#janussary

[janumun]

A Bond Everlasting (LaDS Rafayel - NSFW)

Rated: NSFW/18+ Pairing: Rafayel/Reader Words: ~17k

Tags: soulmate AU (the red string of fate, with a twist), college setting (and they were roommates), angst with a happy ending, mutual pining, minor violence and action, scent kink, blow job, oral and vaginal sex, facial, multiple orgasms, vaginal fingering, overstimulation, merman knotting, sexual rut/Lemurian sexual cycle

Summary: Rafayel tries — and miserably fails —  to forget the one his red thread weaved against once upon a time, even a decade after its break. Finding her, once more, years later, and residing within the same place as her doesn’t help his cause. 

A/N: A happy very belated birthday gift to you, @chibamari. With all of my love and all of our favorite heartbreak, I hope you enjoy this, darling friend.

I. EBB 

The red string of fate. Rafayel found he truly loathed the concept.  

What was it, truly, if not just the Fates contemptuous scorn upon them?  

Forcing kinship and eternity in between a pair that did not mould against the other. That would, if time given, drift apart as mere bottled wishes left traversing, lonely, across the seas.  

And yet, the manacles remain celebrated, since time immemorial. As legends of the rare, and lucky few, destined to be bonded in harmony.  

Rafayel used to be — once upon a time — part of the same foolery brigade as the rest of them, the day his red thread spun and found itself interweaved against his first, and last, love. To her, he promised a Lemurian’s vow of faithful eternity. 

Until the day that blood-red thread quivered and ruptured apart, weakened by her absence.  

Leaving to Rafayel only the hollow remains of a heart rejected. The brand of its mockery left behind as indelible remains of the severed — useless — string wound against his finger.  

II. FLOW 

Deft, practiced digits streak a brush across canvas; the truculent quality to his paint lines reflecting the agitated knot of Rafayel’s brow and the hand he scrubs through his hair in chagrin at constant-wheeling thoughts. Bold strokes; an amalgamation of bright colors — gentle turquoise and oceanic azure — setting into paper to shape unconscious form to his muse, for his current class.  

It is only when he hears the ripple of applauding gasps behind — “You’re amazing, Senior Rafayel!” — is he knocked back into his senses, angling a stupefied gaze up at what he’s made of his project: originally an interpretation of the depths of the sea, the topic he’d presented his class for the day.  

He notes, in no small proportion of growing aversion, the strokes of his brush having shaped form of a delicate back — hers — against the backdrop of a vast sea, reminiscent of home. His thoughts — he muses in self-derision — having lent unconscious connection in between his place of most comfort to the person who stood as his entire comfort. 

Rafayel’s head throbs with heat, as if knelling the oncoming of a particularly harsh fever. Perhaps his less than perfect health was to blame for his momentary lapse of concentration.  

“Is the lady underwater inspired by anyone in particular, Senior? Your brushwork for her seems particularly passionate.” 

Rafayel’s mouth twitches into an insouciant, cool smile, he directs at his students. “Hmm I’m not sure. Perhaps, she’s inspired by that one mermaid movie they’re currently playing in theatres.”  

“Oh, ‘Aquatic’? I’ve seen it!” 

“Me too! It's really good.”  

“The part where she turns to sea foam—” 

A seamless lie; he lets it steer the focus of conversation away from him and his lapse in concentration. Turning back towards the board to proceed with his lecture.  

Opting to teach a fine arts course to a bunch of junior year students, for extra annual credit, was clearly shaping to be one of the worst decisions he’d ever made.  

Especially so, when the subject in question, he’d offered to teach for, in the first place, remained starkly absent throughout the duration of the lecture.  

III. EBB 

Shouldering open the door to their shared apartment, Rafayel steps inside, staggering under the weight of his stack of the newest arrival of deliveries. The apartment is silent, devoid of the sound of her characteristic pattering footsteps.  

Depositing his packages down against the side of the sofa in the living room, he collapses back into the cushions, tuning a distasteful frown towards the empty kitchen counter. Recounting to mind, the events of this morning, having shepherded him into an entire day of distraction at the University.  

“Ouch.” She hissed, a sound of surprise, wrenching her arm back from the sizzling frying pain at the spits of oil it spewed.  

Rafayel released an exaggerated sigh at the sight, ambling over towards the kitchen. “Let me help.”  

“You know, I’m perfectly capable of fixing breakfast on my own.” She attempted heroic reassurance, even as she easily treaded backwards to let Rafayel replace her at the stove.  

“Yes, yes, I believe you. I'd still like to ensure you don’t burn our apartment to the ground while I’m away at work. My paintings are priceless treasures, you know.” He deftly takes the eggs off the stove and plates them before shoving her share at her. “There you go, Miss All-Capable.” 

“Stop making fun of me.” She smiles in relieved gratitude, moving to set cutlery across the table. “And thank you.” 

Rafayel swivels a puffed smile her way. “Whatever would you do without me?”  

She shakes her head at him, attempting no effort to refute him. “Indeed.” Her fingers brush against his as she moves to pass him his share.  

“Rafayel.” She sweeps a sudden grab at his hand, digits entwining in between his. “You’re a bit warmer than usual. Are you feeling sick?” She smooths a gentle hand across his forehead.  

He feels his face burn darker at the sudden intimacy of their contact. “No, I don’t.” Instinctively jostling away from her touch. “I’m just tired, is all. I was up the entire night, after all.”  

“You really need to fix that terrible habit of yours. A healthy body leads to a healthy mind!” Rafayel can’t tamp back the grin from his face at her chiding. 

“Take better care of yourself. I can’t be here to keep you in check round the clock, you know.” She sighs in resignation.  

“Yes, yes, my noisy Mistress.”  

“Speaking of which,” She begins, just as Rafayel seats himself at the table. "I'll be out late tonight.” 

Rafayel feels his smile frost over; a dreaded, sour feeling immediately spurning at the base of his belly.  

“I have a study date with Caleb.” She does not meet his gaze, forking at her egg.  

Rafayel hears himself speak before he can tuck back his impulsive thoughts. “You sure you should be trusting the man this much? I don’t—” 

“’Like him.’ I know. I don’t know why you’re so biased against him, he’s a good person.”  

The praise dredges bitterness across his tongue; ashy and tepid. His fork nearly stabs at his own food, a disapproving moue he knows is dark upon his face. “Sure,” he intones at last, grappling against his desire to ask her not to go, to spend her day with him instead. “Have fun.” An unfair burden he knows he throws onto her shoulders; he does not possess the right to dictate who she chooses to associate with.  

And yet— 

Rafayel’s gaze deliberately treks the line of red thread adorning his ring finger — treacherously cut off a few centimetres in and dissipating into nothingness. Following the absent line of it; her own finger sits vacant against the wooden table-top. An immeasurable dejection he isn’t able to shuck off, no matter how many times his eyes have witnessed its emptiness.  

Perhaps she is right and he is sick, an inscrutable tremor setting into his fingers as they continue on with the rest of their meal in silence.  

IV. FLOW 

The oncoming dawn encroaches a gradual shell-pink spill of color across the velvet skies as Rafayel’s feverish gaze drags, listless, to the view past the patio windows, the bone-deep ache from the day past yet to recede.  

The angry scrapes of charcoal rushed across paper, forgotten as the unfinished sketch drifts purposeless down onto the floor to join the rest of its discarded predecessors.   

She has yet to return home — Rafayel had stayed up the entire night and remained planted, firm, within their lounge, to make sure he would be there to greet her on her return. She'd never been away from their apartment overnight.  

Rafayel knows because he had — on more occasions than he could count and didn’t wish to acknowledge — found himself crumpled within cool sheets, self-confined to the privacy of his room, listening in to the comforting sounds of her padded, soft movements around their apartment.  

She'd often slip back through their door, close to midnight — she made it a point, always, to return home, no matter the hour — after slaving away hours at the library for her Hunter exam. She'd try for quietude; he knew, so she wouldn’t disturb his absent sleep.  

A gentle clink of mugs at the kitchen counter as she’d make herself a cup of a coffee in preparation of burning the midnight oil.  

Despite having the physical structure of their apartment — a shelter and comfort in name — his room’s four-walled sanctity, it didn’t truly feel warm as a home until the moment she stepped past the threshold and into their shared space.  

And only when he’d hear the soft crinkle of pages turning steadily as she’d settle herself onto the living room sofa to study, would he find himself beckoned into slumber. As if she too, knew on instinct, how her presence aimed to soothe, choosing to make space for her studies right where he could hear her, in the lounge, instead of the confines of her own room. 

Yet now.  

Midnight had come and gone, dawn scraping indigo for approaching light, and no signs of her return.  

A long day behind him endured in feverish unrest and the toll of another sleepless night, doesn’t help disentangle burgeoning thoughts of her within the embrace of another man at that very moment, one not him. He can’t help but sorely curse himself for his ill-thought decision of staying the night up, waiting for her like some sorry love-struck fool.  

Not that he would’ve been able to sleep, either way; a part of him mocked in muted whispers.  

His thread throbs; a nipping bite of rejection and along with it, his body. Languid gaze absently trekking the severed thread, flickering incandescent against his ring finger. The constricting heat of it, as if traversing up his veins along with the fever within his body. Colluding against his heart, as if it wishes to eventually wither him up instead. A slow, bittersweet poison.  

Rafayel feels nauseous.  

He’s beginning to contemplate on retiring for the meagre, precious hours before his upcoming classes for the day — perhaps that bitterly strong liquor she’d stowed into the fridge earlier would help do the trick — just as the door lock clicks open.  

The sound violently startles Rafayel out of winding, unheeded thoughts enough, he springs off the sofa just as she steps foot over the threshold.  

Opening his mouth to put words to turbulent emotions — a million queries — before his questions wither off the tip of his tongue when he fixates a good, long look at her.   

She appears downright exhausted and an instinctual, foreboding spurts forth in him. The look on her careworn face, light-snuffed gaze meeting his — Rafayel thinks, mirrors the state of his own affairs — before it dissipates into stifled surprise. “Rafayel, what’re you doing up—”  

And before he can tamp himself back into composure, Rafayel’s striding the few paces it takes for him to reach her, dragging her into his embrace.  

She stiffens at the contact on instinctual reflex, it chips away at another piece of his heart. Tightens the strangulating hold of his severed thread against his soul.  

He hedges her tighter into his embrace, regardless. Head pitching down onto her shoulder; a hand he smooths down the line of her quivering back before she relaxes into him, at last.  

“Rafayel—” Arms twitching by her side and up as she circles him within her own comfort, returning his warmth in the cling of desperate digits against the back of his shirt.  

“You’re late. You're so late.” he gripes, half-hearted.  

A beat. Two passes. 

“Yeah, I’m sorry.”  

A peculiar relationship; she calls them friends — close — inappropriately so and he’d agreed to be one, to her, if it were the sole thing that allowed him to be by her side. For her to not abandon him once more. A relationship edging something far gnarled than friendship.  

He doesn’t believe even she has a name for what they share, in moments as these, where Rafayel forgets himself and the boundaries he holds himself to. Turns blind to pretenses and masks he fixates, so delicately crafted, for her benefit and the safety of his own heart. 

He is not, however, a man strong enough to ignore the strain of his beloved’s gaze, tiredness rimming her entire being, she feels so brittle in his arms, and it ruins him to not know the cause of it.  

“...Got something on your mind?” He murmurs into her hair. 

“Perhaps.” Her response is slow, halting.  

“Want to tell me what it is?” He breaks away from her, enough to let his eyes scour her face in stern scrutiny.  

A whispered laugh escapes her at his inspection.  

“...Rafayel, how do you feel about an early morning stroll with me?”  

V. EBB 

The shores of Whitesand Bay stretch empty within the wee hours of dawn, quiet, save for the twittering song of birds cutting across the sky and the gentle wash of waves at their bare feet as they amble along the sandy belt. She hasn’t uttered a word since, absent gaze trekking the gradual rise of the sun above the horizon, light flittering its diamonds across the lap of waves.  

The easy access to the sea — and by extension, the remarkable view — was one of the reasons they’d jointly agreed upon renting an apartment this close to Whitesand Bay, two years prior. On any other usual occasion, Rafayel’s fingers would’ve been upon pen and paper, soaking inspiration up and through rough strokes, sketching across paper.  

Now, however, his focus is all but entirely removed from his environment, vision honed in on her by his side.  

“It’s a beautiful view, isn’t it?” She murmurs, gaze still fixated upon the horizon. “I’m not an early riser like you are so I’ve never seen the sunrise here up this close.”  

She's skirting the issue, Rafayel has no mind to force her to spill her heart when she does not wish to. 

For her, he is willing to remain patient.  

Regardless of the consequences to his person.  

He joins in on her flimsy facade.  

“If only I wasn’t a little too aware of the fact.” Tapping a light fist against her temple, he angles a skewed smile down at her. “Despite my very arduous efforts to get you out of bed on multiple occasions, you’ve persisted in your terrible ways, Miss Hunter.” Heaving an exaggerated sigh. “You’re far too stubborn for your own good, I fear.” 

That gets her breaking a smile, the tensed knitted worry within her gaze easing just that tiny bit; Rafayel plucks it up for the small reward it is. “A classic case of the pot calling the kettle black. Like you’re any less bull-headed.” She defends. “Don’t make me recount all the times you nearly gave poor Thomas a heart attack because your paintings weren’t ready even mere hours before the exhibitions they were supposed to be featured in.”  

His mouth pulls into a distasteful moue at that. “Don’t tell me you’re on his side. He refuses to understand the world of difference it causes in between using cherry red or wine on a canvas. If it were up to that simpleton, he’d have me besmirch all my works, just for the sake of those trivial exhibitions.”  

She chuckles. “Now, no need to get so worked-up. You know Thomas cares for you and wishes to have your talent recognized like it deserves to be.” She moves to seat herself by the shore, close to where the waves lick up at the sand. Rafayel follows suit.  

“I know how much passion you pour into your paintings.” Crinkling a gentle smile up at him. “That’s exactly why I love your art so much.” 

Rafayel’s heart catches at his throat at the easy slip of her compliment.  

She's never been sparing with her appreciation of his artworks. 

Ever since she’d chanced upon them a few years back when they’d only shortly been re-united at the time.  

She’d always been generous and open with her admiration.  

His heart, however, wasn’t immune to its traitorous stuttering, every single time at her attentions and praise.  

Perhaps she discerns the look on his face, tapping into his emotions, or realizes the curious intimacy of her statement, she wrenches her gaze away from his. Rafayel swiftly feels the keen loss of it.  

Silence sweeps once more between them, her gaze having drifted back into the seas and with it, the steady droop of her shoulders as she curves in tighter against her huddled knees. “It was a place, similar to this one, where we first met. A lost little human meeting a young Lemurian washed ashore.” Her voice barely hikes above an octave. “I didn’t think Lemurians existed for real before that, and to know I shared a red fate with one...”  

His throat closes against a sharp inhale at her whisper, the first time she’s chosen to address their past severed bond, ever since their reunion.  

Why now. He means to ask. A question that dissipates off the tip of his tongue, un-uttered.  

“We were so young back then and I inadvertently hurt you. Ever since I moved away, and time just passed, regardless...” She pauses. “You must’ve really hated me for that, huh.” She angles a cautious smile at him. 

I did not. Rafayel means to refute and yet his tongue refuses to cooperate.  

She continues on, as if she had long perceived his answer and made peace with his supposed resentment of her, unperturbed by his lack of response. Her reaction vexes him.   

“I’ve hurt someone dear to me again. Caleb—” 

The familiar name spurns bitter within his chest. “Did he do something to you?” His fingers jam against coarse sand, snagging his thread tight against his ring finger. 

“No! No. Caleb’s a good man, he’s been nothing but kind to me.”  

