🚨Winter Is Coming🚨

DEVIL MAY CRY CHARACTER DESIGN COMMENTARY: DANTE 1

This is my opinion on Dante's design from the first Devil May Cry game. I will probably do other characters as well.

The Devil May Cry franchise has it's roots in Resident Evil. Dante has many similarities with Leon, one of the main characters, specially in Resident Evil 4.

Since it is the first game of the franchise, it's visual identity was not consolidated yet. A mix of genres is what makes the first Devil May Cry so unique.

With that being said, I like his design. It is a product of early 2000's dark and "vengeful" aesthetic. Despite living in a dark world, his crimson coat, white hair and piercing eyes, Dante makes quite a bold figure.

There are different kinds of fabric, and many details such as belts and buttons across his attire.

There was no way of knowing where the franchise would go in the future, or if there would even be future games. The entire creative team did what they could with the resources they had, and delivered an iconic experience.

Combining readability amidst the fights, a design that fits his story and good graphics for its time, DMC 1 Dante conquers an 9/10 in my design ranking!

Guess who rewatched Wolf Children

STAY WITH ME

M!Zayne and F!Reader. "Fluffy Treatment" inspired.

THIS POST CONTAINS SEXUAL CONTENT: making out, boob sucking, slight foot fetish, oral (F! receiving), unprotected sex, creampie.

All characters are consenting adults. Proceed carefully and do not attempt to recreate these situations in real life.

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The day had took a - terrible - unexpected turn. A Wanderer appeared in a No Hunt Zone and the lack of personnel because of the seasonal flu had made it terribly difficult. All units that would otherwise be in their day off had to report for duty.

Zayne was also struggling with work. There was only a simple(r) surgery scheduled for the day, but Akso Hospital was brimming with citizens of all ages trying to get something akin to coughing syrup and fever meds.

You arrive home after sundown, tend to minor wounds and cook a very lazy dinner for two. The board of Kitty Cards you had promised to play on that day lay discarded in the living room table. The soft sound of yawning Evol kittens was your only company in the apartment.

A little over an hour later you hear the shifting sound of keys. The door opened and your doctor seemed worse for wear. Slight eyebags formed under his eyes, oily bangs dangled in his forehead and there were slight stains in his white coat.

"Hello, love. How was work today?" He gives a sad smile. Not a talking day, then. Zayne leaves his briefcase in your shared bedroom and comes back in a more comfortable attire. He heats up the food in silence, finishes his nightly routine and slams right to bed.

"I'm sorry we coudn't play Kitty Cards today. I haven't forgotten." He mumbles when you join him under the covers. "I also had a rough day at work. These things happen." He comes closer for a snuggle. "We can always do it tomorrow."

"I love you." Is the last thing you hear before drifting to sleep.

You wake with the first rays of sunshine. Your boyfriend, always the morning person, has already gotten up. It was time for his morning job, altough you could hear a sizzling sound coming from the kitchen.

"What is the special occasion?" You inquire as Zayne is terribly focused in putting a perfect pancake in your plate. There is a cup of tea across the table for him, and a generous mug of coffee on your side. Whipped cream, syrup and strawberries are scattered across the table as you decorate your breakfast. "Thank you for cooking dinner last night. I'm not sure, just wanted to make something this morning."

His face is positively glowing. That night's sleep must have made wonders for him. The eyebags are way less proeminent, he totally took a shower since his hair is silky smooth and the beautiful cat ears move to the morning sun.

Wait, what?

You stop your fork midway. Zayne, your lovely surgeon, is sporting cat ears as he walks across the table. When he turns around to flip the last pancake, you see a tail from the same shade of the ears move as if it was real.

"MY LOVE??" You ask, exasperated. With all precision in the world, another pancake is put before you. "Yes, darling?" How could you possibly tell him and not look like a lunatic?

"You have cat ears. And a tail." Zayne just quirks his eyebrows and sits down. "Is that so?" A mountain of whipped cream - one his dentist would complain about, no doubt - blocks your vision. "Why do I have cat features, my love?"

That was surely a mystery. You stand in silence while he devours his pancakes, completely oblivious to the movements of his own body. After your meal was finished in (un)comfortable silence, all the dishes were put in the sink and Zayne was looking for alone time to finish some reports.

"Oh God you were being serious?!" You hear a shout coming from his study table. This is the first time Zayne touches his new appendages since they appeared, looking bewildered. "I imagined this was another one of your pranks. How could this happen?" Initial shock gave way to interest. You come closer.

You run your hands to were his head meets the base of his ears. It was like any other part of his body. After that, you check his tail and find the meeting point. His back is turned to you, but you feel his body heat and mild shifting.

"Everything okay in there, babe?" He doesn't respond. You look at his face and there is a perceptible flush all over his cheeks and human ears. "Can you feel this?"

"I-I think it's better if I go back to work." And steps away. "I'm sure it's nothing dangerous and I will be back to normal soon, love. No reason to worry." With no further comments, he turns around and leaves the room.

Everytime you tried talking to him about it, he would blush profusely and diffuse your comments. He even called the hospital to say he was feeling terribly ill and coudn't come to work that day. His health was pristine, even with the feline feaures.

"I know there is something bothering you, Zayne." He looks at you like a child being scolded. After you began using pet names in the relationship, real names were signal to trouble. "Why don't you want to talk about it? Does it hurt?"

"No!" He shakes his head. "It's just... a lot is happening... and I don't know how to deal with it." "So you would rather bear it all alone with your reports? I am right here if you need me and you know you should ask for help with things that are bothering you."

His eyes soften and you can swear you see his breathing become more stable. Even then, he doesn't come closer to you. You leave the room and the confused doctor behind.

Around then minutes later, the door opens and a tall figure approaches you. Zayne firmly sits you on the couch and lays on top of you like a weighted blanket. "Can we cuddle?" You shift to a more comfortable position and begin petting his ears. The creeping blush returns and you hear his purr.

"Keep going." He request, and you move to pet his back. His breathing becomes labored and you notice him arching his back to meet your touch. When you touch his tail, he moans quietly.

You stop in shock. Your beloved doctor had trouble to voice his needs, so this was a nice change of pace. You decide to use both your hands to elicit more reactions from him. Not long after, you feel him grinding against your thigh.

"Do you want to take off your pants, my love?" He looks up at you. His eyes are glossy and his face is terribly red. "I want to take off your pants." He concludes.

You both shift in the couch to put your plans in motion. It was quite difficult when Zayne was hugging you so tightly, but it would make do. With a little bit of effort, both of you were undressed.

He slides down and puts his nose right above your clit. Kitten licks and small bites were distributed all around the area before he decided to dive in. Zayne moved up and down, alternating between your slick and the bundle of nerves above.

Moisture dripped down onto the couch, but you coudn't find it in you to care. Your boyfriend speeds up, and you know you won't last long under his ministrations. "Ah, ah, we're m-making a mess." You manage to say.

"Good." You feel his hot breath. "I want you to make a mess. Please make a mess on me." He goes back to work with renewed vigor. Waves of pleasure pool in your stomach and you know you're close.

"Z-Zayne, I'm gonna cum." That seemed like more of an incentive to him than anything else. You feel his tongue draw patterns on your flesh before setting on an onslaught of your bud. Using the little of what was left of your brain, you can distinguish a "Z" and then an "A". He was writing his name on your clit.

Your orgasm hits suddently. He helps you ride it, groaning in satisfaction as you grind your pussy against his face. After a few waves, the feeling diminished and gives way to overstimulation. "A break, please." Your voice is hoarse but Zayne doesn't look any better, his cat ears twitching and face full of your release.

Pearly-white beads of precum slide down his cock and the tip is red and swollen. You both look at it at the same time and then make eye contact. "Let me help you." You say.

He pretty much pounced at you, protecting your head from hitting the couch as he forcefully pushed you down. His lips are into yours in a second, and the gasps he makes are music to your ears. "Is this why you have been avoiding me this morning?" It takes a while for him to reply. "I want to be close to you. I want to love you and protect you every waking moment and hope to dream of you at night."

He uses a finger to prepare you for the stretch. You use your own hand to smear precum against his slick. He hisses. "But ever since this morning I... It's not enough." He adds a second one and begins a scissoring motion. You moan at the feeling. "I want to bite and lick and - I even thought about bringing you a dead bird this morning."

