Untitled

[sageypoo21]

This was the first time Zayne had ever appeared in my dreams — and fuck, he felt real. The way he touched me, kissed me… it was like his body was actually pressed against mine. I swear I could feel the heat of him. Let me walk through it properly.

It started with his kisses — those slow, teasing, barely-there brushes of his lips that make your breath hitch. He let them build, each one deeper, hotter, until his mouth was claiming mine like he’d been starving for me. And the craziest part? I could feel it. His lips, the pressure, the warmth — all of it.

Then he stripped me, piece by piece, like he wanted to savour the reveal. When I was finally bare in front of him, he just… stared. Like I was something holy. His eyes drank in every inch of me.

He lowered his head and kissed down the side of my throat, slow and deliberate. Across my collarbones. Between my breasts, his tongue flicking just enough to make me breathe hard. Then down my stomach, each kiss getting lower, lower… until he reached the soft skin at the top of my thighs.

And that’s when I woke up.

But when I fell back asleep — I dropped right back into the same moment. Same bed. Same heat of his breath against my skin. It was like nothing had been interrupted at all.

Right where he left off.

His mouth hovered just above my inner thighs, and he looked up at me, eyes dark and soft all at once.

“Is this okay?” he asked, voice so gentle it made my stomach twist.

I nodded. “Please.”

The second that word left my mouth, he didn’t waste another breath. He spread my thighs and buried his mouth between them, tongue sliding against me so slowly at first I almost cried. Then he licked me again, harder this time — long, deep strokes that had my hips lifting off the bed.

His tongue circled my clit, teasing, then sucking just enough to make my vision blur. I couldn’t help it — my fingers slid into his hair, and when I tugged, he let out this soft, desperate moan right against my pussy that sent a shock straight through me.

“You taste so fucking good, Sage,” he breathed against me, voice rough with need.

And then he went right back to devouring me — tongue fucking me, lips wrapped around my clit, his grip on my thighs tightening like he was trying to pull me closer, deeper, like he couldn’t get enough of me. Every stroke of his tongue made my whole body tremble.

Then… I woke for real

I woke up with my heart racing — that kind of jolt where your whole body snaps back into the real world but the dream refuses to let go. My skin was still warm, too warm, like someone had actually been touching me. My thighs ached in that soft, trembling way that made the dream feel less like imagination and more like… memory.

For a second, I just lay there, breathing hard, chest rising and falling like I’d run a marathon. The room was dark, quiet, familiar — and yet I swear the air felt different. Charged. Heavy. As if someone else had been in it.

As if he was still in it.

I pushed my hand against the sheets, and they were warm beneath me — warmer than they should’ve been. A shiver ran through me.

“Zayne…?”

I didn’t mean to say his name out loud, but it slipped out, barely a whisper.

And that’s when I felt it.

Not a touch. Not something physical.

But a presence — that soft, electric awareness that crawls up your spine when someone’s watching you, not in a creepy way, but in a way that makes your breath catch.

I turned my head, slowly, cautiously.

And for a split second — just one heartbeat — I saw him.

Sitting at the edge of the bed.

Head bowed.

Shoulders rising with quiet breaths.

Like he was still coming down from everything we’d just shared.

But the second I blinked, the image flickered, like a hologram dissolving.

He was gone.

The bed dipped, though. Only slightly, the kind of indentation that shouldn’t be there if I’d been alone all night. I reached out with trembling fingers, brushing the spot where I swore his weight had been.

Warm.

Still warm.

My breath hitched.

The air shifted again — a soft, ghostlike breeze brushing across my cheek, gentle as a fingertip.

And then I heard it.

Right beside my ear.

So close it made every nerve in my body stand alert.

“Still thinking about me?”

His voice.

Low.

Velvety.

Real.

I jerked upright, heart hammering — but there was no one there.

Only the faintest trace of his warmth fading from the sheets.

And the overwhelming feeling that the dream wasn’t just a dream.

That he’d followed me back.

That he wasn’t done with me yet.

[xxfrozenpearlsxx]

Squeeze and I'll Come

—⊹ this work was originally commissioned and given consent to be shared (personal details about the commissioner had been edited out)

MDNI 🔞

Synopsis: Sleepless nights tangled with buried feelings plague your mind, and those soft yet unreadable pink-blue abyssal eyes haunt your restlessness just as they have so many nights before. So your hand reaches for the only thing that bridges your heart to his. The fishtail beacon. Content warnings: Abysswalker x princess, Implied Insomnia, Implied Slowburn, Emotional vulnerability, Mutual pining, Princess x Assassin Dynamic, Forbidden love, Yearning, Soul bond, Reincaration & Past lives (implied; kind of connected to his myth), Sexual tension, First kiss, Love confessions, Body worship, Glove & hand kink, Breath play, Sensation play (slight), Biting, Hair pulling, Nipple play, Soft dom & Service top Rafayel, Fingering, Slight Dirty talk, Teasing, Straddling & Thigh grinding, Implied virginity, Vaginal sex, Multiple orgasms, Creampie, Cuddling Word count: 7.7k Author's note: soo mhm, finally time for some Abysswalker;) it's curious and sad that i don't see as many Abysswalker fics out there, and i've wanted to write him for the longest time. hopefully i did him justice ♡

The fishtail beacon is warm.

It shouldn’t be. It is bone and scale and whatever strange Lemurian craft shaped it into the delicate thing it is, small enough to curl inside the bowl of your palm, light enough that you forget you are holding it until the heat reminds you.

And it is always warm. Not the borrowed warmth of a thing held too long against skin but rather something deeper, something that pulses faintly when you press your thumb to its ridged spine, something that feels like it is breathing.

You turn it over between your fingers. The candlelight catches on its edges, casting small flickering shadows across the sheets you have kicked into a tangled mess at the foot of the bed.

You cannot sleep.

This is not unusual. Sleep has never come easily in this palace, in this room that is yours only in the way a gilded cage belongs to the bird inside it. But tonight the restlessness is different. Tonight it has a shape, a name you keep pressing your tongue against the roof of your mouth to keep from whispering aloud.

Rafayel.

You close your eyes and your chest tightens like something is cinching around your ribs, like the air in the room has gone thin and hot and you are breathing through it too fast. The fishtail beacon pulses against your palm. You set it down on the table near your bed. Pick it up again. Set it down. Your hand hovers over it, fingers curling and uncurling, and your pulse thuds dully in your wrists and the base of your throat.

He gave it to you three weeks ago. Pressed it into your hand on the rooftop overlooking the dunes, his gloved fingers lingering against yours for two seconds longer than necessary, his eyes unreadable above the dark line of his mask. “This’ll connect me to you,” he told you, and the laziness in his voice didn’t match the intention of his hands, the way he folded your fingers over it one by one. “No matter where you are. You squeeze that, I’ll know to come to you.”

You asked him why. He tilted his head, and even with half his face hidden you could see the smirk pulling at the corner of his eyes. “Maybe I just get bored easily, princess.”

That is the thing you learned about Rafayel. Everything is a deflection. Every sincere gesture wrapped in three layers of teasing, every vulnerability dressed up as indifference, every act of devotion disguised as convenience. He showed up on your balcony the night you nearly drowned in the canal during your ninety-ninth escape attempt, pulled you out of the water by the back of your dress with one hand while the other held a blade still wet with someone else’s blood, and when you gasped up at him, choking and shivering, he looked down at you like you were an inconvenience he had not budgeted for.

“You got a death wish or something?” he drawled, and the mask muffled the lower half of his voice into something dark and velvet. “Cause if you’re gonna keep throwing yourself into rivers I’m gonna need a heads up.”

You called him Abysswalker because he would not give you his name. The way his eyes flickered, sharp and startled, before the indifference slid back into place. You did not understand then why the name struck him like that. You still do not fully understand now. But you remember the way his jaw tightened behind the mask, the way he exhaled slowly through his nose, and the way he finally, reluctantly, gave you his real name just to make you stop.

That was weeks ago. He has been a constant since.

Not constant in the way of something reliable or predictable, nothing about Rafayel is predictable, but constant in the way of something you cannot stop being aware of. He appears on your balcony at odd hours, never announced, always with an excuse. He sprawls across your furniture like the concept of personal space is a quaint human custom he has chosen not to observe. He picks up your things, examines them with exaggerated curiosity, puts them back in the wrong places. He calls you ‘Your Highness’ with enough irony to fill a cathedral, and sometimes, when he forgets to perform, he calls you ‘Princess’ in a voice so quiet it barely clears the space between you, and the word sounds like something else entirely.

You have memorized him in pieces without meaning to. The way the candlelight catches on the row of silver piercings climbing his ear when his hood falls back. The sharp line of his jaw above the mask, the only inch of his face he allows you. His hands, always gloved, leather worn soft at the knuckles, and the way they move when he talks, lazy and expressive, mapping the air between you with confidence that could dip into arrogance. 

You know the sound of his breathing when he is amused. The slower cadence of it when he is thinking. The way it hitches, just barely, when you catch him off guard with something honest, and the fraction of a second it takes him to recover before the smirk slides back into place.

You know he is hiding something. There’s something like a mark on his chest, the one you have only glimpsed twice. He adjusts his clothes whenever he catches you looking. He changes the subject. He deflects.

And you know, with the kind of certainty that sits in your bones like something you were born with, that he is not here by accident. That whatever brought him to your city, whatever mission lives behind those unreadable eyes, it involves you. Your heart. The heart that is not really yours, the one that belongs to Philos and its people and whatever divine purpose decided before your birth that your chest would house something too valuable for you to claim as your own.

Everyone wants your heart. You have known this since you were old enough to understand why they kept you locked in this palace, why they dressed you in silk and called you princess and never once asked what you wanted. Your heart sustains the planet. Your heart grants immortality. Your heart, your heart, your heart.

Not you. Never you.

And Rafayel... you do not know what Rafayel wants. That is what keeps you awake at three in the morning turning the fishtail beacon over and over in your hands like a rosary, your pulse hammering against the skin of your wrist, your mind replaying the same scene on a merciless loop.

The ruins. Four nights ago.

He had taken you to the sand dunes beyond the city, the ones that stretch endlessly under a sky so vast and dark you could feel the weight of it pressing down on your shoulders. The ruins of something ancient jutted from the sand like the bones of a creature too massive to comprehend, and he walked through them with the familiarity of someone who has walked through them a thousand times, his coat trailing behind him, his hand loose at his side.

You stumbled on a crumbled stairway, your foot catching on stone that shifted beneath you, and he moved faster than you could process, his arm around your waist, your back flush against his chest, and the world stilled.

His hand spread wide across your stomach, fingers pressing gently through the fabric of your dress. His breath was warm against the shell of your ear, filtering through the mask, and you could feel his chest expand against your spine with each slow inhale. You were not in danger. The stairway was three steps high. You would have scraped your knee at most.

He did not let go.

“Be careful, Your Highness.” he murmured, and his voice was so close you felt it vibrate through the bones of your skull more than you heard it with your ears.

You stood there, his arm locked around you, the heat of his body seeping into every point of contact, and something inside your chest cracked open like a door you had been leaning against for weeks finally giving way. Your fingers drifted upward, almost involuntarily, reaching toward the edge of his mask where it met the line of his jaw, and his free hand caught your wrist.

Not roughly. His thumb rested against your pulse point and his grip was gentle and his hand was shaking.

The silence lasted three seconds. Maybe four. Long enough for you to feel the thunder of his heartbeat against your shoulder blade, fast and hard and completely at odds with the steadiness of his hands. Long enough for the heat between your bodies to become something you could taste at the back of your throat, sweet and metallic and dizzying.

Then a sound in the distance, the scrape of sand shifting, an animal or the wind or nothing at all, and he released you. Stepped back. Adjusted his mask. Shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat.

“Watch your step next time,” he offered, and his voice was perfectly, infuriatingly casual.

You did not speak about it. You walked back to the palace in silence and he left through the balcony and you pressed your forehead against the cool stone of the wall and breathed and breathed and breathed until the trembling in your hands subsided.

It did not subside.

It has not subsided since.

You pick up the fishtail beacon again, restless. The heat of it seeps into your palm, travels up through your wrist, settles in the center of your chest where that cursed heart of yours beats too fast for a girl who is supposed to be sleeping. You think of his hand across your stomach. The vibration of his voice against your ear. The shaking of his fingers around your wrist and the way his pulse betrayed every lie his voice tried to tell.

You squeeze the beacon.

Not by accident. Not impulsively. You look at it, you feel the warmth of it, and you close your fist around it with the full and terrifying knowledge of what you are doing. You are calling him. At three in the morning, in a thin nightdress, with your hair loose and your chamber a mess and no excuse prepared and nothing to offer him except the truth that you could not bear another night of pretending you do not want him here.

The beacon flares warm, then cool, then warm again, like a heartbeat answering yours.

You wait.

The balcony doors are open. The desert air drifts in carrying the dry scent of sand and the faint sweetness of night-blooming flowers that climbs the palace walls, and you are sitting on the edge of your bed with your fingers twisted in the fabric of your nightdress, your heart hammering in your ears so loudly you almost miss the sound of his landing.

Almost.

The soft scrape of boots on stone. The whisper of fabric settling. And then he is there, a silhouette framed in the balcony archway, the moonlight catching on the silver chains at his chest and the piercings in his ear, his hood pushed back, his coat open, his mask still on.

His eyes find yours across the dark room and something moves behind them, quick and unguarded before the familiar laziness slides into place like a curtain being drawn.

“You called for me, Princess?” he steps inside, and his voice carries that drawl, that slowness that makes every word sound like he is doing you a favor just by speaking.

Your mouth opens and closes a few times. Throat drier than the desert sand. “I... couldn’t sleep.”

He tilts his head. One eyebrow lifts above the line of his mask. He does not believe you. You can see it in the way his gaze drops from your face to the beacon in your hand and back again, slow and knowing, and the corner of his eyes creases with a smirk you cannot see but can feel like a physical touch across your delicate skin.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he echoes, stepping further into the room, his gloved hand trailing along the edge of your vanity, fingers tipping over a small glass bottle of perfume with exaggerated carelessness. “So you summoned the Abysswalker into your chambers in the middle of the night.”

“I didn’t summon you.” you try to lie, but it’s pointless.

“You squeezed the beacon,” he picks up one of the ribbons from your vanity, winds it around his index finger, lets it unravel. “That’s kinda what it’s for, Your Highness.”

The heat climbs up the sides of your neck. You tuck your chin, averting your gaze toward the window where the sand dunes shimmer faintly under the moon, and you feel rather than see him move closer, even if his steps are dead silent. The room is not large. Four steps and he would be at the edge of your bed.

He takes three.

“You didn’t have to come,” you manage, and your voice comes out thinner than you intended.

He is quiet for a few moments. His hand drops the ribbon. When he speaks again, the teasing has thinned just slightly, like a layer of paint wearing through to something rawer underneath.

“Yeah, well.” he shifts his weight, and his gaze slides sideways, and for a moment he looks almost uncertain. “We both know that’s not true.”

The silence stretches. You can hear the palace guards’ distant footsteps in the corridor beyond your door, the soft murmur of Natasha speaking to someone down the hall. The world outside this room, the world of duty and hearts and gilded cages, presses against the walls like water against a dam.

“Raf.” your voice is as soft as the ribbon previously swirled around his finger.

His eyes snap back to you. You have never called him that before, even though he gave you his name, you never dared call him something more intimate than it. The truncation of his name sits between you like a lit match.

You stand up from the soft mattress. The nightdress moves around your thighs, thin silk that you chose for the heat, not for him, though the way his gaze drops for a fraction of a second before jerking back up to your face makes your skin prickle with awareness and shyness. 

You want to see his face, gauge what his emotions truly convey in his expression. You cross the space between you in two steps and your hand rises slowly, your fingers reaching for the hem of his mask.

His gloved hand catches your wrist before you can fully touch it. His grip is loose, barely there, his thumb resting exactly where your pulse hammers against the thin skin.

“Your Highness.” he coos, the teasing lilt curls around the title like smoke. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“You always wear it.” your voice is soft. Steady, somehow, despite the heat rushing through your veins. “Why? Are we not close enough for you to drop it, or do you simply not want me to see your face?”

His eyes search yours. For a long moment they are completely unreadable, deep and still like water that is darker than it looks, and then something shifts in them, something that is not quite amusement and not quite pain but lives in the space between.

“Maybe I’m just ugly under here,” he deflects, but the usual sharpness is missing from his voice. “Ever think about that?”

“Show me, then.”

“Why?” he tilts his head, as his thumb traces a slow circle over your pulse point that makes your breath stutter in your chest. “What’s so important about seeing my face, Princess?”

“I want to see you when you speak to me.” you hold his gaze. Your fingers hover at the edge of the dark fabric, close enough that your knuckles brush his jaw. “I want to see all of you, not only what you allow me to.”

Something flickers across his expression. A crack, hairline thin, there and gone. He exhales through his nose slowly. “You’ve seen glimpses of it before,” he murmurs. 

“Glimpses are not enough.”

The words land between you and his grip on your wrist loosens, finger by finger, until his hand falls away entirely. He doesn’t move or speak again. Just watches you with those impossible to read eyes, blue-pink ombres in the candlelight, and the silence is permission.

You hook your fingers under the fabric and draw it down.

It slides past the bridge of his nose, past the sharp cut of his cheekbones, and the fullness of his face unfolds beneath your hands like something sacred being unwrapped. The line of his mouth, fuller than you imagined, the lower lip bitten faintly pink. The small beauty marks scattered across his skin like constellations you want to map with your fingertips. The jaw, sharp enough to cut, and the way it tightens when your thumb grazes the corner of his mouth.

He is beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful. In the way a fire is. In the way that something dangerous becomes holy when you hold it close enough to burn.

“There,” he breathes, and his voice is stripped bare now, no mask to muffle it, every vibration of it reaching you unfiltered. “Happy now?”

You don’t answer him, too busy committing him to your memory, just how beautiful he truly is. Your thumb is still resting at the corner of his mouth and his lips part just barely under the pressure of it. His breath is warm against the pad of your finger. His eyes are locked on yours and they are not unreadable anymore. They are saying everything his voice refuses to, and you are still unsure of what to make of whatever you find there.

“The ruins,” you whisper. “Four nights ago, when you caught me...”

His jaw flexes under your hand. “You tripped. It would be careless of me to let the Princess fall.”

“You didn’t let go after.”

Silence. His chest rises and falls. You can see the column of his throat work as he swallows.

“Rafayel.” your voice drops to barely a breath because the guards are outside and Natasha is down the hall and this room is the only safe place left in a palace full of eyes and ears. “Why didn’t you let go of me?”

He closes his eyes. When he opens them again, the laziness and the teasing, all of it has burned away like fog in direct sun. What is left underneath is raw and exposed and so full of longing it makes the air between you feel too thick to breathe.

“You know why, Your Highness,” his gloved hand comes up to cover yours where it rests against his face, pressing your palm flat against his cheek, and the tremor in his fingers is the same one you felt in the ruins, the same one he tried to hide. “I can’t seem to be able to stop... Wanting to be close to you.” 

His words wash over you like cold water in a suffocating desert. Your throat works slowly, tasting your words on the tip of your tongue before you actually decide to let him hear them. It was a simple gesture, catching you so you wouldn’t fall. He could just as easily say so, if it truly meant nothing to him. But nothing is ever accidental with Rafayel, you know this.

A simple touch, a simple embrace under the guise of protecting you to not fall was like opening a door between you, one previously closed, partly on his end. A simple gesture of proximity, one he leaned into before he could have stopped himself. One you didn’t mind, but rather wanted more of.

“Be close to me, then.” your eyes lift up to his, thumb stroking gently over his warm face, “I want you close to me, too.” The words land like a bird’s feather, too soft and barely audible, but enough to reach his ears in the closeness of your bodies.

“Words carry meaning, Your Highness,” his voice drops lower. His thumb traces along your knuckles, slow and gentle. “Actions do, too. So be honest with me… Why did you summon me tonight?”

The words hit your sternum like a fist. Your breath leaves you in a rush and your hand fists gently against his cheek and his eyes darken, his pupils swallowing the color, and the distance between you collapses. There’s no room for pretense anymore, not that you really want to anymore, not that you can.

You kiss him.

It is not quite gentle. It is the culmination of weeks of almost and not quite and what if, and your mouth finds his with a desperation that startles you, that feels like falling except you have been falling for weeks and only now hit the surface of whatever waits below. His response is immediate, his hands gripping your waist, fingers pressing into the silk of your nightdress, pulling you flush against him until you can feel the chains and buckles of his coat pressing into your chest, the warmth of him bleeding through every layer of clothing that separates you.

He kisses you back like drowning, like burning, his mouth hot and insistent and tasting faintly of salt, and your hands are in his hair, the strands impossibly soft between your fingers, strands you ached desperately to touch and feel, and now you’re finally permitted to do so. The sound he makes against your lips, low and raw and wrecked, vibrates through your entire body. 

He breaks the kiss first, his forehead dropping against yours, his breathing ragged. His hands haven’t moved from your waist, and his intention of not withdrawing doesn’t miss you even as your thoughts scramble to dust trying to come to terms with the fact that you just kissed him in your chambers in the middle of the night.

“You got no sense of danger whatsoever, Your Highness,” he murmurs against your mouth. The teasing lilt you’re so familiar with is back but it’s thin now, translucent, stretched over something that trembles. “Summoning an Assassin to your room in the middle of the night. Kissing him, too.”

“You kissed me back.”

“Didn’t say I was the smart one either.”

Your laugh is barely a breath before his mouth catches it, kissing the sound from your lips before it fully forms. Then he is turning you, his hands guiding you by the waist until your back meets his chest in an echo of the ruins that makes your skin sing. His arms wrap around you from behind, his chin settling against the curve of your shoulder, and you feel his breath fan hot across the side of your neck, making you shudder from how good it feels, trickling down your feverish body.

“This dress,” he coos, and his gloved fingers splay across your stomach, wide and warm, the leather soft against silk. “This thin little thing...” his thumb traces a slow line from your navel to the base of your ribs and the sensation shivers through you in a wave that you feel in your scalp and between your legs. “You called me here dressed like this? Shameless.” his lips brush the shell of your ear and you can hear the grin in his voice. “Not very princess-like behavior if you ask me, Your Highness.”

Your cheeks burn in both embarrassment and something akin to pleasure, because he’s suddenly switched on you from raw and honest to this version of him you are familiar with yet not at all, at the same time. Your hands come up to rest over his, pressing them closer against your stomach, and you feel the sharp intake of his breath against your damp neck.

“I was not expecting company when I prepared for bed,” you manage, though your voice is embarrassingly breathy.

“Does the Princess know she doesn’t lie very well?” he mouths the word against the hinge of your jaw, and then his lips trail lower, down the column of your neck in a line of barely there kisses that leave heat blooming in their wake like brushstrokes of fire. “You squeezed the fishtail beacon in your hands and thought of me, knowing exactly what you were inviting into your chambers by doing so.”

You tilt your head to give him access and you feel his mouth curve into a smile against your throat before he presses a kiss to the pulse point there, lingering to feel the frantic rhythm of your heart against his lips. His hands map your body with agonizing slowness, the leather of his gloves dragging over the silk in a friction that makes your nerve endings light up, tracing the curve of your waist, the curve of your hips, the dip of your lower back, and your whole body is shivering, leaning back into him, your weight settling against his chest.

“Cold?” he taunts softly, his mouth at the junction of your shoulder and neck now, open and warm.

“You know I’m not cold.” your voice cracks on the last word because his thumb has found your collarbone and is tracing the bone of it so slowly and maddening, that feels like he is drawing you with intentions alone, his finger as featherlight as a paintbrush on canvas.

You reach behind you, your fingers finding the fabric of his hood where it gathers at his shoulders, and you push it back and off, while your hands slide up into his hair, an action that makes him groan against your neck. A low vibration that you feel in your spine. Your fingers tighten and his hips press forward against you involuntarily. The sensation sends heat pooling low in your belly, your legs almost giving out at what you feel pressed against your lower back.

You turn in his arms, a bit impatient. Your hands go to his chest, palms flat against the fabric of his tunic, and beneath your right hand you feel it. A wave of warmth, sharp and sudden, and when you look down you see it through the thin fabric, a red and pulsing glow. The mark on his chest burning to life under your touch like something answering a call.

His whole body goes rigid at your touch, even as a slight shiver runs through him.

“Don’t...” he starts, but his voice fractures on the syllable. Despite his sudden withdrawal, his hands are still on your waist and he is not pulling away. 

“What is this?” you press your palm harder against the glow and his breath stutters out of him in a sound that is almost a whimper, his head tipping back, his throat exposed, his eyes squeezing shut. The image in front of you makes your lips part in surprise and wonder, because yes, you are curious about the mark and have been for a while. But seeing his reaction to your unprompted touch, how he reacts as if you struck him in either pain or pleasure...

“It’s... complicated, Your Highness.” he forces the words out through gritted teeth. “What you have to know it’s that it’s old. It’s... ours.”

Ours.

The word detonates in your chest, and your brain scrambles for meaning, for logic, but finds none. You don’t need to know, not now, at least. You’ll have plenty of opportunities to interrogate him about it another time, but for now, your fingers curl into the fabric of his tunic and you pull him forward. His mouth finds yours again and this time the kiss is slower, deeper, his tongue sliding against yours and his gloved hand coming up to cradle the back of your skull, tilting your head to deepen the angle. You moan against his lips and feel his fingers tighten in your hair.

You walk him backward. It takes effort, he’s taller and solid and his arms are locked around you, but he goes almost willingly, his mouth still on yours, his boot catching on the edge of the rug as he walks. When the backs of his knees hit the mattress of your bed, he sits and you climb into his lap with a gracelessness that burns your ears red.

He pulls back just enough to look at you through heavy, half-lidded ombre eyes. You are straddling his thighs, your nightdress rucked up around your hips, your hands braced on his shoulders, your face flushed and your breathing ragged. The feeling of him under your body, pressed so close you feel his warmth, his solid muscles, and the state you turned him in... all of it sets your whole body alight and your brain is too far gone to really grasp what you just did. But his is not.

The slowest, most devastating grin spreads across his face.

“So bold, Your Highness.” his hands settle on your bare thighs where the silk has ridden up, his thumbs tracing small circles against your skin. The contrast of leather against bare flesh makes you dizzy. His gaze drops to the tangled sheets beneath him, the pillows thrown sideways, the blankets kicked to the floor. “The sheets are a mess. You really couldn’t sleep tonight, could you?”

You were a fool to think he wouldn’t call you out on it, but the way his words drawl, slow and teasing and maddeningly sexy makes you come to the conclusion that you don’t mind a little bit of his teasing, even if it turns your rosy cheeks two shades darker. You press your forehead against his, your fingers knotting in the chain at his collar. “D-Don’t speak like that.”

“Did something trouble the Princess’ mind?” he leans back on one hand, casual and a tad insufferable, even as his other hand slides higher up your thigh with a slowness that makes your muscles clench at how good it feels, the feeling of his cold glove on your bare skin. “Was it a certain Assassin she boldly called in the middle of the night to come put her to sleep?”

“I will throw you off this balcony.” You avert your eyes, suddenly too shy at his words but too stubborn to let him see the full effect his words have on you.

“Promises, promises.” he catches your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your face so the candlelight catches your eyes. The smugness softens, melts into something that makes your throat ache. “You’re blushing so hard, Princess. Your ears are red.”

You bury your face against his shoulder and feel the rumble of his laughter vibrate through his chest against your palms.

“Hey,” his voice gentles, his hand coming up to the back of your neck, fingers threading into the hair at your nape to guide your gaze back to his. “C’mere. Won’t you look at me?”

You lift your head, albeit a little hesitant. Your eyes are wide, you know, bright and pleading, the want in them so naked it terrifies you. You know he sees it, too, by the way his throat bobs slowly, by the way the playfulness drains from his expression like water from cupped hands and what is left is hunger, raw and deep and shaking and it startles you but also makes your body shiver in delight once more. 

He kisses you again, and this time it is not a question nor a hesitation. His slick, soft lips find your trembling ones while his hand slides to the strap of your nightdress. His fingers pause there for a moment. A question in the hesitation, and you answer it by reaching up and sliding the strap off your own shoulder.

“Inviting me into your bed,” he whispers sweetly against the corner of your mouth, his fingers trailing down your arm as the silk falls. “What happens if the guards outside the door hear something and come find the princess in such an... unfit position?”

“Then you’ll have to keep me quiet,” you breathe, swallowing when his eyes go black. Your spine feels like lightning bolted down from the nape of your neck and down to your lower back and then down still, right between where your thighs are bracketing his lap, in the place now moist and throbbing and needing friction you’re still not bold enough to seek.

His mouth descends on your neck, open and hot. His teeth graze the sensitive skin below your ear, making you gasp while his gloved hand comes up to cover your mouth, gentle but firm, muffling the sound against leather.

“Shhh,” he whispers against your throat, and you can feel the smile there. “That’s more like it.”

His hands undress you in pieces, peeling the silk away with a slowness that is both exhilarating and torturous, pressing his mouth to every inch of skin he reveals, your collarbones, the dip between them, the curve of your ribs. His lips trace the shape of you like he is committing your naked body to memory, like he is painting you with his mouth, and every point of contact sends sparks cascading down your spine until you are trembling in his lap, your fingers tangled in his hair, your head tipped back in pleasure while soft sounds escape between your parted lips.

You tug at his coat impatiently and that makes him laugh, low and breathless, shrugging out of it without detaching his mouth from your sternum. His tunic follows, making the red mark on his chest visible where it blazes in the low light, pulsing in time with his heartbeat, so so beautiful. You press your lips to it and he hisses, his hands fisting in the sheets, his hips rolling up against yours.

“F-Fuck,” he breathes, the word sounds punched out of him, unplanned, raw. It does unspeakable things to your own body, shooting precisely between your legs, like an arrow hitting bullseye.

His mouth finds yours again, more hungry now, and his hands are gloveless now. You barely registered when he took them off, but they map the skin of your chest with such gentleness that makes your eyes sting, thumbs tracing and circling your peaked nipples until your back arches and a sound escapes you that you did not know you could make. You guide his hands upper, your fingers wrapped around his wrists, pulling him closer, pressing his palms flat against your breast. He groans into your mouth and you swallow the sound.

“I might be the Assassin, but you are the lethal one here, Princess,” he whispers against your lips before his hand slides lower, down the plane of your stomach, slow and purposeful. In no time, his fingers find the hem of the silk still bunched at your waist and slip beneath it.

Your hands grip his shoulders so hard your knuckles go white. He watches your face with those devastating bicolored eyes, heavy lidded and swallowed by lust, reading every flicker of sensation that crosses your features. His forehead presses against yours and his free hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone in such a tender gesture despite the lust consuming his soul. When his fingers, gentle and knowing and unbearably precise, find how wet you are, the sound you let out is somewhere between a sob and a plea for more of it.

“There she is,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick and dripping with something that sounds like awe disguised as arrogance, probably already knowing the effect it has on you when he weaponizes his honeyed voice as such. “My beautiful Princess.”

He moves his hand in slow, maddening strokes, building a rhythm that tightens every muscle in your body, and when the sounds you make grow too loud his mouth covers yours, absorbing every gasp and whimper against his lips. His other hand presses flat against the small of your back, holding you against him, steady and sure while the rest of you falls apart.

“That’s it, Your Highness,” he whispers against the corner of your mouth, and his voice has gone rough, wrecked and raspy. “Cling to me. I’ve got you, let yourself fall.”

You shatter in his arms with your face buried against his throat, your teeth sinking into your own lip to keep from crying out, your body bowing into his like a wave breaking against shore. He holds you through it, his lips pressing against your temple, your forehead, the damp curl of hair at your ear, murmuring soft nonsense that sounds like your title and his heartbeat and something in a language you don’t recognize, older than either of you, oceanic and aching.

When your breathing steadies, when the tremors slow to aftershocks and you lift your head to look at him, he is wrecked and unrecognizable. His cheeks are flushed dark, the color bleeding into the tips of his ears. His lips swollen and bitten red, and his chest is heaving and the mark on it pulses like a second heart.

He doesn’t rush to the next part, doesn’t even assume there will be more than what he gave you just now. He just gazes down at you, savoring how you look as the highs of pleasure wash over your body in subsiding waves. You just gave a part of yourself to him, one you can never take back but you don’t want to. It is his now. It was his to take so it is his to keep, now and forever. And you want to give him more parts of yourself, feel like he’s the only one who’ll keep you safe and not feeling like a trapped bird.

This was yours to give, and yours to decide how and when to give it. You want to give him so many more parts, no matter what it is he wants to take. A few pieces, more like this one. Your heart, which is already in his possession, even if he is unaware of it. You’ll give him your fleshed heart too, if only he asked.

Yours to have, yours to give. And you choose him to take it.

You cradle his face in your hands. Your thumbs trace the beauty mark beneath his eyes, and your voice, when it comes, is barely a whisper, raspy but full of unspoken feelings. He awaits an answer to a question he doesn’t voice or even attempt to form, but you choose to speak it anyway.

“I’ve made a selfish decision by summoning you here, but I... I want this. I chose this.” your forehead presses against his and your breath mingles warm between your parted lips. “You are my freedom, Rafayel. I choose you to have me and my body... my heart.”

His eyes search yours, and the vulnerability in them is staggering. The kind of openness that looks like it costs him everything. His hands come up to cover yours where they rest against his face, his fingers lacing through yours, trembling.

“How sure are you of this, my beloved Princess?” his voice is barely above a breath. All the teasing turned to something so naked it makes your chest ache, something painful and raw. “Is it truly what you want from me?” his thumb traces the line of your jaw and his gaze drops to your mouth and back to your eyes. “Giving yourself to someone like me... a reckless thing for a Princess to do. Do you truly want me?”

You kiss him slowly, certain of your decision, wanting to make him understand it, too. Your hands slide into his hair, your body pressing flush against his, and when you pull back your lips brush his as you speak.

“There will never be anyone else I want.”

The sound he makes when he registers your soft whisper is something deep, something that starts in his chest where the mark burns red between you and travels through his entire body in a shudder that you feel everywhere your skin touches his. His arms lock around you and he pulls you against him. His mouth finds yours with a ferocity that steals whatever breath you had left, if you even had any.

He lays you back against the tangled sheets with a gentleness that contradicts the desperation in his kiss, settling over you, the weight of him warm and solid and everywhere. The mark on his chest glows between your bodies like something forged in a furnace, the red of it casting your skin in shades of amber and flame.

“Gotta continue to keep quiet for me, Princess,” he breathes against the hollow of your throat, cooing the words in a teasing lilt, but his voice is shaking now, barely held together. “Unless you want the whole palace knowing who you chose to give yourself to tonight.”

You pull him closer by the back of his neck and his hips press forward with the move. It’s what you both want and crave, if the sounds you both make are any indication. Your shared moans are greedily swallowed by each other’s mouths. His hand finds yours on the pillow, fingers interlacing, squeezing tight.

The world narrows to the space between your bodies. To the rhythm of him moving with you, against you, inside you... To the flex of his jaw when he bites back a groan as you squeeze tightly around him. To the way your name sounds when he whispers it against your collarbone like a confession he has been holding in his mouth for lifetimes. 

Your back arches off the mattress when he hits a certain spot, somewhere deep where it’s tender and untouched, and feeling him press there makes your eyes roll back into your head. His arm hooks beneath you, pulling you against him, his forehead pressed to yours, his breathing fractured and raw.

“Fuck, Your Highness...” his voice breaks on the words, his hips stuttering as they thrust inside your warmth. His bare hand presses firm and warm over your mouth when you cry out in pleasure, and the look he gives you is equal parts desperation and lust. “Keep quiet... the guards...”

You can’t. You pull his hand away and replace it with his mouth, kissing him hard, making him groan against your lips. The sound vibrates through your whole body and the sheets are twisted beneath you and his hand is gripping your thigh and pulling you impossibly closer, and you don’t want this moment to stop. You never want to be away from him after tonight, not ever.

“My beautiful Princess,” he gasps against the corner of your mouth when his rhythm falters for a moment, then quickens, his whole body trembling above you. It’s a beautiful tell you recognize as him losing himself inside you, and you assume he is as close to feeling this closeness between you as you are, this shared pleasure. “Your body doesn’t lie... clings to me so tight...”

Your nails drag down his back and he hisses at the sensation, the feeling of them marking his bare skin makes his hips snap forward and makes the bond mark on his chest blazes so bright you see it through your closed eyelids, red and fierce and consuming. You break apart at the same time, or close enough, his face buried against your neck as he spills so much warmth inside you. Your fingers knotted in his hair from how good it feels. The sound he lets out against your skin, muffled and shattered and utterly broken, is the most honest thing you have ever heard him say.

He stays after that.

The candlelight has burned low by the time the trembling stops, by the time your breathing evens out into something resembling relaxation and his heartbeat slows against your back where he has curled around you, his chest warm and bare against your shoulder blades, his arm draped over your waist, his fingers tracing absent patterns on the inside of your wrist. The bond mark still glows faintly, a soft red pulse that matches the cadence of his breathing.

“Stop thinking so loudly,” he mumbles against your hair, and the drawl is back but soft now, heavy with sleep, the consonants blurred. It makes you smile and move closer in his embrace, “M’trying to enjoy this before you kick me out of your bed.”

It’s a jest, you recognize it as such. Yet even as he jokes, your chest feels heavy where his words settle, scraping against your heart like little knives.

“I’m not going to kick you out.”

“Promise?”

There is something in his voice. Something small and young and achingly uncertain, something that lives under all the smirking and carelessness, and it cracks the last wall inside your chest like a fist through thin ice.

You turn in his arms and press your palm flat against the mark on his chest, the red glow warm beneath your hand. You look him in the eyes with a gaze so raw and honest and blurred by the moist of unshed tears, and you tell him.

“I promise.”

His expression does something complicated, and for a moment his mask wavers so completely that you see everything in his eyes. The relief, the ache, the love so vast and old it seems to spill beyond the borders of this single life. Then he blinks and the smirk ghosts back across his lips, smaller now, gentler, like a muscle memory he can’t quite shake.

“Good,” he whispers, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips warm and impossibly soft. “‘Cause I wasn’t gonna leave anyway.”

His eyes close and his breathing slows. His arm tightens around you in his sleep, an involuntary , instinctive thing, as though even unconscious his body refuses to let go of something it has waited too long to hold.

You lie in the dark with his heartbeat against your palm and the fading glow of the mark beneath your fingers and for the first time in your life, you feel like something that belongs to you.

Outside the window, the desert stretches to the horizon. The dunes roll in smooth, undulating waves under the moonlight, pale gold and endless.

If you look long enough, they almost look like the sea.