Deep within the recesses of his heart, Rafayel knows it, he knows it only too well; he only wishes he could truly bring himself to hate him.  

“He...” Her fingers tense harsher against her arms. “Last night, he asked me to be his girlfriend.” 

His ring finger throbs; the missing line of its thread seeming to constrict against Rafayel’s neck.  

“I turned him down.” 

A quick, involuntary bite of wicked relief thrums at the back of his breastbone. And yet— 

Why do you look as if your heart is shattering into a million pieces? 

Rafayel’s mouth seems to form words on its own as if he wishes for his own demise. “Do you regret it?” 

Her silence is a dagger that digs pointed, deep in between his ribs, the longer she lets it steep.  

She meets his gaze, a turbulent question within hers, beseeching. “I don’t know… I don’t know if I should.” She looks as if she has more to speak, restive teeth biting into her lip to hold back unsaid thoughts.

Rafayel dares not parse the emotions he sees flittering within her eyes, dares not hope for what he cannot have. Not again, for his heart to fracture once more by setting up false narratives. He has loved and will love still for eternity — he doesn’t, however, have the tenacity to bear being abandoned again. 

And so, he shutters himself, gaze wrenching away from hers, a frown knitting tight against his brow. “Whatever it is that you want, if it makes you happy, I want you to grab onto it for yourself.” Fingers brushing against hers from where they rest within the sand, index and middle lingering longer against the base of her ring finger. Before he moves, carding hesitant digits through the fall of her hair.  

For it is the only way he knows how to love — regardless of broken vows — in her happiness, even if it would never be found by his side. 

VI. FLOW

The dream stirs vivid beneath restless lids — Rafayel hasn’t dreamt of that time of theirs together in so long, a welcome awareness of his mind’s conjuring, he embraces in that moment.   

Perhaps by-products of an exhausted, sick mind. 

Or yearning for an unfulfilled wish.  

A sweet sting of desire, just as the first time he remembers it. He lets himself drown deeper into the abyss of its calling. 

He’d cut a boring class during first semester at college — he could no longer remember the subject — in lieu of chasing the path of an ambitious sparrow within a secluded spot. Located far back along the grounds of the college and protected further underneath the dense foliage of the overgrown greenery as he’d sat perched upon a bench, motionless and silent.  

Save for the smooth rush of his pencil across his journal. Detailing the quest of the bird as it leapt across the grass towards a lazing cat, blissfully dodging the feline’s half-hearted attempt at pawing it away.  

Tranquility rippled only at a surprising intrusion; she’d walked into his private space — she always seemed to find him — and he’d startled at her presence.  

“Oh! Sorry. Rafayel, I thought I—” 

Their relationship on strained ice at the time — neither of them choosing to dig up unfulfilled childhood vows or the break of their fated thread. 

 A hastened apology she’d tripped over, for disturbing him before her eyes had flickered to the open journal in his lap and she’d breathed an awed sound. Called it beautiful — a slip of the tongue, he could tell, from her demeanor.  

They'd gotten back into conversation — albeit halting — after that.  

The moment, a pivotal one, in Rafayel allowing himself to accept her back into his life, both emotionally and physically. 

He recalls the citrus notes to her perfume as she’d tentatively seated herself by his side. The way her hair curled delicate against the curve of her cheek, beckoning Rafayel to dare a hand out and slip it back against her ear. 

The unconscious brush of soft digits against his as she’d moved to accept the proffered journal from him, when she’d asked for permission to view more of his artworks.  

The relief that had sunk into his marrow, body strung far too tight for so long — he felt each ache settle and ease, when she returned to his side. As if their bond still remained.  

As if it had never fractured in the first place. 

She moves to tug the curtains close, clipping back the last shafts of light from Rafayel’s room; his damp brow now decidedly relaxed in restless slumber, after being exposed to the heat of the sun for so long.  

He’s made a habit of drawing his windows open at night, perhaps to relieve the fevered pitch of his body off the cool breeze wafting of the sea. Restive sleeplessness; keeping him tossing until near close to dawn, when she often catches him falling, thankfully, into exhaustive sleep at the end of his long, disturbed nights.  

Rafayel had been out of sorts for nearly two weeks now; a distracted gaze and a listless stride his constant companions. Adamant and mulish in his response, at inquiring of his health, every time, that he was perfectly alright and merely plagued by the weariness of sleepless nights spent on his paintings.  

Barely a day or two into that ridiculous spectacle of his before her patience with him had expired and she’d hauled him off to his room and strong-armed him into bed.  

A rueful smile tugs at her mouth at the recollection of their silly argument then.  

“Hey, ow. Easy, you’ll break me! Aaah... too late. I think I’ve already dislocated my wrist. My life as a painter is done for. Ow.”   

“Rafayel. Shut up unless you want me to gag you as well.”  Forcing the covers over his body; she glowered at him for obedience while she hastened to take his temperature.  

Rafayel’s mouth soured deeper in distaste the longer she fretted over him. Opening his mouth, surely to protest, before she cut him off. “You’re running a low-grade fever.” 

Pressing a gentle hand over his forehead, “Please, rest now.” 

A knot twisted in between Rafayel’s brow at her plea. Threading his fingers against hers. “Alright, alright I will,” he murmured, a gentle thumb he smoothed against her furrowed brow. “So, stop making that face now.”  

His agitation at his prolonged ill-health, however, had manifested in numerous half-finished drafts and rough sketches, he’d filled sheets upon sheets of paper with, littered upon his bed.  

The subject matter of most, inexplicably similar in features; a fact that surprised her, for Rafayel had always been one for continual exploration of a wide variety of subjects in his artworks, rather than one stationary objective.  

She reaches for one such sketch now, discarded by his bedside. Predictably, it is the same subject her eyes have grown accustomed to: the graceful arch of a person’s — a woman’s — back, the cascade of her hair shrouding her gaze from view. It is ethereal, haunting. Lonely.  

And. 

She exhales an unsteady breath. Although a mere unpolished sketch, she feels Rafayel’s longing in the hastened strokes of charcoal across her visage.  An inscrutable sprout of emotion twinges at her chest each time she looks upon this faceless woman, a desire to tear her gaze away from the care put into the strokes and never look at them again and yet, it’s as if her hands are not her own, each time they sift through his sketches to reveal a new one made. She despises it, and the feeling of her selfish loathing itself. Not when she bears reason nor right to feel the way she does.  

The ring finger of her right hand throbs, an echo of her turbulent emotions manifesting in the faint red restraint flickering against the base of her digit before it winks once more out of existence. 

No.  

Her gaze instinctually jumps to Rafayel, his prone form still deep in sleep.  

She'd nearly forgotten the other reason for her undue distress these past couple of days; worry for Rafayel occupying each of her thoughts, leaving little space for much else.

She sinks, weak-kneed, onto the bed, right next to Rafayel. Carding her fingers through the soft brush of his hair, gently thumbing a line down his temple.  

She’d thought her mind was conjuring illusive tricks the first few times she’d caught that fleeting flicker of red across her finger. 

Impossible, for it had been nearly twelve years since she’d lost her bond after being forced away from Rafayel. And then, her eyes had insistently tried tracing the line of it, every time it shimmered against her finger, hoping that it would perhaps.... 

Just maybe, if a miracle were to occur— 

That it would re-connect. Back to the only person she’d ever loved. Back to him, her beautiful Lemurian. That perhaps, he’d grant her another chance. That perhaps there was a sliver of hope that Rafayel would love her back once more.  

Once more. 

 Her yearning dashed in the brutality of a truth, far too incomprehensible to her mind. 

On the day her grandmother caught sight of her glimmering thread before she’d informed her with much joy; a red thread of fate, if once severed, made an appearance once more, within the lifetime of rare, chosen… fortunate individuals. If Fate ever ordained for the individuals to find new love once more. Another love so great, it changed Fate’s threads and course itself.  

“You’re blessed, my darling girl. Most people are happy enough if they get to enjoy even one fated love throughout their lives. But you've found two in your lifetime. It is a joyous thing, my love, do not be sad. Do not weep.” 

“...Perhaps, it is time you let him — let your past go.”  

Like ice curdling within her veins. As if Fate itself were playing upon her a cruel jest. She could never. How could she ever? 

And then, her denials had crumbled entirely, shortly after that dreaded truth.  

Her oldest friend, her sole pillar when she’d lost Rafayel. The person who’d held her close and kept her heart safe—  

When she’d lie in bed all day during her earliest days, screaming from the deluging fever of her bond withering. 

—It was the day her childhood friend, her Caleb confessed.  

Even without the evidence of a corporeal bond connecting them, that had been her last straw.  

She presses her lips against Rafayel’s cheek, overwhelming emotions threatening to surge, unable to resist or hold herself in control. “I could never.” she vows under her breath, fingers stroking down the line of his cheek. “Even if you have let go of me, Rafayel, I’m—” 

She feels the roughened pads of his digits against where she touches his face, perturbed at the sudden movement. His eyes flitter, restless, beneath his lids, grasp tightening upon her wrist. “My beloved bride.”

She tries and yanks herself away from his touch, startled at his unconscious murmuring. Rafayel does not let go, nudging his cheek against the crook of her captured palm.  

“Rafayel.” She urges, her heart stuttering over its beats. “Rafayel, please wake up.”  

At long last, he listens; that beautiful, florid gaze misted with the callings of sleep still, as it focuses on her. He makes an indiscrete sound. “Is it morning already? Agh, my head hurts.” He continues to nuzzle his face against her palm.  

“R-Rafayel! Hey!” She winces, hand unbearably hot within his hold. “Let go of me now. If you’re up, have some breakfast instead. You need the energy, dummy.” 

“Don’t want to let you go. Pamper me more.” And yet, he refuses to heed her lukewarm pleas, extremely wilful in his post-sleep, feverish daze.  

She huffs out a breathless laugh, her apprehension ebbing, gentle, into silence the longer she feels his warmth against her.  

Maybe she is allowed to indulge just a bit longer.  

 VII. EBB 

An errant thread and an inexplicable long spell of heat, as if trudging up a steep path, burgeoning fast towards an inevitable destination he could not quite clutch at. Unsolicited suspicions, as to the true nature of his predicament, incessantly rapping at his thoughts.  

Rafayel feels that dour twist to his brow; darkening his features at the wheeling course of his mind. 

 She’s caught him in similar moods since his “illness” commenced, more times than he can count. The endless time afforded his way, involuntarily threading his thoughts to places he doesn’t wish to visit. He doesn’t wish, ever, to alarm or upset her, setting to ease her thoughts the moment worry mars her features, testing index and middle against the sharp knot at her forehead before his attentions — and hers — are compelled entirely her way.  

That is also something that has shifted in between them, into something entirely different. He’s been unusually attuned to her for the duration of his peculiar period of ill-health.  

She has always been his primary muse, the focal point where all of Rafayel’s tangled thoughts find eventual and inevitable convergence. However, somehow, all of those sensibilities have turned sharper, impossibly aware of... her.  

Unconsciously turning to placations the moment he comprehends her distress. Choosing to bury, in turn; soothe the heat of his body within the scent of hers. Her hands on him when she fusses to take his temperature, her clothes, he takes a surreptitious, lungful breath of, when she moves close to towel the fevered sweat off his body. Truly, he does not understand what is wrong with him.  

Two weeks in now and his need for answers has driven him to near madness. He’s loathe to admit he must consult one, perhaps, more knowledgeable on the subject than he.  

He paces into the lounge, heavy in thought, fingers worrying at the phone in hand. 

“Oh, you’re up. Are you feeling any better?”  Just as she calls over to him from the kitchen counter.  

“Of course,” he fibs, tucking the phone back into the pocket of his trousers. He ambles over to her, dressed neat in her trainee uniform as she works a paring knife around an apple. “What’re you doing?”  

“You should have something healthy to eat while I’m away.”  

“Ah.” He plucks a piece of fruit off the plate next to her, eyeing the peculiar shape. “So, you decided to cut me some apple bunnies.”  The corners of his mouth drag into a skewed grin. “I am not a child, cutie.”  

She makes an inflated motion of surprise, pressing a hand against her chest. “Really?”  

And when he rolls his eyes at her, “Of course you aren’t,” she grins. “I’ve never met any children as stubborn as you.”  

“Cheeky.” He flicks a gentle hand against her forehead.  

His eyes skim towards the wall clock and back towards her neatly pressed outfit. “You have an on-field Hunter’s exam this afternoon, don’t you? You’ll be late if you dawdle any longer. Besides, I can feed myself just fine.”  

She startles a bit as her eyes, too, take note of the hour. Hastily shoving the plate of her fresh cut fruit into his hands. “Alright, I’ll leave. You better eat, then rest up. Don’t exert yourself, alright?”  

She steps past the counter. “Come, Kiki.” A white dutiful ball of fur capers up to her as soon as she calls. Rafayel hedges further against the counter just as the white ball tumbles into her waiting arms.  

“There, what a good girl you are!” She croons over the cat, petting at that little fiend pet of her friend’s. She rises to her feet. 

“I’ll drop her off at Tara’s before heading to the centre.”  

“Good riddance,” Rafayel mutters, blenching just as she moves closer with the cat still in her arms.  

“Rude, I’m sad to see her go so soon.” She pulls a glum face at him.  “Do you want to pet her goodbye before she leaves and you start missing her?”  

“I won’t,” He dissents, even as he braves the tips of his fingers against Kiki’s head in a cautious scritch before snapping his hand right back. “Bye, white menace.”  

Rafayel’s moue of specious disapproval turns deeper with her knowing grin. “Let’s go now that you’ve said your farewells to Uncle Rafayel.” She kisses the top of the cat’s head as it purrs in elated satisfaction at her attentions. 

He quirks a flippant brow at her. “All affections for the furry feline, I see.” 

She laughs, the sound an aching balm against long-wrought nerves. “Why, is my fish jealous of a little kitten? Come here, then.”  

“I am not—!” He sputters, just as her hand curves about the back of his neck and pulls downward, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead.  

The previously simmering, barely tamped warmth of his body bursts forth with a brilliant vengeance, his skin set ablaze at just the graze of her touch. Rafayel has to actively constrain himself from keeling over entirely on the floor from his sudden deluge of emotions. Has to curb the quiver of his arms from wanting to steal that heat back against his body.  

She draws back, just as swift, on her feet. The pink of her cheeks is infectious, enticing. Rafayel stares at her, mute and slack-jawed, even as she backs out of the kitchen and through the front door. “I’ll see you tonight, my little fish!” And then he’s left to his own spiraling thoughts.  

Ah. Rafayel scrubs agitated palms down the length of his face in the ensuing silence of their home. His scarlet thread burns incandescent in his hind-vision, flittering in its sporadic expansion. If only she knew how entirely ruined he was at her feet, alone.  

VIII. FLOW  

“You rejected Caleb’s confession?”  

She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t anticipated Tara’s baffled outburst.  

It was part of the reason why she chose to reveal the ‘news’ to her this unceremoniously, as she gently eased Kiki over into Tara’s arms while they stood at her open front door. She adored Tara but was of no mind to be sat down at length while her best friend grilled the details out of her.  

Not ready for the difficult conversations that would ensue; of her past grievances, the break of her fated thread and how she dreaded, within a dark crevice of her heart, that Caleb might turn out to be the one her Fate was once more, trying to bind her to. How could she even begin to delineate it wasn’t what she wanted?  

No, she wasn’t ready for that conversation with Tara, at all.  

“I’m going to be late for my exam, Tara.” She gives her a contrite smile.  

“Yes, I know, sorry, darling, but… why? I really thought things were well between you too. And I was sure there was something going on—! I— can’t you say?” Her friend’s gaze is weighty, imploring. “Is there... someone else?” Her eyes widen. “Is it—” 

And the longer she’s met with terse silence, the heat of her gaze wanes in gradual realization before, at last, she retreats her onslaught, a troubled groan leaving her lips. “At least tell me you’re alright. I’ve been worried about you.”  

