Ixchel

Your shift today ended at five a.m.

By the time you reached the lobby, dawn was already breaking, and your self-proclaimed bodyguard was currently chatting up the security guard.

When Gapryong noticed you, his smile deepened.

“Noona~”

You bowed your head at the security guard in greeting. The elderly man was all smiles. He was holding a fresh cup of coffee, no doubt from your escort. Gapryong’s charisma was not limited to his lady friends. He had a way of beguiling everyone of every age, from all walks of life. 

“Thanks for lunch,” you said. Gapryong knew how to cook (thanks to you) but didn’t like the preparation and cleanup involved, so he avoided the task as much as possible, opting to buy ready-made meals instead. The fact that he went out of his way to make rice balls for you meant the world. 

“No problem.” He then raised his bare hand, expectantly.

Gapryong insisted on carrying everything for you. He would even carry a single cup noodle during your midnight snack runs. 

You gave him your purse and lunch bag. You have long given up on fighting him over this topic.

“How was work today? Did anyone hit on you? Did they find out who’s been stealing toilet paper?” he asked as you two ambled down the street. Naturally, Gapryong stayed on the side adjacent to the road.

“It was hell, no and no. Although, the mood was off today.”

“Why? Did someone sleep with someone else’s wife?”

You playfully slapped his arm. “There are rumors about us getting laid off.”

“Yeah, I’ve been hearing a lot about that everywhere lately. I found one of our neighbors crying because he was terminated.”

“They told me it has something to do with the Yamazaki.”

“Oh, those guys.” He let out a deep sigh. “If their name reached your ears then we’re in trouble.”

“I feel like I’ve been insulted just now.”

“It’s not an insult. I think it’s adorable that you’re always in your own little world.”

You pinched his waist and he gasped like it actually hurt.

“Focus,” you said. “The name sounds Japanese. What do you know about them?”

“Nothing good. From what I’ve been told, the Yamazaki is this bigshot yakuza[4] clan. They’re building a statue in the town square in honor of their leader or something.”

“Wait, what?” You stopped walking. “That’s what they’re building over there?” You’ve passed by that statue-in-the-making a few times, but the only thing you noticed was the cute dog. You didn’t think it was going to be something as ridiculous as foreign gang leaders. 

“The yakuza, huh…” You dipped your head. You didn’t have memories about your life prior to waking up on the beach. You didn’t speak Korean but were fluent in a few other languages, you didn’t know your age but you could perform basic arithmetic, and you didn’t know your own name but you knew that the term “yakuza” was bad news.

You were pulled out of your thoughts when Gapryong suddenly snuggled to your side like a service dog.

“Don’t sweat it, noona,” he said, “no matter what happens, I’ll protect you and everyone else.”

If it were some other brat telling you this, you would have called him crazy and a little cheesy, but the pit in your stomach vanished the moment you saw that confident smile.

You huffed.

“Don’t believe me?”

“No,” you replied, grabbing his wrist and pulling him forward. “I believe in you, guppy, so don’t you dare disappoint me.”

Gapryong stood frozen as he watched the sunlight fall on your smiling face. When was the last time noona smiled so softly like that?

“Noona, I—”

“?”

“I’m going to cook all your meals from now on.”

“Huh? I appreciate it, but—”

“Also, promise me that you won’t make that face when I’m not around. I don’t want you attracting another rival! Especially not at work! I can’t follow you inside the building!”

“You’re exaggerating. Besides, I…”

“What is it?”

I want to quit. You breathed in and grinned.

“...it’s nothing. Let’s go.”

You knew that he didn’t believe you, but he smartly didn’t pry and you two continued walking.

When you arrived at your sub-basement, you were so exhausted you laid eagle spread on the floor.

“Noona, you should at least sleep in your bed.” 

“No…too far, plus I’m too tired to shower.”

“Then change—aaand she’s passed out.” Gapryong shook his head then went to get you a pillow and some blankets.

While you slept, he washed your water bottle and containers and then checked your fridge.

“Beer. Figures.” He sighed. He normally didn’t have to worry about your meals because either Minseon or him would keep you fed, but lately, the world’s been going to shit so even he was too busy to keep your fridge and pantry stocked. 

Your snores filled in the air and he chuckled, “Being a husband sure is hard.”

As he was counting the bills on his wallet, someone knocked at the door.

A rosy-faced Minseon Kang stood there with a giant bag full of what Gapryong assumed to be food. “Good morning—oh. It’s you.” 

“Good morning to you too, Minseon. Perfect timing, I was about to do a grocery run but it seems you got that covered.”

“I was worried about unnie.”

“Understandable. Come in.”

“Stop talking like you live here, it’s gross.”

“Ouch. Don’t get jealous just ‘cause noona and I have been together longer than you’ve known her.”

“I’m going to slap you one of these days.”

“Thank you for the warning.”

The two of them worked together to put away the food. When they were done, Minseon remembered something and then fished inside her purse.

“I was going to hand these over to Baekho but since you’re here—” she slammed several envelopes onto Gaoryong’s chest “—can you please tell your girlfriends that our restaurant isn’t a post office?”

“Whoa, are these love letters? Haven’t gotten those in a while.” 

Minseon huffed. “Don’t get cocky. I’m pretty sure at least one of those things has some curse inside.”

“Stop it, you know that black magic stuff freaks me out.”

“Do you even open these things?”

“Of course, I do. A lady went out of her way to prepare the paper and took precious time out of her day to write; I gotta at least read her message.” 

“That’s surprising. Are you going to write back?”

“Nah, I just talk things out with them.” 

“Huh?”

“Being popular is hard, y’know?”—

“Ugh”

—“Besides, once they start sending me letters, that’s when I need to draw the line.” Gapryong’s biggest regret was giving away his first kiss to someone from school instead of you, but it’s not like he can take it back. He flirts, he mingles, he makes out sometimes but he already promised the rest of his firsts to you. 

Minseon watched him silently scan the letters. “I really don’t understand you.”

“They do say mysterious men are more fun~”

“I didn’t think you were someone who’d take love letters seriously.”

He fingered the envelopes, recalling your disappointed face when you found a thirteen-year-old Gapryong Kim callously ripping apart a love letter from one of his classmates. “You don’t have to reciprocate, but you should at least read it. I’m sure it took a lot of courage to bare her heart like that.” It stung that you didn’t get possessive or jealous (and it still hurts how unaffected you are by his so-called womanizing), but he was a brat who didn’t know any better. You were right. Even if he had no plans of having a serious relationship with those girls, he should at least let them know before they fall for him completely.

“But maaan, these are a lot. Minseon, can you just read ‘em and then summarize for me?”

“...tsk.”

They then heard rustling from the living room.

You were now sitting up.

“Oh, sorry,” Gapryong said, handing you a cup of warm water, “did we wake you?”

“Unnie, you should move to the bed.”

You slurped the water as your exhausted eyes rolled over from Minseon to Gapryong. 

“Mm…” You put down the cup. “You two would make a great couple.”

Gapryong’s face turned white and Minseon’s green. 

They broke out into a chorus of sounds: 

“How could you say that?” “That joke’s not funny!”

“Not even if you paid me!” “Not even if he was the last person on Earth!”

“No!” “Never!”

You blinked slowly. “If you say so.” 

You fell back on the floor. “Kids, it’s my day off so I wanna sleep in. Keep the flirting to a minimum, ‘kay?” Having said your piece, you passed out again.

“Nee-chan—”

“—don’t slam the door—”

“—Shintaro and I came to play!” Shingen stopped and looked around. “She’s not here…”

The veranda door slid open, revealing their sister. Your yukata was soaked from the waist down. Your arms were wrapped around what the twins thought was a dark, smelly towel until it yipped and barked.

“Easy, easy,” you cooed, rocking the wet furry thing.

“Nee-sama, is that… a dog?”

“Yup, she’s just a baby, isn’t she cute?”

“She smells awful.”

Shingen stepped closer. “She looks nothing like father’s dogs. What breed is she?”

“I don’t know.” You walked over to the heater you borrowed from the kitchen and put the shaking puppy in front of it. 

“So it’s a mongrel?”

“She’s not one specific breed.” You grabbed a clean towel from your closet and began patting her dry. “What should we call her?”

“You’re gonna keep it?”

“We’re going to keep her,” you clarified, “so start thinking up names that go well with Yamazaki.”

A month passed since the layoff rumors, but no one was fired. However, an unofficial, city-wide curfew was set in place.

The statue in the town square was almost done. More tattooed thugs from Japan roamed the streets in addition to those in uniform. Even you, who spent your days off sleeping instead of hanging out with friends, could tell that a storm was coming.

But, as every adult can attest, even if the world ends tomorrow, you still gotta work.

After your shift at the call center, you sleep for five hours then go to the restaurant. 

Your customer service abilities were decent, and it helped that your regulars preferred to do most of the talking. Working at the restaurant was a thousand times easier than at the call center—

“I said I want a different waitress!

—but even that was about to change.

“Sir, I’m sorry if I offended you in some way,” you began, speaking clearly but humbly, “if you tell me the problem then I will do my best to fix it.”

“Tsk. Do I have to say it in Japanese for you to understand?”

“Wha—”

“I. Said. I. Want. A. Different. Waitress!”

“...”

The man clicked his tongue again and mumbled, “Damn jjokbari.”[5]

You forced yourself to recover from the shock and bowed. “I understand. Someone else will be with you shortly.”

You went over to the counter where the food for table 2 was waiting. Minseon’s dad gave you a look. “Want me to kick him out?”

“It’s all right.” You grabbed the trays and acted like nothing happened. It’s been a while since you’ve heard that slur.

Judging by the way the other customers gazed at you, you had a feeling you’ll be hearing it a lot more. 

[1] jajangmyeon: black bean sauce noodles

[2] jumeok-bap: rice balls

[3] oi muchim: spicy cucumber salad

[4] yakuza: I can't remember if I already gave the definition but TLDR, it's the Japanese mafia.

[5] jjokbari: Korean slur used against Japanese citizens or people with Japanese ancestry

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Disclaimer: The images used are screencaptures of Ep. 466, 525 & 377 - Lookism, Webtoon.

Phainon’s going to be a good mate to you, after he claims you. He’ll take care of your every need, the way you take care of his. He already tries to do that for you, of course—protecting you from danger when you’re out of the house, holding you when you're sad, licking your face until you're happy and giggling again. He tries to be good for you, because it's what you deserve.

Still, there are some things he can’t do unless he's your mate. Things like helping you through your heats.

Human heats are strange things. Phainon had never observed them up close until moving in with you. They're oddly subtle: you don't get mindless or ill the way that a hybrid of his species would, and he's not sure if you’re even aware of what your body is going through. If you were, then you wouldn't be so insistent on going outside, where any canid can smell the ripe fragrance of your womb and think about mounting you. Phainon has, a few times, caught some lowlife wolf or dog hybrid trailing after you and had to intervene, snarling at them before they could get close enough to touch you.

(You shouldn't get into fights, you always chide him afterward. What if you seriously injure someone and I have to give you up? And Phainon wishes he were capable enough of human speech to say, Don't worry about me. I just want you to be safe.)

But even if your heats are quiet, they’re painfully noticeable to Phainon. You always smell so sweet to him whenever they hit—a tell-tale sign that your body is ready for breeding. And then there's the scent of your arousal, the soft moans you make in your sleep as you dream of being filled, the way you press your thighs together whenever your thoughts wander in your waking hours. A few times you've kicked Phainon out of your room when you've gotten too wet and frustrated from it all, and he's had to spend the night in his own bed trying not to think about how you must be pleasuring yourself.

Phainon used to get shy about it. Tried not to think about how he could calm you with his knot, or how he could fill you up so that your body would stop begging to be bred. He wanted to be good for you, after all.

He didn't want to betray your trust.

But now that it's clear that you want him to be your mate, Phainon finds it agonizing not to touch you. He's scented you over and over and over, kept you indoors with him, held you in bed and comforted you as you ached from being so empty. Can't you tell that he's ready to help you?

And now, as he lays awake beside you, breathing in the scent of your arousal, that's all he can think about: that he should help you.

Phainon is careful about it as he hovers over you in bed. Nearly trembles as he begins to touch you. He's dreamt about this so many times—being close to you, being inside you, being yours—that it scares him now that he's doing it. He doesn't want to mess it up. He doesn't want to scare you by following his instincts—which is to roll you over on your stomach and shove his cock inside you. To rut into you and knot you and pump you full of cum, finally satisfying your heat.

If you were a hybrid, that's what he'd do. But you're a human, and he knows humans need to be handled gently—that you need to be handled gently.

He noses the crook of your neck. Nips at you carefully, listens to the little moan it draws out of you. It's a wonder you don't wake up as his tongue trails over your pulse and down toward your collarbone. He's especially grateful for it when he finally moves down to your thighs and parts them, giving him access to your aching core.

You've soaked through your panties. They're useless now, white fabric doing nothing to hide your leaking cunt. Phainon nearly feels bad when he sees the mess you've made: what a poor mate he’s been, letting you get to this point. He should have laid his claim to you as soon as your heat hit, filled you up and soothed you with his cock.

But he'll make it better, now. He’ll be a proper mate.

Phainon’s never mounted anyone before, so all he knows how to do is to follow instincts when he touches you: puts his head between your trembling thighs, presses his nose into your cunt. He inhales—deeply, greedily—and is briefly overwhelmed. The smell of you is so addictive, and he can't help but want a taste of you for himself. He presses his tongue against you—wet, hot, eager—and he licks.

Your reaction is immediate: your thighs tremble, you give a breathy little sigh. He keeps going then, encouraged—starts to lick you up and down as if you're a treat, drools all over your folds, pants into your cunt. He sucks at you too, trying to taste more of your juices—and happens to find a spot that makes you moan. You gush, a fresh wave of slick soaking his chin, and he starts lapping at the little bud through your panties, making your hips buck.

You wake up like that: pushing your cunt toward his mouth, whimpering as you drip all over his face. It takes you a moment to realise what's happening, for your mind to catch up to the fact that Phainon is licking your needy, empty pussy.

“Wh-what?” Your voice is bleary, dazed. “Phainon, what are you—”

Phainon takes your bud into his mouth again, sucking, and you forget how to speak.

Your moan is loud, blissed out, and your back arches as Phainon licks at you relentlessly. You writhe helplessly as he pushes your panties to the side, no longer unable to hold back, and slides his tongue between your dripping folds. He moans at the taste of your heat, lapping at you hungrily, drooling all over your sweet cunt.

“Ph–phainon,” you say, but he's too drunk on the taste of you to think about it. He takes that swollen little bud into his mouth, sucks again. You're sensitive and needy after being neglected during so many heats, so Phainon’s not surprised when you make the little sweet noise he's heard through the door when you touch yourself—the beautiful cry you give out when you cum.

He pants at the taste, licks at your essence greedily. Wags his tail and feels nothing but bliss—because he's finally helping you, finally fulfilling his duties as a mate, finally going to claim you. And he loves you—loves you so much, wishes once more that he could tell you so in human language. But it's okay that he can't. You'll understand when he knots you and marks you and makes you his. You'll understand him then, and you'll tell him that you love him back.

He looks up at you, beaming—and he stops when he sees your face.

You aren't happy. You’re horrified.

He tilts at you, whines. Tries to reach for you, but you pull away from him, eyes wide and breath erratic, and then you practically stumble out of bed, scrambling to get away. And once you've gotten on your feet, you try to talk to him, but you fumble with your words, stutter between sharp breaths.

All you manage in the end are two pained, broken words: “I’m sorry.”

He doesn't understand. Why are you sorry? he tries to say, but all that comes out of him is a sad little whine, and your eyes get so wide and heartbroken and he panics. Why are you sad? he tries to say. Why are you afraid? Please tell me, please let me help, I'm your mate, I’ll make it better. But he's a dog, not a human, and you can't understand him. Your face twists with pain at the sad, animal noise that comes out of him—and then you run.

Phainon wants to follow. He wants to hold you, lick your face until you're giggling, nuzzle you until you're kissing him and embracing him and loving him again. But you slam the door before he can reach you, and by the time he's outside, you've already thrown on your jacket and run out of the house. Already left him.

And standing all alone in a house that he'd thought he'd stay in forever, but might be as temporary as all the others, Phainon finally realises this:

it's in some ways a blessing, in other ways a curse. you enjoy the affection - encourage it, even - but you also very badly need some alone time right now. you've been single for a while, and terribly pent up because of it. it's been particularly bad these past few days; you think you must be ovulating with how frustrated you've been. your mind is constantly filled with fantasies of being touched, your thighs rubbing together as you try to ignore the heat between them. it's unbearable how wet you keep getting for no reason other than how badly you need a cock inside you. you need some privacy to work it out of your system, but phainon gives you the saddest puppy eyes whenever you try to kick him out of your room for the night, so of course you end up letting him stay and sleep in bed with you.

many people generally don't like dog hybrids sleeping on the bed, but you've never denied phainon the privilege: it makes him happy being near you, and you're more than happy to enjoy the way he presses up against you and buries his nose into your hair, your neck, you.

There is little in this world that Ashveil does not regret.

Across Amber Eras, his mind has gathered enough sins, corpses, and broken promises to viciously haunt him every night without fail.

The loss of life. The pain he has inflicted. The betrayals. Those linger longest, rotting and resisting loudly beneath his flesh—old wounds that have never healed properly that he only covers.

What he cannot fully bring himself to regret is meeting you, for better or for worse.

Even now, knowing well he keeps inserting himself into your story he has no place in, he cannot stop returning. Your warmth tends to obstructs any rational thought, luring him back to your doorstep at least once every month like clockwork. He keeps his old watch that shows delayed time in hopes for ruthless time slowing along, but when it comes to you, he fantasizes about days passing faster just so he can find another excuse to visit your house.

The warmth of another person, while elusive, fleeting, ready to be dispersed like dandelions, is also fulfilling and solacing. It is comforting in a way nothing else in the cosmos has ever managed to, and he suspects even aeons crave it. So he clings to yours with all the starving of a man offered scraps for the first time in years, foolishly hoping that one day you might fully envelop him in your sunlight.

People come and go; Ashveil wants to make you eternal in your goodness.

Like a kicked stray crawling back toward the hand that fed it, even if just once, he drags himself to your house again today.

He knows better than to use the front entrance. Your security camera reaches the spot clearly. Slipping through the ventilation system in the back is a safer option. More humiliating, perhaps, but at least that makes him feel like he has earned a quarter of right to be here.

Bless you for choosing a house tucked into the quieter backstreets of the Duomension City instead of one of those towering apartment complexes with security systems vicious enough to rival prison architecture—even just your hypothetical neighbors would be capable of throwing a wrench into his plans, an army made of hundreds of gawking eyes.

The sight greeting him after he kicks off his shoes is comforting, even if a certain element of it strives to make him less welcome.

Your dog, some breed of rather big posture, lies sprawled across the the living room floorboards like she’s the owner here. The moment her eyes crack open and settle on him, she sizes him up with the same unimpressed stare she always gives him—as though fully aware there are currently two dogs in the house, and that only one of them is actually wanted here.

“Oopsie. Did I wake you up, Princess?” he asks in the middle of letting out a yawn himself. “Sorry about that.”

Coming here this early means sacrificing another morning of sleep, but lately, he has been missing you(r home) too much to care. The city outside keeps growing louder and crueler, and it’s your house that remains one of the few places that still feels stagnant; he keeps it warm for you as you work.

Princess’s gaze finally shifts towards the treat sachet dangling from his hand. A spark of life finally enters her eyes. Unlike him, she’d never sell herself short.

“Yes, look what I brought you!” He grins, shaking the package lightly.

But even if she can hear the rustling of dried meat inside, she only swishes her tail once. She’s that spoiled by you.

Still, she rises from the floor with reluctance, and all dignified, she approaches him to collect her bribe. Ashveil crouches in front of her, scratching behind her ears while offering the treat with the other hand.

“I know, don’t give me that look,” he mutters with a whine to it. “Your mom definitely would not approve of me feeding you.” He even calls you a dog mom now. “Or approve of many other things for that matter…” he says wryly. “In any case… I’ll have to convert you to healthier snacks soon…”

She huffs through her snout, snatches the treat between her teeth, and trots off toward the kitchen. Her tail lingers around the corner for one last second before disappearing completely.

Ashveil watches her go, his own type of hunger burning at his loins already.

He makes his way toward your bedroom, no mistake in where he’s treading. The door shuts behind him, sealing his decision.

What he appreciates most about your room is the fact that it barely changes. The same wall color you must have once talked about with embarrassing enthusiasm, the same clutter of trinkets gathered over the years, the same hurried little messes left behind before work, the same scent woven stubbornly into the sheets and curtains and air itself.

This room is always there to welcome him while the rest of Planarcadia tears itself apart outside, on race towards greatness.

Or at least, he makes himself welcome here. Some vagabond he is.

He knows every corner already, yet he still finds himself looking around each visit, searching for tiny additions or changes. They are the intimate bridge connecting you and him, enough for him to feel included. They are also a proof that your life continues moving even when he is absent from it, a scary food for thought.

At the same time, he avoids touching most of your belongings whenever possible. Partially because of evidence. Mostly because he wants to preserve you exactly as you are, frozen safely in time for him.

Albeit, today, he possesses far less restraint than usual.

After confirming little has changed—while deliberately avoiding looking for too long at one particular object near your nightstand—he collapses face-first onto your bed with a groan.

His hand finds the tissue box automatically even with his face buried deep in your pillows. One tissue missing each month surely goes unnoticed. Three, at worst. Hopefully.

Your sheets envelop him in familiar warmth exactly as anticipated, just as they do whenever stress begins gnawing through him alive again and he runs here to his sanctuary. It takes all his self-control not to burrow completely beneath the blankets and pretend you are here beside him. If he crawls fully under the covers, he fears he may never want to crawl back out—some exhausted animal hibernating itself away for winter.

He inhales deeply, catching the remnants of your shampoo, your lotion, traces of your rushed morning routine still attached faintly against the fabric. The thought of watching you tending to yourself alone makes him dizzy; you deserve all the best things.

By the time he unzips his pants, his body already feels unbearably heavy with need. It’s been so long, since he ever felt that sort of desire, most of it being subdued by years of him pushing through with little ardor.

Ashveil presses himself into the mattress with a muffled sigh, grinding down slowly against the sheets while his thoughts drift somewhere nicer… and dangerous.

Your fingers combing gently through his hair, you telling him you want him here… that he can stay. A ridiculous thought suddenly surfaces in his mind too: if he commissioned an artist to paint you saying those words, would wishpower eventually bend reality enough to make it true?

Other fantasies creep in afterward.

You calling him disgusting while he desperately insists he can still be useful to you. Your hand gripping his jaw while he promises to behave. Teeth sinking into his skin hard enough to draw blood while he thanks you for it, for he can feel the misery pour out in torrents.

He supposes that both versions have their own rights, so long their manifestations are coming from you. So do they have potential to ruin him.

As he jerks his hips for the final time, the movement shifts your mattress enough to knock something off the nightstand. Ashveil sighs and reaches down towards the floor, nearly sliding off the bed entirely from the weakness now melting his limbs.

His mouth goes dry.

Your toy lies there beside the bed, still connected to its charging cable. You either use it often, or intend to do so after longer break.

It is sordid, the way his mind immediately wanders to the obvious regions: you spread on this bed and flushed with heat, thighs trembling around the toy you force into yourself, while soft sounds spill from your mouth into the dark. Maybe thinking of someone.

Hopefully him. The thought of it being anyone else strikes him with an equally unhealthy amount of anger and anxiety.

He wonders briefly whether your preference for toys over people is intentional rather than circumstantial. From everything he has gathered, you have not sought comfort from anyone else lately. Thankfully; that would complicate everything he has so carefully built between the two of you as your ‘friend.’

Modern relationships still confuse him somewhat. People seem to fall into each other’s beds so casually, or on Planarcadia, even for the sake of livestream challenges. He is selfishly grateful you haven’t been there yet.

All the more, he believes he could do you so much better than a stranger. He knows—not thinks, knows—he could please you better than some stranger ever could. He would know exactly where to touch, where to linger, where to soothe, where to provoke.

Where to bite.

And he would let you use him however you wished afterward, too. His thoughts have ranged through every imaginable scenario over the months: you gripping his hair, your teeth buried into his shoulder, your nails opening his skin… even you taking his breath away from above him, watching him plea you for mercy.

The sheer intensity of it suddenly overwhelms him, and with desire threatening to unfurl again, he springs into movement.

Inside your bathroom, he flushes down the mess he caught into the tissue and washes his hands thoroughly.

Your mirror is cruelly bright, framed by harsh white scene bulbs that expose every exhausted detail of his face. He stares at himself for a long moment before biting his lip hard enough to make it bleed, a reminder to keep going for there is still some things he owes you and other people.

Ashveil makes another empty promise. This is the last time, really. Not only because it is risky—it is rapidly not becoming enough anymore.

On his way out, he checks on Princess, she making your kitchen her playground too. Unfortunately, she has transformed the floor into a small field of crumbs.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Ashveil clicks his tongue and points at the small mess she’s made. “No crumbles at the crime scene, Princess.”

The dog lifts her head wearily. Begrudging, she licks the floor clean.

“Good girl.”

Although midway through cleaning, she stares at him with suspicion.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he laughs. “You’re still the favorite. You can make a bit of space for this old man, hm?”

For a moment, he considers staying around for a while longer, maybe to watch one of your favorite movies and take a bath. Ultimately, something gnaws at him to leave sooner than usual.

He checks his phone and as it turns out, he’s right.

Walking your dog through every corner of the the city has long since become part of your routine as a responsible owner. However, Princess still gets overwhelmed easily by the fulgent lights and noise of Duomension City, so whenever you can spare time, you like taking her to slightly less vibrant Seafeld City instead, accessed through one of the train lines of Planarcadia.

There are all kinds of people to encounter on the daily walk—or non-people, quite often. Navigating the streets has only grown more difficult over the years, each district louder and stranger than the last, as though every possible sensory experience is fighting for one’s attention at once. Those neon lights burn your vision from every angle, advertisements and TV presenters speak over one another through giant floating screens, imaginae creatures drift across the artificial sky, delivery bots zip recklessly between crows, and someone is always shoving a camera against your face.

The people themselves are no less extravagant: entrepreneurs, IPC workers, livestreamers, gangsters, artists, cult members, police officers, students, and occasionally, private detectives.

Ashveil, the ace detective of the Ashen Detective Agency whom you have somehow become acquainted with over the past months, remains one of the strangest examples you have encountered yet, Even for a planet of Elation, where absurdity is the norm, he ranks high in just how odd things can get—enough to draw your curiosity.

But strange does not necessarily mean unkind.

If anything, you have found it alarmingly easy to pity him ever since your first meeting, unconsciously assigning him the image of something half-pathetic, half-endearing after only a single interaction.

Watching him struggle to pay for his food probably had not helped. Still, times are tough for everyone, aren’t they? And you are not heartless.

A friend in need is a friend indeed.

So the first time you met him in Dovebrook District—standing awkwardly between a frustrated customer and a delivery worker arguing over a failed order—you simply transferred the missing amount without thinking too deeply about it. A tiny gesture from a passing stranger should have ended there.

Instead, Ashveil accepted your kindness as something important, revolutionary even, and for reasons you still do not fully understand, it’s as if he has been trying to repay you ever since.

At this point, you have somehow acquired a deeply devoted assistant. He walks you home. Keeps an eye on whether anyone suspicious lingers nearby. Appears whenever you complain about a problem, often before you even properly ask for help. He listens to you ramble after difficult workdays with extraordinary patience, and once, after noticing you rubbing at your shoulders too much, he even insisted on massaging the tension out himself.

Safe to say, the two of you have grown rather close. Friends, maybe. In any case, you don’t have it in your heart to tell him to stop, seeing his enthusiasm.

If only you knew.

“Good morning.”

Speak of the devil. Ashveil holding his cane appears just as you cross the road toward the shopping district, weaving through pedestrians until he reaches your side with the ease of someone accustomed to navigating crowded street. He looks like he has only crawled out of fridge bed, suppressing a yawn behind his hand while blinking away the last traces of sleep, yet the moment his gaze lands on you, his attention sharpens completely.

“Morning, Ashveil,” you greet with a smile as you halt your walk on the other side of the street. “Did you get up just to see me?”

The tease slips out effortlessly. You mean nothing serious by it. After all, you texted him earlier that you managed to leave work ahead of schedule, and so now he has come to meet you. The fact he somehow knew exactly where to find you does not strike you as particularly strange anymore, even if you didn’t share your location with him. You simply assume he is a detective talented enough, just a one with abysmal commercial instincts and maybe a bit of bad luck.

Ashveil laughs immediately, a little too fast, eyes darting aside with flusher hidden beneath the performance.

“No,” he says at once, lifting his brows as though the suggestion itself is ridiculous.

Yes. Absolutely yes.

He skipped breakfast entirely and practically launched himself out of the agency the moment he saw you leaving for work through the security camera feed he absolutely should not have access to. Not that he’s tech-savvy. He had to save money for weeks to pay some dude to install this one shady app on his phone.

“I had a case this morning,” he continues smoothly, crossing his arms. “Very demanding. Didn’t even have time to grab coffee.” His voice turns dramatically mournful as he shakes his head. “Cruel world, isn’t it?”

“Oh no, what will my poor detective do without coffee?” you tease.

My detective. Well, technically you said my poor detective, but Ashveil’s mind catches on the possessive anyway.

My.

Poor is good too, admittedly. Poor sounds sympathetic. Tender.

No, no, no—pull yourself together, Ashveil.

Seriously, don’t do this to him. Don’t use that teasing voice like you actually care while meanwhile you are probably just making fun of him.

His thoughts briefly send another funny feeling into his throat this strange day.

“Ha ha ha!” he laughs again, a little louder than necessary before hurriedly redirecting himself. “Anyway. No pup with you today?”

“No. She’s probably still sleeping, buried under her blankets…”

Good. Running into your Princess could potentially create complications. He is yet to meet her officially, and he’s worried she might act too familiar with him, so he keeps telling you about dog allergy to keep her away.

You pull your phone from your bag and angle the screen toward him proudly, showing him a picture taken earlier that morning, before you’d leave for work. Princess lies cocooned beneath blankets with only the top of her head visible. “Isn’t she lovely?”

“Oh my goodness, she absolutely is…” he says with genuine delight, sounding dangerously close to squealing. He saw Princess less than two hours ago, yet somehow the sight of her grumpy face still melts him instantly. More importantly, you wanted to share this moment with him specifically, and that alone makes warmth spread unpleasantly through his chest.

However, there is an even cuter thing standing directly beside him. Because with how close you are standing, he has full access to your face too. It’s hard to not get distracted, watching the happy wrinkles of your eyes lifting.

He snaps his fingers in realization. “You look quite radiant today. New face cream?”

That explains why your pillow smelled so different this morning…

You blink at him, tilting your head, with “how did you know?” plastered all over your face.

“Well.” He shrugs with nonchalance, casually stepping back until he can lean against a nearby roadblock pole. “Detectives are supposed to notice minor details. Comes with the profession. To a discerning eye, there’s always something new to spot.”

Not that he’s as good at deduction or anything a detective would need to prosper like you think he is. It’s mostly Mr N doing important research. He's more of a hard-boiled type. But, you believing in his skills is extremely useful, so he doesn't correct you.

“Actually, it’s a serum,” you correct playfully, locking your phone. “But close enough.”

Good. Excellent even—you didn’t lie to him. It is indeed the serum's effect—he knows, considering he was standing in your bathroom this morning, staring directly at the bottle while trying not to think too hard about how you must look applying it with your gentle hands. How you’d apply for him too, willing to share. It’s simply safer not to sound too accurate in his observations. The last thing he needs is for you to start seriously questioning how much he notices about you.

Maybe all these detective tutorials he read yet barely sustained knowledge from at the beginning of his career are actually starting to come in handy—he does know you well by this point.

“Serum, cream, natural glow—whatever,” he says lightly. “You look good.”

Like, really good. Enough that he could eat you up. And you walk around, just like that? You better put a muzzle on him.

“Thank you.” You hesitate slightly before adding. “You… look well too.” You adjust your grip on your bag.

Ouch. The hesitation stings more than it should.

Ashveil snorts, waving his hand dismissively. “Ah, you don’t have to lie to spare my feelings. I know the eyebags are especially horrifying today.”

“No, I—” You look slightly panicked now, looking around as if searching for a clue. But the crowd passing by has its own business, sparing you little attention. You genuinely were trying to compliment him, but it came out half-assed. “I mean, sleeping in the fridge has to have some… beautifying properties, right?” you say it awkwardly, like you are trying very hard not to offend him. “The coldness of it.” Even if you still have no clue why he does that. You don’t want to make him uncomfortable by asking, in case it’s health-related.

Ashveil nearly laughs. He doesn’t know whether he should be offended or flattered that you tried to make him feel better.

“Sure,” he says dryly, “if your beauty standard is a product about to expire.”

You let out a nervous chuckle.

“But probably not as effective as you’re imagining,” he continues before clearing his throat slightly, visibly trying to move on before the conversation drifts somewhere sincere. He clicks his cane against the stone below his feet. “So, where are you heading? Shopping?”

You are usually still at work at this hour. Meaning if he had decided to linger inside your house even a little longer today and probably missed your text, things could have ended catastrophically wrong.

Manifesting the end of his friendship act with you.

You nod, lighting up again. “Uh, yeah. Like I have told you, work got called off because of some technical issues,” you explain with an easy grin, satisfied to catch some respite. “So I thought: why not go shopping?”

“Yeah, shopping’s always great,” Ashveil says a bit too enthusiastically, relief slipping into his voice before he can smooth it over. “Why don’t I… accompany you? I mean, strange events have been occurring lately…”

Weird folks muttering about happiness. Gang members surfing through the crowds. Streamers appearing to suffer from some sort of neuroticism as they become only more aggressive about content-making. It’s as if a wave of heat came across the planet and drove everyone mad.

“So you think I’m incapable of defending myself, detective?”

The slower flutter of your lashes paired with slight, naughty curve of your lips confuses him for a moment. You’re teasing him again, yet it seems different this time. Coy, challenging.

If he didn’t know better, he would think you were flirting with him. Or maybe you are—he does occasionally have his clients hit on him in the act of desperation. The possibility of you doing that makes it harder to breathe, and he glues his gaze onto your neck he for some reason suddenly thinks of kissing.

Let’s see: if he allows himself too much hope, it becomes embarrassingly easy to lower his guard around you—more than he has done so already—and that is never wise if he ever was wise. And yet, after all the blood and exhaustion he quietly spends in your name, surely he deserves a little indulgence every now and then.

Not that you have ever asked for any of it. But people get hurt easily in this city. He simply prefers preventing unpleasant outcomes before they can reach you, especially if it means avoiding situations where you feel smothered by having an obvious bodyguard attached to your side.

You go about your day. He ensures it remains a safe one. Simple and easy. Sure, you would probably be horrified if you ever discovered the full extent of it—not to jinx anything—but—

“Ashveil?”

Your hand settles gently on his shoulder, grounding him back to you.

He blinks, for a moment mesmerized by the worried expression directed his way. The way your warmth permeates him makes breathing more worth it. It’s no wonder he lets his guard down around you.

“Huh? Sorry.” He rubs his face, exhaling through his teeth. “I didn’t sleep well. I mean—not enough.”

“Oh… “ Your brows knit together instantly. “Then, you shouldn’t force yourself to hang around for my sake. It's simple grocery shopping. Go home and rest,” you reassure, so softly.

“Nah.” He adjust his hat, concealing his eyes more. “I’ll survive. I don’t sleep very well during the day anyway.” Those furbobo working below his agency make too much noise.

“Was that too much?” you mumble out, lowering your hand which greatly disappoints him.

“What was?”

“F-forget it.” You immediately retreat from the moment, suddenly fascinated by anything else happening on the street instead.

And then it hits him. You were flirting with him. Actually flirting. And he completely missed it because every coherent thought leaves his body the second you pay him too much attention.

At one point, he even genuinely wondered whether he was developing dementia, perhaps erosion-related, because how else was he supposed to explain the dizziness, the lapses in judgment, the complete inability to think straight that began plaguing him seemingly out of nowhere? Only later did he realize the symptoms always worsened around you specifically.

Which, frankly, feels far more terminal.

“Anyway, “ he says quickly, recovering for your sake too, “I’m tagging along. I’ll even carry your bags free off charge.” He presses one hand against his chest, as if speaking of noble sacrifice.

“You charge women for carrying their bags?” you ask, unimpressed.

“No! Of course not.”

“Don’t you take commissions for basically anything?”

“Correct.” He lifts one finger, about to make a point. “But never for gentlemanly behavior.”

The proud smile on his face makes you snicker.

“Well, if we are going together,” you glance towards one of the nearest coffee shops, “how about, coffee first?”

“That sounds great.” He really could use a cup. Maybe he’ll stop slipping in front of you so much.

As the two of you get into walking side by side through the crowded streets, growing denser with every hour, a certain thought slowly forms in your mind. You’ve been meaning to ask him for a while now.

“How do you always find me, anyway?” you inquire curiously. “You do that a lot, you know.”

The question is innocent enough, but it still makes his guts churn.

Sure, you frequent popular areas, but Duomension City is enormous, sprawling endlessly in all that commercial enclosure of absurdity. But at some point, repeated coincidence stops feeling entirely convincing.

Ashveil opens his mouth, but he doesn’t explain himself immediately, deciding to be careful with what excuse he shall feed you this time. That’s the problem lately: he is becoming too transparent around you. The more truth he hides, the harder they become to contain, leaking out through careless comments and overfamiliar observations. How does one stay quiet about a person they're so terribly enamored with?

Nonchalance has never been his strong suit anyway, and he needs you that badly.

The fact you’re starting to notice certain patterns doesn’t help him either. People in Planarcadia move too fast to notice who revolves around them, too distracted by spectacle and noise and Phantasmoon Games and their own survival to question others too deeply.

Obviously, he cannot tell you the truth:

That he noticed you returning home during work hours through your own security camera feed—not that long after your message has told him—panicked something might have happened, and spent the last half hour discreetly trailing you to ensure you were alright.

So instead, he chooses the safer route. A little cruelty to balance things out. “You’re pretty predictable,” he says straightforwardly, yet not without wincing inwardly at how crude it must have sounded.

The manner in which he delivers his answer does have you scoffing. “Excuse me?” You cross your arms and tap your feet against the ground impatiently after you pause your saunter.

Ashveil raises both hands at once in surrender, scrambling to soften the blow. He still cannot afford you hating him. That would be the end of him.

“I mean your routine is predictable,” he corrects quickly. “Consistent. Which isn’t a bad thing, necessarily—it just means it’s easy to recognize patterns, especially for someone trained to notice them. But other people might not be as harmless as me, which is why you should be careful about sharing your location publicly, posting photos in real time, downloading suspicious apps, or—”

The detective lecture is intentional. If he keeps talking long enough, maybe you will forget to stay offended, jaded by his talk.

“Okay, okay,” you heave a heavy sigh. “I got the memo.”

It’s ironic, your stalker warning you about stalkers. If it was another guy stalking you and Ashveil found out, he’d drag him to a police station. Except, in his humble opinion, he hardly qualifies as one. Stalkers have nefarious intensions. He, on the other hand, is simply…concerned… Curious, perhaps excessively so, but ultimately helpful. If anything, unbeknownst to you, he has already prevented several unpleasant incidents from ever reaching you… or your awareness, on that score.

You have no idea how many people have looked at you too long; how many revolting thoughts storm behind strangers’ eyes, perhaps similar to his and that’s he knows it. And if that somehow makes him monstrous too, then at least let him be the lesser evil among all possible predators circling this planet.

He at least tries to constrain the beast.

“But,” he adds more lightly, “I pass through your district pretty often too. I’m always outside looking for clients, remember? We naturally run into each other a lot.”

Right. You have, in fact, witnessed him standing on sidewalks holding handwritten promotional signs like an absolute disaster of a businessman, desperately offering people business cards talking about two percent discounts with all the confidence of someone negotiating hostage terms.

“That makes sense,” you admit after a moment, scratching your cheek apologetically. “Sorry if I sounded accusatory or anything…”

“No,” he shakes his head fervently. “Absolutely not. Honestly, I’m happy that you’re staying vigilant. Better safe than sorry, right?”

Ashveil is annoyed, tapping the sole of his boot against the checkered tiles beneath the cafe table. Not even because you are paying for the coffee—though that certainly does not help his pride any, as he does think he should be doing better if he genuinely wants to impress you someday. Unfortunately, his earned money usually goes to other causes, first and foremost, and even if Pearl’s cases can pay handsomely, a big chunk of it goes to his old wounded friends in need of life better than his. First Fang duties.

From the small yellow table tucked near the windows, he has a clear view of you waiting in line at the screen register. The queue moves painfully slowly, bodies crammed shoulder-to-shoulder within the tiny pastel-colored space. You stand there patiently, studying the menu on the overhead screens cycling panels with ads and offers, despite having ordered here countless times already. Very cute, overall.

Unfortunately, you remain completely oblivious to the eyes drifting toward you from across the shop—or perhaps you have simply learned how to tune such things out after living in Duomension City long enough. Doesn’t matter, as Ashveil who has gained a nasty habit of overthinking about you notices them all immediately.

Eyes lingering over your body for too long. Eyes flicking towards your wallet. Eyes tracing the shape of your face while pretending not to stare. One man glancing between you and his phone and some weird attachment trap to it with growing interest. And Ashveil swears he is not merely being paranoid, not a victim of forgetting people’s innate curiosity.

He would gladly stand beside you right now if you had not specifically told him to keep thee table occupied. He already would have planted himself behind you like some feral guard dog pretending not to growl at strangers. Besides, if the coffee ends up being taken to go, your time together shortens considerably, and he would prefer delaying the inevitable end of this outing for as long as humanly possible. Choices, choices…

Then his instincts prove themselves correct. A man near the front of the line abruptly lifts his phone towards your face, livestream already active in app.

Ashveil sighs in vindication. See? He is right to worry. This city is full of freaks.

The streamer starts loudly rating people’s outfits for his audience, but his camera lingers on you for too long, drifting downward in ways that make Ashveil’s stomach tighten unpleasantly. When you politely ask the man to stop filming you, he merely laughs and steps closer instead, clearly encouraged by the audience reacting through the scrolling comments like some desperate.

Wonderful. For all intents and purposes, this man has just single-handedly reduced Ashveil’s guilt regarding stalking you by at least thirty percent.

As Ashveil rises from his seat, he shrugs his coat off onto the chair first. Spreading murderous intent throughout a coffee shop tends to alarm civilians, so he makes a genuine effort to calm himself down while approaching.

The streamer is still talking when Ashveil reaches him, coming up behind him like a ghost. Without warning, he casually presses the mute button on the small console panel on the screen.

“Hey—”

“Give me the phone.”

The streamer blinks, turning around. “What?”

Ashveil smiles pleasantly. “Take your hands off the camera,” he says quietly near the man’s ear, voice soft enough that the people around—you especially—cannot properly pick it up over the shop’s noise, “or I’ll make sure they come off literally.”

Meanwhile, he keeps his expression towards you entirely calm, meant to be reassuring.

The streamer goes pale almost immediately. Ashveil appears unassuming at first, but something about the shadowed look in his eyes, one of them twitching too, unsettles the streamer greatly. The cane Ashveil wields goes to press onto the guy’s feet nearly painfully too. “O-okay, chill,” he mutters nervously. “I didn’t know she was your girlfriend—”

“She isn’t.” Ashveil’s smile never wavers. “Is that the only reason you know how to behave?”

The man stares at him, dumbfounded.

And for one brief second, Ashveil wonders if something slipped through his expression—something hungry, older source, and certainly sharp enough to expose what truly sits beneath his skin.

Thankfully, the streamer backs away. “Whatever, man,” he scoffs weakly before hurrying out of the care with his livestream still running. Other people around look startled for a moment, confused about what happened, but they quickly settle back.

Ashveil watches him leave, thinking what a hypocrite he’s starting to become.

Standing here acting holier-than-thou and outraged over another man reducing you into spectacle while he himself encroaches your routines, sneaks through your house vents, and spends sleepless nights imagining how you feel beneath him.

Sure, he has not acted on the ugliest thoughts yet… But what happens if one day he finally does? He fights for justice, even at the cost of spilling blood, he hates hurting others, but when it comes to you, he breaks his own rules more often than not. Guilt exists in Ashveil’s heart for sure, but apparently not enough to set him back—not when it comes to you, his special person and sunshine.

“You good?” he asks once he reaches you, his hand settling instinctively between your shoulder blades as you quickly finish order, not wanting to break your promise about caffeine fill.

“Perfectly fine,” you insist. “Thank you.”

Still rattled, though—he can feel the tension in your posture as he guides you away from the line.

For a moment after you sit down, some awkward silence fills the air around you. He can tell you’re trying to act unaffected by the encounter, clutching your wallet, but he doesn’t press you on, letting you calm down on your own.

Shortly after, one of the screens blinks your order number already. With how fast-progressing things are today, automatized with these mechatron workers especially, it is no surprise. “Oh. It’s our order.”

He locates the counter and the tray waiting for you, patting your shoulder. “Stay here. I’ll pick it up.”

He’s back in the blink of an eye, while you’re still fumbling with your wallet.

Trying to tuck it away, with how shaky your hands are from the unpleasant encounter, you accidentally bump the coffee cup. In result, hot coffee spills directly over his gloved left hand.

Ashveil absolutely could have moved away in time. He simply chose not to.

“Ow,” he hisses, pulling his hand back with a scowl. “That’s savage.” Honestly, the phantom pain in his prosthetic arm hurts infinitely worse on daily basis—and tears at him during fullmoon.

You gasp immediately. “Ashveil! Oh my goodness, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s fine—”

“No, no, quickly, let me see.”

Before he can protest further, you are already grabbing napkins and reaching for his hand with frantic concern. The moment your fingers carefully pull at his white glove, something devastating its surroundings storms inside his chest. There it is again, that warmth.

You dab gently at his fingers with a napkin while muttering anxious apologies under your breath, entirely focused on making sure he is alright and disregarding old scars. Ashveil watches you in silence, fighting the embarrassing urge to lace his fingers through yours properly, and imagining two worlds connecting. When did he become so sappy?

Your touch is absurdly tender. He cannot remember the last time someone handled him with care instead of annoyance or lust.

Some self-proclaimed lone wolf he is.

It is reckless, really. Someone in his position of being chased by ranger should avoid attracting attention, should avoid becoming emotionally attached, should avoid indulging in moments like these unless they become necessities instead of luxuries. So much for staying low. He might have to disappear from this planet tomorrow and what would he even do about you then?

Unfortunately, Ashveil has never been particularly good at denying himself where you are concerned. If anything, spending the rest of his miserable live serving you while receiving small fragments of affection in return sounds close enough to paradise. In his most delusional visions, you and him run away to some tropics together.

He watches the concern pinching your brows together, almost paining him as much, and he briefly wonders, not for the first time, how someone can possibly be this kind to him without realizing the danger of it. If anything, you barely know anything about him, not anything under the surface. Because the uglier feelings he usually tries to curb follow behind. He wants to devour you entirely, leave no bones, until you form an union with him, so no distance could ever exist between you two again.

“There probably won't be a scar, I think,” you murmur nervously, still inspecting his hand. It’s really not that bad, as maybe a few splashes of coffee hit his hand and his glove soaked up the most. “But maybe we should get this checked anyway—”

“No need.”

“But—”

Ashveil pats your hand before finally letting his fingers curl around yours under the guise of reassurance—gently, as though he anticipates breaking you, though in truth, he can't take more of your touch and remain alright. The heat rushing through your skin soaks into his pores, rewriting whatever here might have started withering, and he imagines the vines of your kindness climbing his healthy arm in search for his heart already thrumming. “Now, now,” he says softly, smiling goofily again. “I’m not that delicate. I promise.”

You finally laugh a little, the remaining tension loosening from your shoulders. You even squeeze his hand twice, sending chills through him that have him shifting in his seat.