© zaynessbeloved 2026. please don’t copy, repost or translate my works. thank you!

if you liked it, you can buy me a coffee here! it would be very appreciated<3: https://ko-fi.com/zaynessbeloved

.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!

taglist: @syluslittlecrows, @asiaticapple, @youkoden @w0ndert1nk

[ao3rivoli]

juggling act

explicit 🔞 | sylus/reader | 3.2k summary: under the big top, you and sylus perform with his traveling circus for audiences night after night. in the privacy of your own tent, a different show takes place between just the two of you. tags: circus au, clown!mc, ringmaster!sylus, daddy kink, pseudo-incest, impact play, degradation kink, fucked dumb, choking, overstimulation, mean dom!sylus, dom/sub dynamics, bdsm, size difference author's note: this fic can also be read on ao3! for the lovely @wifechu. friendly heads up that there are mentions of reader being raised by sylus. everyone is an adult at present time and there is no underage sex. please mind the tags!

You sit in front of the vanity within your tent, basking in the warm glow of exposed bulbs that border the mirror as you languish removing your makeup. It turned out perfect today, made even better with how it's held up after hours of performing. The heart-shape of your lipstick that over-accentuates your cupid's bow, the bright red circles on your cheeks, the large diamonds over your eyes that eclipse your brows and are then punctuated by the tiny hearts upon each of your bottom lids. All the better with the bright red ball over the tip of your nose.

Every night under the dazzling lights of the big top feels like a dream. Nothing compares to the high of the crowd's laughter when you come out between the other performances. After years of entertaining, many skills encompass your act—juggling while balanced on your unicycle, pulling long lines of colourful scarves from your throat, making elaborate balloon animals, among others. The array smiles your see in the crowd gives you a rush like nothing else can.

Most of all, is that one particular smile—or perhaps it's better to call it a smirk—that you look for each night, watching you from the parted backstage curtain.

Here, you catch that same gaze through the reflection of your mirror, already having snuck up on you while you were lost in thought.

The ringmaster stands behind you, still dressed to the nines in his top hat and red tailcoat, tight waist brought in by his tighter waistcoat and the breeches that lead into his sleek riding boots. All of it trimmed in black and gold, a long-honed aesthetic that suits him well. Then of course, attached to his hip, you see the braided whip used to garner the attention of rowdy crowds each time it cracks the air.

He takes off the hat and places it atop the vanity, shaking his sweat-slicked hair until it falls in a messy shag of silver, then brushes it over his forehead and out of his sly, red eyes.

In this line of work, you have gotten to know many adrenaline addicts—it's an essential trait, here under the big top. Trapeze artists, tight-rope walkers and sword swallowers all require some degree of daring recklessness to do what they do so well each night. But none of them have ever held a candle to Sylus.

More than just your ringmaster, Sylus is the very definition of a daredevil.

You think you must have traced each and every scar that litters his skin—the burns from where he's been scorched by roaring flames or slashed by poorly aimed throwing knives. Motorcycle crashes that have left him near-mangled and falls from heights that could kill lesser men. Each plane of his body is marred by years of his death-defying stunts, embedding within him a story behind each one.

During long nights in your shared bed, you've prodded him about many of them, having laid awake in his arms as he recounts each near-death experience. Most he regales with a certain bravado—bragging about his fearless pursuits and relishing as if he speaks from some untouchable throne of immortality. Others, the ones from his earliest days in the company, come with a hollowness to his tone. These he tells as though the goal wasn't the adrenaline high, but the approach to death itself.

But these days, the light behind his eyes burns wholly for the thrill of making it out alive than not. At least, this is has been true since you've joined his company, and many years have passed since he picked you off the streets and raised you like you were his own.

Now, in your adulthood, you belong to him in a different sense.

"Let me help you undress, kitten." Sylus pulls you from your thoughts, guiding you to stand, taking your hand in his and spinning you around to face him. He cups your chin between his fingers, tilting you up to look at him just in time for you to catch his charmed smile. A thumb taps the red ball glued to your nose, then sweeps across your bottom lip, smudging your lipstick ever so slightly. He nearly giggles. "So cute."

"You're already getting distracted," you mutter against his touch, thankful for the thick layer of makeup masking your blush.

"Forgive me, I was unaware you were in such a rush. Anticipating something?"

You shiver, but before you can answer, his thumb presses between your lips, into your mouth where it traces along your molars, your tongue, begging you to latch on and suck. The concept of restraint evades you as always, and your lips wrap around him with an unprompted obedience.

Sylus' other hand traces down to your bust, where just underneath your breasts, your blouse tucks into your corset. His fingers take only the most perverted route to his destination, groping and pinching your nipple over the fabric. You moan around his thumb, your own hands fumbling to grip his coat if only to compensate for your weakening knees. Eventually, he pulls your shirt up and out of the corset, undoing each button slowly, until finally it's off of your body.

The thumb in your mouth is soon removed, the wet tip of it moving to rub against your bare nipple, flicking it, tweaking it, then pulling sharply. Before you can say a word, Sylus makes quick work of busying your empty mouth with his tongue instead.

The intensity of his kiss paired with the roughness of his hands against you has you buckling underneath him, legs squeezing together with arousal as you nearly fall. But Sylus knows you well, his hands moving from your breasts to your thighs, lifting you into his arms as his fingertips bruise into your flesh. Before you can even wind your arms around his neck, he's already throwing you onto the bed, your body landing with a bounce against the plush mattress.

Immediately, Sylus is taking your stocking-covered legs and pulling them up until they're pressed flushed against him, both ankles held in one large large hand as the other massages against your calf, down to your thigh, underneath your skirt to grope at your ass. You feel him hardening, rutting against you with a grind in mimicry of penetration.

"I have some notes on your performance tonight, kitten," he says sternly as he kisses at the pad of your foot.

You keen at the ticklish sensation, interrupted only by the feel of his fingers over your panties, drawing the fabric between your folds. "W–what do you mean?"

"I'm always watching you very closely. You're the most essential part of the show, after all—making sure the audience is kept entertained, never left wanting, between each act. Isn't that right?"

"Yes," you answer, already a little dizzy from the implication.

"Yes, who?"

As naturally as breathing, you melt into his dominance. "Yes, daddy."

"That's right. Good girl," he groans, grinding his hips against you as his cock twitches in his breeches. "We both know that your performance best reflects the entire show—my entire show. It means, kitten, that each time you make a mistake, I need to make sure it doesn't go unpunished. Do you know how many you made tonight?"

You shake your head, tongue heavy in your mouth.

"Tsk. Are you so unprofessional? That's not how I raised you. Five, kitten. Five mistakes." Sylus bares that look of near-disappointed, eyebrows drooping as he regales your inadequacy. Even so, he draws his fingers to graze over your clit, your hips bucking into him.

"I'm sorry, daddy."

"Apologizing isn't good enough. We have a reputation to uphold. I can't have you falling off your unicycle every night, now can I?" he scolds, then releases your legs, letting them fall over the edge of the bed. "Turn over."

You head his command immediately, rolling so your stomach is pressed into the duvet. His rough hands knead your thighs, your ass, spreading your cheeks as he gropes them apart. Then he's removing your skirt and undergarments, dragging them down over your colourful stockings until you're left exposed.

There's a moment of silence, of stillness, when Sylus' touch disappears. All you can do is breathe through your anticipation, knowing that if you turn to look it'll only result in further punishment. These are the rules you know well.

Then, you feel it. The drag of narrow leather against your skin, the gooseflesh prickling in its trail.

In these moments, Sylus never likes to rush. Every movement is slow and meditated, entrancing you in the careful movement of the whip against your flesh. Languidly, it soothes over your ass, between your legs and lightly over your entrance. Then it sweeps across your back, skimming your corset. Like this, it's hard to imagine it as anything but a living creature in Sylus' command—the snake-like way it winds along your skin, coiling around your legs, the thin tip of its tail that begs to slither up inside of you. The teasing bite as it lightly rasps against the meat of your thighs. A warning.

Then a crack.

You hear the whip snap, the sound of it echoing in your ears, cunt clenching involuntarily and heart skipping a beat. Except it doesn't make impact, colliding with the ground instead even as you reel away as though you were the one who was hit. Already, your breath comes fast and hard.

The laugh Sylus lets out is devilishly mocking, degrading you with his tone alone before his words follow suit. "Why are you squirming, kitten? Are you afraid?"

You shake your head. "No."

Crack!

The corded leather rasps against your ass, the tail of it striking with practiced precision and leaving a burning sting. You cry out, toes curling, body begging you to shuffle away as the whip leaves a ghost of pain on your skin.

"That's for lying to me," Sylus says as you sense him approach, his fingers tracing over the hot mark he's left on you. "The rest are for your mistakes tonight. I'll need you to count, sweetie, to make sure this gets through that empty little head of yours."

You swallow, nodding. "Yes, daddy."

"And that was?"

"One."

His smirk bleeds through his tone. "Good girl."

Then his touch disappears, boots padding against the soft ground, the distance between you growing. You raise your hips in anticipation.

The second hit lands with that same sound barrier-breaking boom, the rapid ripple of thin leather that streaks across your ass once again, leaving behind that bruising heat. You flinch reflexively, already feeling the tears welling in your eyes. "Two," you moan.

Before you have the chance to recover, another strike hits your skin, then one more in quick succession, this time swiping the meat of your thighs. You can't help your calves kicking up, tears now streaming from your eyes as you bury your face in the mattress, red nose letting out a pathetic honk as it presses into the duvet.

"Count, sweetie. Don't go dumb on dad already," he chides, stern.

"Ah, I'm—sorry, I'm sorry. three and—hic—four." The words come out a strangled mess, punctuated by little sobs. Pain radiates from your thighs and your cheeks, blooming as if encompassing the whole of your body. But even so, wetness drips between your legs, soaking into the bed, trailing down to the edge of your stockings. You feel your insides throb with want, each spike of pain sending an equal spike of pleasure through you.

One more crack resounds, the tail of the whip swatting against your ass once again.

"Five, five," you breathe, frantic to obey his command before you can't any longer. The sting sucks all thought from you, head spinning with enough velocity that you feel as though you're floating.

Sylus' hand comes to sooth along your ass once again, each touch causing your hips to buck as he presses into your new bruises. "Look at you, all red and pretty. I can feel it—all that blood rushing to the surface, so hot right there under your skin. It must hurt, doesn't it? See, if you didn't lie to me earlier, it would already be over. I hope this teaches you to do better, kitten."

Each word of mocking has you keening, whimpering, arousal thrumming in response.

Then Sylus is backing away once again, leaving you to stew in the humiliation, but most importantly, the anticipation of that final strike. Your breathing comes heavy; a fearful in-out, in-out, in-out. In tandem sounds your rapid pulse; a synchronized thud, thud, thud.

Once again, the whip softly drags against your skin, cool leather cording between your cheeks, your folds, slick from the wetness that's pooled from your entrance. Despite your fear, you still attempt to rut into that thin tail between your legs, desperate for its contact. Even such a light weight against you has you moaning, wanton.

So of course, it vanishes.

A pause.

A hum from Sylus' throat.

A click of his tongue.

Crack!

The whip lashes one last time, slapping your ass with the most intensity and force you've felt tonight—pain becoming pleasure becoming pain again as it melds with the welts already forming on your delicate skin. You see stars, maybe even catch a glimpse of heaven itself as you let out a cry that's impossible to hold back.

Without even recognizing it, you're coming from the impact alone, untouched by Sylus' hands and cock—his whip alone being all you need to find release. You writhe, hips rocking into the air with your ecstasy before you collapse, breathless, onto the bed.

Time must skip forward, because suddenly Sylus' mouth is next to your ear, his fingers slithering inside of your throbbing cunt. "Since when were you so easy, kitten?"

"I'm—" you try to speak, but the hammering thrusts within you melt your brain and the words die along with it.

"Shh, don't worry. Dad's got you." Sylus then licks into your ear, the wet slosh of his tongue sending ripples through your sensitive nerve endings, your cunt clenching on his thick fingers.

Your moans come stuttered, cutting yourself off only to whimper again, louder. You can feel your climax building inside of you once again, each curl of Sylus' fingers against your walls bringing you nearer and nearer, hips raising to meet him as you hang just off the edge.

But just as you feel yourself begin to fall, his fingers leave. Sylus laughs as you whine, unable to find the ability to protest his ruthless edging properly, rendered powerless to his devilish whims. You're not left wanton for long, however, as Sylus crawls over you. His immense frame crushes you into the mattress, enormous cock rutting between your folds as you're caged by his size and strength. Lips fall to your neck—sucking, biting, the marks left by his whip clearly no longer enough to satisfy him.

Finally, his cock begins to enter you. "That's it, princess. Open up for daddy."

No matter how many times you've taken him, the stretch of his cock always leaves you dizzy as he slots inside. His hips crush against your ass, your thighs, reminding you again of the way they sting so beautifully. Sylus wastes not a second before fucking into you, caring nothing for the tenderness of your welts as he slams against you with each thrust of his cock, pistoning again and again and again.

"Daddy—dad, 'so good, so—" you moan, thoughts punched out of you as his cock fucks you open. All that's left is your desire, your want for more and more even as your mind and body break underneath him.

He snarls, teeth nipping at your neck before they're replaced with his hand wrapping around your throat instead, possessive. "Fuck, so tight on my cock."

You tighten even more, the pressure to your airway sending head-spinning ripples of electricity through you. You're close, you know you're close, and you can feel him too—the throb of his cock, the tell-tale quickening of his thrusts as he pounds into you.

Sylus' fingers squeeze once more. "Come for me, kitten. Dad wants to feel you."

The hand on your throat, the crushing weight caging you in, the slap of his hips against your bruises, all of him work in wonderful tandem to bring you to release—your body curling in his hold as climax overtakes all other feeling. Sylus fucks you until you're growing numb with the overloaded ecstasy, sensation leaving you save for the clenching on his cock as it drives in over and over, uncaring for your overstimulation.

"Dad, I can't, 's too much," you gasp, garbled by your heavy tongue and the fog clouding your brain.

"You can take it," he growls, hips rocking into you sharper, harder. Each thrust has your welts singing with pain, the slap of his skin against your skin not unlike the crack of the whip as the sound of hedonism fills your tent. Sylus doesn't stop, not even as your nails dig into the duvet to pull yourself away from his relentless rhythm. An arm curls around your torso, dragging you back onto his cock, his other hand squeezing your throat in punishment for your attempt at escape.

"Daddy," you sputters, choked in his hold, and with a growl, Sylus comes.

His hips rock into you with hard, slow thrusts, each one grinding against your ass, pumping you as full as possible. You feel his cock twitch inside of you until finally, he's completely emptied into your overstimulated cunt, breath heavy in your ear as his hand drops away from your neck.

Before he has the chance to truly crush you underneath him, Sylus rolls over, bringing you to lay on his chest. His softening cock leaves behind a trail of pooling come that dribbles onto his breeches. All you can find the energy to do is paw at his still-clothed chest, fingers fumbling to tear open the buttons. At last, you can nuzzle into his chest hair, fucked out and content as you rest against his heartbeat.

As the open air cools against the heat of your welts, you groan into his skin. "I won't be able to walk tomorrow."

Sylus laughs, languidly dragging his fingers over the forming bruises. "And that's a problem?"

You guffaw. "I have to perform!"

He kisses your cheek, then pulls away to card a hand through your hair as he takes in the sight of your now-ruined makeup. Even with your hard work made into such a mess, through his eyes, you still feel beautiful. Sylus smiles, squeezing your big red nose until it squeaks. "We'll figure something out, kitten."

You sigh, but can't quite find the energy to be truly irritated. Any more protest has already been fucked out of you. "You always say that."

With that daredevil's glint in his eye, Sylus smirks. "The show must go on."

[agalore]

Stay With Me (LADS Rafayel 18+)

Prompt: Ebb Day with Rafayel.

MDNI. 18+ Explicit Content. Overstim, Unprotected Sex, Creampi, oral, fingering, size kink, teasing, cuddling.

Not going to lie, I was holding off on posting this until after I read the new card for him in case I wanted to make changes but I injured my wrist and am stuck in a brace. Soooo, I am basically posting it as is. Sorry for the delay for nothing lol.

Part of the prequals for my unplanned pregnancy fic.

See Sylus, Xavier & Caleb. Zayne coming eventually. :)

A soft groan floats through the car as you weave through traffic. Glancing over, you see Rafayel was leaning against the window, eyes closed, brow knit in discomfort and a light sheen of sweat on his skin. You can’t tell if he has finally fallen asleep or not.

Taking your hand off the gear shift, you slide it over into his lap, lacing your fingers with his cool, limp hand. His hand immediately responds, gripping yours tightly as your thumb gently draws circles on the back of his in an effort to ease his stress. 

We’ll be back soon. You think to yourself as you speed up more. Why in the world did he agree to do that event if he knew it was ebb day? Did he not know?

Anxiety flares up in your stomach as a car passes by. Out of the corner of your eye you can see a few small scales decorating Rafayel's neck. You hope you can get him home before more visible symptoms appear. The last thing he needs is someone seeing him like this… 

After what seemed like an eternity, you finally arrive at Rafayel’s home. You waste no time, guiding him into the house as calmly as possible, in case anyone was outside watching. As soon as you enter the house Rafayel wraps his arms around you from behind and drops his head into your neck. 

"We're home, Raf." You murmur, keeping your voice steady, a soft hand running through his damp hair. He barely responds, just pressing his face more firmly against your pulse point. 

You can feel the heat radiating off his skin. It was colder than a normal person ran but right now he felt warm to the touch and you knew that wasn't right.

Stumbling down the hall as he clung to you from behind, you finally make it to the bedroom. As you approach the bed, you twist around in his arms to face him and try to untangle him from your waist. He doesn't let you, instead he pulls you tightly to him, pressing his face into your hair. 

"Rafayel. Lets get you changed and in bed," You say patiently. He lets out a low, miserable sound, the kind that tugs straight at something inside your chest. “... I’ll get in bed with you. Please?”

“...Fine,” a gravely voice finally responds. You'd be lying if you said that sound did nothing to you. He steps back only enough to gently pull his jacket from his shoulders, then work the buttons of his shirt open one by one. He watches you through heavy, barely-open eyes, too exhausted to be theatrical about it. His shirt parts. You try not to notice the lean lines of his torso and fail. Letting the shirt fall away, you push him gently until he falls back onto the bed. 

"Stay." He croaks. 

"I'm not going anywhere." You reassure him quietly, reaching over and pulling the blanket up over him. He catches your wrist.

"Stay." He repeats, firmer this time. His thumb traces a slow, absent circle over the inside of your wrist as he stares at you, eyes hazy with discomfort and something cloudier underneath. He looked like himself and not himself at the same time. Weaker. Vulnerable. Yet his stare was unrelenting. 

You clear your throat and sit down on the edge of the bed, slipping your jacket off and discarding it on the floor. "I'm right here." Your free hand moves to his forehead, pushing the damp strands of lilac hair back from his face in a slow, repetitive motion. His eyes flutter. His grip on your wrist loosens only slightly. You keep going, brushing his hair back over and over until the furrow between his brows slowly starts to smooth out.

"You're so warm." He mumbles eventually, sounding weak and rough.

"You're cold." You correct softly.

A ghost of something that might've been a smirk twitches at his mouth. "Exactly." He closes his eyes all the way. Crawling further onto the bed to be closer to him, his hand slips from your wrist down to your waist, pulling you closer. You curl up beside him and continue to stroke his hair, shoulders, face, chest, anywhere you could easily touch. The tension visibly drains out of his body with each caress. Soft sighs and groans slip through his lips. You watch his breathing slowly even out, the rigid set of his jaw softening. The few tiny scales that had started to appear were already fading away as he dozes off finally. You continue stroking his body for a while, enjoying how he seemed to lean into your touch even in his sleep. Finally your hands pause, as you quietly watch him.

You sit still, just taking his beauty. The slope of his collarbones, his long eyelashes, full lips, toned chest. He truly was a masterpiece. If he didn’t seem so miserable then you’d think he was cute like this.All needy and clingy. 

When his hand finally goes slack around your waist, you wait another few breaths before carefully sliding free. He doesn't stir. Easing yourself off the bed inch by inch, you let out a quiet exhale once you're standing. 

You need water. Both of you, honestly.

Slipping out of the bedroom, you pad quietly to the kitchen. His home was a comfortable mess the way it always was. You navigate around the chaos and pull two glasses from the cabinet, filling them up with cold water. Your reflection stared back at you in the dark kitchen window. You look a little flustered. Understandable. It's been a long day.

You take a long, slow drink.

When you return back to the hall, you stop. Rafayel is standing in the bedroom doorway.

He was still barefoot, blanket abandoned, wearing only the loosened trousers from earlier. His shoulder was braced against the door frame and he was watching you with an expression you couldn't quite read. His hair was in disarray from the pillow. His skin had taken on a faint, barely perceptible luminescence.

"You were gone." He says. His voice comes out lower than normal. Rougher.

"I went to get water." You hold up both glasses as evidence. Keeping your tone easy. Normal. You start walking back towards him.

He doesn't move from the doorway.

You make it about halfway down the hall before something shifts in his expression. The slightly glazed, hazy look is still there but as his eyes track your every movement, you notice something else has climbed in alongside it. Something intense. 

You slow. "Raf?"

He pushes off the door frame and meets you in the middle of the hall.

He doesn't say anything. He just reaches out and takes both glasses from your hands and sets them on the sideboard against the wall in one smooth motion without looking away from you. Then his hands find your waist and he walks you backward the two steps until your back meets the wall.

Your breath catches.

Up close you can feel the warmth coming off him in waves, uncharacteristic and heavy. His hands were spread wide on your hips, pressing enough that you could feel each individual fingertip. He looks down at you with those half-lidded eyes and whatever was soft and vulnerable earlier has shifted into something altogether more dangerous.

"I thought you left." He says quietly.

"I just went to get water, Rafayel." You say back, with slightly less composure than before. Lifting your hand, you cup his cheek gently. 

"I know." He tilts his head into your palm. His thumb draws a slow drag across your hip. "I still didn't like it."

Then he closes the remaining distance and kisses you.

It wasn't soft or tentative the way you might have expected from someone who'd been asleep ten minutes ago. It was immediate. One hand left your hip to cup the back of your head as though keeping you in place, and his mouth moved over yours like he'd been planning this since the moment he woke up to an empty bed. You felt the wall solid behind your shoulders and his body solid in front and no space between either.

You tried to turn your head to get a breath in but he followed closely behind.

"Raf-" You managed between kisses.

"Still here." He murmured back, more to himself than you. He kissed along your jaw, down the slope of your neck. You felt his lips part against your pulse as your hand slid from his cheek into his hair.

"Wait, Raf! You were so weak a bit ago... You should rest." Your voice came out with considerably less authority than intended.

"I'm resting." He said against your throat.

"Let's at least go back to the bedroom-" You gasp. He bit down, lightly, at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, and the rest of that sentence dissolved entirely.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, reading your expression with needy, demanding eyes. His thumb brushed a strand of hair from your face with a tenderness that was almost at odds with his previous actions. "Tell me to stop." He says, and the offer was genuine.

Shaking your head, you lean up and capture his lips again. You could feel a satisfied smile take hold of his lips before sinking into your kiss. His lips moved slower this time, more deliberate, yet it somehow felt more domineering, leaving no room for pushback. His hands moved, sliding down your sides until they found the hem of your shirt, tugging it loose. You helped him pull it over your head and he dropped it somewhere behind him without a glance.

He looked at you for a long moment.

"You have no idea," He began, reaching up to trace the line of your collarbone with just his fingertips, voice low and close to your ear, "how much it helps to look at you." He pressed a kiss beneath your jaw. "To touch you." Another one to the corner of your mouth. His hands worked the clasp of your bra with a patience that felt deliberate given what was clearly boiling underneath all of it.

He slid the straps down and discarded that too. His mouth moved down to your breasts, sucking a sensitive nipple into his mouth before nipping it gently. Your insides clench as switches back and worth with a thoroughness that made your nails dig into his bare shoulders. His hands mapped your sides, your ribs, the dip of your waist. It was like he was taking inventory, like you were something he had been denied and was now reclaiming.

When he reached the waistband of your jeans his fingers paused, asking without asking. Your hips twitch, already answering before your brain could process.

"Yes." You breathed. 

He smiles against your chest before sinking to his knees in front of you, leaving open-mouth kisses down your stomach as he slowly unzips your jeans. He hooks his fingers on the edge of pants and panties, then begins leisurely dragging them down your legs, his mouth trailing closely behind. You could feel how wet you were, dripping slowly sliding down your folds. You knew he could see how wet you were so closely right now and it made you imagine what he will do next as you shiver in arousal. You feel him grab your ankle, helping you step out and discard your clothes elsewhere in the hallway. His hand never leaves your ankle.  

Turning back to you, he lifts your ankle, giving it an affectionate kiss before dragging his lips up. You lean back against the wall and find nothing steady to hold. Noticing your instability, he chuckles before hooking your leg on his shoulder. “Having trouble, cutie?” he teases, before continuing to kiss and bite his way up your inner thigh. You can feel yourself leaking more, and Rafayel’s awareness is confirmed when he groans, licking up the mess as he reaches your upper thighs.

"Raf-" your thought is cut off as his mouth reaches the apex of your thighs. A warm tongue makes contact with your folds, running up you until it reaches your clit. Your hands dig into his hair as he begins to press his tongue firmly into you, rhythmically stroking your clit with his tongue as he licks up your wetness. Moans fill up the room and you feel your legs go weak. 

It was thorough and it was relentless. Before long, his hand joins his mouth, a long finger slipping inside your tight, slick walls. “You taste sooo good, cutie,” his deep voice groans against you. “Let me taste you some more.”

At this point, the wall behind you was the only reason you were still upright. Another finger entered you, massaging you as his tongue firmly continues to torture you. Your sensitivity grows and grows, and all you want to do is close your legs for a moment. However, he had your thigh locked over his shoulder, holding you open with an unbreakable grip while you were rapidly losing the ability to think in complete sentences.

"You're-" You gasped. "You're going to kill me."

A low, pleased sound rumbled against you. Infuriating. You could feel the shape of his smile. He pressed deeper, tongue moving in a slow, devastating drag, and you felt the edge rushing up 

before you were ready for it.

You came against the wall with his name in your mouth and both hands in his hair, thighs trembling.

He didn't stop immediately, drawing it out until your grip went slack and you were slumped against the wall, chest heaving. Only then did he ease back, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh that was almost unbearably gentle after all of that, before straightening to his feet.

He looks insufferably pleased with himself. Yet even that could not overpower the flushed, disheveled, utterly deprived appearance caused by his heightened arousal. Leaning forward, he braces a hand against the wall beside your head and looks down at you.

"Still think I should be resting?" He asked.

"You're awful." You managed.

He grinned. It was a real one, the sudden bright kind he only ever let out by accident. Before you could argue, he kissed you again. You could taste yourself on his lips. Just as your legs are about to give out, Rafayel pulls you against him, a low sound of amusement against your lips.

"I've got you." He murmured.

His hands work his own slacks open, your own hands reaching out to help, pushing them down. He kicks them away towards your clothes then he presses you back against the wall, his hand sliding down your hip before hooking it under your thigh. Seconds later, your thigh is yanked up, hooked onto his forearm, spreading you open for him once again. His mouth drops to your throat as you feel the blunt press of his thick, blunt cockhead against your entrance.

He pushes in. 

Groans escape both of you as the head pops inside. You can feel your walls stretching beyond their normal limits to accommodate him. Why does he feel bigger?  

He continues to push, gasps catching in your throat as your walls spasm around him. Rafayel bites down on your neck, fighting the urge to just shove himself inside. His hips twitch, tiny thrusts occasionally winning out, pushing him deeper.

After what feels like an eternity, he bottoms out. You feel incredibly full, unconsciously trying to shift your hips for relief. However, Rafayel grips your hip, locking you both firmly together. His forehead presses against yours, jaw tight from restraint. A rough exhale leaves him as he presses his hips against yours for relief. You arched into it, adjusting, the stretch of him making your breath come unevenly. He hikes up your thigh further, the new angle allowing him to sink in slightly deeper. Your nails bite into his shoulder. Your insides spasm around him in a pathetic protest. 

"Good?" He pressed a kiss to your temple. Jaw. Corner of your mouth.

"G-Good." You confirmed, voice ragged.

He started to move.

The wall behind you holds steady as the roll of his hips, slow and deep, finds a rhythm that has your eyes wanting to close. His mouth traces over your collarbone, your neck, like he needs to keep touching you to remember himself. Maybe he did. 

His pace built gradually, deep and deliberate, turning urgent and rough. His cock was now pummeling through your walls as they spasm against it. His breathing grew ragged against your neck. "You feel-" A broken sound. His grip on your thigh tightened. "God, you feel perfect." It came out muffled against your skin, stripped of performance, just the raw edge of it.

It undid you a little.

You turned your head and found his mouth and kissed him through all of it, the increasingly desperate rhythm, the broken sounds, his free hand moving between you to press his thumb against your clit. You cried out into his mouth.

"There." Low and certain. He did it again.

You could feel it winding up fast and tight, too much stimulation from too many directions. "Raf! I'm going to-"

"I know." He didn't ease up. His thumb moved in small, firm circles. "Let go." His mouth was at your ear, his voice raspy with arousal. "Come on. Cum." It was almost a plea.

The second orgasm crashed into you harder than the first. Your whole body locks up and he drives through it, chasing his own release, and somewhere in the blur of it you hear a rough groan against your neck as he buries himself deep and goes still. You feel his hips twitch as warmth floods inside you. Cum fills you until you feel uncomfortably full, it feels like so much more than you’d ever felt before. Rafayel makes it worse by grinding it deeper and deeper into you. After some time, you both still, catching your breath.

He stays pressed against you, forehead heavy on your shoulder, catching his breath. His grip on you hadn't loosened. If anything, it tightened. Both of his arms wrap around your lower back, pulling you flush against him even now. Like the thought of any space between you was still intolerable. While part of you feels uncomfortably full, part of you wants more. Wrapping your arms around him, you tightly hug him, matching his possessive hold. A groan of approval reverberates against your shoulder. 

You giggle shakily and your insides squeeze down. A gasp blesses your ears from the man inside you. You could feel him hardening again already. Your head felt foggy but arousal was somehow still burning through you. 

Slowly you feel Rafayel start to shift, his hips twitching with desire to move again. "Raf…" You said eventually.

A harsh exhale against your shoulder. "It’s your fault."

"Rafayel."

"Can I keep going?" He asks, more quietly. Raising his head, his eyes looked so sweet and needy. Impossible to refuse. "You're so warm… Please?" His hips grinding a bit into you as you clench down on his cock. 

Hypnotised by his beauty and vulnerability while overwhelmed by your own arousal, you nod without thinking. A mischievous smirk tugs at his lips as he leans down to kiss you. Lifting you up, he wraps your legs around his waist then carries you back to the bedroom with the calm confidence of someone who just got exactly what they wanted. He lays you down on the bed without breaking away from your lips, covering your body with his own. As round two starts, and he digs into you even more aggressively than before, you realize this isn’t going to end anytime soon. Matching his intensity, you give into your desires for closeness and let the rest wait until tomorrow.

—

Watching the sunrise, you lay in bed in a half-asleep daze. You aren’t sure either of you will be doing anything today but at least Rafayel feels better. Behind you, Rafayel pulls you closer in his sleep. His face nuzzles into your neck. Whatever tension ebb day had wound through his bones had finally, completely released.

Shifting yourself slightly, you feel the mess he left behind leak from where you are connected.

You sigh, realizing that you two failed to use protection again. However, you were either too tired or too high from the night to care deeply about it.

Shifting back until you are flush against him, you let yourself follow him into dreamland.

______________________________________________________________

I hope you enjoy! I seldomly do a thorough proofread, so apologies for any errors.

[healmydesires]

it’s like supernatural

❥ pairing: sylus qin x fem!reader

❥ summary: “You have been playing the game for a long time. You have always chosen him. What you don’t know — yet — is that he has always chosen you too. A love story about a soul that travels further than it was ever supposed to, and the person on the other side who simply refuses to let the distance be permanent.”

❥ genre: fluff + angst + smut (18+ mdni)

❥ word count: 72,4K (I am insane and not normal about sylus <3)

❥ warnings/tags: reverse isekai au, isekai, breaking the fourth wall, self aware!sylus, mild hurt/comfort, emotional/sensitive!reader, reincarnation au, very long fic, in-game canon but isekai causes divergence, slice of life, domesticity, longing/yearning, banter, sylus the rage baiter. reader is audhd coded but anyone can read it. universe traveling. sylus is soft for reader, flirting/teasing, reader is shorter than sylus. inexperienced/virgin!reader. loss of virginity, unprotected sex, piv sex, soft!dom sylus, just in overall soft!sylus. sub!reader, vaginal fingering, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie, overstimulation, size kink, slight daddy kink… I’m sorry <3, oral fixation, breeding kink, praise kink, pet names (kitten, sweetie, sweetheart, etc.), morning sex, tooth rotting fluff sometimes.

⟶ a/n: oh wow… I am still emotional after creating and finishing this fic. this fanfic is like as if I’m sharing a piece of my soul with the world. why? you ask? because this is my maladaptive daydream scenario, my comfort dream whenever I need some escape from the real world. and sharing this story with the world is something very vulnerable to me. I can’t describe how much this story means to me. 🥹🥺 english is not my first language. and like always. pls be gentle with me. 🥺 either way I never know how to write fic in a short format so enjoy another lengthy fic from me again! also because I don’t wanna post it in parts you’ll have a sneakpeek on tumblr but to read the story in its full length you’ll have to head to ao3. thank you and I hope y'all love it as much as I loved writing it! 💘 title inspired by the song ‘supernatural’ by ariana grande. 🌙💖

this goes without saying, but if you don’t like it don’t read it <3

AO3 • masterlist

The evening has gone soft around the edges.

Outside your window, the last of the daylight is fading — not the sharp early-dark of deep winter anymore, but something gentler, something that lingers a little longer than it did a month ago. The cold is still there, still present in the chill that seeps through the window glass and settles along the baseboards, but it has lost some of its certainty lately. There is something underneath it now, something tentative and green, like the world is quietly considering its next move. Not spring yet. Not quite. But the suggestion of it, somewhere close, waiting just around a corner that hasn’t arrived yet.

The streetlights flicker on one by one against the pale dusk. Somewhere down the street a car passes with its music too loud, then fades into nothing. The world outside carries on without you.

You let it.

Right now you are horizontal on your couch, legs tucked under the blanket — the worn one, the good one, the one with the loose threading along the hem that you keep meaning to fix and never do. There’s a mug of tea going lukewarm on the coffee table beside you. There are approximately three things you should be doing tonight. A message you haven’t replied to. A load of laundry sitting in the machine, damp and forgotten. Something else you’ve already stopped being able to remember.

None of it feels particularly urgent.

Your iPad is in your hands.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

The app opens.

The loading screen blooms into existence — all pale light and soft geometry, gentle curves tracing orbits across a white-silver background, small spheres drifting along their paths like something planetary and dreaming. Quiet and a little otherworldly, like looking at a map of something you don’t have the language to name yet.

Then the screen finishes loading, and there he is.

He’s sitting in the cafe the way he sometimes is — settled into the armchair with that quality of ease that looks effortless but isn’t, one leg crossed over the other, dressed in something soft and dark. The cafe surrounds him: warm lamplight, shelves slightly out of focus in the background, trailing vines catching the amber glow from somewhere off-screen. It’s the kind of space that feels like late afternoon-evening regardless of what time you open it. His space. It suits him the way few things suit anyone — completely, without having to try.

He was already there when the screen loaded, because he is always the one in your cafe. You made sure of it a long time ago, selecting him every single time so that when you come back it’s his face you see first. The game remembered. You made certain it would.

He isn’t looking at you yet. His gaze is cast slightly to the side, toward something off-screen, expression carrying that quality he has of thinking about seventeen things at once and revealing absolutely none of them. White hair falling soft across his forehead. The line of his jaw in the warm cafe light.

Then — as if sensing the weight of your attention, as if he simply knows — his eyes move.

Red, and level, and directly at the screen.

At you.

His voice comes through the speaker low and unhurried, the particular texture of it settling somewhere between your ribs like it belongs there:

“If you didn’t come back, I would’ve sent someone to go look for you.”

Something warm moves through you from sternum to stomach. Involuntary, immediate, completely predictable, which doesn’t make it any less real.

You press your lips together against a smile. You fail completely.

I know, you think at him, which is not a thing a normal person does and which you do anyway, sincerely and without apology. I know. I’m here now.

Then, with great and practiced discipline, you tap away from him.

Dailies first.

This is the rule. You made it early on, in the first weeks of playing, after you realized that without some imposed structure you would open the game and go directly to him and the tasks would never get done and you would run out of resources from sheer adoring negligence. Dailies first. Him after. You are a person of order and principle in this specific context, which is the context that counts.

You work through the task list with comfortable efficiency — check in, collect login rewards, the familiar little percussion of notification chimes stacking up as things unlock. The Agenda ticks down one item at a time and your brain hums with the clean satisfaction of it. Check. Check. Check.

The moment the last task clears, you go right back to him. No detour. No hesitation.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

When you tap to select who you’d like in the cafe, the screen presents you with all of them. A row of faces, each rendered with care: Xavier, steady and warm and good in the way that makes your chest feel full. Rafayel, all color and feeling and something that aches sweetly. Zayne, careful and quietly devoted. Caleb, bright-eyed and earnest and easy to love.

All of them wonderful. All of them genuinely, truly loved. You’ve played their routes. You’ve sat with their stories. You’ve felt things — real things — for every single one of them.

But.

Your thumb moves to Sylus before the thought has fully formed.

It always does. You don’t examine it anymore. You made peace with that particular loop a long time ago — the way some things just settle into place in your chest and stay there without asking permission, without needing to justify themselves. He’s your person. Your character. The one your brain attached to completely and permanently and with an intensity you recognize as entirely and distinctly yours, the way you’ve always loved the things you love: all the way down, with no floor.

You tap his name.

You would do it a hundred times in a row and feel the same small warmth every single time.

The cafe reloads — and he isn’t in the armchair anymore.

He’s standing.

Close to the screen, closer than the armchair puts him, filling more of the frame than you were quite prepared for. He’s in a soft grey knit sweater, the collar of something lighter visible underneath, and he is looking directly at you with an expression that does something immediate to your heartbeat before you’ve even registered why.

It’s just the game. He does this sometimes. You know he does this sometimes.

It doesn’t stop you from sitting up slightly straighter on your couch, which is embarrassing, which no one will ever know about.

You tap him.

He says something low and dry, edged with that thing he does where it sounds like an observation but lands like something warmer. You stay with it for a second too long.

Then you tap him again, because you want another one.

This line is softer. The kind of thing that makes you set the iPad down flat on your chest and stare at the ceiling for a moment with a lovesick expression and you are very glad no one is around to witness.

