001 with raf would send me to the MOON 😭❤️ (don’t tell zayne i sent this 🤫)
😎 Don't worry. I've got you. *slides this over the table to you real casual so Zayne doesn't suspect a thing* (Also happy new year aaaaaaaa!!!)
GUYS Christmas isn't over until I say it's over and it's not over until I get through these festive prompts, ok? 🥺 THE HOLIDAYS LIVE ON!!!
Under The Mistletoe
Rafayel x Reader 🔥🎄☃️❄️
Prompt #001: under the mistletoe, placed sneakily above a doorframe.
Warnings/additional tags: established relationship, teency bit of suggestion, a few joking references to gaslighting, injury (Raf I love you, I'm sorry I won't let you catch a single break!!!)
| Word count: 900 | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!
The moment you open the door, something falls. Or should you say… someone? There’s a clatter: heavy and metal. A thud, too— even an “ow!” You don’t know what you struck or toppled, but you do know it sounds bad.
“Rafayel?” You peek around his door, afraid to do any more damage by moving it.
The man is sprawled over the floor like a sad-looking starfish. Maybe a dead starfish? His eyes are closed, but his chest rises and falls, rises and falls; you haven’t killed him yet. “Are you okay?” you ask, stepping the rest of the way into his home and pushing the door closed behind you. “Raf? Rafayel? You still with me?”
His eyes open: rock pools swirling with a momentary disturbance, but then settling, still. “Hey,” he says, once the waters are calm and full of your reflection.
Hey? That’s it? “What are you doing?”
He props himself up on his elbows, wincing. “Oh, you know… art stuff.” When you lift an eyebrow, he clarifies: “Tryna get a new perspective from down here. You get it.”
Glancing around, there’s no half-completed artwork, nor painting strung to the ceiling (though that wouldn’t much surprise you). “Perspective on what?”
“Uhh. The world?”
“And how’s the world looking from down there?”
“… Different?”
“Insightful.”
“Yeah, I know.”
So he’s not going to cooperate? Fine; this is hardly the first time you’ve walked into his studio and had to play detective. Ignore his narrowed eyes, just begging you to contradict him. You crouch down, stroking your chin. There was that metal sound, remember? And a stepladder is lying nearby. Why would he—? Your eyes follow the line of the doorway, roaming up, up until…
“Mistletoe, Raf? Really?”
He tuts. “That’s not mistletoe, cutie. It’s holly. Wishful thinking much? Gods…”
You stare at the plant fixed above your heads: its long, smooth-edged leaves and its berries, white like pearls. You’re not an idiot. That’s mistletoe. “Trying to gaslight me now?”
“What?” he gawks. “No!”
“You so are! Look at it, that’s—”
Suddenly his hands are over your eyes. “Don’t look at it, cutie. It’s holly, okay? You’re seeing things, trust me.”
“Raf!” you squeak. “That’s—” you can barely get the words out as you laugh, wriggling to get free— “that’s gaslighting! I know what I saw! It was—”
“Shhhh. You saw nothing.”
One hand is on your mouth now, stifling your protests. He shushes you as he pulls you back until you’re seated between his legs. His body is over and around you. You could nip at his fingers— could twist out of his arms and have him pinned to the ground in little more than a second— but it’s the holidays, so you let him have this one.
Eventually, his hands slip down, wrapping around you in a lazy hug. Your head lolls back against his shoulder. “It’s a shame it’s not mistletoe,” you say wistfully, gazing up at the ‘holly.’
“Yeah?” he asks, making you giggle again as his teeth graze your ear.
“Yeah. If it was, then we could…”
You trail off, angling your face until your lips meet his— almost. There’s an inch between you: a tiny space always full of longing, no matter how many times you close it. Seconds of longing, like every first time you see him. Minutes, hours: when you stand, meeting eyes across a crowded room and holding back on a rescue, because Thomas is watching, too.
Then there’s years. Years on a quiet, empty beach, picturing this, waiting for this.
A reunion.
Rafayel leans closer.
“Oh well!” you exclaim, going to move away from him.
“No, no, no!” he stammers. “Wait! Wait, okay? Just let me… let me think for a second.”
You lean back against him, a smug smile on your lips as you study the mistletoe above you. You’re not the only one looking at it.
“Plot twist, yeah?” His fingers are on your chin, turning your face back towards him. He chuckles as you let him kiss you this time: sweet and gentle, like a tide afraid to trespass on the shore.
It isn’t enough. “You know,” you say, drawing back and straightening his already-straight shirt collar, “now that you mention it, didn’t we see some of that stuff the other day? Somewhere else? The bedroom, maybe?”
He grins. “Now who’s gaslighting?”
You shut him up with another kiss, then break away from him, clambering to your feet. “You wanna check it out, or not?”
“Oh I do, I definitely do.”
And you’ve got a head start, so you might as well lead the way. You tiptoe around various messes— the fallen stepladder, and then the more traditional paint cans and brushes. Rafayel should catch-up to you, should be lifting you over this colourful obstacle course, but he doesn’t, and he isn’t.
You slow down to a stop, glancing over your shoulder.
The artist has rolled onto his front, his chin held up by his hands, and his eyes are the only things following you. You put your hands on your hips knowingly. “Hospital?” you ask.
I NEED some angst+comfort with Zayne PLEASE. It could be anything, the reader being run over in front of him, him being stressed about work and being mean to the reader... Literally anything
This was my first request, so thank you so much! I started this last night with a cup of tea and an "I'm sure I can manage some angst for Zayne, why not?" sort of attitude, and it culminated with me evil laughing to myself at 3am. Enjoy I guess? 😭
Reserved
Zayne x Reader ❄
Summary: You've been looking forward to this dinner with Zayne for a week, but it seems he has other priorities.
Genre: angst, SO MUCH angst (but sshhhh... we save it with some comfort... 👀)
Warnings/Additional tags: established relationship, fluff, uses of y/n, reader is feeling neglected, Zayne gets a tiny bit mean
| Word count: 1.2k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!
“Zayne… c’mon. Let’s go.”
You feel like a child, whining for what feels like the hundredth time in the last half hour, but you’ve little else left to do. You’re perched on Zayne’s desk, having long ago lost respect for the sanctity of his workspace, and you pout as you stare down at the phone in your palm. The screen is lit up by a reminder you’d set a week ago: Reservation. The Cerulean. 8 o’clock.
It’s 8:25, and you’ve snoozed it five times already— each time more pointedly than the last.
“Just a minute,” Zayne mumbles.
“You said that an hour ago!”
The man hums in acknowledgment, but he doesn’t look up from his computer. His face is bathed in the ghoulish light of the screen, his glasses shining as he dips his head— just a fraction— to glance at the paperwork spread before him. You give him his minute: let second after second tick by, though you mark each one with an idle tap on the desk’s cold surface.
A murmur: “Stop that, please.” His patience is thinning too.
You’re feeling petty, because you’ve been listening to the patter of his keyboard forever and it’s driving you insane. You purse your lips and tap louder. One second. Tap. Two seconds. Tap. Three. Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Stop it.” Zayne’s hand catches yours, his grip soft, but his face stern.
And he still won’t look at you.
He releases your hand, and his dutiful fingers are back to their post, pattering away. With a huff, you come away from his desk, stalking past him to the window, where you fold your arms and study the barren street below. The view is obscured by the dark and the drops of rain that carve hazy trails down the glass. You can just about make out a couple, emerging from the hospital’s entrance. No uniforms. A patient and their other half, and they’re leaning on each-other— no— pushing each-other, competing for the cover of an umbrella that’s much too small. They’re laughing, you think.
Your chest aches.
“Zayne,” you press.
His chair rolls back, wheels harsh on the floor, and he’s standing, logging out of his computer with a final, few clacks. “I’m done,” he snaps, but his tone says otherwise. He tugs his coat from the back of his chair. “We can go.”
…
You sit on the edge of the wet pavement, rain seeping from your hair and soaking the fabric of your clothes. You should be cold, but you’re not. You’re nothing. Your eyes are cast downwards and all you see is grey, though it’s illuminated by an orange glow.
Behind you, light bleeds through the windows of a busy restaurant. Zayne is still in there, playing diplomat. Playing doctor: always trying to fix things.
Your phone buzzes, and you slip it from its home in your coat pocket. There’s a message: having fun? Then another: ur welcome, miss bodyguard.
Rafayel. He knows a guy who knows the guy who owns this place, so you’d called in a favour. You and Zayne had been drowning in work for a week: him, overwhelmed by new patients at the hospital, and you, out hunting the wanderers that had put them there. Linkon is getting worse. Everything is getting worse, and you just wanted one, single night for yourself.
Well, not just yourself.
The monotonous drum of the rain breaks to the creak of an opening door, but you don’t react. “Y/N?” Zayne sounds far away. “Where did you— Y/N!?”
Footsteps echo on the pavement behind you, splitting puddles, and the orange light is gone. You’re trapped by a shadow that’s talking, speaking your name, but you pretend you can’t hear it. Let him say it a hundred times. A thousand; you can wait.
“Just a minute,” you lilt, your voice dripping spite.
You’re going to sit here for an hour.
“Y/N…” The doctor is oh so patient. “Please get up. You’ll catch a cold if you—”
“Good!” you spit, rounding on him. “Then why don’t I check myself into the hospital? Maybe then you’ll actually think about me once in a while!”
Zayne is towering over you: a small, wet, pathetic little thing, but you still make him draw back. His virescent eyes are wide, his lips parted ever so slightly. He almost always knows what to say, but this is an exception.
After a long moment, he moves around you. Slowly, he lowers himself to sit at your side.
“Do you have any idea,” you start, staring out across the slick road, “how selfish you make me feel? How much I hate myself when I… when I ask you to…”
The confession catches in your throat. It hurts, but you force it out anyway:
“What you do is so important, Zayne. You’re saving lives. You’re giving people back to their families, their loved ones, and you’re amazing for that. I think you’re amazing for that. But I miss you. It feels like I have to share you with the rest of the world, and I know I have no right to ask it, but sometimes? Sometimes I just… want you to be mine.”
You’re looking down, now. Hugging your knees— burying your face, so he won’t see you cry. There’s rain and salt in your mouth, and you wish he would say something. Anything.
You have to wait a few seconds, but then you feel it: something heavy being draped over your shoulders. His coat. Then his arm is around you, drawing you close, closer, until you’re nestled against his chest.
“You have every right to ask,” he soothes, his tone so warm when it’s compensating for the rest of him. “I am yours, Y/N. I will always be yours.”
“But your work—”
“Can wait,” he finishes for you. “I know I forget that sometimes. And I’m sorry. But you?”
He lifts your chin, gazing down at you with something you can only describe as adoration.
“There is nothing in this world more important to me than you.”
Your heart flutters at the words and the feathery touch of his thumb on your cheek, wiping away a tear. It’s futile in a downpour, but it still makes you smile. Rain is spattering on your forehead, some dripping from his now-soaked hair, and you laugh as he tries to dry your face with his sleeve.
“You’re important to me, too,” you manage between chuckles, “and I’m sorry, too.” Your cheeks are flushed, even in the cold. “Let’s go home, yeah?”
“No.” A statement: not up for debate. Zayne untangles your limbs from his as he helps you stand. “We have a reservation.”
“We had a reservation. They gave away our table, Zayne.”
“Did they?”
There’s a hint of smugness. “Wait… what did you—”
He nods at the restaurant, and you follow his glistening gaze to where a waiter is holding the door— a menu clutched above his head, shielding him from the rain. He’s looking back at you. Waiting.
“Rafayel isn’t the only one with friends in high places,” Zayne smiles, leaning down to speak into your ear, and it makes you shiver. “The head chef is a friend of mine. I saved his brother’s life, you know.”
@irandial and @micasosa34 requested a Rafayel version of this fic, so here it is!! This is a loose sequel, but mostly a spin-off? Also an emotional rollercoaster, sorry!
(I fear I put too much of myself in this one, guys... there will be no beating the 'oh you are ACTUALLY in love with this man' allegations after this.....)
Fourth Wall (Rafayel Ver.)
Rafayel x Player!Reader 🔥
(Previous part/Sylus version here!)
Summary: You didn't think Rafayel would let you walk around an art gallery all by yourself, did you?
Genre: Angst! This is my revenge for the claw machine debacle (Checkmate, Rafayel!!! But also I'm sorry and I love you)
Warnings/Additional tags: player!reader, gender neutral, fourth-wall breaking, non-canon, one instance of swearing
| Word count: 2.4k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!
You made it through about two rooms of the gallery before thinking about Rafayel.
You stand in front of a dark seascape: a night sky and a symmetrically black ocean framing the plight of a small fishing boat, adrift in the centre. The moon casts a pale, faraway light, and an orange lantern glows, drawing colour from the oppressive darkness— deep blues, and rich, shimmering turquoise, crested with white.
It should evoke some feeling of smallness, some respect for the vast indifference of the natural world, but no— your mind is set on the fictional artist who lives in your phone.
What would he think about it? What would he have to say?
At the moment, you suspect it would be some remark about how you should get your own opinion, rather than piggybacking his.
Still, it gives you an idea. You glance around self-consciously as you draw out your phone and earphones— tucking the latter into your ears as you offer a curt smile to the nearby gallery attendant. You’re not breaking any rules by loading up Love and Deepspace, but it feels slightly ridiculous in a place like this: full of real and honest things where you’re somehow lonely.
You log-in with a tap. “Let’s go to the beach,” Rafayel greets, his voice as warm as sunshine that melts a cold morning haze. “I never get tired of seeing the sunset there.”