Zayne looks away in something dangerously close to shame. His tail is a black blur behind him. "I didn't want you to see me so needy. You also have things to do and I shoudn't be like this." He positions himself at your entrance.

"We don't know what happened to you yet." Your train of thought threatens to be interrupted once his tip begins teasing you. "It's okay to be needy sometimes, and it does make sense you would be feeling more catlike today." You wink and he gives a soft laugh. Such a lovely sound.

The stretch is not so bad as the first time. You both make sure the experience is less painful as possible. "Wh-what about the other things?" Your mind returns to his earlier comments. The licks and the love bittes he is holding himself not to do.

You bite his shoulder and he screams. You can feel is dick twitch inside your walls. He almost cums from the feeling. "I bite you and you bite me. Deal?" That sounds good for him, since in the next moment he is lowering his head and sucking your boobs.

There are bites scattered from your neck to the inside of your thigs, his hips moving the entire time. Your second orgasm is alredy approaching, and the way Zayne teases your breasts is clearly not helping.

He snuggles closer to you, almost as if he is trying to merge both your bodies together. He whimpers with the new angle. "I'm close. Wanna come inside." You enthusiastically agree. Always the safe sex preacher, it feels good to do it without a condom for once.

"Oh you feel so good please wanna feel you cum too." He starts blabbering and moves to play with your clit. You begin meeting his thrust halfway, and soon both of you are moaning each other's names. Your "Za-Zayne"s is everything he needs to release everything inside.

That feeling combined with him deftly playing with your bud makes you reach your peak too. "Thank you thank you I love you" Is what you can distinguish from his chants. A kiss is all you can give to tell him you love him too.

After the aftershocks of the orgasm have passed, the stickiness of the sofa and the sweat clinging to your body were starting to make you uncomfortable. "Wanna take a shower?" He was still nugding you. "I don't want to let you go."

"What if we take a shower and then cuddle in bed? We can deal with the destruction of the couch later." He stretches lazily, ears moving all the way down and then returning back up, his tail making similar movements. He nods and both of you dissapear behind the bathroom door.

Grayson was ready to check out, and Yvone's shift would end in about an hour. The movement of the hospital was finally starting to die down. "It's such a shame Dr. Zayne caught the flu." She commented.

"Truly. I can't imagine how he must be feeling, alone at home and sick." They both give an understanding look at each other and return to their tasks.

Maybe things aren't so bad as they seem.

Please Verify Your Lover Before Proceeding

One of the strangest nights of your life. You had a little too much at Tara’s birthday—the drink tasted light, but turned out vicious. Your brain took a vacation through a Deep Space Tunnel, and your body was on full autopilot.

Somehow, you ended up with him, fully convinced it was the right one. But oh, how wrong you were—drunk and blissfully unaware, you’d just mistaken one of your men for another.

Author’s Note: Please don’t take these drabbles too seriously — they’re purely for fun and unhinged emotional relief. I desperately needed a break from the recent angst spiral to be able to return to it with (somewhat) intact mental health 😅 Logic may have been slightly sacrificed along the way, and yes — this is basically an AU.

CW/TW: Impaired consent due to intoxication, Mistaken identity during intimacy, Sexual situations, Mild voyeurism / indirect third-party involvement, Emotional confusion / post-intimacy guilt or shock, Strong language & innuendo, Humor + chaos.

It wasn’t… Caleb?!

You didn’t remember falling asleep—only that the table was sticky, the music was loud, and your messages to Caleb had begun to look more like encrypted runes than words. But you’d been so sure he’d understand. He always did. He was reliable like that.

When arms slid under your body, you didn’t resist. Of course he came.

The world swayed as he carried you, steady and strong. You nuzzled closer to his chest and sighed. Everything smelled clean—sharp, cool, and oddly antiseptic—but you chalked that up to his military instincts. Caleb always smelled like order.

A car. Then motion. And then—blankets. Pillows. The faintest hum of electronics nearby. Hands tucking you in like you were fragile. Like you mattered.

“Stay,” you mumbled, fingers clinging to his sleeve.

He exhaled through his nose. “You need water.”

You frowned. “You never let me just feel things. Always hydration and discipline.”

“That’s hardly a criticism.”

You cracked one eye open, just a sliver. His silhouette hovered near the bed, sharp and still.

“I asked you to stay,” you said again, lips barely moving.

“You also asked me to bring snacks,” he murmured. “And a crowbar.”

You groaned into the pillow. “That sounds like me.”

“You texted me eight times in ten minutes.”

“I thought I texted you once.”

“There were diagrams.”

You made a noise of protest, buried your face deeper in the pillow, then muttered, “Well. I wouldn’t have let anyone else see me like this.”

Silence. A rustle of fabric. Then the cool press of a glass against your hand.

“Drink,” he said softly.

You did. Begrudgingly.

Because of course Caleb would come for you. And of course he’d bring water.

You drifted off with the world tilting gently beneath you, like the bed was floating somewhere through space. The weight of him settled beside you—solid, grounding, exactly where he was supposed to be. You reached out, blindly, and found his hand. Twined your fingers with his and dragged his palm to rest flat against your stomach. He let you. Of course he did. He always did.

Sleep took you again.

You weren’t sure what woke you. The dark still pressed heavy against your closed eyelids. But your body stirred, aware before your mind caught up. His chest was warm against your back. One arm wrapped tight around your waist. Your legs tangled together beneath the blanket.

And he was hard.

You shifted—just a little—and felt it. The unmistakable pressure, hot and firm against the curve of your backside. Your breath caught. A single beat passed. Then another. Your pulse quickened.

Desire slid into your veins like heat meeting cold.

You didn’t think. Not in full sentences. Not in anything that might pass for logic. You only felt: the warmth of his skin, the weight of his body, the way his presence lit something low and needy inside you.

You turned, slow and quiet, until your chest met his. Eyes still closed. Your nose brushed his throat. You inhaled deeply, searching for that familiar scent—leather, wind, the faint sharpness of steel.

Your hand found the plane of his abdomen. His skin was warm, smooth, the muscle beneath taut and unyielding. Your fingers followed the line of it lower. Slipping beneath the edge of his waistband. Seeking.

He gasped.

The sound was rough. Strained. Not what you expected.

But it didn’t stop you.

Your hand closed around him. Firm. Intentional. He was already hard, already pulsing with heat, and you stroked once—slow, deliberate.

The moan that tore from his chest startled you. Not because of the sound itself, but because something about it was… off.

Not unfamiliar.

But wrong.

Before you could process it, his hand shot out and caught your wrist—tight, urgent. He didn’t push you away. Not yet. But the question was there, suspended in the air between you, pulsing louder than the beat of your heart.

Still, you didn’t stop.

Your lips found his throat. You bit—softly. Your tongue traced the line of his jaw, then higher, brushing the shell of his ear.

“I’m aware of what I’m doing,” you whispered, voice low, slow, thick with sleep and need. “And I’m not nearly as drunk as I was.”

His breath hitched.

You smiled.

“Let me thank you,” you murmured, your fingers flexing slightly, teasing his grip on your wrist. “For taking care of me.”

His fingers trembled against your wrist. The grip loosened—not quite a surrender, but not a refusal either. An uncertain signal. A warning draped in permission.

You ignored it.

You didn’t want hesitation. You wanted heat. Contact. Caleb would’ve already had you on your back by now, reckless and absolute, dragging you under without room to think. 

But this? This felt… cautious. Careful.

Too careful.

You pushed the thought away.

With one fluid movement, you rolled on top of him. Straddled his hips. Your thighs pinned his firmly in place as you shifted, slow and deliberate, letting the friction of his arousal drag against you through too-thin fabric.

He exhaled like you’d knocked the air from his lungs—and then, suddenly, he surged upward.

His arms wrapped around you, crushing you against him, and his mouth found yours in a kiss that was nothing like Caleb’s.

It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t dominant. It was hungry and startled, like he was discovering the shape of you for the first time. Like he didn’t know how to kiss you—only that he had to. Urgently. Now.

It should’ve been a clue.

Instead, it turned the fire in your chest into something wilder.

You moaned into his mouth. Your hands fisted in his shirt—no, bare skin now—your nails scraping across his shoulders as you ground your hips down again.

“Caleb…”

He froze.

Every muscle in his body went taut beneath you.

