’t been properly levelled against her in a while. Andrew supposedly attempts to choke her out in episode 1, but she notes that he wasn’t squeezing hard enough to actually choke her. And they get up in each other’s faces, and they yell, and she has a vision about him straight up killing her, but to some extent all of this is just not quite that far, or a true ultimatum. Never is Ashley actually faced with physical violence as any kind of punishment despite it being noted all the way back in episode 1 that Andrew has physical strength beyond her, as he is able to keep trying to kick the door down where she notes she doesn’t at all have the energy.

It’s a possibility in spirit. Andrew has the physical advantage and he could so easily use that against her, but it’s all presented as a game to Ashley in the first few episodes – one that she thinks Andrew isn’t actually trying at. She’s not even especially afraid of the prospect until the episode 2 Decay vision shows that he’s fully willing to kill her, and at some point in the near future too. That’s still an ultimatum more than it is a direct punishment, but it presents the idea to her that for all she thought he was playing around, no, Andrew would be willing to go there.

And then, this is followed through on in any Decay playthrough where Andrew is willing to grow a spine. He crosses the line that Renee set up, and that gives the moment a lot of narrative weight.

He slaps her, and her expression tells us a lot here. She wasn’t expecting something like this from him either, because of some combination of to not being a punishment she’s actually faced since childhood, Andrew never having gotten like this with her properly before, and how quick and sudden it is. This isn’t just a death threat or potentially far-off vision of him killing her; he’s actually done it now.

Their subsequent conversation is quite interesting too:

"What's with that look? You're the one who put violence on the table."

"...I-!! I didn't mean to............."

"Honestly it's all the same at this point."

Given the characters, we definitely shouldn’t necessarily take their words at face value, but even with that, I do think some part of Ashley is sincere here. When she held the cleaver to his neck, and when she offered a death threat, she still thought that she was just playing. This isn’t any different to Andrew taking his hands to her neck but not pressing hard enough to choke her, to her. She’s back-pedalling quite so hard to try and keep him, of course, this is Ashley we’re talking about… But I also don’t doubt that her sentiment is genuine. She didn’t exactly mean to.

And Andrew’s response tells us exactly why he’s so willing to cross that line. He just doesn’t care! Renee’s dead, so he doesn’t have to care about her rules and policies, and given how cynical he feels towards his life at this point, perhaps he wouldn’t care anyway. If this is a genuine way to get a response from Ashley, then he’ll try it, because for all that his mask of trying for normalcy is still up at this point, this is just between the two of them, where it!s always mattered the least, and as it is, that mask is quickly slipping.

I’d like to note this part of Ashley’s reaction as well, because, well… First we see that same shock as immediately after, but I’ve thought the exact same thing about that second frame, ever time I’ve seen it. With the background and the tears, isn’t this such a Leyley reaction? Such a Leyley expression?

Decay, especially Shots and Such which can follow on from this, is all about Ashley clinging to the Andy and Leyley dynamic to both of their detriments. It changes form as she feels she needs to adapt and find new ways to keep her Andy, but she’s constantly affirming whether or not she has Andy or Andrew because the violence and the hate all comes from Andrew to her, so when she’s continually trying to play Leyley, it keeps coming as a shock.

Andrew slaps her in the car, and she can only react as Leyley would. She never wants to be Ashley, because Ashley never fits into their games, and because Ashley has always been subconsciously rejected by Andrew. Being Ashley would mean facing what Andrew has done here rather than just making petty jokes about it for the rest of the episode and crying like I imagine she would have if her grandfather hit her.

But the cycle of violence only gets worse once Andrew continues to stew in apathy, and as perhaps he realises, that it does get a desired reaction from her. Ashley doesn’t respond in the long term to any threat that he throws, but she’s genuinely scared by the prospect of what him actually killing her means to her, and getting violent against her is a piece of that.

Part of what Shots and Such emphasises is that, even if it never works in the long run, Ashley does respond respond to violence, and that through out all of the ending, it remains Andrew’s way of fighting her.

This doesn’t exactly paint a happy picture of how Andrew regularly treats her. Er… Not that just about anything in Shots and Such is especially happy…

But it once again perpetuates the cycle of violence. Ashley gets actually violent now too, when she can. She makes sex painful for Andrew when she can, because that’s the degree of control she still has as someone who can’t a fight back when Andrew gets physical with her. She’s physically weaker, and with the bathroom lock torn down behind her, she has nowhere to hide. He beats her to short term avail to make himself feel better, and to keep her in line for tiny amount of time, and she gives that right back when she has her own opportunities.

