A/n: Guys, I won’t lie. I totally forgot about this shit, but we’re back!! And smut is supposed to happen next chapter?? So YAYY!!
It takes a few days—Or at least, you think it does.
Time has long since lost its meaning in this cave. There are no mornings, no nights, no shifting skies to ground you in anything real. Just the steady glow of bioluminescence and the rhythm of Rafayel coming and going.
But eventually—Something in you settles. Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe you just get tired of waiting.
Tired of the looming thought hanging over your head like an inevitable storm.
Because whether you like it or not—You’re going to have to meet them.So instead of letting it drag out any longer…
You decide to face it.
Get it over with.
At least if Rafayel is there—At least if it’s by your side—Maybe it won’t be as bad as your mind keeps insisting it will be.
You sit at the edge of the pool, your legs submerged as you idly kick at the water, watching the ripples distort the faint glow beneath the surface. Your stomach twists. Your fingers curl slightly against the rock beside you.
You hesitate.
Just for a second.
Then, “The cove,” you whisper. Your voice is quiet, but it carries easily in the enclosed space. Behind you, Rafayel stills almost instantly. It always does when you speak first.
“You’ll be there for it, right?” you ask, your voice softer now, betraying just a hint of the unease sitting heavy in your chest.
A pause.
Not long.
But long enough for you to feel it.
Then,“Of course.”
Simple.
Certain.
Immediate.
You nod to yourself, even though it can’t see it from that angle. Your throat feels tight. “Okay…” you murmur, more to yourself than to it.
You draw in a breath.
Then another.
Steeling yourself.
“Then, um…” God, why is this so hard? “Can I—I want to meet them.”The words come out a little more uneven than you intended, but they’re there.
Said.
Real.
Behind you, there’s a shift.
Subtle.
But noticeable.
You glance back—And for the first time since you’ve known it—Rafayel looks… surprised.
Not confused.
Not curious.
Surprised.
Like it genuinely didn’t expect you to say that.
Like it thought this moment would come differently.
Later.
Forced.
Its gaze searches your face for a moment, like it’s trying to determine if you truly mean it.
“Are you certain?” it asks, its voice lower now.
Careful.
You swallow.
Your heart is beating faster than you’d like to admit.
But you nod anyway.
“Yes.”
The word is quiet.
But firm.
You don’t take it back.
For a moment, it just watches you.
Studying.
Then something shifts in its expression—something almost… pleased.
Not in a mocking way.
Not cruel.
But satisfied.
Like something has fallen into place exactly the way it wanted it to.
“Then I shall fetch them.”Your stomach drops. That fast?
Your fingers twitch slightly against the rock.
“Wait—”
But it’s already moving. Slipping into the water with barely a sound, its massive form disappearing beneath the surface in a smooth, fluid motion.
Gone.
Just like that.
And suddenly—You’re alone again.The cave feels bigger without it.
Quieter.
Colder.
Your heart pounds in your chest as you stare at the water, watching the ripples slowly settle, your reflection staring back at you in broken fragments. What did you just do?
Your breathing picks up slightly as your mind starts to race. There’s no taking it back now.
No undoing it.
You asked for this.
You agreed to this.
And now—They’re coming. A strange tension fills the air, like the cave itself is holding its breath. You don’t know how much time passes.
Minutes.
Maybe less.
But then— The water shifts.
Not gently.
Not like before.
It moves.
Disturbs.
Something beneath it—No.
Multiple things.
Your heart jumps into your throat as the glow beneath the surface begins to fracture, shadows weaving through the light as shapes begin to form.
Too many.
Far too many.
They’re coming.
Holy shit—They’re coming.
Your stomach drops so fast it makes you feel dizzy, your hands gripping the edge of the rock as your feet remain submerged in the water.
And you’re going to have to talk to them. Look at them.
Acknowledge them.
The same creatures that tore through the ship like it was nothing. The same creatures that—You swallow hard, forcing the thought down before it can finish forming.
The water begins to shift more violently now, not just ripples but full, overlapping currents as something—many things—move beneath the surface.
It’s wrong.
There’s too much movement.
Too many shapes.
They circle the pool slowly, deliberately.
Like sharks.
Like predators.
Like they’re sizing you up.
Your breath catches as the glow beneath the water fractures, shadows slipping through the light in long, sleek forms.
One passes close—Too close—And you jerk your foot back instinctively, your heel scraping against the rock as your pulse spikes.
Then—One head breaks the surface.
Then another.
And another.
And another.
Until they’re all there.
One by one, rising from the water like something out of a nightmare you can’t wake up from. There are so many of them.
Too many.
Far more than you were prepared for.
Your chest tightens as your eyes dart from face to face—Different shades of scales.
Different glowing patterns.
Different eyes.
But all unmistakably the same.
Your gaze flickers over them, and a horrible thought creeps in—Did they have to share? Did they divide everyone up between them?
Your stomach churns violently.
You push the thought away.
You have to.
Because they’re looking at you.
All of them.
Watching.
Waiting.
Expecting.
“…um, hello,” you manage, your voice small compared to the sheer presence of them. The moment the words leave your mouth, They light up.
“Hi!”
“Hello!”
“Hi!”
“Hello!”
One after another, overlapping, chiming in like a chorus.
It’s… jarring. The sudden shift from terrifying to—Excited?
Eager?
It throws you off completely.
And for a split second—It reminds you of something so stupid, so out of place, that you almost laugh.
The anchovies from SpongeBob.
The thought is so absurd it nearly makes you dizzy.
Their accents are thick—much thicker than Rafayel’s—each word rolling strangely off their tongues like the language still doesn’t quite belong to them.
But their tone—Their tone is unmistakable.
They’re happy.
Excited.
About you.
And that might be the most unsettling part of all.
Before you can even begin to process it—The water shifts again.
Heavier this time.
Familiar.
Rafayel emerges from beneath the surface, his presence immediately commanding attention without him even trying.
The others quiet slightly—not completely—but enough that you notice the shift.
Respect.
Instinctual.
Immediate.
There’s a large fish clenched between its teeth, still twitching faintly, its body glistening as it breaks the surface with it.
Your gaze drops to it instinctively.
Then back up.
Then back down again.
Right.
Food.
Of course.
It swims up to you with ease, its movements smooth, controlled—completely unbothered by the crowd surrounding you.
Like they don’t matter.
Like the only thing that does—Is you.
One of its webbed hands rises from the water, coming to rest against your shin.
The contact is gentle.
Grounding.
But it still makes your breath hitch slightly.
The other hand reaches up, gripping the fish as it pulls it free from its mouth.
And then—Its jaw shifts.
Unhinges.
Not fully—But enough.
Enough for you to notice.
Enough for something deep in your brain to scream wrong. Your body stiffens as you watch, unable to look away as it prepares to eat, completely unfazed by the audience around it.
Completely unfazed by you.
Like this is normal.
Like this is just another moment.
The others watch too.
Some with interest.
Some with what looks like admiration.
None with discomfort.
Because for them—This is normal. That’s what you tell yourself.
That’s what you have to tell yourself. Because if this is normal for them—If this is their world, their way of living—Then you’re the only thing here that doesn’t belong.
And that thought…
That thought settles somewhere deep in your chest, heavy and inescapable. Rafayel’s presence at your side helps. More than you’d ever admit out loud.
Its hand is still resting against your leg, thumb brushing absentmindedly against your skin in slow, grounding strokes as it finishes its meal like nothing is out of place. Like nothing is wrong. Like you’re not sitting here trying to keep yourself from spiraling.
Your hand lifts, almost unconsciously, brushing against the back of your neck as you look out at the crowd in front of you—At them.
“So um…” you start, your voice quieter than you intend, a little strained around the edges. “What now?”
The reaction is immediate.
The entire cove seems to light up at once. Clicks.
Trills. Excited, overlapping sounds ripple through them like a wave, their bodies shifting in the water, tails flicking as they chatter amongst themselves.
It’s overwhelming.
So much noise.
So much attention.
All directed at you.
One of them begins to move forward.
You notice it instantly—the way its body cuts through the water, eager, almost too eager.
But then it stops.
Mid-motion.
Its gaze flicks to Rafayel.
Waiting.
Asking.
And that’s when you see it clearly—The hierarchy.
The unspoken rules.
None of them will approach you without its permission.
Rafayel lets out a low trill in response, something deeper than the others, more commanding.
Then it gives a sharp nod.
That’s all it takes.
The creature perks up immediately, excitement practically vibrating through its entire body as it resumes its approach.
It’s… smaller.
Not small by any human standard—still large, still dangerous—but compared to Rafayel…
It’s nothing.
Its body nearly trembles as it gets closer, its glowing markings flickering faintly with what you can only assume is emotion.
“Hi!” it chirps, voice bright, almost too bright.
There’s a faint flush spreading across its cheeks, subtle beneath the shimmer of its scales, but noticeable all the same.
It looks… nervous.
Excited.
Honored, even.
“I am—” it starts, stumbling slightly over the words like it’s not used to speaking your language for this long. It repeats its name—something fluid, something that doesn’t quite translate properly in your mind, syllables blending together in a way you can’t replicate.
You nod anyway.
“Hi,” you echo awkwardly, offering a small, unsure smile.
That’s all it takes.
Another one moves forward.
Then another.
And another.
One by one, they approach you—each waiting their turn, each looking to Rafayel for that silent permission before coming closer.
Each introducing themselves in that same excited, stumbling way.
Each one looking at you like you’re something…Important.
Valuable.
Something to be seen.
It’s overwhelming.
But strangely—Not in the way you expected.
There’s no hostility.
No aggression.
No hunger.
Just curiosity.
Excitement.
Reverence.
And as you sit there, responding softly, nodding along, trying to keep up as name after name blurs together—
Your gaze drifts.
Back to Rafayel.
And for the first time—You really see it. Not just as the creature that saved you. Not just as the one that ruined your life.
But as what it is to them.
It’s massive.
Not just bigger—But significantly bigger. Its frame dwarfs the others, its presence alone enough to quiet the space without effort. Its markings glow stronger, more vividly, shifting faintly beneath its skin like something alive.
Even the way it holds itself— Still.
Controlled.
Certain.
It stands apart from them in every way that matters.
And they treat it that way.
Every glance toward it is filled with respect.
With deference.
With something close to awe.
And then—Your gaze shifts back to yourself.
Sitting beside it.
Being introduced by it.
Touched by it.
Claimed by it.
Your stomach flips.
Because whether you want to admit it or not—You’re not just meeting the cove.
You’re being presented to them.
Like you’re a prize.
A trophy.
Something it fought for—And won.
The thought settles in your chest, uncomfortable, sharp around the edges… but you don’t let it show.
You can’t.
Not here.
Not with all of them watching you like this—like you’re something rare, something important, something to be admired.
So you smile.
You nod.
You greet each member of the cove as they come forward, your voice a little steadier now, even if your heart still hasn’t quite slowed down.
“Hi,” you repeat more times than you can count, offering small acknowledgments, doing your best to keep up with names you know you won’t remember later.
They don’t seem to mind.
If anything, they seem thrilled just to hear you speak back to them.
To be acknowledged by you.
It’s… strange.
The way they look at you.
Like you matter.
Like you belong.
And then—Something shifts.
One of them moves closer than the others have so far, slower this time, more careful.
Cradled in its arms—Is something small.
Tiny.
Your brows knit slightly as you lean forward, curiosity overriding your nerves for just a moment.
It lifts the small creature toward you, trilling softly, almost proudly.
“Newly hatched,” Rafayel murmurs from beside you, its voice low near your ear.
You glance at it briefly before looking back down—And your breath catches.
The baby is…
Adorable.
There’s no other word for it.
It’s small—so small compared to the others—its features softer, less defined. Its scales haven’t fully developed yet, lighter in color, almost translucent in some areas where the faintest glow pulses beneath the surface.
Its eyes are large, bright, blinking slowly as it looks up at you with something that can only be described as curiosity.
It makes a soft, chirping noise.
Your heart melts.
“Oh—” the sound slips out before you can stop it, your entire expression softening instantly.
Without thinking, you reach out.
Careful.
Slow.
The creature holding it watches you closely but doesn’t pull away. Instead, it gently places the baby into your hands.
Your breath hitches slightly at the contact.
It’s warm.
So warm.
And soft in a way you didn’t expect—its tiny body shifting slightly as it settles against your palms, making another small, curious sound.You can’t help the small smile that spreads across your face. “They’re… cute,” you murmur, almost to yourself, your voice softer than it’s been this entire time.
That’s all it takes.
Another one approaches.
And another.
Soon—You’re surrounded again, but this time not with overwhelming noise or unfamiliar faces—But with offerings.
Babies.
Tiny, newly hatched creatures being carefully passed to you one after another, each one just as curious, just as small, just as endearing as the last.
Your earlier fear fades—just a little.
Replaced by something lighter.
Something warmer.
You laugh softly at one of their small noises, adjusting your hold carefully, terrified you might drop one even though they seem far more stable than they look.
“They’re so little,” you whisper, gently brushing your thumb along one’s head.
Next to you—Rafayel has moved closer.
Much closer.
You feel it before you even fully register it. Its body pressing just slightly against your back, its presence surrounding you more completely now.
Watching.
Always watching.
But this time—There’s something different in its gaze.
Something you can’t quite place.
Its eyes are fixed on you, not the others, not even the babies—Just you.
Taking in the way your expression has softened.
The way your shoulders have relaxed.
The way your voice has changed.
There’s a flicker of something there—Something deeper.
Heavier.
Something you don’t have a name for.
Its hand comes to rest lightly at your hip, grounding, possessive without being forceful.
And still—You don’t pull away.
Because you’re distracted.
Because you’re holding something so small, so fragile—Because despite everything—Despite where you are, and who you’re with—This moment feels…Almost normal.
Almost peaceful.
And for a fleeting, dangerous second—A thought crosses your mind.
Quiet.
Unspoken.
What if…
What if you had one?
One of your own.
Small.
Curled in your arms like this.
Safe.
Wanted.
The thought hits you harder than you expect, your chest tightening slightly as your smile falters just for a second.
You don’t say it.
You won’t say it.
Not out loud.
Not where it can hear you.
Because something deep in your gut tells you—If you did—It would listen.
It does, after all, give you everything you could possibly ask for. That thought lingers—quiet, dangerous—nestling somewhere deep in your mind as you begin handing the babes back.
One by one.
Careful.
Gentle.
You cradle each tiny body just a second longer than necessary before passing them back into waiting arms, watching as their parents receive them with soft trills and quiet affection.They chirp their thanks to you—some brushing their heads lightly against your hands before retreating, others lingering just a moment longer like they don’t quite want to leave.
And then—They start to go.
One by one, just like they came.
Slipping beneath the surface, their glowing forms fading into the dark water below until all that’s left are ripples and the soft echo of their voices.
Apparently—The babes were the last of them.
The final step.
Your creature stays close, assisting you without being asked.Its hands move carefully as it takes the last of the babes from you, passing them back to their families with an ease that tells you it’s done this before—many times.
They chirp their goodbyes, softer now.
Satisfied.
Content.
And then—They’re gone.
Just like that.
The cave falls quiet again.
Too quiet.
The sudden absence of so many bodies, so many voices—it leaves behind a strange emptiness, like something has been taken with them when they left.
Your hands fall to your lap slowly, still tingling faintly from the warmth of the babies you held.
Your chest feels tight.
Not in fear this time.
Something else.
Something heavier.
And then—It hits you.
All at once.
You just met them.
All of them.
The cove.
Its people.
Its family.
It introduced you to them.
Not as prey.
Not as something to be consumed.
But as something to be known.
Something to be accepted.
Something to be…
Important.
Your breath catches.
Because no human—No human would ever see this side of them.Would ever be allowed this close.
Would ever walk away from it.
And yet—You did. Because of it.
Because of him.
“Rafayel,” you call, your voice quieter than you expect, thick with something you can’t quite name.
It answers immediately.A soft click, followed by the subtle shift of water as it turns fully toward you.
Its gaze locks onto yours.
Attentive.
Always.
Waiting.
And just like before—Your body moves before your mind can catch up.
But this time—There’s no hesitation.
No second guessing.
No fear holding you back.
You close the distance in a single motion, your hands coming up to wrap around its neck, fingers slipping into its long, glowing hair—softer than it looks, strands sliding between your fingers like silk.
And then—You kiss it.
Your lips press against its, firm and certain in a way they weren’t before.
Not tentative.
Not accidental.
Intentional.
Its reaction is immediate.
A sharp intake of breath—if it can even be called that—followed by a low, startled trill that vibrates against your mouth.
Its body stills for half a second—Just half—Like it didn’t expect this.
Like it didn’t expect you to do this again.
And then—It moves. Its hands come up fast, but not rough, one tangling into your hair, the other pressing firmly against your lower back as it pulls you closer—closer than before, eliminating any space between you.
Its lips part slightly against yours, unfamiliar but eager, responding in a way that feels instinctual rather than learned.
The sound it makes—Low.
Deep.
Almost needy—Sends a shiver down your spine.
Its tail shifts beneath the water, restless, the movement causing small waves to lap against the rock as it adjusts to hold you better, to keep you steady as it leans into you.
Like it doesn’t want this to end.
Like it’s been waiting for this.
And then it hits you—It has.
It’s been waiting for this.
For you.
Not just here, not just in this cave, not just in the days—weeks?—you’ve spent tangled in its presence, learning its voice, its touch, its habits.
Longer than that.
Before you even knew it existed.
Before you ever stepped foot on that ship.
Before your life split into a before and after.
It’s been waiting.
Watching.
Wanting.
Waiting for you to turn toward it instead of away.
Waiting for you to stop fighting what it already decided was inevitable.
And for a brief moment—A fleeting, fragile second as you pull back just enough to breathe—You feel something close to pity.
For it.
For the way it looks at you like you’re something it’s been starving for.
Like you’re the only thing that has ever mattered. Like it would tear apart the world—did tear apart the world—Just to have you here.
But then—That moment shatters.
Because you remember.
What it did.
What it took.
What it cost to be here.
And the pity twists into something sharper.
Something complicated.
Because no—You don’t feel bad for it.
Not really.
It doesn’t get to be pitied.
Not after everything.
Not after that.
It should be punished.
It deserves to be punished.
Even if it thought it was helping you.
Even if it truly believes it saved you.
Even if—Even if it looks at you like this.
Like you’re everything.
And yet—You kiss it again.
Because its lips are soft.
Softer than anything you’ve ever felt, pliant and warm against yours in a way that doesn’t match what it is. What it should be.
Because the way your body fits against its—The way it holds you like you were made to be held there—Feels right.
Too right.
Like something in you recognizes it.
Like something in you has been searching for this exact shape, this exact presence, this exact being.
Like everything that’s happened—Every choice, every mistake, every moment—Led here.
To this.
To it.
Maybe that’s what it meant.
When it said you belonged by its side.
And the worst part—The most dangerous part—Is that right now?
You believe it.
Or at least…
You want to.
Your hands slide up, pressing against its chest, your fingers brushing over the small, translucent scales scattered across its skin. They’re smooth, slightly raised, cool compared to the warmth building between you.
“We should—”
Stop.
That’s what you mean to say.
That’s what you try to say.
But the word never comes.
Because it tastes good.
You weren’t expecting that.
You thought it would taste like salt.
Like blood.
Like something rotten and wrong.
But it doesn’t.
It tastes… sweet.
Fresh.
Like tart blueberries, sharp and clean against your tongue in a way that makes your head spin.
“We should…” you try again, your voice weaker this time, less certain.
And then—It starts to sing.
The sound is low at first.
Barely there.
A vibration more than a melody, something you feel before you fully hear.
And then it grows.
Wraps around you.
Slips beneath your skin.
It’s not like anything you’ve ever heard before.
Not human.
Not meant for human ears.
It pulls at something deep inside you, something instinctual, something primal.
Like thirst.
Like hunger.
Like a man dying in a desert finally seeing water.
“Rafayel,” you mewl, your voice breaking slightly as your grip on it tightens.
Your breath hitches sharply as it leans in again, capturing your lips in another kiss, deeper this time, more insistent.
The song doesn’t stop.
It vibrates through both of you, through your chest, your throat, your very bones.
You feel it everywhere.
And suddenly—You’re hot.
Too hot.
The heat builds rapidly, pooling low in your body, spreading through your veins in a way that makes your thoughts blur and your limbs feel heavy.
Wrong.
This is wrong.
“Rafayel,” you whine, your voice strained now, barely holding together as you try—try—to hold onto something resembling control.
And then—It changes.
The sound cuts.
Sharp.
Abrupt.
And in its place—A hiss.
Low.
Dangerous.
Its lips pull back just enough to bare its teeth, sharp and glinting, something more feral flashing across its face.
“No.”
The word is firm.
Final.
There’s no softness in it this time.
No gentleness.
“I will not let you deny us both this because of your foolish human fear.”Its grip tightens slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you just how easily it could.
Just how much stronger it is.
How much control it truly has.
“You want me,” it continues, its voice lower now, rougher, the remnants of that song still echoing faintly in your head.
Your breath stutters.
Because you do.
God, you do.
And it knows it.
It’s always known it.
“Take what you want.”
The words settle between you—Heavy.
Tempting.
Dangerous.
Take what you want.
The words echo in your mind, over and over, louder than the sound of the water, louder than your own heartbeat.
You’ve never been that person.
Never the one to take.
Never the one to claim.
You’ve always waited. Always given. Always bent yourself into something smaller, something easier, something acceptable for others.
But here—There are no rules.
No expectations.
No one watching except it.
And it wants you to take.
To be selfish.
To choose yourself for once.
Your breath comes uneven, your hands tightening slightly where they rest against its chest, feeling the subtle shift of muscle beneath smooth, scaled skin.
You want it.
God—you want it.
It’s terrifying how much you want it.
Every time you look at it, something inside you lurches, like your heart is trying to escape your chest just to be closer. Just to be held by it instead.
And maybe that should disgust you.
Maybe it would have before.
But now—There’s no one here to judge you.
No one to remind you of what’s right or wrong.
No one to tell you that this is twisted, that this is wrong, that you should hate it.
Because they don’t hate it.
They welcomed you.
Accepted you.
Looked at you like you belonged.
So why shouldn’t you?
Why shouldn’t you take something for yourself for once?
Carpe noctem.
The thought slips in, quiet but firm.
Seize the night.
Seize this.
“Rafayel…” you whine softly, your voice barely holding together as you close the distance again, your lips finding its without hesitation this time.
There’s no uncertainty now.
No pause.
You kiss it like you mean it—like you’ve decided something, even if you can’t fully put it into words.
Its response is immediate.
A low, pleased trill hums against your mouth, its arms tightening around you, pulling you closer—closer—until there’s no space left between you at all.
Like it’s afraid you might change your mind.
Like it’s been waiting too long to risk letting you go now.
“I want you,” you breathe against its lips, the words spilling out before you can stop them.
Honest.
Raw.
Terrifying in their truth.
Its entire body stills for a fraction of a second—And then reacts.The glow beneath its skin brightens, pulsing faintly, its grip on you tightening just enough to ground you without hurting you.
A sound leaves it—deep, resonant, almost reverent.
Like you just gave it something it’s been craving.
Something it didn’t think it would hear.
Its forehead presses lightly against yours, its breath warm against your lips as it studies your face—searching, confirming, making sure this is real.
That you are real.
“You choose me,” it murmurs, voice softer now, but no less intense.
Not a question.
A realization.
And something about that—The way it says it, like it means everything—Makes your chest tighten. Because you did.
You are.
Even if you don’t fully understand why.
Even if part of you is still screaming that you shouldn’t.
Your fingers tighten slightly in its hair, your body leaning into it instead of away.
“I do,” you whisper, quieter this time—but steadier.
And that’s all it needs.
It pulls you in again, slower now, more deliberate, like it’s savoring it this time instead of just taking.
Like it’s learning you.
Like it wants to remember this moment exactly as it is—The moment you stopped fighting. The moment you chose it. “You will not regret this.”
It says it like a promise.
Like a vow.
Each word is punctuated with a soft press of its lips against yours—slow, deliberate, reverent in a way that makes your chest tighten.
A kiss.
Another.
Another.
It doesn’t rush.
Doesn’t devour you the way it easily could.
Instead, it lingers—like it’s memorizing the shape of your mouth, committing the feel of you to something deeper than memory. Like this moment matters more than anything else that’s ever happened to it.
“I will begin preparing,” it continues, voice low, brushing against your lips as it speaks.
Another kiss.
“For the mating ceremony,”
Another.
“At once.”
And then—It kisses you properly.
Not soft.
Not fleeting.
Deep.
Slow.
Achingly intentional.
Its hands come up to cradle your face, claws careful—so careful—as if you might break under too much pressure. Its thumbs brush lightly along your cheeks, grounding you as it presses into you, its lips parting against yours just enough to deepen the connection.
There’s something different in it now.
Not just want.
Not just hunger.
But certainty.
Possession.
Devotion.
Like this—You—Are no longer something it hopes for.
But something it has.The thought sends a shiver through you. Your fingers tighten instinctively in its hair, your body leaning into it despite yourself, despite everything that should be telling you to pull away.
But you don’t.
You can’t.
Because it feels too good.
Too right.
Too—Necessary.When it finally pulls back, it doesn’t go far. Its forehead presses briefly against yours, its glowing eyes searching your face one last time—checking, confirming, ensuring you haven’t changed your mind in the span of a breath.
That you’re still here.
That you’re still its.
Then—It’s gone. Not slowly.
Not reluctantly.
But in a single, fluid motion—its body slipping back into the briny pool, scales catching the dim light for just a moment before disappearing beneath the surface.
The water ripples violently in its wake before settling just as quickly.
Like it was never there at all.
And suddenly— You’re alone.
Again.
The silence crashes in around you, heavy and suffocating after everything that just happened.
Your lips still tingle.
Your skin still burns where it touched you.
Your heart—God, your heart is racing so fast it almost hurts. You lift a hand slowly, pressing your fingers against your mouth like you can still feel it there.
Like if you don’t, it might fade.
“Mating ceremony…” you whisper, the words strange on your tongue, unfamiliar and heavy with meaning you’re not sure you fully understand.
Your gaze drifts to the water.
Dark.
Endless.
Hiding it somewhere beneath the surface.
Preparing.
For you.
For this.
And the weight of it finally settles in.
This wasn’t just a moment.
Wasn’t just a kiss.
Wasn’t just giving in to something you’ve been trying to fight.
This is real.
Permanent.
Binding in a way you don’t yet understand.
Your chest tightens slightly, your breath catching as the realization sinks deeper and deeper.
Because you didn’t just take what you wanted—You gave something in return.Something you might not be able to take back.
And yet—As you sit there, alone in the dim light of the cave, your fingers still pressed to your lips—You don’t feel regret.
Not yet.
Just anticipation.
And something dangerously close to longing.
——
It’s been a while—days, maybe—since you’ve properly spent time with your creature.
It still comes.
Always.
Like clockwork.
Bringing you food, making sure you eat, watching just long enough to ensure you don’t refuse it out of stubbornness or spite.
And every time you ask—every time you try to pull more from it, try to understand what exactly it’s doing, what this “mating ceremony” even means— It gives you the same answer.
“I am preparing.”
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
No explanation.
No details.
No room for argument.
And then it’s gone again.
Slipping back into the dark water before you can press further, before you can grab onto it and make it stay.
It’s frustrating.
Infuriating, even.
Because for something that once wouldn’t leave you alone—Something that watched you constantly, hovered over you like you might disappear if it blinked—It’s suddenly… absent.
Not gone.
Never gone.
But not here.
Not the way it used to be.
It still takes care of you.
Still brings you everything you need.
Still kneels behind you when you bathe, hands careful as ever as it washes your back when you ask, its touch lingering just a second too long before it pulls away.
But even then—Even in those moments—It feels… distant.
Focused.
Like its mind is somewhere else.
On something bigger.
Something more important.
And you don’t know whether to be relieved—Or irritated.
Because nothing has changed.
Not really.
You still have your nest.
Your food.
Your water.
Your strange, quiet routine in this dim, echoing cave.
Everything is exactly the same.
Except—It’s not here. Not watching you.
Not hovering.
Not filling the silence with its presence.
And you—You hate how much you notice that. Your fingers tighten slightly in the fabric of your clothes as you sit there, staring out at the still surface of the water.
Waiting.
For what?
You don’t even know.
It’ll come back.
It always does.
So why are you—Your breath catches slightly.
The realization hits you so suddenly it almost feels like something physical.
Holy shit.
You miss it.
Not just its presence.
Not just the routine.
It.
The way it looks at you.
The way it speaks to you, voice low and careful like you’re something it has to handle gently despite everything it is. The way it touches you—Always so aware of its own strength, always holding back just enough to keep from hurting you.
The way it lingers.
And now—It doesn’t. And the absence of that—Of it—Feels wrong.Your chest tightens, your gaze dropping to your hands as you exhale slowly, trying to shake the feeling off. This is ridiculous. It’s better this way, isn’t it? More space. More distance. Less… whatever this is. But your eyes drift back to the water anyway. Like you expect it to rise up at any moment.
Like you’re waiting.
And that’s the worst part.
Because you are.
Waiting.
For it to come back to you.
And it does.
Eventually—It always does. But this time feels different. You don’t hear it at first. You feel it. The water shifts—subtle at first, then sharper, more alive. The surface ripples like something is rushing beneath it, fast, purposeful. And then— It bursts through.
Not slowly.
Not cautiously.
But with energy.
With excitement.
With something almost… boyish. It breaches the surface in one fluid motion, water cascading down its body as it lets out a series of rapid clicks and trills, louder than you’ve ever heard from it before. Happy. That’s the only word that fits.
It sounds happy. Your breath catches as you sit up straighter, your body reacting before your mind can fully catch up. It looks different like this.
Alive in a way you haven’t seen since… Since before it started disappearing on you. It moves closer quickly, almost too quickly, stopping just short of climbing fully onto your platform—like it’s restraining itself, containing all that restless energy barely beneath the surface.
Its eyes are bright.
Glowing stronger than usual.
Locked onto you like you’re the first thing it wanted to see. Like you are the first thing it came back for “Starfish,” it says, the word slipping easily from its mouth now, familiar, fond. It breaks off again into another string of clicks and trills, faster this time, like it forgot—just for a second—that you can’t understand.
Then it catches itself.
Stills.
Refocuses.
“It’s done.”
The words come out almost breathless.
Excited.
Proud.
“The preparations are done,” it continues, voice steadying but still laced with something barely contained beneath it. Its gaze doesn’t leave you for a second. Not even when it shifts closer, its hands coming to rest lightly against the edge of your platform. “The ceremony shall take place…” A pause. Just long enough for the weight of the words to settle. “On the night of the full moon.”
Silence follows.
Heavy.
Expectant.
The cave seems to hold its breath along with you. And suddenly— Everything feels real again. Not just the kisses. Not just the touches. Not just the way your heart betrays you every time it looks at you like that.
But this.
The ceremony.
The mating.
Whatever that means to its kind.
Whatever that will mean for you. Your throat feels dry. Your fingers curl slightly against your lap as you stare at it, trying to read its expression— But all you find is certainty.
Excitement.
Anticipation.
Like this is something it’s been building toward for far longer than you can even comprehend. And maybe it has. “…The full moon?” you repeat softly, your voice quieter now, more uncertain than you’d like it to be. Its lips curl slightly—not quite a smile, but close.
“Yes.”
A beat. Then softer—“Soon.”And the way it says it— Like it’s counting down the moments—Sends a strange mix of warmth and unease curling low in your chest. Its gaze doesn’t leave yours, intense and unwavering, like it’s searching for something—approval, maybe. Acceptance.
Excitement.
Fear.
Anything.
Everything. “I have prepared everything for you,” it continues, its voice softening slightly, though the underlying excitement is still there, buzzing just beneath the surface. “You will be honored. Protected. Adorned.” Its hand lifts slightly, like it wants to reach for you—But it stops itself.
Just short.
Something it’s been doing more lately. Restraint.
For you. “My cove will witness it,” it adds, quieter now, but no less intense. “Our union will be known. Recognized.” Claimed. The unspoken word lingers anyway. Your chest tightens. Because this isn’t just between you and it anymore. This is… everything.
Its people.
Its world.
Its life.
And you’re being pulled into the center of it. Your gaze flickers to the water for a brief second before returning to it. To Rafayel. Standing there—Waiting. For your reaction.
For your answer.
And for a moment—You don’t know what to say. You don’t even know how to feel.Everything is tangled—too many emotions, too many thoughts colliding all at once for you to make sense of any of it. But one thing—One thing cuts through all of it.
Clear.
Certain.
“I missed you.”
The words leave your lips before you can stop them.
Before you can think. Before you can take them back. And the second they’re out—Your breath catches.
Because you hear it.
What you said.
What it means. Your chest tightens, your gaze flickering briefly away like you can somehow hide the truth of it after the fact.
But it’s too late.
It heard you.
And when you look back—Its eyes are wide.Truly wide.
Not in the way they are when it’s hunting, or angry, or even pleased. But something else.
Something almost… startled. Like you’ve said something it wasn’t prepared to hear. Something it didn’t realize it wanted until you gave it to it. It studies your face, searching, trying to understand—not just the words, but what’s behind them.
And it doesn’t fully get it.
You can see that much.
Not completely.
But it understands enough. Enough to see the way you’re looking at it. The softness. The longing.And slowly—Something shifts in its expression.
“I missed you too,” it hisses back, the words a little uneven, like it’s piecing them together from what it knows of your language, from what it thinks they should mean.
It doesn’t say it perfectly.
But it says it. And somehow—That makes your chest ache even more. There’s a brief pause. A fragile moment where neither of you move. And then—“Can I?” It doesn’t clarify. Doesn’t need to.
Because you know. You feel it in the way it’s looking at you, in the way its body has gone tense like it’s holding itself back with everything it has. It wants to be close.
Closer than it’s allowed itself to be these past few days. Closer than it should be. Your answer comes easily.
Too easily.
“Yes, please.”The moment the words leaves your mouth—Something in it breaks. Not violently. Not dangerously.
But completely.
All that restraint it’s been holding onto—Gone. It moves in a blur.
Faster than you’ve ever seen it out of the water, its body surging forward with a speed that makes your breath hitch as it climbs into your nest beside you.
The structure shifts slightly under its weight, the soft materials bunching and dipping as it settles in—half of its tail still slipping into the water, but the rest of it pressing close.
Too close.
Not that you pull away. You don’t. Because the second it’s there—Its arms are around you. Pulling you in.
Firm.
Certain.
Careful, despite the urgency behind the movement.
Like it’s been holding itself back for too long and doesn’t know how to go slow anymore. Its face buries against your neck, its breath warm against your skin as a low, almost relieved trill escapes it—deep, vibrating, content.
Like something in it has finally settled. Like something that was wrong is right again. Its grip tightens just slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to keep you there, to anchor you against it. To make sure you don’t disappear. “You are here,” it murmurs against your skin, voice quieter now, almost disbelieving.
“Still here.”
Its hand slides up your back slowly, not hurried this time, not demanding—just… there.
Feeling.
Confirming.
Your body reacts before your mind does, your hands coming up to rest against it, fingers curling slightly into its hair, grounding yourself just as much as it’s grounding itself in you. The silence that follows isn’t empty.
It’s full. Heavy in a different way.
Not suffocating.
Not lonely.
But warm. And for the first time since it left—Since you realized what its absence felt like—That tightness in your chest eases.
Just a little.
Because it’s back.
And somehow—That matters more than you want it to.
“Can you answer my questions about the mating ceremony now?” you ask, your voice quieter than before, but steadier—like you’ve finally gathered the courage to face what you’ve been avoiding. Its hold on you doesn’t loosen. If anything, it tightens just slightly, like the question itself makes it more aware of your presence—more aware that this is real, that this is happening.
“I can try,” it answers.
There’s a pause after that.
Not long—But long enough for you to notice.
Long enough for you to realize that whatever this ceremony is… it’s not something simple. Not something easily explained in human words. Its hand shifts against your back, slow, thoughtful, claws barely grazing your skin as if it’s grounding itself while it thinks.
“The mating ceremony…” it starts, voice lower now, more measured, like it’s choosing each word carefully, “is when you become mine. Fully.”Your breath catches slightly at that.
It notices.
Of course it does.
Its head lifts just enough to look at you, its glowing eyes searching your face, watching your reaction closely before continuing.
“And I become yours,” it adds, quieter this time.
Like that part matters. Like it needs you to understand that this isn’t one-sided. That it’s not just about ownership—But something mutual.
Something binding.
“My kind does not… mate lightly,” it continues, its voice carrying that same careful tone. “We do not take many. Sometimes only one. Sometimes none at all.”
Its fingers curl slightly into the fabric at your back.
“But when we do… it is permanent.”
The word lands heavily.
Permanent.
Your stomach flips.
“There is no separation,” it goes on, watching you the entire time now, gauging every small shift in your expression. “No breaking of the bond once it is made.”
Its other hand comes up, hesitating for only a second before brushing lightly against your jaw, guiding your attention fully back to it.
“You will be tied to me,” it murmurs, softer now, “in body… and in mind.”That makes your brows furrow slightly. “In mind?” you echo. It nods slowly. “Yes.”A pause. Like it’s debating how much to tell you. “How my kind communicates,” it explains, quieter now, “is not only through sound.”Its gaze flickers briefly—almost uncertain—before returning to yours. “The bond allows… connection. Feeling. Awareness of each other.”
Your heart skips.
“You’ll be in my head?” you ask, a little more sharply than you intended. It shakes its head immediately. “No. Not like that.” Its tone is quick—reassuring. “I will not control you. I cannot control you,” it corrects, more firmly now. “But I will feel you. And you will feel me.”
Your chest tightens again.
“That sounds…” you trail off, unsure how to finish that sentence.
Too much.
Too intimate.
Too permanent.
It seems to understand anyway.
“It is how we know our mates are safe,” it says simply. “How we know they are ours.”
There it is again.
Ours.
Its hand stills against your face, its thumb brushing lightly beneath your eye. “There are other parts,” it continues, voice lowering again, something deeper creeping into it now. “Rituals. Offerings. Witnesses.”“The cove will be there,” it adds, almost as an afterthought—but you can tell it’s important. “They will watch. They will acknowledge you.”
Your stomach twists slightly at that.
“Watch?” you repeat.
It tilts its head slightly.
“Yes.”
Like that’s normal.
Like that’s expected.
Because to it— It is. You swallow. “And… what exactly happens?” you ask, quieter now.
There’s a shift in it then.
Subtle.
But unmistakable.
Its pupils narrow slightly, its grip on you tightening just a fraction as something darker, something more instinctual flickers beneath the surface. “The final part,” it says slowly, voice dropping to something almost rough, “is the claiming.”Your breath hitches.Its gaze doesn’t leave yours. “You will take me,” it continues, echoing its earlier words back to you, “as I will take you.” Your face heats instantly.“And through that… the bond is sealed.”
Silence falls between you.
Heavy.
Thick with everything that hasn’t been said outright but is very clearly implied. Its hand slips from your jaw, trailing down your neck slowly before settling back at your waist, pulling you just a little closer again. “But,” it adds after a moment, voice softer now, almost careful again, “it will not happen unless you allow it.”
That makes you pause.
“You’d stop?” you ask quietly.
It doesn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
The certainty in its voice is immediate. Absolute.
Even now.
Even after everything.
Your chest tightens again—But this time, it’s not fear.
Not entirely. Because for the first time since it started explaining—You realize something.
It wants this.
Desperately. But it still wants you to choose it, the same way it choose you. “You will still need to be prepared for it,” it says, voice low as it leans closer, scenting along your neck in that familiar, grounding way. “The night before the full moon. The bearers of the cove will come for you… and ready you for me.”
Its words settle heavy in your chest.
Prepared.
Readied.
For it.
“The moon is not far from full,” it continues, softer now, almost thoughtful. “Maybe three more nights. Perhaps fewer.”Your breath catches slightly. Three nights.
That’s… nothing.
“I will not be allowed to see you until the ceremony.”
That—That hits harder than anything else it’s said so far.
“I won’t be able to see you?” you ask, the words slipping out before you can stop them, your voice thinner than you intended. Something tight coils in your chest, sharp and sudden, like the ground just shifted beneath you.
It pauses.
Just for a second.
Like it didn’t expect that to be the part that affected you most.But then it looks at you again—really looks at you—and something in its expression softens. “Only for a short while,” it reassures, its hand coming up to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing gently along your cheek.
You lean into it without thinking.“When we reunite,” it continues, quieter now, more certain, “you will not regret it.”Its forehead presses lightly against yours, its voice dropping just enough to feel like it’s meant only for you.
“Our bond will be stronger than ever.”That word again.
Bond.
It lingers between you, heavier now that you understand more of what it means. Your hands come up almost hesitantly, resting against its arms, like you’re grounding yourself in it—like you need to feel that it’s still here while it is. Because soon… it won’t be.
Not like this.
Not for a few days.
And the thought makes your chest ache in a way you don’t want to examine too closely. “That’s… a long time,” you murmur, even though you know it’s not. Not really. But it feels like it. It exhales softly, something almost like a hum slipping from it as it leans into your touch.
“It will pass quickly,” it says, though there’s a faint tension beneath the words—like it’s trying to convince itself as much as you. Its grip on you tightens just slightly, pulling you closer again, as if making up for the time it knows it won’t have. “I will be near,” it adds after a moment. “Even if you do not see me.”
That… helps.
A little.
But not enough.
Because you’ve gotten used to this—To it being here.
To the way it looks at you.
To the way it touches you.
And now it’s going to be gone again.
On purpose this time.
Your fingers curl slightly into it, your gaze dropping for a moment before lifting back up. “Will they… be like you?” you ask quietly, thinking about the bearers.
It tilts its head slightly. “They will not harm you,” it answers first, like that’s the most important thing. Then, softer—“They will care for you as I do.”You don’t know why that makes your chest tighten more instead of less. Because they’re not it.
And you realize—That matters.
More than it should.
Silence settles between you again, but it’s different now.
Heavier.
Shorter. Because it’s ticking down.
Because every moment you have right now is something you won’t have for the next few days.
Its hand slides down to yours, its fingers curling around them, careful but firm.
“You will be safe,” it repeats quietly.
And then, after a pause—
“You will come back to me.”
—
A/n: Do we like starfish for a pet name?? Idk guys, lemme know if you want it changed. Also, yk how I mentioned smut next chapter. It might be the chapter afterwards, Idk if I want to drag it out or not yet..
Synopsis- It’s literally where we left off last chapter, and uhh you share your first kiss…
Tags- Stockholm Syndrome, Kidnapping!
a/n: Like three people have asked if I have a tag list for this fic, and now I’m debating on whether I should make one.. but I don’t think I can justify making one for just three people. Also, sorry for the long wait, I just didn’t know how to go about writing this.
W.c - 10.1k
“It may not be okay to you,” it says, and for once there’s no edge to its voice. No hiss. No growl. Just something steady. Certain. “But to me… you being safe and happy is all that matters.”
You pause at that.
Actually pause.
Because the sincerity in its voice makes something ugly twist inside your chest.You stare at this creature—this thing that has done nothing but ruin your life since the moment it entered it. And suddenly the heat in your body has nowhere to go except outward.
Your chest tightens painfully as you pull away from it, climbing unsteadily from the nest to pace the edge of the smooth stone platform instead. “I was safe and happy on the boat before you decided to sink it,” you grind out, your voice shaking harder with every word.
Your bare feet slap softly against damp stone as you pace, arms wrapped tightly around yourself like you’re trying to hold your own body together. “I was safe before you decided that I wasn’t happy enough for you, and that you could make me happier even if it meant killing—and eating—everyone I knew.”
Your throat burns.
“You’re a fucking asshole,” you spit, turning sharply to glare at it.
It hasn’t moved from where you left it.
Still kneeling partly in the water, watching you with those glowing eyes.
“And while I can give you some leeway because you don’t understand human customs—saying that you can make me happier than my own family is where I draw the fucking line.”
Your voice cracks at the word family. Pain flashes across your face before you can stop it. “If my heart ended up broken, I could’ve gone to my mom for comfort.” Your chest heaves. “My friends would’ve made me forget about it in a matter of days. We would’ve drank shitty wine and talked shit about him until I stopped caring.”
Your laugh comes out broken. Bitter. “But you didn’t give me that chance.”The tears come before you realize they’re there. Hot against your skin.“You killed them.”Your voice drops lower then, rough and trembling.
“You are the one who killed my happiness. Not that fucking rich prick I almost married.” You jab a finger toward it accusingly. “You didn’t give him the chance to ruin it. You killed him before he could.”
Silence.
Complete silence.
Even the bioluminescent glow in the water seems dimmer somehow.
You expect anger. Defensiveness. A hiss. A growl. Something. But it gives you nothing. It just… looks at you. And for the first time since you’ve known it, it looks genuinely lost. Not confused by your words. Not unable to understand them. But like it genuinely does not know how to fix what you’ve just said.
Slowly, it lowers its gaze. Its claws curl slightly against the stone beneath it. You mourn them still,” it says quietly. Not dismissive. Not mocking. Just… realizing it. As if some part of it truly believed that enough comfort, enough gifts, enough devotion could erase grief entirely.
Your laugh is wet and miserable. “Of course I fucking mourn them.” You wipe angrily at your face. “They were my family.”
Its throat works slightly. And then, quieter than you’ve ever heard it—“I did not understand.”That makes something in you snap. “You should’ve.”The words echo through the cave.
“You should’ve understood that people matter! That they aren’t just things you can take because you decided you wanted me!”Your breathing comes hard now, shoulders shaking with the force of it all. “You don’t get to decide what happiness means for me!”
It finally moves then. Slowly. Carefully. Like approaching a wounded animal.
“You are right,” it says. The words hit harder than if it argued. Your breath catches. Its eyes stay fixed on you as it rises higher from the water. “I was selfish.”
Its voice roughens around the admission. “I saw your pain and thought only of ending it. I saw someone unworthy of you and believed removing him would solve everything.”
Its claws flex weakly. “In my kind, that is love. Protection. Possession.”
It looks almost ashamed saying it now. “But humans…”It exhales sharply through its teeth. “You carry your dead with you.”
The cave falls quiet again.Your chest aches painfully. Because yes. Yes you do. Every human does. And maybe that was the one thing this ancient creature never understood. That grief doesn’t disappear just because new happiness is offered in its place.
That love and mourning can exist together. That you can love it and still hate what it did to you. Its gaze softens slightly as it watches you cry. And this time when it reaches toward you, it stops before touching you.
Waiting.
Giving you the choice.
“I cannot return what I took,” it says softly. A horrible sort of honesty. “But if I could carve open my own chest and give them back to you, I would.”
Your breath stutters. “I know saying sorry means little to humans after death.” Its voice grows quieter still.
“But I am sorry.”
Its gaze doesn’t waver from yours.
“I can make you happy,” it continues, softer now, like it’s offering something instead of declaring it. “Or I can at least try.”
A pause.
“All you have to do… is let me.”The sincerity in its voice hits somewhere deep. Uncomfortably deep. Because it doesn’t sound like it’s lying. It doesn’t sound manipulative. It sounds like it believes it. Completely. And somehow—That makes it worse.
Your jaw tightens, your nails digging into your palms as something sharp and frustrated builds in your chest. Because it’s standing there—after everything—after everything it just admitted—and it still thinks this can be fixed.
That this can be… good. “Fine,” you snap, the word breaking out of you before you can stop it. Your voice echoes, louder than anything else that’s filled this cave.
“You think you can make me so happy?” you continue, stepping closer without realizing it, anger pushing you forward. “Do it.”
It doesn’t move.
It just watches you. “Make me happy,” you shout, the words cracking at the edges now, frustration bleeding into something more fragile. Something more raw.
“I’d love to see you try.”
Your chest rises and falls quickly, your breath uneven as you glare at it, every inch of you tense, braced—waiting. For what, you don’t even know. For it to fail? For it to finally understand?
For it to stop?
“Make me happy,” you grind out again, quieter this time but no less intense, your gaze locked onto its glowing eyes. And then—you see it. The shift. Subtle. But unmistakable. Its expression changes.
Not confusion.
Not hesitation.
Something else. Something… brighter. Your stomach drops. Because it looks—happy. Not in the way a human would be.
Not soft or relieved.
But pleased. Deeply, undeniably pleased. Like you’ve just given it something it’s been waiting for. For a long time. Its tail stirs beneath the water, a slow, controlled movement that sends ripples outward, the faint glow along its body seeming to pulse just a little brighter.
“You are allowing me,” it says quietly.
Not asking.
Understanding.
Accepting.
Your breath stutters. That’s not what you— “I will,” it continues, voice lowering, something almost reverent slipping into it now. “I will make you happy.”
A promise.
Not a challenge. Not a doubt. A promise. It moves closer. Slow this time. Intentional. Like it doesn’t want to startle you—like it’s learned that much at least.
Its hand lifts, hovering near you for just a moment before settling lightly against your cheek, tilting your face just enough so you can’t look away. “You will not feel pain like that again,” it murmurs. “I will not allow it.”
Your heart pounds against your ribs. Its thumb brushes just beneath your eye—where your tears had been earlier, where they still threaten now.
“I will give you everything you require.”
A pause. Then softer—“And everything you do not yet know you need.” Your breath catches. Because the way it says it—It doesn’t sound like a threat.
It sounds like devotion. Something you have never had before.
Complete.
Unyielding.
Terrifying.
Its hand lingers for just a second longer before pulling back slowly, like it’s reluctant to lose the contact. But it does. And despite everything—every thought, every memory, every reason you shouldn’t—You miss it.
The realization hits almost immediately.
Sharp.
Unwelcome.
Your stomach clenches as your gaze drops, your fingers twitching faintly at your sides like they don’t know what to do without something there—without it there. You hate that.
You hate how quickly your body betrays you. Because the moment you look back at it—You remember. Just how inhumanly beautiful it is. The faint glow beneath its skin, the way its eyes catch the dim light of the cave, the sharpness of its features softened only by the way it looks at you—like you’re something precious. Something worth everything it’s done.
Your chest aches. because you know—you know— If things were different…If it hadn’t done what it did—if it hadn’t taken everything from you in the name of loving you—you could have fallen.
Easily.
Dangerously.
You can see it so clearly it makes your throat tighten. The attention. The devotion. The way it learns you, watches you, adjusts itself for you.
No hesitation. No doubt. Just… certainty. And that’s the problem. Because even now—Even knowing what it is. What it’s done. Your heart stutters anyway.
Weak.
Confused.
Your fingers curl into your palms, grounding yourself as your jaw tightens, trying to push the feeling down before it can take root. Because you know how this ends. You know where this goes. You’re alone. Isolated.
And it’s the only thing here.
The only voice.
The only presence.
The only touch.
And if it keeps going like this— if it keeps looking at you like that, speaking to you like that, giving and giving and giving—your resistance won’t last forever.
It can’t.
Humans aren’t built for that. Your heart will bend. Slowly. Reluctantly. Until one day—It won’t feel like bending at all. It’ll feel natural.
Wanted.
And that thought terrifies you more than anything else. Because no matter how much you fight it—no matter how much you want to hate it—you can already feel it starting.
That subtle shift. That dangerous pull. And one day—your heart won’t just flutter for it.
It’ll choose it.
——
After that day, things shift. Not all at once.
Not in any way you can point to and say this is where it changed. But something does. And once you notice it—you can’t unsee it. It tries harder. That’s the first thing. More deliberate. More attentive. Like it’s taken your words—make me happy—and carved them into something permanent. Something it measures itself against.
It brings you more.
More gifts. Not just the strange, glittering things from the ocean floor, but things you can actually use. Clothes in different textures, different styles. Softer fabrics. Warmer ones. Things that almost feel like they were chosen with thought—like it’s learning your preferences the more you exist here.
And the food—It changes too. Fish is no longer the only option. It starts bringing crabs, cracking their shells open for you before handing them over. Shrimp, peeled with careful precision. Things that feel closer to what you used to eat—what you remember eating.
What you used to be. And slowly—without realizing when it started—you stop flinching every time it gets close. You stop watching it like it’s something that might snap at any second.
You stop… expecting the worst. It happens in small moments. You laugh once—quiet, surprised at yourself—when it says something unintentionally funny, misunderstanding a phrase, or repeating something you said earlier in the wrong context.
You freeze after. Like you’ve done something wrong. But it doesn’t react badly. If anything—it seems… pleased.
Encouraged.
And after that—It happens again.And again. You smile when it returns from hunting. Not every time. But enough that you notice.
Enough that it notices too.
Its movements grow lighter when it sees it, its presence less heavy, less overwhelming—like it’s learned that this is something good. Something it should seek out. And the realization creeps in, slow and suffocating—this is easy.
Too easy.
This—this quiet routine, this constant presence, this unwavering attention—this is what you wanted.
With him.
With your fiancé. A life where you were chosen. Where you were cared for. Where you didn’t have to question where you stood.
And now—you have it.
Just not with the person you were supposed to. With the thing that took him from you. The thing that ate him. Your stomach twists every time that thought resurfaces.
But it doesn’t stop the rest of it.
It laughs sometimes. Or at least—its version of laughing. A trill.Soft. Warbled. Strange—but not unpleasant. You find yourself recognizing the sound, learning the difference between its curiosity, its satisfaction, and its amusement. Learning it. And it learns you. What you like. What you don’t. When to come closer. When to give you space. It supplies you with everything. Clothes. Food. Water.
Comfort.
Stability.
Consistency.
Things you didn’t realize you were starving for until you had them. And the worst part—the most dangerous part—i s how your body responds. Every time it looks at you, something in your stomach flutters. Every time it touches you—brief, careful, almost reverent—your heart stumbles in your chest like it’s trying to catch up. You tell yourself it’s nothing.
A reaction.
A result of being isolated. Of having no one else. You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything.
Because if it does—if you let yourself believe it does—then everything else becomes harder to hold onto.
Your anger.
Your grief.
Your reasons.
So you push it down.
Ignore it.
Pretend it isn’t happening. But if you weren’t so determined to fight it—if you weren’t so focused on not letting it win—you might have noticed sooner…just how deep you’ve already fallen.
——
The day starts like any other.
You wake slowly, consciousness pulling you up from sleep in uneven waves, your body still heavy, still warm from the nest beneath you. For a moment, you don’t move. You just breathe—slow, steady—listening to the familiar silence of the cave.
You can feel it already .
That presence.
Watching.
Your eyes open, and there it is.
It’s already awake. Of course it is.
It always is.
Perched just at the edge of the briny pool, half-submerged, half-sprawled across the smooth stone, its glowing eyes fixed on you like you’re the first thing it wanted to see. Like you’re the only thing it ever wants to see.
You’ve gotten used to it.
Mostly.
It doesn’t make your heart race in fear anymore. Not like it used to. Now it just makes something else stir.
Something quieter.
Something more dangerous.
Your gaze drifts past it briefly—and lands on your breakfast.
Still alive.
Of course it is.
