I follow an artist called Omiyu because I love her wallpapers and recently I saw her post one of apples. Today she posted a pear one, so I figured I’d compile a few that made me think of our LIs to share with my lovely Hunters!
I will be updating this periodically when she posts things that remind me of the LIs!!
Also I mean no disrespect to any of the guys. It’s just… some were harder to find than others. I scrolled for forever on her Twitter… I had to call it a day at some point.
Xavier 1 2 3 4 (I know 1 is for Otsukimi, but it's rabbits and the moon so I wanted to include it. I also know he has a few stories about bread.)
Zayne 1 2 3 4 5 6 (1 & 2 and 5 & 6 are the same, but with different background colors)
Rafayel 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
Sylus 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 (I know most are cats, but they remind me of him! And I know 5 & 6 aren’t crows, but the birds are so cute!!)
Caleb 1 2 3 4 5 (1 & 2 are the same, but with different background colors)
I recommend checking out all of her works though! Maybe you’ll find one that is perfect! She also has a Pinterest that has some (if not all) of her works.
Honestly? I do not understand the claw machine “rate up” system like… with Caleb, out of the 3 games, the Broccoo Bird showed up ONCE. I guess that is a rate up from zero but like, what?
I also wish that you’d get the varieties of their plushies more. I’m still missing the Edgy Boing Fish because the machines literally WOULD NOT stock that plushie… please, I need my Abysswalker-coded fish. I try the spinning one because you get more variety with that one, even though it’s less plushies.
I actually don’t even know the last time I saw a Boing Fish in my machine.
synopsis: your man may be a yearner, but that won't stop you from out-yearning him. based on this request. ♡
content: fluff & comfort! reader is yearner3000
sylus. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ .
The room felt unbearably vast without him. His side of the bed had cooled hours ago, leaving you restless and sulky in the tangle of sheets. You rolled toward the hollow he’d left behind, nose pressed into the pillow that still carried the faintest trace of his shampoo — sharp cedar, smoke, something darkly clean that was uniquely him. You breathed it in like it could trick your body into thinking he was still here, but it only made the ache sharper.
Your fingers drifted over the blankets where he usually sprawled, searching for warmth that wasn’t there. The air was heavy with his cologne, threaded faintly into the fabric, and still it wasn’t enough. It felt like every part of you was tuned to his absence — your skin prickling with the memory of his touch, your ears straining for the sound of his boots in the hall.
With a little whimper, you slipped out of bed and padded across the room. His closet yawned open like a forbidden door, lined with rows of pressed shirts and jackets. You ran your hand along them, overwhelmed by the sheer presence of him woven into every piece. Finally, you tugged free a black button-down, the fabric cool against your skin as you slid it over your bare shoulders. It hung loose, swallowing you whole, smelling of him so strongly it made your knees weak.
You wrapped your arms around yourself, burying your face against the collar as though you could fold him into your bones this way. Still, the ache remained. Still, you missed him like you hadn’t seen him in weeks instead of a handful of hours.
You stepped out of the closet, drowning in Sylus’s shirt, when a sharp caw made you freeze.
Perched on the high canopy of the bedframe, Mephisto tilted his metallic head, one crimson eye glinting in the low light. His wings twitched once, the faint whirr of gears filling the silence before another, even more insistent caw broke it.
You narrowed your eyes at him, clutching the loose folds of the shirt closer to your chest. “Don’t look at me like that,” you muttered, cheeks heating. “I’m not pathetic, I just…miss him.”
The crow ruffled its steel feathers with a grinding clink, letting out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle.
“Stop making fun of me!” you huffed, stamping your bare foot against the rug. “If you’re so smart, why don’t you tell your dad to come home already?”
Mephisto tilted his head again, gaze unblinking, before loosing another harsh, mocking caw that had you groaning in frustration.
“Stupid bird,” you grumbled, pushing past the heavy door into the hall, the long sleeves of Sylus’s shirt slipping past your hands as you walked. “Traitor.”
The base was quiet at this hour, shadows pooling in the corners as you padded barefoot down the hall. The sleeves of Sylus’s shirt slipped over your hands, brushing against your thighs with every step, the faint trace of his cologne clinging stubbornly to the fabric. It was a poor substitute for his arms, but it was all you had.
In the lounge, the dim glow of the record player caught your eye. You hesitated only a moment before kneeling to rifle through the stack of vinyls, fingers finding the one you knew by heart. His favorite. The one he always put on when the two of you ended up circling the room together, swaying like conspirators lost in your own secret world.
You set the record gently in place, lowering the needle until the warm crackle of sound filled the air. Strings swelled low and smooth, the melody wrapping around you like a memory. You could almost feel the ghost of his hand at your waist, the heat of his palm spanning the small of your back as he pulled you into a slow dance only he knew the rhythm of.
Curling up on the couch, you drew your knees to your chest, burying your face in the collar of his shirt. The cushions smelled faintly of smoke and leather, lingering traces of him that only made you ache more. You let the music play, trying to imagine he was here, that any moment you’d look up and find him standing over you with that insufferable smirk — ready to tease you for missing him this badly.
Instead, there was only the music and the silence between each note, deepening the emptiness until you thought you might drown in it.
“You look like a kitten licking its wounds, sweetie.”
The low rumble of his voice slid through the lounge, curling around you before you even had the chance to lift your head. Your breath caught. Then you saw him — leaning against the doorframe, silver hair catching the dim lamplight, that insufferable smirk tugging at his lips.
You didn’t think — you just bolted. The record player hummed in the background as you scrambled off the couch and all but launched yourself at him. He caught you with a quiet oof, stumbling back half a step before his arms locked around your waist.
A laugh rumbled in his chest, deep and warm against your ear. “Miss me, kitten?”
You buried your face in his shirtfront, clutching fistfuls of his coat like you might fall apart if you let go. The sheer relief of his warmth, his scent — him — made your eyes sting. Slowly, you tilted your head up, cheeks burning, lips parting as if to say something but only managing a little nod. Your eyes met his, wide and starry, and the smirk on his mouth softened, just barely.
He brushed a thumb over your cheek, tilting your chin so he could study your expression. “I was only gone for a few hours,” he teased, leaning down until his breath grazed your lips. “And here you are, acting like I vanished for days. What would you do if I actually left you for a week?”
You huffed, face heating even more, clinging tighter to him. “Didn’t realize missing my boyfriend was a crime.”
Sylus chuckled, low and rich, as though savoring the words. “Mm. No crime,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “But it might just be dangerous, sweetie. You keep looking at me like that, and I’ll never want to leave again.”
He guided you back toward the couch, one large hand warm at the small of your back. When he sat, he pulled you effortlessly into his lap, settling you sideways against him. His coat slipped from his shoulders as though it had been waiting for this moment, pooling around the both of you.
Before he could speak, you leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. Then another. Then another. Your lips flitted over his face in a frantic scatter — his jaw, the corner of his mouth, even the slope of his nose. A giggle bubbled out of you as you caught the faint flush climbing his ears, and that only encouraged you to lean down, brushing a trail against his throat where the collar of his shirt gaped open.
He tilted his head back with a low groan, ears burning crimson despite the smirk tugging at his mouth. “What’s all this for, kitten?”
You drew back just far enough to beam at him, cheeks flushed, voice soft but so earnest it hurt. “I’m making up for lost time.”
A laugh rumbled through him, though it was laced with fondness. He wrapped his arms snugly around your waist, pulling you closer until you could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your ribs. He stole a kiss of his own, then another, slower this time, his lips warm and lingering on yours.
When he shifted like he meant to set you aside, you immediately latched onto him, arms tightening around his shoulders. “No—don’t let go,” you pleaded, muffled against his neck.
Sylus chuckled, giving your hip a squeeze. “Relax, sweetie. I just need to get changed. You can argue with Mephisto again while you wait.”
That was when his gaze dipped lower, taking in the way his black button-down draped over you, the hem brushing your thighs and the sleeves nearly swallowing your hands. His mouth curved into something sharper than a smirk, crimson eyes glittering.
“Well, look at you,” he drawled, thumb brushing over the fabric at your hip. “Stealing my clothes now? You know it’s dangerous to tempt me like this, kitten.”
Your cheeks burned as you squirmed in his lap, tugging the fabric tighter around yourself. “It smells like you,” you muttered, almost shy, as though that excused the crime.
“Kitten…” His voice went low, a dangerous sort of affection threading through it. He tugged you back into his chest, lips brushing your ear as he murmured, “You’re going to kill me.”
caleb. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ .
The morning light crept gently across the room, spilling in pale gold over messy sheets. Caleb’s arm was still heavy around your waist, pinning you close against the steady rise and fall of his chest. He’d been gone most of yesterday, the empty ache of his absence stretching every hour unbearably thin. Now that he was here again, you couldn’t sleep — afraid to waste a single second of his closeness.
