Tales of the Second Sea God 1 / Chapter 2
Rafayel hates you for everything your family took from him. You help him take everything back.
Whirlpools
You and Rafayel danced far too long around each other. He wants you, loud and clear.
Heat Waves
Beach episode
Crepuscular Rays
He wants to pamper you with ocean sex.
Undercurrents
Rafayel wants an introduction. You hear him out.
There for you
How Rafayel sits with your sadness.
Caleb x You
Fly Me to the Moon
Caleb harbors a secret crush on you. MC supports it.
White Dove 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3
Your undercover mission is 3 months long in Skyhaven. Caleb, brother of your long-time friend unconventionally becomes your associate.
A Lesson on You 1 / Chapter 2
Sex with Caleb.
Sylus x You
Birds of a Feather
Teamwork between you and Sylus is nonexistent. You have uncanny synergy, but you're not looking to ride someone's coattail.
Caleb x Xavier
War
Caleb and Xavier discuss Isaiah.
Jujutsu Kaisen
Gojo x You
Not in Your Orbit
You and Gojo don’t work on paper. He’s the heir to one of the country’s largest banks. You’re looking for steady income. You doubt your orbits will cross paths beyond college, but your gravities intertwine.
"You keep looking at me." Her face heats up. She opts to stare at the dresser.
"I'm learning what you like." Caleb swipes his finger from left to right, noting the soft moan she releases from this motion. Caleb keeps probing the spot just under her clit, a little over to the right, and then over again.
He'll remember that.
"Are you alright?" He continues.
"Yes, please don't, ah, stop. Mm." Caleb watches her lose her senses, her body mellowing with shallow pants. A red blush emits from her neck down to her chest.
"Okay," he concedes, happy to provide.
Her body squeezes involuntarily with his ministrations, matching his rhythm as he led the pace. Caleb loved her slipper wetness coating his fingers, chest swelling with pride.
He did that to her.
The thought undoes him little by little.
He rubs faster circles with his large thumb, increasing surface area with a delicious pressure.
Her back slowly bends into an arch, her hips raising in chase of a peak, a high, her body taut as a string. He switches over to his index and dips his thumb into her velvety slit. She spreads easily. So soft, so wet.
"More, please. Ah," she looks at Caleb all glossy eyed, pupils blown.
Caleb peppers kisses on her breast, sucks and bites on her nipple, and she's is too checked out to look shy. She bucks her hips towards him, moaning at the delicious stretch as she engulfs his thumb, more wetness drooling out.
Caleb takes this moment to feel for that hard, spongy spot of hers. He alternates between pressing at the spot and rubbing it. She twitches at the second, harshly letting out another moan through bitten lips. Caleb persists, his own hardness leaking precum.
"Caleb, oh, oh my god." She is about to lose her mind. She senses a familiar tingle atop her head before it washes over her body, causing a rapid flutter of contractions over his thumb, each contraction unforgivingly pulling him in.
Every time her pussy loosens, he hears a delicious pucker before she grips him again.
"Yeah, yeah." He coos.
Caleb does not stop his motions. He rides this wave out with her, rubbing both her sweet spots. She can't handle it. Her slit greedily squirts at his movements. The fluid is clear, her warm walls pulsing in consistent rhythm, wrapping and kissing Caleb's pointer and middle finger together.
One vice grip from her pussy slowly squeezes her juices out, dripping down his wrist.
It's the hottest thing Caleb has ever seen.
Moments pass before her vice grip on his sheets loosen, lowering herself as she comes down from this high. Caleb continues his gentle ministrations for a bit, waiting for her body to become pliant.
After she's quiets, he removes his fingers, tasting her sweetness like a boy licking that last bit of honey. His other hand finds purchase in her pussy, the same fingers stretching her full and stuffed. She cries out a little, feeling a rigid, stiff presence in her lower stomach engaging in those bundle of nerves. She's dizzy, and she loves it.
Caleb's eyes close, enjoying her taste.
He licks his fingers dry and wrings out aftershock orgasms from her. She pants, and squirms, and drools. She moans Caleb's name over and over again before descending into babble. It's music to Caleb's ears.
Five minutes later, she's fully pliant. He hears her shift and turns to her attention, handing her a towelette from the edge of the bed. She musters up the strength to pull at his collar.
He climbs over her, pressing her into his bed.
"You're so warm." She says, grazing the back of his neck, enjoying the soft scratch of his fade.
They look at each other before she gently tugs him down, and they kiss.
Caleb harbors a secret crush on you.
MC supports it.
Relationship: Non-mc x Caleb
AO3
MC flickers the science documentary off and tosses the control over to you. You nearly separate a limb to press 'Home' on their remote.
"Your aim is terrible today, little miss sharpshooter."
She groans out the last word, scraping for air, stomach to the floor.
"You know my shoulder's been loose for a week."
For good measure, MC rotates her wing span a couple millimeters more than yesterday. As per physician order, 5 sets 3 times a day targets the end of her medical leave for next week.
Until then, MC's crashed at your apartment. Simone and Tara frequent for sleepovers. Tara updates her dutiful subscribers on their latest astrological reading. Simone teases Tara about offering analysis to Liam, on the house.
If anything, Simone's shoulder should be the culprit for how hard Tara pushed her, after a notorious, embarrassed squeal.
They all refer to the event as the Squeakening.
But only half the coven is here. Today, MC enlisted you for annual spring cleaning. Her bribe was sweet. Braised chicken, modern rock swimming through her ceiling sound system, and a quarterly test trial of a new skin routine and trialing insanely expensive scents.
You found yourself deep cleaning MC's floors, knees red and thumbs dry with alcohol. A thumb signals MC's long and arduous wipe-down of her microwave, over.
Peace hummed in your mind. Simone was the first to invite you out for drinks after MC and Caleb hosted a get together. Weekday happy hour became weekends, and they've become strongly bonded since.
"Ah, my friend Skye gifted these to me. New inventory and a trial business venture for one of his clients," MC coughed out.
You sharpened your eyes, trapping MC. "'Mm, the scary guy with those beady red eyes?" A scoff and the force of a pillow blows your face. Okay, maybe MC was healing faster than she let on.
"He's not-! I mean, it's genetic." She extracts another wipe and smudges the shine away, revealing nothing.
"I'm just teasing you. But seriously," you round their kitchen island and roll a tester. "He's got great taste. Tell him thanks. You should invite him Saturday."
You nudge MC, who puffs her cheek before surrendering, a feminine laugh filling her open floor.
She lets out. "I already did."
You bust out laughing, a harsher, sharper sound that tickles MC. As if on cue, MC closes in on you, scans her collection before plucking a tube out and spritzes you.
"This one suits you. I knew when it came out lemon-y on me, the herbal notes would bloom on you."
You take a whiff and smile. It's rather sweet of MC to remember which scents paired well with your skin.
“Oh, it pays off to have a scientific genius as your friend.” MC smacks you unforgivingly, yet you feel the love.
In return, you fish out a trial tube from your bag.
"I got a hold of this perfume. It's warm like honey, got a kick to it. Smelled like ass sweat and leather on me." You brush MC's hair aside and sprays her neck.
Like a chef, you waft the scent in.
Delicious.
"Mmm, this is a new look on you." MC sniffs and hums pleasantly.
"I smell like roses-"
"Skye would love this on you-"
Another smack across your arm, this time less lovingly but more force. Luckily, just a plastic spoon that could do little to no damage.
"Are you double dipping jokes? Tsk tsk."
You surrender.
"Alright I'll retire for the night. Losing my game, clearly-"
"What game?"
A manly, boyish voice cuts through the air, sending tingles to your back, slowing down time. Only does the click of your locked door set everything into motion again.
"Caleb!" MC exclaims, rushing him over to their island. "You're early, come over here and do a smell test with us."
"Hey, pips. Hey." Caleb is making his way over, large frame near intimidating saved only by his gentle eyes and casual expression. His eyes land on you. You casually smile back.
"We got new inventory," you recover. Only MC knows your nervous habit of reusing phrases when your brain stops. You can't think fast enough.
"Let me see," Caleb counters gravity with his hip on the island, slotting himself between.
He sniffs the air once and questions, "Are you guys already wearing them?"
"Yeah, any you like?" MC responds, suspiciously fast.
You fiddle with the scents, making it top priority to find another tester for MC. "Seems like a timeless collection this round. I think we might have a keeper here."
MC hums and rounds the island to dig for some snacks underneath. "Yeah, I really like the one you tested on me."
She winks and you receive it with suspicion. Meanwhile, Caleb rounds the kitchen island towards you in, what feels like slow-motion. Your palms start sweating, and you internally push down the buoy of hope leaping between your chest and throat.
Your acquaintance formed with Caleb first during college. He was a class-favorite, friendly, extroverted, funny when it counted, and held strong marks. You were competitive, thrived in your own smaller circle, a bit forthright with your speak, and were the only one to keep coming second to Caleb. It ticked you off, which, you suspected, contributed to Simone's initial attraction towards you. They bonded over their initial dislike.
MC was the first to soften them up, meanwhile Tara loved stirring chaos and setting their process back to square zero. Tara's evil snickers ironed itself as your ringtone.
You alternated between your friend's laughs for ringtones.
It was Tara's laugh that perked Caleb's ears one day, during their physical training session. It was MC's laugh that made Caleb's do a double-take after class. His eyes tracked down the stranger, caught the fairy-like twinkle of MC's laughter, followed by the airy response of yours, who he later learned was his self-proclaimed rival.
That weekend, Caleb invited himself to their get together.
That weekend, you noticed sides to your rival that were jarringly out-of-character, at least compared to his student-body face.
Sometimes, Caleb had a faraway look, opting to fade into the background with Gideon and Patrick at the social forefront. Sometimes, he looked like he stirred and argued with himself, eyebrows deeply set into a mean look. Only a shoulder pat or friendly poke in the head from MC would shake him out of his daze.
You never broached the subject or found an appropriate opportunity to. Despite all the casual encounters after, where Caleb would spot your form and give you pointers. In turn, you would answer his out-of-pocket questions about life, death, that slowly bled into curt humor, recent political ongoings within the fleet and in the world, to mundane tv shows, and questions about the woman's perspective. Simone busted out laughing that over their weekend brunch. MC conspired and Tara frantically pulled two more tarot cards.
It part, you felt like a conversational practice partner. You seldomly stuck around when Gideon and Patrick came along, outside one bar hangout when Caleb went non-verbal. You had bloomed into a social butterfly on command to cover for his dead battery. Gideon caught on and gave you a raised eyebrow of approval.
That night, MC and her gals swung by, sweeping you off your feet into their own corner. To say their venn diagram of friends overlapped by just a tail explained their fragmented friendship.
Caleb was weird for sure, and a mystery that you needed to stay away from.
A mystery that was leaning in towards you at a dangerously slow pace. A glacier that was impossible for any human to stop.
Caleb's amethyst eyes felt like fire, a cosmos set fiery and ablaze. Impending doom. Apocalypse. You stood your ground, more-so frozen than brazen.
In a bizarre twist, he closes his eyes and breathes in, pausing after registering your gentle repellence.
MC peeks from the island counter edge. Internally, she reminds herself to text the groupchat without you.
"Caleb?" You bring him out of his… trance. "This is… the Eus de la Nuit. It's herbal for sure, maybe a bit medicinal."
He opens his eyes and looks heavily into yours. "You smell amazing."
You freeze. Your emergency reflexes flip on, and you spray him like misbehaving dog. "Try it, then."
Caleb coughs. He takes a moment to pblt the fragrance from his tongue and shakes his head. "It smells better than it tastes for sure."
"If you were further-"
"Okay!" MC claps her hands. "Snacks acquired."
Caleb remains where he is but turns his head. He nods at MC and smiles approvingly. MC nudges her head towards you. They communicate telepathically, and you pretend not to notice, treat it as water under the bridge.
The night carries on. Everyone comes over and they celebrate Patrick's promotion.
You recover. Simone and Andrew talk about their potential engagement. Tara announces her crush on a mysterious guy she met at another party.
Caleb finds himself leaning against you infrequently.
You gnaw at your nails, suddenly insecure seeing MC nurse her phone. You flash a glance at Caleb, only to see him gazing back at you. You smile politely. Caleb chuckles, dropping his head.
You look away.
Weird. Deep down you've had a feeling that MC and Caleb were childhood sweethearts. Hence, you've kept your distance like the plague.
It's the common conclusion anyone could come to, listening to their stories growing up. Road trips, studying overnight, spending summers together at the park, the fair, the carnival. Incredulously enough, you heard rumors (courtesy of Gideon) that they pretended to date, to scare off some suitors.
You immerse yourself in badgering Tara about her side hustle. Her profits are on the upward trend. She's changing up her content, testing different introductions and inflections of her storytelling. You check out her newest video, bookmarking and reposting immediately.
MC comes over suddenly and tugs your arm. "Tara, are you staying for this?"
"Of course," Tara agrees, clueless but eager.
"Staying for what?" You ask. Tara respond before you can toss a wild guess out.
“The main course.” She replies, conspiratorially.
"Yeah. Caleb's going to make a move on you." MC bumps shoulders with you. "Are you okay with that?"
You cough. You recover. You gape at them silently.
Tara giggles and gets comfy for the show unfolding before her.
Clearly there's information you're unaware of. You spend some time gathering yourself. Fiddling with the counter top only reveals so much. You gather up the wits to address the elephant in the room, looking MC directly in the eye.
"Well, are you okay with that? I know you two are, um."
You gulp, the next word coming out like mud. “Close.”
"Isn't this heavily against girl code?"
MC laughs and leans her head of your shoulder, her speed taking you by surprise. “Everyone thinks that. Tara did at first too. Simone saw through it. I'm sure you have too.”
You shake your head. “Probably, but it was easier to keep the mental guardrails up. You're breaking my mind right now.”
“Denial.” Tara helpfully offers.
“Definitely,” you wave your white flag.
MC shakes her head and continues. "No, we just grew up together. I hate this part, don't get sad but," and MC looks up at you with her big, doe eyes.
They're beautiful, you're not sure how Caleb doesn't get distracted, or anyone else for that matter. Light and innocence emit effortlessly from her gaze. "We only had each other growing up. Caleb's really hard on himself for being the more responsible one. He's only a year or two older but being an orphan ages you. It gets scary thinking about being really, really alone, you know?"
You gulp and soothe MC's back. While Caleb's the main topic, you assume MC must have carried her own weight, both born of her own and residual. MC nuzzles into your shoulder more, humming happily.
"You should get to know him more."
Tara sips on her cocktail, courtesy of Gideon's experiments. She leans her head on your shoulder too.
You hum and nod. "Thank you for telling me that. You didn't have to."
MC pokes your cheek. "I wanted to."
"Yeah, you tend to keep your distance. If I were a guy," Tara offers, plucking out a strawberry and feeding herself, "I'd think you didn't like me."
You sweat. Tara smiles sweet as the devil.
The new information swirls inside your stomach, making you nauseous. A part of you is still in disbelief. Out of poorly hidden curiosity, you decide to dig for more information.
It's a bizarre feeling but a lack of insecurity floods your head. "I had questions, but I don't think they're important now." Also known as, I trust you, I believe you. Their past has nothing to do with you. Only now, and the future matters.
"That's what makes you, you. I'm so glad I met you." A slight slur escapes MC's voice and you laugh. "You can always ashk… though…"
"You're getting drunk. And Tara, you've been drunk."
“I carry it well,” Tara giggles and you lean on Tara's shoulder. The 3 of you all lean off the stool.
"MC just wishes Skye would text her back." Tara teases.
"Duh, captain obvious." MC retorts. You gape at her blatant honestly. You look down.
"Where is he? You don't invite him. None of us have his info."
MC hums and checks her phone.
"He swaps our burner phones often. I do have his number though. I just feel bad for bothering him." The pout is evident in her voice.
"Your counsel cannot make a judgement until sufficient evidence is present."
"Does that mean you don't have enough information, or that he doesn't feel bad?"
"… Both," Tara rationalizes, trying her best to carry this consolation parade.
“He has your number, he's probably waiting like a gentleman.” Tara reasons.
"He doesn't seem the double text type." You add.
MC groans, "I just! I've been waiting to find the right moment."
"Don't lose him if he plays a different game," Tara warns.
"Yeah, you're right." MC whips out her phone and presses call. You help her stand up and pat her waist as she leaves.
"You sure know how to mobilize people." You direct towards Tara. "So about that brand deal, still need someone to proofread the email?"
Tara smiles, "I'll text you. Just relax tonight. I'm gonna go congratulate Patrick, officially."
"Okay, I'll come with-"
"No," Tara anchors you down by the shoulder. "Stay here, you already said hi. Nurse my drink."
You could overwhelm her. Physically, you are taller. Presence wise, Tara delivers sweet menace like no other. Tara abandons you with a drink in each hand.
You set down their near overflowing cups and wash your hands.
Quietly, you notice a warm presence by your side. It's intimidating.
"Drinking for two on a weekday's a new look." The voice observes, soft yet crisp. When you turn to acknowledge him, Caleb's already looking at you. The act stirs unfamiliar heat and nausea in your stomach.
You dryly joke. "These are my actual colors. I couldn't hide it from you any longer."
He weighs on your reply and looks down the marble counter. Chatter and laughter buzz around them. A smile slips onto his face.
"You don't need to hide from me," he slides a non-alcoholic drink over. "But I can bug you about staying hydrated."
You suck your breath. Clearly you've believed misconceptions about several people close to you. Maybe, you consider, you'll take the leap and open your mind to Caleb. Your rival, turned acquaintance, turned friend-of-a-friend who's continued to linger around that league. You begin undoing the wire fence built to withstand all surprises, trump any expectations that could shatter your heart, and your friendships.
You turn to him, and God, he's still looking at you with an unfairly charming, peaceful glint in his eye. Did you always feel this safe in his proximity?
You take MC's advice literally, even if would-you-rather is a kitchsy attempt.
"If you had to choose between $50,000 a year guaranteed, no need to work, or $500,000 a year doing something you hate, which would you choose?" You sip his water, grab both drinks, and motion him over to the balcony. The kitchen island is too high traffic for any undisturbed, prolonged conversation.
Caleb obeys quietly, never letting their distance grow further than 4 feet behind. Your dark, cool hair shines with a luster that compliments the star-sprinkled moon-lit night sky. He leans against the screen, relishing in the cool glass against his flushed skin.
You're beautiful.
He hums to cover his thoughts, stalling to drink in your gaze. "I'm already doing the latter," and you choke, "It's not too bad."
A swallow. "Okay let's flip it, what would you do if you had 4 more hours in the day? Same pay, just more time."
"What roundabout way to ask about someone's hobbies," He smirks.
"Passions, whims," you correct.
Caleb tilts his head and brings a thoughtful finger to his chin. "My passion is tinkering, and flying. I've built model planes since we were kids. Overseeing the fleet…" The faraway look creeps into his gaze again before you can stop it. "Checks some of those boxes."
He pulls out his phone, a quick tap into his photos, another expands it, and he swings it over to you. "The thrill of flying still keeps me going. The community is the other. Out of everyone around me, the mechanics took me under their wing." All that to say, "I'd build planes with them."
"Not for the fleet," you clarify, taking in the group selfie of Caleb and four other men, oil smudged and sweaty, with a unique single flyer model behind them.
"Definitely not the fleet." Caleb smiles.
You whistle, zooming in to the model behind them. You've already memorized Caleb's sweaty yet boyish mug and CK-esque build, sporting that white tank. Play it cool.
Caleb doesn't react, his gaze on your profile as you analyze the near pixelated jet from how much you've zoomed in.
"Tell me more about this, what makes it special?" You zoom back out and return his phone. Your fingers touch. Caleb waits for you to let go.
"You really wanna hear?" He tucks his phone back.
"Of course."
Your tone is earnest, and Caleb loves the way you sound. You make him feel warm.