The crab in its grasp struggles weakly, legs twitching, claws snapping uselessly at the air as it tries to escape.“You wake,” it says, voice low, steady—like it’s been waiting for that exact moment. You push yourself up slightly, rubbing at your eyes as you sit upright, your hair a mess, your thoughts still slow to catch up.
It doesn’t wait.
With practiced ease, it cracks the crab in half. The sound is sharp, echoing faintly off the cave walls, followed by the quiet, efficient way it begins to clean it—discarding the shell, separating what you can eat from what you can’t.
It’s careful.
Always careful with you.
“Hurry,” it murmurs, handing the prepared pieces over, its claws brushing your fingers for only a second longer than necessary. “Eat.”You take it automatically, the warmth of the food grounding, familiar at this point.
“We have plans today.” You nod without thinking, already bringing the food to your mouth, your body moving on habit more than anything else.
But then—the words catch up to you.
Plans.
Your chewing slows.
Your brows knit together slightly as you glance back up at it.
“…plans?” you repeat, voice rough from sleep.
It’s already watching you again.
It always is.
There’s something different in the way it looks at you now, though. Something… expectant. Almost eager.
Your stomach twists. “What do you mean—” you start, lowering the food slightly, confusion creeping in. It cuts you off before you can finish. A small shake of its head. A quiet, firm grunt. “Eat.”
The word is softer this time—but no less final. Your lips press together. You hesitate. Then sigh quietly and take another bite, though your mind is no longer on the food. Plans. You can’t remember the last time you had plans. Anything beyond this cave. Beyond the routine.
Eat. Sleep. Talk. Watch. Repeat.
Your eyes flick back up to it again, suspicion and curiosity mixing uneasily in your chest.
It notices.
Of course it does.
But it doesn’t explain.
Doesn’t elaborate.
It just watches you eat, patient—waiting for you to finish like whatever it has planned can’t start until you do. And for the first time since you’ve been here—you feel something unfamiliar settle in your chest.
Not fear.
Not quite.
Something lighter.
Something uncertain.
Anticipation.
“Come. Get in the water,” it says, holding its hands out toward you. You glance down at your clothes before looking back at it, brows furrowing.
“I don’t have to—”
“No.”
It cuts you off before you can even finish. “Get in the water,” it repeats, more firmly this time, staring you down.
You huff softly, crossing your arms.
“I don’t know… anyone who’s ever gotten into the water after being told to by a siren or something never comes back out.” Its brows knit together at that, clearly not understanding. After all, you’ve gotten into the pool with it plenty of times—washing yourself, letting it help you even.
Moments you secretly look forward to.
If only for the excuse to feel its touch.
“Get in,” it grunts again, frustration slipping into its tone.
You roll your eyes.
“Fine,” you mutter, pushing yourself up from your nest. You make your way over carefully, steps slow and uneven against the smooth rock so you don’t slip. But the moment you reach the edge— It moves. Grabbing you with ease, like you weigh nothing, pulling you straight into its space.
A small gasp leaves you as your body presses against its, your hands instinctively bracing against its chest. Up close, it’s… overwhelming. You’re not exactly small by human standards, but compared to it—You feel tiny.
You hate how much you like that.
“Can’t you at least tell me what we’re doing?” you ask, glancing up at it, trying to ignore how close it is. Its gaze lingers on you for a moment.
Then—“You need sunlight, no?”
The words hit you all at once. Your breath stutters, your fingers tightening where they press against it, your body going still in its hold. “You—” you blink up at it, searching its face like you misheard. “You’re taking me… up?” It watches you carefully, like it’s gauging your reaction—like your answer matters more than anything else right now. A slow nod. “Yes.”
Simple.
Like it’s obvious.
Like it was always going to happen.
Your chest tightens painfully.
Because you did say that.
You remember it clearly—frustrated, angry, desperate for something normal. You told it you needed sunlight, needed something other than this endless dark or you’d die here.
And it—It listened.
It remembered.
It’s doing something about it.
Your throat feels dry.
“…and you’re just now telling me?” you mutter, though there’s no real bite to it, your voice quieter than you intended.
It tilts its head slightly, confused by the tone rather than the words. “You said you needed it,” it replies, like that’s the only explanation required. Like your needs are reason enough. Your gaze drops for a second, your thoughts tangling over themselves in a way you don’t like.
Because that shouldn’t matter.
It shouldn’t feel like anything.
But it does.
You swallow, forcing your attention back to the present—to the fact that you are currently being held against something that could drag you into the depths without effort. “…and I’m supposed to just trust you with that?” you ask, glancing back up at it.
“You are with me.”
The way it says it—so certain. So absolute.
It makes your stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with fear. You huff softly, rolling your eyes just a bit, even as your grip on it tightens slightly. “Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about,” you mumble under your breath.
Another pause.
Then a quiet trill.
Amusement. It shifts its hold on you, one arm firm around your waist, pulling you closer—closer than necessary, your chest pressing against it, your breath catching at the sudden proximity. “You will not drown,” it says, softer now, like it’s trying to reassure you. “I will not allow it.”Your heart stumbles. There’s something about the way it says things like that—like it’s not a promise.
Like it’s a fact.
“…you better not,” you mutter, but there’s no real resistance left in your voice now. Not when your curiosity is already getting the better of you. Not when the thought of sunlight is sitting heavy in your chest. You barely have time to brace yourself before it moves.
Fast. The water surges up around you as it pulls you in completely, the cold rushing over your skin as your breath catches instinctively, your arms wrapping tighter around it without thinking.
It doesn’t stop.
It dives.
Then shifts—upward.
Your ears pop faintly, your lungs tightening as the darkness of the cave begins to fade the further it takes you, the faint glow replaced by something else.
Something brighter.
Something warmer.
Light.
Real light.
Your heart pounds harder as it grows, your body tense, your mind racing—until suddenly—you break through the surface. Air hits your lungs in a sharp gasp, your head spinning slightly as brightness floods your vision, forcing your eyes shut for a second before you blink them open again. The sky stretches endlessly above you.
Blue.
So blue.
It’s blinding.
After so long in darkness— It’s blinding. Your breath comes out shaky as you take it in. The ocean moves differently out here—wide, open, endless. Nothing like the cave. Nothing like the life you’ve been trapped in. “…oh,” you breathe, barely more than a whisper. Behind you, it holds you easily, one arm wrapped around you to keep you afloat.
“You like it,” it murmurs near your ear.
You don’t answer right away.
Instead, you stare at it—really stare at it.
This is the closest you’ve ever been, face to face, with nothing between you but the space you haven’t dared to close. And now—now even that feels too far. It’s beautiful. Not in the way humans are. Not in any way you can explain without it sounding wrong. It’s something deeper. Sharper. Something that feels like it was never meant to be seen this close, this clearly—like staring too long might burn the image into you permanently.
And maybe it already has.
Your breath comes out uneven.
“Yeah,” you pant softly—though you’re not sure what you’re agreeing to anymore.
The word barely leaves your lips before you’re moving.
Before you can think.
Before you can stop yourself.
You hesitate just inches away, your lips hovering over its—your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure it can hear it, feel it, taste it in the water around you.
There’s a moment.
A fragile, breakable moment—and then you close the distance.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like you’re testing something you don’t fully understand. Your lips press against its.
It reacts. Immediately.
Its hand comes up, claws gentle despite what they are, cradling the back of your head as it presses you closer, deeper into it.
A soft, unfamiliar sound leaves it— a trill.
Low. Vibrating.
It hums through you, through your chest, your lungs, settling somewhere deep inside you in a way that makes your breath hitch. Another follows. And another.
Not quite human. Not quite anything you’ve ever heard before.
But you understand it anyway.
You feel it. Its grip tightens just slightly, not enough to hurt—just enough to keep you there, to make sure you don’t pull away too soon. And you don’t. You don’t want to. For a moment—you forget everything else.
The cave.
The ship.
The people you lost.
What it did.
What it is.
All of it fades under the weight of this—this strange, consuming closeness.
Until—you feel it.
That shift.
That awareness creeping back in.
You’re not alone. You pull back just slightly, breath uneven as your eyes flick away—and land on them. Shapes in the water.
Multiple.
Watching.
Your stomach drops.
Its cove.
They followed. They’re all there—just beneath the surface, their glowing eyes fixed on you, their expressions unmistakable even from a distance.
Glee.
Excitement.
Approval.
Like they’ve just witnessed something important. Something expected. Your breath stutters as you freeze, your body suddenly too aware, too exposed under their gaze.
Slowly—you look back at it.
And it’s still close.
Still holding you.
Still watching you like you’ve just given it everything it’s ever wanted. Your cheeks burn as it sinks in—what you just did. What you let happen. This is supposed to be your enemy.
Not—not this.
“Sorry,” you mutter quickly, the word slipping out before you can stop it. You glance away from it, eyes darting up to the open sky like it might somehow steady you, ground you back into something familiar.
You swallow. “It was just— I was just…”Overwhelmed. That’s what you settle on.
That’s what you tell yourself. The sun, the air, the freedom—after so long in that cave, anyone would react like that. Anyone would lose their head for a second.
It doesn’t mean anything.
It can’t mean anything. You cling to that.
Desperately. “Is there a way for me to… um, stretch out?” you ask after a moment, your voice a little too casual, a little too forced. It’s a stupid question.
You’re surrounded by nothing but open water, endless in every direction. You could stretch out however you want. But that’s not really what you’re asking. You just—need to say something. Anything. To break whatever that was. To put space back between you.
It doesn’t question it.
“Of course,” it replies easily. And before you can even process what it means— It moves.
Its body shifts beneath you, long and fluid, stretching out across the surface of the water with effortless grace. Its tail extends behind it, cutting through the waves while its upper body steadies, creating a solid, unmoving base beneath you. And then—It guides you.
Carefully.
Lifting you just enough to reposition you until you’re lying across it.
On top of it.
Your breath catches.
Because it’s… stable. More stable than you expected. Its body beneath you is firm, unmoving despite the gentle sway of the ocean around you, its arms settling lightly at your sides—not trapping you, just… there.
Holding.
Supporting.
Your hands press lightly against it at first, unsure, testing
But when it doesn’t shift, doesn’t drop you—You slowly relax.
Stretching out.
Actually stretching out.
Your muscles pull and loosen in ways they haven’t in days—maybe longer—your back arching slightly as a quiet sigh slips past your lips without permission.
The sun warms your skin.
The breeze brushes against you.
The ocean rocks you gently.
And beneath you—It stays perfectly still. Like it was made for this. Like it was made to hold you. Your eyes flutter shut for just a second.
Just a second.
But it’s enough for something in your chest to loosen. To soften. And when you open them again, you don’t look at it. You look at the sky.
Because that’s easier.
Because if you look at it right now—you’re not sure what you’ll feel. You’re not sure if you can even handle how you feel.
It’s too much.
Too tangled.
Too… wrong.
You’ve been with this creature for—what? Weeks? Months? Years? You don’t know. Time doesn’t exist the same way down there. There’s no sun to rise or set, no clock ticking away in the background, no reminders that the world is still moving without you.
Just it.
And you.
Over and over again.
At first, you counted. You tried to keep track—marking time by its hunting trips, by how often you slept, by how many times it brought you food or gifts or something new to fill the emptiness.
But eventually…you stopped.
Because it didn’t matter.
Because there was nothing to count toward. And now—now you’re here. Lying on top of it, stretched out under an open sky you haven’t seen in what feels like a lifetime, your body warm, your mind quieter than it’s been in…too long. Your chest rises slowly, your fingers curling slightly where they rest against it, feeling the subtle strength beneath your touch.
You should hate this.
You should hate it.
After everything it did.
After everything it took.
But the longer you stay here—the harder that becomes. Because it hasn’t hurt you. Not once.
It feeds you.
Clothes you.
Listens to you.
Remembers what you need before you even say it again. Looks at you like you’re… everything. And that’s dangerous. Because part of you—a small, quiet, traitorous part—is starting to lean into it. Your throat tightens slightly at the thought. So you speak. Before you can think too hard about it.
“How long has it been…?” you ask softly, your voice almost getting lost in the sound of the waves.
You swallow.
“…since, um… everything?”You don’t say it. You don’t have to.
The ship.
The sinking.
Your life before all of this.
It knows.
You feel the shift beneath you.
Subtle. Its body stills just a bit more, like the question settles deeper than the others you’ve asked. For a moment—It doesn’t answer. The ocean moves around you both, gentle, endless, the sun warm against your skin as the silence stretches just long enough to make your chest tighten again.
Then—“Time moves differently below,” it says slowly.
Carefully.
Like it’s choosing its words in a way it usually doesn’t. “We do not measure it as you do.” That doesn’t help. You frown slightly, turning your head just enough to glance down at it.
“…that’s not really an answer.” Another pause.
Longer this time.
Like it’s thinking.
Like it’s trying.
“If I were to speak in a way you understand…” it begins again, quieter now, “it has been… many cycles of your sun.” Your brows knit. “How many is many?”Its gaze shifts briefly—up toward the sky, like it’s using it to measure something it rarely pays attention to.
Then back to you.
“…more than you would consider short,” it says.
“And less than you would consider a lifetime.”
That doesn’t make you feel better. If anything—it makes your chest feel heavier. Because that means…you’ve been gone long enough for things to change. For people to move on. For the world you knew to keep spinning without you. Your fingers curl slightly against it. “…so I’ve just been gone,” you murmur, more to yourself than to it.
Forgotten.
Buried.
A tragedy people talked about for a while before letting it fade into something distant.
Its hand moves then—slow, deliberate—resting lightly against your side. “You have not been gone,” it says. There’s something in its voice. Something firm. Something that doesn’t allow for argument.
“You have been with me.”Your breath hitsches.
You don’t know why that hits the way it does. But it does. Your gaze shifts away again, back to the sky, because that’s easier than looking at it right now.
“…that’s not the same thing,” you whisper.
But it doesn’t respond. It just stays there beneath you—steady, unmoving, present. Like it has nowhere else it would rather be. And the worst part is—you’re starting to feel the same way. Not that you’ll ever admit that.
Not out loud.
Not to it.
Not even to yourself, really. You let the thought pass as quickly as it came, burying it beneath everything else you should be feeling instead.
Anger.
Grief.
Resentment.
Those are safer. Those make more sense.
So you hold onto those—even as you stay right where you are.
You spend a few more minutes like that, stretched out across it, letting the warmth of the sun sink into your skin. It’s different up here. Alive in a way the cave never is. The light shifts slowly, the gold bleeding into softer hues, the sky deepening as the sun begins its descent.
You watch it.
Really watch it.
Like you’re afraid if you blink, it’ll be gone again for another unknowable stretch of time.
The warmth fades gradually, slipping away little by little until all that’s left is a gentle heat clinging to your skin, a memory of something brighter. Your chest tightens unexpectedly. Because you missed this. More than you realized. More than you let yourself think about.
“Thank you,” you say quietly. The words come out before you can stop them. Before you can question them. Before you can take them back. And for a moment—you don’t even know why you said it. Because it doesn’t make sense. It shouldn’t make sense.
This thing—this creature—it ruined your life. Took everything from you. Left you with nothing but itself. And yet—right now—with the sky stretching endlessly above you and the last of the sunlight warming your skin—you feel…Grateful.
The realization makes something twist uncomfortably in your chest. Because you shouldn’t feel that. You know you shouldn’t.
But you do anyway.
And you hate that. Hate how easily it slips in. How natural it feels. It doesn’t respond with words. It rarely does, when things get like this. Instead—Its head dips, brushing against you, its nose nudging just behind your ear in a soft, almost absent gesture.
A nuzzle.
Instinctive.
Affectionate.
The contact is cool compared to your warmed skin, sending a small shiver down your spine despite yourself. A low trill follows, quieter than before, softer—something that hums against you rather than through you.
You don’t pull away.
You don’t tell it to stop.
You just… stay there.
Watching as the sun finally dips below the horizon, the last sliver of light disappearing into the ocean. Darkness begins to creep back in.
Slow.
Inevitable.
But this time—it doesn’t feel as suffocating.
Not with it still beneath you.
Not with its presence grounding you in a way the light just did. And that thought—that quiet, dangerous thought—lingers long after the sun is gone. “We should head back,” you whisper, your voice quieter than you intend—strained, pulled tight by something you don’t quite have the words for. It’s not just the fading light. It’s not just the cold slowly replacing the sun’s warmth.
It’s something deeper.
Something heavier.
The kind of feeling that settles in your chest and refuses to be named. It doesn’t move right away. “You do not want to,” it says softly, like it already knows the answer before you even give it.
Its tail flicks lazily beneath the surface, sending a small splash of water up over both of you. The droplets cling to your skin, cool against the lingering warmth, and you blink at the sensation. For a brief, almost ridiculous moment, you think—This must be what it feels like to sit on a whale. The thought nearly makes you laugh.
Nearly.
But the feeling in your chest is too thick for it to fully form. Your fingers curl slightly against it instead. “No,” you admit, the word breaking softer than you expect. A small, pathetic sound slips past your lips as you sniff, your throat tightening. You don’t want to go back.
Not to the cave.
Not to the dark.
Not to the place where time doesn’t exist and the world feels so… small. Up here, everything feels endless.
Open.
Free.
And you know—the second you go back, that feeling will disappear again. Swallowed whole by stone and shadow. “But we have to,” you continue, forcing the words out like they make sense, like they’re logical, like they’re not just you trying to brace yourself before you lose something you barely got to have.
“There’s no point in staying. The sun has set after all.” Your voice wavers at the end despite your efforts. You swallow hard, blinking rapidly as you stare out at the horizon—now dark, the last traces of light completely gone.
“Let’s go back home.”
The word feels strange on your tongue.
Home.
You don’t know why you said it. You don’t know if you meant it.
But it’s out there now.
And it hears it. You feel the shift immediately.
Subtle—but there. Its hold on you tightens just slightly, not enough to trap you, just enough to acknowledge what you said. To hold onto it. For a moment, it doesn’t move. Like it’s giving you time. Like it’s letting you change your mind.
Or maybe…
Like it’s memorizing this. The way you look under the open sky. The way you sound when you say home and mean somewhere it exists.
Then—It hums.
Low.
Soft.
Something almost content slipping into the sound. “As you wish,” it murmurs. And this time— It doesn’t hesitate. Its body shifts beneath you, fluid and powerful, turning effortlessly in the water. One arm secures itself around you more firmly, pulling you closer against its chest as the other cuts through the surface.
“Hold,” it says quietly.
You don’t argue.
You can’t.
Your arms wrap around it instinctively, fingers gripping tighter than before—like you’re afraid of something, though you’re not sure what. The ocean moves differently now. Faster. The calm surface giving way to the pull of depth as it dives.
The last thing you see is the dark sky above—Endless.
Distant.
Before it disappears. Swallowed by the sea.
Cold rushes over you as you’re pulled under, the light fading quicker this time, your body pressing closer to it as your lungs instinctively tense.
But it’s there.
Steady.
Unyielding.
Guiding you back down.
Back to where it waits.
Back to the place you called home.
And as the faint glow of the cave begins to reappear in the distance—you realize something that makes your chest tighten all over again. You didn’t say that just to comfort it.
You said it because…a part of you meant it.
——
After the kiss, things were… different.
Subtle at first.
Then not so subtle at all.
Something had shifted between you—something unspoken, something neither of you addressed, yet both of you seemed to understand. The air felt heavier.
Warmer.
Charged in a way you didn’t quite know how to name.
It lingered in every glance, every touch, every moment where silence stretched just a little too long. Bathing became… complicated. What used to be careful—almost clinical—changed. Before, it kept its distance, movements slow and deliberate, always mindful of you, always giving you space like it feared crossing some invisible line.
Now—now it stayed close.
Too close.
Its body pressing lightly against your back as its clawed hands worked the liquid soap over your skin, spreading it in slow, thorough strokes. The slick glide of its touch, paired with the faint drag of its claws, sent unfamiliar shivers down your spine. Its scales brushed against you more often now.
Soft.
Unexpectedly soft.
They grazed your skin with every small movement, smooth and cool, yet somehow warming the longer they lingered. You told yourself it was accidental. That it didn’t understand. That this was just how it was. But deep down—you knew better. Because it watched you.
Always.
Closer now. More attentive.
Like it was studying every reaction, every breath, every slight shift in your body. And you hated—how aware of it you were.
Outside of that, it touched you more too. Not in ways that frightened you. Not like before, when every movement felt overwhelming and inescapable. Now it was… softer. Intentional. A hand resting on your shoulder when it spoke. Fingers brushing yours when it handed you food. A lingering touch at your wrist, your arm, your back—never enough to trap you, but enough to remind you it was there.
That it was there.
Sometimes—it would ask.
“May I?”
Its voice quieter than usual, almost hesitant in a way that didn’t suit something so powerful. You always knew what it meant. Your nest.
Your space.
Closer.
And sometimes—you said yes.
You didn’t know why. Maybe it was the loneliness. Maybe it was the way it looked at you when it asked—like your answer actually mattered.
Or maybe…
Maybe it was because you were starting to want it there. On those nights, it would climb up behind you, careful despite its size, adjusting itself so you were comfortably settled against it. Half of its tail would remain in the water, shifting slowly beneath the surface, while the rest of it curved around you. Its arms would wrap around you—secure, firm, but never tight enough to hurt. Just enough to hold you.Like you were something fragile.
Something important.
Something it couldn’t afford to lose. At first, you stayed tense. Rigid in its hold. Waiting for the moment it would become too much. But it never did. It only… stayed.
Still.
And eventually—you relaxed.
Just a little.
Enough to let your weight rest against it.
Enough to let your breathing even out. On nights where sleep refused to come, when your thoughts grew too loud in the dark, it would do something else.
Something new.
It would sing.
Softly.
Low, melodic trills weaving into something almost hauntingly beautiful. Not quite a human song, not bound by words or structure, but something deeper—something that resonated in your chest, in your bones.
You didn’t understand it.
But you felt it.
And slowly—your body would loosen.
Your thoughts would quiet. And you would fall asleep to the sound of it, wrapped in something that should’ve terrified you—but didn’t. Not anymore.
And that was the problem.
Because despite all of it—despite the warmth, the closeness, the way your body had begun to respond instead of resist—you never kissed it again.
You couldn’t.
That moment…it felt too final. Too real. Like crossing a line you wouldn’t be able to uncross. Because if you did—if you let yourself do that again—then you’d have to face what this was becoming. What you were becoming. And you weren’t ready for that. But just because you weren’t ready—didn’t mean it wasn’t.
Rafayel—your creature—was patient.
It had to be.
Patience was what made it a good hunter. What allowed it to wait in the dark, unmoving, unseen, until the perfect moment to strike. What allowed it to gather its kin, to plan, to execute something as massive as sinking a ship without rushing, without error. Patience meant survival. Patience meant control. But with you—that patience began to thin.
Not gone.
Never gone.
But strained.
Stretched tighter than it had ever been before. Because you had kissed it.
And that…that meant something.
It knew that much.
It had learned enough about humans—about you—to understand that. Kissing was not meaningless to your kind. It was not something given freely, not something done without thought. It was reserved. Intentional.
For mates. For those you wished to be mated to.
And you—you had done that. You had leaned into it. Closed the distance. Pressed your lips to its like you wanted to. Like you chose to. And yet—you never did it again. You pulled back. Hesitated. Built walls where there hadn’t been any before. It didn’t understand that.
Not fully.
Because in its world—things were simple.
You wanted something?
You took it. You claimed it.
There was no waiting, no questioning, no hesitation born from doubt or fear or morality. Its kind did not hold back. They did not deny themselves. To hesitate was to risk losing. To fear was to invite death.
And yet—here it was.
Holding back.
For you.
It watched you constantly, more than before. Not in the same distant, observing way it once had—but closer. Sharper.
Studying.
Learning.
Trying to understand why you pulled away from something it knew you felt. Because it could feel it. In the way your body responded to its touch. In the way your breath shifted when it got too close. In the way your heart betrayed you every time it held you just a little longer than necessary. You wanted it.
It was sure of that. But you restrained yourself. Caged it behind something it could not see, could not touch, could not tear apart the way it would any other obstacle. And that frustrated it.
Deeply.
Its tail would flick sharper when you turned away too quickly. Its hands would linger longer when you let it touch you, like it was testing how far it could go before you pulled back again. Its voice would drop, quieter, more controlled—like it was forcing itself to remain calm. Because it didn’t want to hurt you. That much was… undeniable. Humans were fragile.
You were fragile.
Soft in ways its kind was not. Your skin bruised easily. Your bones could break. Your body could be damaged with far less force than it was used to exerting. It had learned that early.
The way it handled you—careful.
Measured.
Always aware of the strength it held back. Because it would be so easy to harm you.
Too easy.
And that thought alone was enough to keep its restraint intact. For now. So it stayed gentle. Even as something deeper in it stirred.
Even as that instinct—ancient and unyielding—pushed against the limits it had set for your sake. Even as it watched you lie beside it, just within reach—close enough to touch. Close enough to take. But not close enough to have. Not yet. You don’t necessarily like it sleeping in your nest.
Not because of what it is.
Not because of how close it gets.
But because of how it has to be there.
Half of its body always hangs off the edge, its tail disappearing back into the water while the rest of it curls awkwardly around you.
It looks… wrong.
Uncomfortable.
Unnatural.
Like something that was never meant to rest like this.
And every time you notice it—every time you feel the slight shift of its weight, the way it adjusts itself just a little too often—you can’t help the twist of guilt in your chest. It doesn’t complain. Not once. But you see it anyway. The way its movements are more careful when it settles. The way it stills completely once you’ve gotten comfortable, like it refuses to move again in case it disturbs you. Like your rest matters more than its own.
“…are you comfortable?” you ask one night, your voice quieter than usual as you shift slightly in its hold, glancing back at it. Its eyes meet yours almost instantly.
Always attentive.
Always there.
“It’s sufficient,” it replies. The same calm, steady tone. Like that’s the end of it. Like it doesn’t even consider anything beyond that. Your brows knit slightly.
Sufficient.
Not comfortable.
Not good.
Just… enough. And you don’t like that.
Not when it’s done nothing but make sure you’re more than comfortable. Not when it’s given you everything you’ve asked for—your nest, your clothes, your water, your space.
Not when it bends itself—literally—to fit into a world that wasn’t made for it. For you. “…that’s not the same thing,” you mutter, more to yourself than to it. It tilts its head slightly, watching you, waiting.
You hesitate.
Because you don’t know how to say it. Don’t know how to admit that you care. That you’ve been paying attention. That you don’t like seeing it like this. Your fingers curl slightly into the fur beneath you. “I just…” you trail off, exhaling softly. “You don’t have to stay up here, you know.”The words come out more awkward than you intended.“ You could just… stay in the water. Or something.”
A pause.
“I stay where you are.”
Simple.
Definite.
Like there was never another option to begin with. Your chest tightens again. “That doesn’t mean you have to be uncomfortable,” you push, glancing back at it again, a little more insistence in your voice this time. It watches you for a moment longer than usual.
Quiet.
Observing.
Then—slowly— its hand lifts, brushing lightly against your side, grounding. “I am not harmed by this,” it says. “That’s not what I—” you stop yourself, frustration bubbling up in a way you don’t expect. Because it doesn’t get it. Or maybe it does—and just doesn’t care.
“I just want you to be comfortable,” you finish instead, quieter now. There’s a beat of silence after that. A long one. Its gaze lingers on you, something unreadable flickering beneath the surface before it settles again into something softer. Something… quieter. Then— “I am,” it says. Your brows furrow again. “You just said—”
“When I am here,” it interrupts, voice low, steady. Its hand shifts slightly, resting more fully against you now. “With you.”
That…
That shuts you up.
Completely.
Your throat tightens, words catching before they can form.
Because you don’t know how to argue with that. You don’t know if you even can. So instead—you go quiet.
Turning your gaze away again, back toward the dim glow of the cave walls. But you don’t move away from it. You don’t tell it to leave. And after a moment—almost unconsciously—you shift just a little closer.” Will you tell me more about you? About your kind?” you ask softly, your voice cutting through the quiet of the cave. You don’t expect much.
Not really.
Every time you’ve tried before, it’s given you fragments—pieces of something bigger, something you can’t quite put together no matter how hard you try. Still—you ask anyway. Because you want to understand it. And that realization alone makes something in your chest twist uncomfortably.
For a moment, it doesn’t answer.
Its fingers continue their slow, absent tracing along your side, its gaze fixed somewhere beyond you—like it’s thinking, like it’s deciding how much to give. Then—“My kind lives as all things born of the sea do,” it begins, its voice low, steady, carrying that same strange cadence that never quite sounds human.
“We hunt. We kill. We eat.”
Simple.
Blunt.
Unapologetic.
Your stomach tightens slightly at the words, but you stay quiet, letting it continue. “Our prey varies,” it goes on. “It must. The sea does not promise consistency. One day, we eat fish. The next…”
It pauses.
Briefly.
Then its gaze flicks down to you.
“Humans.”Your stomach turns this time. Actually turns. A cold, uncomfortable feeling settling deep inside you.
“We have never favored your kind,” it continues, almost idly. “You are not very fatty. Not as sustaining.”The way it says it—so casual. So matter-of-fact. Like it’s talking about something insignificant. “But you are… interesting,” it adds, something shifting slightly in its tone. “You run. You scream. You beg.” Your throat tightens. “We find that amusing.”
Your fingers curl slightly against your nest.
“Fish do not do so,” it continues. “They cannot. They are simple. Predictable. They do not feel in the way you do.”There’s something almost curious in its voice now.
Like it’s comparing. Like it’s always been comparing. You swallow hard, trying to push down the unease crawling up your spine. “And you’re just… telling me this?” you murmur, your voice quieter now, strained in a way you can’t quite hide. It tilts its head slightly at that, like it doesn’t understand the problem.
“You asked,” it replies simply.
Right.
You did.
Your gaze drifts away for a moment, your mind trying—and failing—to reconcile the creature that holds you so carefully with the one that just described hunting humans like it’s a game.
It continues before you can say anything else.
“My kind can be considered the rulers of the sea,” it says, its voice shifting again—firmer now, more certain.
“There are creatures larger. Stronger, even. But none rule as we do.”
Your brows knit slightly.
“Rule?” you echo.
It hums softly.
“We maintain order,” it explains. “As much as order can exist in something as vast as the sea.”
Its hand moves slightly, tracing along your arm now.
“There are territories. Boundaries. Behaviors that must be enforced. Not all follow them willingly.”Your attention sharpens at that.
“So you’re like… what? A king?”
Its lips twitch slightly—not quite a smile, but close.“If that is how your kind understands it.”And then—“I am the one they follow.” There’s no arrogance in it.
No boasting.
Just… truth.
Unshakable.
Certain.
Your breath catches slightly. You knew it was important. You knew it held power. But hearing it like that—so plainly—ceels different.
“And when you accept my offer,” it continues, its gaze settling fully on you now, “you will rule beside me.”
Your chest tightens instantly. There it is. Again. That word. When. Not if. Never if. Your jaw clenches slightly, but you don’t interrupt.
“There is not much to ruling,” it adds, almost dismissively. “The sea does not bend to authority the way land does. Survival is the only constant.”
Its fingers still against your skin for a moment.
“But there are rules,” it says more seriously now.“Necessary ones.”
Your brows furrow. “What kind of rules?”
Its eyes flicker slightly—something deeper, darker passing through them before it answers. “The kind that keep balance,” it says. “The kind that prevent chaos from consuming everything.” That…That doesn’t really answer your question.
But the way it says it—you’re not sure you want more detail. Not right now. “That is why I exist,” it continues, its voice quieter now, closer. “To enforce them.”
A pause.
Then—“You will learn them.” Your stomach tightens again. “This, I swear.” The finality in its tone leaves no room for argument.
No room for doubt.
And as you lay there, wrapped in its hold, listening to it speak so casually about a world you don’t belong to—a world it fully expects you to become a part of—you can’t help but feel like you’ve just been given a glimpse into something far bigger than you ever realized. Something you’re already being pulled into. Whether you’re ready for it—or not.
Regardless of what you think—you’re in your nest—your bed—and you’re so, so sleepy.
It settles over you slowly at first, then all at once, heavy and unavoidable. Your limbs feel like they’re sinking into the softness beneath you, your muscles loosening in a way they haven’t in… you don’t even know how long.
And behind you—Rafayel.
Your creature.
It’s there like it always is, large and steady, its presence wrapping around you in a way that’s become far too familiar. One arm rests loosely over your waist, its touch light but grounding, while the rest of its body curves around you as best as it can.
It’s warm.
Comforting.
Safe.
Your eyes begin to slip shut, your lashes growing heavy as your breathing evens out, slow and soft. You don’t even try to fight it—not tonight. Not when your body is practically begging for rest.
Your thoughts blur. Your awareness dulls. And just as you’re about to fall—just as you begin to sink into that quiet, weightless space between waking and sleep—It speaks.
“I think it’s time for you to meet the cove.”Your eyes snap open. “What?”The word comes out rough, barely more than a breath as your body tenses instinctively, sleep slipping through your fingers as quickly as it came.
For a moment, you don’t move. Don’t fully process it. Then it hits you. The cove. Your heart stutters in your chest as your mind flashes back—unwanted, immediate.
The surface.
The water.
Those shapes beneath it.
Watching.
Waiting.
Your stomach twists. Slowly, you shift in its hold, turning just enough to look back at it, your brows furrowing as confusion and unease settle deep into your bones.
“…what did you just say?”
Your voice is quieter now, but there’s an edge to it. Something sharper. Something more awake. It doesn’t hesitate. “You will meet them,” it says, calm and certain, like this is something already decided, something inevitable. Like your opinion on it doesn’t quite matter.
Your chest tightens.
“The cove,” it continues, its gaze fixed on you, unwavering. “My people.”Your throat goes dry. Those weren’t just shapes in the water. Those weren’t just passing figures. They were watching you. And now—It wants you to stand in front of them.
To be seen.
To be known.
Your body shifts, pulling slightly away from it without even realizing it, the comfort from moments ago now replaced with something colder. “I…” you start, then stop, your thoughts scrambling to catch up. “I don’t think I can do that.”
It’s quiet.
Honest.
Your fingers curl into the fabric of your nest as your heart picks up, unease settling heavier in your chest. “I just got used to you,” you admit, frustration bleeding into your tone. “And now you want me to meet all of them?” Your voice tightens. “I don’t even know what they’ll do.”
Your mind fills in the blanks for you.
What they are. What they’ve done. What they’re capable of. It watches you.
Carefully.
Then—“They will not harm you,” it says, its voice steady, firm in a way that doesn’t allow room for doubt.
You let out a small, humorless breath.
“That’s easy for you to say,” you mutter, glancing away. A pause. “I would not allow it,” it adds.And that—That makes you hesitate. Because there’s something in its tone. Something certain.
Unyielding.
But still—your chest feels tight. Your thoughts too loud. “I’m not ready,” you say again, softer this time. And this time—It doesn’t argue.
Not immediately.
Instead, its hand shifts slightly against you, grounding rather than holding, its touch lighter than before. “You do not have to meet them now,” it says after a moment.
Your shoulders relax—just barely. “But you will meet them soon.” And there it is. That inevitability again. That quiet promise you can’t escape. Your breath slows, but sleep doesn’t come back as easily now. Your mind lingers on it.
On them.
On what it means to be brought before something like that. And as you lay there, caught between exhaustion and unease, one thought settles heavier than the rest—this isn’t just about meeting them.It’s about being introduced.
Claimed.
Shown off.
And you don’t know if that thought terrifies you—or something worse.
“Besides, you’ve seen them before,” it says, like that alone should ease the tension coiling tight in your chest. “Now you simply have to interact with them.”Like that makes it better.
Like seeing shadows beneath the water—watching eyes that didn’t blink—was the same as standing in front of them. Speaking to them. Being seen by them. “But still—” you start, your voice catching slightly as you try to push past the unease crawling up your spine. It doesn’t let you. “Shh.”The sound is soft, but firm.
Final.
Its hand shifts, sliding up your arm, fingers—clawed and careful—coming to rest just beneath your jaw, tilting your head ever so slightly back toward it. Not forceful. Not rough. But guiding. Silencing. “There is nothing else to discuss,” it murmurs, its voice low, steady, leaving no room for argument.
Your lips part—ready to protest again, to try again—but the words die before they can form. Because of the way it’s looking at you. Focused. Certain. Unmoving. Like this decision was made long before you even thought to question it.
“Now rest.”
Your chest rises slowly, uneven, your body caught somewhere between resisting and… not. Because you’re tired.
So tired.
And it’s still there. Still close. Still warm.
Its hand lingers for a moment longer beneath your jaw before slipping away, tracing down the side of your neck, your shoulder—slow, deliberate—until it settles once more around your waist. Pulling you back into it. Not tight enough to trap you. But enough that you feel it. Enough that you know it’s there.
Your body hesitates. Tense for just a moment longer. Then—slowly— It gives in. Your eyes fall shut again, though this time it’s not as peaceful. Not as easy.
Your thoughts linger.
On the cove.
On the way it didn’t even consider that you might refuse. And beneath all of that—something quieter. Something more unsettling. The way you didn’t fight harder.
Your breathing evens out again despite everything, exhaustion pulling you under whether you want it to or not. And as sleep finally drags you down—you can’t tell if the steady presence wrapped around you is what’s comforting you.
Synopsis: you're still kidnapped! You're having a hard time coming to terms with that, Rafayel, or your creature rather, does its best to comfort you. It's going poorly I'm afraid.
A/n: Guys, read chapter one if you haven't already so that you'll understand what's happening! No smut this chapter. It will take me awhile to post chapter three due to the fact that I haven't started writing it... but enjoy!!
Though worried isn’t the word you’d use to describe the look on its face.
No—It’s sharper than that.
Tighter. It looks… defensive. And beneath that—Angry.
Not fear. Not uncertainty. Irritation.
Like whatever just made that sound isn’t something it’s afraid of—just something that shouldn’t be here.
Shouldn’t be interrupting it.
Its grip on you shifts again, more deliberate this time as it pulls you slightly behind it without fully letting go. The movement is subtle, but unmistakable.
It’s possessive, claiming. Its tail slices through the water in a slow, controlled motion as its body angles toward the darkness deeper within the cave. Its gaze locks onto it, unblinking now, the faint glow in its eyes sharpening into something almost predatory.
The sound comes again. Closer.
It bares its teeth—just slightly. A warning.
Low and quiet, something like a growl rumbles from its chest, not meant for you. Meant for whatever is coming. And then—Without looking at you— “Stay behind me.”
Then something breaks the surface. A head—sleek, scaled, unfamiliar—emerges from the water with barely a sound. It pauses, blinking slowly, before lowering itself in a small, almost reverent bow. A soft trill follows—high, melodic, almost bird-like, echoing faintly against the cave walls.
You go still behind it. Your creature doesn’t move at first. Then it answers.
A sound leaves its throat—lower, deeper, resonant in a way that vibrates through the stone beneath you. It’s not quite a trill, not quite a growl—something in between, layered, ancient. It hums with something you don’t understand, something that makes your chest tighten just from hearing it. The smaller creature shifts closer—curious, cautious—but before it can get too near, your creature flicks its tail sharply through the water.
A warning. The smaller one stills instantly.
Its eyes—large, reflective—lift. And land on you. You suck in a breath. It doesn’t look surprised. If anything—It looks like it was expecting you.
A strange silence stretches—then the sounds start again. A series of trills and low, vibrating tones pass between them, quick and fluid, like a conversation moving faster than you can follow. The smaller creature’s voice stays light, lilting, rising and falling like a question.
Your creature’s reply is different.
Deeper.
Heavier.
Each sound it makes seems to press into the air, carrying weight, authority—like the cave itself is listening. The smaller creature trills again, softer this time. Hesitant.
Your creature answers immediately—sharper now, the low resonance cutting through the space with something that feels like a warning wrapped in command.
The water shifts as the smaller one lowers itself again, posture submissive, but its gaze flicks back to you once more—lingering. Curious. Knowing. Your creature notices. Of course it does.
Its body shifts slightly, placing itself more firmly between you and the other, its presence suddenly larger, more imposing. Another low sound rolls from its chest—quieter, but far more dangerous.
Final. The smaller creature dips its head again, this time deeper, before slowly backing away into the water. The glow of its eyes lingers for a moment—then disappears beneath the surface.
The cave falls silent again. But the tension doesn’t leave. Because your creature hasn’t moved.
Hasn’t relaxed. Then it turns back toward you, its hair swaying with the movement, damp strands clinging to its skin before settling. Its gaze finds yours immediately—focused, intent, like nothing else in the cave matters now.
“They want to meet you.”
Its voice is low, almost a whisper—careful, like it’s trying not to startle you. You don’t answer. You can’t. Because your mind catches on one thing— They. Your stomach drops. They. Not it. Not him. Plural.
Your eyes flick instinctively toward the water, toward the darkness it disappeared into, like you might see something else staring back. Waiting. Watching. How many are there? How many of them are down here? And they want to meet you?
A hollow, disbelieving laugh bubbles up in your chest but never quite makes it out. You haven’t even had time to grieve. Not properly. Not at all. Your family is gone.
Your life is gone.
Everything you knew—everyone you knew—is gone. And now—Now you’re supposed to stand there and be introduced to the creatures that live beneath the ocean.
To the thing that killed them. To its kind.
Your hands curl into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms as something sharp and ugly twists in your chest.
“You want me to what?” you finally say, your voice thin, strained—like if you push it any harder, it’ll snap. Your gaze locks onto it, something between disbelief and anger flickering behind your eyes. “You killed everyone I’ve ever loved,” you continue, breath uneven, “drag me down here, and now you want me to meet your… what? Your friends?”
The word feels wrong. Bitter. Your chest rises and falls too fast, too tight. “You think I’m just going to go along with that?”It doesn’t interrupt you this time. Doesn’t correct you. Doesn’t argue. It just watches. Quiet.
Patient.
Like it already knows your answer doesn’t matter. Like this was never really a question to begin with. You could swear you saw the corner of its mouth quirk upwards.
Mocking you.
The thought hits fast, sharp, unfair—but it sticks. You know—somewhere, logically—that it probably doesn’t understand what it took from you. That in its mind, this was something else entirely. Protection. Salvation.
But that doesn’t change anything.
It doesn’t bring them back. It doesn’t make this hurt any less. And you refuse—You refuse—to pretend like it does.
Your throat tightens painfully, something breaking loose before you can stop it. A sob slips out. Then another. And another.
Your body folds in on itself as the sound tears out of you, raw and uncontrollable. Your shoulders shake, your hands coming up to your face as if you can hide it—hide from it, from everything—but nothing stops it.
Nothing slows it down. Your chest aches, lungs struggling to keep up as your breathing turns uneven, too fast, too shallow for the thick, damp air of the cave. It feels like there isn’t enough oxygen here for this—for you—but you can’t stop.
You don’t want to stop.
Because if you do—Then it’s real. “I just—” your voice breaks completely, the words barely forming through the sobs. “I just want to go home…”
The admission feels small.
Childish.
Pathetic.
But it’s the only thing left in you that still makes sense. Home. Somewhere warm. Somewhere safe. Somewhere human. Somewhere that isn’t this cold, dark cave at the bottom of the ocean.
Somewhere that still has your mom.
Your friends.
Your life.
Your knees pull closer to your chest as you cry, your whole body trembling with it, like you might shake apart completely if it goes on any longer. And through it—through all of it—It watches you.
Silent.
Still.
Like it’s seeing something it’s never seen before. Which it probably isn’t. The sea is a dangerous place—one that breeds dangerous things, things that don’t cry, don’t break, don’t mourn the way you do.
So of course it doesn’t understand.
Of course it’s never seen this before. Your sobs don’t quiet, but they falter—just slightly—as it finally speaks. “This is your home.” The words land heavy.
Wrong.
It says them without hesitation, without doubt, like it’s stating something undeniable. Something that has always been true.
Your breath stutters.
Your hands slowly lower from your face, tear-blurred eyes lifting to meet its glowing gaze.
It doesn’t blink.
Doesn’t soften.
“This has always been your home,” it continues, voice steady, certain—ancient in a way that makes your skin prickle.
A pause.
And then—“You have always belonged by my side.” Something in your chest twists violently. Because it doesn’t sound like a lie. Not to it. To it, this is truth. A truth it’s known far longer than you have.
Your head shakes weakly, your voice barely holding together. “No… no, that’s not—” But the words feel fragile.
Small.
Like they don’t carry the same weight as its certainty.
And worse— A thought slips in, quiet and unwelcome.
What if it believes that so completely… because it’s been watching you for longer than you think?
Your breath catches.
The cave suddenly feels smaller.
Colder.
Like it’s closing in around you.
Because if that’s true—Then this didn’t start on the ship. It didn’t start when you fell into the water. It didn’t even start when it pulled you under. It started long before that.
And you were the only one who didn’t know.
The way it says it—that you belong together—makes it sound like it’s been written somewhere permanent. Like it’s been there long before either of you existed.
Like fate.
Only—It’s the only one who knows how to read it. Your eyes flick back to the water, your body still shaking with uneven sobs.
They.
Did they know?
Is that why they wanted to meet you?
Because to them, this isn’t strange—this isn’t wrong—this is something expected?
Your chest tightens painfully.
This is insane.
It has to be.
Your brain—starved of oxygen, drowning, dying—making up something twisted and surreal to soften the end.
That has to be it.
It has to be.
Because none of this makes sense otherwise.
It moves.
You don’t even realize it until it’s already touching you—its clawed, webbed hand wrapping around your forearm. You flinch, a sharp breath catching in your throat, but it doesn’t stop.
It lifts you.
Effortlessly.
Like you weigh nothing.
A small, startled sound leaves you as the ground disappears beneath you for a second before you’re settled again—closer.
Too close.
You freeze as it positions you against itself, its long tail coiling slightly beneath you, creating something that almost resembles a seat—a lap.
If that’s even what you could call it.
Your body goes rigid, hands hovering awkwardly, unsure where to go, what to touch, what not to touch. The cold of it seeps through you instantly, but it doesn’t feel harsh—just… present.
Intentional.
One of its arms comes around you—not tight, not trapping—but steady. Keeping you there. Holding you. Like it thinks this is normal. Like this is where you’re supposed to be.
Its other hand moves again, slower this time, more deliberate as it comes up toward your face. You tense, expecting the same strange, invasive curiosity—But instead— It pauses. Just barely brushing against your cheek, where your tears haven’t fully dried.
Careful.
Almost hesitant.
“You are…” it starts, voice quieter now, less certain than before. It searches for the word. “Distressed.”The way it says it sounds clinical. Observational. Like it’s naming something it doesn’t fully understand but recognizes as important. Its hold on you shifts—subtly tightening, just enough to keep you from slipping away. “You are safe,” it adds after a moment.
A pause.
Then, softer—“With me.”It trills again—low, resonant, the sound vibrating against your ear in a way that makes your skin prickle. It’s not unpleasant. That’s what makes it worse.
“Humans… like to know things about their mates, yes?” it hums, voice curling around the words like it’s testing them, like it’s piecing together something it’s only observed from afar.
Its claws brush over your shoulder, slow, absent, tracing the line of your collarbone with unsettling familiarity. You flinch—of course you do—but it doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even acknowledge it.
Like your reactions are expected. Like they don’t change anything. “Would it make you feel better,” it continues, softer now, almost coaxing, “if you knew more about me?”
It leans down, closer, its face dipping toward your hair. You feel it before you fully process it—the cold brush of its nose, the slow inhale as it scents you again, deeper this time.
Possessive.
Curious. Certain. You don’t answer. You don’t think you can. But it doesn’t matter.
It continues anyway.
“I am… Rafayel,” it murmurs, the name rolling strangely off its tongue, like something both ancient and newly claimed all at once. The arm around you tightens—just slightly. “Your destined mate.” The words settle heavy in your chest. Wrong. Impossible. And yet spoken with a certainty that makes your stomach twist.
“My kind…” it pauses, searching again, adjusting. “We do not have genders. Not as you do.” Its claws shift against your skin, trailing lightly down your arm, mapping you in slow, deliberate touches. “There are bearers. And sires.”
A faint hum escapes it—pleased, maybe, that it’s explaining this correctly. “But for you,” it adds, tilting its head slightly as if considering your understanding, “I would be… male. Yes.”
Its tongue flicks out again, dragging gently across your cheek, collecting the tears that haven’t yet dried. You flinch harder this time, your breath catching—but it only makes that same low sound again, deeper now, almost satisfied.
“Tastes like home,” it whispers. The words send something cold through your chest. Not comforting. Not warm. Claiming.
Its hand comes up again, cupping your face, holding you steady as it studies you—really studies you—like every reaction, every breath, every tremor matters. “You are soft,” it murmurs, almost to itself. “Fragile.” Not insulting. Just… observed. Its gaze lingers on your eyes, glowing faintly in the dim light, unblinking. “But you endure.”
A pause.
Its claws shift, brushing stray damp strands of hair from your face with surprising care. “You will learn,” it adds quietly, voice lowering again into something almost soothing, almost hypnotic. “This place. My world.”Its grip tightens just a fraction more.“And me.”
“And we’ll start by introducing you to them,” it says, voice lowering into something softer, almost soothing as it hushes the broken hiccups still catching in your throat. Its hand moves along your back in slow, repetitive strokes—awkward, like it’s mimicking comfort rather than understanding it. “My people want to meet you,” it repeats, more firmly this time. The words don’t settle. They sink. Heavy. Suffocating.
Your fingers twitch against its arm, your breathing still uneven as your mind tries—and fails—to keep up. Its people. Plural. Waiting. Expecting you. Watching, maybe. “They will help you learn,” it continues, tone steady, certain, like this is the next inevitable step. Like there is no other path.
Your stomach churns. Learn what? How to be like them? Its claws trail lightly up your spine, pausing between your shoulders before sliding back down again in that same slow, rhythmic motion.
“And when the time comes…”Your breath catches. Something in the way it says it—final. Unavoidable. “We will complete our union.” The cave feels smaller. The air thinner.
Your chest tightens as the words echo in your head, over and over, louder than your own thoughts. Complete. Like this isn’t the beginning—like this is something already in motion. Something already decided.
Your hands press weakly against it again, not enough to push away, just enough to remind yourself that you’re still separate. Still you. “…I don’t want that,” you whisper, the words barely holding together as they leave you.
It stills.
Just for a moment. Then its grip shifts—firmer, not hurting, but leaving no room for misunderstanding. Its gaze drops to you again, glowing faintly in the dim light, unreadable but unwavering. “You will.”Not harsh. Not cruel. Certain.
“You do not have to meet them now,” it says, voice smoothing out again, slipping back into that quiet, measured tone—like it’s offering you a kindness. A choice. “But you will have to meet them soon.”The words linger, heavier than the softness they’re wrapped in.
Its hand continues its slow path along your back, up and down, up and down—steady, rhythmic, like it’s trying to lull you into something calmer. Something more accepting. You don’t feel calm.cYou feel trapped. “I will be here with you,” it goes on, almost absently, like it’s reciting something already decided. “Always.” The word always sinks deep. Permanent.
Unchanging.
A life sentence spoken like a promise. It shifts slightly beneath you, its tail adjusting in the shallow water, coiling just enough to keep you secure in its hold. You can feel the subtle strength in it—even at rest, it’s powerful. Unyielding. “Unless I must leave to hunt.”
Hunt.
Your stomach twists again at the casual way it says it, like it’s no different from stepping out for air. Like it’s something natural. Necessary. Its claws drag lightly over your spine again, pausing at the nape of your neck before smoothing your damp hair back, almost… tender. “When I am gone,” it continues, “you will remain here.”
Not a suggestion. Not a question. A rule. “You will be safe.” Your breath catches. Safe. The word feels warped coming from it. Twisted into something unrecognizable.
“I will provide for you.”There’s a quiet certainty in its voice—something almost proud. Like this is something it understands completely. Something it knows how to do. Food. Shelter. Protection. Everything it believes you need.
Its hand stills against your back for a moment before moving again, slower now, more deliberate. “You will not hunger.” A pause. “You will not be harmed.” Another. “And you will not be alone.”Your chest tightens painfully at that one.
Because somehow—that’s the worst part. Your fingers curl weakly against its arm, your voice small, strained, barely there. “…I already am.” Its grip tightens suddenly, the shift so abrupt it knocks the breath from your lungs.
A sound tears from it—low, jagged, vibrating through its chest and into you where you’re pressed against it. Not quite a growl, not quite anything you’ve ever heard before. Something ancient.
Something that warns.
“No,” it says, firmer now. “You are not.” The words leave no room for argument. Your body stills despite yourself, your breath catching as its hold lingers for just a second longer before easing—not releasing, just loosening enough to continue.
“I am the ruler of my people,” it continues, voice settling back into something controlled, something steady. “They come to me for guidance.” Its gaze sharpens slightly as it looks at you, like it’s trying to make sure you understand. “They will come to you for the same.”Your stomach drops.
You?
The idea is so absurd it almost feels laughable—if it didn’t sound so real coming from it. Its claws brush along your arm again, slower now, deliberate, like it’s grounding the words into you. “You will learn to love it here.”The certainty in its tone doesn’t waver. Not even for a second. Then—It leans closer.
Too close.
Its voice drops, barely more than a breath against your skin—“You will learn to love me.” The words settle deep. Heavy. Unavoidable. Before you can respond—before you can even process it fully—its hold disappears.
Just like that.
You barely have time to react before you’re being lowered, placed carefully back onto the smooth rock beneath you. The absence of it is immediate—cold in a different way, emptier. Your body feels too light without its hold.
Too exposed. “I will bring you things,” it says, already shifting away, slipping back into the water. “To make this space of yours more comfortable.” Your space. The words echo. Like a cage being renamed something softer. Something easier to accept. You don’t move.
You can’t.
All you can do is watch as it disappears beneath the surface, the water swallowing it whole in seconds—like it was never there at all. The cave falls silent.
Completely. No voice. No movement.
No presence. Just you. Alone. Your breathing is the only sound left, uneven and sharp in the heavy air as the reality settles in, piece by piece.
The water ripples once—then stills. And for the first time since you woke up here—there’s nothing watching you anymore. Which somehow—feels worse. And you realize it—slowly, sickeningly. It’s already getting what it wants. The thought doesn’t come all at once.
It seeps in. Quiet. Unwelcome. But impossible to ignore. Humans need people. Voices. Presence. Touch.
Without it, something in you starts to break. You know that. Everyone knows that. And somehow—somewhere deep down—you know it knows that too.
Your arms wrap around yourself, fingers digging into your skin as if that might keep you grounded, keep you you. But the cave is too quiet. Too still. The absence it left behind is louder than anything else. Because now there’s nothing. No distractions. No one else.
Just you—and the echo of its voice. Your chest tightens. Because you can already feel it. The beginning of it. That awful, creeping shift.
The way your mind reaches for the last thing that spoke to you. That touched you. That acknowledged you. The way a part of you—small, traitorous, human—doesn’t want to be alone like this again. Your throat burns as you swallow hard, shaking your head like you can physically force the thought away. No.No, you won’t—you can’t.But the realization settles anyway.