You tilted your head to watch him. His lashes brushed faint shadows over his cheeks, his features softened in sleep, all the edges of his usual restraint melted into something almost boyish. The sight made your chest ache. Carefully, you lifted a hand, tracing the bridge of his nose with the barest touch of your fingertip. Down over the strong curve of his brow, along the delicate line of his cheeks, admiring the faint freckles decorating his skin.
“So cute,” you breathed, the words slipping out before you could catch them.
You let your fingers wander over his jawline, brushing along the soft curve of his neck, lingering where his pulse beat steadily beneath your touch. “I missed you so much yesterday,” you murmured softly, barely above a whisper. “You’re so mean for leaving me alone like that…” Your lips brushed against his temple as you sighed, “You better make it up to me today, you know.”
Sliding your hand through his hair, you marveled at how impossibly soft it was, tangling your fingers gently in the strands, tugging lightly as though you could tether him to you with nothing but touch. “I just…don’t want to let you go,” you admitted, pressing your forehead briefly to his temple.
Your gaze dropped to his mouth — soft, parted slightly in sleep — and before you could stop yourself, you let your finger trail lightly along the curve of his lower lip, tracing it like it was a map you wanted to memorize.
In the next instant, his hand closed gently but firmly around your wrist. Your breath caught as violet eyes blinked open, clear and focused despite the drowsy hour. Without a word, he brought your hand to his mouth and pressed a featherlight kiss to your fingertips, lips warm against your skin.
“Watchin’ me sleep, pips?” His voice was low and a little rough with sleep, but the amused curve of his lips gave him away. He brushed another kiss to your fingertips before smirking faintly. “Couldn’t keep your hands to yourself, hm?”
Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you ducked your head against his chest. “I can’t help it…” you whispered, embarrassed but too earnest to deny it.
That earned you a soft chuckle, the kind that made his whole chest move beneath you. He pressed his lips to the crown of your head, lingering there for a moment as if to seal the words away.
“Annnd… I heard you talking to me,” he added suddenly, voice low and teasing.
Your eyes went wide. “I–I was not! I mean…maybe a little…” you stammered, cheeks flaming.
He grinned, violet eyes sparkling. “I’m evil, huh? You were muttering about missin’ me, how mean I am…all that. You sure have a lot to say when you think I’m sleepin’, pips.”
“I meant what I said!” you shot back, fingers pinching his cheek lightly, trying to look stern but failing miserably.
Caleb’s lips curved into a soft laugh as he gazed down at you, eyes warm and teasing. You noticed the way his expression softened, the hint of amusement and affection dancing in his features. “If you had a tail right now,” you murmured, grinning, “it’d be wagging like crazy.”
His blush was subtle but undeniable, and he let out a low chuckle. “Hush,” he murmured.
Then, without warning, Caleb shifted. He slipped his arm free from around your waist and sat up, swinging his long legs over the edge of the bed. The cool morning air rushed in where his warmth had been, making you jolt upright in panic.
Before he could stand, you scrambled after him, throwing your arms around his shoulders from behind. You leaned your cheek against his broad back, clinging with all the strength you had. “Nooo, don’t leave me,” you whined, voice muffled against his shirt.
Caleb tipped his head back with a quiet laugh, shoulders shaking beneath your hold. “Pips… I’m just going to brush my teeth.”
You only squeezed tighter, burying your face into the curve of his neck like a child refusing to be parted from their favorite toy. He tilted his head slightly, violet eyes softening at your stubbornness.
“Hopeless little thing,” he murmured, amusement thick in his voice, though his hand still came up to rest over yours, keeping you pressed close.
Caleb sighed, shoulders dropping in defeat as your arms tightened around him. “I can’t say no to my favorite little cuddlebug,” he murmured, voice thick with amusement.
You grinned against his shoulder, triumphant. “You’ve never been able to.”
He gave a quiet huff of laughter, twisting just enough to glance at you. “Spoiled,” he accused gently.
“That’s your fault,” you shot back, smiling into his shirt.
The two of you laughed together, the sound soft in the quiet morning. Caleb let himself sink back against the pillows, tugging you into his chest as though you belonged nowhere else. You happily sprawled over him, nuzzling close before pressing featherlight kisses along the plane of his chest. The steady beat of his heart thudded beneath your lips, grounding you in a way nothing else could.
When you tilted your head up, you found his eyes already on you — violet gaze warm, almost reverent, like you were something fragile and priceless. The intensity of it made your breath catch, a hot blush rising to your cheeks.
“You really can’t get enough, can you?” His voice was soft, edged with a teasing lilt but carrying something deeper underneath.
You shook your head, smiling shyly. “No. Never.”
His lips curved as he bent to kiss you — slow, tender, the kind of kiss that promised he’d give you as much of him as you wanted. When you finally parted, you lingered close, your breath fanning over his skin.
“Can we stay like this all day?” you whispered, searching his eyes.
Caleb’s hand stroked gently up your back, pulling you even tighter into his arms. “As long as you want, pips,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to your hair. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
rafayel. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ . ݁
The studio was quiet, bathed in the soft, golden glow of the late afternoon sun slipping through the high windows. You moved with careful, deliberate motions, arranging everything just so. A stack of the softest blankets was draped over the couch, plumped and inviting. Your fingers lingered on the fabric, imagining him sinking into it, curling up against you.
On the small media console, you queued up your favorite movie — the one you both always ended up watching multiple times in a row — and turned the sound low so the sound wouldn’t startle him. Around the room, you placed little bowls of his favorite snacks, everything exactly how he liked it. Then you reached for the playlist you’d made together, pressing play; the soft, familiar melodies filled the studio, wrapping the space in warmth and anticipation.
You paused for a moment, leaning against the counter as your thoughts drifted. You remembered the way he’d pouted earlier in the week, that faint crease between his brows when you told him you couldn’t make it to the exhibition. How much you’d wanted to kiss that stubborn little frown right off his face.
Now, with the day finally yours, and with a little luck, you could do exactly that. The thought made your chest swell, heart skipping. You glanced at the couch again, imagining him walking in, that quiet, restrained smile tugging at his lips, and you pressing yourself into him until he could breathe nothing but you.
Your fingers brushed over the blankets once more, smoothing them as though by magic you could transmit all the longing you’d carried through the day. Both of you, you knew, were dangerously close to the same thought: you’d been apart too long, and tonight would make up for every hour.
The moment he walked through that door…you’d never want to let go.
Once the studio felt just right, you slipped quietly out, making your way to Rafayel’s bedroom. The familiar scent of him lingered faintly in the air, a mix of sea salt and something uniquely him, and it made your chest tighten in the sweetest ache. You opened his dresser drawer and reached for the bottle of his favorite perfume, pressing it lightly to your pulse points. The fragrance wrapped around you instantly, and you closed your eyes, imagining him leaning close enough to inhale it.
Your gaze fell to the sweater he’d left draped over the foot of the bed. You hesitated only a moment before slipping it over your shoulders, the soft fabric falling loosely around you. It was his, but somehow it felt like it had been made to fit you, like a warm hug waiting to be claimed. You tugged the sleeves down over your hands, letting yourself curl into it, imagining him standing in the doorway and catching sight of you like this.
A blush crept over your cheeks at the thought. You pressed your fingertips against the fabric, wishing it was his skin beneath your fingers instead.
You moved to the mirror, brushing a hand through your hair, smoothing it as best you could while sneaking small glances at yourself in his sweater. Every detail — every fold, every soft line of the fabric — made you ache to be close to him. The thought of him walking in, of finally being able to hold him, made your stomach flutter uncontrollably.
The quiet of the studio felt almost unbearable, each second stretching longer than the last, the anticipation of him returning making your chest ache with yearning you could no longer contain.
The sweater hung loosely around you, soft and comforting, and you tugged it just slightly over your hands, feeling closer to him somehow. Just as you were about to give yourself one last once-over in the mirror, your phone buzzed on the dresser.
Rafayel’s name lit up the screen. You swiped to answer, heart racing.
“Finally, cutie,” he said the moment you picked up, voice low and teasing. “This exhibition is sooo boring. Thomas won’t let me leave, and I’m stuck staring at paintings I barely care about.”
You sighed dramatically, leaning against the dresser. “Mm, I know the feeling,” you murmured, playing along. “Work’s been endless too…papers, meetings, deadlines. I barely have time to breathe.”
A soft laugh rumbled through the phone. “Mm, poor thing. You’re so busy suffering without me,” he teased, seaglass eyes sparkling in your imagination. “Sounds unfair.”
“Terribly unfair,” you agreed, feigning exhaustion. “I’ve been counting the hours until I can finally see you again.”
Raf let out a low, affectionate chuckle. “Mm…you’re evil, you know that? Always trying to make me miss you more.”
“I can’t help it,” you murmured, tugging lightly at the edge of the sweater, hiding your excitement. “I just…miss you so much.”
“And I miss you, cutie,” he replied, his voice softening though the teasing lilt never left it. “I’ll be home soon. You should just tell your boss you’ve got an emergency and sneak out early—then we’ll get home at the same time.”
