(Previously Ragged Adler)

The anti-human, AKA "Hound". Genderfucked, 30+, neurodivergent He/Him, It/Its (She/Her is person and situation specific)

[fiendsgf]

The Depth of Devotion

── .✦ synopsis: What was meant to be a peaceful getaway quickly turns into something far more intense. Between shared moments of tenderness and nights that burn too brightly, your romance with Rafayel begins to blur into something darker, more possessive. You start to realize Rafayel isn’t just falling in love — he’s binding himself to you, and he won’t ever let you go.

── .✦ content: fluff, yandere!rafayel, seagod!rafayel, murder (not graphic), rafayel is a little crazy obviously, manipulation, obsession, SMUT (mdni)

── .✦ wc: 30.7k (i'm sorry)

── .✦ author's note: for my 1k follower special! thank you again ♡

The throne of Lemuria was carved from coral, polished to a dark gleam that reflected the shifting glow of the sea’s molten heart. Light drifted down in ribbons, painting the vaulted chamber in colors that should have dazzled — blues like sapphires, golds like flame, shards of pearl that gleamed like stars. Fish flickered in and out of the arches, scales flashing like coins scattered in the tide.

Rafayel slouched on the throne as though it were a chair stolen from some tavern. His chin rested on his palm, his violet gaze dull, half-lidded. Beauty pressed in from every direction, centuries of artistry, myth, and divine weight — and to him, it all felt hollow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The waves shifted, and there you were.

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

Something in him went still.

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

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

So ordinary a thing, and yet…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the restless ache in his chest whispered otherwise.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

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

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

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

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

And then, faintly, something else.

A sound.

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

Curiosity tugged you forward.

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

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

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

And then you saw him.

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

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

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

“Hey…”

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

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

For a moment, nothing. Then his eyes opened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “Curious?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your lips curved despite yourself. “Suits you?”

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

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

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

You turned your eyes toward the restless waters, watching the pale line of surf break against the shore. “I always have. I used to think it was lonely out there, endless and empty. But maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s just… waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

Your throat tightened, but you managed a small shrug. “For someone to listen.”

His eyes lingered on your face for so long you felt the heat of it, the intensity. “Then it has been very lucky tonight,” he said at last, a faint smile curling at his mouth.

The question lingered on your lips before you even realized you had spoken it. “Do you… have a name?”

His gaze flicked to yours, bright and unbothered, and with a lazy curl of his mouth he said, “Rafayel.” The syllables slipped from him like a tide retreating from the shore, smooth and musical.

You repeated it softly, as though testing how it tasted in your own mouth. “Rafayel… it suits you.”

Something shifted in his eyes. The teasing lilt in his expression faltered just a fraction, and though he tilted his head away like the compliment meant nothing, you caught the faintest shade of warmth ghosting across his features — so fleeting you might have imagined it.

The silence that followed was no longer empty. It pulsed with the rhythm of the waves and the unspoken things that hung between you. You thought — absurdly, dangerously — that you could sit with him like this until the sun came up.

But practicality tugged at you. The hour had grown late. You shifted slightly, gathering your courage. “I should go,” you said, regret heavy in your chest. “It’s getting late.”

You rose, smoothing your skirts, then hesitated. Something in you refused to leave so abruptly. Before you could think better of it, you reached down and caught his hand. His skin was warm, rougher than you expected, and the strength in his fingers startled you.

“Will I see you again?” you asked, the words spilling out more urgently than you intended.

His lips curved into something almost mischievous. “That depends. Do you want to?”

You flushed, holding his gaze, your grip tightening unconsciously. “Yes.”

His thumb brushed once across your knuckles before he withdrew his hand, slowly, as though savoring the contact. “Then meet me here. Tomorrow night. Same place, same moonlight.”

Relief and excitement flared through you, lighting your whole body from within. “I’ll be here,” you promised, your voice firm despite the fluttering in your chest.

“Good.” His smile deepened, equal parts playful and unreadable. “Then so will I.”

You lingered a heartbeat longer, reluctant to sever the connection, before finally turning away. The sea breeze tugged at your hair, and when you glanced back, he was still watching, eyes glowing with a brightness that rivaled the moon.

You walked back through the quiet streets of Verona with a spring in your step, the salt still clinging to your skin, the cool night air brushing against your flushed cheeks. The city had begun to settle into silence — lamplights flickering, the faint hum of crickets replacing the daytime clamor. Yet inside you, there was nothing quiet at all. Your chest felt alight, your stomach fluttery, every part of you restless with excitement.

You laughed softly to yourself, unable to believe what had just happened. A mermaid — no, a man from the sea. You had spoken with him as though it were the most natural thing in the world, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the sand while the waves whispered at your feet. Part of you wondered if you had imagined it, some whimsical dream conjured by the ocean breeze and the moonlight. But then you remembered his eyes — blueish-pink, deep and startling, so alive with mischief — and you knew no dream could have felt like that.

By the time you reached the modest little hotel where you were staying, your heart was still racing. You pushed open the door to your room, let it fall shut behind you, and leaned against it with a grin you couldn’t quite smother. 

What on earth is happening to me? you thought. 

You had come here for a quiet vacation, to collect seashells, to stroll the beaches — not to meet men from myths. And yet, now, the thought of tomorrow night tugged at you with such intensity you could hardly bear to think of anything else.

You sat in front of the small wooden table, pulling out the treasures you had collected earlier in the day. Shells in shades of cream, pink, and coral spilled across the surface, still dusted with grains of sand. As you sifted through them, arranging them in neat little rows, your fingers hesitated. Something was missing.

Your bracelet.

You frowned, glancing down at your wrist. The familiar glimmer of silver wasn’t there. A small panic fluttered in your chest, but you quickly forced it away. You must have lost it when you’d been crouching among the rocks, sifting through shells. Maybe the tide had tugged it away. It wasn’t the first time a clasp had given out — besides, it wasn’t valuable, not really. Just a trinket. You exhaled, shaking your head. No sense ruining tonight with worries.

Your gaze drifted back to the shells, and you let your fingertips glide over them until they paused on one in particular — a delicate spiral shell, rose blush and white with a faint golden sheen when it caught the light. The prettiest of them all. You held it up, smiling faintly as you turned it in your hand.

An idea bloomed. I’ll make this into a necklace. The thought made your heart thump. Not for yourself, but as a gift — for him. A keepsake, something of the land to give to someone of the sea. Silly, maybe. Absurd, even. But the image of placing it into his hands made warmth spread through you, made tomorrow feel impossibly far away.

You lay back on the bed at last, the shell still clutched in your palm, your cheeks aching from smiling so much. You’d never thought your vacation would turn into something like this — something thrilling, surreal, almost unreal. And yet… you couldn’t wait to see him again.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The sea cradled him as he swam back toward Lemuria, the tide folding over his shoulders in heavy silken sheets. His body cut through the water with practiced ease, yet his mind was not on the currents, nor on the pulse of the reefs, nor the faint hum of Lemuria calling him home. It lingered elsewhere — above the surface, where the air was thinner, sharper, and where you had stood.

Your warmth lingered against him, a delicious phantom heat where your hand had dared to rest. He had feigned the injury to tease you, just a test, but the way your cool fingers traced his waist — as if you were meant to be there, as if you had every right to touch him — sent a jolt of euphoria through him. His chest tightened, heart racing, a rush of delight he hadn’t expected. The audacity of your care, the intimacy of your touch, left him flushed, breathless, craving more.

Your face rose again and again in his mind, replayed endlessly: the softness of your eyes turned moonlit silver, your lips parted just slightly when you smiled, the way your voice had shifted between shyness and boldness as if you couldn’t quite decide which guise to wear before him. And god, your laughter. That small, bright burst of sound made him ache in a way fire and salt never had. He wanted more of it. Needed more.

But what lingered most was the sound of his name on your lips. The syllables, spoken in your voice, had curled through him like smoke and flame, leaving warmth in their wake. He imagined it again — softer, more intimate — breathed into the space between you when you lay drifting toward sleep, your hand tangled with his. He imagined it roughened by desire, torn from your throat when he coaxed pleasure from you that only he could give. Each version seared him, until he craved the sound with a desperation that felt perilously close to worship.

By the time he reached Lemuria, his blood was humming too loud to ignore. He made his way through the jeweled halls without a word to the guards, without acknowledging the servants bowing low. They mattered little. Their devotion was expected, perfunctory. But yours — your awe had been pure, unscripted, untrained. You had looked at him as though he were something wondrous rather than inevitable. That gaze had done what centuries of loyalty never could: it made him hunger.

He retreated to his private chamber, a sanctum carved of pale stone and glassy coral, lit by the sway of bioluminescent flora drifting in the currents outside. With a flick of his fingers, fire sparked to life — unnatural, searing orange and red, alien in the water-bound world. The candle flame wavered, imprisoned in its glass casing, and painted his sharp features in trembling gold.

He set the bracelet down before it. Your bracelet. The one you had been wearing when you walked the shore, when your hand brushed against his waist. He slipped it off when he grabbed your wrist, almost unconsciously — like a part of him needed to claim a piece of you then and there. Now it lay in his palm like a treasure wrested from fate itself. A piece of you — yours alone — now stays with him.

His fingers closed over it slowly, reverently.

“How well it suits you,” he murmured to no one, voice low, like he was coaxing a lover awake. “But it belongs here now.”

He pictured you draped in silks of oceanic blue, seated upon the coral throne beside him, the crown light glinting in your hair. He imagined your hand resting on the carved armrest — or better, in his. The people would kneel at your feet, their voices raised in worship not just for him but for you. You would command them with grace and cruelty alike, as the queen of Lemuria must. But unlike those before you, you would smile, warm and luminous, and the seas themselves would bow to your will.

He imagined it so clearly it made his chest ache. He saw you descending the marble steps of the throne room, the courtiers gasping as though the sun itself had entered their cold depths. He saw your lips curve, not for them but for him, always for him.

The candle flame bent under his breath as he leaned closer to the bracelet, eyes burning. Already he could not wait for tomorrow. Already the thought of you standing again beneath the moon — waiting, perhaps eager — was enough to set his blood to fire. He wanted to taste that anticipation, to see the way you looked for him, only for him.

Mine, the thought whispered unbidden. 

She is mine already. She simply does not know it yet.

The bracelet gleamed as though in agreement.

Rafayel let the fire play between his fingers, small licks of flame dancing along his knuckles before fading into steam. The sea was vast, endless, unforgiving — but in all its breadth, it had never given him something so wholly precious. A fragile little land-born thing, with a smile that warmed him more than fire.

Tomorrow, he promised himself. Tomorrow, he would have more of your voice, your gaze, your touch. He would let you think it was your choice to return, your decision to step closer to the tide. But he knew better. You were already caught in his current, already bound to him by something you couldn’t yet name.

The flame guttered low, shadows rippling across the walls. Rafayel reclined back, eyes never leaving the bracelet set before the light.

Yes. Tomorrow.

And soon — forever.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The morning sun pried its way through the thin curtains, striping the room in bands of gold. You stirred awake to the distant hum of mopeds on cobblestone, a faint chorus of gulls, the steady breath of waves rolling just beyond the city’s edge. It should have been an ordinary morning in Verona — another day to wander streets and collect seashells — but you woke with something else thrumming through your veins.

Excitement.

Today, tonight — you would see him again.

You rolled onto your back, staring at the whitewashed ceiling, grinning before you could stop yourself. Last night replayed in loops behind your eyes: the gleam of moonlight on his hair, the impossible sweep of his tail, the warmth of his hand around your wrist. You’d sat beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world. You pressed your hands to your warm face, muffling a laugh.

The room felt too small to contain your restless energy. You slipped out of bed, padding across the cool tile floor, throwing open the balcony doors. Morning air swept in — sharp with salt, softened by espresso drifting from the café below. Verona bustled already; scooters zipped past, vendors shouted in Italian, shopkeepers rolled up shutters to reveal displays of bright glass jewelry and leather sandals.

The lively scene filled you with an energy you hadn’t felt in weeks, leaving you smiling and moving to the mirror. There was already a brightness in your reflection, a spark in your eyes you couldn’t quite hide. You brushed your hair with unusual care, lingered over each pin and ribbon as though he might notice, even when no one else would.

A flowy dress was chosen not for comfort, but because you imagined how the color would strike against his eyes, how he might look at you. Every detail of your morning routine seemed to carry new weight, a quiet joy threaded through it.

On the dressing table sat the small shell, pale pinkish-white and iridescent, catching the sunlight like a treasure from the sea. You reached for it carefully, fingers curving around the smooth spiral. The thought had come to you before sleep stole you away last night — to make it into something more, something you could offer him when the moment felt right. A necklace. A gift that was yours alone to give. Just the idea had you flushing, heart fluttering with a sweetness you could hardly contain. Slipping the shell into a velvet pouch, you tucked it securely into your bag and left the room.

The streets of Verona were stirring, a warm breeze carrying the mingled scents of bread and flowers, the clamor of carts and the ringing of distant bells. Stone-paved alleys twisted and opened into sunlit squares where market stalls unfurled like bright sails, their wares glinting in the morning light.

Your eyes wandered eagerly from sign to sign, searching for a jeweler’s mark. Shopfronts gleamed with polished brass and delicate engravings, glass cases catching the sun like fractured stars. At each window you slowed, pulse quickening as you imagined the shell nestled in a setting of silver, perhaps with a chain fine enough to rest against his throat. The thought alone made your breath hitch, a smile rising unbidden.

You moved from one cobbled lane to another, the city alive around you — the lilting call of a fruit seller, the distant strum of a guitar, the murmur of tourists passing with maps in hand. Yet for you, the world seemed sharper, more luminous. Every step carried the undercurrent of what awaited you tonight, the promise of seeing him again. And all the while, you held the little velvet pouch close, the weight of the shell grounding you in its quiet significance.

The bell over the door chimed softly as you stepped into the little jewelry shop, the air cool and fragrant with polished wood and faint metal tang. Sunlight streamed through the tall windowpanes, scattering across glass cases filled with chains and pendants that caught the light like drops of water. A kindly-looking man behind the counter looked up from polishing a silver ring, his eyes creasing warmly.

“Buongiorno, signorina,” he greeted, his accent lilted and pleasant. “What can I help you find today? A gift, perhaps?”

You hesitated for half a breath, the shell clutched delicately in your hand, and then smiled. “Yes, actually. I… I found this shell while walking by the sea. It feels special, and I thought it could be made into a necklace.” You held it out to him, the pearly sheen catching the shop’s light.

His expression softened as he turned it in his fingers, inspecting its natural ridges. “Ah, very lovely. The sea always gives gifts to those who know how to look. A necklace is no trouble. Do you have a design in mind?”

Your heart quickened, not because of the design but because of who it was for. “Something simple, but elegant. Just enough to show it off. Do you think it could be ready… tonight?” Your voice tilted upward hopefully.

The shopkeeper chuckled gently, nodding. “For something this size? Yes, I believe I can finish it within a few hours. You may return this evening to collect it.”

Relief and excitement fluttered through your chest, your smile breaking wide. “Really? That’s perfect, thank you.”

His gaze grew a touch curious, and with a twinkle in his eye, he asked, “A gift for a sweetheart, perhaps? Someone special?”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you laughed softly, shaking your head. “No, no… not like that. Just… a new friend I made while traveling. Someone I’d like to thank.”

The man hummed knowingly, still smiling as if he didn’t quite believe you. “Ah, well—whether friend or something more, I think they will treasure it. Gifts born from the sea always carry a little magic.”

You felt giddy as you handed the shell over, as though the secret of who it was for might spill out of you if you weren’t careful. A friend. That’s what you’d said, and it was true. But still, you couldn’t shake the little rush of warmth that filled you when you pictured Rafayel’s face — his wry smile softening into something gentler when you placed the necklace in his hands. The idea made your steps lighter as you left the shop, Verona’s streets alive around you.

Never in your wildest imaginings did you think you’d meet someone like him, let alone find yourself planning gifts as though you were a girl with a crush. And yet, here you were, heart buoyant with the thought of seeing him again tonight.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The great throne room of Lemuria shimmered with its usual austere magnificence. Shafts of refracted light filtered down through the domed ceiling of glassy mosaics, painting the marble floor in ripples of gold and azure. The chamber was empty save for Rafayel, lounging near one of the carved pillars, absentmindedly running his thumb over a small paintbrush he had tucked behind his ear. A low hum slipped from him — tuneless, but softened by the warmth threading through his chest.

“Curious,” came a voice, calm but edged with amusement.

Rafayel’s humming cut short. He glanced up to find Elder Amund standing in the doorway, his long robes flowing like tidewater around him. The elder regarded him with the kind of knowing gaze Rafayel often found irritating, though today it only made him more aware of the smile tugging at his own lips.

“You’re in good spirits,” Amund noted, stepping closer. His tone was measured, though not unkind. “Unusual, for you.”

Rafayel turned his face away, as if studying the painted mosaics on the far wall. “Don’t sound so surprised. I’m not incapable of good moods.”

“Mm. Yet I cannot recall the last time I heard you hum.” The elder’s eyes narrowed faintly, the corners creasing in suspicion. “Yesterday you were gone for some hours, and you returned late. Later than you ought to, given your duties here. Tell me, what occupied your time so thoroughly?”

Rafayel exhaled through his nose, feigning indifference. “I was on the surface. Watching the shore. The humans. Time got away from me.”

“The humans,” Amund echoed, as though rolling the word over in his mouth. He came to stand a little closer, lowering his voice as though sharing a private joke. “Did you meet someone?”

Heat prickled across Rafayel’s cheekbones before he could stop it. His hand flexed against his tail, betraying him. “...Just some human,” he muttered, as though the words themselves were nothing. His eyes betrayed more — flickering with the image of flushed cheeks, a laugh he’d been replaying in his mind since.

Amund tilted his head, not missing a thing. “Just some human?” he repeated softly, as though savoring the lie.

Rafayel’s jaw clenched, a flicker of irritation flashing through him at being read so easily. He lifted his chin, blush-tinted eyes sharp even in their evasiveness. “You’re imagining things, old man. I was curious, that’s all. Don’t weave your tales from a few hours spent above the waves.”

But the elder only smiled faintly, eyes heavy with meaning. Rafayel turned his gaze elsewhere, yet the faint flush still lingered on his skin, giving him away in spite of his words.

Amund let the silence hang just long enough to make Rafayel shift. Then, with that maddening calm that had always gotten under his skin, he said, “It’s good, you know. That you’ve found someone. Only yesterday you were brooding so heavily the sea itself seemed darker for it. Now I see a spark in your eyes again. You may pretend, but you can’t hide it.”

Rafayel’s shoulders tightened. His jaw worked as though he had to grind the words into dust before letting them slip out. “Don’t make this about the ceremony,” His voice was sharper now, edges cutting where before they had only hinted at steel. “Don’t cheapen it by dragging those traditions into this. You don’t know anything.”

Amund studied him for a long, quiet beat, the corners of his eyes creased in something that felt too much like pity. “If you say so.” The elder’s voice was mild, but the weight beneath it pressed like silt on Rafayel’s chest.

He snapped his gaze away. “Enough. Leave me.”

The water seemed to stir faintly at the command, and at last, Amund inclined his head and drifted from the chamber. The hush he left behind rang loud in Rafayel’s ears.

For a long moment, Rafayel sat frozen, pulse thudding in his temples. He hated how easily the man could needle at truths he hadn’t dared name. And yet — when he reached behind his ear, pulling the slim paintbrush free, it wasn’t Amund’s words that lingered. It was yours.

The thought of you unfurled, inevitable. He set before him a smooth slab of pale stone, its surface washed clean of grit. It gleamed faintly like moonlight filtered through water. His pigments lay scattered — ground coral, powdered shell, pressed kelp ash — and he set to mixing them with deft, restless hands. The motions were habit, but his mind was elsewhere: replaying the tilt of your smile, the fall of your hair, the brightness of your dress against the dim hall.

White, yes. That was what stood out most — the white of your gown, unearthly under the glow of moonlight. It had struck him then, that color, like a beacon he couldn’t look away from. He crushed shell finer between stone and palm, mixing it with pearl dust until it shimmered pale and soft. His strokes followed instinct, tracing the curve of a figure — your figure — indistinct, yet instantly recognizable to him even in silhouette.

It wasn’t enough. His brow furrowed. The lines blurred too easily, the likeness slipped away. He tried again, sharper angles for your chin, the ghost of your hair in loose sweeps, but frustration gnawed at him. This wasn’t your face. This was only suggestion, shadow.

His breath came out slow, controlled, but the fire of it burned in his chest. He wanted more. He wanted you precisely — every exacting detail, the arch of your brows, the heat of your gaze. He wanted to pin you to this stone so perfectly that no one could ever mistake who you were. And yet…

He sat back, brush poised, and told himself he had time. All the time in the world. Time to watch, to memorize, to study until your image was branded so deep into him that he could paint you in utter darkness, eyes closed, and still get it right.

The thought stirred a warmth in him — dangerous, heady. He gathered up the painted stone, still damp with fresh pigment, and rose.

In his private chamber, the shadows cradled the small shrine he’d begun without meaning to. Your bracelet glinted faintly where he’d set it beside a half-burned candle, its metal warmed by his touch too many times to count in the short time he’s spent with it. He placed the painted stone carefully before it, letting the faint shimmer of white on stone act as centerpiece.

For a moment, he only stood there, fingers brushing over the bracelet, curling to fit it against his palm. He imagined it encircling your wrist again, with his hand wrapped over yours, holding you still. The thought drew another pulse of heat through him, more satisfying than guilt, more intoxicating than shame.

It belonged here. You belonged here, he decided. And he had no intention of letting go.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The necklace sat warm in your palms, the little shell catching the light each time it shifted through your fingers. It really was pretty — delicate in a way that felt far too sentimental, far too revealing for something you had commissioned so impulsively. And yet, you couldn’t let it go. The closer you held it, the more restless your nerves became, winding tight in your chest.

Would he laugh at it? Think it was childish? Too forward? The questions kept crowding your head with every step you took along the sand, the tide whispering against the shore as if mocking your nerves. You weren’t sure why you cared so much — after all, this was only the second time you’d see him. He was a stranger, barely more than a passing figure carved in sea spray and moonlight.

And yet… the thought of him forgetting you unsettled you in a way you couldn’t name. You wanted to matter to him, to linger, even if it was only in some small way. Something he could hold, something that would make him think of you when you were gone.

Your grip tightened on the necklace as excitement pushed against the nervous flutter in your stomach. You let the sea wind kiss your cheeks, tangling strands of hair against your lips, and forced yourself forward. Each step over the sand and shell-strewn ground drew you nearer to the familiar rise of rocks, the place where you had first found him waiting like some secret written into the waves.

The memory of last night stirred vividly — his voice, his smile, the way his presence had felt both sharp and soft, like fire curling beneath cool water. You could still see him leaning in, just enough to catch your breath, just enough to make the world feel narrowed down to nothing but him.

The moonlight was softer tonight, almost silvery against the water, the tide lapping gently as if it were in no rush to leave the shore. You slowed your steps as the rocks came into view, breath catching despite how familiar the place already felt. And then you saw him — Rafayel, stretched along the stone as though it had been carved for him alone. His dusky hair caught the glow, shoulders relaxed, his tail idly sweeping against the surface of the water with a flicking rhythm that drew your eyes without mercy.

“Hi, cutie,” he said before you could even gather yourself, voice low, smooth, threaded with something teasingly intimate.

The sound of it made your heart flutter. You managed a breathless, “Hi,” though your voice came out softer than you’d meant. You tried to look casual, but the truth was you couldn’t quite tear your gaze away from him. Seeing him again felt unreal, even though it was only the second time. Something about him unsettled you, pulled you closer.

You settled beside him on the rock, close enough that your dress brushed the edge of his tail as it flicked lazily. You watched the movement, a little spellbound, the moonlight glimmering against each scale like it had been polished for this very moment. He didn’t miss your stare — of course he didn’t. His lips curved knowingly, and then his gaze dropped to your clenched hand.