“I know, Tara, I’m sorry. I’m perfectly fine.” She gives her free hand a squeeze before withdrawing back a few steps. “I should really go now.”  

Tara loses another sigh. “You really should. Promise we’ll catch up later?”  

“I promise.” She raises her hand in farewell, jogging down the few steps to her house.  

Tara calls out to her just as she reaches the foot of her stairs. “Good luck, girl! I’m cheering for you.”  

She flashes her friend an appreciative smile.  

With Tara, she really can’t be sure if she meant her encouragement for her qualifying physical exam. Or something else entirely.  

Knowing her friend, it was probably both.  

She reaches the examination centre just under the wire, right as the towering gates to the grounds swing shut behind her and two other late-comers.  

Toggling open her Hunter’s Watch, she hastens to join the formation up ahead of several other students, already lined in neat rows for their on-field Wanderers exam. Sidling in place, into her empty spot, just as the instructor in front drones on the list of rules for the exam, from upon his podium. “You are to form pairs of two, as per your roll numbers and enter your designated Protofields, to commence your exam. Before you begin, make sure...” 

He goes over the structures of the regulations one by one, detailing what actions would mete them points and what would deduct them in case of improper conduct.  

“These Protofields have been simulated under intensively controlled environments and contain a plethora of C and B-grade Wanderers you are to deal with, within the desired time limit. Coordinate with your partner, watch each other’s backs and follow all routine safety regulations. Violators will be disqualified on the spot.” He continues. “Keep within bounds of all marked fields, maintain your senses and you should do well. Lastly, trust your education and the skills you have acquired over the course of these years via means of your perseverance and hard work. May you reign victorious, young Hunters!” With his final words, the crowd disperses, heading towards their designated spots for their exams. 

She taps her fingers against her Hunter’s Watch, pulling up the specifications of the Protofield she is to clear, before setting out. 

 

“Gabriel? Hi.” She calls to her team-mate as she moves to join him, recognizing the man from the same class division as hers.  

He returns her greeting, the two setting to sync their data via their watches within the final minute countdown before their exam commences. The flux nexus, in front, pulses to life upon confirmation of both their identities, filtering its pre-programmed wavelength to project upon the barren field. A kaleidoscopic flitter of energy wheeling across the space once is their only indication of a protofield activated, before the two step forwards, cautious, weapons at the ready.  

“No.” Rafayel’s jaw steels in chagrin, hearing the resigned, gentle finality of the words on the other end of the line.  

“Rafayel...” Talia coaxes.  

“I said no. You’re wrong.” He gnashes out, even as the heat simmers, muggy and suffocating, within his body. Even as he continues to deny the indubitable truth of her words.  

For if he did, he would have to face the looming fate of another horrifying possibility.  

The regret of asking for Talia’s help sits heavy within his throat. Facts she utters in such certitude, it leaves Rafayel irrationally agitated. He knows it is not her fault.  

 He hears her soft sigh on the other end of the line. “You told me you’ve been suffering these bouts of ‘fever’ since the past two weeks, an ‘illness’ that refuses to abate and that your...” She pauses, as if seeking words best to voice her next. “incomplete thread has been showing sporadic signs as of late.” 

“Yes.” His voice is quiet, stiff. 

“Rafayel, you’re experiencing early symptoms of an oncoming rut and you know it. You feel it. You didn’t need to call me, when you’re well-informed on the matter yourself, even if you’ve never experienced it before.” She pauses.  “The only reason you reached out to me is that you wanted me to validate your suspicions, isn’t that right?” 

He does not respond to her astute observation.

“An unmated Lemurian cannot experience sexual cycles the same way as a bonded Lemurian. And as you are well-aware, my thread was long severed.” He refutes, contemptuous. “You know what, forget I asked. You clearly don’t understand what’s wrong with me any better than I do. Sorry for crashing your honeymoon. Goodbye, Talia.”  

“Is your thread truly severed, Rafayel?” Her voice rings, solemn, from the other end of the line, just as Rafayel moves to disconnect the call. He pauses, gaze involuntarily skewing towards his lengthening line of red thread. The frown in between his brow turns severe, as if being coerced to witness a sight against his will.  

“You’re experiencing a re-connection and you’re not allowing yourself the happiness that comes with new love. It’s a rare and beautiful thing, for your red fate to find itself weaved against a new person you would cherish.”  

Rafayel does not have the resolve to discredit her words despite his vehement disagreement; having known her experience the loss of her first love, the agony of her days after. And only years later, had she allowed herself to love once more, a happiness Rafayel was content to stand in observance to, glad at her well-deserved peace.   

He, however, was different from Talia. He’d rather his Fate dissipate entirely than for it to wind itself against a stranger. He was different, for Rafayel knew he would never love again, never cherish another, no matter the decades in between.  

For him, there would never be anyone else. 

A transitory pressure curdles heavy about her shoulders as they pace past the barrier and into the protofield. The familiarity of their training grounds dwindles away, large looming falls of thick trees rising, ominous, to blot the skies. Blanketing twilight, instantaneous, overhead. A slow, sweeping curl of gray, mists about their feet, soaking into the dank ground beneath. 

Beside her, she hears Gabriel’s apprehensive breaths. “I can never get used to this.”  

Weapons at the ready, they trudge a slow, cautious path through the simulated wilderness. Gnarled branches seize and snick at their clothes, the craggy mire beneath, a strenuous trudge to keep upright through; as if the forest itself were alive with wicked intent.  

Gabriel’s firearm is the first to go off in a thunderous shot, breaking a flock of obsidian birds to startle into the skies. She follows suit, breaking into a dash along with him; the dark, hunched figure of a fleet-footed Wanderer she aims her gun at and fires, the shot catching it right against its head. The creature lurches forwards onto its body in a seething screech of sound, following its crackling demise into a spoor of pungent smoke.  

The two maintain their steady pace of weeding the area of Wanderers, most they’re able to dispatch with ease. Reflexes and hard ingrained years of training coming into play, the more battles they win through, setting into an easy rhythm of partnership.  

The Wanderer Gabriel skews his sword through in a final thrust, disintegrates into smoke with a rattling gurgle.  She pauses to survey their surroundings, the deep, metallic skies yet to dissipate entirely: indication of a cleared exam. Up ahead, she spies a peculiar forking at the path, the protofield seeming to disperse into dense, murky mist past the intersection. Gabriel flicks the blood off his sword, moving to join her. “Strange.” 

“Yeah. I don’t think low grade Wanderers can distort protofields to this extent.” She agrees. 

“Likely an A grade, at least. Shouldn’t be harder than what we’ve handled so far.” He pauses. “Besides the fact that this one seems like it can replicate itself into weaker copies, judging from the splice it’s created in the field.” 

She frowns at his conclusion, likely accurate. There shouldn’t be an A grade on the loose within a junior hunter’s exam, to begin with; a Wanderer class reserved only for the final year senior field exam. Signals are, as expected sparse, this deep within the protofield, and with an A grade, at hand, tampering the protofield, the possibility of communications being established sits non-existent, at present. She drops a distress signal onto the Hunter’s site, regardless, moving to join him at the fork.  

“We’ll have to clear out the Wanderer, either way, if we want to leave this protofield.” She swipes her empty magazine for a new one, securing it fast back into her gun.  

“Right.” Gabriel’s own fist tightens against the hilt of his sword. “You take the right, I’ll take the left? The distortion should be obliterated on its own once we eliminate all of its copies. I’ll see you soon, partner.”  

“Right back at you. Good luck.”  

Gabriel flashes a flimsy grin at her before treading onto the left path. A swift heavy oppression belts massive across the field, the compression settling a deafening din to her ears. “Hah, Gabriel, wait—” 

But it’s too late. Her partner’s form, long digested by the roiling clouds of black before she can call him back.  

Something’s not right. An A-grade Wanderer shouldn’t be able to exert that kind of pressure. 

An electromagnetic resonance tremors across the space, as if something rattles at the confines of the protofield from beyond. Wanting in.  

Sweat gathers clammy and unpleasant across the back of her neck, her eyes skittering back towards where Gabriel vanished into the murk.  

She firms a hand around her gun, steeling her spine for courage. Whatever anomaly has occurred within the premises of their exam can be dealt with later. Her first priority; to help Gabriel out in eliminating all of the A-grade's clones and dissipating the distortion in front before they planned their next move. And help would arrive soon, once transmission allowed her distress signal to go through, they just had to hold on until then; she reassures herself.  

Moving forward to stride past the muted obsidian barrier at her right.  

The dark cloak of the Wanderer’s protofield washes across her skin like skidding, frigid fingers of emptiness, it spills an involuntary shiver down her spine.  

The cold, metallic spires of the protofield taper off into the void overhead as she steps onto the main field. A skittering figure, one, two, three; lunge, whip-swift, towards her as soon as they spot her, gaping maws and needle teeth poised to tear into her before her fight or flight reflexes jam in. She empties a volley of bullets into their bodies, sieving clean through the approaching Wanderers. Lobs of inhumane flesh, dissipating as soon as they hit the ground.  

Several far smaller figures melt out of the darkness to aim their attacks at her; one after the other she takes down in swift shots. Breaths trembling harsh and hot, her heart hammering over its frantic beats the longer the fight persists.  

A fatigued mistake; being mere seconds slow to switch her empty gun for another, costs her a hard, long gash sliced through the sleeve of her shoulder by the remaining Wanderer. Fire licks up across her arm in a sudden shock of pain, muted instantaneously underneath the roiling pump of adrenaline. She wrenches a dagger off her leg strap. Twisting her torso about to bring her uninjured arm up in a sharp arc, furiously tearing a split through the last Wanderer with a fierce yell and the remnants of her fraying stamina.  

The Wanderer’s remains snivel into a fire just as it hits the ground, the cool, metallic gloom giving way to the unraveling edges of the original forest once more. 

And just as her eyes adjust to the shadows of the protofield once more, she catches sight of a figure slumped upon the grass, unmoving. “Gabriel!” She yells, forcing her limbs underneath her through the pained grit of bared teeth. Clutching hard at her arm to stopper the slow rivulets of blood flow seeping from the gash before she stumbles across the grass towards the man.  

Her Hunter’s Watch blinks, in indication of a transmission successful — her distress signal. Collapsing to her knees at Gabriel’s side just as her watch flares to life in blaring red, an ominous warning running across the screen.  

S-Grade: Deluge Wyrmlord.   Protofield type: Memory Distortion Solo Hunters, do not engage.  

Her mouth runs dry at the far calls of her name—  

“Special Grade—!” Gabriel’s voice resounds just from across the field. “—Run!” 

The collapsed figure at her feet assimilating into thin air, a trick blanketed over her weary mind, by the workings of a high-class Wanderer.  

She feels that intense bone-crushing pressure creep across her back once more, her breath coming through in fits of raspy air. Fixing the barrel of her gun back across her shoulder, she fires, just as a great, dark talon comes across her face, drowning her in darkness.

The call has barely disconnected when Rafayel tosses the phone aside, staggering onto his feet under the heated weight of his body. His eyes drift — an involuntary reflex — towards that squeamish glow of red, his thread flickering in and out of sight, the extended length of it, an alarming sight. Vexation ticks harsh at his jaw.  

Before he’s able to reign control, the spits of a brilliant vermillion fire spurt forth from tapered digits, rushing across the incorporeal red string, in an effort to blaze the blasted thing off of him entirely.  

The fire dissipates, harmless, as expected, with the absence of a pure solid medium to burn. His thread glimmers to life once more, as if deriding Rafayel with its presence.  

Beyond agitated, fervent digits pluck upwards, summoning his Evol to life for a stronger burst of energy —   

A sudden inundating contraction pierces in vengeance across his heart, sending a bolt of excruciating pain lancing through his chest. Rafayel flounders; violently pitching to his knees from the intensity of its sensations. His breaths are hard to smother past lungs that burn for oxygen and yet refuse to inhale. 

Red throbs, vivid and urgent, across his ring finger, as if the call of a terrible siren, knelling of ill-fate and destruction.  

His own fire, begs to consume, hurtling across his skin, a throat that chokes from the fervid heat of his bond, threatening to annihilate him entirely. He feels his humane features molding against the translucent glimmer of cerulean scales, his human form scattering in response to the irrefragable call of his bond, his mate.  

She’s in danger. 

Alarming apprehension dawns upon his mind, the sole thought of her throttling his mind, his oath promised, urging to call upon the one person her thread connects to, a Fate irrefutable, a bond everlasting.  

No. 

A savage inferno tears across Rafayel’s body — scarlet and florid licks of fire — until it engulfs him entirely, leaving nothing in its wake.  

Silence is all that remains behind. 

IX. EBB  [TW for this chapter: passing mentions of domestic abuse]

White peels back from her field of vision; slowly revealing to her the dreary, stifling atmosphere of an incredibly familiar room. A young girl stands amidst a crowd of mourning adults, some in loud tears. Others who secrete their faces into handkerchiefs and shake their heads in dismay at the “poor orphan”. Nausea wrestles pungent within her belly at the sight.  

Her gaze, involuntarily shepherded, past the throng of mourners and towards the picture of the deceased — she knows that face before she sees it — her absent father who had often left her to her own devices, save for the times he was not actively trying to assault her with stray bottles of alcohol, laying in plain sight or the utensils and plates she used to serve his meals, on days he wore down all of their expenses for another swig of tepid, cheap alcohol.  

She knows the child in front of her now feels neither sadness nor remorse as people who call themselves her relatives step over, one after the other, offering words of specious pity and solace she has no use of.  

It was also the day she’d met her Grandma for the first time.  

The scene in front falls out from beneath her feet, traded for the sounds of defeated shrieks and futile violence in the tiny fists that try and shove off the social workers, from bodily dragging her away from the familiarity of her old house. The young girl screams and screams for Rafayel, begs them not to take her away, that she doesn’t want to live with her Grandma several cities across the seas; a gap so wide, how would she ever find the only person who had meant the entire world to her, once more? She hadn’t even told him she was leaving. They wouldn’t let her leave the house, for fear she might run away.  

Her head throbs in vicious pain, ominous tendrils of rooted fire curling through the recesses of her brain as she watches the girl’s — her — futile resistance. 

A gibbering shadow skates past the edges of her vision. She feels like she’s forgetting something direly important, skirting just past the edge of memory. 

The young girl never told the adults around her of the young Lemurian boy — bonded though they were. She knew of the dark whispers that coiled through the cesspool she lived within, how the Lemurians were a species, well-coveted for how steeply priced their bodies sold for, within the black market. 

Her fierce possession and numbing worry for her vulnerable Lemurian had kept her from ever revealing her thread in another’s presence. For how had any of the adults stepped up to be her protectors, ever, in the young girl’s life? She trusted no one, save for herself and her sole mer-friend. She'd promised him they’d stay together forever; she’d vowed upon the sole pair of glimmering seashells, they’d found sanded within their beach, that she’d marry him when they grew up. She had— 

Obsidian smoke curls about her limbs, seeps into her lungs; a slow, poisonous ingestion. The deep, dark dreary roar of a beast sounds from afar, within the recesses of her memories.  

“You abandoned me.” She whips on her heel, coming face to face with her young Lemurian, eyes listless, lightless.  

“No.” She totters away from the horror of her nightmares manifested.  

An ice-cold hand wraps about her torn sleeve, digits digging deep into her wound. She cries out in instinctive pain, wrenching at her arm in an effort to free it. Her wild gaze meets Rafayel’s. Older, far frigid; the present Rafayel looks at her with an insouciant emptiness, it tears at the heart bruising within her chest. “You abandoned me,” he repeats.  