You grinned, warmth rushing through you. “Bad fishie,” you murmured. “Trying to corrupt me with your tactics.”
He chuckled, low and easy, and it sent your heart tumbling. “Corrupting you? Puh-lease. I haven’t even suggested you quit and become my full-time bodyguard. I’m being extremely well-behaved.”
“Mm, sure you are,” you teased back. “Just hurry home. Maybe you’ll get lucky and I’ll actually beat you there.”
He sighed dramatically. “Don’t play with me like that, cutie. If you give me false hope, I might start crying. You won’t even know what to do with all the pearls.”
The two of you lingered in that easy rhythm for a while, trading playful remarks until a faint scolding carried through the receiver — Thomas snapping at him about “hiding in corners and scaring off clients.” You heard Rafayel laugh under his breath, the sound quick and guilty, before you both reluctantly said your goodbyes.
You padded back into the living room, sweater sleeves still tugged over your hands. The room glowed warm with low lamplight, the food laid out just right, pillows fluffed, everything neat in preparation for his return. You smoothed the throw across the couch one last time, nerves fizzing in your chest.
The faint sound of a key turning in the lock made you freeze.
The door opened, and Rafayel stepped inside, loosening his tie, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulders. His eyes lifted — and then widened the second they landed on you.
“…Cutie?” His voice was full of disbelief, then blooming into a laugh. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at work.”
You smiled sheepishly, tugging the sweater closer around yourself. “I wanted to surprise you. I missed you too much to wait.”
He blinked, then let out a breathless laugh, dropping his tie onto the nearest chair before crossing the distance in three long strides. “You sneaky girl. I came home early to surprise you.”
You barely had time to respond before he swept you up into his arms, lifting you off your feet as he spun you once. His laughter brushed against your cheek, warm and unguarded, before he kissed you — quick, soft, then again, longer, his smile breaking against your lips.
“My fishie,” you teased when you finally pulled back, forehead resting against his, palms cupping his cheeks. “You’re so hopeless.”
“Hopeless for you, cutie,” he murmured, voice husky as he cradled your face in his hands and kissed you again.
The rest dissolved into warmth — your hands tangled in his hair, his arms wrapped tight around you, both of you laughing against each other’s mouths like you couldn’t get enough, couldn’t believe you were really here, together, at the same time, with all the missing finally soothed in the circle of his arms.
Rafayel barely let you go long enough to kick the door shut. He dropped his coat where it fell and tugged you toward the couch like a man starved, pulling you into his arms the moment he sat.
You went willingly, curling into him, arms looped around his neck, your face buried against the soft warmth of his neck. “I missed you so much, Raf,” you whispered, the words tumbling out as though you couldn’t hold them back. “I thought about you all day. I hate being away from you.”
He laughed quietly, but it cracked in the middle, betraying just how much he’d been missing you too. His arms cinched tight around your waist, and he nuzzled into your hair. “You’re not allowed to say things like that when I’m already this weak for you, cutie. Do you have any idea how close I am to never letting you out of my sight again?”
“Good,” you mumbled stubbornly, tightening your hold on him. “Don’t let me go. Ever.”
He shifted, just enough to look down at you, his eyes bright and intent. “You mean it?”
You gave the tiniest nod, pressing another kiss to the corner of his mouth, then another, and another, like you couldn’t get enough of him. He laughed against your lips, but every time you leaned in, he met you halfway, greedy for more.
“Mine,” he murmured between kisses, hands stroking up your back, anchoring you close. “All mine. You don’t know what you do to me when you cling like this, cutie.”
“And you don’t know what you do to me,” you countered, cheeks warm, though you refused to let go. You settled yourself more firmly in his lap, arms wound around him tight, practically molded to him. “You came home early and I still feel like I haven’t had enough of you. I don’t think I ever will.”
That earned you another low, helpless laugh, his forehead resting against yours as if he needed the contact as much as he needed air. “We really are hopeless, huh.”
You only smiled, brushing your nose against his.
He kissed you again, and again, and again — both of you tangled so close neither one could tell who was clinging harder, just two hopeless, needy hearts who couldn’t get enough of being exactly where they belonged.
a/n: these 3 ignite the yearner in me i wont lie, i almost did a backflip when i got this request. thank you for your service anon i hope you enjoy <3
dad!Rafayel who gets his daughter to finally say dada... but only when she's angry. he's not pleased.
“Say dada!”
“Mama!”
“Da-da.”
“Mama.”
Small grabby hands are aimed at Rafayel, who pouts and shakes his head adamantly at his daughter who has already seemed to pick a favourite parent.
“Noo, no cuddles or kisses until you call my name and not mama’s…” Rafayel murmurs, flicking a fine-detail paintbrush to the baby’s nose. She giggles at the ticklish sensation, reaching to itch her nose where the bristles had brushed against her skin. ‘Nose’ is actually an overstatement, because it’s barely a peak with two holes for breathing.
“Say dada, baby. Please? For your old man?” Rafayel pleads, nuzzling his nose against her hair. All four of her limbs fly upwards as she grows restless of her father’s boring games to make her call him.
“It’s easier to say than mama! I don’t understand,” he tries again.
“Mama! Mama! Mama!” She chants, like a little storm not willing to back down. Rafayel crosses his arms, trying to make it clear that he’s unhappy with the baby at the moment.
After some more fussing, Rafayel concedes and lets her out of the bouncer. He melts at her little wordless demands, no matter how petty he might be feeling from not hearing ‘dada’ coming from her.
The baby roams around the playmat, reaching for various toys to play with. Rafayel being the meanie he is, takes the plush toy and puts it further away from her every time she’s close to reaching it. With a whine of annoyance she glares at her dad before proceeding to crawl to the toy again. Rafayel moves it further.
“Okay, okay, I won’t do it again,” he relents, putting his hands up. His daughter cautiously approaches the toy and waits a second for Rafayel to move it. When he doesn’t, she pushes herself back to sit by it and reach out to play with it.
He plucks it from her hands and places it behind her.
Her little face practically turns red.
“Dada!” She yells, with all the power in her lungs. The room pauses. Rafayel’s eyes widen, before the biggest grin breaks across his face.
“Yes! Yes, it’s dada!” He points to himself, excitedly laying on his stomach to be at eye level with his daughter. Rafayel scoops his hand behind her, pulling her closer to place a triumphant kiss to her cheek but the chubby hand that slaps his cheek stops him from doing otherwise.
“Oh.”
Rafayel puckers his lips, staying still to lure his daughter closer.
“Why don’t you say dada again?” He prods. He leans closer but the baby has clearly had enough of him. She looks away to the stuffed toy, preferring to reach for that instead.
“Dada…” He hears her murmur, but in a rather distasteful tone. It’s a small victory, but it doesn’t sound nearly as joyful as any time she has cheered or chanted ‘mama’.
“I think she’s associating negative emotions with dada…” Rafayel whines after a long day of spending time with his daughter and analysing when she calls for ‘mama’ and when she calls for ‘dada’.
“I told you to stop annoying her,” you flick Rafayel’s head. He rolls over on the couch, curling up into a ball of disappointment.
“I just wanted her to call for me. Is that too much to ask?!”
You sigh, sitting near Rafayel’s legs and providing empathetic pats to his back. If your daughter started using your name as an exclamation of anger, you would probably be dejected by it as well.
Your husband tries again. He turns around, hanging his head over the edge of the couch. An exaggerated pout hangs on his lips as he watches his daughter play with a rattle. She drops it, and immediately loses it.
“Dada!” She says angrily. Huffing, she reaches for the toy again with the slightest furrow in her brows.
You’re left consoling the babbling father again over your daughter’s new habit that is all his fault.
I hate that I don't have as much time to write rn bc my FINALS ARE APPROACHING AHHHH I'M NOT PREPARED ENOUGH I WROTE THIS IN BETWEEN STUDYING I'M STILL STUDYING IT'S LIKE 2AM HERE
Let me move that paints for you so you can sit! Welcome to our fishie exhibit! You can find Rafayel stuff in here, including drabbles and parts of challenges. Be careful on what you step tho, there is a bit of an artistic mess :)
Longer pieces:
☆Erased - Written in Colors
A story about long forgotten goddess finding her way to Linkon. Despite eons of death, and multiple universes she had witnessed she always looked over one other got.