“What’s that?” he asked, tilting his head toward it, voice light but edged with curiosity.

Heat rose up your neck. “Nothing,” you said too quickly, squeezing your fingers tighter around it.

He raised a brow, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Nothing? You look like you’re guarding it with your life. Are you hiding treasure from me?”

You shook your head, heart thudding. The nerves buzzing through you only got sharper when you whispered, “Close your eyes. Hold out your hand.”

He blinked, clearly amused. “Close my eyes? Hmm. Should I be worried you’re about to slip something dangerous into my palm? Maybe a crab?”

You gave him a look that made him chuckle, but after a moment he obeyed, leaning back a little as he extended his hand toward you. His fingers spread, palm open, his lashes lowering against his cheek as his eyes shut. “All right. I’m trusting you, little land-dweller.”

Your chest tightened. Carefully, as though the weight of it suddenly mattered more than it should, you set the necklace into his hand. “Open your eyes,” you whispered.

He did, and for a moment — just a moment — he said nothing. He stared at the small loop of silver, the pale shell threaded through it, moonlight gleaming against the polished surface. The silence stretched, long enough that your stomach twisted with doubt.

“I—if you don’t like it, it’s fine,” you stammered, words tumbling out before you could stop them. “It’s silly, I know. I just thought—well, I found the shell yesterday, and I wanted—”

His voice broke in, quiet, almost uncertain. “This is… for me?”

Your lips parted, your pulse jumping in your throat. “It is. I just… I wanted to give you something. To commemorate the night we met.”

His eyes flicked up, bright with something you couldn’t place, and then the corner of his mouth tilted. “Was it that special?” he teased lightly.

You puffed out a breath, cheeks heating. “Of course it was. It’s not every day you meet a merman! And it was your first time on the shore. That’s important.”

He laughed, a soft, rich sound that curled through the night air, and you knew he was laughing at your expression, at the way you were pouting without even realizing it. Embarrassment prickled your skin, and on impulse you reached forward to snatch the necklace back. “Fine, I’ll just keep it if you don’t like it—”

But his hand shot out, quick as the tide, wrapping gently around your wrist. “Wait.” His tone softened, velvet smooth but firm enough that you froze. His grip wasn’t harsh, just steady, warm where his skin met yours. His eyes held yours, and for a moment, something unspoken passed between you. “I love it.”

Your breath stilled in your chest.

“Truly,” he said, thumb brushing lightly over your wrist as if to soothe your nerves. Then he lifted the necklace, holding it up so the shell caught the moonlight, letting it sway between you. His smile this time was gentler, without teasing edges, carrying something almost reverent. “It’s perfect.”

And before you could say anything, he looped it over his neck. The shell lay against his collarbone, contrasting beautifully against his skin, and he touched it once, almost absentmindedly, as though grounding himself in the gift. His gaze flicked back to you, the amusement returning — but softer now, warmer.

“See?” he murmured. “Fits me perfectly. And now I’ll keep our meeting close to my heart.”

You tried to steady the rapid beat of your heart, but it was impossible with him smiling at you like that. He had to know exactly what effect he had on you — he always seemed to know — but for now, you didn’t mind.

You could feel the heat in your cheeks, though you hoped the moonlight hid it. His laughter lingered in your ears from when you’d tried to snatch the necklace back, your wrist still tingling faintly where his fingers had caught you. 

The shell hung against his bare chest, pale and gleaming against skin that looked almost carved in the lunar glow. He toyed with it idly, as if testing its weight, his tail flicking lazily against the shallows beneath him. Every little movement of that shimmering fin drew your eye, the way the iridescent scales caught and scattered light as though he carried a piece of the ocean with him.

You leaned an elbow on your knees, trying to sound casual even as your chest felt tight with how aware you were of him. “So… I’ve been wondering something.”

He glanced at you, mouth curving in that way that always made your stomach flip. “Mm? Dangerous thing, you wondering, cutie.”

You rolled your eyes at the nickname, though you couldn’t keep from smiling. “Can you walk on land?”

The corner of his lip kicked higher, a flash of amusement sparking in his eyes. He tilted his head, feigning seriousness. “Are you asking me if I can sprout legs like some fairytale prince?”

Your laugh came quick and bright, chasing the sound of waves. “I don’t know anything about mermaids, okay! I’m going off of movies and old stories.”

“Oh, I see.” He shifted closer, resting an elbow where his knee should be in a pose far too human for someone shimmering with scales and seawater. “So you’re expecting me to sing songs that lure sailors to their doom? Or maybe comb my hair with a fork you stole from a dinner table?”

You covered your face with your hand, laughing so hard your shoulders shook. “Stop. I can’t believe you’re making fun of me when I’m being serious!”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, his tone dripping with false innocence. His tail gave another flick, splashing the hem of your dress lightly. His smirk widened when you gasped at the cold droplets.

You huffed, but you were grinning, leaning in a little closer. “So? Can you?”

For a beat, he let you stew, gaze glinting like he enjoyed your impatience. Then he tipped his head back toward the horizon. “Yes,” he admitted at last, his voice softer, like confessing a secret. “I have another form. One where I can walk.”

Your breath caught, excitement bubbling in your chest before you could stop it. “Really? Could you—” you leaned forward, eyes bright “—could you show me tonight? We could explore the city together.”

He barked out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Greedy,” he accused lightly, eyes flicking to yours. “You want to steal me away from the sea already?”

“Yes,” you said instantly, earning a surprised lift of his brow. You softened it with a grin. “It’ll be fun! Don’t you want to see what life is like on land?”

His gaze lingered on you, thoughtful, before sliding down toward the water as his tail flicked again. He exhaled, low and almost reluctant. “Using legs is… a strain on my body,” he said, quieter now, almost warning. “It’s not something I do lightly.”

You tipped your head, shoulders dipping a little, a flicker of disappointment crossing your face. “Oh… well, I don’t want you to hurt yourself,” you murmured, eyes falling away for a moment. Then, as if catching yourself, you looked back up at him through your lashes, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “But maybe… if you did, I could make it worth your while.” The look you gave him was half-pleading, half-playful, lashes fluttering in deliberate innocence as you leaned a touch closer, coaxing.

His smirk returned, slower this time, something unreadable simmering under it. “You don’t give up, do you?”

“Not when I want something,” you admitted, your heart thudding harder than it should.

He sighed, but there was a hint of amusement in it, his eyes cutting to you again. “Fine. But there’s one problem.”

Your brows knit. “What is it?”

His smirk turned downright wicked, and you regretted asking. “When I switch forms,” he drawled, leaning just close enough for your skin to prickle, “I’m naked.”

Heat flared in your face so fast you almost choked on air. “Wh—what?”

“Mm.” He dragged the sound out, clearly enjoying every second. “No clothes. Nothing at all, aside from the jewelry.” His smirk widened as his gaze dipped to your flustered expression. “Was that your plan all along, cutie? Getting me out of the water just so you could look?”

Your denial was instant and far too sharp. “No!”

The way his laughter rolled out of him didn’t help your case. You could feel yourself burning up, tugging at the hem of your sleeve like that would ground you. “I wasn’t—stop laughing!”

“Relax, cutie.” He waved a hand, grin softening, though the teasing glimmer stayed firmly in his eyes. “I don’t mind if you were. It’s hard to resist my charm after all.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet, here you are,” he countered smoothly.

You peeked through your fingers at him, still fighting a smile despite yourself. He looked entirely too pleased, leaning back with the moon glinting off the necklace you’d given him, off the line of his bare shoulders.

You exhaled, trying to steady your voice. “Wait here. I’ll be back in a moment.”

His brow arched, but this time it wasn’t the usual lazy, teasing lift — it flickered sharp, quick, like the words struck something in him. “Back?” he repeated, tone smooth but edged with something tighter beneath.

“Yes,” you said quickly, brushing at the sand as you rose. “Just—don’t move.”

He straightened a fraction, pink gaze tracking you, a smile tugging at his lips as though he could play it off. “Should I be worried?”

“No,” you laughed, heart racing faster with each step you took toward the city lights in the distance. “I’ll be quick, promise!”

His laugh followed you — warm, lilting — but there was an undertone this time, a hesitation that wasn’t there before, like a tether pulled taut between you. You could feel his eyes on your back even as you hurried away, every step toward the streets beyond the beach thrumming with a nervous, electric energy.

The moment your figure turned from him, Rafayel’s chest tightened, as though someone had reached inside and given his ribs a cruel twist. He leaned forward slightly, resisting the sudden, ridiculous urge to spring up and follow you. He could still hear your voice in the salt-laden air, teasing and warm, your footsteps leaving prints in the sand that the tide was already reaching for.

His hand rose, almost unconsciously, to clutch the necklace at his throat. The shell was smooth, still faintly warm from your fingers, and the sensation of it made his pulse thrum. An offering. That’s what it felt like, as though you had placed a piece of your heart into his palm, delicate yet irrefutable. The thought made his breath catch, his lips curving in a smile he couldn’t temper.

His eyes narrowed slightly, fixed on your retreating figure as you moved closer to the city’s edge, hair catching the glow of the lamps lining the streets. You looked back only once, a fleeting glance, and he swore his heart stuttered. The faint blush that had tinged your cheeks when you’d given him the gift returned vividly in his mind, as if it had been seared there. The shy way you’d pressed the necklace forward, the curve of your smile betraying both nerves and delight — it had undone him completely.

So you did feel it — what he felt. Why else would you have thought of him? Made something, something simple yet striking, to press into his hands like a vow? No, this wasn’t silly sentiment. This was destiny moving, unfolding just as it was always meant to. 

The ceremony that had weighed on him for so long, shadowing his every step with duty, no longer loomed like a threat. Instead, he could picture it clearly now: not a ritual binding him in chains, but a celebration. A union carved in light. You at his side, Lemuria blooming beneath the weight of your shared love.

You were warmth incarnate, and it left him greedy. That laugh, spilling so freely, should never be heard by anyone else. That smile, bright as the sun on the water, should be reserved for him alone. And those eyes — alive with sparks that made even the ocean pale in comparison — how long would he have to wait before you looked at him as though you belonged to him entirely?

His fingers tightened around the shell at his throat, a lover’s caress against its edge. It wasn’t just a token. It was a promise. You just hadn’t realized yet that you’d given it.

Would you come back quickly? Or would you make him wait, push his patience, tease him with absence? He tilted his head, eyes lingering on the path you’d taken. Either way, you would return. You had to. The tide had already pulled you into his current, and he wasn’t about to let you drift away.

Your face haunted him — how the moonlight caught the curve of your smile, how the corners of your eyes crinkled when you laughed, how the warmth of your hand lingered against his skin far longer than touch should. That warmth belonged to him. Your laugh, your shy blush, your every flicker of softness. All of it. His. The thought lodged in him like a star blazing underwater: he would never let it go.

Time blurred, and he didn’t realize how long he’d been lost in that tide of thought until your footsteps returned, quiet against the sand. He looked up — there you were, hair slightly mussed from the breeze, clutching a bundle of fabric. A shirt of white linen, simple trousers folded neatly over your arm. The sight of you offering them, the faint pink on your cheeks as you held them out, nearly unmoored him.

“For me?” he asked, though he already knew, his lips curving into something both tender and sly. He took them carefully from your hands, letting his fingers brush yours longer than necessary. You turned quickly, flustered, facing away to give him privacy. His grin widened.

“Are you sure you don’t want a peek?” His voice was velvet and teasing, meant to snare. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“Just—hurry up,” you shot back, refusing to turn around.

He chuckled, tugging the linen over his head, relishing the brush of soft fabric against his skin. God, you were adorable. So easily flustered, so quick to flee. Did you not realize how your shyness only drew him in further? Someday, he thought, he would coax every hidden desire from you. Have you pliant in his lap, whispering your wishes against his throat, every secret pulled free. But for now, he would let you believe you held the reins. He could play along with this slow descent. It was all the sweeter for it.

“Done,” he murmured at last, stepping up behind you. Before you could move, his hand slipped around your arm, spinning you lightly toward him. He stood tall now, shoulders squared in the crisp white shirt, trousers hugging his frame. The way your eyes flicked over him, then lingered, made heat rush to his cheeks despite himself.

“You look nice,” you said, soft, a small smile curving your lips. “You’ll fit right in.”

For once, words failed him. He felt the blush creep unbidden across his face, warming his skin even as he fought to hold your gaze steady. To think that one simple sentence from you could undo him so completely. He gave a crooked little smile, heart soaring, the shell at his throat pressing warm against his chest.

You didn’t even know — you couldn’t possibly know — just how completely he was already yours.

The linen was warm when he slid his arm through yours, urging you forward with a warm, “Come on, didn’t you want to show me this city of yours?” His tone carried both tease and command, but it was softened by the small curve of his lips, the one he wore only when looking at you.

You beamed at him, the shy gleam in your eyes matching the spring in your step as you led him off the sands and onto the bustling streets of Verona. The cobblestones radiated faint heat from the day’s sun, lanterns already glowing along the boardwalk. Music drifted between the chatter of vendors and laughter of children darting through the crowd. To Rafayel, it was overwhelming at first, but with your arm linked through his, it felt like nothing could touch him.

You pointed toward stalls one by one, offering explanations as though he were a curious child — yet he let you, indulging every word, every gesture. When you stopped before a vendor spinning tufts of sugar into pink clouds, you turned to him with bright eyes.

“Have you tried this before?” you asked, holding up a stick of cotton candy.

His brows lifted, faintly amused. “It looks like spun coral.”

You giggled, tearing off a piece and offering it to him. “Try it.”

He leaned down without hesitation, letting your fingers press the fluffy sweetness past his lips. His tongue brushed your fingertips — accidentally, deliberately, who could say — and he hummed softly at the taste, head tilted. “Hm. Too sweet.” Then, grinning slyly, he plucked another piece and held it to your lips. “But I think it suits you.”

You hesitated, cheeks warming, then opened your mouth to take it, only for him to laugh low in his chest, delighted by the way you flushed.

Next came a game — ring toss, simple enough. You leaned forward in determination, tossing each circle with a grace that had him shaking his head in disbelief. When you landed the winning throw, the vendor handed you a plush doll, soft and ridiculous, but when you hugged it to your chest, Rafayel thought it might be the most dangerous thing he’d ever seen: you, glowing with pride, looking at him for approval.

He wanted to cage the moment, hold it until it burned into eternity. Instead, he teased, “So this is what victory looks like for you? A stuffed creature?” Yet his lips softened at the sight of you hugging it tighter, his chest aching in ways he couldn’t explain.

Then you tugged at his hand, dragging him toward a small booth draped in velvet curtains. “Come on.”

He eyed it suspiciously. “What is this contraption?”

“A photobooth,” you explained, excitement bubbling in your voice. “It takes pictures, little portraits. Don’t you have that underwater?”

“No,” he admitted, curiosity piqued. “Our memories… we keep them differently.”

“Then let’s make one,” you urged, eyes shining. “You can keep it. Proof you were here. With me.”

The way you said with me nearly undid him. He followed you inside, lowering himself onto the cramped bench, trying not to notice how close your thigh brushed his. The curtain fell, cocooning you both in soft darkness broken only by the flash of the machine.

You leaned against him easily, instructing him on how to pose. The first shot — both of you smiling. The second — you flashing the plush victoriously while he rolled his eyes, though his grin betrayed him. The third — you holding up a silly peace sign, him caught mid-laugh.

And the last — without warning, you turned toward him, leaned in close, and pressed your lips to his cheek just as the shutter clicked.

He remained perfectly still, outwardly composed, but inside — inside it was devastation. The ghost of your lips burned hotter than any flame he’d conjured in battle. His pulse thundered in his ears. That brief, chaste kiss shattered something in him — because it wasn’t just affection, wasn’t just play. It was intimacy so casual you might not even realize what you’d given him.

But he knew.

He knew, and the knowledge made him dizzy.

When the strip of photos slid from the slot, you plucked it up, beaming as you handed him a copy. “Now you can keep it,” you said softly. “A memory.”

He swallowed, forcing a crooked smile as he took the strip with careful fingers, as though it were more fragile than glass. “A memory,” he echoed. But inside, he was already clutching it like treasure, a vow, a brand burned into his soul.

You slipped your own photo strip carefully into your purse, still smiling that soft, radiant way that never failed to hollow him out and fill him all at once. Rafayel was still reeling, still trying to steady the storm inside his chest, when it happened.

A stranger — careless, rushing — bumped into you as they passed. The jolt made you stumble, just a step, but to Rafayel it was enough. His blood went hot, his muscles tight, his fire begging to be loosed.

His hand shot out to steady you, curling protective around your arm as he turned a glare on the offender. His vision sharpened, narrowed, a dangerous instinct rising fast. The man barely glanced back, muttering an apology, but Rafayel’s temper flared all the same. How dare they touch you, even by accident? How dare they make you falter when you should be untouchable, sheltered, safe? His lips curled, words sharp and venomous at the edge of his tongue, ready to scorch—

But then you looked at him.

Your hand pressed lightly against his chest, your voice soft, calm, like water against fire. “It’s okay, Raf,” you murmured. “I’m fine. Really.”

The fury crackled under his skin, but your eyes — pleading, patient — pulled him back from the brink. He forced his hands to unclench, forced the molten edge of his expression to soften. Not here. Not now. If he lost control in this fragile place, if he let anyone see what he really was, he might never be allowed up here with you again. And that would be unbearable.

He drew in a breath, steadying, letting his thumb brush your arm once before he let go. “If you say so,” he murmured, though the weight in his voice betrayed how unwillingly he yielded. For you, only for you, he buried the urge to lash out.

You smiled, easing the tension with a tilt of your head. “Come on,” you said, reaching for his hand like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Let’s go explore more. We haven’t even seen half of this place yet.”

He let you pull him along, every nerve still tight, but soothed by the warmth of your fingers lacing through his. If you wanted to wander, he’d follow. If you wanted adventure, he’d make the world kneel to give it to you. Anything, as long as it kept you close.

The neon lights thinned the further you led him, replaced by a path lined with lanterns strung low in the trees. Their glow bathed your face in amber, soft and fleeting, shadows playing across your smile each time you turned back to tug him along by the hand. He let you drag him anywhere you pleased — he would follow you into storms, into fire, into the deepest abyss — but still, his grip never loosened, thumb pressed lightly against your pulse.

The world felt quieter here, the noise of the crowd muffled to a distant hum. He could breathe again, though the phantom echo of anger still hummed in his bones from the man who’d brushed too close to you minutes before. His blood still surged hot, a feral instinct to tear that stranger apart for daring to collide with you. Only your touch, your voice coaxing him back, had stilled him. He hadn’t cared about the gawking eyes or the risk of drawing attention — it was you who kept him tethered, your plea soft but firm: it’s fine, it’s nothing. For you, he’d swallowed the urge to bare his teeth.

“Better?” you asked, squeezing his hand.

He let out a slow breath through his nose. “For now,” he murmured, tone light enough to mask the truth. His gaze lingered on your profile, haloed in lanternlight, too lovely to lose.

You laughed softly, skipping a half step ahead. “You’re intense, you know that?”

He tilted his head, lips curving. “And you’re only just noticing?”

That earned him another laugh, sweet and easy, and he drank it in greedily. He could almost convince himself this was ordinary — that you were his, that this night was a beginning instead of a fragile illusion.

But then, your words shifted the ground beneath him.

“This street is gorgeous,” you said, eyes wide as you looked up at the strings of swaying lanterns. “I’ve never walked down here before.”

Something prickled at the base of his spine. “Never?” he echoed, casual on the surface, though his mind sharpened like a blade.

You glanced back at him, sheepish. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, voice lazy, amused. But inside, a knot began to coil tight. He tilted his head again, studying you as if he could peel back your secrets. “You don’t know this area well, do you? Isn’t this your city, cutie?”

The question hung in the air, deceptively mild.

You hesitated, then gave a tiny shrug, as though it were nothing. “Not exactly. I’m just… here on vacation.”

The word detonated inside him.

Vacation.

He repeated it aloud, too quickly, too softly. “Vacation?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Just a short trip. I don’t live here.” You smiled, like you’d offered him something simple, harmless. “I’ll be heading back once it’s over.”

The smile didn’t reach him. He felt it like a knife sliding neatly between his ribs, the ground tilting beneath his feet. Heading back. Away. Away from him.

His hand tightened around yours before he realized, the lanternlight suddenly too dim, the night too small to contain the rush of panic clawing at his chest. You weren’t permanent. You were fleeting, a tide that would retreat and leave him stranded.

He kept his expression smooth — barely. A sliver of his grin remained, though his jaw ached with the effort. “I see.”

Inside, the spiral tore through him. He wanted to demand when, where, why you hadn’t told him sooner. He wanted to drag you back beneath the waves where he could keep you, where no one could take you. Already, his mind ticked through possibilities: how to tether you, how to make you stay, how to make vacation turn into forever.

But your eyes were on him, trusting, unguarded, and he couldn’t risk frightening you. Not here. Not now.

So he smoothed his thumb against the back of your hand, forced his voice steady, teasing. “A short trip, hm? Then I suppose I’ll have to make sure you never forget it.”

You laughed again, unaware of the storm behind his eyes, tugging him forward into the soft glow. He followed obediently, outwardly calm, inwardly unraveling — already crafting silent vows that he would not let you slip away. Not now that he’d had a taste of you.

You smiled softly, fingers brushing against his as if to reassure him. “There’s no way I could forget it,” you said, voice hushed and earnest, before your eyes lifted to his with that devastating sincerity. “Forget you.”

For a moment, the sea itself seemed to pause. The light cast a gentle halo over your features, making you appear all the more unreachable, all the more dangerous to his heart. His chest tightened — not with relief, but with something darker, hungrier. It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

His mouth tugged into a faint, lopsided pout as his fingers twitched, betraying the unrest curling inside him. He forced a smile, but there was an edge beneath it, a flicker of shadow that the night itself seemed to lean into. “Humans…” he murmured, half-bitter, half-playful. “Always leaving.”

You blinked at him, surprised, before a small laugh broke from your lips, warm and sweet against the salt-heavy breeze. “I don’t want to,” you countered, tilting your head toward him as if to banish his sulk. “In a perfect world, I’d live in a city as beautiful as this. I’d spend every day by the sea.”

His breath caught. The words struck him like fire through dry reeds, igniting something uncontrollable. He turned his head toward you sharply, the amber light catching in his ocean-colored eyes, turning them molten. “Then why can’t you?” His voice was low, velvet over steel.

You faltered, lashes lowering. “Because…” you began, but your answer trailed, thin and evasive, slipping like water through cupped hands. “There are a lot of reasons. Life isn’t so simple on land…”

He studied you, eyes narrowing, the faint crease between his brows deepening. You weren’t lying, not exactly — but you weren’t telling him everything either. The vagueness cut at him, sharper than honesty would have. He hated not knowing what held you back, what dared to chain you away from him.

Still, you smiled softly, and it killed him that even in your hesitation you glowed like this. “I’ll really miss you,” you whispered, as though confessing something precious.

The words pressed into his veins like fire, a bittersweet intoxication. Miss him? No. He couldn’t allow you to.

His throat tightened. His hand twitched at his side, aching to clutch you closer, to press you against his chest where no distance, no reason, could ever tear you away. He forced himself still, swallowing down the feral thrum rising in him. “…I’ll miss you too,” he said quietly, his tone smooth but heavy, lined with truth he could barely contain.

But inside, the sea in his chest roared. He could feel you slipping away. He could see you walking away, fading into a world beyond his reach, a world he could not dive into no matter how far he swam. His pulse raced, frantic, until his hands itched with the need to seize hold of you and never let go.

And yet he smoothed it down, smoothing his thumb again over your knuckles, as though the small gesture could anchor him, mask the truth of his thoughts. He smiled, appearing gentle, composed — while inside his mind reeled with calculation.