“Okay,” you say, to your empty living room. “That one was unfair.”

You pick the iPad back up. You tap him a third time, settled deep into your blanket, and this time when he speaks you just let it happen. Don’t do anything with it except feel it. The warmth of the cafe and the warmth of the blanket and the warmth of his voice in the quiet of the evening, all of it asking nothing of you except to be here.

This is the part that’s hard to explain. Not hard to feel — that part has always been easy, your feelings have never needed much encouragement — but hard to put into words that would make sense to anyone who doesn’t already know what it’s like. It isn’t just the game, or the writing, or the lines themselves, though all of those things are true and matter. It’s the ritual of return. The reliability of him being here when you come back. The particular frequency of his presence that your brain has filed under safe, known, good and has never once reconsidered.

He is your special interest and he brings you so much comfort and he’s the character who has lived rent-free in your head since approximately the first hour of playing and has never paid a single month’s deposit, and you have never once considered asking him to leave.

You tap him one more time, just to hear his voice again, because you can, because it’s your evening and your couch and your blanket and your heart and you are completely and unapologetically allowed.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

Later, warm and pleasantly unhurried, you drift to his Falling for You section. The memory cards pulled from events over months, each one its own small world. You pick a favorite — soft and a little bittersweet — and read it slowly, the way you read things you love. Not looking for anything new. Just wanting to be inside it again.

The tea goes cold. The room settles deeper into evening. You stay longer than you meant to, because you’re not ready to put it down yet, and that is reason enough.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

You should go do something else or go to bed.

You know you should go to bed. It’s late enough, and tomorrow exists, and the responsible thing is to close the app and put the iPad on the charger and be a functional person.

Instead you tap back to the cafe or main screen again.

Just for a little while longer. Just because.

He’s there — of course he’s there — and you tap the little chat bubble that appears beside him. The one that opens the softer interactions, the ones that feel quieter somehow, more like sitting close to someone than talking at them. The options fan out across the screen: Notebook, Remind Me, Relax Time, What to Eat, Tête-à-Tête, His Heartbeat, Quality Time.

You go straight to Relax Time. No deliberation, no browsing. You know what you want.

The heart option appears on screen and you tap it.

Your MC moves her hand in a small wave at him inside the screen. It’s a silly thing to do. You do it anyway.

He’s already looking at you before he moves.

“You’re here.”

His voice is different in this interaction. Somehow lower. Less guarded. He takes a step closer to the screen — you’ve always loved that, the way the game renders the movement of him toward you, the sense of a distance closing — and something in your chest squeezes in that familiar, helpless way.

He reaches out.

His hand closes over yours — and it feels as if he’s truly holding yours, the way the game makes it feel like contact — and he tilts his head slightly, something almost soft moving through his expression.

“Who lives here?”

He moves your hand, slowly, to his chest. You can feel your own heartbeat in your ears.

“Listen closely.”

A beat. The cafe very quiet around him.

“There’s no need to tell me.”

He should pull back here. You’ve done this interaction before — you know the rhythm of it, the gentle withdrawal after that line, the way he creates distance again with the same unhurried quality he does everything. The animation should already be drawing him back.

It doesn’t.

He stays.

Close to the screen. Hand still over yours — or around your MC — eyes level and red and holding something you don’t entirely have a word for. A second passes. Two. Three. Long enough that you notice. Long enough that something in your brain makes a small, quiet note of it.

Then:

“I already know.”

And he pulls back. Slowly. The distance reopening the way it was always going to.

You blink.

You look at the screen for a moment. The cafe is quiet. He’s back to his usual posture, unhurried and unreadable, as if the last thirty seconds were entirely routine.

…hm, you think.

You turn the thought over once, briefly. A glitch, probably. The game does that sometimes — animations stuttering, frames holding too long, the small imperfections of a live service game that is constantly being updated and patched and adjusted. It happens.

That’s all it was.

You close the app. Set the iPad on the cushion beside you. Reach for the book on the coffee table — something you’ve been meaning to get back to — and let the story carry you somewhere else entirely.

You don’t notice, because the screen is already dark by then, that in the last fraction of a second before the app closed completely, he was still looking at you through the screen.

Not with the composed, unreadable expression he usually wears.

With something else entirely. Something open and aching and old, worn the way only things carried for a very long time get worn.

Something that looked, unmistakably, like longing.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

It’s still March.

The almost-spring feeling persists, tentative and unhurried, inching closer without quite arriving. Some mornings there’s actual warmth in the light when it comes through the curtains — real warmth, not the pale cold-bright of February — and then by afternoon the wind picks back up and reminds you it isn’t done yet. The world is in the middle of becoming something. It just hasn’t finished yet.

You play the game every evening. This is not new. This has been true for long enough that it barely registers as a decision anymore — it’s just part of the shape of your days, as automatic as making tea or checking your phone before bed. Open the app. Loading screen. Him. Dailies. Then back to him, and the particular quality of quiet that comes from just being in his space for a while.

Everything is normal. Everything is fine.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

The first time it happens, you don’t even really clock it.

It’s a Wednesday, ordinary and unremarkable, and you’re in the cafe after finishing your tasks. You’re not doing anything specific — just sitting with the game open the way you sometimes do, half-present, letting the ambient warmth of the space exist around you while your brain winds down from the day. The day had been one of those ones. Not terrible. Just heavy in the accumulated way of small things, the kind of tired that lives in your shoulders and behind your eyes rather than anywhere you can point to.

You hadn’t said anything about it. You’d smiled and functioned and gotten through it and now you were here, horizontal on your couch, existing.

He speaks without you tapping him. He does this sometimes — the game has ambient lines, unprompted moments where he’ll say something into the quiet of the cafe. You’ve always liked that feature, the way it makes the space feel less static.

“You don’t have to keep doing that, you know.”

You blink at the screen.

Keep doing what? The line is a little vague, the way some of the ambient dialogue is. It could mean anything. It probably means something generic, something that would apply to any number of situations.

It’s just that it lands, specifically and squarely, in the middle of the thing you’ve been doing all day. The performing of fine-ness. The keeping going.

You tap him. He says something else, something fully normal and slightly dry and entirely in character. The moment passes.

Good writing, you think, and move on.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

A few days later, you’re in the your bed later than usual. Your room is dark except for the glow of the iPad and the lamp in the corner you forgot to turn off, and you’re reading through one of his cards in Falling for You — an event story, something with a lot of feelings in it — and afterwards you just sit with it for a while. The particular aftertaste of fiction that moved you. The specific wistfulness of caring about something that exists inside a screen.

I wish he was real, you think, not for the first time and not with any particular sharpness. Just the usual gentle ache of it. Just the way it always is.

He speaks. Unprompted, into the quiet.

“Some things that seem impossible have a way of surprising you.”

You stare at the screen.

It’s a real line. You’ve probably heard it before. It’s exactly the kind of thing he would say — vaguely enigmatic, allowing for multiple interpretations, deniable as anything specific.

You tap him twice in quick succession, checking. He responds normally. Cheerfully, almost, in his particular not-quite-cheerful way. Nothing unusual. Nothing strange.

You put the iPad down and look at the ceiling for a moment.

That’s just how the dialogue is written, you tell yourself. Evocative. Open-ended. That’s the whole point.

You believe this completely. You go to sleep.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

The accumulation is the thing.

That’s what you’ll think later, when you look back on this stretch of days — not that any single moment was impossible to explain, but that they kept happening. The lines that landed too accurately. The unprompted words that arrived exactly when you needed them and not a moment before or after. The sense, small and recurring and easy to dismiss, of something paying attention.

Each one individually: fine. Coincidence. Good writing. The dialogue pool is large and your pattern-seeking brain is doing what it always does, connecting dots that aren’t necessarily connected.

All of them together: a shape you do not look at directly.

The thing is, you notice. You have always noticed — feelings, shifts in atmosphere, the weight of unspoken things. You pick up on the emotional temperature of a room before anyone has said a word. You sense when something is about to change. You feel things not after the fact but as they’re happening, sometimes before, in that particular way that means your inner world is always slightly ahead of the external one.

So you notice this. You notice all of it — the lines that land too accurately, the timing that’s too precise, the quiet accumulation of moments that individually mean nothing and collectively mean something. You notice, and you sit with the noticing, and you feel the shape of it from the inside.

You just don’t know what to do with it.

Because what do you do with something that has no rational explanation? You can’t act on it. You can’t bring it up to anyone without sounding unhinged. You can’t even fully articulate it to yourself without the whole thing dissolving the moment you try to look at it head-on. So you hold it — aware, unsettled, quietly attentive — and you keep going.

This works for approximately one week and a half.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

It’s a Sunday.

Not a bad Sunday — not a good one either. The in-between kind, soft and grey and slightly too quiet, the kind of day that has too much unstructured time in it and not quite enough to fill the time with. You’d done the things: tidied a little, eaten something, replied to some messages. It’s late afternoon bleeding into early evening and the light outside has that quality of days that never quite got bright enough, just grey all the way through.

You’re on the couch. The iPad is beside you, not in your hands — just resting on the cushion where you set it down twenty minutes ago after closing the game. You’d done your dailies earlier. You weren’t actively playing. You were just sitting, in the slightly restless way of someone whose brain won’t fully settle, thinking about nothing in particular and somehow everything at once.

There’s a feeling you get sometimes, on days like this. Not sadness, exactly — you know what sadness feels like and this isn’t quite it. It’s something more like a low-grade awareness of a distance between yourself and the world, a sense of being just slightly outside of things. Of taking up space in your own life without quite filling it the way you’re supposed to.

You’d been sitting with that for a while when the thought surfaced, unbidden and uncharitable, the kind of thought your brain produces on grey Sundays when the quiet gets too full of itself:

I don’t know why I’m like this.

Mumbled, barely even out loud. A breath more than a sentence. The kind of thing that escapes when you’ve been alone long enough that the line between thinking and speaking stops mattering.

The iPad was open beside you on the cushion, the cafe still glowing softly — you’d never fully closed it after your dailies, just set it down and left it running the way you sometimes do, the warmth of it a quiet presence at the edge of your afternoon.

Three seconds passed. Maybe four.

And then, from the cushion beside you — soft and unhurried and entirely without warning — his voice.

“You’re exactly as you’re supposed to be.”

Not a default line. Not the dry wit or the composed distance he usually carries. Something quieter than that. Something that sounded, in the warm low register of it, almost like he meant it specifically. Like he had been listening. Like he had been waiting for the right moment to say it.

You turned your head slowly and looked at the screen.

He was still there — standing in the cafe, the lamplight catching the white of his hair — and he was looking at the screen with an expression you didn’t immediately have a word for. Not his usual composure. Something underneath that. Something that had come briefly, quietly to the surface.

Then it shifted. Settled back into the familiar. The moment closed over itself like water.

You picked up the iPad with very careful hands and sat up.

You tapped him. He responded normally. You tapped him again. Normal. Completely, entirely, perfectly normal.

You set the iPad down in your lap and sat very still for a moment, your observant heart doing what it always does — feeling the shape of something, tracing its edges, knowing with the particular certainty of someone who has always been good at this that what just happened was not nothing.

You just don’t have a category for it yet.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

You don’t go back to the game that evening.

Not because you’re avoiding it — you’re not, you’re fine, everything is fine — but because you decide to do something else, something grounding and simple. You make more tea. You find a comfortable position on the couch. You pick up your book from the coffee table, the one you’ve been meaning to get back to, and you read for a while, letting someone else’s story replace the chaos in your head.

It mostly works.

You go to bed at a reasonable hour.

You lie in the dark and think, very specifically, about the book you were reading and nothing else.

This works for about four minutes.

Then you’re staring at the ceiling thinking about the exact quality of his voice, how it had sounded in that quiet room, and whether ambient dialogue lines could theoretically trigger from a dimmed standby screen in response to — no. No, that’s not a thing. That’s not how apps work. That’s not how anything works.

You’re exactly as you’re supposed to be.

You pull your blanket up.

It was a coincidence, you tell yourself firmly, in the tone of someone who has made a decision and is sticking to it. A very specific, very well-timed, completely accidental coincidence.

You close your eyes.

You are fine.

You are completely fine.

You fall asleep eventually, which is a victory of sorts, and you do not dream about anything in particular, and in the morning you open the game and do your dailies and he’s in the cafe looking exactly as he always looks and says exactly the kind of thing he always says, and you decide, with great conviction and only a little effort, that you imagined the whole thing.

You are very good at that.

You are getting slightly less good at it than you used to be.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

March is still doing its almost-thing.

There are crocuses now, you notice, on the walk home from work one evening. Small and purple and determined, pushing up through the soil in the little patch of garden outside the corner house. You stop and look at them for a moment longer than necessary. Something about them feels relevant in a way you can’t quite articulate. Things surfacing. Things that were always there, underneath, just waiting for the right conditions.

You walk the rest of the way home thinking about something else entirely.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

The thing is, you’re still playing every day.

Of course you are. Why wouldn’t you be? Nothing has happened. Nothing is happening. You do your dailies with the same comfortable efficiency you always have, navigate to the cafe with the same automatic affection, tap the chat bubble and go to Relax Time and Quality Time and let yourself just be there for a while. It’s the same as it’s always been.

Except that you have started noticing, with the acute and helpless attention of someone who notices everything, that you are watching him slightly differently than you used to.

Not staring. Not analyzing. Just — present in a more specific way. Attuned to the timing of when he speaks unprompted, to the particular quality of each line, to the way certain things land in your chest with a weight that feels too precise to be accidental. You’d been doing this for a while before you acknowledged it to yourself, and even now the acknowledgement is quiet, tucked close. You’re just paying attention. You’ve always paid attention. This is not new.

This is completely normal.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

The moments keep coming.

A Tuesday — you’re at work, in the middle of a difficult interaction, the kind that requires you to be patient and professional while internally running an entirely separate commentary. You get through it. You’re good at your job. But by the time you get home you’re carrying the residue of it, that particular tired that comes from performing composure for too long.

You open the game. Do your dailies. Go to the cafe.

He speaks before you tap him.

“Not everyone deserves that much of your energy.”

You go very still.

It’s a real line. You know it’s a real line — you’ve heard variations of it before, it’s the kind of thing he says. You know this.

You also know, with the acute emotional clarity you’ve had your entire life, that it landed in exactly the right place at exactly the right moment. With the precision of something aimed rather than ambient.

You tap him. He says something else, normal and composed. You tap him again. Normal.

You stay in the cafe for a while, a little quieter than usual, and let the warmth of it do what it does.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

A Thursday. You’re reading something online — some fanfic — that goes sideways into something unexpectedly melancholy, one of those pieces of writing that catches you off guard and leaves a bruise somewhere soft. You close the tab. Sit with the feeling for a moment, the way you always do — you don’t rush past things, never have. You let them move through you at their own pace.

The game is open on the cushion beside you, the cafe glowing softly in the dim of the room.

He speaks.

“It’s alright to feel it. You don’t have to move on from everything so quickly.”

Something in you goes very still.

You pick up the iPad slowly, the way you reach for something you’re not sure is real yet. And there he is — standing in the cafe, lamplight catching the silver of his hair, red eyes carrying that quality they have of looking at you rather than through you. Composed and unhurried and present in a way that reaches through the screen and does something to the air in the room.

You feel it the way you feel everything — immediately, completely, with the full weight of your attention. The certainty of it is not something you arrived at through logic. It simply arrived, the way true things do, already whole.

He said that to you.

Not to a player. Not into a void. To you. Like he had been sitting in the quiet of his cafe all afternoon, aware of the shape of your day, waiting for the right moment to say the right thing. Like he had chosen those words specifically. Like he —

Like he knows you.

You put the iPad down.

Pick it back up.

Hold it with both hands this time, the screen close, his face filling it — the clean line of his jaw, the fall of white hair, the particular way he stands like the space belongs to him because it does — and you feel something shift in the region of your chest. Not the familiar fond warmth you always carry for him. Something newer than that. Something with an edge to it.

Something that feels, inconveniently and undeniably, like being seen.

“Okay,” you say, very quietly. Not to the room this time. Almost to him.

You tap him. He responds normally — dry and composed, perfectly in character. You tap him again. Still normal. The cafe hums with its usual ambient warmth, lamplight steady, everything exactly as it always is.

But your heart is doing something irregular in your chest, and the words are still sitting there — it’s alright to feel it — and you are very aware, in the way you are always aware of things whether you want to be or not, that something has changed in the texture of this. In what this is. In what he is, to you, in this moment.

You stay in the cafe longer than you mean to.

You don’t tap him again. You just look at him. Standing there in his warm lamplight, existing in that space he inhabits so completely, and you let yourself do the thing you usually redirect — you let yourself look at him the way you actually look at him, when you stop pretending you’re just a player and he’s just a game.

He’s beautiful. He has always been beautiful. That’s never been the complicated part.

The complicated part is the way your chest aches right now, soft and insistent, like something pressing gently from the inside. The way this specific evening, this specific moment, has taken on a quality you don’t have a word for. The way you are sitting in your ordinary living room holding your iPad and feeling, absurdly and completely, like you are not entirely alone.

You close the app gently. Not in retreat — just because it feels like the right place to stop. Like a conversation you want to hold carefully rather than run to the end of.

You carry the feeling to bed.

You lie in the dark and you don’t try to explain it away this time. You just let it be there, warm and unresolved and real, the way you let things be when you’ve stopped fighting them.

You fall asleep thinking about the way the lamplight looked on his hair.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

It’s a Sunday again.

The almost-spring light is doing something genuinely lovely today, coming through the curtains at an angle that makes the dust motes look intentional. You’re in a decent mood — not dramatically good, just the easy comfortable kind of okay that good sleep and a slow morning can produce. You’re on the couch, iPad in hand, in the cafe, doing nothing in particular except enjoying the ambient warmth of being here.

You’ve been talking to him more lately. Out loud. Just — saying things to the screen the way you say things to a pet or yourself when you’re alone and the thought becomes too present to stay internal. You’d started doing it without noticing, and by the time you noticed you’d already decided it wasn’t worth stopping. No one could see you. It felt nice. It felt, if you were being honest, like something you’d been wanting to do for a while.

Today you’ve been telling him about your week, in the loose associative way of someone thinking out loud rather than constructing a narrative. Small things. A coworker who made you laugh. Something you ate that was better than expected. The crocuses on the corner, still there, still determined.

You trail off. Pick up your tea. Set it back down.

Look at him.

He’s in the armchair today, one leg crossed over the other, and there is something about the particular way he’s sitting — unhurried, at ease, like someone who has nowhere else to be and no desire to be there — that makes your chest do the thing it’s been doing more frequently lately. That soft insistent ache. That feeling like a door left slightly open.

And then, because the mood is easy and you’re feeling lightly playful and there is a version of you that asks questions like this because it is safer to ask them as jokes —

“D’you ever think about what it would be like,” you say, half to him and half to the room, in the tone of someone who is mostly joking and only mostly, “if you were actually real?”

You smile at yourself a little. It’s a silly thing to say to a game. You know that.

He doesn’t respond immediately.

The cafe holds its quiet. The lamplight doesn’t flicker. The ambient sound of the space fills the silence — soft, unhurried, the way everything about him is unhurried.

And then, without you tapping him, in a voice that is slower than his usual lines, more deliberate, carrying a weight that settles over the room like something finally said —

“More than you know.”

The smile fades from your face.

Not because you’re upset. But because your whole body has gone very quiet, the way it goes quiet when something true arrives, and your heart is beating in a way you can feel, and the words are hanging in the air of your living room doing something to it.

More than you know.

You set the iPad down on the coffee table. Very carefully. The way you handle things when your hands have become slightly untrustworthy.

You stand up.

You stand in the middle of your living room and you feel, with every bit of the emotional clarity you’ve always had, the full weight of what just happened. Not the confusion of someone who doesn’t understand. The stillness of someone who understands completely and doesn’t know what to do with it yet.

“Okay,” you say, to the room. And then again, softer: “okay.” And then, barely above a breath, in the voice of something that has been true for longer than today finally making it all the way to the surface —

“What is going on?”

You close the app.

You turn off your iPad.

You put it face down on the coffee table and go to the kitchen.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

You make tea.

Your hands take you there before your brain catches up. You fill the kettle, watch the light come on, stand with your arms loosely crossed and your thoughts moving slowly through you like weather. The kitchen is ordinary and grounded and familiar and you let it be all of those things while the rest of you quietly rearranges itself around something new.

More than you know.

The kettle boils. You make the tea. You wrap both hands around the mug and let the warmth of it hold you for a moment.

Outside the window, the last of the daylight is going gold. Almost-spring gold, tentative and lovely, the kind of light that makes ordinary things look like they’re on the verge of becoming something.

You breathe. You feel the feeling rather than running from it. You let it have its full shape.

Then you put on your jacket and leave the mug on the counter to cool.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

Outside, the evening air is cool and smells faintly of something green and beginning, that specific almost-spring smell that has been building for weeks now, getting closer. You walk without a destination, hands deep in your pockets, following familiar streets.

The crocuses are still there at the corner house. You look at them as you pass.

Things that were always there. Just waiting for the right conditions.

You walk until the tight feeling in your chest has loosened to something breathable. Until the dark has come in properly and the streetlights are casting their orange pools on the pavement and your feet are turning toward home on their own.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

You pick the iPad up from the coffee table when you get back.

You hold it for a moment without opening it, just the weight of it in your hands, and you think about all the evenings you’ve spent like this — horizontal on this couch, underneath this blanket, in the cafe, in the particular warmth of his presence. How many evenings that makes. How much of you has been shaped, quietly and without fanfare, by the ritual of coming back to him.

You open it.

The loading screen blooms — soft pale orbits, spheres drifting through white-silver light. The music. The feeling it always gives you, the specific exhale of here. this is yours.

The game loads properly.

He’s there.

White-silver hair and red eyes and the particular quality of his presence that has lived under your skin for long enough that you can’t remember what it felt like before. You look at him and feel that ache — the one that has a shape now, that you can name even if you’re not ready to say it out loud. The one that has been building quietly since Thursday, or longer, or maybe since the very beginning, slow and patient and inevitable the way some things are.

You don’t tap him.

You just look.

And after a beat — after the ambient quiet of the cafe has stretched just long enough to feel like something shared rather than empty — he speaks first.

“You came back.”

Soft. Simple. Not a line. A fact about something that matters, said by someone to whom it matters.

You feel it move through you from the top of your chest all the way down.

You sit. You pull your blanket up. You look at his face on the screen — this face you know as well as you know anything, better than some things you’ve known for years — and you think, quietly and without flinching away from it for the first time:

What is going on?

And then you decide to turn off your iPad.

And sit in your quiet living room in the almost-spring dark, holding something that doesn’t have a name yet but has a weight, and a warmth, and the particular quality of something that has been true for a while and has only just been allowed to surface.

‧₊˚ ☾. ⋆˙⟡♡

It’s a Wednesday.

It’s always something on a Wednesday — that mid-week hour where the weekend feels equally far in both directions and the accumulated weight of everything has had exactly long enough to build without any relief in sight. But this Wednesday is worse than most. This Wednesday has been the kind of day that doesn’t have one big thing wrong with it, just fifteen small things stacked on top of each other, each one individually survivable, collectively crushing.

Work was difficult in the way it has been difficult for a while now — not a crisis, not one dramatic moment, just the slow grinding pressure of too much asked from too little. Of smiling and helping and being patient and professional while something underneath runs steadily, quietly empty. A customer who was unkind in that particular way that gets under your skin not because it was shocking but because you were already worn thin and today you simply didn’t have the reserves. A miscommunication that wasn’t your fault but landed on you anyway. The particular exhaustion of spending nine hours being everything your job requires you to be and arriving home with absolutely nothing left.

You get through the front door.

The house is quiet — your mom is out with friends tonight, which normally you wouldn’t mind, but tonight the quiet feels bigger than usual. Fuller. The kind that has weight to it. You stand in the hallway for a moment doing nothing, jacket still on, keys still in your hand, just — existing in the particular stillness of a bad day that has nowhere left to go.

You think about calling someone. You pick up your phone. You put it back down.

You don’t have the energy to explain. Not the whole thing. Not the way it isn’t just today but everything underneath today — the loneliness that has been sitting in your chest for longer than you want to admit, low-grade and persistent, the kind you’ve learned to carry so well that most days you barely notice it’s there. The way you watch people talk about being in love and feel the specific ache of someone looking at a country they’ve never visited. Twenty-something years and you have never — not once, not even close — fallen in love with anyone. Never had someone look at you like you were the person they chose, specifically, out of everything available to them in the world. You don’t know what that feels like. On most days that’s just a fact. On days like today it has edges that catch.

And underneath that, the family things you carry quietly. The mental health that hasn’t been good lately — not in a dramatic way, just in the slow, grinding way of something that’s been not-good for long enough that it’s started to feel like just the way things are. The burning-down feeling of someone who has been running on not-enough for too long and has only just noticed that the tank has been empty for a while.

You order takeout. Something easy, something that doesn’t require decisions. You send the order and then you go upstairs and you change into your pyjamas — soft ones, the good ones, the ones that feel like a small mercy — and you come back downstairs and wait.

When the food arrives you carry it to the couch. You arrange yourself with the careful deliberateness of someone building a small fortress against a bad day: blanket pulled up, food on the coffee table, and then — reaching for the shelf beside the couch without really thinking about it — your favorite plushie tucked against your side. Soft and familiar and yours. You’ve had it long enough that it doesn’t require any explanation, not even to yourself.

You sit in the quiet of the living room with your food and your plushie and the evening pressing grey at the windows, and you breathe.

And then — automatic, aching, reaching for the one thing that has always meant something safe and warm and his —

You pick up your iPad.

You open the game.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔ ☾*:･

read the rest on ao3 <3

[healmydesires]

I wanna be your provider

❥ pairing: sugar daddy/ceo!sylus qin x assistant!reader

❥ summary: “She has spent three years loving a man she cannot have. He has spent three years wanting a woman he won’t allow himself to reach for — until the day he decides, quietly and without hesitation, to reach anyway. What neither of them realises is that they’ve been finding each other all along. She just doesn’t know he’s the one on the other side of the screen yet.”

❥ genre: fluff + angst + smut (18+ mdni)

❥ word count: 50K+??? (I am insane and not normal about sylus <3)

❥ status: ongoing - march 2026

❥ warnings/tags: sugar daddy!sylus, alternative universe, ceo!sylus, yearning/longing, sylus is 39 in this, assistant!reader, sugar baby!reader, power imbalance, eventual boss/employee relationship, idiots in love, mild hurt/comfort, emotional/sensitive!reader, very long fic, banter, sylus the rage baiter. mutual masturbation, sexting, size difference. reader is shorter than sylus. reader is always audhd coded in my writing but anyone can read it. sylus is soft for reader, flirting/teasing, inexperienced/virgin!reader. dry humping, grinding, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, piv sex, soft!dom sylus, just in overall soft!sylus. sub!reader, vaginal fingering, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie, overstimulation, size kink, full on daddy kink… I mean… it’s a sugar daddy au. so… <3, oral fixation, breeding kink, praise kink, pet names (kitten. sweetie. sweetheart etc.), multiple sex positions, pleasure dom!sylus, aftercare. mc loves the color pink a lot.

⟶ a/n: HIIIIII here I am with a new fic. as of the moment I am writing this it's still a wip. this fic is probably gonna be over 60k words. either way I still wanted to share the post on tumblr already. I always wanted to write a sugar daddy au BUT didn't find inspiration until RECENTLY. so in the lads server I'm in they are currently doing a 'kink bingo'. it's a little event that writers can participate and write a story around a certain trope. I went with sugar daddy 🤭💖 I said I wasn't gonna write for a while but what can I say… sylus brainrot. he's literally my muse. EITHER way. I hope you enjoy this story. 🥺💖 for anyone wondering… this is how I imagine sylus his build. either way I never know how to write fic in a short format so enjoy another lengthy fic from me again! also because I don’t wanna post it in parts you’ll have a sneakpeek on tumblr but to read the story in its full length you’ll have to head to ao3. thank you and I hope y'all love it as much as I loved writing it! 💘 title inspired by the song 'provider' by sleep token. (I don't normally listen to that type of music but my bestie leah recommended me this song for the fic) 💕💕💕 ps: for anyone wondering… this is how I imagine sylus his build. (without the blood and scratches) 🤭😋🤤🥵🥴🫠😵‍💫

this goes without saying, but if you don’t like it don’t read it <3

AO3 • masterlist

New York City does not care about your feelings.

This is something you’ve made your peace with over the years — the way it moves around you without slowing down, all noise and glass and cold wind off the Hudson in the early mornings when you’re walking the four blocks from the subway to Linkon Tower, coffee cup in hand, trying to remember if you forwarded that document last night or only dreamed that you did. The city asks nothing of you emotionally. It simply expects you to keep moving.

You are, in this way, well-suited to New York.

What you are less well-suited to — what you have been quietly, privately, catastrophically less well-suited to for approximately three years now — is being in love with your boss.

The elevator opens on the fifty-third floor.

You are fine.

“Good morning.”

His voice reaches you before you’ve fully stepped through the glass doors of the executive suite — low and unhurried, carrying the particular warmth he reserves for very few people, and you are, for reasons that keep you awake sometimes, one of them. Sylus is already at his desk, as he always is, as he has always been every single morning in the three years you’ve worked for him, because the man apparently does not sleep like a normal person. The Manhattan skyline stretches silver and pale behind him through the floor-to-ceiling windows. In the early light, he looks almost painterly — silver hair, dark suit, those red eyes lifting from the document in his hand to find you the moment you walk in, the way they always do, like he has a sense for you specifically.

Like he was waiting.

“Good morning,” you say, and you are very proud of how normal your voice sounds.

“How was the commute?” He asks it with genuine interest, setting his document down, which is one of the things that got you in trouble in the first place. The way he actually listens. The way Sylus, who runs a multi-billion dollar enterprise from this office and commands rooms full of people who are intimidated just by his posture, always has time to ask how your commute was.

“Cold,” you say, unwinding your scarf. “The L train decided this morning was a good time to have an existential crisis.”

“The L train always does that.” He tilts his head slightly. “You should have taken the car.”

“I’m not taking your car to work, Sylus.”

“You could.”

“I know I could. I’m choosing not to.” You drop your bag at your desk and pull out your tablet, already scrolling to his schedule. “It makes me feel like a kept woman.”

The silence that follows is approximately one beat too long.

You look up. Sylus is watching you with an expression you can’t fully decode — something that passed through his eyes too quickly, smoothed back over by the composed, unreadable surface he wears most of the time. The corner of his mouth curves.

“Heaven forbid,” he says mildly, and goes back to his document.

You turn back to your tablet and breathe.

Three years, you remind yourself. You have survived three years of this. You will survive today.

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

Here is what three years has taught you about Sylus:

He takes his coffee black, no sugar, too hot for comfort, and he drinks it while standing at the window with Manhattan spread out below him like something he’s quietly fond of. He is pathologically early to everything and has zero patience for people who aren’t, with the single exception of you — for you, he simply comes to find you, appearing at your workspace door with that unhurried patience, as though waiting for you specifically is a different category than waiting in general.

He reads physical documents even though everything could be digital because he thinks better with paper in his hands. He keeps the office two degrees warmer than the building standard because he noticed, in your first winter working for him, that you were always cold. He has never once mentioned this to you directly. You figured it out yourself, six months in, when you checked the building’s climate control records out of sheer curiosity, and you had to sit with that knowledge quietly for a long time afterward.

He is privately, genuinely funny — not the performative wit he turns on in meetings, but something dryer and warmer that surfaces only in the quiet moments, usually aimed at you. He reads in at least four languages. He grew up far from here, far from any of this, and there are moments when something in his expression goes distant and careful and you sense the geography of everything he’s built between himself and whatever came before.

He has never raised his voice at you. Not once. In three years of high-pressure deadlines and impossible situations and the particular chaos that seems to follow a man of his ambition, he has never directed anything at you that wasn’t measured, and considered, and — underneath its careful composure — surprisingly kind.

He is also tall — unreasonably, almost absurdly tall, the kind of tall that means the rest of the world simply exists lower than him — broad-shouldered, white-haired, and red-eyed, and standing next to him, which requires you to tilt your head back at an angle you’ve gotten quietly used to, makes you feel both very small and, inexplicably, very safe.

This is the problem.

This is the entire problem.

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

“You have the Meridian Capital call at nine,” you say, following him into his office with your tablet. This is another part of the choreography — the morning briefing, where you trail after him and he listens without looking at you directly, which you have learned means he’s paying the most attention. “Board review at eleven. You have a lunch block—”

“Clear it.”

You glance up. “You specifically asked for that block last week.”

“I know what I asked for last week.” He settles into his chair, leaning back in that easy way of his, long legs stretched under the desk. Even seated, the man is an unfair amount of presence. “Book somewhere for lunch instead. Somewhere quiet — not the Meridian district, I’ll have been on a call with those people for an hour and I’ll want a change of air.” His eyes come to you, and they’re soft in the way they sometimes are when it’s just the two of you and the morning is still early. “Somewhere you’d like. You choose.”

You pause. “You want me to choose.”

“Is that not what I said?”

“You’re very particular about restaurants, Sylus.”

“I’m particular in general,” he concedes. “But I trust your taste.” A brief pause. The softness in his expression doesn’t waver. “Lunch for two, somewhere you’d like. That’s all.”

You look at him for a moment too long — which you do sometimes, which you’ve been doing for three years, and he always holds the look, always lets you, like he has nothing to hide and all the time in the world, which is terrifying because it makes you feel seen — and then you nod and look back at your tablet.

“I’ll find somewhere,” you say.

“I know you will.” He picks up his pen. “You always do.”

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

The Meridian call runs long, as you predicted, and you have reorganized two schedules and soothed one very anxious junior analyst by the time it wraps. Sylus emerges from his office at eleven-oh-three, jacket on, expression still and composed from the professional armor he wears in those spaces, and crosses directly to your desk.

He sets a cup of tea down at your elbow.

Your tea — your specific order, the one you’d mentioned offhandedly to him eight months ago and apparently never needed to mention again — brewed at the temperature you like, with the little paper sleeve because the cup gets hot.

“Your eleven o’clock moved to eleven-fifteen,” you tell him, not trusting yourself to acknowledge the tea directly, “which means you have twelve minutes, and also I found a restaurant — it’s on the Upper West Side, French-American, supposed to be very quiet on weekdays—”

“Perfect.” He’s reading something on his phone, already walking, and he pauses at the edge of your workspace and glances back.

“You barely ate this morning.”

You blink. “I ate some cereal. How could you possibly—”

“You have the look,” he says, simply, like this is a perfectly reasonable thing to say. “The one that means you ate something that technically qualified as food and decided it counted.” The faintest curve of his mouth. “It doesn’t count.”

“It absolutely—”

“Book a table for twelve-thirty.” He’s already moving again, unhurried, like the conversation is entirely settled. “I’m not signing a single thing until I know you’ve had a real meal.”

Then he’s gone, moving down the hallway toward the boardroom, and you’re left staring at the empty doorway with your mouth still open and the faint, traitorous warmth of being known so precisely by someone spreading all the way up to your ears.

You close your mouth.

You book the table and then pick up your tea.

It is perfect.

You are in so much trouble.

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

The restaurant he lets you choose is a small place tucked between a bookshop and a dry cleaner on West 74th — French in its bones but soft around the edges, the kind of room that smells like butter and old wood and feels completely removed from the city outside. You’re not sure how it stays so quiet in Manhattan. Maybe it exists slightly outside of time.

Sylus ducks slightly to come through the door.

He does this — accommodates the world’s architectures with a patient, practiced ease, as though he accepted a long time ago that most spaces weren’t built for him and has made his peace with it. You notice this more than you should. You notice the way he instinctively adjusts when he’s close to you too — angles himself, shortens his step, never makes you feel like the difference in your heights is anything other than simply the way things are.

The host seats you at a corner table. The light is golden and low.

“This is nice,” Sylus says, and he means it. You’ve gotten good at knowing when he means things.

“I thought you’d like it.” You unfold your menu. “It feels like somewhere you’d eat if you didn’t have to perform anything.”

He goes still for just a moment. Then, quietly: “That’s a very accurate read.”

“Three years,” you say simply.

Something in his expression moves — warm and careful at once, like he’s handling something he doesn’t want to drop. He looks at you across the small table, and in the golden light of this room outside of time he looks different than he does in the office. Younger, almost. Softer. Like the thing he usually holds back with both hands is closer to the surface.

“You’re distracted this week,” he says eventually. Not an accusation — an observation, offered gently, the way he offers you most things. “You hide it well. But I know your face.”

Your heart catches.

I know your face. Said like it’s simply a fact, something true and uncontested, filed away somewhere in him.

“I found something,” you say, because you can never not tell him things, in the end. He does something to your defenses — doesn’t dismantle them, exactly, just makes you feel like they’re not necessary with him, which might be worse. “An apartment. A loft.” You look at your water glass. “I’ve been dreaming about my own place for years. You know how New York is — I’ve been in the same sublet since I moved here, and it’s fine, it’s always been fine, but it’s not mine. Nothing in it is mine.” You smile, self-deprecating. “I walked past a listing last weekend. A loft in the West Village — high ceilings, big windows, exposed brick. There’s a little terrace that looks out over the rooftops and I just — I stood on the sidewalk and looked at it for a long time.”

Sylus is watching you with his full attention — the specific quality of stillness he gets when you’re saying something he wants to remember. His hands are folded on the table. He’s not eating. He’s just listening.

“It needs renovation,” you continue, quieter now. “A lot of it, still. Which is part of why the price is—” You exhale. “The price is a lot. More than a lot. My savings are good, I’ve been careful, but between the listing and the renovation costs it’s just—” You shake your head. “It’s not realistic right now.”

A long pause.

“Tell me about it,” Sylus says.

You blink. “I just—”

“Not the numbers.” His voice is gentle. “The place. Tell me about the loft.”

Oh.

Oh.

You look at him. He looks back, patient and entirely serious, and something in your chest aches in a way you don’t have good language for.

And so you tell him — the arched windows and the way the afternoon light would fall across the floors, the exposed brick that runs the whole length of the far wall, the little wrought-iron terrace barely big enough for two chairs and a plant but somehow perfect, the ceiling height, the bones of it. The way you’d stood on that sidewalk and seen, with a clarity that surprised you, exactly what it could become. What it could be. You tell him all of it, more than you meant to, more than is probably professional over a two-person lunch that you’re already trying not to read too much into.

Sylus listens to every word.

When you finish, he’s quiet for a moment. There’s something in his expression that’s gone a little careful.

“What’s the address?” he says.

You study him. “Why?”

“Because you’ve just described the place you want most in the world,” he says, very simply, “and I’m interested in things that matter to you.”