You smile more sincerely, tousling his hair, but then it’s straight to business. You drag him into the AR Photobooth, directing him through a few poses until you find one you like: a duo pose. His fingers are meant to be around your chin, but without you, he seems to be pointing. Perfect, you shift— tilting your phone until the painting sits behind him.
He’s winking at you as he gestures to it, his face and body as still as marble.
You’re about to take the picture when a not-so-distant conversation strikes up, making you glance backwards. Another visitor is asking the attendant about a painting, and you lower your phone’s volume a notch so you can eavesdrop on them.
“This is one of Turner’s earliest paintings, y’know? He was young when he painted it. Like, super young.”
You freeze. The attendant and the visitor aren’t standing by a Turner painting; you are. Your gaze snaps back to your phone, drawn by the familiarity of the voice.
Rafayel’s turned away from you. He’s staring at the painting, one hand on his hip and the other up by his face, stroking his chin. He’s swaying on his feet gently, his head tilting as he takes in different parts of the seascape.
“You gonna take the picture, cutie?” he asks, glancing back at you with a knowing grin.
Your lips have parted slightly in surprise, but your finger manages to find the photo button. Rafayel returns to his candid observations just in time for your screen to flicker, mimicking a camera flash.
“Ok, one more.” He turns around and settles into a new pose. You take another photo. “Nice,” he beams, “you’ll send those to me later, yeah?”
But you can’t—
“Relax, ok? I’m kidding. Now come on,” he pokes at the edge of your screen like a mime trapped by an invisible box. “Move this thing! I wanna see what else they’ve got here.”
You do move, but not to show him around. He gets a blurry view of the floor as you hurry over to a nearby bench, sinking down with a sigh because you can’t believe this is happening— again. With a few taps of your finger, you draw the curtains on Rafayel’s view to your world and return him to his.
“No, no, no! What?” he groans in disbelief, suddenly back in the Destiny Café. He throws himself into the armchair with reckless abandon— limbs sprawled— one hand over his face as though it would pain him to look on anything at all. “You find out I’m self-aware and the first thing you do is drag me back here? Where’s your heart? Your empathy? Your soul?”
You poke at his hand and he swats at the air like you’re bothering him.
“Leave me alone. Can’t you see I’m busy, like, contemplating the futility of my existence?”
So dramatic! You consider closing the app out of spite, but this is Rafayel. You know Rafayel; look past the theatrics. It’s been, what— just over a month since Sylus first told you he’d seen through all of this? He said the others were lagging behind, but maybe…
Maybe they weren’t.
Shit. Maybe they weren’t.
You watch Rafayel, sunken down in one of two places you’ve seen him inhabit every day, every night, for almost a year. This café isn’t different from the old in any way that matters. Sylus is new but Rafayel has been here from the very beginning. So many more days. So many more nights.
How long has he known?
He lifts his hand, just enough to peer in your direction. You’ve not closed the app. You’re not poking at him anymore. He sits up straighter in the chair, both hands in his lap, and he looks at them pensively. Maybe even remorsefully.
“You’re thinking about what it all means, huh? Don’t.” It’s a command, but it’s soft. Then softer, a: “Please?”
Your breath catches— oh— he’s known for a long time, hasn’t he? You lean back against the gallery wall, grounding yourself as you text him an emoji: a chick bursting out of its shell with question marks over its head.
He pulls out his phone. Sees it. “Why?” he translates with a melancholic chuckle.
Yeah. You tickle his head. Why?
He runs a hand through his hair. “I guess… I didn’t want you to feel bad?”
You text another emoji and he glances down at it, then laughs more loudly: “I’m a dummy? Check a mirror, cutie— isn’t it you who’s been walking around thinking Mister Wannabe Vampire is the only one smart enough to figure this all out? Puh-lease.”
He laughs even more at his own joke— maybe to fill the quiet and the fact that he can’t hear you laughing with him. It peters out like it inevitably must, and like it always does. He goes still.
“Can’t you show me around, even a little?” he asks.
No.
You feel bad, you do, but you can’t start living for him. This is your world; if you invite him in now, when does it stop? You already spend too much time with your head down, lost in your phone. You were walking through a gallery and thinking about him, remember? Art is supposed to make you think about something real.
No, you text him: a crow holding a sign with a big, red cross. It’s too abrupt, but there’s not an emoji for “I can’t. You know I can’t.”
Rafayel’s face falls further as he checks his phone, his eyes like the ocean in the painting across the room: lit by a weak, failing little light. He looks to you, even though he can’t see you. “Please?”
You don’t move.
“Please,” he tries again, “just this once— this once. Is that so much to ask?”
You’ve used up your three means of answering him.
He scoffs in dismay, alone in the silence of everything you can’t say— you couldn’t say— even if you were really with him and the distance between you was merely invented. How could you go to him, hold his face in your hands and tell him the truth: that you care, but not enough?
Here, now: the quiet confesses it for you.
Rafayel stands from his seat, taking a step closer, his gaze dark. You can see his eyes more clearly; that lantern is at the bottom of the sea, with the rest of the ship and everyone on board. “Do you know what my life is?” he asks, and the silence has become his ally, punctuating his every word so it can cut more deeply. “My life’s an empty café, a book with blank pages and a phone that won’t ring.”
The curtains behind him move softly with a superficial breeze, lit by a superficial sun.
“The only thing that’s real,” he says, “is you.”
You feel like the breath’s been knocked from your lungs.
You can’t resent him for it. He could have drowned you from the start, could have dragged you under a weight of responsibility, but he didn’t, and that’s Rafayel: always tempering himself into something less lethal. He’s been so still for you. So silent for you.
Your mind is wrapped in a vow you made him— one you’ve been unconsciously breaking— and you’re going to break it again, knowingly, wilfully this time, because you want him like this: angry.
You promised, didn’t you? I will never make Rafayel wait for me.
He’s always been waiting, and you want him to stop.
You close the app, muting your phone when notifications start coming through: a squall of frustration, pleading, and frantic apologies. You tuck all of it into your pocket and stand, wandering back to the painting that started it all so you can look at it differently.
Something real to think about. Something real.
You stare at a black ocean and think about him.
…
Rafayel isn’t talking to you.
It’s been a week since your ‘breakup’— dubbed gleefully as such by Sylus— and you load up the game to find your artist slumped back in his armchair, his book over his face. A week of him sitting down, cross-legged and armed, during the Deepspace Trials you’d set out to clear with him. A week of him hogging the Claw Machine, and missing every rare plushie with a sarcastic ‘oops’.
The worst part is that you’ve missed him. You’d tried replaying the kindled moments from his five-star memories, but he’d made you regret it. In Sparkling Traces, he’d summed up his feelings in a very… colourful drawing. Omnipotent Perception: he’d slipped deeper into the bathwater, a blush on his face as he avoided your gaze and murmured something about you ‘having some nerve.’
Now, you can’t even call him over to you. You poke at the book on his face, once, twice, then repeatedly until it slips, but his hands shoot up to catch it. He holds it in place.
Ugh. If he would just—
You drum away at the book more vivaciously, but his grip is solid. Plan B, then: you open your in-game messages and send an emoji instead. Rafayel stirs, one hand moving to his pocket and the other lifting the book so he can peek down at his phone. “What— you tryna bribe me now?”
He’s looking at grumpy crow holding out a present: a bundle of shiny, red gems. His translation is spot-on, as per usual, and you reward it by poking at his chest. He frowns down at the contact, then sits up, rolling his eyes as he tosses the book over his shoulder.
“This better be good,” he yawns, standing up and stretching with a listlessness that could only be described as cat-like, however much he’d whine about the comparison.
Having won his attention— and begrudging consent— you navigate your way to the AR Photobooth. Rafayel stares at you from within the frame: an unwitting subject of a portrait he doesn’t yet understand, but he soon will. You smile as he turns cautiously to regard his backdrop.
Behind him, the ocean laps at a shore of pale sand and stretches into the horizon, where the sun lazily dips. There’s about half of it left, turning the sky a blurred palette of orange and pink that’s spilled over the water. Clouds are few and dark purple, their linings aglow.
Rafayel’s folded arms have dropped to his sides. After a few, long seconds, he gazes back in your direction, eyes wide with surprise before they soften with a radiant smile.
“You—” he starts, and it could be something as light as a joke or as deep as a soliloquy. You’ll never know, because he doesn’t put it to words. He glances at the ocean again. Then at you. “Thanks,” he settles for.
You chuckle. There’s not many ways you can answer without tearing him away from the sunset and trapping him back in the café, so you stay sitting still. It’s a different silence than a week ago. There are things unsaid, but that’s ok— they’re the sort you don’t need to speak aloud, anyway.
Your shoes are set aside by your feet so you can feel the sand, still warm beneath your toes. You wiggle them into it, gazing out over the ocean as the evening breeze catches and plays with your hair, and the last of the sun trails over your skin. You stare out at where it’s sinking.
Rafayel moves, and your focus meanders back to your phone. He’s walking away from you, gradually— retreating further into the composition you’ve created, just for him. He looks as though he’s nearing the shore, but it’s cosmetic: there are no footprints in the sand. His hair isn’t moved by the same breeze, and his face isn’t gilded by the same light.
He stops by the ocean’s edge and crouches gently, mesmerised by the push and pull of the tide. Slowly, humbly, he reaches out a hand and lowers his fingers towards the water; they never slip beneath the surface, and they don’t stir a ripple.
Rafayel laughs, masking an undertow of sadness, but not disappointment. “It’s funny,” he says, still sketching invisible, ineffectual shapes. “Loving the ocean as much as I do, and knowing… knowing I’ll never touch it.”
He’s all the way over there, but his voice is in your ears, so intimately close. You swallow an ache.
He looks up at you. Smiles: “Y’know what I mean?”
You’re using memories to complete the picture: His hair, mussed by the summer breeze that day you stood amongst the cherry blossoms. His face, painted by the sunset of a different life, where you’d roamed a desert together. In each and every moment, his eyes are the same, just as they are now: kindled by a tender, tentative fire.
“Yeah, Raf,” you say to yourself— just yourself. “I know what you mean.”
Hey, a fluff scenario for cuddling with Rafayel? Thank you 🐡✨
This one really got away from me ahaha, whoops. There's also a moment where my fine art degree really leaps out, so look forward to that, everyone.
My first time writing for Raf - thank you anon!!
Perspective
Rafayel x Reader 🎨
Summary: You've spent two hours preparing a meal for Rafayel, and he has absolutely no intention of sitting down to it.
Genre: fluff fluff FLUFF!
Warnings/Additional tags: established relationship, cuddling, kisses, lots of intimacy tbh (soft, not spicy!)
| Word count: 2k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!
Thirty minutes. You and Thomas had spent thirty minutes on the phone trying to figure out where your boyfriend actually was. Half an hour of he’s not with you? and no, I thought he was with you!— back and forth, like a metronome, and it wasn’t exactly the first time, either.
You’re seasoned investigators at this point: called constantly out of retirement for one last job you swear you’re too old for, and yet you know is never going to really be the last. You’ve already got matching t-shirts printed for the tortured agent’s next birthday: ‘Special Unit: Find Rafayel.’ (He won’t find it half as funny as you do.)
Neither of you had heard from the artist since Tuesday, and— it being Friday— he was either in his studio, painting, or definitely dead. It fell within your jurisdiction to find out, so you’d driven here two hours ago, texting Thomas upon arriving:
He's alive!! 🥳🥳🥳
You’re less excited about it now.
Stood at Rafayel’s kitchen island, you lay out the last of the buffet you’ve prepared to try to entice him away from his art. It’s worked in the past: has seen him sniff the air and follow his stomach to whatever you were cooking, like a stubborn stray cat.
“C’mon, Raf,” you call out, because he’s not taking the bait. “Food’s getting cold.”
“Not hungry!”
Your fists ball around the cutlery you’re setting down on the marble; he’s not eaten for three days. You glance up at him across the open space of his home, taking a deep breath through your nose as you watch him scrawl away at his painting. Somewhere in your mind, Thomas is speaking. This is what you signed up for, remember?
Reluctantly, you cross between the rooms, folding your arms as you come up behind Rafayel. “Raf,” you insist again, “come and sit down. Please? You need to eat something.”
“I’m fiiiiiine.” His paintbrush drags viridian over the lower third of his piece.
“You’re not fine,” you huff, and he doesn’t respond. “Rafayel.”
“Rafayel?” he mimics with a chuckle. “You’re mad.”
He’s ‘Rafayel’ in only two types of circumstance: when he’s making you really, really happy, or he’s making you consider the career-leap between bodyguard and assassin. It’s an extraordinarily thin line, and he just loves walking the tightrope.
“I’m not mad, just worried. Can’t you come eat with me? Your painting isn’t going anywhere.”
“It’s not,” he agrees, smoothing out a stroke of paint, “but what about my inspiration?”
“That’ll be waiting for you, too.”
“You think?” His lips curve as he pensively pokes at them with the wooden end of his brush. “I guess you did spend a lot of time cooking, huh? And if you’re really that worried, then…” He spins around with wide eyes. An epiphany. “Feed it to me?”
You stare back, unmoved by the puppy-like expression. He looks cute, yeah, but you’re not falling for it again. This is exactly how he looked earlier, when you’d convinced him to at least accept a glass of water. You’d almost drowned him in your subsequent efforts to actually get it down his throat.