Heavy.
Certain.
In the end—It will get what it wants.
And you—you’ll be helpless to stop it.Because one day—your chest twists painfully at the thought—one day, the silence will feel worse than it does now. And when it comes back—when it speaks, when it touches you, when it fills this suffocating emptiness—your heart will betray you. It will reach.
It will yearn.
And no matter how much you hate it—no matter how much you fight—you won’t be able to stop it. Before you can spiral any further—It’s back.
The water shifts, rippling softly before it breaks the surface, its form rising with something large clutched in its grasp. You blink, your thoughts stuttering to a halt as you stare. It looks… soft. Impossibly soft.
Like something that doesn’t belong in a place like this. Like if you touched a cloud, if clouds were real enough to hold, to sink your fingers into.
“For your nest,” it says, extending it toward you. Nest. The word feels strange, foreign—but the meaning settles quickly as it places the weight of it into your arms. You almost drop it. Not because it’s wet—It isn’t. It’s heavy.
Solid in a way you weren’t expecting, like it’s packed with something dense beneath its softness. Your arms strain slightly as you adjust your grip, staring down at it in confusion before slowly dragging it onto the smooth rock beside you.
A bed. That’s what it is. Or… their version of one.
“It’s heavy,” you mutter under your breath, more to yourself than to it, your voice still uneven from earlier.It doesn’t respond to that. Just watches. Of course it does. You don’t ask why it’s dry.
You don’t even think to question it beyond a passing thought. You’re in a cave at the bottom of the ocean, being cared for by something that shouldn’t exist—dry fabric is the least concerning thing happening right now.
“This too,” it says, already moving again. Another item is placed into your hands—larger this time, softer in a different way. Fur. Thick. Warm-looking. A blanket—if you can even call it that.
“You humans get cold easily,” it continues, voice steady, observational. “This should help keep you warm.”Your fingers instinctively press into it. It’s soft.
Really soft.
And—dry. Again. The realization hits a second later. You pause. Your gaze slowly drops to yourself. Your clothes—your skin—your hair. Dry. Completely. Not damp. Not clinging. Not even slightly chilled the way they should be after everything that just happened.
Your breath catches slightly as you stare down at your hands, turning them over like you’ll find some explanation there. You were just in the ocean. You drowned. You remember the water in your lungs. The salt. The panic. So why—how are you dry?
Your fingers curl slightly, grounding yourself in the feeling of it. The normalcy of it. But nothing about this is normal. Nothing about any of this is.
A quiet unease settles in your chest as you glance back up at it, standing there like this is all expected. Like this is how things are supposed to be now.
—
After that, you do not speak to it. And it does not speak to you. Not really. The silence between you stretches, thick and suffocating, broken only by the quiet sounds of water shifting and your own breathing. It watches you.
Always.
Whether you’re curled up on the not-quite-a-bed it brought you, or sitting with your knees pulled to your chest, staring blankly at the cave walls—it watches. Unblinking. Attentive. The only reprieve you get is when it leaves to hunt. Those moments are brief.
Too brief.
Because the second it’s gone, the cave feels too big—too empty—and the silence presses in until your thoughts start getting louder again. So when it returns— You hate that part of you that feels relief.
It feeds you the same way it did the first time. Fish. It’s always fish. Sometimes it tears the head off before handing it to you. Sometimes it eats it itself, sharp teeth sinking in with that same wet, final sound you’re trying to get used to.
You never really do.
You notice things, though. Because there’s nothing else to do but notice. Its eyes glow—faintly, but unmistakably. And so does its hair. Not all of it—just strands, scattered throughout like threads of light woven into darkness. There are markings on its body too. Patterns. Lines. They look like tattoos, etched into its skin—or scales, you’re not entirely sure. You wonder if those glow too. You never ask.
Time loses meaning. Days. Nights. Weeks. Months. There’s no sun here. No sky. No way to measure anything except the rhythm of its absence and return. So you stop trying. Until one moment— One breaking point. “I can’t stay here,” you mutter. Your voice sounds foreign.
Rough.
Like you haven’t used it properly in a long time. It looks at you. Of course it does. “Yes, you can.” Simple. Final. Like that’s the end of it. Something in your chest snaps.
“No, I can’t,” you fire back, your voice rising, cracking under the pressure of everything you’ve been holding in. “I need sunlight. And clothes—and water. Fresh water. I’m thirsty.”Your hands clench into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms as you push forward, words spilling out faster now.
“Food is great and all, but I can still die of dehydration. And I want to bathe—I want to get out of these clothes—“Your voice sharpens at the end, anger bleeding through as your hands grip at the fabric you’re still stuck in. The same fabric. The same reminder. The worst day of your life clinging to your skin like it refuses to let you forget.
“And sunlight,” you continue, not giving it a chance to interrupt, your chest rising and falling too fast now, “as insignificant as it might seem to a creature like you, is important. To everything that lives on this planet.”Your voice shakes—but you don’t stop.
“Unless they live near hydrothermal vents,” you add, the knowledge coming out almost bitter, almost desperate—something to ground you, something human. “But those organisms are adapted to that. I’m not.”You take a step back, your breath uneven, your entire body tense as you stare at it.
“I’ll die,” you say, quieter now—but firmer. “The same way I’ll die here without sunlight.”The cave falls silent again. Its nonexistent brow lifts slightly as it stares at you, unblinking.
“Is that all?” The question lands wrong. It shouldn’t make you this angry—but it does. Is that all? Your chest tightens, something sharp flaring up behind your ribs. Of course it’s not all.
There are a thousand things you want to say—questions, accusations, screams—but they sit heavy in your throat, unsaid. Because it saved you. Because it can just as easily un-save you. Because despite everything— You’re still… you.
So you swallow it down. You take a slow breath, forcing your body to steady even as your hands tremble slightly at your sides.
“What?” is all you manage, the word dragged out of you, rough and strained.
It doesn’t react to your tone.
Of course it doesn’t. “Is that all?” it repeats, calmer this time, as if clarifying something simple. “I can get you those things.”
You blink.
“I can bring fresh water. Clothes. Even the ointments and oils you humans use to bathe.”Your breath catches. It continues like it’s listing off trivial items, like it’s nothing.
“The sunlight…” it pauses, just briefly, “will be more difficult to obtain.” A flicker of something passes through its expression—calculation, maybe.
“But after I gain your trust,” it continues, voice smooth, certain, “it will be no more difficult than the rest.”Gain your trust. The words settle strangely in your chest.
Like this is all part of something. Like it’s working toward something. “So I will ask again,” it finishes, gaze locking onto yours, “is that all?” It speaks differently now. Better. More fluid.
Like the first day was all it needed to understand you—your language, your cadence, your world. The accent is still there, curling around the words in a way that feels unfamiliar… and, frustratingly, not unpleasant.
Your cheeks warm despite yourself. You hate that. You hate that your body reacts at all. You stare at it, trying to process what it just said. It knows where to get those things. It’s willing to get them. For you.
Your shoulders slump slightly, the fight bleeding out of you all at once, leaving behind something heavier. Tired.
So tired.
“Yes,” you mutter, your voice quieter now, lacking the sharp edge from before. “That’s all.”
A pause.
You swallow. “Yes… that’s all I need. For now.” For a moment, it just looks at you.
Then—It smiles. Wide.
Too wide.
Its teeth are too sharp, too numerous, the expression not quite right—something uncanny, something that doesn’t fit the shape of comfort the way a human smile should. And yet—It seems pleased.
Satisfied.
Without another word, it turns—its body slipping smoothly back toward the water. And then it’s gone. Just like that.
Swallowed by the dark.
The cave stretches out around you again, vast and empty, the silence rushing back in to fill every space it left behind. Too big. Too quiet.
Too alone.
You sit there for a long moment, staring at the water where it disappeared, the faint ripples already fading into stillness.
And once again—There’s nothing. Just you. And the darkness of the cave.
Time stretches again—thin, warped, impossible to measure. It could be hours. It could be days. Your body aches, your mind drifts, and just when the silence starts pressing in too hard—It returns.
But it isn’t alone.
The water stirs—once, twice—then breaks as more of them rise from below.
Your breath catches.
Shapes emerge one after another, sleek bodies cutting through the water with practiced ease, their glowing eyes flickering in the dim light as they follow behind it. And they’re carrying things. So many things.
Two of them step forward first, setting down large, sealed containers. Water. Fresh—you can tell just by the way it doesn’t carry that sharp, briny scent. Another follows, placing down smaller vessels—oils, soaps, things that smell faintly floral, herbal, clean.
More come after, hauling up heavy trunks—several of them—dropping them gently onto the stone near your makeshift bed. It’s overwhelming. Visually. Emotionally. Too much. Your chest tightens as you look at it all.
Why?
Why is it bringing you so much? “Is this enough for you?” it asks. Its voice cuts through the quiet, steady as ever—but behind it, the others trill softly, excitedly, their gazes fixed on you.
Waiting. Watching. Seeking something.
Approval.
The realization makes your stomach twist.
“More than,” you say, forcing a small smile onto your face. It feels wrong.
Fake.
But it works.
The reaction is immediate—their trills grow louder, brighter, bodies shifting with something like satisfaction as they begin placing everything more carefully around your space.
Your space.
They chirp softly to one another before slipping back into the water one by one, disappearing just as quickly as they arrived. Soon, it’s just you. And it. Again. “Thank you,” you mutter, quieter this time, the words automatic—habit more than anything else.
It doesn’t respond.
Just watches.
Always watching.
You turn away from it, moving toward the trunks, your fingers brushing over the surface before lifting one open.
Clothes.
Your breath hitches slightly.
Modern. Familiar.
Normal.
For a second, something in your chest aches at the sight of them.
You dig through, pulling out something simple—something you—before moving to the soaps and oils, uncapping a few, testing the scents until you find one that doesn’t feel foreign. Something you could almost pretend you chose yourself. You’re halfway through undressing when it hits you.
That feeling.
That stare.
Your hands freeze on your zipper as you slowly turn your head—And there it is. Still watching.
Unblinking.
Your jaw tightens as you mentally curse yourself. Of course it is. “Look… I know I can’t ask you to leave,” you start, your voice already strained with frustration, “but can you at least turn around?”
Nothing. It doesn’t move. “Sideways?”Still nothing. “Close your eyes?” Not even a flicker. You exhale sharply, running a hand over your face. “You know what—fine.”
Your voice is tighter now, edged with something between irritation and exhaustion. “We’re both guys. Some of us just have extra parts. But still—guys.”The words feel weak even as you say them.
Like you’re trying to convince yourself more than it.
You don’t wait for a response this time.
You strip the rest of the way, movements quicker now, more deliberate, grabbing the soap and oil before stepping closer to the edge of the pool.
For a second, you hesitate.
Then—you dive.The water closes over you instantly, cool and heavy, the sensation grounding in a way the cave never is. It clings to your skin, your hair, washing away salt, grime—everything. You stay under for a moment longer than necessary.
Just breathing.
Just existing.
Before surfacing again. And realizing—This is the closest you’ve been to it in days.
“Is this safe for the, um… ecosystem?” you mutter, your voice echoing faintly against the damp cave walls as you reach for the soap. Your fingers hover over it for a second, hesitant. “Like, I’m not poisoning the water or anything, right?” You expect an answer—quick, distant, maybe even dismissive. But it doesn’t come like that. Not at all.
Before you can even blink, it’s behind you.
The shift in the air is the only warning you get. Then suddenly, its hand is around yours—the same hand holding the soap—guiding it slightly upward as it tilts its head, examining the object with quiet curiosity. It brings it closer, sniffing it, as if trying to understand it beyond just sight. “It’s fine. Don’t worry,” it says softly, its voice low and smooth, almost blending with the gentle drip of water from the cave ceiling. There’s a pause, just long enough for your breath to hitch. “Do you need help?”
Its claws brush lightly against your bare shoulder—barely there, but enough to send a sharp shiver down your spine. The contact is careful, controlled, yet unfamiliar in a way that makes your chest tighten. “No, I’m fine,” you gasp, the words tumbling out faster than you intended. Heat rushes to your face, a deep flush spreading across your cheeks and down your neck at the sheer closeness of it. As soon as the words leave your mouth, you turn away, almost too quickly, and set to work.
You wash yourself with deliberate focus, as if speed alone can steady your racing thoughts. From behind your ears to the curve of your neck, down your arms and across your torso—you move efficiently, methodically. The soap lathers easily in your hands, the scent faint but clean, grounding you in something normal, something human. You scrub between your fingers, along your sides, down your legs, careful even as your movements grow faster. Between your toes, across your ankles—everywhere. Anything to keep your mind occupied. Anything to get you out of this water sooner.
But then— You pause.
There’s one place you can’t quite reach.
Your back.
You twist slightly, stretching your arm as far as it will go, fingers brushing uselessly against skin you can’t properly clean. You try again, angling differently, but it’s no use. A quiet sigh escapes you, equal parts frustration and reluctant realization. For a moment, you just stand there, the water lapping softly around you, your shoulders tense.
Then, slowly, you glance back.
It’s still there.
Still watching you.
Not in a way that feels predatory—no, it’s something else. Something quieter. Focused. As if you’re the most fascinating thing it has ever seen… which, to be fair, in this cave, you probably are. Your gaze lingers for half a second too long before you look away again, heat rising back to your face. “I need…” you start, but the words catch in your throat. Your grip tightens slightly around the soap as embarrassment curls in your chest.
You swallow.
“I need you to wash my back,” you mutter, the words barely above a whisper. For a moment—Nothing happens. The water laps quietly around you, your own breathing loud in your ears as you wait, shoulders tense, skin hyper-aware of every second that passes.
Then—It moves. Slowly.
You feel the shift before the touch, the water parting as it comes closer, its presence settling at your back again. Closer than before. Its hand brushes your shoulder first—testing, almost—before sliding lower.
You stiffen instantly.
It pauses.
Just for a second.
Like it’s waiting to see if you’ll pull away.
You don’t.
“…here,” you mutter quietly, reaching back just enough to press the small container into its hand before turning forward again. That’s all it needs. You hear the faint click of it opening—then the soft, slick sound of liquid being poured.
A second later—Its hand returns.
Cooler now.
The soap spreads easily across your skin, smoother than before, gliding instead of dragging. You inhale sharply as it starts at your shoulders, its touch slow, controlled as it works the liquid over your back, following the line of your spine again—only this time the motion is more fluid.
More… intentional.
The lather builds quickly under its hand, slipping across your skin as its claws guide the movement, careful not to scratch, only to spread. Your muscles tense, then hesitate—because it’s not rough.Not clumsy. It adjusts as it goes, learning in real time, pressure shifting where your body tightens, slowing where you flinch.
It’s so soft, and caring. You have to will your cunt to not get wet, you’re not going to get horny over your family’s killer touching you. “You are… tense,” it murmurs again, quieter this time, almost thoughtful.
Wow, thank you captain obvious. The thought appears before you can stop it, it’s not like you could try anyway. Your brain is your brain.
You let out a shaky breath.
“I wonder why,” you mutter, voice low.
It doesn’t respond. Its hand moves lower, broader strokes now, covering what you couldn’t reach, the liquid soap making everything easier—quicker—yet somehow it doesn’t rush.
It takes its time.
Like it’s committing this to memory.
The thought makes your chest tighten again.
You stare forward, jaw set, refusing to react more than you already have.
“Done,” it says finally.
Its hand pulls away.
The absence is immediate.
You exhale softly, shoulders dropping as the tension lingers in your muscles, even as the water settles around you again. But something feels… different.
You don’t let yourself dwell on it.
You can’t.
The second you’re done, you move—quickly climbing out of the briny pool and back onto the smooth rock where your “nest”—as it insists on calling it—waits for you. The air feels strange against your clean skin.
Too open.
Too exposed.
You grab a towel-like fur first, drying off in hurried motions before reaching for the oils. Your hands move almost automatically, smoothing it over your skin—familiar, grounding, something normal in the middle of everything that isn’t.
Then clothes.
You dress quickly, movements efficient, almost rushed—like you can somehow regain control by covering yourself again.It doesn’t help that it’s still watching. Of course it is. Your eyes flick up without meaning to—once, twice—and each time you meet its gaze, your cheeks burn hotter, something twisting low in your stomach that you refuse to acknowledge.
You look away faster every time.
You’re done in minutes.
Fully dressed.
Contained.
Safe—or as close to it as you’re going to get here.
You reach for the water without hesitation, pulling one of the containers closer and opening it quickly.
Fresh.
God. You don’t even think before drinking. Long, desperate gulps, the water cool and clean as it slides down your throat, easing something tight and painful in your chest. You don’t stop until you have to. Pulling back with a shaky breath.
Better.
Slightly.
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, exhaling slowly as you try to steady yourself.
“So, um…” you start. And then—nothing. The words don’t come. You didn’t think that far ahead. But it doesn’t matter. Because the second your voice breaks the silence—It reacts.
Immediately.
Its posture shifts, subtle but noticeable, attention sharpening as it looks at you—focused, intent.
Interested.
Excited.
Like this—you talking to it—means something. Your chest tightens at the sight. Because it looks… eager. And that does something uncomfortable to you.
Something you don’t like. Something that feels dangerously close to guilt. You swallow hard, your fingers tightening slightly around the container in your hand.
It doesn’t deserve that.
It doesn’t deserve anything from you. It killed them. It took everything from you. Your family.
Your life.
Your future. You can’t—won’t—feel sorry for it. You won’t let yourself.
Even if it looks at you like that. “The dirty laundry… what do I do with it?” you ask finally, the words feeling small after everything else that’s been said between you.
It doesn’t answer.
Not with words.
Instead, it moves closer, the water parting easily around it as it lifts its hands toward you—open, expectant. You hesitate for only a second before understanding.
Give it to me.
Your fingers tighten briefly around the fabric before you step forward, handing over the fur first. It takes it carefully, almost gently, like even this matters.
Then you reach for your clothes. Your suit. Your wedding suit.
The fabric feels heavier now.
Wrong.
Your jaw tightens as you hold it for a moment longer than necessary before forcing yourself to pass it over. “You can destroy that,” you say, your voice quieter now, your gaze dropping to the stone beneath your feet. “I never want to see it again.”
There’s a pause.
A small one.
But you feel it. It doesn’t question you. Doesn’t argue.
It just takes it.
Your shoulders stay tense, your hands empty now, unsure where to go, what to do with themselves. “And when you return…” you start again, the words slower this time, more deliberate.
You swallow. “I’d like to talk.” The admission feels strange.
Uncomfortable.
Necessary.
“About anything, really,” you add quickly, like you need to justify it.
Your fingers curl slightly at your sides.
“I’ll go mad if all I do all day is stare back at you.”
That earns a reaction.
A subtle one—but it’s there.
Something shifts in its expression, in the way it looks at you now.
Not just watching. Listening. Understanding.
Slowly, it nods.
“As you wish.”
The words settle between you, heavier than they should be. Before you can think too much about it, it turns, slipping back into the water once more—your discarded past clutched in its grasp. And just like that—It’s gone again. Longer this time. Long enough for the silence to settle back into your bones, for the cave to feel too big, too hollow, too empty without something watching you.
You hate that.
You hate that you notice. It usually returns quickly—too quickly, almost like it’s drawn back to you no matter what it’s doing.
But this time… it lingers.
And just when you start to wonder—
It comes back.
The water shifts, deeper than before, heavier. Then it rises from beneath the surface, something clutched in its hands.
More than something.
Many things.
It approaches you without hesitation, setting them down onto your platform one by one.
Pearls.
Gold.
Diamonds.
They catch the faint glow of the cave, reflecting it back in fractured light, shimmering in a way that feels almost out of place here.
Too pretty.
Too human.
Your brows knit slightly as you stare at the small pile.
It doesn’t surprise you that it has these things.
A creature like this—living as long as it must have, moving through the ocean like it owns it—it makes sense. Sunken ships. Lost cargo. Forgotten treasures claimed by the sea.
What surprises you—
Is that it’s giving them to you.
Your lips part slightly before you force out a quiet, “Thank you.”
The words feel automatic.
But your eyes linger on the jewels for only a moment longer before lifting back to it.
Because that’s not what’s been sitting in your mind.
Not really.
You inhale slowly, steadying yourself.
“The ship…” you mutter.
Your voice is low, but it still echoes against the cave walls, bouncing back at you like it’s too loud anyway.
Its attention sharpens immediately.
Of course it does.
You swallow.
“How did you sink it?”
The question hangs there.Unavoidable. For a moment, it doesn’t answer.It just watches you. Then—It moves.
Not closer.
But deeper into the water, its tail shifting slowly as if the memory itself pulls it somewhere else. “I’ve been watching you for a long time,” it says, each word deliberate, measured—like it wants you to feel them settle. “And by association… your old mate.”
The last word comes out sharp.
A hiss.
Your stomach twists.
“When I saw him,” it continues, voice dropping, something darker threading through it, “courting that other man behind your back…”Its tail flicks beneath the surface, the water responding with a low, agitated ripple.
“My heart broke for you.”The words should sound gentle. They don’t. They sound possessive.
“My poor mate,” it murmurs, gaze fixed on you now, unblinking. “You did not deserve to be hurt like that. Even if you did not know it was happening.” Your chest tightens painfully. “And since he proved himself undeserving of you…” it goes on, the calm returning in a way that feels worse than the anger, “it made no sense to allow you to complete your union.”
Your breath catches.
“So I sank the ship.”
Just like that.
Simple.
Final.
“I gathered my kin,” it continues, almost idly, like it’s recounting something mundane. “We struck the vessel together. Our tails are… resilient.” A faint shift of its body emphasizes the point. “If one of us wishes to sink a ship, it is not difficult to make it appear as something else. An accident.”
Your fingers curl at your sides.
Cold.
Numb.
“While it descended,” it adds, quieter now, “my people fed.”
The words don’t hit all at once.
They… land.
Slow.
Heavy.
Suffocating.
Your throat tightens.
“And I came for you.”
Your gaze snaps to it.
Like that part is supposed to matter more.
Like that part is supposed to fix it.
“After I brought you here,” it continues, unbothered, unwavering, “I returned.”
A pause.
“I ate your old mate.”
Your stomach lurches violently.
“It is only fair,” it says, as if that explains everything.
As if that makes it right.
“In my world, when one seeks to claim a mate, a challenge is issued.” Its gaze sharpens slightly, something almost proud flickering beneath the surface.
“The victor consumes the defeated.”Silence crashes over the cave.
Thick.
Suffocating.
Because it says it so normally.
Like it didn’t just confess to tearing your life apart piece by piece. Like it didn’t just—your breath comes out uneven, your chest rising too fast now as the weight of it all presses in at once.
Your family.
Your friends.
Everyone.
Gone.
And it—It stands there like it was justified. Like it was necessary. Like it did it for you.
Your voice feels stuck.
Heavy. But it forces its way out anyway—small, strained, barely holding together.
“…you think that makes it okay?”
—
A/n: This chapters are sooo long jeez… but it’d be so much more annoying to post if I made them like 1k words each… Σ('◉⌓◉’)
Synopsis: Mermaid!Rafayel saves FTM! Reader from a loveless marriage, it takes awhile for the reader to show his thanks!!
Tags: Kidnapping!
A/n: This is a multi-chaptered fic that I decided to write for mermay, enjoy!!
Today is perfect.
The wind is soft—just enough to brush against your skin and keep the sun from settling too heavily on your shoulders. It threads through your hair, cool and gentle, carrying the faint scent of salt. The ocean stretches endlessly in every direction, a deep, glistening blue that seems almost unreal, like something painted rather than lived in.
The waves rock the boat—no, the yacht—slowly, rhythmically. It’s the kind of movement that lulls people to sleep, steady and calm, like a cradle. If you close your eyes for too long, you feel like you might drift off right where you stand, lulled by the hush of water against metal and the distant hum of quiet conversation behind you.
Today is perfect.
You’re getting married.
The thought still feels strange when you try to hold it for too long, like it might slip through your fingers if you think too hard about it. Married. To him. To the man everyone keeps telling you is perfect for you—the man who is perfect for you, you remind yourself.
You’re surrounded by people you love. Laughter spills across the deck in soft bursts, glasses clink somewhere behind you, music hums low enough to be felt more than heard. Your family, your friends—they’re all here, smiling, celebrating, watching you like you’re something worth admiring.
And really, what more could you ask for?
Well.
You could think of one thing.
Your gaze drifts back out to the water, your grip tightening slightly on the railing as the yacht sways beneath you. It’s subtle, barely noticeable, but it’s there—constant, unavoidable.
You’re getting married on a boat.
A yacht. Whatever.
And you hate it.
You would’ve preferred land. Solid, unmoving ground beneath your feet. Something stable. Predictable. A courthouse would’ve been fine—honestly, more than fine. Quiet, simple, quick. No audience, no spectacle, no overwhelming sense that everything has to be perfect because it’s being seen.
Eloping sounded even better.
Just you, him, and a moment that belonged only to the two of you.
Not this—this overly extravagant event that probably cost more than a human liver on the black market.
“Don’t worry,” your soon-to-be husband had told you when you voiced your opinion, his voice warm, reassuring in that way that always made it hard to argue with him. “It’ll all be worth it in the end. We’ll be bound together until death.”
You remember the way he smiled when he said it—soft, affectionate, certain. Like there was no version of reality where this didn’t work out exactly as planned.
He’s so romantic when he wants to be.
He knows you can’t say no to him when he talks like that.
You glance down at the ring on your finger again, watching how it catches the sunlight. It’s beautiful—of course it is. Everything about today is.
Carefully chosen. Carefully planned.
Carefully perfect.
Unfortunately, all of your friends and family were on his side. “I’ve never been on a yacht before, I’d like to at least step on one before I did.” They had said. “This might just be my only chance, don’t ruin this for me.” They had said. Gaslighting at its finest. But still, you gave in.
Because what are you, if not a people-pleaser?
And now you’re here—surrounded by people you love, and people you barely recognize, all of them blending together into a blur of faces and soft voices. The room hums with anticipation, low and constant, like something waiting to happen.
You stand at the front, hands clasped a little too tightly, eyes fixed on the doors separating you from him.
Your soon-to-be husband.
Because, as much as you want it to be true—as much as it feels true—he isn’t yours yet. Not officially. Not completely.
The thought lingers longer than it should.
Then—
As if summoned by it, the doors begin to creak open.
The sound cuts through the quiet, drawing every eye in the room forward. Your breath catches, your fingers tightening as your heart stutters once, twice, too fast.
Soft laughter slips through the opening.
No—
Not soft.
Drunken.
It spills out carelessly, followed by the sight of him as he steps through the doorway—your almost-husband, dressed perfectly, looking exactly the way he’s supposed to. Composed. Effortless. Untouchable.
Perfect.
But he isn’t alone.
His secretary stumbles in just behind him, close enough that it feels wrong. Too close. His laughter lingers in the air, his steps uneven as he nearly bumps into your soon-to-be husband before catching himself. For a moment, he doesn’t seem to notice where he is—like he’s forgotten, like this isn’t the exact moment he’s meant to be stepping into.
Then it hits him.
The room. The silence. The eyes.
You.
His posture straightens almost instantly. The smile shifts—sharpened, controlled—as he glances around quickly before moving forward, leaving his secretary behind as he hurriedly slips into the nearest empty seat, head lowered just enough to pretend he wasn’t just… there.
Your stomach twists.
You wonder, briefly, why he’s here at all.
Why he was with him. Why he would bring him—him—to something like this when you had made it clear, more than once, that you didn’t want him anywhere near your wedding. Not when the way he looked at him lingered too long, too obvious. Not when it felt like he was waiting for something that didn’t belong to him.
But it seems, once again, that he heard you— and chose to ignore it. Your jaw tightens slightly, the thought slipping in before you can stop it: Why am I marrying a man like this?
It sits there, heavier than it should be. Louder than it should be. For a second—just a second—it almost feels real.
Then he looks up. And he smiles at you. And just like that, everything else fades. Your breath catches, your heart stumbling over itself as warmth rushes through your chest, soft and familiar and dangerously convincing.
Because when he looks at you like that—like you’re the only person in the room, the only thing worth seeing—it’s easy to forget.
Easy to forgive. Easy to believe.
Your lips part slightly, your thoughts unraveling as you hold onto that smile, onto the feeling it gives you. This is the man you’re going to marry.
He’s choosing you.
And not— You force the thought away before it can fully form, before it can settle into something ugly.
Because in the end, it doesn’t matter. You’re the one at the altar. You’re the one he’s going to marry. Not him.
The thought barely fades before— A deafening crash splits through the air.
It’s violent. Sudden. Wrong.
The entire yacht lurches, tilting sharply to one side. The ground shifts beneath your feet, heels slipping against polished flooring as a chorus of startled screams erupts around you. Glass shatters somewhere behind you, the sharp sound cutting through the panic as the once-perfect atmosphere fractures in an instant.
Your balance falters. You reach out blindly, fingers brushing against nothing before catching yourself just enough to stay upright. Your heart slams against your ribs, fast and disoriented, as the world seems to tip with you.
“—What was that?” someone shouts.
No one answers at first.
Because no one knows.
“Maybe it was just some random turbulence,” someone says, voice stricken with panic.
Then, as if insulted that someone dared to think that this was something else than what it truly was.
Your eyes snap forward just in time to see him stumble.
Your soon-to-be husband—steady, composed, perfect—loses his footing as the yacht jerks again. His body pitches forward, a sharp breath leaving him as he crashes hard against the floor.
You don’t even realize you’ve moved until you’re already rushing toward him, your pulse roars in your ears. The room spins, uneven and unstable, but none of it matters—not when he’s on the ground.
Not when he could be hurt. You drop to your knees beside him, hands hovering for a second before finally settling against his arm, his shoulder—anywhere, everywhere—just to make sure he’s there. “I’m here—are you okay? Can you—”
Another presence collides beside you.
You don’t have to look to know who it is.
The secretary. He’s there almost instantly, dropping down on the other side, reaching for him with the same urgency, the same concern—his hands gripping your fiancé just as yours do. For a brief, fleeting second, the three of you are caught together.
Your hands.
His hands.
On him.
Your gaze flickers up despite yourself, locking with the secretary’s for half a heartbeat. Something unreadable passes through his expression—something tight, something too quick to name—before the yacht jerks again, harder this time.
The lights flicker.
The floor tilts further.
And suddenly—
It’s quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of silence that presses in on your ears until the only thing you can hear is yourself—your uneven, panicked breaths coming too fast, too shallow.
Then the ocean rises. You watch it happen, frozen, as the water surges up the tilted side of the yacht, dark and endless and wrong. It crashes through the open windows with a force that doesn’t feel natural, glass already shattered, leaving nothing to stop it.
It pours in.
Fast.
Relentless.
“OH MY GOD!” someone screams. The spell breaks. Chaos erupts all at once—voices overlapping, bodies scrambling, the sharp slap of water against floors as it rushes inward, swallowing everything in its path. It’s freezing when it reaches you, soaking through fabric, clinging to your skin like it wants to drag you down with it.
“WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!”
Your head snaps toward the voice.
It’s him.
Your soon-to-be husband. For a split second, your mind catches on something small, something meaningless—when did he even get up?
But then you see it.
He’s not looking at you. He’s not reaching for you. He’s already moving—pulling someone along with him, gripping tightly, urgency written all over his face.
The secretary.
Of course.
Your stomach drops harder than the tilting floor beneath you.
You’re still on your knees.
Still where you fell.
Still—forgotten.
Like you were never part of this moment to begin with. Your fingers curl against the slick floor, something sharp twisting in your chest as the realization settles in, heavy and undeniable. Not even now. Not even when everything is falling apart—
He didn’t choose you.
“I THOUGHT YOU SAID THIS SHIP WAS UNSINKABLE!” someone shouts—one of his colleagues, their voice edged with panic and accusation as they shove past, desperate to get out, to get anywhere that isn’t here. People are slipping, screaming, pushing past each other in blind terror as the water rises higher, faster, turning the room into something unrecognizable.
You swallow hard. “Yeah,” you mutter under your breath, the words tasting bitter as you finally force yourself to stand, legs unsteady beneath you. “They said that about the Titanic too.”
The floor shifts again, more violently this time.
Water climbs past your ankles.
And for the first time—
You realize with startling clarity that you might not make it out alive. Your feet move before you even register the decision. One moment you’re standing in the middle of the room, frozen in the chaos, and the next you’re right in front of him—the love of your life—holding someone that isn’t you.
On your wedding day.
“How long?” you mutter, voice low, almost lost beneath the noise of rushing water and distant screams. “What?” your used-to-be soon-to-be husband says, blinking at you like he doesn’t understand—like he hasn’t just been caught. His eyes flicker, not to your face, but to your veil, now pushed back, no longer softening your expression. No longer hiding anything.
“Don’t play dumb with me,” you growl, teeth clenching hard enough to ache. The water sloshes around your legs as you take a step closer, your pants heavy and soaked.“How long have you been sleeping with him?” Your voice sharpens, cracks. “How long have you been bending him over the desk in your fucking office thinking I’d never find out?” He starts talking immediately—too fast, too desperate—words tripping over each other in a messy attempt to explain, to deny, to fix something that’s already rotted through.
You don’t listen. You can’t.
Your hands drag down your face slowly, fingers pressing into your skin like you’re trying to wake yourself up from this—like this might still be something you can escape if you just try hard enough. “Wait,” you mutter, cutting him off with a hollow laugh. “Don’t tell me…” Your eyes flick between them, taking in the way they stand too close, the way the secretary’s hand is still gripping his sleeve like he belongs there.
“You’re the one doing the bending?” A broken chuckle slips past your lips, your hand coming up to cover your mouth as your shoulders shake—not quite laughter, not quite anything else. His hand shoots out. Fast. Desperate. Your wrist is caught before you can take another step, his grip tight—too tight—like if he loosens it even a little you’ll disappear entirely.
“Wait—”
You freeze.
Not because you want to. Not because you care. But because his touch still does something to you—something awful and familiar. “Let go.” Your voice is low, strained, barely holding together. “I can explain,” he rushes out, stepping closer, water sloshing around his legs as if it isn’t climbing higher by the second. “It’s not what you think, I swear, you’re just—this isn’t—”
“Let go.”
Your tone sharpens, and when he doesn’t listen—when his fingers only tighten, like he still thinks he has a right to hold you—you rip your arm back. This time, you don’t hesitate. You don’t look at him. You don’t look at them.
You just pull free. “I’m so fucking stupid,” you breathe, the words tasting bitter. Around you, people are still rushing—shoving, slipping, screaming as they fight their way toward the exits. The water has risen to your knees now, cold and relentless, soaking everything it touches. The yacht groans, metal protesting as it sinks faster than it ever should.
Your gaze drifts downward. Bodies. Some are still crumpled where they fell, limbs twisted, caught beneath overturned chairs and each other— but others… Others have started to move.
Not alive.
Just… lifting. The water carries them slowly, sleeves brushing against your legs, faces tilting just beneath the surface as if they might look at you if you stare long enough.
They’re scattered across the floor, unmoving across the surface of the water. Not a twitch, not a breath. In the back of your mind, something clicks into place. In the panic, people pushed. Trampled. Stepped over whoever got in their way just to get out.
The poor souls beneath them never stood a chance. The last thing they felt was the weight of survival—of desperation—crushing the air from their lungs, caving in their chests beneath the feet of people who once claimed to love them.
At any other time, you’d be horrified.
Disgusted.
Sickened by how quickly humanity turns on itself.
But right now—
You feel nothing.
Not when the man you’ve chosen, over and over again for six years, hasn’t chosen you once. Not when you’re so wrapped in your own unraveling that you don’t even stop to wonder if your family made it out.
A distant thought flickers instead—quiet, intrusive.
Who else knew?
He couldn’t have kept something like this hidden on his own. Secrets like this don’t exist in isolation.
Maybe his entire bachelor party knew.
Maybe they laughed about it.
Maybe they watched you smile and said nothing.
“Fuck,” you exhale, shaking your head slightly. “I’m so stupid. My god.” Your eyes lift again, scanning the room as the chaos begins to shift—slow, inevitable.
People are realizing. Realizing the same thing you did.
That there’s nowhere left to run. That the doors won’t save them.
That struggling is pointless.
The panic dulls into something heavier. Quieter. You watch as couples cling to each other, sobbing into shoulders, whispering things that should’ve been said sooner. Apologies. Confessions. I love you’s that come far too late.
The water rises higher. The ship sinks deeper. And all you can do—Is watch.
Helpless to stop the havoc around you. A sharp crack splits through the ship. It comes from below.
The floor jerks violently, the entire structure groaning like it’s finally giving up. The tilt worsens—sending everything sliding, crashing, collapsing into the rising water.
Then it hits your chest. Cold. Violent. You gasp on instinct—and choke as salt floods your mouth.
The room disappears. There’s no up. No down.
Just water. Bodies slam into you—arms, shoulders, something grabbing at your wrist before slipping away just as fast. Not pushing—clinging. Desperate.Trying to live. You kick, forcing yourself forward, but the current fights you. It drags at your limbs, pulls you sideways, spins you just enough to steal your sense of direction. Your hair sticks to your face, blinding you. Your lungs burn, tight and screaming as panic claws its way through your chest.
You try to swim up—But which way is up? Of course you’re panicking. You’re drowning—what else are you supposed to do? Your chest spasms, begging for air, your body desperate to inhale, to breathe—but you can’t. You can’t. Not unless you want to empty what little air you have left. Everything feels the same.
Dark.
Heavy.
Endless.
You’re alone.
You’re cold.
You’re drowning.
You’re going to die.
Your movements slow when the realization settles in—not sudden, not dramatic. Just… inevitable.
You’re going to die.
Your perfect day has twisted into something unrecognizable. You’re surrounded by people who are either dead or dying, and soon—you’ll be one of them. You’re going to die in this stupid suit. The one he picked out for you. The one you smiled in, stood in, promised forever in.
And worst of all— You’re going to die loving someone who never loved you. A bitter laugh tries to rise in your chest, but it dies before it can exist. You’d cry if you could—but you won’t waste what little air you have left on him. On either of them.
You’re going to die— And so is everyone you loved. Your mom. Your dad. Your siblings.
All because you wanted something as stupid as a wedding. Because you said yes. Because you believed. Your chest tightens painfully, your thoughts spiraling as your strength fades further, limbs growing heavier, slower.
Why did you have to get engaged?
Why did you have to get married?
Is this some kind of punishment?
A cruel joke?
The gods getting back at you for something you don’t even remember doing? Making sure you never get to be happy—never get to keep anything good?
What the fuck did you do to deserve this?
The question echoes—loud, desperate—Then. Something hard slams into your back. Pain explodes through you—sharp, sudden—knocking whatever focus you had left clean out of your head.
And you gasp.
It’s instinct.
Automatic.
Fatal.
The last bit of air in your lungs bursts out of you in a rush of bubbles, slipping past your lips, rising in a trail you can’t follow. Your chest seizes immediately after, your body trying—failing—to drag in a breath that isn’t there.
Nothing comes.
Your mouth opens again.
Water floods in.
Burning.
Your vision blurs, darkening at the edges as your body jerks weakly, hands clawing at nothing. The pressure in your chest builds, unbearable, your throat tightening as everything in you screams to breathe.
This is it.
This is when you die.
Alone.
Cold.
Your movements slow.
Then stop.
Your body goes slack, drifting—weightless now, sinking deeper into the dark.
The last thing you see are the bubbles.
Floating away from you.
Leaving you behind.
And then—
Something moves against the current.
Not drifting.
Not struggling.
Swimming.
Toward you.
Fast.
The water shifts around it, bending in a way that feels unnatural—like it belongs to whatever is coming, not the other way around.
A shape cuts through the dark.
Large.
Wrong.
Beautiful.
And then—
Eyes.
They find you instantly.
Lock onto you like they’ve always known exactly where you were.
Like they’ve been waiting.
It reaches you in seconds.
One hand—if you could call it that—filled with claws close around your arm, firm and unyielding as it pulls you toward it. The other moves to your face, tilting it just enough, studying you like you’re something fragile.
Something important.
Up close, it’s worse.
Or better?
You can’t tell.
Skin that doesn’t quite look human in the dim light filtering from above, hair drifting around it like it’s alive, and those eyes—glowing faintly, reflecting something deep and endless.
Ancient.
Hungry.
Relieved.
Its grip tightens slightly. And for a moment— You swear it looks… upset. Like you’ve done something wrong.
And then… nothing.
Everything goes black.
-
Sound returns first. Not voices.Not screaming.
Just… water. A slow, steady drip. A distant current brushing against stone.
Your chest convulses.
Violently.
You cough before you’re even fully aware of it—your body forcing itself back to life as water tears out of your lungs, burning your throat on the way up. It’s messy, painful, desperate. Each breath you drag in feels wrong, too sharp, too cold, like your lungs forgot how to work and are learning all over again. You curl onto your side, palms pressing into something smooth beneath you. Not jagged. Not harsh. The ground is cool, damp, but worn down—like it’s been shaped over time, softened by water.
You inhale again.
The air feels thin. Heavy. Hard to hold onto.
You suck in another breath anyway.
And another. And another— Until your chest stops trying to collapse in on itself. You inhale again.
The air is different. Heavy, yes—but not suffocating. It clings to your lungs, thick with salt and something faintly sweet, almost mineral-like.
You’re breathing.
You’re alive. The realization settles slowly, almost unreal. The space around you is quiet—peaceful in a way that feels undeserved after everything that just happened. No screams. No rushing water. Just the soft echo of droplets falling somewhere deeper within the cave.
Your fingers shift slightly against the ground. It’s not just stone. There’s something layered over it—thin, almost velvety in places. Algae, maybe. Soft enough that it cushions the pressure of your weight. You lift your head.
Light greets you.
Dim—but warm.
The cave walls glow faintly with streaks of bioluminescence, soft blues and muted greens casting a gentle, wavering light across the space. It doesn’t hurt your eyes. It doesn’t overwhelm. It just… exists.
Enough to see.
Enough to feel safe.
For a moment—
You think you’re alone.
It’s a stupid thought. You know it is. Unless you’re in some sterile, sealed-off space, you’re never truly alone—not really. There’s always something. Still, the silence convinces you. The cave is dark, damp, the air thick and hard to breathe. Your lungs still ache from the ocean, each inhale shallow, uneven. Water drips somewhere in the distance, slow and rhythmic, echoing off the walls.
It feels empty.
It feels safe.
And then you remember—
Something brought you here. Something pulled you out of the water. Something didn’t let you die. So why would it leave you alone now?
Your gaze shifts, unfocused at first, scanning the uneven walls of the cave. Soft bioluminescence clings to the stone, faintly glowing, casting just enough light to see shapes—nothing clear, nothing comforting. The glow reflects off the shallow pool in front of you, rippling gently with each small movement of the water.
Except—
Not all of it.
There’s a break in the reflection.
A patch where the light doesn’t reach.
At first, your mind doesn’t process it. It takes a second. Maybe two.
Then it clicks.
The light isn’t missing.
It’s being blocked.
Something is there.
Right there.
Watching you. Your breath catches in your already aching lungs as you stare into the eyes of your— Savior?
That’s what you should call it, right?
It saved you. Dragged you out of the ocean when everyone else sank into it. When everyone else was swallowed whole.
So… your savior.
The word feels wrong.
Heavy.
Too kind for something that looks like that.
Your throat tightens as your mind scrambles to catch up, thoughts tripping over each other in a mess of confusion and fear.
Why?
Of all the people on that ship— All the ones screaming, begging, clinging to life— Why you? Your fingers twitch against the damp ground beneath you, nails scraping lightly against stone as you force yourself not to move too suddenly. Not to provoke it.
You consider speaking.
Asking.
But the thought dies just as quickly as it comes.
You don’t even know if it can speak.
You don’t know what it is. You don’t know if it understands you. You don’t know if it’s about to—Eat you.
Your stomach drops.
A cold wave of realization crashes over you, sharper than the ocean ever was.
If it wanted to… Wouldn’t it have already?
Your gaze flickers over it again—taking in the stillness, the way it watches you without moving, without blinking, like it’s waiting for something. Or maybe— Maybe it is waiting.
Waiting for you to react.
To panic.
To scream.
A sick thought curls in your mind.
Maybe it wants to hear it.
Maybe it wants to enjoy it.
Your breath stutters, chest tightening painfully as fear finally sinks its claws into you fully, no longer dulled by shock or adrenaline.
Oh. Oh my god. Your heart starts pounding harder, louder, like it’s trying to escape your chest entirely.
You’re going to die.
The thought lands, heavy and certain.
A whimper slips past your lips before you can stop it—small, broken, loud in the suffocating quiet.
Your stomach drops.
That might’ve been your second biggest mistake.
The first…
Well. You don’t really have to think too hard about that one.
The sound seems to reach it instantly.
Its gaze sharpens—if that’s even possible—and something in the air shifts, like you’ve just reminded it that you’re there. That you’re real.
That you’re alive.
And then it moves.
Across the briny pool, the water barely ripples around it. There’s no frantic splash, no wasted motion—just a smooth, gliding shift forward, like it belongs to the water in a way you never could.
It’s…
Your breath hitches.
Beautiful.
The word comes uninvited, sliding into your mind like it’s always been there, waiting.
It doesn’t rush you. It could. You know it could. Something deep in your bones tells you that if it wanted to, it would be on you in an instant—faster than you could react, faster than you could scream.
But it doesn’t.
It moves slowly.
Carefully.
Like it’s… aware of you.
Like it knows that one wrong move might send you scrambling—might make you bolt, even though there’s nowhere to go.
Like it doesn’t want to scare you.
The thought is ridiculous.
It should be ridiculous. This thing—whatever it is—should inspire nothing but fear. Terror. The kind that roots you in place or sends you running blindly in the opposite direction.
And yet—
There’s something about it. Something almost… awe-inspiring. That makes your fear stutter. Not stop—never that—but shift into something sharper. Stranger.
Until it reaches for you. And that illusion shatters instantly. A sharp, humiliating spike of panic shoots through you, your body reacting before your mind can catch up. You jerk back slightly, breath hitching, your entire body tensing as if you might bolt—like prey finally remembering what it is.
Because no matter how beautiful it looks—
No matter how gently it moves—
It’s still something unknown.
Something dangerous.
And it’s reaching for you.
And before you can even think to pull away, it latches onto your ankle—firm, unyielding. Not painful, but impossible to escape. It uses you like an anchor, hauling its body up onto the smooth stone where you lay.
Its body.
God—its body. Half fish. Half man.
Its tail is long—too long—coiling and swaying in the dark water behind it, the movement slow and hypnotic even as the rest of it rises above you. Droplets slide from its scales, catching the dim bioluminescent glow and scattering it across shades of deep blue and violet—colors shifting with every small movement, impossible to pin down.
It’s—
Beautiful.
The word comes again, uninvited, stubborn. And wrong.
Because its upper half—its human half—is just as arresting. Its face is sharp, almost delicate in structure, framed by fin-like ears that twitch subtly with every sound. Its eyes glow faintly, fixed on you with an intensity that makes your chest tighten.
Its teeth— Sharp.Not hidden. Not softened. Meant for something far from gentle. And its claws—still wrapped around your ankle—dig just enough to remind you how easily it could break you if it wanted to.
It’s massive.
It’s inhuman. And it’s staring at you like you’re something it doesn’t quite understand.
Your thoughts fracture. Part of you wants to recoil—to scream, to scramble away, to wedge yourself into some corner of this cave and make yourself small enough to disappear.
Another part—quieter, stranger—wants to reach out.
To touch. To trace the shimmer of its scales, to see if it’s as real as it feels. To tell it—
You’re beautiful.
Your body chooses neither. You freeze. Completely. Even as it shifts closer, even as its weight presses into the space around you, even as it looms so near you can feel the faint chill of it—salt, water, something deeper—your body refuses to move.
Your breathing stutters, shallow and uneven, barely there at all.
It leans in. Close. Too close. For a split second, your mind misfires—something soft and absurd sparking through the panic.
It’s going to kiss you.
But instead—
It speaks.
“Are you… alright?” The words are slow. Careful. Like they don’t belong in its mouth. The accent is thick—ancient, almost unplaceable—like a language that’s been sitting untouched for centuries, dragged back into use only now. Each syllable sounds deliberate, uncertain, as if it’s learning while it speaks.
Your brain struggles to process it.
It can talk.
It can—talk. Its brows furrow slightly as it studies you, something almost… concerned flickering across its expression.
Concern.
From that.
Its grip shifts, loosening at your ankle as one clawed hand lifts—slow, deliberate—until it reaches your face.
You flinch. Barely. But it notices. The movement pauses for half a second before continuing, slower this time, more careful, until its claws gently cup your chin.
So gentle it doesn’t make sense.
Like it knows exactly how fragile you are.
Like it’s trying not to break you. It tilts your face slightly, examining you, eyes flicking over every detail—your lips, your eyes, the way your breath stutters, the tension in your body. Its other hand trails down, hovering, then lightly brushing over your arm, your side—checking. Searching.
For injuries.
For damage.
You still can’t speak. Your tongue feels too heavy, your thoughts too loud and too empty all at once. All you can do is stare back at it— At the creature that dragged you from death— And doesn’t seem to know what to do with you now.
And then—Your stomach growls.
Loud.
Sharp.
Embarrassingly human.
The sound cuts through the tension like a blade. You freeze even harder, if that’s even possible, heat crawling up your neck despite everything—the situation, the creature looming over you, the fact that you almost drowned not that long ago.
Its head tilts.
Just slightly.
Curious.
The sound must mean something to it. Or maybe it doesn’t—but it notices. That much is clear. Its glowing gaze flicks down to your stomach, then back to your face, something unreadable passing through its expression. Then— It leaves.
Just like that. The absence is almost worse.
You’re left alone in the dim cave, the quiet rushing back in, your heart still pounding as you stare at the spot it disappeared into. For a brief, horrible second, you wonder if it changed its mind—if it decided you weren’t worth the trouble after all.If it’s going to come back to—No. Before the thought can finish, the water shifts again.
It returns.
And in its claws—A fish.
Large. Silver. Barely alive. It writhes weakly, gills flaring, tail twitching as it’s held firmly in place. Water drips from it, pooling beneath you as the creature moves closer again, extending it toward you like an offering.
Like a gift. Your stomach twists.
“...I can’t eat that,” you manage, your voice rough, unused.
It pauses.
Blinking at you.
You swallow, forcing the words out despite how ridiculous this feels—explaining food safety to a sea creature that could probably tear you apart without effort. “It’s— it’s not prepared,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “It’s still… alive. And there are bones. Tiny ones, I could choke.”
It stares at you.
Silent. Processing. Then—Without warning— It lifts the fish to its mouth and bites down.
Hard. The sound is wet. Sharp. Final. You flinch as the head is torn clean off, your stomach lurching at the sight as it discards it carelessly into the water. Blood clouds faintly around its hands, quickly dissolving into the pool. It doesn’t stop. Its claws sink into the body next, slicing it open with practiced ease. It pulls it apart, exposing flesh and organs, and without hesitation—Eats them.
You stare. Horrified. Fascinated. Frozen. It works efficiently, like this is routine, like this is normal—because for it, it is. Once it’s done, it carefully begins picking through what’s left, its claws moving slower now, more deliberate.
It removes the bones.
One by one.
Small. Precise.
Making sure nothing sharp remains.
When it’s finished, it holds the fish out to you again.
Clean.
Safe.
Prepared.
“You hesitate.”
Of course you do.
The fish sits in its hands—cleaned, prepared, offered—but it’s still wrong. Everything about this is wrong. The cave, the creature, the way it’s watching you like your answer actually matters. Your stomach twists again.
Two days. You haven’t eaten in two days. Not because you couldn’t— Because you wouldn’t. Because you wanted the suit to fit just right. Because you wanted to look perfect standing beside him. Because you thought that mattered more than something as simple as hunger.
Your fingers tremble slightly as you reach out. For a second, you almost pull back. But hunger wins.It always does. You take it. Your hands brush its for the briefest moment—cold, damp, solid—and you flinch before you can stop yourself, pulling the fish closer to your chest like you need the distance.
It doesn’t react. Just watches. You swallow hard, staring down at it. Then— Slowly— You take a bite. It’s not as bad as you expected. That almost makes it worse.
The texture is strange, softer than it should be, the taste unfamiliar but not unbearable. Your stomach reacts instantly, a sharp reminder of just how empty it’s been, urging you to keep going even as your mind protests. So you do. Small bites. Careful ones. All while watching it. You don’t look away. Not once.
Even as you chew. Even as you swallow. Even as the knot in your stomach slowly loosens, replaced by something steadier, heavier. It doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just… observes.
Like it’s making sure you’re doing it right. Or making sure you’re not going to choke. The thought sends a strange flicker through your chest. When you’re done—or at least as done as you can be—you lower your hands slightly, breathe a little more even now. For a moment, nothing happens.
Then— It leaves again. You tense immediately, your eyes snapping to where it disappeared, your body going rigid like you’re expecting something worse this time.
But again— It comes back. With more fish. Alive. They slip from its grasp into the pool with soft splashes, immediately darting away, circling through the dimly lit water. Silver flashes against blue, movement in an otherwise still space.
You blink, watching them. Confused. Your gaze flicks back up to it. It notices. Of course it does. “For later,” it says, the words still slow, still slightly uncertain—but clearer now. Easier.
Like it’s learning. Like it’s adjusting to you. Silence settles again. It doesn’t leave this time. Just stays. Watching. Waiting.
Your grip tightens slightly around yourself, your mind finally catching up now that your body isn’t screaming at you for food. Questions crowd in all at once, loud and relentless, pressing against your skull until you can’t ignore them anymore. “What…” your voice falters, rough from disuse. You swallow, trying again. “What are you?” The question hangs there between you. Heavy. Obvious. It stills.
Not completely—but enough that you notice. The faint sway of its tail slows, the water around it settling as its glowing gaze fixes on you more intently, like it’s turning the question over in its mind rather than avoiding it. “I…” it starts, the word careful, unfamiliar. It pauses, brows pulling together slightly.
“I do not know how to describe what I am… to you.” Its voice is steadier now, though still thick with that strange, ancient cadence. Each word sounds chosen. Placed. “It goes beyond your understanding… as a human.” There’s no arrogance in it. Just fact.
It studies your face as it speaks, like it’s watching for confusion, for fear—adjusting itself accordingly. “I am of the sea,” it continues after a moment. “Born to it. Bound to it.” Its claws shift slightly against the stone, a quiet, absent movement. “It answers me. And I… answer it.” A pause.
Its gaze flicks briefly toward the pool, where the fish still circle, before returning to you. “There are words for what I am,” it adds, quieter. “But they are not… yours.” Silence settles again, heavier this time. You nod slightly, even though it doesn’t really answer anything. Or maybe it answers too much. The next question presses at you immediately—sharp, insistent.
Why did you save me?
You can feel it sitting in your chest, waiting to be spoken. But your throat tightens.
Because you’re not sure you’re ready to hear it. So instead— You look away from it, just briefly, like that might make it easier. “Do you know…” you start, your voice quieter now. “What happened to the ship?” You swallow. “Why did it sink?”This time, it doesn’t hesitate.