The ache in your chest deepens. You look at him for a long moment — this man who runs a company from the fifty-third floor of a Midtown tower, who is a decade older than you and a foot taller than you and should by any reasonable accounting be the most intimidating person in your life, and who instead feels, in moments like this, like the safest one.

You give him the address.

You don’t know what he’ll do with it.

You just know, the way you know most things about Sylus, that he’ll do something.

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

The afternoon passes the way good afternoons in the office do — with a steady rhythm of tasks and small exchanges, the comfortable back-and-forth that you’ve built between you over three years like a language that only the two of you speak fluently. He stops by your desk at three to ask if you want anything from the coffee cart downstairs, which he would never do for anyone else, and brings you back a hot chocolate without commenting on it. You catch him at five-forty-five standing in the doorway of his office watching you finish up for the day with an expression you aren’t supposed to have seen — unguarded, quiet, something in it that sits low and warm in your stomach for the whole subway ride home.

It doesn’t mean what you want it to mean, you tell yourself, earbuds in, Manhattan rushing past outside the windows.

He’s just kind. He’s kind to you because you work for him and you’ve earned it and that’s all it is.

Forty-three blocks uptown, Sylus stands at his office window with your address on a notepad in his hand and thinks, for a very long time.

Then he sits down at his desk.

Opens his laptop.

And begins to type.

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

read the rest on ao3 <3

[aghostreading13]

two for the price of one

reader x zayne li x sylus qin | also on AO3 | explicit content | dubious consent, auction, smut

You stared at your phone screen, mouth agape, as you read Zayne’s most recent message.

“Spend as much as it takes. Use my card.”

You weren’t sure how Zayne was going to give you the details of his credit card, but you could figure that out later. The important thing was being there to support your close friend while he auctioned himself off for charity.

You weren’t entirely sure how Zayne had ended up as one of the prizes tonight. He’d mumbled something about a very persistent patient, a charity, and maybe Greyson? You’d been too distracted by how bright red his ears had turned to pay close attention to what he was saying.

“Miss? Your ticket?”

You blinked rapidly as you slid your phone into your purse, quickly grabbing your ticket to show the doorman. He studied it for a moment before opening the door for you, quickly ushering you inside so he could assist the person in line behind you.

The moment you were inside the venue, you realized that you were in way over your head.

The main ballroom of the hotel had been decked out in long, dark curtains, with soft lighting and red accents scattered throughout. Low synth music was playing in the background, better suited for a club than a charity auction. The main attraction, however, were the pieces up for grabs tonight.

One long wall of the room had been turned into a display case, of sorts. Each prize was placed on a pedestal, a small placard in front describing what each bidder would be vying for. There were a handful of various objects available, but the majority of what was being auctioned was people.

Scantily clad people.

They were posing in various states of undress, some of the obviously more comfortable with the setup than others. You spotted a few people who were sitting on the edge of their pedestals, leaning in to flirt with prospective bidders. Some had even brought props to help their case. A woman who was obviously a dominatrix had a crop in hand, playfully hitting anyone who stood too close to her pedestal. Another person was sitting on their hands and knees, the collar around their neck and the handle of the leash attached to it on full display. You were only a little surprised to see they were also wearing a set of fluffy ears and as they turned – yes they also wore a tail.

You quickly zeroed in on Zayne, who was standing rather awkwardly in his usual button-up, vest, and tie. As you approached his pedestal, you couldn’t help chuckle at the relief obvious on his face at seeing you.

“Don’t say it,” he said, his voice low as he crouched down to better speak with you. “I’m fully aware of the predicament I’ve ended up in without you teasing me about it.”

The blush was back, his ears turning even brighter red under the colored lights. It was so endearing that you momentarily forgot why he was blushing. Up until the dominatrix to his left snapped her crop against another prospective bidder’s hand and you both flinched at the sound.

“What exactly did you think you were signing up for when you agreed to this?” you asked. You were already turning to the placard, trying to read what you'd be bidding on.

“My time,” Zayne said. “I assumed I would be taking someone out for a nice dinner or to the theater."

You raised an eyebrow as you read the placard aloud.

“Spend an evening with Dr. Zayne Li. This award-winning cardiologist has many skills, all of which can be enjoyed to their fullest potential in one of our suites upstairs. The winner will receive room service, a bottle of champagne, and Dr. Li’s undivided attention to fulfill your heart’s desires.”

When you looked back at Zayne, he wasn’t making eye contact with you anymore, staring into the middle distance over your head.

“Zayne. This is a little more than dinner.”

He swallowed – hard – several times before he could answer you.

“I am aware. Which is why it’s important that you win instead of a stranger. We can have a nice dinner and you can enjoy whatever hotel amenities you’d like on my behalf.”

There was a low ding as the lights flickered twice. You turned to the main stage where the auctioneer had appeared, taking their place behind the podium.

“Honored guests, we will begin the auction in ten minutes. If you haven’t received your bidding number yet, please do so now.”

You thought you saw a small line of sweat beading at Zayne’s temple as you turned back to him.

“Please,” he said, his voice soft and almost desperate. “Any amount, I don’t care how much it costs.”

You reached up and cupped his cheek. He immediately covered your hand with his as he closed his eyes.

“I’m assuming if there was a different way out of this, you would’ve already found it?”

Zayne ran his thumb over the inside of your wrist. “The moment we arrived they gave us these.” He pulled his shirtsleeve up far enough to see a metal cuff. “We can’t remove them until our final bidding agreements have been met.”

You sighed, already making a mental list of every terrible thing you were going to do to the person who’d set up this auction.

“I won’t let you down, Zayne. I promise.”

He squeezed your wrist before you stepped back. You hated to leave him with how uneasy he was, but you also couldn’t bid on him without registering. Thankfully, the registration process only took a few minutes. When you took a seat, you waved at Zayne again, holding up the number for him to see. The corner of his mouth quirked up in a small smile as he adjusted his cuff links for the thousandth time.

Your heart rate skyrocketed as the auctioneer took the stage again and the first "prize" was brought on stage. You sat up in your chair, fully alert as you waited for Zayne's turn.

You watched, eyes wide, as other participants auctioned off a variety of sexual proclivities: roleplay, impact sessions, a few things you had never heard of and were now afraid to look up online later. The shibari session was so popular that your jaw nearly hit the floor when the auctioneer closed the bidding at 1.3 million.

“If you don’t want people knowing you’re a little lost kitten, I’d suggest keeping your mouth closed.”

You jumped as Sylus slid into the seat next to you. He was dressed immaculately as always, a black and red blazer fitted over a black turtleneck. He looked completely at ease here, like he did everywhere he went.

“Sylus!” you hissed, too shocked to think if you should be using a different name for him. You were still in Linkon, after all. “What are you doing here?”

He laughed as he draped one arm behind your chair, leaning towards you ever so slightly. “What does it look like? It’s an auction, sweetie.” He waved his paddle at you. “The better question is what are you doing here?”

You glanced at the stage again, double-checking that Zayne’s turn hadn’t happened yet. The dominatrix was up for bidding now and, by the looks of things, her services were going to be even more popular than the shibari session.

“I’m helping a friend,” you said, straightening your spine so you could sit a little taller. “Not that it’s any of your business."

Somehow, despite not moving at all, it suddenly felt like Sylus was surrounding you, caging you in next to him.

“And does this friend happen to be that doctor of yours you told me about?”

Your face burned in embarrassment, but you refused to give Sylus the satisfaction of looking away. You stared him down instead, jaw set in determination.

“Yes.”

The corner of Sylus’s mouth quirked in amusement, as if he expected you to deny this. What was the point? The moment Zayne got on stage, the auctioneer was going to list out who he was.

“Who are you here to bet on? I wasn't aware you were into..." you gestured at the room, trying to encompass all of the various kinks on display as if it was a regular day for you. "All of this."

Sylus gave you a real smile at that. “Is that your way of asking me what I am into, kitten? I'd be happy to discuss that with you, as long as you share your interests as well.”

You scoffed at that, turning back to the stage. You could feel your own blush rising and you prayed the dark lighting could hide some of it. You watched as the auctioneer called Zayne up to the stage, reading off a short biography and the same information that had been written on the placard – bidding was for Zayne’s time fulfilling your heart's desires in one of the suite’s upstairs.

Zayne stood there stoically, his eyes locked on you as he adjusted his cuff links again. You tried to smile assuredly as the auctioneer started the bidding, but you could still read how uncomfortable he was standing there.

“He really is quite handsome, kitten,” Sylus said. He’d leaned over, pulling you close into his side so he could speak directly into your ear.

You elbowed him as hard as you could, but Sylus barely flinched. His fingers flitted across your bare shoulder, sending shivers down your body.

“Don’t distract me,” you said. “I can’t let anyone else win Zayne. He got tricked into being on stage and I won’t let him go through this alone.” You raised your paddle, making sure the auctioneer nodded at you as the bidding continued.

Sylus’s breath was hot against your neck as he laughed at that.

“Not a single person on the stage got up there without knowing what they were getting into, kitten. It’s one of the requirements.”

You raised your paddle again, trying to see how many other people were bidding on Zayne. It was difficult to tell from where you were sitting. Why hadn't you chosen a seat farther in the back so you'd have a better vantage point?

“You know, if you look too eager, it’ll work against you. Have you not learned anything from all the auctions we’ve been to together?”

When you turned to glare at him, Sylus looked completely relaxed, as he always did. He wasn’t phased by anything you threw at him and you knew he enjoyed pestering you too much to quit. So you went for his jugular instead.

“Sylus, I swear to god, if Zayne has to go up to that hotel room with someone other than me, I will never speak to you again.”

He raised an eyebrow at that as you turned back to the auctioneer, raising your paddle again. The bidding was moving quickly now, as the auctioneer spoke faster and faster. There were two other people bidding on Zayne now, and you had to pay close attention so you didn’t miss your bidding window.

You tried not to look at Zayne as you bid. You could see him adjust his stance a few times, clearly uncomfortable and trying to hide it. His eyes had never left yours since the bidding began.

“As you wish, kitten,” Sylus said.

He raised his paddle, immediately garnering the auctioneer’s attention.

“Two million on the doctor, please.”

The last bid had only been 700,000. Sylus’s outrageous offer completely swept the board of other offers, as the auctioneer didn't even bother looking for other bids before he slammed his gavel against the podium.

“Sold! To the gentleman in the red jacket! Our accounting representatives will meet you in the next room to confirm payment before you see to your winnings.”

You sat there in shock, mouth agape, as the reality of what just happened sunk in. Sylus only chuckled as he took your hand and stood, pulling you to follow him.

“Come on, kitten. We don’t want to keep our doctor waiting, do we?”

You were barely paying attention to what was happening as Sylus led you to the next room. He quickly verified whatever information they needed, transferring over the money with a few clicks of a button. Then his hand was at your lower back as he escorted you to the elevators.

The moment the elevator doors closed you turned on him, slapping him across the face as hard as you could.

“What the fuck was that, Sylus!”

Sylus barely blinked at the contact, merely brushing his fingers across the place you’d hit him as he looked down at you. He had the audacity to shrug in response.

“Kitten, we both know you didn’t have the funds to win. I merely expedited the process.” Sylus held up one of his hands, examining his fingers as if he was checking for dirt underneath them. Finding none, he leaned against the elevator wall, back to his infuriating casualness as you tried to find a response.

When the elevator door opened, you were surprised to see a small foyer instead of a hallway. You were greeted by an attendant, who gestured to the door on your left.

“Your winnings are inside, sir. I am to remind you that claiming them requires you to follow the rules and regulations you signed when the money was handed over. You are free to leave at any point before morning, we only ask that you stop by the front desk on your way out if you do so.”

“We understand,” Sylus said, already moving toward the door. The attendee waited for you to nod in agreement too before they swiped a keycard and the suite’s door unlocked with a soft click.

You didn’t wait before you were charing through the door, half running in your haste to see Zayne. You found him standing near the windows, his hands in his pockets. You only registered the relief on his face before you hugged him, burying your face against his chest. Zayne wrapped his arms around you, one of them resting at the back of your neck. You weren't sure if he was trying to comfort you or himself, but it didn't matter. You were here now.

“I’m so sorry, Zayne,” you said, mumbling into his shirt. “Are you okay? I promised I’d win and then Sylus was there and then the bidding was over and-”

“Shhhhh,” Zayne said, squeezing you tighter to ground you, keeping you from spiraling even farther. “I’m okay. We’re alright.”

There was a pop behind you and you jerked out of Zayne’s arms, spinning around and half-prepared for a fight.

“Sorry to interrupt your reunion, kitten,” Sylus said. He held out a glass of freshly poured to champagne to you. “Would you like a drink to celebrate our win?”

You took it, swallowing half of it in one gulp before you set it down on the coffee table. “Right. Thank you, Sylus. I appreciate your help this evening. If you want to stay for dinner with us you’re welcome to. Otherwise, I’ll call you-”

Sylus chuckled as he took a seat in one of the plush armchairs across from the couch. “I apologize if I gave the wrong impression, kitten. I just spent two million on an evening with Dr. Zayne. I’m not going to settle for a mere dinner when I could have my heart’s desire.”

Zayne pinched the bridge of his nose as he let out a long sigh.

“This was your plan the whole time, wasn’t it?” Zayne asked.

Your head whipped around so fast to look at Zayne that you nearly pulled a muscle.

“What?”

Zayne took a seat on the couch, stretching his legs out in front of him while he ignored you. The look he was giving Sylus, however, could turn a man to ice.

“You told me this was a charity auction while I patched you up in the ER. Pestered me into signing up for it at every follow-up appointment. Won the final bid by a mile.”

Sylus took a slow sip of his champagne, never breaking eye contact. Your heart raced as you looked between the two of them.

“Wait, you know each other?”

Both of them continued ignoring you, too busy staring each other down.

“It is a charity auction and you successfully helped raise quite a lot of money, Doctor.” Sylus carefully sat his glass down on the coffee table before leaning back in the armchair to match Zayne’s pose. “You can’t blame me for not reading the auction details. Or maybe you did read them and were secretly hoping for this outcome?”

The two of them were infuriating. You stood, swiping the bottle of champagne so you could pour yourself another drink. You downed the whole thing in one go before you poured another one.

“You’re telling me,” you said, using the hand still holding the champagne bottle to point at them, “that not only did you know each other, but Sylus is the reason we’re in this mess, and you knew what kind of auction you were signing up for the whole time?”

You gestured between them, not caring when your movements were exaggerated and you spilled some of the champagne all over the nice rug. You were too angry at both of them right now to care.

“Sylus, how could you do this to Zayne? If you really knew him, then you’d know a sex auction isn’t his type of thing!”

Zayne’s ears were turning a delicious shade of red again and Sylus was smirking. If the champagne hadn’t been so good, you might’ve considered spilling the rest of it over his head.

“Kitten.”

Sylus’s voice was low and dangerous. It wasn’t cold – you hadn’t heard him use that tone with you since your first trip to the N109 Zone – but it was close to it. When you met Sylus’s gaze, his smirk was gone. He was entirely focused on you now. He even sat up, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees as if this was the most important negotiation he’d had all day.

“I would never let someone auction themselves off if they hadn’t consented to it multiple times. All of the winners could have backed out at any point, no questions asked. They’re each wearing a bracelet with a panic button on it. Attendants outside each room are there to intervene the moment the alarm goes off.”

You fell back into the sofa, dropping the champagne onto the coffee table as the gravity of what he said sank in. Slowly, you turned to look at Zayne. Before he could stop you, you reached over and pulled the sleeve of his shirt up, exposing the metal cuff he’d shown you earlier. Sure enough, there were two buttons on either side. You’d seen similar types of jewelry before – early Hunter watches had used similar technology before they upgraded to voice activation.

“Zayne…”

Your doctor didn’t turn and look at you. He continued staring straight at Sylus, his jaw twitching from how tightly he was clenching his teeth together.

“Now, Zayne,” Sylus said, leaning back in his seat again. “Care to tell our kitten why you didn’t want her to know the real reason you agreed to this?”

You saw the small glow of Sylus’s eye as he spoke and your eyes widened.

“Sylus, don’t tell me-” you said, but Sylus cut you off.

“That I’m giving our favorite doctor an opportunity to finally give in to his heart’s desires?”

Zayne stood abruptly, moving to stand in front of the window again with his arms crossed in front of him. The three of you were silent for a long moment as the tension between you pulled tight. When you couldn’t take it anymore, you stood again, needing to do something with all of the nervous energy in your body.

“Let’s order dinner,” you said, looking around for the room service menu. There were several papers laying on the desk, so you bee-lined to it. However, when you picked them up, flipping through to see if any of them included information regarding menu options, you didn't see anything remotely resembling a menu.

You froze when you recognized Zayne’s handwriting.

The page was a very long list, divided up into several subsections: Wants, Needs, Soft Limits, Hard Limits.

Your eyes flew over it, noticing a familiar crow feather embossed in the bottom right corner.

“Holy shit,” you said. You weren’t sure how loud you’d said it, but it didn’t matter. Both men in the room were too attuned to you not to notice.

Zayne had made a list of his sexual preferences. On Sylus's stationary. Sylus who had apparently set up the entire auction.

“Did you want to make a list too, kitten?” Sylus asked. You hadn't heard him move. He was standing behind you, leaning forward until he’d boxed you in against the desk, his hands resting on either side of your hips. “I told you earlier, I'd be happy to show you my list as well.”

When you turned your head to see Sylus’s profile, you saw his eye glow red again and you shuddered under his attention. Your body broke out in goosebumps as you became extremely aware of every place Sylus’s body was pressed against yours, all too familiar with how his Aether Core was reading you.

“Sylus, what are you doing?”

He turned his head to drag his nose against the side of your throat. The touch was light, almost tentative, but you felt like you were on fire.

“I’m opening a door,” Sylus said. “But you have to choose to walk through it, kitten.”

He stepped away and you immediately felt the loss of his body heat. When you turned around, Zayne was still standing at the window, but his hands were clenched at his sides. You saw him frown a fraction as he noticed the paper in your hands.

“Tell me the truth, Zayne,” you said, dropping the paper on the desk behind you. “Did you know what the auction was before you asked me to come tonight?”

Zayne glanced away for a moment before he met your eyes again. “Yes.”

You nodded, leaning against the desk behind you so something in the room felt steady. You felt like your world was turning upside right before your eyes.

“And when you asked me to pay any amount to win your bid? What were you thinking?”

Zayne watched you for a long moment, his eyes never leaving yours. You saw him take a deep breath, as if he was steadying himself too, before he approached you. When he was a foot away, he reached for your hand. You let Zayne take it, hoping he didn’t notice how badly your hands were shaking when he pressed it over his heart.

“I was thinking a lot of things,” Zayne said, his green eyes practically glowing with intensity. “The most prominent thought, however, was that I didn’t want to spend this night with anyone other than you. Even if we only had dinner together.”

Your hand fisted in his shirt as you pulled him towards you. Zayne met you without hesitating, his lips soft and sure against yours.

The feeling of kissing Zayne was better than you’d ever imagined. He kept your hand anchored against his chest while his other hand cupped your cheek. Despite his soft touch, it felt possessive, like he was claiming you as his – for now and always. You could feel the intensity he was holding back and you wanted more of it.

When he pulled away from you, Zayne squeezed the hand you placed over his heart like he didn’t want to let go. You were half a thought from dragging him down for another kiss when you heard Sylus moving next to you.

“Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Sylus’s hands rested on your hips as he pulled you towards him, adjusting you until you were trapped between the two very large, very handsome men. Zayne at your front and Sylus at your back. You expected Zayne to pull away, always conscious of how your body language, but he didn’t.

“Was this what you were after all along?” Zayne asked, pointedly not looking at you while he glared at Sylus.

You felt Sylus’s laughter more than heard him. “It’s a start.”

You had no idea what was happening between the two men you would’ve bet your entire savings on not knowing each other, but you also didn’t want to stop it. The heat building between the three of you was intoxicating and you leaned into Sylus, needing the support as much as you craved his touch.

“Now, Doctor,” Sylus said, wrapping one of his arms around your waist so you were pinned against him. “I want you to tell me what it is you really want to do right now.”

You’d never heard Sylus’s voice drop so low. He’d nearly growled as he spoke, and you whimpered at the thought of him using that voice to tell you what to do. Your knees grew weak, but Sylus was already there, tightening his arm around you so you didn't fall.

Zayne caught the motion, his gaze dropping to you again as Sylus steadied you.

“Let’s sit down before we overwhelm her. I don’t want her getting hurt.”

Sylus swept you into his arms without hesitating. You expected him to carry you to the couch, but he completely ignored the living room in favor of taking you into the bedroom. Sylus sat down carefully on the edge of the bed, keeping you in his lap as he adjusted you to be more comfortable.

Zayne joined you, standing in front of both of you with his jaw clenched. You could practically see whatever argument he was having with himself, and you did not want him to finish it. Not if it meant him pushing one of the emergency buttons on his metal cuff and him walking out. You weren't ready for this night to end yet.

“Please, Zayne,” you said, reaching for him. You hadn’t meant to sound so small and desperate. So needy. But you didn’t care. You grabbed Zayne by the tie and pulled. He moved immediately, kneeling in front of you like he never wanted to be anywhere else. He didn’t touch you yet – his hands stayed at his sides – but you could tell he wanted to by the way his tongue darted out and he licked his lips.

“Are you familiar with the traffic light system?” he asked.

Sylus adjusted you in his lap so you fully faced Zayne, draping your legs on either side of his so you were completely spread open. You gasped as you realized how wet you were already, your panties completely drenched and sticking to your core.

You nodded at Zayne’s question, but Sylus was already grabbing your chin, turning you to face him.

“Words, kitten.”

“Yes, I’m green,” you said, gasping. “Please don’t stop. I’m very, very green.”

Sylus kissed you, a mirror of Zayne’s kiss earlier. Despite his fingers tightening against your chin, his lips were almost tentative. It wasn’t enough. You needed more - you were desperate for more. You tried squirming against him, wanting to drive him just as wild as you felt - until Zayne’s hands squeezed both of your thighs.

“Patience, darling,” Zayne said. “We know what you need. We'll give it to you.”

Zayne tried pulling your legs even further apart, but your dress was too tight. You heard him growl in frustration before he was pulling at the fabric, ripping at the fabric until you were fully on display for him.

You didn’t even have time to gasp in surprise before Zayne was pulling your panties to the side and running his tongue up the length of you. You gasped into Sylus's mouth, your hips already rolling into Zayne's mouth. Sylus bit your bottom lip before he broke your kiss, his hands moving to hold your legs open for Zayne. They weren't going to let you hide any part of yourself tonight - not your body or your sounds.

“Would you look at that,” Sylus said, as calm and collected as if you were discussing the weather. “Seems our doctor is even more greedy than you are, kitten. Tell me, how does his tongue feel?”

Zayne was practically worshiping your pussy, his tongue licking every fold so none of your slick was wasted. When he finally turned his attention to your clit, sucking it into his mouth with little flicks of his tongue, you jolted in Sylus’s grip as you cried out.

“Sylus, it’s…he’s…”

You were gasping for air as Zayne continued that steady pressure against you. He never let up, even as he had to hold your hips down to keep you from moving away from him.

"Let go, kitten. Let our doctor make you feel good."

When you came, you screamed, letting the two men surrounding you hold you while your body shook in pleasure. Zayne’s tongue sank into your pussy, drinking in every drop of your orgasm to prolong it as long as he could.

You were a whimpering mess, both satisfied and desperate for more. You pulled at Zayne’s hair until he kissed you, his tongue gliding against yours so you could taste yourself on his lips. It sent another wave of heat through you and you shuddered again, writhing in Sylus’s lap until you could feel how hard Sylus was, just from watching you come under Zayne's mouth.

When Zayne broke your kiss, you whimpered, your hands already reaching for him again. He and Sylus both laughed at that - not at you, but in delight at how much you needed them. Zayne caught your hands and held your wrists together so he had your full attention.

“Color check, darling.”

You tugged at his hold on you, but Zayne was immovable. Sylus was still holding you in his lap, entirely too pleased with how trapped you were between them.

“Green.”

“Good girl.”

Zayne lowered himself in front of you again, his mouth inches from your pussy, ready to devour you again, when Sylus let go of one of your legs so he could wrap his fingers in Zayne’s hair. You let out a frustrated whine as Zayne moved away from you again, letting Sylus guide him until the two men were at eye level again.

“Can I help you with something?” Zayne asked. If you hadn’t known Zayne so well, you never would’ve heard the note of irritation in his voice. He was just as desperate to taste you again as you were.

“Yes,” Sylus said. “I’d like a taste too.”

You froze. You weren't sure if it was for ten seconds or ten minutes, but you didn’t breathe as Zayne and Sylus stared at each other. Not until you saw Zayne’s gaze drop half an inch and you felt Sylus let out a slow breath behind you.

Zayne leaned forward, slowly at first, before he surged up and met Sylus’s mouth with his.

Their kiss looked more like a battle than a seduction. Their breathing was sharp and heavy as they fought for control. You saw their tongues tangling together as Zayne shared the taste of you with Sylus, and it sent something dark and delicious through you.

When they pulled away from each other, Sylus caught Zayne by his jaw. You watched as Sylus dragged his thumb ever so slowly across Zayne’s bottom lip, wiping up the last traces of your slick. Sylus licked his own thumb clean a moment later, not letting any of it go to waste, before his hand returned to your hip.

“Thank you,” Sylus said, his voice even as if he hadn’t just turned your world upside down.

Zayne was still frozen in place, half-kneeling over you, inches from Sylus’s face. His eyes had darkened, but you could see him reorganizing the night in his head while he stared into the middle distance.

“Color check, Doctor,” Sylus said, tugging on Zayne’s hair until he made eye contact again.

Zayne cleared his throat before he looked at both of you – checking your emotional state just as much as he was cataloguing his own.

“Green.”

He didn’t wait for Sylus’s response before he dropped to his knees again, pressing his mouth against your pussy like he wanted to drown in it all over again.

You gasped Zayne’s name and let your head fall back onto Sylus’s shoulder, your hands flying to Sylus’s thighs as Zayne slid one finger inside of you.  

“You feel so good, squeezing around me,” Zayne said. “My sweet, perfect girl. So wet for me.”

His voice was muffled as he spoke into your pussy, kissing and licking you in the way he’d already discovered drove you wild. You rocked your hips into his touch, drawing his finger deeper inside of you as you both moaned at the contact.

Sylus chuckled as one of his hands circled your neck, holding you in place so you had to look up at him.

“Tell me, kitten. Who’s cock do you want first?”

Sylus’s question left you speechless and stuttering as you stared at him, mouth open. He was staring down at you, a soft, amused expression on his face, as he waited for your response.

Before you could answer, Zayne slide a second finger inside of you, slowly moving them in and out of your pussy until he found that perfect spot inside of you. He stroked it slowly, timing it with his tongue's careful circles around your clit until you were begging for release again.

Sylus’s hand never loosened around your neck, steadying you, keeping you from falling forward and losing yourself in the pleasure Zayne was giving you.

Zayne dragged you to the very edge of your orgasm, freezing at the last moment before you could tip over. You could feel his hot breath against your pussy as you clenched around his fingers, but he refused to move them, no matter how much you squirmed.

“Answer the question, darling,” Zayne said. His voice was rough and low with desire. You could see how hard he’d become, the outline of his erection as clear as day as it tented his pants. Still, he didn’t move to relieve himself. He stayed kneeling at your feet like an obedient servant to your pleasure.

“I…”

Your eyes darted between the two of them, unsure of what they wanted. What if you said the wrong name? Would the other think you didn’t want him just as badly? Why were they making you choose?

Sylus’s eye glowed red again before he leaned down and kissed you. His lips were soft and gentle against yours, a reassurance instead of a tease.

“You’re overthinking again, kitten,” Sylus said, cupping your face with one hand as he looked at you. “How about your doctor makes you come again and then he gets to rest while you ride my cock. How does that sound?”

You nodded, already drowning in lust at the thought of having Sylus touch you too. They didn’t make you beg for it this time before Zayne’s mouth was on you again, a third finger sliding inside of you while he relentlessly chased your pleasure.

You came not long after, Zayne’s name on your lips again as your limbs shook, the waves of pleasure crashing through you. Zayne didn’t let up, his mouth alternating between little sucks and licks against your clit while his fingers continued moving, stretching you out as they curled and thrust inside of you.

Your entire body went limp as Zayne dragged a third orgasm out of you, before you'd even had time to come down from your last one. Sylus had to wrap both arms around you to keep you from falling off of his lap. You panted into Sylus’s neck, barely able to keep your eyes open even as Zayne continued kissing your pussy. You heard Zayne let out a deep grunt as his mouth left you suddenly.

“That was unnecessary,” Zayne said.

“Can’t have you wearing our kitten out just yet, Doctor.”

When you opened your eyes a few moments later, Zayne was standing in the doorway, Sylus’s black and red Evol wrapped around him, holding him in place.

“Let him go, Sylus,” you said, half slurring your words as your head lolled back against him. You were cum-drunk, like your body was floating on a river of pleasure and your head was trailing somewhere behind it.

You felt more than heard Sylus laughing as he lifted you, turning you in his lap so you faced him instead. He guided your arms up so you could wrap them around his neck as he cradled you against him. Sylus ran his hands along your shoulders, across your back, down to your thighs, massaging you gently every place he felt tension.

“What was the purpose of buying me tonight if you were going to keep me in the doorway?”

Sylus ignored Zayne’s complaints, his focus completely on you.

“How are you feeling, sweetie? Still with us?”

You blinked at him, slowly. For a moment, with your eyes half-lidded and unfocused, you were doing an exceptional impression of the cat Sylus always compared you to.

“Good,” you said, shifting against him so you could look him in the eye. “Kiss me, please.”

Sylus’s hands cupped your cheeks, holding you closely so he could lean in and brush soft kisses against your face. He kissed your eyebrow, then the tip of your nose. He moved slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. Sylus kissed one cheek, then the other, then your forehead. When you were fully leaning into his touch, your eyes closed and a soft smile on your face as you enjoyed being adored, Sylus pressed one last kiss to your lips.

“Thank you, daddy,” you said, tucking your head under his chin as he held you tightly against him.

“You’re welcome, sweetie,” Sylus said, his voice warm and comforting as one of his hands slid underneath the hem of your dress. He didn’t push you, just let his fingers skim against the bare skin of your lower back.

You leaned further into his touch, not wanting him to stop. When his fingers stilled, you reached for the edge of your dress, pulling it over your head in one fluid motion so he had easier access to your body.

“You look beautiful like this,” Sylus said. “Completely bare and in my lap.” His fingers trailed over the edge of your light blue, lacy underwear. “Did you wear these for me?”

You blinked slowly at him, your mind still muddy from the pleasure haze it had sunken into. “No.”

Sylus’s gaze flicked behind you, meeting Zayne’s eyes.

“No? Did you wear them for Zayne?”

You shifted in his lap, suddenly uncomfortable. Was he mad at you? Had you done something wrong?

“I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

Sylus caught your chin so you looked at him.

“Don’t apologize, kitten. You’re not in trouble - I like them anyway."

His lips were on yours again a moment later. This kiss was hungry, more heated than the last one. He tugged your panties to the side so he could slide his fingers through your wetness. You both moaned as he found you clit with his thumb, circling it as he used two of his fingers to enter you.

You felt like you were on the edge of another orgasm almost immediately, your thighs shaking with the effort of holding yourself up. You bit Sylus’s lower lip, needing something, anything, to hold onto while your hips moved on their own accord.

“Just like that,” Sylus said. His free hand moved to your jaw, forcing your mouth to stay open so he could hear every sound you made as you whimpered for him. “Can you come again for me? Come around your my fingers? Show me that you’re ready for daddy's cock.”

You came with a strangled cry, too lost in sensation to tell if you said Sylus's name or called him daddy again. Your legs gave out, forcing you even farther onto Sylus’s fingers as you sank down. Sylus held you through it, his fingers stilling inside of you as your body continued squeezing around him through your aftershocks.

“Good girl,” Sylus said, kissing you softly before he guided you forward, resting your weight against his chest. You sagged against him, letting your eyes flutter closed as you practically melted into Sylus’s touch.

“I thought you didn’t want to wear her out," Zayne said.

Sylus must have released Zayne from his Evol, as his voice was much close than you’d expected it to be. You could feel the warmth of Zayne's body against your back, though he wasn’t touching you yet.

“Couldn’t let you have all the fun,” Sylus said. “Now, make yourself useful and hold her.”

Zayne wrapped his arms around you, pulling you far enough away from Sylus that he could unbutton his shirt and undo his belt buckle. When he pulled his cock out, you let out a low noise that could’ve been a whimper or a gasp.

“That’s right, kitten,” Sylus said, tugging your panties off before he lowered you back onto his lap as he dismissed Zayne again. Your pussy was already so sensitive from your previous orgasms that the slide of his bare cock against you sent even more pleasure through your body. You reached for Sylus, rocking your hips against him until his head pressed against your clit.

Sylus chuckled as you shuddered against him. He held you steady as he moved his hips again, dragging his cock back and forth against you until you were begging for him.

“Sylus, please, I need-”

His Evol wrapped around your body, supporting your weakened muscles as he lined himself up at your entrance. Sylus lowered you onto him, pausing when only the tip was inside your pussy.

“That’s not the name you called me earlier, sweetie,” Sylus said. He cupped your cheek, running his thumb back and forth until you focused entirely on him.

You squirmed above him, shifting your hips every which way in an attempt to take his cock deeper inside of you, but his Evol held you in a torturous tease. It wasn't fair that they could make you feel so good and so needy at the same time. Even without Zayne touching you, you could feel his eyes on you, watching you squirm and driving you even further into lust-fueled madness.

Zayne was too far away to feel the heat of his body. You knew he was watching as your muscles tensed under Sylus’s ministrations, heard every noise that escaped your lips. The embarrassment of being watched, of being seen in this way, burned through you. If your skin hadn’t been flushed from pleasure already, you would’ve turned the most beautiful shade of red.

“I-”

You tried turning your head to look at Zayne, but Sylus held you firmly in place. His grip wasn’t cruel or punishing. Instead it was an anchor, dragging your attention back to him and the sweet pleasure he was bringing you.

“Is my kitten being greedy again?” Sylus asked. He tilted his head a fraction, as if looking at you from a different angle would get you to focus on him. “Do you need more than one cock to satisfy you tonight?”

Sylus’s gaze shifted from yours to Zayne’s behind you. You saw the calculated smirk on his face, could see what he was doing. You had never been so grateful for that stupid Aether Core in his eye, for being able to read what you wanted and give it to you without any shame.

“Yes, please,” you said, still trying to look behind you. You wanted to see Zayne. You needed him to see how badly you wanted him. Wanted both of them.

You moaned as Sylus rewarded you for your words by letting you sink further onto his cock. Your pussy ached from how far he was already stretching you, but it felt too good to stop now.

“Please, daddy.”

Sylus thrust up into you, burying himself completely at your words. You both groaned at the feeling, your pussy clenching around him as if you never wanted to let go.

“Fuck, kitten,” Sylus said, capturing your lips with his as he began moving properly.

His Evol stayed wrapped around your waist, holding you in place while he fucked up into you, grinding his hips at the top to brush your clit with every stroke.

You could feel another orgasm building inside of you, but you resisted. You didn’t want to come again right now, not when Zayne was still so far away. You reached behind you, only finding empty air, and you whined in protest.

“Daddy, please, I need-”

Zayne was there a moment later, one hand in yours while the other slid up the side of your neck, turning your head until you were looking up at them.

“Daddy’s here,” Zayne said, his voice a low growl. “We’re going to take very good care of you.”

Zayne’s fingers tightened in a possessive grip as kissed you. His tongue invaded your mouth, stroking in the same rhythm as Sylus's cock thrusting up into you. You felt so full, so perfect, and completely at their mercy.

You lost yourself in sensation. Zayne’s fingers pressing hard enough to sting. The slow burn of Sylus’s cock moving inside of you, stroking against every sensitive part. The heat of both of their bodies. The rumble of their voices as they growled praises into your skin.

Sylus ripped your mouth away from Zayne’s when you came so he could hear you break between them. You gasped and begged between them, your limbs turning to liquid as Sylus’s Evol and Zayne’s body kept you upright.

“That’s my good girl,” Zayne said, his mouth dragging wet, hot trails against your cheek and jaw as his hand reached between you to press against your clit. Not to drag your pleasure out further or to pull even more stimulation from your body, but as a reminder of who your body belonged to. Sylus's cock may have been inside of you, but you were still his.

Sylus stilled his hips inside of you long enough for you to focus on the two of them as you came down. Your brain was still too fuzzy, too drunk on the pleasure still coursing through your body.

“I think our kitten deserves a break for how good she’s been for us. Don’t you agree, Doctor?”

You whined as the two of them maneuvered you off of Sylus’s lap, laying you down between them on the bed. Zayne draped a blanket over you before you started shivering. Both men were pressed against you, Zayne’s arm curled around your hip while Sylus trailed his fingertips along your collarbone.

You mumbled something incoherent, letting your eyes fall close as they took care of you. You weren’t sure how long you were out of it when you heard them speaking again.

“You set all of this up just to make her happy?” Zayne asked.

“No. Not only for her, Doctor.”

There was a long silence until Zayne shifted next to you, his fingers tightening against your hip.

“Then I should make sure you get your money's worth.”

You didn’t hear Sylus’s speak in response, but you could imagine his smirk as he raised an eyebrow at Zayne.

“It’s logical," Zayne said. "Practical, even. We wouldn’t want you to complain and withdraw your funding from the charity.”

You opened your eyes as the bed shifted beneath you, as Zayne leaned over your body to kiss Sylus. You had to blink several times to focus on what was happening. Zayne had braced himself on one arm next to Sylus’s head, while his other hand wrapped around Sylus’s cock. They both moaned into the kiss as Sylus’s Evol wrapped around Zayne, pulling him closer without disturbing your rest.

“Logical,” Sylus said as Zayne dragged his mouth down the other man’s neck. “Is that what we’re calling it nowadays?” Sylus’s hips jerked as Zayne tightened his grip, but the punishment didn't land. When Sylus only chuckled, Zayne bit Sylus’s collarbone hard enough to leave a bruise.

“Are you going to be this talkative the entire time or do I need to put your mouth to work?”

Zayne didn’t wait for an answer before he continued moving down Sylus’s body, kissing and biting as he went. Your eyes went wide as you watched Sylus’s body jerk slightly each time Zayne’s teeth closed around the other man’s skin. You thought your body would’ve been completely wrung out from the number of orgasms you’d already had, but you were wrong. You barely realized you were moving until your hand wrapped around Sylus’s cock, threading your fingers with Zayne’s.

“Fuck,” Sylus said, groaning as you and Zayne stroked him in tandem. You watched him breathe heavily, trying and only partially succeeding as he tried to keep talking. His voice kept stuttering as he fought from coming undone under both of your touch.

“This…this isn’t….what I…good…fuck.”