And that’s all without actually talking about the scene of her getting beat.

Ashley’s a terrible person, but this scene is still very genuinely upsetting, because once again, something in her reaction comes across as genuine. She apologises profusely as her only way of even trying to get him to stop, and she goes back to the convenient story of being the scapegoat. She’s the problem, just like how he wants it to be. This doesn’t actually stop any of the heinous stuff she does to him after this point – if anything, it just makes her more desperate to try and exert control back when she gets the chance – but for a short while, it works. She shuts up and leaves him alone. She just makes cookies because that’s all that she can fathom that she’s good for.

Renee was right that hitting Ashley would never fix her behaviour. She was right after her grandfather had presumably done it to her as a young kid, and that was never the attention she needed, and she was right after Andrew crossed the line she set because she’s gone, and he has nothing left to lose. Hitting Ashley never teaches her any kind of actual lesson, save, of course, from how to act when people get violent with her.

All that’s learnt is how to behave in the short term to get the immediate beating to stop, and that’s enough for Andrew. Their push and pull has turned into violent fits against each other for control for just a short while, but he genuinely can’t care for it to be another way. After beating Ashley, he just once again reiterates that “I don’t care either way at this point” and that’s that.

It never fixes her behaviour, but it reinforces his. Just like his grandfather, Andrew becomes a wife beater, and he crosses Renee’s line for just a short moment of power and control. His spine is now like a gummy worm because he’s stuck in the easy cycle.

[eelnoise]

beset fixation (nsfw!)

trafalgar law x gn!strawhat!reader cw: smut, possessive law, law struggles w/ feelings, soft law, piv sex, implied situationship, emotional law an: so in my head this takes place in wano, and is kind of a heat of the moment emotional type thing. in my head law's stupid slutty kimono is draped around his shoulders btw hehe tagging: @bby-deerling @kaizokuniichan @themushroomofdeath @risenwrites

Law is obsessed with you.

It eats at him, gnaws into his flesh like sharpened teeth. He feels childish, as if being played for a fool - but the fact of the matter is that you’ve clawed your way into his head. Law finds himself aching with an inexplicable pain that he cannot seem to mend on his own, one that snaps any strands of rationality in two and has him second, third, and fourth guessing his own words.

You’re a Strawhat. After this business is done and accounted for and the alliance ends, you’ll be enemies once again.

Yet Law can’t escape the deep-seated, profound, and frankly infuriating way you linger around in his mind. His inner thoughts speak in your voice, perfectly mimicking every single subtle nuance and tonal shift of the words you’ve spoken to him prior. He longs for your presence, even if he cannot reason with why. The only thing that Law has gleaned is that you are the root problem of it all - and he needs to let you go for his own sake.

Then why now does he have you upon hands and knees, back arched perfectly and covered in sweat while he buries himself as deep inside of you as he can?

Lithe fingers cup at your hips to keep you in place, tips digging into the pliant flesh with enough force to bruise twice over. Law’s pace is ruthless, pouring every single one of his feelings into you with every harsh thrust of his hips - and you still just don’t get it. Are you truly this oblivious to his behavior? How he craves the taste of your skin or the touch of your hands? He all but froths at the mouth when you’re with one of your crewmates, jaw clenching and fists balling at the thought of you leaving with them - leaving him behind.

Law grits his teeth in frustration, and takes it out with a rough smack to your ass. Your cry of ecstasy doesn’t go unnoticed, and his hold on you tightens further when your walls flutter against his cock. He can feel himself start to crumble, and with each salaciously delicious sound you spew he borders further and further off the edge of reality. 

What’s stopping him from keeping you, really?

He could have you whenever he wanted – your touch and body available at the drop of a coin. Nevermore would he need to feel the crushing burden of your absence, to mend the seams of woe that have frayed into his nerves. Try as he might to fight it, this burning desire is kindled when you're with him. 

And now, with you at his mercy beneath him, all thoughts feel like lies. Law feels his will breaking, and for a moment he casts logic aside. The smiles, the laughter, the vivid conversations you've shared – he wants them all to himself. It's selfish,and yet it can't be helped. 