You had said it yourself. A perfect world. You wanted to stay, to belong here, to belong with him. But something stood in your way. Vague “reasons,” distant obligations, that invisible wall between your heart and his ocean. If you would truly miss him — if you longed for the sea, longed for him — then all he had to do was remove those obstacles. Create that perfect world you dreamed of. One where you never had to face the pain of leaving.

His eyes lingered on your profile, bathed in golden light, lips parted faintly as though you might say more. Every flicker of the flames above seemed to crown you in warmth, each step you took beside him pulling him further into the orbit he could never, would never, escape.

You won’t ever have to miss me, he vowed silently, the words echoing in the cavern of his ribs. I’ll make sure of it. I’ll keep you here. I’ll give you the sea, the city, the world — anything, everything. You’ll never walk away from me.

He smiled faintly, just enough to hide the tightening in his chest, and gave your hand a reassuring squeeze. Outwardly, a companion walking with you under the lanterns. Inwardly, a creature sinking his claws deeper into the inevitability of you.

The words slipped from his lips before he could stop them. 

“When do you leave?” His voice was low, careful, as if asking might shatter something fragile between you.

You exhaled softly, your thumb brushing over the back of his hand where your fingers laced together. “Tomorrow’s my last day. My flight leaves tomorrow night.”

The light trembled over your features, and he caught the flicker of sadness in your eyes. That small downturn of your mouth — barely there, but enough to twist something violent and possessive inside him. His chest ached at the thought of you vanishing from his city, from his reach, returning to some distant place that had nothing to do with him.

Internally, his thoughts tangled. Too soon. I don’t have enough time. I need to anchor you here, somehow — tie you to me, to the sea, to everything you said you wished for. You don’t want to leave, I know you don’t. So why should you? Why should I let you?

He felt you squeeze his hand gently, pulling him back into the moment. You tilted your head, curiosity softening your expression. “You look lost in thought. Are you… planning something special for my last day?”

The question was almost playful, but it struck him with the force of a promise. He turned his gaze toward you, allowing a slow smile to rise — measured, charming, the kind that made people underestimate him. “Something like that,” he murmured, watching how your eyes lit at the words.

You brightened, laughing softly, the sound like glass wind chimes stirred by an ocean breeze. “Oh, come on. You can’t just say that and not give me a hint! What is it?”

He leaned in slightly, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath even in the cool night air. “It’s a surprise, cutie.” His tone dipped on the endearment, rougher, weighted with a heat he didn’t bother to hide.

You pouted, bottom lip jutting in a way that made his chest constrict. “It better be good.”

Rafayel chuckled under his breath, though the laugh carried more possession than amusement. He lifted your joined hands, pressing the barest kiss against your knuckles. The lantern light turned his eyes to molten blue, shadows catching in their depths. “You’ll love it,” he promised, almost too softly. 

Inside, though, his mind was racing. This is it. Tomorrow, I’ll make sure you see that perfect world you want — by the sea, beautiful, unending. You won’t miss me because I won’t let you go. You don’t need to leave at all. You’ve already told me what you want; now all I have to do is give it to you.

He let the silence linger, heavy but not uncomfortable, the night wrapping around you both with the scent of saltwater and honeysuckle from a nearby garden. Somewhere, waves kissed the shore, steady and endless.

He thought of keeping you here forever — your hand always in his, your laughter carried with the tide — and for the first time in centuries, the idea of forever felt too small.

The garden was hushed, all soft earth and green shadows, the air heavy with the perfume of blossoms just beginning to open under the late light. Rafayel walks beside you, a step slower than usual, letting you drift toward the rows of flowering shrubs. You reach out, your fingertips grazing petals, and he watches you as if you are the one in bloom here, more radiant than anything rooted in Lemuria’s soil.

You bend to pluck a flower — delicate, pale with a blush at its edges — and turn to him with that smile that undoes him every time. “Here,” you murmur, rising on your toes just slightly. He freezes when you slip it into the pocket of his shirt, right over his chest. Right over where the bond mark would be if fate had been kinder to him.

His breath stutters, chest rising beneath your fingers. He doesn’t dare touch you, doesn’t dare reveal the trembling reverence running through his veins, but inside he is alight — your gift is a vow, a symbol, whether you know it or not. To him, it feels like a claim. His.

The scent of the flower mingles with the salt-soft air and something inside him aches. He imagines your hands not just placing a blossom, but pressing over his heart, sealing yourself there.

“You’ll keep it safe,” you tease lightly, unaware of the weight of what you’ve done.

He swallows. His voice comes out huskier than he intends. “Always.”

The word hangs between you, heavy, unshakable.

You glance up at him then, and it happens — the look. The one he has been waiting for, the one that tilts the whole world on its axis. Your eyes linger too long, soften too much, the faintest curve of your lips betraying something deeper than playfulness. And he knows, suddenly and utterly, that if he doesn’t close the space between you, he will regret it for eternity.

Rafayel leans in before doubt can form, before his mask of irony or detachment can shield him again. He can smell your perfume — faint, sweeter than the blossoms, like something made just for him.

His hand hovers at your waist but doesn’t touch, not yet, as his lips find yours. The kiss is tentative at first, reverent. His mouth brushes yours like a question, but the way you sigh softly against him — the way your fingers graze the fabric over his chest, just above the tucked flower — answers him more clearly than words ever could.

The world seems to hush. Leaves whisper. Somewhere water trickles over stone. But all he knows is the press of your lips, the heat sparking through him like a struck match. He deepens it, just a little, enough to taste the sweetness of your breath, and feels the ground slip beneath him.

When he draws back, it’s only because he has to see you, has to memorize the look in your eyes right now. Your lips are parted, cheeks faintly flushed, your hand still resting over the flower on his chest as if to anchor yourself.

“You…” his voice catches, a rough edge breaking his composure. He recovers with a softer smile, almost boyish, the kind he never shows anyone else. “…you’ll ruin me, cutie.”

But inside, he thinks: No, not ruin. Save. Complete. I was always waiting for this.

The flower presses lightly against his skin through the fabric, right over the place where the bond should be, and he silently vows that soon, it will be there.

The lantern path faded into a curve of garden shadows, your hand still in his, when you slowed and turned those worried eyes on him.

“Are you doing okay?” you asked softly, voice lilting with that kind of concern that made his chest tighten.

For a moment Rafayel was blank — why would you think otherwise? His body thrummed with energy, every nerve singing after that kiss. Then it struck him. Ah, the little white lie he’d spun earlier. He had told you that being on his legs for long stretches was a strain. A convenient excuse then, a way to coax you into slowing down with him. Now you were looking at him like that, as though your tender worry could undo him.

He seized the opportunity.

He tilted his head, let a faint crease of weariness touch his brow. “Mm… you’re right, I’m a little winded.” he murmured, voice roughened, carefully measured. He slowed his steps, just enough to make it believable. “It’s catching up to me, cutie.”

You stopped short, squeezing his hand. “Then we should head back. Come on, lean on me if you need to.”

The invitation set his heart racing. He should have reassured you, told you not to worry — but instead he allowed it, allowed himself to shift his weight just slightly toward you, let his shoulder brush yours more firmly. Your smaller frame bore it without hesitation, your arm steady at his side, guiding him back toward the distant hush of the sea.

The path narrowed, lamposts casting pale pools of gold on the ground. He glanced sidelong at you, the soft line of your profile lit against the dark. You didn’t complain, didn’t tease — just walked at his pace, hand firm, steps careful as though you were shielding him. The smallest things undid him: the way you slowed at uneven stones, the way you angled your body so he wouldn’t stumble. He could have walked on his own with ease, but the warmth of you pressed so close was intoxicating.

“You should have told me sooner,” you murmured. “I don’t want you to overdo it.”

Rafayel swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He wanted to say: I would walk through fire if it meant staying at your side. Instead he managed a strained chuckle. “I didn’t want to cut our time short. Being with you makes me forget.”

Your fingers flexed in his, squeezing gently, and he thought he might combust on the spot.

The path sloped gently toward the beach, a pale trail dusted in the glow of moonlight that lit the way. Every sound — the rustle of leaves, the quiet crunch of sand beneath your shoes — sank into his memory, already etched into the shrine of moments he was hoarding. 

He turned his head to watch you as you looked ahead, the salt-kissed breeze pulling at your hair. How easily you held him, how unhesitatingly you offered yourself as support. It would be so effortless to let the mask slip, to tell you that it wasn’t fatigue at all, but longing — this endless, relentless pull to remain at your side, to be the weight you chose to bear every single day.

It wasn’t just indulgence. It was a taste of the devotion he craved.

Would you notice if he never let you go?

Would you even realize how deeply you were feeding the hunger inside him?

But then your voice cut through his thoughts again, gentle as tide foam. “You should rest soon. And… I should too. Tomorrow’s important, isn’t it?”

He smiled at that, soft and unreadable in the shadows. “It is.” His voice dipped lower, playful but not enough to hide the heat beneath it.

Your lips curved, but he could see the gleam of anticipation in your gaze. “Are you going to give me a hint now?”

He let out a low hum, as though considering, then shook his head slowly. “Mm… Nope. You’ll ruin the fun if I tell you now.”

You pouted, a small sound of protest leaving you, and god, if it didn’t light something feral in him. He wanted to capture that pout with his mouth, to feel it soften beneath his own. Instead, he chuckled, quiet and warm, and tipped his head closer. “Don’t worry. Tomorrow will be perfect.”

Your excited laugh broke through the air, light and unguarded, and he memorized it like scripture. The stars painted you in silver as you stopped at the edge of the sand, the sea spread out before you in diamond ripples. For a moment neither of you spoke, the world pared down to the hush of water and the brush of your hand still steady at his arm.

And then you did something he didn’t expect. You leaned in, slow, unhurried, and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

Rafayel froze. The world stopped with him. Your lips were warm against his skin, impossibly tender, like the brush of a prayer. He felt it in his veins, in his bones, as though that single kiss was enough to mark him, to bind him, to carve his place at your side in something deeper than words.

Finally, you drew back, your eyes lingering on him longer than they should have. “Goodnight, Rafayel. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

When you pulled back, smiling, the imprint of you still burned there. He wanted to lift his hand, cover the spot, hold it like a relic. His pulse thundered, his composure balancing on a knife’s edge, but he forced his smirk to remain, though his voice was quieter than he intended. “Sleep well, cutie. Sweet dreams.”

And before he could stop himself, he let his fingers brush against yours — just a fleeting touch, an unspoken tether — before you slipped away toward the city’s glow. 

Rafayel stood where you left him, cheek still tingling, chest tight with something uncontainable. He touched the flower in his pocket — the one you had tucked over his heart — and whispered into the empty night, “Tomorrow. Our life starts tomorrow.”

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Back in your room, the door clicked softly shut behind you, leaving the world hushed in the dim lamplight. The stillness pressed in like the sea air outside, salted and sweet, and for the first time all night you were alone — alone with your thoughts, your heartbeat, and the warmth of him still tingling on your skin.

You sat on the edge of the bed, toes curling against the cool floor, and let out a breath that felt too shaky, too full. The night was alive inside you — every moment replaying like waves lapping the shore: the garden blooming under silver moonlight, the gentle brush of his hand as you guided him back to the beach, the rare openness in his eyes when he allowed himself to lean on you. And then that kiss — soft, fleeting, but enough to leave your heart clenching so hard you thought it might burst.

You pressed your fingertips to your lips, smiling helplessly. It had felt like something stolen from a dream. Maybe all of this was — this enchanted island, the way time seemed to fold into a space where it was only him and you, no obligations, no end. But tomorrow there would be an end. The thought cut sharp, leaving your chest tight. The idea of leaving him — of him becoming just a memory, another fleeting encounter washed away by distance and reality — was unbearable.

You swallowed down the ache, pushing the fear away. Tonight, you wanted to hold on to the sweetness, not let it sour. You lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling with a giddy little laugh slipping past your lips. Because how could you not laugh? Rafayel was… Rafayel. Magnetic and impossible and so full of hidden depths that you were desperate to learn. He made you feel alive in a way you hadn’t known you were missing — like the world had more colors, more air, more pulse.

Your mind kept circling back to the way he’d looked at you in the garden, as though every petal you touched, every breath you drew, was something sacred. It made your skin burn, made your stomach flutter with something you couldn’t name. He wasn’t temporary. You refused to let him be.

But for now, tonight — you let yourself bask in it. Hugging the pillow close, you whispered his name against the fabric, cheeks hot with the confession you couldn’t quite voice to him yet. You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, only that you were eager for it, eager for him.

Whatever surprise he had planned, you’d face it with your heart wide open. Because Rafayel wasn’t just a fleeting dream. He was the thing you wanted to wake up to.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Rafayel drifted down into the stillness of his quarters, the faint glow of Lemuria’s currents illuminating the carved walls and pale stone. Here, the water always seemed hushed, a cocoon of silence where even the eternal heartbeat of the sea softened into reverence. Only the shrine before him gleamed warmly, the single candle at its center holding steady, flame dancing as if it breathed with him.

He bent, careful, reverent, the flower still fresh in his hand. Its petals were tender, fragile — yet it had survived your night together, the laughter, the garden air, your kiss. He brought it close, almost brushing his lips against its edge, before pressing it to the shrine. Fingers splayed, flames seeped out, golden warmth weaving into the veins of each petal, into its heart. The bloom shivered once as though startled alive, then stilled, caught in the amber glow. Immortalized. No rot, no decay — forever as it had been when you held it.

He let his hand linger. The beginning of our covenant, he thought, the words resonating through him like a vow. You had given him your laughter, your touch, the tremor of your lips against his. This flower was not merely a token — it was proof of what had bloomed between you, of what he could not allow to be fleeting.

Next, carefully, he drew the small strip of photobooth prints from the pocket of the shirt you had given him. The corners were already softening from where he’d thumbed them again and again. He stared, unable not to. Each frame was its own world: you smiling, laughing, lips parted mid-tease, your face turned toward his. And the last — the one that clutched his heart mercilessly — the imprint of your kiss against his cheek. He could feel it still, phantom heat pressed to his skin, deeper than memory. He brought a hand to his cheek as though the warmth would remain.

With a murmur, he lifted them into a protective bubble, a shimmer of his fire surrounding them like glass. They drifted upward and settled near the flower, haloed by candlelight, untouchable. Treasures, every one of them.

But it was the ribbon — silken, crimson-black in the low glow — that made his lips curl faintly, made something sharper and darker stir in him. You had not noticed when it slipped from your hair during the kiss. He had plucked it while you were consumed by him, unable to resist the keepsake. Now, he laid it across the base of the shrine, twining it delicately around the candle as though binding flame and fabric together. You. Him. A tether.

Rafayel curled his tail underneath himself, gaze fixed on the shrine. The candle’s flame caught the edges of the flower, the ribbon, the photographs, everything — your essence, gathered, sanctified, his offering and his claim. His breath slowed, reverence heavy in his chest.

But his mind did not stay still. It drifted to you, as it always did — your words still echoing in the night air. You had spoken of flights, of leaving. He felt the faint ache pulse in his jaw as he clenched it. Leaving… No. You did not truly wish to go. He had heard it in your voice, seen it in the way your eyes lingered too long, touched him too softly, kissed him with something like desperation disguised as daring. You wanted to stay.

And so, he would make you stay. He had the means. A storm — yes. A sky so heavy with thunder and rain that no flight could ever take you from him. He would weave it carefully, not cruelly, only as fate’s intervention. A gift of time, of impossibility turned opportunity. The storm would keep you here. And he would lead you, finally, to the sea. To the place you belonged, where he had always waited for you.

But first — preparation. A new life must not begin with less than perfection. He would ready gifts, silks, the finest garments the surface could offer. Things worthy of your beauty, of the world he intended to give you. The room you would call yours had to be dressed in warmth and luxury. Everything had to be touched with the certainty of forever.

The candle flickered, throwing gold across his face as he stared into it. Tomorrow, he thought, heart beating like the steady tide. 

Tomorrow she will see. Tomorrow, she will know.

And as he rose from the shrine, leaving the flame to burn, he carried the phantom of your kiss with him — its warmth, its promise — the vow he would make unbreakable when he finally brought you to the sea.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The storm howled outside your window, a ceaseless roar of wind that rattled the glass and made the curtains tremble like frightened birds. You awoke slowly, disoriented by the booming thunder that seemed to rattle the bones of the earth itself. For a moment you just listened, heart thudding with unease as the flashes of lightning painted the room in stark, white-blue light. The storm was merciless, rain lashing against the panes, each strike of thunder carrying a weight that set your nerves on edge.

Your first thought was of Rafayel. Was he safe in this chaos? Had the storm scattered whatever he had planned for you today, forcing him back into the depths? A pang of disappointment tightened in your chest, quickly swallowed by worry. He was of the sea, yes — but storms like this, storms that tore the horizon apart, felt unnatural, as if conjured by something greater than weather itself.

Reaching for your phone with trembling fingers, you blinked against the glow of the screen. A notification lit up your lock screen:

Flight Canceled: Due to severe weather conditions, all departures postponed until further notice. 

You scrolled numbly, searching for clarity, until the pit in your stomach grew heavier.

The television flickered on, filling the silence with the urgent cadence of a newscaster’s voice. Grainy footage of the storm appeared on the screen, waves the size of buildings battering the coast, trees bending to breaking points. The words were a blur — unexpected formation… no signs of dispersing… citizens urged to stay indoors… remain cautious… But your attention slipped, lost to a faint sound threading its way through the static air.

A melody.

So soft you thought at first it was a trick of the storm, some errant whistle in the wind — but no, it wound around you, curling like smoke through your chest, through your very thoughts. You froze, blood running cold, as the notes slipped beneath your skin. It was achingly familiar, a haunting strain you recognized as his. 

The music tugged at you, an invisible tether pulling you from the safety of the room. Your bare feet touched the floor before you realized you’d moved, body responding not to reason but to command. The storm outside no longer sounded like chaos but like a drumbeat to march you forward. You didn’t question, didn’t resist — couldn’t resist.

Through the corridors, down the stairs, your steps were silent and sure, despite the tremors in the walls and the occasional flicker of the lights. Rain lashed against you the moment you stepped outside, soaking you instantly, chilling you to the bone. Still, the melody pressed on, louder, closer, compelling. You trudged through streets nearly deserted, the storm beating down so fiercely that most had shuttered themselves inside. Debris rolled across your path, palm fronds and trash cans toppled, but you barely noticed.

Your hair clung heavy to your face, your clothes plastered to your skin, but all you could hear was the song. It guided you down narrow paths, across the slick roads, until at last the land gave way beneath your steps and you found yourself on sand, waves thrashing against the shore.

Only then did you falter.

The trance cracked like glass under pressure, your awareness rushing back all at once as the icy water lapped at your ankles, pulling at you with greedy hands. The storm was a living thing around you, lightning clawing across the sky, the sea itself enraged. You shivered, finally seeing how dangerous it all was.

Amid the chaos, something moved.

The water churned, not with the wild randomness of waves, but with purpose, parting in slow arcs. Your eyes widened as you caught sight of him, floating just beyond the break. 

Rafayel. 

His form half-shadowed, half-illumined by the lightning above. No longer the man you’d walked with under lantern light, but something otherworldly. His long tail shimmered with every surge of water, scales refracting the storm’s light into shards of silver and deep cerulean. His hair fanned around him like a halo, wet strands gleaming as though kissed by fire beneath the ocean spray.

But it was his eyes that stilled you where you stood. They glowed faintly, not just with reflection but with their own surreal radiance, a blue that seared through the darkness like twin beacons. They found you even in the storm, unerring, and in that instant you felt stripped bare, seen in a way that made your heart hammer.

He looked like something pulled from myth, something beyond the reach of men — an ethereal figure risen from the storm itself, commanding it. Godlike, untouchable.

And he was looking only at you.

Your breath caught. Your lips shaped his name before you realized you’d spoken.

“Rafayel…”

His head tilted, that faint, mischievous smile you knew so well curving his mouth, but it carried something else now — an intensity, a hunger. Slowly, effortlessly, he cut through the waves toward you until he was close enough to reach for your hand. Cold water dripped from his fingers as they wrapped around yours, his grip unshakably firm despite the storm.

He raised your hand to his lips and pressed a cool kiss against your knuckles, the salt of the sea clinging to his mouth.

“Surprise, cutie.”

Confusion tangled inside your chest. You blinked at him, rainwater running into your lashes. “I don’t… I don’t even know how I got here.”

“I brought you,” he said simply, as though the answer required no further explanation. His voice was steady, almost soothing despite the chaos around you.

Your brows knit. The words should have unsettled you, and they did — but more than that, his nearness tugged at you, the familiar pull you couldn’t resist. Still, unease lingered sharp in your gut.

He drifted closer, drawing you forward until the surf soaked your skin to the waist. His tail swept behind him, stirring up glowing ripples where it cut through the water. “I want to show you the sea, cutie.” he murmured. “It’s dangerous on land right now.”

You froze at the edge of his invitation. Your gaze flicked out at the endless black horizon, then back to his glowing eyes. The ocean whispered of darkness and unknowable depths, an abyss waiting to swallow you whole. “But… I can’t breathe underwater.”

The softest laugh escaped him, low and resonant, as though the sea itself hummed in his chest. He leaned close enough that the tips of his wet hair brushed your cheek. “Do you trust me?”

Your heart pounded against your ribs, your head screaming caution, but your body betrayed you — you could only nod.

The smile that touched his lips wasn’t entirely the one you knew. Sharper, brighter, tinged with something ancient. His hand didn’t let go of yours as the waves pulled higher, tugging you into him, into the sea, into the shimmering glow of his otherworldly form.

The cold swallowed you instantly, rushing up your spine, your neck, then over your head. You panicked, lungs seizing, heart thrashing, your body instinctively clamping down to hold what breath you had left. Darkness pressed from all sides, the storm muffled into a hollow roar above.

Your wide eyes searched for him — only to find him right there, cradling your face in his hands as though you might break. The glowing blue of his gaze anchored you in the chaos, drawing your focus. His lips brushed yours in a soft, lingering kiss, stealing the panic for a heartbeat. Against your mouth, he murmured, low and commanding, “Breathe.”

Your body resisted, fear clawing at your throat. But when you did — when air rushed in — there was no water, no drowning. It was air, pure and effortless, as though the sea itself bent to his will for you.

You broke away, eyes wide in shock, chest heaving. He chuckled softly, brushing a thumb along your cheek, his voice dripping warmth. “See, cutie? You’re safe with me.”

You could only stare, lips parting soundlessly. Your thoughts scrambled, unable to piece together what had just happened, the impossible truth that you were breathing beneath the waves. The storm’s flashes caught in his eyes, in the sheen of his tail, in the curl of his hair floating like dark silk around his face. Ethereal. Yours.

You smiled weakly, still stunned.

Before you could think, his arms wrapped tighter around you, tugging you against his bare chest, your cheek pressing to the line of his throat. His skin was cool and slick, but his embrace was firm, steady, grounding. “Hold on to me,” he whispered, his breath stirring your hair even here beneath the surface.

Your fingers curled against him, clinging.

And then he moved — tail surging in great, powerful sweeps, carrying you both down, deeper, into the vast, endless dark. The sea closed around you like a cathedral, its silence heavy and sacred, your heartbeat echoing against the steady rhythm of his body guiding you through the abyss.

The water grew darker the deeper Rafayel carried you, shadows folding over shadows, but you clung to him as though his warmth was the only anchor left in this alien place. His arm locked firm around your waist, keeping you pressed to his chest, and though the sea was biting cold against your skin, the heat of his body seemed to radiate outward, enough to still your shivers. You could feel the steady strength in him as he propelled you downward, his movements cutting through the water with impossible ease, each powerful stroke sending you both gliding through the vast silence of the abyss.

The world below began to change. What first looked like nothing but endless blue and gloom slowly came alive with color — fronds of kelp swaying like banners, glowing plankton spiraling past in ephemeral bursts of light. You tightened your hold around him, your fingers curling around the nape of his neck, heart pounding not from fear now but from wonder. And then, as the sea floor came into view, you saw it.

Lemuria.