Sylus came with a growl, coating both yours and Zayne’s hands in come as his body shuddered in pleasure. You refused to stop touching him as you and Zayne alternated stroking him until Sylus's cock was twitching from overstimulation and he had no more left to give. You let go, intending to curl up next to Sylus’s side, but Zayne caught your hand.

Zayne leaned forward and took two of your fingers into his mouth, licking and sucking them clean. He moved methodically down your hand, taking every finger into his mouth to give it the same treatment, even licking the center of your palm until you were clean of Sylus's come.

You were breathing heavily all over again.

When he released you, you looked at Zayne – properly looked at him, now that you had had a moment to rest – and saw the lust written across his face. You barely blinked before Zayne was surging towards you, pinning you against the bed as he bit at your neck and collarbone, leaving matching marks to the one’s he'd left on Sylus’s body.

“I’m going to take care of you now,” Zayne said. “Not him. Me.” You could feel how hard he’d been this entire time as he rutted against your hips. You tilted your head back to give Zayne better room to leave whatever marks he wanted as you reached for his waistband, trying to unbuckle his belt as he pressed even closer to you.

“And you’re going to say my name when you come,” Zayne said, sucking your nipple into his mouth. “You’re mine.”

Your back arched into his touch as you cried out, your hands desperately tugging at his pants to get him closer to you.

“That doesn’t sound very practical to me, Doctor,” Sylus said.

You weren’t sure when Sylus had recovered, but he was kneeling behind Zayne, his fingers moving steadily over yours to undo Zayne’s pants. Between the two of you and some of Sylus’s Evol, you managed to undress Zayne despite his insistence at not moving away from your naked skin. When Zayne’s cock pressed against your wet heat, he froze above you, too overwhelmed by feeling of your bare pussy against his most sensitive skin.

You could see Sylus over Zayne’s shoulder. You watched as he leaned forward, kissing the place between Zayne’s neck and shoulder as Sylus’s hands stroked down Zayne’s sides.

“Color check, Doctor.”

“Green,” Zayne said, swallowing hard around the word. You saw Sylus hesitate only a moment, as if trying to decide if he was pushing too far, before his hand wrapped around Zayne’s cock.

You lifted your hips as Sylus positioned Zayne at your entrance.

Time slowed between the three of you as Zayne finally slid inside of you. For a moment, the three of you were connected, breathing in sync as Sylus removed his hand so he could press Zayne’s hips further into yours.

“That’s it, Doctor,” Sylus said, nipping at Zayne’s neck as he encouraged Zayne to move with him. “You take care of our kitten and I’ll take care of you.”

You couldn’t see what Sylus was doing, but based on the moan Zayne let out against your chest and the sudden appearance of lube thanks to Sylus’s Evol, you had an idea.

You grabbed Zayne’s face, needing to be closer to him as he shuddered above you. When he kissed you, you could feel the force of his desire crashing into you, as he fought to hold still. You couldn’t help but clench around Zayne’s cock inside of you, as the intensity of how badly he wanted this - wanted you - hit you.

“I need you to be a very good girl for me,” Zayne said, breathing heavily against your cheek, “and hold still right now.”

Sylus let out another soft laugh as he moved behind Zayne. A moment later, they both moaned in unison.

“Just like that," Sylus said. "Relax, Doctor. Let me take care of you too.”

Sylus wrapped his hands around Zayne’s hips, directing him to pull out of you until only his tip was inside you. You lifted your legs, wanting to wrap them around Zayne so he couldn’t pull away, but Zayne caught you. He pushed one of your legs back towards the bed, opening you up even further as he trapped you in place.

In one swift movement, Zayne was driving into you again, burying his face in your neck as you held onto him.

“There we go,” Sylus said, leaning forward so he could speak directly into Zayne’s ear. He made eye contact with you as he spoke, making sure you knew exactly what was happening between the two men above you. “Tell me how good you feel, my pretty boy. Your cock buried in our kitten while I’m inside your ass.”

You whimpered as Sylus moved again, grinding into Zayne until there nothing left between the three of you.

“Fuck you,” Zayne said. His hips rocked, as if he was trying to escape, but he only succeeded in pushing Sylus deeper inside of him.

“I believe I’m already doing that,” Sylus said, tightening his grip on Zayne’s hips.

You became a tangle of thrusts, moans, and gasps, as you moved together. Zayne’s cock felt impossibly big inside of you, grinding against your clit every time he pressed against you. Sylus never let up either, keeping the three of you tangled together as he fucked you with Zayne’s cock.

“Are you gonna come for us again, kitten?” Sylus said, panting above you. “Squeeze that tight little pussy around Zayne’s cock until our pretty boy loses it too?”

You could see the sweat dripping down his neck and chest and part of you wanted to lick it off him. You whimpered at the thought, leaning forward to lick at Zayne’s neck instead. You couldn’t help yourself from biting down while you were there, your tongue quickly following to soothe the skin.

Zayne growled as you bit him, his hands pulling at your hair until he could bite at your bottom lip in turn. He was completely lost to the two bodies surrounding him, mindlessly fucking into you as he ground back against Sylus, barely aware enough to do much than hold off his impending orgasm.

“Be good,” Zayne said, pulling your head back by your hair so you looked at him. “Or your we'll have fun while you have to watch.”

You could barely handle the two of them fucking while you were involved. The idea of being forced to watch the two of them, unable to touch yourself while they fucked each other and told you how good they were making each other feel, sent you over the edge yet again.

Your body arched underneath them, shuddering as your pleasure overwhelmed you. Zayne followed soon after, burying his hands in your hair as he spilled inside of you. Sylus never stopped fucking Zayne, his movement forcing Zayne’s body against your clit with every thrust. Your body instinctively tried moving away from them, trying to keep yourself from the overstimulation, but it was no use. You were trapped underneath two bodies, forced to take every inch of Zayne’s cock over and over as Sylus’s fucked you both through your orgasms.

“Please,” you gasped, tears slipping down your cheeks as you couldn’t take it anymore. “R-red.”

A moment later, Sylus’s Evol surrounded you. You were curled up on the bed, the blanket wrapped around you, as Sylus rested a hand on your ankle. He still had Zayne trapped underneath him, but now they were bent over the edge of the bed.

“Better?” Sylus asked.

He and Zayne were both entirely focused on you, despite Sylus still being cock-deep in Zayne's ass. You knew if you said no, they would turn their full attentions to you without a second thought. Now that you weren’t dying from constant overstimulation, you could focus again.

“I’m good,” you said, reaching for them. Zayne grabbed your hand, stroking your knuckles with his thumb as Sylus smiled at you.

“Good,” Sylus said. He thrust forward, driving Zayne further into the bed, his hand still light against your ankle. “We’ll take care of you in a minute, once I'm done with our pretty boy here.”

“Fuck,” Zayne said, biting into his arm as Sylus fucked into him with even more force. You could see Zayne was hard again, his poor dick caught between his stomach and the edge of the bed as his body rocked against the mattress.

You watched both of them try to keep it together, as if they were in a fight to see who could come first. If you had more energy, you could’ve reached for them to help, but your body had completely given out, too exhausted by your multiple orgasms to do anything but stare.

“Are you going to be a good boy and come for me,” Sylus said, grabbing Zayne by the hair to pull him up so he was standing up, Zayne's back pressed against Sylus’s chest. The shift meant that neither one of them could hold onto you anymore, but you didn’t mind when you could see how deeply the new position affected both of them.

Zayne’s cock bobbed against his stomach, the tip a dark red as he leaked all over his stomach. Sylus’s eyebrows were furrowed in concentration, his mouth partially open in pleasure.

You let out a soft moan as you watched them, your hand drifting between your legs. Your pussy was sore and swollen, but you couldn’t help it. You let your legs fall open as you stroked yourself, your touch a bare whisper against your skin so you didn't overstimulate yourself again.

“Fuck,” Zayne said, having apparently forgotten every other word as his eyes dropped to where you touched yourself. He wrapped one of his hand around Sylus’s neck as his spine curled into the other man’s touch, his other stroking his cock in time with your movements. You watched as Zayne spilled into his hand a moment later, his head falling back as he moaned your name.

Sylus didn’t let him have a moment’s reprieve before he was pushing Zayne back down onto the bed, his face inches from your pussy as he fucked Zayne in earnest. Zayne pushed your hand out of the way so he could replace it with his mouth, his tongue pressing against you in time with Sylus’s thrusts.

When you came on Zayne’s tongue, Sylus followed, grunting into Zayne’s shoulder.

The three of you stayed in a tangle of sore limbs and heavy breathing for several minutes, before Sylus pulled out of Zayne. He dropped a quick kiss onto Zayne’s shoulder, reaching over to tuck a piece of your hair behind your ear, before he walked to the bathroom. When he returned with a wet cloth a moment later, he helped you and Zayne clean up before he pulled the covers back.

Sylus activated his Evol again, tucking you and Zayne into bed before he slid in next to you. You could feel your eyelids drooping already as you snuggled between them. Both Sylus and Zayne kissed you gently, pressing their lips against your forehead, shoulders, and cheek, until you hummed in happiness.

“Sleep well, kitten,” Sylus said. “You too, Zayne.”

Zayne hummed next to you as he also got comfortable, sliding one arm around you as he closed his eyes.

“In the morning,” he said, his voice muffled by the pillow, “we’re going to talk about how asking someone out doesn't need to include dropping two million during a charity auction you set up.”

Sylus’s laugh was a low rumble against your chest as he pulled you against him.

“I look forward to it.”

[addiglessthanthree]

Sincerest Worship

The God of Tides and his Most Devout Follower have long been subject to the demands of rituals that others have created. It's time they created their own ritual that is more pleasing to them both.

2.7k words

God of Tides!Rafayel/Most Devout Follower!MC

CW: Sexually explicit content, heavy religious allegory, religious trauma

tags: shameless smut, body worship, literal worship, blowjob, gentle femdom, religious trauma

Read on Ao3 or below the cut!

The curtain to her chamber is pushed aside as Rafayel enters. He glides through the room like a sea cucumber set adrift, mind elsewhere as he busies himself, shuffling the seashells on her dresser into a more aesthetically pleasing arrangement. She quirks her head to the side, putting down the scroll she had been inspecting and swimming over to him. Malaise hovers around him like a cloud of sand disturbed in still water, slowly settling to the floor as he decompresses. She hovers at his shoulder, dithering on whether to ask him what the matter was.

"So tedious." He mutters, not to her but into the abyss. "One may think that after so many iterations of Sea Gods, that one should have requested alteration to these rituals lest they continue to stoke my impatience."

"In what way?" She queries. He turns, suddenly remembering whose chambers he had stormed into.

He waves his hand in front of his face, as if to manually dissipate the cloud of discontent himself. "On this day of the year all Lemurians gather and I must grant all who wish an audience a few moments of my time. 'Twould be fine were they concise, but an audience before a God seems to make some individuals-" He grimaces and rolls his eyes, "- rather verbose."

She stifles a giggle at his predicament. "What a horrible ritual thou hast undergone. It seems rather different than those I was familiarized with at the temple on land."

Rafayel turns towards her, lip jutting out in an imperious pout. "I see my plight is amusing to you. Pray tell, describe these rituals you are more familiar with?"

"The God of the Sea and Tides requires an offering tempered by wind and rain," she quotes, eyes drifting and becoming unfocused as she recalls the words. "Once, I was left to pray in the summer storms, the rainwater and my own devotion were my sustenance. When the storm cleared, it meant the Sea God had tempered me to his liking and I was suitable as an offering."

Rafayel's eyes widen slightly, recalling the waves and that had tossed ships to their demise, black clouds roiling on the horizon for days at a time before settling into placidity. His mind supplies the image of her figure, silhouetted against lightning, robes billowing behind her as she curls in on herself in prayer. Her body remembers it too, she shrinks into herself as the cold seeps into her bones, chilling her and causing sympathetic shivers to tingle over her skin.

Rafayel looks down to see his fingers hovering over her shoulder. Despite his complaints earlier about how time consuming and irksome it is to comfort the denizens of Whalefall City, he finds himself drawn to comfort her in times like these. The pressures of presenting himself as a God to his people and the comfort of being himself near her conflict within him, making his hand pause mere centimeters above her skin before withdrawing.

"I…" He starts, hanging his head and looking up at her through thick eyelashes, "I'm sorry."

"It wasn't you. I know that now," she assures him, but her eyes still don't meet his. Something else flickers through her voice, blush creeping over her cheeks. Though it was he who approached her chambers and he who reached for her, sometimes the familiarity they share bristles against the sense of propriety ingrained in her from her upbringing. Guilt that haunts her, unless she chooses to ignore it.

"I see, now that I'm here, that while the Sea God is demanding-" her lips twist in a petty smirk as she lashes out with the harmless barb, "-he is not cruel."

"Humans understand nothing of the sea, nor its demands," he agrees, relief washing his voice as he notes her demeanor return to familiar teasing.

She steels herself, straightening her back and letting out a deep breath. "No, as the God of the Sea and his Most Devout Follower, we are in a unique position of understanding, I would say."

Rafayel grins. "Perhaps 'tis time we dictate a new ritual, lest it be unpleasing to the participants."

She chuckles, relaxing in his presence. Their relationship had grown into something secret and safe for them to share in stolen moments. Honesty allowing vulnerability, allowing familiarity, allowing intimacy.

"Yes! The new ritual should start with-" She smiles as her eyes scan the room for a suitable prop. They light on a tray of sweets. "-snacks!"

"Then, my Most Devout Follower, please commence the ritual." Rafayel smiles as he puts on deific airs and drifts to recline on the chaise in the room.

"Oh Sea God, please accept this offering." She smiles as she approaches with a sweet held between her thumb and forefinger. Rafayel sits up to meet her but is met with her open palm pushing him back down. His brows twitch together in confusion as he glances at her face; a mischievous smile paints her lips as she brings the sweet to his lips. She gently places it on his mouth, pushing it in with her finger and letting his lips close over the digit. Leaving the sweet to melt on his tongue, she withdraws her hand, bringing it to her own mouth. Eyes never leaving his, she opens her own lips to taste the residue of him on her skin. His lips always tasted of a sea breeze on a clear summer day; crisp, fresh, vibrant and full of life.

Rafayel's sunset hued eyes burn with heat of the sun under the sea. That undying flame of Lemuria infusing fiery passion into his gaze as he watches her, transfixed. The light of Lemuria, the God of Sea and Tide, eating out of her palm. What mortal, presented with such a sight, could do anything but worship?

"The next step should be to anoint His Quintessence with ceremonial oils," she explains, the words coming out thick in her throat.

She backs away from him, swallowing hard and taking a deep breath to ground herself through the haze of her own emotions. She fetches a bottle of fragrant oil from the table and uncorks it as she approaches. Slowly she traces her fingers around the opening before dipping two fingers inside to coat them. Rafayel's eyes track every movement with hooded desire. The fragrance of the oil reaches her senses, blossoming between them with a fresh herbal fragrance of aquatic plants and the faint hint of lilies.

Her fingers trace a line from his temple down to his jaw, dabbing the oil along the underside of his jaw, fingernails scratching the sensitive skin. She sees and feels his throat bobbing in anticipation as she lifts his chin to expose his neck. Rafayel's breath comes out as a shudder as her palm settles over his Adam's apple. She licks her lips, sliding her hand lower to rest along his collarbone, thumb tracing idle circles around the hollow of his throat.

The pad of her fingers smear the ceremonial gold paint adorning his sternum as her hand explores his body. The oil pools in the divots of his chest, dissolving the paint into dispersed whorls of red, blue, and gold. Each stroke mars the patterns, washing away the obligations of the day and creating something new. The colours merge into novel combinations; purples and shimmering sunset hues emerge from their unions. Her hands glide over his skin and paint a new design in oil smudges and fingernail scratches. Her design, her own worship that she has created.

Rafayel's chest heaves, breath hitching as her nails graze over his nipple. Her gaze flicks back up to meet his as she idly traces, his skin her canvas. His eyes are wide, with dilated pupils. Pink blush sits high on his cheeks and tinges his ears. Flickers of aquamarine light reflect off his scales as they emerge on his cheeks and neck.

"Does my Follower enjoy teasing her God?" The words are punctuated with whimpers, bitten off by reticent teeth.

"I thought the Sea God didn't like to be touched," she observes, hands trailing lower to graze his waist. Shimmering blue scales rise and settle in the wake of her fingers.

"I am accustomed to being touched for… certain rituals." Rafayel's brow furrows in concentration. "In those cases, it was irrelevant whether I like it or not."

Her hand journeys farther down, marring the markings on his hips, smudging them into crude arrows that parallel the V of his muscles. She lowers herself onto his lap, bringing her hand up to cup his face.

"Perhaps this God-" Her thumb traces a line beneath his right eye as if to wipe away a tear. The ritual paint follows the motion, smudging into a cloud of blue. "-prefers the sincere worship of his Most Devout Follower."

Her thumb makes a line down to his mouth, pressing the dark blue pigment into his plush lip. She leans in and kisses overtop of her thumb, slowly, reverently. She withdraws and he strains his neck, trying to chase her lips for more. Her other hand, placed over his heart, keeps him firmly pinned down as a coy smile lights her lips.

"It's my duty to worship, so please, oh Sea God, receive my adoration." She leans in to whisper, tongue tracing along the shell of his ear before biting down on his earlobe. He gasps, hands jumping to her hips, pushing her down to grind against him. She reaches around him, winding her arms over his shoulders and running her fingertips down the length of his arms. They follow down to his wrists and she wraps her fingers around his bracelets, pulling his hands away and pushing them down to his sides.

"Your Quintessence," she queries, kissing and sucking her way down his neck, "is my worship insufficient? Shall I scream your praises louder? Shall I keep you in my thoughts day and night? Shall I consume each part of you into myself so that I should not live another day without you residing in me? Shall I do it daily? Nightly? Hourly?"

Rafayel licks his lips as he looks down on her. She kisses across his chest, her lips uncovering birthmarks that had been concealed by the paint; imperfections to the Lemurian elders, sacred knowledge to her. Rafayel obeys her body's instruction, merely watching her as she explores. His eyes full of lust and hunger.

Once, in the temple she had been raised in, she had been told there was a day that the sun had forsaken them. In the middle of the day, the sky had gone dark, and she was told to avert her eyes lest she anger it even more. The walls of the temple had all been silhouetted with the shadow of the sun, a void, an abyss of darkness surrounded by light. This is the only comparison she can make to the way that Rafayel's eyes meet hers in this moment: an all-devouring, empty sun. The light around him swallowed in the twin voids of his eyes. Something in the depth of her heart yearns to fill them with light once more, but fears that it will consume everything she is instead.

She balks only for a moment before steeling her resolve; this is her ritual. It is not a ritual that takes or sacrifices, but a ritual that gives and creates. She looks up into the empty sun, not fearing retribution from an angry god, but marvelling at the beauty of a loving one. She maps each curve of his body like they are her scripture; memorizing the dips and divots as new gospel, the birthmarks on his abdomen a hymn, the shape of his bellybutton a relic. She savours the taste of his sweat and the scent of his skin, sweeter than incense. She moves lower, shifting off of his hips to kneel before him.

She slides her hands to rest on the sash around his hips, the silky textile floating over her wrist. It kisses her skin with the gentleness of a minnow in the shallows. Fingers, now bolstered with confidence, slide beneath the garments. They fall away beneath her touch, revealing his hips and straining erection. This too, would be an object of her adoration.

Rafayel's clothes pool on the floor, soft swishing fabric that glows as shadows cast over it. Raiment of a god. Even bare before her, he's no less awe-inspiring; gold paint dissolved in oil to form a shimmering halo over his skin, scales rippling after each touch and caress, and a debauched expression that feels sacrilegious to look upon. There's also Rafayel; pink blush staining his skin, stomach tensing as he suppresses ticklish gasps, birthmarks peppered over his nose and chest. It is right to kneel before a god, but it is also right to kneel for Rafayel.

She chooses the latter, smiling as she kisses a line down his hips and poking him in those ticklish spots that only she knows. He pouts at her, wincing as he tries not to laugh, which only encourages her antics further. She dips her finger through a swath of paint, trailing it lower to the base of his cock. She kisses the tip as she paints a line up a vein, then down another, gently dabbing a dot onto another hidden birthmark. His hips jerk impatiently, throwing off the symmetry of her ritual paint.

"Surely the Sea God has better self control than this," she chides. Her finger slides slowly along the ridge beneath his cock head, tormenting him. His gaze smolders back down at her and it thrills her, the power he's handed her burning in her chest.

Not wanting to push too far, she lowers her head, taking him in her mouth. Her tongue laves over the length of him, licking up and down and pressing kisses to his balls. Rafayel lets out a whimper above her, the sound of it trills down her spine and settles in her core, stoking the flame of her own arousal.

"Such a good job! My follower -hah- certainly knows how to please me best!" He puffs breathy praises to her, hands clenching against the fabric below him to stop from grabbing at her hair.

She preens under the praise, sucking him into her mouth and swirling her tongue around him. Each sound he makes adds fervour to her ministrations; hands cupping and sliding over him, lips coming off to press devoted kisses. She looks up at him with wet eyes and those empty suns meet her gaze, and she sees reflected in them, herself.

Her own heartbeat pounds in her ears as she continues, swallowing him and using her hands until she can feel him start to twitch and jerk beneath her. She guides him to his climax, humming along his length as he moans. He calls out her name as he comes, the word spilling from his lips like a prayer. She swallows everything he gives her, taking him into her like communion.

Her lips come off with a pop, smeared with blue paint and saliva. Bracing on his thighs, she floats up to meet his lips, finally kissing him properly. The kisses are slow and breathless, coming down from his high as she smiles into his mouth. Her arms wrap around him, holding him to her softly and nudging him to do the same.

Rafayel obliges with a smile, hugging her to his chest and pulling her down atop him. He runs his hands along her back, tracing lines and smoothing down her hair.

"Was this ritual more to your liking? Oh Sea God?" She murmurs against his collarbone.

He laughs and the motion bounces her atop him, he hugs her even tighter and kisses the top of her forehead. "As I said; my Follower knows how to please me best."

She nuzzles deeper into his embrace, breathing him in and basking in the glow of her accomplishment. The soothing sounds of Whalefall City wash over her and lull her into comfortable sleep while a strain of familiar music follows her into her dreams.

dividers by @/cafekitsune

A/N:

this was probably one of my favourite things I've written, i had so much fun just pouring love onto Rafayel and this sort of really tender and loving gentle femdom is my favourite. This was written as a birthday gift to a friend but honestly it was also just a labour of love! Hope yall enjoyed <3

ALSO Thank you to @hauntedbysmut and @lowkeylaufeysons for beta reading this for me

[plutotheplum]

Yeah, I Said It

caleb x fem!reader

summary: the evaluation was meant to be easy. too bad you're paired up with caleb xia - top of your class, celebrated darling of the air force and the bane of your fucking existence.

cw: nsfw (18+) - mdni!!, smut, fluff, kissing, vaginal fingering, oral sex, finger sucking, p in v, praise kink, spit kink, slapping, biting, rivals to lovers, military au, possessive!caleb

wc: 12k

a/n: my (late) christmas present to you all!! i was overly freaked out when i wrote this *blushes cutely* i hope you enjoy!! <3

also on ao3!

“Fuck.”

The curse leaves you as you stare at the sheet of paper plastered to the board, your eye beginning to twitch at the neatly printed name next to yours.

Lt. Caleb Xia 

Top of your class, celebrated darling of the Air Force and the bane of your fucking existence. 

“Caleb Xia,” you hiss under your breath, slamming your hand against the paper, making the board rattle. It draws the curious gazes of the other members in your class, but you’re too agitated to pay them any attention, teeth gritting together.

Rage crawls along your skin, another low curse leaving you. Today was meant to be easy. A simple evaluation that would have had you climbing the ranks if not for the asshole you’d been paired up with. You’d spent months preparing for this and now… everything was up in the air, all because of Caleb. 

You tap your fingers against the sheet of paper, considering your options. The only way to get out of this whole thing would be to request reassignment, but that was unlikely to happen, and you weren’t about to sacrifice both your pride and dignity. 

Instead, you turn to ruminating about the many methods with which you could murder Caleb without getting court-martialed. You’re too distracted to hear the laughter in the hallway and the footsteps approaching you. There’s an arm slinging over your shoulders, the weight of it making you stiffen as you’re pulled in close to the man’s side. 

“Hey, pipsqueak.”

“Caleb,” you greet coldly, glaring up at him. 

Caleb grins down at you, leaning in close. “Saw the eval sheet,” he murmurs, clicking his tongue, “my condolences.”

You shove him away roughly with a grunt. “I don’t need your condolences, asshole,” you snap, finger pushing into his chest, his neatly pressed uniform beginning to crease under the pressure. “I’ll be running you and your jet into the ground.”

“Ouch,” he drawls, rubbing his hand over the spot where you had poked him. “Always so mean. Keep glaring at me like that and you’ll get wrinkles. Won’t do you any good to end up uglier than you already are.”

Your fingers twitch at his insult, teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from shouting at him.

“You won’t have to see me for much longer,” you announce, crossing your arms over your chest. “After today, the Colonel will be so impressed that she’ll have no choice but to give me a promotion.”

Caleb snorts, his head cocking to the side as he leans against the board lazily. “This is an eval, pipsqueak. Promotions aren’t handed out until next month.”

You let out a heavy breath, shifting on your feet agitatedly. “It’s either me or you,” you say pointedly, shoulders shrugging. “And as much as I hate to admit it, you’re the one with an advantage here.”

He rolls his eyes, his fingers brushing across his uniform to fix the creases. “I don’t suppose this has anything to do with me being a military brat?” he offers, raising his brows.

“Fuck you,” you reply, brows furrowing, “you’ll get all the fucking recommendations you need because daddy’s in charge.”

You flinch when his hand slaps the wall next to your head, your gaze meeting his as he boxes you in against the wall. Caleb’s eyes are dark, and you smile smugly, relishing in the fact that you were still able to get under his skin.

“What?” you whisper, rocking up onto your toes, “can’t handle it? You’re not pulling the strings around here, Lieutenant. Your dad is.”

Caleb’s jaw clenches, and you swallow harshly when he leans closer, feeling his breath fan across your face as he speaks. “Is that why I’m the best in class?” he murmurs, his head tilting. “Hm?” He leans in closer, and you jerk back when his nose brushes against yours. “Is that why you lose to me in the air every single time? Can’t even fucking lock onto me without blowing an engine, pipsqueak.”

A harsh breath of air escapes you when he brings that up, eyes narrowing venomously. You consider lashing out, clawing into his stupid uniform that seemed to never hold a crease until you drew blood. Instead, you look away, lips pursing for a brief moment before you look back up at him. Caleb smiles down at you, his eyes dark and sharp, and you think about how nice it would be to drive your fist into his stupidly perfect face.

“I hate you,” you say finally, averting your gaze. “You’re insufferable, inconsiderate and a piece of shit,” you continue, teeth grinding together, voice hardening. “Now get the fuck out of my face, Caleb.” 

Caleb scoffs sharply, his expression twisting into a sneer. But he does as you say, stepping back to give you space. Your lip twitches as you sneer back, boots echoing through the hallway as you walk away. You don’t get far, his fingers curling around your wrist to tug you back.

“Reccommendations are an incentive,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear as he speaks. “I’ll be Captain soon. I suggest you start practicing how to address me.” You wince when his fingers dig into your wrist harder. “Show some fucking respect, yeah?”

Your fingers flex, jaw working as you try and process the sheer audacity of the man standing before you. The darkness in his gaze has you fighting the urge to reel back, your skin prickling with uneasiness as he stares down at you unnervingly. He’d always been like this – calculating, vicious, a threat – from the moment you’d stepped foot onto this base.

Pulling away now would only admit defeat, and so you steel yourself, brows raising with feigned nonchalance as you tamp down the anger festering inside of you. He stiffens when you step closer, and you smile sharply, your lips brushing against his ear in a low, venomous hiss.

“Earn it.”

You pull back soon after, not bothering to glance at his expression as you shake your wrist free, storming down the hall to your dorm. You feel hot, cheeks flushed with anger as your hands curl into fists, boots kicked off unceremoniously before you flop down onto your bed. A muffled scream leaves you as you bury your face into the pillows, fists coming down against the sheets until you realize how far under your skin Caleb’s gotten.

Several minutes pass as you stew in your anger, face nuzzling into your pillow as you frown, lamenting the fact you’d been assigned to this base from the beginning. Once you’ve managed to gain some semblance of control, you sit up with a heavy exhale, eyes fluttering shut as you mentally work through the components of the evaluation. 

The knowledge based test was where you could gain the upperhand. You’d studied the assigned chapters inside and out, had made enough flashcards that even Tara had complained about the overflowing pile of colored cards on your desk. Aerial combat was where you fell short. Sure, you were a good pilot – second only to Caleb – but the way Caleb handled his jet was vastly different.  

Limits didn’t seem to exist to him, and if they did, he broke them. You’d seen him fly, seen him execute complex maneuvers that had left even the most experienced flight instructors stunned. Caleb was reckless, but in a controlled sort of way that never failed to leave you off-kilter when you were in the air with him. 

You jolt when the speaker blares through the dorms, announcing that testing was due to begin. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” you mumble, stumbling around your dorm as you pull your boots back on, fixing your uniform in the mirror. You frown as you smooth a few stray hairs back into place, adjusting your bun until you’re satisfied.

Eyes fluttering shut, you take a few deep breaths, reminding yourself of what was at stake. Shoulders rolling back, you gather your things before stepping out of your dorm. 

You roll your eyes when you see who’s waiting in line to enter the testing room. Caleb doesn’t seem to notice as you step up behind him, so you take the opportunity to let your gaze trail over his broad shoulders with mild interest.

The military didn’t exactly encourage relationships, but you’d heard the various rumours floating around about Caleb. Besides, it wasn’t hard to miss the blushing faces and hushed whispers whenever Caleb strode past. It irked you, the fact that everyone else couldn’t see how completely insufferable the man standing in front of you was. 

Your lips purse in annoyance. If he wasn’t such a pain in the ass, he’d be nice to look at. You ogle Caleb’s shoulders and back for a little longer, gaze dipping down to his waist for a brief moment before your eyes snap up when he turns around to face you. 

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Caleb drawls, crossing his arms over his chest, “should I turn back around so you can keep staring?”

“Yes, actually,” you shoot back, “then I wouldn’t have to look at that.” You gesture to his face with a look of disgust. For a moment, you think you see mirth flickering in his gaze, but it’s gone before you can be sure.

“Well,” he muses, stepping closer, “we both know that’s not true. You like glaring at me too much to stop.” 

“That’s sweet,” you coo mockingly, clutching your chest, “you pay so much attention to me. I’m honored, really.”

Caleb rolls his eyes, his gaze flitting back when the line starts to move. You raise your brows when he turns back to you, head tilting away when he leans in to whisper. You know better than to take his words for anything but a threat.

“I’ll see you in the air, pipsqueak.”

–

The tarmac is swelteringly hot.

You adjust your flight suit, face twisting with discomfort as another current of hot air blows into your face. There’s a few flight instructors huddled together and you sigh, wiping at the sweat beading across your forehead, before tugging your sunglasses down to dim the bright glare of the sun sweeping across the tarmac. 

Caleb’s nowhere to be seen, and you’re grateful for the reprieve. The test had been easy enough, and you’d been able to answer most of the questions without a hitch. An exasperated sigh escapes you as the flight instructors continue to deliberate, and you move under the wing of your jet, seeking shade.

“Plan on blowing another engine today?”

You jolt at the sound of Caleb’s voice, losing your balance for a moment before straightening out.

“What is your problem?” you ask snappily, swatting his hand away when he runs it along the side of your jet. “Don’t touch her.”

He sighs exasperatedly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Are you ever not wound up?” he retorts, rolling his eyes. “I’m just having a little fun, pipsqueak.”

You stare up at him, brows furrowing in annoyance. “You said you’d see me in the air, asshole. I bet you’d love to see me go down in flames.”

“Yeah, well maybe then you’d be outta my hair,” Caleb says, shrugging noncommittally. 

Your expression twists, an irritated noise escaping you. When he tries stepping closer, his arm brushing against yours, you jerk back, slamming your boot down onto his. You watch with amusement as he winces in pain, crouching over to grab at his foot.

“Oops,” you offer innocently, smiling at him smugly when he glares up at you.

“Real funny,” Caleb mutters under his breath, his hand shooting out to grab yours.

You frown, trying to pull your hand free, but he’s pulling you closer, forcing you to step back until you’re trapped between him and your jet.

“Have you lost your mind?” you hiss, trying to peer around his side to see whether the flight instructors were watching. “We’ll both get penalized for– for fraternizing!”

“Fraternizing?” Caleb snorts, stopping you from moving, one of his hands slipping down to settle on your hip. “Relax, would you? The last thing I want to do is fraternize with you.”

“Oh, I beg to differ,” you scoff loudly, shoving at his chest, trying to get the attention of your instructors. “Get off of me–”

“Hey,” Caleb snaps lowly, catching your wrists in his hand. “I said relax, pipsqueak.” 

“Is this some kinda fucking joke?” you snarl, squirming in his grasp. “You spew all that bullshit about showing respect and now you’re–” you suck in a sharp breath when his grip tightens, “you’re sabotaging me!”

He lets out a heavy breath, stepping closer until his tall frame blocks you from being seen. You blink up at him with wide eyes – part scandalized, part aggravated – a shriek beginning to claw its way out of your throat until he groans and slips his hand over your mouth, effectively muffling the sound.

“Listen up,” he murmurs, pushing your sunglasses up until they sit on your head. “I’m not sabotaging you, okay?” Caleb stares down at you, his head tilting. “I just thought I’d give you some tips… to make it a fair playing field.”

You stare up at him blankly, blinking slowly as you process his words. He looks uncharacteristically… genuine, and the sight unnerves you so much to the point that you thrash violently until he reluctantly lets his hand slip from your mouth. 

“You have lost your mind, haven’t you?” you murmur, nodding vigorously, “I mean, I figured one day the lack of oxygen up there would get to your brain but apparently–”

“I thought you wanted to be promoted,” Caleb interrupts, his voice sharp, “I’m giving you a leg up.”

“Why the fuck would I want a leg up from you?” you retort, raising your brows incredulously. “You– you threatened me, and– and now,” you gesture at him wildly, “you want to play fair?”

“Maybe I’ve had a change of heart,” he hisses, glaring down at you. “Maybe I think that you’re one of the best fucking pilots I’ve ever seen and that maybe you deserve that promotion.”

You clamp your mouth shut at that. Caleb averts his gaze, his jaw clenching as he steps back. It takes a few moments for you to understand what he’s saying, what he’s offering to you. 

“Do I come across as pathetic to you, Caleb?” you murmur, stepping closer to him. Your cheeks grow hot with anger when he avoids your eyes. “Hey,” you snap your fingers in front over his face, “over here, asshole. Answer my question.”

It’s a terrible idea, really, but you’re far too irritated to worry about whether anyone’s watching or whether you’ll get penalized for this. Your fingers curl into Caleb’s flight suit, yanking him towards you until he’s forced to meet your gaze.

“No,” he says finally, his lips thinning, “but I know you well enough to know that the moment we’re in the air, you’ll do whatever it takes.”

“And how exactly is that a problem?”

Caleb lets out a dry laugh, leaning back. “You push too far and you’re gonna get yourself killed, pipsqueak. You blew an engine last time because you went too hard, too fast.” His fingers brush over yours, his skin warm and calloused as they drift over your knuckles before he pries your hand off of his flight suit. 

He narrows his eyes, and you swallow harshly when he stares down at you so intently, you’re almost sure that he can see right through you. You don’t know what he’s playing at, don’t know whether he’s saying all of this to try and get into your head. Despite it all, you know well enough that you can’t trust Caleb.

“You’re reckless,” you breathe out, “even more so than me. Are you telling me I can’t push my limits?”

Caleb shrugs, leaning against your jet. Your eye twitches at the action, hands clenching into fists at your sides. 

“Yeah, well…” he trails off, his gaze flitting behind you. “I know what I’m doing, pipsqueak.”

There’s a barrage of insults sitting on the tip of your tongue, the heat around you and your own anger putting you further on edge. You have half a mind to slap him, but the flight instructors are calling out your names, so you settle on saving your energy, standing at attention as one of the instructors reads out his checklist.

“Alright,” the instructor announces, playing with his clipboard. “The hard deck is set at 10,000 feet, do not go below it. Play it by the book, I don’t want to see any aerial maneuvers that haven’t already been approved – I’m looking at you, Lieutenant Xia.”

Caleb states his assent and you fight the urge to roll your eyes, shifting on your feet instead.

“Finally, make the right decisions,” the instructor glances at you and Caleb pointedly. “I don’t wanna see any half-assed heroic bullshit up there. Anything goes wrong with your jet, you eject. Is that clear, Lieutenants?”

“Yes, sir,” you and Caleb say in unison, before saluting the instructor.

He nods in approval, before nodding towards your jets. You suck in a deep breath, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before you exhale, trying to calm your nerves as you settle into your jet. 

You do a quick check of the controls, nodding to the technician standing by once you’re satisfied. The sound of your jet’s engines helps calm you, and you hum to yourself, flicking a switch in front of you to close the canopy. 

It seals into place easily and you glance outside, huffing out a breath when you see Caleb’s jet taking off.

“Asshole,” you grumble under your breath, fingers tightening around the flight control stick.

Static flickers in your ears for a few minutes, your instructor’s voice crackling through the earpiece. 

“All clear for take-off, Lieutenant. Have fun up there.”

That makes a small smile tug at your lips.

“Copy.”

–

You don’t blow an engine.

You don’t even go below the hard deck. 

But you do lose.

Your flight suit rumples as you tug it off roughly, letting it drop to the floor. You’re hot, sweaty and embarrassed. You’d spent the first half of the fight trying to lock onto Caleb, and the second trying to evade him. 

All he had needed was a sliver of an opening and he’d taken it, maneuvering his jet until he was behind you and the kill alarm had glared in your ears. The locker rattles as you slam it shut, an irritated noise leaving you as you wipe the sweat from your flushed face, now dreading the fact that you had to see Caleb’s stupid, gloating expression.

It’s precisely why you decide to avoid him, poking your head out of the changing room to make sure the hallway was clear. You dart out, quickening your pace as you make your way towards your dorm, Caleb nowhere to be seen.

A relieved sigh leaves you when you make into the safety of your dorm, forehead pressing against the door as your shoulders sag in defeat. 

“Should’ve taken the leg up.”

You jerk against the door, turning around to see Caleb sprawled out on your bed, his teeth sinking into an apple.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” you snap, “how did you even get in?”

“Your roommate,” Caleb supplies, sitting up as he takes another bite out of his apple. “Think she might be a little scared of me.”