"Well, the engine carries different fuel. Slower burning with standard wing geometry to reduce drag. The thrusters can change airflow paths mid-flight, optimizing the cruise and giving you this gentle takeoff. We're tweaking those variables right now to make it feel like you're floating on clouds, essentially."
You whistle. “And here I was, expecting to hear about a better, faster, bigger plane.”
“Sounds like you care about the ergonomics of it all. That's kinda refreshing,”
"Yeah, we care more about the feeling of flying. Not if you can fly better, or faster, or sharper. Those maneuvers are mainly for combat. I want flying to feel how I imagined as a kid."
"That's rather sweet." You leave no room for interpretation. "So you're a car guy, essentially."
Caleb laughs, "Yeah, call me if you need any fixing." He pauses, a light bulb flickering and you find it adorable that you're able to read his mind for once. You chuckle as the question slips out, perhaps a bit too eagerly.
"Do I have your number?"
You shake your head. "No, you don't." Your heart thumps, but you smile.
"Hand it to me," he does a mini come hither with all four fingers. "Just in case a real emergency comes along, too, you know?"
You give him a suspicious look but all too willingly comply. He's rather blunt. You prefer it that way.
"Alright," you say. "Expect suuuper late night messages, my stuff tends to break at inconvenient hours. I'll be sending you inane questions and annoying quizzes."
"That's perfect," Caleb accepts endearingly. He moves on too fast for you. "You asked me such a revealing question. I can't be the only one dropping defenses."
"When's a time you've been mad? What happened, what did you do?"
You twirl the ice in your drink and decide for honesty. No airs to make you look better, no overbearing ugliness.
"Something I had control over?"
Caleb pauses and leaves the ball in your court. "Your choice."
You take a sip and nod seriously. "I held resentment towards my mom for our situation. We don't see eye to eye, but years later I realized she was working with limited resources. So I cleaned my act up, got myself sorted, and I'm working on her situation too." You realized it might be insensitive, but it coming from a deep crevice of your mind outweighed any tact. The thought came impulsively.
"The light at the end of the tunnel is that I got to learn another language more fluently. So if you ever need a travel companion to the West, feel free to call on my service." You try to steer the conversation in a lighter direction.
"Glad I have your number then," Caleb laughs.
He smooths a thumb over the counter. "This sounds like it happened a long time ago, for a long while."
"Yeah, I was a toooootal brickhead. College helped blow a lot of that steam out."
“I remember your name under mine. You always tried to crack my class rank.” He chuckles and shakes his head.
“You're like, twice my size!”
“Remember, that mindset keeps you second.” He teases, and you smack his arm.
You crack a smile and both laugh. Caleb pushes some water towards you before resuming.
“Everyone reacts when they feel cornered. I'm glad you're both out of that, or almost.”
You take his offer.
"Thank you Caleb, I appreciate it."
The night air billows. When you turn, he looks at you. You notice the near automatic reaction, as if his senses covered a wider field of vision. Little do you know, Caleb's paid more attention than he'd admit to you, since your rivalry was announced to him.
With another gust, his necklace's reflective glint captures your peripheral.
"I wanna know the lore behind your necklace." You gesture with your chin. The water is calm, but you're wading through on your tip toes.
He follows your direction and smooths over the pendant thoughtfully. The pendant drops as he looks at you again.
"I'm surprised MC didn't tell you."
You smile, hiding your anxiety. Despite your earlier conversation with MC, you don't know what Caleb will say.
"She gifted it when I left for academy. I wear it because… I guess… it's the first keepsake from my family."
You nod understandingly. "I would treat a family gift like treasure, too."
"Right. It means more because she's the only family I have."
Caleb breathes a little. You know because his chest rises and falls a little deeper than usual.
"Yeah, I understand. It looks like you take good care of it. Spotless, great work." You smile at him, and he smiles back.
"I do keep it in solution sometimes. Being careful and layering it under the uniform is enough to keep it in good condition."
"Hmmm… that's quite an image, for sure." You can't help but let a comment slip. One drop of desperation slips out, like new sweat.
His ears perk, his shoulders perk, and a light shines in his eyes. Caleb lets out a soft laugh and relaxes again. This time, his shoulder looks softer, more relaxed. You can only wonder what's going on in his head.
"Sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I just… have eyes." You try again. "I appreciate hard work!"
He smiles this time.
"Don't be sorry, hearing you say that makes my day. Night, rather."
You let his words sink in for the first time, instead of batting them away for some other, more mundane interpretation.
"Really?" And your voice comes out, quiet.
"Really," Caleb says softly.
Another breeze sweeps you both, this time framing Caleb's face in a different light. You gulp, suddenly wanting to fix your hair, your clothes, your nails, your everything.
So you do, a newly discovered nervous tick. You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, smooth out your shorts.
Caleb shifts closer, his arm brushing against yours. He doesn’t say anything—just sits there, close enough that you feel the warmth of his skin against your side.
You keep your eyes fixed on the skyline, pretending it’s the only thing you’re focused on. But your heart’s already betrayed you, thudding in your chest a little louder than you’d like.
“You’re quiet now,” he says, voice low.
“Just thinking,” you answer. It’s easier than the truth.
He tilts his head, studying you like he doesn’t fully believe you—but he’s not going to press. Not yet.
The silence between you stretches, but it isn’t awkward. It’s full, gentle.
You run your thumb along the rim of the sliding door, tracing the edge slowly.
"So I've… been promoted from stranger to rival, to… friend?" You suck in your breath.
He exhales—part laugh, part breath, part something heavier.
Caleb leans back against the windowsill. "If you're okay with that definition. We can revise and edit later on."
You're at a party. MC, Tara, Simone, Gideon, any one of them could show up at any moment. You bite your lip and concede by nodding.
"Edit and revise sounds fine with me, Mr. Co-Author."
"One thing." Caleb steps over without notice, heat immediately hugging your body and face.
"Hm-" Is all you get to muster before you feel soft petals, slightly dry lips on your cheek. A quick peck that lasts forever.
When Caleb pulls back, you find yourself gravitating towards his orbit. Drawn in by those violet eyes that emit warmth from his stormy vortex.
"Just making an edit. Was that too much?" Caleb clears his through and reassumes their previous stance.
You react, cat-like, before he can slip through your grasp.
"No, not at all. Co-signed. Approved." You huff.
"Amazing." His eyes never leave you.
You know the ball is in your court.
"Now I don't want to go back in there. You've trapped me."
"I'm not sure who trapped who first. Buuut, we could leave and grab … some food? Did you eat?"
Caleb takes charge of your pace, leaving no room for you to comment. "Not yet, have you tried the old dumpling joint nearby? Beer won't break your bank."
"No," Caleb smiles, "Take me."
"Okay," you smile. "MC told me you're a great cook by the way."
"I'd love to leave you a professional, totally anonymous review that totally won't make its way to the Chef."
"If you live up to your word, I'll show you a restaurant I'm actually banned from."
"There's no way you say that and not tell me the story behind it."
Caleb holds the screen door open for you, motioning for you to depart first. You smile at him and walk through. His gaze never leaves your frame.
You find his staring habit adorable. You hope that his gaze won't stop following you for a long time.
Caleb closes the screen door behind him. MC is nowhere to be found, Simone and Tara spot you two immediately, sending you goodnight kisses and goodbye imitations of the royal family.
Gideon and Patrick spot Caleb herding you out. They send him a knowing look, Gideon grinning, before returning to their current conversation. Patrick shoots the group chat a message. Caleb feels the buzz in his front pocket, filing their clownery away for later.
You and Gojo don’t work on paper. He’s the heir to one of the country’s largest banks. You’re looking for steady income. You doubt your orbits will cross paths beyond college, but your gravities intertwine.
Relationship: Gojo x Reader
Edit 1/19/26: Reformatting italicized dialogue to quotations. In progress.
AO3
Shoko’s the one who doubles your physics study group from a measly count of two, you and her. "Geto’s the best tutor of his year, she says, willing to help out kids who’ve skipped a year."
His friend Gojo is standoffish, but he warms up to you after your knack for mental shortcuts and stupid mnemonics surprises him, saving him from failing a midterm.
"Holy shit, do that again," he says, poking your shoulder like there’s a button somewhere, and you swat him away. Shoko pokes you, so does Geto, and you squirm. You run away, knowing Shoko isn't the type to sprint if she can avoid it.
Gojo’s competitive side is electric. It shocks him into reaction. Before anyone can question it, he dashes after you. All you feel is a gust of wind before a tug opposite your direction latches on, jolts you backward, and you both tumble down the hill at the ass crack of dawn, frozen and bruised from the packed snow.
In your 2nd and 3rd year, you learn through several all-nighters together that Gojo really needs to know his shit academically and be the guy who's well-spoken, charming, and generous to appease his elders.
He complains he’s keeping it together by a thread, low on sleep and high on stress. Geto says that, "The only way out is through," deep in his self-help era. Shoko offers sympathies but admits, "I can’t relate, good luck."
You opt for a don’t-ask, don’t-tell policy, and just sprinkle 5-hour energy into his coffee. "Drink this." It works, because he’s the one who wakes you up just in time for your final, and he holds it over your head all semester.
By the 4th year, you guys have frolicked through hell and back together.
Gojo is ticked off when his rich friends restrict invites to certain afterparties and functions. He attends both, maintaining appearances, but deep down he much prefers to smoke out Geto’s room, the four of you fucking around board games, baking in Shoko’s apartment, making fun of noir films at yours, hitting the gym, and taking late night drives to scream at the ocean.
After graduation, you score an internship in the same city with Shoko, who’s relieved but also visibly upset that Geto’s going abroad.
"Uh, anyone gonna miss me, guys?" Gojo pouts, and everyone says "No," holding a pause for 3 second before launching apologetic slaps on his back. "Thanks guys," he says, sore, "If you forget about me, I’d die from sadness."
He squeeze Shoko's shoulder, "Don't worry, Geto showed me his calendar. He's got flights booked to see a certain someone," he pauses for dramatic flair. Shoko rolls her eyes, takes a drag, and blushes. Gojo winks at you like you had anything to do with securing this information, and you nudge Shoko. She gives you a shy smile.
So you, Shoko, Geto, and Gojo keep in touch after college. No one migrates the group chat, and it’s the busiest thing you’ve seen. Your phone doesn't shut up. Good mornings and nights multiple times a day, group calls that last hours. Occasionally, all or some of you meet up in each other’s cities for extended breaks and holidays. Pairs were easy, trios sometimes, rarely all four. Impromptu dinners would turn into overnight stays and weekend-long trips.
Near the end of the 1st year, Gojo rejects several of the group’s invites. He explains that he has a girlfriend. Everyone understands. You shoot a text congratulating him, say that it took longer than anyone expected. Shoko asks for a photo, you call him a cougar, and Geto asks to meet her father for an internship.
The three of you always bet that Gojo would be the first to split off, noting his life trajectory just seemed destined for a different road. The group chat only quiets a bit, but Gojo doesn’t seem to change much.
Year 2, Shoko reveals Geto's officially asked for her heart. She tell you through drunken whispers at the crack of dawn. You giggle, high off the lack of sleep and joy, mumble sweet congratulations as your eyes droop close.
You beg her to hear how it went down and she happily tells you how Suguru swept her off her feet, that suave bastard. Geto asks for a double date in the group chat, and Gojo jokes, "That’s really not a good idea, buddy." Shoko reacts with a question mark, and you send a frozen, shocked frog sticker.
In Year 3, the four of you rent out a cabin in the mountains to celebrate your promotion. Geto is the first to touch your drink with his, commencing the night with a short speech. To his credit, it’s good, and you credit his public speaking skills to the slew of literature he’s been reading.
Shoko leans on you, and Gojo surprisingly wraps you in his arms. I knew you could do it, is what he wants to say, lips so close to the shell of your ear. Instead he says, "Look at her, our token smartass strikes again."
Shoko spills your barren love history to the group during Uno. You fake mock betrayal at being subjected to mere gossip fodder during a tough round. But it's okay, anyone that one that gets made fun of, affectionately, for the night, is actually an intervention out of care.
Shoko consoles you, "It’s okay, practice makes perfect." Geto laughs at your staunch theory of self improvement before entering a relationship, and Gojo warns you to stay away.
"Uh oh, trouble in paradise?" Geto asks. Shoko shakes her head disapprovingly. "Don’t listen to him, not every relationship is like that," and you’re happy to change the subject.
2 months later Gojo reveals he parted ways with his girlfriend to focus more on his identity and career. The reason is incredibly vague and none of you are able to pry more out of him, so Geto says "Try finding better excuses, bro." Shoko gawks and asks "Stooped to hiding from us now?" And you send him the number to a hotline. Gojo fires back, laughs and giggles on all fronts, but he’s serious.
Year 4, Gojo sends a picturesque photo of him in foreign land. Different mountains, a bright smile, surrounded by other friends. Geto sends a row of flirtatious smirking emojis, Shoko snarks about not being invited, and you bully him into purchasing souvenirs.
Your bullying results in a surprise FaceTime, just the two of you, with choppy audio and what should be an unflattering angle of Gojo’s chin, but is quite flattering, and he asks if the trinket he picks out is to your liking. It's bright, and the light softens all of his usual sharp angles.
After that, the calls don’t stop. He stays up with you when you’re knee deep in submitting to the scientific journal, or when you’re struggling with a recipe. You pick up when he calls, bored, but you know that despondent look means something’s actually wrong.
He calls you when anything good happens, too, triumph over his superiors, a fresh vine of tomatoes acquired, a cute dog that took a liking to him. You two spend way too much doing dumb crafts together, and you send a photo of the baked clay animals on your shelf. He sends one back, a picture of his desk. It’s serious, solemn, and gray, entirely unlike him.
Whenever he travels, and he’s always traveling, he flashes you his classic airport fit, says he got you a matching one, and you snort when the delivery arrives at your door. It smells good. He saves Shoko’s photo of you in the group chat, snapped after you picked her up in your car for a girls-only-weekend, all-inclusive of sleepover, wine, and a camping trip.
You’re sporting a hoodie in the shade of blue that only he would choose. "Is that yours or are you seeing someone?" She asks. "Uh, this is mine," you say. "I didn’t know you wore cologne," she comments, and you scramble for the truth. "It must be a unisex brand, it came like this!"
Year 5 goes by. Shoko isn’t shocked when you ask her to proofread your dating profile. You send it to the group chat for review. Geto gives you serious advice about "adding full body photos," which was also Shoko’s suggestion that you didn’t take, and Gojo says that you’re "washing down your personality in your profile."
"Why are you pretending to be someone else?" Gojo texts. You answer in earnest that you’re looking for love so you gotta sell yourself, embellish a but, and to send any handsome friends your way. Shoko sends you a list, Geto visibly stresses at how many good men she knows, and Gojo unsends a message.
You hit the jackpot with a nice, modest guy. He’s ambitious, caring, but you two aren’t on the same wavelength. You fall in love for a year and out of love in the next. It ends in year 6, when Shoko and Geto host their annual new years party.
You invite your boyfriend. Geto talks shop and gets along with the guy, Shoko is polite and impressed by his resume, and Gojo, who's able to make it in person for once, turns on business charm out of nowhere, flinging jokes that are particularly unfunny to you. Your boyfriend finds them hilarious, and he has a great time.
He leaves early for another event, without you, and Gojo motions neck-chopping in disapproval.
"C’mon, stop giving her a hard time," Geto scolds, "He’s nice and treats her well, that’s a start." Shoko comments, "On paper he’s great, but do you really feel he’s the one?" And Gojo rules him out, "You two can’t laugh about the same things, how’s that going to work?" For the first time, you’re genuinely embarrassed.
"Okay okay, wow I got the message guys!" You’re looking for your purse, suddenly tired, and Gojo grabs your arm. "Where are you going-" but you stop him, "I’m going to miss the train," and he doesn’t let go, "I can drive you back." And you say that’d be inappropriate, because you share an apartment with your boyfriend.
Unsurprising to everyone, within the next six months, you and your boyfriend come to the agreement that you don’t understand each other’s needs. It’s stale without a shared foundation, and you can’t get deeper before disagreements brew.
He apologizes that it has to end this way, and you thank him for the time. The train ride back from dinner is oddly not so different, and you DM Shoko. She calls you, and you two stay on the phone all night. She checks-in weekly. It’s the fifth week when your news ends up on speaker. Shoko's with Geto and Gojo.
"You’re in the area?" You ask. "Surprise business trip," he responds, taking out a bottle of aged whiskey. Geto looks at him, and you can tell there’s silent guy-to-guy conversation brewing. Shoko brushes their silent conversation aside, pours the whiskey, and asks you if you’re busy this weekend. Your eyes light up, and Gojo can't look away as you set your phone high enough to pack.
You toss an overnight bag in your car. Three hours later, you fling yourself onto them for a group hug. The four of you shoot the shit, take a walk way too long for 1am, load up the karaoke machine, and surprisingly receive just one noise complaint. There's cake, beer, vodka, fruits and vegetables per Geto's request, and fried chicken. A part of your heart sings and how good it feels to be back together.
Gojo takes the floor in the guest room and you take the bed. The two of you chat about everything but his love life. Instead, he’s more interested in yours. "What happened?" You’re on the mattress’ edge, and Gojo is already turned on his side looking at you. "Like you guys said, we worked on paper, but I could tell he wasn’t in love with me."
You whisper, "I did my best though."
Gojo huffs out a breath, ruffles his bangs. He reminds you, "It’s not about being the best. Perfect doesn’t exist... even though I’m pretty close," and you toss a pillow at him. He laughs, catching it easily. "But seriously, it’s a two way street. He wasn’t enough for you, either then." And you lay there, feeling better and more deserving than you ever did about the breakup.
Just then, your phone lights up with a dating app notification. Gojo watches you reflexively check your phone, and he sighs. "Delete it." He says. "Why?" You tear your eyes away from the screen, incredulous. He’s shameless, "because you’re with me right now and I need undivided attention," going so far as spamming pouts like a macro. You burst out laughing, "Fine you sad puppy, happy?" And he smirks, satisfied. Even though you just close the app, he feeds your willingness to please him, for weeks.
Year 7, Gojo’s frequently ripped away with business calls, surprise meetings, and emergency flights.
He still calls you though.
One Saturday, while you have Shoko over for another girls-only staycation. Shoko watches your chat about the day unfold over FaceTime, and when he drops the call she gives you a long look. "You two always do that?" She asks.
"Yeah, picked it up from our group calls, and with you." You over explain, dragging out some parts. Shoko knows you're trying to figure her out. She’s buffing her nails, her own nervous tick when she’s stewing on a thought, or decision.
"You alright?" You ask, and Shoko sighs, asks "Have you been on social media recently? Checked the news?" You narrow your eyes, well aware she’s digging for information to confirm her secret suspicions, but all you can say is "No, why?"
She pinches the bridge of her nose and texts Suguru. She doesn’t know, before answering you. "Nothing, I just overheard Satoru stress about something to Suguru when you slept over that weekend." You pout when she refuses to tell you what’s going on, and all she says is "Ask Satoru about it."
With uncanny timing, a text notification comes in. That’s not fair, Gojo’s contact lights up your phone. He’s texting you under the table of a board meeting. When’s our sleepover? Let me fly out so we can stop messing up each other’s sleep schedule.
You text back saying your humble abode is too modest to house him. He rolls his eyes, reacts with a middle finger, and he sends over his calendar, before abruptly being called to speak at the board meeting.
Shoko says she needs a smoke when you flip your phone over to her.
"Well if it's that important that it has to come from him, let's talk about something else. I really wanna try out this new pattern on your nails. Are you and Geto getting married anytime soon?" You shift the topic piece by piece. Shoko snarls. A cute, empty threat, but her cheeks are tomato red.
Gojo sends you his flight details next month, and when you pick him up at the airport, he’s buzzing with excitement. He's in a hoodie, a cap, mask, and those stupid circular sunglasses. Gojo runs and embraces you. It takes most of your strength to not fall over.
