⚜️

Queer hobbyist writing for the love of the game.

Content is 18+. Minors, DNI.

Currently writing LADs fanfics related to either Sylus or Rafayel (Crowfish Truther!!)

Primarily a nonmc / oc writer in 3rd pov because I love a good character analysis exercise. I tend to use "nonmc" and "oc" interchangeably. Unless otherwise stated, the characters I write have little to no description of appearance.

AI tools are not used in my works; please do not feed my writing to AI.

Comments and engagement with my works are encouraged!

Notice: This blog is a safe and respectful space. I do not tolerate any racism, homophobia, or any and all forms of hate/bigotry on this page. If you do not agree or like the content presented, do not engage.

AO3: My tag is sonderdays.

Complete Works:

The Burden of Loss, Ao3 (Rafayel x nonmc, Sylus x nonmc)

Potent (Crowfish Oneshot, NSFW)

Quick Learner (Crowfish Oneshot)

Every Last Line (Crowfish Oneshot, NSFW)

Ongoing Works

Steadfast (Rafayel x nonmc)

Etterath

The Lemurian race's safety was at a critical status, and Ever's political influence jeopardized any chance at a peaceful existence. Rafayel, a gifted Lemurian oblivious to his godly past, dedicated his life to rescuing his endangered people from the N109 elite's trafficking ring. He planned on putting an end to Ever's immoral experiments on Lemurians by stealing their greatest asset: the Aether Core. However, his logistical approach had been tampered with. A mysterious newcomer's influence shifted the N109's social hierarchy, disrupting Rafayel's networking connections. Rafayel must confront the man to blame; if he was not going to be an asset, then the threat must be handled.

Pt. 1

No AI training.

Between Ever’s pursuit for Rafayel and Sylus’ waning time on Philos, confrontations were inevitable. They soon realize that it wasn't just secrets that caused emotional distance—it was their own fears. 

CW: crowfish (rafayel x sylus), angst, descriptions of injury Word Count: 2.5k

The pressure in Sylus’ eye was a dark reminder that he was destined to be incomplete. It was a curse that festered and burned with a guilt he never asked for, never knew the reasons for, but stuck like tar in a pitiful attempt to seal a deep gash. 

He never received an answer. A clear, solid reason behind the lonely nights he spent recuperating from dreadful nightmares. Visions of his impending death that drenched him in deep red and stained his skin as a warning. Dark chants and hallucinations that lingered in the dark crevices of his subconscious to warn him that his time in this world was seeping through his fingers like clumped sand. 

All because he only had a shard of energy that cradled all that was and what could be. The Aether Core wasn’t meant to be broken, but it was the reality he lived in. 

Slouched on his bathroom floor, fresh blood dripped from his eye and onto the stained patch on his clothed chest. The Wanderer’s laced talon narrowly missed his heart but pierced through his sternum. 

He let it happen for Rafayel, who was stunned by his sudden appearance at the time and unaware of the impending consequences. 

With gritted teeth, Sylus wiped his glowing eye as he felt the laborious ache of cells repairing themselves. This was the slowest he ever healed, red mist meekly resealing the pierced skin and traumatized nerves. 

The process was humbling, time-consuming, painful— an inconvenient sensation he never experienced to this extent. The implication scared him, leaving sweat near his browbone and eyes lidded from exhaustion. 

Then a knock on the door. Light. Unsure. 

Guilty. 

He closed his eyes, the discomfort worsening as he felt the heavy waves of anger shake his weakened frame. 

This wouldn’t have happened if Rafayel was honest. 

He remained quiet, too distracted by the healing process. The bleeding stopped but more metabolism than usual was being burned to seal the wound. His eye, once passive and strong, now protested with an ache that rivaled his bones. 

There was no mistaking the heavy sigh from behind the door, soon accompanied by the sound of a back sliding down the polished wood. 

Sylus would scoff if he had the energy to; the assassin used to take any opportunity to leave once an altercation was resolved, but now he wanted to stay. 

Though his heart was unharmed, it still cramped like it had been. 

Long, arduous minutes passed in silence. There was too much to process, too much left unsaid that now caused issues. The trust he thought he earned was now being questioned. How could they go about this? How could he resolve this if the other still planned to hold a front? 

Did his confession mean nothing? 

By the time he opened his eyes again, he heard pacing outside the door. Back and forth like a clock, consistent and telling that time had passed. 

Sylus didn’t bother looking in the mirror as he ran cold faucet water, cupping his hands underneath the stream to splash onto his face. Swirls of red repeatedly gathered and disappeared down the drain after each rinse before he grabbed a towel. 

His chest didn’t hurt as much anymore, allowing him to pull the soiled shirt over his head and carelessly throw it in the trash. Wiping the blood off his chest stung every time he went over the fresh scar. 

Rafayel ceased his pacing the moment Sylus opened the bathroom door. His mask was gone, replaced with balled fists and sharp, calculated eyes haphazardly looking him up and down. 

The man seemed stuck on words, too caught up in an inner monologue that Sylus desperately wanted to be included in. Instead, he was left questioning and soiled by his own doubts. 

“You’re still here,” Sylus acknowledged, tone low and weary from the weight in his chest. 

Rafayel said nothing, gaze honed in on the new scar— a raggedy reminder of his last-minute save. If Sylus wasn’t in the right place, the assassin would’ve become an unconscious body hooked to machines and monitored by Ever’s knowledge-hungry scientists.  A test subject to study, much like the Lemurian victims he desperately wanted to save. 

Rafayel blinked once. Then twice. Fists continuously lost circulation as he stood his ground before him. 

“Reckless,” he said with a slight crack on the last syllable, “and now you’re….” he swallowed, jittery pupils looking away before he continued with a grounded tone, “they’ll be dealt with.” 

Soon after he was stabbed, Sylus dematerialized them away from the conflict. However, it caused a level of strain he was not prepared for. The moment they fell into a hallway in his base, Sylus disappeared in the closest bathroom. 

Not to hide, but to reflect. 

Sylus took an unhurried step towards him. Then another. Each advance had a heaviness behind it, a cliffhanger with an unplanned resolution. 

How could they resolve this? 

At the last minute, he angled his body to pass Rafayel, shoulder gently grazing the rough fabric of his. He quietly made his way down the hallway—actively making sure he walked straight— and soon made his way to the living room within his private wing. 

The room itself was consumed in shadows while the only source of light was from fog that reflected the hidden moon’s glow. He didn’t need to see in order to make his way to the large, curtain-less glass pane with ease. 

There was not a moment where he questioned if he were being followed; Rafayel may have mastery in silence, but not in masking his presence from him. 

Sylus eventually spoke, eyes hardly taking in the view of the N109.

“Tell me why they’re after you.” 

He already knew the answer but hoped to hear it from the source. However, an eerie silence was his response. Sylus stayed grounded, unwilling to crack, turn, and ask again. 

Eventually, Rafayel spoke, “I get in their way to keep Lemurian’s out of labs. You know this.” 

Sylus winced, “wrong answer.” 

Stating the obvious was not going to help; what Sylus needed was a confession ripped from the root that would reveal the story in its entirety. If Rafayel had no intention to be earnest, then everything he had done for him would’ve been pointless. 

“There was no reason for you to follow me. It would have been fine—“ 

“Rafayel.” He turned. The assassin ceased his excuses, jaw tense from the way Sylus looked at him. 

He didn’t need an excuse. What he needed to hear was the truth from the source.

“Tell me,” he pressed. 

He responded carefully, “I did.” 

Sylus pointed to the scar— a pitiful trophy for his selfless act. “Not enough to explain this.” 

This seemed to get him. Hands loosened in favor of fistfuls of plum-colored hair. Rafayel briefly turned away, too caught up in a mental blockage. All Sylus could do was watch, wait, hope that he’d finally come clean. 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered after a moment, turning back to him and meeting his eyes. “I wish I knew you’d be there.”

Every minute he delayed, the more Sylus felt distant. His lungs released air as if it were burdensome. 

“I wish you’d tell me the truth,” he said, unable to look him in the eye. When he turned back to the window, he was relieved to not see the glassy reflection in his eyes. It made it easier to halt the emotions. 

He stiffened when he felt a light hand on his shoulder. It seemed cautious— almost like it was testing the waters. 

“Sylus…” Rafayel said with a tone as unsure as his touch, “What could you possibly mean by that?” 

With pressed lips, Sylus turned and took a hold of his wrist. There was nothing special about his veins, as if he could even see them clearly, but he stared at it until he mustered the strength to look Rafayel in the eye. 

“You’re not human.” 

His blood was so precious that there were offers under the table he had to quietly squash. It was the reason Ever always managed to find him. It explained how Rafayel was able to track so many Lemurians despite how rare and masterful they were at hiding. 

Above all, it validated why the assassin would throw himself into Ever’s mouse traps for the thrill. 

Rafayel stilled, eyes slightly widened as if he recognized where this was coming from. He didn’t want to pull teeth, but the Lemurian proved to be so stubborn that Sylus had no choice but to yank the truth out of him. 

One more flicker from his chest to his confronting gaze, then his eyes narrowed as if Sylus suddenly lost access. 

“Neither are you,” he exposed, causing Sylus to be the one caught off guard. 

Rafayel yanked his wrist out of his hold before he stormed out the room. For a moment, Sylus tiredly watched, mind blank from being dumbfounded. He wasn’t expecting a sudden turn in the confrontation, a push into icy depths of seawater that made him frigid with realization. 

Rafayel had always been keen, but Sylus was confused as to why he wanted to validate his secrets by accusing Sylus of hypocrisy.

He was the one who earnestly helped him, even if his methods were unconventional. 

He was the one who made sure they were on the same page because he wanted his trust above all else. 

He was the one who saved him from an ambush and was injured because of it.

It left a bad taste in his mouth and the ice in his veins thawed into dissatisfaction and irritation. 

How could he just push himself away like this? 

Before Rafayel’s back disappeared past a corner, Sylus launched himself after the man with sure, heated steps. Their exchange echoed in the empty halls. 