“I do.” The answer is immediate. Certain. Something in your chest drops. Its gaze doesn’t leave yours as it speaks again, softer now—but heavier. “I sank it.” Your heart drops. What…? Did it just—
Your eyes widen, something hot and sudden boiling up in your chest as you stare at it. It just stands there—calm, unmoving—like it didn’t just confess to killing everyone you loved. “Why?” you choke out, your voice cracking as you fight to keep the tears from spilling. “He hurt you.” That’s it. That’s all it says. Like it’s enough.
“Who?” you ask, breath uneven, confusion tangling with the anger rising in your chest. “Your mate.”You blink. Your mate…? For a second, it doesn’t register—then it hits. Your used-to-be soon-to-be husband. “What…” your voice comes out dazed, hollow. “What does he have to do with anything?”Something in its expression shifts.
Sharpens. Its lips pull back, revealing those too-sharp teeth as a low hiss slips past them. Its tongue flicks out—longer than it should be, a deep shade of blue—as it drags slowly over its fangs. “He has everything to do with it,” it snarls, the words edged with something raw, something angry.
Your breath catches. “All he had to do was love you,” it continues, voice tightening, eyes flashing a deeper violet. “And I would have left you alone.” Left you alone. The words settle strangely in your chest. “But it—” its expression twists, something almost disgusted crossing its face, “it was courting another.”The word sounds old. Heavy. Wrong in your world—but right in its.
“He was courting another,” it repeats, voice dropping lower, more dangerous, “while you stood beside him as his chosen mate.” Your stomach churns. The image flashes in your mind—it, laughing, smiling, touching someone that wasn’t you—like it was nothing. Like you were nothing. “And so…” Its voice softens. Not kinder—just quieter. More certain. “I decided to give in to my desires.” Its gaze locks onto yours fully now, unblinking, intense “And take you.”
“Take me?” you mutter, the word sitting wrong in your mouth. Is that what this is? An abduction.
Your stomach twists violently. All those people—They died because of you. “But… so many people died,” you hiss, your voice trembling as you glare at it. “My mom died. Everyone I’ve ever known—everyone I’ve ever loved—died.” Your body starts shaking, the weight of it crashing down all at once. The tears come before you can stop them, hot and uncontrollable, blurring your vision. The man you were going to marry betrayed you.
Your entire life is gone. And now— You’re trapped with the thing that took it from you. “It is a small price to pay for your ensured happiness,” it says. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s reasonable. It moves closer—fast this time, no longer hiding its speed. The water ripples sharply behind it as it closes the distance in a second, its presence suddenly overwhelming.
“Why are your eyes leaking?” It asks, voice laced with something that almost sounds like concern. Your breath stutters. Its hands rest inches from your feet, claws scraping lightly against the stone. This time, you don’t freeze. Your body jolts, instinct finally kicking in as you scramble backward, desperate for space—any space—until your back hits the cold wall of the cave. It’s not enough. It will never be enough.
It follows. Of course, it does. Its body slides fully onto the rock, closing the distance like it was never there to begin with. The more you try to escape, the closer it seems to get. “No—”You try to kick it away, panic spiking, but it catches your ankle effortlessly, pulling you toward it like you weigh nothing.
Your breath catches sharply as its clawed hand comes up—And cups your cheek. Gentle. Too gentle. You go still, not by choice this time, but because your body doesn’t know what to do with this—this contradiction. It leans in. Close enough that you can feel the cold of it before it even touches you.
Its nose brushes against your cheek, dragging slowly along your skin as if it’s scenting you, taking you in in a way that feels far too intimate. Then—Its tongue flicks out. Warm. It drags across your cheek, catching the tears there. You flinch hard, a broken sound catching in your throat.
“These are… tears, yes?” It murmurs, almost to itself. Then it makes that sound again—low, strange, something not quite human—and pulls you closer, like your distress is something it needs to fix. “Are you sad?”It nuzzles into your neck, its nose cold against your skin, breath ghosting faintly over you.
Your hands press against its shoulders instantly, the chill of it seeping into your palms as you try to create space—any space at all. “Are you really asking me that?” You choke out. Your hands press harder against its shoulders, but it doesn’t move—not really. It only tilts its head slightly, like it’s trying to understand you, like your reaction doesn’t match what it expects.
“I do not understand,” it says quietly. Something in you snaps. A hollow laugh escapes your throat, sharp and broken. “Of course you don’t,” you whisper, shaking your head. “Why would you? You killed them.” Its expression tightens—not guilt, not regret—something else. Something darker. “I removed what would harm you,” it replies, voice low, certain. Harm you. Your breath stutters.
“My mother?” You hiss, anger rising again, choking, suffocating. “My friends? Everyone I’ve ever loved?” He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, its gaze drifts—past you, toward the open water behind it. Like it’s listening to something.
You frown, your words faltering as a strange silence settles over the cave. The water stills. Too still. Even the fish stop moving. Your chest tightens. “What…” You start, your voice barely above a whisper. The creatures grip on you shifts—not tighter, but more certain.
Protective.
Possessive.
Its eyes darken, the faint glow in them sharpening into something almost… alert. Then—From somewhere deeper in the cave— Something moves. Not small.
Not subtle. The sound is low. Heavy.
Ancient. And for the first time since you met it—The creature looks… Worried.
—
A/n: depending on how this one does, I’ll post chapter 2..
Synopsis: Artist Rafayel lives for his art—and for his muse. Deeply insecure and terrified of rejection, he convinces himself that loving from a distance is safer than risking everything with a confession. Instead, his feelings bleed quietly into paint and canvas, where devotion can exist without consequence. But unspoken love does not remain gentle forever. As time passes, admiration warps into fixation, and the line between muse and possession begins to blur—until Rafayel’s devotion consumes both his sanity and the person he loves.
W.c: idk long
Tags - hurt with comfort (regrettably) dom! Rafayel! Ftm! Reader! Readers front hole gets called a cunt! (T-dick also gets called a clit) no beta, we die like men. And i think that’s it? Let me know if i missed anything!! Mdni! Nsfw! Ooc Rafayel!
A/n: okay, guys. This is the worst smut i have ever wrote and I’m lwk debating whether i should ever write again or not after this one.
As an artist, there is no greater curse than falling in love—because once you do, nothing you create is ever truly yours again.
Every piece is made with blood and tears, and yet there is only one thing that occupies your heart and mind.
Your love.
Your devotion.
To the being who captured your heart and claimed it as their own—without ever knowing they had done so.
It is worse when they do not feel the same way. Worse when their heart beats in tandem with someone else’s.
Someone who is not you.
You—of course—would not know this feeling.
The kind of feeling that drives even the strongest of men mad.
And Rafayel is not strong.
No. He is weak.
Weak as an ant when it comes to you. The moment you walk into his studio with a smile on your face is the moment his strength drains from his body entirely.
It takes everything in him not to lunge forward.
Not to pin you to the floor and force you to listen as he spills every unspoken thought, every ugly, aching truth he keeps buried in his chest.
He loves everything about you.
The way you laugh at inappropriate moments, followed by your rushed, breathless apology.
The way your eyes gleam when something excites you.
The way you stumble over your words, desperate to tell him some interesting fact you’ve just learned.
He especially loves your smile.
“It’s perfect,” he always tells you.
You always respond with, “Almost.”
And in truth, it is almost perfect.
Your top row is flawlessly straight. Your bottom row is slightly crooked, but still beautiful. Pearly white.
You insist it’s only almost perfect, even though people would pay fortunes to have a smile like yours. Many do.
He even loves the pus-filled blemishes you get in the middle of the month. The imperfections you apologize for without being asked.
He loves them because they are yours.
He loves you.
And that, more than anything else, is what will ruin him.
He didn’t realize it at first—his feelings for you.
His paintings had always been filled with fragments of you, yet he thought nothing of it.
He paid you to pose for him monthly. How were paintings of you any different now?
Maybe it wasn’t the paintings themselves, but how many of them there were. He had filled the back room of his studio with canvases bearing your likeness, so many that he had been forced to move several into a storage unit—and still, he didn’t think it was odd.
So what?
You were his muse. That was what he paid you for. It wasn’t unusual.
He didn’t notice until Thomas pointed it out.
“Why are you always painting him?” Thomas asked.
At first, Rafayel was confused. He wasn’t always painting you—sure, he painted you often, but not always. When he said as much, Thomas only gestured vaguely around the studio.
“Just look,” he said.
So Rafayel did.
He looked at the studio, now cluttered with paintings of—well, you.
That’s when Thomas asked the question that made everything click.
He was joking, of course. A boyish grin spread across his face as he glanced up at Rafayel. “So what? Are you, like… in love with him or something?”
He laughed, slapping his hand against his thigh—until he realized Rafayel wasn’t laughing.
At first, Thomas thought he’d overstepped. He rushed out an apology. “Hey, I’m sorry, man, I didn’t mean to—” He trailed off, scratching at the corner of his lower lip.
Then he noticed the faint flush creeping up the tips of Rafayel’s ears.
“Wait,” Thomas said slowly. “Are you… like, actually?”
They stared at each other.
Then—finally— Rafayel spoke.
“Get out,” he muttered, turning back to his canvas.
He twitched—almost flinched—when he met your painted gaze. Your eyes stared back at him, accusatory. Judging.
“Hey, dude, I apologized, why do I—”
“Get out. Now.” Rafayel hissed.
He jumped from his stool and stormed toward Thomas, his fist clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palm.
“Yes—yes, sorry, okay, bye,” Thomas rushed out, practically fleeing the studio.
The moment the door slammed shut, Rafayel turned his fury inward—onto the room.
He shattered his paint palette. Snapped his brushes. Kicked over his stool.
But he couldn’t bring himself to damage a single one of your paintings.
He didn’t know why he was angry.
It wasn’t until that night, lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, that the truth settled in.
He wasn’t angry.
He was ashamed.
Ashamed that his heart had ever dared to believe it could beat alongside yours.
After that day, he grew distant—or at least, he tried to distance himself from you. Though he no longer laughed until it hurt at your jokes, he still found himself smiling at them when he thought you weren’t looking. He’d cancel your appointments the day of, only telling you at the last minute. But even when he canceled, you still found your way back to his canvas.
And soon, he wasn’t only painting you.
He was painting himself as well.
You and him together.
He knew he shouldn’t—that this kind of creation should be forbidden for the power it held over one’s heart. The more he painted, the deeper the ache in his chest grew. The more he longed to see you smile at him. The more he longed to hear your tongue caress every syllable of his name as you spoke it.
Still, he avoided you.
When your hands brushed, he was quick to pull away, apologizing immediately, terrified that you might find him disgusting for daring to touch something as perfect as you.
It was only when his emotions overwhelmed him that he allowed himself to be greedy. When the ache in his chest became unbearable—only then would he find excuses to touch you, even if just briefly.
On those days, he would walk you to the door and smile as if he hadn’t spent hours trying to scrub you from his canvas. And you would always smile back.
Each time, the ache grew worse—burrowing deeper into his soul.
He would linger in the doorway, watching as you interacted with people who were not him. Watching you smile as you helped an elderly woman into one of the shops near his studio. And it was then he knew he was right.
He wasn’t special.
You smiled that way at everyone.
And still—his foolish heart dared to hope that maybe, just maybe, that smile was meant for him alone.
After that, his avoidance worsened. He stopped greeting you when you arrived. His cancellations became more frequent, more abrupt.
He considered firing you—ending it cleanly, never having to see you again, ridding himself of you entirely.
No, he thought.
His selfishness would not allow such freedom.
You consumed his every waking thought, yet remained oblivious to the internal torment you caused him.
He could not bring himself to let you go.
But he could not bring himself to look at you either.
The paintings that filled his studio became grotesque reminders of how pathetic he truly was—of how undeserving he was of you.
If only he were better.
Maybe—just maybe—then he could stand by your side and finally call you his.
So instead, he watches.
From the corner of his studio, from the doorway, from the edges of your life—where he is allowed to exist and no further.
He feels like such a fool for dreaming that maybe one day he could go a bit further, cross a boundary he would never dare touch. That one day he might be brave enough—man enough—to confess his feelings to you.
But he knows that is all they will ever be.
Dreams.
He memorizes the way you move when you think no one is paying attention. The way your shoulders relax when you laugh. The way your expression softens when you talk about things you love.
He tells himself these are harmless things to notice.
Artists are observers.
That is all this is. Observation.
Still, his hands shake when he paints you now.
Not because he has lost his skill—but because every stroke feels like a confession he is too much of a coward to speak aloud. He paints you the way a sailor charts the stars: obsessively, desperately, as if mapping you might somehow guide him home.
The curve of your mouth.
The warmth in your eyes—eyes he knows, knows, are not meant for him.
Each finished piece feels like proof of something he has no right to want.
And yet.
When you cancel on him—when you forget an appointment, arrive late, or mention someone else in passing—his chest tightens in a way that feels dangerously close to resentment.
He hates himself for it.
You’ve done nothing wrong.
You are kind. You are gentle. You treat him with the same easy warmth you give the rest of the world, and that is what ruins him. That sameness. That proof that he is not special.
That he never will be.
So he pulls away further.
He tells himself it is for your sake. That distance is mercy. That if he keeps enough space between you, his feelings will starve and die quietly—like a fire without oxygen.
But fires don’t die that way.
And every time you come back—every time you step into his studio like you belong there—the sparks reignite. The flames burn brighter than before, his devotion growing hotter, more consuming.
Something in him whispers that this is all worth it.
That maybe loving you—even like this—is better than never loving you at all.
He tells himself this is the way to do things, that it is the only way to keep what he feels towards you pure.
That if he loves you quietly enough, gently enough, you’ll never feel trapped.
That’s one of the things he’s afraid of: that if you become aware of his feelings towards you, it’ll scare you away. That you’ll become disgusted with him and stop coming to see him— well, stop telling him paint you.
——
You notice the difference the next time you see him—how his bubbly personality is gone, replaced by the quiet, hollow look of someone who has just lost everything.
You want to ask him what happened, to take his sorrows and make them yours. You want to make him bubbly again.
Rafayel no longer greets you when you arrive. He only stares at the canvas in front of him and tells you where to stand.
He no longer laughs at your jokes, and gods, do you miss his laughter. It used to brighten the whole room. Every time he laughed, your heart fluttered in your chest as you stared at him in awe. You don’t know why—only that it felt fitting that someone as beautiful as him would make such beautiful sounds.
You wanted to listen to his laughter on repeat until your ears bled.
But you can’t have it anymore.
It was stolen from you—and with it, your Rafayel.
At least, the Rafayel you fell in love with.
At first, you thought it was just a phase. That he’d come back to you eventually—and sometimes he did. Sometimes he’d walk you to the door and smile at you as you smiled back. Sometimes he could stop looking at you on the canvas and finally look at you standing before him—but afterward, he only grew more distant. He’d flinch away as if being in the same room as you was the most torturous thing he’d ever had to endure.
Rafayel—the once beautiful flower who seemed to bloom in your presence—suddenly started to wilt. Dark bags hung beneath his eyes, and his hair looked dull and unkempt.
He was slowly becoming someone you did not recognize… but someone your heart still longed for, nonetheless.
And so you wait.
You wait for the joyful artist you once knew to come back. You know it’s wishful thinking—that it would be best to forget about the charming painter and the emotions he brought out in you.
You wait through unexpected cancellations and unanswered calls. You wait through the awkward silence in your once garrulous sessions. You wait even as the man who used to look at you as if you held the answers to the universe itself slowly stops looking at you altogether.
But your foolish heart knows no bounds. Every time your eyes fall on the artist, it beats like it wants to leap from your chest straight into his awaiting hands. You know—or at least hope—that he would treat it with the same careful reverence he gives all his paintings.
Some days, you leave small pieces of yourself behind—an earring, a lip balm, sometimes even a handkerchief. Deep down, you know you leave them so you’ll have an excuse to see him again, unscheduled. But even as he hands you back your lost items, the moment your fingers brush, a look of terror flashes in his eyes as he yanks his hand away.
And with it—though he does not know—he takes your heart.
You miss the way he used to talk to you while he painted, his soft, rhythmic voice quiet in volume yet somehow sounding as if it were meant only for you. Maybe it was how well his studio carried sound, or maybe it was your heart’s imagination reaching your mind.
You miss the way he’d throw his head back when he laughed with you. You miss the way he’d hum along to your words, tilting the sound when what you said made no sense.
You miss him.
Sometimes, you imagine what it would be like if you just coughed out the words—if you opened your mouth and let your heart speak for even a brief moment. Maybe, just maybe, everything could become something greater than it ever was.
You know it’s a silly dream to hope for that. The chances of rejection feel higher than ever with the way he’s been acting lately. But still, whether he looks at you or not, your heart sings inside your chest, waiting for the day his might finally join it.
Sometimes you wonder if he knows how you feel.
No, you tell yourself. He would never let you suffer like this if he knew.
For some reason, you can only ever see the good in him.
You wonder if he hurts too—if he carries the same lonely ache in his chest, one that can only be relieved by you.
You know it’s wishful—foolish—thinking, but you can’t help it.
You reason that if he’s pulling away, he must feel something. He must.
You tell yourself the distance is only a response to overwhelming emotion, that he’s simply afraid of what could be.
Then you realize that this is something only a mad person would think—and that anyone sane would recognize this distance for what it truly is.
A sign that he does not want you.
His heart does not long to beat with yours.
His heart does not ache for yours the way yours aches for his.
His heart beats to a different rhythm. It does not quicken in desperate hope of escaping its host so it might join yours.
And somewhere along this slow path of realization, it dawns on you that if you truly love him the way your heart insists you do, then perhaps it’s best to let him go altogether.
Perhaps it’s best to leave the relationship you once had exactly where it belongs—
in the past.
But maybe—just this once, just for a little while longer—until he finally rids himself of you, you can be selfish. You can bask in the memory of what used to be and soak in the warmth that still bleeds from the room the moment you step into it.
Just a little longer, you tell yourself. Let me enjoy this a little longer, and then I’ll wake up to reality.
A smile finds its way to your lips as you stare at the back of a canvas—one that hides what you cherish most behind it.
Just let me be selfish, you think.
Just this once.
——
The days you spent with Rafayel blurred together, each one slipping quietly into the next, until eventually, you realized the waiting had an end.
After days—no, weeks—of watching the man you loved avoid you as though you were the Black Death itself, a looming sickness he might catch simply by standing too close, something inside you finally began to break. It hurt more than you ever imagined it would—to see him like this. To watch the artist who once bloomed in your presence wither into a hollowed version of himself, a fragile shell wearing his face.
So you made a decision.
One born not of anger, but of love.
Your selfishness, at last, came to an end.
——
The day of your last session with Rafayel had arrived. From this day onward—though it pains you to admit it—you would no longer be the muse Rafayel so desperately needed. Even if the thought of you lingered in the depths of his mind, you—and your entirety—would be nowhere to be found.
That day, when you walked into his studio, he was the same, yet different. He did something he hadn’t done in a while—he looked at you. It was brief, a mere glance before his eyes found their way back to his paints and the canvas before him.
“Rafayel,” you called, clearing your throat of the cries that longed to come out. Your heart winced as you watched him flinch behind the canvas that had now become his hiding place, shielding him from your gaze. “Rafayel, I think… we need to talk.” Your voice grew quieter the more you spoke as it sank in—you were truly going through with this. You were really going to say goodbye to the one who held your very soul.
Still, the artist refused to come out from behind his shield.
“Rafayel.” Your voice came out harsher this time, more than you intended. You waited—patiently—until finally, the artist revealed himself to you.
The moment your eyes met, your heart swelled as it called out to his, only to receive no response in return.
At last, after so long, you were able to see the face of the person you longed to call yours—and yet, he did not look like the man you fell in love with. His face looked haunted as he stared back at you, eyes unblinking, as if he never wanted to look away again.
“Rafayel,” you called, your voice softer than it had ever been, almost as if you were afraid you might scare him away. “Come. Let us talk.”
Slowly, like a skittish kitten, the artist finds his way to you. His steps are careful, as if he’s the one trying not to scare you, and then finally—after what feels like ages—he stands in front of you.
You can feel the warmth radiating from him as he comes to a complete stop mere steps away. You want so badly to reach out and touch him, or better yet, for him to touch you. But you know that is not your place, and you do not want to overstep.
“Rafayel,” you begin, licking your lips as you glance down at your hands. “I think… we should stop this.” You gesture vaguely between the two of you. “I mean, our sessions. It’s very obvious that you don’t want me here.” You breathe, clutching at the sleeves of your shirt.
For a moment, he doesn’t react at all.
It’s like your words don’t reach him—like they hover somewhere just out of grasp. His expression goes blank, eyes unfocused, as though his mind is scrambling to interpret a language he never prepared himself to hear.
Then the artist stiffens. His breath becomes ragged as he stands before you, his hands, once lax at his sides, curl inward, fingers trembling before they clench into fists, nails biting into his palms like anchors.
“What?” he manages to choke out.
The word scrapes its way out of his throat, raw and disbelieving.
For a heartbeat, nothing else follows. His mind lags behind your words, like they were spoken underwater—distorted, delayed. He has spent so long convincing himself that this is what he needs. Distance. Silence. Relief.
This is what he wanted.
Distance. Space. An end.
So why does it feel like something inside him has just collapsed?
His breath stutters once. Then again. His chest tightens violently, an invisible hand closing around his lungs. He feels it then—not a thought, not an emotion—but a physical rupture. Like a cord snapping. Like a foundation giving way.
No.
No, this is wrong.
This isn’t relief.
This is loss.
A loss so sudden and absolute that his body reacts before his mind can catch up. His heart slams against his ribs, frantic, panicked—screaming that this is a mistake, that this is not what he meant, not what he wanted, not what he can survive.
So why—
Why does it feel like something inside him is coming apart?
It hurts.
God, it hurts.
Not in the way longing hurts, dull and aching—but sharp and tearing, like something vital is being ripped out of him now that it’s finally slipping beyond reach. He feels it everywhere: in his chest, in his throat, behind his eyes. Like his soul has finally realized what it’s losing and is fighting to stay intact.
His feet move before he even realizes.
His body somehow developing a mind of its own.
“What?” he repeats, harsher this time, stepping toward you. His hands reach out, grabbing hold of your shoulders. “No.” He shakes his head. “Why would you want to cancel? Did I do something to make you unhappy?” He rushes the words out, his hands shaking where they hold you.
“I’m sorry if I did—I really am!” he cries, his breathing growing heavier. “Please,” he pleads, his head finding its way into the crease of your neck. “Please don’t leave me,” he whines, clutching at you.
Slowly, as if remembering just how unprofessional this is, he takes a step back, sniffing as he stares at you.
“Why won’t you look at me?” he asks, noticing that your gaze remains locked on the floor. “Please, look at me.” He begs, one hand coming up to cup your chin. “Please… all I ever wanted was for you to look at me, for you to see me,” he confesses, finally lifting your face until your eyes meet his.
When your eyes meet, it’s like a thousand golden urns come pouring out of the sun, and you’re suddenly reminded of how beautiful Rafayel truly is.
Not in the polished way his paintings are—not in the controlled, deliberate strokes he uses to make the world bend to his vision—but in the raw, unguarded way he stands before you now. His lashes are damp, clumped together from tears he hadn’t meant to shed. His lips are parted, breath uneven, as if he’s been holding it in for far too long. Dark circles sit beneath his eyes, proof of nights spent awake, proof of a mind that never truly rests.
He looks… human.
Fragile in a way his art never is.
Your chest aches at the sight of him. You hadn’t meant to hurt him. You never wanted to be the cause of that look in his eyes—the desperate hope, the quiet terror of being left behind.
Everything is quiet for a while as you stare back at each other, until Rafayel finally breaks the silence.
“No matter how hard I tried,” he breathes, his thumb swiping over your bottom lip, “I could not recreate your beauty.”
His voice wavers. A broken smile spreads across his lips as he stares at you.
“Rafayel,” you croak, your voice strained from the effort of holding back your sobs.
“I’m sorry,” he cries. His shoulders shake as he pulls you closer. “I’m so sorry,” he repeats—before doing something both of you have unknowingly longed for.
He kisses you.
Your lips meet in a sun-drenched embrace.
At first, the kiss is hesitant.
Not the kind born from uncertainty—but restraint. As if Rafayel is still giving you room to pull away, to decide this is too much, too soon. His lips barely brush yours, soft and careful, like he’s afraid that if he presses too hard, if he gives too much of himself all at once, he’ll lose you forever.
And everyone knows what is once lost cannot be found.
His hands tremble where they cup your jaw, holding you like something precious, something fragile. He kisses you the way one touches a bruise—testing, reverent, almost apologetic. Like he’s memorized every way this could go wrong and is desperately trying to avoid each one.
But you don’t pull away.
You stay.
And that—that is what breaks him.
The hesitation melts, slowly at first, then all at once. The careful distance between you collapses as his grip tightens, his breath hitching when he realizes you’re kissing him back just as desperately. The kiss deepens, unravels, becomes something warmer—needier. His fear gives way to longing, to devotion that spills over despite every promise he made to himself to keep it contained.
Light floods everything—his chest, his lungs, his soul—so overwhelming it steals the breath from him entirely. He kisses you like he’s starving, like he’s finally found the thing he’s been aching for all this time, the thing he was never brave enough to ask for.
And for the first time, Rafayel stops holding back.
“I’m so sorry,” Rafayel whispers when you part, twirling a piece of your hair around his fingers. “I know,” he breathes, “I know I’m not worthy of your love. I promised myself I’d keep my distance, but I can’t take it anymore.”
His grip tightens.
“It hurts to paint you, knowing how badly I want to touch you—to learn you—but it hurts more to be nothing to you. I can’t hide my love for you anymore. Not when you’re trying to leave.”
His voice breaks.
“Please,” he pleads, nuzzling into your hair. “Please say you love me too. Say your heart longs for mine the way mine longs for yours.”
“Rafayel—”
“I know you probably think I’m disgusting, but—”
“My heart longs for you, too, Rafayel,” you interrupt softly. “I want you.”
You swallow.
“If you want me to scream it from the rooftops, I will. If that’s what it takes for you to believe me when I say my heart longs to beat in time with yours, so please say you’ll let it.”
His expression shatters. Awe turns to tearful joy, to laughter caught in his throat.
“Thank you,” he cries—kissing you once, as if afraid you’ll vanish. “Thank you,” he whispers again, lips brushing yours a second time. “I promise,” a third kiss seals the words, “I won’t make you regret this.”
And there, in the quiet of his studio, your lips tangle together as you finally begin to learn each other in ways you never could before.
He pulls back like he’s startled by his own boldness, eyes darting anywhere but yours.
He doesn’t move far—only enough to breathe. Like the space between you is something fragile, something he’s terrified of snapping.
His hands are still on you, warm now—palms cupping your jaw as if he needs the proof of your skin beneath his to believe you’re real. His thumbs hover at your cheekbones, trembling, tracing the faintest half-circles like he’s afraid any pressure might make you flinch. His gaze keeps dropping to your mouth, then flicking away at the last second, like looking too long might give away just how greedy he truly is when it comes to you.
“I—” His voice catches. He clears his throat, but it only makes him sound worse—raw in that way that comes after crying. “I know we just…” He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing under your stare. “I know we just crossed a line—a line I’ve been standing in front of for as long as I’ve known you, dying to see the other side.”
His fingers tighten without meaning to, a gentle hitch of panic.
Immediately, he loosens—apologizing with the movement alone.
“I don’t want to ruin it,” he rushes, words tumbling over each other. “Or make it… heavy. Or make you feel like this is suddenly an obligation.” His breath shakes as he exhales through his nose. “I’m trying really hard not to—” He stops, jaw clenching. “Not to cling.”
A laugh slips out of him—soft and ugly with nerves—like he’s embarrassed by his own sincerity.
“I’m sorry.” He says it like a reflex. Like he’s been saying it for weeks. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” He cuts himself off, eyes squeezing shut for half a second, as if he’s trying to pull himself together in the dark behind his eyelids.
When he opens them again, he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room that isn’t tilting.
His thumbs brush the corners of your mouth—so careful it almost hurts.
“If you don’t want to, it’s fine,” he blurts, and it’s obvious he’s saying it before he can stop himself. “If you say no, I won’t—get weird, or—” He swallows again. “I’ll be normal. I can be normal. I will be normal.”
He says it like a promise and a prayer.
Then his hands slip from your jaw—not because he wants to let go, but because he thinks you might need air. The loss of contact makes him flinch, just a little. He hides it by rubbing his palm over the back of his neck, fingers tugging at his own hair.
“I keep thinking,” he murmurs, quieter now, “that if I ask for too much too soon, you’ll realize you made a mistake.” His throat tightens. “That you’ll look at me and see… all of it. The way I’ve been. The way I—”
He doesn’t finish.
He can’t.
The words stick.
So he tries again—smaller.
“I just…” He lifts his gaze back to yours, lashes still damp. “I want to do something that isn’t a canvas. Something that isn’t you sitting still while I try to convince myself I’m allowed to look.”
His fingers twitch at his sides like they want to reach for you again, but he holds them back with visible effort.
Like a dog waiting for permission.
“A date,” he says, and it comes out almost inaudible, like the word embarrasses him. “Not here. Obviously.” A shaky breath. “Somewhere simple. Somewhere we can both just be ourselves.” His voice drops, softer. “Somewhere quiet.”
He glances at your mouth again—fast—then away. His pinkening ears betray him.
“And you can say no,” he adds immediately, too quickly. “You can say no, and I’ll— I’ll still be grateful. I’ll still—” He swallows, voice breaking at the edges. “I’ll still be grateful that you wanted me, even if it’s only for this one short moment.” A breath, trembling. “And I’ll still wait for you to come back… if you want to come back.”
His hands clench, then relax. He looks at you like he’s bracing for impact.
“So… would you?” he whispers. “Would you go out with me? Just once. Just to prove I’m not… imagining you choosing me.”
The way he looks at you is fragile—almost heartbreaking—seeing how badly he wants this, how badly he wants you.
Your heart aches, longing to bare itself to him, to show him it wants him just as badly as his heart wants you—if not more.
A date with Rafayel?
You’ve dreamt of it a million times—over and over—each night a different dream, a different date. The thought crosses your mind that this could still be a dream, and if it is… it’s an incredibly lucid one.
Still—how could you ever say no to him?
He could ask you anything, and the answer would always be the same.
“Yes,” you breathe. “Of course.”
For a second, he just stares—like he can’t process it.
And then joy breaks across his face so fast it almost looks painful, like his body doesn’t know how to hold it.
“Just set the date and I’ll be there,” you promise, reaching for his hand—this boy who kissed you so boldly and now looks too shy to touch you at all.
“Will you be picking me up?” you ask.
He nods, still staring, dazed.
“Good,” you murmur, squeezing his fingers. “I’ll text you my address, okay?”
“Okay,” he answers meekly, watching in awe as you lift his hand to your lips and press a kiss to his knuckles.
“See you then.”
And then you turn and walk away, leaving behind a man with a storm of right and wrong brewing inside him—because some part of him already knows it.
That his torment won’t truly ease until you can never leave him again.
He watches you go with something terrified and hungry in his eyes, like he’s just been taught what hope tastes like—
And it lingers on his tongue like saltwater.
The door clicks shut behind you.
And the studio is suddenly too quiet.
Too big.
Too empty for the way his skin is still warm where your mouth touched him.
Rafayel doesn’t move at first.
He stands there like the room might tilt if he breathes wrong, like the air might remember you and shatter.
His hand lifts—slowly—hovering over the back of his knuckles.
As if he can still feel your lips there.
As if the kiss left a stain only he can see.
He swallows, desperate to feel like he isn’t suffocating.
Once.
Twice.
It doesn’t help.
Because now that you’ve said yes—
Now that you’ve looked at him like he matters—
His mind does something cruel.
It starts replaying the moment like a prayer.
Like a warning.
Like a reminder.
A reminder that you can always be taken away—that you can always leave.
And reminders are dangerous in a man who has spent so long starving.
He turns his head toward the paintings without meaning to.
Toward the storage.
Toward the canvases stacked like ribs—shielding your heart from him.
Toward the versions of you he tried to pretend were just art.
He walks.
Not fast.
Not frantic.
Almost reverent.
Like he’s entering a temple.
The backroom smells like oil paint and turpentine and old dust—and underneath it all, it smells like you.
Or maybe he’s only imagining that.
He reaches for the nearest canvas and pulls it into the light.
Your face.
Your eyes.
Your mouth—painted softer than it has any right to be.
His stomach twists.
Because now he knows what your mouth feels like for real.
And after finally knowing what heaven tastes like, he doesn’t believe he can give it up—can give you up.
Now he knows his paintings are not enough.
And that realization is not gentle.
It hits him the way a wave hits a sailor—not to drown him right away, but to teach him what drowning tastes like.
He laughs once.
Small.
Broken.
Then he presses the canvas back into the stack like he’s putting you away.
Like he’s correcting himself.
Like he’s trying to be normal.
But his hands shake too badly for the lie to hold.
His thoughts scrape against each other, sharp as broken glass.
This is good.
This is what you wanted.
Professional. Clean. Normal.
And then—
I want you.
The word is too honest.
It makes his throat close.
He backs out of the room, breath shallow.
Because the backroom is full of you, and now you’re also out there—walking around, smiling at strangers, existing beyond his walls—
And the thought makes something hot and ugly coil in his ribs.
Not anger.
Not rage.
Need.
That gnawing, animal insistence that if he doesn’t hold on now—if he doesn’t do something—you’ll vanish the way everything vanishes.
His breath stutters.
“Stop,” he whispers to himself.
Like his own mind is a dog he can command.
It doesn’t listen.
All he can think is:
You said yes.
You chose me.
You can choose me again.
And then—because his mind is sick with relief—it adds:
You can also unchoose me.
That thought lands like a blade between his ribs.
He hates the way his body responds to it.
The way his hands tighten.
The way his jaw locks.
The way his vision narrows like a predator’s.
He hates it because it feels wrong—
And because, in the darkest part of him, it also feels natural.
Like an instinct he left buried for too long.
Like the only sane response to something this fragile.
He presses his palm to his chest, as if he can physically hold his heart in place.
“Not like that,” he murmurs.
“Not like that.”
He wants to love you gently.
He wants to love you in a way that doesn’t bruise.
He wants to be worthy of the softness you offered him.
But the moment he imagines someone else touching you—the moment he imagines you laughing that same laugh for another person—his stomach turns, and something in him bares its teeth and hisses.
It isn’t jealousy.
Not exactly.
It’s terror dressed up as possession.
A fear so old it thinks it has the right to make rules.
If I keep you close, you won’t be able to leave.
If you only need me, you can’t replace me.
He squeezes his eyes shut.
The thoughts don’t stop.
They only get louder.
He forces himself to breathe through it, slow and measured, like he’s trying to paint calm over a canvas of panic.
“You’re not allowed,” he tells himself, his voice shaking.
“You’re not allowed to trap them just because you’re scared.”
He says it like a confession.
Like a warning.
Like a promise.
And still—
His mind offers compromise the way desperate hearts do.
Not trap.
Just… keep.
Protect.
Just… make it easy for them to stay.
His teeth grind.
He hates the rationalizations.
He hates how quickly he can make cruelty sound like love.
He stands very still in the center of the studio and looks at the spot where you stood.
At the air you left behind.
At the faint impression of warmth that is already fading.
His brain does the thing it always does when he panics.
It tries to fix it.
Control it.
Keep it.
He’s halfway to the window before he realizes he’s moving.
He peers through the glass like an idiot.
Like he can still catch you.
You’re gone.
Of course you’re gone.
And something inside him tightens.
Not anger.
Not rage.
Something worse.
The kind of longing that starts turning into hunger.
He catches himself.
And quickly steps back from the window like it burned him.
Because this is the line, isn’t it?
This is where love becomes something else.
This is where admiration turns into surveillance.
He’s always told himself he’s an observer.
Artists are observers.
But you are not a landscape.
You are not a subject to be studied until you belong to him.
You are a person.
A person who trusted him enough to kiss him.
And trust is breakable.
He knows this.
God, he knows this.
His fingers itch for his phone.
He wants to text you.
He wants to be the only person on your mind.
He wants to be the only person you talk to.
No—he wants to hear your voice.
No—he wants to know where you are.
No—
He wants to make sure the world doesn’t take you back.
He squeezes his hands into fists until his nails bite his skin.
“Get a grip,” he hisses under his breath.
“Get a grip or you’ll ruin it.”
The thought of ruining it makes him go cold.
Because your leaving would not just be a loss.
It would be punishment.
It would prove everything he’s ever believed about himself.
That he is too much.
That he is wrong.
That he doesn’t deserve good things because he doesn’t know how to hold them without crushing them.
He drags in a shaky breath.
Forces his hands to unclench.
He walks to the sink and runs cold water over his wrists like he’s trying to shock himself back into sanity.
It helps.
A little.
Enough for him to speak to himself like he’s speaking to a frightened animal.
“Okay,” he whispers.
“Okay, Rafayel.”
“You’re going to do this right.”
“You’re going to be grateful he chose you at all.”
His reflection stares back at him, eyes still wild around the edges.
He looks like someone who has been starving and has just been offered bread—
And is thinking, irrationally, about stealing the whole loaf.
He turns away from the mirror.
Because he can’t stand the honesty of it.
He goes back into the storage, but this time he doesn’t touch the paintings.
He stands in the doorway, breathing in oil and dust, and he makes himself do something that feels like tearing.
He closes the door.
Clicks the lock.
Not to keep you in.
To keep himself out.
A small mercy.
A fragile boundary.
His hands shake as he leans his forehead against the wood.
“This is love,” he whispers.
“And love is not a cage.”
He says it until his throat hurts.
He says it until he almost believes it.
He says it until the words start to feel like a spell—something he can repeat enough times to keep the worst parts of him asleep.
And then his phone buzzes in the other room, and his entire body jolts like he’s been struck by lightning.
Hope blooms in his chest.
Immediate.
Violent.
He hates how fast it controls him.
He loves it anyway.
Because hope tastes like you—
And now that he’s finally had a single, impossible mouthful of it…
He doesn’t know how to go back to hunger.
He grabs the phone too fast.
Almost drops it.
A text.
From you.
He stares at it, eyes wide, pulse roaring in his ears.
It’s so stupid—how a few letters on a screen can make him feel like he’s been given permission to breathe. To live.
He opens it.
You: Is tomorrow at 16:30 okay?
You: I’ll send the address.
He swallows.
His thumb hovers over the keyboard.
The hunger in him wants to say: Now.
It wants to say: Come back.
It wants to say: Don’t make me wait.
It wants to say: If I let you walk away again, I don’t know what I’ll become.
He types anyway.
He types: Yes.
Then, without meaning to: I’ll be thinking about you all night. I’m scared I’ll wake up and this will all be—
He freezes.
Backspaces.
Backspaces until it’s gone.
His chest hurts with the effort of restraint.
He tries again:
Yes. Tomorrow, at 16:30, is fine.
Please send the address.
It’s polite.
It’s normal.
It still feels like begging.
He sends it before he can overthink it.
Delivered.
And now the waiting begins.
Waiting is unbearable.
Waiting is where the mind starts inventing disasters.
He paces the studio with his phone in his hand like it’s a tether to you.
He sets it down.
Immediately picks it back up.
Checks it.
Puts it down again.
Every time it isn’t buzzing, his body feels like it’s missing something essential—something it cannot live without.
His control looks like devotion from a distance.
Up close, it looks like desperation trying to masquerade as composure.
When your address comes through, it’s just an address.
Just numbers.
Just a street.
And yet it makes his mouth go dry.
Because an address is a location.
Location is access.
He stares at it until he realizes his thumb is rubbing over the words, like he can smooth them into permanence.
He screenshots it.
Then freezes.
His chest tightens with shame.
Still, he does not delete the screenshot.
Then he sits there, staring at the empty space where it was, breath unsteady—because the want in him is loud enough to feel like a second heartbeat.
Normal, he reminds himself.
So he goes home.
And he cleans.
Not the gentle kind of cleaning where you’re tidying—the frantic kind. The kind that looks like devotion and feels like desperation.
His home is already spotless, due to him rarely being there, but still he needs something—anything—to keep his hands, his mind, busy.
It does not work.
The entire time, his mind keeps circling the same thought like a tongue worrying a sore tooth:
Tomorrow. You’re coming back. Tomorrow, you’ll be his.
He runs the tap to rinse a rag, and the sound of water makes his chest ache.
It reminds him of you leaving.
It reminds him of thirst.
He presses his knuckles to his lips, like he can keep the hunger from spilling out.
Love isn’t a cage.
He repeats it while he walks to the bathroom.
The mirror catches him under the harsh light. He looks… wrong. Too awake. Too hollow. Like the version of him you kissed is still somewhere behind his eyes, stunned and shaking. He wets his hands and smooths them over his face, as if he can press his expression into something acceptable.
Then he brushes his teeth like it matters.
Slow. Careful. Almost reverent.
As if tomorrow you might lean close again, as if you might taste him, as if he can make himself worthy by being clean.
He showers too hot, then too cold—chasing sensation because his skin won’t stop remembering yours.
His hands pause over his jaw, over his mouth.
He drags his fingertips over his lips, and his breath stutters—quiet, helpless.
Not a moan.
Just the sound of a starving thing realizing food exists.
He turns the water colder until his bones complain.
It doesn’t help.
Nothing helps.
Nothing but you.
He dries off. Dresses. Undresses. Dresses again.
He pulls shirts out, holds them to his chest, then throws them aside like they’ve offended him. Too formal. Too careless. Too much like he’s trying. Too little like he deserves you.
His fingers get stuck on a button, and the tiny failure makes him feel furious for half a second—furious at the cloth, at his hands, at time itself, at the fact that tomorrow is still not now.
He laughs once, sharp in his throat.
“Pathetic,” he mutters, but there’s no real bite in it. Only truth.
He chooses something simple in the end. Dark. Clean. Soft at the collar. Something that won’t look like he’s begging.
But he is begging—quietly, internally—every second he isn’t with you.
He sets his clothes on the chair like a sacrifice.
Then he checks the time.
Again.
As if it might suddenly be 16:30.
He sits on the edge of his bed and stares at his phone.
The urge to text you again rises like bile.
Are you awake?
Did you mean it?
Please don’t change your mind.
Something in the back of his mind tells him: He’s not allowed to.
He types: Goodnight.
Deletes it.
Types: Sleep well.
Deletes it.
Types: I’m looking forward to tomorrow.
His thumb hovers. His chest tightens.
He imagines you reading it and feeling pressured, like he’s asking for reassurance he hasn’t earned.
He deletes it all, jaw clenched so hard it aches.
He throws the phone onto the pillow beside him, face up, like it might breathe.
Then he lies down.
The ceiling is too white. Too blank. Too much space for his mind to fill with you.
He closes his eyes and sees your mouth.
Your mouth saying yes.
Your mouth saying no.
His stomach turns.
He sits up again.
He can’t do this.
Not with his hands empty.
Not with his head full.
He walks to his living room, barefoot.
The floor is cold. It’s grounding. It hurts a little. He likes that.
He doesn’t light many lamps—just one, warm and low—like a nightlight, like a confession.
He finds a small canvas. Nothing grand. Nothing that could become another shrine.
Just something to put the feeling somewhere else.
His pencil hovers.
He draws a curve.
The line of a jaw. A mouth—almost—but he stops, breath catching. He won’t do that. He won’t reduce you to parts again, won’t try to own you by memorizing you. So he draws something else. Two hands, close together.
Not touching.
Just about to. The almost of it. The ache of it. The space where a life can change. His pencil shakes. He presses harder until the graphite darkens, until the paper groans. He whispers, like prayer, like hunger:
“Please come back.”
The room answers with silence.
He checks the time again.
He counts hours like they’re rations.
He sets alarms: 09:00, 11:00, 13:30, 15:30.
One for waking.
One for showering.
One for leaving early.
One for breathing.
He hates himself for needing it.
He does it anyway.
At some point, exhaustion drapes itself over him—not soft, not kind—just heavy enough to make him sit on the couch with his phone in his hand. He stares at your last text until the words blur.
16:30.
He mouths it silently, over and over. Like if he says it enough times, the universe won’t dare take it away.
His eyes burn. His throat aches. He feels broken down in the quietest way possible—no dramatics, no collapse—just the steady, gnawing fact of wanting something so badly it turns into a physical need. Not obsession. Not addiction. Something simpler. Meaner.
Hunger.
He finally falls asleep with the phone against his palm, as if holding it can hold you. And even in sleep, his mind keeps reaching—
tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow—
like a starving man dreaming of bread, waking with the taste still lingering on his tongue. He wakes before the alarm. Not jolting—no—he wakes the way a starving man wakes when he swears he can smell bread. His eyes open to the dim gray of morning, and for a second, he just lies there, listening. Waiting for the buzz that doesn’t come yet. Waiting for his phone to light up with proof that yesterday wasn’t a hallucination. Silence. His heart beats anyway—fast, impatient—like it’s trying to drag time forward by force. He turns his head.
It takes him a moment to remember what people do before dates—what men who aren’t falling apart at the seams do. Today isn’t a normal day. He doesn’t have to sit on the couch and let hours rot around him until the studio feels like the only place he’s allowed to exist. Today, his life has direction. His actions have weight. Yesterday wasn’t a dream—wasn’t his mind playing cruel games just to keep him alive. It was real. You chose him. Rafayel rises like he’s afraid the air will change its mind. He heads for the bathroom, already reciting the routine he built for today like prayer.
Shower.
Brush his teeth.
Wash his face.
Get dressed.
Go see you.
Simple.
Normal.
Manageable—if he doesn’t think too hard about the way his hands still remember your jaw, the way his skin still burns where you touched him, the way the word tomorrow sits in his ribs like a hook. He shuts the door behind him. Locks it. The mirror catches him the second the light flicks on. He looks… wrong. Not ugly. No never. Just… hollow in the way people look when they’ve been starving and are suddenly told dinner is coming. His eyes are too bright. His mouth too tense. Like his body doesn’t trust happiness. Like it expects punishment for reaching. He turns the water on too hot. Steam blooms across the glass, fogging the mirror until his reflection disappears, and relief slides through him—brief and sharp.
Good.
He doesn’t want to see himself right now. Doesn’t want to remind himself just how undeserving he is of you. He steps under the spray and lets it beat against his skin, lets it scald him into something quieter. The heat should calm him. It doesn’t. Because every drop feels like time passing, and time passing feels like distance from you. He scrubs soap over his arms too hard, like he can scrape away the part of himself that wants to keep you.
He rinses. Soap slides down the drain like something lost.His hands pause at his throat. A stupid thought flickers in—what if he smells wrong? What if you lean in and recoil? What if your face changes? What if he sees it—the moment your kindness turns to regret? He drags shampoo through his hair, fingers shaking, and tries to breathe through the panic that rises like bile. You kissed him. You kissed him back. He repeats it like a mantra. He presses his forehead to the cool tile and lets the water roar, loud enough to drown out the part of him that whispers: And you can still leave. That word again. Leave. It splinters him.
His stomach twists with hunger so sharp it feels like pain—hunger that has nothing to do with food and everything to do with the idea of you walking away with your lips intact, your heart unclaimed, your future untouched by him. He wants to hate himself for it. He tries. But the wanting feels… right in the same way breathing feels right. Instinctive. Necessary. He bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes iron, grounding himself in something real. When he’s done, he steps out and dries off, fast. Too fast. Like if he moves quickly enough, he can outrun the hours between now and 16:30. He brushes his teeth until his gums sting. Washes his face until his cheeks go pink. Stares at his own eyes in the mirror like they’re a stranger’s. “Be normal,” he tells himself. His reflection doesn’t answer. He leans closer. “Be kind,” he tries again, softer. His reflection still says nothing. Because kindness is easy. Kindness is what he gave you every time he canceled, every time he stepped back, every time he tried to starve his feelings into obedience. Kindness is not the problem.
The problem is this. This hunger. This aching want that sits under his ribs and curls around his spine. He opens his closet and freezes. Clothes hang there like choices he’s not qualified to make. Too formal and you’ll think he’s trying too hard. Too casual and you’ll think he doesn’t care. He runs his fingertips along the fabric like it might tell him which version of himself you deserve. He wants to be what you deserve. He wants more. He wants to put his hands on you again—your jaw, your waist, the soft places you never meant to offer him. He wants to stand so close you can’t breathe without breathing him too. He wants to hear you say his name in a voice that isn’t polite. He wants to watch you choose him again, on purpose, in daylight, with the world awake. “Later,” he whispers. To his hunger. To the part of him that is already reaching ahead, already trying to pull tomorrow into his hands. A small victory. Then he dresses.
Dark shirt.
Clean.
Simple.
He changes it twice anyway because he hates the way the fabric sits on his shoulders, hates how nothing feels right when you’re the thing he’s moving toward. He checks his phone again. Too early. Still too early. He sets it down. Picks it up again. His mind keeps replaying the moment you said yes. Keeps replaying the way you kissed his knuckles. Keeps replaying you leaving. Leaving. He swallows hard and grabs his keys, then stops. No. Not yet. If he leaves too early, he’ll sit outside your building like a stray, staring at the door, counting seconds like prayers. If he leaves too late, he’ll imagine you thinking he didn’t care. He stares at the clock. He hates time. He hates the way it moves without permission. He paces the apartment once.
Twice.
Three times.
His hands keep drifting to his phone.
He wants to text you again.
He wants to make sure you’re still coming.
He wants to ask if you’re okay.
He wants to ask what you’re wearing.
He wants to ask if you’ve eaten.
He wants to ask where you are.
He wants—
He stops. Breathes. Because this is the line again. This is where concern becomes control. This is where love starts baring its teeth. He rests his forehead against the wall and closes his eyes. “16:30,” he whispers, like a promise he has to survive until. “Just get to 16:30.” He opens his eyes. Checks the clock. It’s still nowhere near enough. His heart beats anyway—fast, impatient— Like it’s trying to drag time forward by force. And somewhere deep inside him, under all the careful vows and practiced restraint, something hungry shifts and stretches—quietly delighted. Because tomorrow you will be within reach again. And he doesn’t know if he has the strength to only reach politely. He can’t stay inside anymore. The apartment is too small for the way his want keeps expanding—pressing against the walls, scraping at the corners, looking for you in places you’ve never been. He checks the clock again, then again, like repetition might bend it. Still early. Still not enough. He grabs his coat anyway.
Keys.
Wallet.
Phone.
His hand pauses on the doorknob—one last breath, like he’s stepping off a ledge. Normal, he tells himself. Be normal. He steps out. The hall smells like old carpet and someone’s dinner and the faint sting of winter air sneaking in through the building’s cracks. He walks faster than he means to, as if momentum might keep his thoughts from catching up. He doesn’t head toward the studio. Not today.
Today, he goes the other direction—toward the little florist a few streets down, the one he’s passed a hundred times without ever going inside. The bell above the door chimes when he enters. Warmth hits him first. Then scent—green stems, wet earth, sweet petals. It’s gentle, almost cruel in its softness. A woman behind the counter looks up. Smiles. “Hi there. Looking for anything in particular?” Rafayel opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. His throat tightens around something simple and stupid, something that shouldn’t feel like a confession. Flowers. For you. He clears his throat. “For… someone,” he manages, voice too careful. The woman’s smile brightens like she understands and is kind enough not to tease. “A first date?” He flinches—tiny, involuntary. Then nods. “Any favorite colors?” His mind supplies your mouth, your hands, your laugh. His mind supplies the way you said, of course, like it was easy.
His mind supplies the way you could still change it. He forces himself to answer. “None that I know of. I want to give him something… soft. But not too much.” Not too much, because too much makes people run. Too much is what he’s always been afraid of. She gestures him toward the buckets. “Roses are classic. Lilies smell amazing. Ranunculus are romantic. Tulips are sweet.” He stands over the flowers like they’re choices with consequences. Roses feel too loud. Lilies feel too possessive—too fragrant, like they’d claim your space. Tulips feel like an apology. And he’s done apologizing for wanting you. For needing you. His eyes land on a cluster of pale blooms—delicate, layered, almost shy in their beauty. Ranunculus. A few sprigs of baby’s breath nearby like a whisper of stars. He reaches out and then hesitates. His fingers hover. He thinks of your jaw in his palms. Of your lips on his knuckles. Of the way hunger turned his heart into something that didn’t know how to be patient. Perfect. He picks them. “Those,” he says quietly, pointing at the flowers. The woman gathers them with practiced hands. “Good choice. Want to add any foliage?” He nods again, too quickly. Like he’s afraid if he pauses, he’ll start saying things he shouldn’t. Like wrap it in something that lasts. Like make it impossible to throw away. She builds the bouquet while he watches—petals cradled, stems aligned, ribbon tied in a neat bow. He should feel calm. He feels worse. Because now he’s holding something meant to be given. Something meant to leave his hands. And all it does is remind him of you. His fingers tighten around the paper wrap. “Anything else?” the woman asks.
Rafayel’s mouth goes dry. He thinks of bringing you something sweet. Something you can taste. Something that will sit on your tongue and make you think of him later. He swallows. “Maybe… something small,” he says. “Not— not too much.” She points him toward a little shelf of chocolates, candles, and tiny glass jars of honey. He stares too long at the candles, imagining light in your room, your hands cupping the flame. He chooses honey instead. It’s ridiculous, he knows, and he wonders briefly whether or not you’ll even like it— he hopes so. It’s intimate in a way that scares him—sweetness that sticks, sweetness that clings. He buys it anyway. He leaves the shop with a bouquet and a jar of honey and a pulse that won’t slow down. Outside, the air is cold enough to bite. The paper wrap rustles in the wind. He holds the flowers close to his chest like they can keep his ribs from splitting open. As he walks, his brain starts trying to ruin him again. What if you laugh? What if you think it’s too much? What if you think he’s trying to buy you? He presses his thumb against the ribbon until it dents. “No,” he whispers. Not to the wind. To the panic. To the part of him that keeps turning tenderness into a threat. He forces himself to breathe in the scent of the flowers. Soft. Clean. Real. A gift is not a chain. A bouquet is not a cage. He repeats it until it almost sticks. By the time he gets home, his hands are shaking—not from cold, but from the effort of holding himself together. He sets the flowers on the table like they’re sacred. Checks the clock. Still too early. Of course, it’s too early. He sinks onto the couch and stares at the bouquet like it might tell him how to survive the hours until 16:30. His phone sits beside him, silent. He wants to text you again—something casual, something normal.
I got you flowers.
I’m excited.
His thumb hovers over your name. Then he pulls back. Because he can feel it—the hunger reaching through the screen, trying to grab. Instead, he types one sentence. Deletes it. Types another. Deletes that too. Finally, he sets the phone face-down like it’s dangerous. And sits there in the quiet with his hands in his lap and his heart gnawing at itself, waiting. Waiting like he’s done his whole life. Except now he knows what he’s waiting for. And knowing makes it harder. Because hope isn’t gentle. Hope is a mouthful of something warm when you’ve been starving— And your body starts demanding the rest of the meal. Then, as if you’re the deity his mind makes you out to be, you answer his wishes— his prayers with a simple text.