And then—his hands shot up. Not to push. Not to hurt. But to catch your face, firm and deliberate, his palms warm against your cheeks as he held you just far enough away to see you clearly.

“Open your eyes,” he said, voice sharp. Not cruel—but commanding.

Not Caleb’s voice.

Your heart stuttered.

You opened your eyes.

And stared straight into green.

Not warm purple. Not storm-dark, half-lidded with possessive heat. No.

Sharp, clear, unflinching green.

Zayne.

You jerked back like you’d been shocked, your limbs tangling in sheets that weren’t yours, weren’t his.

This was Zayne’s apartment. Zayne’s bed. Zayne’s body.

And you were half-naked, straddling a man who wasn’t the one you’d summoned in your drunken haze.

Your voice cracked. “Oh my god.”

You scrambled back so fast you lost the sheet. There was a heroic attempt to rise with dignity, followed by a valiant battle with the comforter, and then—gravity. Your heel caught on the edge of the blanket and you toppled clean off the bed.

The floor greeted you with a muffled thump. Fortunately, Zayne had expensive taste. The rug was thick, soft, and tragically unjudgmental.

You lay there for a second, face-down, tangled in linen and a full-body mortification spiral.

From above, Zayne’s voice: “Another point in favor of sobriety.”

You groaned into the rug.

“Impaired coordination,” he continued, in a tone that could only be described as clinically disappointed. “Reduced motor skills. Poor spatial awareness.”

You flailed upright with the rage of a woman who wished the carpet would eat her alive. Your face was on fire. Your hair looked like a stormcloud with trust issues.

“You’re not helping,” you hissed.

“I’m educating.”

“Zayne—!”

“Also: tendency toward misidentification of romantic partners. Should I add that to the list?”

You made a strangled noise. A mix between a gasp, a sob, and the dying shriek of someone who had just remembered exactly where her hand had been several minutes ago.

“Are you writing this down?” he added mildly. “I can fetch a datapad.”

“I’m never drinking again,” you muttered, yanking the sheet tighter around yourself like it might smother the memory. Or you. “And if I do, I’m never texting Caleb for help again.”

There was a pause.

“Why would he send you, anyway?”

Zayne tilted his head, expression infuriatingly neutral.

“Possibly,” he said, “because you texted me. Not him.”

Your face went very still. Then very pale.

“Oh God,” you whispered. “I… I didn’t say anything indecent, did I?”

He didn’t answer.

Your stomach dropped.

“…Zayne?”

He looked at the ceiling. “There were words. Phrases. Some suggestive punctuation.”

You let out a dying noise.

“And a photo,” he added blandly.

You buried your face in the sheet. “Please don’t finish that sentence unless you want to resuscitate me.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then—so dryly you almost missed the humor under it—

“…I’ve already cleared it from my device.”

You made another noise.

Possibly a prayer. Possibly a scream. Possibly both.

You mumbled into your hands, voice muffled and pitiful, “Zayne, I’m so sorry. You should’ve left me there. Let me deal with my drunk disasters alone…”

Without warning, he reached for your wrist and pulled you upright, settling you on the bed beside him with calm, practiced strength.

“Look at me.”

You shook your head instantly. “I can’t. I’m too embarrassed.”

“That’s your punishment,” he said, voice flat but glinting with something undeniably sharp. “You kissed me. While thinking I was someone else.”

You winced and slowly peeked up at him—only to find no trace of anger. None.

Instead… he looked like he was on the brink of laughing.

Zayne. Laughing.

There was warmth tugging at the corners of his mouth, rare and real. His eyes shimmered with quiet amusement. You didn’t think you’d ever seen him this entertained by anything—let alone by you.

And then—his hand moved.

Gently, his knuckles traced the curve of your cheek. His fingers tucked a rogue strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that stole the breath right from your lungs.

“So,” he said softly, “you and Caleb. It’s serious?”

You closed your eyes, barely whispering, “Zayne… please don’t.”

But his voice was quiet again, low and steady. “You can message me. Or call. Any time. No matter what state you’re in. I mean it.”

You didn’t even realize you’d leaned into him until your shoulder brushed his. Your body betrayed you—drawn toward his warmth, the way his presence steadied everything. Your pulse slowed, and then shifted. It wasn’t beating for Caleb anymore.

It was singing. For him.

“For the record,” you murmured, “what if I… try to seduce you again?”

His voice was a breath against your ear.

“Did I resist the first time?”

You swallowed hard. Then—he whispered:

“Just promise me, next time… you’ll be sure it’s me.”

And you nodded. Because next time, it absolutely would be.

It wasn’t… Rafayel?!

You hadn’t meant to end up in his bed. That much you’d be forced to admit later—probably while he quietly reviewed the sequence of your poor decisions like a disappointed professor grading a very chaotic thesis.

It had all made perfect sense at the time. Tara’s birthday had involved five kinds of glowing drinks, three games with suspiciously flexible rules, and one hot tub that felt like the gateway to another dimension. By the time you stumbled out into the hallway, barefoot, blissed out, and humming a song you didn’t know, your brain had decided it was time to find him.

You’d made it to the door. That counted. The hallway swam slightly, edges soft in the low light. The lock read your fingerprint and clicked open. Inside: dark, warm, quiet. Moonlight spilled faintly across the floor. Familiar outlines slid past as you moved—sofa, shelf, the slight turn toward the bedroom. 

You didn’t think. You didn’t need to. Your body knew the way.

So of course you’d climbed into the bed without thinking. Of course you’d tucked yourself against him and whispered half-intelligible things into his skin. And of course, when strong arms wrapped instinctively around you, you took that as confirmation that yes, this was right. This was where you belonged.

He shifted under you when you kissed the hollow of his throat, but didn’t speak. His breath stilled, then deepened. When your fingers trailed down his chest, finding the edge of the sheet and the warmer skin beneath, he flinched—but still said nothing.

So you kept going.

He tasted like the dark—clean, quiet, unexpectedly warm. The muscles in his stomach twitched as your mouth moved lower. His fingers curled in the sheet. You caught his wrist, guided his hand to your waist, and exhaled against his neck, letting your body press fully to his.

It was quiet for a long moment. Then—his voice, rough, barely above a whisper.

“You’re drunk.”

You hummed an agreement against his collarbone and licked it, slow and deliberate.

“We shouldn’t,” he said. But his hand stayed on your hip.

“We won’t,” you lied.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he pulled you closer.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was a sudden, visceral shift—the kind that made you gasp against his mouth and cling to him harder. His mouth found yours like he’d waited years to taste it. His hands moved over you like he was mapping terrain he hadn’t dared to touch before.

This wasn’t quite the slow-burning, theatrical Rafayel you were used to. He liked to draw things out—playful, teasing, all about the build-up. But this... this was different. Urgent. Focused. Like he’d waited long enough and wasn’t in the mood for his usual games.

It wasn’t a thought, not really. More like a drunk idea dressed up as instinct. Your fingers fumbled at the hem of his shirt, gathering soft fabric, dragging it upward. He shifted—just enough to help—and the shirt came off in a blur of warmth and motion. You blinked at the bare skin in front of you, something in your brain slurring oh yes, that’ll do, and you pressed your hands to him like the rest of the scene couldn’t continue without contact.

When he pushed you down into the mattress, you welcomed the weight of him. His hands moved with surprising coordination, slipping under the fabric of your dress, tugging it down with quiet urgency. When his mouth found the curve of your jaw, your throat, your shoulder—you arched into him, fingers tangled in his hair, your dress forgotten somewhere near your knees.

He groaned—quiet, desperate—and for a second, his forehead pressed to yours. His breath was ragged. His eyes never left your face, even in the dark. Then he drew back just slightly, the moonlight skimming across your skin—and he stilled. His gaze moved over you, unhurried, almost cautious, like he wasn’t sure what he was allowed to touch. Not quite the hungry, theatrical boldness you’d come to expect. No smirk. No whispered praise. Just silence, and a look that felt... different. 

Like he was seeing you for the first time.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, the words almost accidental, half-swallowed.

You smiled lazily, fingertips skimming his ribs. 

“I thought you’d be used to me by now,” you said, your words slightly slurred, softened by heat and alcohol. “My body’s not for watching tonight. It’s for enjoying. For doing things.”