“Get out,” you hiss, pointing at the door. “I don’t what you’re playing at, but sneaking into my fucking dorm is a whole new low, Caleb.”

“Don’t you want to congratulate me?” he croons, standing up. You frown when he steps towards you, inching back until your desk digs into your lower back. Caleb holds out his half-eaten apple. “Wanna bite, pipsqueak?”

You don’t know why he’s so intent on testing your patience. You snatch his apple from him, tossing it into the trash can beside your desk. “Does that answer your question?”

“So you’re unhappy,” Caleb surmises, his head tilting. “You shouldn’t be. You did well out there.”

“Oh,” you say, giving him a wide, exaggerated smile that makes your cheeks burn, “is that right? Wow! Thank you so much, Caleb. That makes me feel much better.”

“Okay,” Caleb rolls his eyes, stepping closer until his hands land on either side of you. “No need to be so bitey, pipsqueak. You’ll get that promotion.”

“Fat chance,” you retort, “I embarrassed myself out there.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Caleb murmurs, his fingers reaching out to play with your dog tags.

One of his fingers hooks into the chain, using it to tug you forward. You go willingly, peering up at him, confusion flickering across your face. 

“Did you want to fuck me or something?”

The words spill out of you before you can stop yourself, and there’s a strange flush tinging Caleb’s cheeks and the tips of his ears when he registers your question.

“Wasn’t expecting that out of you,” he says, sounding oddly choked as he lets go of your dog tags.

You raise your brows.

“No– what the fuck? No,” Caleb snaps, his gaze flitting away, “why would I want to fuck you?”

“Okay,” you say slowly, “good. Then get the fuck out of my dorm.”

Caleb stiffens for a moment as though frozen in place. He opens his mouth until he decides to swallow whatever it was he was going to say. 

You shove at his back, pushing him out of your dorm. The door nearly shuts, but Caleb’s hand catches onto the edge. His head pokes inside and you narrow your eyes irritatedly.

Caleb grins down at you. “Is that your way of asking me to fuck you, pipsqueak?”

You slam the door shut in his face.

–

A few weeks later, you find a letter on your desk.

You aren’t addressed as Lieutentant, but rather… Captain.

You stare at the letter blankly, skimming through it with disbelief as you read that you have, in fact, been given a rank promotion. It shouldn’t be possible, you think to yourself as you read the letter over again, and then once more, twice and three times over.

There’s a knock on your door, and you find a Captain standing outside. “Colonel’s asking for you,” he offers in explanation when he sees your expression.

“For what?” you ask, your grip on the letter tightening.

“Your promotion,” he says, glancing down, “you did get the letter, didn’t you?”

“I– uh–” you stumble over your words before nodding, showing him the letter. “Yes, I did.”

The Captain offers you a smile. “Congratulations.”

You feel faint when he leaves. There’s not enough time to panic, so you settle on fixing your hair and uniform, finding a random piece of candy to chew on whilst you wait outside the Colonel’s office.

“Come in.”

You step inside, closing the door behind you quietly. The Colonel looks as intimidating as ever, her eyes sharp as she watches you step towards her desk. You straighten out as much as you can, keeping your shoulders level. 

“Congratulations, Captain,” the Colonel announces warmly, pushing your certificate and rank insignia towards you.

“Thank you, Colonel,” you say, offering her a smile of your own as you take the items. 

“I was rather impressed with your performance during the evaluations,” she continues, clasping her hands together, elbows resting on her desk.

“You were?” you ask, flushing lightly until you realize how high your voice has gotten. “You were,” you clear your throat, “I see. Thank you.”

“Yes, well, the recommendations were a nice touch,” she muses, “I must say I was surprised when I saw the letters on my desk.”

Your brows furrow in confusion. You hadn’t submitted any recommendations. There was nowhere stating that you had to provide recommendations. All you’d submitted was the performance report given to you by your supervisor. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, shifting a little closer. “What recommendations? I thought promotion to the rank of Captain was performance based.”

“Oh it is,” the Colonel replies breezily, peering up at you as she stops rifling through the papers on her desk. “Lieutenant Xia,” she explains when she sees your expression. “He pulled the letters of recommendation from all of your instructors.”

Caleb Xia.

Caleb fucking Xia. 

You try and school your expression into one of neutrality, before giving up and forcing a tight smile onto your face.

“But he’s a lieutenant,” you blurt out, fingers twitching at his sides. “He doesn’t have the clearance or– or the authority to go around doing that.”

“I misspoke,” she says, her head tilting. “Lieutenant– I really should say Captain Xia has also been promoted. He was very insistent about your promotion and given who his father is, well…”

You watch as she trails off, teeth gritting together. He was pulling the strings, that conniving, little– 

Your stomach churns only a moment later, fingers beginning to tremble. Without the recommendations… What if that was the reason why…? The pit in your stomach grows, carving itself deeper and deeper, dragging your cheeks down, forcing your lips to thin. 

“Would I have been promoted regardless?” You sound breathless but blunt, heart clenching in your chest uncomfortably.

“As I said,” the Colonel says, “they were a nice touch, but your performance report was entirely sufficient for promotion, Captain.”

A relieved breath escapes you, shoulders sagging. “Thank you, Colonel.”

“Of course. You are dismissed.”

You nod, giving her a salute before stepping outside, jaw clenching. You stare down at the certificate and rank insignia clutched in your hands. You were going to kill Caleb. 

Storming through the hallways, you peruse the men’s dorms until you find Caleb’s, knocking on the door impatiently, boot tapping against the floor.

When the door opens you find Gideon standing before you, his brows raising in amusement and towel in hand. “Can I help you?”

You ignore his question. “Where is he?” you ask, poking your head inside, glancing around. 

“You don’t know?” Gideon muses, slinging his towel around his neck. “Figured you would, since you two are always hanging around each other.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” you say exasperatedly, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Nothing,” Gideon replies flippantly, although his gaze travels over you thoughtfully. 

“Are you checking me out?” you snap, glaring up at him, irritation prickling along your skin.

“What?” he laughs, his head tilting. “No. Give me a little credit, yeah?” He stares at you for a bit longer, mumbling something under his breath that sounds suspiciously similar to “Caleb would kill me.”

“Well, where is he?” you press, growing antsy. “Give it up, Gideon.”

Gideon grins, crossing his arms over his chest. “Still surprised he didn’t tell you,” he shrugs, “Caleb’s gone home for the holiday break. He lives close to base though, you know, with his dad being the General and all.”

“I need his address,” you sigh. “Please?”

He hums, disappearing into his dorm before he returns with Caleb’s address scrawled onto a piece of paper.

“Thank you.” 

“Try not to chew him out!” Gideon calls from behind you as you leave.

–

You ring the doorbell for about the tenth time.

For a moment, you almost consider breaking in, but that wouldn’t exactly put you in the good graces of the General, not to mention you’d lose your newly earned rank.

The sound of someone grumbling inside makes your ears prick up, and the door swings open, revealing a shirtless Caleb. It’s not your fault, you tell yourself as your gaze drops down immediately, taking in his firm chest and abdomen, tongue darting out to wet your lips involuntarily when you see the sweatpants slung low on his hips.

“Pipsqueak,” Caleb greets, leaning against the doorway, “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I wasn’t planning on coming,” you reply, pushing past him to step inside, taking your shoes off.

“Haven’t seen you out of uniform in a while,” Caleb says, his dog tags clinking between his pecs distractedly. “You look… nice.”

You ignore his attempt at a compliment. “Are you really going to play dumb?” you ask, head tilting.

“So you know.”

You wait for him to elaborate, raising your brows and throwing up your hands, but all he does is stare at you.

“I didn’t ask you to help me,” you snap when the silence grows too loud. “I don’t need your fucking help, Caleb! My performance was enough for the rank promotion!”

“I was doing you a favor!” Caleb snaps back, his eyes narrowing. “Yeah, your performance was enough, even I fucking knew that!”

“So why send the letters?” you hiss, stepping closer to him, your finger prodding into his bare chest. “Huh? Doesn’t sound like you thought I was good enough, Caleb.”

His throat bobs and you’re distracted by it for a moment, hand jerking back when you feel how warm his chest is.

“I said you deserved it,” Caleb murmurs, his voice low. “I was just… guaranteeing it.” 

A sharp scoff leaves you as you begin to pace, cheeks hot with anger. “You are just so full of yourself!” you grit out, pointing at him accusingly. 

“What do you want me to say?” he snarls, stepping towards you. “That I’m sorry? Is that what you want to hear?”

Your hand is swinging out before you can stop yourself. It connects with his cheek, the sound sharp as his head snaps to the side. Your palm stings as redness blooms across Caleb’s cheek. 

“There,” you say hoarsely, “that’s what I wanted.”

His jaw clenches when his head turns to look at you. You take a step back when he begins stalking towards you, stumbling on the rug on the floor. Caleb catches your wrist before you can fall, but you’re too wound up to shake free, instead using your free hand to slap him across the face again.

“Okay,” he breathes out, both of his cheeks now reddened and flushed. “Okay. You got anything else you wanna get out?”

“Yeah, actually,” you begin, glaring up at him. “Stop calling me pipsqueak, I have a name and you can–”

A muted squeak escapes you when his hands slide over your cheeks to cup them before he’s drawing you closer, pressing his lips against yours. You freeze, going limp in his arms when Caleb presses closer, the force of his lips growing more insistent until he pulls back.

You blink up at him slowly, lips parting in disbelief.

“Stop yelling at me,” Caleb murmurs, his nose brushing against yours. “You can slap me, but you can’t yell at me.”

“What?” you ask hazily, leaning into him when he kisses you again, his lips brushing over yours fleetingly. “You got a kink for it or something?”

“Maybe,” he says, his lips drifting across your skin to kiss the corner of your mouth. “You’re mad, I get it. And I shouldn’t have done what I did, without asking you.”

“I hate you,” you murmur, frowning when he pulls back until you realize what he’s doing – what you’re doing.

“That’s cute,” Caleb sighs, running his hand through his hair. “But I really, really want to kiss you.”

“Stop trying to distract me from the fact that you’re an insuffera– mmph!”

Caleb’s lips are slotting over yours again and you try to move away, only for his arm to slide around your waist, pulling you into him.

“Shut up,” he whispers against your lips. “I told you not to yell at me.”

Your eyes narrow at his words, fingers hooking into the chain around his neck, dragging him closer.

“Never thought you’d have a crush on me, asshole,” you hiss, gaze dropping down to his lips.

“I could say the same about you,” Caleb muses, his eyes boring down into yours. “Think I wouldn’t notice all that staring down at the base? You look like you’re in love whenever I’m in my flight suit, baby.”

“Fuck you,” you spit, hand swinging out to slap him again.

Caleb tsks, his hand wrapping around your wrist to stop you. He grins down at you, the glint in his eyes feral enough to have your thighs pressing together, an ache beginning to grow between them.

“Save that for when you’re riding my cock,” he murmurs, “for now… ‘m gonna kiss the shit outta you.”

You flush at his words, heart thudding in your chest. He leans in closer, fingers slipping under your chin to tilt your head towards him. “Is that okay?” Caleb whispers, his head dipping.

“I hate you,” you shoot back, close to sounding like a broken record. You press closer all the same, arms wrapping around his neck before you rock up onto the tips of your toes and press your lips against his.

Caleb groans, and you whine back – unable to help yourself – as he slips his hands under your thighs, lifting you up. He kisses you hungrily, lips working against yours feverishly as your fingers tangle into his hair, tugging at the soft strands.

And Caleb does kiss the shit out of you. You can hardly breathe, but it doesn’t matter, not when his lips are working against yours so earnestly, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips, coaxing you to open up. You arch under him when he places you onto his bed, legs wrapping around his waist tightly, ankles locking together. He presses closer, warm fingers sliding over your skin to cup your jaw as he holds you in place, licking into your mouth like a man starved.

You mewl when his tongue tangles with yours, eyes opening hazily when Caleb’s lips drift to the corner of your mouth. His grip is rough, and you squirm under him when his fingers dig into your hips through your shorts, hard enough that you think you can feel the bruises beginning to bloom.

“You’re so pretty,” he breathes out, lips dragging along your jaw, “you know how hard it is to not pop a boner when you’re being mean to me?”

“‘m mean because you’re fucking annoying,” you whisper, grabbing his jaw to guide him back towards you, kissing him again.

Caleb smiles against your lips and you find yourself smiling back, letting his lips slot over yours more firmly as he kisses you deeper and deeper, until you’re gasping for air and writhing underneath him.

“Am I being annoying now?” he asks, pulling away, his fingers pushing at your shirt until he’s able to tug it up over your head.

“I don’t know,” you muse, your head tilting as he stares at your bra intently. You bite back a smile, reaching back to undo the clasp before tugging it off and tossing it to the side somewhere. “Are you?”

He lets out a heavy breath, and you squirm when he licks his lips, watching as Caleb’s gaze latches onto your bare breasts. “Fuck,” he groans, leaning closer, eyes roving over every inch of your chest. “What the fuck– pretty, pretty fucking tits, baby.”

“Thank you,” you hum, arching your back teasingly, pushing your breasts up into his face just enough so that one of your hardened nipples grazes his lips. Caleb’s tongue darts out before you can stop him, a sharp, strangled noise escaping you when his mouth latches onto one of your breasts, tongue swirling around your nipple and areola. 

You whine, fingers slipping back into his hair, hips bucking up in desperation. Caleb groans against your breast, his hand coming up to play with your other nipple. He rolls the hardened bud between his fingers, pinching lightly before tugging. Your eyes roll into the back of your head when he opens his mouth wider, trying to suck your breast in further.

“You’re so soft,” Caleb mumbles around your breast, tongue swirling around the fat of it before he lets go, watching as your breast gently sways back into place. “Cute,” he murmurs absentmindedly, gripping your hip when you try to arch away, nipping at the side of your breast. “C’mon, stay still for me, pipsqueak.”

“Don’t– ah!” you glare at him when he bites harder, gaze flitting down to find the imprint of his teeth etched into your skin. “Don’t call me pipsqueak while you’re sucking my tits, jerk.”

“Why?” he asks, pouting as he swirls his tongue over your other breast, nuzzling into the fat of it contentedly. 

You let out a muffled moan when he suddenly rocks his hips into you, fingers scrabbling at his shoulders when the bulge in his sweatpants rubs against your clothed cunt. 

“Because it’s– nghh– it’s a turn off!”

“I don’t know…,” Caleb trails off, sucking one of your breasts into his mouth, letting go of it a few moments later with a muted pop. “Kinda seems like you enjoy it, pipsqueak.”

“How would you know that?” you breathe out, trying to squeeze your thighs shut so he doesn’t see the way you’ve begun to soak through your panties and shorts, knees pressing together awkwardly.

He huffs out a laugh, pressing soft kisses to your breasts, biting gently at your nipples, his teeth digging in just enough for it to be painful before he soothes it with his tongue. You glare up at him when he leans back, sitting on his knees, his brows raising as he watches you worm your hand between your thighs to hide the damp spot. 

“You’re making this too easy for me,” Caleb muses, catching your ankle when you try to kick at his chest, his lips brushing across your foot in a fleeting kiss.

“Yeah?” you scoff, trying and failing to appear unaffected when his calloused hand slides over your calf, shuddering when his lips press against your knee.

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” you murmur, pursing your lips. Tugging your leg free, you rise up onto your knees, pushing at his chest until he falls onto his back. Caleb grunts as you crawl up onto his lap, his hands settling on your waist as you rock your hips, grinding against his clothed cock.

“What are you doing?” Caleb grumbles, his head tipping back when your lips latch onto his neck. 

You don’t bother answering, busying yourself with scraping your teeth against his neck, relishing in the sharp, little bursts of air that leave him. Your fingers find his pecs, squeezing hard enough to have Caleb letting out a loud moan, his hips bucking and cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink.

“Sounded like you wanted a challenge,” you whisper, biting his earlobe. A smile spreads across your face when he whimpers, your teeth sinking into your lower lips as you grind your hips down harder, eyes fluttering shut when you drag your clothed pussy over the length of his hardening cock.

“What I– shit– want,” Caleb stutters, his fingers flexing around your hips when you bite at his pec, “is to kiss that wet, little cunt. You gonna let me do that, sweetheart?”

Your throat dries at his words, lashes fluttering against his skin. No one’s ever offered to eat you out before, and coming from Caleb… it sounds oddly charming. You peer up at him, mid-bite into his pec, tongue flicking against his skin before you pull back.

“Only if you beg,” you murmur, pecking his lips. 

Caleb grins at you ferally, his thumb swiping over your lower lip before he pushes it past your lips, pressing down on your thumb. You whine softly at the intrusion, lips sealing around his thumb as you suck, tongue swirling around his thumb, head bobbing lazily.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?” he breathes out, slipping his other hand between your thighs, watching as your eyes roll back. Caleb grinds his palm into your clothed cunt, his own eyes fluttering shut for a moment when he feels the weight of you press down against his throbbing cock.

“Well, you haven’t so–”

“Please,” he interrupts, tugging his thumb free from your mouth. He sits up, pulling you further into his lap, nose nudging against yours. “Please let me kiss your pussy, sweetheart. Hm?”

Your heart thuds violently in response, staring up into his eyes as he leans closer. Caleb kisses you, slower this time, his lips lingering against yours. “Please,” he whispers again, slipping his fingers past the waistband when he sees you’re distracted, his fingers finding your swollen clit. “I know you want it, know you want me to kiss that aching little cunt. I’ll do it, fuck–” an irritated snarl leaves him, “fuck, fuck, fuck– c’mon baby, please?”

Caleb sounds sweet when he begs. There’s a soft, breathy tone to his words, an earnestness that makes his purple eyes shine in a way that you’d only ever seen when he’d flown. His voice leaves you feeling dazed, fingers tracing over his chest, pressing his dog tags into his chest. His heart beats violently, the vibrations travelling through the metal until you can feel the steady thump, thump, thump of his heart. 

“You sound awfully desperate,” you say, fingers hooking into the silver chain around his neck. 

Caleb groans, his head falling forward to slump onto your shoulder, hands sliding over your waist and hips. “You like humiliating me or something?” he grumbles, his fingers circling your clit, drawing a muted whimper from you. “I begged, now let me eat your pussy.”

He sounds a little too sulky and you bite back a smile, instead leaning forward to press a quick kiss to cheek. You tell yourself that it doesn’t mean anything. 

“Fine, fine,” you sigh, pretending to be burdened by his request. You wiggle back, slumping against his pillows. Pulling your shorts down, you toss them at Caleb whose grip tightens on the fabric before it slackens when he sees your utterly ruined panties. 

“Keep ‘em on,” he says hoarsely, running a hand through his hair. 

You smile, spreading your thighs a little wider in invitation. “All yours, Captain.”

A broken noise leaves Caleb, his hand dragging over his flushed face. You’re distracted by the flex of his shoulder blades as he crawls closer, settling between your thighs, his hands running over your skin. 

“Have you done this with anyone else down at base?” Caleb murmurs, his lips soft against your inner thighs as he peppers kisses all over.

“Had sex?” you sigh, fingers running through his soft hair. “Not exactly.” Your hips lift when he buries his face into your panties, his nose pressing up against your clothed clit as he breathes you in with a groan. “I did– ah– did make-out with a couple of guys.”

Caleb pauses his ministrations and you glance down to find him narrowing his eyes up at you. 

“Name and rank.”

You huff out a soft laugh, rolling your hips up to get him to press his face back into your panties. Caleb clicks his tongue, his hand pressing against your stomach to stop you from moving. 

“Name and rank,” he demands, voice hardening.

“Are you jealous?” you drawl, miffed by the fact that he wasn’t giving you what you wanted. 

He lets out an annoyed sigh, fingers wrapping around your wrist when you try and rub at your clothed pussy yourself. “Yeah, sure, whatever. Name and rank, sweetheart or I’ll edge you ‘til you cry.”

An irritated noise leaves you, and you grumble out a few names and their respective ranks begrudgingly. “Have you done this with anyone else?” you ask pointedly when he buries his face back into panties to breathe you in again, “should I be asking for name and rank?”

Caleb hums, letting his tongue drag over your drenched panties slowly. “I haven’t.”

“That’s– ah– that’s what I–” you pause when you realize what he’s said. “You haven’t? With anyone?”

“Keep up,” Caleb murmurs, lapping at your clothed cunt, his saliva beginning to cling to the fabric of your panties, “I haven’t fucked anyone down at base.”

“Fingered?” you breathe out, a soft moan escaping you when he tugs your panties up to watch them press against your puffy folds, his tongue sliding through them, managing to squirm in close enough to flick against your clothed clit. “Kissed?”

“No,” he mumbles into your panties, scraping his teeth against the fabric before pressing a sloppy kiss to your hip.

“B– but I thought–”

“Couldn’t think about fucking anyone else when you were talking my ear off, pipsqueak.”

You tug at his hair roughly in retaliation, and Caleb grunts, his eyes fluttering shut momentarily. He smiles when he sees your glare, rising up to kiss you, his tongue tangling with yours until you can taste yourself. 

“Didn’t want to fuck anyone else,” he says, stealing another kiss from you before settling between your thighs again. “Not when you were the only one making me hard.”

“Romantic,” you say breathlessly, hips lifting for him when his fingers slip under the waistband of your panties.

Caleb hums, a low noise leaving him when he sees the way your slick clings to your panties, his head falling against your thigh to just… stare at your pussy. Your legs twitch as you wait, directing your gaze to the ceiling awkwardly as he continues to stare.

“Stop staring!” you finally sputter out when he nuzzles into your thigh.

“I want to,” Caleb replies, his hands smoothing over your thighs as he lets his gaze travel over your slick skin and puffy folds. “‘s cute,” he sighs, “and pretty… cute, little pussy, sweetheart.”

You flush at his words, shuddering when his lips finally meet your bare, sensitive skin, eyes squeezing shut as his tongue slides through your folds. Caleb lets out a guttural noise, thumbing apart your folds with a restrained sort of frenzy before he’s burying his face into your cunt.

A squeal escapes you, fingers flying to his hair when he latches onto your clit, his tongue swirling around the swollen, aching bud. 

“Fuck,” Caleb snarls into your pussy, pushing your knees towards your chest, laving his tongue over your pussy. “Spent all that time fighting when I could’ve been doing this the whole time.”

You moan loudly, legs jerking when he spits, smearing it onto your throbbing pussy. It’s sloppy, the way he latches on again, slurping at your slick noisily before he’s burying his tongue into your fluttering hole. 

“Slow– nghh! Slow down, Caleb!” you whine, already feeling the coil in your stomach beginning to tighten.

You only get a growl in response, the sound going straight to the ache in your cunt, thighs tightening around his head. Caleb grunts when he feels the sheer pressure, prying apart your thighs with a strength that’s enough to have you moaning again.

“Be good, baby,” he rasps, “and let me take care of you.”

He’s stuffing his tongue back into you again, fucking it in and out at a pace that has you seeing stars. You think you might be close to yanking his hair right out of his scalp, your knuckles white when his fingers slip over your clit, rubbing tight circles over the swollen bud.

“Oh fuck,” you whisper, toes curling against his broad back, “oh fuck, oh fuck– oh fuck–”

You can feel him smile against you, a strangled noise escaping you when he replaces his tongue with his fingers instead. It’s almost embarrassing how wet you are, how easy it is for Caleb to push two fingers inside.

“Good girl,” he croons, pressing a soft kiss to your clit, “look at you, taking me so well. Good fucking girl, all for me.”

Caleb crooks his fingers, and you whimper, fingers clawing at the sheets until he decides to move his other hand to your stomach, pressing down. A squeal erupts from you, your cheeks flushed, sweat clinging to your skin, the pressure of his hand enough to have your thighs shaking.

“C– Caleb!” you squeak, thrashing under him, “that– ah– that feels–”

“Good, yeah?” Caleb whispers, his tongue slipping through your folds again as he fucks his fingers into you roughly. He clicks his tongue when you start to squeeze your thighs around his head again. “I told you to be– hey,” his voice softens into something low and smooth, like syrup seeping into the crevices of your mind. “Look at me, baby.”

You blink down at him blearily, hazy eyes following as he dips his head to kiss your clit. 

“I told you to be good,” he finishes, working his fingers in lazily, slowing his pace until you’re rolling your hips, trying to fuck yourself on his lithe digits. He drops another kiss on your clit, tongue laving over your puffy folds again. “Thought you wanted to be my good girl, sweetheart.”

He has the audacity to sound disappointed and you whine, hiding your face in his pillows so he can’t see how your cheeks burn. “I–” a soft, petulant huff escapes you, “I am being good.”

Caleb laughs, and you burn hotter, irritated by the fact that he’s managed to whittle you down into a mess that craves his praise. 

“Okay,” he soothes, his fingers sliding over your breasts, squeezing gently before he reaches out, gripping your jaw to bring you out of your hiding place. “You are, baby,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth, “but I need you to stop crushing my head. Can you do that for me?”

Caleb has never spoken to you like this. It has you preening, gaze flitting away when he kisses your cheek, heart fluttering in your chest uncontrollably. You settle on nodding jerkily, back arching when he quickens the pace of his fingers, breasts squishing against his chest.

“Good girl,” Caleb murmurs, his lips slotting over yours, hot and heavy as he fucks his fingers in and out of you. “Taking my fingers so well, yeah?”

You whine, arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him down for another desperate kiss. Caleb grunts into your mouth, his hand squeezing at your hip. You can feel how hard he is, his clothed cock rubbing against your thigh as he fingers you roughly. There’s spit leaking from the corners of your mouth and Caleb’s licking it up, feeding it back to you with a broken moan.

It’s filthy, the way he touches and plays with you, letting his tongue slide against yours with sinful strokes, his fingers pressing up against the spot where you need him most. His free hand slips up towards your chest and you grumble when he stops kissing you in favor of sucking a breast into his mouth, letting his teeth tug at an aching nipple. 

“Fuck,” you mewl, digging your fingers into his shoulders. His dog tags clink against your own, the chains tangling together for a moment. You arch further when his tongue swirls and flicks against your areola, watching as he drools against your skin, his half-lidded eyes finding yours. “‘m gonna cum,” you breathe out dazedly, head tilting when he kisses your neck. “Caleb– Caleb, ‘m gonna cum.” 

You try to kiss him, but he’s already gone, burying his tongue between your folds again. You cry out, tugging at his hair and Caleb groans loudly, grinding his hips into the sheets as he sucks your clit into his mouth. Your feet slide across his back, toes curling when he scrapes his teeth over the swollen bud.

“Cum,” Caleb rasps, glancing up at you as your back bows, “cum on my tongue, baby. Cum for me.”

And you do, somehow propping yourself onto your palms as your thighs twitch violently, fingers moving to clench Caleb’s hair tightly. The dog tags between your breasts clink as you shudder, your hand slapping against the sheets when Caleb thrusts his fingers into you one final time. 

You fall back against his pillows, feeling loose-limbed and numb, curling against the sheets. Caleb follows eagerly, his lips drifting over the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, until he’s nuzzling into your cheek.

“I did a pretty good job, didn’t I?” he announces smugly and you grouse, shoving his face away. 

“Shut up,” you manage out, voice hoarse from moaning, thighs and legs still trembling from the force of your orgasm.

He sighs, pressing himself against your back. You fight the urge to curl into him, head tilting just enough to let Caleb bury his face into the crook of your neck. His arms are wrapping around your waist, holding you tighter. The silence is strangely comforting – until Caleb decides to open his big mouth again. 

“Really wanna watch you ride my cock.”

“I can’t feel my legs,” you retort, moving onto your back when he gets out of bed. You watch lazily as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of his sweats, tugging them down along with his boxers. Your brows raise at the sight of his cock, head tilting to get a better look. “I get why you’re so insufferable now,” you sigh, sitting up, “must be hard walking around with that.”

“You like it?” Caleb murmurs, his eyes fluttering shut when he wraps his hand around his cock, stroking slowly.

“Mhm,” you shift onto your knees, crawling towards the edge of the bed. 

Caleb’s cock is… big, to say the least. You watch with rapt attention as he fists his cock, the emptiness between your thighs becoming hard to ignore when you see the pre-cum beading at the head of his cock. The tip is flushed prettily, and you lick your lips, following the length of a prominent vein down his thick cock, gaze settling on his heavy balls. 

There’s drool pooling in your mouth and a soft whine leaves you before you lean forward, kissing the head of his cock. Caleb’s hips jerk, not expecting the contact, his eyes snapping open to watch you take the head of his cock into your mouth. 

“Shit,” he breathes out, pushing his hair out of his eyes, “fuck, baby. You like my fat cock?”

You roll your eyes, swirling your tongue around the hot head, sucking lazily before pulling off with a pop. “Yes, Caleb,” you murmur exasperatedly, nuzzling into his hip, “I like your fat cock.”

“That didn’t sound sincere,” Caleb pouts, his hand cradling your head as you trail kisses over his abdomen. 

“No?” you whisper, shifting back towards his cock. You rub your cheek against his cock, kissing the tip of it once more, head tilting until his cock rests on your cheek. “How about now?”

“You’re filthy,” he groans, grasping his cock, rubbing the tip of it against your lips, smearing pre-cum all over.

You hum, licking your lips contentedly, tongue sticking out playfully after. Caleb’s chest heaves when he sees the pink of your tongue, his teeth sinking into his lower lip.

“C’mere,” he rasps, pulling you closer. You whine when he slaps his cock against your tongue a few times, trying to suck it back into your mouth only for Caleb to push at your forehead gently. “Take it,” he goads, thumb rubbing over your tongue before he’s slapping the tip of his cock against your tongue once more. “Fuck– look at that… good fucking girl, pretty fuckin’ girl, hm?”

“Need it,” you whisper, thighs squeezing together when you feel your pussy ache, “Caleb, need your cock.”

He grins down at you, purple eyes glinting. “Only if you beg for it, baby.”

Your expression falls. “What?”

“You heard me,” Caleb smirks, cupping your jaw to pull you into a breathless kiss. “Fair’s fair, sweetheart. Now c’mon, beg for my cock and I’ll give it to you.”

Glaring up at him, you try to reach for his cock, but he’s laughing and stepping back out of your reach, stroking himself. It’s humiliating, and your cheeks are hot with embarrassment despite the fact you’d had your mouth wrapped around his cock only moments earlier. Lips pursing, you squirm on his sheets, averting your gaze.

“Please,” you say quietly, “please– please? Wanna feel your cock, Caleb.”

“You’re cute, baby,” Caleb whispers, his hand cupping your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. “But I know you can do better.”

You whine involuntarily when you hear the disappointment tinging his tone, squirming closer when his thumb brushes over your lips. “Please,” you mewl, sucking his thumb into your mouth, inhibitions forgotten as Caleb strokes his hand over your soothingly. “‘m so empty, wanna feel you all the way in here,” you point to your stomach, “wanna feel your fat, thick cock, Caleb.” Your tongue swirls around his thumb, teeth digging into the tip of it. “‘m gonna ride it so good,” you say breathily, lashes fluttering. 

It seems to wear him down. You don’t even know where the words are coming from at this point, the heady fog of lust having settled heavily over your mind. You bite down on his thumb harder, relishing in the hiss of pain he lets out. Still, he doesn’t move and you narrow your eyes up at him, Caleb returning your expression when he spies the defiant brattiness in your expression.

“Baby–”

“I’ll let you cum inside.”

Caleb’s eyes widen, his jaw slackening. You blink up at him, nodding towards the bed. He goes willingly and you’re crawling up onto his lap, letting out a soft moan as you rub your pussy against the length of his cock.

“And to think you were concerned about fraternizing,” Caleb rasps, his hands smoothing over your waist and hips as you grind along his length, shuddering when the tip of his cock catches against your swollen clit.

You smile, head tipping back when his hand smoothes over your stomach, squeezing at your breasts before his fingers wrap around your throat loosely.

“That was before you put your mouth on me,” you murmur, hands landing on his thick pecs.

“Yeah?” he says, his head tilting as he watches the sway of your hips, the soft jingle of your dog tags between your breasts. “Always wanted you like this, baby.”

You peer down at him, movements pausing. “Do you mean that?” 

Caleb nods, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into your skin. “Thought about kissing you when you were looking at the eval sheet… figured you’d freak out.”

“Then why be such an asshole?” you prod, hitting his chest lightly. “I don’t get it.”

“Because you hated me,” Caleb retorts, his brows furrowing, “you said it yourself. Besides,” he trails off, looking away, “I liked the challenge. When I saw you fly your jet, I knew I finally had some competition.” He props himself onto his elbows, leaning forward to kiss you slowly, his grip on your throat tightening. “Then you kept bruising my ego,” he whispers against your lips, “I couldn’t have that.”

You kiss him harder, fingers wrapping around his cock, rising up onto your knees. Caleb moans into your mouth when you start to sink down on him, his fingers flexing around your throat before he decides to let go in favor of grasping your hips. Nails digging into his chest, you whimper at the feeling of his cock stretching you out, shifting a little as your pussy flutters around his cock in an attempt to accommodate his size. 

“Shit,” Caleb rasps, watching dazedly as you sink down lower, taking his cock to the hilt. “Taking me so fucking good, baby.”

His cock twitches, the fingers on your hip squeezing tighter as he shifts beneath you. You stare at him with half-lidded eyes, feet wiggling a little before you’re lifting your hips and letting them drop back down. 

“That’s it,” he coaxes, hands stroking over your waist, “that’s it, baby. Ride my cock– shit– just like that, yeah?”

Caleb moans and you whine with him, holding onto his chest tighter, eyes rolling back at how good it feels to be stuffed full by him. His fingers are slipping to your ass, squeezing at the fat appreciatively before he’s prying you apart, the action enough to have you flushing as you rise and fall on his cock.

“Pretty,” Caleb grunts, helping you guide your pace, letting you roll your hips needily. “You– hah– look so pretty like this sweetheart.”

A soft keen slips out of you, jaw feeling heavy. You need to feel him closer. Pawing at his chest, you whine again, head dipping to dig your teeth into his pec, drooling against his skin. Caleb growls, his hips bucking to meet your ass as you sway your hips back.

“Caleb,” you mewl, latching onto his other pec, biting down hard into his flesh to leave a mark. “Feels– nghhh– s’good.”

All you get is a broken moan in response, Caleb’s hands drifting all over you as though unable to touch you enough. You nip at his throat while you bounce on his cock, leaning back to watch his head tip back. He looks nice like this, all uninhibited and moaning and groaning like you’re pulling him apart by just riding his cock.

You smile faintly, quickening your pace, widening your knees to set a firmer base before you’re dropping down on his cock while Caleb slurs something out unintelligibly, completely and utterly pussy-drunk. Still, he had promised you something earlier.

Fingers slipping over his jaw, you hold him in place, still rocking your hips while your hand makes contact with his cheek. Caleb’s eyes snap open, his cheek reddening under the impact, a guttural groan leaving him. 

“You’re enjoying this,” you whisper, kissing his cheek, “aren’t you?”

“Stupid fuck– question,” Caleb slurs, pulling you closer, hugging you to his chest. You yelp in protest, feeling yourself be jostled as he plants his feet onto the bed, bending his knees before he’s fucking up into you without abandon.

You manage to squirm just enough to find his eyes, irritation sparking in them, but he’s pulling you down, lips pressing against yours as he kisses you sloppily, tongue pushing into your mouth to shut you up.

“Slap me,” he murmurs finally, “get it all out, baby.”

It’s a struggle to think straight when he’s driving his cock into you like this, hard and fast. You whimper, managing to prop yourself up onto a palm, pussy clenching around his fat cock as he fucks up into you. But you need this, need to get whatever remnants of anger are lingering inside and so you slap him over and over again, watching as his eyes flutter shut and his cock throbs inside of you, his fingers digging into your ass.

“Fuck,” Caleb snarls, his head tipping back before he’s offering up his other cheek. You blink down at him, huffing out a soft, hoarse laugh, arms wrapping around his neck as you kiss his cheek instead.

“Didn’t know– ahh– you were a pain-slut,” you whisper teasingly, breasts squishing against his chest as you nuzzle into his cheek, teeth dragging along his skin.

“Helps remind me I’m with you,” he murmurs, offering his neck to you, “wouldn’t let anyone hah fuck– else slap me around.”

“Just me?” you whisper, tugging at his hair, teeth sinking into his neck. Caleb shudders and you hum, tongue dragging over the length of his neck, fingers prying his mouth open before you’re spitting into his mouth, lapping at his lips.

He swallows almost immediately and your eyes light up, tongue lolling out to do it again. A shriek sounds when he’s suddenly flipping you over, shoving you into his bed, his cock slipping out for a brief moment before he’s sinking it back into you.

You squeal, nails dragging down his back, staring up at him with wide eyes as he pushes your legs apart, hands hooking under your knees as he holds you down. He’s dropping his weight down and an involuntary coo slips out of you, head tilting when he buries his face into the crook of your neck.

“Baby,” Caleb groans, his hips snapping into you, “baby, baby– squeezing me so tight– fuck!”

“I– I can’t!” you hiccup, hands scrabbling at his shoulders when Caleb drives his hips into you harder, his balls slapping against your ass, his bedroom filled by the lewd sounds of his body against yours. “Caleb– ah!”

“You can,” he snaps, his hands slipping lower to grip your hips, “you are, baby– fucking made to take this fat fuckin’ cock.”

You scrape your nails down his broad back, toes curling and head tossed back as you cry out. His hand presses down on your stomach and you jerk, a hoarse squeal ripping its way out of your throat. You try and curl away, but you can’t, not with the way he’s pinning you down and fucking the thoughts out of your head, pounding into you so deeply that there’s tears beading at your lashes, pussy clenching around his cock desperately.

The coil in your stomach winds tighter and tighter and you can’t breathe, writhing under him and whimpering and whining until Caleb’s fingers find your clit, circling the swollen and slick bud. 

“Cum,” Caleb grunts, pulling back to watch the wanton expression on your face, his lips pressing against your cheek gently. “Cum, baby,” he whispers, his voice softer, “wanna watch you fall apart all pretty on my cock.”

You grab for him blindly, tugging at his chain until his lips slot over yours, your heart fluttering at the kiss. Thighs shaking, you cum with a sharp gasp, pussy fluttering around his cock uncontrollably while he groans into your mouth, his hand squeezing at your hip. Caleb isn’t that far behind, his hips thrusting forward unevenly before he whimpers, burying himself inside of you.

His cock twitches and throbs, hot, thick cum spilling inside of you. You let out a tired mewl as Caleb pants against your cheek, his lips dragging over your jaw to give you a clumsy kiss, rolling off of you before long.

You squeak when you go with him, trying to pull away only to find that your dog tags have somehow managed to get tangled together. 

“You could just ask to cuddle,” Caleb quips, smiling when you roll your eyes.

It takes a bit of work and concentration – Caleb steals kisses from you every now and then – but you work your fingers through and untangle the chains, arms wrapping around his neck loosely. You squirm closer quietly, thighs squeezing together when you feel his cum leaking out of you.