You: Do you mind if we meet up a little earlier? I want to see you.
Then his face changes in the sweetest, stupidest way—like a puppy hearing the front door unlock. His eyes go wide and bright, lashes still damp at the edges, and his mouth parts like he’s about to laugh and cry at the same time. Relief hits him so hard his knees almost soften. He reads it again. And again. As if the words will change if he looks away. His throat works around a sound—soft, broken, thrilled. He presses the phone to his chest, hugging it like it’s warm, like it’s you. A shaky breath leaves him—half a laugh, half a whine. “You want to see me,” he whispers to the empty studio, stunned, reverent, like he’s repeating a miracle to make sure it stays true. “You… want me.” And the hunger that’s been gnawing at him doesn’t disappear. It softens—just a little—into something almost manageable. His fingers fly over the screen, too fast, too eager, the words coming out before he can polish them into something cool.
Rafayel: Now?
He stares at what he sent, breath caught—like he’s waiting to be scolded for being too excited. But he doesn’t take it back. Because it’s honest. Because he’s been waiting at the door for you without even knowing he was waiting— Now, you respond. —and now you’ve finally called him over.
———
Love is one of the few things that can’t be replicated—not unless someone has truly known it, not unless they’ve witnessed it with their own eyes. Some say love is a curse. That it makes you weak. That it makes you hand over one of your most vital organs and pray they don’t decide to tear it out. Others say it’s a blessing. That it’s rare to see true love in a lifetime, let alone experience it. That you should be grateful you got to touch something so rare—even if, no matter how long you spend with them, it only ever feels like a few brief seconds. Rafayel used to pay talk of love no mind. Why would he? It’s not like he’d ever fall in love—at least, he never thought he would. It’s moments like this—him parked outside of your apartment—that make him wish he had listened.
He doesn’t even know where to take you. A café? An art museum…? You probably wouldn’t want something art-related, would you? Maybe he can— “Hi!” The sound of your voice cuts straight through his spiraling thoughts, and his whole body reacts like you’ve just opened the front door after being gone for years. His fingers tighten on the steering wheel. His chest goes light—too light—like relief is trying to float him right out of his skin. He blinks, once, like he needs to make sure you’re real. “Hello,” he manages, clearing his throat as he looks at you through the window. His gaze catches—too intense, too hungry—and he forces it down, forcing himself to breathe like a normal person. “Ah—here.” He leans over and pushes the passenger door open for you before he can overthink it. “Thank you,” you mumble as you slide in, seatbelt clicking into place. You smooth your hands down your thighs, nerves written into the movement. “Uhm… I was thinking maybe we could go to a café, and then… an art museum?” You laugh softly, almost embarrassed. “I know it’s kind of cliché, but I just— I want somewhere quiet with you. The only other quiet place I can think of is a library.” You glance at him. “Is that okay?” Rafayel’s answer should be simple. Normal. But you’re sitting beside him, close enough that he can see the tiny details—your lashes, the way you swallow, the way your voice dips when you ask permission. His pulse stutters like it’s tripping over itself. He stares for half a beat too long. “You’re… beautiful,” he says, like it slips out before he can stop it. He swallows, then nods quickly, as if he can anchor himself in the motion. “Yes. Yes, that’s fine.” His hands flex once on the wheel. “I don’t mind. I just want to spend time with you.” And that’s the truth, terrifying and simple. He reaches into the backseat, movements suddenly clumsy, like his body forgot how to behave. “Sorry, I—” he starts, then stops, then tries again. “I got this for you.” He holds out a bouquet and a small jar of honey, cheeks faintly pink. “I… didn’t know what you liked, so I just—” He exhales, embarrassed, hopeful. “I wanted to bring you something.” For a second you just stare. Then your face shifts—surprise first, then something softer, something that makes Rafayel’s chest tighten like it’s trying to fold in on itself. “Wait—honey?” you breathe, taking it carefully, like it’s fragile. Like he’s fragile. You turn the jar in your hands, reading the label, and your smile grows in a way that looks unplanned. Real. “Thank you,” you say, and you sound genuinely touched. Almost relieved. “I was literally running out of honey to put in my tea and oatmeal.” Rafayel blinks.
Once.
Twice.
Like his brain has to reboot around the fact that you didn’t just accept it—you needed it. Like the universe accidentally lined up in his favor for once, and he doesn’t trust it. “You… you were?” he asks, voice small. You nod, laughing under your breath, and the sound does something violent to him—soft, bright, and suddenly his hunger has a direction again. “And the flowers?” you add, lifting the bouquet. Your fingers brush the stems, careful. “They’re beautiful.” His throat works. “They’re not—” he starts, then stops, like the old habit of shrinking himself tries to claw its way back out. “I mean— I’m glad you like them.” You glance up at him. He’s watching you like you’re sunlight spilling into a room he’s been living in with the curtains drawn. Like he’s afraid if he looks away you’ll stop being there. You should tease him. You should say something light, something safe. Instead, you lean over. Rafayel stiffens immediately—every muscle going tight, breath catching hard—like he’s not sure if he’s about to be forgiven or punished. His hands hover uselessly in his lap, unsure where to go, unsure if he’s allowed to touch back. Your lips press to his cheek. A quick, warm peck. A thank you given with your mouth instead of your words. Rafayel makes this tiny, involuntary sound—half inhale, half broken laugh—like his body forgets how to hold itself together. His cheeks flush pink all the way to the tips of his ears. His eyes go wide, then glassy, then dart away as if looking at you directly might hurt.
You pull back only a little, still close enough to feel how his breath stutters. His gaze flicks to your mouth. Then away. Then back again, like it’s being yanked by something he can’t control. You can practically see him fighting himself—wanting, starving, terrified to reach. As if the moment he moves, you’ll regret it. As if one wrong breath will make you disappear. “Is this… okay?” you ask quietly, more for him than for you. His Adam’s apple bobs. He nods too fast. “Yes,” he whispers. “Yes, it’s— it’s okay.” Then, softer, like he’s confessing into the space between you: “You’re… okay.” His hand lifts, hesitates, and then stops halfway—fingers twitching like he wants to cup your face but doesn’t trust his own greed. You wait. You let him have the choice. But you’ve waited too, haven’t you? All those sessions. All that distance. All the almost-touching. And now you’re finally allowed. So you lean in again. Slower this time. Giving him every chance to pull away. He doesn’t. His breath shudders as your lips meet his, and the first kiss is gentle—careful—like you’re both learning the shape of permission. Like he’s afraid if he takes too much too soon, he’ll ruin it. Like he’s afraid of losing what he’s only just been given. Then he exhales into you—soft, broken—and the restraint in him wavers. Not because he stops being scared. But because he can’t pretend he doesn’t want this anymore. His mouth moves against yours like he’s starving and trying to be polite about it. Like he’s been hungry so long he forgot what it feels like to be fed. When you pull back, it’s only enough to breathe. Rafayel stays close, forehead nearly touching yours, eyes wide and shining like he can’t believe he’s still allowed to be here. “…Was that,” he whispers, voice shaking, “okay too?” And the way he asks—like he expects the answer to change at any second—makes your heart ache. So you smile, still close, still warm. And you don’t let him doubt it.
———
The drive to the café is… quiet. Not the brittle, uncomfortable kind of silence that scrapes at your nerves, nor the awkward sort that demands to be filled with nervous chatter. This quiet is dense. Heavy. It presses gently against your chest, full of everything you’ve already said with your mouths and, your hands, and your eyes. Full of the kiss. Full of the way Rafayel’s hands had trembled when they touched you, like he didn’t quite trust himself not to ruin something sacred.
He keeps both hands on the steering wheel, fingers curled tight around it like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the present. His knuckles pale with the pressure, tendons standing out beneath his skin. At every red light, his gaze flicks toward you—quick, unguarded—and then away just as fast, like he’s afraid looking too long might undo him. Like he’s checking to make sure you’re still there. That you didn’t vanish the moment he blinked. You sit with the bouquet resting across your knees, petals brushing against your fingers every time the car shifts, the small jar of honey cradled carefully in your lap. The car smells faintly sweet—flowers, clean fabric, his cologne lingering beneath it all. Something warmer threads through the air too, something fragile and dangerous. Hope. Every now and then, Rafayel clears his throat like he’s about to speak. Every time, he doesn’t. And when you glance over, you catch him looking at you—only for him to snap his eyes back to the road like he’s been caught stealing something he isn’t sure he’s allowed to have. The silence isn’t empty. It’s reverent. Like neither of you wants to break it and risk waking up. His heart beats too fast for someone sitting still. It thuds impatiently against his ribs, like it’s trying to drag time forward by force. Like it’s afraid that if this moment stretches too long, something will come along and take it away. He tells himself to breathe. Tells himself to stay here. That this is real. That you chose him. That yesterday was not a dream or a trick of his mind.Still, some part of him keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop—for you to laugh and say you didn’t mean it, that it was all just a misunderstanding, a moment of softness that you’ll regret once you’re alone. He grips the wheel tighter. As if holding on hard enough might keep the world from interfering. Inside the café, the air changes immediately.
Warmth wraps around you both the moment the door shuts behind you—soft lighting, low music humming somewhere overhead, the smell of roasted coffee beans and baked sugar clinging to the walls. It’s the kind of place that encourages people to lower their voices without being asked, like the room itself is listening. You choose a small table near the window. Rafayel follows, pulling out the chair for you without thinking, then freezing for half a second like he’s worried he’s done too much. When you smile at him and sit anyway, relief flickers across his face so fast it almost hurts to look at. He sits across from you, posture a little too straight, hands folded together like he’s posing for a portrait even though he’s the one who usually holds the brush. You notice the way his knee bounces under the table. You pretend not to. “What do you like?” you ask gently, skimming the menu. “Besides—” you glance up at him, eyes bright with teasing warmth, “—besides staring at people.” His lips part. Then close. A laugh threatens and dies somewhere in his throat. “I don’t stare,” he mutters. You lift a brow. His ears tint pink almost instantly. “…Okay,” he concedes quietly. “I stare. But I’m an artist. It’s occupational.” You hum, amused, and place your order first—deliberately, mercifully—saving him from the quiet panic of choosing wrong. He follows your lead with a soft thank you to the barista, voice gentle in a way that makes something in your chest ache. When the drinks arrive, steam curling upward between you like a veil, the conversation starts slowly. Carefully. At first, it’s small things. Easy things. Things that don’t require bravery. You talk about the café itself—how you like places that feel tucked away, how the window light here is nice in the afternoon. Rafayel listens intently, nodding, eyes warm and focused like every word you speak matters more than it should. Then, gradually, the knot loosens.
You learn that Rafayel likes quiet mornings more than he lets on, even though he pretends he thrives on late nights. That he never finishes his tea unless someone reminds him it’s gone cold. That he keeps little things—ticket stubs, dried petals, bits of ribbon—in the drawers of his studio, like proof that moments can be preserved if you’re careful enough. When you ask what he does when he isn’t painting, he hesitates. His fingers curl around his cup. Then, softly: “The ocean.” You blink. “The ocean?” He nods, gaze dropping to the surface of his drink as he turns it slowly by the handle. “I like to swim in it,” he admits. “It’s calming. The only sound for miles is just my own heartbeat.” The way he says it—quiet, reverent—makes your chest warm. “And I collect seashells,” he adds quickly, like the confession costs him something. “I… take them home.” Your eyes widen with sudden understanding. “Is that why the studio is decorated with them?” He stiffens, caught. Then his shoulders ease, just a little, and a reluctant smile curves his mouth. “…Yes.” You giggle, unable to help it, and the sound seems to untangle something in him completely. “That’s actually really cute,” you say, softer now. Kinder. Then, after a beat, like you’re testing the air between you: “We should collect them together sometime.” He stills. “You… want to?” he asks, almost disbelieving. “Yeah,” you say easily. “If you’ll have me.” For a moment, he doesn’t speak. Then relief hits him so visibly it’s almost painful—like his lungs finally remember how to work. “I would,” he says quietly. “I would have you.” The rest of the café fades into background noise after that.
You talk more freely now. About things you like. About small fears. About nothing and everything. Rafayel listens with his whole body—leaning forward, eyes intent, hands relaxing as if your presence is slowly convincing him he’s allowed to exist without bracing for impact. He smiles more. You catch it when he thinks you aren’t looking. And when you laugh, he laughs too—not nervously, not carefully—but genuinely, like the sound is pulling something buried up to the surface. When you finish your drinks, neither of you rushes to stand. Neither of you says the word leave. Eventually, though, you glance toward the door and smile. “Ready?” Rafayel nods, standing a little too quickly, then steadying himself. “Yes,” he says. “I don’t… want to rush this.” “I don’t either.” Something quiet and hopeful settles between you as you step back out into the street together. And for the first time in a long while, Rafayel doesn’t feel like he’s chasing something already slipping away. The air outside is cooler than it was when you went in. Not cold—just sharp enough to feel real, grounding, like the world gently reminding you that it still exists beyond this small pocket of warmth you’ve carved out together. The street hums softly with passing cars and distant voices, but it all feels muted somehow, like the volume’s been turned down just for you. You step down from the café’s threshold first. And almost immediately— Something brushes your leg. Warm. Insistent.
You gasp softly, startled, looking down just in time to see a striped cat weaving itself around your calf like it owns you. Its tail flicks high, confident, its purr loud and unapologetic as it presses its head against your shin. “Oh— hi,” you breathe, instinctively crouching. Your hand hovers for half a second before you give in, fingers sinking into soft fur. The cat leans into the touch like it’s been waiting all day. Behind you, Rafayel stops short. Not abruptly—but noticeably. You glance up, still crouched, smile ready—until you catch the way his posture has gone rigid. His shoulders are tight, his weight shifted back like he’s instinctively put distance between himself and the situation. “…Rafayel?” you ask carefully. “Are you okay?” “I’m fine,” he says immediately. Too immediately. You look between him and the cat, which has now flopped dramatically onto the sidewalk, rolling onto its back and stretching like it’s performing for an audience. “…Are you scared of the cat?” you ask, not teasing—just genuinely curious. “I’m not scared,” he replies, a little too stiff. You tilt your head. “Then pet it.” The words hang there. The cat’s tail flicks lazily. Its paws curl and uncurl like it’s daring him. Rafayel stares at it. The cat stares back. Something like a silent challenge passes between them. “…No,” he says finally, crossing his arms. “Why not?” He hesitates, jaw tightening. His eyes flick to you—then back to the cat, which has now rolled closer, smug and shameless, brushing against your ankle again like it’s claiming territory. “It knows what it’s doing,” he mutters. You blink. “What?” His voice lowers, like he’s admitting something ridiculous and knows it. “It’s… scheming.”
“Scheming?”
“Yes,” he insists. “It walks up like it’s harmless, and then suddenly it has all your attention. Your hands. Your voice.” His cheeks pink faintly. “It’s manipulating you.” For a second, you just stare at him. Then a quiet laugh slips out—not loud, not cruel. Fond.
“You’re jealous of a cat.”
“I am not jealous,” he snaps, then immediately softens, flustered. “I just—don’t like it.” You stand, brushing fur from your pants, eyes bright. “So brave.”
“Please stop,” he mutters. “Big scary artist,” you tease gently as you start toward the car. “Defeated by one extremely friendly cat.”
“It was plotting something,” he insists, following you, clearly offended on principle. When you reach the car, he opens the door for you again, still grumbling under his breath. The engine starts, but he doesn’t pull off right away. He sits there, hands resting on the wheel, staring straight ahead like he needs a moment to reset. “You’re enjoying this,” he says quietly. You glance at him. “Yeah.” He exhales—a small, relieved sound, like he didn’t realize how badly he needed to hear that. “Good,” he murmurs. As the car pulls back onto the road, the city sliding past in soft blurs of color and light, you speak again—more gently now. “You know… I didn’t agree to model for you just because you paid me.” His grip tightens on the wheel. “I know,” he says, voice rough. “I liked you,” you admit. “I still do.” Silence falls—not heavy, but charged. The words settle somewhere deep inside him, and you can see the moment he feels their weight. He doesn’t look at you. “…Don’t say things like that like it’s nothing,” he murmurs. “Why?” Because I’ll start needing them, he doesn’t say. Instead, quietly: “Because I’m scared I’ll reach for more than you meant to give.”
You reach out and rest your hand on his forearm. He flinches— Then melts. His muscles loosen under your touch like they’ve been waiting for permission. His shoulders drop, breath evening out, as if your hand alone is enough to remind him he’s safe. That he’s not about to lose this. He doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans subtly into you, like gravity’s finally decided where he belongs. The car hums along the road. And for the first time all day, Rafayel isn’t bracing for the moment everything falls apart. The museum rises ahead of you in pale stone and glass, tall and quiet in a way that makes your voice instinctively lower as you step out of the car. The late afternoon light catches along its edges, softening it—turning something grand into something almost gentle. Rafayel comes around to your side without being asked. Not rushed. Not stiff. Just… there. You walk up the steps together, close enough that your shoulders nearly brush again, though neither of you comments on it this time. The doors open with a low, reverent hush, and the air inside is cooler—clean, echoing faintly with footsteps and murmurs. The lobby feels expansive. Marble floors. High ceilings. The kind of place that makes you aware of your own breathing. You pause, taking it all in. Rafayel watches you do that. Not the building—you. The way your eyes widen slightly. The way your posture straightens, anticipation flickering across your face like you’ve stepped into something sacred.
“I can pay,” you start, reaching for your wallet as you approach the ticket counter. His hand is already there. “No,” he says, gentle but firm, sliding his card forward. Then, softer, almost shy: “Please.” You hesitate—then nod. “Okay.” He exhales quietly as the cashier hands over the tickets, fingers curling around them like they’re proof of something. Like they’re fragile. Like this moment might shatter if he doesn’t hold it carefully enough. Past the entrance gates, the museum opens into long halls—dimly lit, the walls lined with frames that seem to glow in the softened light. The noise fades. Conversations drop to murmurs. Even footsteps feel respectful here. You step into the first gallery— And stop. “Oh,” you breathe. It slips out of you without thought, soft and awed. Your gaze pulls from one piece to the next, moving slowly, reverently. You drift closer to a painting layered thick with pigment, the surface alive with raised texture. Not close enough to cross the boundary line—but close enough to see how the paint catches the light. “The impasto,” you whisper. “Look at it. It’s like the painting is still breathing.” You move on, eyes shining, taking in colors and shadows and the quiet emotion hanging in the air. You speak softly as you go—little observations, small marvels, the way someone does when they’re letting themselves be moved. Rafayel follows. But he isn’t looking at the art. He’s watching you. The way your expression changes with each piece. The way your hands lift unconsciously, fingers twitching like you want to trace the shapes in the air. The way your voice drops when something truly catches your attention. You feel it before you see it—the weight of his gaze. You turn. He’s standing a few steps behind you, eyes fixed on your face like you’re something he’s afraid to disturb by breathing too loud. “…Rafayel?” you ask gently.
“Hm?”
“You’re not even looking,” you say, glancing back at the paintings. “Do you want to leave?” His response is immediate. “No.” Too quick. Then he steadies himself, shoulders easing as he reins in the urgency. “No,” he repeats, quieter. “I want to stay.”
“Why?” For a moment, he looks like he might retreat—like honesty is something he still isn’t sure he’s allowed. Then he lifts his gaze back to you, eyes soft, almost luminous in the low light. “Because…” I don’t want this day to end. He hesitates, breath catching. “Besides—” he adds gently, “I don’t see the point in staring at decorations on the wall when the true art has been standing in front of me this whole time.” Heat rushes to your face. You shove his shoulder lightly, flustered. “You’re unbelievable.” A smile breaks across his face—small, genuine, unguarded. Not loud, not showy. Just his.
You turn back to the paintings, pretending you can focus again. But your heartbeat is louder than the gallery now. Because like him— You don’t want this moment to end either. The exit funnels you the way museums always do—gently, inevitably—through the souvenir shop. The lighting shifts first. Warmer. Softer. The quiet here feels different from the galleries; less reverent, more lingering. Like the building itself doesn’t want to let you go yet. Polished wooden shelves line the walls. Glass cases hold small, careful things. The air smells faintly of paper and varnish and something old that’s been preserved lovingly. You slow without realizing it. Postcards are arranged in neat rows—reproductions of oil paintings, charcoal studies, delicate sketches. One catches your eye: a late-afternoon seascape, all muted blues and golds, the horizon blurred as if the light itself were tired. The placard beneath it reads Evening Tide, 1894. You pick it up, turning it over between your fingers. “This one feels… warm,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else. Behind you, Rafayel hums thoughtfully. “It does,” he says. “That’s because the artist used yellow ochre under the blue. It tricks your eye into feeling sunlight even when the palette says dusk.” You glance back at him, impressed. He blinks, realizing he’s slipped into that tone—easy, animated—and laughs softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. Habit.”
“I like it,” you say. That seems to give him permission. He drifts farther in, curiosity pulling him shelf to shelf. His posture loosens, movements lighter. He comments quietly on frame styles, on print quality, on how certain reproductions lose the weight of the brushstroke. When the cashier chimes in with a question, Rafayel lights up completely—hands moving as he talks, smile bright, voice warm and expressive.
You watch from a few steps away. For a moment, something sharp flickers in your chest—not jealousy of the cashier, exactly, but of the ease. Of how effortlessly this version of him exists here. Then you breathe. This is him. Not borrowed. Not lost. Sooner rather than later, you think, this will be the Rafayel you get to see all the time. He pauses at a display of ceramics. A shallow dish sits among them—pale, glazed like seafoam, smooth and cool-looking even from a distance. At its center, a thin curl of gold leaf arcs like a quiet wave. He reaches for it slowly, reverently, turning it once in his hands. “This,” he murmurs. “For what?” you ask, stepping closer. He considers. “For… the small things,” he says. “Things you set down without thinking. Things that disappear when you’re not careful.” You smile. “That sounds like me.” His ears tint pink. “I’ll— I’ll get it,” he says quickly, already moving toward the counter like he’s afraid you’ll refuse. While he pays, you wander farther down the aisle. That’s when you see it. A small display labeled Music Box Movements. No ornate casing. No decoration. Just exposed brass and steel—tiny gears, a ridged cylinder, and a small crank folded neatly against the side. A placard explains that it must be wound by hand to play. Motion required. Presence required. You lift one carefully. The tune listed beneath it makes your breath catch. You bring it to the counter just as Rafayel finishes paying. He instinctively reaches for his card again.
You place a hand over his wrist. “This one’s on me.” He hesitates—then nods, swallowing. “Okay.” Outside the shop, he holds the wrapped dish like it’s fragile as glass. You tuck the music box movement into your bag, fingers lingering on the cardboard edge. Two gifts. Both small. Both requiring care. And both, in their own quiet way, asking to be returned to again and again. By the time you step back onto the street, the afternoon has softened into something gentler. The sun hangs lower now, warm without being sharp, the city quieter in that in-between hour where nothing feels rushed and everything feels possible. You walk beside him. Not touching—yet. Close enough that your arms brush when either of you shifts, close enough that the warmth between you feels intentional. “Ice cream?” you offer, like it’s nothing. Like you aren’t quietly hoping the day will keep stretching if you ask. Rafayel slows half a step. He looks at you the way someone looks at a door they’re afraid will disappear the moment they reach for it. Like he’s bracing for the moment you’ll laugh and tell him it was just a joke. That this was all a prank. That he misunderstood—again. “…Ice cream,” he repeats, uncertain. “Yeah,” you say easily. “Unless you don’t want any.”
“No,” he says too fast, then winces. Softer, correcting himself, “I want to.” The shop is small and bright, all pastel tiles and fogged glass cases, the air cold and sweet. A bell chimes when you step inside. The menu is cluttered with looping chalk letters, flavors crowding each other like they’re vying for attention. You order without hesitation. “Cookies n’ cream.” Classic. Comfortable. Something you don’t have to overthink. Rafayel stands beside you, staring at the board like it’s asking him to confess something personal. “What do you like?” you ask gently. He opens his mouth. Closes it. “I don’t really… choose,” he admits after a moment, voice low with embarrassment. “I usually just take whatever’s there.” Something in your chest tightens—not painfully. Just enough to notice. You glance back at the menu, then at him. “Sea salt caramel,” you decide. “It’s simple, but it’s not boring.” He looks at you like you’ve just handed him permission. “…Okay,” he says, nodding once, trusting you completely. Outside again, cones in hand, the world feels slower. You walk without any real destination, the sidewalk stretching ahead of you like it doesn’t expect anything more than this. At first, your shoulders bump accidentally. Rafayel stiffens on instinct, posture snapping tight like he’s afraid he’s done something wrong.
Then it happens again. And again. On the third time, you make it deliberate—just a gentle nudge, playful. Rafayel hesitates for half a heartbeat. Then he melts. Not dramatically. Not all at once. His shoulder sinks onto yours, weight leaning just enough that you can feel it—feel him—like he’s finally letting himself rest against something solid. His careful restraint dissolves, replaced by a quiet, instinctive closeness. He exhales long and shaky, like his body didn’t realize it had been holding its breath. His sea salt caramel ice cream tilts dangerously and he huffs a soft laugh, steadying it before it drips. He eats more freely now, no longer trying to look composed. His eyes flutter shut for a second at the taste, shoulders slumping as if the world has finally stopped pressing on him. “It’s good,” he murmurs, almost suspicious. You smile. “Told you.” For a while, neither of you speaks. Just walking. Eating. Letting the silence stretch without fear. Rafayel doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans closer, like he’s afraid that if he lets go, he’ll lose this feeling—this strange, fragile peace. Then, quietly, he says, “I didn’t think today would feel like this.” You glance at him. “Like what?” He thinks about it—really thinks—jaw tightening, then easing. “…Like I’m not waiting for something to go wrong.” You can’t find a response to something like that. So you don’t say anything at all. Instead, you stay right where you are—shoulder warm against his—letting him melt into you like he’s finally found somewhere safe to land.
——
You pull up to the curb outside your apartment and sit there a moment longer than necessary. The engine hums softly beneath you, a low, steady sound that fills the space neither of you seems ready to break. The street is dim now, washed in the amber glow of streetlights. Somewhere down the block, a door opens and closes. Footsteps pass. Life continues—oblivious to the way this moment feels suspended. Rafayel doesn’t move right away. Neither do you. The quiet that settles between you isn’t awkward. It’s heavy. Full. The kind of silence that knows it’s nearing an ending and doesn’t want to admit it.
He clears his throat. “Do you mind if I… walk you to your door?” he asks. His voice is different—quieter than usual, stripped of bravado, careful in a way it hasn’t been all day. Not distant. Not withdrawn. Just unsure. Like he’s relearning how to ask for things without assuming the answer will hurt. You’re already unbuckling your seatbelt. "Yes,” you say, simple and immediate. “Yes, of course.” Something in him eases at that. He steps out quickly, almost like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind if he waits too long, circling the car to meet you on the sidewalk. The air is cool now, faintly damp, carrying the promise of rain that hasn’t fallen yet. You walk together. Not quite touching—but close enough that it feels intentional. Close enough that the absence of contact is its own kind of awareness. At your door, you stop. Rafayel stops too. He looks at you as if this moment matters more than he knows how to carry. Like he’s standing at the edge of something fragile and doesn’t trust himself not to step too hard. “I had a really good time today,” you say softly. The words feel small for how much they mean.
“So did I,” he answers too quickly, then stills, as if afraid he’s given himself away. He reins himself in, breath steadying. His hands hover at his sides, restless, like he’s afraid to reach without permission. There’s a pause. Then he seems to remember something—his fingers tightening around the bag he’s been carrying since the museum. “Oh,” he murmurs. “Before you go.” He holds it out to you. The seafoam dish. The glaze catches the streetlight, pale and soft, the gold-leaf curl at its center gleaming faintly. Your fingers brush his as you take it, and the contact sends something warm up your arm. “Rafayel…” you start, heart swelling. “Thank you. I really love it.” His throat moves. For a second, he looks like he doesn’t know where to put the feeling. Like it’s too big for his chest. Then his gaze drops—not away from you, but inward—and when he speaks again, his voice is low, careful, edged with something vulnerable. “I just…” He exhales slowly. “I need to know this isn’t something you’ll regret tomorrow.” The words land heavier than he probably means them to. “That you won’t wake up and decide it was… a mistake.” They hurt him as soon as they leave his mouth. You can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his shoulders tense like he’s bracing for impact. Then, quieter—honest in a way that costs him—he adds, “I need to hear you choose me.” Inside him, something old stirs.
No one ever chooses me.
The thought presses in sharp and familiar, unwelcome and persistent. He keeps it locked behind his teeth, buried where it belongs, because saying it out loud would feel like begging. Because if he lets it escape, it might become true all over again. You blink at him, surprised. Then you laugh softly—not unkind, not dismissive. Just gentle. “You’re really dramatic,” you say, fondly. His ears flush immediately. “I’m serious,” he insists, though embarrassment edges his voice now, too. You step closer, closing the space between you. “I chose you,” you say plainly. “I chose you when I agreed to the date. I chose you today. And I’m choosing you now.” The relief hits him like a wave. His breath stutters. His shoulders sag, tension draining out of him as if the world finally loosened its grip. Then, quieter—almost shy—he asks, “Can you… text me when you get upstairs?” You tilt your head, amused. “Wow. So demanding.” He panics instantly. “I mean—only if you want to—” You laugh softly and tap his chest. “I’m kidding. I’ll text you.”
“And when you wake up?” he adds, tentative, hopeful. You hum. “That’s a lot of responsibility.”He winces. “…Yeah.” You smile. “I’ll do that too.” He exhales like he’s been holding his breath all evening. “Thank you,” he whispers. He hesitates, then lifts his hand and cups your jaw again—slow, reverent, like he’s still afraid the permission might vanish. His thumb rests warm against your cheekbone. He leans in. This kiss is different. Softer. Calmer. Not searching—just a quiet, lingering press of lips that says stay without trying to keep you. When he pulls back, his forehead rests briefly against yours.
“Goodnight,” he murmurs.
“Goodnight, Rafayel.” You step inside, closing the door gently behind you. Outside, he stays on the curb a moment too long—hands tucked into his pockets, heart still racing—watching the place where you disappeared, learning, slowly, how to let you leave without breaking. As promised, you text Rafayel the moment you make it upstairs. It isn’t anything elaborate—just a simple photo. The seafoam dish resting on your nightstand, lamplight soft against the glaze, the gold detail catching just enough shine to look warm. Lived-in. Like it already belongs there. No caption. You don’t need one.
Rafayel stares at the image for a long time—long enough for the screen to dim, then dim again. The quiet of his apartment presses in around him, suddenly too big, too hollow. Something slow and aching unfurls in his chest at the sight of it. At the thought of something he chose—something he touched—now sitting so close to you. Close to where you sleep. Close to where your hands will reach without thinking. It makes him feel wanted. Desired. Like he left a piece of himself somewhere intimate and it was welcomed there instead of rejected. His thumb hovers over the screen, tracing the outline of the dish without touching it, as if proximity alone could convince him this is real. As if the cool ceramic might warm beneath his skin if he presses hard enough. He exhales, shaky. Good, he tells himself. This is good. This is normal. People give gifts. People keep them. This is what it looks like when someone cares. And then the thought slips in—quiet, uninvited, devastatingly natural. That should be me. It doesn’t arrive with violence. No spike of anger. No bitterness. Just longing—so sharp it steals his breath and makes his chest ache like something is being pulled apart slowly, deliberately.
He presses his tongue to the back of his teeth, forcing the thought down. Forcing himself to behave. To be grateful. To accept what he’s been given without reaching for more. This—this—is enough, he tells himself. A gift on your nightstand. Proof he mattered today. Proof he exists somewhere beyond paint and canvas. But his body doesn’t listen. Because now he knows where you are. Because now he knows you kept what he gave you. Because now the distance between object and person feels unbearably small. He imagines the dish in your hands. Your fingers brushing the rim. The casual intimacy of it—how it will slip into your routine without effort, without thought. Something you’ll touch every day. Something of his. The realization settles into him slowly, deeply. And once it takes root, it doesn’t leave. The date doesn’t ease Rafayel’s longing. It gives it shape. Before, what he felt had been diffuse—something he could tuck away beneath paint-stained routines and careful distance. Inspiration, he’d told himself. Obsession with form, with light, with a subject that lingered too long in his mind. It was manageable when it stayed abstract. Now it isn’t. Now it has weight. Texture. Memory. Your shoulder warm against his when you walked too close. The sound of your laugh when you weren’t trying to be anything for him—unguarded, unmeasured. The way you said his name like it wasn’t fragile, like it wasn’t something that might shatter if spoken too often.
He tells himself this is good. That this is normal. That wanting to see you again—wanting to linger, wanting to walk you to your door and then stand there too long—is simply what happens when two people connect. But the truth is quieter. And more dangerous. Now that he knows what it’s like to be chosen—even briefly—the idea of losing that choice terrifies him more than loneliness ever did. At night, his mind replays the day in careful, merciless detail. Not just the moments where your mouths met and the world narrowed to breath and closeness—but the smaller things, the ones that feel harder to justify lingering on. The way you leaned into him without thinking. The way you didn’t pull away when he asked for reassurance. The way you promised to text him when you got home—and then did. Every replay ends the same way. With you leaving. With silence settling in after. With the unbearable thought that tomorrow you might wake up and decide he was too much. That the warmth of the day was a mistake. That he was something you tried once and won’t try again. The thought tightens his chest until breathing feels like work. So he clings—not with his hands yet, not with words you can hear—but with attention. With vigilance. With the quiet promise he makes to himself that next time, he’ll do better. Be calmer. Be softer. Be indispensable. Because now that he’s had you— Even for a single day— He doesn’t know how to want anything else. And that realization frightens him far more than being alone ever did. After that night, something in Rafayel shifts. Not all at once. Not dramatically. It happens the way rot sets into wood—slow, quiet, disguised as care. It starts with texts.
Good morning, sent too early, like he hasn’t slept.
Did you eat?
Did you get enough rest?
There’s always a reason. Always a softness to it. He never demands, never outright asks for all of you—but the way his eyes search your face when you hesitate makes the answer feel prewritten. When you say yes, the relief is immediate. Visible. His shoulders loosen. His voice warms. He steps closer, like the space between you is something he’s been holding himself back from claiming. And when you say no, He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t sulk. He just goes quiet. Not cold. Not angry. Quiet in a way that makes you wonder if you’ve hurt him. “I understand,” he says, smiling thinly. “Of course, you have your own life.” Later that night, your phone buzzes. Did you get home safely? I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I hope I didn’t overstep earlier. You reassure him. You always do. And reassurance becomes something he needs. Soon, he starts appearing without being asked. Coffee you like, already warm. A jacket when the weather turns. A casual, I was nearby, even when you know he wasn’t. He makes himself useful. Thoughtful. Present. Indispensable. When you’re together, he touches you more—never inappropriate, never rough—but constant. A hand at your waist to guide you through a doorway. Fingers brushing your wrist when you talk. His knee pressed against yours when you sit, anchoring himself like the world might slide away if he doesn’t. When other people talk to you, Rafayel listens too closely. His gaze tracks every laugh that isn’t his. Every smile that lingers too long. He shifts subtly, angling himself between you and them without realizing it. Later, he asks—carefully.
“You seemed comfortable with them,” he says, like it’s just an observation.
“Do you know them well?”
“They were looking at you.” There’s something tight beneath the words. Something watchful. And he tells himself—honestly—that it’s only because he cares. He starts planning further ahead. Not abruptly—never in a way that feels like a demand—but persistently, like he’s laying down stepping stones you’re meant to follow.
“Next week, we could—”
“On Saturday, maybe—”
“If you don’t have plans, I thought we could spend the day together.” The phrasing is always careful. Conditional. Gentle. But you begin to notice how often his plans quietly replace others. When you cancel something else to be with him—when you say, I’d rather stay with you—his reaction borders on reverent. It’s subtle, but unmistakable. His breath eases. His hands linger longer at your sides. His gaze softens, like something fragile has been set down safely at last. “You don’t know how much that means to me,” he says softly once, his thumbs brushing your hips as if grounding himself. “I just feel… better when you’re around.” It sounds romantic. It feels romantic. Until you realize how little space there is left. Rafayel doesn’t like it when you don’t tell him where you’re going. He never says it outright. Never frames it as an expectation. He just asks questions—soft ones, careful ones, dressed up as concern.
“Are you going out tonight?”
“With who?”
“What time do you think you’ll be back?” If you answer easily, he relaxes. If you don’t—if you shrug, or say you’re not sure—something in him tightens. Not visibly at first. Just enough that you notice it in the way his smile lingers too long, the way his attention sharpens like he’s bracing for something. He doesn’t forbid. He watches. And adjusts. When you forget to text back, he doesn’t scold you. He doesn’t accuse. He sends a follow-up hours later.
Hey, just checking in.
I got worried.
The word worried carries more weight every time. And when you tease him about it—call him clingy, say it with a laugh—he stills completely.
Clingy.
The word lodges somewhere deep.“I just…” he says quietly, his eyes searching your face like he’s afraid of what he might find there. “I just don’t want to lose you.” The way he says it makes your chest tighten. Because it doesn’t sound hypothetical. It sounds like a fear he’s already living inside. After that, he stays closer. Not dramatically. Not in a way that feels like a decision. It happens the way habits form—slowly, quietly, until you can’t remember what it was like before. Physically, yes—he’s always near now. An arm slung around your shoulders when you walk. A hand at your lower back in crowded spaces, guiding without asking. Fingers brushing your wrist when he speaks, lingering just long enough to feel intentional. But it’s the other ways that are harder to name. He memorizes your schedule without announcing it. Notices patterns you didn’t realize you had. Starts anticipating your needs before you voice them, offering solutions like proof he’s paying attention. If you’re tired, he suggests staying in. If you’re overwhelmed, he offers to cancel plans—for both of you. If someone upsets you, he listens intently, jaw set, storing the information away like it might be useful later. When you say you need time alone, he agrees immediately. “Of course,” he says gently. “Take all the time you need.” But his eyes linger when you turn away. And later—always later—you’ll get a message. Just wanted to remind you I’m here. You don’t have to be alone if you don’t want to be. He means it kindly. That’s the problem. Because it’s never framed as ownership. It’s framed as devotion.
And devotion is harder to refuse. The closer he gets, the more certain he becomes—not of you leaving, but of how unbearable that possibility would be. He starts treating your presence like something fragile, something that needs constant tending or it might slip away. Somewhere between caring and guarding, the line blurs. Rafayel doesn’t notice when it happens. Only that the world feels quieter when you’re near. Only that everything else feels less important. Only that the idea of you choosing someone else—somewhere else—feels wrong. Not immoral. Just… incorrect. Like the universe misplacing something precious. And the thought curls in his chest, tight and restless, pushing him toward vigilance instead of trust—toward holding rather than letting be. He tells himself he’s just afraid. He tells himself fear is natural. He does not ask what fear turns into when it’s fed every day. When you pull him close afterward, it isn’t dramatic. There’s no sudden urgency, no rush of mouths or hands searching blindly. It’s quiet—foreheads touching, breath uneven, the space between you gone in a way that feels chosen rather than taken. Rafayel exhales against your temple, slow and careful, like he’s afraid the moment might fracture if he puts too much weight into it.
“I don’t need anything else,” he murmurs. The words aren’t a vow. They aren’t a demand. They sound like something he’s trying to convince himself of. They sit heavy anyway. For a brief second, you wonder what he means by them. Loving you— or not wanting the world beyond you. You don’t pull away right away. You let his hands stay where they are, steady at your waist, certain, anchoring. You feel how tightly he’s holding himself together, how close he is to something frayed beneath the calm. Eventually, you shift—just enough to remind him that you can move. That you’re staying because you want to. “I actually…” you say softly. “I have something for you.” He stills. Not pulling back. Not tightening his grip. Just attentive—like an animal that’s learned the sound of a door unlocking. “For me?” he asks, quiet, reverent.
You nod and reach into your bag, fingers brushing past familiar weight until you find the small box tucked carefully inside. When you place it in his hands, he blinks—startled by the reversal, by being given instead of holding. He opens it slowly. Inside is the music box.No ornate casing. No attempt to hide what it is. Just exposed brass and steel, tiny gears waiting for motion, a hand-crank meant to be turned deliberately. At its center stand two figures, frozen mid-step. Two men. Hands joined. Bodies angled inward, caught forever in the moment before the turn completes. Rafayel inhales sharply, breath catching like it’s been knocked from him. You turn the crank. The melody spills out—soft, aching, intimate. It feels older than either of you, like something that’s been waiting patiently for hands to bring it back to life. The figures begin to circle each other slowly, endlessly, never separating unless someone chooses to stop. Rafayel doesn’t blink. His gaze drops to the inside of the lid.
To my one true love
The words sit there unguarded. Unapologetic. Real in a way that makes his throat tighten painfully. “You…” His voice shakes. “You had this made?”
“For you,” you say simply. “I thought you deserved something that only plays if someone keeps choosing it.”
His fingers curl around the box—too tight, too fast—like he’s afraid the moment might vanish if he relaxes. He closes the lid carefully, reverently, then pulls you back against him without warning. This time, it’s instinctive. His arms lock around you—not rough, not frantic—but certain. Possessive in a way that feels reflexive rather than intentional, as if the gift confirmed something he’s been circling for days. As if it gave form to a thought he’s been refusing to name. “You shouldn’t give me things like this,” he whispers into your hair. Not accusing. Almost afraid. “Why?” you ask quietly. Because I won’t know how to give you back, his silence answers. Instead, he breathes you in and rests his forehead against yours, the ghost of the melody still echoing somewhere between your ribs. “I just…” He falters, searching. “I don’t want you to ever feel like you’re not enough.” The admission is softer than a confession—heavier than a promise. And it stays. Because you can feel it now—in the way his hands don’t move. In the way his body subtly angles, like he’s guarding the space around you. In the way the music box is held against his chest, close to his heart, like something he intends to keep alive. You wonder again— Is this him learning how to love you? Or is this the moment he decides not to let you go?It doesn’t frighten you—the way he clings. Not really. If anything, it feels familiar.
Comforting, in a way that settles low in your chest and stays there, warm and steady. Like something you’ve been waiting for without realizing it had a name. You notice it first in the quiet moments. In how often your hand drifts to your phone without conscious thought, thumb hovering over his name even when there’s no notification. In how your focus slips—mid-conversation, mid-task—back to wondering what he’s doing, if he’s eaten, if he’s painting, if he’s thinking about you the same way you’re thinking about him. You tell yourself it’s nothing. You tell yourself it’s normal. When he texts you good morning, you smile before you can stop yourself. When he asks if you’ve eaten, you answer honestly—even on days you wouldn’t bother explaining yourself to anyone else. When he says he misses you, it doesn’t feel like pressure. It feels like permission. Like you’re allowed to want him back. You start shaping your days around him without meaning to. Leaving time open just in case. Declining invitations with an ease that surprises you, because the truth slips out so simply when you’re honest with yourself: You’d rather be with him.
When he shows up with coffee the way you like it—already sweetened, already warm—you feel a small thrill curl through you. When his hand settles at your waist in public, guiding you through crowds, you lean into it instead of away. When his knee presses against yours when you sit, you don’t shift. You press back. And you see it—the way his breath eases when you do. The way his shoulders loosen, like he’d been bracing for rejection that never comes. The relief in his eyes when you mirror him, match him, stay. You start recognizing the hunger in him because it reflects something in yourself.
The wanting.
The ache that sharpens when he pulls away even slightly. The irrational flicker of irritation when someone else makes him laugh. The tightness in your chest when you imagine him offering this version of himself—soft, attentive, devoted—to anyone but you. You don’t call it jealousy. You call it care. You don’t call it obsession. You call it love. When he asks—carefully, almost timidly—if you’ll stay the night, you say yes before he finishes the sentence. When he admits he sleeps better with you there, you don’t tease him. You curl closer. You begin leaving things at his place on purpose. A sweater. A book. Something small, easily overlooked—but you never forget. You like knowing he’ll see it when you’re gone. Like a trace. Like proof you were there. And when he notices—when his fingers linger on your things, when his voice goes quiet and reverent as he says your name—you feel something dark and sweet bloom in your chest.
Chosen.
Claimed.
You realize, slowly, that you don’t want space any more than he does. That when he watches you too closely, you don’t feel trapped—you feel seen. That when he asks where you’re going, you answer because you want him to know. That when he pulls you closer, no part of you resists. If anything— You tighten your grip. Because somewhere along the way, without either of you saying it out loud, the truth settles in: You are not being pulled into his devotion. You are walking into it willingly. And you are bringing your own hunger with you. It happens without either of you naming it. Not with a question. Not with anything special. Just… accumulation. Days start blending together in ways that feel intentional instead of accidental. Mornings bleed into afternoons that end with him waiting for you—leaning against a doorframe, sitting cross-legged on the couch, paint smudged on his knuckles like he forgot to wash his hands because he was too busy thinking about you. You stop asking if you can come over. He stops pretending you aren’t already expected. Sometimes you arrive to find him mid-painting, sunlight spilling across the studio floor, music low and looping. He glances up when you enter, eyes lighting with something immediate and unguarded, like relief arrives in your shape.
“Hey,” he says, voice soft but sure.
Not Oh—hi.
Not I didn’t know you were coming.
Just hey.
Of course, it’s you.
You move around his space with growing familiarity—bare feet on cool floorboards, fingers brushing shelves you know he never dusts, body fitting into the negative space he leaves behind without realizing it. He watches you with quiet focus, eyes following the way you settle in like you belong. Because you do. When he paints now, he hums. Not always. Not loudly. But enough that you notice it when it’s gone. He talks more too—about colors, about ideas that don’t quite have names yet, about things that used to stay locked behind his teeth because he didn’t trust anyone enough to let them hear. You sit with him while he works. Sometimes reading. Sometimes doing nothing at all.
Sometimes just watching him exist. He reaches for you without thinking now. A hand at your lower back when he passes. Fingers curling into the hem of your shirt when he’s tired. Your presence anchors him in ways that feel instinctive, like he’s always known where to find his balance—he just didn’t know it was you. There are still moments—small ones—where doubt creeps in. When praise comes too easily. When attention lingers too long on him from someone else. When his phone buzzes with messages he doesn’t open right away.In those moments, he glances at you like he’s checking the tide. And you meet his gaze every time. You don’t reassure him with words. You don’t soften it, don’t make it smaller. You simply stay. That seems to be enough. One evening, you’re both stretched out on the couch, legs tangled, the room dim except for the glow of the fish tank humming softly nearby. The cat—traitor—has chosen your lap over his shoulder, purring smugly while Rafayel pretends not to care.
He’s quiet longer than usual.
Eventually, he exhales. “I don’t think I’m good at halfway,” he admits, voice low. “At… almost.” You tilt your head, watching him. “What does that mean?” He thinks for a moment, fingers tracing absent patterns on your thigh. “It means,” he says slowly, “that once something matters to me, I don’t know how to hold it lightly.” You don’t pull away. Instead, you shift closer, letting his arm slide fully around you. “Good,” you say simply. He looks at you then—really looks at you—and something steadies in his expression. Like permission has been granted without being asked for. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. After that, the shape of things becomes clearer. You don’t drift. You stay. And whatever this is—whatever it’s becoming—it doesn’t feel like falling anymore. It feels like choosing. Time doesn’t change things all at once. It smooths them. Rounds the sharp edges down until what once felt volatile becomes livable—until the intensity settles into something that looks, from the outside, like stability.
Years pass.
Rafayel grows back into himself—not the careful, guarded man he once was, but something brighter. Louder. Effortless in a way that makes rooms turn toward him without him trying. His laughter returns first, spilling out of him in public spaces, quick and infectious. Then his confidence follows, natural and unforced, like it had only ever been waiting for permission. He becomes renowned. Not overnight—but undeniably. His work circulates in places you never imagined it would. Invitations arrive embossed and formal. Galleries court him with reverence. People speak his name like it carries weight, like it means something before he even enters the room. And he enters rooms like he owns them.
There are moments—brief ones—where the old insecurity flickers. When praise feels too loud. When someone calls him brilliant and he glances at you like he’s checking the tide before stepping forward. But they pass quickly now. He straightens. Smiles. Takes the compliment without shrinking. He shines. Like mother-of-pearl lifted into the light—iridescent, shifting, luminous. Something born of the ocean and polished by time. Impossible to overlook once you’ve seen him. You live together by then. The decision is made quietly, without ceremony. A drawer becomes shared. Then a closet. Then the realization that you haven’t spent a night apart in weeks and neither of you wants to change that. The apartment fills with the evidence of two lives weaving together—books stacked where they don’t belong, mugs abandoned half-full, canvases leaned against walls like they’re resting.
You adopt a cat.
Rafayel hates it on principle.Claims it’s plotting. That it watches him when he paints. That it’s trying to undermine him. He refuses to touch it, speaks to it like it understands every word, and scolds it with absolute seriousness. You love it immediately. To compromise, you get fish too—slow, shimmering things drifting through water like living brushstrokes. Rafayel dotes on them openly, treating the tank like an installation. He lectures the cat about boundaries. The cat ignores him. Life is… peaceful.
You cook together. Argue over nothing. Sleep tangled and wake slowly. Rafayel paints with the windows open now, sunlight spilling across unfinished canvases, music drifting through the apartment. Fame no longer eats at him—it fits, like something he grew into instead of something that swallowed him whole. And yet— There are moments when the roles feel reversed. At openings, people praise his work before they notice you. They look at you with polite curiosity instead of recognition, smiles kind but distant, like you’re an addition rather than a constant. Questions orbit him and barely brush you. You wonder when it happened. When he became the ocean’s treasure—luminous, iridescent, impossible to overlook. And you— Quietly, steadily— Became the shore he always returns to. The thought unsettles you more than you expect. Rafayel notices before you ever say a word. He always does.
His hand finds your lower back in crowded rooms, grounding and possessive. His attention never strays far for long; even mid-conversation, his eyes flick toward you, checking. When someone lingers too close, he angles himself subtly between you and them—not defensive, just certain. At home, the confidence softens. You’ll find him standing by the window late at night sometimes, shoulders loose but eyes far away, fingers tapping against the glass like he’s counting waves only he can hear. “I don’t know how this happened,” he admits once, voice quiet, almost embarrassed. “That they… want my work. That they listen when I speak.” You slide your arms around him from behind, cheek pressing against his shoulder blades. “They always did,” you say. “They just caught up.” He laughs softly, leaning back into you like gravity has always been calibrated to your body. “That’s not what I mean,” he murmurs. His hand covers yours. “I keep thinking… one day they’ll realize I’m not what they think. That I was just lucky.”
“And then what?” you ask gently. He turns in your arms, expression earnest. “Then I’ll lose it.” “And me?” you ask. He doesn’t hesitate. “You won’t leave,” he says, certain. Then, quieter, “You’re the only thing I’ve never been afraid of losing.” The answer twists something in your chest—warm and uneasy all at once. Later, curled together in bed, his arm heavy around your waist, he murmurs half-asleep, “Promise you’ll tell me if I start disappearing into it.” You lace your fingers with his. “I promise.” He sleeps easier after that. The years keep moving.
The love doesn’t dull—it deepens. Settles. Becomes something lived-in and unshakeable. Rafayel never stops being openly, unabashedly devoted to you. He introduces you with pride. Touches you like you’re an anchor. Looks for you first in every room, no matter how full it is. And still—when people look at you with polite curiosity instead of recognition, when they smile like you’re an addition rather than the constant that shaped him, the doubt slips in quietly. You wonder when the roles switched. When he became the one everyone wanted. And you became the place he always came back to. But every night, when the door closes and the world is shut out, Rafayel curls into you with the same certainty he always has. Confidence melting into something private. Brilliance softening into devotion. He is still the most captivating person in any room. But with you— He is simply home. And you understand, finally, that love does not always consume. Sometimes, it steadies. Sometimes, it shines. And sometimes, it chooses to return to the same shore, over and over—not because it must— But because it wants to. And that wanting doesn’t stay quiet for long.
It creeps in slowly at first—felt more than noticed. The way his hand lingers at your waist a second too long before sliding away. The way his breathing changes when you shift closer, when your knee brushes his, when the air between you grows thick and charged. Rafayel goes still. Not pulling away. Listening. Like he’s registering something deep and instinctive, something that bypasses thought entirely. “Do you feel that?” he murmurs, voice low, almost disbelieving. You don’t answer with words. You tilt your head just enough to close the distance, just enough that his breath ghosts your mouth—and the effect is immediate. His grip tightens. Not rough. Not desperate. Controlled. Barely. The world narrows. Too much light. Too much warmth. Your senses overload in a way that makes everything blur at the edges—like you might lose your balance if you don’t anchor yourself to him. His name flickers through your mind and then disappears entirely, replaced by sensation. He swallows hard. “You do this to me,” he admits quietly. Not accusing. Almost awed. “You make everything else… fade.”
His forehead presses to yours again, but this time there’s tension there—an undercurrent of restraint humming so loudly it’s nearly unbearable. His breath is uneven now, warm against your lips, every inhale deliberate like he’s bracing himself against something that wants to take over. And you realize— He isn’t holding back because he doesn’t want you. He’s holding back because he wants you too much. Your fingers curl into his shirt. Just fabric. Just contact. It’s enough to make his vision go momentarily unfocused. “Careful,” he exhales, half a laugh, half a warning. “If you keep looking at me like that, I might forget how to be reasonable.” The words send a thrill through you—sharp and dizzying. The kind that makes your pulse race and your thoughts scatter, like your body is reacting faster than your mind can keep up. You lean in anyway. This time, when he pulls you close, there’s nothing tentative about it. His arms wrap around you with intent, pressing you firmly against him, grounding and overwhelming all at once. The heat between you spikes—bright, consuming—until it feels like too much and not enough simultaneously. For a moment, you’re certain you might actually lose your footing. He feels it. Immediately.
His hold tightens just enough to steady you, his mouth brushing your temple, your cheek, your jaw—never crossing the line, but dancing so close to it that your vision swims. “Breathe,” he murmurs against you, like he’s reminding both of you. You do. Barely. And when he finally stills—when the intensity ebbs just enough to let the world back in—you’re left flushed, breathless, heart hammering like you ran headlong into something you weren’t prepared for. He rests his forehead against yours again, eyes dark, focused entirely on you. The tension doesn’t snap. It coils. Lives in the narrow space between your bodies where neither of you steps back, where the air feels too thick to breathe without effort. Rafayel’s breath ghosts your skin again—slow, deliberate—like he’s testing how close he can get before something inside him finally gives. His hands stay at your back, firm and grounding, the only thing keeping you upright as the world tilts slightly off its axis. “You’re doing this on purpose,” he murmurs, the words hovering between accusation and confession.You don’t answer. You shift closer.