"I missed you," he says, something foreign coloring his voice. Looking back, you should have picked up on this. "I missed you... too? Are you good?" You pat his back and he only squeezes tighter.
"Yeah, just excited. Let's go." He hops into passenger and connects his aux.
The ride back is loud with classic rock, all easy enough to duet. The both of you are shouting, and mock crying to sad lyrics. You two detour and drive into the mountains, watch the sunset, and skip rocks into the fields. Dinner at the barcade is louder.
"We're kinda old now, don't you think?" He says, dropping coins into the machine. "No," you disagree, "My joints are still working fine. Maybe drink more broth? Else you're gonna lose all our matches from now on."
Gojo looks at you, and he laughs. "I've been slacking, but you just gave me reason to keep up my health." He's purchasing a ton, looks like you'll be here awhile. You two mosey over to hoops, then ski ball, then table hockey. "Sometimes I wish I could go back and change everything."
Your brows quirk, in disbelief. He looks deep in thought, so you send a fast one, hoping to score a point. "Everything?"
He shakes his head and laughs, "Not everything, I'm just being dramatic," effortlessly blocking your disc and sending it back down. "Hmmm, looks like my joints are working fine." You flip him a finger and glare daggers at him in mock rivalry.
When he serves, you ask, "What would you want to change?"
You block his serve and rally for a bit. In the end, you score the point, just narrowly. That's game. Gojo stretches, revealing a narrow sliver of his abdomen. You look away, but Gojo brings your attention back. "Not taking over my father's business," he finally answers.
Gojo motions you over to next game, trading shoulder bumps here and there. It's a game you developed to see who can knock over the other first. Stupid, pointless, but you two do it anyways.
"You don't enjoy it? I thought you loved the thrill, the game." Darts, easy.
"I do," he says. "I like bending the rules and seeing how far I can get. But the work's digging its claws into areas of my life I don't want it to."
You almost fly a dart into the owner’s faded family and friends photo wall, and the two of you scramble to hide it by rearranging other posters over it. When your knuckles bump into each other, you can’t help but intrusively think that Gojo moves like air, here if he wants to be, gone the next.
"Okay, you gotta be a bit more specific here. Like, unwanted under-the-table favors, grueling overtime on trips, shitty deals and projects. Are you getting bullied?!" You rationalize until it becomes silly.
Gojo chuckles, "Getting bullied is a great way to put it."
Gojo stands behind you, grabs your elbows and adjusts your stance. Oh, you think, this is... new, but not new. You guys gave each other points all the time, just not like this. Gojo's height blocks the overhead lamp. If he leaned down, it'd be easy to steal a kiss.
"Like who I marry."
Shock, surprise, jealousy splashes your bones. Wait, what? That last one doesn't belong there, you think. Your brain scrambles to recover, act normal.
"So, your family put it in super fine print or something when you signed it." Neither of you are really moving, but Gojo has half a mind to slip a dart into your palm.
"Yeah, I'm locked in a bad deal."
Unattainable, the label crosses your mind again.
The cool plastic brings you back, and you send it into the center. Your body is on autopilot. It's off by just a millimeter, and you do your best to feign annoyance at the score difference.
"Well, maybe it'll be like college?" You step away and grab the next dart, dropping the dart in his hand. "You meet some pretty cool people in those circles up there, I imagine."
"Sure, but-" Gojo pauses, words caught in his throat.
"Buuut...?" You flick your head towards the board and sit on the empty pool table's edge. Gojo tosses it without looking, landing dead center.
He moves toward you.
In two seconds, he's caged you against the rim. You put a hand on his harm to stable yourself. Internally, Gojo laughs at himself for how close yet far away you are. It took two seconds to have you within his arms, yet years to say these four words.
"You know me best," Gojo confesses.
Your mouth hangs, and Gojo could lean forward right there. Seal the deal.
"I'm pretty sure that spot belongs to Geto, and by proxy, Shoko." You don't back down, deflect so hard that it slaps him in the face.
"Have I been reading you wrong?" He asks, voice thin. There's too much tension for either of you to stitch all the pieces together. "Do you like me?"
"Even if I did, it wouldn't work." You conclude, all by yourself.
"Don't say that," Gojo pleads, asking for room to negotiate. You're sickened by how good he sounds begging for you.
"I just don't see how it'd work under your terms and conditions," you weakly joke.
"Can we at least try?" It's not too late, he lies to himself.
Gojo doesn't look away, but his jaw ticks. He hasn't quite figured out the situation himself, but he wanted to work on it with you. He drops his head on your shoulder, and you pat his back. You wouldn't admit that the weight of his body is a salve to your cracking heart.
"We'll... always be here for you. Invite us to your wedding, okay?" You say, kicking yourself.
You camp out in your living room with him later that night, a makeshift tent with plenty of snacks, unfinished board games, and a video game paused on the screen. You two agreed to go home after the Darts conversation.
Late night sugar rush and stupid movies end with your knees pressed together, heads resting on shoulders, sober, slightly sorrowful, and ready for bed, against the couch.
In the dead of the night, right before you get up, Gojo opens his palm. "Hey, I need to be honest with you about one more thing."
"Oh no," you think aloud. "Are you dying?" You joke, poking his palm.
Gojo flicks your finger and you flick back. Something shifts in the air and he’s quick, moves his palm down, snakes a finger from your wrist to palm, breaking open your loose fist. Your heart stutters, neither moving when he weaves you two together, hands rougher than you expected, cold and hot in places that keep you guessing.
"Not dying literally. Just metaphorically. You should see the news." News? Shoko flashes in your memory, and you’re reminded how different Gojo is now, expectedly feeling far out of your reach, he’s not just the doofus of your friend group, yet he still is.
He asks for your phone, does a quick search of his name on social media. Gojo lets a smile appear on his face when he sees your For You page. No wonder you hadn't heard anything yet. It's all cats and recipes.
So weird to see him use my phone, you think. Your attention sways, and he watches you, face lit and flickering by the TV mirroring your device, unable to prevent time from stopping.
WALL STREET BUZZES
Insurance Titan's Daughter to Wed Private Equity Dynasty’s Heir in Deal of the Decade
You scroll the aggregation of news outlets and they all use the same words scrambled in different orders. You’re not sure whether a cold congratulations or heated scolding is in order, but you know that the stone forming inside your gut is not the thing to focus on.
Rather, your immediate reaction is to pull your hand away, but Gojo doesn’t let go. "Wait-" he says, and with uncanny timing, Gojo’s phone lights up. It’s the same woman’s name on the TV.
"Oh my god," you say, horrified, dropping your phone, successfully ripping your hand away this time.
Gojo doesn’t stutter when his own phone rings. Terrible timing. He picks up, a silvery voice comes through, the speaker deathly calm and elegant, asking about his whereabouts. Your gut twists imagining yourself in her position, of being in dangerous proximity to getting tangled up in some stupid emotional affair.
Gojo is too calm, and too nonchalant about her slow descent from generous kindness to suspicious tension. He ends the call without any resolution, saying they’ll talk during the week to formalize papers. Your stomach twists and you want to heave.
"My fiancee," Gojo sighs, before attempting to lay on your shoulder. "What the hell?" You move away entirely, as if activating his barrier for him. Gojo sits there. "You’re engaged. Have some decency. I don’t play this game." He looks at you. "There is no game," he says, not thrown off at how fast you accuse him of adultery. "We’re arranged," he says rehearsed, "It’s business." He doesn’t seem enthused by it, and that far away look returns to his eyes.
"You couldn’t have said anything?" You pry, and Gojo admits, "I didn’t like talking about stuff out of my control. I was trying to reign it in, call it off, renegotiate, but there was no other way around it. You’re right, I needed to tell you earlier so you could be part of it. I’m sorry."
You’re silent, and your head is a mess. He’s desperate to find out why you’re so hesitant to speak, and he pokes your shoulder. "What are you thinking about right now?"
"You need a serious lesson in risk aversion and transparency." You say, "What just happened didn’t need to happen. Or, you're right, this could have all happened earlier." Years ago.
Gojo snorts, and you frown. "I’m serious, where are your morals?"
He says point blank, "There aren’t any feelings involved between us, so I don’t see the need. I'm sorry for trying to sort this out without involving you."
You move further away. "I... just hate the feeling of anything done in secrecy. It’s gross. It feels wrong."
You withhold expressing any more indignation, lest some premature pettiness seeps out. And I’m not some appointment you can book and leave at the drop of a hat, you manage to not say.
It's too late, you whisper.
Realizing the severity of the situation turns his own expression grim. He searches your face and finds nothing hopeful. You say with enough finality that settles in Gojo’s jaw, "You should go back to her."
He looks past your TV, past the walls of your small apartment, and you know his mind is whirling, rejecting the current situation.
"She didn’t sound too happy," you point out, snapping Gojo out of his thoughts with a sigh, clearly upset and confused. "Suddenly so considerate about a stranger, now?" He pins you with a hard question.
You don’t have an answer, so you do what you know best. "Why not give the whole thing a chance?" You say the first thing that comes to mind. "You sound miserable. You don’t have to be. That kinda lifestyle might be what you want, in the end. And her..." you swallow, "she could be the one, you know?"
The words come out easy, all too familiar with this role. "Stop changing the subject. I know what you’re doing," He says, unable to read but feel you. "Just thinking about your happiness," and you awkwardly look away. Gojo sighs and forces you to look at him, "You are my happiness."
"Okay," you say, and the two of you have nothing more to say. You sleep on the couch, and Gojo’s on the floor, but your backs are turned away from each other. He doesn’t move very far away, though. He stays close to the foot of the couch, and it’s a sick, confusing, relief to you.
You see him off in the morning.
The chat between you and Gojo naturally goes quiet. Out of respect, boundaries primarily, alright? It’s the first time he takes forever to respond, chat bubble disappearing and reappearing periodically. He calls you, "I don’t care about a PR disaster," he says, and you realize some people just need to say things they won’t actually do.
Gojo interacts with you only through group chat after, which is consequently lively as ever, and your heart finds some relief in keeping pretenses.
The chat flares one day when Suguru asks when Gojo's wedding is, and if they get VIP seats. He drops the bomb for everyone’s sake, you guess. Gojo texts back that the arranged marriage and consequentially, business merger happens in June.
Invites will be sent out shortly. I’ll die if you guys don’t show up. Dramatic as always, Geto texts. Shoko is inquisitive, So, what does this change? And Gojo shoots a quick reply, Nothing, just better omakase for y’all. You stay quiet. I hate fish, Shoko supplies, and it manages a weak laugh from you. Wait, I love fish. Give me yours at least, you text back.
When you respond, Gojo breaks your rule fast and texts you privately. You don’t have to come, but I need to see you before, or after. You let it go unanswered, despite his increasing frequency. Call me selfish, call me stupid. You sigh, looking at the new chat. Just say something.
You’ve removed his contact, only to end up remembering his phone number. Anything. You delete the chat again. You’re rarely online for a month, needing time and distance to squash any unrealistic ideas in your head and accept the gravity of where your delusions will take you. Alone.
The four of you manage to meet up at the hot springs leading up to the wedding. Gojo never addresses the ghosting or silence from your end. "Have you been feeling unwell?" He asks over dinner, and you half lie. "A new proposal, a need to secure a grant, I’ve just been using my phone less."
Shoko withholds her truth, since your frequency of sending each other cat memes has remained steady. A trinket lands in your palm, a matching watch that adjusts to his timezone, and his to yours. "Just thought it’d be cute."
He sticks his tongue at Geto and Shoko, "Out of respect, you guys don’t get the watch, just the wine glass set Shoko always wanted. They sound beautiful."
Geto rolls his eyes, "I’m soooo jealous," absolutely negative jealousy seeping through his voice. You realize Geto must have known everything, more than either you or Shoko, for a while now, and you feel the pity from his eyes. Shoko scoffs, "You wouldn’t pick the right color either way."
Gojo sighs and picks up the pieces as best as he can. "It’s just a front, guys."
"That’s not the main problem," Geto says, and you can’t help but feel like it’s your turn to say something, utterly reminiscent of a work meeting. Shoko looks at you, and you look for any reason not related to the unprocessed feelings in your chest. You fidget with your fingers and look out the window.
"Uh yeah... remember what Shoko said? Hiding things from each other, not cool." And Gojo looks at you, wishes you’d say more, knows you’re not being honest. Ironically, everyone can tell you’re hiding from them. Shoko and Geto retire early, and Gojo walks you to your room, lingering in the doorway. You thank him for the watch, bid him goodnight, and he chases your touch.
A few weeks later, you receive a letter in the mail from Gojo. "Since you’re not using your phone as much, I thought we’d try something new." You almost throw it out, but write him back to keep pretenses. A part of you rots inside, but you write just to keep pretenses up. You process mechanically, turmoil fresh and dirt after rain.
The problem isn’t a scandal. I wish you told me sooner so I never felt anything for you. You’re untouchable, always have been. I need some time away. Seeing you only hurts.
Gojo doesn’t reply, and you can’t help but think how cruel that is. Suddenly hatred is easier to deal with than heartbreak.
What you don’t know is that Gojo’s fiance finds your opened letter on his desk. She reads his response mid-draft, has half a mind with blind rage to snap a photo, and delivers the evidence to her father. Gojo walks in too late. She turns around, cold and unreadable, and he realizes she had hoped for something more.
Gojo’s fate is sealed under severe legal contracts, a fickle thread with billions of dollars threatening to snap the line if a scandal breaks.
All his devices and movements are monitored, tracked as part of the terms to rebuild reputation with his fiance’s family. "If you damage the family business and reputation any longer, you never see the light of day," his father threatens. The meeting concludes promptly, yet the only thing Gojo can’t stop thinking about is you.
Until the merger goes through, Gojo’s fate is sealed, sacrificed to act as a dutiful son, groveling on the behalf of his family.
He grabs Geto for drinks, asks him to pass on a message. Shoko sighs when he comes home late, suit jacket worn from the rain's scent. He recruits her, and they invite you over for dinner. Only then does your exterior crumble, and you wipe away a single tear in their bathroom.
You attend the wedding. The venue is stunning, it’s full of news reporters and cameras and televised. The only source of comfort you have is your private table with Shoko, Geto, and some old high school friends. Gojo’s able to make his rounds once. He trails the deep velvety brown dress on you and ends up locked in your gaze. You tear away, motioning the group for a photo together. He makes sure to get another one with just the four of you, and he’s off. You down the champagne and find escape in passing time.
You end up finding common ground with Gojo’s cousin on the dance floor instead. Except you don’t know, because you never ask her relation to the wedded couple, afraid of the answer being a relative or friend of Gojo’s wife. Three toasts in, the last with Shoko and Geto, and you’re drunkenly chatting away about creative hobbies and endurance training and the latest development in environmental sciences with her. She introduces you to her siblings and her best friend, and you have to pull in extra seats around your table. It’s a great night.
Gojo disappears from the group chat after, leaving more than just one broken heart, you discover. Geto is ticked off and grumpier for months, Shoko smokes heavier than usual, and the scent blends into your clothes. You celebrate three holidays, birthdays, and friend anniversaries together.
Just like that, years 7 and 8 go by. The group chat is quieter. You’re dating again, growing in your career, making new friends that come and go, a few stay. You’ve bought a house, started new and continued old hobbies. You grow into your features more, and Shoko loves experimenting with your makeup.
She asks you how you’re feeling now. You shake your head and say, "Everything works out the way it’s supposed to." You two cheers to that.
Sometimes you see headlines, photos, gossip articles infect your feed. You like photos and comments absentmindedly. You’ve fought the algorithm when the wound was fresh, quickly accepting the stalemate when the algorithm was irresponsive to any hiding, muting, and blocking from your end.
In Year 9, Shoko and Geto get married. They have the gall to do a destination wedding with a small intimate group, family and close friends. The price tag makes you croak, only because you're stingy. But it's Shoko out of all people, and suddenly everything feels free. That’s how you end up on the Greek Islands, sun-toasted and making small talk with the locals, sending texts off to your new friends.
You meet Shoko early, finally available after attending rituals, ceremonies with her parents and in-laws who retired particularly for the night. Geto swings by and you give him a congratulatory hug. He slips away. You and Shoko giddily chat about her becoming Mrs. Geto in less than 24 hours.
The both of you are buzzed, halfway down a glass of orange wine, before you question Geto’s absence. She admits he’s picking Gojo, out of all people, and his security up from the helicopter pad.
You shut up, sip your wine, and smile. Surely, Shoko and Geto must have met and made up. You’re not the one to pry, but Shoko catches you receiving it all too well. She holds your hand and tells you to "Trust me, it’ll all make sense very soon." You wave her off, say, "Focus on having a great, trust me on that, okay?"
So you make sure a seat is ready for him, to be polite. There’s no way you could let Shoko focus on anything other than herself the night before her grand day.
Dinner is, surprisingly, infectiously joyous like old times. You gush over Geto’s thoughtful proposal. Gojo asks about future plans. Bucket list ideas, aspirations, property, assets, god forbid kids? Honeymoon, Brazil, Southeast Asia, skiing, no kids, Shoko shoots back, like she’s been waiting for someone to ask. Geto nods like he had any definite say in the itinerary, you laugh. Gojo refers to a friend in real estate. You help Shoko pick the best unediteds from her photographer.
Shoko retires early and you say you’ll be there right when she wakes up. Geto follows behind, patting Gojo on the shoulder. They seem to be in cahoots. The waiter finishes pouring the rest of the bottle, leaving you in the warm coastal breeze, alone with thoughts of the present, and past. It’s not something you want to face tonight, so you leave, "Catch you tomorrow-"
Gojo gets up, "Wait, don’t go," and he catches your wrist, eyeing his watch comfortably snug against your wristlets. "Please tell me Geto told you what happened," and you don't move. Gojo sees the hesitation emerge on your face and walks over. From his pocket emerges a very familiar rectangle. Ivory. Faded, surprisingly pristine. He unfolds it and hands it over to you. You don’t do anything, but your own words reflect back.
He kept the letter all this time.
You dumbly nod and say, "You didn’t write back. You couldn't. That was pretty clear." Gojo shakes his head and confirms, "No, I couldn’t." You squint, accusatory, "It was hard to believe," but Gojo steps into your space and explains.
"She found your letter. No one was happy about it. I couldn’t see you until certain legal terms were met. Gojo clears his throat, but you never left my mind." You gasp. Hearing the story from his own mouth, you never thought it'd happen. Yet there’s still anger rising, just lagging in refusal to hear what else he has to say.
"You kept me sane," and Gojo takes out his phone, unlocks it and it’s a screensaver of you, in that blue hoodie. He opens up his photo album, and there’s a private set of folders, full of memories of you, with you, and ones with Shoko and Geto. He scrolls through, you notice he captured moments you weren’t even aware of. You’re stupidly sentimental, not even creeped out as you should be.
It clicks why he was able to keep in touch with Geto. You decide to fit another piece of the puzzle. "What changed, then?" Your stomach churns, afraid of stepping onto another rollercoaster.
"The newest exclusive is- I’m done. Free. Divorcing." Gojo catches you flinch and something lights up, electric, "The board’s finally happy. Relationships are good, we got the acquisition." You recompose, choose to have a conversation with the ocean instead, the quiet lapping of waves responding back. "The marriage can be dissolved quietly. People will talk for a day, two tops-"
"Slow down," you say, but Gojo can’t stop.
"I have to get something else off my chest," he says, and you groan.
"Not this again. Maybe keep it to yourself this time?" He thinks about it, but shakes head, rejecting your attempt to shut him down. Gojo motions you down to a pier for privacy. You sigh, and lag behind him, and he looks just as young nearly 10 years ago when you two snuck out to the beach after another all-nighter project. Except this time, he helps you down a steep edge, and you two are sea-level, waves lapping at your sandals.
"Stop," you say right as he opens his mouth. It effectively extinguishes the kindling fire in his excitement. You two stay there, wait for the wind to clear out the smoke. Gojo’s throat slowly, slowly dries up like sand. He swallows to wet his throat.