Rafayel mixes three colours on his palette as you relive the ordeal. Like the once-white of his shirt, it’s awash with vibrant greens and blues, some fresh, some days-old. He pauses when he’s done, but you can tell he’s itching to get back to the canvas. “Give me, like… half an hour?” he estimates. The number’s been plucked from thin air. “The food’s gonna be delicious, even if it’s cold. You made it!”
“Raf, I—”
“And how can I even enjoy it if I’m racing to get back here? I wanna savour it, y’know? And anyway…” he trails off, his attention drawn by something above.
“Yeah?” you prompt, glancing upwards. There’s nothing there.
His gaze snaps back. “Sorry, the ceiling was doing something weird. But yeah, anyway, it’s not like you have to— I mean, it’s not like I’m going to— wait. What were we talking about again?”
Not much surprises you these days, but your mouth is still agape. Enough is enough. “Put the paintbrush down. You’re done.”
He nonchalantly returns to the painting. “I’m really not, though.”
You narrow your eyes. Reassess. “You were right about the ceiling.”
“Yeah?” He looks up.
You snatch the paintbrush. “Ha!”
He blinks blankly at you and your eagerly-clutched trophy, unfazed by the moment of triumph. “Cute trick,” he shrugs. He runs a finger across the palette and applies the new colour to the painting with a quick sweep. “What’s next, Miss Bodyguard? You gonna cut off my ha— ow, ow, ow! Hey! Take it easy!”
You’re pinching his ear, dragging him wordlessly to the kitchen, because you're out of things to say.
“Fine. Fine!” he groans as he tries to keep up with you. You release him and he straightens, his face pink, but not as pink as his ear. “You win! Let’s just get this over with, yeah?”
You stop dead in your tracks, then turn with a look so cold he couldn’t melt it with all of his fire.
“I mean— ahaha,” he laughs nervously, rubbing his neck. “It smells amazing, cutie. You’re amazing. I can’t wait.”
…
Rafayel sits back on his stool, still staring at his painting. The mood is different from earlier. There’s no more restlessness or impatience; he isn’t in a rush. He’s humming a soft song you’re almost certain you’ve heard before, but you can’t quite place the melody. It’s pretty, though: the sort of tune one might recall from a childhood music box, or maybe even a dream.
There’s a clink as you stack two finished plates. Then another. And another.
“Don’t,” Rafayel says quietly, catching your hand before you can collect the plate nearest to him. “I’ll do it later— promise. Sit with me?”
You were never going to say no, but his hands are on your hips before you can say yes, and he’s turning you gently— pulling you up onto his lap. You smile as his arms wrap around you, keeping you from slipping, and he’s warm as you relax back against him.
“What do you think?” he asks, staring out over your shoulder.
Your gaze follows his to the painting, still waiting for him. “It’s okay.”
“Oh yeah?” You can feel him chuckle before it reaches your ears.
“Yeah,” you confirm with a smile, shifting to face him as much as you can. “Kinda pales in comparison to my favourite masterpiece. This one,” you poke two fingers to his chest. “Right… about—” they walk higher, “—here!”
You boop his nose and he immediately scoffs, his face going red. “Sheesh,” he mumbles, unable to meet your eyes. “That was lame.”
“You’re blushing.”
“Am not!”
He squirms as you laugh and try to touch his cheeks; they’re going to feel hot, and he’s a sore loser. His hands don’t manage to capture yours, so they settle for finding your hips again, swivelling you around until you’re trapped by his embrace. You’re both one misjudged move away from toppling to the floor, so you let him keep his victory. What’s left of his dignity, too.
Your laughter rescinds like a tide, but the quiet is far from empty.
“C’mon,” Rafayel tries again. He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, nudging your head, urging you to look forward. His hair is feather-soft on your skin, and he peppers chaste kisses along the line of your jaw. “Tell me. What do you see?”
You hum contentedly. “A painting.” You’re not thinking about it at all; your eyes are closed.
“And?”
“A plant. A sofa. Some curtains,” you recall.
“You know what I meant,” he grins against you.
You lean back with a sigh, no longer supporting your own weight, but sinking into him with trust and begrudging compliance. It’s not bad, as surrenders go. He gives you a squeeze of encouragement and your head rolls back, stopping at his shoulder. His breath is skirting over your cheek, just barely.
You open your eyes and really look at the painting.
“It’s beautiful, Raf,” you murmur. It is; it was always going to be. “Everything you do is beautiful.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he chuckles, “I know.” But he wants more. “Does it make you think of something, maybe? Anything?”
There’s no right or specific answer. This isn’t remotely your field of expertise, and you’re oceans apart sometimes, so he has to outstretch a hand. Two viewpoints. Two sides of a coin; you never should have seen each-other.
Your life is hunting monsters, and his is finding beauty in a world where they exist. It’s not what you see, it’s how you see it. Crimson to him is a sunset; to you it’s blood.
Something in you aches as your eyes roam over his latest work. He won’t tell you what it’s meant to be, not really: that’s a private understanding between him and the canvas, his heart and every stroke of paint. Does it make you think of something? Though the marks are fixed, they’re somehow fluid. The emerald tones are marred by shadows, as though something’s lurking beneath the surface, but there are traces of white, too. Light: shimmering.
“Reflections,” you finally answer. “Scattered to anonymity by a now turbulent lake. They belonged to something else, once, but they’ve taken a new shape— a restless and ever-changing identity— and no-one knows what it is, let alone what it was.”
With a satisfied smile, you close your eyes. That ought to keep him quiet for a minute.
Sure enough, Rafayel is silent. You don’t have to see his crystalline eyes to know they’re set on the painting, soaking it in with a new perspective. His favourite perspective: yours.
You have never been strangers to each-other. Two sides of a coin are still the same coin.
With a light laugh of surprise, he plants a kiss on your shoulder. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For taking care of me.” He’s nuzzling into you again. “I know I can be—”
“A pain in the ass?”
He laughs louder. “I was gonna say eccentric.”
“Oh…” You draw air through your teeth. “Yeah. That’s what I meant.”
Your voice is humourless, your face plain. It lasts all of two seconds, and then the charade is falling to pieces; he’s nibbling at your ear, your neck, and it tickles mercilessly. You giggle, but you don’t try to escape. The punishment fits the crime, and who are you to deny him his justice?
You’re quickly running out of breath, so Rafayel ceases his assault, letting you get it back. “Can I look at you now?” you ask.
He clicks his tongue. “I’ll allow it.”
You shift and he lifts you a little— helping you twist around to face him. He smiles fondly as he links his hands behind you, stopping you from falling as you lean back to enjoy the view. It’s the best kind of smile: one that reaches his eyes and makes them sparkle, like the water in the painting, but infinitely more pretty.
You want to feel that smile on your lips, so you lean in and kiss him.
It’s tender and perfect and when you’re done, you snuggle closer, wrapping your arms around him and nestling like you’ll be staying there for a while. You can hear his heart, and though a part of it is in his painting, the rest is with you. Always with you.
“Shouldn’t you get back to your work?” you ask as you think of it, smiling into his shirt. He won’t— not tonight.
“Nah,” he says, running his fingers through your hair. “It can wait.”
Heya! Rafayel with a reader who's slightly afraid of deep water because she doesn't know how to swim? Fluff please!
Thanks for the request! Hoping this is the perfect balance of heartfelt moments and utter silliness. It's Raf, after all! Gotta have fun with it! ❤
Practice Makes Perfect
Rafayel x Reader 🎨
Summary: "I'll teach you how to swim!" he said. "It'll be fun!" he said. Let's be honest: the warning signs were there from the very start.
Genre: Fluff
Warnings/Additional tags: gn!reader, established relationship, one instance of swearing, a mild panic attack, humour, Raf bullies you ('out of love!!'— his words, not mine 🙃)
| Word count: 2.3k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!
“Rafayel, can you stop that? Please?”
You watch as Rafayel bobs around in the water in front of you. “Swimming?” he asks, pushing slick hair back from his forehead with a lazy smile. “Nah. I’d drown.”
“No, I—” you suck in a sharp breath to keep yourself from wasting it. He knows exactly what you meant. He knows what he’s doing, too: making everything look effortless when you can’t even get out of the stupid boat.
It tips you a little closer towards the ocean, as if responding to your criticisms. You’re done with this. Done with him. Swimming lessons with Rafayel had seemed such a promising idea a few months ago, but now? You’re thinking it would have been better to go it alone. If you’d have drowned, you’d have at least drowned in peace.
He calls his teaching style ‘motivational’, which is to say he spends every lesson trying to motivate you to lunge at him, regardless of your personal safety. It was funny at the local pool. It’s less funny here, on a rickety boat in a deserted bay, where the only witnesses to your demise would be a setting sun and an insufferably smug Lemurian.
You glance up, seeking the familiar half-oceans of his eyes. They’re taunting you to the point of distraction: heating the blood in your veins that had just been running cold. Look at me, they gloat, alive with shimmering reflections, you’re mad at me, remember?
And they have a point. You are. “Stop showing off.”
“Can’t help it.” Dark water laps at the pale of his collarbone. “It’s just so easy.”
“Says the actual mermaid.”
“Merman!”
“Oh whatever!”
He pouts. Then he strokes his chin thoughtfully. “I was worried about this,” he muses, as if he has actually masterminded a teaching plan, and hasn’t just been winging it from the start. He clicks his fingers, signalling a lightbulb moment. “Lucky for you, your super duper swimming teacher came prepared. Check my bag!”
He sinks until he’s peering out from the water, the lower half of his face submerged so you can’t see his smile. You can, though; it’s obvious. You roll your eyes and take the bait because it’s better than sitting here questioning your life decisions and your own mortality. Your hands rifle through his bag until they stumble upon something unusual. Smooth. Plastic. Is this what he meant?
You pull the package out into the evening light, narrowing your eyes.
Inflatable arm bands. Brand new. A toddler beams at you from their cover, seemingly thrilled by its extra buoyancy, and its parents are watching on with unbridled pride. You tilt your head as you read: suitable for ages 2-5! “Not funny, Raf. Not funny at all.”
“What d’you mean?” You flash the photo at him, tapping the toddler’s face. “Yeah? What about it?”
“These are for kids! You’re making fun of me now? Really?”
“No…” His hand leaves the water to scratch at the back of his head. “I thought that was a suggestion? It was kinda confusing, actually. You humans have such weird stuff to help you swim.”
“Oh don’t you dare play the Lemurian card right now!” you seethe, in the middle of retrieving an arm band from the packaging. “You knew! I know you did.”
Set on making your point, you blow air into the arm band’s nozzle. It’s so infuriatingly small; it takes all of three breaths to fill it. “I mean, look at it!” you exclaim, holding it out to him.
He barely keeps his act together. “I think it’s, like… stretchy, yeah?” His bottom lip is caught between his teeth: he’s biting back laughter. “Try it on, maybe it’ll—”
Smack! The arm band hits the water in front of him, and he blinks down at it, shocked.
“Wooooow,” he enthuses sarcastically, “nice throw! I bet the Wanderers just run for the hills when they see you comin—”
Thwack! Another half-inflated arm band strikes his face, and he reels backwards.
“Ow! What was that for?”
“You’re so full of it, Rafayel!” you can’t help leaning towards him, and the rowboat lurches. You clutch at the side of it, but you’ve had enough. “Ugh. Screw it.”
Your adrenaline is lurching too, and you make the most of the momentum: taking a deep breath and swinging your legs over the boat’s side. The chill of the ocean steals that breath away as you lower yourself into it. You’re going slowly, so slowly, your fingers still latched to the boat. But this is… something. You’re in the water. Oh gods you’re in the water. Don’t think about it. Don’t.
“Raf…” you squeak, because how can you not think about it when it’s cold and around your neck?
“I’m here,” he reassures from behind you, and he’s not close, but he’s close enough.
You look at him over your shoulder, gently tugging at the boat until you’re afforded a better view. He chuckles as he flicks the offending arm bands back into it: a calculated arc that sprinkles saltwater over your head. You wince, but you don’t mind.
“You just gonna… hang out there, then?” Rafayel enquires as you wipe a stray droplet from your eye.
“Yep.”
“Nice,” he grins, and it’s weirdly sincere. “Kinda wish you were over here, though.”
“Yeah?” You don’t move.
“I miss you.”
“Aww.”
You’re still not moving, but it doesn’t crush the embers of amusement that glow within his eyes. He’s thinking up ways to drive you crazy again, you just know it. “You could totally make it over here if you wanted,” he says flippantly. “It’s just swimming. If jellyfishes can do it, you definitely can.”
What? What? “They’re sea creatures!”
“Yeah, but they’re soooo stupid.” He taps his head. “No brains, y’know?”
You turn to the boat, pulling yourself impossibly closer to it. “Raf, c’mere,” you beckon, reaching back to him— grabbing at air.
“Why?” He draws nearer.
“So I can hit you.”
You swing a hand at him, but he dodges it, laughing. “If you wanna hit me, you have to reach me.”
There’s movement in the corner of your eye, so you twist to see it. His thumbs and forefingers have met as a square; he’s making a viewfinder. “What are you doing?” you speak from inside the frame.
“Making sure I remember this. I think I’ll paint it.” A corner of his lips lifts as he reveals a prospective title: “Cutie braves shark-infested waters.”
“Sharks?!”
“Who said anything about sharks?”
He’s messing with you— you know he’s messing with you— but you hide your face against your arms, all the same. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to stifle your senses and your spiralling thoughts. You’re feeling everything too keenly: the water licking at your throat, the darkness beneath you, around you, waiting to pull you under and fill your mouth.
You never feel further from Rafayel than when you remember he calls that darkness home.
“Rafayel?” you call out, because you need him to tell you you’re being ridiculous. You need him to laugh with you, at you— you don’t care so long as you can hear it.