The reaction is immediate. His breath stutters. His grip tightens just enough to be unmistakable. For a split second his eyes close, like the sensation alone is too much—too bright, too loud, too real. Your pulse roars in your ears, drowning out everything else until the room feels distant, unreal. “This is the part where I’m supposed to stop,” he says quietly. He doesn’t. His forehead presses to yours—not carefully this time, not with space left for retreat. Just warmth and breath and the unmistakable sense of standing at the edge of something irreversible. “If I cross this line,” he continues, voice rough now, stripped of polish and pretense, “I don’t know how to pretend I don’t want you the way I do.” Your vision blurs at the edges—not from fear, but from the sheer intensity of being seen so completely it feels like exposure. Like standing in full light after living in shadow. The silence stretches. Heavy. Unbearable. It’s permission. Something in him settles then—not restraint breaking, but decision. Gravity shifts. Rafayel pulls you in with devastating certainty, controlled and deliberate, like he’s finally stopped pretending you aren’t the center he orbits. “I’ve been holding back since the day I met you,” he admits, low and steady. The truth of it lands hard.
His hand slides up your spine slowly, possessive without being forceful, sure in a way that steals your breath because it isn’t rushed—it’s chosen. There’s no hesitation left, no measuring of distance. Only intent. “When you look at me like that,” he says softly, “everything else disappears. I forget how to be patient.” He stays close, breathing you in like oxygen, like he’s finally allowed himself to need it. And you realize this isn’t him losing control—This is control. Just focused entirely on you. “I won’t hurt you,” he promises, quiet and unshakable. “But I won’t pretend anymore.” The closeness becomes dizzying, overwhelming in the way strong light is overwhelming—senses blurring, the rest of the world fading until there’s only heat and breath and the certainty of his attention wrapped fully around you. He pauses. Not because he must. Because he’s giving you the choice. And the pause itself is almost unbearable. The pause doesn’t last. It breaks. Not violently—decisively.
Rafayel moves like something that’s finally stopped waiting, all coiled restraint releasing at once. One second there’s space, breath, the fragile illusion of choice—and the next he’s there, closing the distance with terrifying precision. Like a strike. Clean. Certain. His hand catches you at the back of the neck—not rough, not gentle—just enough pressure to make your thoughts scatter, to anchor your body exactly where he wants it. The world narrows violently, vision tunneling until there’s only him, only the heat of his presence and the unshakable certainty of being caught. He doesn’t rush. That’s the most dangerous part. His forehead brushes yours again, closer than before, breath warm and controlled against your lips as if he’s savoring the moment after impact—after prey stills, after escape is no longer an option.
Your pulse hammers so loudly it feels like it might drown out sound itself. The intensity steals your breath—not because you’re afraid, but because every nerve feels suddenly exposed, lit too brightly to look at directly. His thumb presses just under your jaw, lifting your chin with deliberate care. Command without cruelty. Possession without force.“I gave you a chance to walk away,” he says softly. Not a threat. A truth. “You didn’t.” His gaze locks onto yours, unblinking, all confidence now—no hesitation left to hide behind. Whatever hunger lived beneath his restraint is no longer restrained at all. And still—he doesn’t take more than you give. He stays there, impossibly close, presence overwhelming, letting the weight of him sink in. Letting you feel what it means to be chosen and claimed in the same breath. “This isn’t me losing control,” he adds, quieter now, almost intimate. “This is me deciding.” The air feels thinner. The room feels unreal.
You’re aware—suddenly, vividly—that everything after this will be different. That lines don’t uncross. That once something this sharp has found you, it doesn’t loosen its hold easily. Rafayel leans in just enough for his words to brush your mouth. “And now,” he whispers, “I don’t intend to let go.” The moment hangs there—electric, blinding—like the world is holding its breath with you. Waiting to see what you’ll do now that you’ve been caught. It doesn’t start with movement. It starts with impact. The space between you collapses all at once—no warning, no gentling—like two worlds finally giving up on orbit and crashing together. His mouth meets yours with brutal certainty, not asking, not testing, just claiming, like restraint finally detonated. The kiss isn’t soft. It isn’t careful. It’s force—raw and unfiltered—like something ancient tearing free.
Your teeth knock, breaths clash, heat flares so sudden it’s almost dizzying. There’s a sound between you—half gasp, half growl—caught where your mouths collide again, harder this time, like neither of you is willing to give ground. It feels violent not because it hurts—but because it overwhelms. Like being pulled under by a wave you didn’t realize was already breaking. His hand fists in your clothes, anchoring, demanding, like if he doesn’t hold you like this, you’ll both be flung apart by the force of it. Your fingers dig into him just as fiercely, answering pressure with pressure, hunger with hunger. There’s no hesitation left. No distance. No pretending this is anything less than catastrophic. This isn’t a kiss meant to reassure. It’s a kiss meant to consume—to see who yields first, who burns out, who survives the collision. And neither of you does.
You just keep crashing back into each other, breathless and unafraid, like the destruction was always inevitable—and somehow, exactly what you both wanted. The kiss doesn’t slow. It fractures. Hands slip, then grip—fingers digging in like they’re searching for purchase, like skin is the only thing keeping either of you from breaking apart entirely. Fabric twists between your fists, pulled tight, wrinkled, abused in the way something gets when it’s in the way of want. Rafayel makes a sound against your mouth—low, rough, unguarded—and it’s the last thing that resembles restraint. He crowds your space completely, pressing you back not with force but inevitability, like gravity has finally decided which way you’re meant to fall. His hands roam with purpose now, not exploring but claiming, sliding, clutching, tugging you closer every time you try to breathe. You answer him with the same hunger.
Your fingers hook into his shirt, dragging him back just as hard, refusing to be the only one undone. Nails scrape, tear into fabric and skin alike, leaving proof—evidence of how desperately you’re both trying to anchor this moment into something permanent. This isn’t careful. This isn’t patient. It’s mouths and hands and bodies colliding again and again, each movement a silent challenge: don’t let go. Every pull is answered. Every gasp is stolen. Every inch between you is erased with intent. He presses his forehead to yours for half a second—just long enough for breath to shudder between you—eyes dark, blown wide with want and something far more dangerous. And when you drag him back into you, harder this time, there’s no mistaking the truth anymore: You’re not tearing at each other to see who wins. You’re tearing because neither of you knows how to stop.
And somewhere between the bruising grip and the shared breath, the line between want and need disappears completely. The impact comes suddenly. Not planned—just momentum and want and the way neither of you bothers to slow down. Your back meets the wall with a sharp knock, the stand beside it rattling in protest. Something slips. Something clatters. The sound is small but jarring—metal against wood, a delicate skitter before a dull thud. The music box. It hits the floor and goes silent. For half a breath—no more than that—Rafayel stills. His forehead rests against yours, breath ragged, chest rising fast. His gaze drops, sharp and immediate, eyes flicking to where it landed. The box lies on its side, the lid shut, intact. Unbroken.
Good.
The relief flashes through him like instinct, like muscle memory. Then he’s back. Hands come up to either side of your head, caging you in as he presses forward again, harder this time—like the interruption only sharpened the edge of him. Like the brief reminder of fragility made him refuse to be gentle. His mouth finds yours with renewed hunger, devouring instead of seeking, as if to make up for the lost second. His body pins you there, undeniable, claiming the space completely—no room to retreat, no room to think.
The music box stays where it is. Forgotten. Because you’re here. Warm. Breathing. Answering him with the same ferocity, fingers curling into his shirt, dragging him closer like you might fuse together if you try hard enough. If it breaks later, he’ll fix it. If it shatters, he’ll rebuild it. But right now—right now the only thing that matters is the way you fit against him, the way the world narrows to wall and breath and the relentless certainty of being wanted. What happens next is quiet—but irrevocable. Rafayel rests his forehead against yours, breath uneven again, hands still braced on either side of you. His voice drops low—not asking, but checking something essential. “Tell me to stop.” Not because he wants you to. Because if you don’t, he will take that silence as permission in a way that changes everything. Rafayel’s grin is slow. Not playful. Not teasing.
It’s the kind of smile that belongs to someone who already knows the answer—and is only watching to see how boldly you’ll claim it. “And if I don’t?” you ask, voice steady despite the way your pulse is screaming. “What will you do then?” Something dark and delighted flickers behind his eyes. For a moment, he doesn’t move at all. Then he exhales—a soft, almost reverent sound—and tilts his head just enough that his nose brushes yours. Close. Close enough that the air between you feels charged, brittle, like it might shatter if either of you breathes wrong. “Why don’t I just show you?” he murmurs. His hand settles at your jaw, thumb brushing along the line of it with infuriating slowness, like he’s savoring the restraint more than the act itself. The touch is gentle—but it carries intent, unmistakable and heavy, a promise wrapped in patience.
He tilts your face up just enough that you have no choice but to meet his gaze. Up close, his eyes are all heat and focus, stripped of the careful polish he wears for the world. There’s no doubt in them now. No hesitation. Just the quiet certainty of someone who knows exactly where this is going—and is allowing you the illusion of choice. “Look at you,” he says softly, almost fond. His thumb pauses beneath your lip, not pressing, not pushing—waiting. “Just sitting there, waiting for me. Such a good boy.” The air between you tightens, stretched thin as a wire. And then—before thought can catch up to instinct—he closes the distance. Not rushed. Not careless. A decisive, claiming motion that steals the breath from your lungs and leaves no room for doubt about who moved first. The moment snaps.
The space between you collapses like a fault line giving way, and the kiss that follows is nothing like the ones before it—nothing careful, nothing restrained. It’s a collision. Mouths meeting with force, teeth grazing, breath stolen and traded back like neither of you knows how to breathe alone anymore. There’s hunger in it. Not polite. Not practiced. Raw. His hand tightens at your jaw, fingers threading into your hair as if instinct takes over before thought can intervene. He kisses you like he’s been waiting too long, like restraint has finally been torn clean away, and there’s no point pretending otherwise. It’s messy, urgent, all heat and friction—two wills crashing, neither willing to give ground. You answer him without hesitation.
You bite back. Pull him closer. Fingers clutching at his clothes, at his shoulders, at anything solid enough to hold him there. The sound between you is unguarded—breath, the quiet edge of a growl in his throat, the sharp inhale you don’t bother hiding when he presses closer and pushes his bulge into your hip. “Rafayel,” you whine, rolling your hips against his as you realize just how badly you’ve craved him this entire time, “Rafayel” you cry, moaning as his hand sides down your side, and with a sharp, impatient pull, he hooks your thigh onto his hip. The sudden shift brings you two closer, your chests press against each other as his bulge slides briefly over your still clothed cunt before finding its temporary home in the crease of your thigh.
“Rafayel,” you moan out, your cunt clenching around nothing but air as you rock against him. “Bed,” you grunt out, pushing off the wall, “bed now.” He stills for half a heartbeat. Just long enough for the words to land. Then his mouth curves—slow, dangerous, unmistakably pleased.“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice rough with promise. “Then don’t slow down.” He grips you again, decisive this time, steering you away from the wall with a force that’s all intent and no hesitation. The room blurs—furniture passed too close, breath knocked loose as he moves you like he’s already memorized the path. His hand stays firm at your thigh, the other braced at your back, keeping you upright, close, claimed. Every step feels like a countdown.
He doesn’t kiss you on the way—doesn’t need to. The tension stretches tight between you instead, electric, unbearable. When you reach the edge of the bed, he crowds you there, bodies colliding again, foreheads knocking together as he exhales a laugh that sounds half-feral, half-devout. “Look at you,” he breathes, low and wrecked. “Ordering me around.”You don’t get a chance to answer. He presses you down—not gently, not roughly—inevitably, like gravity has finally decided where you belong. The mattress dips, the world tilts, and he follows immediately, bracing himself over you, eyes dark and shining, devotion sharpened into something almost frightening. For a moment, he just looks. Like he’s taking inventory. Like he’s choosing this again—fully, finally. Then he leans in, mouth brushing your ear, voice quiet and irresistible.“Don’t worry, baby,” he says softly, cooing in your ear, “I’ll take care of you.” Then his mouth lowers. Not rushed. Not frantic.
A kiss pressed just below your jaw. Another along your throat. Slow, deliberate, as if he’s mapping you by memory instead of sight. Each one lingers just long enough to make your breath hitch before he moves again, trailing warmth downward in a way that feels almost possessive.He doesn’t stop until he reaches the waistband of your pants, “Let’s get these off, okay?” He mutters into your skin, placing one last kiss on your bare hip—your shirt long torn apart— before leaning back, just enough to look at you .His hand brushes your bare flesh as he unzips your pants, movements unhurried, deliberate—like he’s savoring the moment rather than rushing it. The fabric slides down your legs, pooling at the edge of the bed, and for a heartbeat, he stills, eyes tracking the way you react to his touch. Then, almost like he’s remembering himself again, he pulls back just enough to shuck off his own pants, movements less careful now—impatient in a way that makes your pulse spike. He climbs back onto the bed, weight settling over you, heat radiating from him as his hands find your thighs, your waist, anchoring you in place. The mattress dips beneath you both.
Rafayel leans in, foreheads nearly touching, breath warm against your skin. His expression laced with excitement as his hands find the waistband of your underwear, they stay there for a while, snapping the band against your skin, ignoring the hands that try to shoo them away, before they finally get rid of the last piece of clothing shielding your entirety from the painter. Rafayel’s reaction is immediate, as his hand quickly shoots out to spread your folds as he shoves his knees between your thighs, forcing you to spread them. “So beautiful,” he whistles, gently rubbing at your clit.
“Rafayel.” You whine, your thighs shaking as you’re forced to take whatever the artist decides to give you. He shushes you, applying more pressure behind his rubbing, staring at your frothing hole, before stuffing two of his fingers into it, curling his fingers just so. You yelp, clutching at his wrist with your hands, “Rafayel,” you moan out, your cunt clenching around his fingers as they plunge into your already sensitive cunt as if it’s nothing more than a toy. The artist grinned, adding another finger to your cunt, cooing at your whimpered pleas. “Rafayel,” you mumble, half-drunk off of pleasure. “Yes, cutie?” He answers, playing with your oversensitive clit like it’s a fucking joystick. “I want you in me.” You confess, nudging him with your knee as if that would get him to hurry up and stop teasing you.
“I know, I want to be in you.” He whispered, emphasizing his want by rolling his bulge against your cunt, “Rafayel!” You squeaked, your head falling back against the pillow as your hips desperately try— and fail— to follow his. “I’ll give you what you want, baby, I always have, haven’t I?” He questions, feigning hurt. Rafayel’s words began to jumble as you found yourself approaching the top of the roller coaster that is your orgasm. His touch seemed to be blistering as you rocked against his hand, trying desperately to chase your high. The need you felt for Rafayel was all-consuming. There was nothing you wanted more than Rafayel, and in this moment, you wanted nothing more than to feel his cock inside you. At this rate, you’ll die if he doesn’t fuck you properly. You needed his cock in you yesterday! “Rafayel…, ‘m gonna cum” you slur, swallow your built-up saliva. “Oh, we can’t have that, now can we?” He mused, pulling his fingers out of you, shushing your panicked whines and frustrated cries as your orgasm is stopped right at its peak.
“Don’t worry, baby, I’ll give you what you need.” He rasped, hissing as he pulled his heated flesh out of its confinements, “ I always give you what you need, don’t I, baby?” He coaxed, tapping the tip of his cock against your hole and watching you desperately try to force it in. “Mhm, yes— yes!” You stutter out, working your hips, “Please! Please,” you plead, trying desperately to get his cock inside you. “Calm down, sweetheart.” He instructed, reaching out to cup your jaw, tilting your head towards him, “Calm down.” He waits for your breathing to steady, ignores the whine in your throat, and the way your body strains toward him. “There,” he rasps. “That’s better.” Only then does he finally move, closing the distance between his cock and your cunt, he pushes into your tight, warm cunt. Carefully, slowly, as if he’ll lose control if he goes any faster.
“Raf-“ your breath hitch, your soaked cunt clenching around him as the artist moans out above you, “fuck!” He swears, voice strained as his fingers clutch at the pillow beneath your head. “Fuck! If I knew you felt like this, I would’ve done this much- much sooner.” He admitted, his eyes locked on you. You gasp, arching your body towards him, “Rafayel,” you cry, eyes shimmering with unshed tears at the mere stretch of him. “Mhm, you’re too big,” you pant, barely managing the words, your hips rolling up into his as he tries— and fails— to regain his composure. “Holy shit,” He laughs, unhinged, breath coming in broken spurts as he buries his face in the crease of your neck, hips twitching as he fights against instinct. “Baby,” he breathes, the word slurred like he’s intoxicated by you alone, unfocused as he presses a kiss to your neck. “Please tell me I can move,” he pleads softly. “I can’t stay like this forever,” the complaint ending in a sharp, involuntary shift of his hips.
It takes a while for his words to reach you, your mind stuffed with cotton—slow, muffled—like someone poured warm syrup over your thoughts and left them there to sink. Everything moves too thickly to grasp, sensations blurring together until you can’t tell where one ends and the next begins. Your tongue feels heavy, useless in your mouth, and it takes longer than it should to remember how to move at all. Even then, all you manage is a wrecked, broken plea: “Move… please.” And like the gracious man he is, he listens, responding in a way that ignites something electric between you, pleasure finding its way into every one of your nerves. “Fuck— baby,” he whines— reverent in the way he says it, “you feel so-so fucking good,” he’s almost frantic the way he says it, his words slurring as he pushes his body closer to yours, almost as if he’s trying to merge them together— become one with you. Your broken pleas echo softly through the room as you let Rafayel unravel you piece by piece, his thrusts increasing in strength as his desperation mounts and spills.
“You’re so pretty like this,” he slurs, thumb brushing over your bottom lip, “moaning, begging— pleading for me,” His smile is sharp with satisfaction—not cruel, but certain—thrilled by the way you unravel for him alone. Thrilled by the knowledge that this version of you belongs only to him. You—so carefully held together in every other moment—coming undone in his hands. His attention drifts, briefly, to the ring on your finger as it gleams faintly in the dark, grounding him in the truth of it. Only I will ever see you like this. The thought feels almost tragic to him—not in sorrow, but in reverence. That no one else will ever know you like this. That no one else will see how breathtaking you are when the world has been stripped away—eyes unfocused, emotion written openly across your face, every careful wall finally lowered.
“‘m gon’a cum” you slur, your cunt tightening around the artist’s cock, “then cum, sweetheart. I will not stop you,” he says, I will not stop, he thinks. Rafayel watches in quiet awe as your breath stutters and your back arches, the sound caught in your throat as your orgasm finally overtakes you. And Rafayel— Rafayel doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, thrusts never slowing— never stopping. His head tilts back, jaw slack with sensation as he fights the clench of your cunt, forcing his cock in and out of it as it desperately tries— and fails— to force him out. “Do you hear that, sweetheart?” he grins, lifting a hand to cover your mouth. “Shh—listen.” It takes you a while to hear it, to busy memorizing the feel of Rafayel’s cock inside you. But then you do, it was quiet at first, distant to the sound of skin slapping skin, but then it was there, the sound of your slick walls clinging to the artist’s cock as it plunges into your cunt and the sound it makes when the suction breaks and it’s forced to let go.
“Do you hear how wet you are?” He grins, leaning down to kiss and bite at your neck. “How wet I’ve made you?”He brags softly, breath breaking as he mutters curses under his breath when you tense around him. “You’re so good for me— to me— fuck!” he chokes out, voice breaking with awe as he listens to you unravel beneath him—whining and pleading as your next orgasm builds. “You’re gonna cum again, baby?” He mutters against your forehead, kissing the flesh there. “Gonna cum with me?” He questions, hand reaching down to rub at your overly sensitive clit, his eyes baring into yours as he watches pleasure consume you. “That’s it, baby,”He whispers his praise, reverent, pressing kisses to your tear-streaked skin before finally kissing you. “Cum, for me.” He watches as you fall apart, your body twitches as you fall deeper and deeper in overwhelming pleasure, “Rafayel” you mewl, using what little strength you have to bring your lips together.
A groan tears from him as you part, his hips sputter as they slow to handle his oncoming orgasm, “Can I-“ a moan cuts him off, his hips jerk as he holds back his orgasm, “can I cum— inside? Please—“ his voice breaks as his hand slides up to grip your waist, holding on like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.“Yes— yes, Rafayel— please!” You beg, feverish at the thought of being filled with more than just cock. Permission was all the artist needed, the force behind his thrusts increased two-fold as he chased his high and yours, “Thank you- thank you— fuck.” He cries, kissing whatever skin his mouth can reach as he reached the pinnacle of his pleasure and you yours. “Fuck,” he breathes, collapsing against your chest. His heartbeat is still racing when he speaks again, voice gentler now, almost shy. “That was… incredible.” He lifts his head just enough to look at you, concern already replacing the heat in his eyes. “Are you okay?” he asks quietly. “Do you need anything?”
“Wait— I’ll go get you some water, okay, baby?” he murmurs, already shifting, his voice gentle as he presses a kiss to your temple. He hushes your soft protest when he pulls out with another kiss, brushing his thumb soothingly along your cheek.
“I’ll be right back,” he promises, breath still uneven but touch careful now. “Just—stay here for me, okay?” And then he’s gone, footsteps hurried as he disappears into the kitchen, leaving behind the lingering warmth of him. He comes back quickly— almost too quickly… Almost as if he’s afraid to let you out of his sight now that he’s claimed you so completely. The glass of water trembles slightly in his hand. “Here,” he murmurs, already kneeling beside the bed, helping you sit just enough to drink. His other hand stays warm at your back, steadying you, grounding you. “Slow. I’ve got you.” You sip, your body still humming, limbs heavy and loose like they don’t quite belong to you yet. He watches you the entire time—eyes softer now, concern replacing everything fierce and wild from before.
When you finish, he takes the glass and sets it aside and reaches for a warm cloth he must’ve run under the tap. “Let me,” he whispers. You don’t argue. You just watch him. Rafayel moves with reverence, wiping you down carefully—never rough, never hurried. His touch is gentle in a way that feels almost sacred, like he’s tending to something precious rather than cleaning away the aftermath of desire. He murmurs soft apologies under his breath even though there’s nothing to apologize for. “There,” he says quietly. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.” He cleans himself next, just as carefully, then tosses the cloth aside and returns immediately, like distance is something he refuses to allow for long. He gathers you close, tugging you into his chest, arms firm but comforting. You feel his breathing slow first. Then yours follows. For a while, neither of you speaks.
Your cheek rests against his collarbone, your body heavy and loose with exhaustion, with contentment. His fingers trail up and down your back, absent-minded, soothing. “You okay?” he asks quietly. “Tell me if anything hurts.” You nod, still catching your breath. “I’m okay,” you murmur. That’s when you notice it— or rather, remember it. The faint glimmer on your hand. Your engagement ring catches the low light of the lamp—gold flashing softly as you shift. You lift your hand a little, turning it, watching how it reflects against your skin. You smile. Rafayel notices immediately. He always does. “…You’re staring,” he murmurs.
You hum quietly. “I was just thinking.”
“About what?”
You turn your hand again, thumb brushing over the band. “That this still feels unreal sometimes.” He goes very still behind you. Then his arms tighten—just a little. “Does that scare you?” he asks softly. You shake your head. “No, of course not. After all, I’m exactly where I want to be.” Something in his chest loosens at that. He reaches for your hand, guiding it up between the two of you, pressing his lips to the ring with quiet reverence. Not possessive. Not showy. Devout. “I look at that,” he admits, voice low, “and I remember that you chose me. Every day.” His thumb traces the inside of your wrist, where your pulse beats steadily beneath his touch. “And I choose you back,” he adds. “Every time.” You turn slightly, pressing your forehead to his jaw. He exhales shakily. The room is warm. Quiet. Whole. And as he tucks you closer beneath the blankets, kissing your hair with the same care he once reserved only for canvas and paint, you realize something gentle and grounding: This is what intimacy looks like after the fire fades. Not less intense—Just deeper. Careful. Protective.
——
A/n: if you made it this far, congrats, here’s a cookie 🍪 and uh also happy late new years and uhh late merry Christmas!!
Fem!reader, softdom!ony, bf!ony, plussize!reader katoptronophilia, you alr know what it isss! Smut so no minors.. ofc. Enjoy!!
☆ ⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚ ☆
↳˗ˏˋ Aot m.list..ˊˎ˗ ☆
“Hey. Look at me mamas.” Ony murmurs into your ear, so sweetly. Too sweetly, especially for the way his dick is curving up into your gummy walls, but you listen, looking in the floor length mirror in front of you, watching how sinfully delicious he looks to you. “Onyy— fuck, i can’t” Your whines echo around the room, your head drooping slightly.
He grabs your face by your chin, gently peppering kisses, his grip on your hips tightening for a moment, as he pounds up into your dripping cunt. "Yes you can mama, this is your dick. Take it." You swear you were gonna die when he grinned so deviously at you in the mirror, the way he lowered those pretty eyes of his at you, the way his touch has you writhing under him.
You’ve been sitting on his lap in front of this damned mirror for almost an hour, looking at him bouncing you up and down by the hips, orgasm after orgasm, and he wants you to keep looking at him?
Ony's tip was reaching spots in you that you didn't even know existed, brushing up against your cervix, eliciting moans and pants from your mouth. He nips at your neck, hand leaving your chin, snaking around to your clit, rubbing circles around the puffy folds. "Baby, Ony— ouhhh please" You could feel his slender fingers on your clit, massaging the sensitive bundle.
"Please what? Use your voice pretty girl." He looks up at the mirror, watching his dick piston in and out of your pussy, and all you could do is drool. “Haah— stop teasing me please.” The moan that ripped out of your throat was pure bliss, and before you could even say it, you were squirting over his digits, some of it even splattering on the bottom of the mirror in front of you two.
The clear, warm arousal of yours had him fucking into you like a madman. Ony’s grip on your hip tightened as you spasm slightly, his fingers dripping. While he had your attention on him in the mirror, he brought his fingers to his lips, licking the taste of you off of them. “Taste so fucking good mamas, need to eat you next time.” And again with that sexy gaze of his, looking directly at you this time as you nod lazily.
The way he was digging into you so deep had you damn-near screaming his name, pussy squeezing his length like a vice, milking him for all he’s got.
“Mhm mhm baby. Look at me, do what I told you, look at me.” He croons into your ear, the hand that’s not already holding you by your hips and slamming you down onto him, wraps around your torso, massaging your lovely breasts, as you come undone again.
Your moans come out wantonly, and you’re nothing but a drooling, sticky mess for him, it almost makes him wonder if it’s because you can everything in mirror? Doesn’t matter, with the way he’s filling you so good and fucking you so fast, you’re seeing stars and panting.
It’s interesting though, the way your face contorts in pleasure in the mirror to his ministrations, the way your thick thighs jiggle when you bounce on him, the tears of pleasure streaming down your cheeks as your back arches so sinfully, it’s too much.
And all it does is make Ony groan, and lean down to capture one of your tears on his tongue. “C’mon mama, just one more. You think you can do that f’me?” He speaks, trying so sweetly to coax another orgasm out of you.
It takes almost all the power you have to find an orgasm in you, but you don’t have to do much with how attentive he is to you and your needs. Massaging and toying with your nipples, whispering praise in your ears, pushing all your buttons, just to see his pretty girl cum again, and you do. You come absolutely undone on his dick, a pretty, creamy white ring of your arousal at the base of his cock, all the while, he slows his thrusts, having cum into you more times than you both could count.
By the time the both of you have came to your senses, he finally pulls out of your pretty, fat pussy. Watching as dribbles of cum spill out of you, kissing your neck once again. “See, I knew you had one more in you, good job mama.” He murmurs into your panting skin, side-eyeing you in the mirror, and how you tremble slightly, looking like a deer in headlights, massaging your sore thighs, admiring the fat of them.
Too tired to do anything but nod and stick a lazy thumb up, you slump on his chest, relishing in how warm he is. Ony doesn’t bother with clean up right now, he’ll do it sometime later, all he currently cares about is getting you into bed, especially with the way you just fell asleep on him. He picks you up from the small of your back and the back of your knees, bridal-style, before getting off the edge of the bed.
Flicking off the main lights in your shared bedroom, leaving the ambient lights on, he climbs into bed, setting you down and covering you up, holding you as you both wind down, petting your head softly, and smoking a blunt before going to bed.
That dick really fucked his pretty girl to sleep.
☆ ⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚ ☆
Authors note: heyyyy 🤭 ion have nun to say for once.. so imma shut my fat ass up. 🙃 LOVE Y’ALL 🫶🏾
Synopsis- Reader was born into a cult with the mark of the god— Zayne— they worship, the reader doesn’t believe in said god, but is forced to learn how to be the best wife for him. The thing is, he isn’t the only one marked.
W.c 7.k
Tags- Divine Zayne! Mean dom Zayne! Breeding kink! Alter sex! Sacrificial offering! Exhibitionism! Afab Reader! M!reader! Virgin Reader! MDNI! NSFW! NONCON!!
A/n: reader’s sex gets called a cunt btw… also wrote this was supposed to be my last kinktober post.. didn’t actually start writing it until the 3rd, wrote this in 2 days so.. don’t shit on my writing. This is so vanilla. (^з^)-☆
A/n pt2: don’t forget to read the Rafayel and Sylus part of this series!
You can’t remember a time when your life wasn’t dedicated to him, when you weren’t told you had to be the perfect bride for him. The god of annihilation: Zayne.
There’s no deep meaning as to why you can’t remember a time when your life wasn’t forced to evolve around him; it simply always has. Since the day of your birth, since the day the elders saw his cursed mark across your womb.
That day.
Will forever be.
The worst day of your life.
You weren’t the only one cursed with this mark; however, the others see it as more of a blessing. To be chosen by your god, no matter what it’s for, is the greatest honor of all, after all.
You were practically raised together, taught to give your god anything he could possibly want if you were to be chosen.
The day of judgement is fast approaching, a mere three days away.
By the time the clock chimes at midnight on the third day, one of you will be chosen, and the rest of you will be servants to the god and his new bride.
The others are too naive to see how fucked up that deal is, to overcome with the joy of being able to be close to their god until they die of old age.
They would be happy to eat their own hearts if it satisfied that god of theirs.
As long as he watches them do it.
That’s all any one of these god worshippers wants, to be noticed by the deity they dedicate their entire way of living to.
You never understand why exactly they’d rather let a being they’ve never even seen control their way of life, why won’t they just live the way they truly want?
Why won’t they practice the freedom that’s just a breath away from them?
That’s what you would do if you had the choice.
Be free.
Free of this bride to a god nonsense.
Free of people watching your every move.
Free to do whatever it is you want.
You dream about it sometimes— freedom— a strange concept that you haven’t been privy to since leaving your mother’s womb.
It’s a refreshing thought to have, then you awake to the rude reminder that you’re nothing but a potential bride, and that is all any of these people will see you as.
Not a being worthy of recognition unless chosen by their beloved god; only then will they bother to remember your name.
Only then will they bother remembering you.
—
It’s only when the day of judgment is near does the people here grow restless, excited to finally be able to welcome their god after waiting all their pathetic lives to do so.
They throw a three-day-long banquet leading up to the day of judgment; each day, you and your fellow potential brides are put on pedestals and watch as the people below you gawk at you.
Secretly wishing that they were in your place.
They would never say such wishes out loud, fearful of losing their heads.
The elders do not like it when such things are spoken.
Scared that their god will overhear and punish all of them, for if one of them is so cocky enough to think they are worthy of being at the side of a god, they all are.
And so they watch what they say, what they think, even.
Scared in some way.
Somehow
It’ll get back to the elders.
“Did you hear what I said?” A familiar voice chimes in, interrupting your thoughts. “What?” You ask, confused.
How long has he been talking to you?
“I asked if you were excited, you know. For the day of judgement?” He giggles, clutching at your forearm. “The others and I were talking about it, and I thought I would ask you.” He tells you, looking back at the others who are watching your interaction.
They’re always doing that, watching you. For some reason, it’s more strange than when everyone else does it; maybe it’s because of all the people here that they should be the ones who understand you the most.
“Uh, yeah… I guess I am pretty excited,” you smile, giving a fake nervous chuckle. Digging your nails into the cloth of your pants, “God, he can’t even fake it,” one of them snipes, sneering at you as the rest nod their heads in agreement.
The hand on your forearm tightens as the only person who seems to like you here glares at the other brides in your stead, sneering at them in turn. “You can all go fuck yourselves.” He barks, opening his mouth to say more, before you place your hand on top of his, stopping him.
“It’s okay,” you assured him, patting the top of his hands. “Whatever they say is entirely irrelevant now; the day of judgement is upon us.” You mock, watching as the male next to you— Elias— softened his glare as his gaze shifted towards you.
“I don’t understand how you can stomach being near him, Elias. He’s not worthy of being chosen by the God of Annihilation. I don’t understand how he was born with a mark; his parents must’ve carved it into him or something.” The same potential bride from before sneers, huffing and crossing her arms across her chest.
“Don’t worry, Yasmin, we all know our god will choose you. We have long accepted it.” One of her faithful followers pipes, smiling at her before turning their hateful gaze to you.
“When I am chosen, I will have your head, you cursed unbeliever.” Yasmin snarled, leaning back into her chair and returning to watching the banquet goers.
“God, I hate that spoiled twat.” Elias whispers to you, leaning his head on your shoulder as he turns his attention back to the banquet as well.
“Lucky for me, her bark is much worse than her bite.” You quip, knowing that people have said far worse things to you.
Since the knowledge of your non-belief was made public, multiple crowds of people have gone to the elders with complaints. Telling them you are unworthy of being anyone’s bride, let alone a god’s.
They commanded the elders to prove your mark true.
You were forced to strip in front of all of them.
Forced to stand, humiliated. As an elder poked and prodded at your mark until you bled, scraped off your skin, and watched as it healed almost instantly. The mark an everlasting proud blemish on your flesh.
Only then did the people believe that you were chosen, that you were destined for a god that you didn’t believe in.
Some pitied you, forced to be raised as an offering to a being you don’t even acknowledge the existence of.
But most deemed you ungrateful, a disgrace to the entire clan.
Someone who doesn’t believe in the god of annihilation doesn’t belong here, and they most certainly do not deserve to be offered up as a bride to him.
‘HE’LL KILL US ALL’ they’d yell, scared that the god will do exactly as his name foretells if he were to find out there is a nonbeliever amongst his choices.
They’re all fucking idiots, honestly.
—
The day of judgement is here.
The day you’ve long loathed has finally arrived.
The sky seemed to glow gold, even as night fell, and clouds covered it; the gold still shone through.
The air felt heavier, as if the earth itself knew what was upon us, what being would be gracing its soils in just a few hours.
People moved around you in excitement, trembling in their eyes, practically glowing with childlike joy.
A joy you couldn’t bring yourself to feel.
The only feeling you felt was an unending sense of doom.
—
When night fell, you were forced into a bath, one filled with goat's milk and petals of flowers you couldn’t hope to name.
Hands rubbed at your skin with soap blessed by one of the many priests here, they’re grip on your limbs unforgiving as they washed your body and hair before rinsing you down with flower-scented water, and yanking you out of the bath.
“This would be much easier if you worked with us, you know.” One of the helper say, their face is covered with a cloth. On the day of judgement, the only face the brides are allowed to see is the gods; everyone works together to make sure that rule is followed.
The brides are prepared in separate quarters and directed to separate routes to get to the temple. To make sure the brides arrive at the same time, the ones with longer routes are prepared first.
You’re forced to sit on a stool, still as bare as the day you were born, dried off by the same hands who washed you.
“You honestly don’t know how lucky you are.” The same helper tones, rubbing your back with vanilla-scented oil.
They’re not even supposed to be talking to you, and yet this one won’t shut up.
“How can someone as ungrateful as you be one of the chosen? is unbeknownst to me, nor anyone for that matter.” They sigh, moving on to drying your hair, before pausing, their hands sliding down to your shoulders.
“I mean, if I had been blessed with a mark…” they trail off, laughing to themselves before focusing back on their task of doing your hair.
You stare straight ahead, watching them play in the hair of someone you no longer recognize. Not with the smooth, perfumed skin and glossy lips. This person, looking back at you, almost looks like a doll.
A doll…
That’s exactly what you are.
Something meant to sit still and look pretty.
And by the gods, as much as you hate to admit it, you are pretty like this.
The other attendants move quickly, wrapping your body in the softest of silks and warmest of furs. Clasping jewels around your neck and wrist— each piece heavier than the last.
The talkative one hums from behind you, finishing your hair at last. “Smile more, no one wants an unhappy bride. Certainly not a god.”
You look at them in the mirror, smiling at them, “Are you speaking from experience, or..?”
They fall still, their hands clutching at their skirt.
Silence fills the room as one of the other attendants slips your feet into flats.
You rise from your seat, smiling at them once more before addressing one of the attendants, “Do we head to the temple now?” You ask, flipping your veil and following them when they nod at you, leading you to the route you’re supposed to take.
Passing you off to a guard of sorts, they consider you a flight risk, so you’re to be escorted there instead of finding your own way like everyone else.
Their head is covered too; they look at you once before grabbing you by the wrist and dragging you towards the temple.
Your route is rather short; it’s a mere ten minutes away from the place where you were readied. And as planned, all of the other brides arrive at the same time as you.
You don’t look at each other, you don’t even acknowledge each other.
Just keep walking forward, into the place where your fates will forever be sealed.
——
The temple's doors groaned as they opened, and the sound of them closing behind you echoes like you’ve just been found guilty of whatever crime you’ve committed. The brides are lined up into two rows, veils blowing in the draft that spills from the altar ahead of you.
At the center stands one of the elders, his robes as white as bone, his face covered by a hood like everyone else you’ve encountered thus far. Though it had golden sigils stitched onto it, the same ones that cover the walls of the temple.
His hand raises, as if to silence the already quiet room.
“Children of the mark,” the elder beings, his voice cutting through the stiffening silence in the room. “From the moment you were all born, you have been waiting for this day. The day our god would return to us, and find a vessel worthy of his power— of his grace among us. You have been chosen! Not for your beauty, nor your virtue— but for the divine mark engraved into your very flesh. It is not pain, nor betrayal you should feel tonight. The only emotion you should feel is gratitude.”
His gaze sweeps across the room, pausing on each and every one of you. But for some reason, it seems to linger longer on you.
“One among you will rise. The rest will serve. All will be blessed by his light.”
The once suffocating silence returns. You can hear one of the other brides, sniffing behind you. Her joy overwhelming as she realizes how close she is to meeting her god.
The elder lowers his hands, stepping away from the altar.
“ Bow your heads,” they commanded, “and open your hearts to the God of Annihilation. Let him see what we have made. What we have created in his honor!”
As soon as the elder’s final words faded, the torches along the temple walls flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then, steady once more — their flames burning a shade too bright. The air thickened, heavy with the scent of incense and metal.
No one dared move.
Some brides trembled and whispered prayers beneath their breath. Others stared straight ahead, their eyes teary as their heartbeats quickened, excitement pulsing through their bodies.
You could feel the weight of the elder’s words pressing down on you in judgment.
A warning, perhaps.
From somewhere beyond the altar, a low hum began to rise, vibrating through the bones of the temple. The marble under your feet felt alive, pulsing faintly with it.
The elders bowed their heads.
“He comes,” they said in unison.
The hum deepened, rolling through the marble floor like thunder through the skies. Your gaze drifted upward — you didn’t exactly know why. It was as if something was forcing you to. And so you did: you gazed past the altar, past the elders, to the statue towering behind them.
It was carved from the purest white marble, shining even in the dark. It stood twice the height of any man, depicting the very god who got you into this mess — the God of Annihilation himself: Zayne. His features were serene, beautiful even — befitting that of a god — but there was something cruel about the way his sculpted eyes glared at you.
Then, suddenly, a sound.
A single, sharp crack.
As if something broke.
At first, you thought you imagined it — until another followed, echoing through the temple like a whip. Thin fractures raced across the sculpture, glowing faintly, gold seeping from the cracks like molten light.
Someone gasped.
The elders fell to their knees, the shock too much for them. “He awakens,” one of them whispered, voice trembling in reverence and fear. Prayers began falling from the rest of their lips.
The cracks worsened as the marble began to fall to the ground, gold bleeding from every opening like blood leaving a fresh wound, until the statue was no longer white but blazing, radiant — unbearable to look at. Heat poured into the air, radiating from the statue. The scent of smoke and molten metal filled your nostrils.
Then the statue shattered.
Golden shards flew in all directions, causing everyone to cry out and run for cover — everyone but you. As badly as you wanted to run, you couldn’t move.
The shards froze in place moments before hitting anyone, dissolving into motes that faded into nothingness.
And there, where the statue once stood, he now stood — in all his glory.
The God of Annihilation.
Zayne.
The light died down, leaving him bathed in faint embers that clung to his skin like fallen stars. His eyes opened slowly, gleaming with the same molten gold that had poured from the statue.
He looked around the room, slowly, watching as the others cowered away from him.
Then his eyes landed on you, and the molten gold was replaced by a vibrant hazel green, then covered by a black transparent blindfold.
He walked toward you — slow, methodical. Everyone in the temple was watching, their eyes tracking his every step.
You. The nonbeliever.
They whispered among themselves, shock evident on their faces.
“There’s no way he’s going to choose the nonbeliever, right?”
I fucking hope not.
“Of course he’s not.”
“Why is he walking toward him?”
“To smite him, of course. Why else?”
“That doesn’t sound too bad, honestly,” you whispered under your breath, finally tearing your gaze away from the being heading toward you.
“Is that what you want?” a monotone voice asked, right next to your ear.
You gasped, slapping your hand over your ear as you turned toward where the sound came from. He was right there, his gaze boring into you like a drill.
“I’m sorry?” you squeaked, stepping away from him.
“Do you want me to smite you?” The voice came again, from the same distance — it was almost as if, no matter how far you moved away, he’d always be there. In your head. Perks of being a god, huh.
“Yes!” a voice yelled from the other side of the room, and finally — finally — his gaze left you. It cut across the room to none other than Yasmin.
“Why are you even asking him? He didn’t acknowledge your existence until he was forced to by seeing you in the flesh tonight!” someone else chimed in — Amber, you thought her name was.
The god glanced at her, too before turning his attention right back to you. “They think I should smite you. Do you have anything to say for yourself?” he asked. You were getting really tired of his questions.
“Stop asking him for his input! Kill him already!” Yasmin yelled, stepping toward the two of you — only to be stopped by Elias.
“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Yasmin,” he said, grabbing her forearm and pulling her aside.
The god tsked, turning toward the two of them, his gaze on Yasmin. “Do you think you command me?” he asked her, stepping closer to you.
Why was he stepping closer to you and not Yasmin?
“What? No, of course not. I am to be your wife — we are equals!” she cried, her delusions spilling forth as she tried to run to him.
“You’re not my wife,” he said, though it sounded more like a question, as if he couldn’t believe she was saying it.
“What are you saying? You’re going to choose that nonbeliever over me?” she barked, disbelief flashing across her face before she yanked her arm away from Elias and ran toward the god.
Dropping to her knees, she clutched at the god’s robes. “Please! You must be mistaken! There’s no way that thing is your chosen bride. YOU CANNOT CHOOSE HIM!” She was hysterical now, crying into his robes as she unraveled at the seams.
“He is bold for his disbelief — and yet you are bolder for daring to tell a god what he can and cannot do, just so it will appease you.” He leaned down, glaring at her.
“You’re not worthy of being my wife, let alone my bride’s servant.” He sneered, harshly grabbing her chin, his nails digging into her otherwise unblemished flesh.
“Get out of my temple,” he barked, releasing her before standing to his full height. “Out!” he roared. The doors of the temple slammed open, and something from the shadows reached in and dragged her out.
The god took a deep breath, running his hands through his long locks of hair.
“Now,” he began, unbelievably calm after what had just happened, “does anyone else want to tell me what I can and cannot do?” he asked, looking around the temple, meeting the gaze of everyone there.
“If not, it will bring you all great joy to know that I have found my bride.” He smiled — then turned his sights on you.
For a flicker of a moment, you think that you misheard. His words hang heavy in the air, echoing throughout the temple, as you stare at the shocked faces around you.
You, the nonbeliever. Is to be his bride?
Someone laughs— sharp and disbelieving— almost mocking this situation. It takes you a moment to realize it was you.
“That’s a good one,” you say, nerves clawing up your throat as you stumble away from the man, “Really funny, truly. You should be a—“
“Quiet,”
That single word stops everything, the slight breeze in the air, the fire on the torches. Even managed to stop the gossip.
You try to breathe but no air fills your lungs no matter how hard you try, it’s almost like the temple itself is holding its breath, preventing anyone else from drawing any.
Zayne stares at you for a moment, his gaze somehow more intense than it was a moment ago. Then he walks towards you, one step forward for every step back you dare take, you watch as the temple floor glows beneath his feet with each and every step he takes.
“I do not jest,” he says, voice low, almost kind— reassuring. “You were marked before your birth,” he muttered his hand reaching out for your womb— your mark. “ You have always been destined for me, even if you refuse to believe it.” His hand is firmly planted over your mark now, his voice somehow deeper.
You can hear sobbing coming from somewhere, the crowd's whispers start up once again— but, like with the statue you can’t look away.
“I didn’t ask for this” you weep, your voice trembling from held back emotions, your hands coming up to lay over your heart.
“No one ever does.” He answers, tilting his head slightly, “But the stars do not ask permission to shine.”
You hated it when you pulse quickens at his words, something deep inside your chest being yanked on, pulled from the darkness and into the light, towards him.
Your body reacts before your mind can— you shove his hand away, hard. The force of it frightens you, you were never very strong, let alone strong enough to shove a god away from you.
The God’s hand falls back to his side, the tilt of his head deepening in surprise.
“Don’t touch me” you growl, voice surprisingly steady despite the storm brewing inside you.
His gaze somehow grows darker beneath the blindfold, and you could see the molten gold from before flickering underneath the hazel green, like sunlight threatening to break through.
“And yet,” he mutters, leaning down towards your ear, “you burn for it— you burn for me.”
Your pulse stutters, “you mistake fear for longing,” your lips tremble as you say it, hands clutching at the silk of your pants.
He laughs, low and soft, like thunder rumbling far off in the mountains.
“Fear is just the body’s way of remembering the divine,” he says, “you should be honored yours still remember me.”
The words are like poison wrapped in silk. The air between you vibrates, faint golden specks through it.
Then he moves, like that of a snake. Quick and swift it sticks its fangs into your flesh before anyone can react. He grabs your wrist, his grip is firm— unyielding.
You stumble as he pulls you forward—towards the altar— the world spinning into a blur of gold and shadow. The brides whisper in awe at their God's power, some still in disbelief at you being chosen. But they all watch as you are forced up to the altar.
“Zayne—“ you cry, low and meek, but his name is swallowed by the low hum vibrating through the temple.
“Shh,” he shushes, voice quiet, almost tender—loving— though his grip says otherwise. “No amount of struggle or rebellion will change your fate, it’s time for you to accept that.”
He forces you down onto the cold stone, his strength inhuman. The impact knocks the air from your lungs, and before you can recover, he’s already binding your wrists to the carved edges of the altar with bands of shimmering gold. They move like liquid—alive—coiling around your skin until they harden.
You thrash, but it’s useless. The more you struggle, the tighter they cling.
Zayne’s face hovers just above yours now, his blindfold still in place, though you can see the faint glow pulsing beneath it.
“You were made for this,” he murmurs. “For me.”
The elder from before steps forward, facing the crowd of brides, his shadow falling across your body.
“At last,” he breathes, voice trembling with awe. “The vessel is bound. The star’s promise fulfilled. We have waited through famine, through fire, through the silence of forgotten gods— and now the cycle starts anew.”
He raises his arms, and the other elders answer in unison.
“For eons we have waited”
Their chant shakes the walls of the temple. Dust drifts from the ceiling, carried by the vibration of their faith.
“The first flame fell from his hand,” the elder continues, his voice swelling with happiness and pride. “And from it, he made the heavens and the void. From it, he made us. Yet only through him shall his divinity be reborn. He who bears the mark. He who cannot flee destiny, for destiny is carved into his soul.
You pull against the bindings, but they only tighten. You can feel the pulse beneath your skin matching Zayne’s—steady, relentless, like your heart beats in his chest instead of your own.
The elder lowers his arms. “Let the fire bear witness.”
A gust sweeps through the temple. Every torch extinguishes at once, plunging the room into velvet darkness. Then—one by one—the brides are handed candles, their wax shimmering with molten gold.
Zayne lifts his hand. Sparks dance along his fingers. With a single exhale, he breathes life into the flames. Each candle ignites, a circle of golden light surrounding the altar.
The elders step back. The chanting fades.
Zayne steps forward.
The glow of the candles catches his face—no longer hidden by the blindfold, the ashes of it still drifting from his hair like smoke. His eyes are molten gold.
When he speaks, his voice is meant for you alone.
“Before the stars bore names, I waited for you,” he says softly. “Through centuries of ash and silence, I dreamed of your heartbeat. I carved worlds from the dark to fill the ache of your absence.”
He stands beside you, his hand hovering just above your chest.
“They call this union sacrifice,” he murmurs, “but I call it return. Returning what is lost to time, to destiny.”
His fingers brush your mark, and it burns—like a branding. A forever reminder that no matter how hard you try to deny destiny, you’re his. And forever will be, for it is written in the stars.
“With this fire, I claim what was promised,” he says. “With your breath, I breathe again. With your heart, I rise. With this fire, our hearts shall forever be intertwined, our flesh made equal. With this fire, we will fulfill our destiny.”
The candles flicker violently, their flames
bending toward the altar as if they’re drawn to the divinity in the room.
The candles flare, their flames stretching tall—unnaturally tall—until the wax begins to melt in streams down trembling hands.
Then the earth groans.
The marble beneath the altar splits, thin golden fissures crawling across the floor like veins of light. They climb the walls, slither across the pillars, reaching toward the vaulted ceiling where the sigils begin to pulse with the same molten hue.
A low hum fills the air—deeper, louder—until it swells into a sound that isn’t just heard but felt. Like the heartbeat of the world.
The elders drop to their knees, foreheads pressed to the cracked stone. “The prophecy is fulfilled,” one whispers. “The god and his vessel are one.”
Outside, thunder rolls through the skies are clear. The stars blink—one by one—each dimming as if bowing to their returning god.
Zayne’s hand presses harder over your mark, you cry out as the heat begins to become unbearable, his voice is low enough that only you hear it.
“Do you feel it?” he asks. “Even the heavens remember you.”
You moan, kicking your bound feet as you try to overcome the pain radiating from your divine mark. “Hurts.” You grit out, crying when the only thing the god towering over you does is apply more pressure to the thing that’s hurting you.
“Don’t worry darling, it’ll be over soon,” the God says, leaning down to kiss your temple. “Just bear with me.”
This would be somewhat comforting if he weren’t the one causing you such pain, if the people who forced you to be here weren’t watching.
“Don’t focus on them,” he whispers into your ear, turning your face towards him. “Eyes on me, focus on me.”
Then, suddenly, without warning, he kisses you. His lips are impossible soft and his body radiates nothing but warmth, and despite yourself.
You don’t pull away.
Every fiber of your being screams in resistance, but your body betrays you.
The first brush of his lips against yours was electric, a current shooting through your veins and sparks igniting beneath your skin.
The world shatters around you.
The temple—the walls, the torches, the elders, everything but the brides—all vanish in an instant. You are no longer in the temple. You are somewhere else entirely.
The world around you stretches and bends, molten gold light and shadow dancing in impossible patterns. The ground beneath your feet is translucent, like glass infused with liquid fire. Above, the sky is alive—a swirling cosmos of deep indigo and violet, speckled with stars that pulse in rhythm with your heartbeat. The air hums with raw energy, carrying the scent of ozone and burning jasmine.
Zayne stands before you, taller, more imposing than ever, yet calm, radiating an authority that pulls the world into focus around him. Golden strands of energy coil around his form, connecting him to the shifting realm.
Around you, impossible structures rise—towers of black marble streaked with gold, spiraling endlessly into the sky. Bridges of shimmering crystal arc between them, reflecting the constellations above. Rivers of molten light flow like veins through the land, their glow illuminating the jagged, floating islands suspended in the air.
The edges of the realm bend and fold in impossible ways, creating a sense of vertigo that makes your stomach lurch. Yet, despite its alien beauty, there is an undeniable harmony—everything here exists because of him, because of his will.
Your bound legs tremble as you take in the sight. It is overwhelming. Majestic. Terrifying.
Zayne does not move closer, yet the space between you collapses, as if drawn by some invisible force. His eyes of molten gold, molten emerald, and black swirling together—a kaleidoscope of power and focus.
“You are here,” he murmurs, voice reverberating through the very fabric of this realm. “You are where you belong, with me.”
You want to speak, to argue, to insist that this is wrong—but the power of this place, the undeniable pull of Zayne, robs you of words.
He tilts his head, studying you with a gaze that is both intimate and divine. Slowly, deliberately, he leans down and presses his lips to yours again. This time, there is no testing, no hesitation—only certainty.
The world shivers and twists around you. Energy from the realm pulses through your veins, mingling with the fire of his kiss. You feel it, feel him, everywhere at once.
The stars above pulse brighter, the rivers of light beneath your feet roar like a chorus of voices, and every floating island trembles. You are no longer merely a witness to his power—you are part of it, entwined with it, inseparable.
And in that moment, as the realm bends to his will, you realize: there is no going back.
This is your home.
It takes you a moment—longer than it should—to realize that your mark is no longer burning. The searing pain has faded, replaced by a lingering warmth, a low, insistent thrum beneath your skin. Divinity simmers there, quiet but undeniable, as if something ancient and eternal rests just beneath your flesh.
The brides stand around you, arranged in an awkward circle, their candles vanished. There is no need for flame here, in a realm where the sun never sets, where the sky glows with a constant, shifting light that dances across floating islands and rivers of molten gold. The warmth from the light seeps into your bones, mingling with the heat radiating from Zayne.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, they lift their veils. Faces that were hidden under cloth now emerge, flushed with fear, awe, and curiosity. You can see them clearly, and for the first time, their expressions are unfiltered—raw, human, vulnerable.
Elias is stationed at your head, his posture relaxed but alert. A smile tugs at his lips, faint but genuine, the kind of smile that carries both reassurance and a quiet pride. His eyes meet yours briefly, grounding you amidst the swirl of power and alien beauty around you.
Amber is beside him, her face sharp, her gaze cold. Envy flickers in her eyes, impossible to mask, as they dart between you and the divine being who looms over you, unblinking and impossibly still. There is admiration there, too, but buried beneath layers of resentment and disbelief.
The other brides are less subtle—some whisper to each other, voices like rustling leaves, while others glance at Zayne and back at you, unsure whether to tremble or step closer. In this realm, the usual rules of obedience and ceremony hold no weight. Only the god and his will matter here.
“Eyes on me.” A voice echoes, and your eyes instantly focus in on him, he’s kneeling over you now. Playing with your hand bounds, his hair dangles over your face, and you notice strings of gold interwoven with the black strands of his hair.
