FISH @auriloom - Tumblr Blog

ᴘᴇᴀʀʟʏ ᴛᴇᴀʀꜱ

Preview:

He can’t let you know. He won’t let you see. So he keeps it buried, the way the ocean keeps its teeth beneath a glassed surface. But still, he yearns.

Contents:

MDNI, monster fucking, oviposition, oral(fem receiving), angst, an ungodly amount of grammatical errors, kidnapping, blood, NOT canon-complaint, description of skeletons and corpses, fingering, dvp, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, ebb day cycle/messed up af due to events, no use of Y/N, murder, injury,weird old collector men, oh yeah one time viper mention for plot, once again not canon-complaint, weirdly interpreted bond, small small spoilers for Rafayel's third myth, Rafayel being both posessive and afraid of himself. Verly poorly written plot. Self indulgent, possibly ooc.

WC: 18k

Author's Note

This is my first fic posted on here actually, HOOOO BOY THIS GODDAMN THANG HAS BEEN AN EMOTIONAL ROLLERCOASTER FOR ME. Anyways um. Hi! If ur reading this, thank you, I hope you enjoy, I don't know whatim doing the spacing on tumblr is so ass stop shifting smh., OMG FUCKING GOD THIS POST HAS BEEN FIGHTING W ME

He hates them.

The luminescent pearls that spill from his eyes.

They come whether he wills it or not.

Gather at his lash line, swell, and fall heavy, striking stone or skin with a soft, humiliating sound. Too solid for tears. Too precious to be ignored.

On the market, they’d fetch a pretty price. Thousands, just for a glimpse of something so divine. People would string them along collarbones, let them sway from earlobes. Let them rest against warm throats and pulse points. They’d boast about owning the tears of a Lemurian, speak the name with reverence while never once thinking of the mouth it fell from.

He doesn’t know when the ugly feeling began. He’s an artist. A creator. He shouldn’t be ashamed of such beauty—

But he is.

(They fall. Ripples tide outward as the sea roars, as if answering him in a language he no longer speaks. The sun tilts over churning water, light breaking itself apart on the waves while the Sea God folds inward, arms wrapped tight around foam and spray. Something that used to live. Salt clings to his skin. Or maybe that’s just him.)

His skin is wrong—too scratchy, too big and too thin, too small and too thick all at once. It drags against overheated nerves, makes him painfully aware of every inch of himself.

His fingers twitch. Desperate suddenly.

To pop.

To tear himself apart.

To split open thin flesh and make way for cool scales.

To sink back into the deep where pressure would hold him together. Where silence would be kind.

Where he could swim in fields of seaweed and frolic with dolphins, gaze upon mortal land with free will and remain cradled by the ocean's embrace.

But he can’t.

He’s trapped in this mortal vessel, full of needs the land can’t answer.

It sweats. It starves. It aches in ways the sea never taught him.

And he can never return to what was once his.

Spiraling chambers are now rubble, lemuria reduced to nothing but a ghost of memory. There is no one to greet him down at the depths of the sea, no paint to walk with, and no familiar wisp of flames.

They were all hunted.

Hung up like canvases.

Pinned open.

Bled for an audience.

Life reduced to exhibits. Their bones scrubbed clean and wired into pleasing shapes. Their scales polished beneath cruel white lights until they gleam, until they no longer look like armor—only ornament. Wealthy ambassadors drift past with folded pamphlets and empty eyes, staring everywhere except the faces.

Except the souls still trapped inside the remains.

The bond would burn inside him, useless and desperate. A constant pull toward his bride, toward the place where he should have returned, where vows were once whispered into salt and current. The bond demands he give. That he go to her.

Instead, he’d be sealed in a museum.

A clean, white place.

Nothing like home. Nothing like his nest, layered with coral and bone and memory. Nothing that smells of life. Only disinfectant and cold air and the quiet buzz of electricity.

Something unfamiliar stirs inside him—uneasy and fragile. It coils low in his chest, presses outward against his ribs, searching for warmth. For safety. For a place to hide.

Something like fear.

He hates it. Almost as much as he hates the tears that keep pouring from his body, pearls ripping free as if he is being emptied from the inside out.

He is the god of the sea.

The Prince of Lemuria.

He is supposed to be strength incarnate. The embodiment of tide and undertow. Storms once bowed to his hands.

But his home is gone.

Lost beneath the roaring flame of the mortal world.

So he cries.

Unable to soothe the pain.

His tears echo the tides—low, restless.

Ebbing.

—

Crunch.

The pestle circles the mortar, grinding divinity down into something usable. Pearlescent powder stains the stone, clings to the lines of his palms, works its way beneath his nails.

No matter how much he scrubs, it always comes back.

A reminder he hates.

Paint bottles litter the floor, every shade of white imaginable. Milk. Bone. Ash. Pearl. They sprawl like wreckage, as if a storm tore through the room and hurled canvases from the walls.

He works.

Sunlight slips through the curtains, washing everything in dull orange. It catches on lavender hair, on the sharp slope of his cheekbones, on the dark hollows beneath his eyes.

Exhaustion should stop him.

He’s been up all day, the heavy feeling of ebb day burning through his skin.

It still lingers now.

So he cradles a handful of pearls in one hand.

Evidence.

The other hand grinds them down without hesitation.

To distract himself.

To be more human if only to avenge those lost.

The powder is mixed with white paint, they become test tubes lined in careful rows. Swatches dragged across blank canvas. Ratios adjusted, discarded, remade. His fingers move faster than thought—dip, grind, mix, press.

The sound rings through the room, too loud in the absence of everything else.

Even the shore outside is silent.

Just him.

The pearls.

The canvas.

Another cycle.

It takes many tries to reach the hue only his eyes can catch. Something whispered. Something precise. A white that remembers pain. A white that is not clean.

Maybe one day the burden will be lighter.

Maybe one day he’ll say the words he swallowed.

“I’ll chase you to the ends of the sea.”

He said it once, with salt on his lips and faith in his chest.

Now he sits on a stool, spine curved, and paints—not the sea. Not today.

Bones and skin flayed open. Boundaries erased. Blood smeared into a cold floor where it is meant to look accidental. Metal gleams. Tubes snake through bodies that are still alive enough to feel it.

An artist paints the words he cannot say.

His canvas, his mind.

His paints, the letters.

Outside, the ocean rumbles. The tide creeps closer, seeping in as if listening. As if soothed, just a little, by being remembered.

Firm brushstrokes carve a story no one knows how to read. Vengeance burns in every line—sharp enough to cut, staged so carefully it looks fictional. A show the audience would howl at, until the red wine darkens and someone realizes it isn’t part of the performance.

Then the party ends.

It seems that’s all he knows how to do now.

Paint.

Fear still roars in him

—--

“Rafayel?” You wave a hand in front of his face.

Rafayel startles, squawking indignantly—far too loud for someone who was definitely spacing out. It sounds suspiciously like a seagull. For all his hatred for them, he replicates their sounds perfectly.

He’s been doing that more lately.

Drifting. Staring off like the world’s gone quiet without telling you.

You don’t know why.

Even during Kitty Cards, he hasn’t had his usual drive to win. No teasing remarks, only a small smile and a disgruntled hum.

He didn’t even argue back when Thomas complained about his deadlines, instead humming and picking up his paints.

That’s what really worries you.

Because who is this new person?

Who kidnapped your whiny, fishy Rafayel and replaced him with… whatever he is now?

“Cutieeee—why would you do that?” Rafayel huffs.

You don’t even get a chance to answer.

Six feet of offended dramatics barrels into you, all limbs and indignation. His arms loop around you—long, warm—clinging like an octopus that’s decided you’re its favorite rock. His legs tangle with yours, and suddenly you’re tipping backward, the couch catching you both in an undignified sprawl.

“What if my heart suddenly stopped, huh?” he demands, voice thick with mock outrage. “What if you scared me to death?”

He tilts his head back, his fluffy locks tickling the underside of your chin. Your eyes meet sunset ones, lips pressed together in a mock pout before softening.

“What then?” he adds softly.

Now this is uncharacteristic.

The words get caught in your throat, your tongue a limp useless muscle in your mouth as rafayel stares up, waiting patiently.

You don’t think there’s ever been a day where he was so… vulnerable? Was that the right word? (You’ll soon realize it wasn’t.) But something inside of you compels you to brush it off, the pleading tone of his lulling voice making you pout instinctively. “What if I got scared! You just shoved me into the couch you floppy fish!” You scoff, but there’s no bite to your words, your eyes too fond to be angry at him. Your hands reach up to squish his cheeks, the soft skin giving way to your fingers.

You expect him to gasp, release one of those dramatic sighs of his. Maybe even pounce on you and roll you both into the floor. But instead, his lip wobbles, and suddenly his eyes are glassy.

Your heart drops. “Rafayel?” you whisper, his lashes are wet, but almost immediately the pout on his face shrinks back to a smirk. Teasing. “Hah! I knew you cared too much cutie!” His voice is triumphant, and you bat him with the palm of your hand, but they shake. He looked so close to crying.

And a pearl falls to the couch.

— He can’t let you know.

He won’t let you see.

So he keeps it buried, the way the ocean keeps its teeth beneath a glassed surface.

But still, he yearns.

Your throat draws his gaze like a tide he refuses to answer—the pale, vulnerable stretch of skin where your pulse moves like a trapped current. You bare it without thinking, to the world, to anyone.

That is the cruelty of it.

He wants to mark you the way the sea marks stone: patiently, relentlessly. To press his mouth there, slow and deliberate, until your skin remembers him.

Until the proof blooms dark and quiet.

Gods, what wouldn’t he give to claim that shore—to leave behind bruises like stormwater shadows, visible only to those who know where to look.

But he is scared. Because you do not know the urges that lie underneath, the ones that whisper dark secrets and terrible things.

The things he’d do to you, the things he'd do for you. They’re terrifying.

He’ll give you the pearls he hates so much, string them up on the finest silver he can get his hands on. He’ll drape them around your collarbone and arrange them just so to compliment the slope of your neck.

To make the bloom of darkened skin pop.

His fingers would linger, pressing where the bones of your collarbone meet. Lower his head until the tip of his tongue would curl around the shell of your ear and whisper dirty things. Just to feel your skin heat and watch your thighs squeeze.

But he can’t.

He fears. So badly.

What if they see? What if their greedy eyes roam over your skin, made for him and him only. What if they land on the pearly drops that dangle from your skin and decide to end it all? He can’t have that happen.

That messy, dirty world of blood‑red paints and stained canvases is not something you should have to live in.

You should be swaddled in every silk he can afford—layered, soft, untouched by the things he’s seen. His art belongs on a canvas that is the bloodstained earth, not you.

And yet.

His paint would still find your skin—not in pigment, but in spit and blooming marks, pressed slow and reverent, like vows made with teeth and breath. Your bond pulsing beneath his collarbone, pressed against the steady beat of his heart.

You slumber so peacefully beside him. Your body instinctively rolls towards him, fingers twitching lightly as the sound of the door opening and closing. A soft sound escapes your throat and he resists the urge to coo at the vulnerable display.

Maybe he should paint this soon.

But how would he excuse himself for staying up at this time? You’d scold him and be so worried, asking about where he was so late at night.

He knows you’re watching, especially in the way his shirt dips down to reveal his chest, his forearms when he rolls his sleeves up, and the gentle profile of his face. But it isn’t desire that lingers there.

It’s concern.

He’s been quieter lately. He knows that.

It’s a habit of his.

If he were a woman, the mood swings that come with ebb day might be forgiven, folded neatly beneath the excuse of a mortal cycle. But he isn’t. There is no language for what he is when the tide turns inward.

He can’t help it—he needs to be close to you. So, so close.