“For what it’s worth, it’s good coffee they serve here,” Ashveil praises after he takes a sip. He lets your hand go first, reluctantly.

“Yeah?” Your expression brightens even more. Truly precious. “I'm glad. It’s my favorite place.”

Of course he already knew it was yours. He memorized that months ago. Still, hearing you willingly bring him somewhere important to you makes his chest flutter strangely, as though his lungs are suddenly filling with cleaner air than the city normally allows him.

You realize something soon after. “You know, Ashveil…” You stir your drink absentmindedly. “I feel like our conversations tend to be pretty one-sided…”

Ashveil stills.

“And I feel bad about that,” you continue. “So I thought that maybe I could ask you more things about yourself instead?”

That genuinely catches him off guard. He deliberately steers conversations toward you whenever possible, preferring to keep attention away from himself, yet somehow you interpreted that imbalance as your own failure instead.

It’s dangerous, this type of care.

“Hm. Well.” He chuckles nearly in a jitterily manner, scratching his cheek. There is little to share that doesn't compromise your safety, and little to reveal that doesn’t pain him these days. He’d look like a bleeding heart anyway. “I don’t know if there’s that much interesting stuff to learn about me. I mostly just work, eat, and sleep.”

“I’m not someone that special either,” you protest, leaning closer. An outrageous lie, in his opinion. “Yet we talk about me all the time,” you continue. “So I’m sure there’s something. Like…” You purse your lips in thought—another thing he finds cute. He can imagine a lightbulb shining above your head as you come up with something. “What’s one of your dreams?”

“My dreams?” he repeats, taken aback.

You could have asked about his favorite color. Food. Movie. You went straight for his throat instead. How touching. How scary.

Ashveil glances around the cafe. Different people fill every table: students, workers, exhausted commuters, streamers, couples, strangers. Loud, messy, and imperfect people, all trying to carve out somewhere to belong beneath the endless neon of this planet. If he stares long enough, he almost expects ghost from his part to emerge from the crowd and remind him that eventually he will lose you too.

It would be far wiser of him to give you some common crap, about money or fame. To say something simple and cheesy about retirement for a tropical island full of cheap sandals, happy dogs, and warm beaches. And yet, he naturally clings to the idea of you wanting to understand him, to take some of the burden off his shoulders even if guilt would strike him after.

“I think…” He hesitates. “I wish everyone could have a place for themselves in this world.” His voice lowers slightly. “Somewhere they’re allowed to exist safely. Somewhere warm enough to return to at the end of the day.”

You listen carefully—sincerely, digging dagger into his heart this way.

“No one should have to survive alone, or barely, if it can be helped,” he admits after a moment, fingers drumming once against the cup. “I know that’s naive, though.”

“Hm.” Your smile softens immediately. “I think it’s a beautiful dream, Ashveil.”

Your words aren’t dry or dismissive. There is no mockery in your voice. You seem to earnestly appreciate his answer and he cannot stop staring at you like this, his grey eyes gaining fragility over that sharpness from the moments ago.

You truly are a devil. Because he suddenly becomes aware of the hypocrisy sitting inside his head, both sides clashing there everyday. Pronouncing what he doesn’t deserve.

A man who claims to care about justice while quietly invading your life piece by piece out of selfish desperation. A man who wants to protect your freedom while simultaneously wanting you closer and closer until the line between affection and possession disappears completely.

Maybe someone would side with him and tell him, “you deserve this after everything you have went through, old man.” But he doesn’t wish to be a dead weight to you just because he’s broken.

They say ignorance is a bliss. They are darn right. Self-awareness does nothing except lets the guilt and greed eat him from the inside.

“It is beautiful,” he says quietly, his grip on the cup tightening, “but not realistic. Most people never reach that kind of haven no matter how hard they try. Luck, or gods, they decide almost everything eventually.” His mouth pulls into a solemn smile. “I get front row sears watching that happen.”

You fall silent after that, as if you don’t know whether you should let him keep talking or nip it in the bud before the whole day has its charm ruined.

When you give him that uncertain look, a mix of worry and awkwardness, he suddenly realizes what an absolute mood killer he must be for a shopping trip. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to murder your spirits.” He laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his nape as he leans safely away from you.

“No.” You shake your head. “I asked, remember? And I’m happy you answered honestly.”

He nods, strangely affected by that response. “Thanks,” he murmurs, almost shyly. He should be the wiser, protective figure here, as someone far older than you. “I appreciate that.”

For a moment, he simply drums his fingers against the table, watching the vivid reflections ripple across the windows. Then he abruptly straightens.

“So!” His usual grin returns. “Shopping?”

“Totally.”

“Dogs used to have much less choice. So did consumers, honestly. Would you look at how fast things change?”

“You sound like an old man,” you remark from beside him with a snort, your attention never leaving the enormous shelves packed with enough pet food brands to sustain an army of spoiled pets.

The pet industry has been thriving for decades already, capitalism evolving into some grotesque creature of its own. Colorful packaging stretches endlessly across the aisle, each product screaming promises about healthier fur, stronger teeth, shinier eyes, happier digestion, longer lives. Even the bags themselves are glossy enough to rival cosmetic advertisements.

Ashveil stiffens slightly beside the shopping cart.

“Come on, who even needs all this? This is a supermarket. Not a pet shop,” he says defensively.

“Well, apparently my dog does.” You crouch briefly to inspect a lower shelf. “Princess has gotten really picky lately. Too much variety ruined her forever.”

“Yeah?” He folds his arms and smirks. “They used to hunt, can you imagine?”

“The most she hunts is my slipper after I accidentally drop it.”

Ashveil suppresses a laugh.

If only you knew. Princess can become vicious whenever she wants to. The first few days he started visiting your house, she nearly tore into his ankles on sight. Funnily, a stranger breaking into her home is not what offended her the most. That ranked secondary compared to the fact that the treats he brought were chicken-flavored instead of beef. She had made enough outraged noise to nearly expose him entirely before finally driving him back out through the window and land inside a dumpster. H u m i l i a t i n g.

As you’re finally about to pick something, Ashveil instinctively stops you, his cane pointing.

“Your dog doesn't like that one.” The words slip out far too naturally. Too easily, sure, born from the need to be right; you tend to lower his defenses with how wonderful you are to him, leading to him saying compromising things like that.

Your hand pauses midair. His confident statement picks up your attention. Not would probably dislike. Not even might prefer something else. A definitive certainty.

“How do you know that? You haven't met my dog yet.” Your expression sharpens with mild offense rather than suspicion, thankfully. To you, it merely sounds like someone rudely claiming superior knowledge over your own dog instead of accidentally exposing himself as a home-invading creep.

His heart stills right there by this damn pet food aisle. Think fast, think fast, think fast, you old man—

“No, however—” He clears his throat. “You told me her breed before, remember? And I’ve worked around all kinds of dogs over the years, well, unfortunately at the cost of a big allergic reaction. You start collecting their characteristics.” His hand waves vaguely towards the shelf. “That one’s too light. She probably needs something richer. More iron.” He nods sagely, then adds to his wisdom, “That breed’s basically halfway to becoming a shark. Bloodthirsty creatures.”

He’s lying because he’s not even that good at deducing. Storing information about you comes easily for him, but he’s mostly operating based on intuition and luck.

“You think so?” You give him the benefit of doubt because your furball does deserve the best.

“Yes!” He clasps his hands together. “Can’t go wrong with beef.”

He knows this especially because he once at the same dog treats himself, being broke enough to consider it economically reasonable. The nutritional contents are close enough to actual jerky, enough for one to decide that what society thinks doesn’t matter.

“Hm… it’s just… I don't want her eating too much fat.”

Right. He almost forgot until this morning where he saw Princess. Continuously bribing your dog into silence with treats may eventually become a genuine health concern. And Ashveil loves dogs enough to acknowledge this prospect. Still, switching her away from her from her current favorite will absolutely trigger aggression, so he needs to help transition her carefully—if he wants to preserve diplomatic relations within the household.

“Just don't overfeed her and it should be fine.”

He also ought to avoid Princess for as long as possible. Which is becoming more and more difficult as you (un)fortunately walk her a lot. He can’t always text you and ask you if you’re with your dog—even with that allergy thing as his bargaining chip—if sometimes he appears spontaneously. If Princess were to openly recognize him in front of you…

The two of you continue wandering through the store afterward, slowly filling the cart with a mix of necessities and smaller indulgences. The city’s supermarkets always feel overstimulating, packed with fluorescent lighting, brightly colored displays, robotic promotional mascots chirping abut discounts, and giant hanging screens advertising products loud enough to follow customers across entire warehouse. Ashveil is more accustomed to the darkness of his refrigerator, but with you around, those elements become somewhat bearable.

He naturally takes notes of what you get.

At some point, you toss something sweet into the basket beside him. Ashveil glances downward.

“You remembered.”

“Well, you liked it last time.”

Something embarrassing tickles his cheeks. You cared enough to remember what snack he likes and to get it for him. Spending money on him, when he should be spending it on you.

As you two continue forward, his own brain remains busy memorizing absurdly tiny details about you: how you absentmindedly compare expiration dates twice before buying something, the way you tap the cart to the rhythm of the music playing in the background, how you narrow your eyes whenever calculating prices in your head. Domesticity looks good on you and he’s happy to be part of it.

By the time the shopping bags are finally filled, the crowds outside the supermarket have thickened.

“Thank you for joining me today, Ashveil,” you say while adjusting the bags against your arm—not letting him hold them. “I should probably head back before the city gets even too crowded.”

“Fair enough.” He still reaches towards the heavier bag. “Let me walk you home.”

“No, there’s really no need.”

He looks at you with confusion.

“You already did plenty for me today,” you add with a small smile.

“It’s not a problem,” he insists, holding onto the side of the bag. “Seriously, the streets get worse around this hour, and—”

“Ashveil. Please.” For the first time, your tone turns firmer. Resolute, oh the horrors.

It does make him burn, nearly sending shock into his body, and he’s about to overthink again.

His stomach drops stones. He must have been a bother to you, all clingy like velcro no matter how politely he disguises it as concern. Maybe you finally noticed how excessive he has become. Or worse—maybe you noticed something deeper beneath it all, and the situation is far more catastrophic than he initially thought. Or maybe you are replacing him—

“I don’t mean to be overbearing,” he says carefully, suddenly hyperaware of every word leaving his mouth. “I’m just worried about your safety. You know what Planarcadia’s like lately. All these gangs…” Even if he befriended some of them. “Weird people…”

“I know.” Your features soften lightly, though they maintain its seriousness. “But having someone worry over me every second isn’t exactly good for me either. I do try to be careful, so…”

You finally have made a boundary. You are reasonable, yet it still feels like you kicking him in his ribs.

“I see,” he says after a moment, forcing himself to let go of your purchases. “That makes sense.” It does, which is the worst part. “But call me if anything happens,” he adds, unable to fully stop himself.

“I will.”

You smile again afterward, gentler this time, seemingly relieved he accepted the request without argument. Then you leave.

Ashveil watches you gradually disappear into the moving crowd, your sunny figure swallowed little by little, and he thinks the lights above don’t hold candle to you. The city suddenly feels even louder even for its norm, unbearably so.

He stands there for another moment before finally turning away himself with a heavy sigh, shoulders lower than before. His invisible tail is curled, more of a dog, not wolf. He already knows, with miserable certainty, that he is going to spend the next several hours replaying this interaction over and over until he successfully convinces himself that you must secretly hate him now. A grown man, now unwilling to eat the food you bought him, just so he can cling to a piece of you for a bit longer.

No. Forget it. He can’t leave it like that. What if there’s someone waiting for you? He didn’t see you contacting anyone when strolling with him but he needs to make sure you’re not cheating on him. Not that it’s cheating, but you get the gist, right?

Yet as it turns out, you really reach home on your own. He trails you right under you reach your door. Well, at least he knows you’re safe.

Ashveil doesn't remember the last time he’s been this scared.

Your call reaches him in the middle of the night, cutting through the rattling hum of the refrigerator compressor. His phone vibrates violently against the metal lining and skids away from him, and in his panic co catch it, he nearly smashes his forehead against the surface. It doesn't help he’s been talking in his sleep again, barely getting any sleep immersion that he thought he was about to experience sleep paralysis too.

For one terrible second, he thinks something has happened to you. That maybe it isn't a dream.

But, honestly, once he manages to answer and hears your voice properly, half of him is simply relieved. You sound panicked, yes, words tumbling over each other in disarray, but you called him. After your boundary-giving and his walk home with his tail between his legs, you still reached for him first.

That alone nearly distracts him before his finally brain finally catches up to what you are actually saying. A receipt. Something wrong inside the house. Suddenly, he is wide awake.

“Hold on—” He pushes the fridge open and sits upright like a corpse rising to life. “—you’re saying you think someone broke into your house?”

“But I can’t tell!” you blurt out shakily. “I found this receipt right as I was getting ready to sleep, and things feel weird, and I checked the cameras but there’s nothing there, nothing seems missing, and maybe I’m overreacting but—”

Ashveil’s stomach drops. Did you finally notice something? Did he accidentally scatter evidence?

No. Impossible. He always checks carefully. He takes pictures beforehand, recreates every angle afterward, makes sure everything remains exactly as it was before he arrived. It’s the least he can do. He is meticulous about these things… Usually.

“Hey. Hey, calm down.” He rubs down his face, forcing his voice to be calmer despite the sudden adrenaline flooding him.” Don’t wind yourself up. I’ll come over and take a look first, okay? Don't call the police yet.”

“Why not? It's their job!” you ask with confusion.

“Well…” He stands quickly, tugging on his pants with the free hand. “Unless there’s direct proof of forced entry, they might turn you away. Let me check things out first before you stress yourself too hard.”

There is a brief pause, filled with your frantic breathing.

“O-okay. Come quick, please.”

The call ends.

Ashveil stares at the dark screen for one second before bolting like a complete lunatic. Mister N looks up in alarm as he watches his boss rush through the office half-dressed and visibly panicked.

“Ashveil, what on earth are you doing?”

“No time for explanation!” he blurts out while shoving his boots on and grabbing his cane. “Emergency!”

By the time he reaches your street, his thoughts have already escalated into increasingly catastrophic scenarios. You found other traces as well. You are suspecting him and this is a trap with police awaiting him at your house. Or worse, someone else truly did break in.

You open the door almost the instant he rings the bell.

And don't you look miserable. Your eyes are red and glossy with tears, shoulders tense beneath your sleep clothes, fingers clutching the edge of the door. You look at him as if he might as well be your last hope.

His eyes soften. “Hey,” he says quietly, stepping closer. “Pretty lady, rest assured, everything will be alright. Breathe for me,” he says gently, fixing a loose lock of your hair from your face. “You’re shaking.” Sight of you like this is the most difficult one to take. And it’s probably his fault.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper shakily. “It’s probably something stupid and I’m making a big deal out of nothing—”

“No.” His voice firms from the seriousness. “You’re right to be cautious. Especially these days.” His hands settle carefully on your shoulders. “How about you make yourself some tea while I look around, hm?”

You hesitate but you end up nodding. “Okay. I’ll make you one too,” you say nicely and his heart skips a beat even now.

He smiles encouragingly, stepping inside and hanging his coat.

Before retreating toward the kitchen, you suddenly turn back and hand him the receipt you kept in your robe’s pocket.

“I’ve never been to this konbini before,” you explain anxiously. “Or at least not recently. Sometimes I stop at random stores during walks with Princess, but…”

“I see.”

Ashveil scans it quickly.

The receipt goes:

a loaf of bread

instant coffee

instant noodles

10 x bunches of bananas

.

.

.

Fuck.

All thoughts leave his body for a moment and it’s all tension taking over his body. It is his receipt.

The bananas are for the monkeys at the agency, since they enthusiastically accept payment in fruit and occasionally riot when undercompensated. It must have slipped from his pocked earlier while he was distracted grinding himself into your mattress like a pathetic animal in heat. Which should have not happened, since he does document everything before moving around your house specifically to avoid mistakes like this.

Yet lately, around you, he has been getting sloppy. Well, more than usual.

With you in the kitchen, he at least has been granted several minutes to unravel this blunder in peace. And what an absolute sad sack he was; he survived deadly fights only to be taken down by a grocery receipt?

By the time you return with tea and invite him over to your cozy sofa laid out with blanket, he has mostly reconstructed his composure.

“I’ve got good news,” he announces, leaning back—and trying not to get distracted by your scent and warmth radiating off of you. Not it’s not the time! Even if you look especially adorable with some sleepy weariness attached to you. “There’s no sign of forced entry anywhere. Locks are intact. Windows too.”

“But how did it get inside?” you ask immediately, looking at him intensely. “I keep my windows closed.”

Ashveil hums thoughtfully, trying to appear more visceral than practiced. “Well…” He staples his fingers between his spread thighs. “Think about it this way. If someone was skilled enough to enter your home unnoticed, avoid the cameras, leave no signs of entry…” He points with his head at the receipt on the coffee table. “Would they really leave behind something this obvious?” Okay, maybe he would. “You probably carried it inside accidentally without noticing.”

Your tight expression slowly relaxes. “Yes,” you admit with relief, “that actually makes sense.”

“Exactly.”

You exhale deeply, tension leaving your shoulders. “Though, that person must really like bananas.”

Ashveil laughs despite himself. It’s a good thing you don’t know about his little monkey companion. And, he’s quite happy that the crisis is over.

But right as he thinks he should go, you suddenly wrap your arms around him. He freezes. Your face presses into his chest while your fingers curl weakly into the fabric of his shirt, seeking comfort. Seriously, what’s going on with you lately? You’re getting bold.

“Thank you,” you say softly. “I owe you big time.”

“What for?” he asks quietly, voice strained.

“For coming here.” You tighten your hold slightly, your own heart racing. “You've been… doing so much for me lately. Honestly more than anyone else has.” Your laugh comes out small and tired. “Living on this planet is such a hassle sometimes.”

Oh, you poor thing. It should be him apologizing to you. You are there thanking him for protecting you from fears he himself created. The guilt born behind the thought nearly has him speaking in protest, yet… he still craves your affection. He wouldn’t be able to shoot down your call for a bit of TLC either.

He says nothing. His arms embrace you, as his chin goes to rest atop your head. It’s an amazing feeling, holding you. Right somehow. A selfish, surely monstrous for these reasons part of him almost wishes you would cry again solely so he could continue comforting you like this a little longer.

Your hearts sync together and he swears he’s never felt more alive.

Eventually, you tilt your head upward, revealing yourself to him in your vulnerability. You’re softer than ever, even needy with your eyes pleading, enough to suddenly lean closer.

Ashveil genuinely cannot process what is happening. Surely you are not in love with him already. More likely, your emotions are scrambled from fear and relief and exhaustion, with your brain desperately searching for comfort after making yourself half-sick. Living alone as a woman must get scary for you sometimes.

And maybe your offering merely is done to feel safe, grounded and soothed by someone else, but Ashveil doesn’t care about the reasoning when your lips brush his. When it happens, the universe seems to narrow down to contain only the two of you.

He’s still frozen, as no single nagging or feeling thought has ever predicted you kissing him willingly. A distant worshiper fitted his calculations better.

You mistake that hesitation for rejection and begin pulling away almost immediately, embarrassment flicking across your hot face.

He quickly realizes what he’s accidentally taking for granted, and the thought of letting this go is maddening. So his hand catches your waist and pulls you flush against him.

The second kiss is nothing like the first. Full of desperation and hunger, he kisses you like a listless man discovering something worth going after centuries, mouth moving against yours with enough intensity to leave him dizzy. One of his hands presses firmly against your back while the other one—always the left hand—rests at your jaw lightly, as though he still cannot believe this is real.

You take it one step further in response, as your fingers slip into his long hair and tug that he sighs blissfully before you straddle him. You deepen the kiss with an urgency on your own.

All of this has him realizing what a fool he was. You must have wanted him all along, at least somewhat—or needed even. But whatever it is, it makes no difference at the moment. Your weight on his is real and tangible.

Take all you want from him. Feed from him. Make this broken-legged wolf worth something.

It’s easy for his hands to start roaming over your body the moment you kiss him again, restless palms mapping across you as though he’s trying to commit terrain to his memory before it vanishes before his palms. Your robe vanishes first, peeled away from your shoulders and discarded carelessly onto the other side of the furniture.

He knows he was never supposed to end up here. Not like this, through your main entrance. Not in your arms instead of the imagination of the scene, not with with your sun surrounding him from every direction, not breathing against your lips while your hands anchor so trustingly around his shoulders. From the very beginning, he was meant to remain distant.

The moment you helped him pay for that meal in Dovebrook and somehow altered the chemistry of his brain, he should have simply appreciated you from afar and keep moving like every other lonely idiot in the galaxy. Instead, he kept chasing you. First by curiosity, then by intention, then by outright compulsion until it finally wasn’t enough and he decided to make his official appearance, playing your friend by using all that he has learned about you. That shtick with you helping a broke man pay for his food was a perfect icebreaker to start seeing each other, so was you being so friendly from the beginning. Naive too perhaps, believing in his good intentions to express gratitude.

And the story behind tonight is ridiculous too. His own stupidity caused the panic that led you into his arms in the first place, somehow winding up in his favor and he now gets to touch you openly.

He cannot tell whether you have actually started developing feelings for him or whether you simply want somebody to fuck after a stressful night, but it hardly matters anymore—either possibility leaves him incredibly flattered, and both are still better than being shut out entirely.

Prurient thoughts about you have been rotting his brain for way too long anyway.

“Nice place, by the way,” he murmurs between kisses, mouth brushing yours as his hands beneath your shirt.

“Just the place?” you tease softly before nipping at his lower lip.

“Well, the owner is just as nice, if not better…” he answers against your mouth, the words dissolving into another kiss right as his fingers begin pushing your pajama shirt higher—

A sharp bark cuts through the room. Both of you jolt before separating.

“Princess!” you exclaim at the exact same moment he does, turning toward the hallway opening where your dog stands glaring sleepily in his direction.

Shit. He absolutely forgot about her so did you in the heat of the moment.

That bark is absolutely aimed at him, though thankfully not in the way it could have been. More annoyed than alarmed, really. He suspects Princess came looking for snacks and found herself offended by the fact he arrived empty-handed tonight.

As you try to shoo her away, Princess plants herself stubbornly in place and barks at him again.

“Ugh, she doesn’t like strangers…” you sigh apologetically.

Yes, strangers. It’s good that’s what you think.

“No worries.” Ashveil crouches in front of the couch despite the cold sweat trying to break across his spine. “I like all dogs, and they like me.”

“That’s not how this works—”

He extends his hand anyway before you can finish objecting. Princess sniffs him for approximately two seconds before visibly recognizing his scent and immediately losing interest, turning away with the dramatic disappointment of someone realizing there are really no treats involved in this interaction. Pretty rude after everything, he thinks.

Ashveil gives her a few quick pets for appearances before she finally trudges off again.

Her indifference doesn’t surprise him, though it does surprise you.

“Huh. Seems that she likes you enough.” If liking someone was tolerating their presence enough to let them stay.

You do not question it further, thankfully. People love convincing themselves animals instinctively recognize good souls or hidden kindness, and Ashveil is not above benefiting from that kind of superstition.

He just smiles smugly and stands up. “Told ya.”

You laugh softly, amused by this ridiculous interruption in making out. “Sorry about her. Now… where were we?”

Before he can answer properly, you surge toward him to kiss him again and wrap your arms around his shoulders, nearly knocking him backward with the force of it. He moves instinctively; his hands catch your thighs and hoist you up with a surprising ease right before he pins you against the nearest wall.

“Detective,” you breathe out, sounding genuinely surprised once his palms settle against your ass, rough in their grip. “I didn’t know you had that in you.” You measure him.

“It’d be a little bit boring if I had shown you everything about myself right away, no?” he teases lowly. You really don't know the half of it, let alone what lies inside his arm.

As you laugh again, so prettily at that, he kisses you properly. Mouth full of unbearable hunger, voracious for you. It’s beyond his wildest dreams, the fact that he can be here with you, touching you, that he resents the thought of wasting just a second.

His hat gets in the way, so he tears it off and throws it somewhere behind him without looking.

Them your hips grind experimentally against the growing hardness trapped beneath his pants, and the sensation nearly knocks the breath from his lungs altogether. This is much better than it was in his head, he can feel his underwear sticking up already.

Ashveil hisses into your mouth, his grip on you momentarily faltering before it becomes even tighter.

“You're vicious…” he mutters hoarsely, fanning your face from how close it is. You look just as incredible from this close, looking at him with so much desire heavily hanging your eyelids down—succeeding at reigniting his lust after many years as well.

“I thought you could take that?”

“Just you wait,” he says roughly.

He carries you toward the bedroom with no delay, kicking the door shut behind him the second he steps inside. The sight of your bed nearly short-circuits his brain for entirely separate reason, a morning memory colliding with present reality, but the victory of his dreams coming true brings him back onto earth.

Upon being thrown at your bed, you can take in only one breath before he’s all over you again, nudging your legs open with his knee so he can take the space between your thighs. There’s little barrier of your pajama, yet his hands first dip beneath your shirt, palms flat against your skin before reaching your breasts he kneads to your pleasure.

“You just know how to stir chaos…” he murmurs against your jaw before dragging slow kissed down the side of your neck, each lingering long enough to leave warmth blooming. He could easily snap his fangs here and see you writhe, so he holds your life without you knowing.

You shiver beneath him yet still manage to tease ever so sweetly, chuckling softly, “Me? And what did I do, pray tell?”

What didn’t you do?

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” he growls softly against your skin. “And looking at me like that doesn’t help me at all.”

But whatever clever reply you had in store dies beneath another kiss, deeper this time, his tongue pushing into your mouth the instant your lips part for him. He sighs at your taste.

Clothes begin disappearing quickly afterward, your hands tugging frantically at his ridiculous layers while he strips himself and his dignity down with little patience. Something tears through the process, seams ripping loudly, but he barely notices or cares.

By the time he reaches your clothes, you aid him by kicking off your own pants, down to your panties he then removes for you. He allows himself to take one look at you, burning the image of your nude form—perfection, in his mind—onto his memory forever. You stare back at him, your chest heaving as you squirm like a bunny in anticipation, overheated from his intrusive gaze.

His mouth travels everywhere once he finally gets obstructed access to your skin, kissing and biting and suckling at the softest parts of you with barely restrained greed. He stays especially at your throat, not only because he enjoys the sounds he can pull from you there, but because your pulse beats beneath his mouth so vividly alive that it almost hypnotizes him. Warm blood rushing beneath delicate skin as he licks a stripe downward with flat tongue, life spilling through your veins with abundance, trusting him enough despite his existence that has included centuries spent around death and hunger.

You tilt your head back further for him without hesitation, your chest rising in irregular intervals. He holds you down by your hips whenever you whimper louder or grind against him again and make him moan too.

Ashveil groans softly against your neck before dragging his tongue over the marks already rising there, his hand sliding lower at last until his fingers slip between your thighs. The wetness waiting there draws a shaky breath from him, something feral in him satisfied once he realizes just how affected you already are.

He wishes he could bury himself between your thighs properly and spend hours there pleasuring you, learning every reaction your body can offer. Worshiping you. Unfortunately, his patience stopped existing the very moment you kissed him—so fingers it is, in hope it’ll ease at least some of the upcoming discomfort for you.

One long finger of his left hand slides inside your pussy first, then another soon after, and he watches your expression shift beautifully as he stretches you open. You moan for him, and only him.

“Look at this…” he mutters, dazed by the sight of you. “You’re soaking already. Pretty thing’s been thinking about this, huh?”

His thumb presses lazily against your clit while he keeps thrusting his fingers into you at a rhythm that grows rougher whenever you make especially sweet noises for him, occasionally stretching your hole up as he opens his digits too. With how tight you are, he cannot imagine his survival once he fills you.

“Ashveil…” You saying his name like this can probably earn you anything, even if it’s not his real name.

Hearing that, his mouth goes back to occupying itself at your chest before finally closing around one nipple with a low groan that vibrates through you. He makes them protrude as he switches between both sides, adding to the whirpool in your abdomen. Meanwhile, he grinds himself against the mattress, trying to relieve some of the painful pressure building beneath his boxers.

You dig your nails into his back, keeping him close while your other hand slips into his dark hair, at the nape of his neck.

“Ashveil… just fuck me already…” you whine, your voice trembling enough for tears to begin gathering at your lashes.

“What’s gotten you in such a hurry?” he murmurs now back against your mouth he must keep kissing, still teasing despite the fact he’s hardly an better. “You’re usually more patient that this.” Like has any right to talk. He’s been one second away from pouncing on you the moment you kissed him.

“Don’t tease,” you complain. “It’s been a while…”

He knows that well.

“Ah, so you’re just using me to get off?” he taunts lightly as he deliberately sinks his fingers deeper and watches your mouth open. Some insecure corner of him still threatens to take the possibility seriously instead of as rightful.

“No…” You pull him closer again, frustrated already. “Stop being such a detective. I need you. I want you.”

He’s even more dizzy after you say that.

Ashveil exhales shakily before finally pulling his fingers from inside you and licking them clean with a low groan. The sight alone makes butterflies rush through your stomach, something about the contrast between his usual shabby demeanor and the hunger in him now going straight to your head.

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “I’ll give you what you want. You shouldn’t even have to beg me for it…”

He lets you help him tug his boxers down, and he nearly finishes from the expression crossing your face once you finally see him fully, resting against his abdomen. Your hand wraps around his cock experimentally, pumping him a few slow times while smearing the leaking pre-cum across the tip with your thumb.

His head tips back immediately. It feels too good, enough that he momentarily fears he’ll really come before even getting inside you.

So he grabs your hips instead, grounding himself by dragging his cock through your folds first, coating himself in your slick with rough little thrusts that make your breath hitch. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist while your fingers clutch tightly at the sheets beneath you. Then he spits directly onto your cunt. You tremble, arching your back.

Once he finally pushes inside, breathing becomes difficult for different reasons.

He’s big. Bigger than you expected, and with how ridiculous Ashveil can sometimes be, it’s strangely easy to forget how imposing he actually is physically until moments like this. The stretch burns at first, enough to force a gasp from your throat, but the discomfort quickly melts into warmth and fullness that leaves your legs shaking around him.

One steady thrust and he’s inside your pussy completely, his balls resting at the curve of your ass.

“A-Ash-sh-veil—” your voice breaks as he starts moving immediately after, pace rough from the beginning as though control abandoned him entirely the second he felt your hot walls envelop him like a perfect, sunny day. Each thrust drags your body with it slightly, his hands bruising you, as the mattress creaks beneath the force of it while his breathing grows harsher against your mouth.

His eagle look only leaves you more flushed.

You notice his prosthetic arm gradually warming against your skin, heat pulsing strangely through the surface and dark seams alike, but whatever curiosity you once had about it you restrained from the fear of disrespecting him dissolves quickly once he hits another spot inside you that leaves your brain mushy. It’s your first time together, yet he already knows your body this well…

You're face to face while losing yourselves like this, both forced to watch each other abandon any pretense of friendliness in real time. Ashveil makes no effort whatsoever to suppress his own sounds either, low and ecstatic moans spilling from freely from him every time you tighten around his cock. He kisses your mouth before leaving more bites across that have your back arching, rinse and repeat.

Soon your legs are pushed nearly against your chest and the angle changes enough to make you cry out properly. He reaches impossibly deep like this, while your legs wriggle in the air uselessly as he keeps forcing your walls to adjust to his size.

“Please… it’s too much…” You whine out as you throw your head back against the pillow.

And yet, Ashveil still seems unsatisfied. Every thrust seems to leave him wanting more than the last time, his expressing growing more and more wrecked each time you moan for him, as if no amount of closeness could ever fully scratch that terrible hunger rooted inside him. Deeper, harder, faster—

“Fuck…” he groans loudly, adding to the ongoing noise reverberating against your bedroom walls. “You’re so good to me, baby… Just keep taking it like that…” He leans in closer to your face and his forehead presses briefly against your before he snaps his hips against your ass harder again. “Gonna make you come so hard.”

The praise only makes you clench tighter around him, and you mewl. Ashveil swears under his breath and grabs the headboard before he loses control completely, letting one of your legs slip down. Unfortunately for you, it only gives him more force behind each trust.

“S-slow down…” you gasp. “You're gonna break my bed…” you say, but it’s all a ghost of rationality speaking for you as you pull him closer by his shoulders.

“You need it. I know you do,” he growls.

He keeps fucking you like this, your nails dragging down his back hard enough to leave marks while he shudders beneath the sting of it. He likes the pain; likes the proof you’re overwhelmed enough to claw at him.

He lets your other leg go, so he can let thick globe of saliva suddenly spill from his mouth onto your cunt before he rolls it across your clit with slow but heavy circles of his thumb, watching your eyes roll back the same way.

“W-wait…” you say eventually.

“Just a bit more, pretty girl—”

“No, Ashveil…” you whimper.

He slows down rough to look at you properly, even if it comes with difficulty. “What is it?”

“M-more lube,” you admit breathlessly. “I’m getting sore…”

Maybe it’s not the sexiest interruption, but some concern flickers across his expression… even if frustration triumphs over the feeling.

“Don’t worry,” he says quickly, “I’ve got it.”

Still half inside you, Ashveil reaches automatically toward the nightstand beside the bed, already opening one drawer before clicking his tongue in annoyance.

“Dammit, you moved it to the other drawer.” These words slip out without him thinking.

The room goes still.

Ashveil freezes when he notices you tense up.

“Why you looking at me like that?” he asks carefully.

“How did you know it was moved?”

“What?”

“You said I moved it.”

He stares at you, in a way that makes your stomach tighten unpleasantly. It makes him look much more different, like he dares you to oppose him further.

“We’re seriously discussing lube logistics in the middle of sex?” he asks with irritation, already opening the second drawer instead. “Relax. Nightstands are the most obvious place imaginable to keep it.”

“Yes, but…” You swallow. “How did you know I moved it?”

“I thought you mentioned reorganizing your room before.”

“But I didn’t—”

Before you can continue, he squirts lube over himself and pushes fully back inside you in one rough thrust, effectively knocking the thought from your head altogether.

“Just focus on me,” he says more sharply now. He doubts he can stop at this point anyway.

More unease brews in your guts despite the pleasure right beneath. You try speaking again, but he thrusts deeper immediately after and your protest dissolves into a broken gasp instead. Tears spill freely down your cheeks from sheer overstimulation while your hands press weakly against his shoulders as if attempting to still keep him away.

Then he flips you onto your stomach. The sudden movement knocks the breath from you entirely, and you’re once more surprised, and maybe a bit concerned by his strength. Your face is pushed into the pillows while Ashveil lays his weight over your back as he drives back inside your hole again, his long and thick cock hitting your pussy hard. He doesn’t want you seeing how wrecked and pathetic he looks, yet he craves to be as close as possible.

He pounds into your hard enough to force little sobs from your throat and make it nearly painful, one hand gripping your hip while the other presses against the back of your neck to keep you still beneath him. You squirm like one of his preys underneath him, feeling the sharp sting of his sweaty skin clashing with yours, but he ignores the way you scratch back at him from the intensity, soiling the pillow from your tears.

“Stop overthinking,” he grows near your ear, tickling your sensitive skin with his long hair that flows to his tempo. “And take it properly.”

The command sends another flush of heat through you despite everything.

You’re trembling uncontrollably by now, pleasure building too fast for your body to keep up with. Ashveil isn’t far behind either, judging from the way his thrusts keep losing rhythm whenever you squeeze around him especially tightly. You can feel the ways he’s pulsing as he keeps you so full.

Then his hand slips beneath your stomach again to rub over your clit unceremoniously. It doesn’t take him much before your orgasm crashes through you so violently, your vision whites out for a moment. Your mouth falls open soundlessly against the pillow while drool dampens the fabric beneath your cheek even more, your body twitching helplessly underneath him as wave after wave keeps hitting.

The way you tighten around him finally send him over the edge too. A broken grunt tears from his throat as he collapses heavily against your back, his cock spilling thick warm inside your cunt in long bursts.

For a good minute, neither of you moves, catching your breaths. You shake, feeling sweat stick to you all over your body.

Then Ashveil slowly pulls out, watching his release leak down the inside of your tights.

Before you can sit up fully, however, he catches your waist.

“No. Not yet,” he growls.

He pushes you back down, and drops between your legs before you can properly process what he’s doing. The first drag of his tongue through the mess between your thighs makes your entire body jerk violently.

“Ashveil—”

He groans against your hole instead, licking into you eagerly while cleaning you up, as if to either remove his stain from you or keep the part of you inside his body. He cannot stand wasting even this final intimacy between you.

It’s too much, and you’re far too sensitive post-orgasm. Yet every attempt to squirm away only results in him tugging you back harder while your cries grow increasingly pathetic against the pillows. His tongue pushes deep inside you, gathering every drop, before returning to your clit again, licking up every trace of wetness and cum alike with shameless greed until another smaller orgasm wrings through you embarrassingly fast.

By the time he finally lifts you upright between his legs afterward, your thoughts feel sluggish and disconnected. Still, little things begin surfacing unpleasantly through the haze now that the intensity has faded enough for your brain to function again.

All these months of him appearing where you are, just excused by his supposedly excellent detective skills. Knowing your dog’s tastes. That random receipt. The way he moved through your bedroom without hesitation. The way Princess calmed down too quickly—and, now come to think of it, he didn’t have any allergic reaction either.

The drawer thing.

Ashveil occasionally said something dumb, yet everything was somehow explained, but the drawer thing now bothers you especially. You feel so stupid, believing you should have done your research about him before getting friendly better, no matter how lonely you might have been yourself.

You notice the way his hold on you firms, as if he became aware of the dilemma that rules and shifts in your body language. You're scared at the thought of what he might do should you tell him that truth.

“You good?” he asks quietly, holding his face in the crook of your neck.

“Yeah,” you answer automatically, though uncertainty bleeds through your voice. “I just need to…” Then you try pulling away.

He lifts his head and eyes you suspiciously. “Something wrong?”

“No,” you say tiredly. “I just wanna use the bathroom.”

Ashveil watches you carefully for a longer moment before finally loosening his hold.

You stand up impetuously despite your shaky legs and begin gathering your discarded clothes against yourself.

“I see,” he says slowly. “I’ll wait here.”

But he does not believe you for even a second, his heart hammering in sudden distress. The moment you leave the room, he quickly dons on his clothes. Quietly moving closer to the hallway, he listens.

He can hear your voice, muffled and nervous—speaking on the phone.

Oh no.

He moves fast, pushing through the door. By the time the call starts connecting, he’s already behind you, snatching the phone from your hands before you can even notice him.

With your hand managing to grasp at least the bottom half of the device right in time, you quickly disconnect the line.

“Hey,” he says sharply, breathing heavily and trying to retrieve the electronic, “who are you calling? I told you the police would be useless in this situation.”

“I-it wasn’t the police!” you blurt out, lying. Your eyes open wider. “Wait… How would you know that.”

Shit. He just keeps implying things. “Who else would be you be calling at this hour?” he asks, bitterness rising into his voice. “A friend? So you can tell them you regret sleeping with me already?” He glares at you.

Yet his thoughts spiral into something much more fragile than the sense of disrespect. Real, honest fear he hadn't the occasion to experience in a while.

Please. Don’t ruin this for him.

“That’s not it—”

“Then what is it?”

“I wanted to…” Your voice trembles. “Order us some food.”

“You said you were going to the bathroom.”

“It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“Then show me the phone.” His hand tugs on the phone you still clutch. “If what you’re saying is true.”

“That’s weird,” you say defensively, shrinking back. “You should trust me more.”

“And you should stop looking at me like I’m about to kill you.”

The words come out far worse than he intended, as Ashveil can see you flinch.

Silence stretches between you both and that damn phone, suffocating and ugly, until finally the pressure snaps and you can’t hold it in anymore.

“Were you the one stalking me?” you ask with small dread. “Breaking into my house?”

Ashveil stares; then he laughs through his nose, disbelieving, and steps closer to pull you against him before you can retreat further.

“What are you talking about?” He twist off and puts your phone aside on the small table before his hands settle on your arms in attempt of comfort. “Oh, I get it now. You’re exhausted all that happened tonight, and your mind is playing tricks with you. That’s understandable, sweetheart, so we should just rest—”

“It all makes sense now though!”

“What.”

“All those weird comments you kept making!” Your voice rises despite your worry he’ll snap. Even that rough sex seems worrying in hindsight. “You showing up everywhere I go, acting like you know things you shouldn’t! The lube thing! Someone breaking into my house and somehow knowing exactly what they were doing—” 

“It's not what you think it is!” he butts in, while nearly shaking you.

“That’s what people always say when it is what you think it is!”

Alright. Maybe you’re correct. Still, you are missing important nuance here!

Ashveil exhales deeply and rubs a hand over his face, more exasperated than angry. “Okay. Fine,” he acquiesces. “Maybe some things looked strange. But have I ever hurt you?”

The questions stops you from trying to pull away from his hands.

“So you can believe me when I say I don’t have bad intensions.”

He’s not denying it. He’s explaining it, sounding like someone already aware he has crossed too many lines to convincingly pretend innocence.

You feel bile come up to your throat, stuck in terror. He is your stalker, and you just have slept with him.

All those walks together, “accidental” or “deduced” meetings, all those services right in time— You can’t believe how blind you’ve been, but you don’t even want to imagine how many times he may have followed you, watched you, entered your home. You have a worse issue on your plate, your safety compromised.

You finally go for the door.

The second you bold away from him, ripping yourself from his grasp, Ashveil’s expression changes into something vicious.

“Come back here!”

You sprint through the apartment, heart pumping so hard it makes you taste blood. Unlike him, you know this layout—no, scratch that. He knows it too, much to your fear, and he’s fast.

You barely reach the hallway before strong arms hook around your waist from behind and lift you off the floor. You scream immediately as you kick and thrash against him.

“Let me go!” you scream. “Help me—”

He curses under his breath and quickly sets you down again to clamp a hand over your mouth so the neighbors cannot hear you.

“Hey, stop screaming!” he hisses desperately into your ear. “I’m not going to hurt you. You just need to listen to me for five minutes.”

You fight him anyway, digging your heels against the floor while he attempts to drag you backward, trying not to actually manhandle you harder than necessary.

Then unexpectedly, Princess arrives.

The barking explodes through the house once she sees you in your distress, loud and and furious enough to make Ashveil panic too.

“Princess!” you cry weakly against his palm, the sound muffled.

The dog only gets louder, teeth bared now.

Honestly, the betrayal stings Ashveil a little. After everything, all those treats and secret visits over beef jerky, he really thought they had achieved some sort of understanding. He could be her second owner. Even her dog father, in a horribly domestic fantasy he occasionally indulges in when particularly lonely. 

Turns out Princess is more like a queen of this kingdom, and she’s still loyal to you, choosing you over treats alike.

She’s a good girl which he should praise her for, but her timing is still extremely inconvenient.

“Princess,” Ashveil warns, “quiet!”

She barks even harder, not liking his tone at all. His pulse spikes at the thought of your neighbors hearing her and finding it alarming.

Ashveil hates himself for what he says next. “Tell her to stop,” he says coldly from behind you, “or I'll make her stop.”

It sounds a threat enough to you, as your sobs burst violently against his palm. It’s unbelievable he’s been such a bastard all along, now betraying you in the worst way imaginable for a pet owner.

He doesn't want to hurt the dog and he’d probably cry afterward if he actually had to, but the fear has already pushed him to resort to more extreme measures.

“If I move my hand,” he says more gently now, “will you calm her down without screaming again?”

You nod, terrified for Princess’s safety. So slowly, he lets go of your mouth.

“P-Princess.” Your voice shakes terribly. “Go. We're just playing.”

The whine you hear in response tugs at your heart.

“Please,” you beg her.

Princess hesitates for another second before reluctantly retreating down the hallway, her tail low.

Ashveil exhales in relief.

“See?” he says quietly, not sure if he’s reassuring you or himself. “Nobody’s getting hurt.”

You don’t answer, still scared, so he continues, “Listen.” He slightly eases his grip on you, though not enough to let you break free easily. “Here’s what's going to happen.”

But your terrified brain only hears: “here’s what’s going happen to you.” Especially if Ashveil he no longer looks like your strange detective anymore. He’s bigger, stronger, and definitely capable of vile acts. In a way no amount of self-deprecating humor of a pathetic dog at your doorstep can soften now; a broken-legged wolf finally cornered yet still having it in him.

Ashveil’s own thoughts are spiraling just as badly. He doesn't know what Mister N would do if he suddenly dragged home a terrified woman in the middle of the night. And if you disappear entirely, there’s every chance somebody connects him to you eventually, and he refuses to ask Pearl for help in something so revolting. You pass through with him by your side often, enough for some of the public to recognize you two.

He doesn't want your relationship destroyed completely either. Even with your trembling in fear in his arms, the desperate parts of him still want to salvage it.

“You and I are going to talk,” he says after brief pondering, trying to even out his breathing. He has to stay strong for the both of you. “You’re going to listen to me properly and realize I mean no harm.”

Right as he lets you go, his hand finds yours before leading you back towards the bedroom that now feels claustrophobic. Your obedience as you follow him is no more than anxiety towards repercussions.

This time, he sits down on your against the headboard with you trapped on his lap, arms wrapped around your waist while you remain stiff like a prey in freeze mode. The moment he presses his face into your shoulder, all of that aggression turns into something weary. 

Yet the fear he’s going to hurt you cannot leave, no matter how much he exposes his belly.

“It was one time,” he murmurs weakly. “Just this once.”

“I don't believe you.” You squirm on his lap, bracing your hands against his shoulders, but he only tugs you closer.

“Someone experienced at breaking into your house would not leave something as stupid as a grocery store receipt.”

Well, he would, but…

And to you, that sounds like a sound argument to you. However…“That doesn’t prove your innocence!” you argue with tears of fury prickling your tears as you glare down at him. “You could have gotten comfortable! And even if it were to be one time thing, that doesn’t make it okay anyway!”

“I know.” His voice cracks, quieter. “I know it doesn't. I just… needed to be close to you,” he looks you deep in the eyes as he says that, all sad-sappy. Then he hides himself in your shoulder again. “I’m sorry if it makes me look disgusting. Or frightening. Perverse. I know how it sounds.”

It’s a touch-and-go situation. One wrong sentence and perhaps you'll hate him completely. Or maybe you’ll pity him again. Or maybe you’ll find him even more disturbing, demanding that he disappears from your life entirely—he’d break apart like tawdry pottery right after.

As the admission settles heavily over your already addled head, his body suddenly jerks. You feel warm tears hit your skin, those that he cannot stop for once.

Truly a selfish man he is. After years committed to altruism in the act of redeeming himself, here he is, trying to have something for himself again.

At first, you almost think he's taking it deliberately—and some part of him is, leeching off your empathy. Ashveil is not stupid; he knows exactly how soft-hearted you are, and how difficult it is for you to stay angry at someone visibly suffering.

However, the tears themselves are real, falling shamefully no matter how tightly he clenches his jaw.

“I have no one left,” he says shakily, crumbling at your expense. “Do you understand that? I scrape together enough money to keep the lights on, I sleep in a damn refrigerator to ease my arm pain, people either hate me or want something from me, and then…” His grip around you tightens so much you almost suffocate. But he needs to hold onto you. “Then you happened.”

Your chest tightens painfully and it's not his because of his iron hold. All these weeks of him following you, hesitant at first, doing acts of service for you—wordlessly demanding to be useful. Lighting up at a simple nice sentence or trying to impress you dumb ways.

You thought he's just a people pleaser, someone who in the end wants to help everyone. Yes, he seemed a bit lonely, but you didn't anticipate this extent of grief.

“But why…” Your own eyes water even more from the pressure of his woes. “Why wouldn't you just ask to spend time with me normally? We already saw each other all the time…”

“It’s… different.”

“Different how. Are you being stupidly prideful or something?”

Ashveil goes quiet for a longer moment again. The real answer sounds pathetic. Saying “I wanted to be near you even when you weren’t choosing me, as humanly possible” is not something most people would admit aloud.