Law's thoughts are interrupted by the sound of your voice. Pleas of finality reach his ears – soft, shaky cries of delirium emanating from your tongue. He knows what you want, and he isn’t about to give you what you want. Not yet.

He slips out of you then, giving you a much needed but very much unwanted moment of reprieve that's cut short before you can even turn your head up toward him in question. Law shifts his hold on your hips and flips you onto your back, hands curling against the undersides of your knees and pressing them toward your chest. Just as he’s realigning himself with you he pauses, unable to stop himself from raising his gaze to yours.

Law inhales sharply and can feel his gaze soften as he looks into your eyes. And in another bout of weakness does his heart leap, a warmth spreading within him that feels so unfamiliar but not unwelcome. He leans forward over your body to quickly capture your lips to his, simultaneously sheathing himself back within you. He swallows both the gasp from your throat as well as his own guilt, indulging himself in the wistful tangle of emotions and limbs that is this moment.

Your tongue eagerly twists into his, your arms coming to cross around his shoulders as if desperate to get as close to him as you can. Law obliges you, wrapping his own arms around your lower back and squeezing you to his chest – though he longs to melt into you entirely. He’s slower now, the rock of his hips beginning to move with more purpose and with an undeniable sense of not-so-hidden sentiment. 

It feels like his sense of self has vanished, and in its place stands someone he doesn’t know. As if the sums of his of attempts at reason had subtracted tenfold. His kiss doesn’t end - save for seconds of breath - slotting your lips together in a long sermon of implicit confessions that are long overdue.

The feeling overtakes him, and soon enough he’s muttering nonsense into your ear about how he needs you and how you make him feel. Telling you all the ways he craves your entire being, how much you’ve changed the way he thinks. It's more than he’s said to anyone at once before, and he doesn’t know – doesn’t care – where it’s coming from.

You reciprocate. It shocks him – the words falling from your tongue should sound foreign, but they don’t. They’re real and they’re raw and they bring Law a comfort he shouldn’t crave.

But he does, he craves it like no other. And hearing your revelation solidifies it.

Law isn’t leaving this country without you by his side.

[slttygeto]

Hot Ones! With Suguru Geto & (Name)!

pairing: music producer/singer! Suguru x singer! fem! reader

genre: fluff, crack.

📊 Video Stats

12M views| 350K likes| 87K comments

Geto Suguru was almost like an urban legend. No one knew if he actually existed—I mean, he had to if his voice could be hard on almost every trending song. 

But he never ever made an appearance. Not on any talk show, interview or even famous award shows he had been invited on to win. 

And so logically, no one knew a single thing about the famous producer/singer. They only knew his birthday because Gojo Satoru, a famous actor and his childhood best friend, would always post him while covering his face. 

Which would set the internet on fire for at least two weeks after.

The picture showed that Suguru Geto was a man with a large build, almost as tall as Satoru himself. He had two sleeve tattoos that were barely visible in the picture but enough for people to comment ‘as if this man wasn’t attractive enough’. They can only make out that he has long dark hair, tied in a bun with a long strand of hair dangling on the side. 

However, when Satoru posts his best friend this year to celebrate his 33rd birthday, the internet can’t help but fixate on a detail they hadn’t seen before. Something that was never able to appear because Suguru always hid his hands in his pockets, a shiny band wrapped around his ring finger that was visible to the camera because the producer was jokingly choking his best friend.

Suguru Geto was married, and the internet needed to find out who the lucky person was. 

—

“This week on hot ones! Geto Suguru and (Name) will play a hot game. Tune in tomorrow at 8PM, ET!”

The tweet goes viral the moment that it gets posted. The picture used shows you and Suguru with your backs facing the camera wearing a Hot Ones T-shirt and pointing with your thumbs to the logo. 

And when the video finally gets uploaded, people are losing their minds.

“Welcome to Hot Ones!” You are already sitting on your stool when Suguru finally joins you, sitting across from you at the table. “On a scale from 1 to 10, how excited are you?” You pretend to shove a mic his way and he chuckles.

“4.”

You gasp dramatically, placing your left hand on your chest to show off your wedding ring as well. “Four? How disappointing.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Suguru keeps eyeing you as you look at the plate of hot chicken wings and the bottles of hot sauce. “Are you excited?”