But he doesn’t want to frighten you away. He’d already done that once, last year, with overheated skin and strange, emerging scales. He barely held back from pouncing upon you.

He even told you to leave.

And still, you didn’t judge.

You stayed. You let him have you—just a few touches, fleeting and careful—but it was enough. It had to be.

(Though now, he wants more.)

He feels impossibly lucky to have you. And sometimes, that luck aches.

Lying would be easy if it were anyone else.

But it’s his beautiful bride, fingers curled around his hand even in sleep. The one who accepted him in all his wrongness, who carries such a gentle, defiant flame within her.

He almost feels guilty for intruding on your space.

Almost being the important word.

The organ tucked in his ribs flutters as his gaze drifts to your neck—the monster of the deep purring softly at the sight of his pearls resting there.

Maybe this is the only way he can bear to look at them.

His emotions—love, pain, anger—settle against your skin as if they belong there.

As if they always have.

Those pesky collectors… Thinking they could snatch his beloved bride away from him. It just makes his blood boil. He’d be much more rational if Ebb Day wasn’t around the corner, but now? With his hormones so high and his bride so close? God the blood on his dagger never seems to run away.

His fingers caress your cheek, lips lowering to press against your temple.

It's reverent, as if you were the god and him the worshipper. Then your eyes open, and he gets a glimpse of the pigment he tries so hard to replicate. The glassy sheen of your eyes has him on the brink of letting go, kissing the corners of your eyes as he– He stops himself there. ‘Just the hormones’ he reminds himself. (But will the hormones explain the beast below?)

A soft groan from you makes him pause, quickly leaning down to lull you. “Rafayel?”

Your fingers tighten around his, calloused, but infinitely more beautiful than his to him. “Shhh, go to sleep.” He murmurs, a cadence reminiscent of the tides. He can’t have you awake just yet. There’s still a life form he has to dispose of, lingering outside his home. He should’ve known that pesky collector would’ve sent more than just one. Thankfully, you don’t put up a fight, too sleepy to genuinely understand the gravity of the situation. The corners of his mouth lift, the sunset hue of his eyes softening in love as he chuckles. A kiss to your forehead. “I’ll be back soon.” He says.

You hum, nestling into the warmth of his body, he stays just for a little longer, hands carding through your hair, before getting up to leave.

No one hears the screams. —--

Sunlight leaks through the curtains, warm and gentle—like one of the kisses Rafayel gives you.

You don’t wake to seagulls squawking your ears off, miraculously. Thank god for your eardrums.

But something still feels wrong.

Consciousness comes slowly, like surf dragging you back to shore. Your limbs are heavy, sleep clinging where it shouldn’t. Something presses in your chest—dull, insistent.

You weren’t this tired last night.

You groan as you roll over, instinctively curling toward the solid warmth beside you. Your arms latch on, cheek pressing into a firm chest.

It chuckles.

Soft. Familiar. Soothing—

Wait.

Chuckles?

Your body jolts awake all at once. You flinch as arms tighten around you, heat bleeding through thin pajamas like it’s been waiting there all along.

“Whatttt,” the voice hums, thick with mock offense, “I’m not allowed to hug my muse anymore?”

There’s something wrong with it—

“Cutie?” it— No.

He murmurs.

immediately, you look up—straight into a familiar pair of violet eyes.

Rafayel’s eyebrow is raised, and it’s honestly unfair how stupidly good he looks in this lighting.

like a marble statue carved by loving hands.

(maybe it was your hands that hollowed out his heart)

Truly, whoever created him loved him very much.

He hums, then flicks your forehead.

“I know I’m stunning,” he says, pouting, cheeks puffing in a way that makes your fingers itch, “but don’t you think it’s rude not to answer me?”

The urge to squeeze his face hits you hard and sudden—-like he’s a child who just got ambushed by their grandmother.

And unfortunately for him, impulse is something you’re still working on. “Hm? Cutie, what are you—”

He lets out an undignified squeal—something you’ll definitely tease him about later. For now, though, your priorities lie in the soft, delicate flesh covering his sharp cheekbones, fuller than the last time you saw him this close.

A part of you murmurs in contentment, knowing he’s better than before.

That you changed him.

You don’t notice the way his eyes soften in quiet satisfaction—almost pleased that his bride takes such obvious delight in his form, in the way she studies him.

That’s all a Lemurian wants.

There’s a reason the males bear more extravagant shapes: sinewy muscle beneath shimmering scales, bodies built to move, to draw the eye. Dances etched into instinct, hips rolling, tail fins catching the light—nearly translucent.

Even after years reunited with his true form—Hat Island aside—he can’t deny the way his soul hums at your pleasure.

…Though his cheeks are starting to ache now.

“Cutie—mph! Let me go! My cheeks are under assault!” he whines, hands weakly grasping yours.

You giggle, amused by his plight. His fingers flex against your skin and he groans, blankets tangled at your waist, around him, everywhere—evidence of a restless night.

Then his hands go limp.

Rafayel freezes, eyes blown wide.

“Rafayel?” you murmur, fingers loosening.

For a heartbeat, it’s quiet enough that you think you’ve hurt him.

When you shift, starting to lift your weight from his waist, his hand darts down, trapping your hip. Fingers mold to your flesh like they belong there.

“Don’t move,” he says—then, softer,

“please.”

Confused, you obey, settling back against him. His gaze goes distant, glazed, and only now are you allowed the luxury of really looking at him.

No darkness. No curtain of hair.

His strands are swept back, sunlight kissing him first—like it paid to be here. The light falls too perfectly along the curve of his jaw, bands of gold stretching over sunset eyes.

Little do you know, he thinks the same.

Except his fingers itch to paint again, ebb day hovering just beyond the horizon. They ache to render you in reds and glimmering skin, in white and something irrevocably his.

His fingers slowly massage the meat of your thighs, pressure alternating between his thumb and the rest of his fingers.

He holds himself back.

Can he guarantee your safety?

The conditions are more favorable now—a mate who is… willing. Who knows his cycles. Who is undeniably drawn to him.

Who could take all of—

But would you want it?

His hands roam without permission from his mind. Your breath hitches as they slide upward—

Then stop.

They linger at your ribs, just shy of cupping the swell of your breasts.

“Rafayel?” you whisper again.

But this time, the word isn’t laced with concern—it’s soft. Hushed. Meant for his ears alone.

The throbbing between your legs pulses.

A myriad of emotions flicker across his eyes, and for the first time, you mourn the limits of your resonance—your inability to read the currents of his thoughts.

You grieve the universe most when he shifts, gently guiding you off him.

“You’re heavy, cutieeee! I’m far too frail for this,” he groans, turning dramatically. One hand presses to the back of his forehead, as if he’s been grievously wounded.

Does he not want to?

“Ough… it seems I can’t work—” he starts.

Never mind.

“Rafayel!” You smack his chest lightly. He gasps, clutching at the imaginary injury, eyes wide with offense.

“My bride hates me…” he sniffs, turning away as he slides out of bed. “I must atone with—”

A dramatic pause.

He glances back, pout firmly in place, mock tears clinging to his lashes.

“I must atone with breakfast in bed!”

You scoff, but there’s no bite behind it. For a moment, he turns—you think it’s because he believes you’re offended. Maybe disappointed.

So you smile and swat at his back.

“Come on… I’m hungryyyy!” You cling to the planes of his back, fingers sneaking in to tickle his ribs. He chokes on a laugh, squirming.

“Pearlie! Get off—I can’t make breakfast for you if you cling to me like a needy octopus!”

His long fingers gently pry yours loose. With the other hand, he tugs the blanket up and tucks you in snugly.

“Mwah.”

His lips press to yours—slow, coaxing.

“I’ll be back soon, mkay, cutie?” he says, smiling, fingers ghosting over your cheek.

You nod.

But the throbbing doesn’t fade, heat settling low in your stomach, patient and unresolved.

But it’s okay, you can wait.

—-

As soon as he exits the room, he collapses against the wall, breath heaving. God, you don’t know what you do to him.

His hands tremble, and the beast inside his soul screams at him to charge straight back into the room. Love you properly, not leave you wet and needy with your arousal soaking through the fabric of your shorts. ‘Why did you do that?’ It hisses.

Ebb day is close. Just a few days away.

He knows, in the way the scales on his lower body flex. In the way the heads of his shafts poke through the opening where his thighs and hips intersect. Not yet. He has to wait. He doesn’t want to hurt you, he doesn’t want to force you into something you don't want. You don’t know what he’d do to you if you said yes. He drags his hand down his face, hips twitching at the smell of you. The mere image of you tucked into bed, swaddled in his blankets, his scent, and his clothes is enough to send his pheromones crazy. ‘Get it together.’

His fingers twitch.

His mate is hungry, and if he wants to please her properly he needs to show he’s adequate enough to provide for her. Not in just luxury, but in the event all he has left is the sea, he can love her just the same. His soul settles at that, seeming to be content with that reasoning. This was going to be a long day.

—-

Tears are falling endlessly. They drop

drop

scatter all around. Even when the morning comes. They flow

Flow

Until my room is flooded whole. —

“You like it cutie?” You swear, If Rafayel weren’t a lemurian he’d be a dog with a wagging tail. His eyes watch you intently, pressure and anticipation laden in two colors as you take a tentative bite of the pancakes he made from scratch. The smell was mouthwatering, stirring you from your state of drowsiness in mere seconds when he barged into his room with a loud declaration. A burst of flavor and fruitiness tickles your tongue, and you don’t miss the way Rafayel’s eyes widen in delight when you nod eagerly. The batter is light and fluffy, warm and encompassing as he quickly feeds you another piece. This man was gonna get you fat with the rate of food he’s giving you- But you certainly aren’t complaining, no!

His fingers smooth over your lips once again, napkin pinched between them. The touch is careful, almost reverent, as if he’s afraid of smudging something fragile. His expression is soft—content in a way that knots low in your stomach, makes it twist pleasantly and wrong all at once.

You’ve been together for so long, yet that look still unsettles you. Not because it’s unfamiliar—but because it’s too focused.

Too quiet.

like he’s memorizing you.

His fingers linger on your thigh, massaging slow, absentminded circles. It’s a rhythm you know well, one that usually fades into the background of shared space and shared time. Today, it doesn’t. Today it feels deliberate. Weighted.

like star-crossed lovers finally allowed to touch.

The thought startles you.

You push it away, ducking your head to focus on the pancakes and strawberries instead. Sweet, warm, grounding. You eat more than you meant to, and the pleased little sound Rafayel makes in response sends another strange flutter through you.

When you’re finally full, heavy with comfort, he guides you back into the bed as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Something he’s practiced over centuries.

(perhaps he has once in a lifetime.)

His hand settles over your stomach, palm warm through the thin fabric of your shirt. His gaze drifts—your face, your mouth, the sliver of skin your collar reveals—then back again, restless. Searching.

You feel exposed. Not undressed, but seen. Laid open in a way you haven’t been in years.

Is this how an artist looks at something they love?

You don’t know.

So you stay still. Let the moment stretch. Your fingers remain laced with his as the hour slips by unnoticed. At some point, your eyes grow heavy, contentment weighing them closed. He slides a pillow beneath your neck, adjusts it until you make a soft sound of approval.

Silence gathers easily after that. Comfortable. Thick. His fingers drift from your hand to your cheek, tracing the curve there, punctuated by the occasional kiss pressed to your skin. The world blurs, edges softening as you hover between waking and sleep, wrapped in warmth and quiet.

Then—

“Would you accept all of me?”

Your eyes snap open, heart slamming hard against your ribs.

“What?”

The word stumbles out of you, clumsy and breathless. Heat rushes to your cheeks as you shift, suddenly too aware of how close he is. Your fingers tighten around his hand without meaning to.