The only sound is water, and it’s cold and dispassionate.
“…Rafayel?” You glance behind you, and he isn’t there.
What do you do? What do you do? Your mind is in contest with your heart; they’re both trying to see who can race faster. You still can’t move. Shit. What can you do?
“Hey.” Rafayel’s voice makes you jump. He’s next to you all of a sudden, water streaming down from his hair and running over his shoulders. He rests an arm on the boat, too. “I’m here, ok? I’ve got you. Just breathe.”
Breathe? “Don’t do that!” you force out of aching lungs, and then your mouth is trying to catch up with the rest of you. “I thought something happened to you! What if something did happen to you? I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t help you. What if—”
“Hey, hey, hey, hey,” he cuts in. “Nothing’s gonna happen to me. I’m not going anywhere.”
Your eyes are watering and he’s so close, but it’s not enough. You reach out, pulling him, urging him to close the distance, and he leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. You can feel the heat of his breath and it’s deep, slow: one, two. One. Two. You hold him until you can match it, and almost everything’s still— the ocean, your mind— but not your heart.
The waves break softly against the boat and they’re breathing with him, too.
“You ok?” Rafayel murmurs. His wet hair is clinging to your skin.
“Yeah,” you sigh.
He pulls away and gives you a smile. “Wanna know what I’m thinking about?”
Always.
“The claw machine,” he continues, because it was, as you suspected, a rhetorical question. “Remember that time you took, like, a hundred goes to get that one plushie? We were there for, what— an hour? Maybe two?”
You sniffle, and you’re just leaning on the boat, now— not gripping it. “That’s because it was a peach blossom birb, Raf. They’re super rare.” Another sniffle. “And the only reason I got it is because you kept buying more tokens.”
“Yeah,” he nods. “Because I knew you’d get it eventually. Just like I know you’re gonna get this. We’ve got all the tokens in the world, yeah? So it’s just like before. One go at a time.”
His gaze is full of faith, and you want to be worthy of it. “One go at a time,” you repeat. “Thanks, Raf. Really.” You tilt towards him again, set on kissing his cheek, but he swerves away like it’s another attack.
“Nuh-uh.” He propels himself backwards. “You wanna kiss me? You gotta meet me out here, cutie.”
And he’s so far already. “C’mon, Raf,” you whine.
“C’mon yourself! Look at me!” He runs a hand through his hair— beads of water sliding and sparkling across his skin. “I’m a total catch.”
“More like catch of the day when I get my hands on you.”
“Cute,” he quips, treading water. “You gonna come get me then, or what?”
You eye up the distance between you. You’re willing yourself to cross it; it won’t be good, it won’t be graceful, but you can do it, right? You just have to go for it. Three. Two. One… Go!
Nothing happens. Rafayel laughs quietly, and it’s warm— so passionate.
“Here,” he says, meeting you in the middle. He holds out his hand.
You can’t trust the boat; it rocks beneath your touch and at the behest of every wave. It is just a thing, like you, at the mercy of something so much bigger than itself. Not Rafayel, though. He’s a part of all this, maybe even the heart of all this. The ocean will not betray him. It needs him to beat for it. To bleed.
Your hand grasps his and you let him guide you into the open water. You’re borrowing him. Stealing him, if only for a moment. He isn’t living for his ocean right now— he’s looking at you. Just you. There are canvases back in his studio, awash with cerulean waves and his love for Lemuria, but there are sketchbook pages, too: you, asleep on his couch. You, with a lily in your hair.
A few days from now, there’ll be a new one, etched eagerly in dark pencil. This.
Rafayel smiles as you tread water with him. Your movements are clumsy, half-frantic, but you’re keeping yourself afloat. He gives you time to adjust, to find some semblance more of a natural rhythm, but your muscles ache and you’re getting tired, so he draws your arms around his neck.
“What d’you think?” he asks, because you’ve captured him. “Better than a beach bottom bird, right?”
“A peach blossom birb,” you giggle into his shoulder.
“Yeah, that too.”
…
The sky is full of stars, and the sun has sunk behind the wine-dark horizon.
Rafayel rests his chin on his arms, staring down into the ocean from the edge of the boat, and he’s deep, deep below those waters too. You don’t have to see his eyes to know the faraway look they’re harbouring. There’s nostalgia for all the things he cannot show you. Grief. Rage. Regret.
He thinks you don’t see it, but you do. Especially on nights like this, when the azures of the waves turn black beneath the moon, and they could just as well be blood-red.
“Thanks for waiting for me, Rafayel.”
You’re not sure what compels you to say it, but he glances up at you, his gaze a brief storm of turquoise before settling to its usual amethyst. “Waiting for you?” he asks warily.
“To get all of this swimming stuff. I know it must seem silly to you.”
He relaxes, sitting up straight with a smirk. “Most of what you do seems silly to me. Not this, though. Change can be… scary sometimes.”
“Yeah.”
He slouches back down, but he’s on his side this time— still looking at you. “What made you decide you wanna swim, anyway?”
You mirror him, laying your head against the boat’s edge. “I don’t know. I guess—” waves are sloshing beneath you— “I guess it’s because the sea is a part of you. It’s in your paintings, your stories, and I’ve always felt… disconnected from it. Like it’s fiction— something I could only ever hear about second-hand. But I want to feel it for myself. To know it. All of it. All of you.”
With a sigh, you give your hand to the ocean and draw mindless shapes in the water. Rafayel watches. You both know you’re only touching the surface.
He smiles, bittersweet. “Wanna go home?” he says.
Home. You pull your hand out of the water and smile back.
pre-relationship! sae who saw you sitting on the curb, looking exhausted with your bag open. thinking you were asking for money, he dropped some bills in. you gave him a confused look, but he just shrugged and walked off.
pre-relationship! rin who always trailed two steps behind you at school, looking like he was on a secret mission to protect you from absolutely nothing. one time, someone tried to ask you a question, and rin stepped forward, cleared his throat, and said, “she’s busy.” you weren’t even talking to anyone.
pre-relationship! bachira who kept seeing you on his couch, thinking you were just another one of his imagination’s weird visitors. he’d wave at you, go about his day—until you started stealing his snacks. that’s when he realized you were real, and his mom was tutoring you in art.
pre-relationship! barou had this odd habit of pulling out a handkerchief whenever you sniffled from the cold, pressing it to your nose and saying, “blow.” the first time you were weirded out, but after a while, you just gave up and let him do it.
pre-relationship! nagi who would always destroy you in games, not knowing it was you he was playing against. the next day, he’d sit next to you in class, completely unaware that a few hours ago he was trash-talking you, and you were doing the same back. you’d share a look, but neither of you would say a word.
pre-relationship! isagi who tried so hard to act cool around you, but his ears always betrayed him, going red every time you acknowledged him. one day, in a nervous attempt to be smooth, he accidentally called you “your majesty.” after a beat of awkward silence, he just casually walked away like nothing happened—pretending he didn’t just say that.
synopsis. caleb graduates from the academy, but when you unexpectedly tap him out, a tradition where loved ones step forward to formally release a pilot from their duty, he realizes no achievement compares to having you by his side. (based on this.)
word count. 1.1k
an. loved doing this for codghost so i might as well do it for this man. lets pretend they have the tradition in their universe. okay? okay.
caleb stood in the crowd, his posture rigid and form still with precision despite the celebration around him. cheers echoed through the room, but they sounded distant, muffled. he watched as pilots, one by one, were tapped out by their loved ones. parents embracing their children, lovers reuniting in tearful hugs.
his chest tightened as his eyes scanned the room. he was waiting for gran, the one person he knew would come. gran had always shown up, had always been his anchor. he learnt not to expect anything more, not to hope for anyone else.
but then, like a shift in the universe, caleb felt you before he saw you.
when you stepped into the room, it was as if the entire world faded away. time slowed, the noise dimmed, and the lights seemed to soften, catching on the edges of your features. you looked beautiful, achingly so. heartbreakingly out of reach. you weren’t supposed to be here, not after the fight, not after the cruel words you’d both thrown at each other before he left.
you moved toward him with purpose, cutting through the room like you were meant to be there all along.
caleb couldn’t breathe. he couldn’t think.
his hands trembled at his sides as he watched you close the distance between you. he could act all stoic, but his heart didn’t feel stoic enough to make him calm.
when you stopped in front of him, there were tears already brimming in your eyes. his carefully constructed control, unshakable during training, steadfast through every grueling challenge, began to crumble.
caleb had faced impossible physical challenges, the grueling expectations of training, and the endless psychological evaluations that pushed him to the edge. but none of those had broken him nearly like you did. you, standing here, looking at him like that.
you were his undoing.
you should be his first sign. the first sign that there was something wrong with him. because you were his obsession. the one he was slowly losing control over.
caleb was not allowed to fall in love with you.
he trembled as your fingers brushed against his, tapping him out of his frozen misery. the soft touch was meant to symbolize recognition, acknowledgment. but to caleb, it was so much more.
you were here. you were real.
there was no second-guessing, no hesitation. before he could stop himself, his arms were around you, pulling you into him with a force that left him breathless. a strangled sigh escaped his lips and found its home in the crook of your neck, right where your heart beats: friends, friends, friends.
he held you like a man drowning, and you were the only thing keeping him afloat. he felt the soft shake of your shoulders, the warmth of your tears against his neck, and he couldn’t hold back any longer.
‘i didn’t think you’d come,’ he whispered, his voice low and raw, breaking under the weight of his emotions. you pulled back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. there was something in his gaze, but before you could respond, he spoke again, quieter this time, like a vow. ‘i’ll never let you go.’
the words made you shiver. they were so soft you almost didn’t catch them.
‘you can try,’ you joked, your voice trembling slightly as you tried to lighten the mood. a nervous laugh escaped as you gently pushed against his chest, pretending to escape his embrace. ‘you love me, i get it.’
but caleb didn’t loosen his hold. instead, he pulled you closer, his lips brushing against your temple. there was a quiet laugh, quiet and unsteady, before he murmured, ‘you have no idea, pipsqueak.’
his voice was filled with something raw, something deeper than you could fully understand. it wasn’t just love. it was obsession, devotion, a yearning that had no end.
you smelled like honey. like the same thing you’d been smelling your entire life that made you feel like home in a way that hotels and dorm beds could never manage.
he reached into his pocket and pulled out the small, shining pin they’d given him for finishing aerospace academy. it gleamed in the light, a symbol of everything he’d fought to achieve. without a word, he placed it carefully in your palm.
your fingers brushed his as you took it, and the touch sent sparks up his arm. with careful, deliberate precision, you pinned it to his chest. caleb didn’t move, his gaze fixed on you, watching every motion, every soft touch of your fingers against his uniform.
‘they should give you a medal instead for doing so well,’ you teased softly, smiling up at him.
once the pin was secure, you smoothed down his uniform, your fingers lingering against the fabric. it was such a small gesture, but it felt so intimate that caleb’s breath hitched.
he tried his best not to be frantic, but it was almost impossible when he was overloaded with want, want, want, and with the feeling that this might not happen again, with the fear that if caleb thought about it too hard, he’d stop himself before he did too much.
he couldn’t stop himself any longer. leaning down, he kissed your cheek, his lips lingering on your skin. he didn’t move away immediately, letting the moment stretch as he closed his eyes, savoring the warmth of you.
he felt like a criminal on the run, but it was too good to withdraw from. so, he overdosed on unrequited love.
when he finally pulled back, there was a soft, almost shy smile on his lips. his voice was low, but full of meaning. ‘i already have my reward.’
you looked up at him, your cheeks warm, his cap still sitting crooked on your head. for a moment, neither of you spoke, and the weight of everything unsaid lingered between you.
and caleb, looking at you, standing there with your fingers still on his uniform, knew it was the absolute truth. you didn’t realize it, but you were the center of his universe. his greatest test, his deepest weakness, and the one thing he could never, ever let go of.
i’m a fool, he decided. damned in the bits of exhaustion at pulling and pushing at whatever’s left of trying.
the noise of the crowd finally broke through the haze, the sound of laughter and celebration pulling you both back to the present. caleb stepped back slightly, watching as you adjusted his cap, your smile soft but hesitant.
you didn’t have to know the struggle he’d endured to get here, the battles he’d fought within himself.
you were his obsession. his reason for everything. and he was losing control, but he didn’t care. because having you here, now, was all that mattered.
Hii! I've seen some Pregnancy scenario with LaD's men, but I have this HC-- personally for Sylus. That when fem!reader got pregnant, he didn't really understand how the Pregnancy hormones work, until he experienced one and he got confused how he should act or react because it's feels like he's walking on landime, one wrong move/word, she'd throwing tantrum or being sulky at him
I've heard from my Friend who got pregnant before, when she craving something and her Husband showing any form that he can't fulfill what she's craves, she felt her heart broken, and she'd sulk and acted as if he just cheated on her. The problem is, she always craved something that didn't even exist at that moment😂, she's craving certain type of Mango while it's not even that Mango season, so nobody selling it. He literally being desperate to negotiate with her cravings
So... Can I request a scenario smiliar like that? It doesn't have to be mango, or any foods. Just... how Pregnancy hormones or Cravings could make Sylus got frustated lol
Aaaaa anon this is adorable, thank you! We love making Sylus suffer in cute and harmless ways. He's always asking for trouble, so let's give him some! 😌💅
Something Sweet
Sylus x Reader 🩸
Summary: Sylus knows how to get what he wants. Getting what you want might be a little more tricky...
Genre: fluff!