His hand jams about her throat, lifting her clean off her feet. She throttles violently within his grasp, breaths coming in rapid, tapering hisses. “And then, like the rest of those shameless humans, you thought it wise to appear before my eyes once more.” The pressure upon her wind-pipe increases, bit by bit, forcing tears into wide, panicked eyes. “You wanted to capture me too, didn’t you? You're just like the rest of them.” Rafayel’s just ire, cleaves like knives shoved right beneath her breastbone, bleeding out her heart. 

It’s an illusion, Rafayel would never. A stray whisper catches at her ears.  

“Would I really never? Well, aren't your thoughts so convenient. Admit it, you’ve always known.” Rafayel’s gaze is dark in barely tamped wrath and disgust. “I despise you, you and all your kind.” 

“R-Rafayel...” The dull, grey curl of smoke — previously shifting in wait at the edges of her vision — approaches nearer, her defences swiftly waning underneath his assault. Fingers, she scraps bloody against his grip upon her throat, and yet he refuses to relent.  

“It would be better for you to perish here, no? You'll leave me free to live my own life then. I would no longer be shackled to you like some pet.”  

“Y-You were never—” 

A furious scarlet fire splinters a path through Rafayel — his body distorts out of existence for a moment before he gathers form once more. A surprised brow he raises in question at the interference.  

“Snap out of it!”  

Rafayel?  

Her swimming gaze hones in on her beloved, from across the indifferent Rafayel’s shoulder, surely another wraith of her mind; wide blown panic, turbulent within his gaze.  

“What do you think you’re doing believing that sham?” Another burst of Evol sparks across his fingers, aimed at the other Rafayel.  

“You must trust me, believe in me alone.” Another volley of enraged fire skewers through the Rafayel holding her captive — cleaving past him harmless — the latter views him as if he were an offending impediment. “That thing is not me. It’s trying to devour you!” 

“Shut up,” the colder Rafayel speaks, hand jamming tighter against her throat, causing precious breaths to come through stuttered wheezes.  

The other Rafayel steps forward, a desperate hand he holds outstretched for her; an electromagnetic interference rippling about his body, stalling his further motions. “You have to believe the truth in front of your eyes — believe me — to be free of its prison. I have never, not for a moment, held our past against you.”  

“An imposter,” the cruel one says.  

Rafayel drives another step forwards, through the whipping waves of the scape’s resistance, snicking wounds across his jaw, tearing at his clothes. “I don’t regret meeting you.” The gentle azure of his gaze sparks vivid in a deluge of emotions; misery, panic and hopeful sincerity commingling. You were — you have always been my greatest joy, my only muse.” 

The Rafayel that holds her captive bites out an inhumane bark, eyes fading swiftly into obsidian. “I hate you, I’ve always hated you.”  

“Do you remember,” Rafayel urges, heaving another step closer. “the seashells you used to weave into necklaces and put on me when we first met? You told me they made me seem as brilliant as a Sea God, your Sea God, when you did.”A splintered laugh escapes his mouth at the recollection. “Even when I told you the ocean’s gods didn’t wear necklaces made of shells.” 

His voice breaks, emotions raw and desperate within the throaty catch of it, dragging her down the spiral of fond memories. “And the songs you used to hum for us in that odd, off-note voice when you were happy, you’ve retained that silly habit long even into your adult years now.”  

Emotions spurt and tumble free-fall from the inky desolation of her heart, tearing open at the seams of doubts and guilt.  

“And when you are mad, the reckless storm that gathers at your face is endearing. When you forgive me just as easily, the smile that lights your face...” 

A distant rumble sounds through the scape of your illusions, world crumbling apart at the seams.  

“I remember it all, like irreplaceable ornaments, treasures. Without you, I—” He bites back, harsh, at his words. The curious blue sheen across his face, glimmers. 

Eyes that glisten in moisture that threatens to seep past damp lashes; Rafayel’s eyes fall shut in a scraped plea.  

Emotions fueled by the catch of a distraught mind though he were, his words snag, painful, at her throat, springing tears to flow free-fall, at the comfort of his tender confessions. She, too, remembered all there was to know about him, her Rafayel, because of how she adored him. His words and steadfast affection seeping gentle into her mind now, in swift recollection. 

The great, dark beast in front has long shed its false skins, rattling useless in the face of her realization; it wrenches away from her body as if burned. “Pestilent humans.” As it flees entirely from the scape of illusions, great, dark fractures spilling up the space with its departure. 

She drops towards the disintegrating floor, once released, heaving in great lungfuls of air. Rafayel — the wraith of her mind — lunges forward, snatching her body mid-air against his as they fall, with the demolition of the Wanderer’s illusions shattered from her mind.  

A deluging rush of remembrance; the exam, the Wanderer, of being dragged into darkness by the Deluge Wyrmlord tumbles back into a now clear mind. 

And this Rafayel, having stood witness to all her memories.  

He lands on nimble feet, upon the now revealed protofield of the Wanderer; the weight of his Evol, she feels, scatter into the air.  

“You’re injured.” He mourns softly, fingers glancing gentle against the abrasion of her throat from where the Wanderer choked her, down her bruised arm, the blood long staunched in dark red across the cut. 

“I’ll be fine.” She cradles his face within a careful palm, face softening in overwhelming gratitude. If only she, too, could tell him how much she truly loved him. 

Rafayel makes a skeptical sound of disapproval. A hand, he sifts up into her hair and curls about the back of her head. “Hold still.” And before she can finally think to question why a figment of her mind still persists outside the cast illusion, Rafayel is pressing his lips against hers, mouth moving to part hers until she feels warmth flow into her, the shock of his actions making her throat swallow around him on instinct. 

The dull throb at her arm, the cuts and bruises across her aching legs — breaths that seep in easier, with the patched abrasions of her throat — give way to strength as she witnesses her wounds stitch up, in disbelieving surprise. 

“A Lemurian’s essence holds healing properties,” He breathes, heated against her lips. “our tears, saliva—” He pauses. “You’ll feel better soon.” The fever of his skin beneath her grasping fingertips, his shallow breaths come in quick; the flush across his cheekbones feels much too corporeal to be mere figment of her imagination. 

Her eyes widen in disbelief, mind refusing to comprehend his presence. Restless hands tracing the shape of his firm body underneath hers; his neck, the strength of his shoulders, down the unyielding expanse of a solid chest. 

It just couldn’t be. 

“Are you... real?” She slips a palm about the curve of his cheek, index and finger pinching at the flesh. “You can’t be real, you can’t be here.” 

Rafayel chokes on an incredulous laugh. “What an inane question, can’t you tell, silly girl?” He sounds offended. 

A plethora of questions tumble within her mind as Rafayel bumps his forehead up against hers, moisture glistening like pearls upon his cheeks. “I can sense you. And I felt it, when I nearly lost you.” He grits out the words, chagrined; breath hitching in pain as if reliving a nightmare. 

Her heart shrivels at his admission, aching gaze tracing the outline of his Lemurian features. “But, I... I don’t understand. You look so different, Rafayel, what—” 

A great ominous roar sounds from the center of the protofield, the Wanderer now having recovered from its short rebuttal of having been torn away from its prey.  

Rafayel lets her down onto her feet cautiously. Taking her hand in his, his skin sits unbearably warm against hers, “Questions later. We have to get rid of that Wanderer right now. Come on.” 

She nods at him, the two turning to face the Wanderer before they fixate their stance. Hurtling forth in tandem towards the approaching monster; weapons materializing within firm fists. 

They rush, as one, at the large winged creature, aiming right against the base of its great talons. A shield thrown upon the Wanderer, comes half-way down with their first assault.  

Back against his, she feels him tackle down the monster’s onslaught of weaker Wanderers, unearthly fire blazing away at its minions. A shimmering, amethyst line of fetters gathers form with his Evol, to grasp about the Wanderer’s body as it rages. She feels his breaths coming in harsher, feels the way he tightens his body through each motion of offense against their enemy — in no condition to be fighting off a high-class Wanderer with the weight of his sickness slowing him down.  

She captures Rafayel’s wrist in hers, jolting him backwards. Lunging in front of him to take the Wanderer’s next full-bodied assault. “Rely on me, I’ll fight for us both!” She calls to him over her shoulder. 

She catches his mute moment of surprise, out the corner of her eye before he bursts into quiet laughter. “What a reliable bodyguard.” Curving a palm about her shoulder, his Evol, she feels resonating against hers in harmony. “But if you insist.” Weaving their Evols together to strengthen; the dark fetters that plunge forwards this time, chain about the Wanderer’s girth, firmer, breaking clean through another of its shields.  

The Wyrmlord screeches in crazed agony, ramming a heavy appendage straight for them. The two lunge in opposing directions to avoid the assault; Rafayel, a split second too slow to dodge as its claws catch at the side of his abdomen, tearing at his shirt.  

He hurtles heavily onto the ground, body rolling across the Protofield before he swiftly catches himself, teetering back on to unsteady legs. His pants come in harsher, the scales across his face glimmering in fevered sweat; his body’s condition holding him back.

“Rafayel!” She calls for him on an urgent shout, rushing the Wanderer from its side, to cleave clean through its shield of defense. “Don’t push yourself anymore and stay back! You aren’t well!” 

He shakes his head at her, holding his body high once more. His shallow wound, she sees, stitch up soon after, the incandescent cerulean glow of his scales striking against his features. “It’s not what you think it is.” Rafayel streaks forward just as the Wanderer attempts to take flight for a sweeping offensive. 

He springs for the monster, using the momentum of his run, punting hard off its body; vicious chains of static purple zipping through it, to bring it crashing down onto the ground. The Wanderer’s remaining shield shattered in one critical hit, bringing it down in a violent collision of great, dark wings and a massive scaled body, vulnerable to damage.  

“Now! Rafayel instructs. Coalescing the bulk of his powers into the clench of a fist, he lunges for the Wanderer; her own movements, complimenting against his. Raising their weapons up high, their Evols converge against the other’s in a final, galvanic purple blast of energy. 

The Wanderer screeches one final sound of agony before it skitters lifeless at the ground, its disintegration setting into tattered fragments of energy.

The protofield around them begins to wane, jagged shards of breakage appearing across the domed surface of it, as soon as the Wanderer falls. 

“It’s over.” She exhales, relief plucking sharp across the back of her breastbone.

“Let me take… a moment to catch my breath.” And with the sheer adrenaline of the fight holding him up now, gone, so too does Rafayel’s strength ebb from him entirely, as he pitches onto his feet. “Rafayel!”  Just as she dives forward to catch him within her arms before his body hits the ground. “Hey!”  

Rafayel’s breathing harder, the sweat that dampens his brow far more pronounced with the appearance of his Lemurian features, glimmering scales gradually fanning wider across his skin. “Stay with me, it’s over.”

And then she sees it, the flittering of vivid red, burning against his ring finger. Pulsing harsher with each labored sound of breath he endures through and her breath frosts within her lungs.

She feels the distant pattering of approaching footsteps just as Rafayel’s hot palm curves about her wrist in a possessive hold. “We have to get out of here. I need to get home.”  

The frantic calls of her name echo across the field; she lifts her head to catch sight of a pale-faced Gabriel, waving his hands at her from just across the area. She shouts at him to stay where he is, cradling Rafayel closer to her torso for fear of his scales being seen. 

In this moment, she cannot bring herself to care for anything except providing what Rafayel needs; the frenetic urgency to his words enough to have her obeying without questions asked.  

Calling for her teammate, once more, to let the others know they were both alright and that she’d be back at a later time before Rafayel urges her thoughts back to himself.

“That’s... enough. Come now.” He moans within her embrace, just as Gabriel utters an unintelligible question of confusion. Her Lemurian’s fingers spasming against hers, “Hold tight.” he grinds out, before they’re both engulfed in a florid sea of fire.  

X. FLOOD 

The two of them come crashing onto a hard, polished surface; Rafayel’s arms tightening about her body in protection, just as his shoulder connects with the floor, with their fall. Deposited into the empty safety of his room — she notes in shock — by his Evol already shriveling out of existence.  

He shudders in visible pain beneath her, just as she scrabbles to get off his body. “I’m sorry—” The ferocity of his strength, however, hauls her back, bodies crushed against each in a firm, searing line. 

Rafayel’s pants rattle hot against the skin of her neck; the harsh rise and fall of his chest, she feels burn against her own, even through their clothes. He keeps them enclosed within that sweltering space of silence for several, long moments. 

Reaching her fingers out to comb through his unruly hair, in comfort, the adrenaline of their fight having fast shifted into worry for his health.  

Why had he decided to come after her in the fevered state he was in? How had he even known to come for her? The questions, unanswered, careened about in an endless cycle within her mind. 

Her Rafayel shifts, face sinking deeper against her breasts. Nosing, delicate, at the space exposed by her open collar as he inhales, long. His previous labored breaths seemingly soothed in her proximity, as he continues to breathe her in.

Her next gasp soughs past her lips on a catch of barely tamped sound, Rafayel’s gaze rolls up to meet hers — hot and piercing.  

“Rafayel,” She cups a hand about his warm cheek. “Let’s get you off the floor now, you’ll worsen your fever.”  

He knocks his cheek further into the space of her palm, lashes quivering shut, in comfort. “I told you... it’s not a fever ruining my body.” He repeats the words he’d uttered to her back in the Protofield.  

“It’s you.” Her mind jostles to a screeching halt.  

“What?” 

Rafayel’s body tightens beneath hers, the lean strength of his arms coming about to lift, with an ease entirely unexpected of a sick man. He moves them both onto the expanse of his bed, seating himself down, with her firm on his lap. “I’ve been going through these feverish bouts because you’ve been calling for me.” He heaves. “I’d never experienced them before because we’d never—” his words break. Rafayel’s fingers slip a slow, cautious path along the base of her spine, it makes her shiver above him. “I could’ve lost you,” he murmurs, “back there.” Hauling her close once more to sink his face into the crook of a tense shoulder as he breathes her in deep.

“I’m here now, I’m fine.” She soothes a gentle palm down the line of his back, the mild quivers that take it, muted into rest with her strokes. “Thank you for coming for me earlier.”

“Of course I did.” His grip upon her body tightens. “You called for me.” 

She rakes her fingers through his hair. “I... did not call for you, Rafayel. Even if I did, it’s impossible for you to have heard—”  

“Silly girl.” He captures her hand within his hair, entwining his fingers in between hers. “Do you not see?” Bringing their palms up close together for her to witness—

Red flitters about her ring finger, vivid — her heart jostles over its beats — the line of it longer and far corporeal, glimmering within the dark of his room, spiraling an undulating path up, up.  

Finding its other half, caught against the base of Rafayel’s finger. Her breath seizes within her throat at the sight, wary gaze tracing the line of the previously absent thread against their fingers. Not daring to believe the implications of the sight and what Rafayel too was saying. “How could this— I thought we were—”

“A Lemurian’s very being is set to perceive their beloved, in their entire capacity. Without exception.” He brings their entwined fists up to his mouth, feathering a kiss onto her knuckles apiece. “And I have not changed since the first moment I met you.”  

The heat of his words is within her head, the frenzied hammering of her heart within her throat. She dares not breathe too loud, dares not speak for fear of this precious moment shattering. The inference of his words could not be clearer and yet. A fleeting recollection of the Wanderer’s cast illusion comes to mind, the cold Rafayel’s unforgiving gaze flashing against hers.  

“Has your heart then... changed?” He asks, the wavering azure of his gaze fixated firm upon hers.

She caresses the back of her fingers against his cheek, down the line of his jaw. “It has not, not for a single moment in all these years but—” She whispers. But could you ever forgive me for leaving you on your own? 

“I’m not asking you for anything beyond that. I don’t care for it.” He shifts a thumb against the line of her lips dampened with a nervous swipe of her tongue. “I’m asking to know if the woman I love is willing to accept me again.”  