It was like stepping into a dream. Spires of coral rose high as towers, their surfaces inlaid with veins of pearl that shimmered when the light struck them. Vast arches carved from living stone framed wide avenues that wound between crystalline domes, each one glowing faintly from within as if lit by captured starlight. Schools of fish darted like ribbons of silver and gold through the streets, scattering when Rafayel’s presence brushed against them. The city pulsed with a rhythm all its own, a living, breathing sanctuary beneath the weight of the sea.

Your breath caught, and you turned your face up toward him. “Where…are we?” Your voice came out in a soft awe, even though part of you still couldn’t quite believe you were speaking at all beneath the water.

Rafayel’s eyes glimmered with a warmth that cut through the otherworldly strangeness. His lips curved as he answered, simply, “This is Lemuria. It’s…home.”

You stared, your chest swelling, and couldn’t stop the small, incredulous smile tugging at your lips. “So this was your surprise?”

He nodded, his hand slipping down to catch yours, lacing his fingers through yours even in the drifting current. “Do you like it?” His voice carried something almost boyish in its undercurrent — hopeful, as though your answer mattered more than anything.

You squeezed his hand, still unable to tear your gaze from the gleaming avenues, the ethereal beauty around you. “Yes,” you breathed, still dazed. “It’s… beautiful.”

That earned you one of his true smiles — the kind where his eyes softened at the edges, his teasing sharpness mellowed into something far gentler. He tugged you closer, brushing his thumb over your knuckles as though to anchor you against the impossible wonder of it all.

“Then come,” he said, pulling you with him through the water. “There’s more to show you.”

He guided you through the sweeping arches, weaving down a path that opened into a temple unlike anything you had ever seen. Its columns were carved from dark stone streaked with veins of pale opal, rising higher than you could fathom. Murals shimmered across its walls, painted in pigments that caught the bioluminescence, their figures moving subtly as if alive, telling stories of gods, kings, and storms long past.

Inside, the space unfolded into wide chambers, the light refracting through crystal inlays scattered throughout the floors and ceilings, painting the walls with shifting hues of blue and gold. Statues of Lemurian guardians lined the halls — fierce, beautiful, half-human, half-creature, their eyes set with gleaming gems.

“Do you live here?” you asked softly, your voice echoing in the vastness.

He tilted his head, lips quirking. “Mm. I spend most of my time here when I return. It keeps the sea from swallowing it whole.”

You traced your fingers across one of the carved reliefs, its surface cold beneath your touch yet thrumming faintly, almost alive. “It’s beautiful,” you murmured, glancing back at him. “Even more than the city.”

Rafayel chuckled under his breath, trailing after you, eyes following your every movement. “Careful, cutie. The elders would not like to hear that their jewel has been upstaged by a ruin.”

You shot him a small smile, unable to help the dry amusement in your tone. “I’m sure you’ve charmed worse crowds.”

“Maybe,” he conceded, grin sharpening, though his eyes softened as they lingered on you.

He led you deeper still, through narrow halls where the walls glittered with embedded shards of shell and gemstone, until you entered a chamber that opened into a wide atrium. The ceiling was cut glass, letting streams of pale light filter down from the surface far above, turning the whole place into a cathedral of rippling color.

Rafayel watched you turn slowly in place, taking it in. He didn’t speak at first — just let you look, let you marvel, his hand warm and steady in yours. And though the sea was vast, and the temple grand, there was a quiet hum beneath it all that made the air between you charged.

It wasn’t just a place he was showing you. It was a piece of himself.

The throne room opened before you in a breathtaking sweep of marble-white stone and pale opalescent light, the walls glittering as though embedded with shards of pearl. The water itself seemed to hum with reverence in this space, currents slowed to a languid drift, as though the sea itself bowed to its master. Your gaze drifted to the centerpiece of it all: a throne carved from coral and shell, shimmering with mother-of-pearl and streaks of silver that caught every mote of bioluminescence. It seemed impossibly regal, too grand, too holy — and for a moment, you wondered who could possibly be worthy of sitting there.

“Is… is this yours?” you asked softly, voice hushed with awe as you turned to Rafayel.

He followed your gaze, expression unreadable in the dappled light. Then, without the slightest hesitation, he said, “Yes.”

You blinked at him, your mind tripping over the simplicity of his answer. “Are you like…the king of Lemuria?” The words tumbled out before you could stop them, half incredulous, half reverent.

At that, Rafayel laughed. Not his sharp, mocking laugh you’d grown used to, but a low, velvety sound, rich with amusement. His hair rippled like ink in the current as he turned back to you, smile curling with mischief. “Not quite,” he said, voice dropping conspiratorially as though telling you a secret. “I’m not their king. I’m their god.”

Your jaw dropped. Heat rushed to your face even though the water was cool against your skin. “You’re joking,” you blurted, searching his expression for any hint of teasing. “You have to be joking.”

“Do I look like I’m joking, cutie?” His eyes glowed faintly, a strange otherworldly shimmer that matched the quiet pulse of the sea itself.

You stared at him, speechless, before finally throwing up your hands. “And you never thought to mention this to me before?”

He tilted his head, pretending to study the mosaics on the ceiling instead of your wide-eyed face. “It didn’t feel important when I was with you.”

“Not important?!” Your voice echoed faintly in the vaulted chamber, incredulous.

His lips twitched, failing to hide a smile. “What did you want me to do? Should I have made you bow to me and offer to grant your wishes?”

Despite yourself, a laugh burst from your lips, bubbling into the water. You pressed your hand over your mouth, still staring at him like he’d just told you the sky was a dream. He grinned, satisfied at your reaction, before glancing back at the throne.

“Sit,” he said, gesturing lazily toward it.

“What? No.” Your refusal was immediate, a flush heating your cheeks. “That’s yours. I—I can’t sit there.”

“Can’t?” His brows arched, teasing. “Or won’t?”

“Both!”

He drifted closer, circling you like a predator amused with its prey, his tail flicking lazily through the water. “You’re already here. No one else is around. Humor me.”

“I’ll look ridiculous.”

“You’ll look perfect.” His tone left no room for doubt, and the way his gaze fixed on you — hungry, unyielding — made your chest tighten.

You shook your head, flustered, but the intensity of his stare wore you down. Slowly, hesitantly, you crossed the wide expanse toward the throne. Each step felt heavy, surreal, until you finally lowered yourself onto its cool surface.

The moment you sat, Rafayel froze. His smile faltered — not into disappointment, but into something softer, something reverent. His eyes widened slightly, drinking in the sight of you as though he’d conjured you from the sea itself.

“You…” His voice was low, almost reverent. “You look like you’ve always belonged there.”

Your breath hitched. The water hummed faintly in your ears, every sense heightened under the weight of his gaze. He drifted forward, slowly, his tail curling beneath him as he bowed low — not playfully, not mocking, but with the solemn grace of something ancient.

Then, gently, he reached for your hand. His fingers brushed yours, and he lifted it to his lips. The kiss was featherlight, yet it sent a shiver spiraling through you, heat blooming where his mouth touched.

Your cheeks burned. “Rafayel—”

“Shh,” he murmured, lips curving against your skin before he finally pulled back just enough to look up at you. “Do you know how beautiful you are right now?”

Your breath tangled in your chest, your protest catching on your tongue. He was close enough that you could see every glint of color in his irises, the quiet awe softening his features.

“You’re teasing me again,” you managed weakly, though your voice betrayed the flutter in your chest.

“No,” he said simply, with a conviction that made your heart stumble. “This time, I’m not.”

The air — or what passed for it down here — seemed charged, the weight of his words pressing around you. You could only stare at him, face warm, lips parted, unable to form a reply as his hand lingered against yours, anchoring you to the moment.

Rafayel’s lips trailed soft, deliberate kisses up your arm as he pulled you gently from the throne, his touch both reverent and claiming. “Come,” he murmured against your skin, his mouth brushing the tender inside of your wrist before he let it go. “Follow me. There’s one last surprise I have for you.”

Your mind reeled, flustered from the spectacle of moments ago, his words still echoing in your head. You could hardly imagine what else he could possibly have to show you. And yet, dazed and breathless, you let him lead you down the gleaming corridor, his hand warm around yours, the soft sweep of his tail gliding alongside him in the water.

When he pushed open the carved doors to his private quarters, your breath caught. The chamber was unlike anything you had seen before: every surface gleamed with treasures. Fine garments, silks so delicate they seemed to float in the currents, cascades of pearls, jewels that caught and refracted the candlelight like fragments of stars, rare shells polished smooth as glass. Light seemed to find its way in through clever lattices in the walls, dancing across the room in dappled waves, mingling with the glow of countless candles. It was beautiful — immaculate, radiant, overwhelming.

“These,” Rafayel said, his voice almost casual but his eyes trained on you, “are gifts for you.”

You stared at him, speechless. Your lips parted, but for a moment no words came, your chest tightening as you turned to take in the magnitude of what he’d done. “I… I don’t know what to say,” you finally whispered, shaking your head faintly. “How could I ever repay you? You didn’t have to—”

“Yes, I did,” he interrupted smoothly, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. His eyes softened, but there was a firm certainty in his tone. He stepped closer, the faintest smirk at his lips. “A beautiful woman deserves beautiful things. Though…” His gaze swept down your figure, then lingered on your face again, “they don’t come close to you.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, flustering you further. You looked back at the room, struggling for words, until his question cut through the silence: “Do you like it?”

“How could I not?” you breathed out, almost too quickly, nodding once. “I love it. Thank you.”

His smile curved slow, self-satisfied. “So you’ll stay.”

Your head snapped back toward him, caught off guard. “Stay? What do you mean?”

“With me,” he replied simply, as though it needed no further explanation. “In Lemuria, in this temple.”

Your heart lurched. “You… you want me to live here?”

Confusion flickered across his expression, though it was tempered by amusement, as though your doubt entertained him more than anything else. “Didn’t you ask for this, cutie?”

“I—” The stammer caught in your throat, helpless, and before you could gather yourself, he was already closing the distance.

His hand came up to cradle your face, fingers threading gently behind your ear. His touch tilted your chin, guiding your gaze to his, and then his lips brushed across your cheek, featherlight, coaxing, coaxing. “You said you’d miss me,” he whispered against your skin, each kiss punctuating his words as he trailed them down the curve of your jaw, the slope of your throat. “Now you’ll never have to.”

His breath was warm against your neck, his mouth a torment of soft heat as he continued, his voice low and persuasive, like velvet winding around your thoughts. “You can spend your time in the sea… in a city more beautiful than dreams. Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?”

Your lashes fluttered shut, your hands coming up instinctively to press against the hard plane of his chest. His heartbeat thrummed beneath your palms, steady and alive, as he kissed along your neck. A sound slipped from your lips — half whisper, half moan — his name barely formed, broken by the shiver coursing through you.

“Rafayel…”

You felt the heat of him press against you, his lips trailing along your jaw, brushing over the hollow of your throat, teasing, coaxing, leaving the faintest bite that sent a shiver down your spine. Every nerve in your body hummed, torn between the wild pull of desire and the stubborn whisper of hesitation. You wanted him, wanted him desperately, but part of you froze, aware of how far this was going, how much control you were giving up.

And then, out of the corner of your eye, something caught your attention. A flicker of movement, shapes, light… a shrine. Your breath hitched, your pulse stuttering. It was unmistakable.

Your bracelet — once lost, now resting there like it had never left. A ribbon from your hair, placed carefully as though he had plucked it from the very moment you had given it without realizing. The photos, the flower, a hoard of all your memories together. The candle flickered, warm and steady, anchoring the small, sacred collection.

You pushed him back, just enough to create space, eyes wide and heart racing. “What… what is that?” you whispered, voice trembling despite yourself.

Rafayel blinked, startled out of the haze of your nearness. “What…?” he echoed, then followed your gaze to the shrine. His expression softened, understanding dawning, but there was an unmistakable gleam in his eyes, something proud and possessive all at once. “Oh… those?” His voice was quiet at first, but firm, deliberate. “They’re tokens… of your devotion to me… and of mine to you. Our memories.”

Your gaze lingered on them, drawn magnetically. Your hand trembled slightly as you stepped closer, compelled to touch, to understand. The silhouette on the smooth stone caught your eye, instantly recognizable — the outline of yourself from that first night you met him. You picked it up carefully, almost reverently, fingers brushing the surface. “This… this is me, from the night we met,” you breathed, awe-struck.

“Yes,” he said simply, voice a little lower, a little huskier. His eyes never left you. You could barely form another word, overwhelmed.

Before you could react, he was there again, closing the space, warm hands sliding around yours, taking the stone carefully. He placed it back at the center of the shrine, with meticulous care, reverence in every movement. And then he was close to you again, too close, his chest against yours, eyes locked on yours, lips barely hovering, whispering, “We’ve formed a bond, cutie… a bond that can’t be broken. You’ll stay here… with me. You’ll rule Lemuria alongside me. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words tangled, trapped by the storm of feelings swirling in your chest. You wanted to answer, desperately, but hesitation held you, sharp and impossible to ignore.

Rafayel’s gaze sharpened, intensity deepening, voice dropping into a rich, commanding timbre that made your pulse thrum painfully in your ears. “Say it,” he murmured, a dangerous edge to the softness. “Say you’ll stay.”

Your throat tightened. “What about… my life?” you asked, the words barely audible, almost a plea.

His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing your skin, grounding you, but his other hand pressed against your waist, holding you immovably. His eyes were locked onto yours, and when he spoke, it was both a promise and a declaration: “That… is keeping us apart. I’ll remove any obstacle. Any. One way or another, you’ll stay with me.”

You trembled, heart hammering, caught between disbelief, longing, and fear. His presence surrounded you completely, intoxicating, overwhelming. Every breath, every shiver, every heartbeat screamed his name, his claim, his desire, and yours intertwined in the echo of the shrine’s candlelight.

You could feel the pull of him, the unyielding weight of his intent, and against every instinct to resist, a different part of you — a reckless, thrilling, impossible part — wanted to fall entirely into it, to trust him, to belong.

He pressed his forehead to yours, warm, insistent, and whispered, softer now, velvet against your ear, “Say it… say you’ll stay with me, cutie.”

Your lips parted, breath catching as the world narrowed to him, the shrine, the glow of candlelight, and the pull of something you didn’t understand yet couldn’t resist.

The words spilled from you before your mind could argue, before hesitation could take hold. “I… I’ll stay,” you whispered, breathless, heart hammering in your chest. Your head screamed at you that this was insane, that you were plunging headfirst into something impossible, but the pull of him — the warmth, the intensity, the magnetic hold of his gaze — was too strong. Your body betrayed your caution, leaning toward him, melting against the pressure of his chest.

Rafayel’s eyes lit up, a dangerous, radiant glow that made your knees weak. “I knew you would,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction and something warmer, deeper. Without another word, he bent toward you, capturing your lips with his in a kiss that was equal parts claim and tenderness, fierce yet feather-light, leaving you dizzy, breathless, entirely undone.

Your arms instinctively wound around him, tangling around his strong shoulders, your body pressed to his as if it had always belonged there. Every inch of contact sent shivers up your spine, a storm of heat and anticipation coiling inside you, making your world shrink to the point where it was just him, just you, and the delicate weight of the shrine’s candlelight flickering beside you.

Then — a knock. Sharp, insistent, breaking the fragile bubble of intimacy.

Rafayel froze, lips still brushing yours, eyes narrowing, tension snapping through him like a live wire. “What?” His voice cut harsh, clipped, like steel on glass.

A guard’s voice called through the door, steady but urgent: “Elder Amund wishes to see you, Rafayel. It is… urgent.”

Rafayel’s jaw clenched, a storm brewing behind his eyes. His tail flicked, and you could see the rigid line of his shoulders, the way his entire body seemed to bristle at the interruption. “I’m… not available,” he said through gritted teeth, tone sharp enough to make you flinch.

The guard’s voice didn’t waver. “It is important, Sir. Elder Amund insists.”

Rafayel’s gaze flicked to you, and for the first time, there was a touch of reluctance in his eyes, a fleeting vulnerability. He exhaled, running a hand through his hair, and the sharp edge in his expression softened slightly, though the tension still hummed in his muscles. He lowered his forehead to yours, brushing against your temple for a moment, and whispered, voice rougher than before: “Stay here. I’ll be back soon.”

Your chest tightened at the thought of him leaving, even for a short while, and you nodded, barely able to form words.

Without another pause, he leaned down, pressing a searing kiss to your lips, lingering just long enough to imprint the memory of him before pulling back and glancing toward the door. His eyes were dark, stormy, full of promise and possessiveness. Then, in a blur of fluid motion, he swept out of the room, leaving you trembling in the afterglow of his touch, the shrine’s flickering candle casting long shadows across the floor.

You stayed rooted where you were, heart still hammering, hands brushing against the stone silhouette and the bracelet, the pull of him lingering like electricity in the air. The room felt impossibly quiet without him, and yet you could feel him everywhere — in the warmth that lingered on your skin, in the echo of his voice, in the scent of him that clung faintly in the air.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The corridors of Lemuria seemed to hum beneath his tail as he glided toward the throne room, the echo of the storm above still vibrating faintly through the water. Every flick of his tail mirrored the storm brewing in his chest — an unsettled mixture of irritation and cold calculation. He arrived at the threshold, tail coiling beneath him like a spring ready to strike, and his eyes fell on Amund, waiting as if he’d anticipated Rafayel’s impatience.

“What do you want, Amund?” Rafayel’s voice was clipped, sharp, carrying the edge of a predator who had already run out of patience.

Amund’s gaze, steady and unflinching, held him in place. “I see you’ve finally found a devoted follower,” the elder said, his tone almost ceremonial, almost approving. “It is time you completed the ceremony, Rafayel.”

Rafayel’s lips quirked in a scoff. “So that’s what this is about,” he said, letting the words drip with controlled disdain. The idea that this was a duty, a ritual, a game — an obligation — grated against the raw heat of his own will.

“The flame will not last much longer,” Amund continued, voice firm. “It must be completed, or Lemuria itself will suffer.”

Rafayel’s crimson eyes narrowed. “And what, exactly, must I do for this ceremony? You’ve kept me in the dark long enough.” His voice rose with the imperceptible weight of command, though externally he appeared composed, coiled tension restrained beneath polished poise.

Amund hesitated, then relented, his tone lowering with the weight of inevitability. “You must take your devotee’s heart and offer it to the flame. Only unwavering devotion can save Lemuria.”

Rafayel’s jaw tightened, the words slicing through him like a blade. Calm on the surface, he blinked once, twice, masking the storm inside. Disgust churned in his chest, mingling with disbelief and a fierce, protective heat. Her heart? My beloved, her life… The thought alone made his stomach twist. To hear Amund speak of you as a mere sacrificial tool, as though your devotion could be measured and burnt, repulsed him down to his core.

He leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing, voice low and dangerous. “And you… you will be guiding this ceremony?”

Amund nodded. “Yes. I will oversee the ritual, ensure that it is done properly. It is for the good of Lemuria.”

Every muscle in Rafayel’s body coiled tighter, tail flicking impatiently, eyes darkening. The elder’s certainty, the cold expectation in his voice — it was an obstacle.

He dares stand between me and her. He dares treat her like this, as if she were a tool, a means to some flame. I won’t allow it. 

Internally, a plan began to take shape, intricate, precise, and absolute. 

I promised I would remove any obstacle that stood between me and her. This ends tonight.

Rafayel straightened, his voice dropping into a quiet, commanding growl that carried the weight of his resolve. “Very well. I will complete the ceremony.” He let a pause hang, letting it rattle the elder just slightly.

Amund’s brow furrowed, a flicker of surprise flashing across his face, though he masked it quickly. “Good. I’m glad to see you finally take your duty seriously. Lemuria will be better for it.”

Rafayel’s pulse was steady outwardly, but inside it was a hurricane. A mixture of disgust, wrath, and almost intoxicating exhilaration coursed through him.

I will show him what devotion really means. I will prove that no one, not even the tome of this kingdom, can stand in the way of us. 

He let his gaze sweep over Amund, unyielding, unflinching, radiating the authority he wielded naturally, one he knew would bend the elder to his will.

“Get everything ready,” Rafayel said, tail flicking with controlled menace. “Tonight, we complete it. Prepare the ceremony. I will see it done.”

As Amund nodded, subdued under the quiet storm of his god’s fury, Rafayel’s mind already raced ahead, mapping every detail, anticipating every possible complication. Your safety, your life, your very devotion — it was all his now, and no one would dare take it from him. The ceremony would be completed, but not as Amund envisioned. 

Tonight, I will bend fate itself to bring her fully into my world.

He lingered a moment longer, eyes glinting with a mixture of wrath and desire, before turning back toward the halls, already calculating the next moves. The storm above mirrored the one within him, and Lemuria would bear witness to his resolve.

The corridors of Lemuria stretched before him like a labyrinth of muted light and echoing footsteps, but Rafayel barely noticed. His mind was a storm, churning faster than the ocean above. Soon, everything would be claimed — every lingering obstacle erased. Lemuria would belong to him and to you, irrevocably, eternally. Every plan he had meticulously laid, the time he spent with you, all the gifts, all the care — it all pointed toward this night, toward the inevitability of your devotion entwined with his. You were more than a follower; you were not a mere devotee. You would be his bride, his beloved. The thought made his chest tighten with a heady mixture of possessiveness and triumph. Nothing — no one — could take you from him now.

He pushed open the door to his private quarters, expecting to see you there, waiting, smiling, flushed with anticipation. His pulse quickened, a delicious ache spreading through him at the thought of you, of finally claiming your place beside him. But the room was empty. His heart dropped, a cold claw tightening around it. The candlelight flickered against the walls, catching the shimmer of shells, pearls, and the myriad gifts he had prepared, but there was no warmth of your presence.

“Cutie?” His voice broke the stillness, carrying across the room. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

Silence answered him, thick and mocking.

His gaze snapped to the door, the windows, every shadow, every corner. Nothing. Every instinct in his body screamed that something was wrong. His tail coiled tighter beneath him, fingers clenching into fists that left faint impressions in his palms. He surged forward, voice rising slightly as he called again. “Where are you?”

A guard appeared, bowing hastily, sensing the sudden tension radiating from him. “Your Highness… I… I think she… she must have snuck out,” the guard stammered.

Rafayel’s eyes narrowed, the fire within him igniting into something darker, sharper. Fury and worry collided, a maelstrom of emotion. His chest heaved, lungs burning with a need to act. “Snuck out?” His voice was low now, dangerous, the calm veneer slipping. “Do you know where she went? Did anyone see her?”

The guard shook his head, hesitant. “No, Sir. She… she’s gone from the temple.”

Rafayel’s tail lashed against the floor, sending ripples of water and tension cascading through the room. His mind raced. 

What if something happened? What if she left me? What if all of it — her promises, her devotion — was a lie? 

The thought made his stomach twist with both dread and possessive fury. He could not allow it. 

She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Not my beloved. Not my bride. But… if she had… it would be okay. I will find her. I would bring her back. I would make her understand. She belongs here, with me. There is no corner of this world where she could hide from me now. All of my senses are attuned to her. Every flicker of thought, every heartbeat, every breath — I would find her.

The fire of his obsession flared. His mind conjured a thousand possibilities, all leading to the same end: you would return to him. Whether by fear, by reason, by love, or by necessity, you would not escape. Lemuria itself would bend to ensure it.

“I will find you,” he whispered, voice taut with a dangerous mix of devotion and threat. “No storm, no path, no shadow… nothing can keep you from me.” His eyes glimmered, the eerie blue glow of his tail reflecting off the walls like liquid lightning. Every sense heightened, every instinct sharpened — he was no longer merely searching; he was hunting, a predator whose prey was the one he loved, whose desire for your safety and possession were indistinguishable.

Rafayel surged through the halls, tail propelling him with unnerving speed, moving with fluid grace, as though the very water of Lemuria carried him toward you. Every thought circled around you — the curve of your smile, the warmth of your lips, the softness of your voice, the gentle flush of your cheeks when you looked at him.