“It’s reckless to keep secrets like this,” Sylus called out as he followed him through, “even more to just push me away.” 

“Rich coming from you!” Rafayel scoffed without looking back, “you do not have the privilege to be this nosy.” 

“If I wasn’t, you’d be dead in their trap.” 

“If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be injured.” 

“But you would be,” Sylus huffed, hardly containing the frustration he felt as they got closer to the entrance of the base. “Then they’d have your blood and do everything you’ve fought against.”

Rafayel’s pace never waned as Sylus spoke. “It’s not that simple,” he snapped, a few strides away from the front door. 

“None of this is simple.” 

“Then why do you care so much?!” Rafayel demanded. He turned around in a blind fury. “Just stop!”

“No.” His rough refusal reverberated around them. Rafayel stilled, eyes wide as he registered the defiance. The air stilled as they stared at each other, chests heaving for different reasons. 

“What do you mean no?” Rafayel asked as his face contorted in disbelief. 

With a slow shake of his head, Sylus closed his eyes. “It won’t change,” he told him, “no matter how much you disagree.”  

Sylus confessed his feelings to Rafayel within the ruins of an abandoned factory. There was a light drizzle with frequent breaks, but the droplets that gathered on top of overgrowth and rusted metal reflected the evening light. 

Neither of them rushed to go home, too busy reflecting on the skeleton of a Lemurian they found inside. What was once a hunch turned into a somber revelation, and Rafayel was too distressed to move from a metal ledge that jutted from the side of the building. 

Of course Sylus stayed with him, and the two sat and watched the parts of the sunset that were not blocked by thick, gray clouds. They were in the same spot by the time the stars began to poke through.

“There’s no reason for you to stay here,” Rafayel told him.

At first Sylus was going to remain quiet, but having an excuse to admire his features changed his plans. He turned his head away. 

“I do have a reason,” he replied. 

“Which is?” 

“You.” 

That was what made him look up, eyebrows furrowed in alarm. Sylus made sure to remain composed and confident as Rafayel stared him down, but he kept his clammy hands pressed into his pants. 

Rafayel didn’t say anything and left soon after. Sylus tried not to linger on the perceived rejection for too long. 

The flashback ceased when he felt pressure on his shoulder blade. Sylus looked down to see Rafayel’s forehead lightly pressed onto it, expression further hidden by the lack of light around them. 

“You could have died because of me,” he whispered into his shoulder. He felt flutters in his stomach, too nervous to move in case it would snap them both out of a trance. 

Sylus lowered his head, Rafayel’s hair tickling his bottom lip, “but I didn’t,” he murmured. 

Rafayel rubbed his face with his hand. “Doesn’t matter. Next time isn’t guaranteed.”  

With a small grin, Sylus gently butted the top of his head with his cheek. 

“Doesn’t matter.” 

Rafayel raised his head and lightly grazed Sylus’ sealed, raised skin. “Then tell me why this scar is still here.” 

His first, official scar. Sylus felt a pressure in his eye, the chilling reminder that his time was limited. It was too difficult to muster a single word. 

Rafayel frowned, the disappointment blatant in his features. “It goes both ways,” he whispered before stepping back and turning away from him. 

Sylus didn’t allow it. He wrapped an arm around Rafayel’s waist before pulling him back in front of him. He pulled away in favor of cupping Rafayel’s face with both hands, and without a second thought, leaned down and kissed him. Neither of their lips moved, but Sylus’ eyes were closed tight, too afraid to peek and see his reaction. 

Every second that passed felt like an eternity; he knew that he was using nothing but borrowed time. However, at that moment, it didn’t matter to him. Having the chance to be this close to him-- the utter relief that he was not in Ever’s grasp- was one he didn’t want to let slip from his fingers. 

He felt something moist on his cheeks. Every thought crashed from guilt, alarm, and worry. Sylus instantly pulled away with an immediate apology at the ready. 

Before he could utter the first syllable, he felt hands cup his cheeks and pull him back. 

“Don’t leave me,” Rafayel uttered into his lips. “Ever.” 

The night he arrived home after confessing, he hardly moved away from his office desk. It was easier to distract himself with mundane tasks than to sit with the fear of rejection. When daylight came, he laid in bed patiently waiting for even a crumb of exhaustion to hit him. 

It never did; the next evening soon followed and Sylus restlessly turned in his bed no less than a hundred times. A few more days passed before he radically accepted that he may have overstepped his place in Rafayel’s life and was eager to pretend that nothing happened. 

However, he still occasionally daydreamed about what it would be like for Rafayel to say the words that he eventually said a few feet from the entrance to his home. 

The taught muscles in his shoulders loosen and release into a sigh as they kissed again. 

It soon became a memory he would replay like a broken record. 

© songergaze 2026

MDNI. No AI training.

A greedy businessman overdue for a wake up call invited the Onychinus leader to a birthday celebration. Sylus knew the perfect gift--and an even more perfect artist--to commission to make his petty vision come true.

CW: oneshot, crowfish(rafayel x sylus), sexual tension, powerbottom!rafayel, switch!sylus (sub leaning), pwp, heavy smut, oral, anal, spit/saliva, biting, edging, sylus sluts himself out, condescending dirty talk, brief aftercare, subtle yearning

Word Count: 5k

There were many bastards Sylus had to play his cards right with, but one in particular was extra careful with his hand. Onychinus would be the leading trader in protocore-infused gadgets if it weren’t for the CEO of a weaponry distribution company causing roadblocks for the thrill of it. 

More and more patents were bought by his company which lead to distributors once amicable with Onychinus stating strict loyalty to their new boss. Brute force would be a no-brainer if it weren’t for the complex political systems running underneath the guise of ‘contracts’ the greedy pest forced many to sign— an audacious move considering the nature of N109. 

Despite the inconveniences, Sylus was willing to be patient. It paid off when he unexpectedly received an invitation from the CEO; a birthday celebration blatantly organized to stroke his ego. 

It was then that Sylus began to listen to his petty impulses, and hell he might as well. He had no qualms throwing a card down when it could potentially lead to a perfect window for brute force in order to proceed with his overall plans. 

And part of the plan involved completely indulging in this pettiness to his heart’s content. 

Sylus primarily saw Linkon through Mephisto’s eyes over the years, the digital surveillance swooping through streets cluttered with civilians too busy on their phones and traffic to notice the sly crow. Having knowledge of the layout gave him constant advantages during unprecedented dealings; one of which involved cracking the code on a particular assassin’s double life. 

Rafayel’s day job involved owning a quaint art studio in a forgettable section of downtown Linkon. Foot traffic was minimal and Rafayel was seldom present, but when he stepped through the glass doors he wouldn’t reappear for hours. When Mephisto spotted Rafayel’s commute the day after the birthday invitation graced his desk, Sylus was quick to materialize within the territory. 

The concrete thudded from Sylus’ sure steps as he rounded a block and pushed the doors open, taking in the unremarkable interior design with disinterest. Whether it was Rafayel’s art or not, it was becoming apparent each second why he chose not to be in here often; the overall vibe reminded him of performative, forgetful showings he had attended for show. The only details that made the space slightly intriguing was the fact that Rafayel’s art was meticulously placed throughout, his elaborate signature marking each canvas. It made Sylus wonder what the design of his home could be and if it showed off the same fiery themes as his temperament. 

He hoped he could find himself knocking on his front door soon. 

The epoxy echoed under his footsteps as he made his way through the art studio. His only lead of the man’s whereabouts was the fervent clicking of a keyboard in a back office. Sylus saw the back of who he was looking for, hunched over a computer screen and completely oblivious to his presence. 

Leaning against the doorframe, Sylus couldn’t help himself from taking in Rafayel’s appearance. He was dressed in a way he had never seen before; loose-fitted dress shirt accompanied by slacks and shoes made of what he presumed to be high quality fabrics. It was a complete contrast to the dark apparel that hid the blood he spilled in the N109; the mask he wore hid all but eyes that threatened him on more than one occasion. 

However, it never stopped the notorious crimelord from playing with fire. He had yet to get burned. 

“Do you make all your clients wait?”

Sylus purposefully added an impatient bite to the end of his sentence to ensure he received attention. It did the trick; Rafayel’s back straightened as his head swiveled in his direction. The amount of sunlight that came into the office was a sound choice; for the first time he saw purple hues mixed with the dark blue that reminded Sylus of a distant galaxy. Tiny beauty marks were peppered onto his smooth skin which led his gaze down to parted, shocked lips; a nice tint of pink that complimented the hues around his irises. 

It was a shame Rafayel mostly hid behind a mask and shadows within the N109, but he could now see why he needed to hide such expressive features. 

Sylus was taken out of his stupor when Rafayel gripped his arm with lightning speed and yanked him further into the office. Sylus’ back caused a light thud against the wall shared by the doorway. Even though he had some height over Rafayel, the man’s dissatisfaction practically loomed over him. 

“We work with credible clientele,” Rafayel said, hand still clutching his arm while his face contorted in irritation, “and criminals do not fit the standards.”

As far as Sylus was concerned, he was only an eager client hoping to work with a renowned artist. He couldn’t help a light chuckle from escaping, narrowed eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Not only do you make potential customers wait, but you profile them too?” He gently pried Rafayel’s hand off his arm, leaning down to invade the artist’s space a smidgen more. “What will the critics say when I report discriminatory, ironic services?”

His favorite assassin’s jaw clenched as he yanked his hand away in order to press an accusatory finger to his chest. Sylus felt a gentle flutter in the cavity when he noticed the reddened shade of Rafayel’s ears.

“What are you getting at?” he demanded. 

There was an unspoken rule that Linkon was off limits to N109 residents. Discretion was critical for those who could afford to toe the lines between the two regions. Too much interaction would risk the Hunter’s Association catching a strong whiff of illegal dealings that were meant to stay below the surface, one of which involved the nepo-bastard CEO who wanted to stake his claim in the weaponry game. 

There was no doubt in his mind that Rafayel was well accustomed to the politics of it all, and Sylus knew that his impromptu appearance during his secret day job crossed a nerve. Sylus was too petty to care about the unspoken boundary being tested— a favor needed to be fulfilled. 