☾ Chapter 1 ☾ Chapter 2 ☾ Chapter 3 ☾ Chapter 4 First choice by the readers - where the story will go? (open until 5th June 26) ☾ Chapter 5 (will post after poll ends) ☾ Chapter 6 ☾ Chapter 7 ☾ Chapter 8 ☾ Chapter 9 ☾ Chapter 10
☆ Crowfish Imagines - Magic academy and dragon riders
☆Tragic Comedy - He trusted you, put his life in your hands. And what have you done? | Someone is dying - mention of death
☆Waiting for you / but on the other side - He found his love, his whole purpose, but finding and having are two different things. | selfaware au, angsty
☆ Finding a way to you - His love is still on the other side of the screen. But Rafayel is but a patient when he needs to. | selfaware au, angsty
☆ Moving with you - What moving in with Rafayel feels like
☆When sickness strikes Rafayel,
☆One year down, forever to go Rafayel,
Drabble Challenge May 2025
Day 1 - Carriage Day 3 - Painter Day 7 - Lotion
Day 9 - Enjoy Day 19 - Pebble Day 25 - Immense
Day 27 - Transform
Flufftober 2025
Day 3 In Vino Veritas Day 18 “Is this seat taken?” - “That depends...” Day 20 Fake Relationship Day 21 Pumpkin Carving
Day 24 Letters Day 30 Sharing Earphones
November Drabble Challenge 2025
Day 3 Journal Day 10 Evergreen Day 12 Tempest
Day 14 Coffee Day 22 Table Day 23 Witch
Day 28 Family Day 30 Flannel
FluffSpring 2026
Day 2 Silly Nicknames Day 6 “Hang on, let me help.”
Day 10 Flower Crown Day 13 Going on a Road Trip together
Drabble Challenge May 2026
Day 3 - Mystery Day 7 - Hybrid Day 8 - Parallel
Day 16 - Scientist Day 19 - Artist Day 26 - Pirate
Day 30 - Rival
🤍🧵| Fakeleb | Caleb 🍎
↻+♡ appreciated
“That's Caleb?" Tara asks stunned as she watches the tall, muscular man step into her apartment to check on you.
Caleb crouches down beside you on the floor. You're slumped against the wall, fighting to stay awake after all the drinks you and your team have consumed.
"Pips? Can you hear me?" he asks softly, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand. "You awake?"
You only grumble in response.
"She was so upset about losing that Wanderer today, she basically drowned her frustration in rum," Simone explains while Caleb gathers your bag and gently fixes your messy hair.
"I'll give you a piggyback ride and take you home, yeah?" Caleb says to you, reaching to lift you up. Before he can, you weakly shove at his chest.
"Noooo. I have a boyfrieeend~" you slur, eyes still closed.
A delighted smile tugs at Caleb's lips, and he decides to see how far he can take this.
"I see. And do you think this boyfriend of yours would mind if I helped you out a little?"
"Yessss~~! He'd mind veryyy muchhh!" You continue trying to push him away, despite barely having the strength.
"Aaaand..." Caleb says, still enjoying this. "Do you mind?"
"Yesss... I mind toooo...," you mumble before adding a. "...Actuallyyyy, you smell like him~" You open your eyes.
The room is blurry and doubled. You're far too drunk to put anything together.
"Oh my gooood..." You squint at him. "You even res... resem... resem—look like him!" You grab his face with both hands.
"And your skiiin..." You stroke his cheek. "Sooo softtt. Just like Caleb's."
Caleb lets out as chuckle.
"Hm. And this boyfriend of yours..." he asks. "What do you like best about him?"
At this point, Caleb is simply curious how long it'll take you to realize who you're talking to.
"I don't like him." You drop your hands and shake your head.
A flicker of uncertainty crosses Caleb's face.
"You... don't like your boyfriend?" he asks cautiously.
"No, no, no." This time you nod enthusiastically, "I looove Caleb!"
Caleb suddenly stops in his every movement. His heart nearly stops too.
Around him, everyone lets out a small gasp. Based on Caleb's stunned silence alone, they all realize the same thing. It's the first time you've ever said it out loud since becoming a couple.
"Y-you... love him?" Caleb asks carefully.
"Sooo muchhh! He's the besssttt!"
You lean forward and press a finger to his lips, "but shhhhh~~Don't tell him yettt. It's our little secret, Fakeleb." You giggle. "Fakeleb... hehehe..."
You laugh at your own joke before promptly falling backward against the wall, your eyes drifting shut again.
Caleb takes a moment to compose himself.
"Okay. I think I should take you home now, Pips."
He lifts you into his arms while you mumble weak protests about wanting to wait for "Realleb" to come pick you up.
You wake up the next morning in your bed. On your nightstand sits a tray filled with everything needed for a hangover breakfast, prettily arranged alongside a small handwritten note.
„Get some rest, hydrate, and eat your breakfast. I'll see you tonight. — Fakeleb 🍏”
Slowly, the memories from last night begin returning, including what you said. The rest of the day is spent wondering how you're supposed to handle it. Confessing you love someone while drunk is awful. Caleb deserves to hear it properly and now you have to say it, because he definitely remembers.
When Caleb finally returns after an exhausting day at the fleet, you greet him as if nothing happened. Later, you're stretched out on the couch with your head resting in his lap while the TV plays quietly in the background. After several minutes of working up the courage, you finally speak.
"You know, Caleb..."
He glances down at you.
"I meant what I said."
Caleb’s breath fastens, "you don't have to say it back if you're not ready," he says. "I know I say it all the time, but I don't want you to feel pressu—"
"I love you, Caleb."
Caleb’s holding his breath, any existing emotion rushes through him.
You sit up and face him.
"I really do," you say quietly, "I always have. Things were just... complicated. But I love you. I truly love you so much."
A dozen emotions cross Caleb's face, but you think it's settling into pure happiness. You don't think you've ever seen him look so… genuinely happy.
As if hearing those words from you is everything he'd been waiting for.
Rafayel promises breakfast; because how could he not, waking up next to such a cutie?
word count: 682
pairing: rafayel x reader
a/n: sfw! Just some sweet Rafayel fluff uwu
Early mornings spent at Rafayel's studio are your favorite. The smell of the salty air on a crisp morning? Nothing compares. The breeze drifts in through sheer curtains and cleanses the whole space. Even the sunlight feels different here, warming up the blankets as you watch his shoulders rise and fall with his slow, steady breaths. Still fast asleep, and likely would be for some time. He had been up late again last night; inspiration doesnt wait.
Your fingers are gentle when you reach over and trace a small pattern against his shoulder blade. He doesnt move or make a sound, but you watch as goosebumps form where you touch. A smile tugs at your lips. Sun beams highlight his vibrant hair. They're trailing in from the perfect angle, bouncing off of all his elegant edges.
"Beautiful," you whisper gently to yourself before sitting up carefully. You reach for your phone and slide your finger on the screen to open the camera. Then, with a gentleness of someone trying not to wake a bear, you push the big comforter aside and throw a leg over Rafayel. Stradling his lower back, you adjust yourself until your shadow falls on the wall above the bed just overhead. Rafayel's sleeping figure is centered in the lower third below you. You snap the photo and grin. A real work of art.
Just as you lay your phone back down, Rafayel begins to shift beneath you. He lets out a soft groan and stretches his legs.
"Nngh, cuutie, it's too early," he insists, cracking one eye barely open to peek up at you. "Don't you remember how hard I worked to finish that painting last night?"
He makes a weak attempt to grab for your wrist, just barely catching it after a second attempt. He tugs gently to the side, grunting with contempt.
"Lay back down with me. Pleease?"
"And sleep the whole day away?" You scoff playfully, falling on your back, down into the oasis of luxury sheets and comforter beside him. He snakes an arm around your waist and easily tugs you in close to kiss your temple.
"It's the weekend, we can sleep in all we want. Besides, Miss Bodyguard, I'm the boss and I say we lay right here and snuggle."
He nuzzles his nose into the crook of your neck suddenly, making you giggle.
"'Bodyguard sleeps with her boss', now there's a juicy Moments article."
"Oh please, don't tell me you wouldnt love being involved with that scandal," he snorts, feigning incredulity.
You shrug your shoulders and then roll over in place to face him fully. Your noses press together in a little butterfly kiss.
"Good morning, by the way," you grin.
"Good morning, cutie."
The two of you share a real kiss now, soft and slow. He rubs one of his hands down your side, bringing it to rest on your hip.
"It's really…time to…get up Raffie," you insist between drawn out pecks.
He groans and rolls onto his back, his eyes staying locked on you. Your hair is mussed from being in bed, but it shines in the sun. Your eyes gleam; full of happiness. Happy to be with him, in every sense. He reaches up to cup your cheek with his palm and smiles when you nuzzle into it.
"Alright, alright, ill get up. You want me to make breakfast, huh?" He accuses, pinching your cheek gently. You pout, sticking out your bottom lip to its full begging potenial.
"French toast?"
Rafayel's brows knit together in pure adoration.
"Anything for you, cutie."
You throw your arms up in celebration with a little squeal and pop up onto your hands and knees to land a sizable peck on his cheek before rolling out of bed. His flush quickly spreads to his ears as he shakes his head and watches you bounce out of the room. The sight of your enthusiasm—not only for french toast but for whatever the day may bring, alongside him—makes him smile like an idiot as he crawls out of bed.