He made a sound in the back of his throat—something between restraint and surrender—and kissed you again, harder this time. His body moved against yours in a way that left no doubt: he wanted this. 

He wanted you.

So when your legs wrapped around his waist, he didn’t stop you.

And when your hands slipped down his back, dragging him closer, he moaned into your mouth.

And then—

“God,” you whispered, “I’ve wanted this since I saw your last painting… the way you had me sprawled out, all silk and shadows—like you were already touching me.”

The words hung there for a moment, sticky with heat, stillness, and something just a bit too specific.

Then—he went absolutely still.

Not the intoxicating stillness of desire. The clinical, surgical stillness of a mind calculating disaster in real time.

You blinked up at him, a little dazed, your body still aching from the closeness, the heat of his skin against yours.

"Rafayel?" you said softly.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he said, calm and mechanical, "Lights. On."

There was a barely audible click—and then light flooded the room like divine judgment.

You froze.

He was already half-sitting, breathing heavily, shirtless and flushed, his eyes locked on your face with a mix of focus and sheer, silent horror.

And then you saw his face.

Not rose-blue eyes glinting with mischief. Not a lopsided, teasing mouth.

Not Rafayel.

You saw precision-cut cheekbones, sky-blue eyes sharp as scalpels, and a jaw that had never once wobbled mid-sentence with poetic nonsense.

Xavier.

You shrieked. 

Actually shrieked.

You slapped both hands over your bare breasts with a speed that could qualify you for Olympic fencing and scrambled backward in the bed, pulling the sheet up with wild eyes and lungs full of panic.

“Oh my God,” you gasped, suddenly and violently sober. “Oh my—oh my GOD—”

Xavier, to his credit, didn’t move. His breathing was steadying. His expression was unreadable, but his knuckles were white against the mattress.

“I thought—” You stared at him like he’d grown horns. “I thought you were Rafayel!”

“Yes,” he said tightly. “I noticed.”

“I didn’t just crawl into the wrong bed—”

“You broke into the wrong apartment.”

“I kissed your neck!”

You flushed, vividly, because that hadn’t been the only place you'd kissed—just the only one you could admit out loud.

“I was painfully aware.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?!”

“I was... reassessing reality.”

You buried your face in the sheet with a strangled sound of anguish.

After a moment, you heard him get up—quiet, efficient. Fabric rustled. Then something soft landed next to you.

You peeked out from the sheet.

It was his T-shirt. White, loose, and—dear gods—smelling exactly like him. A mix of clean cotton, green tea, and that cool scent you’d never been able to place, only feel. It was like someone distilled self-control and made it wearable.

You looked up at him. He stood by the bed, wearing only joggers, one brow raised.

“Put it on,” he said calmly. “Before your shame kills us both.”

You yanked the shirt over your head so fast you nearly headbutted yourself in the process. It fell down over your thighs like a dress. You smelled like him. That was worse.

You sat there, radiating nuclear embarrassment.

He watched you for a long moment.

And then, quietly: “You really thought I was him?”

You nodded, mute.

“In the dark. After drinking... whatever that glowing thing was.”

You sighed, covering your face. “I regret ever convincing you to switch to a biometric lock and give me access.”

“I don’t,” he said quietly. “I just regret being the wrong destination.”

He sat down on the edge of the bed, not close. Measured. That familiar weight of his presence returned—less physical now, more intellectual. You glanced sideways at him, unsure what you were allowed to say.

“I should go,” you offered weakly.

“No. You’ll trip. Or misidentify someone else. You’re a hazard tonight.”

He sighed. “Stay here. I’ll take the couch.”

“Fair.”

He glanced at the ceiling. “Let’s try not to confuse the doors next time.”

That earned a groan. “I’m never going to live this down.”

“I might require compensation,” he said dryly.

You turned, still hugging your knees. “How do I make it up to you?”

He tilted his head slightly.

“Next time,” he said, “you come to the correct bed. On purpose.”

You blinked. “Wait. Are you saying—”

“Fully conscious,” he added. “And able to tell your men apart.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I’m sober now. That could technically be—”

“No.” His voice was softer now. “Not tonight.”

He reached out, gently touched the crown of your head, and pressed the softest kiss there—quiet, a little too tender. Your heart seized.

“Tonight,” he said, “I’m still trying to process the fact that I don’t leave enough of an impression to be distinguishable in bed.”

You winced. “I mean... in the dark... you did feel a little like him...”

He gave you a look that could have withered a houseplant.

“I’ll stop talking now.”

“Wise.”

Still, he stayed close. He reached for the crumpled blanket and helped you lie back, adjusting the pillows behind you with quiet efficiency. You didn’t speak. Neither did he. He pulled the blanket up over your waist, smoothed it once, and stepped back—not far, just enough to give you space you weren’t sure you wanted.

He turned to leave. You caught his hand.

He froze.

When you spoke, your voice was quiet, stripped of awkwardness.

“If I confused you with someone else... that doesn’t mean I never wanted it to be you.”

His eyes met yours.

“I’ve wanted it to be you,” you went on, “for longer than I like to admit. But you’re so... precise. Reserved. I didn’t want to cross a line. I didn’t want to lose what we do have, whatever it is.”

He was silent.

Then he smiled. Just barely. A corner-curve of the mouth. Trouble in disguise.

He stepped over to his nightstand, tore a page from his notepad, and scribbled something.

You sat up as he folded the note and tucked it beside your pillow.

“Good night,” he said.

“Xavier—what’s this?”

He was already at the door.

“Open it when I leave.”

And then—he was gone. Out of the room, the door closing behind him with soft finality.

You opened the note. In clean, minimal handwriting:

"1x Free Visit. Valid for: the right door. Condition: Full sobriety. —X"

You sank back into his bed, clutching the note to your chest. Your fingers found his pillow—still warm, still carrying the quiet, unmistakable scent of him—and you pulled it close, burying your face in it with a helpless little sigh. Half in love, half in horror.

Somewhere, in the haze between drinks and desire, you’d made a mistake.

But maybe—just maybe—it had been waiting to happen all along.

It wasn’t… Zayne?!

How on earth had you let Tara drag you into a masquerade party?

If only you’d known what was coming.

You’d arrived in your normal clothes, and within minutes, she’d stuffed you into the only spare costume she had left. You’d barely downed your first drink when you caught your reflection in the mirror: an almost indecently short nurse’s dress, thigh-high fishnets, unforgiving heels, and—because humiliation demands layers—two pigtails perched like cherries on a sundae.

Glass after glass drowned out the voice of reason until, eventually, you started having fun. Maybe a little too much fun. Because that’s when the idea formed.

You messaged Zayne.

“Still working?”

He replied almost instantly. “Yes. Another sleepless night. Want to keep me company?”

You smirked, picturing his face when you’d peel off your coat and reveal the gloriously inappropriate disaster you were currently wearing.

“Call me a cab and you’ll get a surprise,” you typed, giggling.

You dropped him the address. The letters on your screen were already beginning to dance, so you tucked your phone into your purse and made a wobbly descent toward the pickup point.

You passed out in the car.

Your legs carried you on autopilot when you arrived. The building seemed darker than usual, quieter. Like a hospital at 3 a.m.—eerily clean and vaguely menacing. You could’ve used a saline IV and a glucose drip, but you soldiered forward, heels clicking ominously against marble floors.

At one point, you had to catch yourself against the wall, nearly toppling over. You burst into laughter at the absurdity of it all.

Someone whistled.

Zayne?

He didn’t usually whistle… but then again, he didn’t usually see you like this. Drunk. Sultry. One wardrobe malfunction away from a lawsuit.

“Doctor,” you slurred, dropping your purse with a dramatic gasp. “I think I need assistance.”

You bent down in the least ergonomic way possible—legs locked, heels steady, dress defying gravity. Your hands fumbled across the floor, patting around blindly while he, poor man, had an unobstructed view of everything that made your outfit barely legal.

“What are you waiting for, Doctor?” you purred. “Put me to bed, stat.”

“Might need an ambulance,” he muttered.

“Tonight, you are my ambulance. My emergency contact. My…” You paused, reaching for a word.

“Grateful audience?” he offered dryly.

“Well, if you’d rather just watch, Doctor. Or are you going to perform a proper exam? I think I twisted my ankle…”

He chuckled.

Zayne—laughing?