“I’m doing it with you, so yeah.” You flash him a grin before scooting closer to the table. 

You had been in the music industry for a while—in fact, you were known to be one of the few artists who gradually rose to fame. Suguru’s producer tag was a recurring theme in your songs.

Suguru produced more than five albums of yours before you decided to chime in and teach yourself some skills of your own. So a couple of years into your career, people never suspected that there was ever something going on between you and the producer.

Despite the signs being there.

He would hop on songs that were intimate, songs where you’d explicitly express the wild rollercoaster which was your sex life. Romantic songs that showed how happy you were, how this one person was finally worth you giving love a second try. 

And yet people never put two and two together.

Not until this video at least.

“Okay so it’s either I answer the question or I eat a hot wing?”

“Not quite,” you grab the cards before shuffling through them. “You eat the hot wing anyway, and you have to answer the questions.”

“...did you just make that up?”

“Because I know you’ll avoid answering the questions!”

And just based on your demeanor and how comfortable you are whining to the man, the audience could tell that the dynamic between the two of you was the result of years of knowing each other. 

“I’m still not doing that” 

“First question, you have been in the music industry for quite some time—some might even consider you to be a legend–”

Suguru snorts. “That’s an exaggeration.”

“Describe an instance where you didn’t feel like working with an artist because they were being difficult.” You laugh as you read through the question. The internet doesn’t know this about your husband, but he tends to be brutally honest. You lean back in your chair and watch as he carefully thinks about the question.

“Honestly–”

“Suguru!” you warn him, giving him the look that makes a chuckle escape him.

“Alright then, which sauce should I use?” 

—

“Okay princess,” Suguru shuffles through his cards now, carefully picking the first question. “Are you ready?”

“Mhm,” 

“What is your least favorite song that I produced?” Your jaw drops at his question, covering your mouth while your husband is having the time of his life. He knew how hard it was for you to tell the truth when it could risk hurting someone else—especially when that person was your spouse.

“I can’t do that!”

The tall man gestures towards your plate. “Then eat a hot wing,” 

You think about it for a good ten seconds, eyeing the plate of chicken wings and the hot sauce that made your husband sweat so much his cheeks were flushed. 

Fuck it. 

“...the light is coming.” 

“The light is coming.”

Your eyes widen when you hear him answer at the same time as you, his shoulders shaking as he tries to stifle a laugh.

“If you knew it then why would you ask me?!”

“Because I needed you to come clean once and for all.” Suguru wipes a stray tear, still laughing. Then he turns to the camera. “Every single time someone brings up that song, you can see her face drop. She’s denied it for so many years, but the truth has finally come out.”

You roll your eyes at him. “You’re unbelievable.” 

“Okay final question,” he grabs the last card, and you notice a smirk painting his features. “Favorite thing about me?”

“Is that actually the question?” You raise an eyebrow, crossing your arms over your chest. Suguru then shows you the card.

“I don’t lie, darling.”

“I can’t pick one thing,” you rest your chin on the palm of your hand, gazing lovingly at your husband. “But if I could really choose, I would say that you are unapologetically you and I wouldn’t change it for the whole world.” 

After a beat of silence and a shared loving look, Suguru finally speaks up.“You know, I was going to tease you and say ‘I know one thing you really like about me’ but your answer is so wholesome I feel like a teenage boy.”

You shake your head. “I can’t believe you.”

🗨️ Top Comments

💬 [somethingsgottagive]: THE (Name) AND THEEEE SUGURU ARE MARRIED??? (6k likes)

💬 [somuchtosay]: Oh my god we are so blind (5k likes)

💬 [onehastogo]: their wedding rings im going to cry (7,3K likes)

💬 [theboyismine]: they suit each other so well im:(((( (1.8K likes)

💬  [sweetnsourchicken] replied to  [theboyismine]: the perfect dynamic

💬 [alltheavocadoes]: this is what dream thought his face reveal would be like (923 likes)

💬 [albumoftheyear]: revealing his face AND whom he’s married to in one day is crazy (508 likes)

💬 [cmontryme]: can someone check on that (name) and suguru fanpage we were all clowning. I fear they were right (392 likes)

💬  [name&suguru4life] replied to  [cmontryme]: I TOLD YALL AND NO ONE BELIEVED ME

💬 [cmontryme] replied to [name&suguru4life]: we owe you a big apology

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