—⊹ this work was originally commissioned and given consent to be shared (personal details about the commissioner had been edited out)
MDNI 🔞
Synopsis: Sleepless nights tangled with buried feelings plague your mind, and those soft yet unreadable pink-blue abyssal eyes haunt your restlessness just as they have so many nights before. So your hand reaches for the only thing that bridges your heart to his. The fishtail beacon.
Content warnings: Abysswalker x princess, Implied Insomnia, Implied Slowburn, Emotional vulnerability, Mutual pining, Princess x Assassin Dynamic, Forbidden love, Yearning, Soul bond, Reincaration & Past lives (implied; kind of connected to his myth), Sexual tension, First kiss, Love confessions, Body worship, Glove & hand kink, Breath play, Sensation play (slight), Biting, Hair pulling, Nipple play, Soft dom & Service top Rafayel, Fingering, Slight Dirty talk, Teasing, Straddling & Thigh grinding, Implied virginity, Vaginal sex, Multiple orgasms, Creampie, Cuddling
Word count: 7.7k
Author's note: soo mhm, finally time for some Abysswalker;) it's curious and sad that i don't see as many Abysswalker fics out there, and i've wanted to write him for the longest time. hopefully i did him justice ♡
The fishtail beacon is warm.
It shouldn’t be. It is bone and scale and whatever strange Lemurian craft shaped it into the delicate thing it is, small enough to curl inside the bowl of your palm, light enough that you forget you are holding it until the heat reminds you.
And it is always warm. Not the borrowed warmth of a thing held too long against skin but rather something deeper, something that pulses faintly when you press your thumb to its ridged spine, something that feels like it is breathing.
You turn it over between your fingers. The candlelight catches on its edges, casting small flickering shadows across the sheets you have kicked into a tangled mess at the foot of the bed.
You cannot sleep.
This is not unusual. Sleep has never come easily in this palace, in this room that is yours only in the way a gilded cage belongs to the bird inside it. But tonight the restlessness is different. Tonight it has a shape, a name you keep pressing your tongue against the roof of your mouth to keep from whispering aloud.
Rafayel.
You close your eyes and your chest tightens like something is cinching around your ribs, like the air in the room has gone thin and hot and you are breathing through it too fast. The fishtail beacon pulses against your palm. You set it down on the table near your bed. Pick it up again. Set it down. Your hand hovers over it, fingers curling and uncurling, and your pulse thuds dully in your wrists and the base of your throat.
He gave it to you three weeks ago. Pressed it into your hand on the rooftop overlooking the dunes, his gloved fingers lingering against yours for two seconds longer than necessary, his eyes unreadable above the dark line of his mask. “This’ll connect me to you,” he told you, and the laziness in his voice didn’t match the intention of his hands, the way he folded your fingers over it one by one. “No matter where you are. You squeeze that, I’ll know to come to you.”
You asked him why. He tilted his head, and even with half his face hidden you could see the smirk pulling at the corner of his eyes. “Maybe I just get bored easily, princess.”
That is the thing you learned about Rafayel. Everything is a deflection. Every sincere gesture wrapped in three layers of teasing, every vulnerability dressed up as indifference, every act of devotion disguised as convenience. He showed up on your balcony the night you nearly drowned in the canal during your ninety-ninth escape attempt, pulled you out of the water by the back of your dress with one hand while the other held a blade still wet with someone else’s blood, and when you gasped up at him, choking and shivering, he looked down at you like you were an inconvenience he had not budgeted for.
“You got a death wish or something?” he drawled, and the mask muffled the lower half of his voice into something dark and velvet. “Cause if you’re gonna keep throwing yourself into rivers I’m gonna need a heads up.”
You called him Abysswalker because he would not give you his name. The way his eyes flickered, sharp and startled, before the indifference slid back into place. You did not understand then why the name struck him like that. You still do not fully understand now. But you remember the way his jaw tightened behind the mask, the way he exhaled slowly through his nose, and the way he finally, reluctantly, gave you his real name just to make you stop.
That was weeks ago. He has been a constant since.
Not constant in the way of something reliable or predictable, nothing about Rafayel is predictable, but constant in the way of something you cannot stop being aware of. He appears on your balcony at odd hours, never announced, always with an excuse. He sprawls across your furniture like the concept of personal space is a quaint human custom he has chosen not to observe. He picks up your things, examines them with exaggerated curiosity, puts them back in the wrong places. He calls you ‘Your Highness’ with enough irony to fill a cathedral, and sometimes, when he forgets to perform, he calls you ‘Princess’ in a voice so quiet it barely clears the space between you, and the word sounds like something else entirely.
You have memorized him in pieces without meaning to. The way the candlelight catches on the row of silver piercings climbing his ear when his hood falls back. The sharp line of his jaw above the mask, the only inch of his face he allows you. His hands, always gloved, leather worn soft at the knuckles, and the way they move when he talks, lazy and expressive, mapping the air between you with confidence that could dip into arrogance.
You know the sound of his breathing when he is amused. The slower cadence of it when he is thinking. The way it hitches, just barely, when you catch him off guard with something honest, and the fraction of a second it takes him to recover before the smirk slides back into place.
You know he is hiding something. There’s something like a mark on his chest, the one you have only glimpsed twice. He adjusts his clothes whenever he catches you looking. He changes the subject. He deflects.
And you know, with the kind of certainty that sits in your bones like something you were born with, that he is not here by accident. That whatever brought him to your city, whatever mission lives behind those unreadable eyes, it involves you. Your heart. The heart that is not really yours, the one that belongs to Philos and its people and whatever divine purpose decided before your birth that your chest would house something too valuable for you to claim as your own.
Everyone wants your heart. You have known this since you were old enough to understand why they kept you locked in this palace, why they dressed you in silk and called you princess and never once asked what you wanted. Your heart sustains the planet. Your heart grants immortality. Your heart, your heart, your heart.
Not you. Never you.
And Rafayel... you do not know what Rafayel wants. That is what keeps you awake at three in the morning turning the fishtail beacon over and over in your hands like a rosary, your pulse hammering against the skin of your wrist, your mind replaying the same scene on a merciless loop.
The ruins. Four nights ago.
He had taken you to the sand dunes beyond the city, the ones that stretch endlessly under a sky so vast and dark you could feel the weight of it pressing down on your shoulders. The ruins of something ancient jutted from the sand like the bones of a creature too massive to comprehend, and he walked through them with the familiarity of someone who has walked through them a thousand times, his coat trailing behind him, his hand loose at his side.
You stumbled on a crumbled stairway, your foot catching on stone that shifted beneath you, and he moved faster than you could process, his arm around your waist, your back flush against his chest, and the world stilled.
His hand spread wide across your stomach, fingers pressing gently through the fabric of your dress. His breath was warm against the shell of your ear, filtering through the mask, and you could feel his chest expand against your spine with each slow inhale. You were not in danger. The stairway was three steps high. You would have scraped your knee at most.
He did not let go.
“Be careful, Your Highness.” he murmured, and his voice was so close you felt it vibrate through the bones of your skull more than you heard it with your ears.
You stood there, his arm locked around you, the heat of his body seeping into every point of contact, and something inside your chest cracked open like a door you had been leaning against for weeks finally giving way. Your fingers drifted upward, almost involuntarily, reaching toward the edge of his mask where it met the line of his jaw, and his free hand caught your wrist.
Not roughly. His thumb rested against your pulse point and his grip was gentle and his hand was shaking.
The silence lasted three seconds. Maybe four. Long enough for you to feel the thunder of his heartbeat against your shoulder blade, fast and hard and completely at odds with the steadiness of his hands. Long enough for the heat between your bodies to become something you could taste at the back of your throat, sweet and metallic and dizzying.
Then a sound in the distance, the scrape of sand shifting, an animal or the wind or nothing at all, and he released you. Stepped back. Adjusted his mask. Shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat.
“Watch your step next time,” he offered, and his voice was perfectly, infuriatingly casual.
You did not speak about it. You walked back to the palace in silence and he left through the balcony and you pressed your forehead against the cool stone of the wall and breathed and breathed and breathed until the trembling in your hands subsided.
It did not subside.
It has not subsided since.
You pick up the fishtail beacon again, restless. The heat of it seeps into your palm, travels up through your wrist, settles in the center of your chest where that cursed heart of yours beats too fast for a girl who is supposed to be sleeping. You think of his hand across your stomach. The vibration of his voice against your ear. The shaking of his fingers around your wrist and the way his pulse betrayed every lie his voice tried to tell.
You squeeze the beacon.
Not by accident. Not impulsively. You look at it, you feel the warmth of it, and you close your fist around it with the full and terrifying knowledge of what you are doing. You are calling him. At three in the morning, in a thin nightdress, with your hair loose and your chamber a mess and no excuse prepared and nothing to offer him except the truth that you could not bear another night of pretending you do not want him here.
The beacon flares warm, then cool, then warm again, like a heartbeat answering yours.
You wait.