“No. I…” he weighs his words carefully, “I didn’t want to suffocate you. I know what I’m like, once I care about someone, I…” He laughs weakly through the tears. “I get attached, deeply. So I thought if I stayed nearby quietly, it wouldn't burden you.”

“And that warrants breaking in?” You look at the top of his head, your lip trembling at the thought.

“No,” he admits immediately. “To be fair, it sounds insane when said out aloud.” Another small laughs escaped him. “Cowardly.”

“Were you stalking me too?” you ask again.

“Define stalking.”

You stare at him with disbelief. “Ashveil!” 

No denial makes it clear to you.

He lifts his head, speaking frantically as it occurs to him that you’re at your wits’ end, he willing to admit at least something so you could find it within your heart to forgive him. “Fine!” He wipes his eyes aggressively with the heel of his palm, the other hand still holding your waist. “I followed you a few times. But only because Planarcadia’s dangerous and you have absolutely no survival instincts sometimes and—”

The slap cuts him off sharply, his head turning from the impact. He looks back at you slowly, smiling wistfully. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “I deserved that.”

He’d take that over you leaving him. You still haven't tried to kick him out—not that he’d let you succeed in it easily—which he desperately takes as a positive sign.

“Don’t stop,” he says with a quiver, tears still stubbornly clinging to his lashes. “Keep hitting me if you want, if it makes you feel better.”

And so you do.

It's easy to let anger overtake you after everything. Your palms strike his shoulders, his chest, his face once more, while something twists furiously inside you, wanting him to stop looking so miserable. He should stop acting like a kicked dog after frightening you half to death.

“How could you do something like this?!”

“I know

“You lied to me.”

“I know.”

“You’re insane.”

“Probably.”

Yet Ashveil only takes it, not trying to defend himself, only making sure you don't leave his lap; as though punishment is preferable to the thought of you leaving him.

However, seeing him crying properly again, looking all the more shaken and choking on his sobs, the sight snuffs the rest of your anger out before you can continue. The lamp beside your bed shines light on how worn out to the bone he is, painting ugly caricature of the man you believed to know differently. The guilt, even if misplaced between you two, tears you apart.

“Stop being so meek!” you yell, starting to cry on your own. “I don’t know what happened to you, but…”

You truly don’t know and he doubts you’d want to know. Or maybe you would, striving to understand him as part of your empathy, and you’d simply frown upon the truth. About Kronstadt, La Mancha, battles full of hunger and destruction, companions reduced to fragments of themselves… About phantom pain and endless revenge, vendetta and the hunt, centuries spent surviving when he no longer wishes to.

“Hey, hey…” he murmurs, trying to bite down his tears. “Hey, it’s okay…” Slowly, he pulls you both back down onto the mattress, holding you and your trembling body against his chest. “We don't have to talk about all that tonight,” he whispers softly. “You’re exhausted.”

You do realize you should push him away, scream again, throw him out and never let him near you afterwards.

You must be insane or gullible or stupid or anything such, for you let him stay by your side. You curl yourself closer to him, needing some reassurance. You can’t pinpoint whether you're simply overwhelmed and he’s the nearest comfort to reach, you're just lonely on your own, or if somewhere along the way, Ashveil genuinely did become important to you. The responsibility now feels forced onto you anyway.

That choice to accept his touch elates his chest for a moment, he nearly laughs from the joy. Forgetting himself about his typical concerns and the price to pay for them should they be overlooked, he tucks your head under his before starting to rub your back. Holding you like this is as wonderful as he imagined.

“Can we…” he begins, a bit less torn, sniffling out the last sobs. “Can we try again? No more secrets like that this time.”

There will be secrets, of course. Things he can never safely tell you. But smaller ones, perhaps…

“I’ll be good for you. To you,” he promises like his life depends on it. “I need you.”

“I don’t want you to be good for me!” you cry out into his chest. “Just… be.”

The words affect him more than anything that has been done so far. Words he doesn’t deserve and that he mustn’t endorse, words that he still chooses to selfishly cling to. If he perhaps has only a few years left, he wishes to shine bright under your light.

“Then…” He swallows hard, his ears ringing from the surge of happiness that went suddenly through him; at least, the closest thing he’s felt to it in ages. A small ray of sunshine, overshadowing his guilt and dullness for a moment. “Will you let me stay near you?”

You know you shouldn’t. Every nerve in your body screams at you that this is wrong, unhealthy being the least intimidating and meddlesome part. He violated your privacy, lied to your face, manipulated you, and frightened you so badly you though this night might become your last.

But how can you feel anything but cruel when Ashveil cups your face so carefully, lifting your gaze at his, and looks at you as if you have handed something dying an unexpected reason to keep breathing? Perhaps some weak part of you recognizes that loneliness more than you would want to admit.

Against all reason, you nod your head against his palm.

Ashveil smiles.

Unlike yours, it isn’t a pretty smile at all.

Subaru 

He asked you out on a date. “It's totally ok if you don't want to go. I totally understand if–” You sandwich his face, forcing him to look at you.  Kiss. “Subaru, I would love to go on a date with you.”  He becomes a bright red tomato.  “Y-Yes. I’m sorry- I mean, thank you.” 

Haku

He's flirting with you again. “If you'd like we can take this somewhere else–” Kiss.  His eyes widen.  “What are you doing princess?”  You shrug. “Just doing what you'll never do.”  He smirks. “Oh, are you sure about that?" He grabs your waist, pulling you closer. "Come here.”

Zenji

You're trying to study, but Zenji has been reciting poems non-stop for hours. "For each ecstatic instant, we–" Kiss. His eyes grow wide. "I-It feels like my heart is going to burst!" He grabs his chest. "A warning next time would be nice. I almost became a ghost again!"

_______

Yuri

“Do you understand, worm–?” Kiss.  His eyes widen. His ears flush. His mouth contorts.  “H-H-How dare you, you worm–” Kiss.  “Insolent worm–!”  Kiss.  “Stop calling me worm.”  He doesn't answer. He just runs to his office and locks the door.  And... he stays in there for a while.

Jiro

“There are many benefits to kissing. For one, the bacteria in our–” Kiss. You smirk.  “If you want a kiss. Just say it.”  “I want to kiss.”  "Lol that was fast." 

_______

Ed

“Did you know that UFOs were created by the government to-” Kiss.  Ed blinks. Then smiles “There are more polite ways to ask someone to be quiet.”  “Yeah. But I thought you would like this way the best.” He brings you closer.  “Indeed. In fact, I'd like some more.”

Rui

(Based on an actual voice line.) “Man, I wanna hit the beach so bad! I used to surf all the time and on the way home, I would pick up girls–” Kiss.  He freezes.  You raise an eyebrow.  “What were you saying?”  “N-nothing!”

Lyca

He's talking about his day. Being all cute. “It was so fun! And then–”  Kiss.  “W-what was that for?”  “Don't know. Just felt like it.”  “Y-you can't just do it when you feel like it.” “Why not?”  “Because it’s dangerous.”  ...Dangerous?

Elias

You had asked him a personal question. But you can tell he’s BS-ing the whole story.  “And that was when I met the demon–” Kiss.  Elias looks at you, amused.  “Now, what was that for?”  “For lying.”  “Got caught.”  He scooches a little closer. "If that's the consequence, then I suppose I should lie more often."

Jo

“Then, Shion went and started–” Kiss.  He blinks. Then smiles warmly.  “And what was that?”  “You’re just so beautiful… I couldn’t help it.”  He hugs you immediately.  “How adorable. I was actually thinking the same thing.” 

Mio

"I have to go. Romeo asked me to-" Kiss.  He blushes.  “I– I have to–” Kiss. “I can't–” Kiss. You pout. “Can’t you just… stay?”  He grins bashfully.  “Then… mind asking me again?” 

Shion

Jin

You messed something up again. “Servant, how many times do I—” Kiss. His eyes widen.  “What was that?”  “Punishment. Don’t call me servant.”  He smirks and pulls you in closer.  “Hey Servant. Look here Servant. Servant. Servant.”  He leans closer.  “How many times was that?” 

Thoma

“Late again. It’s apparent that I need to re-teach you some manners first.”  “I'm sorry.”  “Words are not enough. You must show through–” Kiss.  Tohma flinches, just barely.  You look up at him cunningly.  “Will you forgive me?”  He steps closer. “Not just with one.” 

Kaito

Kaito’s spiraling with his self-depricating talks again.  “I know I’m just a useless mushroom. No one will ever find me attractive—” You lean in.  Kiss.  Your lips barely touched but it worked.  Kaito was out. On the ground. His soul logging out of his body.

Luca

“Although I agree that sometimes we need a break. I believe that we should always be working towards–”  Kiss.  Luca just kind of stops moving.  “You’re right,” you say. “We should rest.”  He nods slowly, allowing you to escape his brutal study session. 

_______

Alan 

“You shouldn’t get too close to me. I–” Kiss.  His eyes widen. Cheeks turning bright pink. “Hmm,” you hum. “No thanks.”  “You don't understand—” Kiss.   “Alan.” You smash his face between your palms. “It’s you who doesn’t understand. I'm not going anywhere. No matter what you say, I'm staying. Got it?”  He blinks.  “...Yeah.” 

Leo

“Huh? You can’t even do that? I know you’re an NPC but–” You grab his collar and— Kiss.   “Shut up, will you?”  He stills for a few moments. Then smirks, grabbing your chin.  “Ok then. How ‘bout we shut up together?” 

Sho 

“You’re not getting enough nutrients by eating ramen all day–” Kiss.  You pull back with a mischievous smile.  “Ok, mom.”  Sho stares for a moment, then tilts his head, revealing a cocky grin.  “That’s not gonna make me stop, y’know. Quite the opposite, actually.” 

_______

Haru

“I have to do this and that and buy that and–” Kiss.  He blinks a few times.  You hold his hand.  “Just relax for a bit.”  As if you cast a spell on him, he sits down immediately.   “Y-Yes ma’am.” 

Towa

He’s angry about something AGAIN. He’s about to rampage and destroy everything with a storm.  Kiss.  “Towa.” You press your forehead against his. “Calm down.”  The grey skies immediately clear up. “Dandelion… Again!” 

Ren

“Ugh, did you see that couple over there? People who are in love are literal parasites to society—” Kiss.  He immediately covers his mouth. “S-S-Senpai what was that?!”  “I guess I’m just a parasite.”  Ren's voice shakes.  “T-That’s harassment, y’know. I could sue you and–”  Kiss.  “H-Hey!” 

_______

Taiga

You’re doing some chores, but Taiga won't stop following you around, being a nuisance.  “Kitty-cat, I’m hungry. Hey, I’m hungry. I’m hungry. I’m–” Kiss. Silence.  Then a jagged smile.  “Guess you’ll be my meal today.”  He hauls you over his shoulder. “You started it. Don't moan and groan ‘bout it later.”

Romeo

“What did I tell you BB. If you’re not gonna–” Kiss. “What are you—” Kiss.  “Don’t think that—” Kiss.  He holds your chin back.  “BB, don’t do something you’re gonna regret.”  You push his hand away to kiss him again.  He scoffs, leaning in this time.   “You never learn, do you?” 

Ritsu

𝘾rushes for you was inevitable. You loved too easily for a world that weaponizes it like a tool, you understood this from a very young age. Love is meant to be hidden from the pressing eye and be left in private, so you hide it, and you hide it well— there is a reason why people don't know your past crushes despite loving people so easily. It's hidden in quietness and short responses, things that usually indicate a lack of fondness, so it's a perfect defense mechanism in hiding your love.

However how do you get this sickly and helpless feelings out of your system if not to express them?

Your art is usually where you express your love: from your drawings, writings, and music, you act like an artist with a muse. You squeel and giggle whenever you draw their features on a canvas, whenever you write about your feelings on a piece of paper, when you play your music with them in mind. You can't help it. Because when you are punished for showing your love, you hide it in art.

Every piece is dedicated to them, every premise is made with them in mind, every thing is plagued by thoughts of them, and you can't stop.

You truly are a sucker for love.

So when you are transported in twisted wonderland. The world where survival of the fittest is the staple in it's society. You crawl back to your little shell and live in it like a hermit crab— because in a sense, you are one. A hermit crab that hates it when people get close to you.

Admittedly, this made you very unfriendly and unapproachable on the outside. Despite being popular for being a person in another world that managed to beat seven powerful overblots, you were still a quiet and meek person that glares at anyone except for Grim. Although they could see little cracks in the surface, like: when you keep Grim a little too close, when you give headpats to Ortho, and when you affectionately punch Ace and Epel. They'd just think that it's in your nature— and because Grim is kinda like your adopted son in a sense so it makes sense for both of you to be inseparable. They think that your love language is being discrete with your actions, they think that your love language is as subtle as you, they think that you aren't capable of getting cuteness aggressions and little bursts of affections.

Oh how utterly and completely wrong they are.

You were finally home from a draining day and you cannot wait to smother Grim with all your love and affections.

No literally.

The moment that you and Grim went inside the comfort of your bed, you grabbed Grim from the scruff of his neck and leaped to the bed while hugging Grim with little giggles escaping your mouth. He yelped and tried to protest and wriggle out of your cuteness aggression, but alas, he was too tired to do so, so he just gave up and melted into your touch.

"You don't know how much I wanted to do this with you while you ate!!" You squeeled while squeezing his chubby cheeks with your hands.

"OI HENCHHUMAN! STOP DOING THAT" he yelled while gritting his teeth.

You giggled "you're so cute!!!" You coo'ed

"I AM NOT CUTE. I AM THE MOST POWERFUL MAGE IN EXISTENCE-"

That's Grim's average day with his henchhuman. It's chaotic, it's affectionate, and it makes his cheeks numb from all the pinches you give. But he wouldn't trade this for the world— now, he would rather get collared by Riddle than admit that to your face, but it's true. You were the only one that truly gave him unconditional and comforting love that he didn't have to fight for. That's literally revolutionary! And he's nothing but a selfish and glutinous beast so he soaks it in like a sponge, he melts into it despite his protests, and he expects it despite saying that he doesn't need cuddles to sleep (he does) because you were the only one that he didn't need to fight for in life.

At first he was sceptical with it. You're quiet, you scowl at every boy that looks at you, and you literally punched Ace! So why are you giving him hugs every minute and kissing his cheeks as a goodnight?? This most definitely means that you are expecting something in return from him...

Right?

"What you mean Grim? I don't need anything in return, I just love you, isn't that enough?"

"W-what!? are ya' stupid?? I know that ya' are from another world and all— but people here don't get all lovey-dovey without somethin' in return!"

You smiled.

That was the first time he's seen you smile since you got here in twisted wonderland. That was the first time you actually smiled with fondness without a little twitch of aggression on your face.

"Don't worry Grim. As long as Im here, you won't have to work for any hugs or goodnight kisses"

He stared at you speachless.

"Okay?"

Then like a dam. Emotions started to pour out of his heart, he felt all of it: the little sting in his eyes like he was about to cry, the silence that spoke a million words, and the lack of words because it got clogged in his throat. So he didn't say anything and just hugged you as he burried his head on your chest.

He tried not to cry, he truly did to seem strong and seem as if your words didn't mean anything to him. But he did.

You smiled and hugged him back.

That was the secret of the two of you.

You were affectionate and filled with love that seems to have no end, you were an artist that was motivated by love, and you were as clingy a golden retriever with seperation anxiety. While Grim was actually soft, he melts into your arms, he leans into you when you two cuddle, and he indulges you whenever you take care of him, like: when you brush his fur and take care of it despite not even taking care of yours. That was the equilibrium, you take care of Grim and say nothing about his soft nature, and he listens to your rants about your crush while keeping quiet about how you reassemble a lover-girl than a quiet tsundere.

You stared at your screen with a lovesick gaze as you kicked your feet back and forth while smiling with the widest grin you can do.

This was your first ever crush in this new world that you found yourself in, this was the first person that you fell for, and this was the first person that you actually felt like you can get through with the day after just seeing him in the school premises.

Your first ever muse in twisted wonderland.

Although usually, you would write letters on a paper and let your words fall from there, but you were nothing but an overthinker— there were millions of possibilities where this could go wrong: Ace and Deuce could find these letters, Grim could accidentally send it to him, or the ghosts could find it and read it to him when he goes in Ramshackle, anything could happen! So the safest route was to write and dump it all in your notes app then lock your phone that only Grim and you know the password of.

Don't ask why Grim also has access to your phone. He's like an iPad kid and demands for your phone to play games in it or install some to the point that you had to delete some because of your full storage. Besides, what's the harm in it? It's not like he goes in your notes app, that's literally impossible! He doesn't give a single fuck about any app except for the games in your phone, so what could go wrong?

Anyways.

Those feelings were actually a lie. Yep, you moved to another person. But this is the one this time! There's possibly no way that this could go wrong— he's admirable, he's handsome and absolutely breathtaking, there's no way that-

That was a lie.

Okay but maybe this one will?? He's kind to you, cares for you and...

Again. Nothing. You moved on.

This was a constant theme for your crushes. Now, you would have lingering feelings and re-ignite your feelings once in a while, but eventually, you would move on to the next person, then the next, then the next, until your notes app is filled with nothing but digital letter confessions.

You were eternally greatful that no one knows about your crushes or your reputation would've tanked to hell.

You burried it all deep into your notes app until you eventually forgot about all your feelings and moved on. You never got those similar feelings again because you knew the truth. They would never like you back...

That's literally an impossible event so why not try at all?

You were magic-less, you were average, and you were nothing striking in this world. You were just a magic-less prefect that happened to defeat seven overblots. You weren't a model, a world famous singer, or even a mage. So why not give up the thoughts of romance while it's still early?

Grim could see this gradual fall of romance in your heart and was confused at first. Love is literally the motivation why you're so talented! You loved Grim so much that you would fight overblots just to keep him safe, you loved that damn crush so much that you would doddle their faces on a scrap paper and rekindle your love for drawing just for that, you literally made a scrapped song for all your crushes for fucks sake! So why...

Why are you suddenly containing all your artwork, music compositions, and all your little knick-knacks inspired by your crushes inside a box and hiding it inside the Ramshackle so deep that even the ghosts couldn't reach it?

He was appalled. You were literally a perfect lover!— even though he didn't know the bases of being in a romantic relationship, he knew that the amount of effort you did to your love for your crushes deserves a applause and recognition— he had never seen any human as smitten as you! So why did you snap and decide it wasn't worth your time anymore?

He asked you about it one time. He got an answer. But he didn't like it, but he got an answer.

"I'm not anything admirable y'know? Unlike them, I'm just a magic-less prefect" you sighed "and I can't do anything about it"

He needed to prove you wrong, he needed you to see that you're so much more lovable than you think you are— just like how you did to him. He couldn't let his henchhuman wallow in self deprecation while he had all the love, he needed you to see that this school literally changed because of you. And that's the most admirable thing he's ever seen in his life.

But how could he? He didn't have any piece of art that was etched with your affections, it was all hidden.

How could he prove to you that your crushes have a possible crush on you when you hid it?

"Hey Grim!"

Your calling snapped him out of his haze as you turned to you— you were doing your usual nightly routine.

"What did ya' need" he mumbled amidst his sleepy state. You smiled and giggled, "sorry Grim, I know you're sleepy right now but can I ask you a favor?" He huffed out a positive response. "Can you get my phone and go to my notes app then copy paste the first note you see?— it's on the very top labeled 'Crowley's shit' you can't miss it" he groaned but ultimately agreed.

He pulled your phone from the night stand and opened it. He scolled until he could find an app you were asking about.

Now... What he did next was completely justified and he would not take it back, no matter how many times you punish him.

This was for your own good! You'd thank him after this trust.

"Did you find it?" You didn't bother to listen for his response as you applied your skin care, too busy to care "great, now can you send it to the person that it's signed too?" You could see him nodding in your periperal vision, "thanks grimmy!! I promise I'll give you extra tuna after this"

Now... You might have to take it back in the morning prefect, after you eventually discover what he actually did.

He found your digital love letters and sent it to them instead of the long text message on the top that clearly said "Crowley said to text this to the boys because he has no time even though we all know that he just doesn't give a fuck"— it wasn't anything serious, just some errands for them to complete.

So how the fuck did he mix it up with your confessions!?

He let the silence hum in his ears, the pulse of the ocean vast and steady. It was a sound he had heard all his life, one he would hear until the seas themselves withered. Eternity stretched before him like a barren horizon, endless and flat.

The scrape of sandals against stone broke his thoughts. Elder Amund entered with his usual unhurried stride, white hair drifting in the current like a cloud. His lined face carried no reverence, only irritation tempered by long patience.

“Still sulking on that throne?” Amund’s voice cut across the chamber, rough and almost fond in its exasperation. “You’d think a god might find something useful to do with himself.”

“I’m not sulking,” Rafayel replied without moving, voice low and lazy. “I’m enduring.”

“Enduring what? A throne of coral, endless food, the devotion of every living soul under the waves?” Amund’s tone was dry, almost fond despite its sting. “Poor sea god. What a misery your life must be.”

Rafayel turned his head just enough to meet the elder’s gaze, lips twitching in something too humorless to be a smile. “It is, actually. Have you ever drowned in perfection, Amund? Everything gleams, everything shines, and still…” He trailed off, eyes flicking to the grand mosaic overhead. “…there’s nothing in it that feels alive.”

“You’re brooding.” Amund snorted, folding his arms. “The flame’s dying, Rafayel. You know what that means. Time’s running shorter than you’d like to admit.”

The reminder made his jaw tighten. He didn’t move, only let his gaze remain the mosaics overhead. Gods captured in shells and pearl fragments — faces locked in triumph and love. All frozen, all eternal, and not one of them stirred the emptiness pressing against his ribs.

“I know,” he said at last, voice flat.

“Then stop pretending you don’t. You need a devotee—a bride.”

Rafayel’s lips curled in a humorless smile. “So you’ve told me. Repeatedly.”

“Then listen, for once. The flame cannot burn without a bond. And without the flame, Lemuria falls. You were born for this duty, Rafayel.” Amund’s voice softened slightly, the sharpness edged with patience. “You’ve avoided it long enough.”

He dropped his hand from his cheek, fingers drumming against the coral armrest. “Tell me then, why must it be a bride? Why not any devotee? Why this ritual binding, this… bond, no one will explain to me? I hear the words, but they’re empty. Empty as this hall.”

Amund’s frown deepened, but his tone softened just slightly. “It isn’t words, boy. It’s survival. And it’s not a question of if—it’s when. You can’t keep yourself apart forever.”

Rafayel leaned back against the throne, the picture of languid defiance, though a flicker of truth stirred in his chest at the elder’s words. He hated the reminders, yes — but beneath that, loneliness gnawed at him, quiet and relentless.

He remembered the way others had looked at him in centuries past: with awe, with fear, with trembling devotion. Not once had it felt like being seen. Not once had it touched the hollow at his core.

Rafayel’s laugh was sharp, short, and lonely. “Forever is precisely what I have. And not one face I’ve seen is worth tethering myself to it.” He flicked his fingers, sending a ripple of heat spiraling upward, startling a shoal of fish into scattering. Their silver arcs vanished into the blue.

“No one has caught my eye,” he said quietly. “No one worth a second glance.”

Amund sighed, long-suffering, and turned toward the exit. “One day, Rafayel. Sooner than you think, someone will. And when that happens, all this brooding will seem very small.”

The chamber fell silent again when he left. Rafayel leaned back, staring at the ceiling of shattered pearls and broken gods, his chest a hollow tidepool.

“Find a bride,” he murmured, voice low with amusement and bitterness both. “As if such a creature exists.”

He let the silence swallow him again, not knowing the answer to his emptiness had already begun to take shape above the waves.

When Amund’s chiding footsteps faded, Rafayel lingered in the throne room a while longer, staring up at the drifting light as though it might offer answers. But the silence pressed heavy, and the weight of the flame’s slow guttering seemed to echo with every heartbeat.

With a sigh sharp enough to send a shiver through the current, he rose from the throne.

The city parted for him as he left — Lemurians bowing, turning their faces away, whispering reverently. He ignored them all. He moved like a shadow through the coral streets, past the archways of shell and pearl, past the flickering torches that struggled to hold the sea’s warmth. Always the same, always gleaming, always lifeless.

The water grew darker as he swam upward, away from the golden heart of Lemuria, through forests of kelp that swayed like ghostly hands. He rose until the pressure thinned, until he felt the tug of the moon pulling on the waves above.

When at last he broke the surface, night air kissed his skin, warm and salt-sweet. He drew in a breath as if he hadn’t tasted it in years, eyes narrowing at the stretch of sky overhead, stars scattered like spilled pearls across velvet.

The coast lay not far — a crescent of pale sand, the faint glow of torches flickering from a cluster of buildings beyond. The locals called it Verona, he remembered vaguely. A name carried to him on the tide, half-heard in the prayers of fishermen and drowned sailors.

He let himself drift closer, letting the surf bear him toward the shallows. From here, the human world unfolded in miniature: laughter carried over the water, the warm hum of music spilling from a distant tavern, the golden scatter of lanterns glowing like fireflies against the shore.

So fragile, so fleeting, yet something in it stirred a hollow place in his chest. Mortals, with their soft lives and easy joys. They burned bright, if only for a moment. How simple it seemed, to laugh beneath lantern light and call it enough.

Rafayel hovered just beyond the breakers, half-submerged, lavender hair slicked back by the waves. His eyes caught every flicker of movement on the sand, the way mortals moved together, touched, leaned close in secret whispers.

He told himself he had come only to clear his mind, to drown out Amund’s nagging voice with the chaos of another world. Yet as he lingered, watching the distant glow of Verona’s coast, he felt the faintest stirring of something that was not boredom. Not yet longing — but close enough that it made him restless.

“Humans,” he muttered, voice low, sardonic. “So loud. So brief. And still…”

The surf broke against the rocks, hissing like laughter, as though daring him to look closer.

The waves shifted, and there you were.

At first, Rafayel thought you a trick of the moonlight — a figure wandering the pale strip of sand, skirts brushing your ankles, bare feet leaving soft indentations in the tide-smoothed shore. But no, you were real, lit by the warm glow spilling faintly from Verona, haloed by starlight.

Something in him went still.

You wore white — a gown light and flowing, the kind that clung to no shape yet somehow revealed all. The fabric shimmered faintly where the water touched it, edges translucent, as if the sea had claimed part of you for itself. He drank in the sight, transfixed by how it moved around you, ghostlike, holy. For a moment, he thought of Amund’s words — of needing a bride, of the necessity of binding himself to someone, someday. And without meaning to, he pictured you in a veil, soft silk drifting down to frame your face, your hands reaching for his. The image was so startling, so visceral, that he drew a sharp breath and shook his head, as though the very thought were sacrilege.

He watched you bend to pluck a seashell from the damp sand, turning it over in your fingers with a concentration that was almost childlike. Then you straightened, tucking it away as you wandered on, the hem of your gown swaying with each step. Your toes brushed the edge of the surf, kicking lazily at the water.

So ordinary a thing, and yet…

Rafayel found himself leaning forward, twinkling eyes tracking every movement. He’d seen thousands of mortals in his lifetime — prayed to, feared, adored, dismissed. But none of them had ever looked like this. None of them had moved with such quiet gravity, as though the sea itself curved toward you.

The look on your face caught him: thoughtful, almost wistful, a crease in your brow that spoke of some weight you carried. Loneliness? A secret untold? He wanted to know. He wanted to strip your thoughts bare, lay them out like pearls in his palm.

And your voice — what would it sound like? Would it be soft and lilting like the tide at dawn, or hushed and secret, a melody meant only for him? He imagined it in his mind, low and warm, imagined the shape of his name on your lips.

Beautiful. You were beautiful in a way that unsettled him, not for your features alone but for the way you existed within the world: a mortal girl walking the shoreline as if the night belonged to you. No fear, no hurry, no thought of the god watching from beneath the waves.

Rafayel’s chest tightened unexpectedly. A strange, restless thrum ran through him, alien and unwelcome. The thought rose unbidden: What if she walks away, and I never see her again?

The idea clawed at him, sharp and unfamiliar. He had never cared before. Mortals came and went, their faces blurring together like foam on the tide. But the thought of you fading into Verona’s lantern-lit streets, of him losing this chance to look again, to know — it twisted inside him like a knife.

He shifted, almost without thought, letting the tide carry him closer. The beach was almost empty save for you; still, he sought concealment, slipping toward a scatter of jagged rocks where the surf foamed white. He lay against them, half-submerged, slick hair blending with the glimmer of the sea, eyes fixed on you with unblinking hunger.

Just once, he told himself. Just once, I need to see her up close.

It was a lie, and he knew it. Already the hollow that had gnawed at him for centuries roared with something dangerously like need. Already, the throne of Lemuria, the endless glitter of the flame, the monotony of his godhood — all of it paled beside the curve of your shoulders as you wandered the darkened beach.

He rested against the rocks, every sense straining toward you, waiting for you to draw close enough that the moonlight could sketch every line of your face into his memory. He told himself it was curiosity. That once he had seen you, once he had heard the sound of your voice on the air, he would be satisfied.

But the restless ache in his chest whispered otherwise.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The night wrapped itself around you like silk, cool and salt-scented, the hush of the waves smoothing over all the restless thoughts that usually crowded your mind. Verona had charmed you from the moment you arrived — its warm streets, its laughter spilling out of tavern doors, its balconies draped with vines. Yet this… this was what you had craved most. The sea.

It had been so long since you’d seen it, let alone felt it — that give of wet sand beneath your toes, the playful chill of foam as it rushed over your heels before retreating. You laughed under your breath as the tide lapped higher, teasing, only to ebb again, leaving your footprints glistening in its wake.

Your skirts fluttered against your legs, light as air, the white fabric catching the starlight each time the breeze stirred it. One hand gathered the edge absently, the other cradling a small treasure — a shell with a blush of rose at its heart. You tucked it into your pocket, already imagining the little pile you’d bring home, a pocketful of the sea to keep.

For the first time in ages, you felt weightless. No imposing deadlines. No workplace politics. No eyes measuring every step you took. Just you, the night, the ocean — endless, alive.

And then, faintly, something else.

A sound.

You froze, tilting your head toward the water. It was too delicate to be the wind, too deliberate to be chance. A melody — low and liquid, threaded through with something mournful, yet impossibly beautiful. Notes rose and fell like waves themselves, slipping between the crash of surf, until you weren’t sure if you were hearing them with your ears or simply feeling them in your bones.

Curiosity tugged you forward.

The song grew stronger as you walked, drawn as though on an invisible tether. You followed the curve of the shore until the sand thinned into stone, until jagged rocks shouldered into the surf like ancient guardians. The music seemed to seep from them, echoing between their dark shapes, coaxing you closer.

You hesitated only a moment, heart fluttering with the thrill of mystery — then you moved, white skirts whispering around your ankles, your bare feet finding careful purchase against the salt-slick stone. Each note reached sharper now, more urgent, as though whoever wove it was aware of you, calling you nearer.

You couldn’t look away. Couldn’t stop yourself. The melody was a hook in your chest, pulling you toward the source waiting beyond the rocks.

And then you saw him.

Sprawled against the grey stone as though the tide had carried him there, half-draped in foam and moonlight, was a figure that at first seemed dream more than flesh. His hair fell in wet, silken strands over his shoulders, a dusky violet that shimmered blue where droplets caught the silver light. His body gleamed faintly with seawater, pale skin adorned with delicate chains, their links threaded with pearls that glowed like captured stars. In his hair, golden pieces twisted upward in the likeness of coral, glinting like treasure drawn from some shipwreck deep below.

Your gaze fell lower, and your breath caught. Where legs should have been, there lay a long, gleaming tail — scales of opaline blue shifting toward indigo, each one catching the light like glass washed smooth by centuries of tide. The fin at its end stretched languidly against the rock, as if even in slumber he held the grace of the ocean itself.

Mesmerized, you moved closer without thinking, crouching down so the tips of your skirt just brushed the wet stone. He looked asleep, lashes resting like dark brushstrokes against skin too striking to belong to any man you’d ever seen. A thought flickered: is he hurt? And before you could second-guess yourself, the word slipped from your lips in a whisper.

“Hey…”

No answer. Only the hush of the tide and the far-off cry of a gull. The water lapped closer to your knees as you leaned in, hesitant but unable to leave. You reached out, brushing your fingertips lightly against the skin of his arm, warm and strange beneath your touch.

“Are you alright?” you asked, a little louder this time.

For a moment, nothing. Then his eyes opened.

They caught you immediately — blue, impossibly blue, tinged with shifting pink at the center, like the inside of a seashell or the heart of a flame beneath water. They looked directly at you, heavy-lidded but sharp, and your breath stuttered under their weight. He blinked once, slow, then a voice as smooth as tide over stone spilled from him.

“Perhaps,” he murmured, lips curving faintly, “you’re disturbing my rest.”

The words struck like a ripple, low and velvety, with an amused cadence that made your heart jolt against your ribs. You froze, stunned — not just by his voice but by him, by the impossible reality of him. Every part of your mind urged you to respond, to say something, anything, but your tongue faltered. You were too busy staring.

At the scales that glimmered across his collarbone. At the droplets sliding from the ends of his hair. At the endless curve of his tail, scales shifting like starlight each time the water sighed against them.

He tilted his head, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “Staring? Bold of you.”

Your cheeks burned hot. “I…I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry. I’ve just… I’ve never seen someone like you before.”

“Mm.” He let the hum linger, eyes dancing as though he could drink in your fluster. “Is that a compliment, then?”

You blinked, caught, tongue fumbling uselessly between denial and honesty. The laugh that bubbled from him was soft but edged with something sharp, teasing. He leaned in just slightly, and you caught the faint salt-warmth of his skin, the wet tang of the sea clinging to him.

“You’re shy, aren’t you, cutie?” His voice was velvet, dangerous in its ease. “Don’t worry. I won’t bite.”

He shifted against the rock, scales dragging over sand with a whisper like shattered glass tumbling in waves. The playful curve of his mouth faltered, replaced for a fleeting instant with a flicker of strain. His hand came to brace against the surface beneath him, fingers curling hard enough that the tendons showed pale beneath his skin.

The sound that escaped him was small, almost careless — a soft exhale that could have been a sigh, but your stomach knotted anyway.

“Wait—” you leaned forward instinctively, skirts soaking at the hem where the tide had crept closer. “Are you hurt?”

His eyes cut back to yours, the teasing gleam still there, though now it seemed threaded with something heavier. “Mm,” he hummed, dismissive, “a bruise, perhaps. Nothing worth your worry.”

But you were already scanning him, gaze darting to where his scales met skin, to the faint lines of red that glimmered between some of the opaline plates. Your chest squeezed. “Did you… wash up here? On the rocks?”

He tilted his head, damp strands of violet hair spilling forward across his cheek. The smile that rose was crooked, too sharp to be entirely reassuring. “What if I did?” His voice was low, rich, curling around your ribs like the tide itself. “Would you take pity on a poor sea-creature?”

You swallowed, pulse quickening. “At least let me help you back into the water. If you stay here, you could get worse. I’ll—” you faltered, then steadied yourself. “I’ll just… be worried if I leave you like this.”

Something shifted in his expression then. His lips parted slightly, and for the first time the playful mask seemed to slip. The way he looked at you — intent, searching — made your skin prickle with heat.

“You’d worry for me?” he echoed softly, as though tasting the words. His eyes, bright as tidal fire, narrowed just faintly, catching the moonlight in a way that made them gleam too brightly, too hungrily. A glint, sharp and fleeting, as though some secret thought had just bloomed behind them.

When you nodded, unsure why your throat felt tight, his smile returned. Softer, but not safer. “How curious.”

You blinked. “Curious?”

His gaze dragged over you, lingering at your lips, then back to your eyes. “Humans rarely offer kindness to my kind without a hidden hook. Tell me…” His head tilted again, slow as a predator circling. “…is this your trap?”

The words startled you, the accusation catching you off guard. “A trap? No—I don’t want to hurt you. I just…” Your breath trembled, but you forced the words out. “I just want to help.”

For a beat, silence stretched between you, broken only by the hiss of the sea pulling back against the stone. Then his laugh came, velvet and low, curling like smoke from a flame.

“How very sweet,” he murmured, though there was still something sharp in his gaze, something that made your skin warm and cold all at once.

You shifted closer, your eyes flicking to the faint way his arm rested near his side, fingers curling there as if unconsciously shielding something. The moonlight caught the lines of his torso, pale and wet from the sea, droplets still rolling down the cut of his ribs. You couldn’t help it — your gaze lingered on the place you thought he might be hiding an injury.

“Let me see,” you murmured, reaching before you could second-guess yourself.

Your fingertips skimmed the ridge of his waist, warm skin slick beneath them, the rise and fall of his breath pronounced beneath your hand. He went utterly still. For a suspended second, he let you touch him, and you swore you felt the faint flutter of muscle tightening beneath your palm. His cheeks flushed faintly in the moonlight, an almost imperceptible betrayal of his composure.

Then, his hand closed around your wrist. Not rough, but unyielding, the strength in his grip undeniable. “You know,” he said, voice a lazy ripple of amusement, “it’s rude to touch a stranger so freely.”

Your breath caught, heat rising sharply to your face. “I—I’m sorry,” you stammered, eyes darting away before you forced them back to his. “I thought you were hurt.”

His fingers lingered a moment longer, the weight of his hold reminding you of how easily he could keep you there if he wanted. Then he let go, slow and deliberate, leaving your skin tingling where his touch had been.

“Not anymore,” he said, the words slipping out in a tone just shy of flirtatious, layered with something you couldn’t quite read. His gaze caught yours and held, steady and intent, as if the silence itself was a game between you. The crash of waves filled the stillness, your heart beating a fraction too loud in your chest, the air between you strung taut as the tide’s pull.

Finally, he tilted his head toward the horizon, where the moon hung heavy and silver over the sea. “Stay,” he said softly, with a half-smile that could have been either kind or mocking. “Watch the moon with me… before I return to the sea.”

For a while, you both sat in silence. The sea stretched endlessly black before you, its horizon fused with the sky, while overhead the moon was a pale lantern suspended in eternity. You stayed close to him, though you kept a respectful distance, your skirts gathered against the wind. He was warm even without clothes, the heat of him striking against the cool night air. His hair caught the light as well — wispy strands threaded with violet where the moon touched them, sea-spray clinging to glittering ends.

“Have you ever been on land before?” you asked softly, half-afraid to disturb the quiet spell.

He tilted his head toward you, eyes glimmering. “No,” he murmured. “This is my first time… and already, I think it suits me.”

Your lips curved despite yourself. “Suits you?”

“Yes.” His gaze drifted over you — not crassly, but in a way that left your skin tingling as though he’d traced you with his fingertips. “The air is sharp. The ground is steady. And then there’s the company.”

You ducked your head, heat rising to your cheeks, but couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at your lips. His words carried a weight that felt less like flattery and more like… seeing.

“And you?” he asked after a beat, voice softer. “Do you like the sea?”

You turned your eyes toward the restless waters, watching the pale line of surf break against the shore. “I always have. I used to think it was lonely out there, endless and empty. But maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s just… waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

Your throat tightened, but you managed a small shrug. “For someone to listen.”

His eyes lingered on your face for so long you felt the heat of it, the intensity. “Then it has been very lucky tonight,” he said at last, a faint smile curling at his mouth.

The question lingered on your lips before you even realized you had spoken it. “Do you… have a name?”

His gaze flicked to yours, bright and unbothered, and with a lazy curl of his mouth he said, “Rafayel.” The syllables slipped from him like a tide retreating from the shore, smooth and musical.

You repeated it softly, as though testing how it tasted in your own mouth. “Rafayel… it suits you.”

Something shifted in his eyes. The teasing lilt in his expression faltered just a fraction, and though he tilted his head away like the compliment meant nothing, you caught the faintest shade of warmth ghosting across his features — so fleeting you might have imagined it.

The silence that followed was no longer empty. It pulsed with the rhythm of the waves and the unspoken things that hung between you. You thought — absurdly, dangerously — that you could sit with him like this until the sun came up.

But practicality tugged at you. The hour had grown late. You shifted slightly, gathering your courage. “I should go,” you said, regret heavy in your chest. “It’s getting late.”

You rose, smoothing your skirts, then hesitated. Something in you refused to leave so abruptly. Before you could think better of it, you reached down and caught his hand. His skin was warm, rougher than you expected, and the strength in his fingers startled you.

“Will I see you again?” you asked, the words spilling out more urgently than you intended.

His lips curved into something almost mischievous. “That depends. Do you want to?”

You flushed, holding his gaze, your grip tightening unconsciously. “Yes.”

His thumb brushed once across your knuckles before he withdrew his hand, slowly, as though savoring the contact. “Then meet me here. Tomorrow night. Same place, same moonlight.”

Relief and excitement flared through you, lighting your whole body from within. “I’ll be here,” you promised, your voice firm despite the fluttering in your chest.

“Good.” His smile deepened, equal parts playful and unreadable. “Then so will I.”

You lingered a heartbeat longer, reluctant to sever the connection, before finally turning away. The sea breeze tugged at your hair, and when you glanced back, he was still watching, eyes glowing with a brightness that rivaled the moon.

You walked back through the quiet streets of Verona with a spring in your step, the salt still clinging to your skin, the cool night air brushing against your flushed cheeks. The city had begun to settle into silence — lamplights flickering, the faint hum of crickets replacing the daytime clamor. Yet inside you, there was nothing quiet at all. Your chest felt alight, your stomach fluttery, every part of you restless with excitement.

You laughed softly to yourself, unable to believe what had just happened. A mermaid — no, a man from the sea. You had spoken with him as though it were the most natural thing in the world, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the sand while the waves whispered at your feet. Part of you wondered if you had imagined it, some whimsical dream conjured by the ocean breeze and the moonlight. But then you remembered his eyes — blueish-pink, deep and startling, so alive with mischief — and you knew no dream could have felt like that.

By the time you reached the modest little hotel where you were staying, your heart was still racing. You pushed open the door to your room, let it fall shut behind you, and leaned against it with a grin you couldn’t quite smother. 

What on earth is happening to me? you thought. 

You had come here for a quiet vacation, to collect seashells, to stroll the beaches — not to meet men from myths. And yet, now, the thought of tomorrow night tugged at you with such intensity you could hardly bear to think of anything else.

You sat in front of the small wooden table, pulling out the treasures you had collected earlier in the day. Shells in shades of cream, pink, and coral spilled across the surface, still dusted with grains of sand. As you sifted through them, arranging them in neat little rows, your fingers hesitated. Something was missing.

Your bracelet.

You frowned, glancing down at your wrist. The familiar glimmer of silver wasn’t there. A small panic fluttered in your chest, but you quickly forced it away. You must have lost it when you’d been crouching among the rocks, sifting through shells. Maybe the tide had tugged it away. It wasn’t the first time a clasp had given out — besides, it wasn’t valuable, not really. Just a trinket. You exhaled, shaking your head. No sense ruining tonight with worries.

Your gaze drifted back to the shells, and you let your fingertips glide over them until they paused on one in particular — a delicate spiral shell, rose blush and white with a faint golden sheen when it caught the light. The prettiest of them all. You held it up, smiling faintly as you turned it in your hand.

An idea bloomed. I’ll make this into a necklace. The thought made your heart thump. Not for yourself, but as a gift — for him. A keepsake, something of the land to give to someone of the sea. Silly, maybe. Absurd, even. But the image of placing it into his hands made warmth spread through you, made tomorrow feel impossibly far away.

You lay back on the bed at last, the shell still clutched in your palm, your cheeks aching from smiling so much. You’d never thought your vacation would turn into something like this — something thrilling, surreal, almost unreal. And yet… you couldn’t wait to see him again.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The sea cradled him as he swam back toward Lemuria, the tide folding over his shoulders in heavy silken sheets. His body cut through the water with practiced ease, yet his mind was not on the currents, nor on the pulse of the reefs, nor the faint hum of Lemuria calling him home. It lingered elsewhere — above the surface, where the air was thinner, sharper, and where you had stood.

Your warmth lingered against him, a delicious phantom heat where your hand had dared to rest. He had feigned the injury to tease you, just a test, but the way your cool fingers traced his waist — as if you were meant to be there, as if you had every right to touch him — sent a jolt of euphoria through him. His chest tightened, heart racing, a rush of delight he hadn’t expected. The audacity of your care, the intimacy of your touch, left him flushed, breathless, craving more.

Your face rose again and again in his mind, replayed endlessly: the softness of your eyes turned moonlit silver, your lips parted just slightly when you smiled, the way your voice had shifted between shyness and boldness as if you couldn’t quite decide which guise to wear before him. And god, your laughter. That small, bright burst of sound made him ache in a way fire and salt never had. He wanted more of it. Needed more.

But what lingered most was the sound of his name on your lips. The syllables, spoken in your voice, had curled through him like smoke and flame, leaving warmth in their wake. He imagined it again — softer, more intimate — breathed into the space between you when you lay drifting toward sleep, your hand tangled with his. He imagined it roughened by desire, torn from your throat when he coaxed pleasure from you that only he could give. Each version seared him, until he craved the sound with a desperation that felt perilously close to worship.

By the time he reached Lemuria, his blood was humming too loud to ignore. He made his way through the jeweled halls without a word to the guards, without acknowledging the servants bowing low. They mattered little. Their devotion was expected, perfunctory. But yours — your awe had been pure, unscripted, untrained. You had looked at him as though he were something wondrous rather than inevitable. That gaze had done what centuries of loyalty never could: it made him hunger.

He retreated to his private chamber, a sanctum carved of pale stone and glassy coral, lit by the sway of bioluminescent flora drifting in the currents outside. With a flick of his fingers, fire sparked to life — unnatural, searing orange and red, alien in the water-bound world. The candle flame wavered, imprisoned in its glass casing, and painted his sharp features in trembling gold.

He set the bracelet down before it. Your bracelet. The one you had been wearing when you walked the shore, when your hand brushed against his waist. He slipped it off when he grabbed your wrist, almost unconsciously — like a part of him needed to claim a piece of you then and there. Now it lay in his palm like a treasure wrested from fate itself. A piece of you — yours alone — now stays with him.

His fingers closed over it slowly, reverently.

“How well it suits you,” he murmured to no one, voice low, like he was coaxing a lover awake. “But it belongs here now.”

He pictured you draped in silks of oceanic blue, seated upon the coral throne beside him, the crown light glinting in your hair. He imagined your hand resting on the carved armrest — or better, in his. The people would kneel at your feet, their voices raised in worship not just for him but for you. You would command them with grace and cruelty alike, as the queen of Lemuria must. But unlike those before you, you would smile, warm and luminous, and the seas themselves would bow to your will.

He imagined it so clearly it made his chest ache. He saw you descending the marble steps of the throne room, the courtiers gasping as though the sun itself had entered their cold depths. He saw your lips curve, not for them but for him, always for him.

The candle flame bent under his breath as he leaned closer to the bracelet, eyes burning. Already he could not wait for tomorrow. Already the thought of you standing again beneath the moon — waiting, perhaps eager — was enough to set his blood to fire. He wanted to taste that anticipation, to see the way you looked for him, only for him.

Mine, the thought whispered unbidden. 

She is mine already. She simply does not know it yet.

The bracelet gleamed as though in agreement.

Rafayel let the fire play between his fingers, small licks of flame dancing along his knuckles before fading into steam. The sea was vast, endless, unforgiving — but in all its breadth, it had never given him something so wholly precious. A fragile little land-born thing, with a smile that warmed him more than fire.

Tomorrow, he promised himself. Tomorrow, he would have more of your voice, your gaze, your touch. He would let you think it was your choice to return, your decision to step closer to the tide. But he knew better. You were already caught in his current, already bound to him by something you couldn’t yet name.

The flame guttered low, shadows rippling across the walls. Rafayel reclined back, eyes never leaving the bracelet set before the light.

Yes. Tomorrow.

And soon — forever.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The morning sun pried its way through the thin curtains, striping the room in bands of gold. You stirred awake to the distant hum of mopeds on cobblestone, a faint chorus of gulls, the steady breath of waves rolling just beyond the city’s edge. It should have been an ordinary morning in Verona — another day to wander streets and collect seashells — but you woke with something else thrumming through your veins.

Excitement.

Today, tonight — you would see him again.