With a smirk, Sylus pushed himself off the wall and walked around Rafayel in favor of leaning against the office desk with crossed arms. 

“I have a request.” 

Rafayel took his time turning to Sylus, a look of disinterest managing to coexist with his general irritation. 

“Five minutes to elaborate. Your little bird should know who’s coming.” 

His knowledge of Mephisto didn’t phase him. Of course he’d catch on. 

Sylus grinned, “I’d like to commission his birthday gift. I trust your expertise in painting portraits.” 

There had been countless favors Sylus had done for the assassin out of both the kindness of his heart and the overall convenience. A few strings he needed to pull happened to align with Rafayel’s agenda against Lemurian traffickers, which meant he could gradually build rapport with him. However, Rafayel didn’t need to know that some of these strings would require being tugged in ways that particularly favored Sylus, and this happened to be one of those moments. 

Considering how amicable they’d become, the assassin-slash-artist would be foolish to deny him service. 

Rafayel refused to move, eyes burning into his own. “I’m guaranteed that he’d want the same. What makes your idea so different?” 

Sylus couldn’t contain the smug tone from blossoming as he sounded out the last word. “I’m the subject. Naked.” 

The reason behind the decision was simple: he wanted the birthday boy to know that he was picking a weaponry fight with a well-endowed rival. He wasn’t going to attend, but Mephisto will document his clear, uncensored reaction. 

He was met with dramatically slow blinks from Rafayel, each one making Sylus’ grin grow. After a long moment, he placed a hand on his forehead with a groan that rivaled a feeble, dehydrated animal. “No. You’re not,” Rafayel denied without hesitation. “I’m not getting in the middle of your little fued—“ 

“But for me you will,” Sylus interjected. He pushed himself off the desk, hands tucked in his pockets while he peered down at Rafayel with a light tilt of his head. “I’ll pay you handsomely.” 

“And I’ll pay you to leave,” Rafayel retorted. The tension was back in his jaw as he took a large step back. “I’ll have my head assistant wire the check when she comes back.” 

Sylus closed the space with a step forward. “I’ll only leave when we agree on a compromise.” Sylus said. “You wouldn’t want to lose the chance of gaining a loyal client, would you?” 

“I have enough of those,” Rafayel said with a roll of his eyes. “I don’t need to add an insane one to the list.” 

Another step back, and another step he took forward. 

“Is it because I’m supposedly insane?” Sylus pressed. “Or does the subject matter not meet your standards?” 

Another step back. One more and his heel would hit the wall. Rafayel still held his ground despite how aggravated he appeared. 

“Three minutes. My assistants come back in one.” 

Another step forward. Sylus was enjoying every second of the stolen moment. 

“Let them,” Sylus said slowly while grazing his fingers against the wall, a hair away from Rafayel’s waist. He leaned his head near the shell of the artist’s ear. “You know where I stand.” 

All that was left was the digital tick of the clock on his monitor. When he leaned his head back, his gaze immediately locked onto Rafayel’s stubborn ones. The nonverbal exchange was fueled by a tension that would cause an onlooker to flinch with each second that ticked by. 

Rafayel lifted his arm and temporarily broke eye contact to peer down at his watch. 

“If I don’t see every material on my list in your bedroom by tonight, the deal is off,” he said. In the distance, the front door of the studio opened, voices and the clack of heels eliminating the quiet ambiance that once surrounded them. Rafayel lowered his voice so that it was only them that could hear it, “three sessions tops, then it’s all yours.” 

Sylus matched his voice level, unable to dampen the satisfied smile. “Deal,” he agreed. With a light push off the wall with his hand, he gave Rafayel a wink before he materialized into red mist.

The demands didn’t stop at the list of art materials. As soon as Rafayel entered Sylus’ wing the next evening, he had Luke and Kieran stumbling over each other trying to gather every amenity and fulfill each demand. 

Red candles meticulously placed and lit around the loveseat Sylus would sit on. 

Three rows of cheese sticks stacked on a plate within Rafayel’s reach as he painted. 

Five bottles of room-temperature mineral water lined beside the easel. 

Needless to say, the twins were ready to disappear once Rafayel waved them away like a spoiled Duke with a grand vision. 

“Why five?” Sylus asked in amusement, arms crossed over his thin, silk robe as he watched Rafayel busily squeeze various colors onto a wooden pallet. 

Rafayel shrugged. “Not only is it better than four, I could test their competence.” 

“Well, you’ve made my boys learn to stay away while you are here.” 

“Then you’ll be the one restocking everything during breaks.” Rafayel said with an indifferent tone, not bothering to look up. “Hire stronger help.” 

Rafayel always had a quick mouth, but he was particularly punchy this evening. 

With an amused breath, Sylus decided that he was going to get comfortable for their first painting session. He pulled off the robe and carelessly threw it onto his bed, his bare body settling onto the couch with sprawled legs. Sylus felt a pair of eyes on him the moment he grabbed the wine glass and bottle on the end table, leisurely pouring the red contents while purposefully avoiding eye contact. 

Leaned back with closed eyes, he took an unhurried sip, free arm resting on the back of the couch. It was quiet while the dry wine passed back and forth in his mouth… Identifying notes was a skill he was still trying to master, but the practice helped pass time. 

Sylus felt something cold on his left thigh which made him open one eye in wonder. The slick metal of a gun was balanced on the muscle, the barrel tilted towards the easle. Rafayel’s body heat contrasted the weapon, the tips of his fingers hardly grazing Sylus’ exposed skin as he pulled away. 

“The candle will catch the barrel’s glint.” Rafayel muttered, gaze still latched onto the gun. Sylus hummed, not overlooking the sight of Rafayel’s reddening ears in the dim light. 

It was a pleasing sight. 

“Nice touch,” Sylus hummed, “I knew I could trust your eye for detail.” 

Rafayel looked up, his expression ironically blank. His hands reached out to adjust Sylus’ hair, making goosebumps subtly form each time he felt a nail graze his scalp. 

“I need you to stay still for a while,” Rafayel instructed, though the bossy undertone was softened by a relaxed, nearly intimate cadence, “take one more sip of wine before propping your elbow on the backrest.” 

Sylus did as told, eyes never leaving Rafayel’s while having another sip and placing his arm in the instructed spot once he was finished. 

“Like this?” 

Sylus question wasn’t poking for confirmation; It was a subtle test to see where Rafayel mentally stood. The red conveniently never left the artist’s ears as he continued to adjust his posture and appearance until satisfied. 

“Just like this. Don’t move.” 

The first half of the session was quiet and uneventful. Sylus was only allowed to observe Rafayel while he was in his artistic zone, trained eyes flickering between him and the canvas that was being scratched by granite. They caught each other's eyes multiple times, some moments lingering more than others, but it became a guessing game on what could be going on in Rafayel’s mind. 

Are his calculated eyes masking annoyance at the impromptu request? 

Could the slight frown be a sign of utter focus as he sketched Sylus’ nude figure? 

Does the occasional lick of his lips suggest a grounding habit to keep his thoughts from wandering too far…

Sylus stared at the stack of cheese to maintain control of himself. 

“What made you decide that showing yourself off at a party was the perfect gift?” 

Sylus’ attention snapped back to Rafayel’s when the question was asked. He still heard lines being sketched on the canvas as he continued to work. 

“You choose now to ask,” Sylus noticed, “was your other client curious?” 

He couldn’t stave off the desire to know what was said between them much longer. Mephisto could track whereabouts but no further intel on the CEO and Rafayel’s exchange. The artist seemed tolerant of his feathered spy but knew he’d play a pointless, dangerous game if he went even further. 

“You answer my question with another,” Rafayel responded, not bothering to hide a smirk. “Typical tactic used by jealous types.”  

Jealous. 

Maybe it was the fact he had been holding a pose for well over an hour that caused a muscle in his eye to twitch. 

“It simply means we both want answers,” Sylus said, rolling the wine glass in his hand, “may I?” 

Rafayel reached for the fruit bowl beside him. “Sure. After you answer my question.” 

Sylus’ eyebrow arched. “Is that an order?” 

Rafayel looked over, a unique aura swimming through his gaze. “I can make it one.” 

The candles in the room still flickered with life, red wax gathering in clumps at the base of all the wicks. Shadows danced around Rafayel’s standing frame as he casually popped a grape into his mouth despite his fingers being smudged with graphite. Sylus watched the slow, indulgent motion of his chews with utmost attention, his choice of words standing out like a sore thumb. 

A break was long overdue. 

Placing the glass on the end table and the gun on the cushion, Sylus stood up. Rafayel kept his eyes trained on his face but the subtle line that showed between his brow was blatant. Wordlessly standing beside him, he turned his head to look at the canvas. The fabrics of Rafayel’s clothing barely tickled his arm and exposed side. 

An impressive amount of work was done: defined lines, shadows where his skin made contact with the furniture, the gist of his body shape. He pointed to the sketch, finger hovering above his stomach.

“My abs are more defined,” Sylus said, “make sure to include it.” 

“I’m hardly finished,” Rafayel groaned, turning to grab another grape, “this would go faster if you—“ 

His words faltered when Sylus took a hold of his wrist, guiding his hand to lay flat on the top part of his abdomen. 

He heard the heavy breath before he saw the expression that matched it. 

“Yes, I know…”

When Sylus turned away from the portrait, his nose nearly grazed Rafayel’s. The idea of maintaining a grip on himself was long forgotten; he craved a fix that only he could provide. He dragged the hand down—slowly, carefully. Sylus listened to the way Rafayel’s breath thinned and tilted his head as if he was going to initiate a kiss. 

“…but another reference wouldn’t hurt, would it my dear painter?” 

Sylus knew what he was doing. Teasing with his body. Pushing just enough to see if the man would finally crack. He was all for testing the waters to see if a fish would bite. Additionally, he always sensed something between them. Even when they were not on the same page, the fuel to their bickering never stemmed from hatred. It arguably felt like a game, a risk that could reward something freeing. 

Bold. Daring. 

And so be it that he chose to see if the fire would burn him. 