Her breath hitches within her throat. Turbulent emotions burst forth within her chest at his words, a sweet ache quivering at the back of her breastbone, the magnitude of his words she isn’t able to comprehend. Unable to believe the words she’s been wanting to hear him say, all this time, leaving that beautiful mouth. 

She surges forward onto his lap, desperate to answer the man who’s entrusted his heart so keenly into her hands. “I never stopped in the first place.” She speaks, adamant. Her fingers brush at his face, down the length of his neck to hold. The pads of them grazing the beauty of his scales, glimmering within the moonlight that shafts into the quiet dark of his room through the gauzy curtains. “I’ve loved only you all these years and by god, Rafayel, I don’t think I could ever love anyone but you.” She’s out of breath and dizzy in love, it’s a feeling she never wants to clamber out of, if it means he’d continue to look at her, just the way he is now.

She hears the audible throttle of his breath; a low, anguished sound, as if she’d told him something he’d considered entirely impossible. Rafayel had seemed so sure of her feelings, and yet, he looks at her now, with a relieved sort of devotion and desire. “Which god?” His whisper is sultry, his gaze along with the heat of his skin beneath have her feeling faint within his embrace, the flex of his arm tightening its hold about her waist.  

She tips her head closer, her lips shaping her answer a mere breadth from his. “My Rafayel, my own Sea God.” She braves a kiss against his mouth. “I love you.” She confesses, “I love you so—” 

Rafayel heaves forwards, filching the rest of her words right against the desperate tongue he sweeps into her mouth. Lips moving against each other in a mesh of reckless teeth and tongue, refusing to release from each other. Her fingers catch at the fabric of his collar, in a bid to drag him closer. Rafayel’s palms, a stable hold about the flare of her hips as she bucks against him in instinctual desire at the feeling of his tongue sweeping into her mouth. Her core grazes against the distinct line of his stiff arousal, straining beneath the placket of his trousers.  

Rafayel moans a low, throaty sound against her damp lips. “This is your fault,” he whispers, feverish. “You’re the one who has left me so vulnerable.” 

The turbulent seas within his gaze burn luminous, the gentle florid pinks of his irises swallowed within the blue that takes them. The scarcity of his scales now fleshing a path from his face. Down the graceful arc of his neck and across the expanse of his clavicle. Disappearing just under the line of collar of his shirt. She treks a reverential path about his beautiful Lemurian features; a shuddered exhale leaving Rafayel, in his inexplicable state of heightened sensitivity. “Do you know what’s wrong with me?” He seizes her exploring wrist within his gentle hold, halting her movements. His chest heaves once more in vehement, anguished pants, his skin impossibly hot beneath hers.

“No, tell me what’s happening to you. Why are you—” 

“—so sexually aroused?” He supplies, mouth skewing into a smile with the hot flush of her cheeks.  

“...I was going to ask about your humane features unraveling but that too. You're... burning up.”  

He sighs against her glancing touch, at the scales of his neck. “Each year, when the moon shifts phases and the tides ebb from the shores, bonded Lemurians go through an inevitable period of increased sexual activity. We are,” he pulses a delicate kiss to the inside of her captured wrist. “extremely vulnerable during this time, our base appetites, near insatiable, unless we bear it through with our bonded mates.” 

A streak of desire spurts within her chest, seeping down into her abdomen to pool in between her legs. “So then, all this time, you were...” 

“‘Sick’”, he continues, “because I wasn’t funneling my desires with my mate.” He tugs her close by her imprisoned hand, murmuring, hot, within her ear. “within my mate.” 

A low moan of desire breaks from her lips at his licentious provocation.  

“I’ve never experienced one before.” He confesses heavily. “I wasn’t sure what it was, when it started; the time of the year seemed to coincide with my symptoms but we weren’t bonded... not to my knowledge.” Rafayel’s gaze treks against the shimmering line of their thread, re-connected. “It’s a rarer miracle for it to find itself weaved against the ones it broke in between, more so than it is for the thread to re-emerge in between new lovers.” He laughs; a low self-deprecating sound. “Fate really played me for its fool.”

She murmurs his name, gathering his hand closer to press a reverent kiss against his ring of red at his finger. “I love you, Rafayel.” she reiterates, dragging his wide, wavering gaze back towards herself, letting the irrefutable truth of her words sink in. That it’s not Fate that tugs at the cogs of their bond now, but her feelings, unchanged as they’ve remained.  

“Promise me,” he implores. “Promise you’ll continue to see me the same, no matter how many years pass us by. Promise you’ll stay by my side this time?”  

Her answer rushed, eager, yearning to soothe. “Yes. Yes, I will. I want to stay by your side.” Stealing her arms about the broad strength of his shoulders, to pull closer.  

“Don’t let me go.” Rafayel breathes. Their mouths crush against each other in a consuming kiss; an urgent prayer he makes of her name. 

Each time she squirms atop his lap with the force of his kisses, her increasingly damp core shifts in glancing strokes above his clothed length. Her fingers jolt about Rafayel’s shoulders, sinking harsh into the skin through cloth, with a particularly ruinous lap of his tongue into her mouth.  

Her fingers fly for the clasps of his shirt, rushing down the length of buttons, generously revealing the unyielding expanse of his chest, the line of his toned abdomen. Briefly trekking the warmth of his skin with the pads of inquisitive digits before her mouth follows suit, drifting from Rafayel’s to kiss a path across the firm expanse of his chest. Slicking a gentle tongue right above his heart in devoted gratitude for the one who loves her so wholly. 

She glides a slow palm down his abdomen, appreciating the tremulous clench of muscles, underneath her touch. Her coveting digits pause at the metal clasp of his belt, gaze canting up to meet Rafayel’s in silent request.  

“Yes,” he grinds out, through arduous pants of her name. “It’s yours, I’m yours, do as you please.” She pushes off his lap, dropping onto her knees in between his legs at his affirmation. Rafayel’s breaths hitch higher within his throat, at the snag of her fingers reaching to swiftly undo the fastenings of his belt, pulling it clean from its confines to discard it onto the floor of his room. Her palm slips down the line of his zipper, stimulating him impossibly harder as she works to release him from the confines of his trousers.  

Until Rafayel sits there; her devastatingly alluring Lemurian, near-naked, save for the shirt that sags against broad shoulders, and the remaining modesty of his underwear. She takes a moment to control her shaky breaths before her thumbs slip under the waistband of his final barrier, keeping him from her gaze. Sliding the garment in one careful stroke, down the strength of his legs until she tosses it off to the side. His cock springs to full length, freed from its confines, hard; it curves, slight, towards his abdomen, the gentle slick of minute bluish scales running along the underside of his shaft. A thing of beauty, just as its owner.

The twitch of his length within her grasp is palpable as she moves to work an admiring fist about it. A lone bead of pre-cum sits upon the flared head of his cock; her tongue darts out in instinctual rapacious desire to sweep it into her mouth. The sweet-salt tang of him she hums against, in a soft moan, “I love how you taste.” 

Long, tapered digits thread through the fall of her locks, curving a loose fist at the back of her head. Her eyes traveling up his torso to meet his, bright in aroused impatience. It makes her want to flip that expression over into something entirely different. She tips forwards, lips falling apart to take the head of him into her eager mouth, just as Rafayel rewards her with his first approving groan. Tongue slicking about the head of him to lick, down, at a vein just underneath the flare of his head. His hips judder up into her face with the action, slipping more of him into her welcoming throat. “What’re you doing to me?” He moans, in gravelly rapture. “Your mouth feels divine.”  

She feels the clench of her own abdomen at his praise, wetness seeping further into the cloth of already damp panties. Her mouth slips further down the thick length of him, working him deeper into her throat as she tries and relaxes against the instinctive gagging intrusion of him. A shuddering string of words, he makes of her name, in overwhelming arousal, help her along on his cock. Until she is sliding about the length of him, back and forth, tongue drooling its spit down the expanse of his cock she cannot fit into herself.  

His fingers have tightened into a near-spasm within her hair, not nearly enough it hurts, holding her fixated in place; the pads of his digits tracing soothing, encouraging circles about her scalp as she sucks at his cock. “You’re doing so — agh — so well.” The fingers of his free hand, Rafayel brings to curve, delicate, about her jaw, tipping up; her eyes finding his, on silent instruction.  

He looks entirely gone, the rugged flush of his cheeks enticing as it dashes across his ears. Springs down the crescent of his neck and across the firm expanse of his chest. Rafayel’s cock hits the back of her throat on her next intake; she swallows against the heady swell of him, deliberate, measured, refusing to relent her gaze as she does. It immediately has the effect she desired; Rafayel’s next breath rattling out of his chest on a wrenched groan of pleasure, the blue of those inhuman eyes glistening brilliant as he propels his hips into her, in a reflexive bid for more.

His fingers skid along the underside of her jaw, where mouth meets throat, grazing for the place he knows she has him settled inside. A long, tapered index, he flicks down the line of her neck — she swallows on instinct, dragging another choked moan out of him as reward — before it comes to rest at the buttoned collar of her shirt. “Off.” He murmurs, hazily. Deftly unfastening open the first few buttons before he curves his index beneath her collar to tug. “Take it off. I want to see all of you when I come.” Pooling a blush into her cheeks at his sweetly sensual appeal. 

She pulls her shirt over her head, lured along by the nimble hands that drag her close, reaching around her, to undo the clasp of her bra before he coaxes that too, off her body. Mouth falling slack, cerulean flashing vivid, in flared arousal and want; to witness the heaving tremble of her breasts as she descends on him once more. 

Rafayel eases stray locks of her hair back against her ear to better afford himself the view of pink, moist lips parting to swallow around him once more in renewed enthusiasm. 

Her hands flitter about the length of him, slick slide aided by spit and pre-cum as she moves to work her tongue around the tip; the broad of it she teases at the slit, making Rafayel shudder above her. Slipping, slow and sure, down the generous length of him, insatiable desires flooding in the clench of empty walls, for the brimming taste of him within her throat.

Rafayel’s pants have turned far harsher, sporadic in impending release. She continues to ease her tongue about his length, her palms soothing down the tense muscle of his thighs before she moves to cup her fingers about his balls. “I’m—” Rafayel snaps.  

The skin beneath her fingers tightening, as she sucks about his shaft, to help him along the final stretch of his incoming release, swallowing up to the base of him in one forceful go. Her throat constricting in protest at the rough intrusion. Rafayel groans out loud — frenzied palms pressing at either sides of her head to force her off of his cock, just as he comes in thick, spurting strokes, across her cheeks, her nose; down the curve of her chest.  

“I can’t take it any longer,” he rasps. Hauling her onto her feet by her arm, he tumbles her back onto the cool, crumpled sheets of his bed. 

She barely has but a single moment to catch her breath — more from the surprise of his vehemence — before the shorts of her uniform, are being wrested off her body in the fervent catch of desperate fingers. Rafayel gets the material half-way down her thighs before his long-frayed patience snicks off entirely; a cool rubescent fire licks up clean across the material, blazing the offending cloth away entirely.  

She’s left dumbstruck, pleasure-addled mind wrung in between faint amazement at his precise Evol manipulation and mild offense at his ruination of her uniform. “We’ll get you a new one.” He heaves — as if he’s read her mind — in between kisses laid onto the instep of her bare leg, working up across her calf. “As long as you let me have you right now, I’ll do whatever you want.” 

Her breath seizes within her throat at his sultry request. Rafayel’s palms trace about the shell of her hips, curving about the sides of her abdomen before he caresses them up her stomach, pressing, light, into the yielding flesh. Her body shudders beneath his testing caresses. One of his hands steals down the cusp of her clothed mound, index and middle stroking at her labia above panties, before he skates them in between her folds. The two moan in unison; to feel how drenched she is for him.  

Her body squirms against his, begging for more of that sweet friction. Hips bucking up into his hand to force more of him against her aching slit. Rafayel towers above her, the delectable flush across that slack, sensual expression has her fluttering in on emptiness, her hole aching to be filled completely — as if she too has taken on the fever of his desires, writhing in phantom heat. Her drifting mind wonders for a fleeting moment, if a human bonded to a Lemurian could experience the mind-numbing lust of their cycles, along with their partners. That stray thought, she believes, with each passing second he riles her up in delirious rapture.  

Holding himself above her upon the crook of a folded arm, Rafayel descends for her mouth, covetous tongue savoring a moan against hers. She feels the hot, wet strength of his cock — already firmed to stone once more — rolling against the inside of her thigh. Just as he slips a long, tapered digit past her underwear, to curve it directly against her soaked opening. Her hips jump violently at the contact, her squeal of arousal Rafayel pilfers against a throaty chuckle. “You’re so wet.” Pressing up into her to make his point, the audible squelch of her slick, loud within the quiet night. “Are you enjoying this, my love?” 

“Isn’t,” she gasps, heat gathering, strong, into her face. “isn’t the answer obvious?” 

Rafayel hums, the skew of his smile tugging higher; a slow, relishing tongue he runs across his upper lip, end to end. And before she can think to parse the intention behind that wicked gaze, Rafayel’s palms are cupping about the soft of her ass —  digits pulsing into pliant flesh — to shear her underwear off, lifting her hips up to shove his tongue in between her legs. 

Her next sound leaves her on a shriek of pleasure, blaring stars wheeling across her field of vision. Fervid digits she convulses into the yank of his hair, in a manner that has to hurt and yet Rafayel makes no move to budge back, mouth sinking deeper against the wet flood of her heat. He curves his tongue up against her fluttering walls, sweeping at the slick. Nosing a stifled hum against her clit and that is all it takes for her over-sensitised body to break, spasming into a prompt, violent orgasm that siphons the breath from her lungs and the voice from her throat.  

Dazed in her floating awareness of the scrupulous mouth that continues to suck at her folds, laving away all of her released desire for himself. And when she sinks a quivering hand into tousled locks in whimpered protests of being too sensitive, all Rafayel offers her is an impish chuckle pressed into the soft of her thigh, right beside her mound. “You had your fun, didn’t you? It’s my turn now.” 

With that sensuous warning uttered, his mouth returns its attentions to her weeping slit once more, lips closing about the nub at her apex, sucking gentle at the bead. The jump of her hips Rafayel conquers, in the indolent arm he shackles about her waist, fingers reaching to hold hers across the quivering pliance of her stomach.  

The broad of his tongue laps a path above her entrance, catching at any stray slick that leaks from her before he eases the tip of it back into her slit, relishing the clench of her walls in a throaty groan. He continues to prolong that titillating torture of his, edging his tongue at just the entrance of her pussy, till her body burns once more within the kindled flames of a cresting orgasm.  

“Rafayel, there — hah — right there. Rafayel.”  Sliding that tormenting tongue into her walls once more, to her relief, to the mewls of his name flooding like rain from a parched tongue, the spasm of her fingers she smothers against their entwined digits at her abdomen.  

“Sing higher,” his stuttered groans smothered enthusiastic, into the drench of her slit. Tongue curling up against her frontal walls, in a drag that has her fracturing under his mouth once more. Tears sprung to lust-hazed eyes from the overwhelming arousal wrought upon her body under Rafayel’s dexterous tongue.  

He exhales a pleased sigh against her mound, each heated breath causing shivers to jump across tender skin. A kiss, Rafayel lays right against her swollen clit. 

“Once more.” Her walls clench in wrecked protest, a whimper leaving her throat at his whispered words. “Give me just one more.” He entreats. “I need your taste in my mouth again.” A flitter of kisses he strokes against the line of her pelvis, her mound; dark gaze rolling up to meets hers from in between her legs. She flushes at the intensity of their contact held, without mercy. Her wordless squeeze about her hand given, is all the permission her hungering Lemurian requires to sink back towards her wet heat.  