You blinked at him, trying to steady the room, but he stepped in, catching you carefully beneath the arms and lifting you upright. Then, without a word, he scooped you into his arms and began carrying you toward the bedroom.

You looped your arms around his neck, closed your eyes with a happy sigh, and let yourself melt into the warmth of him.

Once you were laid out on the soft bedspread, you stretched out one leg toward him—gracefully, or so you believed. The stiletto heel pointed at his chest like the barrel of a gun.

 “My ankle, Doctor,” you reminded him.

Obediently, he slipped off the shoe. His strong, confident fingers wrapped around your foot, gently massaging it. It felt so sweet—so good—you tilted your head back, relaxed, and moaned.

He braced your leg against his chest and reached for the other. The second heel hit the floor with a dull thud. He began to knead your other foot, and it awakened something in you that felt anything but patient-like. Your heart pounded loudly beneath your ribs, urging you toward something bolder. Braver.

Your leg began to slowly slide down his torso, inch by inch, until it came to rest precisely where you wanted it—against the hardness that told you he wasn’t as detached as he pretended.

You heard him exhale sharply. His fingers tightened ever so slightly around your ankle.

“You need sleep and hydration,” he said, voice low, breathless. “Doctor’s orders.”

“Nooo,” you drawled, pouting. “I’ve been a very, very naughty nurse tonight.”

He paused.

Not just physically—his whole energy shifted, like something inside him pulled tight. His hands were still on your ankles, but they weren’t moving anymore.

“You’re drunk,” he whispered softly. “This isn’t fair to you.”

You blinked, pouting deeper. “Ugh. Your professional ethics are showing.”

His thumbs brushed lightly over the bone of your ankle. “They tend to, when my patient is trying to seduce me.”

You stretched like a cat, deliberately languid, as your calf slid back up his chest. “I may be tipsy, but I’m also extremely committed to bad decisions. And I would absolutely do this sober.”

He didn’t speak.

You tilted your head, arching a brow—at least, you thought you did. It was hard to tell with the ceiling gently rotating overhead. You squinted, trying to make out his face. But the low light, the alcohol, and the sheer gravitational rebellion of the night blurred the lines of his features. He was all shadows and warmth and intent.

“Unless… you’re just not interested?”

That got him.

He surged forward—fast, smooth, a whisper of movement—and braced himself over you, catching your wrists with one hand, his body caging yours without fully touching. His face hovered just above yours, close enough that his breath tickled your lips.

“I’m interested,” he said, voice low and strained. “That’s the problem.”

You grinned.

“I knew it,” you whispered. “Even doctors are weak to naughty nurses.”

Still grinning, you reached up, hooked a finger through the front of his shirt, and pulled him closer. His nose bumped yours. His hair brushed your cheek. His breath hitched.

You crashed your lips against his in a kiss that was all wine and wicked intent. He let out a surprised breath—half gasp, half groan—but his body was already surrendering. Resistance ebbed away with every exhale.

With a burst of surprising strength for someone three cocktails and a questionable decision deep, you pushed him back onto the bed and immediately latched your mouth onto his nipple, biting just enough to make him jolt. His fingers tangled in your hair, breath catching.

Your lips continued their descent, tracing his abs like a cartographer mapping out forbidden territory. The soft trail of your tongue drew out a sound from his chest—low, needy, beautifully vulnerable.

You’d just reached his belt when you purred, mock-innocent:

“Mmm, Dr. Zayne, I think you’ve just entered my private treatment room...”

“Oh, cutie,” came the reply, tinged with amusement, a spark of offense, and a whole lot of lust, “I think you just fell into your own damn trap.”

Your fingers froze mid-buckle.

You blinked. Once. Twice. Your head gave a small shake.

No. Nope. Not yet.

Because now you knew. You knew exactly whose voice that was.

Still crouched low, you began to slide—gracefully, like a wartime spy—off the bed, dragging half the sheet with you. It took some maneuvering, but you made it to the floor in one piece, curling under the blanket like a small, trembling tent of denial.

“Do you think if you can’t see me, I’ll just disappear?” came Rafayel’s voice, far too amused for anyone who’d just been mistaken for someone else. He shuffled to the edge of the mattress.

You could feel him hovering.

“Say I’m dreaming,” you mumbled from under the blanket, your voice muffled by mortification. “If you’re any kind of gentleman, you’ll pretend I’m asleep and this was all a fever dream.”

“Naaaah,” he replied in a pitch-perfect mockery of your earlier whine. “Up until ten seconds ago, it was a very sweet, very erotic dream. I’m not quite ready to downgrade it to a nightmare just because the starring role was apparently meant for someone else.”

“Raf...” You had no idea what to say. Your head was pounding, your dignity in shreds. “I swear, this isn’t what it looks like.”

“Oh really?” he drawled. “Because it looked a lot like a drunk and debauched nurse opening the gates of heaven before kicking me headfirst into hell. Or are you going to tell me calling me by someone else’s name was a charming little accident?”

You peeked your nose out from under the blanket to breathe, and his face was suddenly right there. Way too close. That smug grin said it all: you owed him emotional reparations until the end of time.

“I don’t even know how I ended up here.”

“Yeah,” he smirked, tugging the blanket off your head and grabbing both of your ridiculous pigtails in one hand, pulling you closer. “I gathered that much. What I don’t know is how often you pull stunts like this with your good doctor.”

“What? No!” You struggled slightly, trying to pull back, but he tugged again, tilting your head up with a wicked glint. “There’s nothing serious going on! A girl has needs, okay?”

Rafayel tilted his head. “Sweetheart, I saw those needs up close and in high definition.” He tapped a finger against his temple. “Etched forever in my memory. Like a museum piece. ‘The Lustful Nurse: A Study in Confused Devotion.’”

You groaned and tried to bury your face in the sheet again. He didn’t let you.

“Oh no you don’t,” he said, catching your chin and forcing you to meet his eyes. “You wanted a doctor. I stepped in. Professionally. Valiantly. Heroically, some might say.”

“Heroically?” you snorted. “You didn’t even stop me!”

“I did, cutie. I said something about hydration. And moral boundaries. But then your foot was—how do I put this—communicating with certain regions of my anatomy, and I lost the thread.”

You sputtered a laugh before you could stop yourself. His grin widened, full of wolfish charm and barely-concealed affection.

“I’m just saying,” he continued breezily, “next time you feel overwhelmed by your... medical urgencies, I’d prefer you direct all prescriptions and referrals to me directly.” He leaned in slightly. “I happen to think I played the role of attending physician beautifully.”

You tilted your head. “Does that mean… you’ll forgive me?”

He pretended to ponder. “Hm. That depends. Will the cure involve exactly the moment where we left off?”

You blinked.

“With the nurse on top, making some very compelling arguments with her mouth?”

Your cheeks flushed. “Only if the nurse is sober.”

“Oh, definitely sober,” he agreed. “I want her full faculties engaged when she begs next time.”

You rolled your eyes. “And what if next time, she shows up in horns and a succubus tail instead?”

His eyes gleamed. “Darling, that is your default setting.”

Before you could retaliate, he grabbed the sheet and wrapped you up like a particularly offended caterpillar, tucking the ends with unnecessary flair.

“Hey!” you squeaked, now entirely cocooned.

“There,” he said, with deep satisfaction, flopping you gently onto the mattress like a tragic little gnome. “A very dramatic gurney roll. Perfect hospital protocol.”

He leaned over and pressed a surprisingly soft kiss to your forehead, lingering for a beat.

“Rest now, Nurse Chaos,” he murmured. “Your doctor will go brew you something for the hangover of the century.”

And with a final wink, he vanished toward the kitchen—barefoot, shirtless, and infuriatingly smug.

You sighed into the pillow, flushed and cocooned, and groaned: “I am never drinking again.”

From the kitchen, his voice rang out cheerfully: “Liar.”

It wasn’t… Xavier?!

You were so drunk you didn’t remember ordering a car. But apparently, you had. Your phone—bless its barely functioning GPS—had autopiloted to the first name on your address list. And that felt… correct.

The car ride was a blur. The city swayed too much. You told the driver about the ocean at some point. He didn’t respond.

When you stumbled out in front of the building, something felt off. The lights were dimmer than usual. The entryway looked taller. Moodier. But you were too focused on the door—because for some reason, it refused to open.