A hand slid onto his neck. Warm, sure fingers that lightly held his throat, preventing him from leaning forward. There was no pressure applied, but all the weight was heard from the three slow tsks that came from Rafayel. 

How curious…it excited him. 

“If you wanted a break, Sylus, you should have just said so,” Rafayel chided, a knowing grin soon flourishing as he kept his face dangerously close. His other hand never stopped sliding down. “Who knew you’d get so needy when you’re uptight.” 

Sylus’ cock twitched the moment Rafayel’s palm found its way, muscles tightening when he felt the firm hand wrap around it. Noses touching, Rafayel’s condescending smirk was centimeters from landing onto Sylus’ parted lips. 

Sylus’ eyelids lowered from pure lust. He could act needy. 

“It’s about time you kiss me,” Sylus murmured, the request soft and low. 

Rafayel frowned. “Is that an order?” he mocked, the breath of his words hitting his sensitive lips. He didn’t give Sylus time to respond, rolling his occupied fingers around the sensitive wet head. “It’s time you sit on that bed.” 

Sylus couldn’t help himself from holding onto Rafayel’s waist to ground himself, the banter fogging his logic.

“And then what?” he asked, walking backwards until he felt the foot of the bed on his calves. One gentle push from the artist led him to gracefully land on the mattress, elbows propped up while his lustful eyes took in Rafayel’s smug ones. 

He didn’t immediately answer his question; the seductive man was too busy looking Sylus up and down while biting his lower lip in thought. He soon reached out and placed the pads of his index and middle on Sylus’ lips, following an invisible trail down his neck, chest, and torso. He didn’t feel much different from the canvas across the room from the way Rafayel mapped his body with practiced intention. He couldn’t help himself from tensing from anticipation, goosebumps forming once more. 

“I’ll admit, you are a wonderful reference,” he practically whispered. The candles casted even more shadows on Rafayel’s face than before, adding a nice touch to his sultry tone. He leaned into Sylus, their mouths centimeters apart. Hovering, testing, teasing. “Don’t move a muscle.” 

When their lips connected, his muscles relaxed from the validation he felt from their shared sexual tension. The slow and sensual affair was one he touched himself at the thought of, hoping a moment like this would soon come to fruition. 

The sheets crumpled within Sylus’ fists as their mouthy session turned into a heated dance, every nerve in his body vibrating with impatience for what was to come. A part of him hoped that he could pleasure Rafayel in his own way during their ‘break,’ but if the artist saw fit to do what was best for his subject, there was no reason to get in his way. 

Sylus’ mind fogged as Rafayel’s pillowy lips worked down his body. Solid pecks trickled down his jaw and placed extra suction on the most sensitive points on his throat. 

“With a mouth like yours, who knew you’d be so quiet and obedient," Rafayel mumbled into his neck as he continued his trail of kisses. 

Sylus was about to respond when a bite dissolved his suggestive words into a pleased moan. 

The pressure between his cock and Rafayel’s clothing became unsatisfactory, leading Sylus to buck his hips in search of more friction. The contact made Rafayel grunt, head bending to show enough neck for Sylus to impulsively run a tongue along the smooth plain. 

“Have you always been this impatient?” Rafayel huffed, allowing for Sylus to end his affection with a small bite before pulling his head away. When his eyes opened, he noticed the artist’s gaze glued onto Sylus’ erection as he began to work at his pants. “Keep those hands on the sheets for me…and eyes right here.” 

Sylus grinned, fingers curling from anticipation, “I will. For now.” 

When Rafayel removed his clothes, it became even harder not to flip him over. All he wanted was to guide his tongue along the soft map of flesh. 

Cause moans to break through from his ready hands. 

Feel the muscle of his cock squirm in his watering mouth. 

The grip on the sheets tightened while he bit down on his tongue in an effort to control his impulses. He hungrily watched Rafayel pump himself while his naked thighs straddled him. 

“You don’t need help?” Sylus asked as Rafayel aligned himself to Sylus’ tip. In response, Rafayel held a hand out in front of the other’s mouth, the palm already glistening from precum. Sylus stared at it, causing Rafayel to release a cocky snort. 

“Too high and mighty to spit on it, crimelord?” Rafayel teased with a dangerously low voice. Sylus’ eyes flickered up to his. 

“Sometimes all it takes,” Sylus began with a rivaling tone, gaze burning into his as he tilted his head, “is a verbal command, dear painter.” His tongue gathered saliva before he pushed it out, the spit dripping onto the palm like the wax that surrounded them. 

Eyes narrowing, Rafayel held the hand even closer. 

“More.” 

The swirls of color Sylus saw in his eyes earlier that day were replaced by blown out pupils surrounded by a dark blue hue. The lack of lighting added an intense edge, candle-lit flames hardly showing off a glimmer. 

He spat more onto the hand. 

With a satisfied hum, Rafayel reached behind them and coated Sylus’ cock with it, firm hand stroking the twitchy girth. Head craned, he let out a pleased sigh, breath tightening when Rafayel rolled his palm around his reddened tip. 

It was soon replaced by Rafayel’s entrance, the man moving his hips in painfully slow circles as more and more of himself was taken. The more he felt, the less control he had. All the teasing made it where Sylus would be at risk of cumming from a few grinds. He flexed his hands in order to concentrate, head coming back up to find Rafayel’s mouth. The other allowed him to lead the kiss, tongues rotating and fervently working around each other. With every moan, Rafayel consumed it with greed. He captured Sylus’ tongue between his lips, sucking the muscle while his hips rolled and ass lifted up and down. Every curse or filler word that escaped Sylus’ mouth was muffled with pitiful ease. 

Only thread of saliva held them together as Rafayel pulled his face away, the string breaking and falling onto Sylus’ chin as he began to bounce. 

“I won’t last—“ Sylus groaned, body lightly bouncing on the mattress as Rafayel rode him like a toy. He slowed down a fraction, placing his forehead onto Sylus’.

“You will,” he told him, never losing rhythm. “Ten seconds.” 

It was too much. Sylus’ elbows gave out from underneath him as his arms folded over his head, teeth gritted from the intense stimulation. 

“Nine…” 

Rafayel was quick to grab his arms and pin them above, his eyes closed as he chased his high.

“Eight…” 

He was being ridden as if he were being used. A muscular, hearty body that could hit his prostate just right. All Sylus could do was watch, mouth agape from pleasure, as Rafayel ground and bounced while using his arm as an anchor. 

“Damnit—!” 

Sylus’ face was grabbed as Rafayel forced him to hold eye contact. 

“Five.” 

As he picked up speed, Rafayel leaned over and kissed him again, biting his lip with a deep pull. His breathing became laboured as he continued the count. Sylus could almost feel tears form at the corners of his eyes.

“…three…two…” 

His abdomen tensed, every muscle taught with stress and the pain of holding himself back. 

“One.” 

It only took one more powerful hit against the prostate for Sylus to come undone, cum spewing from him like a current behind floodgates. Rafayel milked every ounce of energy with a consistent pace, interrupting Sylus’ moans and shudders with a wet kiss. 

Sylus obediently followed the pace the artist set but pulled his arms from his hold in order to place his hands on his hips. 

“…still need to…” Sylus tiredly said between the kiss “…taste you.” 

“I know you do.” Rafayel murmured, giving another chaste peck before he slowly slid himself off Sylus. Rafayel’s cock was still hard, the length once pressed between their bodies now exposed and aligned in front of Sylus’ mouth. “Take it.” 

Placing his hands on Rafayel’s thighs, he quickly did without hesitation. It pleasantly slid into his ready mouth, the hardened veins and stretched skin a pleasant texture on his tongue. He felt nails against his scalp, strands anchored by ready hands as Rafayel pushed him further down. 

He soon found a rhythm, eyes closing as his head bobbed against the moist sex. Rafayel’s hand continued to guide his head as he thrusted, knees supported by the mattress. The tip was repeatedly felt near the back of his throat and continuously hit the same spot over and over and faster and faster as Rafayel became more worked up. Sylus kept his mouth relaxed, fixated on how full his mouth was and the pleasured sounds the man above him made. 

With one final thrust and moan, his mouth was filled with his release. The somewhat salty taste became more prominent with each passing moment, Rafayel’s tight grip on his strands loosening into a gentle, praising caress. When Rafayel slid himself out, Sylus licked his lips and swallowed the last few drops. 

He fell back onto the bed with a tired, pleased sigh as he rubbed his face. Rafayel rolled onto the space beside him, chest heaving as he came down from the euphoric high. 

Sylus held his hand out towards the closest set of towels, a stream of mist following his mental command and dragging the thick cotton to his awaiting grasp. 

“It's about more than showing off.” He found himself speaking as he wiped clean, looking at Rafayel as he did so. 

His eyes were closed, but he was still conscious. 

“…huh?” 

He seemed conscious enough. Sylus grabbed the other towel, cleaning Rafayel as well. As he did so, he felt a subtle bloom in his chest; comforting like flowerbeds on a sunny day. 

“You asked why I’m showing myself off in this painting. It’s more than that.” 

When Rafayel acknowledged him with a sound, he kept going. 

“Over here, greed rewards power. Selfishness guarantees preservation. But ignorance? It only leads to tension.” 

Sylus crumpled the towels when he was done, lying on his side as he studied Rafayel’s relaxed state with soft eyes. He continued to speak. 

“When you pair that trait with ego, your downfall is guaranteed. That’s what this painting’s for. That’s his warning.” 

One way or another, he would get his way. Many doubted his confidence and discernment only to turn and see that he took advantage of their limited visions. The CEO was no different from the crowd, and soon he will prove them right. 

Starting with a daring gift made by talented hands and a petty commisioner. 

Rafayel’s eyes soon fluttered open. They quietly regarded each other as Sylus’ words settled in the space between them. Rolling onto his belly, Rafayel propped his head on his crossed arms while looking at him. 

“When you asked if he was curious,” he began. “I wouldn’t know.” 

Sylus didn’t hesitate to ask. “Why?”

He smiled. “He was too ignorant to ask.” 