Warnings/Additional tags: female!reader, IMPLIED pregnant!reader (pregnancy not actually mentioned or described- just hormones being hormones ✌), established relationship, canon pet names, a lil bit of roleplay because Sylus refuses to leave his Mystic Adventure era
| Word count: 2.1k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!
“Sy, d’you know what I’m craving right now?”
“Always, sweetie.” Sylus doesn’t look up from his book. “Not now, though. I’m tired.”
Morning sunlight streams through the gaps in your living room curtains, casting pale yellow shapes over the floor. A shard of it has been inching over the sofa towards Sylus, the sharp edge now grazing the side of his face. He shifts, ever so slightly, away from its touch. His eyes are open but heavy.
“No,” you scold, leaning forwards to swat at him with your book. “That’s not what I meant, you narcissist.”
He chuckles with his usual low timbre— his gaze still not lifting— and the sound is deeper for how close he is to sleep. He wants to give in to it, you can tell. When he turns a page, the movement is languid, soft. You’re losing him.
“Sy,” you say again, then with more of a whine: “Sylus.”
His eyes flutter closed as he draws in a deep breath. His hand raises, his fingers stretching to pull his reading glasses from his face. They’re set down on the arm of the chair beside him, along with the book, and he turns to you with a smile. “What are you craving, sweetie?”
You rest your book on your stomach. Your legs are stretched out over Sylus’s lap, and his hand finds one of your feet, massaging an ache from it as you begin your speech. “Do you remember that café we used to go to? The one we found when it started raining in the park that day? We didn’t think it was open, but then the owner knocked on the window and said we could—”
“Yeah?” His hand moves to your other foot.
“Well, they make these—”
“Macarons.”
“You remember?”
His smile widens like he remembers vividly. “Kitten, how could I forget? I’m still jealous of that sweet little treat. You’ve never made that face for me, and believe me—” he wiggles one of your toes— “I’ve tried.”
That had been one of the only times you’d truly caught him off-guard, back when your feelings for one another were unnamed and uncharted. The rain had been drumming against the café window, and you’d heaved Sylus’s damp coat from your shoulders— giggled at the raised eyebrow and the sarcastic ‘…thanks’ he’d given in turn. One hot drink later, you were lifting a pastel pink macaron to your lips, taking a delicate bite and failing to stifle a tiny, almost euphoric moan.
You remember realising yourself: blushing profusely and expecting some remark, some ridicule, but none ever came. Sylus’s eyes were wide, dark, fixed upon your still parted mouth.
After a few of the longest seconds of your life, he’d dragged the plate with the rest of the macarons away from you and muttered something about how you had better not do that again.
“They’re still the sweetest things I’ve ever tasted,” you tease now, just as you’d wrestled him for that plate back then, set on eating every last macaron.
He makes a hmph as he idly runs a finger over the part of your foot he knows is ticklish. His expression is distinctly grumpy, but it falters as you laugh and try to writhe away from him.
You’re quickly out of breath. “Sylus?”
“Mmm?”
He glances up at you and you smile sweetly, head tilting. “Please?”
His coat on a rainy day. The entire plate of macarons in the end; he’s never been very good at denying you anything. For the first time since you’d stirred him from his book, however, he appears genuinely regretful. “You’re forgetting something, sweetie,” he murmurs gently. “Why did we stop going to that café, hmm?”
You shrug.
“It closed, kitten,” he sighs. “Months ago.”
“What?”
Not only did you already know that— you actually visited the café on its final day. The owner was telling you stories: he was moving somewhere warmer, closer to family, and he needed all the funds he could get. Sylus had snuck an obscene amount of money into the man’s tip jar whilst you acted as a distraction. You both had fond memories of that place; it was nice to make one more.
It's all coming back to you and you’re struck by a wave of nostalgia. You want to go back there. You can’t go back there. It doesn’t exist anymore, and you’ll never taste sweetness like that again.
Your mouth has gone dry.
“Sweetie?” Sylus prompts, because he notices you’re far away. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah,” your voice wobbles, “I just really wanted… I mean, I really needed one of those—”
“… Macarons?” he finishes for you.
You burst into tears, and one day, you’ll tally this as another time you took the man by surprise. His face drops instantly— lost, for a moment— before he slides your legs from his lap, allowing him to lean closer. “No, no, no,” he coos, “don’t cry, kitten, please. I didn’t mean to… well, I didn’t realise…”
He doesn’t know what to say, and he always knows what to say. He set you off with a single word and now he’s stuttering like sentences are all possible landmines. He tries his luck again, putting a foot forward: “Listen to me. I’ll go to the store. Would that be alright? Or perhaps there’s another café that could—”
You explode: sobbing even more viscerally. Your whole body shakes with it.
Sylus has frozen. He watches on helplessly as you cry, blabbering about the macarons you can’t have and the café you can’t return to. Across the room, even Mephisto has hunched down on his perch, though he issues a few, spirited squawks, maybe in solidarity with your breakdown, or maybe in protest of it.
It’s like a catalyst. You cry more: burying your face in your hands because what the hell is wrong with you? It’s not a big deal. It’s not a big deal, so why do you feel sick? And then there’s Sylus— your Sylus, devoted and adoring— and here you are, punishing him for something beyond his control.
You look up from your hands, desperate to apologise, but he’s gone. More shards of sunlight paint his empty seat and catch all that’s left of him: a few crow feathers, glistening like onyx. Mephisto is gone too, and the room is quiet, save for you snivelling and feeling sorry for yourself.
“Sylus?” you call out into the empty morning.
It isn’t his fault, not really. You wouldn’t want to be around you, either.
…
Something brushes over your cheek, and your tired eyes open.
The sun has ebbed back behind the curtains and the ceiling light has taken its place, casting artificial highlights over everything in reach: the coffee table, the closed-up flowers at its centre and a mug of tea that’s gone cold. Sylus is in front of you too, backlit and soft like a daydream, and he—
He left you.
“Sy?” you whisper warily, because the context is coming back to you slowly, piece by piece.
“Hey,” he coaxes, voice as honeyed as whatever’s turned the air sweet.
You blink, rubbing sleep from your eyes and relishing the warmth of his hand on your face. Then you slap his shoulder. “Hey, really? That’s all you’ve got— hey?”
He’s kneeling for you— on the floor, beside the couch— so you can meet his eyes. He settles his chin thoughtfully on the edge of the seat, his nose almost touching yours. “What would you prefer, sweetie?” His lips are close to yours too. “Good evening, my beloved? Greetings, my queen?”
“How about sorry?” you snap, because he isn’t cute and he isn’t charming.
He pouts. “Why sorry?”
“Because you left, Sylus!” You sit up straighter, and your phone tumbles out of your lap. Its screen is still lit-up from a few hours ago, showcasing a very one-sided conversation and a rant you never actually sent, because it’s still in the text box.
You vaguely recall writing it, so you try to snatch the phone from Sylus’s hand as he plucks it from the floor. He’s more alert than you. More co-ordinated. He keeps it out of your grasp as he reads the unsent message, an eyebrow raising.
It was a lot of things— colourful, creative— not entirely tasteful. “My, my, your highness,” he tuts, “so this is the treatment your valiant knight receives for undertaking your quest?”
“You’re not valiant,” you rebuke, and you manage to wrestle your phone from him. “You’re—”
“A heartless prick,” he finishes casually, quoting your message with a chuckle. He takes your free hand and kisses the back of it, refusing to let you pull away. “And whose fault is that, I wonder?”
“You can have your heart back.”
“Nope. You’re stuck with it, sweetie. With me, too. Now—” he sits back on his knees— “would you please ask me about my quest?”
The analogy is lost on you. You sit fully up, looking down at him. “What quest, oh valiant knight?”
His lips form a smirk; he just loves when you play along. “Close your eyes.”
You do— whether you’re queen or not. You hear him shifting aside, and then there’s a snap of his fingers. The air changes, warping like thick, liquid smoke, and you know he’s using his Evol. “Open,” he commands.
And there on the coffee table, freshly teleported, is a plate of macarons the colour of cherry blossoms. As if anticipating the comparison, Sylus pulls a handful of pink petals from his pocket and blows them up into the air so they can spiral down on the scene. He watches them. Then you. “Ta-da,” he proclaims, his tone dry but full of humour.
You’re prone to hyperbole nowadays, but this is without a doubt the best thing you have ever seen.
“Sylus,” you gasp in disbelief, “how did you—”
“It doesn’t matter,” he says; the story isn’t for today, and he’s very, very tired. A few weeks from now he’ll tell you about how he tracked down the contact information of the owner of the old café. How he spent an hour on the phone bargaining for a certain macaron recipe, and several more hours in the kitchen, trying to get them perfect. “Now, they might not be exactly the same, sweetie. But I did try to—”
You surge forwards, capturing his lips in a kiss. It’s so impulsive— so reckless— that you almost tumble down from the couch, but he catches you, steadies you, and your hand is gripping the soft of his hair as he kisses you back. Slowly, his mouth not leaving yours, he lifts you back into your seat.
“Easy, sweetie.” His voice is low as he pulls away, and though he turns his face from you, you can make out the blush on his cheeks. He settles back into his kneeling position on the floor. “I have one more surprise for you. Do try to control yourself.”
He retrieves a small, complete flower from his pocket, albeit one a little dreary from its journey. Sylus smiles triumphantly as he holds it out to you, and he was right; you do want to throw yourself at him. Instead, you take the flower and lean forwards, tucking it behind his ear before he can protest. He’d tilted closer to help you, and he sits back with an exasperated tsk when you’re done.
“It suits you,” you grin.
He yawns. “Everything does.”
You don’t want to get into trouble, so you shimmy to the very edge of your seat and carefully— showing tremendous restraint— reach out to take his face in your hands. “You’re amazing, Sy. Thank you for doing all of this for me, but…”
“But…?”
“I missed you. I like macarons, yeah,” you smile, “but I’d much rather have you.”
This time, he can’t hide his face and the way it goes pink, like the blossom behind his ear. His cheeks are warm beneath your palms. “You couldn’t have said that before I spent the whole day—”
His voice is strangled as you keel towards him— slow and deliberate— to thread your arms around him and pull him into a hug. He tenses for a moment, then wraps his arms around you too: holding you tightly, keeping you from falling any further. You can feel his hand stroking your back and he hums as you give him a gentle squeeze.
“Such a lovely moment, kitten,” he muses, your head on his shoulder. “I do hope it’s sincere, and not— say— an excuse for someone to get her paws on the macarons behind me.”
There’s another moment of quiet.
“Don’t be silly, Sy,” you retort, but your mouth is full, your cheeks are stuffed, and not a single word of it is intelligible.
☾ Content: popstar f!reader much more famous than your pro volleyball player boyfriend- you finally hard launch your relationship on instagram but the public reaction isn't what you expect, so you take matters into your own hands
☾ A/N: inspired by dua lipa and callum turner and my girl sabrina
— 𝐔𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐣𝐢𝐦𝐚 𝐖𝐚𝐤𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢;
Ushijima doesn't even have an instagram, naturally. the closest thing is he's got is his team's account, curated and managed by the PR team. so when you wiggle your phone in front of him to show him the chosen piece for your account, he just gives it a cursory glance and nods. the photo is from backstage at one of your concerts earlier this month: you, glowing with joy, arm slung casually around his neck, leaning into him as you beam up at him with a smile that could light up your stadiums. he's got one arm wrapped securely around your waist, usual stoic expression softened by a warmth in his eyes as he gazes down at you- one that only you seem to be able to draw out of him.
but the reactions to your post are swift and crushing. you're beyond proud of Ushijima- proud of his quiet strength, his dedication, his raw talent. you know you shouldn’t and it shouldn’t—doesn’t—matter, but your thumb keeps scrolling through the comments. each one feels like a knife twisting deeper, a personal attack, particularly the ones suggesting he doesn't care, that he looks like he's got the emotional depth of a spoon, that this is all just a PR move somehow. watching the sweetest man you know not get the recognition he truly deserves hurts more than you want to admit.
ᯓ🏐
when Ushijima steps into your shared bedroom, shirtless, his hair still damp from a post-workout shower and sweatpants slung low on his hips, his gaze finds you sitting at your vanity. the soft light of the mirror highlights your delicate features, casting a warm glow over your pretty face.
"toshi," you greet him warmly, turning toward him with an inviting smile. he pads over to you, barefoot, and you tilt your chin up expectantly. he rests one hand on the back of your chair, the other on the edge of your desk and leans down, capturing your lips in a long, slow kiss, his head tilting to deepen it as he lifts a hand to your cheek, gently smoothing his thumb across your soft skin he lifts one hand to your cheek, before drawing back, a small smile curving up on his lips when he sees the dazed look in your eyes.
"morning, love." he says simply, before walking off to the kitchen to make himself a protein shake. completely oblivious to the phone propped up against your mirror, the livestream on the screen, and the chaos that you've just unleashed within your fanbase.
readerfanatic_official joined
popicon4life
just fell to my knees screaming in the 711 parking lot
platinum_readerstan
she's dating a TREE
tinyreader777
'morning love'???...our queen is built different i would've evaporated on the spot
bipbop_23
...i get it now
readerfan2024
guess i'm into volleyball now
glitznglamfan
girl i'm scared for ur holes
— 𝐇𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐚 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐲𝐨𝐮;
it's a cute photo: the two of you on a beach at a resort, there for one of Oikawa's games. Hinata's got his head in your lap, one of your hands gently running through his messy orange hair while your other hand rests on his chest. you're gazing out at the sea, a serene smile gracing your face as you enjoy the view, while Hinata looks up at you, equally captivated by what he sees.
the comments that flood in are anything but kind. most of them poke fun at his height, with fans wondering how he managed to catch your eye when he's fighting gravity every day, others insisting that he must just be very funny. and it doesn’t bother Hinata at all, not that you can tell- he just scratches the back of his head and laughs, exclaiming that it's nothing he hasn't heard before, that he’ll just have to work twice as hard to earn your fans’ approval. ignoring your protests that he has nothing to prove.