The balcony doors are open. The desert air drifts in carrying the dry scent of sand and the faint sweetness of night-blooming flowers that climbs the palace walls, and you are sitting on the edge of your bed with your fingers twisted in the fabric of your nightdress, your heart hammering in your ears so loudly you almost miss the sound of his landing.
Almost.
The soft scrape of boots on stone. The whisper of fabric settling. And then he is there, a silhouette framed in the balcony archway, the moonlight catching on the silver chains at his chest and the piercings in his ear, his hood pushed back, his coat open, his mask still on.
His eyes find yours across the dark room and something moves behind them, quick and unguarded before the familiar laziness slides into place like a curtain being drawn.
“You called for me, Princess?” he steps inside, and his voice carries that drawl, that slowness that makes every word sound like he is doing you a favor just by speaking.
Your mouth opens and closes a few times. Throat drier than the desert sand. “I... couldn’t sleep.”
He tilts his head. One eyebrow lifts above the line of his mask. He does not believe you. You can see it in the way his gaze drops from your face to the beacon in your hand and back again, slow and knowing, and the corner of his eyes creases with a smirk you cannot see but can feel like a physical touch across your delicate skin.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he echoes, stepping further into the room, his gloved hand trailing along the edge of your vanity, fingers tipping over a small glass bottle of perfume with exaggerated carelessness. “So you summoned the Abysswalker into your chambers in the middle of the night.”
“I didn’t summon you.” you try to lie, but it’s pointless.
“You squeezed the beacon,” he picks up one of the ribbons from your vanity, winds it around his index finger, lets it unravel. “That’s kinda what it’s for, Your Highness.”
The heat climbs up the sides of your neck. You tuck your chin, averting your gaze toward the window where the sand dunes shimmer faintly under the moon, and you feel rather than see him move closer, even if his steps are dead silent. The room is not large. Four steps and he would be at the edge of your bed.
He takes three.
“You didn’t have to come,” you manage, and your voice comes out thinner than you intended.
He is quiet for a few moments. His hand drops the ribbon. When he speaks again, the teasing has thinned just slightly, like a layer of paint wearing through to something rawer underneath.
“Yeah, well.” he shifts his weight, and his gaze slides sideways, and for a moment he looks almost uncertain. “We both know that’s not true.”
The silence stretches. You can hear the palace guards’ distant footsteps in the corridor beyond your door, the soft murmur of Natasha speaking to someone down the hall. The world outside this room, the world of duty and hearts and gilded cages, presses against the walls like water against a dam.
“Raf.” your voice is as soft as the ribbon previously swirled around his finger.
His eyes snap back to you. You have never called him that before, even though he gave you his name, you never dared call him something more intimate than it. The truncation of his name sits between you like a lit match.
You stand up from the soft mattress. The nightdress moves around your thighs, thin silk that you chose for the heat, not for him, though the way his gaze drops for a fraction of a second before jerking back up to your face makes your skin prickle with awareness and shyness.
You want to see his face, gauge what his emotions truly convey in his expression. You cross the space between you in two steps and your hand rises slowly, your fingers reaching for the hem of his mask.
His gloved hand catches your wrist before you can fully touch it. His grip is loose, barely there, his thumb resting exactly where your pulse hammers against the thin skin.
“Your Highness.” he coos, the teasing lilt curls around the title like smoke. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“You always wear it.” your voice is soft. Steady, somehow, despite the heat rushing through your veins. “Why? Are we not close enough for you to drop it, or do you simply not want me to see your face?”
His eyes search yours. For a long moment they are completely unreadable, deep and still like water that is darker than it looks, and then something shifts in them, something that is not quite amusement and not quite pain but lives in the space between.
“Maybe I’m just ugly under here,” he deflects, but the usual sharpness is missing from his voice. “Ever think about that?”
“Show me, then.”
“Why?” he tilts his head, as his thumb traces a slow circle over your pulse point that makes your breath stutter in your chest. “What’s so important about seeing my face, Princess?”
“I want to see you when you speak to me.” you hold his gaze. Your fingers hover at the edge of the dark fabric, close enough that your knuckles brush his jaw. “I want to see all of you, not only what you allow me to.”
Something flickers across his expression. A crack, hairline thin, there and gone. He exhales through his nose slowly. “You’ve seen glimpses of it before,” he murmurs.
“Glimpses are not enough.”
The words land between you and his grip on your wrist loosens, finger by finger, until his hand falls away entirely. He doesn’t move or speak again. Just watches you with those impossible to read eyes, blue-pink ombres in the candlelight, and the silence is permission.
You hook your fingers under the fabric and draw it down.
It slides past the bridge of his nose, past the sharp cut of his cheekbones, and the fullness of his face unfolds beneath your hands like something sacred being unwrapped. The line of his mouth, fuller than you imagined, the lower lip bitten faintly pink. The small beauty marks scattered across his skin like constellations you want to map with your fingertips. The jaw, sharp enough to cut, and the way it tightens when your thumb grazes the corner of his mouth.
He is beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful. In the way a fire is. In the way that something dangerous becomes holy when you hold it close enough to burn.
“There,” he breathes, and his voice is stripped bare now, no mask to muffle it, every vibration of it reaching you unfiltered. “Happy now?”
You don’t answer him, too busy committing him to your memory, just how beautiful he truly is. Your thumb is still resting at the corner of his mouth and his lips part just barely under the pressure of it. His breath is warm against the pad of your finger. His eyes are locked on yours and they are not unreadable anymore. They are saying everything his voice refuses to, and you are still unsure of what to make of whatever you find there.
“The ruins,” you whisper. “Four nights ago, when you caught me...”
His jaw flexes under your hand. “You tripped. It would be careless of me to let the Princess fall.”
“You didn’t let go after.”
Silence. His chest rises and falls. You can see the column of his throat work as he swallows.
“Rafayel.” your voice drops to barely a breath because the guards are outside and Natasha is down the hall and this room is the only safe place left in a palace full of eyes and ears. “Why didn’t you let go of me?”
He closes his eyes. When he opens them again, the laziness and the teasing, all of it has burned away like fog in direct sun. What is left underneath is raw and exposed and so full of longing it makes the air between you feel too thick to breathe.
“You know why, Your Highness,” his gloved hand comes up to cover yours where it rests against his face, pressing your palm flat against his cheek, and the tremor in his fingers is the same one you felt in the ruins, the same one he tried to hide. “I can’t seem to be able to stop... Wanting to be close to you.”
His words wash over you like cold water in a suffocating desert. Your throat works slowly, tasting your words on the tip of your tongue before you actually decide to let him hear them. It was a simple gesture, catching you so you wouldn’t fall. He could just as easily say so, if it truly meant nothing to him. But nothing is ever accidental with Rafayel, you know this.
A simple touch, a simple embrace under the guise of protecting you to not fall was like opening a door between you, one previously closed, partly on his end. A simple gesture of proximity, one he leaned into before he could have stopped himself. One you didn’t mind, but rather wanted more of.
“Be close to me, then.” your eyes lift up to his, thumb stroking gently over his warm face, “I want you close to me, too.” The words land like a bird’s feather, too soft and barely audible, but enough to reach his ears in the closeness of your bodies.
“Words carry meaning, Your Highness,” his voice drops lower. His thumb traces along your knuckles, slow and gentle. “Actions do, too. So be honest with me… Why did you summon me tonight?”
The words hit your sternum like a fist. Your breath leaves you in a rush and your hand fists gently against his cheek and his eyes darken, his pupils swallowing the color, and the distance between you collapses. There’s no room for pretense anymore, not that you really want to anymore, not that you can.
You kiss him.
It is not quite gentle. It is the culmination of weeks of almost and not quite and what if, and your mouth finds his with a desperation that startles you, that feels like falling except you have been falling for weeks and only now hit the surface of whatever waits below. His response is immediate, his hands gripping your waist, fingers pressing into the silk of your nightdress, pulling you flush against him until you can feel the chains and buckles of his coat pressing into your chest, the warmth of him bleeding through every layer of clothing that separates you.
He kisses you back like drowning, like burning, his mouth hot and insistent and tasting faintly of salt, and your hands are in his hair, the strands impossibly soft between your fingers, strands you ached desperately to touch and feel, and now you’re finally permitted to do so. The sound he makes against your lips, low and raw and wrecked, vibrates through your entire body.
He breaks the kiss first, his forehead dropping against yours, his breathing ragged. His hands haven’t moved from your waist, and his intention of not withdrawing doesn’t miss you even as your thoughts scramble to dust trying to come to terms with the fact that you just kissed him in your chambers in the middle of the night.
“You got no sense of danger whatsoever, Your Highness,” he murmurs against your mouth. The teasing lilt you’re so familiar with is back but it’s thin now, translucent, stretched over something that trembles. “Summoning an Assassin to your room in the middle of the night. Kissing him, too.”
“You kissed me back.”
“Didn’t say I was the smart one either.”