For the first time in a while, deep amusement swirled and formed into an authentic bubble of laughter. It echoed through his bedroom, the contagious sound soon causing Rafayel to join. 

Their exchange reaffirmed that his commission was in good hands. The remaining two sessions that would bring his vision to life would be sweeter than the cake the birthday boy’s guests would consume. 

He couldn’t wait to soil that bastard’s day.

© songergaze 2026

CultLeader!Rafayel x Follower!nonmc

Pt. 2

Word Count: 1.8k

18+. No AI Training 

Wording/grammar may be edited in the future.

Agnes’ sister could sense their excitement the moment her door was opened. 

“You seem chipper than usual,” she greeted, feebly sitting up from her reclined state on the bed. Agnes quickly used their free hand to adjust the pillow behind her, impatience brimming behind her teeth. 

“I spoke with him.” 

“Who?” 

Agnes pushed over the wilting flower on the nightstand in favor of the new one, adjusting the artificial light’s settings. 

“His Quintessence” They smiled. “He potted your plant and even said my name.” 

Their sister’s expression was lackluster; furrowed brows and lips slightly parted from a shock that didn’t stem from excitement. 

“The Sanctarch,” she muttered, “knew your name.” 

“Yes,” Agnes confirmed, “which means he knows all our names.” The Stella were all-knowing beings who shone Radiance on their leader through knowledge; it seemed pointless to question. 

The lines between their sister’s brow never left as she slowly nodded. 

“How kind of him, Agnes,” she hummed, sliding her gaze to the plant. Still, the line between the brow remained. A brief pause turned into a long, notable silence. With a sigh, Agnes sat at the side of her bed and reached for her hand. 

“Sister…how can I make you happy?”  

It was selfish to assume that she’d be as excited as they were. The virus prevented her from partaking in Tidesermons, events hosted by the Sanctide Courts, even weekly service. Agnes would pray with her when she allowed it and made sure to deliver serums from service. They wished to do more but felt stuck on how. 

Their sister was naturally an internal person, but the isolation made her harder to read. It guilts them every day knowing that they could enjoy the small pleasures of the Cosmos while she was primarily limited to her bed. 

Agnes’ question seemed to snap her out of her daze; she turned back to them with focused eyes. 

“I’m already happy.” She smiled and gave their hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Then why do you seem—“ 

“I’m happy, Agnes. Your presence and your care are blessings in itself.” She nodded to the time on the wall. “You’ve had a long day. Go rest, okay?” 

Agnes still felt uneasy, the cliffhanger too broad. However, they understood their place; if she was happy, then that was it. They wordlessly nodded, unhurried and unsure. 

Their sister squeezed their hand again. “Don’t make that face, Agnes. I enjoy my solitude. Just focus on keeping yourself happy, okay? Your interaction with the Santarch isn’t nothing, focus on that….but remember to be mindful.” 

To be mindful was to pray in their eyes. Was that what their sister eluded to? 

Agnes kissed her forehead and left soon after to go to her room. They indulged in replaying their interaction with him, hyperfixated on the warmth of his fingers and how he said their name. 

His sweet voice; an irresistible melody that caused a warmth to blossom. Their next chance to hear it was during service, the hours leading to the next evening a snail pace. 

Weekly service was held within the Courts chapels. The congregation quietly mingled, gradually filling the seats arranged in a circle around the main stage. Shadows bounced off the members and walls due to the candle-lit flames surrounding them. Agnes, a row away from the front, peacefully watched dreamy fish wade through the brilliantly designed streams within the chapel’s floors. Glittery stars reflected off their scales, a beauty only The Stella could curate. 

The melodic sound of a horn rang through once one of many moons settled above the chapel. Ushers passed serum to each member and Agnes ensured to grab an additional vial. Flutes, chimes, and strings complimented the alluring scent of incense that wafted through the space. It was a routine that never failed to relax their shoulders and ease their mind as they closed their eyes and meditated alongside the congregation. 

The horn blew once more, signaling the congregation to hold up their vials with their left hand while their eyes remained closed. 

“Shall The Stella Ocean’s Radiance bless our Sanctarch’s light and guidance.”

The cold lid pressed to their bottom lip in synchrony with others, craning their head to fully drain the vial of its serum. 

“Shall our Collective remain steadfast.”

Agnes’ breath held as they locked eyes with His Quintessence. He stood in the middle of the stage, fully covered in service robes that exposed his hands and ethereal face. The contact was brief but left a lasting impact. 

“My Collective,” he began, hands clasped in modesty. “We gather here today in praise for our continued strength. Radiance shines brightly upon us this blessed night.”

“Shall our Collective remain steadfast.”

“Protection is the theme for our gathering.” 

Agnes knew his gaze flicked back to theirs, fleeting like fickle flame. Music gently played as tingles dripped down their body from the brief eye contact. 

“The Stella teaches us that we must harbor unconditional love for our Collective. Love so strong that it rivals the expansive seas.”

Agnes hung to each word, each one blessing her ears with the rhythmic hum of his voice. 

“They teach these lessons to protect us from the sins that rampage our Cosmos. Wrath, selfishness, deceit…all traits that lost souls succumb to.” 

Fervent nods and light sounds of agreements wafted through like incense. Agnes was entranced, spine frozen from how glued they were to his sermon. 

“We must remember how Radiance protects us and the ones we love most. If forgotten, you grow cold…” eyes lingered on Agnes once more, “…distant.” 

Agnes thought of how her sister’s smile never met her eyes. They shivered, eyes flicking down as they felt a pang in their stomach. 

“As our long-awaited festival draws near, review The Stella’s teachings and reflect on how you define spiritual strength. Their scriptures are meant to lead us, and their Radiance to learn, to heal, and above else protected.”

His wisdom earned heartfelt chants from the congregation: 

“Radiance, protect him! Radiance, strengthen him!”

The chants grew, members of the Collective standing with outreached hands as they poured blessings on their beloved Sanctarch. Agnes stood and chanted as well, enamoured by the energy he exuded. 

His eyes were closed as he drank in the praise, palms facing out while his arms rose along with his smile. The moon’s glow created a halo around the stage, an undeniable aura that proved how The Stella favored their Sanctarch. 

Their light. 

Rafayel. 

Agnes felt euphoric as they chanted. 

After service, they migrated to the temple, a space dedicated for intimate prayers. It was not connected to the Court but was close by, the humble building proudly hosting an elaborate statue of The Stella. 

Their knees were cushioned by the front pew as they placed their forehead over their clasped hands. It was a habit of theirs to reflect and pray directly after service while the stones shone brightest and shadows were strongest. 

Before they could organize their thoughts for prayer, they shivered as memories of the Sanctarch invaded their mind. It was impossible not to be fueled by awe when it came to their beloved light. A holy man blessed by Radiance who showed trustworthiness with each smile. 

Their admiration borderlined sacrilege from the way their breath shook, but The Stella understands those who strive for better. For purity. 

Pushing back the thought, Agnes went ahead with their list of prayers. 

Gratitude for Radiant protection. 

Pleas for continued guidance. 

Requests to improve their sister’s health. 

The sound of his voice invaded their subconscious as they heard the gentle echo of footsteps,

Forgiveness for their sins. 

The pew’s cushion sank beside them as they murmured their prayers. Agnes snuck a look, stomach immediately clenching when they saw who it was. 

The greenhouse was a pleasant coincidence. The glances during service assuaged their delusions. Now, his presence confirmed that it was fate. Radiance was reminding them to acknowledge their good efforts despite their wandering thoughts. Agnes didn’t want to waste the chance. 

“I enjoyed your sermon, Your Quintessence." 

They hoped their comment didn't disturb them. For all Agnes knew, he may only appreciate silence in such an intimate space. 

“I hoped you would.” 

There was no hint of annoyance in his voice which was a relief. Agnes slowly looked up at the statue of The Stella. 

May Radiance keep them composed. 

Agnes spoke again, light like a secret, “it resonated. They always do, but this one especially did.” 

A low hum that matched the hushed exchange. 

“What ails you, Agnes?” 

They bit their lip as they felt a warm pang, their stomach continuing to flip. “What do you mean?” 

A light shuffle, then the fabric of his sleeve teasing theirs; Agnes' arm tingled. “My warning. What about it troubles you?” 

It wasn’t hard to give in and confess. His Quintessence was trustworthy, an aid, a light they wanted to continue having. Slowly, while shoulders slouched, a tear began to fall down Agnes' cheek.

“My sister,” they admitted with a whisper, “they’re sick. Distant. I don’t know what to do.” 

The last thing Agnes wanted was for her sister to lose sight of Radiance. Her lovely soul deserved eternal happiness, a chance to exist without the burdens of battling back-to-back ailments. 

Ultimately, they feared that they would fail their sister.

Agnes’ lip wobbled as they felt a thumb on their cheek. The brush was light as it eliminated the tear streak. 

“Your Quintessence--” 

“Rafayel,” he reminded, the low timbre as grounding as the statue’s stone. “Turn your head and address me, Agnes.” 

The moonlight was behind him, but created a halo that paralleled the glow he had on stage. Purple strands were mixed with a silver glow, matching the way his mystical eyes managed to emit Radiance despite the shadows.

It was almost too much. His profound beauty was the signal atop a stormy mountain, a salve for terrible aches. Their unworthiness began to swallow them whole, eyes obscuring the features that were already hidden from the lack of light. 

As another tear fell, his thumb caught it. Agnes' voice cracked like a weathered sculpture.

“I’m scared...Rafayel, I'm so scared to lose her.”

Rafayel's silhouette turn fully towards them, his thumb gently traveling down their cheek and to their chin, his pointer joining to lightly hold it. It was already hard to breathe, but the feeling of his touch made their lungs subtly ache. Their eyes focused on his lips as he spoke. 

“Radiance shines to help wanderers find light. Pray with her. Assure she is ready to receive such blessings.” His fingers gently pulled their chin closer, the two wrapped in a cloth of intimacy. “Can you do that for me, Agnes?” 

“Yes.” They agreed without hesitation. “Anything.” 