Tapered digits reach to shape a path about the sensitive bead of her pleasure, pinching in between steady, pleasurable strokes. Before they descend lower, coveting towards her fluttering entrance. Rafayel presses up, gentle, into her walls to coax wetness onto his digits with each drenched thrust of his fingers into her.  

His hand releases from hers, palm drifting up across the plane of her body to cup about a pliant breast. Fingers caressing a circular path about her areola in soft, stimulating strokes and she quivers at the sensation, breaths coming in short, stifled bursts of air.  

Rafayel’s mouth closes about her clit, just as the arch of his fingers hit at a particularly hot, sensitive spot within her pussy; walls spasming about his fingers, swallowing him in. His name soughs past her lips on whimpered gasps with each steady thrust of him up into her walls.  

The pads of his digits tweak about the puckered bead of her breast, thumb denting gentle at the bud, sending a jolt of arousal straight in between her legs.  

Rafayel continues to lap her up, dutiful; his lashes descending in pleased satisfaction just as her third, mind-numbing release crests through her body, leaving her skin a drenched, ruined mess Rafayel sucks at, in throaty moans of delight.  

“Rafayel,” she urges, unable to stand the searing desire he’s put inside her, body hungering for the heat of his cock in desolate emptiness. The overwhelming desire to feel his heat flooding into her, with how long he’s strung her dry for himself. She catches his face in between tremulous digits, pulling him from in between her legs to meet his gaze, dark in fervent desire. “I need you inside me now.”  

Heated obscurity scatters momentarily from his eyes at her fevered request, hips rolling against hers so she feels the hot strength of his arousal brush against her inner thigh; her gasps breaking into the air, at that brief second of contact. Burying her next moan in the vicious bite of teeth at his clavicle, when his cock ghosts across her mound, so close to where she wants him. “If you’re sure you want this...” He groans in ardent murmurs against her mouth.  

Her clambering response is swift and eager. “I want this, I want you.”  

“I’ll let you have me,” he relents in between their wet kisses. “this time, all of me. So drown with me, my beloved bride. Love me.” 

Just as he snaps his hips forwards, the head of his cock pressing her open for himself. The delectable stretch of him, so easy within the drenched warmth of her body as it ravenously sucks at him, all the way in. Rafayel’s searing groan of pleasure, he breaks against her jaw; mouthing, mindless, at the taut skin.  

The union of their bodies, have left them both winded, without breath to draw into aching lungs; several moments they take in between heated gazes and consuming kisses, unmoving. Growing accustomed to this new, exquisite feeling of being so deeply intertwined into each other, she feels she could live like this against him for the rest of her life.  

Until Rafayel begins to move and her world explodes into turbulent sparks of blinding pleasure, unlike anything she’s quite experienced before. His hands are upon her body, covetous digits flittering in between them to touch at dewy skin. Testing his touch against the trembling give of her breasts. Mouth capturing a pert nipple into his mouth, to suck until she keens underneath him.  

Her ankles hook about the base of his spine, dragging Rafayel’s propulsions deeper into her. A stuttered moan, she throttles out of him, at the stimulation before his hand steals about her ass to lift her lower body entirely off the bed. Angling his hips, Rafayel’s thrusts turn impossibly deeper, with the assistance offered in their new position; his pelvis grinding flush against hers on each fevered plunge. “You’re perfect around me, so very — hah — warm,” he grinds out in heedless praise, hips snapping against her harder, in rising intensity, in chase of a hovering orgasm.  

She moans in appreciation around the tongue he slips into her slack mouth in yearning want. “Rafayel,” she chokes out. “I’m so close.”  

“Me too,” he groans, shifting his weight forwards to lean against the crook of his arm at her side. His fingers trek up a path against her slack arm, digits entwining through hers, the line of their red thread flickering in between them both as they approach the crest of their combined pleasures.  

“I love you,” she sobs in between quivering gasps; his gaze crinkling in warmed affection and desire so acute, it drags another whimper out of her.  

“I love you.” Rafayel declares, into the catch of his kisses against her mouth, her cheeks, down the crescent of her jaw. Laving a kiss into the curve of her neck in a worrying bite of teeth, marking her for his own. He switches his pace once more, cock spearing up against her frontal walls in frenzied thrusts. “Come for me,” he beseeches. 

Jaw falling slack in a daze of undulating desire when she obliges at the heated scrap of his words, tumbling over the edge in an orgasm so vehement, her spine arcs clean off the bed. “You’re so good for me.” He worships.

Cresting waves of pleasure, she rides in the hard clench of her walls against Rafayel’s throbbing cock, pulsating hot within her until he too follows soon after. An incomprehensible swell of his cock inside, rising with its pulsations, has her gasping out a low, keening sound at the aching stretch of her pussy, it prolongs her high onto wondrous, searing moments of dizzy elation. Her toes curling into the sheets as the steady bulge of him catches at her walls and snags inside, hot spurts of cum surging into her, so much of it, she feels light-headed from how stuffed he has her. Just as Rafayel’s head falls low, on a loud, long groan of release.

Their damp breaths break against each other’s mouth for several moments that follow after, as they try and muster their senses back to themselves. Her fingers tracing absent, soothing circles along the curve of Rafayel’s spine until his trembling body stills to a gentle lull above her, quieted in the wake of their vehement orgasms.

A strange, fascinating imprint, throbs scarlet right above his heart — in the fleeting likeness of a fish — just as Rafayel’s rattling breaths abate. Captivated fingers she ventures, to trace against the edges of the mark. “...What is this, Rafayel?”  

“A sign of Lemurian loyalty.” A quiet smile tips across his face at the question.

The swell of breathless surprise, she knows is upon her face. “My devotion, here on, it’s yours to do with, as you please.” A kiss he buries into her palm in overwhelming affection. “I’m allowing myself to be trapped by you.” 

A low sob of adoration breaks from her throat at the words, just as the proof of his vow fades fast into his skin. A hand, she brings about his neck, to haul him down against her, to treasure a kiss right above where his heart thrums its beats, elated desire burning warm within her chest.  

Rafayel moves above her, maneuvering their positions until she rests at her side, within the circle of her arms, bodies still conjoined. His cock — she realizes with dazed shock — is still hard within her body. “Are you afraid?” He asks, gentle fingers carding through the mussed tresses of her hair. “I’ll need you much more times before I’m sated, you know.”  

She shakes her head at him, palm moving to cradle against his cheek. “I want all of what you have to give me, Rafayel. I’ll take it all.” 

He drags her closer by the hips at her affirmations; his touch along the back of her ass tending a slow fire back up within her weary body, as he moves to hoist her leg up against the cut of his hip.  

And she lets him show her just how profound a Lemurian’s devotion to his beloved truly runs, throughout the entirety of the night and into the greeting of dawn — a depth as unbounded as that of the Oceans.

End Notes: Tagging as requested: @samanthagnicole , @catboi-anon , @bitches4lifebro

If you’d like to be tagged in my future stories, you can fill this short form here.

You can also find me on Ao3 and twitter, if you’d like to scream with me about hot characters.

[janumun]

Master List (Second Edition)

Since my first master-list has grown long and crowded, I will be posting the more recent of my works to this one, for ease of exploring.

(All titles mentioned below are NSFW/18+ works unless mentioned otherwise)

One-shots

Love and Deepspace

Rafayel

A Bond Everlasting

Pruskuneo

Sylus

A Practical Demonstration

A Relentless Conquest

Xavier

Nomos

ALL/Poly

Misty Affections (All boys/Reader)

Jujutsu Kaisen

Sukuna Ryomen

Indelible Coming Soon

Genshin Impact

Childe/Tartaglia

Of Perilous Gambles

Firelight Within a Jar

Ikemen Prince

Gilbert von Obsidian

Obsidian Retribution

Headcanons

Love and Deepspace

Rafayel (General NSFW Headcanons)

Sylus (NSFW Alphabet Headcanons)

Sylus with a Virgin Reader

All LaDS men dealing poorly with the aftermath of your death (SFW/Angst)

Genshin Impact

The Genshin men and their favorite body parts of yours

The Fatui Harbingers and how they care for their most precious (SFW)

Dark Abyss Prince Aether and how he breaks you for himself

[janumun]

NSFW Alphabet (Obey Me Simeon)

Rated: NSFW/18+ (please proceed at your own discretion)

Author’s Notes: Juno, hi! Never any shame in simping for the goodest angel placed among us. Thank you for asking for him and for being so patient! I’ve picked five NSFW alphabets here for Simeon, I hope you will see this and enjoy @living-in-the-state-of-dreaming 🙇🏽‍♀️♡

Also tagging @reallyfuckedupsmalldragon as requested!

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Once the two of you have finished and have had the time to catch your breath, Simeon skims a line of gentle kisses along your jaw, your neck. Bodies entwined and close as he holds you in his embrace. Before he lets go at last, to get you a soft, clean towel, prepared well beforehand. Tracing it down the length of your body with care and affection so delicate, you almost croon in joy. If you insist on cleaning him up in turn, he seats himself, obedient. Back to you as you wipe down the curve of his beautiful body. Sessions like these often turning to laughter and kisses exchanged, sweeping soft cloth at each other until you’re both tangled into the sheets and feeling each other in an airy, sweet exchange of kisses.

Simeon also often keeps a pot of a certain, soothing blend of tea ready for your post coital needs. A recipe of the heavens, he claims, it is known for its comforting flavor and properties. Creamy on the tongue and a dash of fresh herbs, with a hint of bitter, but that you suspect is due to your Simeon’s own touch of expertise in the kitchen. You find it truly does help, however, when he utters a short incantation to warm up two cups of tea and settles himself against you for your moment of peace.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)/ E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Simeon hasn’t really shared any meaningful romantic relationships over his years, despite several centuries spent at Michael’s side. There's never been quite one he connected with, to such a spiritually deep degree, as he has with you. Most of his time spent on dealing with affairs within the Heavens and ensuring a smooth process for his fellows, countless centuries spent only for the betterment and happiness of his people.

Simeon is the kind to fall in love with a person’s soul, and yours is the one he found true comfort in after all this time. Before you, there wasn’t exactly a need to be with someone. He does not harbor any regrets from his time in the Heavens, time spent on his own. But with you, it does feel as if there’s part of him you complete with your own, when the two of you are together and one. And he wants to exhibit those feelings for you, with his entire being.

As such, he’s never really felt the need to relieve himself sexually, never felt the desire to perform acts that would not only bring one pleasure but leave one with child, if so desired. But with you...

You almost have to wonder if all angels are so... incredibly gifted in their abundance of semen, or if it’s just your Simeon who’s so incredibly wonderful, he leaves you pleasantly aching and so very full each time, you feel his release leaking from you, against your thighs and onto the sheets beneath with the slow withdrawal of him from your depths. So much of it, it leaves you flushed each time you feel the audible slosh of him inside and released from you.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)/P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? Etc)

Simeon is an incredibly passionate and adoring lover; none before have treated or handled you with as much care and devotion as Simeon puts into your love-making. And that’s exactly what he does; makes love to you, in the rawest, truest sense of the word.

Each garment he relieves you of, followed by a gentle flitter of kisses across the exposed patch of skin. Murmuring praise and love onto your flesh until you’re positively alight with happiness and pleasure. A flurry of kisses; mouths meeting and parting in soft, hushed laughter and private whispers. Hands cradled and entwined through the other’s, bodies pressed against each other, as he moves within you, slow and deep. So very weaved into each other, you feel every part of him, as if he sears his own brand of love against you with each roll of his hips.

End Notes: Thank you for reading!

° You can view my master list here. °

[janumun]

[Tumblr ate up your Ask just as I hit “post” @meowlayn-art so I had to redo this. Glad I had the screenshot of your request saved, huh, T(d)umblr? 😇🔪]

Meowlayn! Thank you for asking for them 🥰 I left out my one of my favorites from this list but I hope you’ll enjoy these 🙇🏽‍♀️💕

(Requests for this event are now closed, dear readers. Thank you to all those who participated.)

Characters: Shigure, Hatori, Kureno Rated: NSFW/18+ Tags: bondage, cockwarming, slight D/s undertones, body worship

Shigure likes to have you tied and tight on his lap. If ropes aren’t available in his immediate vicinity for a full body bind, he’s pulling off the sash of your kimono or that long strip of ribbon tucked so neatly into your hair... until it isn't anymore. Fastening your wrists firm behind your back, your kimono hiked up your thighs before gentle hands are ushering you down onto his length. “Stay put now, alright?” He says, putting on a smile that pulls wide when he splits you open and you gasp.

Shigure often has trouble maintaining an attention span long enough to finish work on his manuscripts. He's a frighteningly skilled storyteller and the job pays, so he persists. Having you close helps him concentrate just that bit longer; the discomfort of your arousal provided as amusing fodder that holds him long enough. If you squirm too much, or try and rock your hips for a modicum of relief, he’s immediately stilling your hips with a light, disciplinary strike to your ass. His gaze is cold, his smile absent and that frigid air bleeds into his voice when he speaks, “I told you not to move. You're disturbing my work.” And when you wilt underneath that verbal bite...

He’s cradling a kind palm against your cheek, a smile offered just as placid, as if it had never slipped. “Be patient just a little longer and I’ll bend you over and fuck you properly. Does that sound good to you?” A thumb he dents into your cheek when you nod, albeit shakily. “What a good, agreeable girl.”

Baths are Hatori’s staple of relaxation as well as releasing stress accumulated over a long day. When you’re both home and tucked cozy and close, into the tub and his hands are gentle against yours. That's usually when he likes to slip his fingers in firm, pressing motions against your shoulders, slipping across your back, your waist as he works the stiffness out of your system. “Does that feel better?” He asks, in response to a particularly satisfied moan, before you nod and turn him over for his turn. Your hands in his hair and at the junction of his neck, working in circles has him unwinding. Leaning back against your breasts, tipping his head up for you when your mouth descends to land your kiss. His lips stealing into a warm smile that settles and warms your heart. Reaching for each other feels so incredibly natural and comforting; his smiles turning into quiet laughter. Hatori’s adoration is keen and clear within his gaze as he parts stray locks away from your cheeks, guides you close and onto his lap as you rock pleasant ripples across the surface of the water, together.

Another one who thrives on providing rather than receiving, Kureno’s gaze rests, constant, upon your face. The flitter of lashes as he presses his fingers inside, to stir and prod moans free of your throat. The slick give of your insides is pleasant, the wetness he’s drawing out of you, proof of your affections and how well he’s pleasuring you; it stirs happiness within his own chest. And arousal, to be joined to you. Sexual gratification, for the longest time, having been an obligation he fulfilled, rather than an act performed, for his heart’s satisfaction and for the first time, he’s experiencing this active want for physical pleasure, with you. For you.

Descending to kiss your calls of his name right from your mouth, “I’m here. I'm here for you. Hold on to me.”  as his wet fingers trek patterns across your thighs, parting them in gentle strokes for himself. Watching pleasure unfurl across your face, like feathered wings of a restless bird, with the ingress of him into your depths; the sight streaks right up his length to sink into his belly and warm him inside out. Just as he pulses his mouth against yours, softening his groans against your tongue.  “I adore you, so much.”

End Notes: Thank you for reading!

° View my master list. °

[janumun]

A Seduction of Roses - Ikemen Prince

General NSFW Headcanons (Clavis, Chevalier, Jin)

Rated: NSFW/18+

Tags: overstimulation, orgasm denial, semi-public sex, face fucking, lap sex, praising, facial, size difference

Author’s Notes: My very late, but promised, foray into the IkePri tag. As is my almost tradition at this point, here are some general NSFW headcanons for three of my favourite beast princes: Chevalier Michel, Clavis Lelouch and Jin Grandet.

Your voice is a balm; and Chevalier’s favourite medium of consuming romantic fairy tales.