“You’re gorgeous.” He mutters, his hands coming down to rest on your hips, “Your deviance, it’s part of your charm.” He smiles as he says it, amused by the struggles of mankind.
His hand snakes behind the silk cloth hiding your full form from him, his hands are unnaturally warm, a welcoming contrast against the cold hard marble you’re tied to.
“Do you know what happens now?” He asks, slipping your silk shirt off your shoulders, chuckling at your silence, “No?” He mocks, frowning down at you, “Now, I will claim you, fully and thoroughly.”
The binds on your limbs disappear, and so do your clothes. You’re laid bare as the day you were born, your mark shimmers on your skin, calling out to its counterpart.
Your legs are forced apart as he slides between them, keeping you open for his gaze— his touch.
“As much as you claim not to want me, your body says otherwise.” He says, his hand reaching out to play with the lips of your cunt. “I mean, look at how wet you are?” He says, holding his hand up so you can see, “and I’ve barely touched you.” He chuckles, going right back to playing with you.
“I probably won’t even need to prep you,” he hums, slipping his fingers into you, “not an ounce of resistance.” He mutters, before adding another digit.
Your face burns from embarrassment, as you watch him play with your cunt. It takes you a moment to realize that you’re not the only one watching him, all the others are too.
They watch as he thrusts his fingers in and out of you, watching as he hooks his fingers to hit that special spot inside you.
The brides behind him step closer, as if trying to get a better view of his fingers stretching out your cunt.
“I’m almost done,” he sighs, almost bored-sounding. “Then we can get to the fun part,” he smiles up at you, chuckling when he sees the other bride's curiosity.
It feels methodical in a way, like this is something he does on a regular basis. Like you’re at a doctor's appointment and he’s your doctor.
“That should be enough,” he mutters, popping his fingers into his mouth.
He hums as he savors the taste of you, you’re almost positive you saw his eyes flutter.
saliva“The taste of you could drive a god mad.” He says, before wiping his saliva off onto the skirt of his robe.
“Zayne.” You whine, not liking the feeling of no longer having his fingers in you. “Shh,” he shushes, grabbing you by your ankles and pulling you into his lap.
“I’m gonna give you everything you want and more.” He promises, kissing your temple.
He nudges open the slit of his skirt, pulling out his cock— gorgeous thing, the engorged head shimmers with gold as the veins of it pulse with ichor—, tapping it to your clit.
Once
Twice.
“Do you want it?” He asks, mocking, rubbing the head of his cock against your cunt.
Listening to your whines and mews before stopping completely, grabbing your waist, “Answer me.” He demands, grabbing your chin and focusing your gaze on him. “Do you want it?”
“Yesyesyes” you rush out, feverish with lust. Your back arches are you try—and fail— to get his cock to slip inside of you, the only thing you succeed at is getting the gods disapproving tsk, “the only one who’s putting my cock in you is me.” He warns, his glare harsh as he looks down at you.
“Please, I’m so wet and empty. Please. I need it.” You beg, eyes teary as you pout up at him. “See, wasn’t that hard now, wasn't it?” He smiles, before finally— finally— positioning his cock to your hole, you try to push yourself down onto it, impatient. But he is far stronger than you.
His cock pushes into you, crushing that special gland inside you almost instantly, carving a permanent home inside of you as it pushes in.
Your reaction is immediate, your mouth falls open in an endless chant of swears and moans, your back arches as your nails find a home in the flesh of the God's stomach.
“There we go, darling.” He hums, as he bottoms out, right against your womb, right below his mark. He smiles as he notices the bulge that your abdomen has taken on to provide room for his cock, “Do you feel that?” He asks, pressing down on the aforementioned bulge.
He watches you squirm, gasping as you realize just how deep his cock is inside of you, “please,” you moan, pushing yourself down into his lap. “Fuck me, please.”
He hums, licking his lips, “That’s what I’m doing, is it not?” He mocks, tightening his hold on your waist, “You’re supposed to be a virgin, but you act like an A class slut.” The insult stings for a bit, but you’re too overcome with lust to care about it.
“Please, fuck me. I’ll go insane if you don’t.” Decorum is forgotten as you beg for the God to properly fuck you, “Pleasepleaseplease,” you whine, as tears begin falling down your cheeks.
“I’ve chosen a crybaby, so it seems,” he grunts, leaning down to lick your tears away, before lifting you up by your waist, ignoring your panicked cries.
“Nonono,” you cry, too cockdrunk to realize he’s giving you what you asked for. He shushes you, pecking your lips before dropping you back onto his cock.
“Zayne!” Came your choked out scream, whining and clawing at your mark as he repeats the process.
Your mark begins to burn again, though instead of it hurting like it did before, the pain blends with the pleasure, sending your nerves into overdrive.
“Zayne,” you whine, pressing down on your mark, moaning out at the pain increases, “Zayne.. wait, I’m gonna-“ you try to warn, but it’s far too late. Your cunt squeezes around the cock inside it as you squirt into the God's lap.
“Zayne.” You whine as he keeps his pace; rather than slowing down, he speeds up. Pounding into your cunt as if he’s trying to break something, “Zayne!” You yelp, feeling the head of his cock slide past your cervix.
“It’s time to fulfill your part of the oath.” He tells you, biting and kissing your neck. “It’s time to bear me a child.” He growls, his thrusts getting that much stronger.
“Zayne!” You cry, gasping as everything comes to a stop, as he climaxes, his head falling into the crook of your neck, his cum feels boiling inside you, thick and viscous.
The God groans, his hand gripping the marble of the altar, only for it to crumble under his strength.
You both gasp for air, sweaty and sticky from your actions.
The brides— now servants— around you step forward, taking your long forgotten clothes and heading off into one of the other rooms.
One of them linger— Elias, he smiles as he gives you a cheeky thumbs up before disappearing like the others.
“Are you thirsty?” The god suddenly asks you, lifting his head from your neck.
“No, not really,” you answer, clearing your throat, “are you tired? Hurt anywhere?” He asks, massaging your hips and thighs. “I’m fine, promise.” You mutter, bringing your hands up to play with his hair, toying his the golden strands.
He sighs, leaning into your touch, “I’ve missed this,” he confesses, breathing you in, “I’ve missed you.”
You hum, not quite paying attention, “You’ve known me before?” You question, whining softly when he moves, “Yes, I did. In a different lifetime, but that was eons ago.” He confirmed, kissing your collarbone.
“You know,” you began, wrapping your legs around his waist. “I could really.. go again,” you hum, biting at his lower jaw. “And.. judging by this.” You begin, pressing down on your mark. “You are too.”
“You really are an A class slut.”
—-
A/n: I lwk wanna make a pt.2 but I don’t know… let me know if that’s something you guys would enjoy!!
Synopsis- You marry Dragon emperor Sylus as a treaty between your countries, you rarely see him and he decides to make an appearance on your birthday, except he doesn’t quite know it’s your birthday. He’s furious when he finds out and forces you to spend the day, and night with him.
A/n: reader’s sex gets called a cunt btw… also wrote this for the loml birthday that was last month.. kinda rushed.
Also if you like this kinda stuff there’s a rafayel one!! Read me and a Zayne one!! Read me
You and Emperor Sylus got married a little while ago, as part of a treaty between your two countries. You didn’t want to marry him, but you have to out of duty.
For the sake of your country.
The wedding was grand, extravagant in ways you wouldn’t have thought of if you got to plan it. Silk white drapes embroidered with golden threads hang from the ceiling, it takes you a while to realize that the pattern of the thread was that of a dragon.
Unsurprising considering who you were marrying.
Royals and nobles alike offered nothing but jewels and gold as a congratulatory gift, most were for you surprising even your husband.
Everyone knows how much a dragon likes to hoard.
Speaking of your husband— throughout the entire event, his eyes never left you. No matter where you were in the room you were always able to turn and see his piercing red eyes boring into you, his gaze cold, distant.
As rude as his staring was when your gazes met he had the decency to at least pretend he hadn’t been staring at you all night.
Your wedding day came and went and for a long while after it, you felt empty.
After your wedding ceremony, you were stuffed into a carriage and sent to a separate manor, one far away from your newly wedded husband.
If you can even call him that.
After all, you’re not properly married until you consummate your marriage at least that’s how the world in this day and age sees it.
Why would he marry you if he was just going to drop you off a half an hour away from him, surrounded by people you don’t know.
People who could want to assassinate you for all you know.
Not that he would care, he seems to busy doing other things.
He rides past your manor almost daily and yet he doesn’t stop, not for anything. The servants seem to pity you, but they think too highly of him to smudge his name with gossip.
That’s something you come to notice about the citizens here, they adore their emperor.
At first, you thought they feared him.
When he was near they didn’t talk loudly and they hardly dropped anything, but the moment he was gone they’d fawn over him and tell you how lucky you are that you’re the one who got to marry him.
A common phrase was always repeated
“I can’t believe we’re here with him!!”
The dragon emperor would visit you at times.
Briefly, almost as quick as it took you to take a piss.
He’d ask “How are you? Is there anything you need?” And right as the answer is out of your mouth he’s out the door.
He does this every week like clockwork.
And today, it seems, is the day he’ll do so this week.
You can hear is carriage stop outside your manor, the horses neighing as the coachman tries—and fails, to quiet them.
You can hear the tassel on his hilt clang against his scabbard as he hurries up the stairs, and finally, as he reaches the door he knocks.
Softly, as if he knows it’ll echo across the manor with how empty it is.
And he waits, patient as you walk towards the door.
He can hear you too.
You debate whether or not you should leave him there, tired of his pointless questions, tired of him acknowledging you then ignoring you in the same minute.
Your steps are slow and deliberate, waiting to see if he’ll get impatient and knock again, or better yet leave.
But no. He stays. Patient as always.
With a long sigh, you grab hold of the golden door handle, taking a deep breath before cracking it open.
“Hello, darling.” He drawls, his deep voice sending shivers down your spine. “Is everything okay with you?” He says, so low it’s almost like a whisper a look of concern on his face.
You can’t blame him for asking, especially with that look on his face.
You don’t exactly look your best today.
“I’m fine, my lord.” You say smiling tightly, “Nothing is better than spending your birthday alone after all.” Your voice drips with sarcasm as you say this, glaring at the dragonic man in front of you.
“Today’s your birthday?” He rushed out, tilting his head as he took a half step towards you.
“No, tomorrow is.” You chuckled out stepping further away from him.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” He growls, stepping further towards you.
For every step backwards you took he took another one forward as if something inside him was compelling him to do so, “you didn’t ask” you mumble, wincing when you bump into the corner of the wall too harshly.
The dragon huff’s obviously annoyed by this secret you decided to keep from him.
“Come with me” he demands, grabbing hold of your wrist before you can protest and dragging you out of your manor.
Sylus marched out of your manor and towards his carriage dragging you along with him, “My lord! Wait!” You yelp, trying to get him to slow down.
But that was all for naught, he’s a dragon for goodness’ sake, and you’re but a lord.
“Do not call me that,” he growls at you, “I am your husband, and you shall address me as such” he snarled lifting you and placing you inside the carriage.
“Well, I’m sorry, husband. It’s hard to remember I’m married when we live in separate manors.” You hum, turning away from him.
“If you didn’t like it, why didn’t you tell me?” He grunts out kneeling on the floor of the carriage in front of you, his eyes filled with a longing you’ve never seen before.
“Why would I? It’s quite obvious you don’t want to be wed to me, I mean, you didn’t even consummate our marriage.” You blurt out, before you could stop yourself.
Your face grew red as a small smirk made its way onto the dragon lord's face, “I’ve been holding myself back for nothing.” He purrs, shuffling closer towards you.
“The only reason you were in the blasted manor is because I was afraid I’d hurt you,” he says voice soft as cotton, “Since the moment I laid eyes upon you my dragon has longed to claim you” he pauses placing his hand on your hip and rubbing small circles there with his thumb, “I have longed to claim you.”
This statement from him shocks you.
You thought he was just waiting for you to die so he could marry someone else, someone he actually loves and wishes to have a family with.
“What..?” You query, eyebrows raised and eyes slanted. He's playing with you, he has to be.
“I’m not going to humor you nor play along with your game.” You huff, leaning back against the seat of the carriage, “I know you want nothing to do with me, it’s okay to be honest.” You mumble, deciding you had enough of your husband’s shenanigans and turning your head to look out the window.
“You’re my husband.”
“Out of political obligation, you didn’t even want to marry me.”
“If I didn’t want to marry you, the wedding wouldn’t have happened,” he snarls, smoke escaping from his nostrils.
“You-”
“ENOUGH!” He yells, cutting off your sentence, “You are my husband, my mate, my everything. A dragon wedding is more than that of a human's; it's not something you can force. It is the binding of our souls, yet our bond is incomplete, something I shall rectify immediately.” The way he says it scares you in a way, a very arousing way but in your defense as bad as you want to hate him he’s just so bloody attractive.
As if he can hear your thoughts he chooses that very moment to take a deep breath.
He pauses, eyes dilated as his gaze locks onto you.
You ignore the sight of his nostrils flaring and the trilling that starts in the back of his throat, focusing on the scenery outside of the carriage.
“Immediately indeed” he mutters, sighing as he finally sits down in a proper seat.
In the seat next to you no less.
“We have arrived!” The coachman yells as the carriage comes to a stop.
“Come, I wish to show you my hoard.” He purrs out, moving ahead of the coachman and opening the carriage door, jumping out and holding his hand out towards you.
You scoff, glaring down at him before ignoring his outstretched hand entirely stepping out of the carriage on your own.
The dragon merely smiles down at you, unfazed by your attitude, and grabs your hand, interlocking your fingers.
“Don’t worry, baobei. By the end of the night, all of those untoward feelings towards me will be nothing but a bad dream” he hums, looking down at your interlaced hands, smiling as he takes in the difference between the sizes of your hands.
He nods to the coachman signaling that he can leave, before marching up the stairs to his palace or, ‘hoard’ as he put it.
This isn’t the palace where you married, you realize as you take in the scenery around you. This one is more secluded.. more private. Covered in the wilderness of the earth around it, “Do you like it?” A voice tones, interrupting your thought process.
You glanced up at the male next to you, fixing your lips to mutter the word ‘no’ before you take one more glance at your surroundings. You realize that the sights surrounding you are too beautiful to lie about.. and he’d probably know you were lying anyway. So, you grant him a single nod.
“I’m glad you like it,” he rumbles, leaning down towards you and placing a small peck on your temple.
You glare in response, frustrated that after all this time he finally wants to act like a true husband because it’s your birthday.
“Oh don’t look at me like that,” he pleads, opening the door to his hoard, “in you go baobei.” he muses, placing a hand on the small of your back and shoving you—not pushing— shoving you inside.
The moment you’re both inside the door is closed and locked, the hall is dark except for the red glow of your husband’s eyes.
You blink trying to adjust your eyesight to the darkness of the room, before you realize that the dragon's hand is still on the small of your back.
The claws at his fingertips sink into your flesh, possessive in a way, and you’re suddenly all too aware of how alone you both truly are.
“My darling,” he purrs, leaning down to place his chin on the top of your head.
There’s something in his voice when he says it, something dark, something you can’t exactly pinpoint.
He slides his hand from the small of your back to your pelvis, right atop your uterus.
He sinks his claws into there too.
You bite back a whine, the shock of it sending you into the tips of your toes.
“I have longed to have you here with me” he whispers, voice soft and gentle despite his actions.
“It took everything in me not to use my rule as your husband— your emperor to have you with me.” As he says this his claws dig deeper, hooking onto the flesh they’ve penetrated.
“I had to settle for coming to see you once a week— my visits short and brief out of fear I’d lose control.” He pauses, listening to your soft and short whines as you grip at his wrist trying to get his claws out of you. “But that only keeps a dragon sane for so long” he moans out, finally listening to your pleading whines and removing his claws from so deep in your flesh. “A dragon cannot rest until its most precious treasure is lying within its hoard,” he chimes, grabbing your shoulders and turning you around, smiling when he sees the stray tear trailing down your face.
He leans down, opens his mouth, and licks the tear up before it could fall onto the fabric of your vest. “Oh don’t cry, my darling,” he pouts, getting down on his knees in front of you, grabbing onto your hips and pulling you closer to him.
“You see, I put you in that cursed manor to protect you. For I knew, if I had you where I wanted you. I wouldn’t be able to control myself” he whines, nuzzling into your pelvis, shushing you when you cry out from the pressure.
“Don’t worry sweetheart,” he purrs, hooking his claws into your pants, “I’m gonna take such good care of you.” And with that, he pulls, tearing the clothes from your body .
“My lord-” you choked out, shocked at how he’s behaving before you’re interrupted by a deep growl, filled with rage.
“I told you not to call me that.”
You cover your body in shame, embarrassed that you’re nude in such a public place, where anyone can just walk in and see.
“I am your husband, you shall address me as such” he snarls, glancing up at you and frowning once he sees you covering yourself, “I am your husband, there’s no need to hide yourself from me.” He says it softly, a complete contrast to how he’s been acting lately.
“Are you embarrassed?” He questions, smiling before kissing your stomach.
“There’s no need, the servants won’t tell a soul” he hums, trying to reassure you. “And if they do, I’ll simply eat theirs” with that he attacks. Yanking you down by your legs so that you fall perfectly into his lap, you scream— obviously— the suddenness of the act frightening you. A few hours ago this man was a cold and distant husband, practically a stranger to you. But now…now he’s on his knees practically worshiping you.
He mutters fervent whispers against your naked flesh, clutching at every part of you that he can reach. “I shall take you, properly. As a husband should.” His voice is strained, almost like he’s struggling to get his words out.
“But first, we must make it to our nest” he purrs, the strange, inhuman sound building up in his chest and shaking your body with it. And suddenly, with no time to process, you’re being carried down stairs, bridal style of course, nothing less for an emperor’s mate.
Candle flames begin to appear like magic, lighting up the faces of the servants eagerly taking in your naked form. Strangely enough, their eyes do not hold a speck of lust in them. They’re simply excited to see you, in the emperor’s hoard— where you belong.
Your husband is focused on the task of getting you to the center of the room, where a bed of furs lies, surrounded by all the jewels the dragon has collected over the years.
His strides are long and hurried, barely paying attention to his servants as he heads toward his goal that is mere steps away.
In a breath, you are there. Your husband apparently remembered that it’s much faster to fly than walk, the flashed movement catches you off guard. Not used to being teleported halfway across a room, in less than a second.
Unfortunately, your husband could not care less.
Too focused on getting in between your legs and breeding you than making sure you’re okay with the sudden change in scenery.
“My darling” he drawls, breathing heavily as he carefully sets you down on the layer of furs. “I’m afraid I cannot be as gentle, about this moment as I would like to be,” he says ‘gentle’ like the word has personally wronged him by simply existing, “my dragon will not let me.”
He strips quickly, frustrated that he’s even wearing robes in the first place. His tail comes to wrap itself around your thigh, as he tears the last of the clothes away from his skin; he sighs in relief as he’s finally freed from them, his eyes falling shut as he welcomes the cool air against his heated skin.
His eyes stay shut as he regulates his breathing, then his tail tightens around your thigh, he plays with the flesh there, drawing invisible shapes onto it using the tip of his tail to do so. Then with a lick of his lips, he opens his eyes, just a sliver, you barely noticed at first until you saw the red glow to them, shining down at you in the dimly lit room.
He reaches out towards you, placing his hand on your clawed pelvis, he presses down on it before humming unhappily, “It’s so empty” he hisses, upset that he has yet to fill you.
“Don’t worry, my sweet.” He croons, caressing the injured flesh there. “I shall fix that” he trails his clawed hands downward, towards his treasured goal, “I shall fill your empty, hollow womb with my essence,” he promises, using his tail's grip on your thigh to spread your legs apart for him.
His eyes widen once your moistened cunt comes into view, the glow of his eyes brightening as he takes in the sight of it. His clawed fingers eagerly come to caress it, his pupils sharpen as he watches your back arch at the sudden pleasure bestowed upon you.
“I cannot use my fingers upon you,” he mutters, a mocking tone lingering underneath the words, “but-“ he pauses, his tails unraveling from around your thigh and slithering towards your core, “I suppose this will do?” He phrases it like it’s a question, but you both know it’s not. His tail is already pressing against your opening when it is said, not waiting for permission to enter you.
“My lord-”
“Husband” you are interrupted by him, his tail steadily pushing into you, “or better yet, Sylus” he hums, watching you with glee as you shake and writhe as his tail splits you open.
“Sylus, husband— please” you whine, your thighs shake as his hand begins to play with your clit as if it’s a fidget toy. “That’s it, call out my name” he groans, sliding himself between your thighs as his tail finally reaches the barrier to your womb.
“ I shall see that all your needs are seen to” he hums, leaning down to kiss your clavicle, he offers it a soft peck before sinking his fangs into the thin flesh there. Groaning out as he listens to your pleasure-pained cries, he bites down harder, drawing out your delicious blood.
The taste of your blood sparks a noticeable change in the dragon hybrid atop you, his hand moves from your clit to your thigh and he uses that grip to hike your leg onto his hip, shifting his tail deeper into you past that cursed barrier and further into the deepest part of you.
With an unhappy grunt, the dragon removes himself from his spot, “We’re almost there, my darling” he purrs, thrusting his tail further into you.
Answering your whines and whimpers with kisses of devotion and reverence.
He moved his tail impatiently as he fucks it into you, tired of feeling you warming his tail and longing for you to warm his cocks instead.
“I can’t” he whines out, abruptly pulling his tail out of your cunt, chirring at the loud whimper it drew from you, “I can’t wait any longer, I must have you” he trills like a madman, letting his cocks fall from the slit between his legs, grinning down at you when you gasp at the sight of them.
He cannot blame you, they are not like human cocks. Textured with smooth black scales and blood red barbs, lines of crimson red are branched out across both his cocks. The hole of the top one is wider— for the depositing of eggs, his ovipositor. The one at the bottom is longer, it will reach the deepest parts of you and fill you in ways unbeknownst to you. He will use both of them to ruin you for any and everyone, both human and dragon. He will claim you entirely.
He offers you a soft kiss upon the lips, savoring the taste of you. Humming in key with your whine as he brutally pushes into you, only one of his cocks— his ovipositor. He wasn’t lying when he said he would see you filled tonight.
He laughs as you cry out to the skies, he thrusts into you steadily, hard and fast, his speed doesn’t waver unless it is to speed up. He smiles down at you as you try to escape his powerful thrusts, clawing at the furs beneath as if that would help you.
“Look, my love” he quips, tilting your head to the side, towards the eyes of the servants eagerly taking in your coupling with childish cheer hidden in their eyes. Sylus kisses down your neck as you take in the gaze of the servants watching you, chuckling as he watches you gaze back at them.
“They have longed to see you,” he whispers into your ear, sliding his hand from your thigh to your waist as he listens to your choked off moans. “Moreso than me it would seem,” You would expect him to sound jealous of that fact, but instead he sounds absolutely delighted. Happy that his servants— citizens welcomed and embraced you.
“They have accepted you as my one and only mate” he purrs, closing his eyes in pleasure as he feels his eggs begin to make their descent. “My eggs” he chokes out, tightening his grip on you, ignoring your pained cries as his claws find home in your unsullied flesh. “They’re coming” he cries out, almost pained in the way he says it.
“You’ll take them” he whines out, eyes wide and glowing as he turns your head back towards him, “you’ll take them for me, yes?” He whimpers, he asks this but his hips do not slow. He doesn’t even brace for the possibility of you saying no, he just thrusts into you nonstop, unyielding.
“Please, say you will darling,” he cries, speeding his hips up as his first egg begins to push itself out of him and into you. “Sylus” you cry as it begins to spread you wide. “I can’t” you hiccup, clawing at the furs now soaked with both your juices. “It’s too much” you whine, as the egg continues to spread you wide, “Sylus.” You whimper, tears filling your eyes as you gaze up at him.
“You can take it, sweetheart, I know you can.” He pants trying to coax his egg into you so that it may lie safely in your womb, “you can take all of me, I know it.” He groans, hissing in pleasure as the egg finally passes into you.
He shushes you as the egg is pushed past your cervix and into your once-empty womb, “There is much more to follow,” he groans out, sighing in relief as the rest of the eggs pile up in his ovipositor, awaiting their turn to enter you.
“Sylus,” you whine, lifting your hands to weakly push at his shoulders, “wait- I have to” you pant, tears spilling down your face as you try to get the words out. It doesn’t matter, he’s a one-minded man, focused only on filling your cunt with his eggs and seed.
You’re cumming before you can get the words out, thighs twitching, back arching as the overwhelming pleasure courses through you.
“That’s a good boy,” he grins, watching as you cum undone as he fills you with his eggs, one by one. He watches as your eyes flutter shut in pleasure only to reopen as yet another is stuffed inside your womb, he watches as your moans become hums and whines. He watches as your stomach rounds with his eggs and your mouth fills with drool, eyes rolling into the back of your head as pleasure overcomes you.
“That’s all of them” he pants once all the eggs are pushed into you, leaning down to press a kiss to your soft open lips, “there’s roughly twenty of them,” he says, caressing your round stomach with his hand.
He smiles as you slow blink at him, barely registering what he’s saying just knowing that he’s saying something, “regrettably, we’re not done yet,” he trills, slowly pulling out of your swollen hole, shushing the whine it pulls from your lips. “We still have to fertilize them.” He crooned, sliding his other cock in as he said so. Groaning as he bottomed out, “I’ll try to make this quick my dear.”
“Sylus please, fill me.” You cry, fucking yourself on his cock. “I wanna be full” You’re delirious with pleasure, choking on saliva as he fucks into you as he had before. Jostling the eggs inside you, “I will, as I promised” he coos, watching intently as you fuck yourself onto his cock.
“I’m so close” you whimper, your over-sensitive nerves firing as they’re stimulated repeatedly. “Cum for me.” He calls, wrapping his tail around your waist, “cum on my cock, darling, milk me for all I’m worth” he begs, shuddering when you tighten around him in orgasm, “yes, that’s it.” He whispers, purring as he watches you twitch in pleasure. “Take what you want from me,” he coos, panting as his end comes near.
“I shall leave you full and satisfied, my love. Round with my seed, and draped in my jewels” he hums, speeding up his thrusts as his completion nears, kissing down your neck as he awaits it.
His tail tightens around his waist as his orgasm rolls over him, barbs sinking into the flesh of your walls, his wings spread behind him, fluttering as his cum spills in you. He roars as he fills you, wings lifting you both from the furs, the servants— you notice— are roaring with him. Cheering on his success in filling you with children, clapping with delight at the thought of having little dragons to attend to.
Once the emperor is fully emptied, he lowers you back down to the furs. Wrapping his wings around both of you, “Happy Birthday, darling.” He purrs, rubbing his horns against you. Trying to get more of his scent on you.
“Is this to your standards?” He asks, sighing against your neck, “I loved it, dear” you mutter, running your hands in his hair, scratching at the base of his horns. “The very best birthday gift.” You hum, tired from all of your previous activity.
“I didn’t hurt you?” He asks, tiredness evident in his voice as he does so. “No, of course not.” You assure him, smiling softly at him, “You did everything I asked.”
“Fucking hated it, being apart from you is the worst.” He pouts, trying to bury himself further into your neck. “Rest now, my love” he whispers, caressing your stomach. “I shall make sure you and the children are safe.” He coos, the glow of his eyes returning.
A rumble starts in his chest as he begins to purr, pulling you into the kingdom of dreams.
—
A/n: I have to wake up in like 2 hours but I decided to finish this instead!! (*≧∀≦*)
NSFW! MDNI! Creampie! Breeding! Primal kink! Courting rituals! Biting! Marking! Size kink! Claw marks! Scenting! Mating bites! Nesting! Eggpreg! Front hole sex! Mating cycles! Rafayel has two cocks! Strangers to friends! Friends to strangers! Strangers to mates! Character death! Implied child abuse! Fisting! Readers hole gets called a cunt!
Synopsis: Rafayel arrives at the rescue center where you work, severely injured, and decides he wants you all to himself. Conveniently, after you nurse him back to health, he goes into a rut. Things get a bit crazy.
A/n: i won’t lie there’s probably a lot of shit in this ho that isn’t tagged but I’m too lazy to go through and figure it out so… rip. This is a birthday gift for the loml, and I told her if I finished in time I’d make a sylus one too!! So be on the look out for that ig. Also.. i started just typing shit halfway through so.. be warned.
⸻
The sea is a cold, dark place.
The briny air stung eyes and dried lips, but underneath the surface, it was even more brutal.
Unfriendly and unwelcoming to even its children, only the strongest survive the clashes of claws and fangs.
As the waves roared and the ocean made its thirst for blood known, currents and beasts alike tore at things that stayed too long.
It’s even worse in places where food is scarce, where prey is too scared to venture out because they know the only thing that awaits them is the jaws of a fearsome predator.
The lack of food breeds ruthless bloodshed, leading to the formation of the corporation you work for. Squidlings Corp helps preserve lemurian and other merfolk kinds.
Many different corporations do the same; the only difference is that Squidlings Corp doesn’t keep them in tanks but instead houses them in a cut-off section of the sea itself. That way, they don’t have to deal with the discomfort of being too far from their home.
The latest specimen they’ve brought in is a Lemurian, quite an attractive one at that. He was brought in pretty banged up; deep gashes littered his tail and torso, and his wounds were so extensive that one of his pelvic fins was hanging on for dear life.
He winced and flinched at everything, even the air that blew on his wounds, his tail twitching weakly as he was rushed into an operating room.
At first, no one believed he would make it.
It was a wonder that he survived the swim to the surface, let alone the trip to the care center to be treated.
But after his surgery, you were assigned to be his caregiver. You’ve nursed many mers before him, but this one had a unique problem—he hated you.
Every time you approached the water, he’d start crying, unlike the human cries you’ve heard before. His cry was like a whale’s, loud enough to melt a whale’s brain. Or maybe that’s just because you’re a human. The only time he didn’t release one of those shrill cries was when you brought him food.
You understood his reaction.
He wasn’t the only one who had reacted this way to you, and you doubted he’d be the last. Coming from a place as untrusting as the sea would do that to you, and the fact of how they ended up in your care in the first place.
Still, it hurt.
Those cries were meant to stun prey, but it also hurt because you desperately wanted to help him.
It was also hard to nurse him if he wouldn’t even let you near him.
And the kicker was, he only acted this way with you. Anyone else, he’d act like the sweetest thing. He’d let them pet him, rub his tail, and even sing for them if they asked.
You knew you sounded jealous, but you weren’t. You weren’t, right? But every time you saw him be nice to someone else, your chest tightened.
But the way he’d knowingly smirk at you as he nuzzled into someone else’s hand drove you mad.
So mad, in fact, that you decided to switch with someone else. Her mer—not a Lemurian—was young. A pup who had picked a fight he couldn’t win. He was an absolute sweetheart! You may or may not have spoiled him a bit, but everyone does!
He was just so stinking cute and a bit of an idiot, but that was to be expected with how young he was. Feral mers—or at least those unassociated with a pack—kind of learn as they go since they’re left alone the moment they’re laid. You spent a week spoiling him rotten before his old handler came to you. “We need to talk.” Firm, final, no room for whatever pitiful excuse you could possibly come up with.
“Okay…? About what?” The look on her face makes you worry. “Did something happen to the Lemurian?” She looks pissed at the mention of him, weird considering before the switch, they were the best of friends. “Come here,” she snapped, grabbing you by the arm and dragging you into the nearest corner. “We need to switch back.”
What? “Why?” The deep breath she takes tells you just how frustrated she is with her current charge. “He’s going nuts, that’s why,” she sighs before putting her hands on your shoulders. “He keeps trying to get out.” You have no idea what that has to do with you, and that shows on your face because, with a long sigh, she whispered, “He keeps trying to get out to see you.”
‘No, he’s not; he fucking hates me.’ The disbelief shows on your face; you never did learn how to cool your facial expressions.
“I’m serious. When I told him you weren’t coming back, he went fucking ballistic.” She huffs, running her hand through her hair and starts pacing. “I didn’t think anything of it at first, but then he stopped feeding.” Oh. That’s bad. “Yeah, it fucking is. Why do you think I came here? You need to take your Lemurian back before he starves to death.”
While that wouldn’t happen, if he got severely malnourished, the higher-ups would just send someone to put a feeding tube in him. But still, your conscience wouldn’t let you let it get that far. “Fine. We can make the switch.” The look of relief that flooded her face made you feel like you were doing a good thing… but you knew better, and deep down, you knew you were making a big mistake; you just didn’t know how big.
⸻
Walking into work the next day knowing you had to face the mer of your nightmares is not a fun feeling. You were so close to just calling in sick—or, even better, quitting—just to avoid interacting with the Lemurian who despises you. Despite all of your nerves and the nagging feeling that today is the day you die, you go to work.
When you see him for the first time since you dumped him on your colleague, all of your nerves wash away as you’re struck by his beauty.
Being away for so long made you forget how breathtaking he was.
He didn’t notice you at first, or maybe he did and chose to ignore you—hurtful, but better than his cries. Quietly—as quiet as a mouse—you approach, watching as the waves lap up at his waist and his long hair cascades down his back.
You breathe in deep, taking in the air of the salty sea before you to calm yourself.
“Knock knock,” you say gently, pushing the rest of your nerves into a hidden corner in your mind.
“I heard a certain someone wasn’t eating and was dying to see me!!” You’re basically skipping toward him as you chirp that out, only slowing down to kneel in front of him.
Watching with bated breath as he finally looked at you.
The moment you made eye contact, the air left your body.
“Uhh, who are you?”
Okay, ouch.
“You seem kinda familiar, you know.” He leans towards you as he says this, breathing you in.
“Are you mad?” you ask, fiddling with the hem of your shirt, breaking eye contact to look at the much more interesting wall behind him.
He tilts his head, trilling in the back of his throat as he grabs your chin and forces you to meet his gaze once more.
“No, I’m happy. My handler found his way back to me. Finally.”
“I was worried you’d forget about me again; I wouldn’t be able to take that.” He talks so much; he’s never talked this much to you before. Not only is he talking to you, but he’s touching you. This has to be a dream…
Wait.
“Again?” The moment you say that word, it’s like it flipped a switch in him, his eyes lowering in a glare as he looks at you. His hand tightening on your chin as he used his other to brush your hair out of your face.
“Do you truly not remember me?” The way he says it breaks your heart; it’s like he’s longing for something you cannot give him, and the way his thumb is brushing against your lower lip doesn’t seem too far-fetched.
The look of desperate yearning in his eyes as he leans in closer to you before stopping mere centimeters away from your lips.
“It’s okay, I’ll help you remember.” He rasped before pecking your temple and diving back into the cold, dark, miserable sea.
⸻
It happened a little over a decade ago, the incident in which you met. Back when mers were deemed threats to humanity and anyone who could bring one back was given a hefty award, whether it was dead or alive.
Humans have a knack for fearing things they don’t understand, not to say mers aren’t dangerous. The tales of them dragging sailors to their dooms aren’t just an old wives’ tale.
Your father happened to be one of the people that took this as an opportunity to purge the world of the things he deemed filth and hunted down as many mer as he could. You didn’t know much about his work at the time.
He didn’t want you to see how much of a monster he truly was, but as he got older, he realized that if he didn’t act soon, you’d become one of those mer-loving freaks.
The summer of your tenth birthday was perfect, he decided—not too old to have opinions and not too young to not understand his teaching. The perfect age to make sure you grew up right and not turn out like your mer-loving mother.
The boat—Golden Horizon the name—was in tip-top shape for how long it had been around. First, it was just a regular cargo ship, hosting cars and such, and in a sick and disgusting way it still is: just hosting much more fishy merchandise.
It was rusted in some places, and you could smell the blood of the beings that were killed here. Not that little you knew what you were smelling, just that it had a weird sour smell that sunk into your clothes and followed you even when you left the ship. At the time, you thought it was just the scent of rust mixing with the briny smell of the sea.
Soon, you’ll learn just how far off you were.
The ship croaked and groaned as it sailed away from the pier. The entire time you were on that ship, you thought it was going to sink.
As much as you didn’t want to be on a ship as scary as this one, you wanted to spend time with your father. He isn’t around much—something about how your mer-loving mother sickens him.
You never knew why everyone had a problem with mer; to you, they were just pretty little—and sometimes huge—things. You always wanted to be friends with one, but daddy always said no child of his would be a mer-loving freak.
That night was your first lesson, your first and last.
You were awoken by singing; it was the most beautiful sound you had ever heard. So alluring and ethereal, leading you from your quarters to the deck of the ship.
Just as you were about to get close to the railing, your dad yanks you back. “What do you think you’re doing?” He snapped, gripping your arm tightly. “I know, I didn’t raise someone foolish enough to give in to the songs of a mer.” He gruffs out, letting you go with a shove.
“Go get my harpoon, boy.”
The sneer in his voice as you run to do as he says, even though he calls you that, you know he’ll never see you as what you truly are.
His harpoon is by his bed, easily reachable in case of emergency. It’s heavy in your hands, and you have to sort of drag it out to him, but you manage to get it to him just fine.
The glare in his eyes as he takes it from you tells you that you took too long.
Seeing his glare makes you flinch away, and just as you’re about to slink off into the darkest corner of this ship, he grabs you. “Come here.” He demands, dragging you to the side of the boat.
“I’m going to show you what it takes to be a real man,” he muttered, positioning the harpoon into your hands.
“You’re gonna kill that bastard mer.” He growls, stepping away from you.
“If you don’t—” He pauses to lick his lips.
“I’ll kill you.”
The endless sea begins to churn around your ship, as if upset that a lowly human thinks it has the right to kill one of its many children.
The mer’s song gets louder as the ocean’s waves crash into the side of the ship, shaking it with such force.
Your father is growing impatient; the darkness that surrounds you both isn’t making his temper any better. Even though you can feel his anger begin to brew under his skin, you cannot bring yourself to harm another being—something whose heart is beating just like yours.
“Just throw the damn thing,” he snaps at you, roughly pushing your shoulder. “We don’t even know how many are out there; they can sink us at any moment, damn it!” He yells; his anger makes the hair on your neck stand up. Your body trembles, and just as he begins to raise his hand, you throw it.
It doesn’t go far—just slightly over the side. The song stops the instant the harpoon leaves your hand, and the sea becomes tranquil once more.
Your father opens his mouth, but before he can start degrading you and telling you how utterly useless and pathetic you truly are, the harpoon comes flying back. From much—much farther away.
Into his chest.
The scream you let out is deafening. Your eyes switch between your father and the haunting sea below you before finally sticking to your father. You turn your body to face him, eyes and mouth wide in shock.
The only thing to leave his mouth is a croak and blood.
Such a brilliant red it’s almost beautiful.
He reaches for you, trying to grab hold of you. In your fear, you back away. The problem is—you back away a little too far…
As you fall towards the sea, the waves rise to catch you; they cradle you like your mother did when you were younger. Even as you sink into the depths of the cerulean sea, they caress you with love that you haven’t felt in a long time. It’s actually quite… peaceful.
The song starts up again, pulling you into a sense of calm. The song is softer now, as if it’s a lullaby meant to lure you to sleep.
It works; your eyelids begin to feel heavy, or maybe it’s the lack of air. Just as you begin to fully lose consciousness, you feel a pair of arms wrap around you. And the song changes in turn—it’s still soft, but there’s something there, almost as if it’s telling you not to worry, that you’ll be safe.
The next time you open your eyes, you are in a cave that almost seems to cradle you. The walls are covered in bioluminescence, and the moon shines down upon you.
You are still wet—not soaked-to-the-bone wet, but wet nonetheless. Your eyes sting, and your throat is the only dry part of you. If not for the fact that you are wet, you would’ve thought everything was just some sick dream, but you knew otherwise.
Your head feels like it’s going to explode, and the rest of your body isn’t any better. It is only when you let out a groan of pain that you realize you are not alone.
There is someone—something—watching you.
Eyes a mix of blue and purple stare up at you from the pool of water in front of you. It’s the mer.
The mer that killed your father.
You let out a whine of distress, breathing quickening as you try to get away from them with the strength you have left.
Before you can start hyperventilating, it begins to sing—the same soft song from before.
As it sings, it moves closer, its tail rippling the surface of the water.
“You must be thirsty,” it—he—remarked, pulling himself on shore. He wasn’t much older than you by the looks of it. He wasn’t more than 12 at the most, but there’s no way a 12-year-old would be able to throw a harpoon as effectively as he did.
Then again, he is a mer.
Your wide-eyed stare is all the answer he needs before he reaches down to grab a gourd. “Catch,” he chimes, amused at your shock-ridden face as he tosses it your way.
You lick your lips when the gourd lands in your palms; your mouth is so dry it doesn’t even wet them. In a hurried, desperate manner, you open it and bring it to your mouth the moment the top pops out.
“Slow down, you’ll choke,” the amused mer at the base of your feet urged, concern dripping into his voice. Grabbing the base of the gourd and pulling it from your lips, he manages to drag himself up closer to you while you are drinking. “I’ll bring you more tomorrow, along with something to eat, so don’t worry.”
You swallowed, looking down at the sand beneath your feet before looking back up at him through your eyelashes. “Why did you save me?” you ask, ducking your head back down before he could answer. Clutching at your arms as you tried to make yourself as small as possible, “Why did you kill my daddy?” Your voice cracks as that sentence leaves your mouth; sure, he wasn’t always nice to you.
Actually, he was rarely nice to you, but still. He was your father, and no matter what, children are supposed to love their parents.
“Firstly, I saved you because unlike your ‘daddy,’ you don’t deserve to die,” he answers. His voice is stern, in a way that kids his age shouldn’t sound. “Secondly, your father—if you can even call him that—threatened to kill you, and from how scared you were of him, he has beaten you several times before.” His voice is softer this time.
Like he knows if he raises it, he’ll scare you, and that’s the last thing he wants at the moment.
Instead of acknowledging what he said, you ask him another question, one much more serious.
“When will I be able to go home?” This whispered question makes the mer freeze; his eyes widen as he looks at you. He knows he won’t be able to keep you, but still, something in his chest aches at the thought of letting you go.
“Not for another week or two; a storm is coming. A big one, the sea will be in turmoil for a while,” he answers before trilling, “Go back to sleep now, you need rest,” he demands, pushing at your shoulders. Before you can protest, he begins to sing, and like before, it says, “You’re safe, I have you now.”
And that is all you need before your body slips into the kingdom of dreams.
When you woke up in the evening the next day, you found freshly prepared fish waiting for you, accompanied by the gourd from the other day, refilled as promised.
The fish was steaming, strangely enough; its eyes clouded over as a deep, long cut ran down its body. It had been properly gutted, and every cut made on the fish was done with the utmost care. Every small bone that posed a choking hazard was removed and laid next to it, as if to let you know you didn’t have to do anything to it.
You don’t quite like fish; you just could never get past the taste.
But you don’t quite like starving either.
Bracing yourself, you push up from the sand-covered floor and shuffle over to the prepared fish, sitting down to take it in more clearly. You hesitate slightly—what if he poisoned it? You ponder, though that thought is short-lived. With a growl from your stomach, you reach out to pinch off a strip of the fish’s pale flesh.
Your hands shake as you bring it to your mouth. Whether it’s from low blood pressure or nerves, you can’t tell. But either way, you slowly push the fish past your chapped lips, caressing it the rest of the way in with your tongue.
The texture is soft, the taste surprisingly sweet. It fills your belly in ways it hadn’t been filled in ages; the only thing that could make this meal better is a bowl of rice and some company. After all, everything tastes better when shared. The salt clings to your tongue and is only washed away when you take a sip of water from the gourd.
You’re about halfway through the fish when you feel his eyes on you, watching you eat. He doesn’t come closer; his head only breaches the surface enough for his eyes to peek through.
You let him watch for a while, before the eyes on you start to make you anxious. “Stop looking at me,” you mutter, your voice barely above a whisper. That doesn’t make the mer stop; in fact, you acknowledging him just makes him rise out of the water, closer to you.
“Do you like it?” he asks excitedly, chirping once he finishes his sentence. His eyes look from you back down to the fish bones lying in front of you. “Yes,” you whisper, still too scared to speak for the most part.
“You’re so tense!” he whines, dramatically falling onto the rocks in front of you. “Tell you what! To make you less tense, why don’t you ask me three questions?” He beams, flicking water up from the sea with his tail.
“Fine,” you agree after a very awkward moment of silence. “Uhm, what’s your name?” you ask. Very cliché, but if you’re going to be buddy-buddy with this guy, you might as well know his name.
“Rafayel. Next.” He sinks deeper into the water, almost disappointed that you asked such a boring question.
“There are different kinds of mer, right? What kind are you?” you query, tilting your head slightly as you stare at him.
“I’m Lemurian,” he brags, chest puffing up as he says it.
“You must be really proud to be one,” you tease, giggling to yourself when he nods in agreement.
“Uhmmm, why did you save me..?” you ask for your final question, looking at him like your entire being depends on his answer.
“You interested me,” he says, after a moment of thinking. “You are the one I was singing for that night, not your father,” he hisses, angry at the now-dead man.
You can’t blame him; the man did ruin the way you met. You’ll probably always think of him as the mer who killed your father and—and—
“You know, thinking back on it, you kind of did me a favor.”
What?
The lemurian’s eyes widen so fast you would’ve thought he was a cartoon character. “What?”
You laugh, placing your hands in your lap. “Don’t get me wrong, I loved my dad, but over the years he got kind of… mean,” you confide, digging your nails into the fabric of your pants. “He drank a lot, and when he drank he would—would—” Before you can finish your sentence, a sob started to wrack your body, making you almost incapable of speech.
The lemurian—Rafayel—swims closer to you, climbing up the rocks before pulling you into him. “It’s okay, I’m here,” he soothes, petting your hair. “When the storm ends, I’ll get you back to the parent that actually loves and cares for you.” He swears, tightening his grip on you as you finally begin to calm down.
“Pinky promise?” you sniffle, holding out your pinky.
“I’ll pinky promise if you promise me that one day we’ll see each other again,” he offers, letting you ponder your next move.
“I promise,” you say. The moment the words leave your mouth, his pinky wraps around yours.
“Then it’s a deal.”
The rest of your time with the mer is much more fun. He brings you pretty trinkets and talks to you about the most random things. He also likes to paint, which is interesting; he uses a blend of coral and bioluminescence for his paints. He made a painting for you, and it was beautiful. If he were human, he’d be a millionaire.
When you had to leave, you almost didn’t want to—scratch that, you didn’t want to. But Rafayel kept insisting that it was for the best and that you’d see each other again soon. Still, you didn’t want to leave him.
Your time with Rafayel has been the best thing to ever happen to you, and as selfish as it may be, you didn’t want to say goodbye to the joy he brought you—not yet. Not ever.
You had no choice in the matter, however; he took you to the surface where you were sleeping. The last thing you saw of him was his iridescent tail splashing into the water.
After he left you there, you stared at the coastline for a while, waiting to see even a glimpse of him.
You never got it.
Afterward, you went about asking random strangers for help finding your mom.
Your mom was ecstatic to see you; tears rolled down her face when she saw you in the police precinct. She looked restless. You’d been gone for weeks—this you knew—but it felt like minutes with Rafayel by your side.
They found your father’s remains. Everyone thought that he accidentally pierced himself when the storm started. How they reached that conclusion, you have no idea. But on the way home, you knew that your dad being gone wasn’t the only loss you suffered.
In fact, losing Rafayel hurt a million times worse than losing that drunkard.
Every time you see the ocean, you look out at it hoping you can see his blue iridescent fin flicking out of the water. You never do.
And that hurts more than anything.
Losing Rafayel left you with a deep and painful ache you’ve never been able to get rid of.
You stay awake at night trying to listen for the song he used to sing to you.
Nothing ever comes.
The ocean remains cold and indifferent as you cry into her, begging for her child to come back.
Waves crash into you, but she remains silent otherwise, letting your tears become another salty part of her.
In her silence, you realize—the sea never gives back what she has stolen.
You can only hope to find it again in her depths.
——-
You jolt awake, panting, chest heavy with grief and sorrow. As much as you want to tell yourself that it was a dream, you know better. It was too real to be a dream… too real to just be an imagination. The dream was so vivid you can still smell the salt of the sea and the humidity of it.
Your breath begins to return to normal as you pat around looking for your phone, eyes blurry still from sleep. You find it and check the time: 05:05. Quite some time before the work day officially starts. It gives you just enough time to talk to Rafayel about this.
Sighing softly, you slowly rise out of bed. Slipping your feet into your cozy slippers while running your hands through your hair, you have to see him.
You have to see him now.
Every move you make is done in a flurry; you’re moving so quickly you almost forget your keys as you rush out the door. You just threw on your work uniform—you are heading to work after all. Just a tad bit early. Your uniform’s waterproof fabric rubs against the crease of your elbow uncomfortably.
Your uniform isn’t exactly the coziest thing to wear, but it’s never been this unbearable. Your skin is so sensitive and itchy.
You move quickly—you’re practically sprinting at how fast you’re trying to get to him.
When you smell the salt of the sea in the air, you just move faster, breaking into a full-on sprint.
Towards him.
And when you get there, it’s like he was waiting for you. His eyes lock onto your frame the moment you come into view, his tail moving to bring him closer to you.
“Rafayel!”
You call out, panting as you lean over beside his enclosure. Hearing you say his name makes him move with more urgency. “You remember?” he amazes, eyes sparkling as he stares at you.
“Yes, yes, yes,” you rush out, stepping even closer to him. “I just… buried the memories I had of you… due to the pain they brought me,” you stammer out, reaching out towards your mer—your lemurian, your Rafayel.
“I never thought I’d see you again,” you whisper, as you finally give in and cup his cheek, smiling softly when he nuzzles into it, giving your palm a small peck.
Rafayel’s webbed hands come up to hold onto yours. He’s trembling slightly, almost scared that if he touches you, he’ll vanish.
“I know,” he whispers. “I know, I wanted to come to you so bad.” He admits, his once hesitant grip tightened, now possessive in a way you didn’t know he was capable of, as he nuzzles into you harder.
“I never left you, I just watched you from a distance.” He assures you, his eyes gleam with some ancient power a human like you could never understand, as his webbed right hand comes up to grip just beneath your shoulder. “My very soul longed to be right by your side.” His voice deepens when he says this. “Don’t worry,” he reassured, “we’ll never have to be apart again.” His voice is almost hypnotic as he says this—it’s so soothing, and comforting. And safe.
Rafayel is safe.
Your instincts briefly tell you that you should run, that you should get away from him. But that is quickly shut down by something deep in your brain. Then he starts to sing, softly—the song he always sang for you to calm you down, the song that said “don’t worry, I’m here, you’re safe.”
Then, like a true siren, he pulled you into the depths.
The ocean shattered above you in a foaming blur, and panic overcame you. Salt water floods your senses, burning your lungs. You try to pull yourself away from the Lemurian but the more you pull the more his claws dig into you.
Throughout your struggle Rafayel just pulls you further into the depths, the atmospheric pressure increasing bit by lung-crushing bit.
All the while Rafayel sings, watching you intently. Before you finally pass out from the lack of oxygen.
When you regained consciousness you were resting in a gigantic gutter out clamshell, filled with kale, seaweed, and sponge to make it softer.
The walls of the shell were intricately decorated with pearls and gems that found their way into the sea due to sunken ships, the room the shell sat in was even more extravagant, it looked like the walls themselves were made of pearl.
Dried-out starfish hung from the ceiling with pieces of vibrant colored coral.
It took you a while to realize that you were still underwater, and even then it took you even longer to realize that you were still under and breathing.
Once you realized that fact you quickly searched your body for.. well, gills. You didn’t find any, thank god, but that just makes your mind feel with questions.
How are you breathing? Why are you in this next? And most importantly, where is Rafayel?
You rise slowly, your body still aching from the atmospheric pressure change. You were tempted to climb out of the shell but quickly decided not to after seeing that even though you were in a room, the floor of it was entirely gone. In its place was the dark abyss of the sea, jagged rocks, and who knows what else waiting for you to fall into them.
Your skin prickled as the feeling of something looking back at you from the dark arose, your breath grew panicked as something swam at lightning speed towards you. Your eyes quickly snapped shut, arms coming to cover your face as you braced for impact. Only for it to never come.
Hesitantly, you removed your arms and opened your eyes only to be hit with the most breathtaking sight.
Rafayel.
Except, he was entirely different from how he was when you last saw him.
His body was covered in colorful markings and golden jewelry.
Around his neck was a golden collar that connected to silver chains decorated with jews and pearls that circled his waist and connected to an even more elaborate piece that rested on his hips right above his tail. As beautiful as it was it looked like the spine of some poor creature.
Golden ear cuffs framed his ears and golden cuffs decorated with rubies framed his arms.
And to finish it all off, on top of his head lay a simple gold crown.
He looked like a king.
No-
He looked.. like a god.
“Rafayel” your voice echoed through the water, it sounded weird, but you could clearly make out what you were trying to say. “Yes?” he answers leaning down towards you, a smug grin on his face.
“Rafayel, what has happened to you? Why do you look so different?” You question, reaching your arm out towards him before abruptly jerking it back. “I am as I have always been.” He muses, enjoying your reaction to his new attire.
“There is a lot about me that you don’t know, but with time… you will know it all” he assures you, swimming around the shell that holds you, chirring all the while.
“Do you not like me like this?” He asks you, his tail strokes slowing as a flash of insecurity shows on his face.
“No, I like it!” You reassured him, beaming a smile at him that was quickly replaced by a look of uncertainty.
“Rafayel?”
“How am I breathing right now?” You ask voice trembling, as you look down at your hands that are just floating in the water. “Oh. That.” He frowns, voice monotonous as he says “I merely kissed you”
You blink.
Once.
Twice.
Three times
EHH?
Your face burns all of a sudden as a flush rises to your cheeks, “You did what?” You cough out, looking at him from your peripheral view.
“I kissed you.” He says like it’s no big deal, grabbing your hand and bringing it up to his mouth to plant a soft kiss on your knuckles.
“Just like this,” he says as he starts to trail kisses down your arm, nuzzling into your neck when he places a final kiss upon your shoulder.
“Would you like me to show you?” He questions, his voice deepening. He bites at the crease of your neck, placing his right hand on the nape of it before finally pulling away.
“Well?” He asks, his tail flicks impatiently behind him as his eyes narrow in on your lips.
You swallow, licking for lips before finally deciding that yes, you do want him to kiss you while you’re conscious enough to kiss back.
So with a little bit of a grin on your face, you nodded. “Sure, why n-“ you were cut off.
A single cold, scaly, webbed hand cups your cheek as the one on the nape of your neck tightens its grip.
And finally, cold, surprisingly soft, scaled lips meet yours in a passionate dance for two.
A soft moan leaves your lips, which gives Rafayel just enough time to slip his slick, slitted tongue down your throat “MHM!” Your eyes, widen in surprise, hands coming up to push the mer away.
The mer didn’t budge, a deep, thrumming rumble vibrated through his chest, echoing like a whale song through the water around you, every time you attempted to shove him back. It was a warning-don’t move. With that and his strength the only thing you could do was sit there and whine as his tongue tickled the back of your throat.