“So faithful,” he murmured with pride, the back of his finger ghosting their jaw before moving away.  “I thank you. She is blessed to have you by her side, Agnes.” 

They couldn't look away from their savior's gentle smile. They yearned to hand their trust to him on an open platter, hungrily awaiting the moment he savors it. Whatever proof he may need, Agnes was ready to provide it. Ready to do anything not only for their sister, but the promise of Radiance's love. His love.

The Stella loomed over them, bearing witness to the promise Agnes vowed to never break.

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Table of Contents

Pairing: CultLeader!Rafayel x Follower!nonmc

Synopsis: Ancient texts declared that the mysterious Radiant Festival was soon to arrive. By the will of The Stella, its devout Collective shall renew their vows of loyalty through celebration. The Santarch, their blessed leader, will appoint a Devout Follower to complete the ceremony, allowing him and the Collective to be strengthened by Radiance. Agnes, a new follower with a hunger to please, had the privilege of being a part of the festival's preparations. The Stella blesses those who are most ready to receive Radiance, as does His Quintessence.

[Inspired by Throne of Eros]

CW: gn!nonmc, naive!nonmc, religious cult, sacrilegious themes, canon divergence, manipulation, chronic illness, sexual tension, sexual content, idolization, angst, traumatic past, sad/ambiguous ending, major character death

Tags will be updated as necessary.

18+

Table of Contents

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

CultLeader!Rafayel x CultFollower!nonmc

Pt. 1

Synopsis: Agnes gained the attention of Sanctide Collective's beloved leader. It was never an anticipated experience, but it must mean that pure devotion would never be overlooked. 

Tags/CW: named!nonmc, gn!nonmc, 3rd pov, religious analogies, idolization, religious brainwash, angst, fluff (if you squint), manipulation, tension, death, nonmc is named Agnes for symbolic reasons, inspired by Throne of Eros, angsty ending, No AI Training 

Wrote this 1st part before reading the card so this first part is a little bleh to me, but thanks for reading!

Thanks, @nuttellagrrrl4ever for the trope idea!

It was comforting to know that even shadows get lost to darkness without light to shape them. 

The thought was grounding in ways that were unforeseeable; in more ways than one, Agnes wished to disappear in the dark depths. Choke on hypothetical smoke that could bury their guilt and pain. Close their eyes to embrace the warmth of internal darkness. 

However, light shone. Forced them to open their eyes and see that their purpose laid beyond the small, forgettable corners they subjected themselves to. Light made them realize that they could move, dance, exist in ways that helped the greater good. 

And, wow, did they bask in the warmth. 

Soon, Agnes could enjoy it to heights they never foresaw. The Festival was a time for all to acknowledge how bright their savior shines down on their souls through celebration and praise. Days had been dedicated to planning and organizing the layout and decorations, a task Agnes felt honored to be a part of. 

It would be a miracle if their sister could join in the festivities. She was already prone to illness, but the current virus she battled spread like no other. The simple joy of feeling grass under her feet was now a memory due to her frail state, but Agnes always made sure that a touch of nature was present in her room. 

A greenhouse near the Sanctide’s temple began to bloom the finest batches of Conchnella-- wispy petals with a deep blue hue that their sister always loved. Few others were around and cool mist lightly coated Agnes’ face while leaning towards the best batch.

“A Muryan native, such good taste.” 

A heavenly voice that resembled a comforting hug, familiar, grounding, and warm that always enlightened with uplifting sermons in the temple. Only once had they heard it so close; the day they were saved and embraced by the Sanctide Collective. Never meant to hear so close again; a dream they were content with savoring.

“Your Quintessence,” Agnes gasped, halting their current task to look over at him. 

Their mind faltered while basking in the ethereal presence of the Sanctarch. Skin that only a savior’s favored could have: smooth, unblemished, and pristine. Rich fabrics that wrapped him with love, but his usual head covering was gone to show off thick, beautiful hair. The signature inviting smile that she could finally admire so close; lips pillowy and soft like his gaze. One that looked at that as if they had spoken countless times in the past.

“No formalities” he said, “only Rafayel.”

A smile-- flustered and light-- took over. “You spoil a mere follower.” They bowed, mentally chastising themself for not following the protocol in order. They reached for the small, plastic pot that dangerously balanced on the surface protecting the Conchnella rocked in an unfavorable direction. The Sanctarch's reaction time was faster, agile hands moving to balance the pot. Soft, solid fingers-- a touch so light yet Agness felt the weight of their blessings. 

“Every follower deserves acknowledgement at the table,” he said to them. “Our heart beats and our vessels crave the same…”

“...and therefore served equal portion.” Agnes finished, stomach flipping. “I thank you, it’s just…out of the ordinary to have this privilege.”

Rafayel hummed, gently pushing the pot further into their hold before letting go. He turned back to the flowers, reaching over to cup his hands underneath the one they eyed. “It is your privilege as much as it is mine, Agnes-” their breath shuddered at the melodic sound of their name from his lips “-which is why I want to thank you.”  

Dirt was cupped in his hands while the Conchnella proudly stood. Agnes adjusted their hold on the pot once more while they registered his words. 

“Why?”

As he placed the flower in the pot, he looked up at them with a gentle smile. A light that basks them in warmth. 

“Your contributions to The Festival are not unnoticed.” 

The flower was fully settled in the pot. A portion of Agnes' view was slightly disturbed by one of the petals. Rafayel’s hand came up to gently brush it before his eyes locked back on theirs. 

“Give it an unwavering light, Agnes.” He said with a parting wink. Agnes didn’t dare move until the Sanctarch left the greenhouse. People still browsed around them, acting oblivious to the Sanctarch's recent presence. Moments passed before they noticed the ticklish droplet from the mist slide down their cheek and into the pot's soil. 

Unwavering light is what it shall have. 

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Crowfish smut. doing this for the beautiful people who see the vision.

MDNI. No AI Training.

CW: bl, established relationship, graphic smut, oral, penetration, servicetop!sylus, powerbottom!rafayel, switch!sylus, switch!rafayel, did i say graphic?

Word Count: 1.5k

“You own a lot of shiny things.” 

The statement was obvious, but curiosity was prevalent. There hadn’t been a chance for Sylus to tour the interiors of Rafayel’s abode until he was able to squeeze an invitation out of the man. Most of their interactions remained in the N109 zone or when he felt bored enough to wander in Linkon, much to Rafayel’s annoyance. 

Hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, Sylus quietly approved of the level of sunlight the home ushered into its interiors-- a rather humble word for a lodging that rivaled a castle. Mephisto’s surveillance never failed to capture the grandeur the private residence boasted, but it was a different story being in the midst of the spacious layout. 

“Don’t touch any of it.” Rafayel told him from ahead, leading him through the rooms and corridors adorned with a variety of artwork and treasures. Each room they passed through followed a different theme, which made him wonder if all of the paintings were his creations, collections, or a mixture of both. 

“Why? My hands are careful.” 

The back of Rafayel’s head continued to face him, but he could hear the teasing nature. “They’re careful but covered in germs. My items are sensitive to strangers, you know.” 

Sylus rolled his eyes at the comment, a sentiment he rarely found himself reacting with. “Yet you let me touch you.” 

Rafayel’s pace slowed once they reached a pair of double doors, the end of the hallway flaunting a full view of sea waters glinting under the sun’s rays. Sylus noticed the way his purple hair stood out from the light; a beautiful color that mirrored the ripest batch of berries, rewarding taste buds with its sweetness after enduring a phase of tartness. 

When Rafayel turned to look at him, Sylus took the opportunity to place his hands on his waist, slowly backing him into the wall beside the doors. Rafayel tilted his head as he regarded Sylus, a quiet mischief passing through each iris. It was a gamble to pin what he could be thinking, but he hoped there was some middle ground in what their next activities could entail. 

“I let you touch me because I’m immune.” Rafayel responded, his hand coming up to hold Sylus’s chin between his pointer and thumb as he grinned. “Exposure therapy helps.” 

Sylus feigned a pained hiss. “Ouch. Didn’t know I was so potent.”

Rafayel’s expression softened to a smirk, turning Sylus around so that he was the one whose back was on the wall, hand flattening on it beside Sylus’ shoulder. His hands stayed glued to Rafayel’s waist, excitement growing as the artist leaned his face closer to his. 

“Sickening,” Rafayel murmured, breath ghosting over Sylus’ lips before they sealed. Their kiss was a slow, syrupy mess that was sticky with indulgent greediness. Nothing but a heavenly treat, a reward that he could finally savor without fear of it being ripped from his hands. The fingers that were on Sylus’ chin moved to clutch the side of his head, thumb gently caressing his cheekbone. 

He couldn’t help but to groan while they made out, pulling Rafayel even closer as he felt the artists’ other hand sink into his hair, fingertips cooling down his warm scalp. 

Rafayel was the one who broke the kiss first, moving away a few inches, and Sylus couldn’t help himself from following him, eyes blinking open as he came back to the present. 

“Inside, Sylus.” Rafayel instructured, eyes glowing in both amusement and satisfaction as his hand reached out towards Sylus’ chest to playfully tug him towards him by the shirt. “Where else did you think we were going?" 

“Wherever I can fuck you.” Sylus responded, voice raspy with an edge of gruffness. “Now.”  

“So bossy.” Rafayel tsked, giving his shirt another, weaker tug before turning and pushing the bedroom doors open. Sylus followed closely behind him, quickly spotting the king bed that centered the elaborate dome. He couldn’t help himself from moving a hand down Rafayel’s back before moving over to sit on the edge of the bed. 

Rafayel wasted no time straddling him and the two continued their exchange. The slower, sensual makeout in the hallway began to warm with heat, both of their heads tilting from one side to another in order to keep up with the race they began. 

“Lay down.” 

He hardly had time to slide his hands underneath Rafayel’s shirt before he felt a hand on his chest. Sylus, pushed onto his back, drank the sight of Rafayel taking off his own shirt. 

“So bossy,” Sylus mocked, feeling the increased tension in his crotch. 