Were you taken? Were you tired of waiting, unwilling to see this through with him? Did he ever make you feel like second place in his heart? Arrogantly, never did he consider a reality where he’d actually lose you. A stone starts forming in his gut and he stays quiet.
But fate bestows him luck, because the shakiness in what you say next betrays you. He watches, hears you in slow motion. A memory forms, and all he can think about is that time you, Shoko, Geto failed miserably in surprising him for his birthday.
You were tasked with distracting him, except you couldn’t find a good reason to keep him out of his home. We should stay, to avoid traffic. He watches you fidget with your nails, same as before. Traffic on the train? You breathing destabilizes the same as back then. Uh, well, we haven't gotten our daily amount of sun. And just like back then, you’re unable to make eye contact, looking away. Hey, look at me, should I teach you how to lie? C'mon, let's go back to my place already. Checkmate.
You breathe out, ""I’m not interested. Anymore," still looking at the water.
"You’re lying." He brazenly accuses, effortlessly, confidently.
"I really can’t, it’s too late," You break a nail, and he glances down.
"Did you find someone else?" He probes. You feel the weight of Gojo's gaze, but you refuse to look at him. Strange, you think, that both of you know the question doesn't apply to Gojo.
"No," you sigh, "There isn't anyone else." There never will be, your heart responds.
"So, what's wrong? We can start fresh. Please, please tell me what you're thinking." Gojo touches his shoulder to yours, You stupidly realize he's doing good on his word. I should have been involved early on. He's not making that mistake again.
A lump in your throat betrays you. "I’m not interested in being left behind again." Gojo takes this quietly, seriously. "It’s been so long. I believe everything about your story, but that doesn’t change that you’re here, then you’re gone, then you’re here again. What if, you're in another situation you can't get out of. How can this possibly work?"
He breathes, takes a bold turn and closes the distance between you. "Will you let me show you? It’ll take a lifetime for me to prove that nothing will take me away." You swallow and dodge his gaze. "And if it’s not everything you expect it to be, I’ll die trying to make it up to you. You won't be able to get rid of me."
You look at him, angry, brows furrowed, tears glistening in your eyes. Gojo thanks the heavens you’re looking at him, and he thinks you look beautiful in the light, that you’ll crack your neutral, everything’s okay exterior around him. The part of you that's raw, honest, that's what he misses so deeply about you.
He opens his arms and so boldly asks for forgiveness.
You hate his invitation.
...
Yet you lean in.
Suddenly a dam breaks inside your heart. You’re sobbing in his arms, and he pulls you in tighter.
"I’m sorry, I’m so sorry." He holds you close, so tight you can't breathe, and kisses your hair over and over again, cherishing each kiss. And you just end up leaving snot on his suit.
"I'll read the fine print, next time," he grins. You look up, furrow you brows, and slap his chest. He's happy you're looking at him again.
"That's. The. Bare. Minimum." Obviously you two are talking about more than just contracts. Gojo takes the opportunity to cup your face, wipe your snot, but he leaves your glistening cheeks. You look beautiful.
Annoyed at yourself, you toss him a bone. "It’s just so much easier to shut you out. You hurt me, and I boxed you into this neat little, easy to handle box of mine, but you just won’t stay put. You’re like a misbehaved dog." He dutifully Woofs, and you can’t help but laugh.
"So what I’m hearing is, you’re giving me a chance to change your mind?" Gojo’s voice is crystal clear now, a medium timbre. "If you refuse, you’re a dummy," he says. You snort, "What happened to smartass?" You ask, and he smiles, "Mmm. we don’t always get what we want."
You wait for him to finish his quip, to make himself an exception, to say that he’s invulnerable to all of fate’s misfortune. It doesn’t come. You look up at him, and you don’t think you’ve seen this gentle smile on him.
"I know what you’re gonna say." He brushes your hair aside. ‘Satoru not getting what he wants?’ Impossible, I thought so too." He leans into you, and you have to remember that he’s still contractually a married man, so you stay just a breath away, simply touching foreheads.
"I've been carrying out duties I never asked for, waiting for them to end." You shiver, feeling the heat radiate off him. "They’ve been keeping me away from who I really want to make happy. I just hope she’s waiting for me at the end of this road."
He bumps your head. "I'm so excited to build a life with you." And like a bandit, another tear slides down your cheek, out of your control. He eskimo kisses your nose in comfort, and you sniffle, years of suppressed emotion spilling out.
"What if it all goes bad, years down the line?" Gojo cups your cheek and tsks you.
"Now you're making a version of me up inside your head," and you can’t help but burn from embarrassment. "Look at me. That won’t happen." He shakes his head, and you’re about to surrender. "Let me prove it to you, please, as long as it takes, so you know I won’t."
He wipes your tear away and you finally give in, no way to out-logic his offer. Gojo looks at you, asks for permission to kiss you through his gaze.
You cover his mouth. "We can’t do this right now," you whisper, "You’re still married, on paper." He closes his eyes, mumbles against your palm. "I know, but just don’t avoid me any longer." And you nod.
You have no fire left to fuel your insecurities. Of Gojo being so far out of reach that he'd drop you at any whim, and him being so detached in his current romantic bind that he’d treat yours the same way, of him not sticking into your side like a thorn through thick and thin.
—
Year 11, Gojo’s divorce breaks the news for a day, two tops. Any photos of him caught with a mysterious woman in a different city is subdued in favor of new gossip. What does make headlines for longer than a week happens a year later, when his second wedding announcement, to a woman whose identity remains protected, floods social media just out of people being nosey.
Year 12, Gojo makes good on a promise whispered in the early hours of dawn years ago, and moves to your city. While his real estate agents scout the neighborhoods, he calls, "Let me sleepover again?" And you’re willing to host him without question. Kick me out if you get tired of me, he texts. You thumbs down the message and send a laughing sticker, one of those cartoonish rabbits, but find his modesty oddly sweet.
He sends an official announcement to the group chat one morning. You’re only able to finish reading his text before a knock sounds, leaving several of Shoko’s video call attempts unanswered. When you open the door, his sparkly blue eyes peek above a bouquet of peonies, and you reversely mirror his confident steps into your home.
You’ve learned how to fit into all of his angles when gathers you in his embrace, lifts and carries you to your bed. You have the nerve to jokingly ask him how long he’s been eyeing property your city, and he answers "I’ve been eyeing you since we graduated. I'll go wherever you go." He slots against your mouth before you can respond, and you two lose yourselves.
When Gojo loves you, he worships you. You thought it’d be the other way around, but the way he looks at you through his snowy lashes, when he’s imprinting and melting kisses into your neck, softly kneading your chest and torso like he’s learning how to sculpt you, it’s saintly. You mark his shoulders, his back, as he dives into you for hours, closes you in with nowhere to go.
You two wake at noon, return online two days later. Satoru makes lunch, an unbelievable sight. He serves a full breakfast, pancakes crispy, your favorite.
You prepare a tray of ridiculous coffee toppings, whipped cream, cinnamon, strawberries, honey, and he kisses you for too long after eyeing it. Your coffee’s cold after sloppily making out and not so innocently feeling each other. He looks good there sitting at your dining table, like he’s always lived there. He’s just shirtless now.
Gojo finally calls the group chat back after you two dress. Shoko picks up, coughs on her salad, seeing the two of you together. Normally that’d be nothing out of the ordinary, but Satoru’s pulling your waist back in between his legs anytime you try to establish some sense of decency. Geto vomits at the PDA, and you issue a public apology.
"I’m just addicted to being seen with you," Gojo whines, and you’re horrified at how you spoil him, easily letting him have this one addiction. "Do you still have that brown dress?" You cough, further surprised by the specificity.
"The one I wore to your first wedding?" The question sounds insane. "Yeah, please wear it," he begs, and you can’t help but feel like his muse when he takes utterly beautiful photos of you in another country on a date. He snaps a private photo in his memory when he undresses you.
Year 13, another destination wedding to attend, except this time you’re the one cutting the cake and listening to speeches, meeting his parents, and oh my god, I’ve been waiting for this, is how you meet Gojo’s cousin again. The shock leaves you just in time for photos, and the sun sets just in time for your dance. Center stage doesn’t feel lonely tonight because Satoru’s the one pulling you in.
Rafayel's gaze gravitates toward his phone. It's glow lights up a dark corner of his studio. He's drafting sketches underneath antique lamplight.
He unlocks his phone, glances at your message, and immediately presses call. It takes a few rings before you pick up. He calmly slings on his trenchcoat and starts his car.
He picks up to his favorite sound in the world, even if your voice is distorted and wobbly.
"Rafayel," You sniffle.
"Hey baby. I'm on my way," he speeds off. "Don't fall asleep yet, okay?"
It's been a month since you've cut everyone off — took leave under sabbatical. Rafayel has experienced your absence four or five times in the span of your twelve year relationship. He knows you withdraw, negotiating with another person inside you.
Every couple of years, a wave of depression creeps in, its grip on your shoulders like a ghost, haunting mind and body. You tend to wander, letting it take host. But tonight, you just can't sleep.
You've come home.
"I won't fall asleep. I want to see you," You mumble, "I'm back."
"I know, your location's back on. I can't wait to see you, baby," Rafayel says openly.
You're always shocked by how well Rafayel reads your emotions — like he sees all the sides of you that you've denied, erased over the years — and how warm he welcomes you back into his arms.
"I miss you," you whisper, "You're very good to me." Both of you naturally know when the other needs to hear it — intentions unquestionably stricken with love and commitment. He also knows, what this really means is — "Thank you for taking me back when I disappear," you confess.
"I would do anything for you. When you married me, my life became complete," Rafayel's devotion to you is otherworldly. He says everything comforting to you, honestly and effortlessly.
You're beyond lucky.
When he arrives, you pull him into bed and cling onto him, kiss him, slowly, gently, quietly. He strips you, just to feel your skin against his, to imprint his scent upon yours and yours upon him.
Your depression leaves residual guilt, its corrosion on your veins acidic and prickling your heart into pumping again. You spring into life. You spill tears that are hot and wet and alive against his cheek.
His embrace is heavy, unyielding. Grounding. He pulls you back from the very dark depths of your own ocean, the one you want to drown in.
Rafayel presses his forehead against yours. He then nuzzles his nose against the tip of yours, and plants soft kisses all over your cheeks.
Next in his rotation, he cards warm, long fingers through your hair, combing and untangling any surprise knots. He welcomes you into his own trap — a vice grip that feeds his desires.
His ministrations, gentle and spell-like, soothe you into slumber.
After some time, he whispers into your hair, speaking to you through your sleep. Deep in your jagged soul, you know Rafayel has chipped, shattered, and sharpened his own to fit yours.
Imagine
Rafayel hates you for everything your family took from him.
And you help him take it all back.
He spends three years learning your family's habits. Waiting for the right moment to burn everything you loved to the ground.
He never plans on you covering for him. He never planned on you at all. You choose the wrong side and sleep better for it.
-> Part I
[You're here] ->->-> Part II
CW: graphic violence, murder, death, trauma, descriptions of deceased merfolk, blood, grief, imprisonment Rating: Mature Length/Reading time: 25k total (Bathroom break or nightly rot recommended) Artist Cred:-Link-
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Miles away, Rafayel clutches the searing bond mark on his chest. He feels your anxiety, your fear, your anger. It's overwhelming.
Something is truly wrong, the air has been disturbed. He leaps up, inevitably drawn to your presence. He doesn't need a map this time.
"Rafayel, dear, you look troubled." His mother rests her hand on his shoulder, and he's cold. They've set up colonies near your kingdom, frequently setting up and abandoning camps as needed to prevent leaving any sort of trail.
"Something's wrong. She's in danger. You must return and never come back. Don't tell me or anyone where you reside, hide, and go as far away as possible."
"You must come with me." She begs him. They touch their foreheads again, and she places a hand on his chest. "My dear child. Please, listen to me."
"Do not ask me to abandon her, Mother, please. I am hers. She is mine. She needs me." Rafayel utters.
"Is this the life you desire?" She asks. "Alone, just to be with her for these short moments?"
"Yes, she is all I will ever desire," He says, and a sad, disapproving look graces her graceful features. Rafayel isn't bothered by her disbelief.
She tugs him into a tight embrace, their last embrace, one that he burns this into his memory.
"Don't do anything rash for these next few nights. Give me some time, dear."
Rafayel shakes his head, "I won't risk discovery, but I must see her."
"Rafayel!" She begs.
"We've done this hundreds of times. Hiding is our best skill. Trust me, mother." And her grip tights on his arms.
"First my sister, now my son." She weeps.
"Now, that's not fair, mother. We brought Auntie back weeks ago."
Leo paces around. Your father called for an emergency family counsel. Genevieve stones her face. The young siblings whisper and gossip amongst themselves.
"Father," Leo announces, "Where is our sister? She's been missing for weeks."
"Children, I have grave news." He walks with urgency.
"Are you alright?" Leo asks, lying out of his teeth, feigning concern.
"Fine, my son." He walks to the center of the room. "Your sister has been compromised by a foreign nation."
"She's... sold off precious resources and hid the money away. Her conspirator is likely linked to your mother's death."
"It is sickening to think we have a betrayal within the family, but we will tell the public she's been afflicted by the same condition as your mother. Understand?"
Genevieve plays her part as the skeptic. "What resources? We export minerals and wheat and wine. Should we not be aware of this other resource if I am to take over our political and economic relations?"
"Silence, child." The king lashes, his words sharp. "It was a private collection that belonged to your mother and I. We collected precious gems mined throughout decades. Do not accuse me."
"I'd like to see these so we can secure them further then, father." Leo reasons. "I can help."
"I shall handle the relocation. You will inherit when the time is right." Leo nods, a fire burns inside his stomach at the immediate loss.
"Let me see my sister, at least. I can speak reason to her, father." Leo tries again, "This doesn't sound like her."
He thinks, "You're right. It doesn't. Convince her to lure out the conspirator. She's always unyielding when I try to talk sense into her."
Leo nods, "Alright, father, please bring me to her."
"The head of staff will escort you. I have business to attend to." Leo bows. Dear gods, he thinks, not that bastard again.
"Let me change out of my night attire. I'll be back in five minutes."
The head of staff remains in the hall, and the king departs.
Leo grabs a quill and a scroll. Ideally, you two carry two conversations at once.
The headmaster escorts him down into a small vault, choosing a nondescript key from his waist. Leo memorizes the path and remembers, fifth clockwise from the hinge.
The headmaster stays back, believing his missing presence will open you up.
Your knees burn on the rocks. When you look up, your brother wraps you up in his arms. He slips the roll of parchment into your hand when you separate, hoping to retrieve any information from you.
"Father is unhappy. He'll let you off as long as you bring in the captor. Think, sister, this price isn't worth it." You both understand that the headmaster is listening.
"They won't meet me now that I'm compromised. It's useless. Father's bent on the idea that this is connected to mother. I don't know how to prove it otherwise. The timing is just a coincidence."
As you say this, you quietly scribble Father and mother trafficked people, not jewels. West chamber. My room on shift nights: Tabitha. Jerome. My partner. Tell him to never come back. I'll handle it. You hand it to him.
Leo says, "We'll need to testify to both culprits then." He bites his lip in disgust at the message. "Or just yours. You know what to do, sister. Until then. I can't help you. Take some time to see reason." He mock- scolds you, and you don't reply.
Leo nods, before stomping away. "Maybe your mind will change tomorrow."
Leo morphs his expression into an agitated one to trick the headmaster. "Unreasonable," he murmurs, shaking his head, just loud enough for the headmaster to hear.
Leo waits in your chamber that night.
Rafayel's bond is drawn to magical residue reinforced over time, so he always visits your room first, yet he's been feeling gentle pulls elsewhere, from different locations every night. Do they have a magician of their own, disrupting the energy, working against him? Are they moving you?
When he slips through your windowsill, a forearm shoves him against the wall. "Who are you?" Leo seethes.
"My sister is on trial for treason unless you reveal yourself," he tells this stranger, and he shoves your note in his face.
Tell him to never come back. I'll handle it.
Rafayel feels a pit in his stomach. He's forming a disdain for your self sacrificing tendencies. Your plans are never so grossly under-detailed, either, so he knows you have no plan.
"You have her wrapped around your finger, under some sick spell." Leo accuses her.
"I'm here because I can't abandon her." Rafayel struggles to speak. Leo doesn't loosen his chokehold. As a show of peace, Rafayel opts not to gut your brother.
"Then testify and reveal your identity." Leo forces.
"I come from no kingdom. Your parents massacred my kin. I wanted the remains of my people back. I sought vengeance on your Queen."
Leo strangles Rafayel again when he hears about the Queen.
"Not to me-!"
He grits his teeth. Disbelief drains the color from his blood. If he heard right, the supposed conspirator is a victim.
"My sister said she was making a profit off some beneficiary from another kingdom." Leo loosens up.
"The beneficiary," Rafayel rubs his neck, "is a cover story."
"You're lying." Leo backtracks, "Why would you cover your story instead of spreading it and taking us down?
"See for yourself," Rafayel smooths out his gear. He can already sense that Leo is feeling for the right side to fight for. Rafayel wagers he's closer to your sensibilities than your father's.
"Show me, then." Leo demands, and Rafayel grabs his forearm, teleporting him away.
An hour later, Leo heaves immediately, half from the phasing magick and the other half the sheer amount of deceased remains that lay crumpled.
They return to your chambers to escape, using alternate paths.
Leo shakily sits on your bed, processing.
"My sister wrote about trafficking people, not mermaids." Leo loosens up.
"She lied," Rafayel rubs his neck, "Out of charity to protect my people. She helped me return my people home."
"I'm sorry," He turns to Rafayel. "But in this world, those who retaliate only suffer, no matter how sick the crime is."
"I will meet with the King then, on the condition you release her." Rafayel says, impatient. He could gut him, but then what?
Leo grits his teeth, "It is not I who makes the decision to keep her captive or release her."
"If you present to my father. His ideas sprawl like wildfire. He may keep you for... a new genesis, reproduction."
"Release her and hire someone else to act as the beneficiary then. Don't you have debts to pay?"
"No man will sign his life away to imprisonment."
Rafayel huffs in agitation, hiding his shudder. He thinks about taking you away, dropping you off in a town far, far away.
You'd have to start from scratch, without any friends or family. There's no chance, he thinks, that you'd abandon your life.
"I find it hard to believe my sister acts out of pure charity. She's selfish and acts in accordance with her desires." Leo thinks out loud. Rafayel operates with little patience at this tangential conversation.
"Maybe, her desires are selfless this time." Leo shakes his head. Rafayel throws his hands up, leaves the gears turning in Leo's mind. He's not quite sure where your brother is leading with this.
"But I think I understand my sister. When you have someone whose side you cannot bear to leave, you'll do anything." Rafayel narrows his eyes.
Trepidation causes Leo to clear his throat.
"I do not trust my father to rule with my sister. He's a sick man with antiquated ideals. I've handled many of his business relations, and his partners share the same disposition."
"There are many young-blooded people with new ideas daring to take over. I will take my father's throne and rule with my sister."
"Will you help me?"
Displeasure settles deep in Rafayel's bones. His bloodlust is long gone. But a pit of anger rises again. When murder is proposed to restore peace, it's only rational when proposed by those in positions of power.
Yet when he acts out of justice, he's branded a criminal.
Leo is right, those who retaliate only suffer.
Rafayel stalks toward Leo, "Kill him yourself."
Leo stutters, fumbling to recuperate while lost in his grandeur visions. Reality grays his image of glory, but the luster of his shared crown shines even with blood.
He clears his throat and lamely responds, "Of course. That is the proper thing to do."
Rafayel rolls his eyes. Did the man in front of him really assume he wanted to dirty his hands for someone else?
"How do you plan to hire me, then," his voice carries no friendliness.