You glared at the scanner, then at your hand, as if your fingerprint had betrayed you.

Eventually, after a prolonged and increasingly hostile battle, the lock beeped. You triumphed with a muttered, “Told you.”

The elevator was missing.

Replaced by a flickering light and an echo.

You turned. Someone stood by the stairwell.

No. Two someones. Identical silhouettes in matching black. Both leaning against the wall like shadows in waiting.

“Hi,” you said carefully.

Both of them smiled. It was disconcerting.

You blinked. “Are you... the neighbor?”

One of them nodded. The other tilted his head in sync.

You decided that meant yes.

“I’m looking for the elevator,” you whispered, as if sharing a classified secret.

“Out of order,” one said.

“Stairs only tonight,” the other added, perfectly in time.

You squinted. “…Okay.”

The stairwell was infinite. You lost a shoe on the third landing, your dignity on the fifth. Your left heel gave up entirely and got left behind somewhere between realms. You told it you’d come back for it.

Eventually, floors blurred into memory. The hall looked darker than it should’ve. You walked along the wall like it owed you support.

And then—him again. Them.

Same neighbor(s). Same smirks. Still somehow here.

You blinked. “Didn’t I pass you?”

“Not yet,” one said, cheerful.

“Still on track,” said the other.

You frowned. “Where’s… he?” You didn’t say the name. You didn’t need to. Your brain filled it in: Xavier. Of course.

One of them pointed to a door. The other followed the gesture like a synchronized swimmer.

You nodded gratefully, only swaying a little. “Thanks, Mr. Neighbors.”

The door surrendered instantly—possibly out of self-preservation. You stepped inside with a victorious little “Hah,” completely and utterly confident…

…that you were finally at his home.

You were, quite literally, trapped in your own dress.

One arm was hooked behind your neck, the other somewhere near your lower back, and the fabric had bunched halfway over your face like a smug, pastel-colored straitjacket. Your shoulder popped audibly as you twisted in what you were reasonably certain would qualify as a Cirque du Soleil audition gone wrong.

Somewhere in the room, a crow cawed.

You flinched. “Shhh. Bird,” you hissed at it. “Don’t judge me.”

You staggered blindly toward the edge of the bed, hands fumbling forward until they landed on what you assumed—hoped—was Xavier. The solid warmth under your palms shifted slightly. And then—

A sound. Not a protest. Not quite a groan.

Something… different.

“Babe,” you slurred affectionately, still muffled by the offending dress, “help me. I’m being strangled by haute couture.”

The air around you shifted. A dip in the mattress. The brush of hands—warm, steady—finding the zipper and carefully easing it down your spine.

Strange. He always had cool hands.

“Curious,” he murmured, voice low and amused.

“Right?” you replied brightly, stepping out of the uncooperative fabric as he pulled it down. “Also, before you say anything—I don’t know how I got here. I couldn’t find my door. And I was thinking about us and… I figured, you wouldn’t mind if we kept things casual. No pressure.”

“No objections,” he said easily.

The dress pooled on the floor. His hands paused at your hips, waiting.

You didn’t move. Your legs weren’t really cooperating anymore.

You sighed and flopped backward onto the bed—unexpectedly plush. Softer than usual. Your brain tried to inform you that his mattress wasn’t this springy. You silenced it with a groan.

“You just gonna sit there?” you muttered, eyes half-shut.

“I don’t think you realize—”

You didn’t let him finish. You grabbed his wrist and pulled him down beside you. Somewhere in the corner, the crow cawed again.

You winced. “Ugh, it’s back. Rude.”

Something flickered uneasily in your chest, like a memory trying to surface. Something wasn’t quite right.

But nothing had been right since the third round of absinthe.

“He’s warning you,” he whispered, so low it barely reached your skin. “You’re drunk. Not thinking clearly. You should leave.”

But his voice didn’t move away. His hand didn’t loosen. His mouth stayed close—too close.

You exhaled shakily. “Shut up and kiss me,” you muttered. “You can give me the lecture tomorrow.”

He hesitated for half a second.

Then: “If I start, I won’t stop,” he warned, his voice suddenly hoarse. Deeper than usual. Rougher.

Maybe he had a cold. Poor thing.

“And does it look like I want you to stop?”

You opened your eyes just enough to reach for him. Your fingers slid into his blonde hair—soft, thick, impossibly light. Almost glowing in the dark. You tugged gently, guiding him down to you.

He hovered above you, braced on his arms, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath. Then—his mouth dipped.

He didn’t kiss you right away.

Instead, he ran his tongue slowly along the curve of your lips.

You gasped, mouth parting instinctively, and he kissed you—deep, searching, intense. Different.

You moaned softly, wrapping your arms around him, pulling him close. His body felt broader, heavier. Or maybe you were just very, very small tonight. You couldn’t tell.

And you didn’t care.

“Here,” you whispered, breathless, guiding his mouth to your shoulder.

He obeyed. His fingers brushed the strap of your bra aside with reverent slowness, and his lips descended—warm, deliberate—on your skin. A rush of goosebumps chased the touch, spreading outward in every direction.

Yes. You were exactly where you wanted to be. And his mouth was following that same map.

Both your hands tangled in his hair, urging him downward. Your pulse was a drumbeat under your skin, and your hips rose instinctively when his lips traced down your sternum, lower, over your stomach, kissing every inch like he was memorizing it.

You were burning.

“More,” you gasped, arching beneath him. “Please… lower. There…”

He paused.

“As much as I want to—”

“Please,” you interrupted, too desperate to care. “While I’m still brave enough.”

Something in your voice must have undone him, because he stopped resisting. Slowly—agonizingly—he eased your underwear down your legs. His hands were steady. Careful. But everything in him was tight with restraint.

He kissed the inside of your thigh. Then—closer.

Your back arched violently when you felt him—tongue, lips, heat—all of him focused on one singular purpose. His movements were slow at first, cautious, like he was still asking permission with every breath. And when you answered in moans, he got bolder. Greedier. More confident with every cry that escaped your lips.

Your legs locked around his shoulders. The world narrowed to the rhythm he built between your thighs. Your hands fisted in the sheets, your head thrown back, mouth open in broken sounds.

You couldn’t hold it. You were close. Right there.

And then—

“Please, Xavier—don’t stop—”

He froze. A beat of silence. Then—

“Kitten,” came the voice. Low. Dangerous. Almost purring. “I can almost understand how you failed to notice where you were. But mistaking me for another man…” A pause. “That’s nearly a mortal insult.”

From the corner of the room, the raven cawed again.

Your blood turned to ice.

Eyes wide, you finally—finally—looked down.

Not blue. Glowing red. Smoldering. Amused.

Everything slid into place with a sickening click.

“Sy—Sylus?!”

He licked his still wet lips, slowly, like he’d just finished dessert and wasn’t entirely satisfied. “Disappointed?”

You squeaked. Instinct took over—you clamped your legs tighter around his neck in pure panic, your thighs locking like a wrestler’s hold.

“What the hell are you doing in Xavier’s apartment?! With your damn bird?! Were you following me?!”

“Sweetie,” he drawled, voice vibrating between your legs, “I’d like to remind you that you broke into my house, seduced an innocent man—” he paused, smirking, “—and are currently attempting to murder him with your divine thighs.”

You released him so fast he nearly fell backwards.

He caught himself with a laugh, rolling onto his side with the elegance of a man who’d never in his life been embarrassed.

You scrambled toward the headboard, dragging the sheet with you, curling in on yourself like your bones were trying to retreat into your body.

He propped himself up on one elbow. “God, you’re adorable when you’re horrified.”

“I’m traumatized!”

“You say that,” he mused, glancing meaningfully at your flushed cheeks and the way you were still breathing hard, “but your body tells a very different story.”

“You—! I called you Xavier!”

“I noticed,” he said, mock-wounded. “Took me a whole half-second to recover.”

“You could’ve stopped me!”

“I tried. Several times. You were extremely persuasive.”

Sheer horror twisted your face. “If you really wanted to stop me—!”

“I didn’t,” he said plainly.

Your mouth opened. Closed. Then:

“You took advantage of my condition!”

“Kitten,” he sighed, tone maddeningly patient, “it never crossed my mind that you were disconnected from reality and didn’t know who you were seducing. Shall I throw myself out the window in penitence? Or would a dueling pistol be more poetic?”