When your Prince settles his head into your lap; a wordless cant of those frigid, cerulean eyes finding yours is your only hint to begin your story. And you do, for as long as he listens. Storytelling, being also one of his ideal times to pick; to tease stimulation out of you. Gloved fingers trekking a languorous path across your hip, up your waist. Slipping onto your jaw, and then to trace plump, slick lips you wet, out of frustration over his behaviour. “Continue. How did this king of yours kiss his woman?”

As if you could with the way he’s rising now, to meet your gaze. The edge of his mouth’s curling up at the flush you know he’s aware of, burning across your cheeks. Large hands are hiking your skirts before you can turn any brighter underneath the heat of his gaze, stealing into the space of your thighs to drag at your arousal. Swiping the book, forgotten, out of your slackened grip before his mouth’s firm against yours and his dexterous tongue is soaking your moans right against it.

If you’re feeling particularly naïve (or in the mood to take certain risks) and take Clavis on his word, to help Prince Chevalier rise easier in the mornings. And happen to follow his ‘well-meaning’ advice, approach Chevalier and call for him on a soft Chev...

The name’s almost soft, gentle as it slips off your tongue, you think you like how it feels within your mouth. Smiling at the yet, unmoving form of him bundled under the sheets — as if that would’ve really worked. Moving to withdraw his covers before a hand’s lunging out of the thick darkness; long, tapered fingers curling about your wrist. And before you can so much as attempt surprise, you’re being dragged into bed. Your sense and position, upended, as you find yourself underneath the intense scrutiny of a cool, cerulean gaze. Sharper than what you’ve come to expect when Chevalier’s just woken up. Trekking a slow thumb across your lower lip, until you part for him, “What did you say?” He prompts, voice low and thick, an almost purr, of a great, wild beast. And with an ominous, rising tide within, you know he knows and heard you.

All protests rendered unheard as Chevalier reaches to tear open your shirt, scattering buttons across the coverlet and proceeds to flush your mind of all thoughts, for the next several hours, hard and deep, you’re barely able to pronounce his name at all.

Chevalier’s endurance and vigor are almost infinite. There’s quite no other feature of him that speaks as accurate of his inhumane abilities, as the wreckage he makes of your body, night after night.

The slap of his pelvis against your swollen, leaking center is barely slowing to a halt; quick. shallow thrusts that have you flinching from the overstimulation, just as the last spurts of his release warm their space into you. Beautiful, strong digits reaching to scoop your wearied body up by your waist, to grind himself against you. “What’s the matter, simpleton?” His mouth slicks a gentle path across your shoulders, your neck and when you tip your head back for his kiss...

Sweeping his tongue into your mouth to kiss you full and thorough. Hands heavy upon the flare of your hips as he starts to move once more, and you realize, with some shock, that he’s still so incredibly hard within you. Moaning out your surrender against his mouth, just as his lips slip away from you to worry the flesh of your ear in between his teeth. “Do not pass out just yet, not after all your grand proclamations of keeping me company.”

You know full well how Clavis adores your legs...

When they are clamped tight about the hand slotted firm in between your legs; gloved fingers drumming across the increasingly slick arousal that seeps from you. Humming in delight with each tapered moan he cajoles through quivering lips, and smiles, to see just how truly lovely Belle is, in her fall from grace.

And yet, so very mesmerizing; the quiver of your thighs, locked about his face when you sink yourself — such a pretty shade down there — onto his wet, welcoming grin. A wonderful Belle; so delightful. Raises and falls, trembles and grinds, to her heart’s pleasure, and Clavis lets her do as she pleases, beautiful, sweet thing that she is.

Or, when you’re swaddled pretty in a cool, amethyst gown; the hem of it swirls patterns just right across your ankles. Teasing at a hint of skin just above, hidden from sight. So very beautiful he tucks in a mental note to specifically verify the quality of that lovely dress, later in private. When he pulls it off of you.

Speaking of Clavis’ expertise in stealing you right out of your clothes, he does so, whenever, wherever the mood strikes him. Be it...

Open balconies; set across the balustrade, arms firm around you as you sink into him. Mischievous fingers rolling over and pinching at places that make you squirm and whine, on purpose. Even as he feigns shock at your sounds, an utter farce with how you see that unbothered grin stretching wide across his face. “My, Belle, you could turn in a willing audience if you keep singing like that.” Brilliant laughter warming a space against your clavicle, “Oh, don’t look so peeved, sweetheart. It only serves to turn me on more.”

Tease though your Prince may be, but no one’s quite an expert at having others dance to his whims, than Clavis. And your strings, the very right, terrible ones to pull, he discovers very early on during the course of your relationship.

His fond admiration is a beautiful, lovely sound; commingled in with soft laughter that burns you fiercer with each rock of your hips against his pelvis. Gloved hands curving across the shell of your hips, to squeeze in admiration, slipping further down the length of stockinged thighs, encouraging in press-release motions. “That’s it, darling. Haha, look at you, so very red.” Denting a thumb into your cheek, caressing down the line of your face. “Squeeze now, love, with all you’ve got. Ha, just like that.”

You’d be hard pressed to name a time Jin does not find it appropriate (inappropriate!) to settle those large hands about the curve of your breasts and just hold, if not squeeze. Letting the pleasant give of them ease his worries and harden his cock.

It's only when stringent boundaries are set (“Jin, not in public!”) that he tries and amends his terrible, terrible ways. Seeking to earn his fill, doubly so, in private moments when he edges his cock in between the soft space of your breasts as you hold them close for him. Torturing him to his wit’s end when you begin your slide down — and then up — the length of him. Groaning out loud, his grin’s wide and flushed. Large fingers sinking into your hair when your tongue flicks a path across his cock head and he erupts; onto your lovely chest, your mouth, your cheeks.

Half-hard, almost in an instant to see that pink tongue swipe a taste of him into your mouth.

Jin’s handling of you is incredibly gentle. His sex is filthy, but it’s also loving and adoring, always so careful of your comfort. Even when he’s ramming into you so hard, so fast, you’re seeing pleasurable stars beneath your lids.

Limbs folded up over the sturdy expanse of his forearms, body pressed into the window as he fucks up and into you, back skidding pleasant against the cool, glass surface behind. Your mind almost worries the two of you might end up breaking glass, until the sudden, hard stretch of Jin inside scatters your thoughts once more.

And after a night of ardent love-making, he always adores the sight of waking up to your sweet, disheveled face, still and peaceful in slumber.

Tucking a kiss onto your forehead before he presses you closer and into his embrace. Enfolding you in, naked bodies pressed up in a comforting line; your scent is within his lungs, as it shepherds him back into his own content slumber.

End Notes: Thank you for reading!

° View my master list. °

If you’d like to be added to my tag list for future stories, please fill out this quick form.

[janumun]

Of Perilous Gambles (Genshin Impact Childe - NSFW)

Pairing: Childe/Female Reader

Rated: NSFW/18+

Tags: oral and vaginal sex, hints of subterfuge, usage of aphrodisiacs, heavy petting, courtesan reader, scent kink, mild bondage, hints of a breeding kink, Aya(n)to is a devious one

Summary: News of a potential coup d'état within the Fatui ranks, draws Childe all the way to Inazuma and into a certain underground den of debauchery, to track down the traitors. What he does not expect to be greeted with, is an all too familiar courtesan among their midst, and the very terrible implications her presence carries, for his mission.

Author’s Notes: Hey, all! This piece was penned for the ongoing Chilumi week on twitter.This story is written for the prompt “Hey girlie, hold still.” or my personal Kimura Ryohei favorite “Ojou-chan, ogukanai de.”

For readers who prefer a named Traveler (Lumine) over reader-insert, you can read the slight tweaked, Chilumi version of the story right here. 

I hope you will enjoy your read!

His eyes are on her the moment she steps into the room; his recognition of her, instant, despite the seeming impossibility of her presence in a place such as this. The elaborate layers of her outfit, so unlike her usual simple dresses. Robed in embroidered, precious fabric, face painted to bring out the soft femininity of her visage. Donning a courtesan’s ostentatious garb; she blends well, as any of the numerous women present in the room, at the moment.

Yet, so very different in his eyes, alone.

And because he observes her take her deceptively demure steps into the room, Childe catches the moment realization dawns, gradual, upon her face, at the true nature of her situation. Witnesses the slight dip of her head, those beautiful rouged lips firming into a disapproving line. Her eyes darting quick about the space to watch the other prostitutes spread upon the laps of drunk, gaudy fools, in various states of undress. She takes a careful, surreptitious step back — barely perceptible except to his eyes.

Just as the Fatui agent beside him, aims a finger at her, “I think I shall have you tonight—”

“Starlight,” Childe angles his palm her way. “Come to me.”

Her eyes capture his, a silent moment of sharp scrutiny stretches in between them; before she, thankfully, heeds his silent offering. Shifting forward on quick steps before she’s within his space, placing her palm against his proffered one.

 The rest of the men, despite their supposed drunken melee, maintain sharp focus upon their exchange, Childe knows and feels their probing, curious gazes. Their very first time witnessing their Eleventh Harbinger beckoning an escort close, on one of their meetings.

He feels her grip upon his hand tense with the atmosphere she gathers gist of, as well.

How very unprepared, to walk in here, without knowing what she was getting into.

He wrenches her forwards, aware of the stares, and onto his lap. Nestling his face into the crook of her neck — the wisps of her perfume seeping into his lungs — he breathes, “Fancy meeting you here, comrade. Took up another job in my absence from Liyue, I see. The Guild’s not paying its adventurers enough these days?”

She exhales a low hiss, her fingers inching up the back of his head and threading through his hair — joining in on his façade of a prostitute seducing her client, by all means — until she pulls, hard, the sting of it tugging his grin wider. “Don’t be stupid, this was supposed to be a quick commission. I don’t understand—”

“I can see why she’s caught your eye, Sir. She's an exceptional beauty.” The agent beside them interrupts, eyes fixated upon her in a manner that lends Childe a sudden, vehement, burdening desire to rake his eyes out. He instead, smiles, blade sharp. “Isn’t she.”

The wretch dares his hands forward, reaching for her waist; Childe snatches the man’s wrist in a vice-like grip, twisting it backwards, until he screeches. “Tartaglia, sir!”

“She isn’t up for grabs, mate. Better keep those paws to yourself. That is, if you wish them intact on your way home.” Childe witnesses the agent pale underneath his frigid smile; wrenching his hand back against his body when he lets go.

All eyes are on their display now, blatant and staring; perhaps not his most stellar idea, not if he wants her out of here, safe and quick. Whatever her commission, and wherever it came from, this den isn’t the place for a lone Honorary Knight — no matter how brilliant. A secretive, corrupt group of Fatui agents gathered under their own personal banner of greed and vice, dabbling in illegal trade, outside of the knowledge of the Tsaritsa. Her presence; a wrench thrown into his own mission tonight, spanning several months of rooting vermin out, to gather them in one, single place and take care of the lot.

Several agents shift closer, smiles seemingly open but Childe catches their barely veiled veneer of caution and aversion beneath. He tightens a gloved hand upon her hip, in unconscious protection. “Stay put, ojou-chan.”

Her fingers fist tighter into the cloth at his shoulders, face sinking lower against his chest. “Childe, if we need to run, I—”

“Why do we not toast tonight, then, Sir, to your innumerable victories in the name of our esteemed Tsaritsa? Perhaps, your new toy here could join us for a drink.”

Childe sweeps up the cup offered her way, downing the alcohol in single swig, despite the reproach in her eyes. “Childe,” she insists, softly. The sake burns on its way down his throat, bitter tinge of a different mixture he catches on his tongue — he hopes it isn’t poison that takes him down — and grins in response, at the crowd, throwing his hand out for the next drink. “Very well, then. We celebrate, but you’ll have to excuse my companion here. I’m not one to share what’s mine, see.”

The declaration has the room erupting on loud laughter. An agent shuffles forward to re-fill Childe’s empty cup, one he tosses back just as swift. Drink after drink he drains, when offered, maintaining and aligning their conversation back to the agenda at hand, before her entrance had interrupted his line of thought. The men around, slowly warming to him once more, loosening tongues spilling vital information he tucks back into his mind, for later use. On his lap, she listens, just as intent, even through keeping up her appearances of a mute, pretty showpiece, reclining against his chest, and he’s grateful for her silent agreement in improvising alongside his plans. Not letting a single drop of alcohol pass through those pretty, pert lips; her gaze, just as sharp and vivid as it catches his, as he downs his umpteenth cup.

She's wearing that hair piece he gifted her once, for trouncing him in battle — he notices belatedly. And although, she’d accepted with much reluctance and loud complaints, he’d never seen her wear it, not even once, after, not until now. It looks beautiful on her, lent home on an amazing woman. Her eyes widen. “Excuse me?”

Was he this lost after a few cups he’d started spitting his thoughts out loud? Or perhaps, his comrade is just brilliant enough, she senses every thought of his. He skips his fingers over the ornament. “No, I cannot." She responds to his thoughts, once more. “You're drunk.”

That's not possible — he means to tell her. It isn’t the drink weakening his defenses.

His entire body burns — those duplicitous bastards, having the nerve to douse his drink with one of their peculiar drugs — fire licking up through his limbs. It's entirely too hot here.

“Master Tartaglia.” She speaks all of a sudden. loud and terse. That. That is hot, too.

He smiles down at her, “Yes, tsarev—” And before he can continue, he feels her slight fingers shaping about his jaw, tugging him downwards, and towards that disapproving moue as it presses against his mouth in a kiss. He immediately opens up underneath her, swiping his tongue against the rouge of her lips. He'd been wanting to do that, the moment his eyes had fixated upon the color against her mouth. “Mm, so very forward.”

“Master Tartaglia,” she insists, once more; a frown knitting at her brows. “Please, take me... elsewhere.” She speaks loud enough for the men immediately next to them. Her request drawing the expected reaction of gaudy snickering, as they urge him to take leave for the night.

“The pretty bird wants you in her bed, Sir. Better take your opportunity.” Followed by another volley of filthy laughter, drawing her expression tighter.

He immediately moves to grip her fast and closer, rising to his feet as he does. “I suppose I should, seeing as my lady here grows restless, having been left so long, to suffer in such festering company.” The comforting pressure of her hand squeezing at his shoulder makes his parting jibe feel all the more sweet.

Well then, there are certain faces he’s going to remember particularly well the next – and last – time he pays these wretched rebels a friendly house call.

He endures the next, several strides that carry them away from prying eyes and listening ears — any imminent danger — before Childe totters on his feet, releasing his grip on her in the process. She stumbles along with his almost fall; a warm circle of arms immediately coming around his waist, soon after as she helps support his sagging weight against her smaller body. “Sorry about that, comrade.”

She merely shakes her head, towing him over to the nearest empty bedchamber. “In here. Can you walk?”  Sliding open the shoji doors to admit them into an opulent spacious room, almost too garish for his liking. The few, rare times he’s found himself inside brothels, only out of absolute necessity for base relief. Or, when he’s had to direct certain targets into bed; a distasteful, last resort for when he’s unable to outright lay them to waste in battle. Contorted schemes such as those, he mainly leaves tossed to Signora or the balladeer.

Childe lets out a low whistle, canting a raised brow at her. “And so she continues to be increasingly bold. Why, printsessa, if you wanted to have sex with me, you could’ve just asked, instead of resorting to such precarious means.”

“Shut up, Childe.” She seethes, precious and familiar. Draped in fine silks, powdered and dolled as fine as a beautiful performer, but still just as sharp as she always is. The familiarity of their exchange almost makes him want to kiss her; he would too, if he weren’t so sure she’d kick his feet out from underneath him for having the audacity to try. Childe’s not sure he wants to be on his ass in this condition. The damn drug’s really doing a number on him.

She finally releases him onto the bed, heaving a soft exhale as she gives him a once over. “I’m afraid I’ve been misinformed, and I’m not sure how. Perhaps, the Yashiro Commissioner’s own contacts have a mole.” she muses.