You rolled onto your back, staring at the whitewashed ceiling, grinning before you could stop yourself. Last night replayed in loops behind your eyes: the gleam of moonlight on his hair, the impossible sweep of his tail, the warmth of his hand around your wrist. You’d sat beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world. You pressed your hands to your warm face, muffling a laugh.

The room felt too small to contain your restless energy. You slipped out of bed, padding across the cool tile floor, throwing open the balcony doors. Morning air swept in — sharp with salt, softened by espresso drifting from the café below. Verona bustled already; scooters zipped past, vendors shouted in Italian, shopkeepers rolled up shutters to reveal displays of bright glass jewelry and leather sandals.

The lively scene filled you with an energy you hadn’t felt in weeks, leaving you smiling and moving to the mirror. There was already a brightness in your reflection, a spark in your eyes you couldn’t quite hide. You brushed your hair with unusual care, lingered over each pin and ribbon as though he might notice, even when no one else would.

A flowy dress was chosen not for comfort, but because you imagined how the color would strike against his eyes, how he might look at you. Every detail of your morning routine seemed to carry new weight, a quiet joy threaded through it.

On the dressing table sat the small shell, pale pinkish-white and iridescent, catching the sunlight like a treasure from the sea. You reached for it carefully, fingers curving around the smooth spiral. The thought had come to you before sleep stole you away last night — to make it into something more, something you could offer him when the moment felt right. A necklace. A gift that was yours alone to give. Just the idea had you flushing, heart fluttering with a sweetness you could hardly contain. Slipping the shell into a velvet pouch, you tucked it securely into your bag and left the room.

The streets of Verona were stirring, a warm breeze carrying the mingled scents of bread and flowers, the clamor of carts and the ringing of distant bells. Stone-paved alleys twisted and opened into sunlit squares where market stalls unfurled like bright sails, their wares glinting in the morning light.

Your eyes wandered eagerly from sign to sign, searching for a jeweler’s mark. Shopfronts gleamed with polished brass and delicate engravings, glass cases catching the sun like fractured stars. At each window you slowed, pulse quickening as you imagined the shell nestled in a setting of silver, perhaps with a chain fine enough to rest against his throat. The thought alone made your breath hitch, a smile rising unbidden.

You moved from one cobbled lane to another, the city alive around you — the lilting call of a fruit seller, the distant strum of a guitar, the murmur of tourists passing with maps in hand. Yet for you, the world seemed sharper, more luminous. Every step carried the undercurrent of what awaited you tonight, the promise of seeing him again. And all the while, you held the little velvet pouch close, the weight of the shell grounding you in its quiet significance.

The bell over the door chimed softly as you stepped into the little jewelry shop, the air cool and fragrant with polished wood and faint metal tang. Sunlight streamed through the tall windowpanes, scattering across glass cases filled with chains and pendants that caught the light like drops of water. A kindly-looking man behind the counter looked up from polishing a silver ring, his eyes creasing warmly.

“Buongiorno, signorina,” he greeted, his accent lilted and pleasant. “What can I help you find today? A gift, perhaps?”

You hesitated for half a breath, the shell clutched delicately in your hand, and then smiled. “Yes, actually. I… I found this shell while walking by the sea. It feels special, and I thought it could be made into a necklace.” You held it out to him, the pearly sheen catching the shop’s light.

His expression softened as he turned it in his fingers, inspecting its natural ridges. “Ah, very lovely. The sea always gives gifts to those who know how to look. A necklace is no trouble. Do you have a design in mind?”

Your heart quickened, not because of the design but because of who it was for. “Something simple, but elegant. Just enough to show it off. Do you think it could be ready… tonight?” Your voice tilted upward hopefully.

The shopkeeper chuckled gently, nodding. “For something this size? Yes, I believe I can finish it within a few hours. You may return this evening to collect it.”

Relief and excitement fluttered through your chest, your smile breaking wide. “Really? That’s perfect, thank you.”

His gaze grew a touch curious, and with a twinkle in his eye, he asked, “A gift for a sweetheart, perhaps? Someone special?”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you laughed softly, shaking your head. “No, no… not like that. Just… a new friend I made while traveling. Someone I’d like to thank.”

The man hummed knowingly, still smiling as if he didn’t quite believe you. “Ah, well—whether friend or something more, I think they will treasure it. Gifts born from the sea always carry a little magic.”

You felt giddy as you handed the shell over, as though the secret of who it was for might spill out of you if you weren’t careful. A friend. That’s what you’d said, and it was true. But still, you couldn’t shake the little rush of warmth that filled you when you pictured Rafayel’s face — his wry smile softening into something gentler when you placed the necklace in his hands. The idea made your steps lighter as you left the shop, Verona’s streets alive around you.

Never in your wildest imaginings did you think you’d meet someone like him, let alone find yourself planning gifts as though you were a girl with a crush. And yet, here you were, heart buoyant with the thought of seeing him again tonight.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The great throne room of Lemuria shimmered with its usual austere magnificence. Shafts of refracted light filtered down through the domed ceiling of glassy mosaics, painting the marble floor in ripples of gold and azure. The chamber was empty save for Rafayel, lounging near one of the carved pillars, absentmindedly running his thumb over a small paintbrush he had tucked behind his ear. A low hum slipped from him — tuneless, but softened by the warmth threading through his chest.

“Curious,” came a voice, calm but edged with amusement.

Rafayel’s humming cut short. He glanced up to find Elder Amund standing in the doorway, his long robes flowing like tidewater around him. The elder regarded him with the kind of knowing gaze Rafayel often found irritating, though today it only made him more aware of the smile tugging at his own lips.

“You’re in good spirits,” Amund noted, stepping closer. His tone was measured, though not unkind. “Unusual, for you.”

Rafayel turned his face away, as if studying the painted mosaics on the far wall. “Don’t sound so surprised. I’m not incapable of good moods.”

“Mm. Yet I cannot recall the last time I heard you hum.” The elder’s eyes narrowed faintly, the corners creasing in suspicion. “Yesterday you were gone for some hours, and you returned late. Later than you ought to, given your duties here. Tell me, what occupied your time so thoroughly?”

Rafayel exhaled through his nose, feigning indifference. “I was on the surface. Watching the shore. The humans. Time got away from me.”

“The humans,” Amund echoed, as though rolling the word over in his mouth. He came to stand a little closer, lowering his voice as though sharing a private joke. “Did you meet someone?”

Heat prickled across Rafayel’s cheekbones before he could stop it. His hand flexed against his tail, betraying him. “...Just some human,” he muttered, as though the words themselves were nothing. His eyes betrayed more — flickering with the image of flushed cheeks, a laugh he’d been replaying in his mind since.

Amund tilted his head, not missing a thing. “Just some human?” he repeated softly, as though savoring the lie.

Rafayel’s jaw clenched, a flicker of irritation flashing through him at being read so easily. He lifted his chin, blush-tinted eyes sharp even in their evasiveness. “You’re imagining things, old man. I was curious, that’s all. Don’t weave your tales from a few hours spent above the waves.”

But the elder only smiled faintly, eyes heavy with meaning. Rafayel turned his gaze elsewhere, yet the faint flush still lingered on his skin, giving him away in spite of his words.

Amund let the silence hang just long enough to make Rafayel shift. Then, with that maddening calm that had always gotten under his skin, he said, “It’s good, you know. That you’ve found someone. Only yesterday you were brooding so heavily the sea itself seemed darker for it. Now I see a spark in your eyes again. You may pretend, but you can’t hide it.”

Rafayel’s shoulders tightened. His jaw worked as though he had to grind the words into dust before letting them slip out. “Don’t make this about the ceremony,” His voice was sharper now, edges cutting where before they had only hinted at steel. “Don’t cheapen it by dragging those traditions into this. You don’t know anything.”

Amund studied him for a long, quiet beat, the corners of his eyes creased in something that felt too much like pity. “If you say so.” The elder’s voice was mild, but the weight beneath it pressed like silt on Rafayel’s chest.

He snapped his gaze away. “Enough. Leave me.”

The water seemed to stir faintly at the command, and at last, Amund inclined his head and drifted from the chamber. The hush he left behind rang loud in Rafayel’s ears.

For a long moment, Rafayel sat frozen, pulse thudding in his temples. He hated how easily the man could needle at truths he hadn’t dared name. And yet — when he reached behind his ear, pulling the slim paintbrush free, it wasn’t Amund’s words that lingered. It was yours.

The thought of you unfurled, inevitable. He set before him a smooth slab of pale stone, its surface washed clean of grit. It gleamed faintly like moonlight filtered through water. His pigments lay scattered — ground coral, powdered shell, pressed kelp ash — and he set to mixing them with deft, restless hands. The motions were habit, but his mind was elsewhere: replaying the tilt of your smile, the fall of your hair, the brightness of your dress against the dim hall.

White, yes. That was what stood out most — the white of your gown, unearthly under the glow of moonlight. It had struck him then, that color, like a beacon he couldn’t look away from. He crushed shell finer between stone and palm, mixing it with pearl dust until it shimmered pale and soft. His strokes followed instinct, tracing the curve of a figure — your figure — indistinct, yet instantly recognizable to him even in silhouette.

It wasn’t enough. His brow furrowed. The lines blurred too easily, the likeness slipped away. He tried again, sharper angles for your chin, the ghost of your hair in loose sweeps, but frustration gnawed at him. This wasn’t your face. This was only suggestion, shadow.

His breath came out slow, controlled, but the fire of it burned in his chest. He wanted more. He wanted you precisely — every exacting detail, the arch of your brows, the heat of your gaze. He wanted to pin you to this stone so perfectly that no one could ever mistake who you were. And yet…

He sat back, brush poised, and told himself he had time. All the time in the world. Time to watch, to memorize, to study until your image was branded so deep into him that he could paint you in utter darkness, eyes closed, and still get it right.

The thought stirred a warmth in him — dangerous, heady. He gathered up the painted stone, still damp with fresh pigment, and rose.

In his private chamber, the shadows cradled the small shrine he’d begun without meaning to. Your bracelet glinted faintly where he’d set it beside a half-burned candle, its metal warmed by his touch too many times to count in the short time he’s spent with it. He placed the painted stone carefully before it, letting the faint shimmer of white on stone act as centerpiece.

For a moment, he only stood there, fingers brushing over the bracelet, curling to fit it against his palm. He imagined it encircling your wrist again, with his hand wrapped over yours, holding you still. The thought drew another pulse of heat through him, more satisfying than guilt, more intoxicating than shame.

It belonged here. You belonged here, he decided. And he had no intention of letting go.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The necklace sat warm in your palms, the little shell catching the light each time it shifted through your fingers. It really was pretty — delicate in a way that felt far too sentimental, far too revealing for something you had commissioned so impulsively. And yet, you couldn’t let it go. The closer you held it, the more restless your nerves became, winding tight in your chest.

Would he laugh at it? Think it was childish? Too forward? The questions kept crowding your head with every step you took along the sand, the tide whispering against the shore as if mocking your nerves. You weren’t sure why you cared so much — after all, this was only the second time you’d see him. He was a stranger, barely more than a passing figure carved in sea spray and moonlight.

And yet… the thought of him forgetting you unsettled you in a way you couldn’t name. You wanted to matter to him, to linger, even if it was only in some small way. Something he could hold, something that would make him think of you when you were gone.

Your grip tightened on the necklace as excitement pushed against the nervous flutter in your stomach. You let the sea wind kiss your cheeks, tangling strands of hair against your lips, and forced yourself forward. Each step over the sand and shell-strewn ground drew you nearer to the familiar rise of rocks, the place where you had first found him waiting like some secret written into the waves.

The memory of last night stirred vividly — his voice, his smile, the way his presence had felt both sharp and soft, like fire curling beneath cool water. You could still see him leaning in, just enough to catch your breath, just enough to make the world feel narrowed down to nothing but him.

The moonlight was softer tonight, almost silvery against the water, the tide lapping gently as if it were in no rush to leave the shore. You slowed your steps as the rocks came into view, breath catching despite how familiar the place already felt. And then you saw him — Rafayel, stretched along the stone as though it had been carved for him alone. His dusky hair caught the glow, shoulders relaxed, his tail idly sweeping against the surface of the water with a flicking rhythm that drew your eyes without mercy.

“Hi, cutie,” he said before you could even gather yourself, voice low, smooth, threaded with something teasingly intimate.

The sound of it made your heart flutter. You managed a breathless, “Hi,” though your voice came out softer than you’d meant. You tried to look casual, but the truth was you couldn’t quite tear your gaze away from him. Seeing him again felt unreal, even though it was only the second time. Something about him unsettled you, pulled you closer.

You settled beside him on the rock, close enough that your dress brushed the edge of his tail as it flicked lazily. You watched the movement, a little spellbound, the moonlight glimmering against each scale like it had been polished for this very moment. He didn’t miss your stare — of course he didn’t. His lips curved knowingly, and then his gaze dropped to your clenched hand.

“What’s that?” he asked, tilting his head toward it, voice light but edged with curiosity.

Heat rose up your neck. “Nothing,” you said too quickly, squeezing your fingers tighter around it.

He raised a brow, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Nothing? You look like you’re guarding it with your life. Are you hiding treasure from me?”

You shook your head, heart thudding. The nerves buzzing through you only got sharper when you whispered, “Close your eyes. Hold out your hand.”

He blinked, clearly amused. “Close my eyes? Hmm. Should I be worried you’re about to slip something dangerous into my palm? Maybe a crab?”

You gave him a look that made him chuckle, but after a moment he obeyed, leaning back a little as he extended his hand toward you. His fingers spread, palm open, his lashes lowering against his cheek as his eyes shut. “All right. I’m trusting you, little land-dweller.”

Your chest tightened. Carefully, as though the weight of it suddenly mattered more than it should, you set the necklace into his hand. “Open your eyes,” you whispered.

He did, and for a moment — just a moment — he said nothing. He stared at the small loop of silver, the pale shell threaded through it, moonlight gleaming against the polished surface. The silence stretched, long enough that your stomach twisted with doubt.

“I—if you don’t like it, it’s fine,” you stammered, words tumbling out before you could stop them. “It’s silly, I know. I just thought—well, I found the shell yesterday, and I wanted—”

His voice broke in, quiet, almost uncertain. “This is… for me?”

Your lips parted, your pulse jumping in your throat. “It is. I just… I wanted to give you something. To commemorate the night we met.”

His eyes flicked up, bright with something you couldn’t place, and then the corner of his mouth tilted. “Was it that special?” he teased lightly.

You puffed out a breath, cheeks heating. “Of course it was. It’s not every day you meet a merman! And it was your first time on the shore. That’s important.”

He laughed, a soft, rich sound that curled through the night air, and you knew he was laughing at your expression, at the way you were pouting without even realizing it. Embarrassment prickled your skin, and on impulse you reached forward to snatch the necklace back. “Fine, I’ll just keep it if you don’t like it—”

But his hand shot out, quick as the tide, wrapping gently around your wrist. “Wait.” His tone softened, velvet smooth but firm enough that you froze. His grip wasn’t harsh, just steady, warm where his skin met yours. His eyes held yours, and for a moment, something unspoken passed between you. “I love it.”

Your breath stilled in your chest.

“Truly,” he said, thumb brushing lightly over your wrist as if to soothe your nerves. Then he lifted the necklace, holding it up so the shell caught the moonlight, letting it sway between you. His smile this time was gentler, without teasing edges, carrying something almost reverent. “It’s perfect.”

And before you could say anything, he looped it over his neck. The shell lay against his collarbone, contrasting beautifully against his skin, and he touched it once, almost absentmindedly, as though grounding himself in the gift. His gaze flicked back to you, the amusement returning — but softer now, warmer.

“See?” he murmured. “Fits me perfectly. And now I’ll keep our meeting close to my heart.”

You tried to steady the rapid beat of your heart, but it was impossible with him smiling at you like that. He had to know exactly what effect he had on you — he always seemed to know — but for now, you didn’t mind.

You could feel the heat in your cheeks, though you hoped the moonlight hid it. His laughter lingered in your ears from when you’d tried to snatch the necklace back, your wrist still tingling faintly where his fingers had caught you. 

The shell hung against his bare chest, pale and gleaming against skin that looked almost carved in the lunar glow. He toyed with it idly, as if testing its weight, his tail flicking lazily against the shallows beneath him. Every little movement of that shimmering fin drew your eye, the way the iridescent scales caught and scattered light as though he carried a piece of the ocean with him.

You leaned an elbow on your knees, trying to sound casual even as your chest felt tight with how aware you were of him. “So… I’ve been wondering something.”

He glanced at you, mouth curving in that way that always made your stomach flip. “Mm? Dangerous thing, you wondering, cutie.”

You rolled your eyes at the nickname, though you couldn’t keep from smiling. “Can you walk on land?”

The corner of his lip kicked higher, a flash of amusement sparking in his eyes. He tilted his head, feigning seriousness. “Are you asking me if I can sprout legs like some fairytale prince?”

Your laugh came quick and bright, chasing the sound of waves. “I don’t know anything about mermaids, okay! I’m going off of movies and old stories.”

“Oh, I see.” He shifted closer, resting an elbow where his knee should be in a pose far too human for someone shimmering with scales and seawater. “So you’re expecting me to sing songs that lure sailors to their doom? Or maybe comb my hair with a fork you stole from a dinner table?”

You covered your face with your hand, laughing so hard your shoulders shook. “Stop. I can’t believe you’re making fun of me when I’m being serious!”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, his tone dripping with false innocence. His tail gave another flick, splashing the hem of your dress lightly. His smirk widened when you gasped at the cold droplets.

You huffed, but you were grinning, leaning in a little closer. “So? Can you?”

For a beat, he let you stew, gaze glinting like he enjoyed your impatience. Then he tipped his head back toward the horizon. “Yes,” he admitted at last, his voice softer, like confessing a secret. “I have another form. One where I can walk.”

Your breath caught, excitement bubbling in your chest before you could stop it. “Really? Could you—” you leaned forward, eyes bright “—could you show me tonight? We could explore the city together.”

He barked out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Greedy,” he accused lightly, eyes flicking to yours. “You want to steal me away from the sea already?”

“Yes,” you said instantly, earning a surprised lift of his brow. You softened it with a grin. “It’ll be fun! Don’t you want to see what life is like on land?”

His gaze lingered on you, thoughtful, before sliding down toward the water as his tail flicked again. He exhaled, low and almost reluctant. “Using legs is… a strain on my body,” he said, quieter now, almost warning. “It’s not something I do lightly.”

You tipped your head, shoulders dipping a little, a flicker of disappointment crossing your face. “Oh… well, I don’t want you to hurt yourself,” you murmured, eyes falling away for a moment. Then, as if catching yourself, you looked back up at him through your lashes, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “But maybe… if you did, I could make it worth your while.” The look you gave him was half-pleading, half-playful, lashes fluttering in deliberate innocence as you leaned a touch closer, coaxing.

His smirk returned, slower this time, something unreadable simmering under it. “You don’t give up, do you?”

“Not when I want something,” you admitted, your heart thudding harder than it should.

He sighed, but there was a hint of amusement in it, his eyes cutting to you again. “Fine. But there’s one problem.”

Your brows knit. “What is it?”

His smirk turned downright wicked, and you regretted asking. “When I switch forms,” he drawled, leaning just close enough for your skin to prickle, “I’m naked.”

Heat flared in your face so fast you almost choked on air. “Wh—what?”

“Mm.” He dragged the sound out, clearly enjoying every second. “No clothes. Nothing at all, aside from the jewelry.” His smirk widened as his gaze dipped to your flustered expression. “Was that your plan all along, cutie? Getting me out of the water just so you could look?”

Your denial was instant and far too sharp. “No!”

The way his laughter rolled out of him didn’t help your case. You could feel yourself burning up, tugging at the hem of your sleeve like that would ground you. “I wasn’t—stop laughing!”

“Relax, cutie.” He waved a hand, grin softening, though the teasing glimmer stayed firmly in his eyes. “I don’t mind if you were. It’s hard to resist my charm after all.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet, here you are,” he countered smoothly.

You peeked through your fingers at him, still fighting a smile despite yourself. He looked entirely too pleased, leaning back with the moon glinting off the necklace you’d given him, off the line of his bare shoulders.

You exhaled, trying to steady your voice. “Wait here. I’ll be back in a moment.”

His brow arched, but this time it wasn’t the usual lazy, teasing lift — it flickered sharp, quick, like the words struck something in him. “Back?” he repeated, tone smooth but edged with something tighter beneath.

“Yes,” you said quickly, brushing at the sand as you rose. “Just—don’t move.”

He straightened a fraction, pink gaze tracking you, a smile tugging at his lips as though he could play it off. “Should I be worried?”

“No,” you laughed, heart racing faster with each step you took toward the city lights in the distance. “I’ll be quick, promise!”

His laugh followed you — warm, lilting — but there was an undertone this time, a hesitation that wasn’t there before, like a tether pulled taut between you. You could feel his eyes on your back even as you hurried away, every step toward the streets beyond the beach thrumming with a nervous, electric energy.

The moment your figure turned from him, Rafayel’s chest tightened, as though someone had reached inside and given his ribs a cruel twist. He leaned forward slightly, resisting the sudden, ridiculous urge to spring up and follow you. He could still hear your voice in the salt-laden air, teasing and warm, your footsteps leaving prints in the sand that the tide was already reaching for.

His hand rose, almost unconsciously, to clutch the necklace at his throat. The shell was smooth, still faintly warm from your fingers, and the sensation of it made his pulse thrum. An offering. That’s what it felt like, as though you had placed a piece of your heart into his palm, delicate yet irrefutable. The thought made his breath catch, his lips curving in a smile he couldn’t temper.

His eyes narrowed slightly, fixed on your retreating figure as you moved closer to the city’s edge, hair catching the glow of the lamps lining the streets. You looked back only once, a fleeting glance, and he swore his heart stuttered. The faint blush that had tinged your cheeks when you’d given him the gift returned vividly in his mind, as if it had been seared there. The shy way you’d pressed the necklace forward, the curve of your smile betraying both nerves and delight — it had undone him completely.

So you did feel it — what he felt. Why else would you have thought of him? Made something, something simple yet striking, to press into his hands like a vow? No, this wasn’t silly sentiment. This was destiny moving, unfolding just as it was always meant to. 

The ceremony that had weighed on him for so long, shadowing his every step with duty, no longer loomed like a threat. Instead, he could picture it clearly now: not a ritual binding him in chains, but a celebration. A union carved in light. You at his side, Lemuria blooming beneath the weight of your shared love.

You were warmth incarnate, and it left him greedy. That laugh, spilling so freely, should never be heard by anyone else. That smile, bright as the sun on the water, should be reserved for him alone. And those eyes — alive with sparks that made even the ocean pale in comparison — how long would he have to wait before you looked at him as though you belonged to him entirely?

His fingers tightened around the shell at his throat, a lover’s caress against its edge. It wasn’t just a token. It was a promise. You just hadn’t realized yet that you’d given it.

Would you come back quickly? Or would you make him wait, push his patience, tease him with absence? He tilted his head, eyes lingering on the path you’d taken. Either way, you would return. You had to. The tide had already pulled you into his current, and he wasn’t about to let you drift away.

Your face haunted him — how the moonlight caught the curve of your smile, how the corners of your eyes crinkled when you laughed, how the warmth of your hand lingered against his skin far longer than touch should. That warmth belonged to him. Your laugh, your shy blush, your every flicker of softness. All of it. His. The thought lodged in him like a star blazing underwater: he would never let it go.

Time blurred, and he didn’t realize how long he’d been lost in that tide of thought until your footsteps returned, quiet against the sand. He looked up — there you were, hair slightly mussed from the breeze, clutching a bundle of fabric. A shirt of white linen, simple trousers folded neatly over your arm. The sight of you offering them, the faint pink on your cheeks as you held them out, nearly unmoored him.

“For me?” he asked, though he already knew, his lips curving into something both tender and sly. He took them carefully from your hands, letting his fingers brush yours longer than necessary. You turned quickly, flustered, facing away to give him privacy. His grin widened.

“Are you sure you don’t want a peek?” His voice was velvet and teasing, meant to snare. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“Just—hurry up,” you shot back, refusing to turn around.

He chuckled, tugging the linen over his head, relishing the brush of soft fabric against his skin. God, you were adorable. So easily flustered, so quick to flee. Did you not realize how your shyness only drew him in further? Someday, he thought, he would coax every hidden desire from you. Have you pliant in his lap, whispering your wishes against his throat, every secret pulled free. But for now, he would let you believe you held the reins. He could play along with this slow descent. It was all the sweeter for it.

“Done,” he murmured at last, stepping up behind you. Before you could move, his hand slipped around your arm, spinning you lightly toward him. He stood tall now, shoulders squared in the crisp white shirt, trousers hugging his frame. The way your eyes flicked over him, then lingered, made heat rush to his cheeks despite himself.

“You look nice,” you said, soft, a small smile curving your lips. “You’ll fit right in.”

For once, words failed him. He felt the blush creep unbidden across his face, warming his skin even as he fought to hold your gaze steady. To think that one simple sentence from you could undo him so completely. He gave a crooked little smile, heart soaring, the shell at his throat pressing warm against his chest.

You didn’t even know — you couldn’t possibly know — just how completely he was already yours.

The linen was warm when he slid his arm through yours, urging you forward with a warm, “Come on, didn’t you want to show me this city of yours?” His tone carried both tease and command, but it was softened by the small curve of his lips, the one he wore only when looking at you.

You beamed at him, the shy gleam in your eyes matching the spring in your step as you led him off the sands and onto the bustling streets of Verona. The cobblestones radiated faint heat from the day’s sun, lanterns already glowing along the boardwalk. Music drifted between the chatter of vendors and laughter of children darting through the crowd. To Rafayel, it was overwhelming at first, but with your arm linked through his, it felt like nothing could touch him.

You pointed toward stalls one by one, offering explanations as though he were a curious child — yet he let you, indulging every word, every gesture. When you stopped before a vendor spinning tufts of sugar into pink clouds, you turned to him with bright eyes.

“Have you tried this before?” you asked, holding up a stick of cotton candy.

His brows lifted, faintly amused. “It looks like spun coral.”

You giggled, tearing off a piece and offering it to him. “Try it.”

He leaned down without hesitation, letting your fingers press the fluffy sweetness past his lips. His tongue brushed your fingertips — accidentally, deliberately, who could say — and he hummed softly at the taste, head tilted. “Hm. Too sweet.” Then, grinning slyly, he plucked another piece and held it to your lips. “But I think it suits you.”

You hesitated, cheeks warming, then opened your mouth to take it, only for him to laugh low in his chest, delighted by the way you flushed.

Next came a game — ring toss, simple enough. You leaned forward in determination, tossing each circle with a grace that had him shaking his head in disbelief. When you landed the winning throw, the vendor handed you a plush doll, soft and ridiculous, but when you hugged it to your chest, Rafayel thought it might be the most dangerous thing he’d ever seen: you, glowing with pride, looking at him for approval.

He wanted to cage the moment, hold it until it burned into eternity. Instead, he teased, “So this is what victory looks like for you? A stuffed creature?” Yet his lips softened at the sight of you hugging it tighter, his chest aching in ways he couldn’t explain.

Then you tugged at his hand, dragging him toward a small booth draped in velvet curtains. “Come on.”

He eyed it suspiciously. “What is this contraption?”

“A photobooth,” you explained, excitement bubbling in your voice. “It takes pictures, little portraits. Don’t you have that underwater?”

“No,” he admitted, curiosity piqued. “Our memories… we keep them differently.”

“Then let’s make one,” you urged, eyes shining. “You can keep it. Proof you were here. With me.”

The way you said with me nearly undid him. He followed you inside, lowering himself onto the cramped bench, trying not to notice how close your thigh brushed his. The curtain fell, cocooning you both in soft darkness broken only by the flash of the machine.

You leaned against him easily, instructing him on how to pose. The first shot — both of you smiling. The second — you flashing the plush victoriously while he rolled his eyes, though his grin betrayed him. The third — you holding up a silly peace sign, him caught mid-laugh.

And the last — without warning, you turned toward him, leaned in close, and pressed your lips to his cheek just as the shutter clicked.

He remained perfectly still, outwardly composed, but inside — inside it was devastation. The ghost of your lips burned hotter than any flame he’d conjured in battle. His pulse thundered in his ears. That brief, chaste kiss shattered something in him — because it wasn’t just affection, wasn’t just play. It was intimacy so casual you might not even realize what you’d given him.

But he knew.

He knew, and the knowledge made him dizzy.

When the strip of photos slid from the slot, you plucked it up, beaming as you handed him a copy. “Now you can keep it,” you said softly. “A memory.”

He swallowed, forcing a crooked smile as he took the strip with careful fingers, as though it were more fragile than glass. “A memory,” he echoed. But inside, he was already clutching it like treasure, a vow, a brand burned into his soul.

You slipped your own photo strip carefully into your purse, still smiling that soft, radiant way that never failed to hollow him out and fill him all at once. Rafayel was still reeling, still trying to steady the storm inside his chest, when it happened.

A stranger — careless, rushing — bumped into you as they passed. The jolt made you stumble, just a step, but to Rafayel it was enough. His blood went hot, his muscles tight, his fire begging to be loosed.

His hand shot out to steady you, curling protective around your arm as he turned a glare on the offender. His vision sharpened, narrowed, a dangerous instinct rising fast. The man barely glanced back, muttering an apology, but Rafayel’s temper flared all the same. How dare they touch you, even by accident? How dare they make you falter when you should be untouchable, sheltered, safe? His lips curled, words sharp and venomous at the edge of his tongue, ready to scorch—

But then you looked at him.

Your hand pressed lightly against his chest, your voice soft, calm, like water against fire. “It’s okay, Raf,” you murmured. “I’m fine. Really.”

The fury crackled under his skin, but your eyes — pleading, patient — pulled him back from the brink. He forced his hands to unclench, forced the molten edge of his expression to soften. Not here. Not now. If he lost control in this fragile place, if he let anyone see what he really was, he might never be allowed up here with you again. And that would be unbearable.

He drew in a breath, steadying, letting his thumb brush your arm once before he let go. “If you say so,” he murmured, though the weight in his voice betrayed how unwillingly he yielded. For you, only for you, he buried the urge to lash out.

You smiled, easing the tension with a tilt of your head. “Come on,” you said, reaching for his hand like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Let’s go explore more. We haven’t even seen half of this place yet.”

He let you pull him along, every nerve still tight, but soothed by the warmth of your fingers lacing through his. If you wanted to wander, he’d follow. If you wanted adventure, he’d make the world kneel to give it to you. Anything, as long as it kept you close.

The neon lights thinned the further you led him, replaced by a path lined with lanterns strung low in the trees. Their glow bathed your face in amber, soft and fleeting, shadows playing across your smile each time you turned back to tug him along by the hand. He let you drag him anywhere you pleased — he would follow you into storms, into fire, into the deepest abyss — but still, his grip never loosened, thumb pressed lightly against your pulse.

The world felt quieter here, the noise of the crowd muffled to a distant hum. He could breathe again, though the phantom echo of anger still hummed in his bones from the man who’d brushed too close to you minutes before. His blood still surged hot, a feral instinct to tear that stranger apart for daring to collide with you. Only your touch, your voice coaxing him back, had stilled him. He hadn’t cared about the gawking eyes or the risk of drawing attention — it was you who kept him tethered, your plea soft but firm: it’s fine, it’s nothing. For you, he’d swallowed the urge to bare his teeth.

“Better?” you asked, squeezing his hand.

He let out a slow breath through his nose. “For now,” he murmured, tone light enough to mask the truth. His gaze lingered on your profile, haloed in lanternlight, too lovely to lose.

You laughed softly, skipping a half step ahead. “You’re intense, you know that?”

He tilted his head, lips curving. “And you’re only just noticing?”

That earned him another laugh, sweet and easy, and he drank it in greedily. He could almost convince himself this was ordinary — that you were his, that this night was a beginning instead of a fragile illusion.

But then, your words shifted the ground beneath him.

“This street is gorgeous,” you said, eyes wide as you looked up at the strings of swaying lanterns. “I’ve never walked down here before.”

Something prickled at the base of his spine. “Never?” he echoed, casual on the surface, though his mind sharpened like a blade.

You glanced back at him, sheepish. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, voice lazy, amused. But inside, a knot began to coil tight. He tilted his head again, studying you as if he could peel back your secrets. “You don’t know this area well, do you? Isn’t this your city, cutie?”

The question hung in the air, deceptively mild.

You hesitated, then gave a tiny shrug, as though it were nothing. “Not exactly. I’m just… here on vacation.”

The word detonated inside him.

Vacation.

He repeated it aloud, too quickly, too softly. “Vacation?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Just a short trip. I don’t live here.” You smiled, like you’d offered him something simple, harmless. “I’ll be heading back once it’s over.”

The smile didn’t reach him. He felt it like a knife sliding neatly between his ribs, the ground tilting beneath his feet. Heading back. Away. Away from him.

His hand tightened around yours before he realized, the lanternlight suddenly too dim, the night too small to contain the rush of panic clawing at his chest. You weren’t permanent. You were fleeting, a tide that would retreat and leave him stranded.

He kept his expression smooth — barely. A sliver of his grin remained, though his jaw ached with the effort. “I see.”

Inside, the spiral tore through him. He wanted to demand when, where, why you hadn’t told him sooner. He wanted to drag you back beneath the waves where he could keep you, where no one could take you. Already, his mind ticked through possibilities: how to tether you, how to make you stay, how to make vacation turn into forever.

But your eyes were on him, trusting, unguarded, and he couldn’t risk frightening you. Not here. Not now.

So he smoothed his thumb against the back of your hand, forced his voice steady, teasing. “A short trip, hm? Then I suppose I’ll have to make sure you never forget it.”

You laughed again, unaware of the storm behind his eyes, tugging him forward into the soft glow. He followed obediently, outwardly calm, inwardly unraveling — already crafting silent vows that he would not let you slip away. Not now that he’d had a taste of you.

You smiled softly, fingers brushing against his as if to reassure him. “There’s no way I could forget it,” you said, voice hushed and earnest, before your eyes lifted to his with that devastating sincerity. “Forget you.”

For a moment, the sea itself seemed to pause. The light cast a gentle halo over your features, making you appear all the more unreachable, all the more dangerous to his heart. His chest tightened — not with relief, but with something darker, hungrier. It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

His mouth tugged into a faint, lopsided pout as his fingers twitched, betraying the unrest curling inside him. He forced a smile, but there was an edge beneath it, a flicker of shadow that the night itself seemed to lean into. “Humans…” he murmured, half-bitter, half-playful. “Always leaving.”

You blinked at him, surprised, before a small laugh broke from your lips, warm and sweet against the salt-heavy breeze. “I don’t want to,” you countered, tilting your head toward him as if to banish his sulk. “In a perfect world, I’d live in a city as beautiful as this. I’d spend every day by the sea.”

His breath caught. The words struck him like fire through dry reeds, igniting something uncontrollable. He turned his head toward you sharply, the amber light catching in his ocean-colored eyes, turning them molten. “Then why can’t you?” His voice was low, velvet over steel.

You faltered, lashes lowering. “Because…” you began, but your answer trailed, thin and evasive, slipping like water through cupped hands. “There are a lot of reasons. Life isn’t so simple on land…”

He studied you, eyes narrowing, the faint crease between his brows deepening. You weren’t lying, not exactly — but you weren’t telling him everything either. The vagueness cut at him, sharper than honesty would have. He hated not knowing what held you back, what dared to chain you away from him.

Still, you smiled softly, and it killed him that even in your hesitation you glowed like this. “I’ll really miss you,” you whispered, as though confessing something precious.

The words pressed into his veins like fire, a bittersweet intoxication. Miss him? No. He couldn’t allow you to.

His throat tightened. His hand twitched at his side, aching to clutch you closer, to press you against his chest where no distance, no reason, could ever tear you away. He forced himself still, swallowing down the feral thrum rising in him. “…I’ll miss you too,” he said quietly, his tone smooth but heavy, lined with truth he could barely contain.

But inside, the sea in his chest roared. He could feel you slipping away. He could see you walking away, fading into a world beyond his reach, a world he could not dive into no matter how far he swam. His pulse raced, frantic, until his hands itched with the need to seize hold of you and never let go.

And yet he smoothed it down, smoothing his thumb again over your knuckles, as though the small gesture could anchor him, mask the truth of his thoughts. He smiled, appearing gentle, composed — while inside his mind reeled with calculation.

You had said it yourself. A perfect world. You wanted to stay, to belong here, to belong with him. But something stood in your way. Vague “reasons,” distant obligations, that invisible wall between your heart and his ocean. If you would truly miss him — if you longed for the sea, longed for him — then all he had to do was remove those obstacles. Create that perfect world you dreamed of. One where you never had to face the pain of leaving.

His eyes lingered on your profile, bathed in golden light, lips parted faintly as though you might say more. Every flicker of the flames above seemed to crown you in warmth, each step you took beside him pulling him further into the orbit he could never, would never, escape.

You won’t ever have to miss me, he vowed silently, the words echoing in the cavern of his ribs. I’ll make sure of it. I’ll keep you here. I’ll give you the sea, the city, the world — anything, everything. You’ll never walk away from me.

He smiled faintly, just enough to hide the tightening in his chest, and gave your hand a reassuring squeeze. Outwardly, a companion walking with you under the lanterns. Inwardly, a creature sinking his claws deeper into the inevitability of you.

The words slipped from his lips before he could stop them. 

“When do you leave?” His voice was low, careful, as if asking might shatter something fragile between you.

You exhaled softly, your thumb brushing over the back of his hand where your fingers laced together. “Tomorrow’s my last day. My flight leaves tomorrow night.”

The light trembled over your features, and he caught the flicker of sadness in your eyes. That small downturn of your mouth — barely there, but enough to twist something violent and possessive inside him. His chest ached at the thought of you vanishing from his city, from his reach, returning to some distant place that had nothing to do with him.

Internally, his thoughts tangled. Too soon. I don’t have enough time. I need to anchor you here, somehow — tie you to me, to the sea, to everything you said you wished for. You don’t want to leave, I know you don’t. So why should you? Why should I let you?

He felt you squeeze his hand gently, pulling him back into the moment. You tilted your head, curiosity softening your expression. “You look lost in thought. Are you… planning something special for my last day?”

The question was almost playful, but it struck him with the force of a promise. He turned his gaze toward you, allowing a slow smile to rise — measured, charming, the kind that made people underestimate him. “Something like that,” he murmured, watching how your eyes lit at the words.

You brightened, laughing softly, the sound like glass wind chimes stirred by an ocean breeze. “Oh, come on. You can’t just say that and not give me a hint! What is it?”

He leaned in slightly, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath even in the cool night air. “It’s a surprise, cutie.” His tone dipped on the endearment, rougher, weighted with a heat he didn’t bother to hide.

You pouted, bottom lip jutting in a way that made his chest constrict. “It better be good.”

Rafayel chuckled under his breath, though the laugh carried more possession than amusement. He lifted your joined hands, pressing the barest kiss against your knuckles. The lantern light turned his eyes to molten blue, shadows catching in their depths. “You’ll love it,” he promised, almost too softly. 

Inside, though, his mind was racing. This is it. Tomorrow, I’ll make sure you see that perfect world you want — by the sea, beautiful, unending. You won’t miss me because I won’t let you go. You don’t need to leave at all. You’ve already told me what you want; now all I have to do is give it to you.

He let the silence linger, heavy but not uncomfortable, the night wrapping around you both with the scent of saltwater and honeysuckle from a nearby garden. Somewhere, waves kissed the shore, steady and endless.

He thought of keeping you here forever — your hand always in his, your laughter carried with the tide — and for the first time in centuries, the idea of forever felt too small.

The garden was hushed, all soft earth and green shadows, the air heavy with the perfume of blossoms just beginning to open under the late light. Rafayel walks beside you, a step slower than usual, letting you drift toward the rows of flowering shrubs. You reach out, your fingertips grazing petals, and he watches you as if you are the one in bloom here, more radiant than anything rooted in Lemuria’s soil.

You bend to pluck a flower — delicate, pale with a blush at its edges — and turn to him with that smile that undoes him every time. “Here,” you murmur, rising on your toes just slightly. He freezes when you slip it into the pocket of his shirt, right over his chest. Right over where the bond mark would be if fate had been kinder to him.

His breath stutters, chest rising beneath your fingers. He doesn’t dare touch you, doesn’t dare reveal the trembling reverence running through his veins, but inside he is alight — your gift is a vow, a symbol, whether you know it or not. To him, it feels like a claim. His.

The scent of the flower mingles with the salt-soft air and something inside him aches. He imagines your hands not just placing a blossom, but pressing over his heart, sealing yourself there.

“You’ll keep it safe,” you tease lightly, unaware of the weight of what you’ve done.

He swallows. His voice comes out huskier than he intends. “Always.”

The word hangs between you, heavy, unshakable.

You glance up at him then, and it happens — the look. The one he has been waiting for, the one that tilts the whole world on its axis. Your eyes linger too long, soften too much, the faintest curve of your lips betraying something deeper than playfulness. And he knows, suddenly and utterly, that if he doesn’t close the space between you, he will regret it for eternity.

Rafayel leans in before doubt can form, before his mask of irony or detachment can shield him again. He can smell your perfume — faint, sweeter than the blossoms, like something made just for him.

His hand hovers at your waist but doesn’t touch, not yet, as his lips find yours. The kiss is tentative at first, reverent. His mouth brushes yours like a question, but the way you sigh softly against him — the way your fingers graze the fabric over his chest, just above the tucked flower — answers him more clearly than words ever could.

The world seems to hush. Leaves whisper. Somewhere water trickles over stone. But all he knows is the press of your lips, the heat sparking through him like a struck match. He deepens it, just a little, enough to taste the sweetness of your breath, and feels the ground slip beneath him.

When he draws back, it’s only because he has to see you, has to memorize the look in your eyes right now. Your lips are parted, cheeks faintly flushed, your hand still resting over the flower on his chest as if to anchor yourself.

“You…” his voice catches, a rough edge breaking his composure. He recovers with a softer smile, almost boyish, the kind he never shows anyone else. “…you’ll ruin me, cutie.”

But inside, he thinks: No, not ruin. Save. Complete. I was always waiting for this.

The flower presses lightly against his skin through the fabric, right over the place where the bond should be, and he silently vows that soon, it will be there.

The lantern path faded into a curve of garden shadows, your hand still in his, when you slowed and turned those worried eyes on him.

“Are you doing okay?” you asked softly, voice lilting with that kind of concern that made his chest tighten.

For a moment Rafayel was blank — why would you think otherwise? His body thrummed with energy, every nerve singing after that kiss. Then it struck him. Ah, the little white lie he’d spun earlier. He had told you that being on his legs for long stretches was a strain. A convenient excuse then, a way to coax you into slowing down with him. Now you were looking at him like that, as though your tender worry could undo him.

He seized the opportunity.

He tilted his head, let a faint crease of weariness touch his brow. “Mm… you’re right, I’m a little winded.” he murmured, voice roughened, carefully measured. He slowed his steps, just enough to make it believable. “It’s catching up to me, cutie.”

You stopped short, squeezing his hand. “Then we should head back. Come on, lean on me if you need to.”

The invitation set his heart racing. He should have reassured you, told you not to worry — but instead he allowed it, allowed himself to shift his weight just slightly toward you, let his shoulder brush yours more firmly. Your smaller frame bore it without hesitation, your arm steady at his side, guiding him back toward the distant hush of the sea.

The path narrowed, lamposts casting pale pools of gold on the ground. He glanced sidelong at you, the soft line of your profile lit against the dark. You didn’t complain, didn’t tease — just walked at his pace, hand firm, steps careful as though you were shielding him. The smallest things undid him: the way you slowed at uneven stones, the way you angled your body so he wouldn’t stumble. He could have walked on his own with ease, but the warmth of you pressed so close was intoxicating.

“You should have told me sooner,” you murmured. “I don’t want you to overdo it.”

Rafayel swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He wanted to say: I would walk through fire if it meant staying at your side. Instead he managed a strained chuckle. “I didn’t want to cut our time short. Being with you makes me forget.”

Your fingers flexed in his, squeezing gently, and he thought he might combust on the spot.

The path sloped gently toward the beach, a pale trail dusted in the glow of moonlight that lit the way. Every sound — the rustle of leaves, the quiet crunch of sand beneath your shoes — sank into his memory, already etched into the shrine of moments he was hoarding. 

He turned his head to watch you as you looked ahead, the salt-kissed breeze pulling at your hair. How easily you held him, how unhesitatingly you offered yourself as support. It would be so effortless to let the mask slip, to tell you that it wasn’t fatigue at all, but longing — this endless, relentless pull to remain at your side, to be the weight you chose to bear every single day.

It wasn’t just indulgence. It was a taste of the devotion he craved.

Would you notice if he never let you go?

Would you even realize how deeply you were feeding the hunger inside him?

But then your voice cut through his thoughts again, gentle as tide foam. “You should rest soon. And… I should too. Tomorrow’s important, isn’t it?”

He smiled at that, soft and unreadable in the shadows. “It is.” His voice dipped lower, playful but not enough to hide the heat beneath it.

Your lips curved, but he could see the gleam of anticipation in your gaze. “Are you going to give me a hint now?”

He let out a low hum, as though considering, then shook his head slowly. “Mm… Nope. You’ll ruin the fun if I tell you now.”

You pouted, a small sound of protest leaving you, and god, if it didn’t light something feral in him. He wanted to capture that pout with his mouth, to feel it soften beneath his own. Instead, he chuckled, quiet and warm, and tipped his head closer. “Don’t worry. Tomorrow will be perfect.”

Your excited laugh broke through the air, light and unguarded, and he memorized it like scripture. The stars painted you in silver as you stopped at the edge of the sand, the sea spread out before you in diamond ripples. For a moment neither of you spoke, the world pared down to the hush of water and the brush of your hand still steady at his arm.

And then you did something he didn’t expect. You leaned in, slow, unhurried, and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

Rafayel froze. The world stopped with him. Your lips were warm against his skin, impossibly tender, like the brush of a prayer. He felt it in his veins, in his bones, as though that single kiss was enough to mark him, to bind him, to carve his place at your side in something deeper than words.

Finally, you drew back, your eyes lingering on him longer than they should have. “Goodnight, Rafayel. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

When you pulled back, smiling, the imprint of you still burned there. He wanted to lift his hand, cover the spot, hold it like a relic. His pulse thundered, his composure balancing on a knife’s edge, but he forced his smirk to remain, though his voice was quieter than he intended. “Sleep well, cutie. Sweet dreams.”

And before he could stop himself, he let his fingers brush against yours — just a fleeting touch, an unspoken tether — before you slipped away toward the city’s glow. 

Rafayel stood where you left him, cheek still tingling, chest tight with something uncontainable. He touched the flower in his pocket — the one you had tucked over his heart — and whispered into the empty night, “Tomorrow. Our life starts tomorrow.”

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Back in your room, the door clicked softly shut behind you, leaving the world hushed in the dim lamplight. The stillness pressed in like the sea air outside, salted and sweet, and for the first time all night you were alone — alone with your thoughts, your heartbeat, and the warmth of him still tingling on your skin.

You sat on the edge of the bed, toes curling against the cool floor, and let out a breath that felt too shaky, too full. The night was alive inside you — every moment replaying like waves lapping the shore: the garden blooming under silver moonlight, the gentle brush of his hand as you guided him back to the beach, the rare openness in his eyes when he allowed himself to lean on you. And then that kiss — soft, fleeting, but enough to leave your heart clenching so hard you thought it might burst.

You pressed your fingertips to your lips, smiling helplessly. It had felt like something stolen from a dream. Maybe all of this was — this enchanted island, the way time seemed to fold into a space where it was only him and you, no obligations, no end. But tomorrow there would be an end. The thought cut sharp, leaving your chest tight. The idea of leaving him — of him becoming just a memory, another fleeting encounter washed away by distance and reality — was unbearable.