“You’d survive the bullet,” you muttered darkly. “I’d have to try a guillotine.”

His lips twitched. Despite yourself, yours did too.

He noticed. Of course he did.

And then he delivered the killing blow: “I’m happy to pay for your therapy bills for the rest of your life. If you’ve been… emotionally scarred.”

You snorted.

“No. I… I think I’m okay.” You hesitated. “Sylus.”

“Yes, kitten?”

“We’re adults. I hope no lasting wounds were inflicted.”

He gave a dramatic sigh. “Only to my ego. But I shall take this trauma to the grave. Shall I drive you back to your… actual lover?”

You flinched. “Xavier’s just a friend,” you said slowly. “Well… a friend with benefits. Sort of.”

You swallowed.

“But with you… it was different. I didn’t realize how different until…”

Your voice dipped.

“Until I couldn’t stop wanting more.”

For once, Sylus didn’t grin right away. His eyes darkened, and the smirk curled slower this time—deeper. Sharper.

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” he murmured. “Just don’t make the same mistake twice.”

You blinked. “The drinking, or… you?”

He chuckled. “Kitten, we already crossed that line. Might be time to consider someone a little more... stable than your friend with occasional benefits.”

You snorted. “I’d rather start with dinner.”

He stood, stretching lazily, reaching for his shirt. “Dinner after dessert? Bold move.”

You watched him check his watch. The smug bastard.

With a sigh, you pulled the sheet tighter. “The dessert was good. But the waiter cleared the plate too fast.”

His eyes gleamed as he looked back at you. “Then next time, sweetie, the waiter will bring the whole damn menu.”

He stepped closer, then paused, amused. “Now get dressed. I’ll take you home—unless, of course, you’d prefer to linger in the restaurant.”

You gave him a flat look. “Turn around.”

He laughed. That low, rich laugh that made your pulse misbehave. And then he moved—close enough to feel the heat from his body. Two fingers caught your chin—his thumb and forefinger gentle but sure—and he tilted your face up just enough to press the softest, briefest kiss to your lips.

“I adore you,” he said, barely above a whisper. “You good with the dress on your own?”

You nodded dumbly. He stepped back, already halfway to the door. “Good. Be quick.”

You blinked. “Wait—you’re leaving? Just now?”

He flashed a grin over his shoulder, hand on the doorframe. “Don’t worry. Next time, kitten—I’ll cancel everything.”

And then he was gone.

Just like that.

You stared at the door. Still half-wrapped in a sheet. Still burning.

Gods help you. You were in so much trouble.

It wasn’t… Sylus?!

You’d somehow made it home on your own, though the details were fuzzy at best. All you really remembered was that your heels had developed a personal vendetta against straight lines, repeatedly dragging you leftward, and at least twice you nearly embraced a lamppost like a long-lost lover.

You’d spent an impressive amount of time talking to a stray cat outside your building. He meowed, you answered—telling him, in great detail, that Sylus was probably going to hold your drunken calls and voice messages over your head for at least the next decade. Especially if you kept making them during business meetings.

You and Sylus were in that strange stage of something that wasn’t nothing, but also wasn’t something. There was intimacy. Oh, there was intimacy. But no promises. No forward motion. Just a precarious dance between magnetic pull and emotional inertia.

The memory of him made your stomach twist. You’d almost called him again, just to say you couldn’t make it up the stairs. That he should come carry you, arms and all, straight into bed and wrap you up in his sinfully warm embrace.

So when you saw the leather jacket draped over the arm of your couch, you didn’t question it.

Of course he’d come.

Of course he’d let himself in.

And of course he’d decided to take a shower. You could hear the water running in the bathroom, steady and confident, like it belonged to him.

You methodically stripped down to your underwear, fully intending to throw on your robe, only to remember that said robe had likely fallen victim to last week’s laundry crisis.

Doesn’t matter.

Waiting for him to come out felt like a personal attack. You simply didn’t have that kind of patience. Besides, something about the heat, the scent of soap and steam, was pulling you in like gravity.

You cracked the bathroom door open.

The air hit you like a sauna—thick with steam, saturated with warmth. Light filtered dimly through the haze, barely illuminating the tiled space beyond. Inside the glass enclosure, the outline of a naked male figure shimmered like a mirage. He stood with his back to you, a thick lather sliding down from his hair, tracing the lines of his shoulders and spine.

You grinned.

With a quick shrug, you let the last of your clothes fall, and stepped inside the shower, the heat swallowing you whole. Silently, deliberately, you slipped your arms around him from behind.

He jolted.

You responded by digging your nails gently into the firm ridges of his abs, resting your forehead against the damp heat of his back.

“Shhh. Don’t say anything, okay?” you murmured, your voice hoarse. “My head’s already splitting. Just… help me get clean.”

For a moment, he was motionless—utterly still, like your touch had turned him to stone. You could feel the rapid thrum of his heart under your fingertips, every inch of him wound tight. And then, wordlessly, he shifted to the side, letting the stream of hot water hit your skin.

You closed your eyes and tilted your face up into it. Water filled your ears, muffling the world, like slipping under the surface of a dream.

“This is a terrible, terrible idea,” he muttered at last—but you felt him reach for the bottle of shower gel.

“Right now it’s a medical emergency,” you mumbled back. “You wouldn’t leave a helpless girl in need, would you?”

Your hand trailed down his chest again, teasing—until he caught it, firm but careful, and turned you gently so your back was to him.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he began to soap your shoulders and arms with the soft rhythm of the loofah. Tender. Meticulous. Each motion measured like a vow he wasn’t sure he should make.

It was starting to feel less like a shower and more like a very specific kind of torture.

When he reached your hands, he took them one at a time—cradling each palm, massaging your fingers slowly, purposefully, working the thick, fragrant lather between them like it was the most important task he’d ever undertaken. Then the other hand. Same care. Same unbearable, aching slowness.

When the loofah returned to your back, he traced long, deliberate lines over your skin. Gentle swirls. Careful strokes. Avoiding—so infuriatingly precisely—anywhere remotely intimate.

Your blood turned to molten heat.

He hesitated. You didn’t.

You caught his wrists, tugging them forward, down and then up—guiding his palms over your belly, then higher, until you pressed them firmly against your breasts. You felt the slight tremor in his arms, the sharp inhale against your neck. That surprised you. Sylus was never hesitant. Not once. But maybe… maybe he was punishing you, making you work for it after your little drunk-dial escapades?

You leaned back into his chest, into his touch, giving him space—permission.

And that’s when you felt it.

Hard. Pressed right against you, nestled between your cheeks, unmistakably eager.

You moaned, slow and approving, your spine arching just slightly, sliding your soapy skin against his torso. A tease. A promise. A challenge.

His grip tightened.

Resisting.

Why? Was he mad?

But you knew exactly which buttons to push.

“Don’t stop now,” you purred, voice dipped in syrup. “My legs need your attention too.”

He exhaled against your neck, ragged and low, like a knight realizing the battle was already lost. “You’re not yourself,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t…”

“Then leave,” you murmured, swaying your hips back against him. “Unless you’re too polite to walk out mid-procedure.”

He didn’t leave.

He moved.

More soap. More silence.

Then a shift.

He sank to a crouch, one hand slipping down your thigh, the other gently lifting your foot. Water cascaded down your body as he lathered your calf with careful strokes, like he was preparing you for worship, not hygiene.

You reached out blindly for the wall, chest rising and falling with ragged, expectant breaths.

There was something so devastatingly intimate about it. So unassuming and utterly charged. Like your skin had become a live wire and his hands knew exactly where to touch, and more dangerously—where not to.

Your entire body buzzed with the aching need for him to forget his restraint.

To finally, finally stop pretending he didn’t want this just as badly as you.

Smirking to yourself, you reached—decisively—for the bottle of intimate wash, squeezed it into his waiting hand like it was a silent command.

For a few long seconds, he just stood there, his palm full of scented foam, unmoving. Until you parted your legs just a little wider in wordless invitation.

And then—you felt him.

There. Exactly where your body pulsed with need. Exactly where you’d needed him all along.

His fingers slid between your folds, gentle at first, exploring with maddening patience. Soft, slow strokes that made your knees weak. That dragged needy moans from your throat, one after another.

It felt different.

Unfamiliar.