After what felt like forever the mer pulled back not too far, he was still close enough that you could feel the heat of the water when he exhaled against your upper lip.
You took a deep breath, only to wince from the mild ache it caused in your lungs.
“You did all of that just to get me to breathe?” You huffed, keeping your hands on his chest.
“No.” He states, removing his hand from your cheek and using it to grab both your wrists. Using his hold on them to yank you closer to him, claiming your lips once more.
This kiss was much shorter than the previous one, “that was just to show you that you’re mine.” He hissed, sinking his fangs into your bottom lip.
“Do you still hurt?” He asks, removing his hands from their current positions on your body and repositioning them under your arms, trailing them down your body, squeezing your flesh as they go.
He watched you intently for any sign of discomfort or distress, happy trilling when he saw none.
“And the nest. Do you like it?” He whispered, seemingly scared of what you might say.
“I love it, it’s very soft and extremely beautiful.” You confessed, glancing around the room once more.
“It’s not as beautiful as you, my mate.” He sighs, wrapping his arms around your waist before relaxing his body against yours.
Hearing him call you his mate brings a flush to your cheeks and causes a pounding in your heart, clearing your throat, you lazily wrap your arms around his neck.
“You think of me as your mate?” You ask sheepishly, after all mers mate for life, to call someone your mate is the same as calling them your husband and well that’s kind of a big deal.
‘Mate’ isn’t exactly a word you just throw out there.
“Of course, I always have. Since we first met.” He says like it’s no big deal, voice slightly muffled due to the fact that his face is buried in your left tit.
“Truly?” You ask, brows raised.
“Then why were you such an asshole?” You question him before thinking of an even better question, “No— better yet. Why did you leave me?” Still upset at the fact that he just left you on a beach surrounded by strangers who could’ve done anything to you. At this he releases a sigh tightening his grip on you, “I had to in order to become what I am now. If I had let you stay, you would’ve died.” He confesses, clenching his jaw.
“I had many enemies back then, and I was too weak to defeat them all.” He confides, “ I needed to become stronger to protect you, so I did” he hisses out, replacing his head so that it’s nuzzled into your neck.
“If you’re so strong, how did you end up at the treatment center?” You query, genuinely curious. Mers are seen as the top of the food chain both on sea and land, the only thing that could do that kind of damage is another mer.
“Oh, that?” He hums, bored at the question. “I did that,” he confesses, entirely missing the look of horror that creeps onto your face “I knew you worked at squidling, and that was the only way I could think of to get close to you.” Once he finishes that sentence he croons, tired of all the questions.
“Wait, Rafayel” you rush out, ignoring the annoyed click that follows.
Usually when a mer finds its mate they go into heat or rut. Though it can take weeks or even months, when mates are abruptly separated before being able to be bonded together properly. It comes much, much faster.
Rafayel acting restless at the recovery center and having a low appetite all point to signs of a up and coming rut.
“When’s your rut?” You ask, brushing your hands through his hair. “In a few hours maybe, tomorrow if you’re lucky.” He’s rasps, really enunciating that last part.
“Don’t worry, I’ve already prepared food to last you through this cycle. Though I might be too far gone to cook it for you.” He croons, digging his claws into the flesh of your waist.
“You must forgive me for the way I will act during that time.” He purred out.
“I do not believe I will be able to control myself after so long without you.” Voice husky with sleep, curling his tail around you so that you’re properly cradled against him.
And so that you cannot get away.
“Now let’s rest.” He urged. Before he started to sing, each note tugged at something deep in your mind, luring you into a calming sleep.
You woke up a few hours later to a suffocating heat that made your chest tighten, which is strange considering you fell asleep next to a being as cold as ice.
Rafayel was still pressed flush against you, though his tail had somehow found its way between your legs making it so that you could barely move.
At first, you thought the Lemurian was still asleep, not yet awake to his drastic change in temperature. But then you felt it, subtle cues that you would’ve otherwise missed— his claws kneading the flesh of your waist, little flicks of his tail, his slow uneven breath against your neck.
“Rafayel” you whisper, like you’re about to turn around and see the most terrifying creature ever.
He answers you with a crooning hum that’s so loud it makes your ears ring, “ah!” You yelp bringing your hands up to cover your ears.
“Sorry, sorry.” It’s the quiet you wouldn’t have heard it if it wasn’t spoken next to your ear “It’s hard to control myself like this.” He hissed out, you could tell how hard he was trying to hold back just by how hard he was gripping your waist.
“It’ll get worse over time” he warns you voice still barely above a whisper.
“You shouldn’t be so close to me” he hissed, though his tail remained between your legs and his grip on your waist tightened.
“Please! I can’t-“ he starts before breaking off into a trill, nuzzling into your neck. Scenting you frantically, almost like his life depends on it, like he’ll die if your scent isn’t consuming his senses.
His fins begin to glow as his claws scrape down your body, the Lemurian breaks off into a growl when he feels the waistband of your pants, though it quickly turns into a whine.
“Please” he whines, “can I?” Is all he can say before he starts chirping, the way his claws grip your pants tells you all you need to know however.
He wants to tear them off.
He’s patient so- so patient as he waits for your response.
But patience can only last so long in a rut.
The first tear is an accident he didn’t mean to he even clicks out an apology, but the sound of your pants tearing awakens something in him.
Something that was better left buried.
With a loud rumbling growl, he tears away what remains of your pants, only to get more frustrated at the sight of your underwear. “Why do you humans wear so much?” He muttered, hurriedly yanking your undies down before growing impatient and tearing those off too.
Somewhere along the way of him hurriedly tearing your pants and under garments off he realized he wanted to see you, and not just that.
He wanted you to see him.
So in a show of strength, Rafayel quickly and efficiently turns you around, though to do so he had to remove his tail from in between your legs which itself was a pain but seeing how fast you closed them was an even bigger one.
“What are you doing?” He hisses, all he wants is to be inside you! After so many years of waiting to have you, there are so many things in the way and apparently, you are one of them.
With an annoyed hiss, the Lemurian places his hands on your thighs, “Open up, or I will make you.” He snapped, baring his sharp, fangy teeth.
“Rafayel- wait!” You cry embarrassed at the fact that you’re borderline naked in front of a beautiful creature.
And shockingly he does, taking a deep breath.
“Please!” He begs, digging his claws into your thighs, “Please, tell me I can” he whispers, a trill escaping from his throat, “I’ll give you everything you could want and more” he promises, looking into your eyes so intently it felt like he was looking into your soul.
With a deep breath you nod, snapping your eyes closed in fear of his reaction to what’s in between your legs. Only for them to snap open in surprise as Rafayel strokes a curious finger down your folds.
“You don’t have a penis?” He questions a huge, twisted grin spreading across his face as he studies the slick on his finger.
“No...” you mutter keeping your line of sight out of his general direction.
“You’re so perfect.” He chirps, placing a hand on the nape of your neck and turning your head to face him.
“You’re so perfect for me,” he whispers before bringing you into a borderline feral kiss, fingers poke at the entrance to your slick cunt.
“Wait! Rafayel you can’t-“ you try to warn only to get cut off by him plunging two scaly, clawless fingers into you. “Fuck!” You moan out, leg twitching as you try to get used to the sudden but familiar sting of having something in your hole.
“Ra-rafayel” you whine out, hole already frothing at the scaled fingers in your hole.
Rafayel only offers you a brief smile before turning his full attention to the slit between your legs, plunging his fingers into you over and over again. Watching as your hole produces loads of cream, before blessing you with another two fingers.
He slowly and carefully inserts them, knowing just how fragile the human body can be even if this particular part seems to stretch around everything you give it.
“What do you call this?” He asks, entranced by the way your hole is sucking his fingers into.
“My- my cunt?” You offer not entirely sure what he’s asking, though this answer seems to be more than enough for him.
“Your cunt” he says, his inhuman accent slipping out, “is it always this wet?” He’s amazed by how much slick is leaving you, a lot of it has pulled underneath you and a good amount has trailed down to his wrist.
“No,” you mumble, embarrassed by the way your body is reacting to the mer before you.
But it is true, of all the times you’ve been touched down there, you’ve never been this wet. It almost makes you feel icky that you can get this slick simply by being teased by this mer.
“Really?” He says it like it’s the most shocking thing he’s ever heard, “does that mean you only get this wet for me?” A possessive grin manages to make its way onto his face.
With a sinister croon, he pulls his hand back, just slightly, then without warning, he nudges his thumb against your already stretched-out hole, “let me in.” He coos, applying more pressure behind his forceful nudges.
“Rafayel,” you whine, grabbing hold of his wrist, “I can’t- I can’t.” The words are whimpered out a bit too late; the Lemurian has already slipped his thumb into your cunt.
“Ngh,” you moan, digging your nails into the mer’s thinly scaled wrist.
The mer leans in, happily trilling in the back of his throat, he places a quick peck to your temple. “You’re gonna take me so well.” He whispers, grabbing your hand that dug itself into his scales with his free one.
Before fucking his wrist into you, watching in amazement as your hole stretches itself in order to take it.
Though as much as he loved watching your hole stretch around his wrist, he’d much rather see it stretch around something else.
So with a sigh, a rather depressed-sounding one at that, he yanks his wrist out of your cunt. Bringing his slick, soaked hand up to his mouth in order to taste your wetness.
His reaction to it is instantaneous, his eyes dilate, and his claws regrow. His chest begins to rumble in a never-ending purr that gets louder when he sees your hole clenching around nothing but water.
“Here,” he trills, guiding your hand to a slit in his tail. “Take me out,” he purrs, pressing his tail into the palm of your hand.
With a bit of discomfort from the feeling of being so full and a large amount of curiosity, you poke at the slit he guided you to, before reaching your hand in.
It’s not in too deep before you feel something, ah. Scratch that, two somethings, pressing against your hand.
Hesitantly, you wrap your hand around one of them. Swiping over the tip of his cock with your thumb, watching in amazement as his cocks began to peek out of their hiding spot inside him.
“That’s it,” he whines, lightly flicking his tail as he’s overwhelmed with pleasure.
“Just touch-“ he’s cut off by a hum that’s almost as loud as the last one. Lucky for you, he managed to cut it off before it turned your brain into absolute mush.
“Ugh,” you groan, shaking your head to get rid of the ringing sound— spoiler alert. It doesn’t work.
Not that it matters, as sensitive as the Lemurian is, by the time his song did manage to sneak its way out, so did his cocks.
And strangely enough, they were the prettiest cocks you’ve ever seen.
The one on top had a wider urethra than the other, though the one on the bottom was slightly longer. Both of them were quite thick, but the one on top— ‘the ovipositor’, your mind helpfully supplied— was thicker.
The bottom one— the one meant to fertilize the eggs— has ridges running down the length of it, the widest of which rested at the bottom.
However, both were the prettiest lilac purple you’ve ever seen.
They were both glistening, covered in Rafayel’s own slick and pre-cum.
Rafayel places his clawed hands on your hips, digging his claws into the swell of your ass.
“Can I-“ he pauses, choking down his song.
“Inside, please!” He chokes out, removing his hands from your waist to bring them up to cover your ears—though it feels more like he’s crushing your skull— he finally lets out a loud piercing cry.
“Sorry!” He squeals out hurriedly removing his hands from your head, “sorry! Sorry!” He whines, clawing at your thighs.
“Rafayel,” you call, placing your hands onto his shoulders, “calm down,” humming, you pull him towards you, connecting your lips together.
“You can,” you start licking your lips in embarrassment before continuing, “get inside,” you squeak out.
Clearing your throat before finishing, “I don’t want you to be in pain,” sympathy bleeds into your voice, “use me— use my body, to make you feel better,” finally giving him permission to do the one thing all his instincts are telling him to do.
“Thank you,” he hissed out, wrapping his hands around your thighs pulling you in until the tip of his cock—the one with the wider urethra— nudges against your stretched hole.
With an annoyed hiss, Rafayel digs his claws further into you before yanking you closer onto the flared head of his ovipositor.
He moans loudly, louder than you even— when he breaches your hole, amazed by how tight it is even after all the attention he gave to your hole to make sure it was properly stretched.
Though, thanks to that and how wet both of you are, it was a very smooth glide into you.“Thank you,” he whines once more, moving his hands from your thighs to your waist.
A small thing to note about mers in heat or rut is that they go fucking insane the moment they get something in them or in this case into something, though insane isn’t a good word for it.
Feral.
Is a better one.
Overcome by instincts that tell them to fuck and breed even if it’ll lead to their demise.
Every cell in their body just tells them to fuck, cum, and breed.
During mating mers are nothing but animals, they turn every human horror story about them into reality.
Mers become these ruthless, killing machines all for the health of their mates.
That’s why there are so many horror stories of them eating humans. Human meat is exotic to mers since humans are so hard— and annoying— to kill.
It’s not only a meal but a chance for a mer to show their mate just how strong they truly are. Luckily, Lemurians are one of the few subspecies of mer to not partake of human flesh.
Though the way Rafayel is treating you, you’d think otherwise.
His mouth hasn’t left your neck since he thrust inside you, teeth buried in it so deep it almost hurt, so deep that you almost feel like when he removes them you’ll bleed out.
But fortunately for you, his teeth aren’t the only thing buried deep in you. His ovipositor feels like it’s nudging against your lungs every time he moves.
Growls leave his mouth as he forces himself to remain still, to not immediately start bucking into your cunt like a bull.
But a mer’s patience can only last so long.
And when it comes to Rafayel with you?
Well, he’s the most impatient mer of them all.
The first thrust was an accident and way too soon on your part; you’re not used to having something this deep inside of you. Your insides are so sensitive from the stretch alone; it feels so good it’s almost painful.
But Rafayel, he can’t control himself.
Not while he’s in such a wet and warm cunt, not when said cunt is gripping him like it wants to break his dick off.
So you can’t blame him for how quickly he loses control!!
Blame that cunt of yours!
It wants this! It’s taunting him with how tight and moist it is.
The next thrust isn’t an accident.
This one is more forceful; it has more power behind it like he’s trying to get your hips to merge with his.
“Rafayel!” The sound of his name leaving your mouth is the prettiest song he’s ever heard. He wants to hear it again!
No-no.
He needs to.
With a whine of apology, Rafael gave in to his instincts.
Gave into the voice telling him to make you fat with eggs and cum.
The Lemurian’s thrusts are frantic and desperate, and so—so deep. You can barely draw in enough air between his wild thrusts; the pleasure you’re experiencing borders the extremely thin line of pleasure and pain.
The only thing Rafayel did in response to your mewling was pick up speed, the pressure in his gut was becoming too much— it was so close to being relieved.
Just a little more! He was almost there!
After several more frantic thrusts, the dam broke.
And with it, Rafayel’s last shred of control.
With a piercing cry, the Lemurian dug his claws deeper into your waist and sunk his teeth deeper into your neck.
At first you didn’t understand what inspired such a change, but then you felt it. Nudging up against the rim of your already stretched cunt- eggs, “Rafayel—wait-“ you choked out, only to be answered with a low growl.
There is no more waiting, not anymore.
These eggs started developing weeks ago, he needs them out now. And who better to host them than you?
A mate who’s cunt keeps sucking him in, begging for his eggs.
And who is he to deny your cunt what it wants?
He will give your cunt all the eggs it wants and more.
The first egg is a bit of a struggle, you’re still so tight and you clenching around him doesn’t exactly help, not for this part anyway.
But it goes in all the same, all it took was a bit more force to get it inside. Then it was smooth sailing from there.
The first egg settled right against your cervix.
“Rafayel”you cry out back, arching against him, “take your teeth out of my neck and kiss me goddamn it!” You whine, yanking at his hair with your hands.
He growls at first, unwilling to give you a chance to get away. But, as the second egg begins to descend into his ovipositor and into your cunt he gives in to your demands.
Letting you drag his head from your neck to your mouth.
This kiss is more fang and tongue than any of the previous ones you’ve shared, you can taste both your blood and slick on his tongue.
The carnage of the kiss just makes you lose yourself more and more.
Gasping and moaning into his blood soaked maw.
“Rafayel” you gasp out when you feel the second egg finally nudge its way inside of you, “how many of these are you gonna give me?” The question seems to make him pause, not at all expecting it.
“Ten” he hisses, voice straining against the urge to sing for you, like true mers do during mating.
“Right- fuck” you moan, whining when the second egg finally plops inside of you nestled right against the first. “So I just have eight more, yeah?” You rush out, high on the feeling of being so full.
High on being so fucking close to cumming.
Rafayel answers you with a hiss, to focus on getting eggs three and four in you to deal with your questions.
The force behind the lemerians thrusts seems to lighten up a bit after eggs five and six are safely laid inside of you.
The first egg that was laid in you pokes at your womb each time Rafeyel thrusts inside you, it isn’t until egg seven comes that it actually starts to breach it.
The feeling has you rolling your eyes back and screaming Rafayel’s name.
Then the egg slides home into your womb the moment egg seven slides into your cunt, and finally.
After waiting for what feels like a century, you cum.
Nails tugging on Rafayel’s hair as your legs twitch and your cunt clench.
“Rafayel” you whine, fucking yourself onto his ovipositor, “more. I want more” you’re almost sobbing when you say it, crying as egg after egg enters your womb as he forces another one in.
“Please give me more” you’re drunk the pleasure Rafayel is giving you, though Rafayel is more than happy to give into your demands.
He trills and chirps as he forces the last egg into you, trusting a few more times to ensure they were all housed safely inside your womb before pulling out.
“Rafayel— no! Stop! Put it back in please!” You beg, not quite ready to let his cock go just yet.
The mer simply hisses at you before taking his other cock in hand, with a playful little hum he carefully slips it inside you. No longer the instinct controlled beast he once was after depositing his eggs.
“Don’t worry, we’re not done yet” he trills, watching as your once tense body relaxes as he pushes his other cock inside you.
“I have to make sure you’re properly bred after all” the only thing you do in response to that is whine.
Being bred sounds like a dream come true right now, being so heavy with eggs and drunk on pleasure, and full of cock.
You don’t even protest when the Lemurian starts to ram into you full speed like a proper breeding bull, just fuck yourself into his thrusts, like a proper breeding cow.
Desperation sinks its claws into you as you feel your climax begin to rise once again.
The pitch of your moans get higher as you fuck yourself onto Rafayel’s cock repeatedly, crying out when your orgasm washes over you, soaking Rafayel’s prefect fucking cock.
You whine when Rafayel continues to thrust into you, your insides are just so fucking sensitive you can’t take anymore but you don’t want him to stop either.
The Lemurian shushes you in response, kissing over the bitemark in your neck, “I’m almost there, don’t worry.” He pants kissing down to your shoulder before sinking his fangs into the flesh there too resulting in another whine on your part.
Your cunt aches and you’re so-so fucking full.
Rafayel battering his cock against your womb just makes you feel more full than you are.
And finally, after what feels like an eternity, he cums.
The feeling is heavenly, it sparks a mini orgasm out of you.
Mer cum is thicker than humans, it’s like that to keep the eggs from slipping out of its host. Over a course of a few hours it’ll harden, and you’ll be nice and full.
With a huff the Lemurian pulls out of you, gently setting you down on the sponge and seaweed bed below you. “Are you hungry?” He asked leaning over you like a worried mom, “No, just tired” you yawn, pulling him on top of you wincing at the sharp ache in your cunt.
“Sing me to sleep?” You ask, though you’re already halfway there.
“Always.” He responds, before he sings that song that lets you know that you’re safe, and nothing can hurt you.
Not while your mate is here.
—
A/n: Can you tell that I rushed through this? Anyways.. happy early birthday to the loml! Also never writing something this long ever again
A/n: This is so rushed, I started writing it a month ago but got writers block and powered through. ( ̄▽ ̄)
Living with Simon has been overwhelming in a sense. You’ve grown close to him— might even go as far as to say you’ve grown to love him. He’s sweet, unbelievably so. You wouldn’t expect someone as gruff as him to treat you so kindly and honestly. It’s kind of laughable. There are some rules given the fact that he did kidnap you. For example, you’re only allowed outside with him. He’s still scared that you’ll try to run away from him. It’s kinda cute. At first, he wouldn’t even let you use the bathroom alone, but after a lot of begging and pleading, he realized he was being unreasonable.
He almost never left you home alone, not unless he absolutely had to. That’s what brings us to the current situation: grocery shopping. You’ve been craving chicken parm pasta for the longest. Being the best kidnapper anyone can ask for, Simon takes you to get the ingredients for it. You’re almost done getting what you need. Only two things are left— heavy cream and Parmesan. Surprisingly, shopping with Simon is rather peaceful. Sure, he won’t let you out of his sight, and he glares at anyone who gets too close to you.
Which he was currently doing, ‘ugh, he’s so adorable, like an overgrown guard dog’. Smiling, you grab his hand and tug him along. “Let’s go, Si, we still have stuff to get.” You remind him, sighing to yourself when you realize just how in love with this idiot you are. He lets you tug him along, of course; he’d do anything for you! That’s exactly why he hasn’t beat that guy’s face in— wait— is that little shit still staring at you? God, he must have a death wish. He’s so lucky you’re here— Si wouldn’t want you to be scared of him… everyone else? Great! But you? Fuck, he might have to tighten your lease— he doesn’t want to— no, of course not— it’s just— he doesn’t want you to run away. He doesn’t know what he’d do with you; he fucking needs you. He’d trade all of his blood just to hear you laugh— laugh, goddamn you.
But this little cunt keeps staring at you, and if he doesn’t stop, he’s not going to have any fucking- “I’m ready to check out, let’s go!” And as if you could hear the route his thoughts were taking and trying— key word— trying, he still wants to break that fuckers’ neck. “After you.” He manages to huff out, letting you lead the way to check out. And you did, humming softly to yourself, totally oblivious to what’s happening around you, not that Simon is complaining. It’s one of the reasons he took you in the first place; you need someone to protect you from this dangerous world— you needed Simon.
“Okay, ready to go home?” You beamed, collecting your bags. Home— you already think of his place as your home? Fucking hell. You couldn’t be more perfect. He couldn’t wait to get you back home so he can bundle you up and— oh, that fucking cunt, why is he—“Hey. Excuse me— I uh— I was wondering if— “ “No.” The word was out of Simon before either of you realized, “I’m sorry? Who even are you? I wasn’t even— “ “No.” This time it was you who said it, and Simon has never been more in awe of you. It’s like you get better by the second.
“Bye now!” You say, grabbing the blue-eyed male and scurrying out of the market. On the walk home, Simon kept you close to him, practically hissing at anyone who came near you— you could swear his back was even raising just like that of a cat. “Si, calm down. Nothing’s going to happen,” you said, which only resulted in him gripping you tighter. Not that you can blame him; someone tried to take you away from him, some lowlife tried to talk to you. Nothing pissed Simon off more than someone who doesn’t know their place.
“Come on, Si, you know I only want you,” you try to reassure him, nuzzling into his shoulder. “My entire being belongs to no one but you, Si,” you hum, gently kissing his neck before pulling back to look at him, “let’s hurry home.” You said, forcing him to pick up the pace.
Reaching ‘home’ didn’t take very long, due to the market being fairly close to where you now live. “Come on, Si, let’s put all the groceries…up?” You trailed off, stepping away from him. “Si, what’s wrong?” The way he’s looking at you is both scaring the living shit out of you and turning you on immensely. Unfortunately for you, even as you stepped away, he followed. Head hanging low, but his gaze burned into you. The hair on your neck began to raise and every fiber of your being screamed for you to run— run and hide. And before you knew it, your body was moving on its own accord, turning and running down the hall towards the bedroom, ignoring the sound of his heavy footsteps following after you. Really quick, let’s both agree that running from someone with the military background that Simon has is very idiotic, right? Right. Simon tackles you before you can even reach the bedroom, pulling you close to him, grunting as he does so. The way he holds you is the same way you’d hold a frightened bunny. That’s what he sees you as— a frightened bunny. A stupid little bunny who needs someone big and strong to protect them from the horrors of the world. This you knew—that is why he kidnapped you after all.
“Calm down, princess,” he soothes, going as far as to pet the top of your head and rub your neck. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he grunts out before standing with you in his arms, heading towards the bedroom. “Just going to make you feel good. Don’t you want to feel like a princess?” he asks, though he’s not really asking. It’s more of a taunt. Someone as naive as you doesn’t know that they need it until it’s given to them, and that’s what Simon is doing—giving you what you need.
The moment he walked into the room, you were on the bed, thrown there actually, with an order to, “stay.” Like a pet. While he went to explore the closet, “Si,” you whine, curling up on the corner of the bed. You’re quickly shushed as he walks over to you with only two items in hand: lube and a… dildo? It’s almost as big as him, just slightly thinner. “Don’t worry, princess,” he says, grabbing your leg and tugging you towards him. “I’m just making sure you’re filled.” He grunts out, as he begins taking off your pants and underwear.
“Don’t you want to be filled up?” He taunts as he cups your crotch. “What am I saying? Of course, you do.” He answers the question for you, knowing you’re way too small-minded to answer such a huge question by yourself.
Trailing his hand down to your hole, he presses the pads of his fingers against it. Ignoring your whines and twitches, he squeezes some of the lube onto his fingers, chuckling to himself at the little jump you made when you felt the coldness of the lube.
He waits a second, then two before pushing two of his fingers in. “Wait—” you cry out, though your cries fall on deaf ears. Simon is way too focused on having his way with you. He didn’t care if you thought it was too much. He knew you could take this and more. And he’d prove it to you.
“I’ll never get sick of seeing you hole open for me.” He grins, scissoring your hole. “I know you’ll never get sick of having your hole opened,” grabbing the dildo, he taps it to your hole before hooking his fingers on it and tugging it to the side. “This might hurt a bit.” He pushes the dildo in, being none too gentle about it.
“Simon—” you choke out, “please—“ you whine, grabbing at the sheets, “I can’t, please—“ he— like before— ignores your cries, pushing the dildo in until it won’t go any further, “there.” He cheers, letting you breathe for a little, “you did so well, princess,” he praises, leaning up to place a small peck on your lips. “Keep up the good work, okay?” This is all you get before both his fingers and dildo are moving in tandem inside of you. “Si-Si-Si” you chant, almost choking on your spit, “Simon please!!” You beg, you don’t even know what you’re begging for. Do you want more? Surely not, this is already too much, your hole is stretched so far as is. But it can’t stop, not now. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I know exactly what you need.” He reassures you, leaning down to kiss your temple before adding another finger inside of you.
“Do you think you’re ready?” He questions, tugging on your hole with his now three fingers. “Ah, what am I saying? You can’t even understand me, can you?” He taunts before pulling his fingers out of you, quickly shushing the whines and whimpers that followed, unzipping his pants and pulling out his cock. “Don’t worry, you’ll be filled again soon,” placing his cock against your stretched hole, right against the dildo he begins to push in.
“Too much! Too much!” You yelp, trying to squirm away from him. This, of course, doesn’t stop Simon; he simply grabs your hip with his now free hand and says, “Stay.” Sliding home into your warm, slick hole. “Fuck.” He groans out, calming his breath before matching his thrusts to that of the dildo. “Bloody hell. Why did it take me so long to try this?” He mutters, his thrusts getting harder and faster.
“Do you feel good, princess?” He asks, wrapping his free hand around your neck, chuckling to himself when he sees just how out of it you actually are. “Yeah, you’re feeling splendid, I bet.” He smiles, tightening his grip around your neck just so. Groaning when you tighten around him, “You feel so good,” he leans down to suck on your neck, “and you’re all mine.” He grunts out, fucking into you harder. “I should keep you locked up. So that no one but me can see you like this.” And harder, “Mine. Mine. Mine” He growled out, biting into your neck, just beneath his hand.
“I love this hole.” He praises, “I’m so glad it’s all mine.” He growls, twisting that dildo out of you. “When you cum, you’re going to cum on my cock alone.” He demands, fucking into you like an animal. “Simon,” you whine, finally able to get something out other than those pathetic moans of yours. “Please, wanna cum,” you beg, rutting back against him. “Wanna cum so bad.”
“Then cum,”
And cum you did, moaning out loudly as you did so. Whimpering when Simon followed soon after you. “There you go, princess, that’s a good boy,” he breathes out, petting your sweat-soaked hair, “Sorry if I got a little rough there, was just jealous, is all.” He says sheepishly, sucking and kissing down your neck.
“I think we could go another round though, don’t you?”
“Cause’ I know if I’m haunting you, you must be haunting me.”
Haunting you pt.1
Pt.2
Synopsis: From the moment he laid eyes on you, you became all he could think about. It was like all of his senses were consumed by you.
Tags- Stalker! Simon Riley! x male reader! NSFW! Fem-aligned DNI! MDNI! Soft-top Riley! Reader gets called princess! Dubcon! kidnapping! Creampie! Subspace! Oral fixation! Lack of lubricant!
A/n: This is hella fucking rushed
He’s been watching you for what feels like his entire life. From the moment he laid eyes on you, he knew that you were his. He remembers that day like it was yesterday. He remembers your clothes that clung to your form, the way your hair looked like you had just gotten out of the shower— granted, it was raining that day, but God. He gets a boner just thinking about it, about you. That terrified look you had in your eye when you looked at him; it shouldn’t turn him on as much as it does. I mean, he’s seen people with that look a million times.
In his line of work, it’s a given to have someone beg for their life. He wants to see you like that. Not begging for your life, he would never do anything to hurt you. He wants to see you beg for him. Hell, he needs it. The need to make you his is what pushed him this far. He was managing his obsession with you just fine until that random nobody dared to flirt with you. That was when he realized he needed to take you far away from the people who could potentially take you from him. Who cares if you don’t even know who he is? You’re his, and that’s final.
And now you’re here, snuggling further into his embrace. You don’t even realize it; you probably think he’s one of your plushies for something. Who would’ve known that your plushie obsession would work out in his favor?
Sure, you’d probably be scared out of your mind when you woke up, but that’s not going to stop him from enjoying every minute of this. Though going off the bulge in his pants, he’s enjoying it way too much. It’s not like he can help it; you’re just too cute, you’re soft in all the right places, and your waist just fits so perfectly in his hands that he could probably just use you like a fleshlight and— okay, this way of thinking is not helping his boner.
Though the way you’re looking at him isn’t helping either— wait… you’re looking at him. Ah, you’re awake already? Just as he was starting to enjoy this.
Good morning, princess,” he greets, the pet name rolling off his tongue before he can stop it. He knows you’re terrified; that much is a given. Plus, you look like you’re about five seconds away from pissing yourself, which… is not necessarily a lie.
You did wake up in an unknown place wrapped up with an unknown man, a very sexy unknown man… but as sexy as he is, it’s fucking creepy! You know for a fact you fell asleep in your room, in your bed, but here you are, in a room unknown to you and a bed that is not yours. Not to mention there’s something poking you! ‘Wait— is it his? No! Of course, it isn’t, right?’ you ponder, glancing down between you and the man.
“ It is!!’ you whimper, jerking your body away from him. “G-Get that MONSTER AWAY FROM ME!” You whine, backing up against the wall. Your panic, however, seems to be very amusing to your kidnapper. “Monster, you say? Is it that big?” He chuckles, wrapping his hand around your ankle, stopping you from getting too far away from him. “L-Let me go,” you stammer, trying to yank your leg from his grip, though this just made him tighten his grip.
“Why would I do that?” He asked, dragging you back to him. “Why would I ever let you go when I just got you?” he queried, wrapping his arms around you. “Why would I let you go when I can finally hold you in my arms?” He finishes, staring into your fucking soul.
‘WHAT IS WRONG WITH THIS GUY?’ you wonder, not out loud for obvious reasons, but jeez, you don’t even know each other, but he’s making it sound like you’re fucking soulmates. It’s flattering, coming from someone as hot as him, but it’s still creepy as fuck. “Hi, I don’t know if you know this, but we do not— I repeat, do not know each other,” you tell him, trying (and failing) to get out of his grip.
“Trust me, I would remember meeting someone as hot as you,” you squeal out before being smothered into his manboobs, “I wouldn’t expect you to remember me, we met rather briefly,” he speaks in that husky voice of his, that voice could make the hardest of men drop to their knees in order to please him. ‘God, I could probably cum from hearing him speak alone.’ You tell yourself, and you could, but you’d probably get all whiny, and then he’d know.
He’d know that you were being dirty and thinking filthy, debouched things from his voice alone. “ You bumped into me. It was raining, and you were in a rush. Maybe you were just trying to get out of the rain, or maybe it was something else. But from that moment on; I knew you were destined to be mine.” he whispers, brushing his thumb against your forearm.
‘Yeah, he’s insane…is it just me, or are all the hot ones always fucking mental?’ you ask yourself, though I feel like you’re the mental one if you’re talking to yourself. “Dude, why would you remember me bumping into you?” you asked, confuzzled by the thought.
You remembered that day as well, not by choice; if you could, you’d wipe that bastard memory from your mind. That memory was so embarrassing to think about, why did you have to fall on your ass so hard after bumping into one man? Just why?
“I can’t control what I remember; I also cannot control the way I feel for you… I understand if you don’t feel the same way, but I’m still not letting you go. I’ll never let you go,” he assured you, his eyes darkening. “As flattering as that is, I don’t even know your name, dude.” You remind him, raising your eyebrow at him as you wait for his next move.
“ Simon Riley,” he whispers, leaning towards you, or should I say your lips? Who cares? “Remember it, that’s what you’re going to be screaming tonight.” He teases, connecting your lips together. And for a moment, you believe that he was right about that soulmate shit, and even if he wasn’t, who cares?
He kisses like he’s pouring his soul into it, and by the gods— it leaves you craving more. It’s like he just scratched an itch you didn’t know you had, but not that it was scratched it won’t stop itching. What even is breathing at this point? Unpopular opinion, but breathing is extremely overrated.
“Fucking hell,” he mutters against your lips before pulling away, and you may or may not have let out a whine… not that you’d admit to it if you did.
“You’re playing with fire, princess,” he teases, trailing his hands down to your hips, digging his thumbs into the flesh there, praying for it to bruise. “Why do you keep calling them that? I have a cock, you know.” you pant out, whining softly at the harsh grip on your hips. “I’m well aware,” he pauses, leaning down to nibble along your neck, stopping just below your ear before whispering out, “Princess.” in that annoyingly sexy voice of his.
“Then stop calling me that, I don’t like it” you whine out, trying (and failing, a repeating pattern, it seems) to get away from him. “Really?” Simon questions, trailing his left hand down to the bulge in your underwear, “what’s this then?” he queries, his voice laced with humor, as he rubs you through your underwear.
“S-stop that,” you moan out, though your actions say otherwise; rolling your hips into his hand to chase your own pleasure. “Do you really want me to? It doesn’t seem like it… but… if you want—“ Riley says, moving his hand away from your cock, “Nononononono,” you whine, reaching down and grabbing his hand, placing it back where it was. “Please— please, just— just touch me.” You beg, before immediately getting embarrassed at yourself; sure, the guy is fucking hot, like his body is so tea that the British are coming… well, the British are already here technically… but begging like this… to your kidnapper?
God, that is a new low. Sure, you haven’t had sex in months, not that you didn’t want to, but you always felt like someone was just glaring at you every time you tried. Now that you think about it… it was him, wasn’t it? ‘This entire time… I had a STALKER?’ You think to yourself, sure you’re banging, like you’d stalk yourself if you could; but that doesn’t mean you’d expect to have an actual stalker, and a fucking hot one at that?
‘You know what? I’m just gonna enjoy this, the embarrassment to come it future me’s problem,’ you think once again, stop thinking just turn off your brain and enjoy this; you won’t regret it, trust me. “Touch me,” you whine out once more, rolling your hips into his hand before putting on your best doe eyes, “please.”
“Jesus,” you heard him groan, and that’s when you knew— you’d won at life, Simon’s blue eyes were laser-focused on you, the look in his eyes told you everything you needed to know; you were about to be wrecked.
And for once you decided to not complain, just think of it as a one-night stand, and after this, your standards will probably be through the roof, but then again the guy did say he’s never letting you go so soon; shout out to getting your organs rearranged daily!
At first, he doesn’t move, just stares at you like he’s savoring the moment or waiting for you to get cold feet and change your mind; then he strikes. His hand, warm and calloused, hooks onto the band of your underwear and yanks, pulling them down to your knees: at first, you jump, the cold air against your heated skin isn’t exactly pleasant, but then— omg, then he wraps his hand around your shaft, and fuck it’s the best thing ever, and then he starts moving his hand and— “Feels so good, ohmygod, pleasepleaseplease” you slur or whine? The only thing I know is that you’re desperate, desperate for any part of that blue-eyed blondie you can get.
“Be patient,” he breathes out. God, his voice alone has your eyes rolling back into your head and toes curling and— “suck,” he gruffs out, holding two fingers in front of your mouth, and maybe it was the desperation, or maybe it was— okay, let’s be honest it was the desperation. Still, without any hesitation, you took his fingers into your mouth and sucked on them like your life depended on it. Though, to be frank, in the moment, it seemed like it did.
You made sure to get them nicely lubricated with your slobber, mostly because you didn’t want to tear anything down there, but also because you liked it, no scratch that you loved it. The feeling of something in your mouth always manages to bring you a strange sense of calm, and well, even now, when your dick felt like it was gonna explode, it still managed to lure you into an intoxicating headspace.
“You went down quicker than I expected,” Simeon says, taking his fingers out of your mouth, chuckling when you chased them, a whine falling from your lips. “Relax, here comes the fun part,” he mutters, lifting your leg onto his hip, “woah, wish you could see how pretty your hole is, darling,” he whistles, teasing your hole with his thumb, groaning softly at the whimper it excites out of you.
The moment his finger breached your hole, your body went lax, a moan escaping from you. “So, good,” you slur, pushing your hips down onto his finger. “It only gets better,” Simon mutters, adding another finger, scissoring your hole like a man on a mission. “Si, more, please,” you beg, putting on your best puppy eyes as you lie there with your leg over his hip.
“Are you sure?” He asked, worried. He didn’t want to hurt you. You are his most prized possession, especially with the lack of lubricant. The thought of accidentally tearing you was terrifying. That would give you a reason to hate him, and he only wants to give you a reason to love him and only him; the same way he loves you.
“Simon, please,” you whine, using your leg to pull him in. “I want you in me, and I want you in me now.” You tell him, your voice laced with high amounts of desperation. He listens, as much as he doesn’t want to hurt you, he’s been dying to be inside you for what feels like a million years, with no further resistance, he removes his fingers, hooking them to make sure they tease your prostate on the way out.
Grinning at the high-pitched whine that escapes you, “Don’t worry, princess, you’ll be filled in just a moment,” Riley assures, tapping the tip of his cock to your hole and slowly, hella slowly, pushed in. The moment he did, it was like all of your prayers were answered, it was like his cock was made to be inside you, to keep you filled. “Fuck—“ he groans, right into your ear when he bottoms out, and that went straight to your cock, if the extremely loud moan you let out was anything to go by.
“ Si-Si-Si” you beg, rolling your hips against his whimpering when he digs his thumbs into your hips in response, “Stay still. Let me take care of you, princess.” he huffs, placing his left hand above your head, pulling back til only his tip remained, and thrusting back in, rather harshly.
Not that you care, right now all you feel is SimonSimonSimon, and his cock, fucking hell, it feels so good. It hits all the right places so perfectly you don’t ever want to live without it in you. The thought alone is enough to make you want to cry, and you are, but for different reasons.
The curve of his cock makes sure that it rubs against your prostate with remarkable precession, Jesus fuck.
“Perfect, you’re absolutely perfect.” Simon praises, speeding his thrusts up as he hunches over you. “It’s like you were made to fit on my cock.” He grins, he was right; he can use you like a fleshlight and use you like you were always meant to be used.
Your whines and whimpers are like music to his ears; the way the pitch of your voice changes depending on the slightest change in his speed or angle. He knew you were perfect, but this was way beyond his expectations at this point you were borderline godly.
The way your hole sucked him in and clung to him when he pulled out and how your leg tightened on his hip in fear that he’d pull out and leave you open and empty. “I gotta cum,” you whine, reaching a hand down towards your cock only to have it slapped away, “don’t,” he commands, his tone leaves no room for objection. “You’ll cum if I make you,” He tells you, his thrusts getting harder and faster until they were almost animalistic.
“Si, please. Touch me,” you plead, whimpering from the stimulation your prostate is getting. “Please touch my cock!” You whine, signing in relief when your pleas were answered, for how callous his hands are they feel so good around your cock, all it takes is two strokes and you’re cumming like a virgin in his hand, clenching around his cock so tightly that he almost immediately followed after you.
“Shit!” He yelps, fucking you through your releases, chuckling at your whines of overstimulation. “Don’t worry, princess, we still have a full night ahead of us.”
“Drank, drank I been drinking, I hit you up when I’m faded”
Obey me Lucifer x amab reader! Nsfw! Fem aligned dni! Mdni! Top reader! Drunk Lucifer! Light sub/dom dynamic! Lucifer is a masochist! Reader is not a sadist! Sub Lucifer!
Concept: Lucifer get drunk and horny!! W.c 1.4
A/n: I wrote something like this awhile ago, then it got deleted cuz I got a new phone.. (−_−;)
P.s never have intercourse with an intoxicated person, this is just a story about a fictional character. You should never copulate with someone under the influence, thank you.
"Sweetheart, you need to relax," you laugh, placing your hands on the demon's waist and squeezing as you lean away from his feeble attempts at kissing you. "Let me kiss you," he whines, his desperation peaking, "please." He pouts, licking his lips as he stares at you.
You smirk, leaning into the demon's space, "Luci, you're so adorable when you're drunk" You tease, pecking his lips, "You're usually all worked up, held up in that office of yours." You continue, once again pecking his lips, grinning when he whines. "Got so worked up, you had to turn to alcohol" you sigh, leaning back against the bed frame.
"You know instead of getting drunk you can just come to me," you mutter, slipping your hands under his shirt, kissing along his neck as he whimpers into your ear. "I'd take care of you, l'd make sure all of your stress goes away. All you have to do is ask" You say, smirking against his skin when he starts to roll his hip.
"Ah, Ah, Ah." You tsk, tightening your grip on his waist,
"None of that now dear," you scold, leaning away from his neck, "if you want me to help you, you'll have to ask" you reaffirm, tilting your head as you look at him "Come on ask," You tempt, no better than a demon yourself, "Ask me to take all of the stress away. Ask me to take care of you. " You continue, rubbing circles on his waist with your thumbs.
"Please," he hiccups, his speech slurred from the alcohol,
"please take care of me, please" He begs, hands clutching at your sweat pants, you smirk pushing him down on the bed before climbing over him, "That's all you had to say baby, get rid of our clothes, yeah?" You ask, though it's more like a demand, either way Lucifer listens, getting rid of the barriers preventing him from feeling your skin on his.
"You're so pretty sweetheart," you praise, spreading his legs to get a better view of him, enjoying the sound of him whining at the slightest touch, before grazing your fingers up his shaft grinning when he instantly bucks up into your touch desperate for more.
"Now, now Luci, be a good boy for me and stay still." You scold, slapping his inner thigh.
"M-master!" He yelps, runting his hips, in an effort to get you to hit him again.
"Stay still or I won't touch you at all," you threaten staring deep down into his eyes. He whines, frantically, worried that you might actually stop. You won't, after all it's not everyday you get to have someone as powerful as Lucifer, someone who almost everyone in devildom was afraid of.
You hummed softly, squeezing his thighs before bringing your hand back to his cock. Wrapping your hand around his base, jerking it, once, twice, then once again. "So, tell me Luci, do you want me to ride or fuck you? It's up to you really," you say, squeezing his base, "either way you won't be able to cum until I say so." You tell him trailing your fingers down to his hole, adding a slight bit of pressure tutting when he starts to whine and push back on your fingers. “So what will it be sweetheart?” You queried, leaning down to peck the corner of his lips as he continued to whine and whimper.
“Fuck me! Fuck me please! I-I want it s-so bad master, please, please,plea-” he chokes, groaning when you remove your fingers from his hole, “Suck.” You demand, putting three of your fingers in front of his mouth, “conjure up some lube too please, I wouldn’t want to hurt you.” You ask, tapping at his chin “‘s okay, I want to hurt” he mumbles before sucking your fingers into his mouth, moaning happily at having his mouth filled. “Oh?” You mumbled, slightly concerned. Pulling back slightly, jumping when Lucifer wrapped his hand around your wrist, moaning like a porn star, sucking your fingers like it was a cock instead, trying to get your fingers as deep as they can go. “Alright luci that’s enough” you say, pulling your fingers from his mouth, chuckling when he whines and tries to follow them.
“Alright calm down,” you say, spreading his thighs to get a better view of his hole. “Woah” you whistle, putting your spit-slick fingers to his hole, “look at this pretty thing,” you awe, pushing one of your fingers inside, thrusting it in and out before adding another one, “Your hole is so pretty luci.” You praise, pushing the final finger in after scissoring him open for a while. “Master~” he whines rolling his hips back against your fingers, “master, please fuck me, please” he slurs, half delirious from the alcohol and pleasure. “Getting to that,” you say, pulling your pants down.
“Spread em’” you order, slapping the demon's inner thigh, smiling when he moans and squirms before doing what he’s told, whining like bitch in heat. “Master!” He whines, his voice is adorably high pitched as he hiccups and rolls his hips before remembering he’s supposed to be a good little demon if he wants to get fucked.
“Lube Luci,” you tell him, praising him when a small bottle of it appears right in your hand. “Ready for the real fun to begin sweetheart?” You ask, squirting some of the lube into your hand and spread it over your cock. Grinning when the demon nods frantically, spreading his legs wider to tempt you into just taking him right then and there.
For extra safety precautions, not willing to tear something in the demon even if that is what he wants, you squirt a little bit of lube into the demon’s hole, enough so that it stings but nothing will tear, before sticking your fingers inside to spread it around. “Deep breaths,” you say, lining your cock up to the demon's hole, smirking down at him before pushing inside, grinning at the instant whine that leaves the demon lord.
“There we go,” you huff as you bottom up, looking at the panting demon below you, “are you okay luci?” You ask, placing your hands on the demon's waist. “You look a little red.” You tease, leaning down to nip at his left nipple, smiling when he immediately arches his chest into your mouth. “Master, move please” he whimpers, clutching at the nap of your neck, “want you to fuck me hard and rough, please, I want it to hurt” he whines, his sharp nails digging into your scalp. You merely hum, swirling your tongue around his nipple before pulling away with a nip. “I’ll give you what you want, don’t worry sweetheart,” you reassure him, pulling your hips back before giving him exactly what he wanted, a hard and rough fucking.
He moaned loudly when you thrusted back into him, clutching at you like a lifeline as you nailed into him “Master-” he choked out, wanting to beg for more but to overcome with the pleasure of being filled and stretched so well. He wanted oh so badly to feel the thick head of your cock crush his prostate, and it was so close to doing so if you could just go a little be deeper, you’d be right there, right where you belong- and as if you could hear his thoughts you slid your hand under his right leg, hiking it up your waist. And then you were right there, right on his prostate.
“Ah, there it is,” you hummed when Luci yelped into your ear, frantically rolling his hips to meet your thrust. “Right there right there,” he whines frantic with pleasure, “gonna cum, please let me cum,” he begs, his body jerking. “Please say I can cum,” he whines, trying his hardest to wait until you give him permission, “cum.” You order, your thrusts never slowing, not even when the demon jerks with the force of his orgasm.
“You’re a demon so you can last a lot longer right Luci?” You ask, wrapping your hand around his cock, he nobs whimpering as you start to jerk his sensitive cock. “That’s nice. I was worried we’d have end our night here. But we can keep going right sweetheart?” You ask, playing with the sensitive head of his cock “y-yeah” he hiccups, thrusting his cock into your hand, moaning when you slap his thigh with your spare hand. “We talked about this luci,” you scold, slowing down the speed of your thrusts, “I’m sorry, please don’t stop,” he begs, squeezing tightly around your cock to prevent you from pulling out. “Don’t worry I’m not going anywhere,” you say, leaning down to bite at his neck.
“Nobody but you, ‘body but me, ‘body but us, bodies together”
Maki x afab reader! Mdni! Minor hair pulling! Slight degradation! Strap sex!! Reader has a praise kink! And most importantly after care!!
A/n: I’m writing this for my friend so.. nibs, this is for you, you. My number one.
“You take my cock soo well baby, it’s almost like you were born too.” Maki mocks, roughly thrusting into you as she tugs on your hair. “You’re soo cute~ my precious little slut!” She mocks, gently kissing your ear. “M-Makii~” You whine, clutching onto her shoulder, “‘s so goood!” You moan, squealing when her strap rubs against your g-spot.
“Right there!” You yelp, whining as you rock back against her, trying to get her to hit your spot again. “Please Maki! Please!” You beg, tears of frustration in your eyes. “Please Maki! Hit it again!” You plead, holding onto her for dear life.
“Don’t worry dear.” She chimes, biting at your neck as she lets go of your hair, “I’ll give you what you want,” she whispers into your ear as her hand finds its way to your cunt, “I’ll give your pretty pussy what it craves.” She promises, her fingers flicking and rubbing your clit in time with her thrusts.
“OH SHIT-FUCK-FUCK MAKI-MAKI” you yell, your eyes rolling back into your head from the onslaught of pleasure, “Maki ‘m gonna cum.” You mumble, toes curling, legs shaking, pussy clenching.
“Go ahead and cum sweetheart, relax and let it wash over you. Don’t worry I’m here to take care of you.” She affirms rubbing your clit faster, smiling as she watches you twitch as you orgasm, “that’s my sweet girl” she praises as she pulls out of your cunt, “Let’s get you cleaned up, hm?” she says, biting her lip at the sight of your drooling pussy before sighing and taking off her strap.
“I’ll be right back,” she promises, running across the hall to the bathroom, and coming back with a warm wet towel, “This might be a little cold to you since I know you like your water boiling.” She jokes, chuckling as she wipes your body down, going to the mini fridge in the corner for a bottle of water, then opening the top drawer of your nightstand to retrieve a granola bar. “Here, eat.” She demands, handing you the granola bar, already opened.
She watches as you eat it before handing over the water bottle, this to is already opened, “drink.” She demands once more, watching happily as you drink half of the bottle before climbing into bed with you, taking the water and putting the cap back on, before placing it on the nightstand and wrapping her arms around your waist. Placing a kiss on your shoulder, she pulls you in close, “sleep,” she mumbles softly kissing your cheek before closing her eyes, and falling into the land of dreams.
-
A/n: I haven’t wrote aftercare in forever so forgive me if it seems off.. also they took tiktok.. wǒ de xié la (´༎ຶོρ༎ຶོ`)
“I be twitching when I nut, oh my god, am I streamer!?”
sevika x afab reader Nsfw! Mdni! Dom! Sevika, light degradation, strap sex
First story I’m posting here
“Oh, sweetheart,” she gasps in your ear, “You cling to me so well— I wish you could see how much your pussy creams for me.” She says, her thrusts speeding up.
“Sevii~” you whine, your cunt clenching around her strap. “Sevi please! Gimme more!” You choke out, clawing at the bed sheets. “More?” She questions, a smirk appearing on her lips.
“I’m giving you so much already and you still want more?”Sevika asks, her thrusts slowing, “How greedy.” She says, coming to a complete stop. “Do you want me to stop altogether? Leave you here quivering and begging?” She mocks, laughing at the panicked look that crosses your face. “No! Please don’t, Sevi please!!” You whimper, pushing your cunt harder against her strap.
“No?” She mocks, laughter still evident in her voice. “You’re right, I couldn’t possibly leave. That’d be impossibly cruel of me” sevika says, finally moving her hips again, albeit shallowly. “I couldn’t possibly leave her not with how hungry she is” She teases, her fingers coming to play with your clit.
“SEVI!” You screetch, pushing back against her fingers. “Sevi! Please! Please! PLEASE!” You sob, frantically runting against her. Crying out when she starts rubbing your clit faster, “Is this what you want sweetheart? Or do you want something else?” Sevika mocks, harshly thrusting into you before stalling her thrusts, grinning when you start shaking your head no.
“No? Then what do you want?” She asks, tilting her head. “Oh, no no no.” She says, grabbing your chin when you start shaking your head again. “Use. Your. Words.” Sevika spits out harshly, roughly pulling on your jaw. “Come on sweetheart, I know I haven’t fucked you that stupid yet.” She says, increasing the force of her grip.
“Fuck me harder, please sevi! I need you to fuck me harder!” You whimper, wrapping your legs around her waist. “Please sevi, I need it sooo bad!!” You whine, pouting as you look into her eyes.
“That’s it sweetheart” She says, speeding up her thrusts, “Beg for it” Sevika says, releasing your jaw.
“It’s okay sweetheart, I’ll give you what you need.” She says, grabbing your waist.
“Sevi, Sevi please-“ you choke, crying out when she hits your g-spot.
“Hey, be a doll and rub your clit for me” sevika orders, removing her hand from your clit and placing it on your waist.
“Did you hear what I said?” She questions, before grabbing your hand and placing it on your clit. “Rub.”
“Sevi-” you whimper, before you’re cut off, “Rub.” She demands, keeping a hold on your hand until you start rubbing your clit. “Mhm, that’s it doll, keep it up” she praises, putting her hand back on her waist.
“God, I love the way your pretty pussy creams” she groans, slamming into your cunt harder. “Do you think I can do deeper?” She questions, sliding her hands down to your thighs “mhm? Answer me” She demands digging her nails into your thighs.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” You scream, pushing back to meet her thrusts, “I think so too.” She says, leaning forward, “move your hand.” She says, swatting your hand away from your clit.
“Hold on tight.” She jests, placing her hand on the headboard.
“I’m gonna give you what you crave, don’t worry sweetheart.” Sevika says, pulling out to the tip before slamming back in.
“Ah! S-Sevi wait!” You yelp, feeling the tip of her strap brush against your cervic. “Too deep, Sevi, you’re too deep” you whimper, pushing back against her.
“Am I?” She questions, not slowing in her thrusts in the slightest, “You seem to be enjoying it so why does it matter?” She adds, leaning down to nip at your neck.
“Your pussy’s still clenching, so why are you complaining?” She mocks, roughly biting the crook of your neck.
“Just shut up and take it” She commands, looking into your eyes as she speeds up her thrusts.
“Sevi, Sevi I’m gonna cum!!” You whine, arching your back into her thrusts, “Can I cum? Please, please let me cum!” You beg, digging your nails into her ribs. “PLEASE!!”
“Of course sweetheart, you know I love the look on your face when you cum.” She teases, sucking on your neck.
“THANK YOU-” You choke out, crying as your orgasm crashes into you.
“There you go sweetheart” she says, slowing down her thrusts. Smiling as she watches you twitch from overstimulation, “Sevi” you whine out as she continues thrusting.
“Oh sweetie, I hope you don’t think I’m done.” She scolds.
“Oh no, I’m just getting started sweetheart.”
-
Happy new years!! I thought Sevi smut would be the best way to celebrate the new year! (^∇^)