Leo thinks, and he compromises by simplifying the task. "Retrieve my sister. Keep her safe, I'm afraid my father will send someone to fetch and take care of her once the wheel turns."
He takes some time to evaluate the offer, twirling conjured fire like a toy.
"In return, I will deliver the rest of my people back home, safely. Under sanction by the new king." He narrows his eyes, "Consider it a long, overdue debt from your family to mine."
"I swear. On my children," Leo says, serious.
"Let us draft it right here," and he grabs some parchment. Once the royal signature is marked in ink, a weight lifts itself from Rafaye's shoulders.
Leo hands Rafayel a copy. He tucks it inside his vest, feeling its weight.
"If this falls through, I expect the new king understands that lost souls do haunt in their afterlife."
Leo nods, "I will do anything to prevent harm to my siblings."
Rafayel grips him on the shoulder, squeezes it once. "You may turn out well enough."
"It's the least I can do," Leo offers, sincere in the only way he knows how, business and law.
"I'd like to see your sister now," Rafayel materializes from an unknown emotion, "I have something important she must hear."
At this, Leo grins. "I think I understand you better now." It's also a strategic opportunity for Rafayel to learn the route beforehand as well.
"She'll be happy to see you, then." Leo remembers how urgent you moved. Now, the picture is clear.
Leo trades details with Rafayel and tells him to meet him again tomorrow. He needs time to rendezvous with Genevieve and recruit her to take care of Wesmont.
Rafayel nods and leaps from the window, wasting no breath.
Little did Rafayel know you would not be happy to see him.
You're on the twelfth cot. Your hair is wet from the daily bathwater a maid brings you. Two guards visit thrice a day for meals, surveillance, and transportation.
They move you every night. And you just discovered something else. The chambers' staircases repeat by design to confuse trespassers. There's no way you can escape.
Tonight, Tabitha and Jerome are on shift. You think about how they'll question your sudden absence, if you even get to see them again.
Leo crosses your mind. He is a capable young man, your instructions were easy enough, and he should have met Rafayel by now.
You curl your palm, the other pauses as you build a tower of stone. Once your father runs out of patience, he'll find a lesser punishment.
You'll have to find where he's hidden the rest of Rafayel's family again, this time without him. The ocean is so vast, can you just... send them off?
The mark on your chest burns.
You close your eyes to search the depths of its feelings. There's hope, eagerness, relief.
Rafayel almost certainly lied to you about the specificity of the bond's effects. It's invisible most of the time and requires great focus, but you can sense faint emotions when they're calm.
He must be hundreds of miles away by now with his kin, and you can only assume that he's relieved to be with his family.
A hand covers your mouth, another hand wraps around your waist, restricting arm movement.
There's no opportunity to yell, fear dunks you in cold sweat, your breathing quickens, panicked, erratic-
"Shhhh," a familiar voice gently whispers by your ear.
Impossible.
The weight around you takes some time to register, to morph from dangerous to neutral.
His embrace becomes tighter, stays like that for ten, fifteen seconds.
She's thinner than a month ago. He notices before he can stop himself.
You would have felt blood and a searing pain by now if this were an attempt on your life.
When your breathing calms, you reach up and tug his forearm away. You wriggle but he doesn't budge.
He unwraps you with ease. Slowly, you turn around and level with him. It's enough time for an angry, malicious heat to flare across your chest.
"Are you mad," you whisper, seething.
You turn around and push him. Rafayel barely budges from what you call a sorry excuse of a push. Physical strength holds no advantage for you, and that realization only feeds into your anger.
Everything you two worked for, he could lose instantly if the guards or a maid discover him. Especially now that your father's on edge.
You dart your head, angle your ear to listen intently for any footsteps nearing your stall, afraid that someone might have overheard your beating just now. When all is silent, you face him again.
He is supposed to leave.
Yet here he is, looking at you with narrowed, agitated eyes. He loosens his mask, and beneath it is a deep frown highlighted by the moon's light.
"Didn't you hear me? Go away, while you still have time."
You use both your hands to push him again, this time feeling mean and desperate, blindly lashing out.
Yet again, his frame is heavy and stubborn, barely moving.
"Leave-"
You can't move.
You tug backwards uselessly, only to feel that Rafayel's captured you in a deafening bind, cuffing both your wrists together with just one of his own.
You blink a few times to recover from the sudden trap. Something in his glare weakens your resistance. His brows furrow, and you watch the calm storm waters brew in his eyes.
"When did you become so intent on getting rid of me?" Rafayel whispers. There's something in his voice, it's tinged with vulnerability and despair.
You breathe heavily, attempting to restore some bloodflow. His line of questioning isn't that of logical nature, given the circumstance.
Yet in your search for clarity, you're left without answers, just an endless gaze into his eyes and forlorn expression.
Yes, the beach and the campfire revealed something deeper between you two, but nothing had been named.
That means you were on equal footing. But while you've chosen obscurity, he arrived at clarity some time ago. If he were honest, that one night confirmed everything.
He tightens the grip on your wrists, nearly pushing the limits of your strength. Your wince is what snaps Rafayel out of his thoughts.
He loosens your wrists apologetically. While you could move away and tend to your sore spots, you slump your head on his shoulder.
A fatigue creeps in, beckoning honesty from you.
"I'm not getting rid of you. We failed. You being here could send my father on a heretic search."
"There is real danger now, you idiot. There's no time for silly goodbyes."
You shakily inhale, allowing yourself a quiet sniffle, guilt forming into a confession.
"I'm sorry we couldn't deliver everyone, Rafayel." Your voice cracks even in a whisper.
You feel his hand through your hair.
His fingers are longer than average, and the motion reminds you of a long forgotten time ago when he was your seamstress, brushing your unruly hair into neat braids.
Seeing your receptiveness, he tries again, then, softer this time.
"My people are safe, I sent them away when I felt your panic." He whispers, "Does that ease your mind?"
You exhale, and despite it checking half of one box in the sea of many others, a weight does lighten.
Their faces from the first night flash in your mind. You nod, the scratch of fabric and faint heat comforting on your forehead.
"Yes, a bit."
"My chances at exposure are negligible. My people will be fine, if everything goes right."
At this, you look up, abandoning his soothing ministrations.
"I don't like that if. How is that possible?"
He wipes your cheek. "Your brother will ascend the crown. He acts at breakfast. Call this a rehearsal to retrieve when the chaos ensues."
At this, you purse your lips. It was bold timing for Leo, yet he always did have an eye for opportune, if not heroic timing.
"It's not guaranteed then," you conclude.
"All he needs is one private moment," Rafayel whispers, leaving their interaction to your imagination. "I've watched you father for years. His disposition has weakened. It's doable, and by force if necessary."
You chew your lips, and Rafayel gossips unexpectedly.
"He sounded very intent on ruling with your sister."
You peer up at Rafayel, shocked. An ungraceful string of words tumble out.
"They're, uh, um, very important to each other. Yes." you manage, the truth foreign on your tongue.
A skeptical smile flashes on his face, so softly and quietly that you etch it into your memory. Rafayel's explanations satisfy your checklist.
"You still shouldn't be here for too long," you say, anxiously.
"Listen," and you tilt your head to hear only crickets, a little bit of magic floats across the floor, "I'm fortifying our bond. It allows me to find you."
"The oath can do that?"
Rafayel nods, "It strengthens over time."
"When do they move you?" He asks.
"Typically at night."
"I have an idea, then." Rafayel whispers. "Let me stay here with you." The words hang in the air.
Gods, it's warm here.
"Not like that," He would never claim you in such a cell. You deserved only the best. "I've driven myself mad not finding you, not seeing you."
"I just miss you." You look up. Judging by how high the sun is the maid tends to you, you reason your family eats first. So he can stay. It's not the smart or right move but you want him to stay.
It's so easy for Rafayel to say his feelings now, without decorum. You're spoiled, yes, but this is new.
You nod, ears burning.
You undo the straps and belts on his top. You unknot leather ties, slowly unlooping their intricate patterns. Rafayel watches you, calmly.
The gear slips off leaving him in an undershirt and trousers. You do nothing. He takes the leap and guides you into a sleeping position.
Rafayel pulls the blanket over your shoulders, separating your wet hair. You two face one another. His arm is currently your pillow.
It's a cuddle.
"Sleep," he says, "I'll wake you at sunrise."
You delay a nod. Eventually, you find a natural feeling position, tucked into his chest, arms clinging around his torso. A sigh escapes one of you. You kneed solid, wire muscle. He matches you, pulling you in until you suffocate, securing you within his arms.
You wake to Rafayel tracing a knuckle down your cheek, memorizing your features. The morning light is faint, the magic flowing like water on the floor.
He is thick, and warm, and alive. Rafayel pays his desire no mind, "Are you ready?" Is all he asks, the utmost image of a gentleman, and you can't help but feel drowned in flattery.
You grip his shoulders, desperate in that morning bleariness for something more, something to return his affections. His desire is heavy, mirroring yours.
A shriek rings throughout the kingdom. It's chilling, and it brings you back to the morning you and Rafayel met once more. He pulls you in tighter, an involuntary reaction. To him, the shriek sounded like that of a horn, before battle broke.
"Come, looks like we're late."
In the grand room where your family just finished breakfast, the scene is frozen. Only a steady drip can be heard from the shattered wine. The liquid responsible for staining the tablecloth, velvet chair, and rug comes from the mouth and neck of the King.
Leo was just in the middle of delivering a report about their younger sister. He had leaned in, his father eager to hear the successful persuasion of his son.
No one knew what Leo last whispered into his ear, but the expression frozen on his father's head was enough to read.
Genevieve, who isn't as shocked as she should appear, rises from her seat.
A maid shrieks, and the rest of the staff attempt to leave. The headmaster, who was about to leave, locks the door.
"Guards," Leo ordered, his voice tinged with an eerie calm. "Take the king away. Send a scribe, and I will show him proof of his crimes. Ones that he's hid away from us, you," he looks at them, "and the people."
Genevieve gets up, puts a concerned hand on her brother's shoulder, "Leo, is this not too soon? We cannot afford a hastily done job."
He turns around and rests his own hand on hers. Leo continues delivering orders, but his gaze never leaves Genevieve's. The staff have no choice but to witness the act play out before them.
"Tell the public the King died from the same illness, as he could hide it no longer. Send emissaries from these neighboring kingdoms. We have many meetings to settle. Arrange a public funeral and my crowning. And keep watch over our youngest siblings. If you harm them, you're dead."
When the headmaster doesn't respond, Leo walks over to the older man and swiftly stabs him in the chest. He falls to the ground, taking his key. "Until we find a new headmaster, you follow my orders."
He unlocks the door. The click spurs them into action, refueled by their simple desire to earn a simple wage and share countless sunrises and sunsets with their loved ones.
When all is quiet, Leo walks over to Genevieve.
She whispers, "It's truly done."
Leo nods, relief flooding his system. "Are you ready to rule together, sister?"
She nods. "We should fetch our sister."
He shakes his head, and she delivers him an absurd look. He flicks his head, and "She's taken care of. Look."
In the doorway, Genevieve sees you out of breath. Hand perched on the door. Towering behind you is a tall man she shuffles through her memory to remember. Ah, the seamstress.
"Gen," you breathe, "Leo." You take in the blood on the floor, a familiar scene that no longer strikes fear but only twisted relief and hope into your blood.
"Come here," she says, and you leap into her arms, "I'm sorry we didn't consult you beforehand." You shake your head, "It's fine. I didn't think you two would be so bold." She looks at you, "Father taking you away was the last of his sanity."
She flicks her chin at Rafayel, "Leo didn't have time to fill me in. But you were aiding your old seamstress?" She gives you a knowing look, and you grimace. "It's a long story...."
In the midst of your reunion, Rafayel walks over to Leo. He feels the weight of parchment in his chest. "It's best I operate without your men. You've no trustworthy hands yet."
Leo faces him, advises earnestly, "My sister makes a rather fine emissary, no?"
"It's official then."
The picture before you is one you'll remember forever. You were meant to see this. Three carriages trot slowly, carrying the rest of Rafayel's deceased. You two left in the early morning under the new King's sanction. Birdsong accompanies you while you are on land.
The crashing of waves and that familiar siren hum greets you in the sea. Shallow water laps at you as you watch Rafayel and a few of his family members deliver their loved ones home.
If you close your eyes and listen closely, by the time the last carriage is emptied, you hear an otherworldly horn blow once. It bleeds into the rest of the symphony of waves, tallgrass, sirensong, birdsong.
Rafayel doesn't return for some time. But you search your chest, and it's warm. You can only imagine the reunion is powerful.
The sun is still high when he emerges from the water. Typically, he'd be on land by now, yet he is still in his sea form. You take it that this will be your final meeting.
Your grip on his trousers tighten, the only physical reaction you'll allow.
Rafayel has those same beautiful markings on his face. His hair is no longer ink black, as he has no need to hide the vibrant purple. He looks as otherworldly as the orchestra sounds.
He calls you over, and you brace yourself. You drop his trousers, wading into the shallow waters, sitting with him. The water is warm and cold in alternating rhythms.
"How is the reception?" You ask.
"They're overjoyed. My uncle is flustered, furious, yet emotional."
"I'm glad," you say, looking at the bright sea.
It's glimmer causes your eyes to burn. That's what you tell yourself, at least, when the first tear slips out. Rafayel hears you sniffle, turns your chin toward him immediately.
It's a beautiful day.
"Hmmm, you don't look happy at all." He smiles, and wow, he is gorgeous in this form. You try to look away, but his tendency to be mean comes back, holding you in place.
"What's wrong? Sad you're missing out on the fun?" He asks, waiting for you to tell him what's wrong.
"Yes, actually," you admit. You think back your conversations about Lemuria. If only you could breathe underwater.
"I'm not ready to say goodbye, either" you whisper.
He softens his eyes, "You're silly."
Rafayel climbs over you, much larger now. He blocks out the sun, replacing its warmth with his own. Water is everywhere. You're soaked to the bone. The edges of your hair melt into your body. Droplets kiss your cheek, your shoulders.
You are an enchanting picture, he thinks.
"I am utterly consumed by you. We are bound to each other. Do you really want to push me away?" He presses his weight into you, trapping you until you answer. "Tell me the truth," he whispers.
You brush his bangs away, and he leans into your hand, "I don't want you to leave me, Rafayel. Not now. Not ever." you say, the words feeling right, even if the past that underscores your relationship is tainted.
"I want to be with you," you say, acknowledging firm and solid and grounding.
"How long do you want to be with me?" He repeats, playfully seeking more sweet words from you. He craves to hear your affection. It's too obvious, and you're honored that this is the Rafayel you get to see.
"Forever," You reply.
Rafayel hums, eyes closed, sounding extremely pleased. His gills expand and contract, and his tail splashes the water with excitement, yet his expression remains calm.
"My forever started already, a long time ago." Rafayel says. "Time for you to catch up, my pearl," he teases.
"Help me then," you assert.
He rests one hand on your hip for support, the other covers the expanse of your back, caging you in. He leans in, pressing a deep confession into your lips. The softness of his kiss is the first of many surprises, putting you in a trance until the sky burns orange.
You learn, shortly after, that his kiss also comes with a searing pain that lets you accept saltwater.
When you return to the kingdom a week later, you both glow, thoroughly sated. Rafayel is inseparable from your side from then on.
Genevieve doesn't question your extended trip, but she arranges a new room for you two.
Epilogue
Modern day.
"Up late, Rafayel?" Your descendent sits down next to her lover, wrapping a blanket around him.
"Yeah. I'm almost done sketching these ruins. You didn't have to wake up, cutie." He presses a chaste kiss to greet her. They settle on the beach.
Another protocore fluctuation, another spatial anomaly. This time, a relic from the past appeared directly in Whitesand Bay.
"I'm fine." She leans on his shoulder. "Oh, there are a ton of symbols. Is it talking about Lemuria?"
"Yeah, but who knows how true these Legends are." He shifts, "Buuut, this one is kind of interesting. A little dark. I can tell you, but I'm not sure it'll help you fall asleep."
Tell me, she agrees eagerly, I won't get scared. Give me a kiss first then, that's the price. And she plants another kiss, satisfying his requirements.
Imagine
Rafayel hates you for everything your family took from him.
And you help him take it all back.
He spends three years learning your family's habits. Waiting for the right moment to burn everything you loved to the ground.
He never plans on you covering for him. He never planned on you at all. You choose the wrong side and sleep better for it.
[You're here] -> -> -> Part I
-> Part II
CW: graphic violence, murder, death, trauma, descriptions of deceased merfolk, blood, grief, imprisonment Rating: Mature Length/Reading time: 25k total (Bathroom break or nightly rot recommended) Artist Cred: -Link-
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Your mother slayed my kin and served their cuts for dinner. They drank my family's blood and adorned their neck with their scales and pearls. I watched everyone consume their flesh as if they were poultry.
You were there. Do you remember?
- Journal of the Second Sea God
"Did you say something?"
A pin cushion muffles Rafayel's voice, nestled between his lips as he taps the bottom of your elbow twice.
You raise your arm and let him feel down your underarm to ribcage. He smooths over the plane once more, understanding where to loosen and tighten seams. He has always understood your body better than you do. He hates that about himself.
He's satisfied with the assessment. Rafayel pivots his attention towards you. You can change now, he flicks his chin towards his handcrafted partition.
"I said, you're ruining the gowns I make you. Does a princess need to traverse mud or chase cattle, or dive into the river?"
You slip behind the translucent panels, tossing the out-commissioned gown over and slipping on a lighter, slimmer dress. Summers are hot.
"I have my reasons. Plus, I can count on you to make me more."
Rafayel scoffs. He gathers his tape, fabrics, pins, thread into an orderly mess, he calls it. To this day you remain incapable of navigating through his briefcase.
It's intentional too. When he notes the exact pitch of your schemes, your sighs, your laughter, before he can stop himself, he files it away like other pieces of evidence in his briefcase. He tells himself it's ammunition.
He will use it, eventually. He has to.
"You think I have no other clientele. That's rather insulting to my craft."
"Apologies."
"Don't say it if you don't mean it."
At this, you peek from behind the partition, "I mean it, Rafayel."
He musses with his frizzy, curled locks. Ink black at night, a deep ash lavender in the day. "What are you doing, anyways? At this frequency, your mother thinks we're meeting secretly."
A shudder almost runs through him. You take stock of his discomfort.
"I am falling off horses for archery practice and chasing boars for fun. No delightful activity is pristine."
Rafayel's been your seamstress for three years.
He just showed up one day beside your headmaster of staff. A short introduction told you he came from a coastal family of craftsman. The town was not notable, quiet and meek. He did not tell them his people were dead.
"And if she really thought so, I would not be allowed to meet you anymore." There's little chance the Queen would permit her daughter to marry someone of no economic advantage.
"Ouch," Rafayel pretends.
"I'd still meet you though," you smile. He's prickly to this day, but sometimes, like today, you catch his calmer side. "You have a wonderful eye for beautiful things in life. I can't let you go."
I can't let you go. He turns the phrase over like a stone. Something dark and complicated shifts in his chest, then goes still.
Rafayel rolls his eyes, and a pout graces his faces. "Thank the heavens someone appreciates my taste."
"Oh? Then I'm doing a poor job and delivering the compliments I receive at these boring events."
He's unsure if he wants to know who's delivering these comments. Yet, he also scold himself at the thought of caring.
"You are. I need praise like I need air. Just, omit their author. I don't particularly care who said them." Alright, you say.
He's mending another bodice of yours. It looks like there's another matter weighing on his mind. You sit next to him and poke his shoulder. "Okay, now spill."
He narrows his eyes, frowning deeper, but he pauses his ministrations. Rafayel scratches his neck and blows out air.
"Listen, I'm going away for some time. Your family may not hire me back."
"Oh," many unspoken thoughts cross your mind. Strange feelings begin to balloon. You promptly stomp at them with your heel.