Everything she is is mine. Everything she does, every glance, every word, every heartbeat is mine. And I will not allow her to leave, not now, not ever.

The storm above mirrored the chaos within him, yet inside, he was crystal clear. You would be found. You would be safe in his grasp. You would stay. He had prepared a world for you, a life, a home. And now, the hunt was on — not for vengeance, not for conquest — but for what was always, inevitably, his. His heart. His bride.

Every shadow, every ripple of water, every sound in the halls became a guide. He could sense you, almost tangibly, as though your very presence emitted a beacon only he could detect.

She cannot escape me. She will never escape me. 

And with that certainty burning in his chest, Rafayel surged forward, every movement a promise, every thought a vow. Tonight, nothing — not even the wild sea, nor the storm above — would keep you from him.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The rain hit you like jagged shards of ice, soaking you to the bone, plastering your hair to your cheeks, masking the tears that ran freely down your face. The storm hadn’t relented, and the thunder rolled across the sky in deep, ominous rumbles, shaking the sand beneath you. You could barely see the water ahead, the violent waves churning under flashes of lightning. Your lungs burned from gasping for air after the frantic swimming, and every muscle ached, trembling from exhaustion.

You sank to the shore, letting the cold sand bite into your skin, trying to ground yourself even as the wind whipped around you. Rain stung your eyes, making it impossible to focus, and the memory of what you had heard — what you had overheard — looped through your mind, relentless. Rafayel… agreeing to take your heart. Amund’s words echoing in your ears, distorted by the storm: “You must take your devotee’s heart and offer it to the flame. Only unwavering devotion can save Lemuria.”

Your chest felt hollow, each breath a struggle against the storm and the horror inside you. You had trusted him, let yourself feel something you hadn’t in years, maybe ever, and now the weight of betrayal pressed down like the storm itself. How could someone you had begun to care for — someone who had been so gentle, so kind, so impossibly beautiful — agree to something like that?

You buried your face in your arms, sobs breaking through the storm, hot and helpless against the cold rain. Every fiber of you wanted to run, to hide, to disappear completely, but even thinking of leaving brought no comfort. You didn’t know where to go, who to trust, or what to do. The shore stretched endlessly around you, the waves thrashing and hissing like a warning.

Fear gripped your chest in icy fingers. The thought of dying here, alone and powerless, churned your stomach. But there was more than fear — it was the heartbreak, the sickening betrayal that twisted through every beat of your heart. You had believed in him, in what you felt when you were near him. And now it all seemed like a lie, or worse, a trap you had walked straight into.

You hugged your knees to your chest, shivering from exhaustion, rain, and terror. The storm around you blurred into a wall of gray, but inside, your world had narrowed to this one unbearable truth: you didn’t want to die, and you didn’t know how to get out of the mess you had fallen into. The sea before you, once so enticing, now seemed alien and threatening, and even the memory of Rafayel’s warmth made your chest tighten with betrayal.

You cried on, letting the water mix with your tears, letting the storm drown out your thoughts for a moment. You couldn’t see a way forward. You couldn’t even see the shore behind you. All you had was the cold rain, the biting wind, and the impossible weight of knowing that the person you had begun to trust — maybe even love — had agreed to something so horrifying. And that knowledge left you trembling, broken, and utterly alone.

The storm raged on around you, rain slashing at your skin, thunder rolling like the roar of some furious god, yet all of it seemed to shrink away as the sea in front of you moved differently. A swell rose from the waves, glinting with electric streaks of lightning, and suddenly, Rafayel emerged, water cascading down his bare, gleaming body. His tail shimmered beneath the surface before he brought himself fully upright, shoulders taut, eyes flashing with that surreal blue glow.

Your breath caught in your throat. Fear clawed at your chest. “R-Rafayel…” you whispered, voice trembling. The rain blurred your vision, but the sight of him — so impossibly real, so otherworldly — made your heart race in a way that wasn’t entirely fear.

“There you are, cutie,” he said softly, voice carrying over the storm, almost too calm, too certain. He moved toward you, and instinctively, you stumbled back, arms raised. “Stay away from me!” you shouted, panic rising in your chest.

Rafayel’s eyes narrowed, and with a flick of his hand the sea obeyed — a massive wave surged up behind him, impossibly tall, blotting out the horizon. The roar of it swallowed your breath, the sheer force vibrating through the sand beneath you. His gaze locked on yours, unblinking, merciless.

“If you try to leave me, if you run…” His voice was low, sharp as the edge of a blade. “…then I’ll make sure there’s nothing left for you to return to. Your life isn’t there anymore. It’s with me, in the sea.”

Terror iced your veins. You stared at the towering wall of water, heart hammering, throat dry. You could almost feel it ready to crash down and sweep everything you’d ever known away.

Another forward motion, and before you could react, he had caught your arm, pulling you up, his fingers curling around it with unyielding strength. “You can’t leave me,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “You’ve already promised yourself to me.”

Tears blurred your vision. “Let go! You can’t—” You tried to wrench your arm free, but he was stronger than you imagined.

He tilted your chin up gently, almost tenderly, and whispered against your temple, “Shh, it’s okay. I’ll hold you. I’ll lock you up if I have to… until you understand, cutie.” His eyes shone with a manic light, the storm reflecting in the depths of them, a fierce, desperate devotion that made your stomach twist.

“Our promise…” he murmured, and there was no hesitation, no doubt. “It’s okay if I’m the only one who keeps it. We’ll stay together until the end of time.”

You pushed against him finally, hands on his chest, trembling with a mix of fear and fury. “Stop lying!” you shouted, your voice cracking. “You’re going to take my heart! You brought me here to sacrifice me—you betrayed me! I trusted you, loved you, and you—” your breath hitched, breaking on the word, “—you used that against me!”

For a heartbeat, he was still. And then… a wicked, almost gleeful smile curved his lips. The way it made your skin crawl was undeniable, but it didn’t erase the pull, the impossibility of looking away.

“So…that’s why you ran,” he said softly, moving closer again. You tried to shove him back, but he was like water itself — fluid, inexorable, impossible to resist. His hands cradled your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones with frightening intimacy. “Cutie…I love you. I told you…I will remove anything standing in our way. I will never let anything hurt you.”

“How… how could I believe you?” you whispered, fear lacing every word.

His answer wasn’t immediate. Instead, he lifted one of the iridescent scales from his tail, water dripping from it, sparkling even in the storm’s dim light. He held it delicately in his palm before taking your hand, pressing your ring finger to his lips. Heat flared, his touch both electrifying and possessive.

The scale shivered in his hand, glowing faintly as he infused it with his fire, reshaping it, transforming it until it fit perfectly on your finger. The ring was warm, pulsing slightly against your skin, as though alive. Your breath caught in your throat.

Rafayel’s voice was soft, intimate, yet edged with certainty that made your heart quake. “Tonight… during the ceremony, our covenant will be witnessed and blessed by the sea. We will form a bond everlasting. You are my bride.”

“Elder Amund…is a fool. If he believes I’d sacrifice you for some unworthy flame—” He scoffed. “—Then, he can show us his devotion tonight. His heart will feed the flame.”

His words, the fire, the intensity of his gaze — it all overwhelmed you. You could feel the storm’s energy, the pull of the ocean, the heat of his devotion pressing against every nerve. Your hands rested against his chest, feeling the steady pulse of him beneath the water. You were terrified. You were exhilarated. And somehow, impossibly, you felt pulled into him, into the certainty of his possession, into the promise of what he called your future together.

Your mind screamed with reason, yet every fiber of you, your heartbeat, your very breath, was tethered to him. He held you in the rain and surf, the storm bending around him, and in that moment, it felt like there was nothing in the world outside of him, you, and the fierce, unrelenting claim he had on you.

The sea roared. Lightning split the sky. And Rafayel’s eyes bore into yours with a devotion so complete, so terrifying, that all hesitation, all resistance, all fear seemed to fold into an intoxicating, dizzying surrender.

Your words came out, just above a whisper. “We…We’re going to kill him?”

Rafayel’s grin deepened, wicked and fond, his eyes glinting like lightning on the water. “I was planning to do it myself… but if you wish, I’ll place the blade in your hand, cutie.” He leaned closer, brushing his lips against your temple, his laugh low and soft, curling into your skin. “I didn’t realize my bride had such a fierce streak.”

But the weight of it all pressed heavy on you, and you shoved gently at his chest, forcing him to look at you. “This is serious, Rafayel.” Your voice trembled, caught between fear and the pull of his nearness. “How do I know this isn’t just another trap? How do you even know sacrificing him will work?”

His chest rumbled beneath your palms with a soft chuckle. He caught your wrists, guiding your hands to rest over his heart, the steady, powerful beat thrumming against your skin. His eyes softened, though a dangerous glimmer still danced in their depths. “The only trap you’ve fallen into,” he murmured, brushing his lips along the curve of your jaw, “is a life spent by my side. Does that honestly sound so terrible?”

His fingers curled lightly at your waist, grounding you in the storm, and the world seemed to shrink to the warmth of his touch and the certainty in his voice. “If Amund’s heart cannot save Lemuria…” He drew back just enough to meet your gaze, his voice carrying a quiet, unshakable conviction. “Then I’ll raise a new city from the ruins. Just for us. A kingdom where I will worship you for eternity.”

The words sank into you like heat spreading through chilled skin, dizzying, dangerous, but irresistibly sweet. His thumb traced a slow circle against the inside of your wrist, his breath warm at your cheek. “Trust me,” he whispered, pressing your hand more firmly to his chest so you could feel the steady, unwavering beat of him. “Let me show you. You’ll always be safe with me. Always cherished. Always mine.”

The rain battered down, the sea raged behind him, but in his arms there was warmth, promise, and a terrifying, magnetic devotion that pulled at the very core of you.

Your throat tightened. You wanted to argue, to tell him that none of this made sense, that every word should frighten you — but the warmth of his heartbeat beneath your palms, the steadiness of his grip, the quiet reverence in his tone…it all unraveled you.

You shook your head weakly, but it wasn’t no. It wasn’t anything at all. You could feel the last of your resistance thinning, slipping away like a fragile thread in a storm. “Rafayel…” Your voice cracked on his name, softer this time, weighted with a plea you didn’t fully understand yourself.

His lips curved, tender where a moment ago they’d been sharp, and he drew you closer until the world beyond his arms felt impossibly far. “That’s it,” he whispered, brushing a kiss across your damp cheek. “Stop fighting what you already feel. Stop doubting what you already know.”

The fight inside you twisted painfully — fear clawing against something deeper, something warmer, something that had already entwined itself into the hollow of your chest. And then, with a shuddering exhale, you let it go. Your forehead dropped against his shoulder, your fingers curling in helpless surrender against his chest.

He exhaled too, a sound of satisfaction that rumbled through him as his arms closed around you, holding you as though you were both fragile and irreplaceable. “There you are, cutie,” he murmured, his lips brushing your temple. “My beloved bride.”

Before you could think to speak, he shifted, gathering you effortlessly against him. His body coiled, tail cutting through the surf with an elegance that made the storm itself seem clumsy. The sea accepted him, parting around his movements as he carried you back into its depths.

You clung to him as the water swallowed you both, salt stinging your lips, hair tangling in the currents. Fear still flickered in you, but it was dulled beneath the steady heat of him, the way he held you like you were treasure, like you were home.

And despite everything — despite the storm above, despite the terror still whispering in your chest — you let yourself rest in the cradle of his arms. Because even as fear gnawed at you, safety pulsed just as strong. Because surrender, for better or worse, felt inevitable.

Rafayel pressed a kiss to your hair, his voice vibrating through you like a vow. “We’re going home.”

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The city had never looked so alive.

Silks wound your figure like liquid light, pearls strung through your hair until each step seemed to catch the glimmer of the tide. Beside you, Rafayel was resplendent in sea-blue robes threaded with gold, his dusky hair pulled back to reveal the impossible artistry of his face. The two of you walked hand in hand through the streets of Lemuria, and the world pressed in around you like a living tide.

The people sang. Their voices rose in haunting chords, praise upon praise for the god who had saved them, prayers spilling like foam for the flame that kept their city alive. You felt the sound in your bones — it vibrated through the jeweled stones underfoot, it swelled in the salt-wet air, it pressed against your ribs until your heart couldn’t keep its rhythm. Their devotion should have been comforting, but instead it only deepened the tight coil of dread at the pit of your stomach.

You caught glimpses of faces — children throwing flower garlands, elders bowing low, eyes shining with tears of gratitude. You wanted to feel that warmth. Instead, you felt as though each reverent gaze passed through you, a reminder that you were here for a purpose greater than yourself, a purpose you still did not fully understand.

When you stole a glance at Rafayel, you nearly stumbled. He was smiling faintly, not at the crowd but at you, as though you were the only thing in this city worth looking at. His grip around your fingers tightened, firm, grounding. Your chest ached at the tenderness there, even as doubt screamed in the back of your mind.

A temple loomed ahead, carved from coral and obsidian, its gates wide open to swallow you whole.

And then you were inside.

The noise of the people died instantly, leaving the hush of waves against the stone, the faint crackle of the flame at the temple’s heart. The chamber was vast, but it felt suffocating in its emptiness: only three figures within it — you, Rafayel, and Elder Amund.

The elder stood before the great brazier, the flame of Lemuria burning dull within it. His robes brushed the ground as he opened the tome, the thick vellum pages glinting with seawater ink. His voice was low and steady as he began to recite the words of sea god’s past, each syllable rolling like a tide, heavy with weight you could feel but not name.

You shivered.

The air was charged, prickling across your skin. Every breath tasted of salt and smoke. You folded your hands against the silks at your waist to stop them trembling, to anchor yourself to something tangible.

This was it. This was the moment that would decide everything. Whether you had been led to love or led to ruin. Whether Rafayel’s devotion had been true or only the mask of a predator.

When you dared to meet his eyes, your fear both sharpened and softened. There was something there that should not have been possible under this roof, in this moment — adoration, aching and raw, as though every song of praise sung outside meant nothing compared to you.

And yet, still, the words you had overheard echoed in your mind. The reveal that he needed your heart. The smile when you had accused him.

You swallowed hard, pulse hammering in your throat. You wanted so desperately to believe him, and for a moment — when you saw the devotion burning in his gaze — you almost did.

Amund’s voice rose again, low and sonorous, each word resonant, strange, utterly unfamiliar. The cadence of it was ancient, a tide rolling in a tongue not meant for you, and it made your nerves coil tighter. You couldn’t parse his meaning, but you knew it was meant for the gods, for the sea itself.

Beside you, Rafayel shifted, and your breath caught when his hands found yours, enveloping them in warmth. He leaned closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice pitched low enough for only you. “You look beautiful right now,” he murmured, and though it was soft, there was conviction thrumming beneath it, steadying. His thumbs stroked the tremor in your knuckles. “Don’t be scared.”

Your gaze flicked up to his, and for a moment the sacred chamber dissolved into the molten tenderness in his eyes — blue lit faintly by flame, heavy with devotion. The nerves tangled tighter inside you, not from fear of him but from the weight of what you were about to step into.

He reached into the pocket of his silk robes, and when he drew his hand out, your breath stilled. Resting against his palm was the flower you had given him in the garden, its petals now alive with light, glowing softly with his fire. He lifted it reverently, pressing his lips to its bloom, and then held it to you.

With trembling breath, you leaned forward and brushed a kiss against the petals, your lips grazing warmth and energy. He smiled faintly — an expression that felt like the sea itself had curved toward you — and pressed the flower to his chest.

The bloom vanished in a shimmer beneath his palm, and where it had touched, a sigil of fiery orange bloomed through his skin, pulsing faintly with power. The mark glowed like living flame, and when he drew your hand over it, the heat radiated up your arm, searing and intimate.

“This bond,” he said, voice hushed yet certain, “gives you the power to command me. I will obey. Always. Through it, I can sense you—your breath, your heart. By the heart of Lemuria, our covenant is formed. The sea has given its blessing.”

Your chest tightened, but not from dread. Instead it was the staggering rush of love, of devotion mirrored back at you with such raw honesty it nearly undid you. The nerves were still there, curling like a storm below the surface, but they were tempered by the warmth of his hand, the heat of that mark, and the certainty of his vow.

When he bent to kiss you, it was slow, tender, carrying the weight of everything spoken and unspoken. The taste of him was salt and fire, soft lips and steady breath, the promise of eternity bound between you. And as you kissed him back, the unease fell away, replaced by the heady truth — you loved him. Fiercely, impossibly, against all sense.

Even in the shadow of fate, that love blazed brighter than fear.

Rafayel lingered close, his forehead resting briefly against yours, his hands still wrapped around yours as if he could anchor you through the storm. Then, at last, he drew back — reluctantly, gently — as the sound of movement stirred the water around you. Amund was stepping forward, robes shifting like waves, his gaze solemn and intent. He came to stand before Rafayel, and with both hands raised something shining between his palms.

The dagger gleamed as Amund pressed it into Rafayel’s palm, the weight of it sending a shiver through you. Your throat went dry, and you felt your breath catch in your chest. A single thought hammered through your mind: this is it. The jagged edge of fear settled in your stomach, cold and suffocating. For a terrible moment you could already feel the point of that blade sinking into your chest, splitting you open, tearing your heart free.

Amund’s voice was low, solemn. “Are you ready?”

Rafayel’s fingers curled tightly around the hilt. He didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he said, his tone steady, certain.

You held your breath, trembling, braced for betrayal. Every muscle in your body screamed at you to run, but you couldn’t move, couldn’t blink. The world narrowed to that knife, to the man you loved holding it, to the certainty that your fate hung in his next motion.

But instead of turning on you, Rafayel shifted — slowly, deliberately — toward Amund. His crimson smile slashed across his face, sharp and humorless. “You have followed me for years,” he said, voice smooth as black water. “You guided me since I was young, formed me into the god I stand as now. Does that not make you my most devoted follower?”

Amund stiffened. His hand twitched against his side. Confusion lined his features. “Rafayel… what are you saying?”

Rafayel laughed, low and cutting, void of all warmth. The sound made the hairs on your neck rise. “I am giving Lemuria what it needs. The flame asked for the heart of a devotee. You told me to sacrifice my beloved’s heart.” He glanced toward you, and for a moment, the sheer intensity of his gaze made you falter. “But I am unwilling. Surely, you, Amund, who has devoted everything to me… surely you are willing to give your heart in her place.”

Amund stumbled back a half-step, his composure cracking. “No—you’re mistaken. Rafayel, listen to me. You don’t understand what you’re doing—”

“You’re wrong,” Rafayel cut in, and his voice dropped to a chill whisper. “I understand perfectly.”

Before you could exhale, before Amund could speak again, Rafayel’s arm moved in one swift, merciless arc. The dagger plunged into Amund’s chest. The sound — the wet, final thud of steel tearing through flesh — struck you like a physical blow. Amund’s strangled cry echoed through the chamber before it dissolved into silence.

Your lungs burned as you released the breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, trembling so violently your knees nearly buckled. Your vision blurred. Still, you couldn’t look away. Rafayel’s hand was steady as he withdrew the dagger, slick and red, and in the same motion drew forth the gleaming essence of Amund’s heart.

He glanced over at you, expression softened just slightly, though his words held no less weight. “Don’t look if you’re scared.”

But you couldn’t peel your eyes away. You were transfixed — horrified, trembling, but unable to tear yourself free from the gravity of him, of this moment.

Rafayel turned to the waiting flame. In his hands, the heart seemed to pulse faintly, as if clinging to life. He lifted it, offering it upward. At first, nothing happened. The silence was suffocating. Doubt clawed at you — had he been wrong? Had this sacrifice been for nothing?

Then the fire stirred. A flicker, small, uncertain — before it swelled, brighter and brighter, until the chamber blazed with radiant light. The flame roared alive, crackling and burning with a power that felt eternal.

Rafayel smiled. A slow, triumphant curve of his lips as he turned back to you, his eyes glowing like the fire itself. “The sea has accepted my offering. Lemuria is ours now.”

Something broke in you then — your fear, your hesitation, your doubt. Your nerves dissolved into a rush of heat that sent you stumbling forward. You didn’t think, didn’t question. You simply threw yourself into his arms, clutching at him with everything inside you. The dagger clattered forgotten to the floor as he wrapped you against him, holding you close, anchoring you in the storm he had created.

“Do you trust me now?” he murmured against your temple, his voice low, coaxing, and impossibly tender after the violence you’d just witnessed.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice breaking. A tear slipped down your cheek as you pressed your face to his chest. “I’m sorry for doubting you. I should have known.”

His hand came up, gentle where it cupped your jaw, his thumb brushing away your tears. “It’s okay,” he soothed, eyes softer now, molten with something deeper. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing stands in our way now.”

Your gaze drifted despite yourself, catching on the crumpled, lifeless form of Amund sprawled across the stone floor. Your stomach churned, the image searing itself into your mind.

Rafayel saw. He was quicker than your doubt, quicker than your grief. His hand tightened against your cheek, tilting your face back to him, forcing your eyes to his. “Don’t look,” he commanded, voice low, magnetic. His twilight gaze consumed you, pulling you back into his orbit. “Just look at me.”

And you did. You drowned in him.

When he kissed you, the world seemed to collapse and expand all at once. His mouth was fierce and unrelenting against yours, as if sealing a pact, as if binding you to him with every press of his lips. The sea outside surged in answer, the flame roaring higher, wrapping around you both like a witness to your union.

You clung to him, trembling, tasting salt and fire and something irrevocable. The world was ash and water and Rafayel, and nothing else mattered.

The temple doors opened with a groan, heavy stone swinging wide as you stepped into the open air. The sudden brightness of Lemuria’s streets made you blink, the flickering light of the sacred flame behind you replaced by the shimmer of the undersea city. The crowd had gathered in droves, the sound of their anticipation a restless hum that instantly erupted into cheers the moment Rafayel appeared, your hand still tangled in his.

“Behold!” His voice carried easily, smooth and commanding, echoing off the marble facades and coral-draped arches. He raised the dagger, now sheathed, for all to see. “The flame has accepted my offering. Lemuria is safe. She will prosper.”

The people roared, voices mingling with the distant song of the ocean current that drifted through the city. Hands reached out, flowers were tossed into the street, petals catching in the water like confetti. For a moment you were swept into their joy, watching faces alight with reverence and hope, their god and his chosen bride at the heart of it.

But Rafayel didn’t linger. The moment the announcement was spoken, he clasped your hand tighter, tugging you from the swell of voices. His tail flicked swift and powerful, weaving through side passages and narrower streets, past guards who bowed their heads as he passed.

You stumbled a little to keep up, still glancing back toward the crowd. “Shouldn’t we stay? Celebrate with them?” you asked, the sound of laughter and music already swelling behind you.

He looked back at you over his shoulder, a hint of mischief softening the gravity of his expression. “Celebrate?” His thumb brushed over the back of your hand, slow, deliberate. “My love, we just forged our covenant in flame and blood. I’d rather celebrate with my bride than share her with the city tonight.”

The word bride hung between you, sharp and intimate, leaving your chest tight and your cheeks warm. You swallowed hard, the heat rising in you more startling than the roar of the people outside. Still, you let him lead you, feet moving without protest, the press of his fingers at your wrist a tether you didn’t want to slip free of.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Rafayel’s grip on your hand was firm, magnetic, pulling you through the glittering halls toward his private chamber. The light of the bioluminescence flickered along the walls, catching on the golden threads of your silks, the jewels adorning both of you shimmering with every step. Your pulse raced with each step, excitement and anticipation coiling in your belly as you followed him without hesitation.

Then he stopped abruptly in the throne room, tail flicking behind him with a lazy, deliberate sweep. His eyes met yours, a slow, wicked smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Sit,” he commanded softly, but there was an edge to his voice, a spark of mischief and possession.

You flushed, biting your lip. “Rafayel… knock it off,” you murmured, though your knees betrayed you, weakening slightly at the sound of his voice.