You swallowed down the ache, pushing the fear away. Tonight, you wanted to hold on to the sweetness, not let it sour. You lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling with a giddy little laugh slipping past your lips. Because how could you not laugh? Rafayel was… Rafayel. Magnetic and impossible and so full of hidden depths that you were desperate to learn. He made you feel alive in a way you hadn’t known you were missing — like the world had more colors, more air, more pulse.

Your mind kept circling back to the way he’d looked at you in the garden, as though every petal you touched, every breath you drew, was something sacred. It made your skin burn, made your stomach flutter with something you couldn’t name. He wasn’t temporary. You refused to let him be.

But for now, tonight — you let yourself bask in it. Hugging the pillow close, you whispered his name against the fabric, cheeks hot with the confession you couldn’t quite voice to him yet. You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, only that you were eager for it, eager for him.

Whatever surprise he had planned, you’d face it with your heart wide open. Because Rafayel wasn’t just a fleeting dream. He was the thing you wanted to wake up to.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Rafayel drifted down into the stillness of his quarters, the faint glow of Lemuria’s currents illuminating the carved walls and pale stone. Here, the water always seemed hushed, a cocoon of silence where even the eternal heartbeat of the sea softened into reverence. Only the shrine before him gleamed warmly, the single candle at its center holding steady, flame dancing as if it breathed with him.

He bent, careful, reverent, the flower still fresh in his hand. Its petals were tender, fragile — yet it had survived your night together, the laughter, the garden air, your kiss. He brought it close, almost brushing his lips against its edge, before pressing it to the shrine. Fingers splayed, flames seeped out, golden warmth weaving into the veins of each petal, into its heart. The bloom shivered once as though startled alive, then stilled, caught in the amber glow. Immortalized. No rot, no decay — forever as it had been when you held it.

He let his hand linger. The beginning of our covenant, he thought, the words resonating through him like a vow. You had given him your laughter, your touch, the tremor of your lips against his. This flower was not merely a token — it was proof of what had bloomed between you, of what he could not allow to be fleeting.

Next, carefully, he drew the small strip of photobooth prints from the pocket of the shirt you had given him. The corners were already softening from where he’d thumbed them again and again. He stared, unable not to. Each frame was its own world: you smiling, laughing, lips parted mid-tease, your face turned toward his. And the last — the one that clutched his heart mercilessly — the imprint of your kiss against his cheek. He could feel it still, phantom heat pressed to his skin, deeper than memory. He brought a hand to his cheek as though the warmth would remain.

With a murmur, he lifted them into a protective bubble, a shimmer of his fire surrounding them like glass. They drifted upward and settled near the flower, haloed by candlelight, untouchable. Treasures, every one of them.

But it was the ribbon — silken, crimson-black in the low glow — that made his lips curl faintly, made something sharper and darker stir in him. You had not noticed when it slipped from your hair during the kiss. He had plucked it while you were consumed by him, unable to resist the keepsake. Now, he laid it across the base of the shrine, twining it delicately around the candle as though binding flame and fabric together. You. Him. A tether.

Rafayel curled his tail underneath himself, gaze fixed on the shrine. The candle’s flame caught the edges of the flower, the ribbon, the photographs, everything — your essence, gathered, sanctified, his offering and his claim. His breath slowed, reverence heavy in his chest.

But his mind did not stay still. It drifted to you, as it always did — your words still echoing in the night air. You had spoken of flights, of leaving. He felt the faint ache pulse in his jaw as he clenched it. Leaving… No. You did not truly wish to go. He had heard it in your voice, seen it in the way your eyes lingered too long, touched him too softly, kissed him with something like desperation disguised as daring. You wanted to stay.

And so, he would make you stay. He had the means. A storm — yes. A sky so heavy with thunder and rain that no flight could ever take you from him. He would weave it carefully, not cruelly, only as fate’s intervention. A gift of time, of impossibility turned opportunity. The storm would keep you here. And he would lead you, finally, to the sea. To the place you belonged, where he had always waited for you.

But first — preparation. A new life must not begin with less than perfection. He would ready gifts, silks, the finest garments the surface could offer. Things worthy of your beauty, of the world he intended to give you. The room you would call yours had to be dressed in warmth and luxury. Everything had to be touched with the certainty of forever.

The candle flickered, throwing gold across his face as he stared into it. Tomorrow, he thought, heart beating like the steady tide. 

Tomorrow she will see. Tomorrow, she will know.

And as he rose from the shrine, leaving the flame to burn, he carried the phantom of your kiss with him — its warmth, its promise — the vow he would make unbreakable when he finally brought you to the sea.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The storm howled outside your window, a ceaseless roar of wind that rattled the glass and made the curtains tremble like frightened birds. You awoke slowly, disoriented by the booming thunder that seemed to rattle the bones of the earth itself. For a moment you just listened, heart thudding with unease as the flashes of lightning painted the room in stark, white-blue light. The storm was merciless, rain lashing against the panes, each strike of thunder carrying a weight that set your nerves on edge.

Your first thought was of Rafayel. Was he safe in this chaos? Had the storm scattered whatever he had planned for you today, forcing him back into the depths? A pang of disappointment tightened in your chest, quickly swallowed by worry. He was of the sea, yes — but storms like this, storms that tore the horizon apart, felt unnatural, as if conjured by something greater than weather itself.

Reaching for your phone with trembling fingers, you blinked against the glow of the screen. A notification lit up your lock screen:

Flight Canceled: Due to severe weather conditions, all departures postponed until further notice. 

You scrolled numbly, searching for clarity, until the pit in your stomach grew heavier.

The television flickered on, filling the silence with the urgent cadence of a newscaster’s voice. Grainy footage of the storm appeared on the screen, waves the size of buildings battering the coast, trees bending to breaking points. The words were a blur — unexpected formation… no signs of dispersing… citizens urged to stay indoors… remain cautious… But your attention slipped, lost to a faint sound threading its way through the static air.

A melody.

So soft you thought at first it was a trick of the storm, some errant whistle in the wind — but no, it wound around you, curling like smoke through your chest, through your very thoughts. You froze, blood running cold, as the notes slipped beneath your skin. It was achingly familiar, a haunting strain you recognized as his. 

The music tugged at you, an invisible tether pulling you from the safety of the room. Your bare feet touched the floor before you realized you’d moved, body responding not to reason but to command. The storm outside no longer sounded like chaos but like a drumbeat to march you forward. You didn’t question, didn’t resist — couldn’t resist.

Through the corridors, down the stairs, your steps were silent and sure, despite the tremors in the walls and the occasional flicker of the lights. Rain lashed against you the moment you stepped outside, soaking you instantly, chilling you to the bone. Still, the melody pressed on, louder, closer, compelling. You trudged through streets nearly deserted, the storm beating down so fiercely that most had shuttered themselves inside. Debris rolled across your path, palm fronds and trash cans toppled, but you barely noticed.

Your hair clung heavy to your face, your clothes plastered to your skin, but all you could hear was the song. It guided you down narrow paths, across the slick roads, until at last the land gave way beneath your steps and you found yourself on sand, waves thrashing against the shore.

Only then did you falter.

The trance cracked like glass under pressure, your awareness rushing back all at once as the icy water lapped at your ankles, pulling at you with greedy hands. The storm was a living thing around you, lightning clawing across the sky, the sea itself enraged. You shivered, finally seeing how dangerous it all was.

Amid the chaos, something moved.

The water churned, not with the wild randomness of waves, but with purpose, parting in slow arcs. Your eyes widened as you caught sight of him, floating just beyond the break. 

Rafayel. 

His form half-shadowed, half-illumined by the lightning above. No longer the man you’d walked with under lantern light, but something otherworldly. His long tail shimmered with every surge of water, scales refracting the storm’s light into shards of silver and deep cerulean. His hair fanned around him like a halo, wet strands gleaming as though kissed by fire beneath the ocean spray.

But it was his eyes that stilled you where you stood. They glowed faintly, not just with reflection but with their own surreal radiance, a blue that seared through the darkness like twin beacons. They found you even in the storm, unerring, and in that instant you felt stripped bare, seen in a way that made your heart hammer.

He looked like something pulled from myth, something beyond the reach of men — an ethereal figure risen from the storm itself, commanding it. Godlike, untouchable.

And he was looking only at you.

Your breath caught. Your lips shaped his name before you realized you’d spoken.

“Rafayel…”

His head tilted, that faint, mischievous smile you knew so well curving his mouth, but it carried something else now — an intensity, a hunger. Slowly, effortlessly, he cut through the waves toward you until he was close enough to reach for your hand. Cold water dripped from his fingers as they wrapped around yours, his grip unshakably firm despite the storm.

He raised your hand to his lips and pressed a cool kiss against your knuckles, the salt of the sea clinging to his mouth.

“Surprise, cutie.”

Confusion tangled inside your chest. You blinked at him, rainwater running into your lashes. “I don’t… I don’t even know how I got here.”

“I brought you,” he said simply, as though the answer required no further explanation. His voice was steady, almost soothing despite the chaos around you.

Your brows knit. The words should have unsettled you, and they did — but more than that, his nearness tugged at you, the familiar pull you couldn’t resist. Still, unease lingered sharp in your gut.

He drifted closer, drawing you forward until the surf soaked your skin to the waist. His tail swept behind him, stirring up glowing ripples where it cut through the water. “I want to show you the sea, cutie.” he murmured. “It’s dangerous on land right now.”

You froze at the edge of his invitation. Your gaze flicked out at the endless black horizon, then back to his glowing eyes. The ocean whispered of darkness and unknowable depths, an abyss waiting to swallow you whole. “But… I can’t breathe underwater.”

The softest laugh escaped him, low and resonant, as though the sea itself hummed in his chest. He leaned close enough that the tips of his wet hair brushed your cheek. “Do you trust me?”

Your heart pounded against your ribs, your head screaming caution, but your body betrayed you — you could only nod.

The smile that touched his lips wasn’t entirely the one you knew. Sharper, brighter, tinged with something ancient. His hand didn’t let go of yours as the waves pulled higher, tugging you into him, into the sea, into the shimmering glow of his otherworldly form.

The cold swallowed you instantly, rushing up your spine, your neck, then over your head. You panicked, lungs seizing, heart thrashing, your body instinctively clamping down to hold what breath you had left. Darkness pressed from all sides, the storm muffled into a hollow roar above.

Your wide eyes searched for him — only to find him right there, cradling your face in his hands as though you might break. The glowing blue of his gaze anchored you in the chaos, drawing your focus. His lips brushed yours in a soft, lingering kiss, stealing the panic for a heartbeat. Against your mouth, he murmured, low and commanding, “Breathe.”

Your body resisted, fear clawing at your throat. But when you did — when air rushed in — there was no water, no drowning. It was air, pure and effortless, as though the sea itself bent to his will for you.

You broke away, eyes wide in shock, chest heaving. He chuckled softly, brushing a thumb along your cheek, his voice dripping warmth. “See, cutie? You’re safe with me.”

You could only stare, lips parting soundlessly. Your thoughts scrambled, unable to piece together what had just happened, the impossible truth that you were breathing beneath the waves. The storm’s flashes caught in his eyes, in the sheen of his tail, in the curl of his hair floating like dark silk around his face. Ethereal. Yours.

You smiled weakly, still stunned.

Before you could think, his arms wrapped tighter around you, tugging you against his bare chest, your cheek pressing to the line of his throat. His skin was cool and slick, but his embrace was firm, steady, grounding. “Hold on to me,” he whispered, his breath stirring your hair even here beneath the surface.

Your fingers curled against him, clinging.

And then he moved — tail surging in great, powerful sweeps, carrying you both down, deeper, into the vast, endless dark. The sea closed around you like a cathedral, its silence heavy and sacred, your heartbeat echoing against the steady rhythm of his body guiding you through the abyss.

The water grew darker the deeper Rafayel carried you, shadows folding over shadows, but you clung to him as though his warmth was the only anchor left in this alien place. His arm locked firm around your waist, keeping you pressed to his chest, and though the sea was biting cold against your skin, the heat of his body seemed to radiate outward, enough to still your shivers. You could feel the steady strength in him as he propelled you downward, his movements cutting through the water with impossible ease, each powerful stroke sending you both gliding through the vast silence of the abyss.

The world below began to change. What first looked like nothing but endless blue and gloom slowly came alive with color — fronds of kelp swaying like banners, glowing plankton spiraling past in ephemeral bursts of light. You tightened your hold around him, your fingers curling around the nape of his neck, heart pounding not from fear now but from wonder. And then, as the sea floor came into view, you saw it.

Lemuria.

It was like stepping into a dream. Spires of coral rose high as towers, their surfaces inlaid with veins of pearl that shimmered when the light struck them. Vast arches carved from living stone framed wide avenues that wound between crystalline domes, each one glowing faintly from within as if lit by captured starlight. Schools of fish darted like ribbons of silver and gold through the streets, scattering when Rafayel’s presence brushed against them. The city pulsed with a rhythm all its own, a living, breathing sanctuary beneath the weight of the sea.

Your breath caught, and you turned your face up toward him. “Where…are we?” Your voice came out in a soft awe, even though part of you still couldn’t quite believe you were speaking at all beneath the water.

Rafayel’s eyes glimmered with a warmth that cut through the otherworldly strangeness. His lips curved as he answered, simply, “This is Lemuria. It’s…home.”

You stared, your chest swelling, and couldn’t stop the small, incredulous smile tugging at your lips. “So this was your surprise?”

He nodded, his hand slipping down to catch yours, lacing his fingers through yours even in the drifting current. “Do you like it?” His voice carried something almost boyish in its undercurrent — hopeful, as though your answer mattered more than anything.

You squeezed his hand, still unable to tear your gaze from the gleaming avenues, the ethereal beauty around you. “Yes,” you breathed, still dazed. “It’s… beautiful.”

That earned you one of his true smiles — the kind where his eyes softened at the edges, his teasing sharpness mellowed into something far gentler. He tugged you closer, brushing his thumb over your knuckles as though to anchor you against the impossible wonder of it all.

“Then come,” he said, pulling you with him through the water. “There’s more to show you.”

He guided you through the sweeping arches, weaving down a path that opened into a temple unlike anything you had ever seen. Its columns were carved from dark stone streaked with veins of pale opal, rising higher than you could fathom. Murals shimmered across its walls, painted in pigments that caught the bioluminescence, their figures moving subtly as if alive, telling stories of gods, kings, and storms long past.

Inside, the space unfolded into wide chambers, the light refracting through crystal inlays scattered throughout the floors and ceilings, painting the walls with shifting hues of blue and gold. Statues of Lemurian guardians lined the halls — fierce, beautiful, half-human, half-creature, their eyes set with gleaming gems.

“Do you live here?” you asked softly, your voice echoing in the vastness.

He tilted his head, lips quirking. “Mm. I spend most of my time here when I return. It keeps the sea from swallowing it whole.”

You traced your fingers across one of the carved reliefs, its surface cold beneath your touch yet thrumming faintly, almost alive. “It’s beautiful,” you murmured, glancing back at him. “Even more than the city.”

Rafayel chuckled under his breath, trailing after you, eyes following your every movement. “Careful, cutie. The elders would not like to hear that their jewel has been upstaged by a ruin.”

You shot him a small smile, unable to help the dry amusement in your tone. “I’m sure you’ve charmed worse crowds.”

“Maybe,” he conceded, grin sharpening, though his eyes softened as they lingered on you.

He led you deeper still, through narrow halls where the walls glittered with embedded shards of shell and gemstone, until you entered a chamber that opened into a wide atrium. The ceiling was cut glass, letting streams of pale light filter down from the surface far above, turning the whole place into a cathedral of rippling color.

Rafayel watched you turn slowly in place, taking it in. He didn’t speak at first — just let you look, let you marvel, his hand warm and steady in yours. And though the sea was vast, and the temple grand, there was a quiet hum beneath it all that made the air between you charged.

It wasn’t just a place he was showing you. It was a piece of himself.

The throne room opened before you in a breathtaking sweep of marble-white stone and pale opalescent light, the walls glittering as though embedded with shards of pearl. The water itself seemed to hum with reverence in this space, currents slowed to a languid drift, as though the sea itself bowed to its master. Your gaze drifted to the centerpiece of it all: a throne carved from coral and shell, shimmering with mother-of-pearl and streaks of silver that caught every mote of bioluminescence. It seemed impossibly regal, too grand, too holy — and for a moment, you wondered who could possibly be worthy of sitting there.

“Is… is this yours?” you asked softly, voice hushed with awe as you turned to Rafayel.

He followed your gaze, expression unreadable in the dappled light. Then, without the slightest hesitation, he said, “Yes.”

You blinked at him, your mind tripping over the simplicity of his answer. “Are you like…the king of Lemuria?” The words tumbled out before you could stop them, half incredulous, half reverent.

At that, Rafayel laughed. Not his sharp, mocking laugh you’d grown used to, but a low, velvety sound, rich with amusement. His hair rippled like ink in the current as he turned back to you, smile curling with mischief. “Not quite,” he said, voice dropping conspiratorially as though telling you a secret. “I’m not their king. I’m their god.”

Your jaw dropped. Heat rushed to your face even though the water was cool against your skin. “You’re joking,” you blurted, searching his expression for any hint of teasing. “You have to be joking.”

“Do I look like I’m joking, cutie?” His eyes glowed faintly, a strange otherworldly shimmer that matched the quiet pulse of the sea itself.

You stared at him, speechless, before finally throwing up your hands. “And you never thought to mention this to me before?”

He tilted his head, pretending to study the mosaics on the ceiling instead of your wide-eyed face. “It didn’t feel important when I was with you.”

“Not important?!” Your voice echoed faintly in the vaulted chamber, incredulous.

His lips twitched, failing to hide a smile. “What did you want me to do? Should I have made you bow to me and offer to grant your wishes?”

Despite yourself, a laugh burst from your lips, bubbling into the water. You pressed your hand over your mouth, still staring at him like he’d just told you the sky was a dream. He grinned, satisfied at your reaction, before glancing back at the throne.

“Sit,” he said, gesturing lazily toward it.

“What? No.” Your refusal was immediate, a flush heating your cheeks. “That’s yours. I—I can’t sit there.”

“Can’t?” His brows arched, teasing. “Or won’t?”

“Both!”

He drifted closer, circling you like a predator amused with its prey, his tail flicking lazily through the water. “You’re already here. No one else is around. Humor me.”

“I’ll look ridiculous.”

“You’ll look perfect.” His tone left no room for doubt, and the way his gaze fixed on you — hungry, unyielding — made your chest tighten.

You shook your head, flustered, but the intensity of his stare wore you down. Slowly, hesitantly, you crossed the wide expanse toward the throne. Each step felt heavy, surreal, until you finally lowered yourself onto its cool surface.

The moment you sat, Rafayel froze. His smile faltered — not into disappointment, but into something softer, something reverent. His eyes widened slightly, drinking in the sight of you as though he’d conjured you from the sea itself.

“You…” His voice was low, almost reverent. “You look like you’ve always belonged there.”

Your breath hitched. The water hummed faintly in your ears, every sense heightened under the weight of his gaze. He drifted forward, slowly, his tail curling beneath him as he bowed low — not playfully, not mocking, but with the solemn grace of something ancient.

Then, gently, he reached for your hand. His fingers brushed yours, and he lifted it to his lips. The kiss was featherlight, yet it sent a shiver spiraling through you, heat blooming where his mouth touched.

Your cheeks burned. “Rafayel—”

“Shh,” he murmured, lips curving against your skin before he finally pulled back just enough to look up at you. “Do you know how beautiful you are right now?”

Your breath tangled in your chest, your protest catching on your tongue. He was close enough that you could see every glint of color in his irises, the quiet awe softening his features.

“You’re teasing me again,” you managed weakly, though your voice betrayed the flutter in your chest.

“No,” he said simply, with a conviction that made your heart stumble. “This time, I’m not.”

The air — or what passed for it down here — seemed charged, the weight of his words pressing around you. You could only stare at him, face warm, lips parted, unable to form a reply as his hand lingered against yours, anchoring you to the moment.

Rafayel’s lips trailed soft, deliberate kisses up your arm as he pulled you gently from the throne, his touch both reverent and claiming. “Come,” he murmured against your skin, his mouth brushing the tender inside of your wrist before he let it go. “Follow me. There’s one last surprise I have for you.”

Your mind reeled, flustered from the spectacle of moments ago, his words still echoing in your head. You could hardly imagine what else he could possibly have to show you. And yet, dazed and breathless, you let him lead you down the gleaming corridor, his hand warm around yours, the soft sweep of his tail gliding alongside him in the water.

When he pushed open the carved doors to his private quarters, your breath caught. The chamber was unlike anything you had seen before: every surface gleamed with treasures. Fine garments, silks so delicate they seemed to float in the currents, cascades of pearls, jewels that caught and refracted the candlelight like fragments of stars, rare shells polished smooth as glass. Light seemed to find its way in through clever lattices in the walls, dancing across the room in dappled waves, mingling with the glow of countless candles. It was beautiful — immaculate, radiant, overwhelming.

“These,” Rafayel said, his voice almost casual but his eyes trained on you, “are gifts for you.”

You stared at him, speechless. Your lips parted, but for a moment no words came, your chest tightening as you turned to take in the magnitude of what he’d done. “I… I don’t know what to say,” you finally whispered, shaking your head faintly. “How could I ever repay you? You didn’t have to—”

“Yes, I did,” he interrupted smoothly, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. His eyes softened, but there was a firm certainty in his tone. He stepped closer, the faintest smirk at his lips. “A beautiful woman deserves beautiful things. Though…” His gaze swept down your figure, then lingered on your face again, “they don’t come close to you.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, flustering you further. You looked back at the room, struggling for words, until his question cut through the silence: “Do you like it?”

“How could I not?” you breathed out, almost too quickly, nodding once. “I love it. Thank you.”

His smile curved slow, self-satisfied. “So you’ll stay.”

Your head snapped back toward him, caught off guard. “Stay? What do you mean?”

“With me,” he replied simply, as though it needed no further explanation. “In Lemuria, in this temple.”

Your heart lurched. “You… you want me to live here?”

Confusion flickered across his expression, though it was tempered by amusement, as though your doubt entertained him more than anything else. “Didn’t you ask for this, cutie?”

“I—” The stammer caught in your throat, helpless, and before you could gather yourself, he was already closing the distance.

His hand came up to cradle your face, fingers threading gently behind your ear. His touch tilted your chin, guiding your gaze to his, and then his lips brushed across your cheek, featherlight, coaxing, coaxing. “You said you’d miss me,” he whispered against your skin, each kiss punctuating his words as he trailed them down the curve of your jaw, the slope of your throat. “Now you’ll never have to.”

His breath was warm against your neck, his mouth a torment of soft heat as he continued, his voice low and persuasive, like velvet winding around your thoughts. “You can spend your time in the sea… in a city more beautiful than dreams. Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?”

Your lashes fluttered shut, your hands coming up instinctively to press against the hard plane of his chest. His heartbeat thrummed beneath your palms, steady and alive, as he kissed along your neck. A sound slipped from your lips — half whisper, half moan — his name barely formed, broken by the shiver coursing through you.

“Rafayel…”

You felt the heat of him press against you, his lips trailing along your jaw, brushing over the hollow of your throat, teasing, coaxing, leaving the faintest bite that sent a shiver down your spine. Every nerve in your body hummed, torn between the wild pull of desire and the stubborn whisper of hesitation. You wanted him, wanted him desperately, but part of you froze, aware of how far this was going, how much control you were giving up.

And then, out of the corner of your eye, something caught your attention. A flicker of movement, shapes, light… a shrine. Your breath hitched, your pulse stuttering. It was unmistakable.

Your bracelet — once lost, now resting there like it had never left. A ribbon from your hair, placed carefully as though he had plucked it from the very moment you had given it without realizing. The photos, the flower, a hoard of all your memories together. The candle flickered, warm and steady, anchoring the small, sacred collection.

You pushed him back, just enough to create space, eyes wide and heart racing. “What… what is that?” you whispered, voice trembling despite yourself.

Rafayel blinked, startled out of the haze of your nearness. “What…?” he echoed, then followed your gaze to the shrine. His expression softened, understanding dawning, but there was an unmistakable gleam in his eyes, something proud and possessive all at once. “Oh… those?” His voice was quiet at first, but firm, deliberate. “They’re tokens… of your devotion to me… and of mine to you. Our memories.”

Your gaze lingered on them, drawn magnetically. Your hand trembled slightly as you stepped closer, compelled to touch, to understand. The silhouette on the smooth stone caught your eye, instantly recognizable — the outline of yourself from that first night you met him. You picked it up carefully, almost reverently, fingers brushing the surface. “This… this is me, from the night we met,” you breathed, awe-struck.

“Yes,” he said simply, voice a little lower, a little huskier. His eyes never left you. You could barely form another word, overwhelmed.

Before you could react, he was there again, closing the space, warm hands sliding around yours, taking the stone carefully. He placed it back at the center of the shrine, with meticulous care, reverence in every movement. And then he was close to you again, too close, his chest against yours, eyes locked on yours, lips barely hovering, whispering, “We’ve formed a bond, cutie… a bond that can’t be broken. You’ll stay here… with me. You’ll rule Lemuria alongside me. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words tangled, trapped by the storm of feelings swirling in your chest. You wanted to answer, desperately, but hesitation held you, sharp and impossible to ignore.

Rafayel’s gaze sharpened, intensity deepening, voice dropping into a rich, commanding timbre that made your pulse thrum painfully in your ears. “Say it,” he murmured, a dangerous edge to the softness. “Say you’ll stay.”

Your throat tightened. “What about… my life?” you asked, the words barely audible, almost a plea.

His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing your skin, grounding you, but his other hand pressed against your waist, holding you immovably. His eyes were locked onto yours, and when he spoke, it was both a promise and a declaration: “That… is keeping us apart. I’ll remove any obstacle. Any. One way or another, you’ll stay with me.”

You trembled, heart hammering, caught between disbelief, longing, and fear. His presence surrounded you completely, intoxicating, overwhelming. Every breath, every shiver, every heartbeat screamed his name, his claim, his desire, and yours intertwined in the echo of the shrine’s candlelight.

You could feel the pull of him, the unyielding weight of his intent, and against every instinct to resist, a different part of you — a reckless, thrilling, impossible part — wanted to fall entirely into it, to trust him, to belong.

He pressed his forehead to yours, warm, insistent, and whispered, softer now, velvet against your ear, “Say it… say you’ll stay with me, cutie.”

Your lips parted, breath catching as the world narrowed to him, the shrine, the glow of candlelight, and the pull of something you didn’t understand yet couldn’t resist.

The words spilled from you before your mind could argue, before hesitation could take hold. “I… I’ll stay,” you whispered, breathless, heart hammering in your chest. Your head screamed at you that this was insane, that you were plunging headfirst into something impossible, but the pull of him — the warmth, the intensity, the magnetic hold of his gaze — was too strong. Your body betrayed your caution, leaning toward him, melting against the pressure of his chest.

Rafayel’s eyes lit up, a dangerous, radiant glow that made your knees weak. “I knew you would,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction and something warmer, deeper. Without another word, he bent toward you, capturing your lips with his in a kiss that was equal parts claim and tenderness, fierce yet feather-light, leaving you dizzy, breathless, entirely undone.

Your arms instinctively wound around him, tangling around his strong shoulders, your body pressed to his as if it had always belonged there. Every inch of contact sent shivers up your spine, a storm of heat and anticipation coiling inside you, making your world shrink to the point where it was just him, just you, and the delicate weight of the shrine’s candlelight flickering beside you.

Then — a knock. Sharp, insistent, breaking the fragile bubble of intimacy.

Rafayel froze, lips still brushing yours, eyes narrowing, tension snapping through him like a live wire. “What?” His voice cut harsh, clipped, like steel on glass.

A guard’s voice called through the door, steady but urgent: “Elder Amund wishes to see you, Rafayel. It is… urgent.”

Rafayel’s jaw clenched, a storm brewing behind his eyes. His tail flicked, and you could see the rigid line of his shoulders, the way his entire body seemed to bristle at the interruption. “I’m… not available,” he said through gritted teeth, tone sharp enough to make you flinch.

The guard’s voice didn’t waver. “It is important, Sir. Elder Amund insists.”

Rafayel’s gaze flicked to you, and for the first time, there was a touch of reluctance in his eyes, a fleeting vulnerability. He exhaled, running a hand through his hair, and the sharp edge in his expression softened slightly, though the tension still hummed in his muscles. He lowered his forehead to yours, brushing against your temple for a moment, and whispered, voice rougher than before: “Stay here. I’ll be back soon.”

Your chest tightened at the thought of him leaving, even for a short while, and you nodded, barely able to form words.

Without another pause, he leaned down, pressing a searing kiss to your lips, lingering just long enough to imprint the memory of him before pulling back and glancing toward the door. His eyes were dark, stormy, full of promise and possessiveness. Then, in a blur of fluid motion, he swept out of the room, leaving you trembling in the afterglow of his touch, the shrine’s flickering candle casting long shadows across the floor.

You stayed rooted where you were, heart still hammering, hands brushing against the stone silhouette and the bracelet, the pull of him lingering like electricity in the air. The room felt impossibly quiet without him, and yet you could feel him everywhere — in the warmth that lingered on your skin, in the echo of his voice, in the scent of him that clung faintly in the air.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The corridors of Lemuria seemed to hum beneath his tail as he glided toward the throne room, the echo of the storm above still vibrating faintly through the water. Every flick of his tail mirrored the storm brewing in his chest — an unsettled mixture of irritation and cold calculation. He arrived at the threshold, tail coiling beneath him like a spring ready to strike, and his eyes fell on Amund, waiting as if he’d anticipated Rafayel’s impatience.

“What do you want, Amund?” Rafayel’s voice was clipped, sharp, carrying the edge of a predator who had already run out of patience.

Amund’s gaze, steady and unflinching, held him in place. “I see you’ve finally found a devoted follower,” the elder said, his tone almost ceremonial, almost approving. “It is time you completed the ceremony, Rafayel.”

Rafayel’s lips quirked in a scoff. “So that’s what this is about,” he said, letting the words drip with controlled disdain. The idea that this was a duty, a ritual, a game — an obligation — grated against the raw heat of his own will.

“The flame will not last much longer,” Amund continued, voice firm. “It must be completed, or Lemuria itself will suffer.”

Rafayel’s crimson eyes narrowed. “And what, exactly, must I do for this ceremony? You’ve kept me in the dark long enough.” His voice rose with the imperceptible weight of command, though externally he appeared composed, coiled tension restrained beneath polished poise.

Amund hesitated, then relented, his tone lowering with the weight of inevitability. “You must take your devotee’s heart and offer it to the flame. Only unwavering devotion can save Lemuria.”

Rafayel’s jaw tightened, the words slicing through him like a blade. Calm on the surface, he blinked once, twice, masking the storm inside. Disgust churned in his chest, mingling with disbelief and a fierce, protective heat. Her heart? My beloved, her life… The thought alone made his stomach twist. To hear Amund speak of you as a mere sacrificial tool, as though your devotion could be measured and burnt, repulsed him down to his core.

He leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing, voice low and dangerous. “And you… you will be guiding this ceremony?”

Amund nodded. “Yes. I will oversee the ritual, ensure that it is done properly. It is for the good of Lemuria.”

Every muscle in Rafayel’s body coiled tighter, tail flicking impatiently, eyes darkening. The elder’s certainty, the cold expectation in his voice — it was an obstacle.

He dares stand between me and her. He dares treat her like this, as if she were a tool, a means to some flame. I won’t allow it. 

Internally, a plan began to take shape, intricate, precise, and absolute. 

I promised I would remove any obstacle that stood between me and her. This ends tonight.

Rafayel straightened, his voice dropping into a quiet, commanding growl that carried the weight of his resolve. “Very well. I will complete the ceremony.” He let a pause hang, letting it rattle the elder just slightly.

Amund’s brow furrowed, a flicker of surprise flashing across his face, though he masked it quickly. “Good. I’m glad to see you finally take your duty seriously. Lemuria will be better for it.”

Rafayel’s pulse was steady outwardly, but inside it was a hurricane. A mixture of disgust, wrath, and almost intoxicating exhilaration coursed through him.

I will show him what devotion really means. I will prove that no one, not even the tome of this kingdom, can stand in the way of us. 

He let his gaze sweep over Amund, unyielding, unflinching, radiating the authority he wielded naturally, one he knew would bend the elder to his will.

“Get everything ready,” Rafayel said, tail flicking with controlled menace. “Tonight, we complete it. Prepare the ceremony. I will see it done.”

As Amund nodded, subdued under the quiet storm of his god’s fury, Rafayel’s mind already raced ahead, mapping every detail, anticipating every possible complication. Your safety, your life, your very devotion — it was all his now, and no one would dare take it from him. The ceremony would be completed, but not as Amund envisioned. 

Tonight, I will bend fate itself to bring her fully into my world.

He lingered a moment longer, eyes glinting with a mixture of wrath and desire, before turning back toward the halls, already calculating the next moves. The storm above mirrored the one within him, and Lemuria would bear witness to his resolve.

The corridors of Lemuria stretched before him like a labyrinth of muted light and echoing footsteps, but Rafayel barely noticed. His mind was a storm, churning faster than the ocean above. Soon, everything would be claimed — every lingering obstacle erased. Lemuria would belong to him and to you, irrevocably, eternally. Every plan he had meticulously laid, the time he spent with you, all the gifts, all the care — it all pointed toward this night, toward the inevitability of your devotion entwined with his. You were more than a follower; you were not a mere devotee. You would be his bride, his beloved. The thought made his chest tighten with a heady mixture of possessiveness and triumph. Nothing — no one — could take you from him now.

He pushed open the door to his private quarters, expecting to see you there, waiting, smiling, flushed with anticipation. His pulse quickened, a delicious ache spreading through him at the thought of you, of finally claiming your place beside him. But the room was empty. His heart dropped, a cold claw tightening around it. The candlelight flickered against the walls, catching the shimmer of shells, pearls, and the myriad gifts he had prepared, but there was no warmth of your presence.

“Cutie?” His voice broke the stillness, carrying across the room. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

Silence answered him, thick and mocking.

His gaze snapped to the door, the windows, every shadow, every corner. Nothing. Every instinct in his body screamed that something was wrong. His tail coiled tighter beneath him, fingers clenching into fists that left faint impressions in his palms. He surged forward, voice rising slightly as he called again. “Where are you?”

A guard appeared, bowing hastily, sensing the sudden tension radiating from him. “Your Highness… I… I think she… she must have snuck out,” the guard stammered.

Rafayel’s eyes narrowed, the fire within him igniting into something darker, sharper. Fury and worry collided, a maelstrom of emotion. His chest heaved, lungs burning with a need to act. “Snuck out?” His voice was low now, dangerous, the calm veneer slipping. “Do you know where she went? Did anyone see her?”

The guard shook his head, hesitant. “No, Sir. She… she’s gone from the temple.”

Rafayel’s tail lashed against the floor, sending ripples of water and tension cascading through the room. His mind raced. 

What if something happened? What if she left me? What if all of it — her promises, her devotion — was a lie? 

The thought made his stomach twist with both dread and possessive fury. He could not allow it. 

She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Not my beloved. Not my bride. But… if she had… it would be okay. I will find her. I would bring her back. I would make her understand. She belongs here, with me. There is no corner of this world where she could hide from me now. All of my senses are attuned to her. Every flicker of thought, every heartbeat, every breath — I would find her.

The fire of his obsession flared. His mind conjured a thousand possibilities, all leading to the same end: you would return to him. Whether by fear, by reason, by love, or by necessity, you would not escape. Lemuria itself would bend to ensure it.

“I will find you,” he whispered, voice taut with a dangerous mix of devotion and threat. “No storm, no path, no shadow… nothing can keep you from me.” His eyes glimmered, the eerie blue glow of his tail reflecting off the walls like liquid lightning. Every sense heightened, every instinct sharpened — he was no longer merely searching; he was hunting, a predator whose prey was the one he loved, whose desire for your safety and possession were indistinguishable.

Rafayel surged through the halls, tail propelling him with unnerving speed, moving with fluid grace, as though the very water of Lemuria carried him toward you. Every thought circled around you — the curve of your smile, the warmth of your lips, the softness of your voice, the gentle flush of your cheeks when you looked at him.

Everything she is is mine. Everything she does, every glance, every word, every heartbeat is mine. And I will not allow her to leave, not now, not ever.

The storm above mirrored the chaos within him, yet inside, he was crystal clear. You would be found. You would be safe in his grasp. You would stay. He had prepared a world for you, a life, a home. And now, the hunt was on — not for vengeance, not for conquest — but for what was always, inevitably, his. His heart. His bride.

Every shadow, every ripple of water, every sound in the halls became a guide. He could sense you, almost tangibly, as though your very presence emitted a beacon only he could detect.

She cannot escape me. She will never escape me. 

And with that certainty burning in his chest, Rafayel surged forward, every movement a promise, every thought a vow. Tonight, nothing — not even the wild sea, nor the storm above — would keep you from him.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The rain hit you like jagged shards of ice, soaking you to the bone, plastering your hair to your cheeks, masking the tears that ran freely down your face. The storm hadn’t relented, and the thunder rolled across the sky in deep, ominous rumbles, shaking the sand beneath you. You could barely see the water ahead, the violent waves churning under flashes of lightning. Your lungs burned from gasping for air after the frantic swimming, and every muscle ached, trembling from exhaustion.

You sank to the shore, letting the cold sand bite into your skin, trying to ground yourself even as the wind whipped around you. Rain stung your eyes, making it impossible to focus, and the memory of what you had heard — what you had overheard — looped through your mind, relentless. Rafayel… agreeing to take your heart. Amund’s words echoing in your ears, distorted by the storm: “You must take your devotee’s heart and offer it to the flame. Only unwavering devotion can save Lemuria.”

Your chest felt hollow, each breath a struggle against the storm and the horror inside you. You had trusted him, let yourself feel something you hadn’t in years, maybe ever, and now the weight of betrayal pressed down like the storm itself. How could someone you had begun to care for — someone who had been so gentle, so kind, so impossibly beautiful — agree to something like that?

You buried your face in your arms, sobs breaking through the storm, hot and helpless against the cold rain. Every fiber of you wanted to run, to hide, to disappear completely, but even thinking of leaving brought no comfort. You didn’t know where to go, who to trust, or what to do. The shore stretched endlessly around you, the waves thrashing and hissing like a warning.

Fear gripped your chest in icy fingers. The thought of dying here, alone and powerless, churned your stomach. But there was more than fear — it was the heartbreak, the sickening betrayal that twisted through every beat of your heart. You had believed in him, in what you felt when you were near him. And now it all seemed like a lie, or worse, a trap you had walked straight into.

You hugged your knees to your chest, shivering from exhaustion, rain, and terror. The storm around you blurred into a wall of gray, but inside, your world had narrowed to this one unbearable truth: you didn’t want to die, and you didn’t know how to get out of the mess you had fallen into. The sea before you, once so enticing, now seemed alien and threatening, and even the memory of Rafayel’s warmth made your chest tighten with betrayal.

You cried on, letting the water mix with your tears, letting the storm drown out your thoughts for a moment. You couldn’t see a way forward. You couldn’t even see the shore behind you. All you had was the cold rain, the biting wind, and the impossible weight of knowing that the person you had begun to trust — maybe even love — had agreed to something so horrifying. And that knowledge left you trembling, broken, and utterly alone.

The storm raged on around you, rain slashing at your skin, thunder rolling like the roar of some furious god, yet all of it seemed to shrink away as the sea in front of you moved differently. A swell rose from the waves, glinting with electric streaks of lightning, and suddenly, Rafayel emerged, water cascading down his bare, gleaming body. His tail shimmered beneath the surface before he brought himself fully upright, shoulders taut, eyes flashing with that surreal blue glow.

Your breath caught in your throat. Fear clawed at your chest. “R-Rafayel…” you whispered, voice trembling. The rain blurred your vision, but the sight of him — so impossibly real, so otherworldly — made your heart race in a way that wasn’t entirely fear.

“There you are, cutie,” he said softly, voice carrying over the storm, almost too calm, too certain. He moved toward you, and instinctively, you stumbled back, arms raised. “Stay away from me!” you shouted, panic rising in your chest.

Rafayel’s eyes narrowed, and with a flick of his hand the sea obeyed — a massive wave surged up behind him, impossibly tall, blotting out the horizon. The roar of it swallowed your breath, the sheer force vibrating through the sand beneath you. His gaze locked on yours, unblinking, merciless.

“If you try to leave me, if you run…” His voice was low, sharp as the edge of a blade. “…then I’ll make sure there’s nothing left for you to return to. Your life isn’t there anymore. It’s with me, in the sea.”

Terror iced your veins. You stared at the towering wall of water, heart hammering, throat dry. You could almost feel it ready to crash down and sweep everything you’d ever known away.

Another forward motion, and before you could react, he had caught your arm, pulling you up, his fingers curling around it with unyielding strength. “You can’t leave me,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “You’ve already promised yourself to me.”

Tears blurred your vision. “Let go! You can’t—” You tried to wrench your arm free, but he was stronger than you imagined.

He tilted your chin up gently, almost tenderly, and whispered against your temple, “Shh, it’s okay. I’ll hold you. I’ll lock you up if I have to… until you understand, cutie.” His eyes shone with a manic light, the storm reflecting in the depths of them, a fierce, desperate devotion that made your stomach twist.

“Our promise…” he murmured, and there was no hesitation, no doubt. “It’s okay if I’m the only one who keeps it. We’ll stay together until the end of time.”

You pushed against him finally, hands on his chest, trembling with a mix of fear and fury. “Stop lying!” you shouted, your voice cracking. “You’re going to take my heart! You brought me here to sacrifice me—you betrayed me! I trusted you, loved you, and you—” your breath hitched, breaking on the word, “—you used that against me!”

For a heartbeat, he was still. And then… a wicked, almost gleeful smile curved his lips. The way it made your skin crawl was undeniable, but it didn’t erase the pull, the impossibility of looking away.

“So…that’s why you ran,” he said softly, moving closer again. You tried to shove him back, but he was like water itself — fluid, inexorable, impossible to resist. His hands cradled your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones with frightening intimacy. “Cutie…I love you. I told you…I will remove anything standing in our way. I will never let anything hurt you.”

“How… how could I believe you?” you whispered, fear lacing every word.

His answer wasn’t immediate. Instead, he lifted one of the iridescent scales from his tail, water dripping from it, sparkling even in the storm’s dim light. He held it delicately in his palm before taking your hand, pressing your ring finger to his lips. Heat flared, his touch both electrifying and possessive.

The scale shivered in his hand, glowing faintly as he infused it with his fire, reshaping it, transforming it until it fit perfectly on your finger. The ring was warm, pulsing slightly against your skin, as though alive. Your breath caught in your throat.

Rafayel’s voice was soft, intimate, yet edged with certainty that made your heart quake. “Tonight… during the ceremony, our covenant will be witnessed and blessed by the sea. We will form a bond everlasting. You are my bride.”

“Elder Amund…is a fool. If he believes I’d sacrifice you for some unworthy flame—” He scoffed. “—Then, he can show us his devotion tonight. His heart will feed the flame.”

His words, the fire, the intensity of his gaze — it all overwhelmed you. You could feel the storm’s energy, the pull of the ocean, the heat of his devotion pressing against every nerve. Your hands rested against his chest, feeling the steady pulse of him beneath the water. You were terrified. You were exhilarated. And somehow, impossibly, you felt pulled into him, into the certainty of his possession, into the promise of what he called your future together.

Your mind screamed with reason, yet every fiber of you, your heartbeat, your very breath, was tethered to him. He held you in the rain and surf, the storm bending around him, and in that moment, it felt like there was nothing in the world outside of him, you, and the fierce, unrelenting claim he had on you.

The sea roared. Lightning split the sky. And Rafayel’s eyes bore into yours with a devotion so complete, so terrifying, that all hesitation, all resistance, all fear seemed to fold into an intoxicating, dizzying surrender.

Your words came out, just above a whisper. “We…We’re going to kill him?”

Rafayel’s grin deepened, wicked and fond, his eyes glinting like lightning on the water. “I was planning to do it myself… but if you wish, I’ll place the blade in your hand, cutie.” He leaned closer, brushing his lips against your temple, his laugh low and soft, curling into your skin. “I didn’t realize my bride had such a fierce streak.”

But the weight of it all pressed heavy on you, and you shoved gently at his chest, forcing him to look at you. “This is serious, Rafayel.” Your voice trembled, caught between fear and the pull of his nearness. “How do I know this isn’t just another trap? How do you even know sacrificing him will work?”

His chest rumbled beneath your palms with a soft chuckle. He caught your wrists, guiding your hands to rest over his heart, the steady, powerful beat thrumming against your skin. His eyes softened, though a dangerous glimmer still danced in their depths. “The only trap you’ve fallen into,” he murmured, brushing his lips along the curve of your jaw, “is a life spent by my side. Does that honestly sound so terrible?”

His fingers curled lightly at your waist, grounding you in the storm, and the world seemed to shrink to the warmth of his touch and the certainty in his voice. “If Amund’s heart cannot save Lemuria…” He drew back just enough to meet your gaze, his voice carrying a quiet, unshakable conviction. “Then I’ll raise a new city from the ruins. Just for us. A kingdom where I will worship you for eternity.”

The words sank into you like heat spreading through chilled skin, dizzying, dangerous, but irresistibly sweet. His thumb traced a slow circle against the inside of your wrist, his breath warm at your cheek. “Trust me,” he whispered, pressing your hand more firmly to his chest so you could feel the steady, unwavering beat of him. “Let me show you. You’ll always be safe with me. Always cherished. Always mine.”

The rain battered down, the sea raged behind him, but in his arms there was warmth, promise, and a terrifying, magnetic devotion that pulled at the very core of you.

Your throat tightened. You wanted to argue, to tell him that none of this made sense, that every word should frighten you — but the warmth of his heartbeat beneath your palms, the steadiness of his grip, the quiet reverence in his tone…it all unraveled you.

You shook your head weakly, but it wasn’t no. It wasn’t anything at all. You could feel the last of your resistance thinning, slipping away like a fragile thread in a storm. “Rafayel…” Your voice cracked on his name, softer this time, weighted with a plea you didn’t fully understand yourself.

His lips curved, tender where a moment ago they’d been sharp, and he drew you closer until the world beyond his arms felt impossibly far. “That’s it,” he whispered, brushing a kiss across your damp cheek. “Stop fighting what you already feel. Stop doubting what you already know.”

The fight inside you twisted painfully — fear clawing against something deeper, something warmer, something that had already entwined itself into the hollow of your chest. And then, with a shuddering exhale, you let it go. Your forehead dropped against his shoulder, your fingers curling in helpless surrender against his chest.

He exhaled too, a sound of satisfaction that rumbled through him as his arms closed around you, holding you as though you were both fragile and irreplaceable. “There you are, cutie,” he murmured, his lips brushing your temple. “My beloved bride.”

Before you could think to speak, he shifted, gathering you effortlessly against him. His body coiled, tail cutting through the surf with an elegance that made the storm itself seem clumsy. The sea accepted him, parting around his movements as he carried you back into its depths.

You clung to him as the water swallowed you both, salt stinging your lips, hair tangling in the currents. Fear still flickered in you, but it was dulled beneath the steady heat of him, the way he held you like you were treasure, like you were home.

And despite everything — despite the storm above, despite the terror still whispering in your chest — you let yourself rest in the cradle of his arms. Because even as fear gnawed at you, safety pulsed just as strong. Because surrender, for better or worse, felt inevitable.

Rafayel pressed a kiss to your hair, his voice vibrating through you like a vow. “We’re going home.”

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The city had never looked so alive.

Silks wound your figure like liquid light, pearls strung through your hair until each step seemed to catch the glimmer of the tide. Beside you, Rafayel was resplendent in sea-blue robes threaded with gold, his dusky hair pulled back to reveal the impossible artistry of his face. The two of you walked hand in hand through the streets of Lemuria, and the world pressed in around you like a living tide.

The people sang. Their voices rose in haunting chords, praise upon praise for the god who had saved them, prayers spilling like foam for the flame that kept their city alive. You felt the sound in your bones — it vibrated through the jeweled stones underfoot, it swelled in the salt-wet air, it pressed against your ribs until your heart couldn’t keep its rhythm. Their devotion should have been comforting, but instead it only deepened the tight coil of dread at the pit of your stomach.