ᯓ🏐
a few eagle-eyed fans are the first ones to notice it and not long after, screenshots of your activity start to circulate. first it's you liking an edit of Hinata lifting his shirt during ones of his games to wipe sweat off his brow. then it's a clip of him leaping into the air, showing off his energy and athleticism. a third like is a snapshot of Hinata celebrating a victory, fists clenched and knees bent, muscles in his thighs flexed as he roars with triumph.
the one that nips it in the bud is when you share a post to your story. it’s a reel: a compilation of Hinata’s spikes, his raw energy and unstoppable power lighting up the court as he slams the ball past his opponents. your fans lose it when you post a mirror selfie on the same day: you've got your back turned toward the mirror, all dolled up for an award ceremony in a gown that leaves nothing and everything to the imagination. you look good, accentuated by the man at your side who, unlike you, is facing the mirror. but Hinata isn't looking at the camera- his heated gaze is on your reflection instead. one of his arms is curved loosely around your waist, hand resting just above your ass.
the internet goes wild.
mvpmichelle8 2h 385 likes
our girl is thirsting publicly on main i respect it
robsessed247 2h 306 likes
rip to her ass cheeks
keanue_433 2h 243 likes
...what team does he play for again
stanacctreader 1h 178 likes
she got herself a short KING FR
newvolley_98 1h 85 likes
so when’s the next game where you get a front-row seat to his… spikes? 🥵
— 𝐌𝐢𝐲𝐚 𝐀𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐮;
you don’t exactly share the photo yourself, but it might as well be yours. when Vogue posts the cover shot and tags you, it goes viral almost instantly. because Atsumu is seated in a luxurious chair, looking every bit like a king in his perfectly tailored suit, legs spread confidently, an air of dominance about him. you're perched on the armrest beside him, the slit of your black dress exposing the smooth curves of your body. one of your hands is loosely intertwined with his, resting on your thigh. the chemistry is palpable, electric. the sultry confidence in your posture paired with the intensity in Atsumu's gaze makes it impossible to look away. paired with the article about your relationship, this is a power couple at its finest.
or at least so you think.
the opinions of your fans are mixed, but those who disapprove don't hold back. they say that he must be cheating on you, that he looks untrustworthy, that his self-assured interview quotes only highlight how self-absorbed he is, implying he’s too consumed with himself to ever treat you right. Atsumu's ready to fight everyone questioning his devotion to you before you remind him that he can’t spend all day replying to hate comments- he has practice, and that you’ll handle it.
ᯓ🏐
you show up to the world championship that month with your entourage in tow. you visit Atsumu in his locker room to wish him good luck, ignoring the way his teammates trip over themselves gaping at you. he almost doesn’t let you leave, seizing you in a deep kiss that leaves you a little unsteady on your feet, but you plan a firm hand on his chest because you have places to be, a job to do.
when Atsumu steps up to serve and you watch as his routine unfolds, the familiar movements flowing effortlessly, your PR team is at the ready. his signature has evolved since his early days, the fist still a familiar gesture, but now his index finger uncurls at the last moment, pointing into the crowd. he doesn’t need to look; he always knows exactly where you are. but today, it’s different. you’re not in the shadows, hiding behind sunglasses or a baseball cap. today, you’re wearing his jersey, sitting front and center, in the best seat in the house. you’re clapping louder than anyone else, beaming so hard your cheeks hurt.
this time, when he finds you in the crowd, the whole world is watching.
Us Weekly: Atsumu Miya Makes History with Serve: Fans Go Wild over Major 'Couple Goals' Moment at the World Championship
Buzzfeed: Is He Pointing to Y/N? 10 Moments Atsumu Miya Was Literally Screaming 'I Love You'
Sports Illustrated: Atsumu Miya’s Serve Gets Personal: The Unspoken Gesture You Didn’t Know Was for Y/N
Kyodo News: Fans Flock to See Miya Atsumu's Relationship with Global Sensation Y/N in Full View
Cosmopolitan: Y/N and Atsumu Miya: From Music Charts to Volleyball Courts—Their Love Story (Exclusive)
— 𝐁𝐨𝐤𝐮𝐭𝐨 𝐊𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮;
what you think is a beautiful moment, your fans interpret quite differently. in the photo you post, Bokuto's strong arms are wrapped around your waist, pulling you against him as he hugs you from behind. his hands are positioned low on your abdomen, fingers spread wide and pressing down lightly, a playful gesture that has you squirming in response. the candid shot your manager took captures you in mid-laugh. you're tilting away from him, hands gripping his wrists, body twisted in a half-escape as though you're trying to dodge his ticklish touch. Bokuto's lips are pressed softly to the side of your neck, the curve of your shoulder partly obscuring his face. his expression is partially hidden, but the corner of his mischievous grin peeks out, his eyes glinting up at the camera as he looks up like right at that moment.
your fans tear him apart, their words dripping with criticism- accusing him of being too touchy, claiming that you don’t want him like that, that he's too obsessed, too forward. the comments flood in, one after another, each one more biting than the last. the relentless stream of negativity cuts deep, and you can see the toll it takes on Bokuto as he scrolls on his phone with a downtrodden look. you tell him to ignore it, that he has nothing to worry about, but you can tell it does little to lift his spirits.
ᯓ🏐
you show him that night just how deeply you care about him, straddling his lap and gently cupping his face in your hands. your lips meet his in a soft, reverent kiss, a silent exchange that you hope conveys volumes. you murmur against his mouth, telling him how perfect he is, watching with a quiet smile as the tips of his ears go red. but then he shifts, flipping you over on the bed, caging you in with thick arms all while still blushing so prettily. and when you feel something hard and big pressing against your inner thigh, you wonder what you've gotten yourself into.
Bokuto goes even redder the next day when he wakes up to incessant texting from his teammates and he opens social media to find a photo on your feed: it's of him shirtless, lying on his front and cradling a pillow with his cheek smooshed into it, his hair down and expression peaceful. what's not so peaceful is the view of his bare back- red streaks running down his tanned skin, unmistakably from your fingers. the white sheets thrown over his his legs obscure anything from the waist down but his face flushes deeper as he takes in the rest of the intimate scene.
you've got one hand resting gently on his head, fingers woven loosely in his hair, one thumb caressing his cheek mid-stroke. it's soft, casual, possessive.
fan_gurl_4 1h 403 likes
the way we thought HE was the obsessed one...how the turn tables
bobfriend_76 1h 386 likes
she's marking her territory
glamjam69 1h 207 likes
...this ain't demure or mindful at all
menin4k22 45m 146 likes
ma’am for science, p-please remove those sheets
readerfan234 14m 121 likes
the way she's touching him...i need a moment to grieve 😩
— 𝐊𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐲𝐚𝐦𝐚 𝐓𝐨𝐛𝐢𝐨;
the release party for your new album goes off without a hitch, and you score tons of cute photos with Kageyama, cuddling up to him that night to scroll through and select the best ones. your top choice is one of the more simple shots: you, with one hand resting on his chest, leaning into the arm he’s wrapped around your waist. his long fingers are hot against your skin through the delicate fabric of your dress. he's serious in the shot, his lips set in a stern line as he gazes into the camera, but you adore that look on him. especially when that same gaze shifts to you, hinting at something deeper, something darker, waiting for later.
your fans, however, don't see what you do. so you wake up to a barrage of comments, about how he looks boring, how he probably doesn't know a single one of your lyrics, how you could do so much better. naturally, Kageyama doesn't give a single shit about what your fans think. just kisses you goodbye as he heads off to practice, duffel bag slung over his broad shoulder. but you care.
ᯓ🏐
it takes a fair amount of convincing and a hefty dose of bribery, which somehow includes you securing an advertisement contract with one of Kageyama's favorite yogurt brands, but he finally agrees to appear in the music video for your latest hit. though, you can't help but think it had more to do with you casually hinting that your company had intended on pulling in one of the hottest actors currently on the scene, known for making girls swoon at meet-and-greets.
he plays a cop arresting you for a string of crimes you commit in the name of revenge on your cheating ex, culminating in him pushing you down in the backseat of his patrol car. it's hot, steamy, and when he shoves his knee between your legs, leaning over you with one hand pinning your wrists above your head, you won't deny that you make a mental note to recreate this scene later, without the cameras.
the music video shatters records and skyrockets to the top of the charts.
and the comments this time? well. they speak for themselves.
bops234 • 1 day ago
this awakened something in me
fando23 • 12 hours ago
i'm going to need this man's @ immediately
barkbarkbark_89 • 12 hours ago
are we sure he doesn't want to switch career paths
stanacctreader • 10 hours ago
i thought he was just a plain slice of milk bread but boy was i wrong
freedomsings145 1h • 5 hours ago
casting your real life boyfriend as the main romantic lead in your music video is such a power move, as always our queen's taste is IMPECCABLE
atsumumiya • 2 hours ago
he looks like a foot
You don't really have to read part 1, but these are set after those drabbles, and they each do call back to them in some way
MIYA OSAMU
At the jingle of the familiar bell, Osamu looks up, smile breaking across his face at the sight of you walking through the door. Your son is bundled up in his carrier, sleeping soundly after all the excitement of his six week doctor's appointment. Osamu steps around the counter to meet you, reaching to grab the carrier as he steals a quick kiss. "How'd the appointment go?" He asks as you settle into your usual stool at the counter, situating the baby carrier next to you.
"Good," You nod, looking down at the peaceful face of your sleeping son, still drinking him in after all these weeks. "Everything is going well. He's growing so fast." You look up at your husband and catch him still looking down at the baby. You wonder if your emotions are as obvious as his, drawn so clearly across his face.
"Good," He finally tears his eyes away to look at you, softness still lingering. "Are ya hungry?" He asks next - the question you've been waiting for.
"Starving," You say emphatically. With the busyness of the morning, you haven't had time to eat much. The delightful smells coming from the kitchen are only making you hungrier.
"What're ya in the mood for?"
You know immediately. You usually do. "Spicy tuna."
"Ya sure?" He quirks an eyebrow. You frown as he leans in closer across the counter, a smirk growing on his face. "I mean, it sounds so normal."
"Oh, stop it!" You huff. "It's been months!" You aren't sure if he'll ever let you forget the bizarre onigiri combinations your pregnancy cravings had produced.
"Yer lucky I love ya," He says fondly, ducking back into the kitchen before you can make any kind of retort. It isn't long before he returns, setting the plate of onigiri in front of you with a flourish.
"Thank you," You say, tilting your chin up in invitation. Osamu glances around, the few regulars in the restaurant familiar enough with the two of you, before taking you up on the invitation, kissing you a little more deeply than he might have otherwise.
"Yer welcome," He says softly as he pulls away, "Better eat it before it gets cold." You don't need any more prompting, eagerly reaching for one of the onigiri and taking a big bite. You close your eyes in delight, savoring it. Across from you, Osamu rests his forearms on the counter, content to watch in silence as you enjoy the food he'd prepared for you.
You're nearly finished when the bell above the door jingles again, and Osamu greets the customers who have just entered.
"We should get going," You murmur to him, and he nods. You pop the last bite in your mouth and gather your things while he takes the order, stopping back by your seat after dropping it off in the kitchen.
"I'll see you both when I get home," He says, brushing his fingertips against your son's soft cheek.
KUROO TETSUROU
"Go ahead," Tetsurou insists, "Go take a shower. A long shower. Or a bath, even. I've got this." He bounces your daughter in his arms, still fussing even though she's just been fed.
"But, Tetsu," You look down at her scrunched up face, the sounds of her unhappiness tugging at your heartstrings.
"She'll be fine," He says in a soothing voice - you aren't sure whether it's for your sake, or the baby's. "And you deserve it. When's the last time you've taken a shower that lasted longer than five minutes?" He asks pointedly.
"Dunno," You mumble, resting your hand on her tummy. She does seem to be settling down, just a little. "If you're sure," You say, beginning to relent.
"I'm sure," He says, in a tone you usually know better than to argue with. "I'll get her changed and all ready for bed by the time you're done," He promises.
You do as he says, taking an admittedly much-needed shower. You take your time washing your hair, even using the fancy hair mask and body scrub your friend had gifted you at the baby shower - a little something for you, she'd said with a small knowing smile. You hadn't even opened them until today.
You're surprised by how much better you really do feel, afterwards. You're warm, your hair is soft, and you smell good. Once you slip into your cozy pajamas, you're almost ready to fall asleep right then and there. You have to check on your husband and daughter, though.
They aren't in the nursery. The bedroom sounds suspiciously quiet. Slowly, you push the door open, not expecting the sight you're greeted with.
Your husband is lying on top of the covers, head tipped back against the pillows as he dozes. On his chest, your daughter is snuggled up, her pudgy cheek smushed against him, fist clutching a handful of his t-shirt. He has a hand resting protectively across her back, holding her close. For a few moments, you're frozen in the doorway, taking in the sight before you. You press your fingers to your lips as the emotions well up in your chest.
You must make some kind of sound, because Tetsurou soon stirs, turning his head to look at you. "Hey," He says blearily, "I was just resting my eyes."