"Well, before you go," you sit on the antique bench and your foot swings from the recoil. Rafayel raises an eyebrow while he folds your clothes. You reach behind your neck.
Rafayel walks over, kneels, to tie your shoes.
"I don't know how to repay you, but here's something for all the times you've saved me from looking heretic." You fish out an arrowhead, thumbing over pure obsidian. Light glints off its ragged edges.
He thinks back to several, several important evenings of wrestling you into layers of bloomers you'd reject, misbehaving and berating him for. A smile emerges on the edge of his lips.
"Oooh, so you intentionally arrive disheveled to my studio, then, Finally, it makes sense why I could never fit you before archery training, but after.” You remember the first time Rafayel met Rudy, your chocolate mare. She took quite a liking, constantly nudging his torso and blowing air into his hair as you two parted ways from lunch.
"Your bathing room is more to my liking. The lathers smell amazing. Are the blends from your hometown?"
You undo the looped leather string and drape it around his neck. He looks up instantly, and if anything, Rafayel looks more princely than your entire bloodline. From this angle, his frame is quite broader than yours. He looks distant as you mention his home town.
"You can keep them. They'll spoil otherwise, once I leave."
Rafayel thumbs over his new necklace, and that strange expression takes over his face again. A small frown etches into his brows. He's unwilling to make flowery promises of bringing you back to his hometown. You panic, reaching out to take it back. I'm a fool, you think.
He braces a palm on the floor and leans back, slacks tightening around his thighs. The words are on the tip of his tongue-
You'll regret this, we should-
"Stop," he says.
"Are you taking my gift back already?" A suspicious glare reflects off his eyes. It's just the sun.
"You looked horrified. I've never seen such an unhappy gift recipient," you scoff. You retract your hand, fingers curling back into a resting position. "Well, you don't have to wear it the way I do. Fetch a pretty penny with it, instead. My lucky charm can be your ticket out of a hard situation-"
"Why didn't you ask me why I'm going back?" Rafayel's voice is different now, a little vulnerable, a little new. He looks for answers on the tiled floor.
"You're very private, Rafayel. I wanted to respect that."
He leans forward again and grabs your other ankle, avoiding eye contact. He slips your laced heels on. "Sometimes, I wish you'd ask. Not all answers will come to you unless you force them out." A cryptic edge colors his voice.
Ask me, he thinks. Ask me so I can tell you what your family did. Ask me so I can watch your face change. Ask me so I know, once and for all, what you're really made of.
He wanted you to field his loathing, his seething depression, make you fall to your knees in remorse. After all, would you maintain your kindness if he pried these answers from you?
You don't ask.
Rafayel's not sure when he wanted to be honest with you. He knows. A part of him hates you, and the other part is just lonely, not wanting to bear this storm of anger and confusion alone.
Would you look at me the same way if I took away your family, the way you did mine?
Rafayel brushes your hair for one last time and you swat him away for ruffling it. You think back to this tender age, years later, tattered with "what-ifs."
Fall arrives when Rafayel leaves.
The staff host a small goodbye party with the royal kitchen's best flour and fruit teas. Fellow cooks and assistant pat Rafayel on the back. He's never revealed much about his past, just stating he came from a small coastal town that no kingdom has bothered with.
His parents are ill, he lies.
Upon hearing this, a homely looking maid emerges from the crowd. Esther, and in her hand is a love letter and some medicine. Rafayel smiles kindly, figuring she must have spent some coin to retrieve the herb.
He returns the medicine.
"It's a rarer disease, you should keep this in case." He closes his fist around hers. For a moment, Rafayel thinks that if he were someone else, taking this easy path out, forever living in hiding, would be the obvious choice.
But deep inside him is a rage that can't be quieted. He can't bear the thought of unleashing it on innocent, uninvolved people.
His anger reminds him of you.
When the young men begin to chuckle, Rafayel's attention returns to the present. He releases Esther's hand with a polite smile. The blush stains her the rest of the night.
He chews on the bread. The glasses of wine shine with firelight, yet he's checked all the barrels in the brewery. Each variation of cured meat, he can easily identify which cut belongs to which room inside the butcher's slaughterhouse.
He’s mapped out import and export routes that enter and leave the kingdom. He knows the in-house smiths that forge weaponry and silverware. He knows the routes all guards take, whether it’s for simple duties or moving prisoners.
Yet not once has he been able to find evidence of his family.
The reminder is enough to vanish his hunger for the night. A fatigue takes over and his body aches, bones pressing into each other wrong at each joint.
He leaves the city the morning after. When he dives into the water, the ink black that stained his hair washes away with the salt. Yet another year passes with nothing but empty hands.
In the span of many years, Rafayel's search turned him bitter, and he decides vengeance is the only answer for his people. Maybe, when held and dangled over death's edge, your mother and father will relinquish their repulsive secrets.
Even if they didn't, a desire to see your kingdom and your people fall fueled his ability to walk, to work, to serve his people.
The lather you take from Rafayel has long run out, yet you've kept the seashell dispenser. It's beautiful, as is any item Rafayel would pick out in the past. You wash your hands and attend the annual banquet.
It's open to the public, a display of hospitality from the royal family to its citizens. From a young age your studies included appeasement of the masses. The centre dining hall bustles with scents of fried meats and fresh bread.
She tucks a strand of hair before your ear. You bask in her attention because you know it's fleeting. She motions you to sit in left to right order from eldest to youngest.
Her gaze leave yours then, scanning the crowd not once but twice over. Normally, grace came effortlessly to every single movement that came with years of practice.
You exchange looks with your eldest, Genevieve, and her prolonged look confirms your suspicions. 'What did I miss?' You murmur to her upon taking your seat.
'Mother and Father had a disagreement late into the night. They won't tell me or Leo, but they seem on edge.'
You shrug, knowing that Genevieve and Leo will receive the news first just by age, and therefore favoritism. You ruffle Nhadi's hair as you sit ahead of the four youngest. Theon enlists everyone in a game of jacks underneath the table, and you pout when they beat you fair and square.
You pick at various meats and cheeses and secretly trade bread for figs with Khali, the second youngest and pickiest sibling. Samuel is a toddler, starry-eyed and occupied by the ceiling murals.
For a split second, you think you spot a familiar mug in the crowd, but there's too much movement. Archery training, you figured, you've been slacking at.
The King stands, a surprise since he's already commenced the celebration. You watch in awe as the crowd stop, giving you a better look at the indistinguishable clothes of brown, black, and blue.
'May this morning be remembered in joy, and spoken of with pride. We owe our prosperity to you." He raised his glass too slowly. You survey the guards at each entrance, notice they're looking for someone.
A loud cheer booms the halls, and motion resumes. Liquid spills and you feel for the cleaners who have to restore the hall after.
Just then, a guard whispers into your father and mother's ear. She dismisses him with a hand.
'Children, I have matters to attend. Genevieve, deliver the parting message around noon."
She exits through the back and doesn't return for the rest of the celebration. The king seems undeterred. Genevieve delivers the closing speech and the crowd file out, happily taking their universal day off from labor.
Leo delivers Genevieve a bold, shining smile. She smiles back tiredly. They must have rehearsed late into the night given how you droned out, sign of that's she's effortlessly mastered speaking flowery words to the masses.
Leo and Genevieve are occupied by the king. You play a few hand games with your younger siblings before realizing no one has any ask of you.
You excuse yourself to use the restroom an hour later. Your favorite view is from your mother's veranda, overlooking the garden.
When you enter her room, a clatter from what sounds like the cabinet frightens you. The hairs on your arm stand, a slight sweat dampens your palms.
A small pool of red catches your eye. You'll remember this day, the bright sun filtering in, children's laughter, the startling clarity of birdsong undeterred by death. When you round the corner, your mother is in two.
The room looks empty, but the hairs that raise on your neck tell you otherwise. You search for the invisible predator, checking windows, doors, did they enter and leave through your mother's secret passage?
Your surveillance is weak at best, eyes darting but beck, torso, and feet heavy like lead. Your blood must have decided to obey gravity, no strength to pump towards the sky.
A book thumps onto the rug neither your father nor mother paid much attention to, having ordered a their assistants to pick the holiest, oldest tapestry from a royal archive.
Impossible, another book? That's not right. You muster enough will to turn around.
Strange. All goes dark.
You don't remember how you ended up sideways, sprawled out on the ground. A dull yet sharp ache blooms on your head, right where the stone floor digs in. As you try to get you, you struggle limply, realizing your ankle is out of commission too.
You blearily blink, a blur that you recognize as the worn down shoes of your maid dashing away from the room. Her shriek rings throughout the kingdom. Pigeons flitter. From afar, city merchants mistake frightened doves for newly painted clouds.
"The queen is dead!" A maid cries. She sounds shocked instead of triumphant. She's calling for your aid.
No, it's not her, she didn't do this then.
Footsteps rush the hallways, orderly like soldiers. You crawl towards your mother. When the chill of her limp body registers on your fingertips, a dry, weak cry tumbles of your throat, shaken.
A tall, dark shadow is hidden in the one vacuous corner of your chamber where no sunlight reaches. When you turn, its fingers are buried in your mother's hair. Her tear stained cheeks are fresh, separated from her body.
The culprit responsible for the purple blooming across your leg stalks toward you. He kneels over you, just enough to reveal ink black locks and familiar vibrant lavender eyes.
His silhouette is burned by the sun's golden rays, searing itself into your memory. Your consciousness fades, blurring the edges of his frame. Rising is a struggle because of your twisted ankle, screaming at you in reminder of her freshly twisted tendon, broken bone.
"I know you," your gasp is hoarse, torn up. "Rafayel?"
Rafayel has never looked at you so coldly in his three years of dressing you up and down. You wonder if you really knew him at all. He deliberates between finishing you off now, or leaping from the windowsill and risking total exposure.
There are distant footsteps that hastily come closer, sounding urgently like time ticking down to your death toll. Rafayel swears under his breath, making a split second decision to end you.
His voice is deeper, more mature and cold, when he threatens icily.
"She's next."
You have enough wits about you to understand that he can easily slice the neck of you and your maid if you reveal his presence. You remain silent, raising a white flag to your fate.
Rafayel's dressed in strange garb, speaking foreign tongue into magic from air. He slips back into the shadows, his presence becoming nearly indistinguishable from that of the grand bookcase. You prepare for the scene to come.
Your maid arrives with medical staff. Gasps, murmurs, grave voices fill the room. Someone begins lifting you, but you shake your head. Rafayel's hand tightens, perched on his waist, dagger in waiting.
You course correct and signal immediately.
"Unhand me!" you order, shockingly hysterical. You figure letting the adrenaline that's been over-saturating your system, seeping away, can aid the performance. Judging by the thudding headache's steady presence, yet let it fatigue you.
"You're unable to walk, your highness," the doctor diagnoses. "You need medical attention, and you need to provide witness."
You shake your head and pull away from the nurse, "She was already..." you cry, choking on your tears because your head hurts terribly, "She was just at the banquet. Where is she? How could this happen? Please, help her, wake her up." You beg, yet you talk as if to one, mind becoming narrowly focused on one thing only. Diversion.
The doctor rests his eyes on you before clicking his tongue. You hold the lowest importance as the youngest in the family, and this is your father's right-hand man.
Every second you waste is malpractice on his part.
He shifts from you to the Queen. His mind is preoccupied. He doesn't even glance at the room.
"Send the Queen to the infirmary, inform his Majesty, call upon the mortician. We'll go from there," he directs, and the staff move accordingly.
He looks at you, crumpled on the floor. "And someone send guards to search the grounds. The culprit must not be too far. The blood is fresh enough. Let us make haste, send in some cleaners after you vacate the princess. She's in distress."
You take great interest in the stone floor, scraping at it until your nails began to bleed. Slowly, the maids try handling you again, and though you flinch, you let them lift you away.
The crowd migrates like a herd of sheep, slowly, of one mind. As you stumble down the hallway, you picture you must look like moths swarming a white flame. How the sun shines off your mother's white dress is damning.
You're curious what story your father will spin up. Of course, they'll be kept in the dark. A tragedy like this would send them into uproar. A good court quiets the woes of their people. Your father knows very well that justice stirs emotions rather than quiets them.
Silence replaces the kingdom once everyone evacuates from your mother's chamber and the doctors begin their work. The sun still reflects off untouched pools of blood by the time you're hastily bathed and placed in your bed.
He had ordered you away under diagnosis of mental anguish. The cure? Isolation to process. One less nuisance to deal with for the time being.
Footsteps emerge from the shadows again. You feel a familiar presence tower over you, distant and wary.
"Quit the performance," Rafayel says without affect. He takes out his dagger, tracing down your cheekbone to jaw.
"What happened? " You murmur, voice raw, cheeks still wet and heart begins to beat wildly with adrenaline. " Nothing adds up."
Your line of questioning is one he expects, yet it lights a fire within him. Was this an act? Were you unaware all along? Impossible. Even if you didn’t know, there was no excuse you could give, no apology you could offer that would change anything.
"I can't give you that information," Rafayel presses the dagger deeper, tone stern. "And save your curiosity. It's worthless."
He trails the dagger down your neck. You look at him, a selfish part of you denying the man in front of you now. His brows furrow, his eyes mean and guarded. Were his smiles always hiding something deeper? Why couldn't you see it?
"What did my family do to cause you this pain?"
“How long have you been planning this?”
“What are you looking for?”
Rafayel stays silent, giving you nothing..
"Save your sympathy too," and he's serious.
"You weren't supposed to be there. But now, it's you, or me.”
“One of us has to go."
You look up and glare, a part of you fearful at the menacing threat before you. Yet your voice memory whirring and summoning old thoughts, old feelings for the ghost before you.
You could not deny that in the three years Rafayel had become your friend, and you had fallen in love with him. But the gentle soul before you must have been a lie, a trick of both sun and candle light.
"Until I know what's going on, leaving matters like this will eat at me."
"Good," he says, and you can't help but feel surprise. The jolt turns into a wound. Driven by an impure emotion, you charge forward, motivated only by a need to say what's on your mind before he's gone forever.
You gulp, and the blade pressed into your neck.
"Yes, it's entirely selfish. But if you're after my family, I am part of that family. Something's wrong with the bigger picture. I can't just stand by if the problem can be fixed-"
"It's too late to fix," Rafayel says, bitter.
An urgency overcomes you.
You think about figs, baked bread, and jacks. You think about Samuel's naive pondering, and Khali's bashful trade, Theon's infectious laughter. "There must be something I can offer. Is there absolutely nothing?"
Rafayel lingers.
He’s here to enact a final act of revenge because he was disadvantaged for years. Your family tucked their sins impossibly far away from the world. Revenge mattered little, its sweetness guaranteed to melt faster than candy, if he could really-
"If there isn’t, and you're here to end all of us, please leave the younger ones alone." You whisper. "They don't know any better."
The thought of your siblings causes an involuntary reaction. You sit up to discuss this matter more seriously.The motion results in drawing blood. Rafayel glares, drawing his dagger back.
"Don’t move. Stop talking." Rafayel nearly hisses, his voice raspy through the mask.
Fear strikes your heart, but the dagger hasn't thrusted itself into your chest.
You gulp, wiping the surface level cut away.
"Why? You must know that puppeteering the princess and compromising the royal family can achieve nearly anything."
"Even then," Rafayel whispers, suspicious. "You will always have power over me. I've never trusted you." He says, a bit of anxiety spiking his blood. I can never trust you.
You realize you won't get further explanation. But his emotion is real, raw. It stings.
You swallow the poison, close your eyes, and think back to the warm, silly afternoons you shared with Rafayel years ago. To believe it was all a facade is hard, but the evidence before you paints only one picture.
Positioning yourself as an asset is now the basis of your relationship with Rafayel. A part of you folds this information away, to sit with in private later, when all this is over.
"Rafayel, you rendered me immobile. You took my mother away. You are clearly capable of stopping this at any point it becomes disadvantageous to you." You say, hoping that you two see the same chessboard.
Rafayel clenches his fists. He doesn't look at you when his next words come out.
“This is irrational. You're foolish to think we can make a peaceful deal.”
“The deal doesn’t have to be peaceful.” You dig, and he frowns.
“Whatever it is you're after, you won’t know until you ask.” You push.
At this, Rafayel breaks. He sighs, headache in full swing.
"I need access to the Chambers." Rafayel retracts his dagger, "And a permit to leave the city with undocumented cargo. Over the span of two weeks." He shuffles for something in his back pocket.
The Chambers are a family secret that you only know of by scripture. An underground tunnel system that contests the Kingdom in size, winding various pathways to riches, inventory, scripture, weaponry, and wine.
You're surprised Rafayel even knows about it.
You gulp.
“How do you know that what you’re looking for… is inside the Chambers?”
“I don’t,” he scratches, “Not until I’ve searched every corner.”
"I can't give you direct access to the Chambers without arousing suspicion,” You start, and Rafayel is highly suspicious, “But I can tell you that my father keeps an archive of all the routes in his study. Left side, bottom drawer.
”It's a mess, we've all inherited access." You first point at a plain cabinet.
Impossible, Rafayel thinks, all this time and he’s invaded your privacy, how did this go undetected?
He gets up and stalks over. “Push the right tile, on the top, and then twist.” He follows your instructions.
He exhales when a hidden door emerges. Behind it is a locked chest, and another set of stairs. The kingdom must have been architectured to hold another one of the same scale, a mirror version, just hidden in plain sight.
You cough when he knocks on the chest. When he turns around, you reach into your dress and remove a necklace. On it, is an unused jewel that fits right into the chest.
I didn’t invade your privacy enough, Rafayel thinks. You hand him the jewel, and he clicks it into place.
Inside it is full of clothes, bows, arrows, and a small pile of family emblems. He picks out the rusty key. Unused.
"Find what you need when the sun is up. Father meets during the day and rests in his chambers at night."
He smooths the rough metal over, its weight unreal. Three years and the key was right under his nose. Rafayel damns himself for not invading your privacy years ago.
"As for the cargo... It would be best to leave when my friends are stationed at the gates. Tabitha and Jerome have let me through before. I'll have to be the one to cross, but a handoff very far away should work once I've healed."
Rafayel peers at you from beneath his hood, deliberating. Pocketing your key, he walks over to the foot of your bed. He sits sideways, lifts your foot and rests it on his thighs.
You immediately pull back, shuffling with uncertainty.
"You’ll need your ankle back then."
You shake your head, pulling back again. "I have to get it bandaged by one of the doctors, elsewise it'll be suspicious."
Rafayel clicks his tongue. "Ointment at the very least. Wash it off before you go." Without any strength to refuse, you let him service the very ankle he injured.
He handles you elegantly.
“Can’t have you falling behind.”
"My friends are on shift beginning tomorrow for three nights. They switch to the city outskirts and rotate the other four. We should convene when you've found the right Chamber." You ask, tentatively.
He finishes rubbing the foreign tar like substance in, heating your wound up from the friction. "Where can I meet you?"
"Your studio is empty if you'd like to designate a meeting time. It's vacant after all these years."
He gives you a wary look.
"It's safer to meet you here."
You purse your lips, "Alright. If you need to leave a message, leave it there." You point at your rug, underneath it lies a latch door.
Rafayel nods. You can't read the emotion on his face. He won't tell you either, so you fill the silence.
"Tomorrow is your first opportunity. Our family meets at breakfast. I'll be questioned about my injury after further reflection. The king meets with various counselors and diplomats during the day. You should take that time to go to his room."
Rafayel's been sitting there with his thoughts. You pull your foot in, and he releases easily. He stands up with a little more vigor this time. You sense a wave of determination, watered down by suspicion.
"I'm not here to trick you, Rafayel."
Your eyes lock.
"You should go," you nudge.
With nothing but a nod, he departs. You watch his figure disappear from the window's ledge. You are deaf to the alarms closing in on this situation you've walked into.
You greet your father and your siblings with a quiet nod. Only the sound of silverware scratching china fills the room, a stark change from typical mornings filled with chatter, laughter, and mischievous pranks.