You caught glimpses of faces — children throwing flower garlands, elders bowing low, eyes shining with tears of gratitude. You wanted to feel that warmth. Instead, you felt as though each reverent gaze passed through you, a reminder that you were here for a purpose greater than yourself, a purpose you still did not fully understand.

When you stole a glance at Rafayel, you nearly stumbled. He was smiling faintly, not at the crowd but at you, as though you were the only thing in this city worth looking at. His grip around your fingers tightened, firm, grounding. Your chest ached at the tenderness there, even as doubt screamed in the back of your mind.

A temple loomed ahead, carved from coral and obsidian, its gates wide open to swallow you whole.

And then you were inside.

The noise of the people died instantly, leaving the hush of waves against the stone, the faint crackle of the flame at the temple’s heart. The chamber was vast, but it felt suffocating in its emptiness: only three figures within it — you, Rafayel, and Elder Amund.

The elder stood before the great brazier, the flame of Lemuria burning dull within it. His robes brushed the ground as he opened the tome, the thick vellum pages glinting with seawater ink. His voice was low and steady as he began to recite the words of sea god’s past, each syllable rolling like a tide, heavy with weight you could feel but not name.

You shivered.

The air was charged, prickling across your skin. Every breath tasted of salt and smoke. You folded your hands against the silks at your waist to stop them trembling, to anchor yourself to something tangible.

This was it. This was the moment that would decide everything. Whether you had been led to love or led to ruin. Whether Rafayel’s devotion had been true or only the mask of a predator.

When you dared to meet his eyes, your fear both sharpened and softened. There was something there that should not have been possible under this roof, in this moment — adoration, aching and raw, as though every song of praise sung outside meant nothing compared to you.

And yet, still, the words you had overheard echoed in your mind. The reveal that he needed your heart. The smile when you had accused him.

You swallowed hard, pulse hammering in your throat. You wanted so desperately to believe him, and for a moment — when you saw the devotion burning in his gaze — you almost did.

Amund’s voice rose again, low and sonorous, each word resonant, strange, utterly unfamiliar. The cadence of it was ancient, a tide rolling in a tongue not meant for you, and it made your nerves coil tighter. You couldn’t parse his meaning, but you knew it was meant for the gods, for the sea itself.

Beside you, Rafayel shifted, and your breath caught when his hands found yours, enveloping them in warmth. He leaned closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice pitched low enough for only you. “You look beautiful right now,” he murmured, and though it was soft, there was conviction thrumming beneath it, steadying. His thumbs stroked the tremor in your knuckles. “Don’t be scared.”

Your gaze flicked up to his, and for a moment the sacred chamber dissolved into the molten tenderness in his eyes — blue lit faintly by flame, heavy with devotion. The nerves tangled tighter inside you, not from fear of him but from the weight of what you were about to step into.

He reached into the pocket of his silk robes, and when he drew his hand out, your breath stilled. Resting against his palm was the flower you had given him in the garden, its petals now alive with light, glowing softly with his fire. He lifted it reverently, pressing his lips to its bloom, and then held it to you.

With trembling breath, you leaned forward and brushed a kiss against the petals, your lips grazing warmth and energy. He smiled faintly — an expression that felt like the sea itself had curved toward you — and pressed the flower to his chest.

The bloom vanished in a shimmer beneath his palm, and where it had touched, a sigil of fiery orange bloomed through his skin, pulsing faintly with power. The mark glowed like living flame, and when he drew your hand over it, the heat radiated up your arm, searing and intimate.

“This bond,” he said, voice hushed yet certain, “gives you the power to command me. I will obey. Always. Through it, I can sense you—your breath, your heart. By the heart of Lemuria, our covenant is formed. The sea has given its blessing.”

Your chest tightened, but not from dread. Instead it was the staggering rush of love, of devotion mirrored back at you with such raw honesty it nearly undid you. The nerves were still there, curling like a storm below the surface, but they were tempered by the warmth of his hand, the heat of that mark, and the certainty of his vow.

When he bent to kiss you, it was slow, tender, carrying the weight of everything spoken and unspoken. The taste of him was salt and fire, soft lips and steady breath, the promise of eternity bound between you. And as you kissed him back, the unease fell away, replaced by the heady truth — you loved him. Fiercely, impossibly, against all sense.

Even in the shadow of fate, that love blazed brighter than fear.

Rafayel lingered close, his forehead resting briefly against yours, his hands still wrapped around yours as if he could anchor you through the storm. Then, at last, he drew back — reluctantly, gently — as the sound of movement stirred the water around you. Amund was stepping forward, robes shifting like waves, his gaze solemn and intent. He came to stand before Rafayel, and with both hands raised something shining between his palms.

The dagger gleamed as Amund pressed it into Rafayel’s palm, the weight of it sending a shiver through you. Your throat went dry, and you felt your breath catch in your chest. A single thought hammered through your mind: this is it. The jagged edge of fear settled in your stomach, cold and suffocating. For a terrible moment you could already feel the point of that blade sinking into your chest, splitting you open, tearing your heart free.

Amund’s voice was low, solemn. “Are you ready?”

Rafayel’s fingers curled tightly around the hilt. He didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he said, his tone steady, certain.

You held your breath, trembling, braced for betrayal. Every muscle in your body screamed at you to run, but you couldn’t move, couldn’t blink. The world narrowed to that knife, to the man you loved holding it, to the certainty that your fate hung in his next motion.

But instead of turning on you, Rafayel shifted — slowly, deliberately — toward Amund. His crimson smile slashed across his face, sharp and humorless. “You have followed me for years,” he said, voice smooth as black water. “You guided me since I was young, formed me into the god I stand as now. Does that not make you my most devoted follower?”

Amund stiffened. His hand twitched against his side. Confusion lined his features. “Rafayel… what are you saying?”

Rafayel laughed, low and cutting, void of all warmth. The sound made the hairs on your neck rise. “I am giving Lemuria what it needs. The flame asked for the heart of a devotee. You told me to sacrifice my beloved’s heart.” He glanced toward you, and for a moment, the sheer intensity of his gaze made you falter. “But I am unwilling. Surely, you, Amund, who has devoted everything to me… surely you are willing to give your heart in her place.”

Amund stumbled back a half-step, his composure cracking. “No—you’re mistaken. Rafayel, listen to me. You don’t understand what you’re doing—”

“You’re wrong,” Rafayel cut in, and his voice dropped to a chill whisper. “I understand perfectly.”

Before you could exhale, before Amund could speak again, Rafayel’s arm moved in one swift, merciless arc. The dagger plunged into Amund’s chest. The sound — the wet, final thud of steel tearing through flesh — struck you like a physical blow. Amund’s strangled cry echoed through the chamber before it dissolved into silence.

Your lungs burned as you released the breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, trembling so violently your knees nearly buckled. Your vision blurred. Still, you couldn’t look away. Rafayel’s hand was steady as he withdrew the dagger, slick and red, and in the same motion drew forth the gleaming essence of Amund’s heart.

He glanced over at you, expression softened just slightly, though his words held no less weight. “Don’t look if you’re scared.”

But you couldn’t peel your eyes away. You were transfixed — horrified, trembling, but unable to tear yourself free from the gravity of him, of this moment.

Rafayel turned to the waiting flame. In his hands, the heart seemed to pulse faintly, as if clinging to life. He lifted it, offering it upward. At first, nothing happened. The silence was suffocating. Doubt clawed at you — had he been wrong? Had this sacrifice been for nothing?

Then the fire stirred. A flicker, small, uncertain — before it swelled, brighter and brighter, until the chamber blazed with radiant light. The flame roared alive, crackling and burning with a power that felt eternal.

Rafayel smiled. A slow, triumphant curve of his lips as he turned back to you, his eyes glowing like the fire itself. “The sea has accepted my offering. Lemuria is ours now.”

Something broke in you then — your fear, your hesitation, your doubt. Your nerves dissolved into a rush of heat that sent you stumbling forward. You didn’t think, didn’t question. You simply threw yourself into his arms, clutching at him with everything inside you. The dagger clattered forgotten to the floor as he wrapped you against him, holding you close, anchoring you in the storm he had created.

“Do you trust me now?” he murmured against your temple, his voice low, coaxing, and impossibly tender after the violence you’d just witnessed.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice breaking. A tear slipped down your cheek as you pressed your face to his chest. “I’m sorry for doubting you. I should have known.”

His hand came up, gentle where it cupped your jaw, his thumb brushing away your tears. “It’s okay,” he soothed, eyes softer now, molten with something deeper. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing stands in our way now.”

Your gaze drifted despite yourself, catching on the crumpled, lifeless form of Amund sprawled across the stone floor. Your stomach churned, the image searing itself into your mind.

Rafayel saw. He was quicker than your doubt, quicker than your grief. His hand tightened against your cheek, tilting your face back to him, forcing your eyes to his. “Don’t look,” he commanded, voice low, magnetic. His twilight gaze consumed you, pulling you back into his orbit. “Just look at me.”

And you did. You drowned in him.

When he kissed you, the world seemed to collapse and expand all at once. His mouth was fierce and unrelenting against yours, as if sealing a pact, as if binding you to him with every press of his lips. The sea outside surged in answer, the flame roaring higher, wrapping around you both like a witness to your union.

You clung to him, trembling, tasting salt and fire and something irrevocable. The world was ash and water and Rafayel, and nothing else mattered.

The temple doors opened with a groan, heavy stone swinging wide as you stepped into the open air. The sudden brightness of Lemuria’s streets made you blink, the flickering light of the sacred flame behind you replaced by the shimmer of the undersea city. The crowd had gathered in droves, the sound of their anticipation a restless hum that instantly erupted into cheers the moment Rafayel appeared, your hand still tangled in his.

“Behold!” His voice carried easily, smooth and commanding, echoing off the marble facades and coral-draped arches. He raised the dagger, now sheathed, for all to see. “The flame has accepted my offering. Lemuria is safe. She will prosper.”

The people roared, voices mingling with the distant song of the ocean current that drifted through the city. Hands reached out, flowers were tossed into the street, petals catching in the water like confetti. For a moment you were swept into their joy, watching faces alight with reverence and hope, their god and his chosen bride at the heart of it.

But Rafayel didn’t linger. The moment the announcement was spoken, he clasped your hand tighter, tugging you from the swell of voices. His tail flicked swift and powerful, weaving through side passages and narrower streets, past guards who bowed their heads as he passed.

You stumbled a little to keep up, still glancing back toward the crowd. “Shouldn’t we stay? Celebrate with them?” you asked, the sound of laughter and music already swelling behind you.

He looked back at you over his shoulder, a hint of mischief softening the gravity of his expression. “Celebrate?” His thumb brushed over the back of your hand, slow, deliberate. “My love, we just forged our covenant in flame and blood. I’d rather celebrate with my bride than share her with the city tonight.”

The word bride hung between you, sharp and intimate, leaving your chest tight and your cheeks warm. You swallowed hard, the heat rising in you more startling than the roar of the people outside. Still, you let him lead you, feet moving without protest, the press of his fingers at your wrist a tether you didn’t want to slip free of.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Rafayel’s grip on your hand was firm, magnetic, pulling you through the glittering halls toward his private chamber. The light of the bioluminescence flickered along the walls, catching on the golden threads of your silks, the jewels adorning both of you shimmering with every step. Your pulse raced with each step, excitement and anticipation coiling in your belly as you followed him without hesitation.

Then he stopped abruptly in the throne room, tail flicking behind him with a lazy, deliberate sweep. His eyes met yours, a slow, wicked smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Sit,” he commanded softly, but there was an edge to his voice, a spark of mischief and possession.

You flushed, biting your lip. “Rafayel… knock it off,” you murmured, though your knees betrayed you, weakening slightly at the sound of his voice.

“I’m serious, cutie,” he said, tail curling and flicking as he moved closer, letting the weight of his presence press around you. “It’s as much yours now as it is mine.”

Reluctantly, heart hammering, you obeyed, settling onto the throne once more. His hands didn’t linger long on your waist before sliding down your thighs, the silk warm and soft under his touch. Each brush of his fingers sent shivers crawling up your spine. You gasped softly, pressing your thighs together instinctively.

“What are you—?” Your question caught in your throat.

“Worshipping you,” he murmured, voice low, husky, brushing against your ear. “Every inch of you deserves attention, cutie.”

His lips followed the path of his hands, kissing your thighs, trailing the silk higher and higher. Your body arched toward him without thought, breath catching with each deliberate motion, heart pounding like a drum in your chest. He paused for a heartbeat, letting the anticipation coil tighter, before his hands peeled the silk from your lower half.

“Rafayel…” you whispered, trembling, unable to stop the flush of desire crawling through you.

He chuckled softly, a sound that vibrated through your core. “Shh… just feel, just be mine.”

Then his mouth found you, hot and wet, tracing a slow, deliberate stripe up through your slit. Your knees quivered instinctively, the cold of the throne beneath you contrasting with the searing heat pooling low and deep. He lingered, tongue teasing the sensitive flesh, flicking, circling, tasting. Each brush of him sent tremors shooting up your spine.

You gripped the edges of the throne as your heart thudded erratically, the steady, powerful pull of his presence anchoring you even as your body betrayed you. “Ah… Rafayel…” your voice broke, a fragile mix of moan and plea. “I… I can’t—”

“You can, cutie,” he murmured against you, lips curling into a mischievous, possessive smile you could feel vibrating through your core. “You taste so good… so sweet.”

His tongue teased, pressing deeper, slipping over the sensitive nub of your clit, suckling gently, coaxing you into the dizzying haze of arousal. You gasped, body arching toward him without thought, hands tangling in his hair. Each pull, each flick of his tongue, each press of his lips was precise, worshipful, yet maddeningly possessive.

A soft sigh escaped him as he slipped a finger inside you, slow and wet, curling expertly to hit all the spots that made your knees threaten to buckle. Your breath hitched, half a moan, half a cry, the mix of his mouth and finger driving heat through your body until your vision blurred with desire.

“Rafayel… oh—” you whispered, voice trembling, fingers gripping his violet hair tighter, as if holding onto him could keep you from floating entirely into the pleasure he orchestrated.

“You’re finally mine,” he murmured, lips pressing against the slick, sensitive flesh of your heat. His finger pulsed inside you, slick and insistent, every movement perfectly timed, driving you closer and closer.

He drew back slightly, just enough to capture your clit between his lips again, sucking and nipping lightly, teasing, tasting, coaxing a sharp, delicious moan from your chest. His other hand traced along your hip, pressing and kneading, grounding you in his heat, in the way his tail flicked and coiled behind him, echoing the deliberate, fluid rhythm of his body.

“I’ll have you like this everyday… this entire temple will be marked by you,” he murmured between kisses, teasing the tender flesh, sliding a second finger in to curl and stroke. The slow, deliberate motion had you trembling, whining against him, body arching, the heat pooling so impossibly deep it felt like it might consume you whole.

A coil tightened deep inside, a delicious, unbearable knot of pleasure, and you shivered violently. Your voice tore past your lips in a guttural, high-pitched whine, a mix of moan and cry, your body arching forward, hips trembling as your climax crested with shattering intensity. Your toes curled, and your fingers tugged at his hair with a ferocity that made him groan low and soft, his tail flicking in the water-like rhythm behind him as if echoing the pulsing waves of your release.

“Rafayel…ah—don’t stop,” you cried, gasping, your entire body practically melting against the throne as your climax rolled through you in waves, leaving you trembling, quivering, and impossibly spent.

He let you ride it, murmuring soft praise, whispering low and possessive words into your ear, lips brushing your temple, fingers holding you steady even as you shook. “Mine… all mine… so perfect,” he breathed, voice vibrating against you, making your core tingle anew even as you sagged weakly against him.

Once you’d caught your breath, he gently lifted you from the throne, his arms firm and warm around your trembling body. The wet silk of your dress clung to your skin as he carried you through the halls, your limbs still too wobbly to protest. When he opened the door to his private quarters, the room blossomed into golden light, each candle igniting as though by magic, the glow soft and warm, flickering across the walls, reflecting off the fine garments, pearls, and shells arranged throughout the room.

He set you carefully onto the bed, your body still shivering from the aftershocks of your release. For a moment, he simply gazed at you, eyes dark and worshipful, and then a mischievous glint crossed his face. He took your discarded silk panties, holding them up for a brief second, and then deliberately placed them near the shrine.

You blinked at him, laughter spilling from your lips despite your flushed, breathless state. “You’re insane,” you said, shaking your head.

“Haven’t I made that clear already, cutie?” he replied smoothly, the faint curve of a smirk on his lips, his eyes dark with amusement and desire.

Then he crawled over you, careful, slow, letting his chest press against yours, heat radiating through his body, tail curling beneath you. With a swift, fluid motion, he flipped you so that you straddled him, his tail moving beneath you like a living thing. The sensation of it pressing against your clit was immediate, searing, sending a fresh pulse of delicious, electric pleasure through your body.

He placed his hands firmly on your hips, rocking them against him with deliberate, teasing pressure. “Use me,” he murmured, voice low and reverent, almost worshipful. “Take what you need… I’m yours, cutie. All of me, for you.”

You gasped at the friction, the heat, the impossible intimacy, and he kept his eyes locked on yours, watching every shiver, every tilt of your head, every clench of your thighs. His hands moved with patient guidance, hips nudging against yours, tail adjusting with each subtle grind, ensuring every movement pressed the pleasure right where it needed to be.

“So soft,” he murmured, voice husky, as he encouraged you to move faster, to find your rhythm. “Every inch of you… mine to worship. Let go for me, cutie. Let me feel it.”

Each movement, each press, each deliberate, teasing grind of him beneath you sent shocks of heat curling through your body, a delicious mix of desperation, surrender, and awe. You clutched at his shoulders, heart hammering, breath catching in short, stuttering gasps as he guided your movements, eyes never leaving yours, reverent, obsessive, completely devoted.

You could feel it building again, a coiling knot of pleasure that had nowhere to go, tightening, pulsing, and every teasing flick of his tail and pressure of his hands made it burn hotter. Your breaths came ragged, uneven, gasps and soft whines spilling from your lips as he murmured into your ear: “That’s it, cutie… mine… let go for me… my bride…”

Your hands clawed at his shoulders, fingers digging in as the knot inside you snapped, exploding in searing, shuddering waves that ran through your body, hips trembling uncontrollably over him. You cried out, shivering, collapsing slightly against him, unable to hold yourself upright as the pleasure crashed and crashed again, each pulse wringing another whimper from your throat.

Rafayel’s lips found yours instantly, kissing you hard, deep, possessive, leaving you tasting the remnants of your last climax on his lips. His hands moved to your chest, fingers teasing, pinching your nipples just enough to make you gasp and shiver in renewed arousal, tail coiling tightly beneath you, pressing against you in every possible way.

“Mine,” he whispered into your lips, voice rough and reverent, “Say you’re mine.”

Your pulse fluttered wildly. The words slipped out before hesitation could catch them, a breathless vow against his mouth. “I’m yours… and you’re mine.”

For the briefest instant, everything stilled. Then his lips curved into a wicked, almost triumphant smile — one that made your stomach tighten with both fear and aching want. He wanted you just as unmoored, just as ruined with need for him as he was for you. And you had just proven you were.

His fire shimmered fully over him, scales fading to skin, muscles shifting beneath the new solidity of his legs. You barely had time to gasp at the change before he moved, a predator’s grace and a lover’s hunger combined. His hands caught your wrists, pressing them above your head as he rolled you onto your back, pinning you into the soft sea of blankets. The sudden weight of him above you stole your breath, made you arch instinctively against him.

“Perfect,” he growled lowly, his lips brushing your ear. “You’re perfect like this… beneath me, trembling for me.” His hips pressed forward, teasing your slick entrance with the heavy heat of him, and you whimpered, every nerve lit.

He kissed you then, slow and deep, his tongue tasting, claiming, before breaking away just enough to murmur, “Say it again. Say you’re mine.”

The head of his cock slid against your folds, spreading your arousal, making your back arch desperately. “I’m yours,” you gasped, nails scraping at his shoulders when he rocked forward just enough to give you a taste.

“And don’t forget,” he added, voice rough with both restraint and reverence, “I’m yours too, cutie. Every piece of me. No one else will ever have me—only you.”

The sincerity tangled with the wickedness in his gaze, a worshipful obsession that left you raw. Then he pushed in, slow but insistent, stretching you inch by inch until he was seated fully inside, his chest pressed to yours, his mouth capturing your every gasp.

The rhythm he set was deliberate at first, almost punishingly slow — making you feel every pulse, every drag of him deep inside. He worshiped you with his touch: lips trailing fire down your throat, teeth nipping at your collarbone, fingers tweaking your nipple until you gasped and writhed. His other hand slipped between your thighs, rubbing slow, dizzying circles against your clit in perfect time with his thrusts.

“Look at you,” he rasped, pulling back just enough to see your face twisted in pleasure. “So beautiful like this… my love, my bride. You were made to take me, weren’t you?” His thrusts deepened, hitting that perfect spot that made your eyes roll back. “Say it again. Say you’re mine while I’m inside you.”

Every word dripped with possessive reverence, as though he was binding you to him with each stroke, each breath. And the more he pressed, the more you felt yourself unravel, every nerve alive with the worship of his body against yours.

Your lips parted on a shuddering breath, his words shoving you closer to the edge. “I’m yours,” you gasped, eyes locking with his even as they threatened to roll back from the pleasure. Your nails dug into his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor you against the force of him. “Always yours, Rafayel—ah—”

That last admission drew a wicked smile to his face, his chest rumbling with a low, pleased growl. He crushed his mouth to yours, tongue sliding deep as his thrusts turned harder, more demanding, each one angled to drag the sweetest sounds out of you. His hands were everywhere — gripping your thighs, sliding up your sides, claiming every inch of you as though he could mold you to fit him perfectly.

The kiss broke only for him to nip at your lip, your chin, the arch of your throat, sucking bruises into your skin as his hips drove against yours with delicious force. “Mine,” he rasped again, words vibrating against your pulse. “You feel how you were meant for me? How your body opens for me?” His teeth grazed the curve of your shoulder before his mouth returned to yours, hungry, insistent.

Your body clenched helplessly around him, heat coiling, building with every rough thrust that hit deep, with every reverent word he poured into you like worship. His thumb found your clit again, circling in tight, teasing motions that made you jolt and whimper into his kiss. Your back arched off the bed, the sharp pleasure pushing you closer, closer — until it all came undone.

You shattered around him, a cry muffled against his mouth as your third climax crashed through you. Every muscle seized, fluttering and gripping around him so tightly it dragged a broken moan from his chest. He didn’t slow, didn’t let you drift away, driving into your convulsing body with a heat that only grew rougher, desperate.

“That’s it, cutie,” he growled into your ear, breath ragged, pace relentless now. “Want you to feel me spill inside you. My bride—made for me.” His hips slammed deep, his thumb never leaving your clit, forcing your body to wring every ounce of release from him.

And then he groaned, low and raw, mouth crashing to yours as he spilled into you, hot and unrelenting, pulse after pulse filling you while you milked him with trembling walls. His kiss was frantic and claiming, tongue tangled with yours, as though he needed to fuse himself to you completely in that moment.

By the time his thrusts slowed, dragging out every last drop of release, your body was trembling, spent beneath him, lips swollen from his relentless kisses, skin marked with his reverence. He didn’t let you go — still buried deep, breathing hard against your lips — as though he couldn’t bear to be apart from you even for a heartbeat.

His breath was still ragged against your ear, his body heavy over yours, the heat of his release pulsing deep inside you. For a moment, the only sound was the mingling of your uneven breaths, the slick press of skin against skin as he held you close.

When he shifted as though to pull back, you clung to him, arms winding tight around his shoulders, nails faint against his skin. “Don’t,” you whispered hoarsely, pulling him back down, chest pressed to chest. “Don’t leave me.”

Rafayel stilled, then angled his head to look at you, blue eyes softened in the dim glow. “Cutie,” he murmured, brushing his lips over your damp temple, “I’m not leaving.”

“You can’t,” you pushed, voice shaking with exhaustion but burning with fierce need. Your grip on him only tightened. “You promised yourself to me too. You can’t take that back. If you ever try—” You swallowed, your pulse hammering, the words spilling unbidden. “If you ever try to go, I’ll use our bond. I’ll force you to stay. I’ll lock you away if I have to.”

For a heartbeat, he only stared. Then a slow, wicked smile spread over his lips, and a low laugh rumbled from his chest, rich with delight. “My bride,” he whispered, kissing you hungrily, tasting your vow on your lips. “You sound just like me.”

You flushed at his words but refused to release him, and he only gathered you tighter in his arms, as though you were the most precious thing he’d ever hold. He nuzzled into your hair, breath warm against your ear, a final murmur of, “Good, claim me, just as I’ve claimed you.”

The last threads of your voice faded into the hush of the room, and for a moment, only the steady cadence of his breathing filled the space. Rafayel shifted just enough to look at you, the faintest curve of his lips betraying the storm of delight behind his eyes. You felt it through the bond too — warmth, possession, that unshakable tether between your souls thrumming like a vow newly forged.

He brushed a strand of damp hair from your cheek, fingers lingering against your skin as though committing the shape of you to memory. “Sleep, my heart,” he murmured, softer now, reverent. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

You pressed closer, sealing yourself against him as if daring fate to try and separate you. In that cocoon of heat and breath, there was no world beyond the two of you — only promises spoken and unspoken, only the pull of a bond neither of you could resist.

When sleep finally claimed you both, it did so in perfect synchronicity — two heartbeats aligned, two souls entwined, as though the night itself had accepted your vow.

a/n: finally.... yandere raf is here. i didn't make this super dark since its for a celebration and honestly super dark content isn't my thing, but i hope it still hits. writing this was so fun even though i lowkey ruined my sleep schedule finishing it, it was so worth it. i hope u all enjoy and thank you again for 1k ♡ i love u guys

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Rafayel doesn’t even flinch when he hears you shriek from the bedroom like an angry little princess who woke up in the wrong palace.

“Rafaaaayel!!”

Your voice is warbling with complaint, still thick with sleep, pout in full effect. You’re stomping out of the bedroom, fluffy pink slippers on the wrong feet, dragging your baby pink satin robe behind you. He hears your sniffle before he even turns around from the estate’s sunroom couch—where he’d gone for five minutes to take a call.

You’re standing there, arms crossed, lower lip trembling. “You weren’t in bed,” you accuse, as if he’d committed war. “I woke up and it was cold and I thought you left me and I was gonna cry and then I did cry a little and—and—and you weren’t there!”

He sets his teacup down slowly, like he’s savoring the moment.

Because this? This is perfect.

The clinginess. The dramatics. The dependency.

You used to be quiet. Distant. Always second-guessing his affection.

Now you’re bratting out because you woke up without your human cooler husband beside you.

Rafayel smiles like a man who’s just found the rarest pearl in the sea.

“Oh noooo,” he croons, rising dramatically. “Poor little pearlie woke up all alone and cold and unloved?” He’s immediately in front of you, cooing and wiping fake tears that don’t even exist. “You must’ve had the worst, most tragic five minutes of your life.”

“I did,” you sniff, shoving your face into his chest. “I hate when I wake up without you. I hate it. I thought you left me forever.”

He laughs, soft but low, and cups the back of your head with one hand, the other stroking your waist possessively. “You’re so dramatic now. So loud. So sensitive. So dependent. So cute,” he whispers, voice like silk as he presses a kiss to your forehead. “You never used to act like this, remember?”

He pulls back to stare into your teary eyes, delighted.

“But now look at you. Crying because I left the bed. Pouting until I come running. Can’t even sleep without me.” His tone is so proud, like a sculptor admiring his best statue. “You’ve become so spoiled, my precious little housewife. My dream girl.”

You rub at your eyes, whimpering. “You’re making fun of me…”

“Nooo, baby. Never.” He’s already leading you back to bed like a royal procession. “I love it. I made you like this, remember? I taught you that I’m all you need.”

He tucks you in like a fussy little doll, crawling in beside you.

And once you’re clinging again, sniffling and pressing kisses to his collarbone like he was gone for years?

He can’t help it—he laughs again, brushing his thumb over your lower lip.

“You’re the most precious little monster I’ve ever created.”

And he wouldn’t change a single bratty whimper of it.

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

Zayne is calmly pouring your juice into a crystal glass like the morning is going perfectly.

It is not going perfectly.

Not if you ask you.

You’re sitting at the kitchen island in your pastel pink nightgown, face scrunched up, arms crossed, and a single vitamin pill placed mockingly on a porcelain dish in front of you like it just insulted your mother.

“No,” you whisper sharply, eyes glassy with emotion. “I don’t want it.”

Zayne lifts a brow, unbothered. “You say that every morning.”

“Because it’s bitter and gross and I hate it!” Your voice rises into a high-pitched whine. “And I don’t wanna! You can’t make me!”

Your lips wobbling as you glare at the single harmless supplement like it’s a punishment from hell.

He walks over slowly, setting the juice beside you.

Then calmly presses a hand to your cheek and looks at you like you’re the most delightful little disaster he’s ever seen.

“You’re going to cry over this again?” he asks softly.

Your voice breaks into a squeaky sob. “Yes! You’re ruining my morning!”

“Oh, sweetheart…” Zayne huffs a short laugh, brushing your hair back. “I’ve created a monster.”

You throw yourself dramatically into his chest, sniffing and clinging to him like he just tried to feed you poison. “I hate being healthy! I wanna be irresponsible!” you wail.

“You are spoiled and soft. And you are irresponsible,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “That’s why I have to be responsible. Because you won’t.”

You sob harder. “That’s not fair. I don’t like this version of you.”

He tilts your chin up with two fingers, a sharp smirk hidden beneath the soft warmth of his hazel eyes. “What version is that, darling?”

You hiccup. “The mean doctor version that makes me take my vitamins.”

He chuckles under his breath, resting his forehead against yours. “You mean the version that pampers you, buys you an entire gala wardrobe, and funds your popmart addiction?”

You pout harder. “Yeah.”

Zayne picks up the vitamin and holds it to your lips with quiet finality.

“You’re so well-trained now,” he whispers. “You cry and scream and stomp—but you still take the vitamin.”

You don’t want to.

But his voice is so gentle and so patient, and his hand on your thigh is slowly stroking circles, grounding you in all the love and indulgence he always drowns you in.

With a dramatic sob, you open your mouth.

He feeds it to you with all the smug satisfaction of a man who’s absolutely winning.

“There’s my good girl,” he praises softly, kissing the corner of your trembling mouth. “Throw all the tantrums you want, sweetheart. I love you like this.”

He means it.

You used to be strong. Aloof. Cold.

Now you’re sobbing over vitamins in his arms like a helpless little princess. Exactly how he wanted.

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

The first sound Xavier hears when he unlocks the penthouse door isn’t the hum of the air system or the city skyline beyond the glass—

it’s you.

A sharp little whimper from down the hall, followed by the telltale stomp of bare feet on marble.

He’s barely taken off his gloves before you appear in the doorway, silk robe sliding off one shoulder, hair fluffy from sleep, eyes glossy and furious.

“Where were you?”

Your voice trembles. You look like you’ve been pacing. “You left me all alone.”

He blinks once, head tilting slightly, silver hair glinting in the low light. “I told you I was going to check for the new cereal, sweetheart. I was gone for twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes is forever!” you cry, throwing your hands up. “You didn’t even kiss me goodbye, Xavier! I woke up and the bed was cold! I thought— I thought you were gone!”

There it is again. That sweet, spoiled panic.

The kind he’s been carefully teaching into you for months—

that trembling dependency that makes you clutch him like he’s your lifeline.

He hides his smile as he steps closer, voice calm and velvety. “You thought I’d leave you?”

“Yes!” you burst out, tears starting to spill. “You didn’t even answer when I called you! I hate it! I hate when you’re not there!”

He catches your chin gently between his gloved fingers. “You’re trembling,” he murmurs. “Look at you, darling. Worked yourself up over me not being in the next room.”

“I don’t care!” you huff, stamping your foot. “You’re supposed to stay with me all morning. You promised!”

He exhales through his nose, amused. “You’ve become such a handful,” he says softly, brushing a tear away with his thumb. “My sweet little troublemaker.”

Then, lowering his head, he presses a kiss to your forehead.

Once, twice—slow, deliberate.

“I used to have to remind you to call me by name,” he murmurs against your skin. “Now you can’t go ten minutes without crying for me.”

You glare weakly at him, bottom lip wobbling. “Because you made me like this.”

“Mm.” He hums approvingly, voice low. “Yes. I did.”

He scoops you up effortlessly, carrying you back toward the bedroom like a fragile treasure. “And I’m proud of you for it.”

“Proud?” you echo, still half sniffling into his shoulder.

“Of course.” He sets you on the bed and tucks the blanket around you with exaggerated care. “You used to be distant. Stubborn. Now you’re exactly how I wanted you—soft, dependent, spoiled, emotional.”

He leans over, his silver hair falling around you like mist. “My perfect little housewife.”

You whine softly, curling into his chest as he climbs in beside you. “You’re so mean.”

He smiles faintly, kissing your temple. “I know. But you like me mean.”

He strokes your back lazily, voice barely above a whisper.

“Next time, if you wake up and I’m gone for a few minutes…”

He pauses, brushing his lips over your ear.

“…you’ll wait patiently for me like a good girl, won’t you?”

You pout, but nod anyway. “Maybe.”

He chuckles quietly, content. “That’s my spoiled little bunny.”

And when you fall asleep tucked under his arm, still sniffling faintly, Xavier just watches—utterly serene, as if he’s admiring his favorite work of art.

The little housewife he’s conditioned so carefully—who now cries if he leaves the bed.

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

The sound of your voice hits him before he even opens the door to the safe house.

Shrill, dramatic, and adorably furious.

“SYLUS!”

He doesn’t rush. He never does. Sylus Qin never rushes. He takes his time sliding off his gloves, loosening his tie, letting your angry little footsteps echo across the marble until you finally appear—storming toward him like a pink satin thundercloud.

“You left without saying anything!” you cry, pointing at him accusingly, eyes glossy with frustrated tears. “You just disappeared! I woke up and you weren’t there and I called your name and nobody answered—”

He hums, unbothered, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. “I had a meeting, sweetheart.”

“You didn’t tell me!”

“I did.” He tilts his head slightly, the faintest curve of a smirk on his lips. “You just weren’t listening because you were too busy demanding I brush your hair before bed.”

Your jaw drops. “That’s not true!”

He arches a brow. “No?”

You stomp your foot—actually stomp it, silk robe swishing dramatically. “You always do that! You make fun of me!”

“And you make it so easy,” he murmurs, unhurriedly walking past you into the kitchen. “Do you know how many grown women throw tantrums before breakfast because their husband wasn’t there when they woke up?”

You cross your arms, pouting, voice cracking. “You’re so mean to me.”

He pours himself a glass of water, takes a slow sip, and then glances over his shoulder—eyes gleaming that sharp crimson that always makes you shiver.

“I’m the one who made you like this,” he says simply. “So if you’re going to cry, at least cry prettily for me.”

That shuts you up for a second. You stand there, trembling, lip wobbling—half mortified, half desperate for him to come closer.

And he does.

He sets the glass down, crossing the distance until you’re trapped between the counter and his chest. His hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek with lazy affection.

“You were so quiet when I first brought you here,” he murmurs, voice dropping into that smooth, dangerous calm. “Didn’t talk back. Didn’t pout. Didn’t throw fits. Always careful, always polite.”

His thumb drags over your lower lip. “Now look at you. Throwing tantrums because I missed your morning cuddle.”

You glare weakly. “Because you promised you wouldn’t go without waking me.”

“And you promised to behave,” he teases, leaning closer. “Yet here you are—pouting, stomping, crying, and still expecting me to spoil you.”

“Maybe I should stop,” he muses, voice like silk and smoke.

Your eyes widen instantly. “No! Don’t—”

He chuckles. There it is—the instant panic, the grab for his sleeve. The conditioning runs deep.

“Good girl,” he whispers, dragging a finger down your throat until it rests against your collarbone. “That’s exactly what I like to hear.”

You’re still pouting, but he can see the soft tremble in your lashes—the way you melt into him the moment he strokes your hair.

Sylus smirks, kissing the top of your head. “You can scream at me, baby. You can cry, you can throw your tantrums. I don’t mind.”

He tilts your chin up, pressing a slow kiss to your lips, just to hush the last of your whines.

“It means I’ve done my job well.”

You blink up at him, confused. “Your job?”

He smiles against your mouth. “Turning a strong little huntress into my spoiled, helpless housewife.”

And when you mumble something about still being mad at him, he just laughs quietly, scooping you into his arms like you weigh nothing.

“Then you can be mad in bed,” he says, carrying you back toward the bedroom with a smirk. “Where you belong.”

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

The first sign that something is off is the silence.

Too still. Too quiet.

In this house, silence usually means his wife is plotting something.

When Caleb finally steps into the kitchen, there you are—standing at the marble island, robe slipping off your shoulder, messy morning hair haloing your pouty face. The breakfast tray he made you—cut fruit, pancakes shaped like stars, a perfect cup of tea—sits untouched.

He can tell by the stubborn set of your jaw that he’s about to be entertained.

“You didn’t bring me breakfast in bed,” you accuse, voice small but furious. “You always bring me breakfast in bed.”

Caleb raises a brow, leaning against the counter, perfectly calm. “You were already awake, sweetheart.”

“That’s not the point,” you huff, arms crossing. “You were supposed to wake me up with kisses and tell me good morning like you always do.”

He hums, fighting a smirk. “I see.”

“You don’t see anything!” you snap, eyes shining. “You’re mean today! You didn’t even cuddle me when I woke up and I called you twice and you didn’t answer, and now you’re just—standing there—like it’s my fault!”

The colonel, who once commanded entire fleets, now faces his fiercest opponent: you, in silk pajamas, with bed hair and watery eyes.

He should be annoyed.

But he isn’t.

He’s… pleased. Thrilled, even.

This—this emotional, dependent, spoiled little creature—is the proof of how well he’s trained you. The strong, stoic girl he once knew is gone. You’ve become his pampered wife, addicted to his attention, furious when deprived of it.

Caleb sighs softly and walks closer until he’s towering over you. “You’re upset because I didn’t bring breakfast to bed?”

“Yes!” you snap, then falter when his purple eyes narrow ever so slightly. “I—I just… I like it when you do.”

He presses his thumb to your lower lip, tracing the edge of your pout. “You’re so dramatic lately,” he murmurs, voice deep, almost amused. “You’ve become such a little brat.”

You blink up at him. “You made me one.”

“Mm.” His hand cups your jaw, his tone dark with satisfaction. “I know.”

You gasp when he suddenly picks you up—effortlessly, like you weigh nothing—and sets you on the counter beside the untouched tray. “If you want breakfast in bed so badly,” he says quietly, “then we’ll do it properly.”

He takes the teacup, blows on it, and holds it to your lips. “Sip.”

You do, eyes downcast, cheeks hot with embarrassment and relief.

“There we go,” he says softly.

Your voice cracks. “You’re not mad?”

He smiles faintly—warm, slow, possessive. “Mad? No. I like when you’re like this.”

“You do?” you whisper.

“Of course.” His thumb slides along your cheekbone. “It means you need me. It means you remember who takes care of you.”

He kisses your temple, lingering there until your breathing steadies. “Next time, if you wake up alone, you can come find me instead of crying, hmm?”

You nod, murmuring a soft “yes, Caleb.”

He smirks, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Good girl.”

And when he carries you back to bed, the breakfast tray balanced in one hand and you tucked against his chest, you cling tighter—half in apology, half in habit.

He doesn’t mind.

He loves that you do.

You dipped your brush into the maroon paint and pressed the tip of your pinky onto the canvas, using it as a guide to keep your hand steady as you make intricate lines.

A woman was placed on the material with a man in front of her that she, concerningly, stared at. Her lips pursed to create a pouty and sorrowful expression as he looked like he begged to have her. His hands held her wrists away from their bodies and his nose pressed against hers as if he was about to kiss her. 

Rafayel observed the painting while a student was talking to him about theirs and he excused himself to go ask you about it. 

“She finds out that he’s in love with her, but she can’t decide if she wants the attention from him or should reject it because they have an age gap. She’s been through countless love proposals from men her age, but none of them compare to him” you explained.

“Morality vs immortality..” he comments, “this man might treat her well and do all kinds of things for her, but his age is what’s truly holding her back.”

“It’s based on an old movie ‘Red Roses.’ It tells the story of a young woman who spent years searching for love, but every man she’s given a chance to end up being a failed talking stage. The older gentleman was a friend of her dad’s, who passed away from an illness, and came back into town after a long journey back home,” you briefly explain. 

“What happened after?” He turns to face you fully, aware that he was closer to you.

“Well.. the man found out about her father and tried to take her in as his daughter, but she was extremely weirded out because something about him was off..” you added, turning back to the painting and putting a few more details then setting the brush in the water.

“It’s done. Where should I put it?” You inhale deeply then exhale, asking him and picking up the canvas.

“You can just leave it there and I’ll move it to my desk when class is over.. thank you, chérie” his voice softened as he stared at you longer.

You stared at him blankly and didn’t question the word he said, not knowing what it meant and waved it off, going to grab your backpack and sling it over your shoulder then walking out the classroom.

Hours later, when the classroom is empty, he looks over at your painting and stares at it for a while. He remembered the story you told him and thought about his own dilemma. If only you knew that the painting was telling a truth that involved you.

You got home and plopped on the couch, glad that the semester was over. For a while, you had thought about going out of the country for a vacation and now that school is over, you have a couple months until the next semester starts. You opened your laptop and began typing away, looking for flights to the country you desired to visit. Your friend put you on to a website that had affordable flights and you spent a couple minutes going through the prices and benefits of each cabin type.

You were about to click on one when your phone rang and you looked over at it.

Unknown number.

You let it ring and put it on silent mode, glancing back at your computer. Using the financial aid you had left from college, you book the flight and smile a bit, closing your laptop and setting it on the bed then jumping off of it and getting your stuff ready. You only had 2 days to prepare, but considering it was a one week trip, you could always buy stuff while you’re there.

You packed what you could and set your suitcase aside, going to the kitchen to make something to eat. You turned on the radio and played it at a low volume then began taking ingredients out of the fridge and cabinets. You heard your phone ring again, but didn’t bother to answer it and just turned the radio up louder.

Rafayel got home a little later than usual due to him visiting the art gallery on campus. There was an art exhibit coming up next week and he was just making sure everything was prepared and perfect.

“I’ve already emailed Mr. Ragaglia and left him a voicemail. If he doesn’t answer, then we can move on to someone else on the waitlist,” his colleague’s assistant mentioned, as they walked through the halls. 

“Give him another day. If he doesn’t answer, then contact the next person on the list,” Rafayel tells him, adjusting his glasses as he observes a particular painting. The young man nods and eyes the painting before getting a beep on his cellular device.

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Qi, but I have to take this,” the man quickly speaks then turns away and speeds walks back in the direction they came from.

Rafayel watches the man disappear around the corner before slowly turning back to the painting in front of him. It was a woman and a man, running toward what looked like Hell with big smiles on their faces. The strange painting could be telling the story of two lovers facing danger together or two lovers .

He couldn’t help, but think back to you, his muse. His princess of a long time now, that he wanted to sweep away; he’d do anything to have you by his side. The last 4 years were spent with him admiring you as your professor and being intrigued by your works of art. He wanted to look inside your brain and see the little yous going to work, he wanted to see what makes you thrive to create such pieces. His mind wandered back to your painting from this morning and his heart leaped.

Soon, you’ll know..

He sat down at his chair in the living room and stared at the canvas before him. A half finished painting of you on your knees staring up at him filled half the material. You were the only one in the painting because he made it look like you were staring at him through the canvas. He didn’t pick up his paintbrush, instead, closing his eyes and imagining what this would look like.

It was nighttime. The moon shined into the living room through a window out of the three or four he had. A corner of the room was dim, with the moonlight having reached itself just in front of that corner. 

A quiet sound was heard, though no one could tell what it was. As the scenery shifted, a figure, or rather two, appeared near that area. Getting closer to them, a person stood above another. From a lower angle, the person below was on their knees and palms, while the one standing up slightly bent down toward their head.

The quiet sound from earlier got louder, and the closer he got, the louder and obscene the sounds became. The person on the floor was giving the other a blowjob, well, more like being a fleshlight. The gurgling noises got nastier as the other person's cock thrusted in and out of their mouth. The chest of the lower one slowly began to shine as the moon’s light shifted, in the process of exposing the two. Rafayel could see that the one on the ground was you, letting him fuck your throat. Your eyes were closed and moans of contentment filled his ears, making him thoroughly observe the two of you.

Your hands rested on his thighs while his held your head in place, keeping you still as he fucked your throat.

“You can’t keep avoiding me, y/n..” his voice strained in arousal. His thrusts got faster and further down your throat, as far as it could.

“You were made for me…”

“This.. shit.. this is where you belong..”

Beneath him, taking his cock like a little toy. The further Rafayel looked, the better he could see your face. Tears from arousal and lack of oxygen covered every inch of your cheeks, globs of saliva and cum dripped out of your mouth and onto the floor every time he thrusted. But more importantly, when Rafayel looked down, he noticed a small puddle under your pussy.

You were enjoying this.

His groans got louder as his climax approached for the fourth time. Then, abruptly, his hips stilled after the seventh or eighth thrust, hisses and groans flowing from his mouth as he came down your throat again. His face was flushed in red pigment, overly pleased with how good you were being and making him feel. His right hand gripped your head while the other slung at his side as he turned to face Rafayel.

“This is what would happen if you just took her,” he told the real one, as if showing him what could be if he wasn’t such a pussy; your fucked out face covered in tears and cum, “see how happy she is? Our little princess is fulfilling her purpose.”

No. That’s not all that he wanted from you.

He genuinely wanted to love you, hold your hand, talk about anything and everything with you, go on dates, kiss your soft and pretty lips.

Call you his.

Rafayel knew his mind had a habit of going off the deep end and had to force himself to come back to the center.

“Go on.. touch him,” he ordered you, letting go of your head. You slumped for a second before crawling over to Rafayel, who slowly panicked.

“You don’t need to do that, r-really”

“Don’t you want to know what she feels like?” He sighed, reminiscing on the feeling of your mouth around him.

Your hands reached up to Rafayel’s tie on his sweatpants and undid it, kissing around the area of his cock. He exhaled and his hands reached out halfway to touch you, but stopped at reconsidering. He looked away for a split second before looking back at you and seeing you kissing his flesh.

“S-Shit..” he panted quietly as you sucked happily on his tip.

“She feels good, doesn’t she?”

Rafayel doesn’t answer right away and groans when you take all of him in your mouth.

“Y-Yeah… she does..”

“Give in to her. Take her. She belongs to you and you only,” the other him kept egging on his desire to have you.

“B-But…”

You sucked him slowly and deeply, staring up at him with a clean face, the tears and cum having vanished somehow.

“She’s all yours. No one else gets her except you.”

Rafayel’s hands unconsciously make their way to your head and grip it, thrusting his hips forward.

“Fuck!” He curses loudly, tilting his head back as the feeling of your esophagus rubbing his cock makes him want to cum, but he can’t. He has to build it up.

“I-I’m sorry..” he tells you; you just felt soo good.

Are you really? Didn’t you want to know what this felt like, Raffie?

He moans out and feels like crying the faster and deeper he plunges down your throat, wanting nothing more than to make you swallow every drop of him, but not wanting to be a loser for cumming so quickly.

‘Go ahead, Rafayel. Let me have it,’ your voice echoes in his mind, as one of your hands reaches up to grab and massage his balls. He looks down as if you’re crazy and sees your eyes cross then roll to the back of your head, your moans making his heart flutter with joy.

“I-I’m.. cumming..!” His eyes close as he stills in your mouth, pressing your face hard against his pelvis and shooting rope after rope of cum down your throat. He reaches a flow state with goosebumps forming as he hears and feels you swallow his cum and dick. 