His grip tightens in return.

Just for a moment.

like he’s afraid you might pull away.

You don’t know it, but he needs to hear the words from your mouth.

It isn’t a want. It’s a pull from the deep—old as tide and trench, insistent as breath.

He has cared for you. Fed you. Sheltered you. Kept you safe.

He knows that isn’t how it works in human culture. So he has learned their way, too. Given you his time. His devotion. Seaside dinners where the salt clings to your skin, quiet hours spent painting side by side. Gifts shaped from his tears, wrapped carefully in the finest paper he can find—handled as if they might break.

You were so receptive to his care, too—making those warm hums and contented sounds, the kind he could turn into melodies and listen to forever.

It would be even better if he could hear them underwater.

His knuckles traced soothing circles over yours, patient, waiting.

There’s something different about him today, something only you seem able to reach.

The bright blue of his eyes swallows all other colors, leaving a hazy, unfocused look. His lips tilt down—not quite a frown, more like a question, a quiet plea for something to soothe the turmoil beneath the surface.

Whatever it is, you sense he’s slowly letting you in.

Your hand drifts along his arm, rising to cup his cheek. Your thumb brushes over the swell of his cheekbone, gentle and deliberate.

“I’ve already accepted you. I did the moment you fell on me.”

The words were meant as a joke, a soft light against the weight between you. But they slip out in a whisper, almost reverent, as if they needed to be said even against your intent.

“Did you?” he asks.

You nod, almost breathless.

He blinks slowly, the sharp intensity in his eyes softening into something almost fragile, yet deeply satisfied—like a god finally holding what was once untouchable. There’s a stillness about him now, a quiet surrender that makes your chest tighten in a way you hadn’t expected.

His hand slides from your cheek to cup your own, and you feel the warmth radiating from him. He turns his face toward your palm, pressing the plush curve of his lips gently against your skin. Slow, deliberate pressure moves across your knuckles, over your fingers, resting in the center of your hand. It’s tender, reverent, and entirely unhurried.

You flush at the intimacy of it. There’s nothing overtly arousing in his touch—nothing calculated—but it makes butterflies rise in your stomach, flitting against your ribs with an almost mischievous persistence. Your hand trembles slightly, caught between wanting to pull away and wanting to stay exactly where you are.

He keeps his eyes on yours, quiet and steady, and the intensity returns in a softer form, a warmth that seeps into your chest. You can feel the pulse of him through your palm, slow and steady, like he’s anchoring himself to you as much as you are to him.

His thumb brushes over the back of your hand, back and forth in a rhythm that feels deliberate yet unspoken, a quiet conversation without words. You lean closer without thinking, your foreheads nearly touching, drawn in by the gravity of him. The world beyond this small circle of warmth disappears; all that exists is the press of his hand in yours, the softness of his lips against your skin, and the fragile bond threading between you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, almost inaudible. His voice is low, intimate, a secret he’s letting you in on. “I’ve got you.”

What, you don’t know. But it’s. Assuring.

It seems like instinct to him, something to soothe both the lemurian inside of him and your soul that seems to vibrate at his closeness. So you let him.

You let him cradle your palm, your wrist, your cheek.

He doesn’t know it yet.

But he has everything.

_—- “Cutieeee! You can’t goooooo!”

You drag your feet, groaning—

Not out of your own will, though.

Because what else can you do when a six‑foot man is clinging to your ankles like an otter with seaweed?

You sigh, tipping your head back to look at him. Rafayel peers up at you with wide, imploring eyes, lashes unfairly long. His fingers look delicate wrapped around your legs, but the calloused skin of his hands tells a different story—one earned through work, through tides, through time.

And somehow, that contrast makes your chest ache just a little.

You sigh, glancing up at the clock mounted on the wall. Time is slipping through your fingers, and Rafayel is still clinging to your thighs like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this world.

(Perhaps you are.)

“Cutie, you can’t go!”

His grip tightens. The weight on your leg grows heavier, and you nearly stumble when he hooks his legs around your ankle, knees buckling under the sudden pull.

“Rafayel!” you groan. This is far too much for a Monday morning.

“If you need money, I can provide for you,” you say, pausing as you look down at him.

“That’s not—”

The words die in your throat when your eyes finally meet his.

He looks like he’s on the verge of tears.

A wet, shimmery gloss clings to his lashes, his mouth pressed into a thin, trembling line. His hair is mussed, as if he’s only just rolled out of bed—soft, undone, painfully human.

You realize then that work isn’t about money.

It isn’t about obligation, either.

It’s because if you stay any longer, you might never want to leave.

Because his gaze drags you under, pulling you into the depths of whatever Rafayel truly is—

a siren of the sea.

“Please, just—”

He cuts himself off.

Then, suddenly, he lets go.

The release is sharp, jarring—a cruel contrast to how tightly he’d been holding on. Your heart sinks as he turns away, shoulders drawn in, as if bracing himself for something that’s already hurting.

But he doesn’t leave.

Instead, he straightens and steps back into you, arms sliding around your waist. He leans his weight into your body, forehead resting against your shoulder, like the space between you is unbearable even for a second.

(It is)

“Just… come back, okay?” he murmurs, nuzzling into the side of your neck.

The words are soft, almost fragile.

You huff a quiet breath, fingers brushing through his hair.

“Silly fishie,” you tease gently. “When do I ever not come back?”

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

The glare he gives you isn’t sharp.

it’s wounded. Unconvinced.

(Maybe it’s because all those years ago you did break a promise to him.)

Silence settles between you, thick and awkward, but Rafayel doesn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightens, fingers curling into your clothes like you might disappear if he loosens them.

“Promise me.”

And this time, you don’t deflect. You don’t joke.

You meet his eyes and let the weight of it settle in your chest.

“I will.”

He holds you for a moment longer, reluctant, before his fingers begin to trace slow paths down your spine. The motion is gentle, repetitive—less for you, more for himself.

A way to remind his body that you’re still here.

The movement draws you closer, pressed flush against his chest.

A soft, reverent sound slips from his throat—low and pleased.

Fulfilling.

Soothing.

A kiss follows, warm and lingering against the side of your neck, before his arms finally loosen—just enough to let you breathe, never enough to truly let you go.

“Come back to me.”

It isn’t a suggestion.

It’s spoken quietly, with restraint pulled tight around something far older and more instinctive. A promise layered beneath the command.

It’s a demand from your god.

———

“According to our latest intelligence, the protocores are believed to be secured inside this warehouse, deep within the No-Hunt Zone.”

Jenna pauses, her gaze sweeping the room. When it lands on you, she hesitates—just a fraction—before continuing.

“I won’t sugarcoat this. The conditions are hostile, and the location is unsuitable for rookies.” A measured breath. “However, we are operating under a personnel shortage.”

She places a hand over her heart, posture straightening, voice firm.

Unease blankets the room, low murmurs gathering like mist. People shift from side to side, clearly uncomfortable. It was one thing to have an isolated warehouse. It’s another entirely for it to be in the No-Hunt zone.

It also sucks because Xavier, of all people, is out on a business trip across seas, leaving you all with some… very questionable matches for partners.

Jenna waves her hand, and the room settles down once more.

“This mission is voluntary. If you wish to request reassignment, state it now. Otherwise, we proceed with those prepared to accept the risk.”

The rest of the briefing fades into a dull hum, words sliding past you without meaning.

Something tugs at your chest again.

Not pain—never pain—but a dense, insistent pull, as if something far beneath the surface is calling your name. Slow. Heavy. Inescapable.

You swallow.

What is wrong with you today? Something deep within you begs to return to the sea—to sink into the warmth of it, the heavy, living wetness of the tides.

You can’t go, it pleads.

But you have to.

People are counting on you.

If those protocores were released—if they were twisted into weapons—the damage would ripple outward, leaving scars across all of Linkon.

(And if they were ever used near Rafayel?)

The thought strikes like a match to oil.

Heat floods your chest, sharp and sudden, burning away the doubt. The pull of the sea recoils beneath something fiercer—protective. Ruthless.

No.

You won’t allow it.

You can’t allow it.

““Now then, if you wish to request reassignment, proceed to the left.”

The room shifts.

What had once been a crowd thins quickly, bodies peeling away toward the right—toward the safety of sunlight and city streets.

Toward warmth that doesn’t demand anything in return.

You can’t fault them.

Jenna watches the numbers dwindle, her expression darkening. Worry lines her brow, concern settling deep in her eyes—but she says nothing. There’s no time to acknowledge what’s already been decided.

It’s too late for that now.

Her gaze returns to you, steady and searching.

“Are you certain you’re willing to participate?”

You nod. “I’ll do my best captain.” That cracks a smile out of her. “You always do your best, even despite the setbacks.” —- CRACK!

The paint can slips from numb fingers and shatters against the floor, rattling once before rolling away. Pearly pigment bleeds across the wooden panels, seeping into the grain like something spilled and alive.

Thomas would kill him for that later, he thinks. Something about how expensive the floors are and how weird his paints and the materials- (Little does Thomas know those pearls are his own.)

Rafayel barely notices.

His body twists as if his skin no longer fits right—like it’s shrunk, tightened, turned against him. Heat coils beneath his ribs, crawling up his spine, flooding his chest until breathing feels wrong.

Shit. He- he should have more time-

But he doesn't

.

Too hot.

Too—

Where—

His thoughts scatter, breaking apart before they can form. The air feels thin. Dry. Wrong. Every instinct screams for salt, for pressure, for the steady presence that should be here—

You.

His fingers flex, trembling, nails scraping against the table as another wave hits. It’s not pain, not exactly. It’s need—dense and consuming, thrumming through his blood like the white cascades of a river.

This day always comes.

The sea inside him swells, pheromones flooding his senses, demanding closeness, demanding his bride—

his anchor—

his home.

And you aren’t anywhere.

A wounded sound echoes from his chest, his knees hitting the floor. The room reeks of you, your shirt draped over the arm of his couch. It’s perfect- It’s torture. Because you aren't here.

He presses a hand to his chest, right over where the pull aches worst.

Gone.

Too far.

The bond strains, stretching thin, and instinct claws at him to follow. To cross land and street and city and drag you back to the water where you belong with him.

Rafayel squeezes his eyes shut, breath shuddering.

Come back, something ancient snarls inside him.

Come back to the sea.

The paint continues to spread across the floor, luminous and unchecked—just like the tide inside him, rising with no one there to soothe it.

Where is she? He chokes, the sound sharp and broken, and before he can talk himself out of it, his hand darts forward. Fingers curl tight around the abandoned fabric of your shirt, crushing it in his grip as he drags it up to his face.

The moment he inhales, his breath stutters.

The scent hits his glands like a wave—warm, familiar, unmistakably you.

Salt and skin and something softer beneath it.

something that tells his body safe, mine, home.

His knees nearly give out. (Haven’t they already?)

A low, helpless sound slips from his throat as his grip tightens, knuckles whitening. He presses the fabric harder against his nose, breathing in again, deeper this time, as if he can pull you out of the air itself.

For a heartbeat, the heat eases.

Just a little.

The swell and ache of his glands unmarked, the shifting of his scales underneath his clothes, and the slick that drips from his innards.

Enough to make the absence hurt worse.

His chest heaves, eyes squeezing shut as instinct screams at him to follow the trail, to find you, to drag you back to the sea where he can wrap himself around you and breathe again.

He’d croon and trill around you. Bring all those pretty gifts you eye at those stores at Whitesand Bay. Wrap his tail in circles around your legs and keep you close and sated and warm and full-

“Stupid,” he mutters hoarsely, voice wrecked, though he doesn’t let go.

He can’t.

Because if he starts, then he’ll never stop.

So he sits there on the floor, writing.