The mood is rather sour.
Your brother, Leo, drops into his seat with a shaky sigh. He looks like he hasn't slept. Your elder sister, Genevieve, brushes your hand as you take your seat further away from the king. She fixes your hair, angry, but silent. Your younger siblings sit after you.
"My children," Your father announces at the foot table, stern and guarded. "Until we rid the killer and their conspirators, there will be a stain on our family. You will each be under watch. For your own protection."
"Father won't tell us what the family has done wrong." Genevieve cuts in, coldly.
Leo interjects, "Without the guards, you may not live long enough to find out."
"Our family did nothing wrong," your father concludes serenely. "I've hired my best men to gather intel from nations that seek to bring us down." Ironic, you thought, how the culprit came from a small coastal town instead.
"My little fawn," he addresses you after a sip of wine. He's always preferred a dark red brew, too pungent even by smell for anyone else to consume.
"Yes, father," you respond hoarsely. Genevieve frowns at your condition.
"How come you didn't say goodbye to your mother with us?" It's an interrogating question. Never an ounce of concern, only fueled by the desire for information.
A nauseating feeling swirls in your stomach. You furrow your brows and look away. "My last memory of her is disturbing. I just want to remember her, alive and well."
"It would have been too much, father. Surely, you can understand." Leo interjects, standing at the table. The king raises and lowers his hand. Leo sits back down, obedient.
"Who did you see?"
You breathe.
"I don't know. Mother was on the floor when I came in. I called for a maid. I remember hearing footsteps and then I was on the ground. I couldn't see anything, but my ankle was broken."
Your father's gaze weighs heavily on you. His scribe writes your testimony down.
"This account is in accordance with the doctor's diagnosis, your highness. A mild concussion, dizziness."
Your father nods, letting murmurs and whispers rise around the table. Your mother's chamber was too high for any amateur bandit.
In this moment, you realize the current picture narrowed the potential culprits down to a highly trained assassin, and inside job, or you.
The king sees gears turning in everyone's heads. Sickeningly, he seems pleased with this outcome. The transpiring of this chessboard makes you sick, and you push away the seared pork and vegetables.
You picture Rafayel peering through each map, each diagram, committing passages to memory. Or if he'd be so bold to replicate them on the spot for future copies.
"Fine," the king says, drawing your attention back to the room. "We will expedite Genevieve's ascension to the crown for next week. Mark a public funeral for the Queen. Ensure that our dearest little fawn sees to her public duties as well."
Genevieve cuts into her meat with more anger than necessary. Leo rubs his face.
"Are we moving on, just like that, Father?" Genevieve spits. Leo looks out the window, and your father looks angry.
"All we can do is move forward. Grieving must be done in solitude. If you have further matters to discuss, come to me later. I will entertain this no further." It's a convincing enough performance. You squeeze Genevieve's hand, half in consolation and half in thanks for buying time.
Breakfast bleeds into brunch. Only when your father announces his next meeting does Leo pull you aside and asks if you did it.
You tell him no, and he smooths your hair in consolation.
Genevieve picks at her nails, saying your motive wouldn't make sense. If you sought power, you would have killed her instead and been next in line.
You point out that these questions are probably what the king wants brewing between siblings. Genevieve sighs, and you say you'll find a more private time to talk amongst them later.
You stalk to your father's side and wait until the room's empty.
"You've been very quiet, my little one." He observes. You leverage some honesty.
"Father, you don't trust me," your voice wobbles. "The more I say, the more my own family will become suspicious of me. I don't know what's going on. I can do nothing."
The king simmers on this. "Always been an observant one, child. That's a sign your studies are going well."
He twirls the wine. "Remain under your guard's watch until this passes. They'll accompany you on your public duties."
"Duties?" You prompt for clarification.
"Why of course," he adjusts.
"We will announce that the Queen is gravely ill. Acknowledging assassination will make us look weak. During these sorrowful times, our people will believe we've been cursed. To keep us in their good graces, you must meet with the people to hear their pleas, and offer them blessing. Make them believe we are their savior. Uphold an image of strength."
You mean to use me as bait, to lure the culprit with unfinished business.
A pit of acid rises in your stomach.
You bow your head in obedience, "I will hear the people's woes and offer them blessing."
"I won't let anyone hurt you." A lie, you detect.
"Of course, father."
Without another glance, your father dismisses you. Rafayel enters your mind again, but you know he won't see you until he's made progress. You shake him out of your mind.
Leo rests a sympathetic palm on your shoulder after leaving the hall. "I overheard," he says, "To dangle you as bait, just fish out the suspect, has crossed the line. I cannot stand by and watch." Genevieve tsks, holding onto Leo's arm.
"We all know you were in no capable state of harming mother. If you truly wanted the crown, you would have taken my life as well, poisoned or beheaded or otherwise." Genevieve separates from Leo, and she embraces you.
"Unless you have leads on neighboring kingdoms, this seems reasonable." You swallow, muffling your voice into Genevieve's dress. You squeeze back.
"Father's been acting strange," she says.
"He's not occupied by the threat of neighboring countries. I might be close to discovering what he and mother are hiding." Leo claims.
"That's a tall order," you remark, but you squeeze his arm and smile. "But if anyone can do it, it's you, brother." You don't tell them what you already know.
While you feigned nausea at dinner, what Rafayel presents to you weeks later in the chambers leaves you heaving soon enough.
You're chewing your lips writing a journal entry when a breeze itches your nose. The new guard assignments started immediately, rendering the studio meetup impossible.
"You were right about the map." A quiet voice, on your left, jolts you into whipping around. He really was skilled in silence. He looked unharmed. Thank the gods.
"I'm glad you found it," you return, not in the mood to field any more suspicion from any more parties tonight, "Jerome and Tabitha are on duty. Do you need my horse and carriage?" Rafayel senses the lack of patience.
"What's wrong?" He's careful to keep his voice low and not leave any imprints on your furniture, opting to stand and favor his left leg.
"Nothing. Well, actually, yes, there's something that will affect the plan," you close your journal. "You remember my siblings?"
"You have a large family, yes."
“Larger, now,” you provide. The detail sits useless in the air. You move topics.
"We're all heavily guarded until the King declares otherwise. I'm locked in this room at night. However, behind the shelf is a secret passage to a watchtower with ground access."
Rafayel looks at your journal, and then back to you.
A slight annoyance digs into his chest. You never used to skip over your feelings, yet now they're locked away in that journal. Hypocrite a part of him denounces. He shakes his head and tells himself your matters aren't important anymore. He'd found the Chamber.
"The one on the west? It's guarded." Rafayel must have spotted more guards on his way up.
You frown and cross your arms. "That... won't do."
He mirrors your look. "I need your help preparing and transporting from the chamber. The answers to your questions are also in there, so it's best you come." His motive.
You perk up alert, yet still stumped with the current circumstance.
"I have a solution," Rafayel declares.
"Hold onto me," he says.
The next second, you're swept into his arms.
"Excuse me?" you say, reactively grabbing onto his shoulders.
"You may experience dizziness. Don't let go, otherwise that will be the least of your problems."
He's speaking in foreign tongue again, and the air around you glows, moves, shifts the light and energy that was once dormant for millenia.
Rafayel crouches on the windowsill and he leaps. Your grip is iron, shock paralyzing your system as you free fall.
The landing is gentle.
You hear crickets and wind brush atop tall grass. When you open your eyes, the magic that swirled around you has been replaced by fireflies. In your peripheral, you spot Rafayel's jaw. You're cradled in his broad embrace.
You did wonder how he travelled around so easily. Stealth under the nurture of magic makes so much sense, yet you never knew Rafayel knew of these arts. You dip your gaze away from the stranger.
"A little warning could have helped."
You drop a leg to signal an exit. At first, Rafayel shows no sign of letting you go. His mind reacts before his body, resulting in a noticeable delay in putting you down.
"You would have hesitated." He responds.
"Are you able to teleport upwards?" You ask, dusting off your dress.
"As long as the trajectory is the same. A bit more work, easily done. Follow me, this way."
He leads you through hidden shrubbery and twisted trees on the kingdom's ground. The moon is high, lighting the night like a midnight sun, making it easier for you to commit this path to memory.
When you come faced to a wall, he extends an armored forearm. You grip onto his leathered, clothed gauntlets as he whispers charmed words again, transporting the both of you through the discreet wall.
By the nature of gravity, you two land heel-first in a large underground tunnel, properly sized for a quarry, with various paths winding in and out.
The night's fresh air is short-lived, crisp air replaced by musky, hot, warm air.
He leads you down one of many entrances. The stairs are lit by firelight. You've never been here before. As you descend, Rafayel's mind runs at an increasing pace with each step.
He's sure once you see the truth, you'll find reason, justification, for your people's actions. He's been preparing for finality, to say goodbye forever after tonight.
The two of you turn into a damp, stone vault. It's large, cold enough to send a chill to your arms, and wet. Water drips, its echo covering the sound of both of your steps.
He lifts the firelight.
He's been prepared to bring back his kin alone, without your passage through the gates. That bitter spark lights again. A part of him wanted you to see. And what would you do? Run back to your family? Deny it out of fear? Did you even have the decency to acknowledge.
"Rafayel-," you cry softly, voice brittle and ghastly, turning him around. He thinks you're silly for trying to protect him from the sight he's seen in his nightmares so often.
Everywhere you look, there's carnage.
In front of you lay hundreds of mermaids, pale flesh a splatter of ghastly white and blue, hastily resting on top of each other as if they'd been deposited carelessly over time. The smell hits you now, a sour scent that should waft past the vault's entrance, but stops. It's all concentrated here.
In your survey, you see some of his kin have been descaled, some sunken in and withered away, and others with missing parts, some large and some small. Crates sit and clothed bodybags lay in the back. Your mind refuses to make the connections at this moment.
You know this palace. You know every corridor, every tapestry, every portrait of every ancestor hung with pride. You ate above this vault. You laughed above it. Your mother kissed your forehead above this room and told you that you were loved, and beneath your feet, beneath the rugs and the stone and the dark.
Your knees find the floor before you decide to kneel.
There is no sound in you. Not a cry, not a gasp. Just a hollow, terrible silence that Rafayel has never heard from you before, because you have never been emptied out like this before. Your hand finds the edge of a crate and grips it.
You stay like that for a long time.
Rafayel doesn't rush you.
He has waited years.
He can wait a little longer.
When you finally look up, your eyes are dry. There is something in your expression he has never seen. Not fear, not guilt, not even grief exactly. Something older. Something that looks, uncomfortably, like the face a person makes when the world reshapes itself around them and there is no going back to the shape it used to be.
Judging by your countenance, Rafayel confirms you've not been privy to those imprisoned by your own people. You weren't aware other humanoid species existed, much less were hunted. He puts a hand on your shoulder, feels your frame shake.
It must be unimaginably more painful for him to look at, you think, yet he turns around with ease. You cover your mouth to stifle the nausea that swirls in your stomach, afraid of coming across histrionic.
"It's Lemurian tradition to bring the dead, and their souls, back to the sea. Even if they've already been harvested for riches," you look at the missing scales, "Witchcraft," the drained blood, "Stock," missing limbs and organs, "Entertainment."
He says, voice even, "This is my mission."
You nod, the puzzle pieces fitting neatly together. Why Rafayel asked for two weeks undocumented access through the transportation gates. Why he could never trust your people. His act of vengeance upon your mother.
"Think we can get them all across undetected?" He smiles wryly, sure that he's lost you at this point.
Your mind reels at the sheer quantity of people that need transporting, picking apart and digging for alibis believable enough over what could be a month or two months span of time. It's doable, it has to be, you think. You can’t just leave the situation like this.
"Let's start with one, okay? We can use the bags in the back. There's clean canvas cloth to wrap them in by the barn. We don't have much time." You flick your head, legs still shaking.
In your mind, there's a fault line that shifts, its split creating an endless gulf that you can't see the bottom of. It divides you two further and further until his frame blurs, implying a distance far impossible to cross.
"Grief takes an immeasurable amount of time," you say, thinking about Rafayel's time as your seamstress, and what must have been hundreds of frigidly well-practiced smiles shared with you. "It... will be the perfect alibi. I'll say I need to escape from the kingdom to grieve for my mother."
What were you thinking? Serving your enemy for three years. That can only do one thing. Fuel and ignite hatred, vengeance. You were a mere stepping stone. You gulp. My father, my mother, they're not human. It didn't matter how vitriol you held towards them. They already decided your fate.
"We need a proper cargo cart, and some vinegar solution. Everything is in the barn. The smell will throw my friends off otherwise." Your voice comes out even, professional. Your body's shaken, but your mind kicks it into action.
You've been holding onto the vault's edge for support. Otherwise, the weakness in your knees would leave you crumpled on the floor. There are so many faces you can't match to names, even if you knew all of them.
Rafayel looks at you in disbelief, like he's waiting for something else. His indecision morphs into a slow bubbling of anger that looms, threatening to boil over.
There's no apology you can give that will undo the sight before you. Both of you know that. Yet, he's always wanted to hear someone say it, to acknowledge it, just to rub it back in their face.
You feel it from him, the look of disdain, and all it can spur within you is a desire to bend to his will. You're next word slips out, finally.
"I'm so sorry, Rafayel" you whisper.
Regret immediately floods your veins, burning your ears with shame. You'll never be in a position to deliver a meaningful apology. It comes out weak and pathetic compared to the sight before you.
Rafayel glares, your admission adding weight to the anguish in his heart. An unstoppable force drives him forward.
"Save it," he says, bitterly.
You look away.
And it feels good.
It feels thrilling,
Then, it doesn't.
And it wilts away.
In that mixture of emotion, more and more pile in until it's indescribable, leaving him at a storm's center of conflict. Would all his retribution be wrought upon you, and only then would he then feel salvation? The truth whispers at him.
There's no vengeance he can take upon you that would be enough.
Yet you take it.
You figure the only appropriate way to nudge conversation is through shameful naiveté.
"How long did my mother oversee this?" You ask.
You carve a professional amount of distance by moving forward. You kneel on the ground, laying out the cloth. He feels it in the way you create more distance than typical.
Rafayel stays still. He didn't think he'd get to this point, to spread the atrocity through word of mouth. Would his version of events spread to generations in the future?
"Forty years ago, my aunt was stranded on the beach. You father found her beautiful. He fell in love, yet she refused, knowing it was deranged fascination."
"One night, your mother, who was arranged to marry him, followed him to the beach. She threatened to reveal his bestial tendencies and remove his crown. It drove him mad, and your father figured he would have both the crown and my mother by all costs. My aunt was right about his intention. He sent men to slaughter my people, and he built a very large collection of rare and exotic jewels."
While telling you this story, Rafayel had started preparing the first body. You wait for him to initiate the proper handling. When he lifts by the waist and supports the neck, unafraid, you counterbalance his support where you imagine the knees and feet would be.
Her scales are patched, raw and gray from patternless, careless picking.
"How did you survive?" You ask, methodically preparing one of the unused body bags. Rafayel outstretches his hand to stop you. He looks emotional, kneeling besides you gingerly.
"My grandfather hid our people away immediately. Losing his daughter, his wife, countless brothers and cousins after multiple encounters was too much. Your father gave up his search a while ago, thinks he's hunted all of us."
He closes her eyes with a gentle sweep of his hand. Then, Rafayel proceeds to close his own, reciting what seems to be a prayer.
You wait patiently before he moves again and fold the corners over. Rafayel folds her tail in half, reducing the wrap to a reasonable length. You tighten the fastened rope.
"Thank you for telling me," you say, and Rafayel looks at you. His story may not make it beyond you, he thinks. After all, who could you tell that would believe you? The only person who would believe you, would send out another search, immediately.
But he nods.
"The stables aren't far from here and the safest alibi I can think of is a late night archery practice. The length of the bow is roughly the same. Cleaning solution's behind the stable, warehouse on the left."
The moon is still high so you two transport her body in ease, taking discreet routes. Guilt washes over you when the night air returns, the well-groomed gardens and quiet fireflies a stark contrast to the cold history below.
The buzz of crickets is loud enough to replace conversation.
When you near the barn, Rudy, your beloved mare, recognizes you. Her ears perk up and her charcoal eyes shine bright in recognition. She blows out hair, lifts her head at the sight of Rafayel. She's less curious about your third. You scratch her chin while Rafayel walks past, looking for clean canvas inside the barn
It takes some time to dispose of the old bag, but the new wrapping makes the difference between picnicking or archery gear and the deceased remains imperceptible. This fact seems to calm Rafayel down.
Maybe. You can't tell. He seems to be in a daze, as if the scene happening before him isn't real. Rudy bumps her nose into his shoulder, and he gives in, scratching her chin, brushing a hand through her mane. She rests her head on his shoulder, enjoying the motions.
Rafayel was always better with most animals than people, except for felines, when he worked for the Kingdom.
You hop on and take your time ensuring that everything is fasted properly. Breath shallow, heart pumping, the situation suddenly becomes real. You were so confident that Tabitha and Jerome would let you through. Could you do this a hundred times undetected? If you were to be discovered, what would be the plan?
Rafayel looks at you to signal he's finished acquainting himself with an old friend. It doesn't give you time to continue thinking through all the risks. Yet you continue, operating on a pure drive to do what you can. You tell Rafayel, "Meet me 10,000 meters from the perimeter."
He takes his time patting Rudy's nose goodbye, thoughtful about the same topic. There were hundreds of bodies. Yes, you hadn't turned him in yet, but what if you tired of the repetitive and dangerous acts of nightly treason? Would you see that securing the safety of your siblings would be easier by telling your father? Would you betray him?
A thrum of anxiety must be flowing between you two. Rudy can sense it, and she throws her head back to shake off the nerves.
"In an hour?"
You nod, and he takes a step backwards, phasing away.
"Up late, princess!" Tabitha whistles. You amble towards the torchlit arch at an easy pace. Above it is a 50 meter wall. Rudy throws her head back in appreciation, angling towards Tabitha for a pet. The scene is a spitting recreation of past nights you've snuck out for rides. Despite your hood, she can tell by your silhouette.
"You're supposed to be locked away in your tower." Jerome comments, looking around before leaning forward. He whispers, "Are you sure another night wouldn't better suit a private gallop?"
"I'm going mad in there. I've decided to use some of my privileges. Need the night to clear my mind," you smile sadly, turning on the dramatics, reaching into your back for some imported spirits.
"What's with the cargo?" Tabitha questions. It's innocent, yet dutiful.
You look back and shake your head. "Mostly archery gear. Target practice. All the others get training in low vision situations. I just need a challenge, something else to focus on."
Tabitha accepts the alcohol and she gives you a sympathetic look. "Be back before sunrise. Grab a drink with us once this all blows over."
Jerome eyes the cargo. He walks over and you keep your posture slack. You two share a look.
"Looks like you prepared well."
You send him a sheepish grin.
"I've also packed some blankets and sleeping gear. A nap under the stars is much more calming than staring at the kingdom's walls..." You trail off. Tabitha pushes Jerome's shoulder, quietly mouths that he could do with more tact.
Jerome scratches his neck in apology.
"Just doing my duty. I assume we'll be seeing a lot more of you, then."
"Yeah, but I didn't forget about you two. You reach back and slip out two jars of spirits from the topmost layer of the canvas.
"Hey, hey. Be a little more discreet about your bribery alright? We hired more guards because of the situation." All of the kingdom's staff are sworn under oath to kee information hidden from the public.
The hair on your arm raises a bit.
"More guards? Gosh, Rudy, we'll have to get you a cape too."
Tabitha waves her hand dismissively and Jerome walks back to his station and motions you through.
"You know half the hands are looking for their coin. More people, yes, but that means more drinking, and more slacking off."
You shake your head and laugh.
"Don't tell your father though." Jerome quips.
"Deal, deal," you say, admonished.
You wave goodbye and adjust Rudy into a canter. Rudy neighs quietly when you detour from your usual route, and you calm her down. Rafayel guided you south, towards the ocean.