Part of the haze seems to flee from Childe’s mind at the mention of that all too known title and the crafty, duplicitous bearer of it, his grip tightening around her arm he still holds. “He put you up to this?”

“I’m sure he must’ve been misdirected somehow, as well. I don’t believe Ayato would purposefully send me into unknown danger, had he been aware of it.”

His grip upon her arm tightens, then relaxes, slipping down the length of it to clutch at her wrist. “First name basis with that devious fox, and yet, you call me the trickster. Hah, you really do hurt me, comrade.”

The heat is within his head, his mind; radiating molten fingers into all sections of his body. Each point of contact — every single one of those five gloved fingers — against her feels a brand in that moment. His body’s a downright wreck and his emotions seem to be following suit, much faster than they usually do in her presence.

She has been a fascinating conundrum Childe has loved to puzzle out since the moment he’s met her; prod and pinch at, day after day. And the mere thought of another catching sight of, trying claim for his beautiful quandary, bares a deluging glacial ire within him that wants all near her extirpated into ashes.

His elemental energy pulses at the thought of drawing blood. A quick, sharp burst that gnashes and claws at the scaffoldings of his cage, a great, destructive wild beast. Falling to silence, almost at once, with the touch of her fingers upon his face.

“Childe, are you alright?” Worried, she looks so incredibly worried, through his eyes; it alleviates part of the deep ache settled into his body. He wonders if it’s his mind conjuring fanciful dreams under the cold, dull moonlight. Perhaps he should tell her he isn’t, just to have that touch upon him last longer. He wonders how her brows would knot, were he to push himself deep in between her legs.  

“Whatever could you mean? I’m fit enough for battle, comrade.”

“Enough with that idiotic machismo, it’s not even funny.” That harsh gaze is disapproving as it meets his; brow knit tight. She moves to place her forehead against his; this up close, he sees those pretty, red lips furrow further underneath her scrutiny. He’d really like to kiss her again.

“I thought this before, too, but you’re burning up! There was something odd in that drink you snatched, wasn’t there?”

Childe tips back onto his arms, angling a grin her way. “Might be, might not be.”

“Childe.” She reproves again, firmer. “Your breathing’s unsteady, you’re sweating profusely, and this,” her hand sweeps in to touch him where he’d only ever imagined she would – settling at his groin. Her gaze softens. “You knew there were stimulants in there, meant for me, dummy.” Her fingers slip down the placket of his trousers, working at his erection. “....I suppose I should say thanks.”

“Ojou-chan.” His hand whips past to grip at hers, stilling her motions. “Hold still. I don’t think you want to be doing that.” He grinds out, in between his teeth, hoping that warning is obvious enough for her to take heed. That pretty, stubborn thing does not relent. She presses closer into the crook of his body, nestling in between the sweep of his legs. Every single piece of hers seems to aim, as if a sharp-edged knife sawing through his tensed cord of control; her loose robes, flaring against the give of her breasts, rouged lips parting as she leans her head forwards, the gleam of his gifted accessory tucked neat into her hair. And her scent, of glaze lilies, as her delicate fingers curve about his jaw and tug upwards. “Let me help you.”

His hands shoot out, belting about her body. Gloved digits sinking deep into the shell of her hips as he hauls her onto his lap. Grinding harsh into the give of her thighs as their mouths crush against each other’s. He laps her tiny burst of surprise right against his mouth, sweeping at her lower lip, sinking a restive bite into the pliant flesh.

Her digits fist into the back of his head, tugging firm at the strands, “Slow down,” she breathes.

Childe tucks a sleeve of her kimono down one shoulder, palming a breast free of it, rolling the peak of it in between gloved middle and index. “Should’ve thought of that before you offered yourself up, ojou-chan.” Down, farther down, he nestles at her neck, sucking in lungfuls of her scent. Further, before he sinks a bite into her breast and tongues at the flesh. Her fingers sweep down against his jaw, tucking a gentle thumb against the edge of his mouth. She caresses the pad of it against his tongue and he proffers it further, pushing it up against her inquisitive digit.

Her breaths are hot and stilted, her cheeks flushed as she meets his gaze; watching the slow caress of his tongue against the length of her thumb, before he suckles it into his mouth. And she moans a very beautiful sound, he gently teeths at the digit on his tongue before popping it free. She swipes the wet digit against his parted lips, restless hands flittering for his shirt, before he seizes her wrists, pitching their positions as he tosses her back onto the sheets.

Her clothes are crinkled, dark fabric flaring against the sheets of the bedspread, as if an unraveled bloom. Childe’s never considered to forage for beauty in silly, meaningless romances of the common folk. But this strange traveler has turned his mind to many firsts, since their very first meeting.

And it makes him regard her just as beautiful when she is clothed, in her white dress, as she is denuded, right now, beneath his body. He clasps her wrists down against the bed, exerting pressure once, before he lets go. “Don’t move.” That beautiful, disobedient woman immediately moves to grab at his shirt collar and tug it open, before he captures her once more and shackles her wrists within his grip, forcing her arms up above her head.

She quirks a brow at him, eyes glittering with her own brand of mischief. “What? Are you the only one allowed to strip a partner down?”

He smiles. “Cheeky.”

“Stingy.”

“Could never be me, tsarevna.” He flexes his hold around her delicate wrists, drawing his element into a single burst; shaping hydro manacles about her hands. “Now, behave, and be good.”

He withdraws from her, tracking her fidgety movements of tinkering at the hydro seal, before giving up entirely. Angling a grin at her before he reaches to peel the shirt off his back, stilling her protests as she watches him, in turn; the spark of lust within her gaze, stoking the fires of his pride as high, as his pleasure. “Like what you see?”

 Her thighs shift, dragging her dress up against her hips. Childe immediately follows suit, dragging his palms up against the give of her flesh, his cock throbbing at the sight of her disastrous reveal. He firms his grip around the inside of her thighs, cleaving her open. “Hey, wait—”

Descending into the space he’s made in between, he fingers at the waistband of her panties, gaze tipping over to the damp spot in the lace. “Already this wet, my filthy comrade.” He prods at it, pressing into her opening, holding the jump of her hips firm against the bed.

“Let me remove my underwear, please.” She squirms beneath him, agitated as if she’d been doused with her own brand of aphrodisiac, instead of him. Childe buries the pleased tug of his grin in between her legs, nosing at the damp fabric, inhaling slow and deep. Her thighs tremble, violent, once more beneath his touch. He laves at the fabric, trekking the path of her slit from base to hood, just to feel her do it once more. Above him, she shudders; he trawls his fingers up against her quivering stomach, dipping into the flesh to feel her quiver. Slicking and lapping a lazy path against her, over and over, until the urgency of his own arousal’s dragged too taut by the scent and sound of her.

Childe shifts, just enough to remove and toss her underwear to the side; her sighs of whimpering relief following his own exhale, as he releases his cock from the tight confines of his trousers. Firming his hold around her thighs, he drags her forward, the head of him coating through the slick of her pussy; he gathers her arousal onto his length. And just as she opens her mouth, to no doubt, voice her protest, he plunges into her. Steady enough he hears every single one of her gasps break into delicious keens within his ears. “Hah, just as tight as you look on the outside.”

She clenches around his length at his provocation; gaze hard as it meets his, even through the dark flush of her cheeks. “Stop being so–”

He doesn’t let her word the end of that sentence, pressing deep into her, at long last. Slowly, he lets go of that final thread of tight knitted control; tongue sweeping wide across his teeth, as he angles himself forward, knocking a scream free of her throat. “Brace yourself, then, ojou-chan,”  depressing a wide gloved hand, harsh into the space of her stomach. “It’s been far too long since our last battle and I am, understandably, rather backed up.” Gathering her legs into the crook of one arm, and tossing onto his shoulder, he thrusts in again. “I trust you’ll keep up with me, yeah?”

Burying his approval in a grunt against her mouth when she gasps, “Good girl.”

“The Fatui resistance has been culled, as per your orders, my lord.”

His Master shifts in his seat, cerulean gaze honing in on the informant, in silent acknowledgement.

“As to the matter of the Traveler, my lord…”

“There is no need for worry of the Traveler’s safety, Kabuto. She was sent there so she could help dispel a certain rumor I’ve been catching drift of, these days.” His fingers drum against the armrest of his seat, the master tipping his head as if in deep thought. “The matter has been handled well, good work. You may take your leave, now.”

“As you wish, my lord Kamisato.”

And just as his agent retreats back into the fading dusk, Ayato spares a last glance at a certain, opulent establishment, visible in the distance. Speaking to no one in particular, he muses into the silence, “I should remember to reimburse the Traveler for her troubles, the next time she visits the Kamisato estate.” The moon above is rapidly swallowed up into the darkening clouds, stealing focus from the conniving quality of the smile that paints the Kamisato heir’s face. “I might have stumbled on to something of far more import than today’s operations.” He turns away from the sight of Inazuma spread beneath.  “Perhaps, I, too, shall make acquaintance of the Eleventh Harbinger, soon.”

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[janumun]

Rated: SFW/General Audiences

Author’s Notes: Hey Nonny. ♥️ Absolutely. Mammon is often associated with pure chaos in my head, a lot of it and this one’s not going to be an different. 😂♥️ Happy reading!

(Requests for this event are now closed, dear readers. Thank you to all those who participated.)

Mammon’s reactions are staged through an entire cycle of pandemonium. Starting the day off with his usual grousing moans of wanting to lie in bed, snuggled naked and close under the covers for five more minutes (it’s never five and you both know it).

The feeling of being under the weather for the past few days, random touches of mild nausea that drift in and out of your system, have you extracting yourself from his embrace earlier than usual. A late period’s the newest addition to your unusual and you’re mildly worried at this point.

And perhaps informing your dummy of planning a visit to the doctor’s wasn’t your brightest idea: he’s sprawled half-asleep, fully naked on the sheets one moment. Streaking out of bed and jostling himself into his pants the next.

Trying to extract reason in between his incoherent yelling of danger and ‘don’t ya dare die on me, human”, you parse a story of how a certain witch once foretold Mammon of how he’d drive any and all partners he might get intimate with, to sickness; pale skins and bloated abdomens till they popped out—

The racket; summoning his brothers, who upon listening to the preposterous tale—

“I don’t think that’s quite how curses work, Mammon…” begins Satan.

Lucifer fixes you with a discerning stare, as if he knows and understands your body better than either you or Mammon do. Before he suggests you to visit a doctor before assuming you require any exorcisms.

An hour later, saddled into your seats, bewildered, is how you and Mammon find yourselves as the recipients of the doctor’s news of your pregnancy. “Yer tellin’ me she’s got a baby in there?!” Mammon begins, tumbling out of his seat to fling his hands onto the doctor’s desk.

Half-worried he’s not happy about the news, you try to pacify him but—

Turning a glittering gaze your way, he speaks. “So that’s what the old crone meant when she said you’d be poppin’!” Sweeping you into his arms in a surprise grab, you nearly squeal. “Lucky us, ya treasure. You’ve got one of ours cookin’ in the oven. Hey hey, I think I love ya!”

I think, he says, when you’ve been married for several years now, you muse fondly. What an idiot. All yours.

Lucifer and yours is a planned child, although not as thorough as he would’ve preferred; he wasn’t sure if the two of you would be able to parent a child. Texts on demonic and human unions few and far in between. Efforts are certainly made, until the two of you are, at last, successful. A hybrid energy he senses within you one day, being far attuned to seeds of life than any of his other brothers; the most experienced of the Seven and having birthed Satan from his own demonic rage.

Time following after, Lucifer is an attentive partner and a tender future father. Moving to sweep you up and into his embrace, the moment he sees the mildest of shivers touch your spine.

Seated onto his lap, bundled warm within a strong arm and his dark jacket while he continues to work at his desk. A firm gloved hand taps at your hip every time you squirm out of worry for his discomfort. “Hush, love. A mother should care only for her well-being during this strenuous period. Save your strength and use me as you please. Do you understand?” A gentle kiss he places to your ear in affection, it warms you to your very core.

Beel is the type to believe you’d be requiring twice the amount of food, for a growing baby. He never wants you to go hungry, the sweetheart. His affections sometimes, landing you with more nutrition than you can possibly stomach and you have to constantly gentle his efforts back into moderation and remind him of your doctor’s orders to maintain a balanced diet. “Are you sure you’re not hungry? There’s not much left anyway, pumpkin. Just twenty more monstrous lime squids and you’d be done!”

And when you joke about how you’re going to turn thrice your size after childbirth, if you keep up these hearty meal schedules, he gives you a quizzical look, “...That would be a problem? It'd still be the you I like best.”

Your stomach does a little flip as you urge him to eat your share instead in an effort to divert his attention from the burning blush you feel consuming your face. Re-assuring him you’re really fine, in the face of his genuine concern and adoration. Happy relief setting as you watch his moue of worry turn to excitement as he scarves down his favorite meals. He's going to make a wonderful father, albeit a little silly. And you don’t want it any other way.

End Notes: Thank you for reading!

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[janumun]

Feelings on Canvas (A Twst Headcanon)

Characters: Malleus, Idia and Azul Rated: SFW/General Audiences

Author’s Notes: Hello! Sure, that’s cute. I hope you enjoy your read.

(Requests for this event are now closed, dear readers. Thank you to all those who participated.)

Malleus is rather surprised by the unexpected present, received under your anxious, hopeful watch. Eyes drifting towards the image of him penciled in deep green and vivid obsidian, as he inquires, “Is this your work?”

Before falling into contemplative silence following a quiet hum. Rising worry bubbling within, with each moment he lets pass, verdant gaze fixated upon the drawing in hand. But what Malleus is doing is admiring the work you put into the piece, having often intimately observed the works of the court’s artists back within Briar Valley and knows of the precious work put to perfect each piece. At long last, he speaks, “Did you, by stroke of chance, happen to sketch this on our last meeting?” A pleased smile spreading across his face, so incredibly beautiful, it has you mesmerised for a moment. And when you nod, “Thank you, child of man. I shall cherish it well.” And you can tell he means it. “Now, as for an offering in return...”

Azul studies the portrait with keen, assessing eyes, rendered speechless for several moments by your thoughtful gift. Being one never to expect ‘favors’ without probing thoroughly for any and all strings attached to the dealing, he still grapples with the idea of accepting your kindness, not as a price for affections but because he is loved, by you. A faint flush, barely discernible, settling across his face when that shrewd gaze catches the fine detail and care put into the lines of the finished product. He's no art appraiser by any means but years spent on scrutinizing goods for authenticity and superior quality have gifted him with the ability to appreciate fine work, and yours he certainly does find value in, sentimental, and monetary, were you to wish to set up a booth at Mostro lounge and earn your rightful keep. He graciously accepts your present, taking mental note to repay his beloved’s favor ten-fold, even if you do not ask for it. The kind and compassionate Sea Witch’s teachings aren’t one he’s going to discard this easy.

“Woah, it’s a superior 2D SSR character Idia-san. With his own kitty familiar. Hey, can I kiss those God Hands?” is Idia’s response to your present. He recalls how you sat in listening to his groans over gaming avatars some losers on the internet had that were better than any of his. Your boyfriend being an expert at all things involving machines and programming but art being the one subject he’s miserably poor at. His happiness is almost over the top, his smiles as wide as perhaps you’ve only seen, when Idia’s around cats and that reaction alone feels worth your efforts. Even as Idia turns around to input codes, once the digital copy of your art’s plugged in, muttering something along the lines of, “Alright, you sorry noobs, guess who’s gonna wipe the floor with your asses? Yeah, Idia-sama right here with his high-spec girlfriend is who, heeeeeeeeheh.” Beckoning you over to watch a successful annihilation of all abyss levels on his current game.

End Notes: Thank you for reading!

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