Your laugh is barely a breath before his mouth catches it, kissing the sound from your lips before it fully forms. Then he is turning you, his hands guiding you by the waist until your back meets his chest in an echo of the ruins that makes your skin sing. His arms wrap around you from behind, his chin settling against the curve of your shoulder, and you feel his breath fan hot across the side of your neck, making you shudder from how good it feels, trickling down your feverish body.
“This dress,” he coos, and his gloved fingers splay across your stomach, wide and warm, the leather soft against silk. “This thin little thing...” his thumb traces a slow line from your navel to the base of your ribs and the sensation shivers through you in a wave that you feel in your scalp and between your legs. “You called me here dressed like this? Shameless.” his lips brush the shell of your ear and you can hear the grin in his voice. “Not very princess-like behavior if you ask me, Your Highness.”
Your cheeks burn in both embarrassment and something akin to pleasure, because he’s suddenly switched on you from raw and honest to this version of him you are familiar with yet not at all, at the same time. Your hands come up to rest over his, pressing them closer against your stomach, and you feel the sharp intake of his breath against your damp neck.
“I was not expecting company when I prepared for bed,” you manage, though your voice is embarrassingly breathy.
“Does the Princess know she doesn’t lie very well?” he mouths the word against the hinge of your jaw, and then his lips trail lower, down the column of your neck in a line of barely there kisses that leave heat blooming in their wake like brushstrokes of fire. “You squeezed the fishtail beacon in your hands and thought of me, knowing exactly what you were inviting into your chambers by doing so.”
You tilt your head to give him access and you feel his mouth curve into a smile against your throat before he presses a kiss to the pulse point there, lingering to feel the frantic rhythm of your heart against his lips. His hands map your body with agonizing slowness, the leather of his gloves dragging over the silk in a friction that makes your nerve endings light up, tracing the curve of your waist, the curve of your hips, the dip of your lower back, and your whole body is shivering, leaning back into him, your weight settling against his chest.
“Cold?” he taunts softly, his mouth at the junction of your shoulder and neck now, open and warm.
“You know I’m not cold.” your voice cracks on the last word because his thumb has found your collarbone and is tracing the bone of it so slowly and maddening, that feels like he is drawing you with intentions alone, his finger as featherlight as a paintbrush on canvas.
You reach behind you, your fingers finding the fabric of his hood where it gathers at his shoulders, and you push it back and off, while your hands slide up into his hair, an action that makes him groan against your neck. A low vibration that you feel in your spine. Your fingers tighten and his hips press forward against you involuntarily. The sensation sends heat pooling low in your belly, your legs almost giving out at what you feel pressed against your lower back.
You turn in his arms, a bit impatient. Your hands go to his chest, palms flat against the fabric of his tunic, and beneath your right hand you feel it. A wave of warmth, sharp and sudden, and when you look down you see it through the thin fabric, a red and pulsing glow. The mark on his chest burning to life under your touch like something answering a call.
His whole body goes rigid at your touch, even as a slight shiver runs through him.
“Don’t...” he starts, but his voice fractures on the syllable. Despite his sudden withdrawal, his hands are still on your waist and he is not pulling away.
“What is this?” you press your palm harder against the glow and his breath stutters out of him in a sound that is almost a whimper, his head tipping back, his throat exposed, his eyes squeezing shut. The image in front of you makes your lips part in surprise and wonder, because yes, you are curious about the mark and have been for a while. But seeing his reaction to your unprompted touch, how he reacts as if you struck him in either pain or pleasure...
“It’s... complicated, Your Highness.” he forces the words out through gritted teeth. “What you have to know it’s that it’s old. It’s... ours.”
Ours.
The word detonates in your chest, and your brain scrambles for meaning, for logic, but finds none. You don’t need to know, not now, at least. You’ll have plenty of opportunities to interrogate him about it another time, but for now, your fingers curl into the fabric of his tunic and you pull him forward. His mouth finds yours again and this time the kiss is slower, deeper, his tongue sliding against yours and his gloved hand coming up to cradle the back of your skull, tilting your head to deepen the angle. You moan against his lips and feel his fingers tighten in your hair.
You walk him backward. It takes effort, he’s taller and solid and his arms are locked around you, but he goes almost willingly, his mouth still on yours, his boot catching on the edge of the rug as he walks. When the backs of his knees hit the mattress of your bed, he sits and you climb into his lap with a gracelessness that burns your ears red.
He pulls back just enough to look at you through heavy, half-lidded ombre eyes. You are straddling his thighs, your nightdress rucked up around your hips, your hands braced on his shoulders, your face flushed and your breathing ragged. The feeling of him under your body, pressed so close you feel his warmth, his solid muscles, and the state you turned him in... all of it sets your whole body alight and your brain is too far gone to really grasp what you just did. But his is not.
The slowest, most devastating grin spreads across his face.
“So bold, Your Highness.” his hands settle on your bare thighs where the silk has ridden up, his thumbs tracing small circles against your skin. The contrast of leather against bare flesh makes you dizzy. His gaze drops to the tangled sheets beneath him, the pillows thrown sideways, the blankets kicked to the floor. “The sheets are a mess. You really couldn’t sleep tonight, could you?”
You were a fool to think he wouldn’t call you out on it, but the way his words drawl, slow and teasing and maddeningly sexy makes you come to the conclusion that you don’t mind a little bit of his teasing, even if it turns your rosy cheeks two shades darker. You press your forehead against his, your fingers knotting in the chain at his collar. “D-Don’t speak like that.”
“Did something trouble the Princess’ mind?” he leans back on one hand, casual and a tad insufferable, even as his other hand slides higher up your thigh with a slowness that makes your muscles clench at how good it feels, the feeling of his cold glove on your bare skin. “Was it a certain Assassin she boldly called in the middle of the night to come put her to sleep?”
“I will throw you off this balcony.” You avert your eyes, suddenly too shy at his words but too stubborn to let him see the full effect his words have on you.
“Promises, promises.” he catches your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your face so the candlelight catches your eyes. The smugness softens, melts into something that makes your throat ache. “You’re blushing so hard, Princess. Your ears are red.”
You bury your face against his shoulder and feel the rumble of his laughter vibrate through his chest against your palms.
“Hey,” his voice gentles, his hand coming up to the back of your neck, fingers threading into the hair at your nape to guide your gaze back to his. “C’mere. Won’t you look at me?”
You lift your head, albeit a little hesitant. Your eyes are wide, you know, bright and pleading, the want in them so naked it terrifies you. You know he sees it, too, by the way his throat bobs slowly, by the way the playfulness drains from his expression like water from cupped hands and what is left is hunger, raw and deep and shaking and it startles you but also makes your body shiver in delight once more.
He kisses you again, and this time it is not a question nor a hesitation. His slick, soft lips find your trembling ones while his hand slides to the strap of your nightdress. His fingers pause there for a moment. A question in the hesitation, and you answer it by reaching up and sliding the strap off your own shoulder.
“Inviting me into your bed,” he whispers sweetly against the corner of your mouth, his fingers trailing down your arm as the silk falls. “What happens if the guards outside the door hear something and come find the princess in such an... unfit position?”
“Then you’ll have to keep me quiet,” you breathe, swallowing when his eyes go black. Your spine feels like lightning bolted down from the nape of your neck and down to your lower back and then down still, right between where your thighs are bracketing his lap, in the place now moist and throbbing and needing friction you’re still not bold enough to seek.
His mouth descends on your neck, open and hot. His teeth graze the sensitive skin below your ear, making you gasp while his gloved hand comes up to cover your mouth, gentle but firm, muffling the sound against leather.
“Shhh,” he whispers against your throat, and you can feel the smile there. “That’s more like it.”
His hands undress you in pieces, peeling the silk away with a slowness that is both exhilarating and torturous, pressing his mouth to every inch of skin he reveals, your collarbones, the dip between them, the curve of your ribs. His lips trace the shape of you like he is committing your naked body to memory, like he is painting you with his mouth, and every point of contact sends sparks cascading down your spine until you are trembling in his lap, your fingers tangled in his hair, your head tipped back in pleasure while soft sounds escape between your parted lips.
You tug at his coat impatiently and that makes him laugh, low and breathless, shrugging out of it without detaching his mouth from your sternum. His tunic follows, making the red mark on his chest visible where it blazes in the low light, pulsing in time with his heartbeat, so so beautiful. You press your lips to it and he hisses, his hands fisting in the sheets, his hips rolling up against yours.
“F-Fuck,” he breathes, the word sounds punched out of him, unplanned, raw. It does unspeakable things to your own body, shooting precisely between your legs, like an arrow hitting bullseye.
His mouth finds yours again, more hungry now, and his hands are gloveless now. You barely registered when he took them off, but they map the skin of your chest with such gentleness that makes your eyes sting, thumbs tracing and circling your peaked nipples until your back arches and a sound escapes you that you did not know you could make. You guide his hands upper, your fingers wrapped around his wrists, pulling him closer, pressing his palms flat against your breast. He groans into your mouth and you swallow the sound.