“Says the one who likes it,” Rafayel breathed out, voice lowered in lust. He felt the teasing graze of fingers on his heated skin, sliding up to his ribs. “Shirt off.” 

Sylus wasted no time completing the task, Rafayel helping to pull it over his head before he was flipped over. The two wound up further onto the bed, not wasting a second to kick their shoes off and to work at the buttons of each other's pants. 

“What do you want?” Sylus asked between the kisses he peppered onto Rafayel’s jaw, gradually trailing down to his neck and chest. His travels slowed when he felt Rafayel’s grip on his boner, unable to contain the moan that fell through his mouth and onto his soft skin. “Tell me what you want…what to do…” 

“Come here,” Rafayel murmured, placing a different hand on his face to lead Sylus’ lips back to his. They crashed into a union, hardly breaking while he continued to speak. “You’re gonna let me touch you. Go on, Sy, take em off.”  

Rafayel’s grip never left Sylus’ cock as he made quick work of eliminating the rest of their clothing from the equation. With a quick break to spit onto his hand, the slow slides turned to focused pumps which made Sylus melt, his hands the only things holding him up as groaned into Rafayel’s neck. 

“Breathe,” Rafayel hummed in his ear, gently nibbling on the lobe as more precum coated his shaft. The sickly sweet reminder blatantly contrasted the way he stroked him, making it difficult for him to relax his muscles.

“I’m gonna--” Sylus shuddered, breathing labored as he placed a hand over Rafayel’s in a meek effort to pause him. Though he couldn’t deny how good he was being worked up, he'd be upset if he finished before he had the chance to properly return the sentiments. 

Fortunately, Rafayel ceased his efforts, giving him a wide grin once Sylus moved his head up to look at him.

“Don’t worry, cutie, I planned on taking my time with you.” He initiated a brief kiss, ending it with a light lip bite.

“Good,” Sylus breathed out. “All the way?” 

“All the way. Your turn.” 

Sylus wasted no time kissing his way down the artists’ body, his sultry sighs and light grip on his hair all the encouragement he needed to take a hold of Rafayel’s hardened length and go down on him. He was rewarded by the sounds of moaning and blabbered praises as he rotated between bobbing and suctioning. The closer the artist was to cumming, the more he squirmed while tugging on the roots. Sylus slowly made his way back up to the tip, giving it a teasing suck before popping the reddened cock out of his mouth. He noticed how it matched the shade of Rafayel’s ears and cheeks as peered down at him with heavy breaths, wet cock as twitchy as he was. 

“Fuck,” Rafayel cursed with heavy breath, “get the lube and just fuck me already.” 

“Gladly,” Sylus practically purred, doing his bidding with fervor and taking his sweet time prepping before officially lining himself with Rafayel’s entrance. Sylus nearly came from the simple act of pushing himself in, the two’s breathing and groans of lust mixed with desperation. Rafayel began to move first, establishing a rhythm that Sylus picked up on in order to take the reins. 

“That’s right,” Rafayel gasped, holding Sylus’ forearms. “Just like that. You feel so good, ah, baby, you’re fucking so good-- now even harder--shit--!” 

All Sylus could think about was how good he felt and how hot he looked crumbling from the pleasure. His desire to fully control the pace began to fester as he imagined how much more he could turn the artist’s brain to mush. 

Sylus leaned back so that his knees supported all the weight, greedy hands gripping Rafayel’s hips as he thrusted deeper, faster, meaner. Rafayel lost his hold on his forearms, praises quickly shortened into chopped, incoherent words that formed between his loudening moans and curses. Sylus couldn’t take his eyes off Rafayel’s face as his cock relentlessly worked to chase the high that began to build, the climax that was promised at the end of the race. 

However, Rafayel beat him to the end. He witnessed his eyes roll as he released all over his stomach, some of the secretions managing to land on Sylus’ lower torso. The sight itself made him shudder and fold from how intensely he came, remaining buried inside him as he let the wave subside. 

The two were left in a tangled heap of labored breathing and thin coats of sweat as they recovered. After pulling out, Sylus was quick to wrap his arms around Rafayel as he let his body fall beside him. He took a few more moments regaining his breath before breaking the silence. 

“Might need a towel before my germs infect more than just these sheets.”

The comment earned a feeble slap on the forearm. 

Imma just slide this Crowfish drabble over here....

Context: Sylus' arrival to the N109 zone ruffled quite a few feathers, but one particular Lemurian's warning piqued his interest. (pre-onychinus)

Word Count: 966

Manipulation was easy when the masses were directionless. The N109 zone was just that-- a sandbox of opportunity that he could meld in his favor while hardly facing consequences. 

Sylus was hardly considered a welcomed guest, but the results of his labor made it easy to settle in as a resident. The spacecraft he arrived on in the corner of N109 yielded him enough wealth to enjoy his first glass of whisky in a luxurious loft. It once belonged to someone-- a gullible ringmaster who had no backbone when it came to true blackmail-- but now he found himself sitting at their homebar giving the shiny glass a onceover while he leaned against the mahogany wood. Strong, yet sweet; a combination of flavors that pleasantly surprised him. 

“Be a gentleman and pour me one, would you?” 

A new voice came from behind, the faux friendliness easy to pick up on. Sylus’ eyes briefly closed as the corner of his lip upturned in amusement. 

“Give me a moment. I wasn’t prepared for the company so soon.” He responded, turning to look over at the source. His free elbow casually leaned against the bar while he crossed his legs, giving the impromptu guest a once over. “Though I can’t say I am upset from the intrusion.” 

Rafayel scoffed, his posture seemingly relaxed save for his crossed arms. “Has anyone taught you that as a hospitable guest, you must stay at the ready? ” 

“No,” Sylus responded on beat, “but I’m a quick learner.” 

“Then I’ll put your aptitude to the test,” Rafayel made his way over to where Sylus stood, leaning both of his arms against the bar while he stared at the rows of liquor. All of it was for show, but Sylus was content with playing along. “Rye. On the rocks.” 

“I said,” Sylus reiterated while gently pushing himself off the bar, leaning towards Rafayel’s ear as he passed by. “Give me a minute.” 

Rafayel didn’t flinch from the sudden, fleeting, closeness, his eyes still focused ahead. “You have twenty seconds left. I kept count.” 

Sylus merely hummed as he went behind the bar. Rye…whatever that was. He pulled out a couple of bottles to read their descriptions. “Your pupil is waiting for their test.” 

It was easy to guess why Rafayel broke into his home. The sneaky assassin happened to be loitering in places that involved rich patrons who had dealings in underground research. Why it was a trend was still a question he needed to answer, but it was safe to assume that whatever Sylus had done poked the bear. While their interactions were brief, a souvenir of their less-than-friendly exchanges was learning the man’s name. 

“You act before you learn.” Rafayel said. 

The term Rye was on the fifth bottle Sylus found, which made him nod. “Incorrect. I am hands-on.” 

“Which proves my point. It’s getting in my way.” 

There was a distinct warning in his tone, backed by the glower he was leveled with. During the short period of time Sylus toured the N109, this was the first consequence that piqued his interest. 

Sylus poured the whisky in an empty glass he grabbed at the end of the bar. “Isn’t that the point of the N109? There is always supposed to be something that gets in your way.” He gently slid the drink over to Rafayel. “What matters is who overcomes it first.” 

The drink was never picked up, left to settle in front of him. “That’s where you’re wrong. What matters is eliminating the problems before it has a chance to fester.” Rafayel countered, voice mirroring the darkness of caves that echoed when water droplets fell from stalactites. He materialized a blade, which he used to stab the mahogany he leaned against. Sylus noticed how the metal briefly glowed from an intense heat, which caused a small, dark ring to appear around the weapon and puncture. “Because you're new, you get a warning. Learn the laws of this place before you enforce your own rules.” 

Whether it was his chance to receive clues about Rafayel’s objective or the simple fact that his attractiveness spiked when angered didn’t negate the fact that Sylus still planned on following his own itinerary. However, the excuse to have him be the target for the daggers Rafayel shot at him through his glare was a nice treat to indulge in.

Sylus picked up his own glass, taking a long sip while he studied Rafayel’s features.

Fascinating. 

He had a point about learning the laws of the land, but he missed out on a key component: there were no laws to observe; chaos was the law. In order to thrive, one must learn to dance with it in order to ultimately trap it-- an observation that wasn’t hard to spot. Sylus didn’t dismiss the fact that there were other numbers, other steps to memorize to gain mastery, but he didn’t see that as a reason to not join the fun just yet. 

No, he was going to engage when he felt ready. It just happened to be that he was a fresh addition to the mix. 

“Rye, as you requested.” Sylus commented, motioning to the glass he made for Rafayel. “You’ll be the first to try it.” 

He didn’t miss the twitch in Rafayel’s eye before they narrowed. Not once did he look at the whisky. 

“It’s not on the rocks.” 

Sylus couldn’t help the smile that formed on his face as he leaned closer to Rafayel. If it weren’t for the division caused by the bar, he would be able to feel his body heat. He wondered if he was heated, possibly as fiery as his weapon was while it was being summoned. 

Amongst all the LI x LI ships, CrowFish is not the trendiest pairing but walk with me here:

- Many are quick to label Rafayel as a “brat” and leave it there, but the truth is it’s a defense mechanism. He hides a lot of his emotions behind an eccentric mask and is, arguably, emotionally unavailable when his walls are up. His storyline is turbulent which is why there is a darker, more muted part of his personality that he hides.

- On the flipside, Sylus is seen as the nonchalant “rage baiter.” Confidence is a core part of his identity, but don’t overlook how grounding his personality truly is. Not only that, he harbors much more emotion than he lets on. He’s also quite patient and communicative especially when moments call for it.

- Because Sylus is someone who likes to let the other take the lead, Rafayel would certainly be the one initiating that fiery push and pull. It could be seen as “clashing” but truthfully Sylus would def know how to handle all of that.

- Also, when you put those more “serious” personalities at play, I feel like Sylus would be a healing presence for Rafayel’s abandonment wounds and Rafayel would bring out chalantness and spontaneity within Sylus.