HIs body aches, already priming itself for you. He’ll just have to wait.

And ignore your own soul, tugging desperately at his own.

–

“Your safety comes first,” Jenna begins, her voice cutting through the low murmur of the small group. “That is non-negotiable. It’ll be a bonus if you destroy the protocore, but under no circumstances do you put yourself—or your partner—above your own survival. If anything goes wrong, your extraction is priority one.”

You shiver, but you can’t afford to back out now.

Your hands instinctively press to the pearls that sit snug on your ears, a gift Rafayel had given you weeks ago.

People are counting on you.

She steps closer, scanning each hunter with a measured, commanding gaze. “We are not here for heroics. We are here for precision, for control. Do not improvise without assessment. Do not chase after every signal or anomaly you encounter. The No-Hunt Zone is unforgiving.”

The woods whistle, leaves bending as the breeze caresses your cheek. It smells of salt and sea. But that can’t be right? The ocean is over 50 kilometers away?

Something inside you tugs once more. A string of doubt you snap in moments.

Her fingers tap the gear strapped across her waist—pouches, knives, communication devices, and tracer units.

“Know your tools. Every item here exists for a reason. Harness them. If you’re unsure how to use something, ask. Now. Not when your life depends on it.”

Jenna paces slowly, eyes sharp, voice steady.

“Teamwork is mandatory. Stick to your assigned partner. Signal constantly. One lost teammate compromises the entire operation. Do not break formation, do not separate, and above all—do not ignore the evacuation route. It’s marked, memorized, and rehearsed. Use it if needed. No hesitation. No exceptions.”

She stops, letting her gaze rest on each of you in turn.

“Situational awareness is not optional. Monitor your surroundings, note patterns, identify threats, and report anomalies immediately. Your environment can change in an instant. Your decisions in those moments will determine not just your fate, but the outcome of the mission.”

Her tone softens—briefly, only for a second—

but it carries weight.

“I know some of you are rookies, and this is intimidating. It should be. That’s why preparation matters. That’s why discipline matters. That’s why you follow orders.”

She straightens, posture rigid, hands resting lightly on her belt. “Gear checked, partners briefed, extraction plan memorized?”

People nod, murmurs echoing around the concrete platform.

“Good. Then move forward with confidence, but remember: survival first. Mission second.”

The weight of her words hangs in the air, mingling with the heaviness of the gear strapped across your waist. You feel it—not just physical, but the invisible gravity of responsibility, of choice, of the dangers waiting just beyond the No-Hunt Zone.

——

There’s no one here.

That’s what the space tells you, anyway.

The corridor stretches long and bare, concrete walls swallowing light, the air stale and unmoving. Your footsteps echo too loudly, each one bouncing back at you with a hollow, eerie reverb.

Someone shifts beside you.

Too close.

Viper—your assigned partner—moves in until his shoulder nearly brushes yours. The proximity sends a prickle down your spine, instinctive and sharp. He huddles near, not for warmth, not for comfort, but with the coiled stillness of something. Something trained.

Your skin crawls.

He shouldn’t be this close.

There’s already someone waiting for you. Someone warm and vast and patient, tied to tides and promises. He’s at home. Waiting. You have to go back—you will go back, you have to—

“Pay attention.”

The words slither into your ear like how a snake strangled prey.

You jolt, fingers tightening around your gun as your breath catches. Your wrist doesn’t flare—no alarm, no warning—your hunter’s watch continues its steady, indifferent rhythm.

The voice is low. Cold. A hiss pressed right against you.

Your spine snaps straight as you whirl toward him.

Viper stands at your side as if he’s always been there, posture loose, unreadable. His knives rest neatly at his belt, untouched. Green eyes glint from beneath his hood, reflective in the dim light—sharp, observant, unsettlingly calm.

You falter and he merely raises an eyebrow. You’ve never seen him around the association before. You think you would notice if a man with dark green hair lingered around desks and gathered at mission briefings. Maybe you’ve been too focused.

For a moment, there’s only the hollow sound of boots against concrete, the echo stretching and stretching down abandoned halls.

His eyes twitch, and you quickly turn on your heel, stalking down the empty corridor at the same, cautious pace you both adopted before.

You almost convince yourself he never spoke.

Almost.

Then you slow—just for a second—and his gaze snaps to you, fierce and irritated, something tight and impatient flickering behind his eyes.

Annoyance.

No—worse.

As if your hesitation offends him.

You swallow and force your pace steady again, the air feeling thinner with every step.

Would he understand, you wonder dimly, if you told him?

That someone is waiting.

That the sea is close—so close it presses against the inside of your chest, threatening to pull you under the moment you stop moving.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does Viper.

But you can feel him watching you, every movement measured, as if he’s cataloguing you piece by piece—waiting for something to slip.

And in the empty hallway, with nothing but echoes for company, the silence feels less like safety. The steady hum of machines fills the darkness, a low, mechanical drone that settles into your bones. It’s everywhere—behind the walls, beneath the floor, threaded through the air like a second pulse. Moonlight filters in through fractured vents and crumbling concrete, pale and distant, illuminating dust that hangs motionless.

Nothing crashes through the silence.

Nothing moves.

And that somehow makes it worse.

You feel overwrought, stretched thin like a string pulled in too many directions at once. Every sense feels tuned too tightly, ready to snap. The air itself presses against your skin, heavy with anticipation.

‘The world is silent, and you’re surprised no wanderers have crashed in through the roof yet. This is the No-Hunt zone after all.

Viper walks too close.

The sound of his breathing—controlled, measured—sets your nerves on edge. Your legs itch with the urge to bolt, muscles coiled and ready, while your fingers hover near the trigger, prepared to react before your mind can catch up.

Nervous, you realize distantly.

It surprises you.

You’ve fought wanderers twice your size—grotesque things that fall screaming from the sky. You’ve stared down death with a weapon in your hands and pulled the trigger without hesitation.

And yet now, in a quiet hallway, your hands tremble.

Still human.

Because despite everything—training, violence, survival—there is still something waiting for you.

Someone.

Something warm that held you close this morning, clung to you like the tide refusing to recede, like letting go was an act of will.

(You can’t break his promise. Not now.)

(You have to return.)

The thought doesn’t feel like something you chose.

Still, you force yourself to listen.

Your breathing slows as you strain past the mechanical hum, ears searching for what doesn’t belong. The rhythm of the machines lulls you into a strange haze, steady and almost hypnotic, familiar enough to blur the edges of your awareness.

Then—

He stops.

“Ssstop.”

The word slices clean through the hum.

Boots scrape against concrete as you halt, the sudden stillness ringing louder than movement ever did. You turn toward him, pulse kicking hard in your throat.

Your gun raises, aimed behind him, but there’s nothing back there but darkness.

Viper’s eyes are fixed on you, unflinching.

Yellow. Bright. Reflective in the dim light, catching and holding.

Not scanning the hall. Not checking the corners.

Watching you.

“Is there… something wrong?” you ask.

Your voice sounds smaller than you intend. Hesitant.

You realize your grip on the gun has loosened, the barrel dipping slightly as uncertainty creeps in. It lowers until it’s level with your thigh, your spine straightening.

Did he hear something?

Or did you miss it?

His gaze flickers to your side—just for a second—then returns to your face, sharp and unreadable.

“I heard ssssomething,” he says. His words are drawled out, faintly like a snake's.

Is he… going to elaborate on that??

The machines continue to hum.

The silence drags.

It stretches until it feels elastic, pulled taut between you and him, ready to snap at the slightest movement. The tension builds in slow, awful increments, and you’re half convinced he’ll lunge at you without warning—

—or turn and disappear down the corridor, leaving you alone with whatever this place is cursed with.

Your heart hums. A steady beat that seems to never go away. As if pleading for you to not go. But you ignore it. It’s too far to go back now.

“Are we… going to go?” you ask at last.

Your voice sounds strange in the stillness, too loud, too fragile.

Viper tilts his head.

The motion is deliberate. Curious. Unhurried.

“You firsssst.”

The word coils as it leaves his mouth, elongated, sibilant. Not a command exactly—but not a suggestion, either.

You hesitate.

Why you?

Your eyes flick over him, searching for something—intent, impatience, threat—but find nothing readable.

Just blank, silent eyes.

So your gaze drifts past him instead, down the corridor, where shadow pools thickly against the walls.

That’s when you see it.

A door.

The handle is nearly swallowed by thick green vines, thorns blooming along their lengths like they’ve been growing there for years.

Too lush.

Too alive for a place this dead. Rafayel always said that living things growing in dead places carried unease.

He used it in his paintings—the way color felt wrong against rot, the way life shouldn’t bloom where it didn’t belong. He’d point it out with quiet reverence, draped over your shoulder, his chin resting there as if the world was something the two of you were meant to observe together.

“See?” he’d murmur, voice warm in your ear. “That’s how you know something’s listening.”

You think of him now as your gaze catches on the door.

Vines coil thick around the handle, thorns blooming where the concrete has long since given up. Green too vivid. Too intentional. Life pressing its way into a place that should have stayed empty.

Unease settles low in your chest.

You frown.

You’re sure it wasn’t there before.

Your head feels heavy all of a sudden, a dull pressure settling behind your eyes. The thought drifts in lazily, unbothered by alarm.

Maybe it’s just nerves.

You’ve always been like this before missions. Jittery. On edge. You remember feeling the same way working alongside Xavier—too aware of every sound, every shadow.

This is normal.

You inhale slowly and move forward.

Each step is careful, measured. Your body lowers instinctively, shoulders tight, muscles coiled. You feel like a predator stalking through tall grass—every sense sharpened, every movement restrained.

The knife slides free from its sheath with a soft whisper.

You press the blade to the vines and begin to cut.

Slowly.

Green fibers part with quiet resistance, sap glistening faintly in the low light. Seconds stretch into minutes you can’t afford to lose. Every heartbeat feels loud, exposed.

You need those protocores gone.

You have to—

BAM!

The door bursts open beneath a sharp kick from your heel.

The sound cracks through the hallway, violent and sudden, echoing endlessly off concrete walls.

Dust settles, the room untouched for years. BUt there are footprints here, recently disturbed. Boxes of protocores stacked. You’ve found your objective. It’s there in front of you.

“Quickly, get the boxes.” You look around, and you hear the steady thrum of your hunter’s watch get louder and louder. All this energy gathering in one place… it could cause so many problems. Thankfully, Viper obliges, taking a large crate and dragging it out of the room.

But your heart slams against your ribs.

A rabbit.

A rabbit trapped in your chest.

Little rabbit feet kicking.

Running.

Beating.

Straight toward the tall grass.

It hides away. Until the snake strangles them. Hidden in the grasses they called home.

—- It smells of blood. Reeks of blood. Almost immediately your throat wants to lurch upon you, your stomach writhing from the overpowering scent of Iron. Just what happened? Your head feels like it just got run over by a train. A big, fat metal hunk of what humanity calls “A revolutionary device.” Marbles seem to clink around in your brain, rippling and dashing around like crazed chickens without heads. You try to move your limbs, but they don’t respond. No. More like they can’t respond. The world comes around in sections. First your hands, a numb pringling feeling zinging up and down your muscles. like they fell asleep and finally decided to wake up. It’s like trying to get an elephant to move when you try to lift it. Coincidentally your other arm pangs. like there’s something tugging on it. Huh? You struggle again, head lolling uselessly to the side. like one of those springy figurines you and Caleb used to play with when you were younger. Sprong. Your eyes haze over, the blur too much to handle. So you close your eyes again. Dream of lollipops. Lollipops? You crack your eyelids open just the slightest bit. To your delight, your vision clears just the slightest. Or was it still the same? Without your permission, a groan rolls from your mouth. Heavy, and long. like a rope dangling from a cliff and unfurling. “She’s awake.” Who is she? Your neck begins to ache, the weight of your head pulling it down as you attempt to right itself. Was it always this heavy? Your heart beats lazily, pumping. It beats. A loud, scattered sound screeches through the room. “For a moment I thought he killed her!”