“I might be the Assassin, but you are the lethal one here, Princess,” he whispers against your lips before his hand slides lower, down the plane of your stomach, slow and purposeful. In no time, his fingers find the hem of the silk still bunched at your waist and slip beneath it.
Your hands grip his shoulders so hard your knuckles go white. He watches your face with those devastating bicolored eyes, heavy lidded and swallowed by lust, reading every flicker of sensation that crosses your features. His forehead presses against yours and his free hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone in such a tender gesture despite the lust consuming his soul. When his fingers, gentle and knowing and unbearably precise, find how wet you are, the sound you let out is somewhere between a sob and a plea for more of it.
“There she is,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick and dripping with something that sounds like awe disguised as arrogance, probably already knowing the effect it has on you when he weaponizes his honeyed voice as such. “My beautiful Princess.”
He moves his hand in slow, maddening strokes, building a rhythm that tightens every muscle in your body, and when the sounds you make grow too loud his mouth covers yours, absorbing every gasp and whimper against his lips. His other hand presses flat against the small of your back, holding you against him, steady and sure while the rest of you falls apart.
“That’s it, Your Highness,” he whispers against the corner of your mouth, and his voice has gone rough, wrecked and raspy. “Cling to me. I’ve got you, let yourself fall.”
You shatter in his arms with your face buried against his throat, your teeth sinking into your own lip to keep from crying out, your body bowing into his like a wave breaking against shore. He holds you through it, his lips pressing against your temple, your forehead, the damp curl of hair at your ear, murmuring soft nonsense that sounds like your title and his heartbeat and something in a language you don’t recognize, older than either of you, oceanic and aching.
When your breathing steadies, when the tremors slow to aftershocks and you lift your head to look at him, he is wrecked and unrecognizable. His cheeks are flushed dark, the color bleeding into the tips of his ears. His lips swollen and bitten red, and his chest is heaving and the mark on it pulses like a second heart.
He doesn’t rush to the next part, doesn’t even assume there will be more than what he gave you just now. He just gazes down at you, savoring how you look as the highs of pleasure wash over your body in subsiding waves. You just gave a part of yourself to him, one you can never take back but you don’t want to. It is his now. It was his to take so it is his to keep, now and forever. And you want to give him more parts of yourself, feel like he’s the only one who’ll keep you safe and not feeling like a trapped bird.
This was yours to give, and yours to decide how and when to give it. You want to give him so many more parts, no matter what it is he wants to take. A few pieces, more like this one. Your heart, which is already in his possession, even if he is unaware of it. You’ll give him your fleshed heart too, if only he asked.
Yours to have, yours to give. And you choose him to take it.
You cradle his face in your hands. Your thumbs trace the beauty mark beneath his eyes, and your voice, when it comes, is barely a whisper, raspy but full of unspoken feelings. He awaits an answer to a question he doesn’t voice or even attempt to form, but you choose to speak it anyway.
“I’ve made a selfish decision by summoning you here, but I... I want this. I chose this.” your forehead presses against his and your breath mingles warm between your parted lips. “You are my freedom, Rafayel. I choose you to have me and my body... my heart.”
His eyes search yours, and the vulnerability in them is staggering. The kind of openness that looks like it costs him everything. His hands come up to cover yours where they rest against his face, his fingers lacing through yours, trembling.
“How sure are you of this, my beloved Princess?” his voice is barely above a breath. All the teasing turned to something so naked it makes your chest ache, something painful and raw. “Is it truly what you want from me?” his thumb traces the line of your jaw and his gaze drops to your mouth and back to your eyes. “Giving yourself to someone like me... a reckless thing for a Princess to do. Do you truly want me?”
You kiss him slowly, certain of your decision, wanting to make him understand it, too. Your hands slide into his hair, your body pressing flush against his, and when you pull back your lips brush his as you speak.
“There will never be anyone else I want.”
The sound he makes when he registers your soft whisper is something deep, something that starts in his chest where the mark burns red between you and travels through his entire body in a shudder that you feel everywhere your skin touches his. His arms lock around you and he pulls you against him. His mouth finds yours with a ferocity that steals whatever breath you had left, if you even had any.
He lays you back against the tangled sheets with a gentleness that contradicts the desperation in his kiss, settling over you, the weight of him warm and solid and everywhere. The mark on his chest glows between your bodies like something forged in a furnace, the red of it casting your skin in shades of amber and flame.
“Gotta continue to keep quiet for me, Princess,” he breathes against the hollow of your throat, cooing the words in a teasing lilt, but his voice is shaking now, barely held together. “Unless you want the whole palace knowing who you chose to give yourself to tonight.”
You pull him closer by the back of his neck and his hips press forward with the move. It’s what you both want and crave, if the sounds you both make are any indication. Your shared moans are greedily swallowed by each other’s mouths. His hand finds yours on the pillow, fingers interlacing, squeezing tight.
The world narrows to the space between your bodies. To the rhythm of him moving with you, against you, inside you... To the flex of his jaw when he bites back a groan as you squeeze tightly around him. To the way your name sounds when he whispers it against your collarbone like a confession he has been holding in his mouth for lifetimes.
Your back arches off the mattress when he hits a certain spot, somewhere deep where it’s tender and untouched, and feeling him press there makes your eyes roll back into your head. His arm hooks beneath you, pulling you against him, his forehead pressed to yours, his breathing fractured and raw.
“Fuck, Your Highness...” his voice breaks on the words, his hips stuttering as they thrust inside your warmth. His bare hand presses firm and warm over your mouth when you cry out in pleasure, and the look he gives you is equal parts desperation and lust. “Keep quiet... the guards...”
You can’t. You pull his hand away and replace it with his mouth, kissing him hard, making him groan against your lips. The sound vibrates through your whole body and the sheets are twisted beneath you and his hand is gripping your thigh and pulling you impossibly closer, and you don’t want this moment to stop. You never want to be away from him after tonight, not ever.
“My beautiful Princess,” he gasps against the corner of your mouth when his rhythm falters for a moment, then quickens, his whole body trembling above you. It’s a beautiful tell you recognize as him losing himself inside you, and you assume he is as close to feeling this closeness between you as you are, this shared pleasure. “Your body doesn’t lie... clings to me so tight...”
Your nails drag down his back and he hisses at the sensation, the feeling of them marking his bare skin makes his hips snap forward and makes the bond mark on his chest blazes so bright you see it through your closed eyelids, red and fierce and consuming. You break apart at the same time, or close enough, his face buried against your neck as he spills so much warmth inside you. Your fingers knotted in his hair from how good it feels. The sound he lets out against your skin, muffled and shattered and utterly broken, is the most honest thing you have ever heard him say.
He stays after that.
The candlelight has burned low by the time the trembling stops, by the time your breathing evens out into something resembling relaxation and his heartbeat slows against your back where he has curled around you, his chest warm and bare against your shoulder blades, his arm draped over your waist, his fingers tracing absent patterns on the inside of your wrist. The bond mark still glows faintly, a soft red pulse that matches the cadence of his breathing.
“Stop thinking so loudly,” he mumbles against your hair, and the drawl is back but soft now, heavy with sleep, the consonants blurred. It makes you smile and move closer in his embrace, “M’trying to enjoy this before you kick me out of your bed.”
It’s a jest, you recognize it as such. Yet even as he jokes, your chest feels heavy where his words settle, scraping against your heart like little knives.
“I’m not going to kick you out.”
“Promise?”
There is something in his voice. Something small and young and achingly uncertain, something that lives under all the smirking and carelessness, and it cracks the last wall inside your chest like a fist through thin ice.
You turn in his arms and press your palm flat against the mark on his chest, the red glow warm beneath your hand. You look him in the eyes with a gaze so raw and honest and blurred by the moist of unshed tears, and you tell him.
“I promise.”
His expression does something complicated, and for a moment his mask wavers so completely that you see everything in his eyes. The relief, the ache, the love so vast and old it seems to spill beyond the borders of this single life. Then he blinks and the smirk ghosts back across his lips, smaller now, gentler, like a muscle memory he can’t quite shake.
“Good,” he whispers, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips warm and impossibly soft. “‘Cause I wasn’t gonna leave anyway.”
His eyes close and his breathing slows. His arm tightens around you in his sleep, an involuntary , instinctive thing, as though even unconscious his body refuses to let go of something it has waited too long to hold.
You lie in the dark with his heartbeat against your palm and the fading glow of the mark beneath your fingers and for the first time in your life, you feel like something that belongs to you.
Outside the window, the desert stretches to the horizon. The dunes roll in smooth, undulating waves under the moonlight, pale gold and endless.
If you look long enough, they almost look like the sea.
if you liked it, you can buy me a coffee here! it would be very appreciated<3: https://ko-fi.com/zaynessbeloved
.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!