You pull away and slobber all over his cock, letting out a sound of satisfaction as you lick up the excess juices and go back to sucking him off.

Were you trying to kill him?

He sighed and pressed his hand on his covered forehead, the ends of his bangs tickling his eyelids before he opened them to look down at you, but was back in his living room, staring at your pretty face on the canvas with a large cum stain spreading in his pants.

When he loses it

A few days went by and you were finally on vacation. You went to a carnival, you ordered room service, went to several restaurants and tried different kinds of ethnic food. You even got a tour at a historical site you’d been wanting to see! Your time here was nothing, but enjoyable and exciting. You walked out onto the balcony of your hotel room and smiled, admiring the splash of pink and blue scatter across the sky. Peace surrounded you and it felt relaxing to be standing here at this moment. 

A knock rang out and you turned around, looking at the door before walking toward it. You look through the peephole and see a young man in uniform standing rigidly at the door. You open the door just a bit and peek through the crack.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, these are for you!” He rushes to hand you a bouquet of flowers and a small box.

“Oh! Uh thanks?” You confusingly hold the items before he continues.

“We were told to have these delivered to you! But, we're not sure who they’re from, they were just requested to be given to you. Please enjoy!” He explains happily then walks off, leaving you even more confused. You closed the door and locked it, putting the items on the dresser and looking for a card or anything that tells you who they’re from.

“My beautiful pearl,

I hope this finds you well. I didn’t expect to see you here of all places, but I’m glad I did! I miss you so much, I hope we can see each other soon. Please enjoy these chocolates while you read this.

A. <3”

Who the hell is ‘A’?? You don’t know anyone at this moment who has an A as the first initial of their name, so you assume this might’ve been given to you by accident. Still, you shrug and open the small box, seeing four rows of five chocolates and your mouth waters. You take the paper from inside the lid and read each flavor of chocolate, picking your favorite ones out and eating them first.

Rafayel was stalking you. Well, at first he wasn’t, but after he saw you at the cafe while he was on a trip, he was curious about where you were staying. Though, it got crowded and he lost where you went, so he just pouted and walked off, hoping he’d find you again. He went for a walk around the city, observing the beach just a couple steps away and the evening sky. It gave him inspiration to paint and he remembered the scene before him before leaving.

Somehow, he went in a circle back to the hotel he was staying at. The small pathways in the city were surrounded by stores and balconies of apartments with some people chatting on them or taking a smoke, but the further he got toward his destination, the quieter it became. He looked up at the building next to his hotel and saw a familiar face, swearing that his heart skipped a beat.

You stood at your balcony, wearing a colorful and flowy dress as you watched the sky make an ombré effect. He stared at you from below then looked down and saw that you were staying at the same hotel he was. He tried to formulate a plan as to how to surprise you, but he then remembered that he didn’t want to scare you or weird you out. So, he looked around and saw a flower shop, making his way over with the intention of getting you a bouquet.

Once he was done there, he went across the way and into a candy store, getting you a box of chocolates. Okay, so he had the flowers and the chocolates, but now what? He couldn’t just go to your apartment and give these to you. He walked into the hotel and went to the reception desk, with the idea of faking a story in hopes to get your room number.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for my.. wife. She came in here a few hours ago, but the room number she gave me was the wrong one,” his heart beating fast when he called you his wife.

The receptionist looked up at him and did a few clicks on her computer, “what’s the last name?”

“L/n.. first name’s ___” he looked at her as she typed away. His hands started to sweat as he waited for a response.

“She’s in room 315, should I let her know you’re here?” The idiot asked.

“No, that’s okay, I got these for her as a surprise so that’s what I’m going to do. Thank you, though,” he gave a fake smile.

“Of course! Have a good night!”

He turned away and the smile on his face immediately faded, making his way over to the elevator and waiting for it to open. He stepped inside and pressed the third floor, looking at the floor as the doors closed. His eyes shifted to the mirror and stared at his reflection with something weighing heavy in his mind.

What was he doing? Going to your room with the plan of giving you these things like the two of you have something going on. Maybe in his head, yes, but in reality, no. Though he wished you were his, all he can do is be delusional from a distance and be sure to keep any pests away from you.

The elevator opened on your floor and he stepped out, following the sign for the direction in which your room was in. He saw a bell boy walking toward him with a luggage carrier and stopped him.

“Excuse me, could you do something for me?” He faked kindness.

“Oh, uh okay..?” The young man looked confused.

“I need these taken to room 315. My wife had a terrible day and she doesn’t know that I’m here, but I wanted to give these to her just to let her know I’m thinking of her,” he says as he holds out the bouquet and chocolates.

“Oh, I’m not that kind of-”

“I’ll give you 300 bucks,” he deadpans.

The young man blinked and carefully took the flowers and chocolates, turning away to go toward your room. Rafayel walked backwards and quickly hid around the corner, next to the elevator to watch the interaction from a distance. He sees the door open and hears the boy talking to you. He can’t see you, much to his dismay, but he can hear you and he starts fanboying in his mind. He sees that you take the flowers and chocolate and peek out your room, watching in confusion as the boy moves quickly down the hall toward his luggage carrier and Rafayel that’s around the corner.

The boy appears and stands in front of him, out of your view and holds his hand out. Rafayel takes his wallet out and pulls three one hundred dollar bills out then folds it in the boy’s palm.

“Thanks, old man!” the young man says as he goes to walk off, but is captured by Rafayel again. He covers the boy’s eyes and twists his head, snapping his neck then bringing him to the stairwell, where he laid the boy against the wall and put sunglasses on him.

“Next time, maybe don’t take requests from strangers for money,” he snarled at the corpse and walked out, not before getting his money back.

You were sitting on your bed, eating the leftover chocolate when the phone rang. You mute the TV and get up, wiping your fingers and mouth on a towel then walking over to the desk and picking up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I must’ve dialed the wrong number,” the familiar voice tells you.

“Mr. Qi?”

“Oh? Is that you, Miss L/n?” He fakes curiosity.

“Yes..”

“I hope I wasn’t disturbing you, I didn’t mean to call you, really. I meant to call my colleague, but I must’ve got the last digit wrong,” liar.

“It’s okay.. I was just watching TV and eating chocolate..”

“Oo whatcha watchin?” he says as if you two are the bestest of friends.

“Uh..,” you turn and look at the TV, “the 1979 version of Alien.”

“I didn't think you’d be into that” he sounds surprised and you hear stuff moving around on his end.

“I’ve.. kinda had a thing for sci-fi stuff for a while now, it’s just an interest, I guess,” you sit on the desk chair, playing with the cord.

“You know, when that movie came out, my father took me to go see it in theaters. I remember the room being packed and everyone was just.. having a blast,” he fake reminisces.

“Really?” he hears a smile form on your face and it makes him smile too.

“Yeah, but I haven’t watched it in years..” he trails off, looking out the window near the elevator.

It goes silent for a moment before you speak.

“Would you.. like to watch it? I mean, just as colleagues of course! Actually, I don’t even know if you’re here, but if you aren’t-”

“I’m a couple doors down, the Marlot Hotel right?” He slowly turns away from the window near the elevator. 

“Yeah..?” he hears your confusion and chuckles, “I only say that because it’s one of the popular hotels people stay at, including myself.”

Oh, he’s here?

“Oh, you’re here..?”

“Yeah, I’m just taking a trip to celebrate the semester being over..” it goes quiet for a moment, “but, if you’re not opposed to the idea, then yeah.. I’d like to come over, as colleagues of course.”

“Okay… okay.. Um, my room’s 315,” and he chuckles.

“Alright, I’ll see you soon, dear,” the line ends and you’re staring at the hand phone, unsure of why butterflies form in your stomach at the term of endearment. Your palm rests on it, trying to calm it down because it makes you feel a bit nauseous. You put the phone back on its station and turn around, looking around the room a bit.

You got changed in a sweater and sweatpants then turned on the heater because it got colder outside. Rafayel was coming over to watch the movie with you and you tried to make the room look more presentable, even though there wasn’t much for you to clean. The feeling of anxiety began to rise within and your leg started bouncing. Your mind forms thoughts about this being a bad idea, to have your professor come in your room and watch a movie with you. 

‘Just as colleagues, nothing more. Don’t make it weird!,’ you yelled at yourself.

It looked as if you didn’t have boundaries or awareness and you considered calling him to cancel, but you just remembered that you didn’t have his number and the knock at the door made your new plans crumble.

It’s now or never…

You exhale a breath you didn’t know was held in and get up, carefully walking toward the door and looking through the peephole to see him standing there with a plastic bag. You undo the latch and lock before opening the door just a crack and peeking out.

“Hi..”

“Hello,” his voice greets you softly as you open the door wider. He walks in and takes his shoes and jacket off, leaving the shoes by the door.

“It’s getting pretty chilly out there, isn’t it?” He jokes as he hangs his jacket up in the closet.

“Yeah, I turned the heater on, so it should be warming up soon.” You close the door and lock everything in place then turn to him.

“oh , good! I actually wasn’t planning on coming here because I still have some things to do for the art exhibit next week, but I was like “fuck it,” and just booked a flight. It was on my bucket anyway,” he says as you both head toward the couch. You hummed, being a bit surprised that he cussed,  only because you weren’t used to hearing it, and told him you too were on a little vacation just because you really needed one and this was also one of the cities you wanted to visit. He sits down on the cushion and puts the bag on the coffee table, resting his right arm on the back of the couch and feeling relieved when his back touches the back cushion.

“I got popcorn in the microwave and some bottled water in front of you,” you let him know as you put your back to him. He acknowledges them and leans forward, taking his items out the bag as well.

“I’m not sure if you drink, but I have some wine and snacks too,” he scrunches the bag and puts it aside.

“I haven’t drank in months. I’ve been too busy with school to do that,” you bring a large bowl over to him and pour half the bag of popcorn in it then sit a few spaces away from him. He makes a note of this and doesn’t say anything, allowing you to have your space for a while.

It’s been an hour since the movie started and the space between the two of you has lowered significantly because of you. Every time a jump scare happens, you fly off the couch and don’t remember how far you were from him when you get back in your previous position, but he notices how close you get. He wants you to get close to him, he doesn’t want to force you to be in his presence, as much as he’d like to. Throughout the movie, you’ve reached forearm length with him and he’s close enough to wrap his arm around your shoulder, but he doesn’t.

“If you’re scared, you can lean on me,” he softly teases.

“Oh, I don’t want to be a bother or weird things out,” you quickly wave it off, not knowing he was half joking.

“You can never be a bother to me, y/n. Nothing is happening right now,” his left leg rests over his right. Your hands rest in your lap as you scoot over to him a bit more and he can finally wrap his arm around your shoulder.

“See? Nothing weird going on,” nah, it’s everything weird with your older professor putting his hands on you in such a way. Your legs bend and tuck under your butt, as he leans your body more into his side.

He leans forward after some time to pop open the wine and puts two glasses together, pouring the liquid in both of them.

“Me and my buddies used to drink and watch scary movies back in college. We’d get wasted and the jump scares were more funny than scary because of the facial expressions the characters would make,” he says randomly, smiling as he pours your glass. You shyly take the glass and sip it, the sweet yet bitter taste buzzing on your tongue. He follows after and moves his cup towards you.

“Cheers to no more school till next year,” he jokes.

“Cheers,” You lightly chuckle and clink his glass with yours, taking a pretty big sip afterwards. He drank a bit and watched as you drank half your glass, shaking his head teasingly.

“Slow down there, kiddo, you’re gonna get tipsy real quick,” he joked, making you freeze and quickly put your glass down.

You awkwardly sit next to him, focusing on the movie, when his hand grasps your shoulder, making you jump a bit.

“It’s just me,” his soft voice says. You chuckle nervously and allow him to lean your body into his, keeping your hands off of him.

You try to focus on the movie, taking sips of your wine here and there, but a feeling keeps lingering and biting at your mind about the current predicament.

Your older professor had you, a younger woman, cuddled into his side.. if this isn’t sounding off any alarms, you don’t know what will.

Rafayel senses unease from you and asks if you’re okay, you tell him yeah and that the chase scenes scare you a bit. He hums pitifully and says you can hold him if it gets too much. He sounds so genuine, maybe you’re the only one who’s slightly freaked out by the current situation. You give him a nod and ever so slightly lean away from him, but a cramp forms in your side and back, and you mentally curse.

You end up leaning fully into him again and he adjusts his position, widening his thighs to slouch against the couch. His hand that once rested on your shoulder magically made its way to your waist and you shiver just now realizing that it was there.

Rafayel takes sips of his wine and licks his lips, carefully resting his cheek against the top side of your head and you freeze.

No.. this.. colleagues don’t do this..

You should stop this.. here and now.. before it gets worse.

But, he feels.. like home. He’s warm.. gentle.. comforting.. 

What. are you ACTUALLY saying right now?? The guy’s old enough to be your fucking dad and you’re over here melting into him. Get UP!

The movie is near its end and your head somehow ends up on his chest, your left curled under your side while your right hand is clenched in a fist on his chest.

This is bad, you keep telling yourself. If it’s SO bad, then why aren’t you stopping it? Why aren’t you moving?

“You doin okay?” his voice rings in your ear, making you lean back a bit.

“Yeah I’m fine, I actually uh, need to use the bathroom,” you leave his warmth by getting up, “I’ll be back” and rush toward the bathroom, not waiting for a response.

He paused the movie and stood up, stretching his body and looking over at the bathroom.

He thinks for a moment before sitting back down. The two glasses of wine remain untouched as he contemplates where to go from here. The movie has forty minutes left from being over, but he senses you’re not comfortable. He feels bad because he hates making you feel like that, but he also needs you, needs to feel your touch. He looks down at his hand, the one that touched your waist, and smells it, the faint aroma of your sweater lingered on it, and he sighs happily.

You leaned against the bathroom door and let a big, deep sigh out. 

‘Fuck, this is bad. Really bad,’ you keep telling yourself. You push yourself off the door and approach the sink, turning the water on and splashing your face.

‘Get a hold of yourself! Grow some fucking balls and kick the guy out! It’s not THAT hard.’

Unless.. you don’t want to? Ugh, you don’t even know what you want at this point.

You turn the water off and dry your face, staring at yourself in the mirror for a moment as you grip the edges of the sink. You make a decision in your mind then nod your head to confirm it.

You set the towel on the rack and turned around, going toward the door and swinging it open to look up and see Rafayel about to knock.

“O-Oh,” why are you stuttering?? “Did you need something?”

“Nope! I.. just wanted to make sure you were okay,” he looks down at you and nods.

“I’m alright.. just needed to use the bathroom.. like I said..”

You both stand there awkwardly, staring at each other before you make a move.

“I’m actually gonna call it a ni-” you’re cut off by lips touching yours. Your eyes widen as a cold breeze quickly blows over you.

He’s kissing you..

Rafayel is kissing you..

Oh.. no..

You stare wide eyed at his closed eyes as he tilts his head the other way to kiss you more. His hands were cupping your cheeks as your lips and saliva melted into his, your hands shakily coming up to grip his wrists. He pulls back and you push yourself away from him.

“Why did you..” you can’t think right and you cover your mouth, looking at his chest then away at some point by the door.

“.. my chérie..” so that’s what that word was. Still, you don’t know what it means, but it seems to be some term of endearment.

“D-Don’t call me that..! You.. you need to leave,” you push past him and move toward the door, but his hand rushes out and grabs your wrist, making you turn around to face him. He backs you in the wall, staring deep in your eyes and your breathing quickens as he presses his lips deeply back onto yours. Your eyes squeeze shut and heart races at the motion, with his hands gripping your wrists and pinning them next to your head as he makes out with you. Your soft sighs are picked up by his ears and swallowed by his mouth as he pushes his tongue into your mouth. A warmth forms deep within you at these intense actions and your right leg instinctively lifts to wrap around his hip.

The further you both get into kissing, the more heated things become and one of his hands let go of your wrists, moving down to your breasts and giving one a firm squeeze. You yelp and pull away from his lips, turning your head away from him and biting your lip when you feel his hand slide up your sweater and bra, pinching and rubbing one of your nipples.

“Fuck!” You nervously look down, watching him play with your tits. Your thighs squeeze together tightly, feeling your cunt getting wet by the foreign touch. He bunches up the hem of your sweater and pulls it up over your shoulder. He binds together the front and back hem and pulls it all the way up so his hand that’s holding your wrist can also hold the fabric. His free hand grips the center of your bra and pulls it down, releasing your tits from the tight fabric.

“Come to daddy,” he stares at your beautiful mounds before opening his mouth wide and latching onto your right breast.

“Ohh.. shhit!” You pant as his mouth sucks on your sensitive erected bud, feeling his tongue lather it.

You feel hot, too hot, and you squirm around, a lot. You try not to look at him, but you have nowhere else to look and shift your eyes downward, watching him ham on your tits like a full course meal.

“Fuck, these are perfect,” smooch. “You’re perfect,” his voice softens, diving back in to suck your left breast this time. His eyes are closed as he savors your flesh, his free hand squeezing your mound as if it’ll give him milk.

“Th-that’s! Too.. much!” You whine out and squirm more, making him tug on the flesh as he sucks on it, “oh god! What’s wrong with you?!”

Your hips unconsciously thrust into his, making you bite your lip hard by accident. All of this feels surreal.. your older professor has your wrists bound above your head while he sucks and slobbers on your titties like some flesh eating monster.

“These are mine to devour,” muah. “No one else can have these” pop. His hand that’s holding your wrists slowly lowers and moves to wrap around your waist, caging you in his arms. His moans of satisfaction ring out the small hallway as he opens his mouth and shows you him licking those cute nipples. His head pushes into your cleavage and he lightly shakes his head, keeping his tongues out to coat the skin.

“I can never get enough of these savory treats you’ve presented me,” he quietly teases.

Your head’s spinning and throbbing, so is your clit, the one he’s rubbing through your panties right now. You mewl and cry, feeling too much all at once. His fingers rub your wet pussy, soaking his digits. “I have to prep you to take me..” he whispers against your lips, kissing them deeply again.

The taste of wine still lingers in both of your mouths and your eyes look up at his closed ones. He’s got your right leg wrapped around his hip as his fingers rim your vaginal opening, gently easing in.

“ohh you’re tight..” he moans softly against your ear. “Ngh.. fuck..” you whimper and pant, feeling his fingers rubbing your inner walls. The pain you once felt melted into pleasure and your toes curl at the sensation. His lips attach to your breasts again, kissing and biting the flesh gently. You’re fighting to stay here, fighting with yourself to not give in and nip this in the bud before it gets worse.

His fingers thrust and the sounds of your pussy getting wet get louder His moans of delight fill the small hallway with the noises and it creates a lewd yet beautiful sight. You feel something pool in your stomach and try to get away from him.

“N-no..! Something... ah!” “Let go, baby” he whispers, thrusting his fingers faster. Your eyes close and you arch toward him, feeling juice spill out and make a mess of the two of you.

You sigh when his fingers slowly pull out and your eyes shoot open, snapping out of this hypnosis and your hands escape graps, pressing against his shoulders and pushing him back at arms length.

You’re both breathing hard and he stares at you, admiring your disheveled look, but not yet being satisfied while you stare at the ground, trying to regain your composure.

“W-we have to stop, Mr. Qi-”

“No ‘Mr. Qi.’ I’m Rafayel when we’re alone..” his eyes stare deep in yours, his face is red from the heat between you two.

“We said we would just be colleagues, so why-”

“That was for the hangout, Y/n..” you look up at him with a frown, shaking your head.

“I can’t keep pretending around you... like I don’t feel something deeper for you,” his voice gets quiet.

“Well, you need to stop because this is wrong and if-”

“Nobody will know,” his voice darkens, “should they find out, they’ll be handled. Immediately.” 

You grow wary, “you’re willing to hurt people for this?!”

“If it means I can keep you by my side..,” his arms move to wrap around you, making you grip his forearms, “I would do anything to protect what we have.”

Your body dips when you try to lean away from him, but he just follows you, holding you tight so you don’t fall as he kisses you once more. He loves how your soft lips feel against his, never wanting this to end. His heart races with joy and warmth as he has you nearing the point at where he wants you, mentally. Your palms press against his chest and he moans just at the movement. He stands straight up and lifts you up, turning around as he walks back to the bed. He lays you down on it and your eyes widen, knowing what’s about to happen and his lips pull away, noticing the string of saliva connecting your lips to his.

“See? Even our mouths don’t want to be apart,” this delusional ass…

“Let me show you why we're meant to be, my dear..” his thumb traces the plumpness of your lips as his desire-filled eyes stare down at you.

Your head tilts back on the pillow as you grip the sheets near your head. He somehow managed to tie your wrists together and put them on the headboard, being stuck there till he unties them. He’s got you curled under him with his hands pressed under your lower back, your calves and feet stiff over his shoulders as he plunges into you. Your moans and cries are like music to his ears and he can’t get enough.

“Who’s making you feel good, baby?” His strained voice asks as he thrusts deep and hard.

You’re deep breathing as his tip repeatedly touches your cervix. You don’t want to admit that he’s making you ascend to the fifth dimension. But fuck, he knows exactly what he’s doing and a part of you hates it.

“Answer me, princess,” he growls and slaps your clit, making you shiver and twitch.

“Oh, fuck! Y-you are..ahh!” You moan out and grit your teeth, closing your eyes as tears flow down your cheeks.

“And who am I?” Both his hands move to tightly grip your breasts.

You’re a moaning mess for him and he wishes he could record these sounds to hear forever.

“Y-You’re…” your face twists in pleasure. Fuck he feels so good, you don’t want him to stop.

“Say it.” 

“…daddy..” you whimper out and his hands slide down to hold your ass, halting his thrusts as he fixes your position.

“That’s right, and you’re my baby,” he hugs you tightly as he starts thrusting again, faster than he did previously, and hearing your drenched pussy getting fuller with all the cum and dick in it.

“You make these sounds because of me, my muse… my love.. my bride” he holds your head in the crevice of his neck as he fucks into your cervix, making sure he’s hitting it just right. You bite down on the flesh and cry from the overwhelming feeling of pleasure, all common sense flies out your mind.

“P-Please don’t stop! I.. ahh!” You clench your fists and kick your feet at the overstimulation, making him groan into the crevice of your neck.

“I.. love you.. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you!” Your toes curl tightly as he keeps fucking you despite you coming twice already. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t know how to. It’s like his brain is wired to making you feel good and it’s working. His heart swells at your words and he moves his head to kiss your lips.

“I love you too, baby girl,” he whispers softly, thrusting for a while longer before stopping with his cock completely inside of you. He cums hard and your eyes roll back for the nth time, his whimpers and deep harsh breaths at the intensity fill your ears and heart.

“Gotta.. make sure it sticks,” he whispers against your ear, with you feeling hot juices fill your womb past its limit. You’re completely out of, laying limp underneath Rafayel, who’s rocking himself against you to make sure your womb keeps his cum.

“You’re my muse.. no one else’s..” he possessively says against your forehead. Your toes curl and walls squeeze him tighter, making him hiss and curse out.

“You like me claiming you, huh?” He chuckles, “my sweet lady’s a nasty one, isn’t she?”

You don’t respond, finally getting your breathing back on track. He admires your glowing, fucked out face, curling you even more beneath him as he slowly moves his hips again.

“It’s alright.. I'm the only one who can fulfill that need.. that hunger,” he says as if challenging you, holding you tightly against his chest again before repeating to snap his hips into yours. He spends the next couple of hours, fucking and stuffing you as much as he wants, telling you that this is just the beginning and that you both have a long way to go before he could ever let you go. <3

The night nears its end with a large puddle of cum and liquids from you squirting on him, soaking the blanket beneath you two. Your painting's message becomes a reality. He’s satisfied for now, overly happy to see you completely submissive and practically covered in him. He admires the way his cum leaks out of you in large amounts and rubs your tummy.

“Look at you.. wasting all the love I’ve given you..” he quietly teases, and you quietly whimper, your pussy twitches a bit when he touches your clit ever so gently.

“hhh.. looks like I have to refill her.”

You thought you were imagining things when you had first heard that distant call. It was soft and haunting, the voice androgynous and other-worldly in its timber, coming from no where and everywhere all at once. You remember being scared, confused, and slightly intrigued, but weren't left long to ponder as sleep washed over you. That night, you dreamt of a man with long, flowing hair perched on a rock in shallow waters, a conch to his lips as he sings a languid tune. When he finishes, it's as if he senses you watching him through the other side of the thick haze. His jaw goes slack, reverent eyes meeting yours before he says something in a language you don't understand. Suddenly, he lunges forward, unwittingly severing the bond and waking you with a startle. Just a nightmare, you thought to yourself in dazed relief, but even then an inkling told you that couldn't have been farther from the truth. 

The following night, and all the others during this period, begin the same. Once the clock strikes nine, that murmuring song slowly bleeds into your ears, thin wisps of white contriving from nothing to circle around your ankles and secure you in place. No matter how much you fight against its hold—whatever it was—you can't move, can barely breathe, until your eyes close shut and sleep overtakes you. 

Each subsequent dream becomes more clear, vivid, and life-like. They all feature the same man, one you had learned was only half so when the third night revealed his glimmering purple tail, the scales slightly iridescent against the moonlight and a near perfect match to the color of his hair. By the fifth night you're taught that his name is Rafayel and the sixth gleans him to be a god, although the extracted information is never told directly but rather blossoms into your mind like a long forgotten memory. Unfortunately, the dreams themselves aren't as indelible, becoming mere fleeting images by the time you awaken and attempt to recall them. 

At the end of the first week you suspect the calling has begun to physically whisk you away as well, the next morning's evidence being sand between your toes and the taste of lingering salt on your tongue. You know the merman is behind all of this, but for what he wants from you or why he carries you away only to bring you back, you are unsure. 

By week two, you earn the ability to speak to him in your dreams, only a few words at the beginning that eventually form into complete sentences. You attempt to ask the dozens of questions that have been racing through your mind since this entrancement began, but find you're at most allowed one per night, depending on Rafayel's mood. Knowing the information learned will stay with you into the next day, you use them wisely. 

𓇼𓇼𓇼

"Oh, sea god," you ask on night eighteen, "where is it you bring me when my world falls away?" 

"Home," he answers simply, tucking a floating hair behind your ear. 

𓇼𓇼𓇼

"My sea god," you venture two days later, "why do you not keep me with you beyond these nights together?" 

He eyes you for a long while before replying, "Because I cannot steal away a heart that does not belong to me." Yet.

𓇼𓇼𓇼

On night twenty-four you're bolder, shifting in your spot next to him as you inquire, "Rafayel, what do you expect to come of this?"

The god observes you, smelling your trepidation but also uncovering that not-so-hidden glimmer in your gaze as you await his response.

"I expect my bride to meet me where the sea touches the shoreline," he leans in and pulls your hand forward until it lays against his heart, "and she lays herself down as an offering to forever be mine." 

𓇼𓇼𓇼

The dreams, if they could even be called that now, cease altogether after his final answer. 

Night after night you lay awake, watching the clock and waiting with baited breath to hear that familiar song, but when the hour hand strikes nine, nothing happens. The room remains as still and silent as it was a minute before and continues to be hours after. You thought you would be relieved, grateful even, that the curse spell finally lifted, but all that washes over you instead are the stinging sensations of disappointment and longing. 

You hold out for another week before his absence becomes unbearable. Your focus is nonexistent during the day as your mind continuously drifts off to the now blurred remembrances of a certain sea god, and at night you barely sleep a few hours without jostling awake, hoping to find yourself in his embrace once more.

The next day, you decide you can no longer go on like this. When the sun begins to set, you leave a hastily written letter of conjured up lies behind to explain your whereabouts before beginning your journey across town, where it ends at the sea. 

𓇼𓇼𓇼

You arrive at the docks a minute before your pocket watch declares it to be nine, so you pick up your skirts and run forward into the sand, kneeling down desperately where the water hits the shore. You watch the minute hand tick three, two, one second away… 

A faint tune begins to play as a dense fog emits from the sea, wisps of smoke curling around your figure like a phantom. You're motionless again, but this time you revel in the vulnerability. 

You watch in awe as the waves part and the man of your dreams saunters forward, an ethereal glow about him as the moonlight kisses his skin. Despite the lower body transformation, Rafayel looks just as he did all those nights ago, even more beautiful and radiant as his face comes closer into view. 

The fog falls away from your body as the sea god offers out his hand, to which you eagerly take it without hesitation. He interlocks your fingers before brushing your knuckles with a kiss. 

"It's time." 

You nod your head as he guides you forward, both of you walking side by side as the sea swallows you under its depths until you're completely submerged. The only trace left behind is that golden pocket watch sitting atop the sand, hands frozen forever at 9:00pm on the dot. 

ginny's note: y’all this was supposed to be a drabble piece... i've been getting lost in the sauce writing for rafayel lately (p sure i'm being possessed) alsooo this writing style is new for me! lemme know if ya like it (or not) :D @uzmacchiato for the divider

In the pouring rain, surrounded by flickers of lightning, his silhouette towered, advancing with a silent declaration. 

Lilac eyes embraced you, designed to hoard your being and consume you whole. Every moment of scrutiny provided intel he catalogued, features and habits you reckoned he obsessed over in the confines of his prison. Like now, when his eyes dipped to your sleeve, fixating on the marred skin of your wrist. 

His eyes narrowed, eyebrows furrowing as his lips distorted into a crude line, frustration prevailing over his composure. 

You had seen that look upon his face once, a few years prior. 

A gala hosted by your clan, one he had attended with blatant intentions. 

That night your eyes had never left his frame. He drank, he mingled, and he flirted. 

Rafayel, when adorned in the veil of seduction, was devastating. He toyed with femininity, and lured masculinity, governing both as his own. As you stood on the opposite end of the room, concealed by the conversing filth of aristocracy, you shamelessly stared. 

A man like that enticed like a sweet poison. One taste would be lethal. 

You weren’t a fool like the others who flocked to him like a moth enraptured by light. You kept your distance, paralleling his parade, making your way from one table of confections to another. When men approached, intrigued by your glamour, their attention barely tickled your desires. None had that dangerous smile, that smirk that made you want to lick and bite, delectable like a forbidden slice of chilled cake. And like that candied cherry atop that chunk of sugary delight, his lips would color, rubbed raw from your kiss. 

Not her kiss. 

Whomever had caught his attention had won his lips. Brazen, Rafayel kissed his latest interest with closed eyes, an index finger beneath her jaw, surrounded by a room full of spectators. 

He led her by his mouth alone, directing an act those around were captivated by. 

Including you. 

Jealousy scorched, catastrophic to the foundation built by your predecessors. It burned, and your hand found your chest, kneading the skin as if that itself might soothe the blaze. 

His tongue flicked, lapping at her bottom lip as his thumb pawed at her chin, urging her mouth to open. 

It did. A gasp escaped. 

Whether it came from your chest, or another’s, you wouldn’t know. 

His other arm wrapped around her waist, supporting her as her legs were robbed of strength, as feeble as the whipping cream you witnessed bakers in the kitchens beat and swirl. Baser instincts craved such a phenomenon, as no other had ever stripped you of your wits. While Rafayel had been privy to another man nibbling on various parts of your body, you had never made him yearn as intensively as he teased you. 

Rafayel’s kiss was sacred, his taste solely intended for your palette. Whether you would partake was an entirely different matter. Let him seethe in disappointment as you denied him, taunting him with ambrosial gloss and pleading eyes.

Your fingers grasped a fluke of champagne, the sparkling concoction sizzling the roof of your mouth. A welcoming distraction, yet not strong enough, not when Rafayel’s current fling was grappling at his strands of hair, knocking the hood of his leather overcoat onto his broad shoulders. 

Rafayel was sensitive there, you knew by how he would play with his own locks, tugging, eventually whimpering when his nails raked over his scalp. Alone, so desperate, fumbling to get his pants down his legs had been deemed absurd. The vent of his pants had been spread, his hand reaching deep to collect his length, poising it over the leathers across his abdomen. 

The raven-black gloves encasing his hand contrasted against the flushing crown of his cock. One bead of arousal slithered over his fingers, white as a pearl, remnants at the slit caught by the pad of his thumb to aid the slide. 

It was the same thumb that had pressed on your tongue earlier that day, hooking on your bottom row of teeth to yank your head to the side. You had bit down in return, indenting the leather. 

His hiss had cleaved through the air between you. 

“Was that supposed to hurt?” He had mocked, examining his hand with a tilt of his lips. Caged by the height of his frame, it was easy for him to rest the tip of his thumb against the crease of your mouth, wedging past your teeth to pet the valley of your tongue. “Why don’t we try that again, yeah?” 

He waited, patient, a predator hunting its prey. Even as saliva accumulated, dripping to collect at the curve between his thumb and forefinger, you both delayed. Your eyes rummaged through his gaze, running wild, exploring whatever he would willingly offer. Very little, if anything at all. 

The tip of his dagger threatened your ribs. With additional pressure, your posture stiffened, automatically rising in an attempt to evade the blade. But you refused to bite, to surrender to his whims. Victory was the last thing you would award him. 

He tutted, amusement swirling in the pigment of his irises. His pupils dilated, trained on you, spellbound. 

“Do you like this? Disobeying?” He pierced the leathers of your armor, not yet spilling blood. You flinched, an involuntary reaction you had hoped he’d never see. But as he had watched you since you could remember, your abandonment should be in his arms. “I said bite me, harder, I need to feel you till tomorrow.” 

Your hand encircled the blade at your side, squeezing until scarlet welled, warming your palm. The pain sobered. Exertion tore a cry from your throat, muffled by the grip he maintained over your tongue. You pushed his weapon away, launching from the wall to force him back. The weight of his thumb, now absent from your mouth, was missed. 

You swiped the back of your hand over your chin, clearing your face of any evidence. 

Rafayel chuckled, humored by your offense. His stare scoured your body, lingering at your lips, then your hand. 

His own tongue curled around his thumb, lips wrapping around the base, suckling until he reached the tip. 

“Every time you look at that vicious cut on your hand, think of me.” 

Then, he had disappeared, an expert in navigating the shadows and sins of night. 

In his room, you understood, mesmerized by his hand working the base of his length, rotating his wrist so his palm rubbed the thick veins sheathed by molten skin. If he were to offer his hand, you’d soak his glove from wrist to fingertip, kissing the planes of his palm, coiling your tongue through his fingers. If he wanted to pinch the tip of your tongue, and escort your mouth to his cock, you’d oblige. 

He hadn’t invited you to his bedroom, or this erotic display of sexuality. You had made yourself a participant via sly, nefarious means. Your hand was bandaged, throbbing where his blade had severed skin. You savored it, a souvenir provided by steel crafted for him. 

Perched on his nightstand, the moonlight streaming through his window accentuated the dagger. It had been flung, landing at an angle, elevated by miscellaneous items scattered. Such lazy discarding told a story of torment, as if he couldn’t wait another second to alleviate his ache. 

Laid diagonally across his bed, Rafayel was propped on a multitude of pillows, one leg bent at the knee, the other locked straight. His chest heaved with each pass of his hand. You recorded every reaction with intense eyes, hidden by an armoire. The perspective had been perfect, close enough you could note the sweat littering his face, yet far enough he would be unable to capture you. 

His pace increased, heels sinking into the mattress. The arc of his spine as he arched seared into your mind, concrete, etched into your memory. 

Rafayel whimpered, gasping as his hips bucked, ramming his length through his tight fist. He was teetering at the edge, if the greed in his movements was anything to go by. Words of encouragement dallied at the tip of your tongue, prepared to reason with his body, and inspire his release. 

“Fuck,” he gasped, tensing, shivering as he spilled, staining the dark colors across his abdomen. 

Languidly, he relaxed, chin dipping as he sighed. Glazed in lust, his eyes met yours, a satisfied smile gracing his mouth. 

That look of his, smug and seductive, was worn by him once more as he kissed his suitor. Their positions switched, his nose brushing hers as he slanted his lips over her mouth. His eyes opened, ensnaring you, the woman caught in his trap oblivious to her purpose. 

I know, he eyes relayed, that you’re watching. 

Humiliation threatened to wind its way through your frame, but just as you had with his thumb pressed to your tongue, you met his strike. You sipped more of your champagne, bracing your rear against the table, folding your arms. 

I’ll watch, you narrowed your eyes, challenging him, show me what you can do. 

This game you two had engaged in was ceaseless, and you had provoked him on instinct, as if simply breathing. What you couldn’t ignore was that weakness within, the fragment of doubt that had ripened with age. As priorities shifted, and autonomy was gained, questions flitted through your consciousness. 

Questions only one other would understand. 

That person had his hand underneath a woman’s dress, her hem bunched at his wrist, black glove stark against her thigh. Her leg climbed, hooking on the swell of his waist, settling him into the crux of her body. 

She clung to him, unabashed. 

Rafayel latched on with a mouth to her neck. He had looked away, eyes closed as he focused on brandishing the woman with a hickey.

Her hand danced around the collar of his jacket, the edge of her finger sneaking its way beneath the leather. 

Time slowed, the air seemingly thick and unfit for human lungs. You watched as her fingers swelled the garment, inching towards a location marked as your own. 

He wouldn’t. 

He would. 

You knew when her fingers found the scar at his shoulder, the raised line, jagged and imperfect, long and aged. Curiosity might have wandered her thoughts if her senses weren’t being ravaged, stimulated by a talented tongue. 

That was your only salvation - her lack of awareness. 

Because she was unknowingly venturing into a past, one that was shared by two, engineered to instigate an infinite, ruthless, inviolable bond. 

For sport, your parents had stood behind you, an array of weapons laid out on the butler’s cart. Rafayel had already chosen his, a dagger the length of his adolescent forearm. His parents were elated, unsettling smiles curling the ends of their mouths. 

You didn’t want them near you. If they stepped anywhere within your vicinity, you’d be tarnished. The same could be said for your own parents. 

Young and naive, you had equipped a sword, rationalizing the longer length would keep enemies at bay. 

It was pure luck your blow had landed. 

It was pure agony when Rafayel had screamed, his dagger clattering to the ground as his hand worked to staunch the bleeding at his shoulder. 

His revenge would come the next year, when he would be praised for slipping past your defenses. In your bed his palm would muffle your lips, his dagger sliding over your shoulder, carving an exact replica of the mark on his body. 

Your mother had chided you minutes after the attack, stitching your wound on a chair placed directly in front of the open window. 

Your mistake, she had pointed out, something to ponder. 

Much to her disappointment, your concern had fallen for a more trivial matter. Next to your pillow, your favorite stuffed animal sat, its button eyes unblinking. It was supposed to keep your nightmares in its belly, charmed by the local seamstress. 

Or so you had heard. 

Yet it had allowed one to come to life. 

On Rafayel’s tenth birthday, you’d leave it as a gift. 

You had to wonder if he thought back to such things when another touched his scar. You did, taking excessive measures so no other could come near it. Like the use of your sword, you had cast a bubble around it. 

Which led you to exit the gala. 

Another hand on his scar was like tar laid over your heart. Once hardened, it would render your thoughts, emotions, and logic useless. With Rafayel, it often resulted in your departure, the sight of him too difficult to bear. 

Pace hurried, you rounded the corner, out of the reception hall. The owner of the mansion who hosted the event had riches beyond any royal’s imagination. It showed in the expensive paintings tacked onto the walls, the wreaths of flowers hung upon railings and arches, down to the plush fabric of the rugs lining the hallways and common rooms. 

Art was a detour in your life you rarely took, mimicking actions of those you had stalked. Every once in a while you dressed the part, cooling yourself with a lace folding fan while bored eyes tracked brush strokes. Alone, you had no one to critique with. And even on your most desperate days, you refused to acknowledge Rafayel’s presence. 

Often, he’d blend into the crowd, prickling the back of your neck with his stare. 

As he was now. 

You hadn’t even reached the end of counting a minute before he was pursuing you. 

The phantom of his touch, how he might grab you, urged you forward. You had, after all, managed to upset him. Rafayel, throughout the years, angered when you didn’t provide the attention he chased. If you pushed far enough, his outbursts didn’t pertain to just you. 

It prevented you from running - the silent threats he aroused. 

His emotional surges belonged to you, and no one else. You would accept the burn of his blade, the grip of his fingers, the stern, frivolous look in his eyes. 

You shivered, diverting to another hall. This one was lined with doors on one side, a railing on the other, overlooking the indoor garden. Details you hardly cared for. 

Rafayel’s steps were obtuse, obvious to your ears. Such nuances were purposeful, he was as lithe as a cat, silent if he desired. This was a hunt, a type of play you both were raised to enjoy. Between the two of you, he excelled at prowling, natural in his way of observing. Some nights, you suspected he lounged in your room, watchful of your sleep. 

Perhaps he was even the reason lustful dreams manifested throughout your evenings. Marks on your body upon waking up gave such suspicions credibility. The most recent being a blossom of crimson on your wrist, crafted by skilled lips and ruthless teeth. 

You slowed your steps, heart rate erratic. 

“What a naughty little thing you are.”

His snarl tempted, voice depraved.

The leather of his gloves gripped you, his chest firm. 

Within his grasp, you ached. 

“You’re mine.”

Zayne

Having two evols was strange. On one hand, he could cool himself with the ice during the piping hot days, but on the other, he struggled getting into his clothes with the two sticks on his head.

Yes, his antlers were a daily issue, sometimes causing a strain in his neck when going to bed or accidentally bumping into things.

He was a temporary medic for a mission with the Hunters Association when he inhaled with an aroma— one that alters your anatomy and biology.

Luckily, it was just antlers, a small tail that could be hidden beneath his waistband, and deer instincts. Thankfully, he didn’t have hooves, or else work would be impossible, but man, was being around you a pain. He didn’t think the feelings he quietly hid away would put him out there anytime you were near, but they did. Still, he did his best to keep his composure, which meant keeping some distance from you.

Zayne was going through some paperwork when he heard a knock at the front door. He got up and scratched the base of his right antler as he walked out his office and headed for the door. He opened it, and saw you standing there, stopping himself from widening his eyes like he was in front of headlights.

“Hey, Zayne! I was nearby, and stopped at a cafe for some snacks. They had these new flavors of maracons and I was reminded of you, so I got you some!” You smile.

He clears his throat, feeling his body warming up, and nods slightly. “Thank you.”

He steps aside, and you’re a bit surprised, but you walk in anyway. He had been avoiding you for the last week, and you weren’t sure why, but some of his colleagues had mentioned he was also avoiding them, so you knew it wasn’t in your head. Everyone knew he got hit with the evol, but nobody suspected his behavior was because of that.

You stand off to the side and look straight at his kitchen as he closes the door. “You can just set them on the counter. I was looking at some paperwork from the hospital.”

“I wasn’t planning on staying long anyway. I’m hanging out with one of my coworkers in a couple minutes, but I just wanted to drop these off and check in on you.” You lightly shrug.

“Is it Tara?”

“Andrew.” you took your phone out to text him.

You were going to hang out with another man instead of him?

He ignores the jealousy fueling up, and nods. “Well I’m doing alright, thanks for asking.”

You softly step toward the counter, and set the bag of treats down. “Alright, well I’ll get going then.”

You nod, and turn back to the door when he calls out to you.

“Hey–” Your hand lifts and goes to grab the knob but stops.

“I know I’ve been… off… I’m not doing it because I want to, but because I need to.” You turn to him, and your gaze softens.

You look up at his head, the two bones sticking out in different directions then back at his face. “Does it… have to do with that?”

He hums, and gives a light nod. “Let’s just say my senses have heightened. I’m still me, but…”

You watch his eyes shift away, and his face slowly reddens. “Aw, Zayne! You’re blushing!”

He blinks and looks in the direction of his office. Anywhere, but you.

You step toward his couch, and sit down next to the arm rest. “Tell me what’s on your mind, doc.”

“I don’t want to waste your time. Your coworker will think you ditched him.” He fidgets with his fingers.

“You can never waste my time, Z. Come talk to me,” you whisper, and it makes his heart do backflips.

His eyes move down to the ground then back at you. He doesn’t want to ruin this— ruin the platonic connection between you two, but his urges were becoming hard to control, and all he could think about was mating with you.

Making you take his seed. Making you his.

He walks over to the couch and sits on the opposite side, far from you.

“Why are you all the way over there?” You blink.

He doesn’t look at you. He can’t. But he carefully scoots closer to you, and you watch him get increasingly awkward.

“Zayne?” His ears perk up, and his heart beats faster.

His eyes slowly move to their corners and look at you, and the gesture gives off an uncanny feeling.

“I’m sorry. I’m not feeling well,” he whispers, moving closer to you.

You look at him surprised, and don’t move as he gets closer.

Fuck it.

“I’ve… been thinking… about you. A lot, lately…” he whispers, keeping his eyes on the table.

You feel your chest warm up, and look down shyly. “Why?”

He lets out a soft sigh, and glances at you. “You mean a lot to me, you know? I’m not used to feeling these things… when I was feeling these emotions the first time, I forced them down, locked them away. But now that I have these… urges…” he moves closer, and your eyes widen a fraction.

“If I asked… would you let me touch you?” He stares deep into your soul, and your face warms.

“In that way…?” your eyes widen and you quickly catch sight of his hand lifting and pressing on your shoulder.

“I know it seems sudden but, believe me when I say that, I’ve had these feelings long before I got hit with this evol… it just made then come to light and I’ve been struggling to keep my distance…”

The Zayne you knew was no longer present, but a man with a burning desire; a man who was tired of being a gentleman.

“Zayne…” you whisper, and the little rope of restraint holding him back, just snaps.

~

The couch squeaks quietly from the rigorous movement on it. Clothes scatter around the coffee table, and on it, with their owners interlocked nearby. You bite your lip and grip the pillow as Zayne thrusts into you at a hurried pace.

“So warm… you’re perfect, my love,” he whispers against your back.

Your pussy squelches as his dick slides in and out, the juices building up and dripping at the gesture. Your sweet moans fill his minimalistic living room, uncharacteristic to the area. His hands slide down from your ass to your waist, and he arches your back more, needing to get deeper.

You yelp out and bite down on the couch’s armrest, whining and mewling as his length strangely thickens and elongates.

“Z-Zayne! Oh god, y-you’re so deep!!” Your cry muffles with the fabric in between your teeth.

His pace becomes sloppy, and before you know it, he harshly pushes into you, letting you take in the heat of his seed as it fill your womb that aches for him. He groans loudly against your shoulder and bites down on it— not too hard, but hard enough to leave his teeth markings.

Your eyes roll back, and your legs shake as you cum with him, squeezing his dick impossibly tight. The two of you lay there, trying to catch your breaths, but Zayne isn’t Zayne if his stamina runs out. After his short break, he changes your positions so you’re straddling his waist, and slides back in, holding you up by your ass.

You whimper, and grip the thickness of his antlers, peeking over your shoulder and watching him fuck your filled cunt. He tilts his head down and attacks your neck, kissing, licking, biting all on it. You’re surprised at how he hasn’t broken into a sweat, let alone slowed even a bit.

“When you told me you’d be with that man… I-I tried not to get jealous…” your tightness suffocates him, and he feels like he’s about to pass out. “But fuck, I don’t want any man around you except me… I’m… s-sorry for my selfishness, love…”

Hearing Zayne curse makes your body heat up more, and you moan against his lips. Your hips move on their own, going up and down his length before stopping and grinding against him. His arms tightly hug your waist, wanting no space between you two.

“Stay with me tonight… tomorrow, forever… stay by my side…” you gently bounce up and down, staring in his eyes after his hands cup your face.

“Be mine…” and who were you to deny your crush of nearly 14 years?

Caleb

He sat in his office on Base, watching you from a few cameras somewhere in Skyhaven. You came up to visit him for the weekend, and were going around the city to find stuff to do, stuff to see. A guy got a little too close for Caleb’s liking, and he was forced to watch you smile and laugh with the stranger.

His jaw and fist clenches.

The summer heat had been doing numbers on this animal evol he accidentally got a few weeks ago, and it was making sll the feelings he tried to force down, come bsck up and show themselves. He had a primal urge to just… breed you. Scent you, make everyone in this fucking world kneo you were his, and his alone.

He wanted a wall— no, a room— of nothing but pictures you fucked out because of him; covered and filled to the brim of his cum and nothing else.