“I’m serious, cutie,” he said, tail curling and flicking as he moved closer, letting the weight of his presence press around you. “It’s as much yours now as it is mine.”

Reluctantly, heart hammering, you obeyed, settling onto the throne once more. His hands didn’t linger long on your waist before sliding down your thighs, the silk warm and soft under his touch. Each brush of his fingers sent shivers crawling up your spine. You gasped softly, pressing your thighs together instinctively.

“What are you—?” Your question caught in your throat.

“Worshipping you,” he murmured, voice low, husky, brushing against your ear. “Every inch of you deserves attention, cutie.”

His lips followed the path of his hands, kissing your thighs, trailing the silk higher and higher. Your body arched toward him without thought, breath catching with each deliberate motion, heart pounding like a drum in your chest. He paused for a heartbeat, letting the anticipation coil tighter, before his hands peeled the silk from your lower half.

“Rafayel…” you whispered, trembling, unable to stop the flush of desire crawling through you.

He chuckled softly, a sound that vibrated through your core. “Shh… just feel, just be mine.”

Then his mouth found you, hot and wet, tracing a slow, deliberate stripe up through your slit. Your knees quivered instinctively, the cold of the throne beneath you contrasting with the searing heat pooling low and deep. He lingered, tongue teasing the sensitive flesh, flicking, circling, tasting. Each brush of him sent tremors shooting up your spine.

You gripped the edges of the throne as your heart thudded erratically, the steady, powerful pull of his presence anchoring you even as your body betrayed you. “Ah… Rafayel…” your voice broke, a fragile mix of moan and plea. “I… I can’t—”

“You can, cutie,” he murmured against you, lips curling into a mischievous, possessive smile you could feel vibrating through your core. “You taste so good… so sweet.”

His tongue teased, pressing deeper, slipping over the sensitive nub of your clit, suckling gently, coaxing you into the dizzying haze of arousal. You gasped, body arching toward him without thought, hands tangling in his hair. Each pull, each flick of his tongue, each press of his lips was precise, worshipful, yet maddeningly possessive.

A soft sigh escaped him as he slipped a finger inside you, slow and wet, curling expertly to hit all the spots that made your knees threaten to buckle. Your breath hitched, half a moan, half a cry, the mix of his mouth and finger driving heat through your body until your vision blurred with desire.

“Rafayel… oh—” you whispered, voice trembling, fingers gripping his violet hair tighter, as if holding onto him could keep you from floating entirely into the pleasure he orchestrated.

“You’re finally mine,” he murmured, lips pressing against the slick, sensitive flesh of your heat. His finger pulsed inside you, slick and insistent, every movement perfectly timed, driving you closer and closer.

He drew back slightly, just enough to capture your clit between his lips again, sucking and nipping lightly, teasing, tasting, coaxing a sharp, delicious moan from your chest. His other hand traced along your hip, pressing and kneading, grounding you in his heat, in the way his tail flicked and coiled behind him, echoing the deliberate, fluid rhythm of his body.

“I’ll have you like this everyday… this entire temple will be marked by you,” he murmured between kisses, teasing the tender flesh, sliding a second finger in to curl and stroke. The slow, deliberate motion had you trembling, whining against him, body arching, the heat pooling so impossibly deep it felt like it might consume you whole.

A coil tightened deep inside, a delicious, unbearable knot of pleasure, and you shivered violently. Your voice tore past your lips in a guttural, high-pitched whine, a mix of moan and cry, your body arching forward, hips trembling as your climax crested with shattering intensity. Your toes curled, and your fingers tugged at his hair with a ferocity that made him groan low and soft, his tail flicking in the water-like rhythm behind him as if echoing the pulsing waves of your release.

“Rafayel…ah—don’t stop,” you cried, gasping, your entire body practically melting against the throne as your climax rolled through you in waves, leaving you trembling, quivering, and impossibly spent.

He let you ride it, murmuring soft praise, whispering low and possessive words into your ear, lips brushing your temple, fingers holding you steady even as you shook. “Mine… all mine… so perfect,” he breathed, voice vibrating against you, making your core tingle anew even as you sagged weakly against him.

Once you’d caught your breath, he gently lifted you from the throne, his arms firm and warm around your trembling body. The wet silk of your dress clung to your skin as he carried you through the halls, your limbs still too wobbly to protest. When he opened the door to his private quarters, the room blossomed into golden light, each candle igniting as though by magic, the glow soft and warm, flickering across the walls, reflecting off the fine garments, pearls, and shells arranged throughout the room.

He set you carefully onto the bed, your body still shivering from the aftershocks of your release. For a moment, he simply gazed at you, eyes dark and worshipful, and then a mischievous glint crossed his face. He took your discarded silk panties, holding them up for a brief second, and then deliberately placed them near the shrine.

You blinked at him, laughter spilling from your lips despite your flushed, breathless state. “You’re insane,” you said, shaking your head.

“Haven’t I made that clear already, cutie?” he replied smoothly, the faint curve of a smirk on his lips, his eyes dark with amusement and desire.

Then he crawled over you, careful, slow, letting his chest press against yours, heat radiating through his body, tail curling beneath you. With a swift, fluid motion, he flipped you so that you straddled him, his tail moving beneath you like a living thing. The sensation of it pressing against your clit was immediate, searing, sending a fresh pulse of delicious, electric pleasure through your body.

He placed his hands firmly on your hips, rocking them against him with deliberate, teasing pressure. “Use me,” he murmured, voice low and reverent, almost worshipful. “Take what you need… I’m yours, cutie. All of me, for you.”

You gasped at the friction, the heat, the impossible intimacy, and he kept his eyes locked on yours, watching every shiver, every tilt of your head, every clench of your thighs. His hands moved with patient guidance, hips nudging against yours, tail adjusting with each subtle grind, ensuring every movement pressed the pleasure right where it needed to be.

“So soft,” he murmured, voice husky, as he encouraged you to move faster, to find your rhythm. “Every inch of you… mine to worship. Let go for me, cutie. Let me feel it.”

Each movement, each press, each deliberate, teasing grind of him beneath you sent shocks of heat curling through your body, a delicious mix of desperation, surrender, and awe. You clutched at his shoulders, heart hammering, breath catching in short, stuttering gasps as he guided your movements, eyes never leaving yours, reverent, obsessive, completely devoted.

You could feel it building again, a coiling knot of pleasure that had nowhere to go, tightening, pulsing, and every teasing flick of his tail and pressure of his hands made it burn hotter. Your breaths came ragged, uneven, gasps and soft whines spilling from your lips as he murmured into your ear: “That’s it, cutie… mine… let go for me… my bride…”

Your hands clawed at his shoulders, fingers digging in as the knot inside you snapped, exploding in searing, shuddering waves that ran through your body, hips trembling uncontrollably over him. You cried out, shivering, collapsing slightly against him, unable to hold yourself upright as the pleasure crashed and crashed again, each pulse wringing another whimper from your throat.

Rafayel’s lips found yours instantly, kissing you hard, deep, possessive, leaving you tasting the remnants of your last climax on his lips. His hands moved to your chest, fingers teasing, pinching your nipples just enough to make you gasp and shiver in renewed arousal, tail coiling tightly beneath you, pressing against you in every possible way.

“Mine,” he whispered into your lips, voice rough and reverent, “Say you’re mine.”

Your pulse fluttered wildly. The words slipped out before hesitation could catch them, a breathless vow against his mouth. “I’m yours… and you’re mine.”

For the briefest instant, everything stilled. Then his lips curved into a wicked, almost triumphant smile — one that made your stomach tighten with both fear and aching want. He wanted you just as unmoored, just as ruined with need for him as he was for you. And you had just proven you were.

His fire shimmered fully over him, scales fading to skin, muscles shifting beneath the new solidity of his legs. You barely had time to gasp at the change before he moved, a predator’s grace and a lover’s hunger combined. His hands caught your wrists, pressing them above your head as he rolled you onto your back, pinning you into the soft sea of blankets. The sudden weight of him above you stole your breath, made you arch instinctively against him.

“Perfect,” he growled lowly, his lips brushing your ear. “You’re perfect like this… beneath me, trembling for me.” His hips pressed forward, teasing your slick entrance with the heavy heat of him, and you whimpered, every nerve lit.

He kissed you then, slow and deep, his tongue tasting, claiming, before breaking away just enough to murmur, “Say it again. Say you’re mine.”

The head of his cock slid against your folds, spreading your arousal, making your back arch desperately. “I’m yours,” you gasped, nails scraping at his shoulders when he rocked forward just enough to give you a taste.

“And don’t forget,” he added, voice rough with both restraint and reverence, “I’m yours too, cutie. Every piece of me. No one else will ever have me—only you.”

The sincerity tangled with the wickedness in his gaze, a worshipful obsession that left you raw. Then he pushed in, slow but insistent, stretching you inch by inch until he was seated fully inside, his chest pressed to yours, his mouth capturing your every gasp.

The rhythm he set was deliberate at first, almost punishingly slow — making you feel every pulse, every drag of him deep inside. He worshiped you with his touch: lips trailing fire down your throat, teeth nipping at your collarbone, fingers tweaking your nipple until you gasped and writhed. His other hand slipped between your thighs, rubbing slow, dizzying circles against your clit in perfect time with his thrusts.

“Look at you,” he rasped, pulling back just enough to see your face twisted in pleasure. “So beautiful like this… my love, my bride. You were made to take me, weren’t you?” His thrusts deepened, hitting that perfect spot that made your eyes roll back. “Say it again. Say you’re mine while I’m inside you.”

Every word dripped with possessive reverence, as though he was binding you to him with each stroke, each breath. And the more he pressed, the more you felt yourself unravel, every nerve alive with the worship of his body against yours.

Your lips parted on a shuddering breath, his words shoving you closer to the edge. “I’m yours,” you gasped, eyes locking with his even as they threatened to roll back from the pleasure. Your nails dug into his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor you against the force of him. “Always yours, Rafayel—ah—”

That last admission drew a wicked smile to his face, his chest rumbling with a low, pleased growl. He crushed his mouth to yours, tongue sliding deep as his thrusts turned harder, more demanding, each one angled to drag the sweetest sounds out of you. His hands were everywhere — gripping your thighs, sliding up your sides, claiming every inch of you as though he could mold you to fit him perfectly.

The kiss broke only for him to nip at your lip, your chin, the arch of your throat, sucking bruises into your skin as his hips drove against yours with delicious force. “Mine,” he rasped again, words vibrating against your pulse. “You feel how you were meant for me? How your body opens for me?” His teeth grazed the curve of your shoulder before his mouth returned to yours, hungry, insistent.

Your body clenched helplessly around him, heat coiling, building with every rough thrust that hit deep, with every reverent word he poured into you like worship. His thumb found your clit again, circling in tight, teasing motions that made you jolt and whimper into his kiss. Your back arched off the bed, the sharp pleasure pushing you closer, closer — until it all came undone.

You shattered around him, a cry muffled against his mouth as your third climax crashed through you. Every muscle seized, fluttering and gripping around him so tightly it dragged a broken moan from his chest. He didn’t slow, didn’t let you drift away, driving into your convulsing body with a heat that only grew rougher, desperate.

“That’s it, cutie,” he growled into your ear, breath ragged, pace relentless now. “Want you to feel me spill inside you. My bride—made for me.” His hips slammed deep, his thumb never leaving your clit, forcing your body to wring every ounce of release from him.

And then he groaned, low and raw, mouth crashing to yours as he spilled into you, hot and unrelenting, pulse after pulse filling you while you milked him with trembling walls. His kiss was frantic and claiming, tongue tangled with yours, as though he needed to fuse himself to you completely in that moment.

By the time his thrusts slowed, dragging out every last drop of release, your body was trembling, spent beneath him, lips swollen from his relentless kisses, skin marked with his reverence. He didn’t let you go — still buried deep, breathing hard against your lips — as though he couldn’t bear to be apart from you even for a heartbeat.

His breath was still ragged against your ear, his body heavy over yours, the heat of his release pulsing deep inside you. For a moment, the only sound was the mingling of your uneven breaths, the slick press of skin against skin as he held you close.

When he shifted as though to pull back, you clung to him, arms winding tight around his shoulders, nails faint against his skin. “Don’t,” you whispered hoarsely, pulling him back down, chest pressed to chest. “Don’t leave me.”

Rafayel stilled, then angled his head to look at you, blue eyes softened in the dim glow. “Cutie,” he murmured, brushing his lips over your damp temple, “I’m not leaving.”

“You can’t,” you pushed, voice shaking with exhaustion but burning with fierce need. Your grip on him only tightened. “You promised yourself to me too. You can’t take that back. If you ever try—” You swallowed, your pulse hammering, the words spilling unbidden. “If you ever try to go, I’ll use our bond. I’ll force you to stay. I’ll lock you away if I have to.”

For a heartbeat, he only stared. Then a slow, wicked smile spread over his lips, and a low laugh rumbled from his chest, rich with delight. “My bride,” he whispered, kissing you hungrily, tasting your vow on your lips. “You sound just like me.”

You flushed at his words but refused to release him, and he only gathered you tighter in his arms, as though you were the most precious thing he’d ever hold. He nuzzled into your hair, breath warm against your ear, a final murmur of, “Good, claim me, just as I’ve claimed you.”

The last threads of your voice faded into the hush of the room, and for a moment, only the steady cadence of his breathing filled the space. Rafayel shifted just enough to look at you, the faintest curve of his lips betraying the storm of delight behind his eyes. You felt it through the bond too — warmth, possession, that unshakable tether between your souls thrumming like a vow newly forged.

He brushed a strand of damp hair from your cheek, fingers lingering against your skin as though committing the shape of you to memory. “Sleep, my heart,” he murmured, softer now, reverent. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

You pressed closer, sealing yourself against him as if daring fate to try and separate you. In that cocoon of heat and breath, there was no world beyond the two of you — only promises spoken and unspoken, only the pull of a bond neither of you could resist.

When sleep finally claimed you both, it did so in perfect synchronicity — two heartbeats aligned, two souls entwined, as though the night itself had accepted your vow.

a/n: finally.... yandere raf is here. i didn't make this super dark since its for a celebration and honestly super dark content isn't my thing, but i hope it still hits. writing this was so fun even though i lowkey ruined my sleep schedule finishing it, it was so worth it. i hope u all enjoy and thank you again for 1k ♡ i love u guys

🏷️: @beaconsxd @potania

[mapsthewanderer]

Stealing Caleb’s shirt

Imagine you steal one of Caleb’s shirts. Just casually. Too big. Sleeves falling past your hands, nothing underneath. Maybe after a morning shower. Fabric gets a lil wet, nipples a bit perked. He walks into the kitchen, and there you are … bedhead, mug in hand… his shirt… oh fuck the nipples—

Cue system malfunction on roboboy. Walks into the doorframe. Says “sorry” to the wall. Opens the fridge. Just stares into it.

“Uhhh… morning… want coffee?” you ask.

He fumbles. Closes the fridge. Trips on air. Eyes flickering. “I—uh. Yeah. No. I mean—Fuck, pips.”

You’re like …?? Fill his mug anyway. Slide it to him. The shirt lifts just enough. He makes a sound. Some kind of strangled whimper-choke, eyes of a kicked pup. Bites his lip.

You blink. “Caleb? What’s up?”

He’s already turning away, opening the fridge again. Sipping his coffee.

He sulks. “It’d be easier if you were buttass naked,”

You start to wriggle out of it.

“N-NO—nOnono—NOO WAIT—”

[friskyink]

(Banquet Ablaze spoiler)

The world is full of things that can swallow you whole if you let them. ...I need to find an anchor So, you should tightly hold onto me.

This card was fire

[shortycito-deactivated20211022]

Be teachable. You’re not always right.

[artflameball]

The average Tumblr user

[neigepomme]

big fan of the trope where caleb cries because he's frustrated. i like to imagine it's some time after his body neutralizes the toring chip, and he's still getting used to fully feeling his emotions — but you do something reckless during your hunter job that lands you in the hospital.

caleb's notified of it. he sees you lying in that dreadful hospital bed, your eyes closed, and looking so much more vulnerable. afraid to hold your hand, to touch you, out of fear of breaking you — and he feels so powerless. no amount of control and strength he holds as the fleet's colonel can change the fact that you're on a hospital bed, with only the faint beep of your heart monitor serving as a reminder that you're still alive.

when you wake up and see him at your bedside, you squeeze his hand and flash him a weak smile.

"just a scratch, you know," comes out as a whisper, your voice still hoarse.

and caleb knows you.

he knows that you're just trying to comfort him, to let him know you're okay. he's fully aware of your personality, how you try to put on a brave face most of the time with him, and how you try not to ask for help anymore. 

somehow, that little comment, meant as reassurance, just makes the frustration bubble in his chest. a star about to explode, to turn into a purple sunset supernova.

he wants to yell at you for being careless with yourself. he wants to hold onto your shoulders and shake you. he wants to question you — "do you even know what could've happened? you could've died," he would say.

however, seeing you so frail in front of him makes him incapable of doing that. and you end up staring at something you didn't think was possible.

caleb's shoulders sag.

a sigh of relief, quickly followed by hiccuped breathing.

a wet drop on your hand.

a sob.

caleb, the man who always put on a brave face in front of you, the man who you never saw crying, was sobbing in front of your very eyes. years of boxed feelings, compartmentalized emotions, facades put on bravely, all came shattering down at once. 

then in between sobs, you hear caleb speak, his eyes still glossy, his freckled cheeks dusted pink and streaked with tears.

“i thought i'd lose you today.”

and in the quiet of the hospital room, you see in front of you the same boy who'd been experimented on, who suffered more than most — and yet he cries, not for himself but for you.

it'll all be okay eventually. for now, though? you simply hold his hand and brush your thumb over it softly, all while whispering apologies and promises of never scaring him like this again.

[colonelkaboom]

Does He Know You Call Me When He Sleeps?🍐🍎

✎AN: Caleb has a lot going on at work, so you've decided to spend some time with him in Skyhaven in hopes of making his days a bit easier to manage. Although you love getting to spend so much time with your best friend, there is another man occupying your mind. And Caleb can't know... (Very loosely inspired by an edit i saw on TikTok.) Word count: 1.6 k

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After an exhausting day at work, Caleb came home late seeking your comfort. Seeing his pained expression you pulled him in for a tight hug knowing it would bring him relief. He melted in your arms and muttered a string of thank yous into your hair whilst holding onto your body like it was the only thing keeping him from falling into the abyss. 

You started to slowly aid him out of his Colonel uniform. Beginning with his hat before slowly prying him off your body to begin work on the buttons of his jacket. It was getting very late and you questioned if he had eaten. He claimed to have had dinner at work, but was unsure how many hours ago. There was no point in pushing it further as the obvious lack of energy was becoming clearer and clearer. He needed to sleep. 

Using all your strength you hauled his large frame onto his bed. His long legs heavily hanging off the side. Still covered by a white t-shirt and trousers you kneeled down and began unlacing his combat boots. You glanced up at him only to find him drifting off to sleep. After gently pulling his boots off you winced at the stench that emerged as you revealed his socks. 

“Ugh, Caleb, I’m not touching those.” With his eyes still closed he let out an amused chuckle at your honesty. 

“I got it, Pips.” He slowly sat up and his groggy eyes met yours. He had that cute, teasing smile lingering on his lips. The same smile you grew up with. He tugged his trousers off before his back met the soft bed once again. He seemed to be falling asleep instantly. His breathing slowly steadied with deep and controlled puffs. Caleb was always warm, but the sight of his bare legs gave you chills. You draped a blanket over his lower half before turning to leave the room.

“Will you stay with me?” Caleb pleaded. His eyes were barely open but he managed to stretch an arm out in your direction. You smiled and returned to his side, of course you would. You gracefully climbed over his body and nuzzled into his back wrapping and arm over his waist. You had cuddled like this many times before. After a long day there were few things that brought you more comfort than his calming touch. He would never admit it, probably scared it would show too much vulnerability, but he loved being the little spoon when he had rough days. Letting all his guards down to properly relax, because you had his back, literally. 

It didn’t take long before he was fully asleep, resting peacefully in your embrace. But there was something you had to do, something that had been on your mind all evening. Someone. 

You carefully wiggled out of the bed, making sure not to disturb Caleb, before quietly leaving the room. You peak through the door one last time, making sure your best friend is still fast asleep. His arms are splayed out on the pillows and jaw hanging open. He’d surely start snoring soon. You smile at the beautifully familiar sight before closing the door with a soft click.

Safely in the living room you pick Caleb's jacket off the floor before folding it neatly and placing it on the bench by the entrance. His hat securely resting on top of the folded fabric. The clock on the wall tells you it’s almost 2am. He should be home now. 

“Hello?” A calming voice emerges from the other end.

“Hi Zayne.” You smile, thankful he could answer your call. You’d been spending so much time with Caleb in Skyhaven that you’d barely seen Zayne lately. Finding a time where you were both available was hard enough, but having to also make sure Caleb was busy at the same time made it even harder. Late night calls when Caleb was sleeping was the best you could do. 

“It’s good to finally hear your voice.” The deep sigh seemed to let out tension that he had held in for too long. 

“I miss you, Zayne. I wish I could see you.”

“When will you return to Linkon City? Surely the Hunters Association misses your skills and abilities?”

“I’ve been getting small missions in Skyhaven, Captain Jenna has been very kind allowing me to spend so much time here since Caleb returned. So there is no need to worry, the Hunters Association is still benefiting from my skills and abilities.”

“Oh, I see. I guess I’m the only one missing out then.” You can’t see him, but you can perfectly picture that almost invisible smirk of his. 

“Zayne…” You smile, feeling your cheeks starting to burn.

“What I’m trying to say is, I miss you too.” 

“How was your day? Any exciting heart surgeries?”

“Yes, a few actually. Although, I find it quite hard to perform my work to the quality I wish when half of my own heart is so far away.”

“Dr. Zayne, if you keep talking like that I’m going to have to find an emergency cardiac surgeon here in Skyhaven.” 

“Don’t you dare, silly girl. You know I’m the best in the field, no one else gets to handle that delicate heart of yours.”

You keep talking about everything and nothing for the next hour. Only when you hear him yawn for the third time in five minutes do you feel the need to put your foot down.

“Ok, Zayne, time for bed. I won’t be able to live with myself if I make you late for work in the morning.”

“Have you told him yet?” He suddenly asks.

“What?” You question innocently, but you know what he means.

“Does he know you call me when he sleeps?” Your silence gives him the answer.

“He cares for you in a way I’ve never seen before. Even when we were kids, it seemed like every choice he made was based on what would make you happy and safe. He and I might have lost touch over the years, but I do not like this continuous sneaking behind his back.” There was a short pause before Zayne continued.

“I think it is blatantly obvious to everyone, except you, that his feelings go beyond that of a childhood friend or adopted sibling. I trust you and your judgement, but keeping him in the dark for much longer is not fair to him.” You knew he was right, Zayne was always right. 

“I don’t know how to tell him. I fear it might break him, and he is already so fragile. Some days I feel like I’m the only thing keeping him together.”

“I’m not saying you have to tell him today or tomorrow, but you know this can not continue indefinitely. I will remind you of my offer to be there with you when you tell him. Perhaps it could offer him some comfort hearing how serious I am about our relationship.”

“No, that would not be a good idea. He has too many guns at his disposal.” You chuckle, but a part of you fears you might not be joking. 

“Alright, we can discuss this further at a later date. If you won’t allow me in the room with you, at least let me help with any necessary preparations. I want to be there for you.” You smile again, feeling like you finally found someone who views you as an equal. Someone you can stand next to rather than be hidden behind.

“Good night, Zayne.”

“Good night, my love.” You savour the last words before reluctantly hanging up.

“Who are you talking to, Pips?” Your heart nearly jumps out of your chest at the sound of Caleb’s stern voice behind you. 

Unsure of how much he heard you remain silent. 