A laugh. A loud, screechy sound that makes you want to vomit at whoever’s polished shoes lay in front of your sight. Suddenly your neck aches further. It stretches. A jelly, you think. Then it catches your eye. A figure haunts the distance. No, not a figure. Bones. A skeleton with fins, a tail longer than torso and a skull who reaches for nothing.Sentience only seems to hit you then. A slow aching thing that shrinks your eyesight. A blur that never seems to go away. The rabbit returns. Beating. Running.

Fearing. Squish. “You see your comrade?" Suddenly your neck is yanked in a different direction, pins and bottle scribbling up your mind like a pen. A pen that flies and- A man. A man with greasy oily hair, a suit that looks too crooked, and breath that smells. Gosh do people not know of hygiene? Hello? This is just sad I mean didn’t his mother have at least one standard of-

“I’ll be rich.” He murmurs. It's only then do your eyes clear properly. It’s scattered. Memories breaking then reforming. The mission. The vines.

The protocores. It’s only then do you realize the gravity of the situation. “Hold on, wai—” Your words slur together, useless. You think them clearly enough, but your mouth doesn’t follow. Your body lags behind your mind by leagues.

No. Oceans. Oceans. Rafayel. No you promised- Mistake? “I’ve finally gotten my hands on a Lemurian…” A maniac laughter fills the room, the sound heavy and earsplitting. Nothing like the light echoey laughter of your beloved. Of that stupid fish oh god where he is Rafayel where? Then the man’s hand tightens and dull pain blooms on the bones of your jaw, your teeth clenching at the harsh grip. “I- I think you’re mistaken.” Finally, You’re tongue isn’t a useless worm taking up space rent free in your mouth- Feeling slowly bleeds in, like oil through water. Speaking of oil spills you should really finish that project from fifth grade- Your thoughts scatter like birds. He’s giving you a stare What the stare means you don’t know but it certainly doesn’t mean anything good– Oh shit. Your head lolls again, wrinkly fingers retreating from your– ew those were on you? “OH really? Then what are these?” What are what?-- Suddenly your heart goes cold. The pearls. Your earrings. They rest snuggly against your ears, like those sea anemones on crabs. like Rafayel’s palm in yours, his finger sinking the gaps between yours and interlocking. Cold, oily skin touches the lobe of your ear. “You know, I’ve been looking for a while for you.” What? “Everyone’s been going crazy about Lemurian tears. I guess the rumors are true.” A loud cackle.

Seriously how much is this guy going to laugh– A shiver races down your spine. Your mind is awake now. “I-I'm not a Lemurian-” you try to argue. It's futile. Once greed takes hold of someone, every delusion becomes reality. Are you going to be stuck here? Forever? Will you never see the sun again?

Will you never see Rafayel again?

Should you have listened to him when he clung?

Should you have stayed home?

There are so many things you should've– You still have to attend Rafayel’s next exhibition, You still have to celebrate his birthday- He’s still waiting for you,You made a promise-Your heart tugs again. Weakly. A bond everlasting. Everlasting. “Rafayel…” It’s soft. The words whispered. A memory unwanted. How ironic. Even in death you yearn.. From the depths of the sea, To the surface. “You’ll make me rich.” the man stares down. a flicker. This is the end isn’t it? He’ll flay you alive like the skeleton behind him. Then he’ll be disappointed. When he finds out you are nothing but a fraud. Knock. Knock. Knock. Your heart seems to catch up in your threat, death knocking upon the doors of your soul. But it’s only when the man pauses, turning around do you realize you weren’t imagining the sound. “Who is knocking this-” SFT!

It spurts. A red, leaking valve. Redder than the paints Rafayel uses to paint the sky. Redder than blood red wine. A leaky valve. Time seems to stand still, blood pooling all over the floor. Like tides pulling out towards the shore. Bleeding over marble and your scuffed shoes.

A contrast to the rope that binds you, and the pair of boots that stand before you. Not shoes. Boots. There is no grand announcement.

No explosion that leaves ears ringing.

No bomb to announce his arrival.

So quiet it almost slips past you.

What was that?

A shiver crawls down your spine, slow and inevitable, your gaze still fixed on the corpse collapsed at your feet.

The body doesn’t move.

It won’t ever move again.

Then-

Another pair of hands lifts your chin.

Gentle. Careful. (Just like his hands.)

For a heartbeat, it feels like a dream. Like some cruel mercy your mind invents to soften the moment before death finally claims you.

A hallucination stitched together from longing and fear.

The man’s hands are still on you— he had a knife and—

“My love?”

The voice is soft.

Too soft.

Tender fingers trace along your jaw, thumbs brushing warmth where there should be none. Not here. Not now.

Your breath catches.

Your heart skips—then stutters.

It doesn’t feel real.

It can’t be real.

He was too far away. Across seas. Beyond reach. Anywhere but here.

You’re still in the No-Hunt Zone. You’re still bound. You’re still—

The hands tilt your face just enough for you to see him.

Salt and blood cling to him like a second skin.

And suddenly the room feels very, very small. So small. “Hi.” You feel dumb. Dumb and happy and- Then your eyes catch his face. Scales. (Just like what you saw on Ebb day.)

But you’re dragged out of your thoughts when his thumb smoothes over your cheek, a slow, soft swipe. Something smears on the black leather, and he wipes it absent-mindedly on his pants. They're black, too—the stain vanishes as if it were never there. The dagger that sits at his waist gleams in the mild lighting, making the red of the metal shimmer more. It’s silent, a sort of mutual understanding you have between each other. To study the other. To refamiliarize.

The steady thrum of your heart seems to slow, at ease around him. Then, you open your mouth. “How… Did you get here?” His thumb stops and you realize he’s on his knees.

When did he get there? He sighs, a low heavy thing. Guilt stirs in your chest, at the sound.

You avert your eyes from his, blue depths staring into your own as you focus on the corpse on the floor.

His touch lingers on your cheek. “I got worried.” For a man of so many words, those few are enough to bring the ones who created language to their knees, begging to know how he constructed words in such a way that leaves people breathless.

His fingers skim down your arms, then his dagger cuts through your bindings. The rope left raw skin in its wake. Red and irritated. . “I'm sorry.” Your eyes burn. But he doesn't comment on your weakness, frighteningly silent as he merely presses his lips to your skin. “I should've listened to you.”

He pauses, before sighing once more. Then that’s when you realize. He’s terrified. His fingers shake as they cradle your arm, his other hand seems to grip your thigh, as if he were to hold you tight enough, you wouldn’t disappear. (Long ago you broke a promise.)(Long ago he resented you for it.)(He can't lose you now. )

Petting the back of your hands, he seems to reminisce before standing. The leather on his pants seem to shimmer with dark liquid, tinted with a wine red sheen. “You were about to break your promise.” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear. Guilt is a ball lodged in your chest, one you swallow heavily. “Im sorry,” you mutter, head turning away from his gaze.

All you can do is apologize, and you hate it.

“If you’re really sorry, you’ll grant me a request.” It’s no surprise when you accept it.

——

When Rafayel asked you for favors, it was mostly to get Thomas off his back. Or get you to go out with him. Or let him paint you for hours on end while your muscles ached from the tense posture you kept. Not torture.

Rafayel doesn’t touch you.

Well—he does.

Often.

Casually.

Much more than he used to, and that’s saying something.

Fingers brushing your wrist, a hand settling at the small of your back, warmth everywhere it doesn’t matter.

But he never wanders farther.

Not like he used to a few days ago. And that’s the problem

It’s getting to you. His fleeting, whispered touches.

The firm press of his lips against your shoulder, your neck, your cheek—never lingering long enough to ask permission, never staying long enough to mean something dangerous. LIke a rapid current underneath a sea’s calm surface.

If you didn’t know him better, you’d think he was teasing. Waiting for you to snap so he could take control, gather you up, coddle you until you forgot how close to breaking you were.

But you see the fear he carries.

He almost lost you. All because he tried to give you something that was his.

His gifts a curse.

Just like Lemuria. Just like its people, their skin and scales stripped away and turned into artifacts, proof that beauty is always something the world thinks it can take.

You sit on the edge of the bed, thinking. The sheets are cool beneath you, yielding, almost liquid—like water learning the shape of your body, cradling you as if you might shatter.

You’re tired of this dance.

You aren’t fragile, and you know it. The callouses lining your fingers are proof enough. You lift what others can’t. You’ve survived things that should have ruined you. Hell and back, more than once.

(Perhaps he saw you as fragile. Maybe it’s a trait from long ago, set in stone and sea as he cradled your fading form in his arms, the burning sun a witness to your bond.)

“Cutie?”

Warmth settles against your back, as natural as breathing.

He’s home.

“What’s on your mind?”

His voice is soft. His fingers circle your waist, familiar and careful. His cheek brushes yours, thighs bracketing your hips, close enough to promise without daring to take.

His scales are still there.

They graze your skin in a slow, soothing rhythm—one you’ve learned by heart.

A self soothing notion he has, to hold you tight and close to him, as if you were to drift away like kelp. It’s akin to how a cat nuzzles their owner, though if Rafayel has the ability to read minds you bet he’d have your head for even comparing him to such “vile creatures.”

You nearly forget his question until he pokes your ribs, a pout on his face.

“Do I need to eradicate the mailman?” he asks lightly. “I could sic some seagulls on him. They owe me anyway.”

You want to stay mad. You really do.

He’s been toe-ing this line of everything and nothing for too long. Depraving you of his love and what ifs.

But not while he’s hurting. Not when you’re this starved for him.

“No,” you say, “Not that.”

And for a moment, restrained and tender, he holds you like you’re something precious— like you’d shatter in the wind and leave him all alone again. Death your shadow.

(You did once. Slipping into seafoam, and all those years ago on that shore, a promise unfulfilled.)

“Then what?” he breathes. (Soon you’d realize he’s desperate to please you, his cycle thrown out of whack thanks to your kidnapping. You’d realize how much he needs you, what he’d give to stay by you.)

The silence coats his room in a thick coat, tension bleeding from every corner. You sigh, cupping his hands underneath yours as you lean back. His body gives way just the slightest, as if not expecting the sudden trust. But that shock is quickly masked, his arms tightening. It’s only now you’ve gained the courage to ask him. “Rafayel.” “Yes?” “Do you fear yourself?” His hands pause. “What?” “Do you fear yourself, or hurting me?” The silence in the room isn't empty; it’s heavy. LIke the weight of the ocean upon both of your skins.

His grip on your waist doesn’t loosen, but his fingers tremble.

"Fear?"

The word comes out like a laugh that died halfway up his throat. He leans his forehead against the nape of your neck, hiding his face from your sight.

"What if I am?” He says, but there’s no teasing edge to it. “What if I do fear hurting you? I already did once.”

He shifts, his scales grazing your skin with a texture that feels like cold fire.

"I gave you what I thought would keep you safe, but it only condemned you to blood.” (he didn’t want you to see that easel of vengeance.)

“But all I know how to do is to act, to follow. To use my paint to make a world that my words can’t. That I’d follow you like a fish to the ocean even if you hated me-”

He finally pulls back just enough to look at you. His purple eyes are dark, the usual spark of mischief replaced by a turbulent, swirling depth.

"So tell me, what if I did fear?” The Lemurian Sea God, scared of hurting his bride. You feel his grip loosening—the start of the very distance he thinks you need—and your reaction is instinctive.