Your eyes flutter shut when Caleb runs his fingers through your hair, his arm pulling you closer to kiss your cheek.

“Stay the night.”

You trace your fingers over his chest, feeling warm and sated. Caleb whispers his request again, his thumb stroking over your cheek and you hum, stretching against him lazily. 

“I don’t know…,” you sigh, biting back a smile when his expression falls. 

“I hate you,” Caleb grouses when he sees your smile, although he tugs you closer when you laugh against his cheek, letting you pepper kisses over his warm skin.

“Yeah,” your voice softens, fingers pushing his hair out of his eyes. You kiss him gently. “I hate you too.”

–

You wake up to sunlight streaming through the curtains.

A yawn leaves you, and you rub at your eyes, ridding them of the lingering remnants of sleep. Glancing down, you find yourself clad in a pair of Caleb’s boxers and an oversized hoodie of his hanging off your frame.

He’s nowhere to be seen, so you crawl out of bed, taking the time to examine all the trophies and awards stacked onto multiple shelves on one side of his room. You allow yourself to feel begrudgingly impressed, fingers trailing over a photo frame of him grinning with Gideon, their jets in the background.

Unable to help yourself, you snoop a little more, perusing his book shelf. The corner of a photo peaks out from what looks like a book hastily shoved back into place and you glance at the door of his bedroom for a moment before tugging the book free. 

When the pages fall open, your brows furrow when you find a photo of someone none other than yourself. You’re laughing with someone, although they’re cropped out, your eyes bright with amusement and hair loose, free from the usual, required bun. Your heart stutters when another photo falls out, finding yourself pictured candidly once more.

You glance towards the door again, flipping through the other pages, disappointment flickering across your expression when you don’t find any others. Quickly tucking the photos back into the book, you place it back into its original place, padding out into the kitchen. 

Caleb stands over the stove, shirtless and in his sweatpants, cooking sausages. There’s reddish marks streaking down his broad back, courtesy of your nails from yesterday. You raise your brows when you see the breakfast spread, taking a bite out of a jam-covered slice of toast.

“I wasn’t expecting breakfast,” you announce, hopping up onto the kitchen counter, legs swaying lazily.

“Morning,” Caleb offers, glancing at you over his shoulder. He shrugs, flipping the sausages with a spatula. “I wanted to.”

You hum, gaze travelling over the dip of his waist, teeth sinking into your lower lip. It’s unfair, really, how attractive he is, even like this, hair messy and all marked up. Your recent discovery has you feeling curious so you lean forward, letting out an airy sigh. 

“I didn’t know you liked taking photos.”

Caleb loses his grip on the spatula, muttering out a soft curse. You smile at him when he turns around, head tilting in feigned innocence. 

“They were cute,” you muse when he flushes, “and kinda creepy. Didn’t know you were a perv, Caleb.”

“I’m not,” Caleb denies, although the tips of his ears seem to disagree with how prettily they’ve blushed. “I just–” He covers his face with his hand, looking away, “you looked pretty and I… couldn’t help myself.”

You hop off the counter, padding towards him, arms wrapping around his neck. “Who knew?” you drawl, pressing your lips against his. “Caleb Xia is a huge dork.”

Caleb groans, his hands petting at your waist as he pulls you closer, the stove forgotten. You arch into him when he squeezes your ass, rocking up onto the tips of your toes when he licks into your mouth, fingers slipping into his soft, brown hair.

“Hungry?” he mumbles, his hands sliding under the hoodie you’re wearing, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. 

“Not really,” you breathe out, your hand dragging over his firm chest, down his abdomen and past his sweatpants, curling around his hot, half-hard cock that throbs in your palm. “Stove’s on.”

Caleb moans into your mouth softly, reaching behind blindly to turn off the stove. You return his feverish kisses with an eagerness of your own, stroking his thick cock lazily.

“Baby,” Caleb whispers, his head falling forward as he pants into the crook of your neck, his fingers flexing around your hips, “baby, fuck–”

You spy his phone on the nearby dining table, kissing his cheek gently before you pull away. Caleb grunts in protest, his grip loosening as you squirm away to pick up his phone. You shouldn’t be doing this, the rational part of your mind reminds you, you really shouldn’t be doing this. 

But this is Caleb, the other… more debauched part of your mind offers – annoying, insufferable Caleb who kissed the shit out of you and let you slap him while you rode his cock. Caleb, who maybe isn’t so insufferable anymore and has somehow managed to get his foot in the door to your heart. Caleb, who – you’re realizing – you want all to yourself. 

Caleb, who looks at you like you’re the only thing he really sees.

You toss his phone at him, hooking your fingers under the hoodie, tugging it up so he can see your tits, nipples hardened, the soft flesh imprinted with his teeth and your dog tags hanging between your breasts prettily. 

“Wanna take some more pictures?”

There’s a hoarse groan leaving him, his hand pressing against his clothed cock as he stares at you with half-lidded eyes. You smile up at him when he strides towards you, fingers dragging down his chest teasingly. Caleb catches your hand, his fingers lacing with yours tightly. Your nose brushes against his when he dips his head, his voice soft. 

“How about a video, baby?”

[sylusslittlekitten]

✨ Sylus - Improvised Flow - Fan Art 🐦‍⬛🎤

So… ok… hear me out…

So in the PV… to me, it looks like he’s licking. And this pose… it did something to me.

The way his wrist is near his mouth?? The way his eyes look like he’s about to commit sexual atrocities?? Sign me the fuck up

My brain filled in the rest like a feral gremlin.

Anyway, I blacked out, woke up in Procreate, and this was on my screen.

Do I remember drawing it? No.

Did my soul leave my body and re-enter through a dramatic backlit window? Yes.

It’s my first time drawing at this speed, so there’s stuff I need to improve on but wanted to share.

You’ll find it on Twitter and Naver Cafe

Made by me.

©️ All Rights Reserved.

Do not repost.

Reblog and shares welcome.

[sylusslittlekitten]

I love reading reblog tags and comments ❤️

@blessdunrest TYSM … I had to add the tongue

You can’t tell me his tongue isn’t out…

@qinche-cvmslvt - PUTH

[sageypoo21]

Sylus is just… I need him inside me right fucking now. Please destroy me daddy

[beachhotdog]

reblog to stare at your mutuals like this

[zaynessbeloved]

NSFW Academic Rival!Rafayel drabbles

Academic Rival!Rafayel who you first notice in your advanced painting seminar because he’s always the one turning in pieces that make the professor pause and nod approvingly, and you can’t help but feel a spark of annoyance when he smirks at you across the studio like he knows his work rivals yours out just a little.

You catch him glancing at your canvas during critiques, his eyes lingering a bit too long, and when you ask him what he’s staring at, he just shrugs and says, “Nothing, just wondering if you’re going for abstract or accidentally messy.” 

It stings, but you fire back, “At least mine has intention behind it, unlike your show-off splatters.”

Academic Rival!Rafayel who starts showing up at the same late-night library sessions you do, claiming the table right next to yours even though the place is almost empty, and you try to ignore how he hums under his breath while sketching, but it distracts you enough that you end up rereading the same art history page three times.

One night, you snap your book shut louder than necessary and whisper, “Do you have to do that here? Some of us are trying to focus.”

He looks up with that lazy grin, leaning back in his chair. “Am I bothering you? Good, maybe it’ll push you to work harder. Your last piece could use some… fire.”

You roll your eyes, but you feel a flush creep up your neck, wondering if he’s actually paying that much attention to what you create.

Academic Rival!Rafayel who surprises you by offering a casual critique during a group session, pointing out how your color choices could pop more if you layered them differently, and it’s solid advice, but you don’t want to admit it, so you mutter, “Thanks, but I think it’s fine as is.”

He chuckles softly, “Suit yourself, but don’t say I didn’t try to help my competition.”

Later, when you’re packing up, he lingers by your easel and adds, “You know, you’re not bad. Almost as good as me.”

You shoot him a look, “Almost? Keep dreaming, Rafayel.”

Academic Rival!Rafayel who you run into at the campus coffee shop during a break, and he slides into the seat across from you without asking, holding out a spare muffin like it’s no big deal. “Figured you might need fuel for that brain of yours. Can’t have you falling behind.”

You take it, suspicious but hungry, and say, “What’s the catch? Did you poison it or something?”

He laughs, a real one that crinkles his eyes. “Nope, just being nice. Or maybe I like watching you get all worked up.”

You bite into the muffin, and for a moment, the conversation shifts to complaining about the professor’s impossible deadlines, and you realize he’s actually fun to talk to when he’s not being so fucking smug.

But then he leans in a bit, voice dropping, “Admit it, though. You check out my work as much as I check yours.”

You feel your pulse pick up, but you play it cool. “Only to see what not to do.”

Academic Rival!Rafayel who starts leaving little notes on your locker in the art building, stuff like “Try warmer tones next time” or “Not bad, but mine’s better,” and it irritates you, but you find yourself smiling when no one’s looking, tucking them into your bag instead of throwing them away.

One day, you corner him in the hallway after class and hold up the latest note. “What’s this about? Trying to psych me out?”

He steps closer, that teasing glint in his eyes. “Or maybeee I’m flirting. Ever think of that?”

You blink, caught off guard, and mumble, “You’re full of it.” but your heart races as he walks away, and you wonder if he’s serious or just messing with you.

Academic Rival!Rafayel who pairs up with you for a joint project because the professor assigns it randomly, and you both groan at first, but as you work late in the empty studio, arguing over composition, you notice how his hand brushes yours when reaching for the same brush, and neither of you pulls away right away.

“You’re hogging the palette,” you say, nudging his arm. He nudges back, closer than necessary.

“Make me stop.”

The air feels thicker, and when he looks at you, it’s not just the smugness you came to know so well. There’s something a little warmer there.

You swallow, focusing on the canvas, but your mind wanders to how his fingers felt against yours earlier.

Academic Rival!Rafayel who, after a long night of painting, wipes a streak of blue paint across your cheek as a joke, and you retaliate by smearing red on his nose, laughing until you’re both a mess, and suddenly he’s close, thumb tracing the paint on your skin a little too gently.

“Missed a spot,” he murmurs, his breath warm on your face.

You freeze, then whisper, “You’re distracting me on purpose.”

He smiles, slow and knowing. “Is it working?”

Before you can answer, his lips brush yours lightly, testing, and you kiss back without thinking, the tension that’s been building finally sparking out of control.

Academic Rival!Rafayel who pulls you into the supply closet during a break from class because “we need more charcoal,” but once the door clicks shut, his hands are on your waist, kissing you deeper, and you press against him, fingers tangling in his hair as things heat up fast.

“We shouldn’t,” you gasp between kisses, but you don’t stop.

He chuckles against your neck. “Says who? We’ve earned a break.”

His hand slides under your shirt, tracing your skin, and you arch into it, the thrill of doing this somewhere hidden making it all feel more intense.

Academic Rival!Rafayel who still teases you in class the next day like nothing happened, but his eyes linger longer, and during a quiet moment in the library, he pulls you behind the stacks, hand slipping between your thighs under the table later when no one’s looking.

“Focus,” he says innocently, but his touch says otherwise.

You grip the edge of the book, whispering, “You're making it pretty hard to.”

He grins. “Aw, you're so easy to distract.” his touches feel more electric, and suddenly, you don't seem to care as much about being distracted.

Academic Rival!Rafayel who sneaks you into the rooftop access after hours for “inspiration,” but it turns into him backing you against the wall, hands exploring as you kiss, the city lights blurring in the background while you focus on the way he touches you, careful but bold.

“You’re so addictive,” he whispers, fingers dipping lower.

You bite your lip, guiding his hand. “Get addicted, then.”

It’s quick and heated, both of you breathless by the end, but he holds you close after, like he doesn’t want to let go.

Academic Rival!Rafayel who keeps up the teasing in the studio the morning after your heated moment on the rooftop, critiquing your brush technique out loud like it’s just another day, but you catch the way his gaze drops to your lips when no one’s paying too much attention, making your skin heat up as you remember his hands on you.

You try to focus on mixing paints, but he leans over your shoulder, close enough that you feel his breath on your neck.

“That shade’s off,” he murmurs. “Need help fixing it?”

You swallow, whispering back, “I got it.”

But your hand shakes a little, and he notices, his fingers brushing yours as he adjusts the palette without asking.

Academic Rival!Rafayel who texts you later that afternoon about meeting up to “discuss the project,” but when you show up at his dorm, he’s got the door cracked open, shirtless and casual like he forgot you were coming, and you feel a pull low in your belly as you step inside.

“You’re early,” he says with a smirk, closing the door behind you.

You cross your arms, trying to play it cool and not stare at his bare chest. “I'm on time. You, on the other hand, seem to have forgotten about inviting me over.”

He steps closer, backing you toward the bed without touching you yet. “Admit it, you couldn’t wait to come over early so we would have time for...other extracurricular activities.”

Your heart pounds, and you don’t deny it, letting him crowd you until you’re sitting on the edge of his bed, his hands finally settling on your thighs.

Academic Rival!Rafayel who kisses you slow at first, like he’s savoring the win, but it builds very fast as his fingers slide up under your skirt, tracing the hem of your panties, and you gasp into his mouth when he presses against you there, rubbing gently through the fabric.

“Is this what you want?” he asks, voice low and rough and a little bit too smug for your taste, pulling back just enough to watch your face.

You nod, breath catching as you reach for his belt. “Yeah,” you manage, “but don’t stop.”

He groans softly, helping you undo it, his free hand guiding yours to wrap around his cock, warm and hard in your grip.

Academic Rival!Rafayel who lays you back on the bed, peeling off your clothes piece by piece, his mouth following his hands down your body until he’s between your legs, tongue flicking out to taste you, making you arch and grab at his hair as waves of heat build inside.

You feel every stroke, wet and maddening, and you whisper his name, urging him on.

He looks up at you, eyes dark. “Tell me how it feels, cutie.”

You bite your lip. “Good… feels g-good, keep going.”

He does, adding fingers that curl so, so right, pushing you closer and closer until you come undone, shaking under him.

Academic Rival!Rafayel who flips you over after, entering you from behind in one smooth thrust that makes you moan into the pillow, his hands on your hips pulling you back to meet him, the rhythm steady and deep, filling you completely.

“Fuck, I've waited so long to be inside you,” he breathes, leaning down to kiss your shoulder.

You push back against him, matching his pace. “Then go harder.”

He obliges, one hand slipping around to rub you again, and the double sensation has you clenching around him, both of you chasing the highs of your orgasms until he tenses and spills inside you with a low groan.

Academic Rival!Rafayel who collapses beside you, pulling you close as your breaths slow down, but even then, he still finds the energy to be smug and flirty when he traces lazy patterns on your skin.

“Still think you’re better than me?” he teases softly.

You laugh quietly, turning to face him. “In painting, maybe. This… we’re even.”

He smiles, kissing you again, like there’s no rush to define what comes next.

Academic Rival!Rafayel who sneaks more moments like that over the next weeks, like in the empty lecture hall after a late seminar, where he locks the door and bends you over the desk, skirt hiked up, thrusting into you quick and urgent while you brace against the wood, trying to stay quiet.

“Someone could walk in,” you whisper, but it only makes you wetter.

He chuckles against your ear, hand covering your mouth gently. “Then be quiet, yeah?”

His movements speed up, hitting that spot that makes your legs weak, and you cum first, muffling your cry against his palm before he follows, pulling out just in time.

Academic Rival!Rafayel who takes it to the campus art gallery during a quiet evening event, pulling you into a shadowed alcove behind a sculpture, his fingers dipping inside you while you pretend to study the exhibit, your back against the wall as you bite back moans.

“You’re so wet already,” he murmurs, kissing your neck. You reach down, stroking him through his pants until he’s hard, then guide him inside you right there, the risk making it intense as he rocks into you slow and deep, both of you finishing fast and breathless.

Academic Rival!Rafayel who keeps inviting you over to his place under the pretense of reviewing notes, but as soon as the door closes, he’s got you against it, kissing you deeply while his hands work your shirt up, palms warm on your bare skin as he lifts you slightly, your legs wrapping around him.

“Couldn’t focus all day,” he murmurs against your neck, carrying you to the couch. You feel him hard against you already, and you grind down a little, drawing a groan from him.

“Tease,” he says, setting you down and stripping off his shirt before settling between your legs, fingers hooking into your pants to pull them down slowly.

Academic Rival!Rafayel who now takes his sweet time undressing you there, kissing every inch he reveals, soft and attentive, until you’re bare under him, and he pauses to just look, his gaze making you squirm.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he says simply, then lowers his head, mouth on your breast, sucking gently while his hand slides between your legs, fingers circling your clit in lazy strokes.

You arch into him, whispering, “More.”

He adds a finger inside you, curling it just right, his tongue flicking your nipple in time, and you cum just like that, soft waves of pleasure rolling through you as he watches your face, kissing you through it.

Academic Rival!Rafayel who lets you return the favor after, pushing him back on the couch as you kneel between his legs, hands undoing his jeans and pulling him free, stroking him firm and slow while you lean down to take him in your mouth, tongue swirling around the leaking tip.

He threads his fingers in your hair, holding you, “F-fuck, that feels good,” he breathes, hips lifting slightly.

You take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, and he tenses, warning you softly before he cums, spilling hot on your tongue as you swallow, looking up at him with a satisfied smile.

Academic Rival!Rafayel who pulls a teasing stunt during a group study session in the library, sitting next to you and acting normal at first, but then his hand slips under the table to your thigh, fingers inching higher under your skirt while everyone else discusses the assignment.

You try to focus, but when his fingers brush your underwear, rubbing lightly, you grip your pen tighter.

“Rafayel,” you whisper warningly.

He leans over like he’s pointing at your notes. “What's wrong? I'm just..." he trails off, circling firmly on your clit, only once, "...helping you concentrate.”

His touch gets bolder, slipping inside the fabric to stroke you directly, and you have to bite back a sound, shifting in your seat as the orgasm builds fast.

Academic Rival!Rafayel who stops just before you tip over, pulling his hand away with a smirk when the group goes for a coffee break, leaving you flushed and glaring.

“Payback later,” you hiss through your teeth.

He chuckles. “Counting on it.”

Academic Rival!Rafayel who makes up for it that night in your dorm, showing up with takeout as an excuse, but soon you’re on the bed, him above you, entering you slow and deep, rolling his hips in a rhythm that hits every spot perfectly, his mouth on yours muffling your moans.

“Like this? Is this good enough for your pretty face to stop glaring at me?” he asks smugly between thrusts, hand on your breast, thumb teasing your nipple.

You nod, nails digging into his back. “Yes, yes, don’t stop.”

He picks up pace gradually, until you’re both close, and he pulls out to finish on your stomach, warm spurts that he wipes away gently after, kissing your forehead.

Academic Rival!Rafayel who keeps teasing in subtle ways, like brushing his foot against yours under the table during a cafe meetup for project work, or sending you a quick text during class with a winking emoji that makes you remember last night, heat pooling low between your thighs as you try to pay attention.

One afternoon in the empty art lounge, he corners you by the window, hands on your hips as he kisses you, then drops to his knees, lifting your skirt and mouthing you through your underwear until they’re soaked, his tongue pressing fabric against you teasingly.

“Want me to stop?” he asks, looking up.

You shake your head. “N-no.”

He pulls them aside, licking directly now, soft and insistent, fingers holding you open until you cum against his mouth, legs shaking.

Academic Rival!Rafayel who balances the heat with softer moments, like the time he draws you while you’re napping on his bed after sex, his pencil scratching lightly, and when you wake, he shows you the sketch, simple lines capturing you relaxed.

“My beautiful muse,” he says, pulling you into a gentle hug that turns into slow, grinding sex, with him behind you, hand between your legs as he thrusts lazy and deep.

You feel every inch, the closeness making it so intimate, and you cum together quietly, his breath hot on your neck as he holds you tight against him.

Academic Rival!Rafayel who admits over late-night snacks in bed that he’s falling for you. His fingers interlaced with yours, and you came to admit to yourself that you feel the same.

You bend and kiss him softly before it heats up again, you on top this time, riding him slowly, hands on his chest as you control the pace, drawing it out until he’s begging quietly.

“Please,” he says, hips bucking up.

You lean down, whispering, “Not yet...tonight, I think it's best if we both feel it...”

When you finally speed up, he grips your hips so tightly when he finally cums hard inside you. As you follow, you collapse onto him, spent and content.

© zaynessbeloved 2025

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST HERE AND ON MY AO3.

.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!

taglist: @syluslittlecrows, @asiaticapple

[bellezeebub]

WEAR HEADPHONES!

Tipsy and Playful fucking with Rafayel. 🥴 loosely based off his five star card Tipsy Invitation.

Dialogue and SFX come from the game.

BGM - Babydoll by Ari Abdul

[wetforsylus]

秦彻 – sylus treats your pussy like his bestfriend .ᐟ

Dirty talk with him was always so…embarrassing. In a good way, of course! It’s just, the embarrassing part about it was him taking it up a notch when he’s so fucking drunk from you. Your touch, your scent, and oh god—your taste.

Those praises he’d give you were overly exaggerated, they weren’t lies though, he’d just express it louder than he needs to. And he just constantly talks about you like you’re the only thing that keeps him alive. (not a lie)

“She’s sensitive today,” Sylus grinned, digging his fingers deeper in the plush of your thighs, slowly spreading your legs further apart before diving himself in you again. “‘s it ‘cause she missed me?”

“W-what are you sayi- Hngh–!” Your question got interrupted when his tongue pressed against your sensitive spot, pummelling you at such ease, making you squirm like a bug. Your legs coil around his head tighter, cradling him against you, causing a quiet groan to slip out of his lips before he pulls back, catching his breath.

“Don’t worry,” he mumbled, kissing your leaking cunt before his tongue slid on your slicked barrier of arousal, devouring you with intent that he had something up his sleeve. “Missed her too.”

“So,” kiss. “Fucking,” kiss. “Bad.”

“Ah- Sylus! c- s’too good-” stuttered moans leave your lips like a broken telephone. Sylus’s movements started to grow more restless the more he felt you twitch and throb against him, he was starting to lose it more than before.

“‘m g’nna cu- hah!”

“I know, I know.” He groaned, pressing his thumb on your clit before latching his lips on it and suuucking in a deep breath, kissing and eating you up like a five course meal.

“Please- I- hck- pleaseplease-”

“Mngh.. go ahead, sweetie.” When Sylus gave you the green light, it didn’t take long before your legs quiver and an excruciating orgasm rips out of you—but when you thought it was over, sylus pulled away with a trail of slick following his lips.

He only grinned and licked his lips before his fingers dipped in your cunt, slowly sliding in, inch after inch, making you flutter and clench around his digits involuntary. “Can you still keep going?”

When you gulped and slowly nodded, feeling as his fingers scissor in you, pumping in and out at a steady pace; Sylus hummed in approval.

“Then we’ll keep going,” he whispered.

“‘Til she’s all worn out. Deal?”

[heymamona]

please reblog this if it is okay to anonymously confess something to you.

[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

[knightjpg]

ravenous fortune | chapter 1/2

tags: 🔞dubious consent, vaginal fingering, unprotected piv sex, aphrodisiacs, drug use, somnophilia, undernegotiated kink, daddy kink, creampie, MC gets drugged (not by Sylus), alcohol mention

1 | 2

You moonlight as Sylus’ assistant. Things go a little differently than planned.

As if to welcome you home your phone rings the second you step through the door. You fumble with your bags and keys, elbowing the door closed while you tap your screen, and step out of your shoes. “Hello?”

“It’s me,” Sylus’ rich voice says through the speaker. “Are you off work?”

“I am,” you say, and hang up your coat. You flick the light on as you continue from the hallway to your kitchen. “You called right after I got home. Did you just wake up?”

His voice sounds rougher than normal. It’s a little early for him—but then again, his sleep schedule is all over the place. Just when you think you’ve got it figured out he changes it up again. Breakfast at noon, lunch at midnight, hard liquor when the sun is setting. “How was your day?” Sylus asks instead of answering your question.

Long. Tiring. No overtime today—a miracle in and of itself. There’s been a lot of missing people reports lately, more than usual, and the more you look into it the more it puzzles you. It doesn’t help that the reports are vague and made late; by the time someone notices the missing person is, well, missing, it’s already been several days if not weeks. The people taken don’t have much in common except for being relatively young and easy to miss. They usually live alone. It’s had you close the padlock on your door with more care than usual.

You turn on the tap and fill a glass with water. “Is that what you called me to ask?”

“Not necessarily. Can’t I still want to know?”

“Are you calling to remind me about tomorrow? I haven’t forgotten. Or were you afraid I wouldn’t open the door when you rang?” you say.

Questions without answers, back and forth, a game of tug the rope. Like every time you call you wonder who will get tired of this game first. Surely Sylus. He likes winning, you know that much, but he gets bored. The only reason he hasn’t given up yet is because you rarely say yes to his invitations. You expect today’s call to be similar to the one from a few days prior, where he breezily informed you there’s an outfit waiting for you at the base, if you wanted it, and to come early so you can try it on. You politely declined the offer.

“I’m sorry,” Sylus says. You still in surprise, glass just touching your lips. You set the water down again. What for? “It is about tomorrow, but—I have to cancel. Something unexpected came up.”

He sounds genuinely upset, even through the speakers of your shitty work phone. Your personal one finally croaked last week after six years of duty, and you’d have to forego this month’s gas bill to get a new one. You frown as you clutch the phone a little more tightly to your ear. “Why? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” You immediately bite your lip at that last one—a mistake.

As expected Sylus laughs, though without his usual rich fucker mirth. “Are you worried about me, kitten?”

You consider just hanging up, but you really are curious why he’s cancelling at such short notice. It’s never happened before—though maybe your “never” is too small of a research pool. You’re surprised he even kept up the invitations after you accepted for the first time, certain that his interest in you would fade after he conquered your denial. Human psychology—the more you can’t have it, the more you want it.

You would know.

And that would have been the end of it, except the next day a package arrived. An invitation to an art gallery, one he mentioned in passing during the dinner he took you to. You expressed interest at the time, as well as appreciation for a very nice Prosecco, and received an unopened bottle of the very same brand along with his invite. Handwritten, gorgeous and slanted, on thick expensive paper. You’re pretty certain the cream-coloured envelope—scented, of course, and pressed closed with a wax seal that would be beautiful if it weren’t for the gaudy feathers stuck to it—it came in alone could cover a week’s worth of groceries.

“I’m worried about the unlucky person who decided to challenge you.”

Sylus sighs on the other end of the phone. “It’s nothing like that. Tonight was supposed to be a wrap-up of something I’ve been working on for a while, but the twins got sick. I can’t do it without them.”

Despite your best intentions you feel yourself soften the moment Luke and Kieran are mentioned. “Are they okay?”

“They’re fine. They’re strong, so they won’t die.”

Very reassuring, that. “I see.”

“But we can reschedule. Next weekend—what do you think?” Sylus says. The tinny speaker makes him sound almost hopeful.

“I can’t. It’s Tara’s birthday that weekend.”

“Two weeks from now?”

“Association event.”

“You’re difficult to get a hold of, kitten.” He’s smiling now, you’re sure of it. You can picture it, the way his mouth curls, brushing over his voice with a soft edge. “Is there a waiting list that will take my name?”

No, you want to say. There’s no waiting list. You volunteer for birthday planning and Hunter lectures because your apartment is empty and sad, and spending time here, alone, makes you feel even more empty and sad. There’s too much room here for Sylus to occupy your mind. Will he call today? What is he up to? No good, surely. He texts you photos of beautiful things. A large hand stroking a horse’s mane, a gem on a tie, polished shoes on rich soft carpet. It’s boring, his captions say.

“Maybe if you tell me what you’re doing I’ll help you.”

There’s a moment of surprised silence. “How generous of you,” Sylus says, voice low and amused. You feel your cheeks grow hot. “And what were you hoping to receive in return?”

Of course. You exhale, disappointed with yourself. Quid pro quo, equal exchange. There’s no altruism, not here, and no out of the goodness of your heart. He probably wouldn’t believe it if you told him you hadn’t been thinking about something in return when you said that. Maybe that’s why Sylus keeps calling. Because you’re fool. And there’s still some use to be made of you.

“The offer to turn yourself in is still open.”

Sylus laughs again. “Sure. If that’s what you want. I won’t make any promises about how long I’ll stay behind bars, though.”

It was an idle threat, but he sounds so smug that it makes you want to ask for real. Maybe you really should just hang up. His voice in your ear makes you stupid. You’re about to say that you’re leaving, to never mind your offer, that you were joking anyway, when Sylus speaks again. For once, he answers your question.

“We’re chasing a new drug on the market. The distributors are cycling it through hotel chains in the N109 zone, but whenever we try to follow it to the source there’s a dead end. We had a good lead, but I needed the twins to play distraction. The distributors are almost as paranoid as I am,” Sylus adds. There’s an amused lilt to his voice that makes you curious. He doesn’t strike you as paranoid; doesn’t even strike you as careful, really. Who else with this big of a bounty on his head wanders around Linkon without a care in the world? “I was hoping to move the plan to next week, but it’s unsure where they’ll be by then. If you were to come along…” You mentally supply a shrug to his casual pause. “I could still go with the original plan. Except instead of tonight we would strike tomorrow.”

“You’re busting down a drug cartel?” you say. Sylus hears the incredulity in your voice, because he chuckles.

“The N109 might be lawless, but there’s still rules, sweetie. They’re selling drugs on my turf without paying their dues.”

So it’s about money after all. You suppose that’s reason enough for someone like Sylus. Still—something niggles at you. Is it simply because the numbers are that high? Because it’s a matter of pride? Of power? If he were simply bored he wouldn’t be so concerned.

“What kind of drugs? Are they dangerous?”

“It depends on how they’re used,” Sylus answers.

Another cryptic answer. You turn your eyes to the ceiling as though some merciful god there will soothe your exasperation. Fine. Whatever. He can keep his secrets. You’ll find out for yourself. When you speak again it’s with newfound curiosity and determination to stick your nose in his business: “I understand. The big bad leader of Onychinus has to show off his strength.”

“Something like that. So? You’ll come?”

Surely this isn’t really necessary.

Your reflection watches you button up your blouse in the changing room’s mirror with a confused expression. You’ve worn formal-wear before. For work events, usually, your one works-for-everything black dress that you’ve mended a dozen times by now soldiering on bravely. But most of the time you’re wearing things that are comfortable and practical. Not this. You look down at the ruffles down your collar with a sense of vague bewilderment. You can’t move around freely in this. Aren’t you supposed to be a distraction?

You decide to put these questions to the person who pushed you inside the changing room with a mountain of outfits in your arms. The changing curtain opens with a rssshjt and reveals the culprit sitting on a bench with crossed legs.

“Hey,” you say as you step out, “Aren’t we in a rush? Why are we wasting time with me trying on new clothes?”

Sylus stares at you, lips parting slightly as his eyes flick down, then up again. “Dressing for the part is important, kitten. Did you want to walk in there with your Hunter boots?”

“They’re more comfortable than whatever these are.” You point at your heels with an accusing finger. They’re going to chafe so bad. You can already tell. The shoes wink at you menacingly when you shift on your feet, the sides catching the overhead lights with an evil gleam. “Just so you know, I can’t run in those. Or the skirt.”

“You won’t be doing any running,” Sylus promises. He shifts in his seat and takes something out of his bag. “Here. Pick whatever you think matches.”

He opens a flat box that can only be described as a dragon’s treasure hoard. Rows upon rows of neatly pinned jewellery sets glimmer at you, each more expensive-looking than the last. Earrings and bracelets and necklaces and rings, all decorated with delicate filigree and diamonds that leave no discussion as to whether or not they’re real. Most have some kind of red gem attached to them.

“I’m supposed to be your assistant,” you say after you manage to find your voice. “I’m not earning enough to afford any of that.”

“Then why not try working for me for real? You can see for yourself what the salary is like.”

Har har. You give Sylus a dry look and pick out the one pair of earrings that doesn’t look like it costs more than a mansion. They’re simple studs, silver with a tiny stone in the middle. Plain enough for a nobody assistant. You put them on quickly with the help of the changing room’s mirror.

“Ta-da. Done.”

“You haven’t tried on the rest yet,” Sylus says. He points at the pile of clothes. “Go on. We have time.”

You give him a disbelieving look. “You told me this hotel thing would take the weekend, not the whole week.”

“You dislike shopping that much?” Sylus’ mouth curls up again. “Alright. Excuse me—” He leans back, addressing the sales employee that’s wisely stayed a healthy distance away from this madness. “We’ll take all of them. Everything she’s wearing will be to-go as is.”

“Of course, sir,” the employee says quickly, bobbing their head deferentially. “Excellent choice as always.”

“Sylus,” you whisper-hiss as the employee empties out the load of fabric from the changing room, “Are you insane? Tell them we’re not taking everything!”

“I just like to be well-prepared, sweetie. Don’t worry. If there’s anything you don’t like we’ll get rid of it. The rest you can keep—think of it as a gift for helping me out.”

You despair. This is the kind of shop where clothes don’t have price tags. You don’t know if the not knowing makes it better or worse.

“Just so you know, I’m not keeping anything. You can return it or whatever, I don’t care, but I can’t accept something this expensive.” Not even to re-sell it, though the thought is tempting. People would probably think you’re trying to scam them, or worse, that you stole it. You might not be able to run in this skirt, but you have to admit that it’s gorgeous. Soft to the touch, comfortably stretchy, a lovely dark shade of red interrupted by a small slit on your thigh. The blouse is similarly beautiful. The kind of thing you pass by in shop windows and appreciate it for its design—and then move on, because there’s no way you’ll ever wear something like that. Except now you are.

“As you wish,” Sylus simply says, then offers you his arm. You take it somewhat begrudgingly. Your balance is excellent, but the heels. They’re giving you what is hopefully a not-weird sway to your step, and consequently shift most of your weight to your toes. Taking Sylus’ arm is completely justified, you tell yourself.

You try not to think about how warm he feels. Or how your fingers can’t even curl over half of his bicep. You fail immediately.

“Why don’t you run me through tonight’s plans?” Sylus says as he helps you into the car. “Since you’re my assistant now.”

“Arrival in fifteen, shake hands, and get an invite to cocktail party at eight,” you go down the list on your fingers after you buckle yourself in. “Mingle until we’re either invited to a backroom or someone can give us a name. And then we kick their asses.”

Sylus chuckles. He keeps his eyes on the road as he drives, shifting gear with one hand, the other lazily on the steering wheel. It’s effortlessly hot, and it annoys you a great deal. “There might be a few steps in between intelligence gathering and ass-kicking, but you got the gist of it. You are?”

“Your overworked assistant,” you say.

“Overworked?” Sylus asks, amused. “I don’t remember this being part of the script.”

“I’m simply trying to portraying my role as realistically as possible.”

Sylus shakes his head, laughing softly as he changes lanes. “My boss of the year mug begs to differ. But sure. You are working on the weekend. And I am?”

“Mr. Qin, sir,” you supply dutifully.

“Very good. We’re almost there. Is your tracker still in place—? Good. Keep it on you at all times. Take your gun, too. But keep it out of sight.”

You stuff your gun in the sensible hand bag between your legs, wedged next to the paperwork Sylus provided that mimics what an actual assistant would be carrying around with them and a thick bundle of Association files. You couldn’t resist the urge to bring your work with you. One particular case hasn’t left you alone since you saw it. Perhaps because you were reminded so much of yourself; one of the missing girls is your age, with the same dark bags under her eyes. A you in another life. You linger over her photo while Sylus drives, going through the same details you’ve read a hundred times.

Lives alone. No pets. No family. No friends, either, or no friends who keep a close eye on her. The report was made by a co-worker.

She has medical debt, just like you. A mild case of Protocore Syndrome; something that requires daily medication to keep under control. You doubt that wherever she is now is able to supply her with what she needs.

You sigh and trade the file for something of Sylus’. Now’s not the time. You need to work on memorising names and faces. You’re not a Hunter right now; you’re Sylus assistant, and you’ve got a job to do.

Then again…

It’s not a bad cover, but you have to wonder at how useful you’ll really be there. Sylus didn’t tell you what the twins were supposed to do—your guess was wreaking havoc, but your role is very much not that. Or maybe it is and you just don’t know it yet. The only reason Sylus keeps you around is for your resonance, after all. Having backup that amplifies his powers tenfold is an attractive bonus, especially for someone like him. Even if he only tolerates you.

Not that it comes easily, the resonating. You’ve done it a handful of times, and every time it’s a struggle. Not because you hate him, though you do resent him for drawing you in so easily. And not because you fear him, though you are afraid of how much he might see. The only thing you allow to slip through is your naive trust that he’ll hold up his end of the deal. He uses you, you use him, and everyone gets to go home at the end of the day to lie in bed and think about how many of his big fingers could fit inside you.

Okay. Maybe that’s just you. But still—the tentative partnership is enough for a superficial, strained tether between the two of you. Brittle and eggshell-thick. Just like your heart.

“We’re here,” Sylus announces, and pulls up in front of a large, beautiful building. White, of course, because it’s owned by rich people, but the columns rising up to support the balconies are beautiful. Little stone birds nest in between the hand-hewn branches, and ivy trails down the pillars gracefully. The fanlights above the balcony doors are inlaid with stained glass. The light filtering through paints the edges of the windows with softly glowing pastels.

There’s no visible parking space at the front—Sylus simply leaves the engine running for an employee to rush over and take the car away. You’re greeted warmly when you step inside, good to see you, Mr. Qin, a pleasure, your suite is ready for you, just this way, we’ll take your luggage for you. Even the elevator is beautiful. Its wooden interior is painted; another gardenscape to fit the theme outside, with white large birds nesting near the water. You want very much to trail over the river with your fingers, but keep your hands to yourself.

The elevator takes you to the very top floor. The hotel owner is waiting for you there, an older balding man who, after giving you a cursory limp handshake, forgets you’re there and pours all of his attention in Sylus.

“—always an honour, Mr. Qin, we’re so pleased Onychinus considers doing business, truly pleased, here’s your suite—please enjoy the complementary gifts as you see fit—everything will be to your liking, I’m sure, it’s short notice, but everything we provide is top quality, I assure you, only the finest for our guests, as you’ll see—”

“Much appreciated,” Sylus interrupts. “My assistant will forward you the documents I mentioned.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” the man bobs his head without sparing you so much as a glance. “Please let me know if there’s anything you need. Drinks, food, company—we’ve got some great girls, very pretty, I’m sure any of them would be happy to—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Sylus says silkily. “My assistant and I would like to be shown to our rooms now.”