“It sounded like it must have been someone important.” He slowly walks closer with his arms crossed. The tone of his voice was one you rarely heard directed toward you. It scared you a bit. It was the voice of the Colonel. However, once he got closer, it was clear that the emotion in his purple eyes did not match the facade his voice was trying to build. He looked hurt. Scared. Desperate.

“You were gone for a very long time Caleb. He took care of me when you couldn’t.”

“So this is my fault?” He questions, the tough facade starting to show cracks.

“No, it’s no one's fault. This is a good thing. He makes me happy.”

“He makes you so happy that you lie to sneak in late night phone calls? The Pip-squeak I know doesn’t hide her happiness like that.”

“We didn’t know how to tell you.”

“Tell me now then, who’s been keeping you oh so happy. Do I know who he is?” 

“You didn’t hear that part of my conversation?”

“If I did, why would I ask?” It looked like he was bracing for impact.

“Zayne.” You say quietly as you prepare yourself to pick up the pieces of Caleb that are threatening to explode.

He remains silent, but turns his face away from you, attempting to hide. But you saw. His eyes were glossy and the lump in his throat seemed too big for him to swallow as his Adam's apple bobbed a few times.  

The man who had never allowed himself to show any sign of weakness in order to remain your most secure haven, was falling apart. 

You broke him.

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✎AN: This was more painful to write than I imagined when I first got the idea... Kinda want to explore this theme with some of the other boys as well, but I'm struggling with ideas.

⋆ Read more ⋆ Masterlist ⋆

- Colonel Kaboom

[unintentionalseductress]

Uncoded

Warnings: ANGST, slow burn, self-deprecation, general sadness, NO SMUT Summary: Stuck in Linkon City, you never thought you'd be someone other than the MC. What happens when you spawn in the game as an NPC? WC: 8.8 K A/n: Hello everyone! I know it's been a hot minute since I wrote a oneshot, and thank you to all the kinds folks that reached out after I said I was let go a few weeks ago. I'm taking a break after being burnt out at that job, and planning my next moves, but I do want to get back into the joy I found while writing. And who is this girl, there's no smut?! *gasps*

The operating room was cold, and the bright overhead light caught on sterile surgical tools that gleamed under the fluorescent bulbs. The regular beeping from a heart rate monitor, the hissing and mechanical thunks of the machines that supported the delicate task of the operation filled the room, broken only by the shuffle of surgical gowns and the clink of metal as the used tools were discarded into a separate bowl after their use. 

"Bovie," Zayne says, his voice low but clear.

You passed it to him carefully, your gloves brushing against his briefly, and still, despite the dozen or so times you had done this seemingly insignificant act, it sent little tingles of electricity down your spine. Zayne doesn’t flinch. He never does. He was laser-focused on his patient, the cautery moving with robotic precision along the patient’s heart, the pungent smell of charred tissue mingling with the clean air of the operating theatre. 

Your gaze lingers on him longer than intended. The surgical mask hid most of his face, but his eyes were narrowed in utmost concentration. He always looked like that when he operated, calm and unwavering. Nothing outside the human heart he held in his gloved hands mattered. It was admirable, but you couldn’t stop the sharp pang of longing that lodged itself in your chest every time you assisted in the operating room. 

He doesn’t see me.

You don’t know when the thought first curled into you like a parasite, but it lived there now, quiet, constant, gnawing away at your insides. 

“Retractor,” Zayne requests.

Your hands automatically move, anticipating his needs. As the operation theatre grows quiet again, your mind wanders. 

It had happened three days ago.

You had gotten home from another long day. The world was dark, work sucked, and you had no desire to do anything. After reheating a bowl of leftovers and doing your nighttime routine, you had curled up in bed under the warmth of the comforter, and logged in to the only thing bringing you any semblance of relief from your otherwise shitty reality. The dim glow of your phone screen bounced off the white walls of your bedroom as a familiar cafe suddenly bloomed into life, and a man dressed in a black shirt and black slacks made his appearance.

“You’re here.” He extended his hand towards you, and you’d tapped his palm, wishing he were real. 

You tapped the relax time icon and chose the option for holding hands, feeling warmth spread into your chest as he intertwined his simulated fingers with yours, before kissing the back of your hand. 

“Thank you for being my stress relief.” He released your screen hand and took a few steps back. You zoomed in to focus on his face, admiring the sharp amber-green eyes, the straight curve of his nose, and the black hair that fell softly onto his forehead. You tapped his lips.

"If your hands keep being mischievous, I can show you how surgeons tie knots."

You giggled, and repeated the action before he finally got fed up, and turned his back to you, during which time, you amused yourself by poking his bottom, watching as he tensed up and shook his head in disapproval. You played the claw machine with him, then tenderly tapped his face one last time before logging out of the game. 

“If only.” You’d murmured into the darkness, as his handsome face consumed your thoughts again, as sleep overtook you. 

“Zayne…” you sighed his name, aching for him, even though you knew it was ridiculous, pining over a fictional man that didn’t exist. 

And then…You awoke abruptly. You squinted against the harsh lights that filled your vision and realized you were in a sleeping pod, like the ones in the game. How had you ended up here? Even stranger, why did the guy who had woken you up look like…

“Greyson?” You’d asked as he pulled you up by the wrist.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Dr. Zayne is about to operate on an unstable patient. OR 2 stat!” You followed along clumsily as Greyson escorts you, and soon you’re in the atrium outside of the OR. 

Greyson presses the intercom button. “I found her, Dr. Zayne. Good luck.” 

You’d glanced around in panic, wondering what to do when your body acted on its own accord. Suddenly, you’re scrubbing with the surgical soap, washing up to your elbows, a voice in your head counting the seconds, then drying off. You walked into the OR and an assistant held out gloves, which you dipped your hands into, marveling at how they were the right size. Your feet automatically carried you towards the operating table, where you could just make out the lead surgeon, completely covered by his mask and cap, sharp eyes glaring at your approach. You’d assumed the position in front of the surgical instrument tray.

“Thank you for joining us.” There’s a bite of impatience and obvious sarcasm, and your heart jolted as you recognized the voice.

“Beginning anasthesia, Dr. Zayne.” One of the medical staff members calls to him. 

“Scalpel,” Zayne stated simply, his hand extending towards you in expectation. 

And your hands moved in response, gloved and steady, body responding like you’d done this your entire life.

You’d glanced up several times during the procedure, trying not to pass out from the giddy way your heart fluttered, and your stomach flipped each time he asked for another instrument. There he was…Zayne. 

Alive. Breathing. Not pixels. Not a script. A man.

Your breath had caught in your throat as you observed him. Sweat had gathered on his brow as he’d operated, and when he’d turned to face towards you, your hand had reached for the designated towel to gently pat his brow clean, feeling like you could melt at how intimate the gesture felt. It was like a dream come alive. And for the duration of the surgery, you’d felt like the luckiest woman on the planet. It was only after that that your dream had quickly turned into a nightmare. 

You’re jarred back to the present as Zayne makes a quiet sound in his throat. “Forceps.”

You quickly handed him the pair. 

“Good,” he murmured, more to the heart he was holding than to you.

You had tried to understand the rules of this world. You weren’t a scrub nurse, not in real life. You didn’t know the first thing about being in an operating theatre. 

But here, your body is moving like it has been trained. You knew his surgeries by heart, knew what he would ask for next, and had knowledge about how long each surgical procedure would run. Everything was scripted, everything was clean.

A background NPC.

It had been humbling to realize it. Yet you couldn’t help but hope anyway. Hope Zayne would see you. Would realize how much you had yearned for him, separated by a screen, memorizing every microexpression on his face. 

“Closing sutures,” Zayne says briskly, and you hand the needle holder, locking eyes with him briefly over his mask, before he looks away. Another successful surgery. Thanks to you. But you’d already known what would happen the moment Zayne left the OR.

He didn’t say thanks, didn’t even acknowledge your presence. And the reason why was obvious. Glancing up at the large viewing gallery, you saw someone sitting in the front row of seats, someone you knew intimately, despite having never spoken in this world. 

Her eyes were exactly like yours. She had the same mouth and nose, features you’d painstakingly crafted while glancing into a mirror every few seconds, and her hair was styled in a cut that you would have loved to have, but were too unsure to try. She was wearing the distinct Hunter’s uniform and was gazing intently at Zayne.

You tried not to let the wave of envy swallow you as you looked at her. She was you after all. Or rather, the version of her you’d created in the game; the all-important MC. 

And Zayne had eyes for no one but her, his view fixated on her form. She smiles and gives him a thumbs up, and you see the effect she has on him. His shoulders, which had been tense and bunched, grew slack. He raises ten fingers, and points to the operation theatre door, and your MC nods, getting up to meet him. 

He brushed past you, and you felt your stomach lurch, silently following him to scrub out. Your mind was chewing away at the thoughts inside your head, and even though you knew what to expect, you still couldn’t stop the first pang of pain that hit your heart when you Zayne and your MC in the staff lounge. You quickly ducked into the fridge, pretending to grab some yogurt. 

Zayne, real, impossibly tangible Zayne, was leaning towards her, their body language too comfortable with each other to suggest this as a recent development. His face had softened, and his voice, when he spoke, carried a tone of warmth you had never heard when it came to addressing his surgical staff.

“Glad you waited,” he said, an almost imperceptible quirk in his lips that has your MC grinning at him as she shakes a paper bag in front of Zayne’s face. 

“I brought those steamed buns you like. Thought you could use something warm after three back-to-back cases.”

You had imagined this very scenario several times when you had been playing the game, being the MC and handing Zayne a snack after his surgery had finished. At that time, it felt like anything was possible.

Zayne takes the bag from her and lays a hand on her shoulder.

“Thank you.”

That’s when it hits you. 

This wasn’t the beginning of the relationship between Zayne and your MC. He already knew her, had allowed her to become part of his life, and sought her out after a hard day.

In this world, this prewritten, coded dream, Zayne already loved her. 

The realization steals the breath from your lungs, and suddenly, you feel like you are intruding on a private moment. You quickly close the fridge and sprint out of the lounge. 

The game texts you had been replying to, believing it was you, were actually being sent by your MC. The confessions Zayne sent, which you had thought were meant for you, were for her. 

Your MC was the one who got his late-night messages and accepted his coffee invitations. She got his time, his kindness, his smile. And it felt like the world was crumbling beneath your feet.

You had always known the game version of yourself was awesome. Of course, she was. She was smart, a professionally trained hunter with a badass job. She had hobbies and a fit body. She was witty and sassy, and everyone loved her, including you. Which was why you had tried your best to model her after yourself.

But she’s not me. She’s everything I’m not. 

The awful truth of it all sinks in. 

She’s the better version of me. Of course, he doesn’t see me. Why would he?

You reach the hospital’s rooftop, which was covered with rows and rows of potted plants, Linkon’s attempt at creating a calming environment. You slink away between the rows of tall trees, which engulf you, creating the perfect hiding spot.

Hot tears spill down your cheeks as you sob quietly.

Zayne had been your comfort character, the one you wanted to see at the end of the day, even if he wasn’t real. But now he was, and somehow, you wished you could go back; back to the days when you could delude yourself into believing Zayne could love you, not the MC version of you, but the real you.

Yet he was blissfully unaware of your existence, cozying up with the MC you had made, while you sat alone, the cool night air whipping your face, drying the salty tracks that covered your cheeks. 

I’m not someone he would love. I’m nobody. Nobody. 

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

In the days that followed, you tried to make yourself known. Your MC was amazing, but only because you had designed her so. After the misery of the previous night, you decided that despite the game dynamics, there might still be hope. 

You couldn’t help it. Like a moth drawn to a flame, despite knowing he didn’t perceive you in any meaningful way, you couldn’t help but want to attempt to leave an imprint, some kind of trace to make him aware of your existence. 

You tried to carry yourself with purpose as you strutted down the halls of Akso Hospital, straight-backed and buoyed by the small chance of possibility. The tablet in your hands had been opened to the patient scheduled for surgery today, a casual way to open a conversation, in your opinion. You spied Zayne at the nurses’ station and made your way over. It would appear like small talk, a tiny opening into his field of vision.

“Dr. Zayne.” You say his name quietly as you approach. That turn as he heard his name, the brief blink of surprise, followed by recognition. Your breath caught as his gaze fixed on you, almost driving the entire premise of the conversation out of your mind. His eyes fall on the tablet you’d pushed towards him, and he looks at you expectantly. 

“I had a question regarding today’s surgery.” You manage to say, trying not to sound breathless. Another blink, followed by a nod. 

“Yes, go on.”

“I see the patient was a smoker. He’s due for a transplant. I wanted to know if there are any precautions I should take, or any steps of the procedure I should exercise more caution. Or perhaps stock more supplies for.”

And there it was: a brief, almost imperceptible quirk to his lips, like he’d nearly smiled at you. How long had you stared at the screen of your phone, watching and tenderly memorizing every micro expression he made? 

“A very astute question,” he says with a touch of praise, and it instantly triggers a million butterflies in your stomach, wings beating rapidly inside you. “You’ll want to make sure we have extra clamps, and notify the blood bank ahead of time to ensure we have some in case of an emergency. Double check his blood type.” 

You nod, hanging onto every word like a smitten schoolgirl. “And…should I prepare OR 2?” 

“Yes, please do.” The sharp lines of his face have lessened. “It is my preferred OR after all.”

“I’ve noticed,” you reply, unwilling to lose the flow of the moment. “May I ask why?”

Zayne is about to respond when his gaze suddenly fixates on something behind you. You turn to look over your shoulder, then feel your heart drop to your knees as your MC makes an appearance again. The moment shatters like glass. 

“What are you doing here?” Zayne steps around you to greet your MC, like you were a tree obstructing his view. 

“You left your charger at my place,” you hear her reply, and your heart sinks another inch or so towards the floor. If he had left the charger at her place, then that must mean…

You stop yourself. It was too painful to imagine. You were barely two feet away, the tablet lying on the counter, forgotten. Neither of them notices as you pick it up and leave. 

A few days later, you tried again. You had convinced yourself that the last time had been a coincidence, that the arrival of your MC had been the only factor that had deviated from what had been an otherwise positive conversation. 

It was lunchtime, and you saw an opportunity to maybe try bonding with him over a weakness of his. 

“Dr. Zayne.” You call out as you meet him near the elevator. He turns, clearly not expecting you. 

“I heard they’ve made that chocolate mint cake today in the cafeteria. Maybe we should try to snag a slice before it’s all gone?”

This time, a genuine glimmer of interest in his eyes, followed by a huff of what appeared to be amusement.

“Word certainly seems to spread around the hospital.”

“Of course. Besides, it’s not like it’s a secret, right?” You banter back carefully. “Your fondness for sweets?”

Zayne fixates on the panel of buttons in the elevator and remains quiet, but you observe the way his ears turn red, an endearing sight indeed, something you’d loved about him since seeing it in the cafe screen interactions. 

“No, I suppose not,” he says after a beat, and you try to suppress your smile. It was the closest you had been to him outside the operating room. “But I’ll admit it’s a bit disconcerting that people have noticed this about me so easily.”

“Or maybe,” You boldly begin, then push on. “They notice these things because they want to get to know you better. It creates reasons to interact, you know?”

He considers this, then nods in agreement. “I suppose that’s a more flattering way to look at it. I think it’s nice that people want to get to know me.”

Your heart feels like it might burst from your chest, and just as you’re about to ask him if he takes coffee with his cake, the elevator doors ping open, and you feel the air rush out of your lungs. 

There stands your MC, and in her hands is a little paper plate carrying a slice of the cake you had been talking about seconds ago. Zayne’s eyes light up, little fireflies against the dark backdrop of his irises before he approaches her, and you once again, fade into the background.

You can hear the warmth in his tone, the way his movements are casual as he draws her away from the crowd. Passersby look at them with smiles on their faces. Look at the young, happy couple. Look at them stealing away to enjoy a small moment of privacy, the intimate exchange too obvious to ignore. You step hollowly out of the elevator. The cafeteria was out of cake by the time you arrived. You buy a cold slice of pizza and eat it alone at the table in the farthest corner of the room. 

The final ditch attempt to get his attention was quiet. A fragile action in the hope that he would at least remember your name, or show some form of acknowledgement. You made a cup of tea, his favorite one, your hands trembling as you steeped it in the lunge, carefully cradling the cup as you brought it to his office. The door was open, but he wasn’t in, so you’d placed it on his desk with a sticky note, nothing fancy, a simple “Till your next surgery.” Part of you, the foolish little part that refused to believe Zayne wasn’t yours, had made this last-minute decision, but your mind was already braced for the crushing rejection. 

You exit his office and are a few feet away when you hear footsteps, and you glance back to see Zayne and your MC enter his office, the door clicking shut. You’re unable to stop yourself from walking back, placing your ear against the door, hoping to hear what you so desperately wanted. 

Inside, Zayne lifts the cup and sniffs it, little rifts of steam still arising from it, frowning. He glances at your MC, and you hear his question muffled through the door.

“Did you leave this?” he asks your MC, who looks puzzled. 

“No, but it’s your favorite, right?” She asks in your voice, the voice you’d spent so much time customizing in an attempt to make it sound like you. And it did sound like you. A more musical, attractive version of you. Just like the rest of her. 

You hear Zayne take a sip, followed by a hum of appreciation, before your MC starts teasing him about how absent-minded he’d grown, brewing tea himself and forgetting about it. 

The door felt like it put dimensions between you. You were always the outsider, trying to find a way in. It wasn’t meant to be. The comfort you used to find from Zayne was long gone. It had been crushing to let go of the one final thing you’d used to escape from your crappy reality. Now, the thing that gave you joy was the source of your angst. 

You’d escape this world if you knew how. But you were trapped, forever the wallpaper, never given more than a second’s glance before people moved on. Even if you went back to reality, how were you supposed to cope, knowing you had been so close to the love of your life, yet unable to make him open to your presence? 

That the man you’d idolized was in love with another version of you, who had been crafted so perfectly that you almost wanted to scream at the injustice. You felt the betrayal keenly, resentment welling up inside you. The MC was you. YOU. How could a fictional version of yourself outdo you so astoundingly?

You wanted nothing more than to put a universe's worth of distance between yourself and Zayne. To disappear into the vast region of Linkon City and never reappear. But the game dynamics limited your mobility. You had an apartment (surprisingly like the one your MC had), which your programmed self knew how to enter, and the route between there to Akso hospital was the standard routine. 

Like a never-ending loop, against your will, you had to join Zayne in the operating theatre no matter how much it hurt you. And you hated it. Hated him. Well, not really. You loved him. And the sharp razor blade sting you felt inside your chest every time you looked at him, while he looked at someone else, was all you had. 

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

You withdrew as the days went by. Like a chameleon, blending into your surroundings, inconspicuous. Somedays, you felt like a ghost, certain that if you stood in someone’s way, they’d walk right through you and not notice a thing. 

With no way out of the game, you performed your surgical tasks robotically, not looking at Zayne unless it was necessary, handing the instruments and backing away until he asked for the next one. 

He, of course, was unperturbed. Zayne continued with his surgeries, consultations, and his regular meetings with your MC. Since the day of the teacup incident, you’d tried your best to avoid noticing their interactions, but the hospital seemed to be smitten with them.

All the nurses would giggle whenever she dropped in and asked if Zayne was in a meeting, or when Zayne would change into a set of fresh clothes before leaving the hospital in anticipation of a date night.

During one surgery, you had been close enough to observe a faint, pink hickey on his neck, and had looked away, resisting the urge to stab his awaiting hand with the scalpel you were meant to hand him. Prim, proper, Dr. Zayne, who should have been so professional and discreet, was now unbothered about turning up to work with hickeys on his neck. The damn man had no shame. That’s what you’d told yourself as you’d quickly run to scrub out after the surgery had ended. And shouldn’t your MC have known better than to do something so brazen? She was a wild little freak as far as you were concerned, and it helped to believe this narrative rather than to accept the inevitable: that they were a young couple falling in love. 

“DeBakey foreceps.” Zayne’s hand appears in front of you again. 

You’re about to comply, the game coding driving your hand towards him, when you feel a pull of defiance bubble inside you. What would happen if you didn’t promptly hand him what he needed? Wilful restraint stilled your hand, satisfaction flooding your veins when the game seemed to freeze at your unwillingness to oblige the scripted system. You hadn’t asked to be an NPC; you had sentience, and the rebellious act was sweet. Your hand jerks as the code tries to make you submit, but you persevere, savoring the little control you have. 

“DeBakey foreceps,” Zayne repeats, and this time, you notice something strange; a small ripple distorts the room, the occupants becoming temporarily distorted, pixelated shapes, before order is restored. The retractor in your hands fades away, reappearing in Zayne’s, and he continues his surgery as though nothing has happened. 

No one had seen it. Your heart hammered in your chest as you started to piece together what had happened. Had the code simply overrode your attempt at defying the game's logistics? You had a theory; you wait until you were out of surgery to test it.  

There were no deviations in the route of an NPC. Once the day had ended, you always took the same train to the apartment. Today, as you stepped outside the hospital, you make a cautious step in the opposite direction of the train station. When you had tried this before, the game pixelated and reset you back at the entrance of Akso Hospital.

Today, nothing happens. Your small act of noncompliance had changed the dynamics. You take a few more steps, feeling the rush of freedom soar into your heart before breaking into a sprint. You were no longer bound by the rules of the game; an unchained NPC. 

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

The days that followed were a giddy fantasy. The game could no longer call upon you to do your fixed role. You put the liberation to good use, exploring much of Linkon City, using whatever gold the game gave you to space out your time at the various cafes, bookstores, and amusement parks. 

Although the pain of being jilted by Zayne still lingered, it was easier to ignore now that there was distance between you and him. Your heart ached whenever you walked past a dessert place, old memories of your imaginings coming alive, of taking Zayne and doing a tasting menu with him.  

Now you ate the desserts alone, appreciating the macarons, cakes, and delicious mocha lattes as the richness flowed on your tongue. Some days, you could convince yourself that things were ok. That you would heal and that you’d eventually move on from Zayne.

It still ached deep within that you had the perfect man in your palm, only to realize he was just that; a man, and despite the game’s premise, men didn’t go for the mousy bookworms. Even in fantasies, they went for the cheerleader, and nothing could change the balance of that system. 

Besides, you thought, as you sat on the rooftop of your apartment building, watching the sunset, Zayne probably wouldn’t have noticed anyway. There would be a new scrub nurse, one who didn’t love him, who would have replaced you, like slipping a brick into an open spot in a wall. His world wouldn’t stop at your absence.

But sometimes you wish it would. 

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

Back at Akso hospital, Zayne had in fact continued with his routine as expected, but with one small change; he had started to notice things. 

The first few days after you had walked out of Akso Hospital had been the same; there had been no issues getting through his surgeries, and he’d proceeded just as he always had. The voices and faces of the other staff had always been insignificant to him. It didn’t matter. Per NPC rules, they merely stood there to ensure game function continued. He’d done his rounds, completed his charts, and met with your MC as usual.

But a few days after the incident, he’d glanced at the scrub nurse handing him the tool and squinted, feeling a little unsettled. He could’ve sworn the scrub nurse that assisted him was different, the features of your face fuzzy in his mind, but he was confident he wasn’t mistaken. 

Sensing his hesitation, the replacement NPC asks, “Is everything all right, Dr. Zayne?”

“Yes, yes,” Zayne murmurs, accepting the tool from her, but he can’t shake off the feeling that something is amiss. “Did you ask me if we could get cake together in the cafeteria?” he asks.

The NPC’s eyebrows raise, and she shakes her head no. 

“Never mind then.” Zayne refocuses on his patient, but there’s a nagging feeling that this wasn’t the order of things. Your MC floats into his mind, yet he feels like he’s seeing differences in his memory. 

Your MC’s eyes, so symmetrical and large, yet another almost-identical pair replaces them, not quite so symmetrical, but still quite pretty. The perfect, glossy little Cupid’s bow of your MC’s lips fades to be replaced by ones that are pressed into a line of attention while poring over a medical chart, dry from the lack of self-care. 