You don't let him slip away. “I’d think you’re a fool, Rafayel.” The tables turn suddenly, your hands pinning him down and pressing your full weight onto him. HIs breath hitches as you lean forward, lips centimeters away. (He could push you off any moment.)(But he doesn't)

“Remember when you asked me if I’d accept all of you?” His eyes flick downwards, just the slightest bit. They linger on your lips, and you know you’ve got him in a snare. “This is different.” He whispers, “I…” “How so?” You ask, hands bracketing his head. He shudders, a low, exhausted sound. His fingers gently flutter up and down your ribs, but they never land. Just hovering. “I… I can’t say.” his eyes dart away from yours, a heavy emotion in his voice. Like lead in the sea. Scared, your mind supplies. Of what? You really don't know. Is it because he let you get kidnapped?

Probably not. It wasn’t his fault anyway. He’s too reasonable for that, despite his dramatics and flair. Is it because he thinks you fear him? The blood that drips from his blade? No, you work with wanderers, and you’ve known this part of him for a while, almost intimately well. You’ve gone through human trafficking, experimentation, mass murder, and too much to be squeamish of a man who avoids cats like the plague. So what? Your heart stirs, an ache blooming in your chest. You’ve known this man for over a year, his lips pressed to your neck and his hips undulating against yours. Yet you can’t make any sense of him. When did his fear start? When did he start pulling away? What can you do to help? I mean, it’s not his fault some guy mistaken you as a lemurian- It clicks.

It’s not about the kidnapping.

It’s not about the blood.

It’s not about you fearing him.

It’s about him fearing himself — what he is, what he could be, and what that means for you.

Lemurian.

The word settles heavy in your chest.

If someone mistook you for one, then that means you were close.

Close to his world.

Close to being dragged fully into it.

Close to being claimed by something that doesn’t let go.

He’s not scared you’ll leave.

He’s scared you won’t.

Scared that if you stay, you’ll become a target. A bargaining chip. A weakness. Scared that loving him paints a mark on your back in blood no amount of skill or stubbornness can scrub off.

Scared that one day, he won’t get to you in time.

That next time, it will be his fault.

That next time, he’ll have to choose between the world burning or you.

And he knows himself well enough to know he’d let it burn.

That’s what makes his fingers hover instead of land.

He isn’t pulling away because he regrets you.

He’s pulling away because he loves you.

And for the first time, you understand:

He isn’t afraid of losing you.

He’s afraid of ruining you.

You haven’t moved in a while, eyes wide. He doesn’t know what’s going on in your pretty brain, but he also doesn't want to find out. A part of him is selfish like that. After all, would it be so bad to finally have something of his own? Something to hold, cherish. Pampered with all his soul while they stayed in his domain, safe and sound. But he can’t do that to you. You need sunlight, you are a land-dweller after all. Besides. He’s already cursed you. (Once again, another reason to hate what he is.) The pearls sit pretty, dangling from your ears as you stare down, mouth slack. The bond deep inside him seems to scramble, his reason and wants all clashing with each other like ice against land.

It yearns and yearns, pulling towards you like the tide—hungry, devouring, desperate—while his instincts scream at him to get away. To keep you from damnation. But a small part of him wishes, for once, that the beings that have created him to grant him one thing. For you to choose him, not because of the bond, but because he exists. Not as Lemurian. Not as a god. Not as worshiper.

But as Rafayel

A crazy, passionate artist, obsessed with his muse and deathly afraid of cats.

“How is it different,” he hears you press. “I meant it when I said it.”

But the tone in your words is different.

Softer.

Mournful.

Like you’ve already lost him, or something in him ,before you could even hold it.

(It breaks his heart how you think he’d be anything but yours.)His fingers flex, hesitant. He battles with himself, but instinct buts in and his fingers close around your waist, gentle. An indulgence he allows himself. “Because…” The words taper off at the end. “Because you’re afraid what will happen to me?” You bring your hand up, gently stroking the skin of his cheek as your knees bracket his hips. And like always, he’s unable to resist your touch, a moth drawn to a flame.

One of his hands comes down to hold your hand, pressing it against his face as he stares you in the eye. As if challenging you. “What are you trying to achieve, Rafayel?” you breathe."Are you trying to push me away?” Truth be told, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. The only thing he knows is the scratch of his scales against the smooth surface of your fingers, the intoxicating scent that spills from your pores and infects his mind. The fins on his ears flutter, flapping against the sheets. When did they appear? You do not understand your lover. You do not understand his fear of cats, but you listen. You do not understand why he procrastinates, instead finding and spending all his time with you, clinging to you, taking you to aquariums, everywhere and nowhere.

Gifting you flowers, his love, his body, his soul.

Now, you don't understand his fear.

(To be loved is to be changed.) Even now he’s changed, pupils blown wide as his mouth opens and closes, like a fish out of water, struggling to give you an answer. For a moment, you want to push off. Give him space. Give him everything he could ever need. Baby his dramatics and laugh with him in the sea. Watch him pout at you as you hold him with two hands wrapped around him. Smile at his paintings and talk about nonsensical things. But those seem more like wants rather than needs.

Your wants.You want everything and more of him. An all consuming passion, mirroring the bond that aches. (In a sense you both are cruel to each other. A dance that never ends.)

But in a way, you love each other more than the sea does the shore. “You won’t break me, Rafayel.” You whisper, eyes unbearably soft. His hands tighten, both on your hand and waist. “How can you be so sure about that?” he mutters. And your heart aches, because who told Rafayel he couldn’t have anything? That his kingdom was a crime, Lemurians a prize? How can he be so sure he’d ruin you? You watch his chest heave, and then the wet glimmer of tears appear on his lash line. You watch one crystalize. A pearl.

He sobs.

Hard.

Because how has he found you? Someone perfect for him, who slots perfectly against his soul and loves despite the rapids. His fingers tighten on the fabric of your shirt, nails digging in while his other hand clutches yours like a lifeline. You watch him try to suck in one last breath, but when you stroke his cheek he breaks, a wounded sound from his throat.

No words are spoken. Maybe there was never meant to be any. (the bond will speak through your hearts, like the water of the sea, interconnected.) The hand on your waist tugs, and you go willingly.

His face buries into your chest, the pearls a cool sensation against your skin. And for the first time in years, that carefully made mask of self-loathing and hate breaks.

–

You rocked him back and forth while he cried, pearls gathering in every crevice. The words that seemed to come to him so easily didn’t come, and for a remainder of the time you spent the rest of your afternoon by his side. “Don’t touch it.” A sniffle. “They’re disgusting.” Is he referring to his tears? You look around, before you sigh. It's hard not to touch them, especially when they’re scattered all over the bed and plopped on the floor. “Why do you think of them like that?” You mutter. He doesn’t respond, instead favoring the swell of your breast as he buries himself further into your skin. As if he wanted to become your bone marrow, so incomparably intertwined with your mass that you’d never be apart. You roll the pearly beads in your hand, cupping him. He only glares. “I thought artists were supposed to see beauty in everything.” You poke. It’s a risky move, especially when his eyes still hold traces of tears. But his eyes merely soften, “I only see beauty in you.” He murmurs, tracing a line down your side. “Before you came into my life, colors were colors. They were something the deep didn’t have, but nevertheless, they were just colors.” He pauses. “You gave them meaning, something more than just pigment.” The silence thickens, and you have a feeling the conversation is over, so you lean back and merely hold him, his legs intertwined with yours. But something had changed after that. “Rafayel-! Let go!” You grunt, fingers trying to pry off sticky octopus suckers–Rafayel’s sticky fingers— as you try to leave the bed. “I'm hungry!” you whine,” And you probably are too!”

He huffs, clearly not pleased, but his grip loosens. Finally, you thought. Oh no, no no. That was only the beginning. He clung to you the rest of the evening, open-mouthed kisses anywhere he could get his lips on. He didn’t leave you alone on the couch—pressed up to your side or you pressed up to his– walked with you along the beach, and dragged you into the kitchen to cook while clinging onto your arm! How did you achieve this in one evening? You don’t know! More than one time he has kissed you dumb, his fingers cradling and angling your cheek towards him as his tongue swipes against the seam of your mouth. Sensual and slow. It baffles you how quickly his emotions and behavior can change, a sulky fish in one second, then a love bomb in the next. “Cutieeee why can’t we go to sea…” His voice would almost be grating to your ears, but stupid man has the lull of a siren. You groan for what feels like the umpteenth time in the past hour, his fingers splaying broadly across your body. “Because Thomas told me to keep an eye on you, and I can't do that if you’re off in the ocean swimming around like a happy fish while I can’t see anything!” You whine right back, leaning backwards in hopes of throwing him off, but he only presses firmer into you. Bearing your weight like it weighs nothing. Seriously for all that time acting like a damsel in distress, he sure has some muscle. He scowls at the mention of his manager’s name before burying his face into the crook of your neck. HIs scales still haven’t gone away. You stare at the mop of hair on your shoulder before sighing. You feel like a baby deer just learning to walk, and you're just as sure he is too. HIs fingers still hesitate when they grab you, he still sometimes hovers around you, and it’s just. It’s like a shattered glass pane., narrowly held together, but still waiting to break. You just hope it’ll go away soon. — Hot

It screams. Writhes and squirms,

The water seems so tempting, the waves crashing. It begs.

Leave and never turn back with this land of filthy- No.

No wait .

His head turns, away from the tantalizing expanse of the sea.

Beside him lies a treasure no amount of devotees could give. A treasure worth more than the world You. Hesitating, his fingers gently caress the skin of your cheek. Warm, silky, and dry to his wet flesh. A balm to the ache the festers. HIs gaze trails over your form, blue pupils swallowed whole. You sleep so peacefully. (He doesn't dare ruin you.)So he turns away, sheets tangled at his waist as you cling to his other hand. He never noticed how warm you were.

(He does not feel the heat burning beneath his skin.)(He does not feel the ache that slowly blooms in his stomach.) The sea does that. Keeps you in cold waters. Maybe next time, he reasons. With a quick motion, he tucks the sheets firmly around you, cocooning you. But his soul screams now.

He ignores it, and instead answers the call of the sea.

(The sensation beneath his skin prickles.)

—- You wake up to a cold bed, the sheets rumpled. You blearily open your eyes, the sheets a warm embrace around your body. It’s suspiciously silent, a cold draft waltzing in through the windows and bringing in the scent of seasalt. It smells of the cologne Rafayel likes to use, always spritzing it on you when he could. Something about how to make sure everyone knew who you-

Wait. Where is Rafayel? In record time your eyes shoot open, blankets flung over the mattress where Rafayel would be.

But there’s no one there. “Rafayel?” You call out, voice small.

No one responds.

Your heart sinks into your chest in record time,fear taking hold of your heart. Swinging your legs over the edge of the bed, you race down the stairs. He’s not in the living room, not in the kitchen, not in his studio, not even outside on the shore- The ocean. The window. Your eyes widen. The glass doors reveal a set of footprints laden in the sand of the coast. Untouched, and fresh, as if a memory fogged over. Briefly, the scales on his face flash to the front of your mind. (Ebb day.) No, it can’t. Because those scales have been on his face for… You swallow, the deep blue before you a maw of water and abyss. You open the doors, your feet meeting cool sand.

“Rafayel?” you call once more. You expect no answer. There is no one on the beach, no mop of purple hair nor a shimmer of scales beneath the surface. But something hums beneath your skin, tugging. Beckoning. A siren’s song you’d soon realize.It sings like a whale’s call, deep and resonating between your ribcage, settling underneath your bones like it belongs. Leaves you light-headed and in a haze. ‘Come to me’ are the words never spoken. Written in silk and song, With each step forward, the ocean seems to hum, as if yearning. Hands deprived of love and warmth as it crashes upon the shore, the sands shifting beneath your feet. It’s unconscious, an instinct written deep in your soul. A bond everlasting.