- I can see a healthy blend of significant confessions and impulsive adventures, especially as Rafayel realizes that he could be safe with someone like Sylus and Sylus realizes that there’s a lot more to Rafayel than meets the eye. [Sylus: you want scuba dive at 2 am because you think you found treasures that you need to collect? Yes , I’m in. Before we leave, could you explain why that boat near the wreckage mysteriously “disappeared?” It belonged to a significant group, after all.]

- And don’t get me started on the witty banter they would exchange!! They’re both funny as hell. They’d immediately have so much chemistry in that regard and would never be bored of each other— even if there is ragebaiting going on.

CW: graphic violence, implied/referenced murder, implied/referenced suicide, serious topics, MDNI

Completed work on AO3!

Prologue: You Must Press On.

Word Count: 712

Everything was monotonous. No matter how far she desperately ran, the clouds never moved with her. The grass refused to bend beneath her feet, yet it was impossible to feel a single blade. A glass mirror expanded as wide as the seas and as high as a mountain’s peak. She saw how feeble her reflection was compared to the vast, ominous dimension she fell into.

It was all a strange intermission. Her instincts told her that she was unwelcome here. Immense guilt and discomfort weighed her spirit down and she became painfully aware of the sin she bore in her soul. When she turned to look at herself in the expansive mirror, she didn’t have the strength to look herself in the eye. She was exposed. Judged by a mysterious presence.

Look at me.

It was all in her head. This realm’s goal was to make her feel negatively about herself. She could get to the new dimension if she waited this out. It was all a test to-

I said look at me.

Startled, the woman looked up to make eye contact with her reflection. It was only her, but she noticed a different presence within her reflections’ eyes and demeanor. She grew more perplexed as she stared at the entity who wore her features. They stared at her bitterly. Hateful. Unforgiving.

Though they shared the same voice, their tone was foreign.

You are ridiculous. This…pursuit of yours is aimless. Yet, you still believe in your wretched bond.

“There is nothing aimless about my pursuit,” the woman countered. She felt her temper flare as she defended herself. “It is you that is ridiculous for cowering behind my appearance. Tell me who you are, I command you to.”

You command me?

They laughed in mockery. It echoed through the vast space, causing goosebumps to form on her arms from the sheer coldness of their tone.

How dare you. My existence, my purpose, is to expose you of your foolish decisions. You may be of royal blood, but you will never be my ruler.

The room chilled. She felt her throat constrict.

You do not command people you have cursed, then expect them to grovel at your feet. I’m cursed in the same ways he is. His sacrifice meant nothing- his death meant nothing because of you. Your interference was a disgrace to Fate. End your aimless pursuits. Your pact with the demon is your consequence. That is my command to you.

“Never speak of him,” the woman sneered, shakily taking a step towards the reflection. “I will never fall for your deceit. We will escape this fate. I will find him and fix this mess.”

The reflections face contorted into a cruel smile. The uncanny expression made her hands shake.

The only way this can be fixed… the reflection gazed at her, their eyes brightening with ill intent. Is to eliminate the toxic cycle.

The mirror shattered. She watched as the realm around her collapsed. The grass disintegrated. The clouds melted into rain. Varying sizes of glass showered her with scrapes. She screamed, her fear, desperation, and heartbreak contorting alongside the scenery around her. Was it all over? Did she run out of time?

Pain ripped her out of her thoughts. She looked at herself; the reflection became a full-fleshed figure that represented every lie and delusion she had of herself. Yet they were winning.

A glass shard was in the reflection’s hand, which was lodged straight into the woman’s chest. She gasped in pain, quickly crumpling to the ground as the reflection loomed over her with a victorious sneer.

Looking for him was your ultimate sin. Now I must pick up the pieces….

“You’re w-wrong,” she croaked out. The rain expanded the puddle of blood around her wounded body. “I will f-find him. I still…hav..e.. time…”

Her reflection tsked.

Naive, stubborn, delusional girl. Why must you refuse to believe that this is all your fault? You were fated to cause this mess. I was fated to conclude it. He is gone, just like you will be.

The last the woman saw were the shards of red-stained glass around her, and the triumphant gaze of her counterpart.

Sylus x Older!MC

Pt. 2

Older!MC soon realized that the room error was sorted. Their solution? Placing the man in the suite adjacent to hers.

She didn’t mind, but was surprised by the number of times she coincidentally ran into him the following days.

The elevators.

The breakfast bar.

Even the jacuzzi.

Sometimes he’d approach, other times he’d just catch her eye in passing with a flirtatious wink. He was quite forward about his interest but it wasn’t enough to convince her that he was serious.

So she mindlessly teased back and danced around his flirtatious implications. She was, after all, going with the flow as she promised herself she would.

While in the midst of a wine tasting event, nose hovered above a glass while she sat at the bar, he cornered her.

Dressed in his typical, well-tailored apparel, he regarded her with an unreadable expression while leaning against the bar. The scent of his cologne— a new woody one with hints of pepper— caught her attention first.

“There’s something I learned about you, miss.”

She took a small sip of her glass, making a pleased hum before she gave him a questioning look.

“You think I’m a womanizer.”

She couldn’t help her eyebrows from raising. It wasn’t that he was wrong; she just thought their routine was mutually agreed upon and that nothing more was going to come from it. Her surprise soon morphed into an amused chuckle.

“And why do think that is the case?” She questioned.

“From the way you react to me. I make it clear I like you, but you find ways to keep it lighthearted.”

She lightly spun the contents of her glass, the red wine forming bubbles at the top. “This is lighthearted. How could I know your intentions if you haven’t even asked for my name?”

She heard the empty barstool beside her slide against the tiled floor as he faced her completely. The fabric of his pants nearly touched hers while he settled onto the seat.

“Would you let me know your name?”

She playfully shrugged, earning a subtle grin from him.

“Then let’s clear the air over dinner, miss. Learning each others names will be the icebreaker for an in-depth conversation.”

It had been a while since a man formally proposed a date. The fact that they made a game out of learning each others names was what caught her attention. Yes, he was undeniably eyecandy, but she now sensed that there was something more behind his mysterious aura.

She tapped her chin. “If I were to say yes, what are you hoping to gain from the experience?”

When he tilted his head, it almost seemed like his eyes glimmered despite the low lighting. The shadows made his defined bone structure more prominent.

“In 24 hours, I’m hoping to convince an intriguing, stunning woman that I have more to offer than a player ever could,” he held out his hand as an invitation “if she allows me to, of course.”

There was only one answer: go with the flow.

“I’ll allow it.”

She accepted his hand, watching as he raised it to his lips as if the etiquette were a ritual.

Older!MC who has experienced it all— parties, random encounters, and a library of dating horror stories. However, she simply just hasn’t found a truly compatible person just yet. Wasn’t any elaborate reason for why; it was simply how her life unfolded.

Older!MC who never minded being single. Sure, it would be nice to have a long-term partner, but there was always something she was doing. Established career, undivided attention to friends and family, hobbies, travels…the world was an oyster to her.

Older!MC who decided to travel to an island for vacation. She found her self a little too focused on work lately; her paycheck thanked her for it but her energy levels did not. As a treat for herself, she booked at a nice resort and only had plans to go with the flow.

Older!MC who heavily values her alone time. Fortunately, the itinerary was going as expected: relaxing downtime, delicious cuisine, exciting events. It was when she went back to her room that things had changed. A stranger with a large suitcase in hand, unlocking her hotel room.

“Excuse me sir!” She called out, appalled from the intrusion. “That room is mine.”

Older!MC, who was pleasantly shocked by how attractive the stranger was. Tall, muscular, with a healthy head of white hair. Despite the shade, his features were visibly young when he turned to her. She didn’t miss the way his eyebrows subtly lifted, though his gaze was immediately locked on hers.

“Strange,” he responded, “because it is also mine.”

Older!MC who does not play games when it comes to her privacy and standards. She’d be sure to send in a lengthy complaint to the higher ups.

“Then there is an error,” she tsked, face scrunched in annoyance. “They gave you a room already booked. Such an amateur mistake for the price I paid.”

“Yes, quite careless of them,” he concurred. “Don’t worry your pretty head, miss. I’ll get it sorted.”

Older!MC who has no fear correcting men— especially young adults.

“Pretty head?” She echoed, tone conveying her displeasure. “Forgive me if I’m reaching, but that’s a rather condescending statement.”

Usually, men would become defensive if she corrected them. It was a toss up on if they’d become aggressive or simply displeased from chastisement. This man, however, seemed equip with a response.

“It was meant to be a compliment. But now I realize something.”

“Which is?”

“Pretty is an amateur word,” he said it as if it was a confession. The young man’s gaze on her never wavered. “Stunning is more fitting, miss.”

Older!MC who has experience with younger men flirting with her. She never hesitated swatting them away like pests; it was blatantly clear when they’d try to butter her up out of ego or fetish. She never had any patience for this behavior.

“You flatter me, but you are still without a room,” she waved off, walking around him to her door. She was hit with the pleasant smell of his cologne— notes of cedar and cardamom— as she placed the key fob on top of the lock. He never took a step back which forced her to look up at him. “I wish you luck.”

He held a hand out, which made her quirk her brow. “And I hope to keep you updated,” he responded, unhurried voice smooth and warm like silk fresh out of the dryer.

Older!MC who couldn’t deny that he was exceptionally handsome: broad shoulders, muscular frame, well dressed, and a dangerously alluring smirk.

“I wouldn’t hold your breath.” She told him, not raising her hand.

“Even if I’m good at it?” He inquired, relentless eyes glimmering with challenge.

Funny enough, Older!MC was just as competitive. She placed her hand in his, leaning in a smidgen closer.

“Even if you’re the best, young man.” She couldn’t help herself from teasing him with the nickname.

However, he didn’t seem fazed. The attractive stranger raised her hand close to his lips. “As you wish.” He placed a gentle kiss on top of it, never looking away. “Have a lovely evening, my lady.”

He carefully released it and walked away, making the large suitcase appear weightless once he picked it up. She watched him make his way down to where the elevators were, stride unhurried and back straightened with confidence.