Why was he thinking of these things? He was in love with who he needed to be per the code. And his girlfriend was perfect, a vision of beauty. Yet all he could focus on now were the small imperfections he thought he remembered, and finding them more attractive than he thought he did. 

“Was there someone before you?” he asks the new scrub nurse, hoping the answer would be no. The new scrub nurse nods, and Zayne feels a little lurch inside his stomach. 

“I’m not sure what happened to her. Perhaps a game update made her obsolete?” The NPC suggests, and Zayne tries to appear nonchalant. 

“Perhaps. It doesn’t matter. Let’s focus here, please.” He redirects the room’s attention back onto the patient, and silence falls once again, leaving him alone to mull over his thoughts and misgivings. Even if there was someone different before, why did it matter? The routes were on track, he was performing as he should be. It absolutely made no difference. 

Once the surgery was over, he scrubbed out and prepared for a follow-up appointment. The patient smiles at him as he enters his office. 

“No pain since the transplant?” Zayne asks as he inspects the fading incision in the man’s chest.

“None at all! And your scrub nurse was so kind to me post-op. Kept checking in to make sure I was comfortable.”

“My scrub nurse…?” Zayne falters, and suddenly he recalls a tablet being pushed towards him, and questions about precautionary measures to be taken before a transplant surgery. He purses his lips, and the patient grows silent, noticing the pensive look on Zayne’s face.

“Can you remind me…what did my scrub nurse look like?”

The patient looked taken aback at the question, but answered politely, and it did nothing to satisfy Zayne’s curiosity. For all that mattered, he had described the MC in almost striking detail. Yet he knew it couldn’t have been the MC…she had left the hospital after giving him his charger…and he’d gone into surgery with…

As Zayne becomes increasingly broody, the game ripples like it had the other day, only this time, he sees it; all the crisp objects and the patient in his office becoming pixelated before the world seems to snap like a whip, and all is well again. Shaken, Zayne stares at the patient who seems oblivious to what has occurred.

“Your incision is healing well.” Zayne moves away as the patient rebuttons his shirt and presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose, trying to clear his head. “Let’s schedule another follow-up in a month. You can make your appointment with the receptionist.”

Zayne is almost impatient as he waits for the patient to leave, and once he’s exited the office, Zayne quickly gathers his belongings and drives home. The house was silent, and when he went to his bedroom, there was the MC, snug under the covers, exactly how things should be.

But he’s restless as he slips into bed, trying his best to remain neutral as the MC turns to snuggle into him. Even as everything felt right, it felt like he was doing this simply because he was told to do it. A puppet, all his actions triggered by little prewritten things inside the game’s engine. 

Zayne sleeps fretfully, and when morning arrives, he’s dreading the day for some unfathomable reason. He did not need to feel this way. Wasn’t everything working like it should? He had his career, MC was humming in the kitchen, and he was in love. Or, something resembling love. 

What was love anyway? A neurochemical response in the brain. Were his responses to love also coded? Did the game begin the neurochemical cascade inside him when MC made an appearance? Or was it more so, the game ensured MC was always around him, thus ensuring he developed some sort of attachment to her? What was love, really?

Unbidden, a neglected, steaming teacup filled with his favorite, freshly brewed tea, comes into mind, and he jerks up in bed, his heart racing.

This can’t be it. He was doing it right. He was with the person he was supposed to love. He shouldn’t be fixating on teacups and tablets, and quiet eyes that observed him intently during all his surgeries. These were mere background elements, required entities to move the game forward. He shouldn’t be recognizing them, much less feeling this jittery sensation in his stomach when he thought of them. No. No, clearly he must be coming down with something. Perhaps this was due to the pending update. Yes, once the update is installed, this would go away, and everything would return to normal. It was a glitch, surely. He gets ready in haste and kisses MC goodbye. 

“Meet you for dinner!” She says sweetly, squeezing his hand. He smiles wearily at her, hoping she doesn’t notice and goes about his day.

But as he wandered the halls of Akso Hospital, he was further disconcerted at the fact that things that were supposed to remain as insignificant attributes were now starting to become quite conspicuous. Was Greyson’s hair always brown? Had Yvonne always had bangs? He keeps noting these small things in various other characters as well, and a few hours into his shift, Zayne is visibly shaken.

“Dr. Zayne, are you all right?” Greyson asks concernedly. Zayne had been spacing out, his eyes glassy and unfocused as Greyson spoke to him about a paper.

“Greyson…” Zayne shakes his head and makes a split-second decision. “Do you remember the scrub nurse who assisted on my last heart transplant surgery?”

Greyson looks nonplussed, but takes it in stride. “Yes, I do. Why do you ask?”

“She hasn’t been at work for a while. I wanted to check in on her. I suppose there isn’t a way to get her phone number or address, is there?”

This wasn’t something Greyson had been expecting from Zayne, but he decides not to pry, not when Zayne looked like he’d been dragged through the dirt. 

“She lives in that large apartment building about 20 minutes from here. It’s the same building where Yvonne lives. If you want, I can-”

Greyson is cut short as Zayne quickly turns and makes his way to the nurses’ station. 

“Ask her,” Greyson completes, his words falling into empty air. 

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

You’re startled as your doorbell rings. No one visited you. No one knew you lived here. Certain that it was a delivery sent to the wrong apartment, you opened the door only to be dumbstruck by your visitor.

Zayne looked haggard, his fingers twiddling with the hem of his sleeve as he stared at you. Your heart hammers in your chest, and you’re waiting for the game’s auto reset to pull him away because surely, this must be a glitch? Because it simply wasn’t possible for Zayne to break the game’s coding and take the route to arrive at your apartment.

There was no script to support this or trigger action that could have caused it. Yet here he was, at your doorstep, like you’d wanted all this time. You stiffen, your heart keenly smarting as you remember the humiliation of his repeated rejections. 

“Dr. Zayne,” you say stiffly, refusing to move. “Why are you here?”

“Please let me in.” It was not a demand. It was a request, and his soft voice carried the subtle tone of a man about to crack. 

A lump forms in your throat, your instinct warning you this can only hurt you, but you relent and allow him inside, the door clicking quietly as it shuts.

As both of you enter your living room, Zayne’s eyes fixate on you with such intensity that you feel naked. Like his vision was X-raying you through your clothes, probing your thoughts, peeling away layers of your skin until he reached the tender and delicate version of you that ached underneath. Your pride forces you to look at him despite the overwhelming intensity to look away, and your heart jolts at what you see. 

As your eyes meet, you see the undeniable response; his pupils widen, swallowing the ring of amber surrounding the green. Zayne is stunned; it wasn’t possible. There was only one MC in this world. How could you stand there, bearing so much similarity to her, yet not be her? The MC in his memory overlaps with you, yet he sees the differences. 

Compared to her, you were a sharp patch of light, crisp and alive, and somehow, despite her perfections, the MC appeared blurred in his mind’s eye, like an unfinished graphic, still in the works of an unpublished designer. He saw what the game had masked: the texture of your skin, the not-so-straight line of your lips, the little imbalances of your eyelids. Yet they made him yearn, something poignant welling inside of him. 

Zayne’s throat closes up from the emotions bubbling up inside him. The sensation was alien, like something was trying to claw its way up from his gut. It was raw and uncomfortable, something he had never experienced before. The MC made him calm, and he’d assumed that was what it meant to love someone. He didn’t want to feel this hot, pulsing entity that was grappling with the lines of existence, forcing him to acknowledge it. 

“You’re not her.” He states it plainly, unable to fathom what was happening inside him. 

“Took you long enough,” you retort, feeling the irony; Zayne in your apartment, finally seeing you, just like you’d always wanted, but now you were too hurt to accept it. “I kept waiting. Trying, hoping for the tiniest scrap of your attention.”

Satisfaction burns in your veins as you notice the look of anguish that comes on his face. The strange delight of seeing him like this, of rubbing the raw truth of your feelings in his face, even as you felt your own heart clench painfully at the thought of hurting him. 

“I watched for a sign that you saw me as anything other than an NPC. Even though I was practically right in front of you, with my MC a few feet away, you still only saw her.”

“I noticed when you were gone,” Zayne begins, and you let out a derisive laugh. 

“Oh, did you now, Dr. Zayne? You noticed when I was gone. So it took my absence for you to notice.”

“Yes damn it!” Zayne’s voice is loud, contrasting with the calm, cool way he typically speaks. “So what if I was a little late? I did notice! And it’s been pretty miserable ever since! I notice things in the game I never did before. It’s like you opened a gate between realms, and now I have no understanding of the world I live in!”

“Oh, I’m soo sorry, Dr. Zayne,” you chide mockingly. “Made you a sentient game character, that must suck. Good thing your feelings weren’t hanging in the balance.”

“But they are now!” Zayne nearly shouts, and you flinch at the tone, and he immediately checks himself. He continues in a level manner. “Look, you disappeared. And ever since you did, it feels like the system broke. I’m questioning everything now, especially-” He cuts off abruptly, realizing what he was about to admit. 

Your breath hitches, but you know your curiosity will never be satisfied if you don’t hear him say it. “Especially?”

“My love.” The words fall out in a confused whisper, and Zayne swallows, trying not to appear unhinged. “I picture you everywhere. At first, I thought it was the MC, but no, it’s you.”

He closes the gap between you and pulls you into his arms. Frozen, your fight or flight instincts vanishing, you allow yourself a moment of weakness, pressed against the warmth of his chest, his cologne filling your senses. Everything about him screamed comfort, the only thing you looked forward to after a long day. You squirm, trying to break free, but he only holds you tighter.

“Let go. Please…” you request pathetically, but you know it’s futile. Like a bird that had become accustomed to captivity, you couldn’t find the presence of mind to push him off, even though you were certain he’d let go if you did. You stood there, drowning in his presence as silent, hot tears tracked down your cheeks. 

“It’s not fair,” you whisper into his jacket. “It’s not fair that you get these feelings for me now. Not when I was trying to figure out how to survive without you. Because the reality is, even if you loved me, so what? This is a game. I’m bound to go back to reality someday. And what was I supposed to do with this digital love? I’m already so unlovable.” You sniff and continue brokenly. 

“If my fictional crush doesn’t love me, then what hope is there in the real world?”

“Why do you think you’re unlovable?” Zayne’s hands rest on the small of your back, his cheek resting on your hair, feeling the texture and softness on his skin, his heart heavy. 

“I…I’m not that amazing.” You don’t know why your tongue is loosening, but you couldn’t bring yourself to stop. “I guess I’m average. I’m not ugly, but I’m not super pretty either. I’m not toned or muscled, but I do exercise and try to take care of myself. I’m not stupid, but I’m not that smart either. I’m the average. Common. Overlooked. Unremarkable.”

Your deepest fears spill out of you, and your head hurts along with your heart now. Your eyes flutter closed, trying to savor this moment because you know it could end at any moment. If this was all you got of him, you weren’t about to spend it thinking about your shortcomings and imperfections. You wait for the inevitable moment Zayne would release you, and this little dream foray would vanish.

But Zayne sighs, his breath caressing your hair, before gathering you impossibly closer. When he finally talks, it sends a shiver down your spine.

“You say average like it’s a flaw. But maybe it just means you’re real. Not exaggerated. Not manufactured. Just… honest. Do you know how rare that is? Especially in a world like this?”

He takes a small step closer, his voice getting quieter with each word.

“I’ve spent so long surrounded by perfection that was never true. Flawless beauty, brilliance on cue. But none of it ever stayed with me when the code started to break. You did.”

His large hand cups the back of your head, and you hear his heartbeat, the rush of his breath as he gets closer to your ear, causing goosebumps to erupt over your skin. 

“If average means someone who shows up, listens, cares, and stays when no one’s watching... I think average is a wonderful thing.”

Your entire body still as you feel his lips graze your hair. “You don’t have to try to shine so hard to be noticed. Even at your average, you’re already like the north star. Brilliant, consistent, unwavering. Those are qualities to be appreciated. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” 

His reassurance takes root inside you and you hide your face in his chest as it screws up, a sob wrenching itself from the deepest parts of your pain. The world seems to stop spinning, levitating in this moment, as though trying to prolong it as much as possible.

“And you’re not unlovable,” Zayne murmurs into your ear. “Because I love you.”

You blink back tears as you look at him. “What?” 

“I love you.” Zayne cups your face between his palms, and your entire body comes alive, tingling like a live wire under his touch. 

Before you can reply, the world suddenly blurs. Ripple after ripple forms and vanishes inside the apartment, everything alternating between pixels and cohesivity. You cling to Zayne as the world starts to shake. Alarmed, Zayne looks at you, and you look back at him fearfully. The familiar theme song of the game begins to play, accompanied by a loud, computerized voice echoing through the chaotic din. 

“Resources not verified. Corrupt elements detected. Beginning immediate update and reboot.”

The message is repeated twice, and the world around you dissolves. Outside your window, you can see the buildings, cars, and people beginning to vanish, pixelating before turning into dust and floating away into nothing. You look at Zayne, who hasn’t let you go, but a look of comprehension dawns on his face. 

“This is my fault,” he says over the roar of destruction. “I broke a majority of the codes when I ventured off my path.”

“So what does that mean?”

When he doesn’t reply, you shake him urgently. 

“Zayne, what does that mean?” Your eyes are brimming with tears. His fingers grasp your chin, and when you make eye contact, there’s sorrow in his expression, but he’s smiling gently at you. 

“You’ll be all right,” he says softly. “The update only removes abnormal elements. This isn’t the end for you.”

“What about you?” His lack of worry is beginning to fill you with dread, and you wait for an answer. 

But instead, Zayne dips his head down and covers your mouth with his. You shiver, then yield, the sweet feeling of his lips on yours flooding your body. A heady spiral of heat shoots through you as you kiss him back, trying to convey everything you feel for him in that kiss. Your first kiss with Zayne. You focus on him, trying to commit everything about him to memory: the softness of the kiss, the taste of his tongue, and his heated breath on your face.

When he lets go, he brushes your cheek tenderly. “Be the average. I promise you everything will be fine. Don’t stop offering to get cake, or making tea for someone you like.” His smile is calm, and you realize what was about to happen a split second before it does. 

Zayne begins to dissolve in a blur of colors, little squares consuming his shoes, crawling up his legs, and towards his torso. 

“Zayne!” You’re hysterical as you watch, yet helpless to prevent it. “Zayne, don’t go!”

His hand was still holding yours, and he squeezes it tightly. “I love you. You are not unlovable. Remember that.”

“Zayne!” He’s nothing but an incohesive blob of pigment now as the pixels consume the remainder of his face, and the hand holding yours turns to dust as he’s carried into the abyss. Looking down, you see the game has deconstructed most of you as well, the portion below your waist a confusing flash of light and pixels. 

“Zayne…” Your voice fades into a whisper as your consciousness fades, and you’re consumed by blinding white light until you see no more. 

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

When you wake up, you’re in your own bed in the real world. Blinking, you try to focus, then with a jolt as the haze fades from your mind, you scramble to find your phone, which was resting on the nightstand beside you. 

You launch the game, impatiently drumming the screen as the update pushed through, slowly filling the status bar up bit by bit. After what seemed like a decade, the launch screen appears, and you punch the ‘enter game’ button harder than intended. The cafe loads, and there he was. 

“Only you’d use me as an ice cream maker,” Zayne says with a disapproving shake of his head. Numb, you watch him on the screen. Everything was back to normal. You were back in reality. And Zayne…Zayne had been reset. Back into his coded routine, like nothing had ever happened.

As the truth of it falls around you, you curl up into a ball and cry, sobs wracking your body. Zayne loved you. Had chosen to become an uncoded element and risk it all to love you, even if it had been for a brief moment.

How on character for him. The irony isn’t lost on you; sacrificing, punished if he loved, that was Zayne’s entire persona, wasn’t it? Even as a scripted character, he hadn’t been able to defy his fate, his memories probably wiped and reset to love the MC just as it should have been. 

“My love,” you whisper brokenly, tracing his face with your fingertip. “I guess…It was never meant to be.” 

Acknowledging it didn’t help. You wept until you passed out from exhaustion, feeling like your heart had been split into two, spilling its pain into your system until you were bled dry. 

You didn’t go to work. When your boss called, you said you weren’t well. How do you recover from losing the love of your life?

“I love you.” Zayne’s voice echoed in your dreams at night, and you’d wake up covered in sweat. 

“I love you.” You heard it when you uninstalled the game, unable to pine over his face any longer.

“I love you.” His words lingered when you finally returned to work. 

“I love you.” It served as a reminder when you were building your dating profile, and were about to swipe ‘yes’ on a questionable match. 

“I love you.” It hurt so bad, but it was the only thing keeping you together.

That for a brief moment, he had shown you that you were worthy of being loved. That it existed, even if it was short-lived. 

Sometime after the incident, you found the energy to not feel irritable on the weekend when the cheerful sunlight crept into your room to rouse you from sleep.

You found the state of mind to dress up, spending time indulging in matching your outfit and accessories. You decided you needed a haircut, not a trim, but perhaps a new look, something you wouldn’t have dared to try before. The stylist had been thrilled when you showed her the reference photo and had expertly snipped and layered your hair into a head-turning look.

Feeling dandy, you’d all but skipped out of her chair, admiring her work in the window reflections as you walked towards a coffee shop a few blocks away. As you’d placed your coffee order, you looked at the dessert display and ordered the last slice of mocha caramel cake, imagining how it would melt in your mouth and pair with the coffee you’d ordered. 

“Was that the last slice of that cake?” A deep, strangely calming voice asks behind you. Your heart skips a beat at how familiar it sounded, and you whip around to see who the stranger is.

Your heart thuds as you take in a tall man standing behind you, looking disappointed at the now-empty cake display. His dark hair had been neatly combed, and his glasses were slightly askew, sitting almost on the tip of his nose. 

“Yes,” you say slightly breathlessly as you try to calm your racing heart. Even as logic takes over, you couldn’t help but stare at him. He looked so similar to Zayne…but you could tell it wasn’t him. Just a normal human, bearing an uncanny resememblence.

“Unfortunate. It’s one of my favorites.”

Before you can reply, the barista calls your name, your coffee ready and the cake on a small plate. You wet your lips, then gather courage.

“Would you like to split the cake with me?” you ask, and you can see the man is surprised at the offer. A smile graces his lips.

“Do you often offer to share your cake with strangers in coffee shops?” he asks with a touch of amusement, and you laugh. 

“No, but desperate times call for socially awkward solutions,” you quip back nervously, and the man huffs at your banter. 

“I see. Well, in that case, allow me to reimburse you for your coffee. After all, I was raised right. And mildly suspicious of free cake.”

You can’t stop the giggle that escapes your throat. You take the plate and coffee and choose a table before the stranger sits down opposite you. Looking more closely at him now, you see the differences: code vs reality.

“What do you do?” you ask him politely as you offer him a fork. 

“I’m a doctor.”

Your smile widens. “Of course you are.”

© unintentionalseductress original work | no copying, plagiarizing or translating

flashing dividers by @cafekitsune, banner by me using Canva

@tokyorevengersrin @brekkersgf @ladyparamount @otomegamesforlife @shddyboo @supernaturalbaesduh @sweets-kozume @theimmortalbuns @venussakura @prisjean @laddelulu30 @ravenclaw-jojo @redactedbimbo @crypt-0rchid @fattybattysblog @xinnn6 @xiaoderrrr @evansdmitri @decileste @thesoftuglywrites @belt0-0 @snatched-bubblegum-bitch @wynter-lily @cordidy @delphiakira @ibreathesmut @thedeepspacecadet @mcdepressed290 @plzdonutpercieveme @arsenicjuice

[dajo42]

vote rock, paper or scissors and then click the read more to see if you beat me! :3

rock paper scissors!

rock!!

paper!!

scissors!!

Voting ended onMay 16, 2025

i play scissors!!!!

did you win? :3

[dajo42]

this is so fun ive played rock paper scissors with so many people now!!! wow!!!!

[mellifexfarm]

ok like kakapo are great and all, i love them dont get me wrong but takahē are by far the best endangered new zealand bird and quite possibly THE Best Bird?

you cant really get any better than this. criminally underrated 

[kinka-juice]

Even better, we thought it was extinct for 50 years, and then we just found a whole bunch in a meadow. We lost a bright purple flightless bird the size of a large chicken for 50 years.

[wolfofcelestia]

Someone mentioned that he looks like he's shitting out snow here and now I can't unsee it because literally

Why does he look like a tamagochi taking a shit here 😭😭😭

DOCTOR ZAYNE WHY ARE YOU SHITTING!!!

[starfallforest]

bro has IBS let him LIVE

[wolfofcelestia]

OMFG I COMPLETELY FORGOT ABOUT THAT YOU ARE SO RIGHT 😭😭😭😭

SORRY FOR DISTURBING YOUR SHITTING DR ZAYNE

[starfallforest]

have to fertilize the garden somehow

[zomgcaleb]

yeah yeah he can match your freak but would he get himself hired at your college as a professor just to keep tabs on you??? that’s what I thought

[artsyririblobbu]

so that lumiere rerun amiright

[heartchitectx]

Hi! Sorry this is totally out of nowhere, but I just started playing Love and Deepspace and I love it!! I don't really know anyone else who plays it, so I was wondering if you had any advice for someone just starting out? Is there anything I should know? My biggest concern is, like, should I be picking a favorite guy out in advance, or does the game kind of give you enough time to get to know them all?

You don't have to pick, really, besides for resource distribution purposes. I main Rafayel and Caleb but I like all of them. Also putting some effort into all of them helps you grind resources but. basically don't use your little pink or blue gems on blue tickets, only the orange tickets. I'm bad at advice on things I don't feel like need much advice but feel free to yap at me lmao

[mayweholdhands]

[calebsdog]

Correct me if I'm wrong but I don't know if we've seen any evidence of which hand is Caleb's dominant hand. But since most people are right handed I'm assuming Caleb is the same.

WHICH MEANS CALEB WILL ALWAYS REACH FOR YOU WITH HIS METAL ARM!!!

It's pure instinct when he reaches out to brush your stray hair behind your ear. Or maybe to wipe some sauce off of the corner of your lips. To swipe a fallen eyelash out of the dip underneath your eyes.

It startles him every time when he automatically touches you with his metal arm and he just can't feel you. His fingers are there, settled against your beautiful skin. His eyes tell him that. But he can't feel it.

He's a stranger in his own body. You feel so far out of his reach now. What use was this body if he couldn't feel you? It's such a hard habit to break but every accidental touch leaves him nauseous.

[calebsdog]

Caleb holds a lot of hate for the world. You wouldn't know it upon first glance. You wouldn't know it if you've been hanging around him for years. And it was unlikely he would tell someone if they asked.

But one thing Caleb hates in particular are hunters. No, not the association hunters. The old-fashioned kind of hunter. Who splatter the blood of animals onto forest floors. Who dig into furry flesh with jagged knives.

He doesn't hate those who kill to survive. He holds a secret appreciation for those strong enough to tear into the skin of wild animals. By the time they are done the meat looks nothing like the once living and breathing creature that had been slaughtered.

Those people make it easier for Caleb to fill your belly with nutrients. He gets to see the eager smile on your face as you dig into the delicious meals he made for you. No, Caleb could never hate someone that played a part in bringing you such simple joys. They did the dirty work for him and Caleb got to take the credit.

Caleb hates hunters who kill for the thrill of it. Those who pose with wicked smiles on their face in front of cameras. Holding the carcasses of animals in their bloody arms to display their prize.

Killing something innocent for your own gain.

Caleb sees you in every creature that dies at the hand of man. Is reminded of your lifeless body, the stench of you when your corpse began to rot, the haunted, ghostly look in your soft eyes.

You were so little. How could anyone hurt you?

So, please, for Caleb's sake... Don't look at the remnants of a deer on the side of the road. Don't look at the once yellow ducklings, now a gorey red, getting squashed under rubber tires because nobody cared enough to stop driving. Turn your gaze away from the stuffed heads mounted onto walls.

Don't remember what this cruel world does to sweet things like you. Let him protect you a little while longer.

Just a little while longer...