The water’s edge kisses your ankles. Gentle. (Briefly the image of his lips on your calf pops, hooded eyes staring up into yours.)You linger where the sand meets the sea, hesitant. Just what tugs you along? What exactly makes this such a good idea?

What if you drown? What if a leviathan comes out from the waters and swallows you whole? So many possibilities. But you still step in, the sea lapping at your skin like a gift delivered. It warms you, the breeze brushes against your skin and you suck in a breath. It’s everything and nothing. A connection only you could explain, a piece of a puzzle finally clicking in place as you slowly swim out. Away from the shore, towards the horizon. Towards where home always should've been. — The ripples caress his skin. The smell assaults him. His eyes open, pearly blues ripping wide to look up at the surface, light from the moon maiden’s grace piercing through the currents/

The world is quiet, sound drowned out by the ocean’s embrace, but something else catches his ears, fins rippling. They hum, buzzing. (His soul knew before his mind.)

The abyss yawns below like an open mouth.

It is home.

But this? This is hunger.

A sweetness threading through the water, wrapping around his senses, seeping into the marrow of him. The perfume he pressed against your throat. The warmth he buried himself in night after night.

Not the usual rhythm of whale-song. Not the distant grind of tectonic sorrow. This is sharper. Closer.

Familiar.

His head lifts.

Far above, at the seam where sea meets sky, a silhouette breaks the light.

Small.

Fragile.

Wrong.

No—

Not wrong.

You.

You traverse the waters like it’s your own, hands parting the waters. They obey, gentle and coaxing.

The bond.

It pulses between you, a silver thread wound through his ribs, tightening with every languid stroke you take.

What have you done?

A low trill hums, and it takes a moment to realize that it’s coming from him. A sound of pure and utter delight.

Bring her down, it hums.

She comes willingly., it whispers.

You are not meant for this depth. Already your movements slow, the drag of salt stealing warmth from your skin. Your eyes are open.

Looking for him.

Always looking.

Then, suddenly your head bends down, below the waters and despite the distance, he comes face to face with the prettiest color he’s seen in years. It takes his breath away, and he groans at the feeling of his slit spreading, the heads of his cocks emerging. HIs fins flutter once more.

He decides then that indulgence was a sin he’d gladly partake in. With one powerful stroke, his tail propels him through the sea, his fins trailing after him like ribbons. He does not know what goes through your mind. All he knows is the enchanting call of you, the smell of your skin, the feel of your skin, your voice, your body, your soul. Mine, a part of him whispers. Mine to love, mine to hold, mine to comfort, mine to spoil, mine to worship, mine. A pearl sat in the clutches of a Lemurian. With a large splash, he surfaces. One of his hands clutch your waist, the webbed patches of skin between his fingers a sticky sensation as his chin hooks over the swell of your breast. His other arm supports your bottom, his digits splayed possessively over your thigh/ There are a lot of things you should be asking. Rafayel, where have you been?! Rafayel, why do you look like this? Rafayel has ebb day arrived? Didn't it arrive days ago? What’s going on?To be completely honest, you had every intention to scold him.

But the second you were lifted into the air, sunset eyes staring into your own, your mind went blank. “..Hi.” You whisper. He doesn’t say anything, and it’s only now do you realize the color of his eyes are swallowed whole by his pupils. “Is this a dream?” He finally murmurs, his breath a warm caress against your throat. Maybe. But something tells him that it isn’t. The way you squirm in his hold, the way your heart beats and the way your scent spikes, a heat growing. Your hand cups his cheek, and he practically moans at the feeling of your skin against his. It's soft, it’s warm, it’s everything he needs.

Breed her. Fill her up and give her your love, show her you’re fit to be her mate–

His fingers flex. “You trust me, right?” He mutters. His voice strained as if restraint was a string that was about to snap inside of him. This conversation again. “Of course. I’ve said this so many times, you know?” You murmur, hands ghosting over the scales that frame the sharp lines of his cheeks. Splash!

One moment you were breathing in the cool, salty air of the sea. The next, you’re suddenly smothered against plush lips, familiar lips that ravage you. It’s an encompassing hunger, one that takes and takes. One that makes your chest ache and a heat between your legs bloom as his hands roam. The kiss isn’t gentle.

It’s a claiming.

Rafayel’s mouth crashes into yours like the first wave after a storm—relentless, tasting of salt and a taste you’ve swallowed underneath desks and between narrow alleyways. His tongue pets the seam of our lips, coaxing, and you open. Almost immediately a sinewy muscle tangles and sucks around yours in long, possessive strokes that leave you gasping for air. The forked tip flicks against the roof of your mouth once, twice, deliberate, like he’s reminding you exactly who’s kissing you. Who holds your soul and warms your bed.

You make a small, broken sound at the thought.

He drinks it down.

One webbed hand stays clamped at the small of your back, holding you flush to the cool, scaled planes of his chest. Subconsciously your hips chase the friction he gives, his own rolling up into your clothed heat as your eyes roll back at the delightful sensation.

Surely you weren’t this starved- I mean it’s only been-

All thought effectively cuts off when he gives a particularly harsh thrust. “If you’re thinking, then I’m not doing a good job.” He snarls, words whispered against your throat like a dark promise as he sucks right underneath the sensitive skin of your ear.

The water buoys you both, but gravity still exists in the way he presses forward—tail coiling tighter around your legs, two, scorching hot lengths pressing up into your thigh- Wait. Two?!

You flinch violently, as a dejected sound pours out of his lips before he can stop it. Moonlight slices across his face—scales glinting like fractured amethyst, pupils so wide the violet is only a thin ring. He looks feral. Worshipful. Terrified.

“Rafayel—”

He chases your mouth again before you can finish, softer this time but no less hungry. Down the line of your jaw, over the frantic flutter at your throat, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver without breaking skin. “Please-I promise I’ll be gentle-” He mouths at the stretch of your throat. “It’ll feel good I promise-” HIs hips buck, and simultaneously you both moan. Him at the sensation of your dewy folds just barely kissing the head of one cock, you at the feel of his love pressing in.

“I waited,” he rasps against your pulse. Voice wrecked. “Days, weeks, months, years. Thought I’d lost you forever this time.” Another kiss, open and wet, right over your racing heartbeat. “I couldn’t bear that, I just couldn't" How could you deny him? Then you’re pressed into the sand, back cushioned by his hand as he sobs, face pressed right in between your cleavage.

You never saw what he truly looked like as a lemurian. But now, underneath the moon’s light, you can finally appreciate the scales that dot his cheeks, reinvigorated by water. You can roll your palms down to the sides of his tail, the fins fluttering rapidly as he mouths desperately at your skin.

His tail flexes—strong, sinuous—lifting your hips higher so the sleeker cock can curl upward again, past the barrier of fabric between him and your core. The tapered tip dragging a slow, deliberate line through your folds before wrapping loosely around your clit like warm silk . It pulses once. You jolt, nails digging into the fine scales along his shoulders. “What- Ah!- Rafayel!” You wail, legs kicking out. It’s– weird, how different it is, how warm he is, the encompassing weight he presses against you, the long spiraling length of his tail. “Just me,” he whispers, grinding up and down in harsh, hypnotic motions. “Just me.”

He groans, no better than a man drunk on wine, except this time it’s the smell of your arousal in the water.

In one fluid motion he rips the fabric of your panties, the sound of the cotton ripping echoing through the water. You’d have to remember to make him pay for those later- But then he rocks his hips and oh–

“Feel that?” he murmurs, hips rocking in the smallest, most torturous grind. The thicker head stretches your entrance just enough to tease the burn without giving you the fullness you’re starting to ache for. “How badly I want inside you. How badly I’ve always wanted.” How badly I ache for you, how badly this bond writhes and screams for every part of you. How much I’d give, how much I’d worship, how much I’d love.

You try to speak—something coherent, something that isn’t just his name—but all that comes out is a whimper when the curled cock tightens its grip on your clit and pulls. Not hard. Just enough. A living, rhythmic throb that makes your thighs shake around his waist.

“Please,” you manage. The word cracks.

His forehead drops to yours. Breath ragged.

“Say it again.”

“Please, Rafayel. I need—”

He cuts you off with another kiss—this one slower, deeper, almost reverent. When he pulls back his eyes are still black, but there’s something raw flickering behind them. Something that looks dangerously close to tears.

“Shhh… It’s okay, cutie.” He nuzzles your throat,one of his hands coming up to cup one of your breasts, flicking the perky nipples on top. “I’ll take care of you,” He babbles, nonsense mixed with flowing syllables. (Lemurian maybe?) Two fingers plunge into your folds—fast, precise, unyielding. Your spongy walls part around them like they were always meant to, slick welcoming the intrusion as though your body has already surrendered to him. It would be humiliating how easily you open up for him, but he gazes at you with such love it feels like worship.

The delicate webbing between his knuckles traps your clit, pinning the swollen, pulsing bud cruelly against his palm. You squirm, hips jerking, but his tail coils tighter around your thigh—translucent fin curling possessively over soft skin, holding you open, helpless, exactly where he wants you.

“Well, that’s another advantage,” he murmurs. His voice burrows into you, low and resonant, vibrating through water and bone until every cell feels tuned to him. “Are you okay with this, Pearlie?”

His mouth never stops—open, hot kisses raining along the column of your throat, lips brushing your racing pulse. Warmth bleeds from his scaled chest into yours. His tail traces deliberate, languid paths up your inner thigh, fin flexing with quiet, unyielding strength that belies its delicate shimmer under moonlight.

“Pearlie.” A soft huff against your skin, patient even as his fingers slow inside you. The sudden drag of friction makes you startle—hands flying to clamp around his thick wrist, nails biting into surprisingly warm, almost translucent flesh. “I need you to answer.”

Your throat locks. Words tangle. The dark water presses in, relentless, and your lungs feel fragile, like they might cave under the weight of everything: the current, the heat, the unbearable tension coiling low in your belly.

“I—I—”

He stills completely. Fingers buried to the last knuckle, but motionless now. The two thick lengths pressed hot and heavy against your thigh throb once, twice—betraying how close he is to losing control—yet he waits.

“It’s okay, my love.” His free hand slides up, threading gently through your wet hair, petting the strands back as best he can in the shifting current. “I won’t let you drown. Mkay?”

A whimper escapes when he finally withdraws—slow, deliberate—fingers dragging along every sensitive ridge inside you. You clench around nothing, aching at the loss. He swipes the slick coating his hand over your folds instead, massaging it into swollen flesh in lazy, grounding circles. Each pass sends fresh zings of pleasure-pain sparking up your spine; your hips buck helplessly.

“You’re so strong, Pearlie,” he whispers against the shell of your ear, intimate, almost reverent. “Even down here—your body fights the pressure. Resists. Opens for me anyway.”

Heat floods your cheeks. His tongue darts out, swiping a slow, possessive line across your burning skin. A soft chuckle rumbles from his chest—you feel it more than hear it.

Unfair. So fucking unfair.

Here you are—surrounded by him in every way that matters: cradled by the sea he commands, pinned by his hands, dwarfed by the sheer size of him, the heat of him, the endless want radiating off him.

You paw weakly at his chest, thighs twitching, muscles jumping every time his palm pats your cunt—gentle, possessive little taps that make you clench and whine.

He catches your wrist, brings your hand to his lips, kisses the center of your palm like it’s sacred.

“Tell me when you’re ready,” he breathes. “We have the whole week. I made sure of it.”

His tail shifts—fin stroking higher, curling tighter—and he waits.

Patient.

Starving.

Yours.

Your hips buck helplessly, a coil of fragile glass heating.