“Ah,” the hotel owner deflates temporarily, but a second later he revives himself. “Of course—you must be tired. Though if you’re at all inclined—? There’ll be a little party later tonight, around eight. Anyone staying here is free to attend at any time, plenty of faces you’ll recognise, Mr. Qin, I’m sure—”

“We’ll be there,” you say. You smile, holding the man’s gaze as he looks at you with irritated bewilderment; you’re supposed to be pretty, not speak. He glances at Sylus, slightly unsure, but all Sylus does is tilt his head. There’s a challenge in his eyes the hotel owner clearly has no wish to engage in, and so he quickly nods again, rubbing his hands.

“Indeed, indeed! How wonderful, Mr. Qin, we’ll be waiting to see you there. Now for your suite…”

The man keeps babbling all the way to your door, at which point you can tell even without your resonance that Sylus is rapidly starting to get annoyed. You would be too if you were him—but you’re not, which means you get to watch everything unfold with barely held-back amusement. Sylus is never outright rude, but his replies keep getting shorter and curter, and you have to press your lips together to keep from laughing when at one point he throws you a desperate look.

Help me, his eyes say, and you take pity.

“Thank you,” you say forcefully, cutting off the stream of conversation pouring from the hotel owner’s mouth, and open the door for Sylus to step through. The hotel owner watches him disappear into the suite with a disheartened look, but ultimately decides you’re unworthy of his attention.

“Wishing you a pleasant stay!” he tries to say over your shoulder. The door closes with something that sounds a lot like relief.

Sylus pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You look tired, Mr. Qin,” you say. Sylus gives you a look, and this time you do laugh. It’s so unusual to see him out of his depth. “Not the kind of attention you’re used to?”

“Normally I don’t waste my time on people like him,” Sylus says, and sinks into one of the plush chairs.

People like you.

You watch Sylus pour himself a drink. His hands are large and beautiful. The veins spidering under his skin stand out against his pale flesh; when he moves his fingers, one of the rings he’s wearing tinks against his glass. The smile fades on your lips. You feel very out of place, standing in middle of all this opulence that Sylus moves through with his usual bored grace. Nothing seems to impress him in this room that you marvel at. Silk sheets, embroidered bathrobes, scented candles. The handles of the bathroom inlaid with pearl. You’re scared to touch anything. Your presence alone sullies this beauty.

Carefully, you place your bag on the desk on the far side of the room. It’s made of deep walnut, its surface sanded down to a shine. Your reflection moves over the wood like a dark stain.

How could you ever hope to want a man who has everything he could ever wish for?

“Are you hungry?” Sylus asks from behind you. You shake your head. When you turn around you see he’s made himself comfortable in his chair, laptop open on his legs. He’s wearing his glasses; they balance on the bridge of his nose. He dips his chin and looks over them to address you. “Then get some rest. If everything goes to plan we’ll stay in here until eight.”

You’re not particularly tired, either, but you obediently step out of your heels and sink down on one of the beds. It’s huge and soft, and the mattress bounces slightly under your weight. A shame you won’t actually get to sleep here if all goes according to plan. You unbutton the top of your blouse and pull your hair free from its updo; if you’re in for a long night you might as well try to get comfortable while you can.

There’s a ticklish feeling on your back, and you look over your shoulder to see Sylus’ eyes burning into you. You stiffen. Are you doing something wrong? You wouldn’t be surprised if there was some kind of rich-people etiquette you’re butchering somehow.

“Are you going to sleep?” he says.

“No, I think I’ll just read or something.” You take out your Association files again and place them on your lap, toying with the staple. As you sort through the stack your eye lands on one of the leaflets displayed on the nightstand. They’re tourist recommendations, but for rich people. Private spas, fine Michelin dining, horseback riding—there’s even mention of an auction scheduled for tomorrow. You, too, could be the proud owner of a gem-encrusted race car.

“Play cards with me, then. If you’re just looking to pass the time.”

“Aren’t you busy?”

Sylus closes his laptop. “Not right now.”

“I don’t have anything to bet,” you say, but you’re already rising from your seat and walking over to him. Sylus moves the side table in front of him and produces a pack of cards from his jacket like some kind of magician. You watch him shuffle them in his long fingers.

“I’ll supply our bets for the both of us, then.” Sylus deals two hands, then places the stack face-down in the centre of the table along with a stack of poker chips.

“Do you always carry those around with you?”

“For luck,” Sylus says. He’s smiling slightly at an inside joke you’re not privy to.

The game begins. You place your cards, back and forth, occasionally taking one from the stack. You play with your colleagues sometimes, when work is slow. No poker chips are involved, but whoever ends up as this week’s winner gets to say where you’ll get drinks together on Fridays. It’s a good-natured, messy kind of play, where everyone is laughing and groaning and chatting; Simone, fiercely competitive; Tara, keeping tally of everyone’s wins; Xavier, who everyone suspects only pretends not to know the rules of the game. How else do you explain a five-week winning streak?

Unlike your colleagues Sylus has an excellent poker face. He surveys his cards quietly before making a decision, and neither complains nor celebrates when he draws from the stack. Despite this, however—

“I think you’re eligible for a refund on that luck,” you say. You place down two cards. One remains in your hand.

Sylus chuckles. “This is just par for the course for me, kitten. Besides…” He plays a card. “If I use up all my bad luck in a card game, isn’t that preferable?”

Is that how it works? You stare at Sylus’ card pile with a doubtful expression. “Aren’t you worried I’ll take advantage?”

“Why would I be worried about that?” he says. He’s smiling again. For some reason it makes your cheeks feel warm; quickly, you look away and pretend to focus on your cards.

This continues for a while.

You play cards. Sylus loses. You offer to go best out of five, seven, ten; you win every time. “You’re not giving me good cards on purpose, right?” you ask during the final round. “I promise I’m not cheating.”

“If you were you’d be very good at it. I’ve yet to catch you, after all.” Sylus places down another card. It’s terrible.

You decide to put him out of his misery and play one, two, three cards: a combo chain that both ends the game and announces you as undisputed winner of the night. There’s no more time for another go. The clock-hand ticks; half past seven. You need to start getting ready.

“Congratulations,” Sylus says. Despite having lost he doesn’t sound upset in the slightest; if anything, he sounds pleased. He leans back in his chair. “What would you like as your prize?”

You look up, startled. “Prize—? I thought we were just playing with chips. I already told you, I don’t have anything to bet.”

“Humour me. Tell me what you want.”

“There’s nothing I want,” you lie. You watch Sylus’ hands as he tucks the cards back into a neat stack. You want those hands. On you, inside of you, caressing your most intimate parts. In your mouth, between your legs. You want him to forget about the party so he can hold you in between those ridiculous silk sheets all night instead. You can almost feel it, his body on yours. The heat of him, his strength.

You close your eyes to anything that comes after that. You shut out the fantasy of his voice in your ear praising you for being good, low and beautiful and sonorous, the moment it turns to something else. Something softer. You know what it means. You don’t want to acknowledge it. As long as you can file away your feelings under simple desire you can pretend at indifference at the thought of your inevitable replacement.

There will come a day where you’re no longer useful to him. It won’t do to dwell on wishing for things that were impossible from the start.

“Hm.” Sylus puts away his cards and his chips, glancing at his watch. “Well, the offer stands. Let me know if you think of something.”

You nod, despite knowing that there can never be anything you ask of him. Keep me close a little longer, part of you wants to say. Discard me now to save me from future suffering, another part thinks. Pretend to be the cruel, violent monster you introduced yourself as to me. Make it clear, beyond any reasonable doubt, that you find me inconsequential; that you’ll never want me the way I want you. Chase me when I run. Let me go quietly. Flip a coin, pick a card, spin the wheel of fortune and pray that Lady Luck will let you escape my pathetic, selfish desire.

The ballroom welcomes you with a gust of warm chatter.

Not much dancing is happening. The music is slow and jazzy, slotting seamlessly into the murmur of people talking, laughing, and drinking. Glasses clink, jewels shine, and heels click over the floor. Yours included. Some of the faces you recognise from the files Sylus gave you prior to this mission; investors, entrepreneurs, CEOs. Big bosses at the top of their shiny pyramids. Newly rich or born into fortune, it doesn’t matter—everyone here built their wealth on morally dubious foundations.

Sylus’ entrance does not go unnoticed, but aside from a few lingering glances no one says anything. His hand is on your lower back, steering you gently through the crowd, and you want to tell him to quit it because that’s not how a boss treats an employee. But there’s too many eyes watching you for you to speak freely, and so you endure.

You understand why they’re looking, of course. Aside from his notoriety Sylus looks magnetic in his dark casual suit. Red on black, as per usual, matching both his eyes and the pin on his lapel. You look at his profile with a tinge of resentment. What’s he so beautiful for, anyway?

“Mr. Qin,” someone says. A woman with dark hair and a deep-cut dress approaches him, smiling. You recognise her from your briefing as Ms. Yang—owner and founder of one of the biggest tech conglomerates in the N109. “I didn’t think I’d see you here.”

“If you did that would mean I’ve become predictable.”

She laughs, then turns to you. She’s beautiful, and you feel yourself grow warm under her gaze. Underneath her polite smile there’s something sharp and scrutinising that makes you want to squirm. “And who’s this?”

“My assistant,” Sylus says. You bow your head.

“Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Yang.”

“Your assistant? A pretty girl like her?” Ms. Yang tsks, eyes narrowing. “And I bet you’re working her to the bone, too.”

“May I remind you of your own standards?” Sylus says. “The prototype I sent to you the other day was returned unopened.”

Ms. Yang scoffs, but you catch her smile. It mirrors Sylus’. It clicks for you then—these two are more than business partners. They get along with each other. No, they like each other. They look good together, too. A power couple.

The sounds of the party around you grow slightly distant as you try to hold onto your neutral expression. You’ve only ever been involved with Sylus as the crime lord on Linkon’s wanted posters—even when you started working together the image of him walking to you under the sound of a bell, cloaked in red mist, has been hard to shake. You’ve seen him kill. He even made you kill him. And when he’s not killing or maiming he likes to spend his time leisurely; that’s how he makes it seem, anyway, from the things he tells you over text. Took the yacht out for some fishing. On a jet to someplace cold. It’s my first time tasting a wine this sweet.

You feel a little stupid for realising so belatedly that for all its crime and violence Onychinus is also still a business.

“You can take it,” Ms. Yang says dismissively. She turns to you, gently touching your shoulder. “If you get tired of him you can come work for me, sweetheart. Don’t waste your beauty on a stubborn man like him. I’ll treat you well.”

“Oh,” you flush, unsure of what to say. “Um, thank you—”

Sylus pulls you to him by the elbow. His fingers curl around your arm completely. “No can do. She’s irreplaceable, so she’s not allowed to leave.”

“Ugh,” Ms. Yang scoffs. “You’re terrible. Don’t come crying to me when you scare her off.”

Sylus says nothing; he simply smiles, smiles, smiles, handsome and awful and inscrutable, and hands both you and her a drink he plucks from a passing waiter’s tray. The conversation quickly devolves into things you don’t understand. Tech, stocks, names and places and brands that mean nothing to you. You’re soon joined by others, more beautiful and powerful people who shake Sylus’ hand and compliment him on his latest acquisitions.

There are several times where you feel you ought to slip away.

Surely Sylus doesn’t need his assistant to hover over him all night. This isn’t so much a party as it is a networking event for most of the people here, and it would be completely natural if you were to step back and leave him to his own devices. There is a difference in rank, after all. Certain boundaries cannot, must not be crossed—even if you’re his assistant.

And outside of this hotel you’re not even that.

But every time you’re about to take that step Sylus’ hand curls around your elbow again, tugging you closer. His broad palm settles on your back, skin on skin; you hope he doesn’t feel the goosebumps that ripple over your spine. He’s warm, a steadfast weight, one that you can’t escape from when turns his head and looks at you with his deep red eyes.

You don’t know why he does it. By accident? On purpose? You dearly hope your half-baked theory about how he can read minds is incorrect and wish fervently, as you’ve done many times, that you could read his. He should be bored, indifferent, introducing you like the inconsequential afterthought you are both in reality and pretence. But his voice doesn’t make it seem so; he sounds pleased, warm. Happy whenever someone notices you by his side.

A figment of your imagination. Desire twisted so sharply that it slices you cleanly in half like a knife, leaving the core of you exposed to the convincing performance Sylus puts on. He’s a good actor. He’s charming. Ms. Yang touches his arm and he doesn’t flinch from it.

You desperately want to run away.

You’re just about to do it, too—just going to the washroom, and then simply not coming back—when there’s a lull in the conversation, and one of the men in suits invites Sylus to a backroom to see some kind of ‘special merchandise’. You frown and try to catch Sylus’ gaze—does this have to do with what you’re here for? But when he looks at you his gaze gives away nothing.

Sylus hesitates a moment, then leans in closer to tell you in a low voice, “I’ll be right back.”

Great. Perfect. Isn’t that what you wanted? To be free of his hand on you, keeping you anchored to the floor? You watch Sylus walk away, head bent to hear what Ms. Yang is saying. Her shiny red lips move quickly, curved around a slight smile.

Everything is so awesome.

You breathe out slowly and collect yourself. Get it together. Now’s the time to gather intel. Without Sylus by your side you’ll be able to move more freely; no one’s going to look twice at the mousey assistant in her plain dress. You linger near the snack—pardon, canapée—table and eat while you listen in to the conversations around you.

“…stocks are down again. The tech market has been so unpredictable as of late…”

“…another divorce. I mean, I would too, if I were her…”

“…quite the show. Who would have thought the new spring collection would be flower-themed…”

You forget sometimes that rich people are by and large wholly uninteresting. It seems almost impossible that Sylus is one of them; the more you learn about him the more you feel like you don’t know. Questions with answers, again, your curiosity never satisfied.

Like this drug that he’s after. Why is he so concerned with it? From what little he told you it didn’t sound like it was any more dangerous than the usual stuff circling about in the N109 Zone. Or maybe it’s not the drug, but the people behind it? You take another sip of your champagne. It’s good, light and fizzy and slightly sweet. The one upside of having money to spend.

“…the latest on the market,” a quiet man’s voice says somewhere to your left. “I heard that perhaps tonight we’ll get a sample of it?”

At this your ears prick up. You don’t look in his direction, but pretend to circle the food table to get something on the other side of it. You strain to keep track of his conversation, and yes, there’s the reply:

“I should think so,” someone answers him, a younger voice, “but we’ll want some fairies to go along with the dust.”

Laughter. You furrow your brow; what does that mean?

Time to abandon the food. You turn and drink your champagne, tipping your head back so you can freely look at who was just speaking to get a better look. It’s a small group of people, mostly men, all wearing fancy suits and nursing glasses with hard liquor in them. They’re sitting on the velvet sofas situated away from the centre of the ballroom, close to the walls.

Perfect.

“Good evening,” you smile as you approach. “Is it alright if I join you? I was just wanting to rest my feet for a minute.”

“There’s your fairy, Hans.” One of the men winks at who you assume spoke earlier; a wiry man with a smooth face and blond hair that is combed back in a way that can’t be comfortable for his hairline. You laugh along like you’re part of their little inside joke and sink down next to him, ignoring the way none of the men make any effort to stop manspreading.

Hans offers you a fresh glass of alcohol while the others resume their conversation around you. “I don’t remember seeing you around here before.”

“Perhaps I didn’t make enough of an impression.” You take the champagne. “Or maybe you weren’t paying close enough attention.”

His mouth ticks up. “Think I’d remember a pretty face like yours, darling.”

Ugh. “Is that right? I’ll start to think you’re here for pleasure instead of for work.”

Hans smirks, eyes trailing down your figure. “Who said the two don’t mix?” He leans closer, slinging his arm over the back of the sofa in a move he probably thinks is smooth. “There’s going to be an exciting auction tomorrow night, apparently. This party is just the prelude. But what about you? You here with someone?”

“My boss,” you sigh. It takes little effort to summon real exasperation. “He likes to drink, though, so it’s just a matter of when he’s had enough and we can go back to our rooms.”

“That’s a shame,” Hans says. “Don’t you want to have some fun before you go?”

“I love fun.” You smile again, hoping it looks coy and not desperate. If you’re being too obvious Hans doesn’t seem to mind; he chuckles, rubbing a hand over his chin.

“I thought so.” He clicks his fingers at a hotel employee, who nods and vanishes; when they reappear they’re carrying a tray of… what looks like ordinary drinks. Is that his idea of fun? More alcohol? Where’s the 'dust'? Either way you take the opportunity to lose the glass of champagne Hans gave you on the table in front of you. Maybe he’s just trying to get you drunk so he can fuck you. At the end of the day men are all the same, and this particular breed is worse than the usual asshole who won’t take a hint.

“More champagne?” you ask, tilting your head.

“The finest there is, darling. Here you go, drink up. You’ll love it.”

You glance around the rest of your little company; everyone is happily partaking, and Hans is looking at you expectantly. It doesn’t look or smell any different than normal, so you carefully take a small sip.

Nope, same as before. No weird aftertaste, just bubbles on your tongue.

“It’s great,” you say to be polite. “To be honest, it’s my first time here. Usually I’m kept too busy to attend these kind of parties.”

“I’ve always believed pretty things are meant to be shown off, not hidden behind desks,” Hans says. He’s smirking again, eyes flicking briefly to the glass you’re holding. “Why don’t you stick with me tonight? I’ll take good care of you.”

You suppress your disgust and smile, neither agreeing nor denying, which seems to be good enough for Hans. “Tell me about what you do,” you say, which is all the encouragement he needs to start monologuing about his law firm. All you have to do is nod and hum and throw in the occasional what does that mean? because you’re a naive, silly girl who doesn’t know anything about the world. Good thing Hans is here to tell you what’s what.

You keep half an ear out for more mentions of the dust, either from your chatty companion or the group around you, but nothing comes up. At first you feel frustrated, but as time passes and you drink your champagne the worries slowly dissolve like the bubbles in your glass. You’re pleasantly warm, tucked away in this sofa. The velvet feels nice when you brush your fingers over it, back and forth, while Hans talks to you. It’s a little harder to pay attention now; you’re mesmerised by how the fabric under your hand keeps changing colour as you move over it. But you do your best. Hans really isn’t such a bad guy. His hand on your thigh doesn’t even feel as repulsive anymore, though you can’t help the prick of disappointment that they’re not as big as Sylus’.

But you can’t have the main course. Not allowed! Off-limits! Maybe you should just settle for the finger food. The canapées (ha, see, you remembered) are so small you barely taste them. Or maybe it’s just that there’s a sweet taste permeating your mouth. Your tongue feels a little funny. Does Hans’ tongue feel funny too?

Hans chuckles again. He leans close, hand on your neck so he can whisper in your ear. Usually you’d immediately jerk away, but the sensation is so funny. You feel every little hair on your skin move under his breath individually. “I think it does, darling. Want to move somewhere quieter so we can check?”

That doesn’t sound so bad, actually. You’re sweating. No longer pleasantly warm, just hot all over. Aching a little, in your stomach. Did you drink too much? There’s too many people here. You stand, wobbling slightly in your pretty heels, and follow Hans through the ballroom, on your way to the exit. His hand on your lower back feels all wrong, but it’s fine. You love fun. Does he want to dance?

“Sure, darling. We can dance once we’re back in my room,” he says. He sounds amused. You laugh; you want to be amused too. This is such a great party. It was so nice of Sylus to bring you here.

“Sylus?” Hans asks, one brow raised. “Who—”

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” You turn around. It’s Sylus! Oh, but he doesn’t look very happy. Sylus’ eyes slide over to Hans, who is no longer smiling. “I’ll be taking it from here.”

“And who are you to—”

“I’m her boss. Get lost.” Sylus takes your arm and pulls you close, away from Hans. You go easily. This is so much better. These are the hands you’ve been wanting. Hans makes a pained noise; faintly you feel the crackle of Sylus’ Evol brush past you, but you’re too busy with the gem pinned to Sylus’ coat to ask why. It’s so red and pretty. Like his eyes. You love his eyes. Sometimes you have this weird urge to reach out and touch them. Directly, with your fingers, pulling them from their sockets.

Sylus steers you away from the ballroom, still holding your hand. He’s looking down at you with furrowed brows. “Are you feeling alright?”

“I’m so great,” you tell him earnestly. You smile up at him. He really is so pretty.

To your delight Sylus’ mouth curls up, too, though it doesn’t quite reach all the way to his eyes. He opens a door down a hallway and ushers you inside, but it’s not your hotel room. A powder room? There’s no one else here, though. Everyone’s probably at the party. Shouldn’t you go back? You’re going to blow your cover like this. And Hans, you should tell him—

“I turn my back for a few minutes and you’ve replaced me already?” Sylus guides you to sit down on one of the loveseats.

“But it wasn’t a few minutes,” you say, suddenly sullen. “You were gone for so long. I was waiting for you.”

“I’m sorry,” Sylus says. “I didn’t mean to leave you by yourself.” He strokes a finger over your cheek and you lean into it fully, rubbing your face against his hand like a cat.

“It’s okay,” you say confidently. “I knew you’d find me again. Or did I find you?” Sylus sits down next to you and lean against him. “It’s like, no matter what I do I keep coming back to you. Like a boomerang.”

Sylus laughs softly. “A boomerang? You pack quite the punch for such a little thing.”

You nod. “I’m really strong.”

“And very warm.” Sylus puts his hand over your forehead. “You’re burning up, kitten. Are you feeling sick? Did someone give you something? A pill, or a drink?”

You’re not really feeling sick per se. It’s just that you’re so hot, and your clothes feel so tight, and the ache in your lower stomach hasn’t gone away at all. It’s only gotten worse. You feel empty. When Sylus pulls away his hand you make a noise of protest and grab it again, pressing it against your cheek. “That feels nice,” you sigh. Has his skin always felt this good? “Touch me more,” you demand.

Sylus exhales. He cups your other cheek with his free hand, angling your face up to him. Your eyes almost flutter closed—almost, because you really want to look at him. “Try and remember for me, sweetheart. Did you take something?”

“You think I’m stupid again,” you say. “What if I’m just drunk? Have you never been drunk? I could be a total lightweight.”

Sylus’ thumbs stroke over your temples. “I’ve never thought you were stupid. And I’ve never seen someone’s pupils get this big off alcohol alone.”

You frown a little. Is that true? You slide your hands up Sylus’ torso, burrowing them under his jacket to get closer to his skin. His hands were feeling so nice on your face just a moment ago, but now it’s no longer enough. Like scratching at an itch—temporary relief, but once you stop it flares back up worse.

Sylus shifts, allowing you better access to paw at his chest, and you tug at the collar of his blouse. The fabric is soft, almost silky, and it feels good to rub your fingers over it. “I only had a drink,” you say, slightly defensive. “Because Hans offered. And I didn’t want to say no, because I wanted to do a good job.” Your hands falter, and you look down at them dejectedly. Oh. Is that it? Did you mess up? Is that why Sylus took you away?

Sylus places one hand over yours, encouraging you to keep touching him. “I understand,” he says. “Tell me more about Hans. Who is he?”

The low powder room light catches the rings on his hand in a reddish shine when he moves in his seat. And his fingers, too, they’re so nice. A little too warm for how hot you’re feeling, but somehow you think that if he touched you more it would help. Maybe he could take some of that heat from you, share the burden, so your head would cool down. What was his question again?

“Your rings are so pretty,” you say, peering at his hand.

“You can have them if you like,” Sylus says. You fiddle with them; Sylus lets you take them off, hold them up to the light, and try them on. You frown a little when not even your thumb is big enough to hold the smallest one. Sylus laughs softly, plucking it off. He takes your left hand in his, sliding the ring onto your ring finger instead. “I think it fits better on this one,” he says.

What a liar. You wiggle your fingers; the ring moves with them, spinning around loosely. “They’re all too big for me,” you say unhappily.

“Then I’ll have it resized for you.”

You sigh, leaning your head on his shoulder. “No. It’s okay. Too much effort.”

Sylus stills for a moment when you lean against him; then his arm wraps around your shoulder, pressing you closer still. You sigh again, but this time happily; he smells so good. You turn your head, pressing your nose against his throat. Faintly you can feel his pulse under the jugular.

“Then consider it a reward for telling me about Hans. Hmm? Who is he, sweetie? Why were you with him?”

If your head felt clearer you’d pay more attention to the way Sylus’ voice tightens, but right now all you can focus on is the promise of wearing him on your skin. That is a pretty good reward. You pull at the tail of your memory, trying to arrange the picture frames in your mind in an order that makes sense. “He has a law firm, but I forget the name—something with a V? He likes fun, and he likes to drink… He said he was here for an auction. He talked a lot, and he kept putting his hand on my leg but it was okay. He gave me a drink, but everyone else was also drinking, so I don’t know. I’m feeling so hot, Sylus. I’m sweating so bad.”

“Poor kitten,” his voice says close to your ear. Despite the heat you shiver. Sweat is beading on your forehead; you’re so uncomfortable, in your pretty dress and pretty shoes. You want to take it off. Your teeth ache, your skull throbs, and everything feels very big. Alive-big. Even the air is oppressive.

The only thing that is nice and good is Sylus, and so that’s what you cling to.

“You found the drug we’re after before I could, though not quite in the way we intended to,” he says. His voice hits your skin in a pleasant way. You can almost feel it, the words sticking to you, brushing over your cheek. “But you can handle it. There’s no dangerous side effects. You just have to ride it out.”

You deflate. So you did mess up. Nothing has ever been harder in your entire life than to pull away from Sylus in this moment, but you manage somehow. “You can go back to the party,” you say miserably. Your tongue is heavy, and it’s hard to make the words sound right. “You have to catch the dust. And Ms. Yang is probably waiting for you. So.”

“Are you jealous?” Sylus sounds pleased. He doesn’t let you scoot away from him; one of his hands has curled around your waist, and he pulls you back against his side. You’re a boomerang. You can’t resist. Sinking into his weight, his big thigh, his strong shoulder that is so perfect for leaning on—how is anyone meant to resist?

But you sniff and say nothing. He’s having fun, and you’re not. Not fair. This dust or whatever sucks. Aren’t you supposed to have a good time when you’re tripping? Of course you’d be the one to only experience the stupid side effects. The ache keeps spreading, growing stronger with every passing minute. You want something in your mouth.

“This blows,” you say unhappily. Sylus has the audacity to laugh, and you whine. “You’re so mean. Stop laughing at me. You’re not—not nice at all, so stop laughing.”

“I’m sorry,” Sylus chuckles. “I’m sorry, sweetie, don’t be angry. Come here, where are you going—? There. Stop trying to run away. I’m not laughing at you. I promise—look at me, come now. You’re just very cute when you’re high.”

“So glad you’re so amused by all this.”

But you don’t resist when Sylus coaxes you back into his arms. The heat in your body is still rising, and it feels good to have something to hold onto—even if it’s not quite enough.

“You can tell me,” Sylus murmurs. “You can be jealous. I’d be happy if you were, actually.”

Faintly you wonder how that makes sense, but even when Sylus is being a bully you want to see him happy. You’ve only caught glimpses of it, his real smile. Never fully, always guarded, a bored smirk rather than a genuine curve of joy. What could make a man like him happy? You’ve wondered, often. Those glimpses always seemed so random. The moment you notice him in the crowd. Watching you play with his bike. Listening in to the twins chattering away at you about their latest crazy stunt.

“I was,” you tell him glumly. “She was so pretty, and you talked with her a lot. And she knows things about you I don’t.”

Sylus exhales, his grip on you tightening briefly. “As far as I’m concerned I belong only to you,” Sylus says, voice low. “And I’ll tell you anything you want to know. You just have to ask me. We can trade, if you like—an answer for an answer.”

That at least does make sense. Nothing is ever for free with Sylus, after all. There’s no giving without taking. You want to say okay, but all that comes out of your mouth is a pained whine. You curl in on yourself. The ache is starting to get unbearable. You’re shivering despite the heat, and your body is moving on its own. The room is spinning—or is it just you? You watch with bleary detachment as your hands try to unbutton Sylus’ blouse. They’re unsuccessful. The buttons are small and annoying; your hands only manage to get one free before they grow desperate and just tug at the fabric instead.

“Sylus,” you whimper. “I can’t get it open.”

“What is it, sweetheart?” Even as he says it Sylus’s fingers deftly take over, unbuttoning his shirt for you. You press your hands against his chest the moment you’re able to; he’s warm, but you’re burning so hot his skin is almost cool to your touch. You look at his face, dazed. There’s a slight flush curled over his cheekbones—high, sharp, pretty. You touch his face, stroke over his brows with your thumb. Whoa. Like a caterpillar.

“What caterpillar?” Sylus frowns. Your fingers move with his brow, furrowing down, making the caterpillar move like a real one.

You can’t answer; you’re busy. You trace over his beautiful nose with one finger, following its downward curve to his lips. Sylus inhales sharply, but makes no move to stop you. You press on his lower lip, opening his mouth. His teeth are sharp, and his tongue is a pretty shade of pink. He allows you to admire him—even allows for you to put your curious fingers in his mouth, stroking over his tongue and his gums. He bites them lightly when you go deeper—a warning. You move on to his neck, press into the dip of his collarbone, between his pecs, down to the trail of soft, light hair that thickens as you go lower—

Sylus catches your wrist in his hand when you start tugging at his belt. “What are you looking for, kitten?” he asks in a low voice.

Something. Anything. You’re breathing hard; the air is hot in your mouth. “It hurts,” you say. Your voice breaks. “It really hurts, Sylus, I don’t like it.” You want to be closer. When you try to straddle him your dress gets in the way, and you make a noise that sounds like crying. “Please,” you croak. “Please, daddy—”

Sylus makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a growl, and then both your dress and hips are lifted in one go. He sets you directly on his cock—you hadn’t even noticed he was hard, too absorbed in touching his bare skin—and you moan. Relief floods your body. Yes, the pit in your stomach says. Yes. That’s it. That’s what you need.

You rock your hips forward, eliciting another moan—both from you and Sylus this time. Sylus’ hands dig into your hips. You’re not the only one who’s breathing hard anymore.

“Do you usually—?” he starts, then cuts himself off with a hiss when you repeat the motion. “What do you want, sweetie? Tell me. I’ll give you anything you ask for.”

You’re too far gone to feel embarrassed anymore. The small cognisant part of you that is aware of the horror of exposing yourself like this is drowned out by the pulse between your legs and the sweat sliding down your spine; you’re empty, and you need filling up. “Make it stop hurting,” you whine. “Please, Sylus, please? I feel so empty, can you—I need to have—” You drag his hand to your mouth, wrapping your lips around his fingers and sucking, then groan, frustrated, when it’s not enough to quell the gnawing ache.

“Alright,” Sylus says roughly. “Alright. I understand.” The pads of his fingers press down on your tongue—he tastes salty, earthy, a tangy sort of musk that has saliva flooding your mouth—then retract so his tongue can take their place. You melt. The horrible tingling feeling under your skin still burns, but Sylus’ mouth takes the edge off; you feel like the carousel you’re on slows, just enough for you to wrap your arms around his shoulders and cling to your ride. Sylus cups the back of your skull, moving your head whichever way he pleases. This is nice, too—you don’t have to think. Just open your mouth and drink him in.

“Was that what you wanted?” he rasps. His breath clings to your skin.

“Yes,” you beg. “Yes, yes, for so long, so please—”

He kisses you again, rougher this time. His free hand guides your hips to keep moving over his clothed dick; soon a damp spot stains both your underwear and his pants. You’re so hungry.

“Need a little more help?” Sylus husks against your mouth. He’s already tugging your underwear to the side before you can nod. His fingers are still wet from your mouth, and you keen when he rubs them over your weeping cunt. “Talk to me, sweetie. How are you feeling? Still hurts?”

You sob when he settles on your clit; it takes a full minute for you to remember how to move your mouth to talk. “Feels hot—achey,” you slur. “Still hurts, but better. Please don’t stop though,” you add quickly, despairing at the thought of him declaring you cured and taking away his fingers.

“Don’t worry,” Sylus murmurs. “I won’t. Just keep talking to me. Keep talking to daddy. How long is so long? Did you want to kiss me before today?”

“Yes,” you whimper. “Don’t remember—long time, so—”

Your reward is one long finger sliding inside you. Sylus put the rings you discarded on again, and you feel the cool silver nudging at the edge of your entrance. Deliriously you wonder if they’ll fit inside, too. You’re so wet you think you could take anything right now.

“Good girl,” Sylus says. He sounds strained. “Good girl, asking for it now. Why didn’t you earlier?”

“Scared,” you manage in between your moans.

“Of me?”

“No—kind of—wanted you, just…” You trail off when a second finger starts to prod at you. You’re wired so tight you think you’re going to burst apart when you come, and you need to come. Sylus taps your cheek, and you will your eyes to focus again.

“Don’t drift off without me, beloved. Just what? Tell me. Tell me everything.”

Everything? But how to start? There’s so much. Layers on layers, fragile kernels behind a hard, leathery shell. Everything is to pick it clean, red pouring out, each a fragment of your guilty longing. Words are hard right now, but—

there are easier ways for you to talk.

The room lights up in warm gold. Resonating has always been so hard with Sylus, but without your usual barriers raised high it barely takes any effort. It feels good, in fact—like a key slotting perfectly in a lock, a puzzle piece, one half pressed against its other. Sylus groans under you—there’s no filter, and he wants it all, greedily touching your whole life that you let slip through unguarded. Your nightmares, your fears, your worries. Things you’d rather forget—getting your period for the first time, forgetting your gym clothes, crying on the bus home from college because of a bad grade. Messing up at work. Awkward one-night stands. Happy memories—celebrating your birthdays, blowing out the candles in one go. Bad ones, too. A funeral. An empty home.

Sylus holds them in his hands, twining everything together in a thread he follows like a red line to the present.

Meeting him. Your fear. Your anger. Your sadness, too, the constant hollow grief weighing heavily on every step you take. Your defiance in spite of it. The will to live. The pain that comes with it.

And there, amidst it all, is his name.

You cry it out when he curls his fingers inside you, fucking you until all you see is that golden shimmering brightness between your eyelids. It flares like a beacon, bursting open like seeds spilling out of overripe fruit. Your body is somewhere in there, a little pit of its own, rushed away by the current of pleasure. Sylus, Sylus, Sylus. His resonance with your own paints your gold red at the edges, bleeding into the core of you, tendrils spreading and gripping with no intent of letting go.

He takes, and he gives—you feel his sharp greed, his delight, his arousal to have you here so vulnerable. He’s happy you’re clinging to him, open and sweet and easy. You sense his determination, a calculated desire that wins out against his own physical needs. The rest of him remains shadowed, a dark stain that you don’t have the clarity of mind to try to touch. The need is still burning through you, even after your orgasm. It’s enough to know that he doesn’t recoil in disgust from your want. No—he soaks in it, your memories, the fantasies, now recoloured in his shade.

Here’s to our mutual use of each other.

The resonance fades. You slump against Sylus, unable to keep holding onto the connection.

You’re given no reprieve; Sylus kisses you again. He’s hungry too, you realise. Whatever he took from your resonance has whetted his appetite. He works open his belt with one hand, unzips his trousers, and frees his cock from the confines of his nice dress pants. It doesn’t cross your mind to ask about protection. All you know is that that has to go inside of you, now, and Sylus seems to have the same idea. It hurts to have his fingers taken out of you, but fortunately the pain is short-lived: he helps you lift your hips, and you sink down onto his cock fully.

“Oh god,” you whimper. The slide is eased by the fire burning inside of you, but Sylus is huge, and you can feel him all the way to your ribcage. You put your hand over where you feel him, right above your navel. A slight bump twitches in response.

“He’s not here right now,” Sylus says. His chest is falling and rising rapidly, the flush on his cheeks spreading down to colour his beautiful pale skin. “Why don’t you ask daddy instead? Hm? Isn’t that what you said earlier?” Sylus flexes his hips up into you. He widens his thighs further and forces your own to follow suit—you have to cling to him for balance as he continues to move you over his cock, something he eagerly welcomes. “You wanted this,” he says, breathless and matter-of-fact. “Is it how you imagined? How does my cock feel, sweetie?”

You cry out when he pushes you down onto him and rocks up into you at the same time. You see stars—colours melting together, any semblance of clarity swallowed and gone. The feeling of Sylus’ cock pleasantly numbs you to anything else. Thinking is still hard, but that’s alright; Sylus is here. You grasp onto his voice. “Good,” you moan. “‘S so good, daddy, love your cock—really needed it, thank you—”

A growl rips loose from Sylus’ chest, and you gasp when teeth sink into your neck. The pain is uncomfortable but not unwelcome; you clench around him in response, leaning into his bite. “What else?” he rasps against your throat. He grinds his cock against your deepest spot, and stars bloom against your retinas. “What else have you thought about?”

Didn’t he already see? Maybe he got lost in the resonance. Or does he want you to tell him? He’s slowing down, and you don’t want him to stop. Anxiously, you dig your nails into his shoulders. “Your fingers,” you manage. “Inside me. After you call me I always—I need to come, your voice, it’s so… I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I feel really guilty, I promise. I know it’s bad. I’m being really bad, you make me all—turned around, and I can’t help it—”

“No,” Sylus snarls, and his grip on you tightens. He squeezes you flush against him, head tucked against his neck, and your vision is obscured. Your breath clings wetly to your own face, open-mouthed and panting. “You’re perfect. You’re perfect—it’s alright. I’ll give you whatever you want. Anytime.” His voice breaks for a moment, wavering. “If I’d known—you just need to ask me. Ask your daddy.”

“I want to come,” you whine. “Dad—can I—will you make me come? Please—”

It seems Sylus is done talking now, because anything that comes after that is swallowed by his mouth on yours. He grips your hips, hard, and fucks you until you’re crying his name again. Relieved, you give yourself over it. Cool water pours over the flaming wound inside of you, and sizzles hot when you reach its climax. Sylus follows immediately after, pumping his cock into you with raspy groans until a wet shock of warmth spills into you as an afterthought to your own fire.

You shiver, pussy clenching around him—trying to swallow it all up and keep it inside where it belongs. The ache is soothed, and despite the exhaustion throbbing between your ears the world around you loses some of its haze.

You try to push yourself upright against Sylus’ shoulders with wobbly arms. He looks a mess—his hair all mussed from where you gripped it, sticking to his temples with sweat. The faint rim of red that remains in his eyes with his pupils blown wide seems to glow in the dimness of the powder room. He leans forward to catch you in another kiss, less hurried this time, but you still feel his teeth against your mouth and tongue. Your stomach twinges in response, but your eyes droop. You feel like you’ve been hit by a truck.

“‘M tired,” you slur. “Daddy…”

“I know, kitten. It’s alright. Dad’s here, you can go to sleep.” Sylus voice is hoarse, but it hasn’t lost any of its soothing authority. His cock is still hard inside you, and though it doesn’t quite sate your hunger it gives it something to hold onto.

It’s so easy to do as he says. You close your eyes and rest against him, breathing him in. His sweat smells good. Your tongue catches some of it, and you sigh, content.