It was his way of marking his territory.

He watches you write something down, he’s assuming your number, for the loser, and hears a knock at the door.

“Enter.” An officer steps in, informing him the vehicle is ready.

Looks he’ll be paying you and your little friend a visit.

~

You head for the park after stopping by the cafe for a cup of coffee. It was your first day on vacation in Skyhaven, and you wanted to take your time setting in. You turn the corner and bump into a stranger, nearly spilling the latte onto him.

“Oh gosh, I’m sorry! Are you okay?” Your words rush out as you stare at him.

“I’m all right. Thanks,” he softly smiles when he looks at you.

You take in his features, including that smile, and feel a bit shy. You move to walk around him, but he follows your direction and calls out to you.

“I was wondering if you’d like to go out for coffee some time? Not now of course because you already have one, but… you’re really pretty and I’d like to get to knoe you.” His words flutter your heart, and you awkwardly laugh.

“Oh, thank you, but I’m not from here, and I’m only here for a week before I head back home.”

He nods his head understandingly. “So, is that a no?”

You blink. “I mean, I can go on a date with you, but it won’t be this week because I’m on vacation and would like the alone time.”

He takes out a piece of paper and pen from his shirt pocket and slowly hands it to you. “Could I have your number then?”

You look at him a bit surprised, then think how this is your first time being asked out without Caleb lingering around or ruining things for you. You stuff your coffee between your arm and breast, and quickly write your number down, then hand him back the pen.

“Thank you… I’ll text you later, yeah?” You nod and bid him farewell before you two part ways.

You weren’t aware that a few street cams had been watching the interaction closely, with the person behind them calmly seething and calculating his next kill.

~

You sat on the bench, and drink the coffee, watching the birds fly around and kids playing with each other. The cherry blossom trees bloomed beautifully, stretching up to the sky in a bushy and perfect shape.

Your ear catches the sound of footsteps approaching, and you don’t bother looking at the person until they stand in front of you. You stop midway of taking a sip and slowly move your eyes up from their boots to their face.

“Caleb?”

“Where’s your friend?” His calm yet cold voice brings shivers to your shoulders.

“My… friend?” Your hand lowers the coffee from your lips.

“The one you were just chatting with.”

“He’s not my friend. Just some stranger I bumped into.” He hums.

“You give him your number?” You freeze.

“How did you know that?”

“Lucky guess.” He shrugs before grabbing your arm and pulling you up.

“What the hell, Caleb?!—”

“It’s Colonel. Watch your tongue.” He hisses as you get dragged to his vehicle.

“Ugh, let go of me!” You thrash under his grasp, forcing yourself to not look around at the bystanders watching.

You get pushed into his sleek black SUV before he climbs in after, and the cars jerks forward.

~

Your coffee was long cold and tasted gross by the time you two got home. You set it down on the counter and stomp to the guest bedroom.

“Where are you going?” His tone from earlier was replaced with a softer and curious one.

“Don’t fucking talk to me.” You don’t bother to look st him, and walk into the toom, slamming the door.

He sighs, and closes the front door, taking his shoes off. He stares at the hallway you were just in, like he’s contemplating what to do next. His tall figure slowly creeps down the path, before making it in front of your door.

“Pips—”

“Shut up! I’m so fucking annoyed right now. I don’t wanna talk to you!” You yell from the other side, getting undressed.

His jaw clenches and he huffs. “Don’t be like that, please. I’m just trying to keep you safe.”

You stomp over and rip the door open. He looks down at you wide and sad puppy eyes then takes his hat off. The pointy, hairy ears immediately pop up then flatten back against his head. His eyes quickly trail your figure, seeing the previous outfit had been replaced with a t-shirt and shorts. He tries hard to keep the growing boner at bay.

“You’re protecting me from getting a date? Protecting me by embarrassing me in public?”

“You know it’s just an act. I never willingly want to hurt you—”

“Bullshit, Caleb! Every single time I’m talking to a guy, you’re there, being weird and totally unsupportive!”

“Because none of those guys deserve you!”

“You say that about every guy I’ve talked to! And that’s more than I can count on both hands!!” Your arms cross. “How did you even know I was there?!”

“I was watching the cameras, pipsqueak.”

“Well, stop doing that.” You go to slam the door but his hand presses on it.

“You know I can’t do that. I have to make sure that you’re safe.” He barely uses strength to push the door open.

You turn to stomp away, but he reaches out and wraps his arms around you.

“Let go of me.”

“No… I miss this.”

“You don’t deserve this. You ruin everything every time I try to do stuff, you’re always there raining on my parade.” You squirm in his embrace.

He turns you around and grasps your forearms. “Do you want to know why I do that?”

You glare in his eyes.

“Because I love you.” He says like it’s the last thing he’ll ever be able to say.

“I love you so much. You’re my world, my heart, my angel. Every thing I do is to ensure that you stay that way. These guys— none of them deserve you and I meant that. I’ve risked my life, all so I can come back to you—”

“I didn’t ask you to do that—”

“Don’t say that.” His tone hardens.

It falls quiet momentarily, and you just stare at each other.

He pulls you close, with your chest touching his abdomen. “I can’t keep pretending to be your best friend when I want to be your boyfriend… y-your husband.” He whispers the last part, his eyes filled with all the adoration and need in the world for you.

His pokes out of his pants and rubs against your thigh. His ears remain flat against his head after spilling his feelings out. “I can’t let you be with anyone else because no one will go lengths to love you like I will, and I know that’s a fact.”

His heart thrashes harshly in his chest. The fear of rejection weighs on his shoulders heavily, but he will have you, one way or another.

“Caleb…” you blink twice, letting your head tilt down as you look at the ground.

“Now you know… why I act the way I do… now you know why I won’t stop… cockblocking you and getting in between you and these randoms… I want you. I need you, more than them.” His voice cracks as he pulls you completely against him, wrapping his arms around your waist.

“… you’re such a puppy… so clingy and needy.” You spat in his shoulder, patting his back.

“Love me… please, angel.” You pull back a bit to stare at him.

You can admit that you had some feelings for him, but at the time, you couldn’t tell if they were what you had always felt or were something different.

But looking at him now, you see he’s no longer your Caleb, but a Caleb that’s been hiding his true self from you for years, all because he’s ached to fulfill his one wish of mating with and loving you.

~

Your eye glaze over as you watch his dick push and pull inside you. Your feet dangle over his shoulders as he towers over you, resting his forehead on your shoulder and watching the sight below.

“Fuck, you feel so good, princesss. Hhhh, shiiiit!!” He whines, his tails wagging happily. “A-Always knew you would, but this… this is beyond what I imagined… ngh!!”

The bed creaks and shakes violently as his thrusts get deeper and faster, with him needing to be inside you completely, and not just by his dick either.

His arms swiftly curl around you along with his body as his orgasm rushes in, giving you a few more fast thrusts like the dog he is before settling deep inside and releasing his hot knot. He huffs and whimpers, thrusting the cum into you like a toy pussy.

“N-need to be inside… all the way… ‘s not e-enough…!” He pants as his dick jumps and balls twitch.

He has to be under your skin, had to breathe inside you, Live in you.

Because being balls deep is not enough. He needs to physically feel and see your heart beating, the blood and cells moving through your veins and organs. A Caleb without you is not a Caleb at all, especially if you’re with someone else when he is and isn’t around. He doesn’t want anyone else in your life except him. He can give you everything your heart could ever desire— love, sex, money, worship.

You don’t even have to ask, just exist in his space.

And he’s all yours.

Sylus

He stood at the window of his bedroom, watching outside. He invited you over for a little meeting, but you told him you were busy elsewhere and couldn’t make it.

Silly, kitten. Don’t you know he always gets what he wants?

His phantom tail sways in a way like he’s waiting for something, and as if on cue, the door of his bedroom opens. In come the twins with you being held in his grasp.

“What the hell, Sylus?! I said I was busy!”

He doesn’t turn right away, and just takes a sip of his wine. The bittersweet flavor settles on his tongue before he speaks.

“Leave.” Is all he says, and the twins gently let you go before departing and closing the door behind them.

You stare at it for a moment then look at him, agitated and confused. “What the fuck is this about?”

He turns to finally look at you, and takes in the sight. A dress he bought you for your birthday a couple years ago, sits perfectly on your figure with heels that shouldn’t be worn outside, but instead, in the bedroom.

He sets his glass down, and steps toward you, but you hold your ground.

“I was wondering what could possibly be making you busy, considering it’s your day off.” His deep voice rumbles out.

“I didn’t see you with any friends, you weren’t in your house or at any store... I let Mephisto go and check on you, and he shows me you’re… on a date?” He almost grimaces.

“Why does it matter to you what I do, Sylus? I’m a grown woman with a life. I’m not always doing hunter shit or going on undercover missions here.” You snap, resting your hands on your hips.

He takes more steps forward before standing in front of you, and pulling you close by your waist. “It matters to me when you’re wearing an outfit so sexy and scandalous, but going on romantic outings with some peasant.”

His red eyes stare deep into yours, like he’s holding your soul captive. Your eyebrows furrow, and you force your mind out of the gutter, turning your head away from him. “You know it’s funny. When I first met you, and you made me find that brooch, I asked you if you did all that shit because you liked me. And you know what you said?”

“Clearly, you’ve read to many fairytales.” The flashback plays in both of your minds.

“From that moment on, I knew this wasn’t anything but business. No pleasure, just business. On top of that, why would I waste my time on an arrogant man who lets everyone know he’s untouchable? Who lets everyone know that he’s better than anybody in the damn world? Why should I ever compete with my lover on anything?” Your voice softens, but your glare is very much the opposite.

You move to turn away, but his arms shift, curling around your completely under your abdomen. “Let go, Sylus.”

He doesn’t say anything, and lets his head settle in the crevice of your neck. “I didn’t realize you felt that way.”

You don’t speak and stare at his bedroom door. You can feel his heart thump against your shoulder, and sigh.

“Kitten, you never have to compete with me. With you, you always win. I’ve been at your mercy since we laid eyes on each other. You could hurt me, and I’d still want you, your love, your heart…. You really don’t know what you do to me, do you?” He whispers in your ear.

You feel a breeze near your leg, making you look down to find nothing there. But, it feels like something’s wrapped around it.

He nuzzles his nose behind your ear and growls. “When I saw you with him, I wanted to show up and kill him right there… how dare he take you from me…”

His arms move back so his hands can slide over your stomach. He tikts his head down and stares at your breasts. “I wanted to take you on that table, in front of all those people… let them know you’re mine.”

His lips press softly on your neck, and you unconsciously give him more room to go at it. Your jaw clenches as you feel your nipples harden and panties getting wet.

“I’ve tried to keep my urges at bay… but it’s hard when all I want is to stuff you full with my babies.” He harshly turns you around and throws you over his shoulder with one hand.

“Hey! Put me down!” You punch his back, wiggling around.

He lays you on his bed, and you crawl back, with him crawling toward you. Your back hits the headboard, and he stops just a few centimeters from your face.

God, he’s so… massive.

Your face and body heat up as your mind imagines what it’d look like if the two of you were naked with him on top of you.

“You don’t need to imagine it,” he breathes out, darting forward and capturing your lips for himself.

You didn’t even tealize his right eye was glowing, let alone realize that you thought that, but there’s no stopping him now.

~

Your nails dig into his bare back as he steadily thrusts into you, kissing and biting your neck. The faint bruises litter around the skin, creating a beautiful sight of his claiming. You cry on his pillow as he stretches you out wider than any man or toy ever, but the pain feels so good.

Your left hand crawls up into his hair and grips the strands, keeping his head against your neck as he takes your body and soul for himself.

“I-I’m coming! Sylus…!!” You yelp when he slams into you and groans against your shoulder, biting down on it.

The sensation is too good to stop now, and he flips you both over, putting you on top of him and straddling his waist. Your body’s weak from the strenuous movement, but he’s not done with you. You whine as his fingers mold into the curve of your head, lightly gripping the strands as he fucks up into you. His hips stay raised as his tail slowly slighters up and wraps around your waist, claiming you as its own too.

“You’re all mine… our souls have been bound for centuries…” he growls as your walls squeeze him when he confesses.

“I’m never letting you go. You cannot get rid of me that easily, sweetie.” Your mind fizzles as you blankly stare at the ceiling.

Your pussy drips down his length and balls with bits of white substance slowly oozing out, and your hands scramble behind you to grab onto his thighs. You find some stength to move on your own, and start bouncing on him, making him move his hands down to your waist and watch you with devotion and lust.

His orgasm surges through once more and he quickly pulls you against him, tightly hugging you as he cums again. Your body trembles as your own pleasure overwhelms you, and your arms hug his neck. After so long of waiting for his mate, he finally found her and captured her again.

And he would not let her escape for another time.

Rafayel

The canvas stood idly in his living room, with some marks of color stamped in ways that created a beautiful work in progress. He’s staring at the image, having known what he wanted to paint earlier and quickly picking up the brush.

Rafayel knew he was drawing you, but not just in a cute or majestic way. It was now a painting of you in a questionable position, one that only adults could look at. He spent too much time detailing your pussy— or what he assumed it looked like— the cum peeking out of your hole with drops of it on the fabric, your expression when he filled your womb, and the obscene sight made the scales under his skin glow brightly.

Rafayel knew from the moment he met you 4 years ago that you were his bride from centuries back. But remembering the catch of keeping his homeland alive forced him into isolation, wanting nothing romantic to do with you— to keep you at arms length. He didn’t want that incident to happen again, nor did he want his people suffering.

And it would’ve worked, had his creature instincts, of wanting to repopulate his homeland, NOT gotten in the way, and practically make it impossible to be away from you. While he did try to stay nearby more often, he found that you were being avoidant, and he didn’t know why.

“Miss bodyguarrrrrd, come see meee!”

“Miss bodyguard, you’re always so busy! Is this how you treat your clients?!”

“Miss bodyguard, give me attention, now!”

You became annoyed by Rafayel always blowing up your phone, and your boyfriend wasn’t taking a liking to it either.

“Why is he always texting and calling you?” He asked one evening.

“It’s just my job as his bodyguard. He gets needy and wants attention sometimes.” You shrug it off, scrolling through the movies on the TV.

“Does he not know that you have a boyfriend?” That’s when you froze.

No, Rafayel didn’t know you were in a relationship. For some reason, you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him. The thought of saying so brought a feeling of unease to you, and you kept the truth a secret.

“Yeah, but he’s just… annoying kind of…” you rub the back of your neck. “But the pays good so…”

Your boyfriend didn’t push further, and just snuggled you close to him as you both watched the movie.

~

It’d been a week since you didn’t read any of Rafayel’s texts or answer his calls, and he was fuming. Usually, he’s the one to do that— not to you, never to you— but being on the receiving end of his typical behavior— and it coming from you— was getting to him, fast. He stares at the blank canvas, having replaced the old, used one with a fresh new one.

He kept… painting things he hadn’t seen before. Scenarios that a paranoid boyfriend would make up if his girlfriend went out in without him, and something told him to go check on you. He left the house around 2:32 PM, and headed to the beach. He watches the seagulls flying around, fighting over food and trash, sees a couple of people running around or running into the water.

He was searching for you in these people.

He looked over at the water and felt that pull.

Two people were hugged up, and chatting well inside the water, and as he looked closer, is intuition was right.

It was you, and some lousy human he assumes is your boyfriend. Funny, he should be calling himself that, not some lame mortal.

He steps closer to the shore, and stares at you two, watching you laugh as the guy kisses your shoulder snd neck. His fists slowly clench, and before he knows it, he’s walking into the water. He gets far enough before diving under and transforming into his 10 ft tall deity form, feeling his emotions clash with the body of liquid and weather. He hears the thunder muffle underwater, and feels the shift as rain randomly pours down.

Rafayel sees you two swimming back to the shore, and quickly moves closer, grabbing your lover’s ankle and pulling him underwater. You don’t hear the attack as the sound of rain and the water swirl together, drowning out the sound of your partner’s voice. You get onto the shore and rush under an umbrella nuzzled in the sand, and turn around, only to see your spouse missing.

“Max?” You yell out, looking around for him.

Rafayel swam away from the gruesome scene, after sharks and other predators surrounded the human, who was now their snack. The sound of the creatures fighting each other for it fades away the closer he gets to the shore. You walk toward the water, calling out for your lover, but still don’t see him. A part of you feels worried, and you move to go back in, but a hand grabs your wrist, causing you to quickly turn.

“Cutie? What are you doing out here? You’re gonna get sick!” He pulls you away from the water, going back to his place.

You panic but let him take you, still looking behind for your partner; the distance between you and his disintegrating corpse rapidly grows at the speed Rafayel’s walking in.

~

You sit on the couch with an oversized towel over your back and a cup of hot tea on the coffee table. Rafayel steps into the living room with a pair of pants on and a towel on his head from having gotten out the shower.

“Why don’t you go shower? You’ll get sick if you stay like that, cutie,” he smiles a bit, taking a seat next to you.

“I should get going. I have work to do,” you stand up to leave but his words stop you.

“Work? But Jenna said you’re off the next three days.”

You slowly turn and look at him. “You spoke with my boss?”

“I’ve been looking for you, and you don’t talk to me, so I had to start somewhere.” He puts his hands on his hips.

You stare at him for a moment then turn to leave but he’s quicker and darts in front of you, stopping you from leaving.

“What’s gotten into you?! You’ve been acting really weird lately, and it’s getting annoying, Rafayel.” You cross your arms.

“I’m acting weird? You’re the one avoiding me! You didn’t even tell me you had a boyfriend!” You gawk.

“Why should I have to tell you that?! It’s none of your business, ANYWAY!!” You shift your weight into your left leg.

“It’s my business when my bride is getting cozy with some pesty mortal! … It’s my business when my Queen is getting frisky when some guy that isn’t me!”

“What the FUCK are you talking about?! We’re not even together, Rafayel!!”

“Because you didn’t give me a chance!!”

“Why would I give you a chance when you’re so in your head?! What made you think I’d EVER give someone like you a chance?!” You scream. “I’m just your bodyguard, nothing else!! So why does it MATTER?”

He stands there, feeling that power course through him once more. His eyes close and he steps towards you. “It matters because you’re mine. You’ve been mine for over 8 centuries, and counting. The Fates have already written ours, so why bother trying to change it?”

You glare at his glowing eyes, then look away. “I knew something was off about you… I just couldn’t figure out what.”

“That’s why you hid having a boyfriend from me?” He quietly hisses.

“You didn’t need him anyway,” he gets closer, “you have me. I’m the only one you need, pearl… just like you’re the only one I need.”

You shake your head and move to leave but he grabs you and holds you close. “Let go of me, Rafayel!”

“Not until you feel it… feel the connection our souls have to each other… you never needed him or anyone. Only me…” his voice softens; it echoes with soundwaves that flow to your ear and make you feel woozy.

You pant and shake your head, covering your ears, but it’s no use.

“You can’t escape. Your place is here, by my side.” His hand comes up and grazes your cheek as his voice lures you in.

Like a siren to a sailor.

“Stop… d-doing that,” you hisses, pushing him away and trying to leave.

He barely opens his mouth as a high frequency sound flows from it, striking your eardrum and making you clutch your head in pain.

“You belong here.”

No…

“This is your home now, my bride~” his words echo in your mind.

“You’ll learn your place soon enough.” He comes around you and lift your head by your chin.

He forces you to stare in his eyes, and you feel yourself being put into a box.

“You just… need a little… push.”

~

Your clothes were misplaced on the ground with tears and holes all throughout them. The oh-so-merciful Sea God gave you another chance to do the right thing, and now you rested on your knees. Sucking his two lengths.

“Mmmm, just like that, my treasure…” he hums lowly, stroking your disheveled hair.

The light makeup you wore was now messed u on your pretty face, giving the impression of a crying and distressed woman.

You look so beautiful in his eyes.

He wants to paint this sight— you on your knees sucking his cocks like you were meant to.

Tears, from straining your throat, trickled down your cheeks and dripped onto your bare tits, along with the saliva-cum mixture bubbling up from the sides of your mouth.

“Tastes good, doesn’t it, my pearl? They’re all yours to enjoy for eternities to cum.” He giggled quietly, watching you worship his mythical dicks.

Their angled and flat tip rested on your tongue one at a time as you switched between sucking them off. He sighs happily, and tilts his head back, tightening his grip on the back of your head.

“I’m gonna fuck your throat now. Be a good girl, and take your Sea God’s seed.” His voice rumbles, and brings that ache in your pussy to the surface.

Both his hands hold your head and move it up and down his shaft. You whine and gargle the thick, top cock, rolling your eyes back as it’s tip his the back of your throat. He moans loudly, and you look up to see scales shimmering brightly under his skin.

“Fuck, I’m g-gonna cum. Swallow every drop when I say to!” He thrusts faster, moving your head at the same time.

Your hands hang at your side as he used your mouth for his own pleasure, before he stops. His hot seed burns your mouth, too much filling the small, warm hole and shooting up your nose. Your nose nuzzles in his neatly trimmed pubes as the white essence leaks out, and he slowly pushes your head back, admiring his thick dick inside your mouth.

“You’re so perfect… I really am blessed to be in your existence, my sweet gem.” He whispers adoringly, pulling out completely.

Your mouth and eyes close, and he taps your cheek. “Show me.”

You open your eyes and look up at him, slowly opening your mouth and revealing it full of his nut.

“Fuck…” is all he says as he stares.

Your eyes water and let the last bit of tears slide down your cheeks as he says, “swallow.”

You close your mouth and carefully gulp down the large, salty load, shivering at the taste and texture. He pets your head then pushes you face down onto the ground.

“Good girls get rewarded, don’t they, honey?” He whispers condescendingly, rubbing in between your slick folds.

“Y-Yes, sir!” You tremble when he thumbs your clit.

“My fingers slide in so easily… you got wet just sucking off your God, didn’t you, cutie?” He chuckles.

You whine and cry, and he pulls his fingers out, replacing them with his upper dick. You both sigh, as he stretches you out and mounts you like a dog.

“This is where I belong. Deeeep inside you, reviving the motherland.” He kisses your back, then pulls out halfway before slamming back in.

He pushes hard until his tip presses against your cervix, and the sensation makes you squirt.

“Goood girl. Make a mess on me and my floors. Show me you know your place.” He growls, as his balls slam against your clit.

You become a moaning mess for him, and he arches your back by gripping the back of your head and pulling it back. You’re forced to look up as he looks down at your face.

“I’ll make you worship these cocks until they’re the only thing on your mind.” He presses the side of your face against the side of the couch, giving you the view behind you.

“I’ll make you whine and cry for me to never leave you… just like I did when you died back then…” he hits that spot deep inside you just right every time

“I’ll make you love me forever.”

If only you had known back then, that taking this ‘job’ as a bodyguard would result you in your freedom and sanity being taken.

Xavier

You sat on the grass staring up the stars. The heat calmed significantly during the night, and the prickly grass felt good, for once, against the bare skin of your arms and thighs. You found this hill while hiking one day and saved the location as a spot you go to when you wanted to get away from the responsibilities of an adult.

Your sweet friend and neighbor, Xavier, had been blowing up your phone, wondering where you went and why you weren’t answering, for the last 3 hours. You ended up turning the device off, but you didn’t know that only upsetted him.

You see, when spending time with an animal for so long, they grow attached. They get clingy, and can develop separation anxiety, so you can assume that happened with Xavier.

The man had the behavior and traits of a bunny, but one thing for sure was that you had a hard time saying no to him. Maybe it was because he could give you that look any cute animal could give when they did something bad. But with Xavier, he’s done many things as your friend and neighbor, you let it slide every time, until now.

You realize that it wasn’t a good thing to withdraw accountability from him. He was a grown man after all, and thinking “no! Xavier would never kill someone just because!” was the worse thing you could do. You found out your ex-crush went missing, and was found dead, shortly after the two of you ran into the bunnyman. You hadn’t notice, at the time, that Xavier was acting weird whenever you brought the guy around, and a part of you still blamed yourself for his death. You found out later that Xavier was the one who killed him, using his light evol— he manifest a celestial spike and stabbed it into his heart. He claimed it was self-defense, the camera footsge painted it as such, so you had no choice to believe him. But his behavior following then had gotten stranger too.

There was CCTV footage in an alley he dragged your crush into, and you only found that footage during an investigation regarding smuggled Protocores. Of course, you were the only that knew it was Xavier from a few tiny details, but when the Association and police saw it, they couldn’t figure out who the perpetrator was, let alone did they care.

You watch as a shooting star passes by and you close your eyes, concentrating to make a wish. The sound of crickets chirping and trees swaying with the light breeze flowing over you brought peace and tranquility for a while until you heard footsteps. You turned and looked but didn’t see anything or anyone. Once you felt calmed, you turned back around, only to find Xavier sitting next to you, inches away from your face.

“FUCK! What the hell, Xavier?!” You screech, putting your hand on your chest.

“I’m sorry. I kept texting and calling you, but you weren’t answering,” his soft voice flutters your heart before you snap out of his trance.

“Mm mm, nope! How did you find this place? How did you even know I was here?!” You cross your arms.

“My light has a way of finding certain footprints, even with shoes.” His long ears sway a bit and he softly smiles. “I missed you.”

“Xavier, this was supposed to be alone time for me. We’re always together, you know?”

He pouts, and looks at you confused. “Why would you want to be alone? Why is it so bad that we’re always together?”

“Because we both live different lives and have different wants and needs. Sometimes, I don’t want to sleep all day or bed rot.” You sigh.

“Then we can do other things. As long as we’re together.” He says casually.

“Xavier, I don’t always want to be around people. I like my alone time.”

“But being alone means I’m not with you. Don’t you care about me?” He whispers, his eyes dilating.

“Xavier—” you’re cut off by a ball of white clouding your sight.

He lays his head on top of your chest, and wraps his arms around you. “This is nice. Xavier likes this very much.”

“Xavier, get off. It’s too hot to be hugging up on me snd shit,” you quietly hiss, trying to push him off.

You both end up falling back onto the grass, and he climbs on top of you. Your eyes widen and your hands rest next to your head.

“What are you—” his hands crawl up your stomsch and cup your underbust.

“Do you know how hard it is to act fine when you’re not around? … It’s like… I can’t exist without you, I can’t live without you…”

“What are you talking about, Xavier? Get off.” You try to push him off but he’s quick to grip your wrists under one hand.

“One part of me knows you need your space; knows that I can’t keep you to myself like I want to… but the other part tells me to keep you to myself… to never leave your side no matter what…” he whispers.

“Xavier…” you look up at him conflicted.

“You know I love you so much, right? I love you like the stars do to the night sky… you’re too precious for me to just let go of.” He leans down and you turn your head.

“I-I didn’t know you felt that way… but please get off.” He looks down at your rising chest, watching the covered mounds lower then rise again.

“Would you let me…?” Your eyes shift to his.

“Let you what…?”

“Suck them, love them… worship them?” He nuzzles his face in your cleavage and your head falls back on the grass.

“X-Xavier, please! This isn’t… ideal!” You squirm under him.

“What do you mean “not ideal”? I love you, why can’t you love me?” He pouts, looking like he’ll start crying.

“I-I haven’t moved on from what you did to Anthony…” a shift happens behind his eyes, and he stares up at you, barely.

“Why are you still holding onto him? He was weak. He didn’t deserve you. But I’m here.” His hand cup your face.

“I’ll take care of you and love you like you deserve… worship this gorgeous body like the temple it is… make you my moon Goddess.” He rests his forehead against you.

“I can’t keep fighting this… I need you.” Is the last thing he says before diving down and kissing you.

Your eyes widen and fists clench, pressing on his chest yo push him back. He cages you underneath him, and continues devouring your sweet lips, feeling his pants tighten.

“Oh, Star…” he whimpers quietly, but yelps when you bite his lip.

He pulls back slowly, letting the pain simmer. “You like biting, huh, Starlight?”

He unbuttons his sweater and peels it off, while you watch with anticipation and excitement—

Wait what?

He hums as his hand lean down mess with your top. “No one will see us… I made sure of that.”

You stare up at your friend, your neighbor, and realize now that the prey he once was, turned into the predator, but maybe he had been that all along.

~

You lay on your back as Xavier crushes you beneath him. His dick slides in and out so easily from all the clear liquid you squirted on him, making the traction of his length between your walls create a loud, squelching noise. Your tits jiggle with every push, and he leans down to grip them, sucking and biting the pebbles in their centers.

“X-Xavier…” is all you can whine, clenching your toes tightly and biting your lip.

The moonlight shined on the two of you, exposing the obscene sight to any curious animals. You whimper in sync with each kiss his tip gives your cervix, and cry at the overwhelming pleasure.

“See? Now you know what I’m capable of. Now you know how good you can feel every. single. day.” His hands grasp the tops of your feet, keeping them against the sides of his head.

His ass slams onto yours once last time then he rolls his hips, grinding the stickiness into your womb for a third time. You both roll your eyes back, and you hug him tightly.

“You’re doing well… taking my seed, helping recreate Philos… ugh gods…” his head falls back as he keeps grinding into you.

You squirt on him, and he moves his hand down to rub your clit.

“Keep going, Star. Keep feeling good. You deserve to feel this… only by me.” He whispers, kissing your lips once more, tasting the blood from earlier.

He rests his forehead against yours again, and stares at your closed eyes, having nothing, but love and adoration for his Queen.

"Hello? Is someone home?"

A melodious voice rang from outside. Though faint, it caught your attention. 

Holy shit, his voice is hot!

Startled, you got up and almost ran to the door before remembering your outfit. Grabbing a random shirt, you stumbled messily towards the entrance while simultaneously putting it on.

"Um, hello? Wait, is no one here right now…?"

The man's words drawl out as you open the door. In your haste, you accidentally slammed it, creating a loud bang! You would have been wallowing in embarrassment right now if not for the sight in front of you. By the gods, this guy has to be one of the hottest people you know. White, glowing hair reflecting off the sunlight like a halo; clear, cyan eyes that shimmer like the sky; tall, lithe yet athletic physique judging by the muscles clinging to his tight shirt; and that strong, pretty face that gives off an attractive, boyish charm.

In a daze, you didn't catch yourself staring until the man waved his hand in front of your face. Blood rushed to your face in embarrassment at being caught ogling a random stranger. Before you can apologize, he just laughs like it's something amusing. And dear god, even that chuckle made your heart flutter. In your ears, that bright, cheerful sound felt like music.

Can someone really be this perfect?!

The man hands you a small box. You don't even know when you extended your arms, but he dropped it on your palms. It was warm.

"The name's Phainon! I just moved in today. What's your name?"

Meeting Phainon was like meeting a real-life Prince Charming. He's kind but not a doormat, confident but not arrogant, and friendly but not pushy. Since that day he gave you the meal, you've both exchanged numbers and have been in regular contact ever since. In the mornings, you'd greet each other on the elevator. You eventually came to learn that he's recently transferred to your university, studying Aerospace Engineering. He's also in the campus debate club — and a good one at that. Sometimes, in campus, he'd cheerfully ask to join you for lunch when you're both on break. Of course, you'd never reject him (why would you? food is best eaten when admiring a pretty face), scooting over for room while ignoring your friends' teasing glances.

The guy's a literal ray of sunshine. He's funny, handsome, and extremely reliable.

Especially the last one.

Today, the pipes in your bathroom gave up and randomly burst. Thankfully the landlord was quite a nice lady and immediately took the initiative to call over a plumber without blaming you. Unfortunately, luck was not on your side because for some goddamn reason, all the ones in your area were unavailable today. Unfortunately, this means she'd have to close the supply valve to prevent further flooding. The only silver lining is that it's only the sink pipe. Were it anything else, you'd look like an old woman with deep wrinkles from how much you're frowning.

Thank the heavens because Phainon — your dear, ever reliable neighbor Phainon — offered to help when he heard about it. Here he is in your bathroom, inspecting the pipes. 

Phainon.

In. Your. Apartment.

"Hm…"

"Is that a 'hm?' or a 'hm?!' ?"

Phainon chortled at your comment. "Perhaps a bit of both. Partner, these pipes might need a little bit more help. I need my equipment for this."

"Oh god." You buried your face in your palm, groaning at the thought of paying extra to fix it. If it's as bad as Phainon said, then it definitely wouldn't be cheap. Just imagining how much you'd have to shell out already gives massive headaches. If he can't fix it, you're doomed.

"Is it really that bad..?"

"Well, we wouldn't know until we try, right?"

Phainon stood up from crouching on the ground. "I might spend some time here to fix it. Will that be okay?"

"Oh, yes, of course—"

Suddenly, a stream of floating comments like in live streams appeared right in front of your face beside Phainon. More and more came every second making them difficult to read, but you were able to catch some of them.

bigphailover231: Oh my god, this is when he installs cameras in her bathroom!! BABY'S FIRST ACT <3333  strawberry_cupcake: OJMGGGGG IM SO EXCITED!!!!!!!!! imjusthere: you guys enjoy this???

Fuck, are you hallucinating right now? Was it from the two redbull cans you drank this morning—

Wait. Cameras?

"Partner, you good? H-e-l-l-o [Name], you're dazed right now." Phainon waved his hand in front of your face, tilting his head at your expression, looking amused. "If you're not comfortable with that, that's fine. I don't want to force you."

bigphailover231: 'I don't want to force you' TOP 3 BIG LIES OF ALL TIME LOL

Yeah, okay, I'm definitely going insane right now. First, there's no way comments can appear out of thin air. Second, Phainon would never do that. Goodness, I need to sleep!

"Sorry, I'm just a bit tired. Go ahead! Thanks, Phainon. You're a really big help."

Phainon returned your smile with one of his. Like always, it made your heart flutter. However, as you return to your room and Phainon went back to his to get some equipment, you can't help but feel a tiny knot form in your gut.

Initially you tried to dismiss it as some energy-drink-induced hallucination. All you needed to do was stay off Redbull and Monster drinks for the next week— and maybe getting some actual sleep. However, as the days pass into weeks, they just continue to appear. Most of the time it's when you talk to Phainon, but sometimes you'd catch them in the corner of your eye. You've never been a believer of the supernatural even as a kid, but now you're starting to seriously doubt it.

Campus? A glimpse from somewhere over the other side of the lecture hall.

Random cafe? A blur from the next booth.

Groceries? A chime from what you assume to be an influx of them.

Every single day, you'd either see it or hear it and it's driving you insane. You don't know when it started but your attraction for Phainon faded from admiration to a now-settling, deep uneasiness. You really, really don't want to doubt him, but the sheer accuracy of these comments are making it impossible not to. If these are just hallucinations, then why the fuck are they so accurate?

In the middle of the campus lecture, when the professor finally gave a break, Phainon 'accidentally' bumped into you.

waitingfornewscenes: yeah no, this guy changed classes just for [Name] LMAOO needforSPEED: bro couldn't have chosen a better excuse?

"Hey, partner! Didn't know we have the same professor, haha! I had to change classes because of some issues. Wanna study together?"

In the cafe while hanging out with friends and trying new sweets, Phainon came out from the next booth and looked 'surprised' when he saw your group.

yadayadaaaaa: COINCIDENCE MY ASS????/ next he'll say 'i didn't expect to see you here!' i bet omfg imjusthere: holy stalking

"I didn't expect to see you here. You like this cafe too? What a coincidence!"

In the supermarket getting groceries, he'd be there buying vegetables too. 'Coincidentally' he's not buying much and would be willing to help.

bigphailover231: offering to carry groceries??? day 10 of manifesting a man like Phainon… real life is a scam </3 strawberry_cupcake: right there with you, sis </3

Each and every time this happens, that tightness in your gut grows larger and larger. When you remembered the comments talking about hidden cameras, you desperately scoured every nook and cranny of your small apartment to look for them. You closed all the lights and investigated by shining the phone flashlight everywhere carefully, watching for the telltale glint of those lens. When you found two in the living room, one in the bathroom, and three in the bedroom, you almost vomited right then and there. Unfortunately, when you reported it to the cops, they said they can't do anything about it because 'nothing happened.' That moment lost your little trust for police enforcement completely.

Slowly, you started to withdraw from friends and going outside in general. Just the thought of seeing those comments or hearing its notifying chime brings undeniable anxiety. If you could, you'd stay the hell away right now and couch-surf with friends. Regrettably, they're all strapped for cash right now and couldn't afford another roommate. Plus, this was already the cheapest single-bedroom apartment without being absurdly far from the campus. And even more, you can't just move out and find a new apartment with roommates because you can't afford it. In other words, you're doomed.

But as much as you want to stay at home, the bills don't pay themselves. Thankfully, your part-time work didn't involve much customer service so you could stay in the kitchen rather than the front register. However, it only barely helps with the paranoia. You didn't want Phainon to be suspicious of your changed behavior so you tried to distance yourself subtly. His puppy-dog eyes glistening with unshed tears and hurt would have moved your heart if not for the comments floating beside his head.

It was late at night when you finally returned home. The skies were dark and only the street lights illuminated the area. Desperate to save as much money as possible, you practically ran speedwalked back to your apartment. The moment the door closed was also the moment you finally breathed a sigh of relief. Tired, you shrugged off the black jacket onto the floor and didn't even bother picking it up. Taking off your shoes, you immediately went to the bathroom to brush your teeth. And when that was done, you sluggishly dragged your body to the safe haven of your bed to finally get some rest.

Exhaustion finally caught up as just laying on the bed for a few minutes, beneath a blanket and surrounded by pillows, was enough to pull you to sleep. Your eyelids felt heavy and you were about to welcome the soft embrace of dreamland when, suddenly, a familiar sound chimed in the air.

In that very moment, your body stiffened as your eyes snapped wide open.

You looked around frantically, careful not to move too much. However, as your eyes scan the room, the sinking realization that he couldn't hide anywhere settled like ice in your veins. First off, you're not rich enough for a closet. Second, there isn't any furniture big enough to hide behind. Which means…

Ding!

Ding!

Ding—!

…He's right under your bed.

His collection of other weapons — his signature dagger, a mini crossbow, a musket you never knew he used, and a silver revolver — are still settled by his thigh. It’s a lot of weapons that he has. The thought that Lohen intentionally swaps between them to kill most efficiently makes you grimace again.

“Mhm, what’s not workin’ out?” 

Lohen’s reply comes easily. It carries an easygoing amusement that makes your heart constrict in guilt. But you know you cannot afford to be soft with him anymore — there’s a sense of resolution in your chest about the fact that you’re going to leave him tonight.

“Lohen.”

His name comes out sharper this time, and the vice captain finally turns to look at you. He raises a confused eyebrow, shrugging at your sudden firm tone.

“I don’t think our relationship is going to work out anymore,” you muster out, trying to sound more resolute about the decision. Even so, there’s a hint of shakiness in your tone, and you know for sure that your boyfriend can sense your ambivalence.

Lohen gives you a delayed, lopsided grin, fingers pausing at the tip of his spear. You can tell he’s not quite sure if you’re messing around with him or not.

“Heh, you’re funny! Did Varka put ya up to this so he can get back at me? Tell the old man to try harder.”

Silence fills the room, and you wince at his disbelieving words. That’s when Lohen realizes that you are, in fact, not messing around with him for the sake of Varka.

That you really, truly, want to leave him.

“Look,” you sigh, working up the courage to explain your feelings. “I know Jean and Varka make these executive decisions, and I know you’re perfect for these kinds of tasks, but I can’t help but feel weird when you’re mercilessly killing every soul you see during your missions. It’s one thing to fulfill the Grand Master’s requirements, but it’s another to flaunt the genuine joy you felt when you murdered every single guard at that underground auction.”

You’re rambling now, trying to force all the words out before you must witness the disappointment that you’re sure is plastered on Lohen’s face.

“Don’t you see we’re not the right fit for each other? We have vastly different goals within the knights, and it seems to me that your only goal is to obsessively seek more power–”

You cut yourself off, unnerved by the lack of reaction from Lohen. When you dare to look at him, there’s a blank, frozen expression on his face. You don’t like how you’re unable to read him. You don’t like how his usual easygoing smirk has vanished, replaced by a clenched jaw.

Most of all, you don’t like how his crimson eyes are flat and dead.

When you were younger, you loved reading in Favonius Library. The romance novels you often indulged in would always describe a character’s anger or disappointment with things like “a shadow fell across his face,” or “her expression darkened.” In the past, you had laughed at the absurdity — how cliché and inaccurate! However, right now you think those sentences perfectly describe the terrifying expression on Lohen’s face.

You curse, suddenly feeling an immense, suffocating guilt wash over you. He hasn’t moved an inch or said a word, yet that blank expression on its own wrenches an apology from your heart.

“Fuck. Lohen, I’m sorry.”

He tilts his head back slightly, looking down at you through his lashes. The way his bangs fall across his forehead messily makes him look younger, yet also a little more unhinged.

“Hah…you want to leave me?”

Lohen’s voice comes out shaky and brittle — strained, so unlike the effortless manner in which he usually addresses you. It feels as if he might cry, yet not a single tear streams down his face. You think it’s a result of the numbness he’s used to feeling.

Lohen pushes himself off the couch, grabbing the revolver he still hadn’t cleaned. It’s a rusty red from his previous victims at that underground auction; now, you think it’s about to be painted with your blood, too.

He doesn’t point the gun at your head.

Instead, Lohen presses the cold barrel firmly against his temple, eyes wide and manic. He’s smiling so unnaturally that it petrifies you into staying frozen on that bloody carpet you previously couldn’t stand.

“No.”

“No, no, no. You can’t. Please don’t. Please don’t leave me.”

Desperation seeps through his words as he steps closer and closer to you, fingers shaking around the handle of the revolver. 

“I’ll kill myself if you leave me. I’ll blow my brains out right here. I will, I really will.”

Lohen tilts his head against the gun, pressing the barrel even deeper into his temple. The cold metal bites into his pale skin, but he doesn’t care.

“Hate me with all your heart. Curse my name. Despise the very air I breathe. I don’t care. But please, just do it while you stay by my side.”

Dread seeps into your skin as his finger tightens against the trigger. His words are coming out fast and uneven, and you barely have time to process what he’s doing. His eyes are bloodshot, and the utter desperation in his words makes your heart drop cold.

You’re too scared to leave him.

Lohen knows that this is manipulation, but he doesn’t care.

💉 ————————————————— 💉

Jiro Kirisaki:

Jiro always knew this would happen.

That was the worst part.

Everyone else hoped.

Jiro prepared.

The curse required sacrifice.

Life demanded payment.

And he had spent too many years studying death to believe miracles came free.

So when your memories disappeared, he didn't scream.

Didn't cry.

Didn't beg.

He simply sat beside your hospital bed and accepted reality.

The same way he accepted everything else.

Quietly.

Alone.

The problem came later.

When he realized acceptance didn't stop the pain.

You met again almost six months later.

You didn't recognize him.

Of course you didn't.

Jiro had expected that.

What he hadn't expected was how much it would bother him.

You smiled at him.

Introduced yourself.

Held out your hand.

As though you'd never kissed him beneath the stars.

As though you'd never fallen asleep beside him in the infirmary.

As though he'd never loved you.

The irony wasn't lost on him.

He spent years surrounded by corpses.

Yet somehow losing your memories felt worse than losing you entirely.

At least death was final.

This?

This left room for hope.

Hope was cruel.

The more time he spent around you, the worse it became.

Because you still laughed at his jokes.

Still worried about him.

Still scolded him for forgetting to rest.

You were still you.

Everything he loved remained.

Except the memories.

One night, after catching him working far too late, you dragged him outside for fresh air.

"You need a break."

"I don't."

"You look awful."

"I always look awful."

"You admit it?"

"I've never denied it."

You laughed.

The sound made his chest ache.

Because he knew that laugh.

He knew every version of it.

And yet you looked at him like a stranger.

The silence stretched.

Then you asked softly,

"Were we close?"

Jiro's heart stopped.

You were staring at him.

Waiting.

Searching.

Maybe some part of you already knew.

Maybe some part of you remembered.

Jiro looked away.

Toward the moon.

Toward anything except you.

And answered honestly.

"Very."

Nothing else.

Because if he said more, he wasn't sure he'd be able to stop.

⛓️ —————————————————⛓️

Sho Haizono:

The first thing you noticed about the man standing outside the food truck was that he looked exhausted.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

Like someone who had spent months carrying something too heavy and refused to put it down.

You had become accustomed to strangers looking at you strangely ever since waking up with no memories. There were always people who claimed they knew you.

Old classmates.

Neighbors.

Friends.

But this was different.

Because the second Sho saw you, the coffee cup in his hand slipped from his fingers.

Neither of you moved.

The cup hit the pavement.

Coffee splashed everywhere.

Still neither of you moved.

His eyes widened.

Not with surprise.

Relief.

Pure, overwhelming relief.

Like he'd been searching for something for so long that he'd started believing he'd never find it.

"...Senpai."

The nickname felt strangely familiar.

You couldn't explain why.

Just hearing it made something ache inside your chest.

Unfortunately, nothing followed.

No memories.

No recognition.

Nothing.

The hope in his expression shattered so quickly it nearly made you look away.

You hated that look.

The look of someone realizing they weren't remembered.

"...Sorry," you said quietly. "Do I know you?"

Sho froze.

For a long moment, he didn't answer.

Then he laughed.

A short, humorless sound.

"Nah."

The lie was obvious.

Even to you.

But he didn't elaborate.

Instead he stepped closer.

Studied your face.

Almost as if he was checking whether you were really there.

Whether you were real.

Whether you were alive.

Because for months he'd lived with the knowledge that forgetting him was the only way you could survive.

And every single day he'd wondered if saving your life had been worth losing your love.

Looking at you now, breathing and smiling and alive...

The answer should have been yes.

So why did it hurt so much?

Days turned into weeks.

Weeks into months.

Sho kept showing up.

Sometimes with food.

Sometimes with coffee.

Sometimes for absolutely no reason.

At first you thought he was just friendly.

Then you realized he remembered everything you liked.

Your favorite meals.

Your favorite drinks.

Your habits.

The little things.

Things nobody should know.

One evening, while the two of you sat beside the food truck watching the sunset, you finally asked.

"Why do you keep looking at me like that?"

Sho nearly choked on his drink.

"...Like what?"

"Like you're waiting."

Silence.

The answer came quietly.

"Maybe I am."

You turned toward him.

He was staring at the horizon.

Not you.

"Waiting for what?"

Sho smiled.

A sad smile.

The kind that came from loving someone long after they'd forgotten how to love you back.

"For you to fall in love with me again."

And for the first time since losing your memories...

Your heart skipped a beat.

❄️ —————————————————❄️

Lucas Errant:

The first thing Lucas did when he found you was cry.

Not dramatically.

Not loudly.

Just quietly.

Silently.

The kind of crying that happens when relief and grief collide so violently that your body doesn't know which emotion to feel first.

You hadn't even realized who he was.

He was simply another student on campus.

Polite.

Well-dressed.

Charming.

The kind of person who smiled at everyone.

The kind of person who made everyone feel comfortable.

You remembered liking him immediately.

Which only made things worse for him.

Because you liked him.

You just didn't know why.

"Have we met before?" you asked one afternoon.

Lucas nearly dropped the book he was holding.

The question had become a familiar torture.

He heard it often.

Sometimes from you.

Sometimes from himself.

A thousand different versions of the same impossible wish.

Do you remember?

Do you know me?

Do you still love me?

"No," he answered softly.

Another lie.

One he hated telling.

Because Lucas valued honesty more than almost anything.

Yet every conversation with you felt built upon secrets.

You didn't know that he'd held your hand while you slept.

You didn't know he'd sat beside your hospital bed for weeks.

You didn't know that the ring hanging from the chain around his neck had once been meant for you.

He never took it off.

Not even now.

One rainy afternoon, while helping him gather books he'd accidentally dropped, your fingers brushed against the silver chain around his neck.

Something glimmered beneath his shirt.

"A ring?"

Lucas immediately covered it.

His expression changed.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

A flicker.

A wound reopening.

"Was it from someone special?"

You regretted asking the moment the words left your mouth.

Because suddenly he looked like he couldn't breathe.

"Yes."

The answer came immediately.

Without hesitation.

Without thought.

Because some truths refused to stay hidden.

"Very special."

You nodded.