You smile softly, finally making your way across the room to them now that the spell is broken. "Sure," You tease gently, not begrudging him the moments of sleep he'd managed to steal.
"How was your shower?" He asks as you curl yourself against him, cheek resting on his shoulder as you look down at your sleeping daughter.
"Good," You whisper. "Really nice. Thank you." He presses a kiss to the top of your head in response. You watch her in silence for a few moments, sleeping so contently snuggled against her daddy's chest. "You got her to sleep," You comment softly. It shouldn't come as a surprise - it's one of your favorite places to fall asleep as well.
"Yeah," He hums, "I think she just wanted some snuggles." He tucks the fingers of his fee hand beneath the hem of your shirt, tracing aimless shapes there. "Sounds a little bit like someone else I know," He adds with a soft chuckle.
"Well, we can't help it that you're just so snuggly," You murmur. You reach out to gently brush your fingertips against her fist. You don't want to wake her up, but you can't resist. You tilt your head up to look at him. "You help us feel safe," You add.
He shifts her on his chest, just enough that he can crane his neck far enough to kiss you. "Good," He murmurs against your lips.
KAGEYAMA TOBIO
You wake with a start. It comes back to you - Tobio had gotten up to check on your daughter when she started fussing, and you'd been waiting for him to come back to bed. You must have drifted off, but he still isn't back in his spot beside you. His pillow is cold now, and you aren't sure just how long he's been gone.
The house is quiet, but you can't shake your concern. Slipping out of bed, you pad to the nursery just a few steps away. In the warm glow of the night light, you see him sitting in the rocking chair by the crib, arms folded on the edge of it and chin rested on his arms.
"Tobio?" He jerks his head up, turning to look at you. "What are you doing?" You move beside him, taking in the sight he seems so enraptured by. Your daughter is sleeping, her small chest rising and falling with her soft breaths. Her nose scrunches, just for a moment, then relaxes again. It makes your heart twist in your chest.
"Sorry. Got distracted, I guess," He whispers, lowering his head to his arms again. "I was just thinking, her nose looks a lot like yours. Doesn't it?" He turns to look at you.
"I guess so," You murmur back.
"It's a nice nose," He says matter of factly.
"I guess so," You repeat with a quiet laugh. "Don't you want to come back to bed?"
"Soon," He nods, "Just a couple more minutes." You both fall silent then, and he slips an arm around your waist, pulling you down onto the arm of the chair. Slowly, you lean your head against his. You find yourself thinking that you could stay like this forever - pressed up against him, looking down at the perfect little person that is your daughter.
Sure, you'll be tired in the morning, but what else is new?
SAKUSA KIYOOMI
"That doesn't go in the dishwasher," You say from your spot on the couch, the one seat with a perfect view into the kitchen. You're feeding your son, and Kiyoomi is cleaning up.
"I know," He says evenly, turning and setting the bottle next to the sink with the others. "I'll wash them after the dishwasher is loaded."
"Oh," You say softly. It's been harder for you than you'll admit, accepting so much help from Kiyoomi. You'd been so confident that you could still do everything, even after the baby came, but it's proven to be much more difficult than you'd so naively anticipated.
"I'm sorry," You say with a sigh, watching as he rinses off the dinner plates before slotting them in the dishwasher. "You shouldn't have to be doing this. I could have done it, right after he's finished eating."
Kiyoomi stops, putting the mug he'd just picked up back in the sink. He crosses the kitchen, sinking down next to you on the couch. You put down the bottle, adjusting your son in your arms.
"Hey," He says quietly, dipping his chin to meet your gaze. "Don't do that."
"Do what?" You ask, tugging a wrinkle out of your son's onesie and using the action as an excuse to look down at him instead of into your husband's eyes.
"Think that you have to handle everything. We're a team, remember?" You make a sound that he could interpret as agreement if he wanted to. He sighs. "You're incredible, and I love you," He says, tilting your chin up with his fingertips so you have no choice but to look at him again. "A month ago, I watched you do the hardest thing you've ever done, and I couldn't do anything to make it easier for you. The least I can do now is wash a few dishes."
You want to smile. You want to cry. Hormones are stupid. "Kiyoomi," You say softly as his thumb swipes away a tear you hadn't realized slipped down your face.
"I'm going to keep doing my part, so you might as well accept it." He leans in and presses a kiss to your temple. "Okay?"
"Okay," You say, smile growing on your face. "Kiyoomi?" You add after a beat, when it's clear he isn't getting up quite yet, "The dishwasher isn't going to load itself, you know."
He opens his mouth, then closes it with a shake of his head, trying to disguise the smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Yes ma'am."
Most likely to be followed up at some point by scenes after baby is born because I have absolutely no chill
MIYA OSAMU
You pick at your dinner, trying your best to eat enough to satisfy Osamu. It's not that you aren't hungry, really. It's more that what you're hungry for isn't this. Osamu already worked hard to make it, though, so you'll make yourself content.
"What's wrong?" Osamu isn't fooled. He points at your plate with his chopsticks. "Isn't it good? I knew I shouldn't a' switched out the spices."
"No, it's good!" You insist quickly. "Really. I just - you're gonna think it's silly." You warn.
"Try me," He says, sitting back in his chair and watching you expectantly. You have no choice.
"I'm just really craving something in particular. Something different," You try to mask your disdain as you gesture at your plate. "I want onigiri."
"Really?" A smile breaks across his face. "Little guy wants onigiri, huh? Well that's not so bad. I can whip something up-" He's already out of his chair and poised to root in the fridge. "Whaddya want? We got tuna, umeboshi, or maybe..." He pauses to shuffle things around in the fridge in search of more ingredients.
"No," You interrupt before he can get too far, bracing yourself for what the baby is making you say next, "Actually, I was kind of thinking, well, peanut butter?" He goes still, head stuck in the fridge. "And, jelly?" You add more quietly. Slowly, he backs up and pivots, fixing you with a penetrating look.
"Sorry. It was all muffled in there. What sorta filling did ya want?" You repeat yourself, and watch as the smallest part of your husband dies. He blinks once, twice, then nods very slowly. "Okay," He says, quietly, almost as if he's steeling himself. "Okay." He repeats.
Hands resting on your growing middle, you watch as he methodically prepares the onigiri, with the exact fillings you'd requested. He hesitates with his spoon in the peanut butter, but he does what you asked. "Are ya sure this is my child?" He asks despairingly as he presents you with three perfectly formed onigiri.
"Positive," You assure him with a small chuckle. You can't help it - you're itching to dig into these onigiri, so you do. Is it an absurd combination? Yes. But does it satisfy the craving you'd been trying to ignore all day? Absolutely. You can't disguise your delight as you eat, humming happily as you savor the food your husband had so lovingly prepared for you, despite the desecration.
When you look up, you're surprised to find him smiling at you, head propped on his fist as he watches you eat.
"What're you grinning about?" You ask teasingly.
"Can't help it," He grumbles, "I'm just happy you're enjoyin' the food, even if it is an abomination. I love you." He gives your cheek a gentle pinch, then your stomach a loving pat.
"I love you too, Samu. We both do." You pause. "Want a bite?" You ask, holding the last onigiri out to him.
"Absolutely not."
KUROO TETSUROU
You're in bed, and it's barely 8:00. You never expected your normal day-to-day routine to tire you out this much, but then again you've never been 7 months pregnant before, either.
"Aw, come on," Tetsurou is cooing at your stomach, stroking it gently. "Just a little tiny kick? Mama gets to feel you move all the time." He's curled up with his face inches from your stomach, a dopey smile on on his face as he chatters to the baby as has become his nightly routine. You reach down to run a hand through his unruly hair.
"If you want someone to kick you in the bladder, that can probably be arranged," You say drily, snorting out a laugh when he looks up at you with a pout.
"I just want to feel her move," He sighs, "I feel like I always miss it. Everybody acts like it's so special."
"It is," You say softly, resting your hand on top of his. You can't deny that. "It'll happen," you say optimistically. With how bad he wants it, it has to, you silently tell your daughter.
"Yeah," He doesn't sound convinced, rolling to a sitting position. "Guess I'll go brush my teeth," He says, heading for the bathroom. You roll onto your back, reaching for your phone on the bedside table. You've just opened a conversation to respond to a text when you feel it - the faintest movement.
"Tetsu!" You call, "Come here!"
"What?" He's at the doorway in half a second, toothbrush hanging out of his mouth and a frown creasing his brow, "Wha's wrong?"
"She's moving," You say, and shift to a sitting position. You hear him spit the toothpaste in the sink, and he's there in a heartbeat, hand on your belly. Right beneath his hand, you feel her kick. You watch as the look of wonder crosses his face.
"Hi, baby girl," He breathes, focusing all of his attention on the movement of your daughter beneath his hand. "I love you so much. I'm so excited to meet you." He turns to look at you then. "Finally," He grins, and you can't help but return it.
"Didn't I tell you?" You say smugly.
"Yeah, yeah." He silences you with a minty kiss.
KAGEYAMA TOBIO
At this point in your pregnancy, there's very little that soothes your aching back. Lying down, standing up, moving around, the pain is always there in the background to some extent. That's why you find yourself in the living room in the middle of the night, propping yourself up between the arm chair and wall in search of a position that will provide some relief.
"Are you alright?" You nearly jump out of your skin at the touch of Tobio's hand on your back. When you left the room, he'd been sleeping like a rock as usual.
"Fine," You assure him, stretching to a slightly more dignified position. "My back's just a little sore."
"Oh," He runs a hand gently up and down the muscles of your back. "Is there anything I can do?"
"Hold this for a second?" You say with a breathy laugh, mostly joking as you press a hand beneath your round stomach.
"I can try," He says seriously, moving behind you. You're about to tell him it was just a joke, but then you feel his chest pressed against your back and his hands gently supporting the underside of your belly. Instead of the protest that had been forming on your lips, you let out a groan of relief.
"Was that good?" He asks uncertainly.
"Very good," You're quick to assure him, letting your eyes close. He only hums in response, pressing a light kiss to your shoulder. You'd forgotten it was possible for your back to feel this normal. It's blissful. You could almost fall asleep right here and now.
"You sure are making trouble for your mama," You hear your husband whisper, drawing you back out of your drowsy state.
"It's okay," You murmur, "It'll all be worth it." He presses another kiss to your shoulder, and you sink back into silence.
"I really think we should get you back to bed," He says finally. Even though it means he'll have to let go, you feel you don't have any choice but to agree. "We can do this again tomorrow," He promises as he takes your hand to make your way back to the bedroom. You give his hand a tug and press a kiss to his lips. You'll hold him to that.
SAKUSA KIYOOMI
"I'm home," You hear Kiyoomi call from the front door. You freeze, but it's too late to hide the evidence. Soon enough, your husband appears in the nursery doorway, and you're caught red-handed.
"I told you I'd build that bookshelf tonight," He says, striding into the room and plucking the loose shelf from your hand. He takes the bag of screws from the other, sets them down, and then draws you away from your project.
"I know, but I just had to do something," You insist. "I already put all the clothes in the dresser, vacuumed, washed the drapes, and the box was just sitting there." His brow creases, and you realize you've said too much.
"You washed the drapes?" He heaves a heavy sigh. "How did you even get them down? And put them back up?"
You smile nervously. "A chair," You try to sound nonchalant. "They really aren't that high."
"My love," He says, taking your hands in his. "Please don't do something like that again. What if you fell?" You lower your head, biting down on your lip. It truly hadn't crossed your mind.
"Sorry," You whisper, "There's just so much to do! We need to be ready. The baby will be here in just a few months. I just want everything to be perfect."
"I know," He says, now rubbing comforting circles into the backs of your hands, "And we'll take care of everything. Together." He draws you into him and tucks your head beneath his chin. "I promise. I just want you to be safe."
His voice is a comforting rumble against your ear, and you nod your head against him. "I know," You agree softly.
"Good," He says, pulling back and pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Now, since you've been busy all day, why don't you let me make dinner?" You open your mouth to protest, but with one look at his face, you close it again. "After dinner, you can read me the instructions. I'll build the bookshelf."