Too… unfamiliar.

“Sylus,” you whimpered, your voice ragged, “you’re killing me tonight with this patience…”

And then—

He froze.

The heat disappeared, the contact broken. A faint chill rushed down your spine, goosebumps blooming across your skin.

You blinked, suddenly, sharply aware of a single terrifying thought:

Sylus had told you he’d be out of town. Work trip. He mentioned it during one of your calls, half-distracted, but clear. 

So how was he here?

How was he in your shower?

Your stomach dropped.

You turned. Slowly. Reluctantly. As if giving your brain time to come up with any explanation, any excuse, any miracle.

Your heart slammed against your ribs as you looked up into a face that was very, very much not the man you thought you’d been grinding against in your own shower.

Oh gods.

Oh hell.

This wasn’t Sylus. This was someone else entirely.

And in that moment, standing there stark naked, soaked to the bone, legs still parted like an offering—you wanted nothing more than to melt into the steam and swirl straight down the drain.

Preferably with the rest of your dignity.

“Pip-squeak,” he said slowly, clearly, planting his hands on either side of your head against the wall. There was nowhere to run.

“Tell me you didn’t expect the leader of Onychinus in your shower tonight.”

You bit your lip. Your chest was still rising too fast, your brain pulsing against your skull, and the thick steam made it hard to breathe. You tried the fainting strategy—gracefully sliding down the tiles like a wilting Victorian heroine.

It did not work.

Caleb caught you halfway down with a sigh and set you firmly back upright, unimpressed by your performance.

It was then that you realized—fully, painfully—that you were completely naked. You crossed your arms. Then your legs. And very carefully avoided his eyes.

Unfortunately, that meant your gaze landed squarely on—

Yep. Still hard. Still very hard.

Caleb followed your line of sight, made a vague sound somewhere between a groan and a growl, and turned away. In one fluid motion, he wrapped a towel around his hips and tossed you a second one without looking.

You caught it. Barely. And wrapped yourself up like a guilty burrito.

Now that your brain was clawing its way out of the absinthe swamp, you couldn’t for the life of you explain how you’d managed to confuse two very different men. But to be fair…

They did seem equally capable of awakening some deeply primal needs in you.

You groaned. “This is humiliating.”

Caleb glanced over his shoulder, towel still knotted dangerously low around his hips. “For you. I’m traumatized. I have decades of cold showers ahead of me now.”

Your jaw dropped. “You’re traumatized? I groped my best friend and begged him to shampoo my sins away!”

“I did shampoo you,” he said flatly. “I’m considerate like that.”

“Caleb.”

“What.”

You hesitated. “You’re… not gonna make this worse, are you?”

He arched a brow. “Define worse.”

You gave him a long, warning look.

He held up both hands. “Fine. I won’t mention the moaning. Or the way you pinned me to the glass like a woman possessed.”

You whimpered into your hands. “Please stop talking.”

“Done,” he nodded solemnly. “We’ll bury it. Deep, deep in the vault. Like national security secrets.”

A pause.

“Unless,” he added thoughtfully, “you’d prefer a repeat performance. Next time with scented candles and less identity confusion?”

Your lips twitched despite yourself. “Caleb... are you flirting with me right now?”

“I was naked and obedient in your shower. I think the flirting ship has sailed.”

You laughed. Helplessly. Warmth bloomed in your chest where panic had been just moments ago.

Then he stepped closer, voice dropping low, quiet:

“All righty, Pip-squeak. You’re still swaying. Get some water. Get in bed. And if you ever confuse me with that white-haired bastard again, I will take it personally.”

Your smile widened. “So you forgive me?”

He reached out, knuckled a stray wet strand of hair from your cheek. His touch lingered.

“If the cure,” he murmured, “is what almost happened five minutes ago—then yeah. You’re fully pardoned. But next time?”

You leaned into his hand.

“Next time, I won’t be stopping you,” he said softly.

And just like that, your pulse forgot how to behave.

Today we took our young son to the hospital because he suffers from two holes in his heart, which affects his breathing and causes him pain. I hope every conscientious person will help us save our little son's life and donate any amount possible

PLEASE DONATE!!! Even just $5 dollars counts, whatever you can afford to donate makes a difference!!!

@90-ghost @el-shab-hussein @nabulsi @gaza-evacuation-funds @schoolhater @commissions4aid-international @sar-soor @fairuzfan @flower-tea-fairies @schoolhater @baby-girl-aaron-dessner @sayruq @appsa @omiteo777 @malcriada @ilyabrums @beside-myself-with-glory

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Donate to Donate to Save My Innocent Children, organized by sharif Al Amoudi

Hello , I am Shareef Alamoudy, I am from Gaza married and have twins children Hus… sharif Al Amoudi needs your support for Donate to Save My

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Dear sympathizers

I am writing to you these words from the midst of the suffering, persecution and genocide that we are exposed to in the Gaza Strip

My name is Kifah from the northern Gaza Strip

I was displaced with my family of 9 people under the bombing, death and displacement and we reached with great difficulty a displacement camp in the city of Rafah and then we were displaced again to the city of Khan Yunis and the city of Deir al-Balah

The children of my family are now at this moment freezing from the severe cold and suffering from hunger and deprivation that is unprecedented

I look at the children and cry bitterly because I cannot provide them with what they eat and I cannot even provide them with clothes to warm them

I used to live in a house that resembled a beautiful palace and my financial situation was completely suitable before this damned war in which my beautiful house was burned and my entire area was destroyed and large parts of my house were demolished in addition to its burning.

Please, my dear, donate to me any amount, no matter how small, because it will be important to me..

The war has transformed me from a woman living with her family in wonderful conditions to a woman struggling to provide the minimum requirements of life, and from a woman who has money and a beautiful home to a woman striving to provide clothes and bread for her family..

Although it is difficult for me to ask for help, my dire circumstances force me to ask for help urgently..

Please, if you cannot donate to me, share my story so that I may reach my goal as soon as possible

EDIT OF MY FAVORITE MOMENTS OF "BLOODNIGHT BLAZE".

Original footage by the Lavender Youtube channel. Edit made by me.

URGENT: HELP SAVE THE LIFE OF MY CHILD

I'm Amal from Gaza. 🍉

Here’s my story, and I’m reaching out with a hopeful heart 💔✨, hoping someone will feel what my family and I are going throuh.

The Israeli occupation forces launched drone strikes on my husband, Fayez, and my son, Mohammad.

my husband was hit in the head, while my son Mohammad was wounded in his legs

Although my husband's condition has stabilized, my son is still suffering immensely and urgently needs medical treatment outside Gaza.

I lost most of my family. I'm afraid to lose my son too 🥺 .

I need your help please donate and share, evry contribution, no matter how small, brings us hope in these dark times.

Mohammed deserves to live a happy and healthy life, just like every other child on this earth.

So I humbly ask you to donate even a little or at least reblog this appeal.

Please Donate now:👇👇 👇

https://gofund.me/51283e3c

Or Donate by paypal:👇👇 👇

https://www.paypal.com/donate

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#gaza #free gaza #free palestine #save palestine #palestinian genocide #i stand with palestine #all eyes on palestine

Vetted and Verified Fundraiser 💞. Donate and Share💞💞

Please donate and share, your support will help me get the life-saving Humalog insulin injection I desperately need.

Hello everyone, I'm Hope a Palestinian and I have been diagnosed with type 1 diabetes, a condition that requires a delicate balance of insulin—a precious resource in my war-torn homeland of Gaza. I am in a constant battle to secure the insulin that is essential for my survival. With medical resources running low and hospitals overwhelmed, getting the medication I need has become a daily and dangerous challenge.

My situation became even more critical when bombs struck dangerously close to my home, leaving me with no insulin at all. With pharmacies closed and aid unable to reach our besieged area, I found myself in a desperate situation. Without insulin, my blood sugar levels skyrocketed, putting me at risk of falling into a coma.

I am asking for your support. Your help could truly mean the difference between life and death for me. Please, help me obtain the insulin I so desperately need.

MY GOAL $134/$460

KINDLY CLICK HERE TO DONATE AND SHARE TO HELP ME GET MY INSULIN INJECTION HUMALOG FOR THIS WEEK

Please continue to support me by donating directly or sharing the link to let others know. Feel free to help people in difficult and miserable times until the dark days are over.