“Rafayel—Oh fuck-close!—”

“I know.” His voice drops to something darker, something ancient. “I can feel it. The way you flutter. The way the bond pulls tighter every time I touch you here—” His fingers slip in once more, crooking just righttt “—and here.” The curled cock squeezes your clit in a slow, pulsing rhythm.

You sob his name.

He trills—low, pleased, vibrating through his chest into yours.

“Come for me, my pearl. Let me feel you break on my fingers first. Then I’ll fill you.. Keep every drop inside until you’re swollen with me.”

The promise tips you over.

You come with a choked cry, clenching hard around his fingers, slick gushing down his hand and mixing with the warm water. He works you through it—slow, relentless strokes—murmuring praise against your throat the whole time.

“Good girl. So good for me. Look at you… coming so pretty for me.”

Your legs twitch erratically, all while his lips latch onto your nipple, that wicked tongue sucking and lapping over the sensitive buds. His fingers pump lazily, dragging your orgasm along. When the aftershocks finally ease, he pulls his fingers free, and your cheeks heat up at the sight of your cum sticky on his fingers. He doesn’t give you time to catch your breath.

The moment your fingers loosen in his hair, Rafayel shifts—fast, fluid, predatory. His hands grasp higher around your lower back and thighs, bending you nearly in half with terrifying ease. Your knees press toward your shoulders, feet hovering uselessly near your face, the position folding you open like an offering laid bare to the moon and the sea.

Exposed.

Vulnerable.

Completely at his mercy.You watch in anticipation as his face lowers, your fingers instinctively burying into his silky tresses. He shudders when you graze the edges of his fins. Interesting.

Your schemes get interrupted when a warm current swirls between your thighs as he lowers his head. His breath ghosts over your still-twitching cunt—hot, deliberate—and you whimper at the barest brush of it against swollen, oversensitive flesh.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with reverence and hunger. “Still fluttering. Still dripping for me.”

His tongue flicks out—long, forked, wicked—tracing the seam of you from your hole to clit in one slow, obscene drag. You jerk, a high, startled sound escaping your throat. He hums approval against you, the vibration traveling straight up your spine.

Then he seals his mouth over you.

No teasing this time.

He devours. “Raf- Ohhh!

Lips soft but unyielding, he sucks your clit between them—gentle pressure at first, then harder, rhythmic pulls that make your hips buck uselessly against the iron grip of his tail. His tongue works in cruel tandem: the forked tips flicking rapid little strokes over the hood, then flattening to lap broad, greedy stripes through your folds, gathering every drop of slick like he’s starved for it.

You sob his name, fingers tightening in his locks.

He only answers with a low, rolling trill that resonates through the water and into your bones. Something that soothes your soul in a way that aches, something that swallows and gives.

One hand slides up the back of your thigh, webbed fingers spreading you wider. The other braces against your hip, holding you steady while he works his tongue deeper—pushing inside, curling, stroking the slick walls that still spasm from your last orgasm.

Then he goes deeper.

The tip of his tongue—impossibly long, impossibly flexible—seeks and finds that deepest place inside you. Brushes the tight, sensitive mouth in the deepest parts of you.

Your whole body locks.

A strangled cry tears from your throat. “W-Wait slow- Mph– down!” You wail, tugging harshly at his hair again.

He groans against you—raw, feral—when he feels you clench around the intrusion. The sound vibrates straight through your core, ecstasy a bolt of lightning up and down your spine.

“There,” he rasps, pulling back just enough to speak against your soaked folds. His lips are glossy with you. “Right here. Feel me?”

He presses forward again—slow, deliberate—tongue curling to nudge that spot over and over. Not hard. Just persistent. Teasing little brushes that make your thighs shake violently, make your toes curl in the open air.

Every time the forked tips press against your abused nerves, pleasure spikes so sharp it almost hurts—bright, electric, overwhelming. Your hands scrabble at his shoulders, nails digging into scales, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow.

He laps. Sucks. Thrusts his tongue in shallow, filthy strokes that keep bumping that deepest place while his upper lip grinds against your clit.

You’re shaking apart.

Again.

Already.

“Rafayel—too much—!”

“Not enough,” he growls into you. “Not nearly enough.”

He sucks harder on your clit at the same moment his tongue curls and presses—firm, insistent—right against your cervix. You can’t warn him, but your mouth still parts and your tongue still moves uselessly. “Rafayel!” But he knows, he’s learned your body through countless nights of dreaming, of staring and worship. How your walls spasm when you’re close, how you clench down like you never want him to leave. He surges forward once more, starving and lapping at the fountain of nectar that is your arousal, doubling his efforts as you squeal at the sensation.

The world whites out in a bang.

You come so hard your vision blacks at the edges, a silent scream caught in your throat as your whole body convulses. Slick floods his mouth; he drinks greedily, trilling low and pleased, tail tightening to keep you folded and open while you ride the brutal waves.

He doesn’t let up until you’re whimpering, oversensitive, twitching with every tiny flick of his tongue. You’re fingers tug, insistent as you sob, overstimulation prickling between pain and pleasure. It’s only when your own soul presses up against his, persistent, does he let down on his assault on your senses.

Only then does he ease back—slow, reluctant—kissing your swollen folds like an apology. Soft. Worshipful.

When he finally lifts his head, his chin glistens, lips kiss-bitten and dark. His pupils are blown so wide there’s almost no violet left. Only a void of adoration and love, as if witnessing a meteor shower overseas.

He rises over you, tail still cradling your folded form, both thick lengths throbbing hot against your inner thigh.

His fingers gently cup your cheek. The webbed skin sticks to yours, but the warmth seems to lull your pounding heart into a steady rhythm, mirroring his. The slow beating pump of lives in sync. As you come down from your high, he peppers kisses across your face, sweet nothings a promise etched into skin and flesh, seeping into bone. “You did so well for me, my love.” A kiss to your cheek. “You come so pretty, you know?” He nuzzles you, scales scratching your skin. “I’d paint you, if only you could see how lovely you look…”

One hand cups your face, thumb brushing away the tears of overstimulation that slipped free without you realizing. Then you feel him, thicker cock pressed against your entrance as he waits, his tail swishing back and forth. A firm pressure against your core.

“I promised I’d fill you,” he says, softer now. Almost reverent. “Keep every drop inside until you’re swollen. Until you carry me.”

He rises, movements fluid and graceful.

“Look at me,” he whispers.

You do.

His eyes are still blown black, but the violet is bleeding back in—soft, reverent, almost afraid.

“I love you,” he says. Simple. Raw. Like the words have been clawing at his throat for centuries. “My soul.”

Then he thrusts—slow, deep, both lengths sliding home in one long glide—and the ocean swallows the sound of your broken moan.

He stills for a heartbeat, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to yours, trembling.

“Mine,” he breathes.

Yours, the bond answers, silver-hot and endless.

And then he starts to move.

Slow at first, deliberate, letting you feel every inch as both lengths stretch you open, the thicker one claiming the front wall while the sleeker one burrows alongside it, dragging along that sensitive ridge inside of you with every retreat.

Your breath stutters at each push and pull, the veins that line his shaft rubbing against your raw nerves just so.

The stretch is exquisite and obscene, a burning fullness that makes your toes curl against the wet sand. Water laps at your joined bodies in gentle counter-rhythm, but it can’t soothe the fire he’s stoking. You feel split open in the best way—raw, exposed, worshipped. His tail keeps your hips lifted, thighs folded high, so he can sink impossibly deep with each measured thrust.

“Feel me,” he rasps against your mouth, voice wrecked and reverent. “All of me. Finally.”

You can’t form words. Only broken sounds escape—whimpered gasps, his name fractured into syllables. Your walls flutter helplessly around the dual intrusion, slick and swollen from earlier orgasms, gripping him like they’re afraid he’ll disappear again.

He groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours.

“You’re so tight… so warm… taking both like you were made for this.” His forehead presses harder against yours, scales catching moonlight. “Made for me.”

One webbed hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb stroking the pulse hammering there. The other stays braced under your lower back, supporting your weight so the angle stays perfect—every thrust grinding the curled length against that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.

Your nails rake down his shoulders, catching on fine scales. He shudders violently at the sting, hips stuttering forward harder once, twice, before he reins himself in with visible effort.

“Easy,” he murmurs, though it sounds more like he’s pleading with himself. “I promised gentle… but gods, Pearlie, you feel—” Another deep roll of his hips cuts him off. He swallows a curse in what might be Lemurian.

The bond thrums between you, alive and molten. Every time he bottoms out, it flares brighter—silver threads tightening, pulling your heartbeats into sync. You can feel him through it: the frantic need, the ancient hunger, the terror that this might still be a dream he’ll wake from alone.

You clench around him on instinct—hard—and his rhythm falters.

“Fuck—don’t—” His voice cracks. “If you do that again I won’t last.”

But you’re already too far gone. The ache has turned vicious: deep, insistent, demanding fullness, demanding more. Your body knows what it wants even if your mind is still catching up. Your hips cant upward to meet his next thrust, chasing that impossible depth.

Rafayel’s control splinters.

He surges forward, burying himself to the root, both lengths pulsing hot inside you. The curled one wraps tighter around that swollen bundle of nerves just inside, stroking in time with his thrusts like a living thing. The thicker one grinds mercilessly against your front wall, pressing right against your cervix with every snap of his hips.

You cry out—sharp, overwhelmed—and he swallows the sound with a desperate kiss.

“Shh, I’ve got you,” he whispers into your mouth. “I’ve got you, my pearl. Let go again. Let me feel it.”

His pace quickens—not rough, but relentless. Water churns around you both, small waves breaking against your skin. His tail flexes, lifting you higher so he can drive deeper, harsher.

“Gonna breed you,” He moans, eyes wrenched shut as his hips slam against your ass in undulating motions, both reverent yet rough. His tip relentlessly kisses the soft spongy spot inside of you, bullying it as you squirm and whine, words no longer an option as you’re fucked dumb and pilant for your god. Pleasure is a firework that crackles up and down your body, folding and cresting in waves until they crash over- “Come for me, my bride.” He mutters, “Show the sea proof of our bond.

The words tip you.

You come again—harder than before—walls spasming violently around both lengths, milking him with rhythmic pulses. Slick gushes, mixing with seawater. Your vision whites out for a second, body locking tight as pleasure crashes through you like a riptide.

Rafayel follows with a broken trill—half moan, half song.

He buries himself as deep as he can go, his hands burying into the sand. Heat floods you in thick, pulsing waves—rope after rope of release painting your insides, warm and endless. The curled length throbs in counterpoint, pressing against your cervix like it’s trying to deliver straight to your womb.

He trembles above you, forehead pressed to yours, scales glittering with water and moonlight.

“Mine,” he whispers again, voice raw. “My bride. My soul. My everything.”

You can only whimper in answer, body still fluttering around him, aftershocks rolling through you both.

He doesn’t pull out—can’t, not yet. Instead he eases you down slowly, rolling until you’re cradled against his scaled chest, tail still coiled loosely around your legs like a living blanket. HIs cocks jostles inside of you, and you’re reminded of how you’re still bonded, very tiny shift sending fresh sparks through your oversensitive nerves.

You both stay like that for a while, somewhere along the way shifting to your side as his hands pet over your hair.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs against your temple. “Just like this. Let the sea hold us.”

Pearls—his tears—float around you in the shallows, luminous and drifting like tiny moons. Some catch in your hair, some rest against his collarbone. He doesn’t brush them away this time.

For the first time, they don’t feel like shame.

They feel like offerings.

Like proof.

You turn your face into his neck, breathing in salt and him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.

His arms tighten.

The ocean rocks you both, gentle now, as the moon watches and the bond hums steady between your hearts.

Safe.

Home.

—-

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