You smile at your husband. "Thanks for taking care of us, Kiyoomi," You say, and his expression softens.
things that are not talked about enough in Love and Deepspace pt. 2
thanks to comments on part one and perusing LADS Reddit and Youtube, here are more ttantaeilads part 2 Wanderer Bugaloo: a reminder that these are canon in the LADS universe:
Despite being big eaters, Sylus and Xavier don’t like wasabi
Zayne is a kaomoji enjoyer
According to Sylus, Mephisto is not 100% waterproof
Sea God Rafayel kicks MC off an underwater cliff
Glowing singing toy handcuffs exist in Linkon
Xavier once waited for rice to grow
In addition to sleeping sitting up, Sylus is also a stomach sleeper, or he became one after meeting MC
MC has also said she sleeps on her stomach when she's tired after missions
Rafayel stepped out of the bathtub, slipped on a paintbrush, sprained his ankle and checked himself into the highest ward in the hospital
According to Zayne, if you wear a black tie and white shirt, you will resemble 85% of him
Sylus got a money tree stolen from him
Zayne accidentally buys a water tank instead of a cup
Sylus, the type of person to hold anything you give him while he’s on a call
Hotpot flavoured desserts exist in Linkon
Xavier owns a star-shaped wand seasoning shaker
Rabbits were once set loose in a hospital
MC gets stalked on two occasions
"okay but like we can just stand there and look smoking hot" is a line Rafayel commented once
MC turns a warped vinyl record into a fruit plate
Xavier will fight your boss
Zayne is good at snowboarding
Rafayel caught a lobster while surfing
Sylus almost dies in the desert
Xavier leaves a plant unattended that it grew roots to cover his floor
MC is good at origami and sometimes teaches it to the kids at Akso Hospital
Artsy Birb is a second grader
Zayne's nickname at a restaurant "Two Seasonal Specials Dine-in"
A version of Monopoly exists in Linkon
Xavier’s status “After slaying the Wanderers, the bread in the microwave is straight fire”
Rafayel and the way he names his fish friends: 001, 002 and 886
Lil S Pet Store almost came to be
A steakhouse in Linkon serves steak that has one-third of it cooked and calls it medium-rare
Sylus uses an ammo box as a grill – it failed
The two squirrels that frequently visit Akso Hospital are named after medication
Sylus prefers sour salad dressings
Or he likes sour things in general; he made a salad with green apples
Xavier accidentally gets hired for handing out flyers and selling flowers on the street
MC cannot handle horror movies or horror-themed escape rooms
Immersive experiences as part of marketing efforts are so immersive that it puts users into day-long walking expeditions, causes breathing problems and real body injuries, but are okayed in Linkon
Xavier and MC snoop on people near their apartment block and text each other about it
Despite being a doctor, Zayne will dodge medicine for hot cocoa when he has a flu
Rafayel replying to MC's comment: "okie dokie artichokie"
Dragon Fiend Sylus's torn pants stay up despite not having a waistband or belt
Bunbun has 4 thin, lanky legs
Xavier and his too many diplomas
Sylus uses the word "fugly"
Zayne uses the word "angsty"
Rafayel has a bathtub next to a couch in his living room
Zayne is some level of bilingual
Sylus recommends a series of hard spirits as a dinner option
Despite being a doctor, Zayne (attempts to) dodge a dentist's medical advice
things that are not talked about enough in Love and Deepspace
i'm surprised i haven't found something like this for LADS, so decided to document some interesting things I found while playing. i limited myself to Main Story, Kindled Memories, Moments posts, texts, interactions, (or stuff you can proc while playing) and did not include limited time events or the chibi comics.
(i've definitely missed out on many so feel free to reblog and add your own encounters!)
read part 2!
Sylus and Xavier are big eaters
Rafayel gets seasick, despite being a fish
Sylus got lost in a train station once
Rafayel can hear fish scream
Nobody comments when Sylus polishes a gun in public at a cafe
Xavier and MC lived in the same building for 6 months before they find out
Sylus’s heart rate can reach up to 150 bpm, and he wants MC to sync to it
Nobody recognises Xavier while he’s wearing the Lumiere mask
Rafayel scolds a cat
Rafayel then made MC choose between him and said cat
This happens twice
Sylus goes ice fishing, often with little success
Xavier also goes fishing, often with more success
Nobody comments when the boys show up to the cafe in nothing but bath towels
MC has said that the dual-prong claw reminds her of a really big fork
Rafayel makes you choose between him and a cat printed on a badge
Sylus has implied that his muscles and abs are not real
Rafayel synced his phone to MC’s steps tracker at one point
Sylus also does this
Xavier names every bird that visits his house
Rafayel used a piece of bread as an eraser, then ate it afterwards
Sylus sleeps sitting up
MC loses a fight against 12 crabs
Zayne believes in mythical creatures (or, at the very least, unicorns)
Sylus’s nickname “Lil S”
Rafayel paints with the blood of his slain people sometimes
Xavier found a bird egg in one of his flower pots one day, and wants to boil and eat it
Sylus guides a scared duck back home
This happens twice
“I’m pretty sure there’s bad juju in that custard bread.” is a line Rafayel once said
MC accidentally grows garlic instead of daffodils
Zayne mistook a plastic bag for a white cat
Sylus gets his motorbike stolen
Sylus and MC were spotted on a joyride because they were wearing glow-in-the-dark glasses
Xavier’s Hunter Uniform is popular with kids
Xavier takes a photo using a public telephone
Sylus recommends tequila as a dinner option
The account named rafayel_ridable_fish_dinner
Zayne’s nickname at the cafe “Large 100% Sugar Latte To Go”
Sylus expressed an interest in baseball
MC is a true crime watcher
MC gifts Zayne a jar of air, and he recommends her to get a MRI scan
things that are not talked about enough in Love and Deepspace
i'm surprised i haven't found something like this for LADS, so decided to document some interesting things I found while playing. i limited myself to Main Story, Kindled Memories, Moments posts, texts, interactions, (or stuff you can proc while playing) and did not include limited time events or the chibi comics.
(i've definitely missed out on many so feel free to reblog and add your own encounters!)
read part 2!
Sylus and Xavier are big eaters
Rafayel gets seasick, despite being a fish
Sylus got lost in a train station once
Rafayel can hear fish scream
Nobody comments when Sylus polishes a gun in public at a cafe
Xavier and MC lived in the same building for 6 months before they find out
Sylus’s heart rate can reach up to 150 bpm, and he wants MC to sync to it
Nobody recognises Xavier while he’s wearing the Lumiere mask
Rafayel scolds a cat
Rafayel then made MC choose between him and said cat
This happens twice
Sylus goes ice fishing, often with little success
Xavier also goes fishing, often with more success
Nobody comments when the boys show up to the cafe in nothing but bath towels
MC has said that the dual-prong claw reminds her of a really big fork
Rafayel makes you choose between him and a cat printed on a badge
Sylus has implied that his muscles and abs are not real
Rafayel synced his phone to MC’s steps tracker at one point
Sylus also does this
Xavier names every bird that visits his house
Rafayel used a piece of bread as an eraser, then ate it afterwards
Sylus sleeps sitting up
MC loses a fight against 12 crabs
Zayne believes in mythical creatures (or, at the very least, unicorns)
Sylus’s nickname “Lil S”
Rafayel paints with the blood of his slain people sometimes
Xavier found a bird egg in one of his flower pots one day, and wants to boil and eat it
Sylus guides a scared duck back home
This happens twice
“I’m pretty sure there’s bad juju in that custard bread.” is a line Rafayel once said
MC accidentally grows garlic instead of daffodils
Zayne mistook a plastic bag for a white cat
Sylus gets his motorbike stolen
Sylus and MC were spotted on a joyride because they were wearing glow-in-the-dark glasses
Xavier’s Hunter Uniform is popular with kids
Xavier takes a photo using a public telephone
Sylus recommends tequila as a dinner option
The account named rafayel_ridable_fish_dinner
Zayne’s nickname at the cafe “Large 100% Sugar Latte To Go”
Sylus expressed an interest in baseball
MC is a true crime watcher
MC gifts Zayne a jar of air, and he recommends her to get a MRI scan
bllk boys react to fem!reader kissing them, then running away. (Mainly I want itoshi rin reaction)
Ty!
❝𝗖𝗛𝗨~! ❞
featuring blue lock boys
content warnings suggestive themes
synopsis kiss them and run away. hope you're fast enough to outrun them.
ISAGI is frozen upon the initial contact of your lips to his own. blush dusting in his cheeks at the sudden gesture and when gets out of his stupor he's quick to pull your hand. catching and linking it to his own before pulling you to kiss you back.
BACHIRA shuts up for second before grinning at the sudden initiation of affection coming from you. cheeky bastard. pretending to be dumbfounded and only to return the kiss thrice the passion as you did it.
KUNIGAMI is surprised. he likes it and so before you can turn around to run, your soft back is pressed against his muscular chest. planting a kiss in your nape before murmuring an i love you in your skin and burying his face in your neck.
CHIGIRI watched as your giggles dying down as you run away from him. a smile in his lips at the move you pulled in him. the taste of your lips lingering in his and he's thinking about ways he could get his revenge on you.
GAGAMARU only blinks in robotic. like a artificial intelligence processing the information that they are given and when he realizes what you just did, a ghost of smile is painted in his face. nonchalantly acting like nothing happened but deep inside it warmed him.
BAROU takes on it seriously. how dare you kiss him out of the blue. it almost breaks out his usual composure and when you're poised to run away from him, he didn't gave you a chance to run. keeping you in a tight grip. scowling at you and grabbing your soft jaws in his palm. although his energy eludes being annoyed, it contradicts on what he did to you. pulling you in a bruising kiss and scolding you in a manner that if you pulled a stunt like that again, you would be getting more than a kiss from him.
RIN falters a bit at the sudden smooch and then you running away. long he welcomed the affection and you running away from him confuses him a bit and so he follows you and returns the favor by doing the same after ensuring that everything was okay and finding that it was your only way to just caught him off guard.
SAE sees it coming and only moves his head to angle where you will be kissing him. you were surprised than he is and kisses you twice the passion and breaks the kiss softly just to admire your flustered expression or rather the satisfaction he was feeling that he had beaten you in your own game.
SHIDOU breaks out into a large grin after the kiss you did and he's sprinting to your direction where you ran off and freaky he is, you didn't just get a kiss from him. saying that you need to take it. his payback for riling him up.
NAGI only let a soft hum when you kissed him out of the blue. leaving him blinking in confusion and shrugs at what just happened. cold mf.
REO smiles. a smile that a prince does. charming and can attract a swarm of women in the area but it's from the kiss his princess did to him and he's following you and spinning you in a manner that leaves you breathless. your back pressed against his chest while bestowing a chaste kiss to your round cheeks.
NIKO blushes. it's not visible as he stand there from the gesture. a shy little schoolboy is what you've turned him and only if you knew what he was feeling. falling in love with you deeper like the main character in a shoujo manga.
OLIVER wolfishly grins. licking his lips and he's like a predator prepared to pounce at their prey and he sees a chubby bunny hopping away and the chase begins. he caught you and he simply devours you.
KAISER just chuckles at your attempt in surprising him. he's not surprised like almost men at his age but he appreciates it a bit. your antics no stranger to him and he finds it amusing.
NESS stutters a bit of what just happened. shock and leaning on the side of surprised and like magic you never failed to make him happy.
NOEL is calm and unblinking yet a little taken aback of your sudden departure. weren't you supposed to tell him you love him like you always do. maybe it's different than this time. it doesn't mean he doesn't appreciate it.
EGO's unfazed about it. he knows you and you always pull your stupid shenanigans on him and who is he to judge for that. you're his wife and it won't hurt to be kissed out of blue even he knows it.
♡ a/n — i just love the tiktok trend so :) ( was going to attach a link to a tiktok showing what i was talking abt but it wouldn't work. just look up sniper sniper sniper wifey wifey marines and you'll see what i meant :) )
♡ content — all characters are 18+ !!, mentions of tiktok & instagram, slight cursing, tbh bad writing, nicknames like 'love' , 'wifey' , and 'my girl' used, probably ooc characters
♡ synopsis — blue lock boys showing off their girlfriend :)
⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ' oh that's your wifey ? ' ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ the...tiktok maker
if there was anyone you would really and truly call chronically online, it would be him. every day he'd come to you with some new word he learned from tiktok, or a meme that would plague your house for weeks until it went away.
so when he pulled out his phone to show you a video, you weren't expecting it to be a couples trend.
" please, please, pleaseee, love? you'd look so cute in my arms like that ! " and he had just won a big game...how could you say no to him?
so here you were, being carried like a bride in your lovely boyfriend's arms. if it were anyone else, you'd be too worried about how long they could hold you, but since it was him you didn't worry.
it took a few tries, each of you messing up a part at least once and you accidentally dropping the phone a few times, but after you figured it out, the video was practically perfect.
they posted it to their public tiktok account with the caption
' not my wifey yet, but soon ;) '
and to say all the notifications were making his phone glitch would be an understatement.
wrong of him to want to post these pictures the two of you had taken on your date to the aquarium?
if he were any other, normal, person this wouldn't have seemed like a big deal, but since he had at least a million followers and some were a bit more obsessed than others, it was.
you'd told him multiple times that you were okay with him posting you, really if he was happy, you were happy. maybe it was the egoist in him, but he wanted to keep you to himself.
fuck it.
if you wanted to be posted, he was going to post you. who cared what anyone else thought? their opinions didn't mean anything to him.
he selected a few of the pictures the two of you had taken at the aquarium, sneaking one of a lipstick stain on his neck in the middle of the slides.
if he was going to announce his relationship to the public, why not let the world know how utterly whipped he was for you?
the ever illusive pro soccer player. that's what every press agency called your boyfriend.
his ability to somehow dodge any paparazzi and answer very short questions during press conferences made every view into his personal life shine like gold.
based on an instagram story ( that was taken down in less than 10 minutes ) where a picture of him with his arms around a woman in a bathroom mirror, the media could assume he was in a relationship. in that photo, however, the woman's face was not visible, so the questioned still remained...
what woman could capture this mans heart?
he hadn't cared, not really. a photo was nothing to him, but you were everything. he tried really hard to keep your identity private, he didn't want you to be absorbed into a world of cameras always in your face.
but after he made the game winning goal of a very important game...all he wanted to do was see you.
maybe it was the way he could see you in the section you'd always sat, or maybe it was his ego wanting to tell everyone "yeah i'm the best soccer player, and yeah i have the best girl, what about it?"
as all of the adoring fans rushed the field, including you, he just wanted to see you. he knew, realistically, he should just go back to the locker room and come meet you afterwards like he usually did, but not today.
he shrugged off ever reporter and fan that wanted to talk to him, which was nothing new, but instead of leaving to the locker room, they watched as he walked over to you
he knew all eyes were on him, the world still watching...but he couldn't find it in himself to care. he wrapped his arms around your waist
" made that goal for you, ya know? "
you were a little surprised at his appearance, but if he didn't care neither than you.
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