There's not a cloud in the sky. The stars are shockingly bright, calling for your attention and thoughts.
In the short reprieve you have alone, all to yourself, once you're far away enough, you let out a single, broken laugh. It's a reflection of your bubbling fear and rising anxiety.
The consequences of this ruse coming apart ends with a declaration of treason and claims of insanity. Why did that thought shake you as much as it did fill you with a sense of determination?
You keep Rudy's speed consistent until you come to a stop behind a great hill. Its height casts you both in shadow. The kingdom's city cannot be seen.
Your heart is thundering now, surveying the landscape, soothing her mane is more for your own consolation. The sea lies a few thousand meters away, edges blending in with the rolling waves of tall grass.
You wait. Rudy's tail swishes, her rhythm disharmonious with the wind.
If anything, Rafayel should have spotted you hundreds of meters ago.
The crickets quiet as footsteps approach you in familiar rhythm. Rafayel approaches from the side, offering Rudy an apple he must have plucked while waiting.
He receives a delightful huff.
"You're here." He breathes out, emotional. You infer this must be a touching moment for him, but your urgency takes over, patience wearing thin.
"Let's not celebrate too early, alright? Get on." You reach out. Rafayel grabs your forearm and swings hops over, settling behind you.
You cough, "Please, sit further back. Where are we going? We'll be fast, so secure the binding."
You hear him dutifully shuffle back, "Straight." You can hear the emotion in his voice. "They're waiting." With a gentle squeeze and the click of your mouth, Rudy dashes.
The night is quiet except for her heavy, rhythmic gallops. The kingdom's walls shrink behind you.
Neither of you speak for a long time.
"You didn't hesitate," Rafayel says eventually, releasing an observation into the air. Otherwise, it would stay with him, and he can't quite put it down.
"Given the situation, there is absolutely no time to," you say.
He's quiet again. "I used to practice what I'd say to you. When I finally had you where I wanted you. Hurt, lost." A pause. "It turns out I had nothing to say."
You don't look back at him. "What did you want me to do? In those visions?"
"Beg," he says simply. "Mostly. For mercy, for forgiveness. I wanted to see you anguished."
The word lands between you, honest and ugly and somehow not cruel. You sit with it.
"I begged for my siblings," you remind him, “You can start there, and find other things to take away from me.”
Rafayel doesn't answer.
High tide greets you. Rudy stops at the edge, and you hop off. "No one's here, Rafayel," you nervously observe, undoing the bindings anyways.
He undoes the other side, his eyes peeking over Rudy's backside once all the bindings are undone. He flicks his head to the side and says, gently, "Look again."
When you turn, the ridges of each wave glow iridescently, breaking apart and rejoining as you see several pairs of feet, and some torsos breaking the ocean's surface tension.
Children sit in the shallow waters with their tails flipping, their eyes glowing a bright blue and hair, gradations of dark blue and purple.
The elders are also there. They stand in human form, several held up by the middle aged. The hair of the elderly are tinted shades of ashy pink. The middle aged, all long and thick in shades of vibrant purple. Beautiful marks tattoo everyone's faces.
A delicate older woman emerges from the crowd. Her feet touch dry sand. As she nears, she gazes at you two in disbelief. Children watch you intently, their oblivious nature obvious in the expression/
You inhale and suck more air in through your teeth, scared. "You should go. I'll stay here."
"I need help carrying her," he answers, truthfully. You sigh raggedly but nod, eyes closed. You settle the deceased over your shoulder and slowly walk over.
"Rafayel!" The delicate older woman rushes over and cups her son's face. Her voice is divine, you think.
She surveys the situation first, followed by an older, frailer man, eager to come close. His grandfather. You observe that the middle aged man who stood next to them must be his father. His hand is raised, telling his people to halt, stay wary.
"Mother," he greets. "Come. You should see her." They touch their foreheads. When they part, his mother acknowledges you, eyes powerfully dipped in sadness and revelation. She's careful not to let any other emotion show.
"And you are...Damien's child," his grandfather announces after registering your features. His voice is rich yet fading away with age. Hesitation stalls both their desires to view the body. His voice is colored with a tone you can't discern.
At this, the people behind Rafayel's father gasp, both sides unsure how to proceed. Rafayel introduces you before you have a chance to say anything.
"Yes. She is the king's third eldest," he pauses before enunciating clearly, slowly, "We brought grandmother home."
You bow your head, and Rafayel attempts to open his mouth, but his mother begs.
"Open the canvas first, Rafayel."
A flicker of unease starts in your stomach. Rafayel motions you to continue, and you two lay her down, unfolding. Another gasp, and this time it's from his grandfather.
He staggers over and cups his lover's face.
"My love," he greets, "It is really you." A sob finally shakes his frame.
Rafayel's father puts his hand down. Children begin gathering around, looking in awe. The older man cradles his wife, shaking.
He approaches, wrapping an arm around his wife. He takes in the situation, and swiftly pierces his son with a stern look.
"How could you bring her to us, my child?" His question is thorny, as you expected. "What if this is a trap? Once she returns, she'll tell her father we're alive. We must relocate, this place isn't safe any longer."
"She may bring us one, at the price of all," Rafayel's grandfather explains, rising from his hunched posture. He looks through you, drafting your strategy in his mind. You can tell his mind is vibrantly in thought.
Rafayel steps toward his father, leans in and whispers with a glare. "The princess has had multiple opportunities to betray me."
At this, the ugly truth comes out before Rafayel can process it.
"Yet here we are."
His father pauses. You do too. Not for long, however. He sighs next, continuing the conversation as if you weren't there.
"Then you were careless," He scolds. "One out of a hundred is barely a drop. If you're to tell me you trust her, don't. Trust means nothing, not without a price." He looks at you, "Not without an oath."
"No," his mother rejects, "We can't seal my son away. Not to her."
Rafayel shakes his head, "Mother, that's not-"
"It's the safest measure to protect our people," his father states. "We'll know if she's telling the truth, and we'll know when she'll betray us."
"We must do it then," you say, upon hearing the information his father offers. Your main goal is to put their minds at ease. Whatever they need, to know the truth. His mother glares at you. You let go of the chess piece anyway.
"Sir, no one knows about this. If my father knew, at best, he'll chain my foot to an asylum for the rest of my days for disobedience. At worst, my head will be kicked around the town square for treason. "
His father's jaw ticks.
"Then why are you doing this?"
You look at the ground, "When Rafayel infiltrated the kingdom, none of it made sense. Now that I know the motive, I also have the power to do the right thing."
You look at his father and say, honestly, "As much as I have no interest in promoting the practices of my father's kingdom, I am more interested in not losing any more family members, so let's do the oath."
Rafayel looks away at this.
"The queen is dead." He fills in, and his mother closes her eyes.
Rafayel's father measures you with a scrutinizing gaze. "Come back to us after you've initiated the oath, then." He looks at Rafayel.
"Lemurian oath binds for life, and beyond," his grandfather rises from his mourning. "Your fate will be permanently intertwined with our people."
You purse your lips, unsure of what he means.
"He means, every reincarnation of you and I will carry this very essence of vengeance, redemption, deliverance and protection," your original companion provides.
You sigh, relieved. "I don't care what happens after I'm dead. It could be worse."
Rafeyel grabs your wrist, "Come with me then," and he leads you towards the glowing waters. You shiver when your ankles touch the water, and you just want this over with.
"My family treated you like an enemy, rather than a guest," Rafayel says. "This entire circumstance," he sighs, frustrated, "Is unideal."
"I would have done the same," you correct.
"Stop being so understanding for once." A crooked frown settles on his face, “It’s annoying.
Rafayel takes his dagger and slices his palm open. Blood pools, and you figure you have to do the same, offering your palm out.
"My plan," Rafayel starts, "Was to wipe out your entire bloodline and recover what would be very little remains."
The children watch from afar, some giggling. His mother, father, and grandfather watch you attentively. You're surprised they didn't come to supervise, to make sure no underhanded tricks come out.
"Then you handed me knowledge of the Chambers," drawing your attention back to him, "But the scales are still tipped in my favor, by the way."
Ever since finding the chambers, Rafayel's only cared about returning his family. That fire to seek revenge on your father and wipe out his bloodlines has smothered itself. Yet, he cannot tell you this. Instead, it must hold you at knifepoint.
"I'm aware," your fist curls.
He says his next words gently, taking your palm in and slicing delicately, much more delicate than his own.
"You don't seem disturbed at the potential, impending loss of your father."
You watch his knifework, wincing at the open flesh. "I can't answer for his crimes. When death arrives at his death, Leo will ascend the crown. He thinks about the people."
You watch him pool his blood into yours, and yours back into his. The waters below your feet begin to glow, as if waking the ocean.
"Are you really fine with this ritual, Rafayel? I feel like I'm missing the full story here."
He takes two solutions, one that sears your wound shut. It stings, but the blood stops. Another that you can only describe as the essence of his castings and spells, mixing it with your blood.
"Here's some intel to satisfy your curiosity. You continually disprove my assumptions, and I dislike being wrong so frequently," he deflects. You give him a disapproving look at the diversion.
He pours some into the ocean. A light emerges. You watch as the ocean eagerly lapping up your mixed blood and drawing it away into the endless sea.
"Before you drink," he says, "The oath gives us command over one another. My people have used this method to govern for eons."
A distant hum belonging to sirens long dead begins filling your ears. It's ominous, yet beautiful, and you feel a mysterious essence probe at your human flesh.
"Okay," you agree.
"You aren't afraid I'll order you to slaughter your family?" He questions.
"You wouldn't do that," you say. The unspoken trust unearths itself, like a fresh sprout in spring. Rafayel purses his lips, not quite sure what to do with this new information.
"Is that it?" You question, sharply.
He shakes his head, "Lemurian magic also reveals any strong emotions at will. It's useful for seeing past lies. Many of us train to block the constant inbound messages from those we've bound to."
"Okay, so compartmentalize." You conclude, and he nods.
You take his palm to sip from it, impatient. It tastes metallic and of silver, light and airy yet it leaves your throat warm.
The sea begins singing. It's loud enough for his family to hear. His father visibly calms.
A rune begins to sear itself onto your chest, it burns, you wince, and then it disappears. Rafayel consumes the rest, enduring the same process. You wince again as the deep line etched in his brow reminds you of the pain.
"Is that it?" You ask again, and Rafayel responds, "During the next full moon, we'll have to come back and drain old blood. What remains will be pure blood touched by the oath."
"Okay, sounds easy enough." You flick your head towards land. "Your father looks eager for answers."
He looks at them. His mother's face is buried in his father's chest. His grandfather looks solemn, yet the children look overjoyed. A few laugh and giggle to each other, and one of them brings a wreath of seashells to you. You're sure Rafayel isn't telling you something important.
"This is yours now," the child says. You bend down and let them place it on the crown of your head, smiling politely. Rafayel ruffles their hair. The child takes your hand, returning you both to the sand.
"Rafayel," Rafayel's father commands, "The oath."
His hand replaces the child's.
You feel a warmth similar to the magic he used to teleport you, but this time it thrums instead of whispers. His eyes glow an unearthly blue, iridescent, and you feel the rune burn on your chest again.
Rafayel asks what your intentions are.
You feel the words tumble out of your mouth, as if under a hazy trance.
"I will help you return your people. I will protect my siblings," it's nothing the audience hasn't heard before. Rafayel chews his lips, he uses the oath again to ask you this.
"Have you been colluding against us, or will you?" Rafayel asks more specifically, slightly uncomfortable with the audience.
"No. I could never."
The unexpected honesty leaves Rafayel with an unreadable expression. Yes, you hadn't betrayed him to this point, earning his temporary trust. But to hear your true thoughts about the future moved something in him.
And then another feeling emerged. Despite your willingness to undergo the oath, he wished he could hear those words from you without an order. Weeks ago he would have never believed you, but now... now the fire that was so aggravated molds itself into something more tamable.
Rafayel calls off the magic. He looks to his family.
His grandfather closes his eyes in what must be relief. He nods with a finality that lessens the tension in even his father's shoulders. His mother also visibly calms, but she begins to look at you differently. The children are disinterested, most have returned to the water.
All except the wreathmaker, who's just witnessed their first union between Lemurian and human with bright eyes.
"When we've delivered enough of the deceased back, I think we should wait a few nights and then shoot for the stars." You begin.
Rudy tosses her head again, delighted to see you both. Rafayel carries over a large piece of driftwood. You fill the canvas with dried grass, twigs until it looks roughly about the same size as when you left the kingdom.
Rafayel continues your line of thought, "Bring them all back before your father notices?" Rudy helps you and Rafayel up with a raised hoof.
"Yes, and then deal with the consequences after," you say with an uncertain energy, tapping Rudy gently on her ribs. She launches into a trot. Rafayel's thighs bump yours and you shift forward.
His command under oath had your mind reeling. While you would never betray him, that only made you think about the other players on the chessboard.
"The chamber hasn't been touched in weeks. There's a possibility that no one checks on them anymore, but we can't be too careless. My father may just want to get rid of the ghosts that haunt him, or they may occupy his mind to this day."
"And if he hears about the missing victims, he may draw a connection to the assassination without discovering my involvement. He'll send a search for your people anyways. I- I can't see a peaceful way out of this."
You ramble helplessly despite it being your only way out of this puzzle. Rudy neighs, sensing your anxiety.
"We have some time. My sister will ascend the crown. The ceremony and following celebrations will be distracting enough. The King is currently crossing off names from neighboring countries. I'll also be bound to public duties for some time, but after that, you should take your people and leave."
The conclusion you arrive leaves you a bit surprised. One, because you found an answer. Two, because the answer means you have limited time with Rafayel, before you two say goodbye forever. The safety of his people calms you, yet the separation deeply saddens you.
Rafayel stays silent until finally, he leans back, looking at the sky. "Our people have erased themselves from scripture, tomes and memory for years. We've only resurfaced recently because I was sent to avenge my people."
Rafayel hums, "My people came tonight because they were hoping to witness a miracle. They're relocating. I'm responsible for delivering my people back in the safest way possible. So we'll have to meet at a different location every night."
At this, you cover your mouth. Anxiety and bile swirl in the pit of your stomach. You think back to how many bodies there are. "That makes a lot of sense. For our last delivery, it should be a spot where you can take your time sending them back."
He takes in the word last. Weeks ago, he would have only felt urgency and impatience to complete the deliverance. Now, he hangs in between that ambition, and you. Rafayel nods, a noticeable delay. "There's an abandoned, hard to access beach further away. We'll need the carriage."
"I'll arrange something by then," you murmur, not too well versed in trips leaving your kingdom. The anxiety swirling in your stomach doesn't stop.
"Can we stop for a bit?" You ask, and he nods, taking the reins over to slow Rudy down. You have half the mind to be offended at how she listens to him so well.
"Hold on, I'll be right back."
You hop off, find the nearest tree and hurl forward, vomiting as the night's revelations catch up to you. Anxiety, nervousness, dread, all of it catches up and you realize you are but a mere pawn in the court, how much can you really do?
Rafayel is behind you, holding your hair back. You lurch a few times, and when you're done you wipe at the corners of your mouth with your knuckles. Rafayel pours you a mixture of liquor, salt, herbs, and pepper he has on hand.
"Hey," he says, trying to stop you.
"Let's go," you say, voice hoarse.
"No, wait, look at me." He brushes your hair behind your shoulders and wipes the corner of your mouth with cloth.
"Are you nervous?" He asks, eyes bright from the moon. This time, he asks to hear your inner feelings without a command.
He can't bring himself to tell you you've done enough, or you don't have to do this anymore because his people haven't returned home, and you've promised.
Saying those things would simply be a comforting, polite lie, and you two are way past that, he thinks. You are the golden opportunity in his life that he cannot let slip through his fingers. You are unaware of how deeply he's held onto you.
"Extremely," you answer, "But I can't give up. This is my debt to you and I have to keep a good record, or else I can't pass away in peace."
Strange.
When Rafayel's in front of you, you feel like you can do anything in the world. The reality is the current plan has no happy ending. Yet you feel compelled to do this anyways, as long as Rafayel's by your side.
You feel delirious at this conclusion.
"You are quite insane, princess," Rafayel mirrors your thought.
Your response is an indescribable mix between a scoff and a laugh. Tonight might be the first that Rafayel's given you a non-threatening look. He measures you neutrally.
"Yes, but I'm not ready to retire in the asylum yet."
Tabitha spots you from a couple hundred meters away. When you get closer, she waves you in. "Feeling better, darling?"
"For now. I'll be back sometime soon. Thanks for your efforts, guys." You wave, rubbing at your eyes to mock drowsiness.
Jerome unlocks the gate. "Teach us any new methods you learn, yeah?"
You make a mental note to actually practice sometime. "When I perfect the sport," you lie, "Only then can the teacher pass their wisdom."
When you return Rudy to her stable, the mare is also eager to get some shut-eye. She fails the register the presence of someone else, her favorite person, you scornfully, affectionately think.
Rafayel appears behind you, hides the clean canvas in a spot you point at. You two quietly sneak through the grounds. When you reach the garden, he helps you phase through the secret stairs of the west tower.
You're used to feeling his magic now, able to withstand short distances without any dizziness. When you two reach your room, he brings a bucket and pours a glass of water at your bedside table.
"Tomorrow, same time." You declare.
Rafayel nods.
"Goodnight," you say.
"Night," he returns, after a moment.
You share a look. He closes his eyes, casting a spell for longer distances. When you blink, he's gone.
Over the next month, the King sorrowfully announces the Queen's passing by illness.
All hired hands of the kingdom are abuzz with work, their attention funnel heavily toward event preparation and dismantling. The King is also busy holding several meetings, hosting several lunches and dinners and foreign visits to scope out political enemies that his informants advise could be the culprit.
No one notices the removal of the deceased.
The first and second week, you attend all the rituals that lead up to and after the Queen's public funeral. After, the city's crier delivers invitations to announce the new Queen. The third and fourth weeks, you attend the numerous rituals and processions for Genevieve's crowning. Your older sister's tight hug is the only thing that restores some of your energy.
On the second night of the first month, neither of you speak much.
You ride in silence so complete you can hear his leather bag of tinctures knock against his thigh with every one of Rudy's steps. He stares straight ahead. He looks distant. You've noticed he does that when he's fighting something internal. Some monologue you're not privy to.
He's been fighting long before you entered it. You figure it must be tough for him to keep the complex thoughts and feelings at bay.
You don't push.
When you reach the beach, he moves first, lifting without instruction. You take your position opposite him without a word. At some point your hands almost meet over the canvas and he pulls back, sharply, like the contact burned him.
You take little offense.
On the third and fourth nights, you two ride in silence.
Yet even in that silence, you two find a rhythm. Who takes the head, who takes the feet, which knots hold best against Rudy's trot. It shouldn't feel familiar yet. It does anyway.
The fifth night, it rains.
You arrive soaked to your collar. Rudy is unhappy about it and makes her feelings known. Rafayel clicks his tongue at her, which does nothing, and then produces an apple from somewhere inside his gear, which does everything.
“I hate the mud,” Rafayel says, “It’s my least favorite invention from you land dwellers.”
"You came with a gift," you observe, ignoring his complaint.
"Rudy is" he says flatly, “Innocent. The least she could get for traversing through all this mud is,” The mare nibbles into his palm, “A piece of fruit.”
The insult is automatic, practiced. There’s heat behind it, and you both notice.
He looks away first.
On the eighth night, his hands are steadier than yours.
The funeral procession was smooth. Yet you’re still shaken by the sight of your mother.
Later, when you're wrapping and your fingers keep slipping on the canvas, he reaches over without comment and holds his side taut while you tie the knot. He doesn't let go until it's secure. You waver, watching him fold the canvas corner with the same precision he once used on gown hems.
"You're good at this," you say, breaking the surface tension.
Rafayel looks up, wary. "I've had practice."
"I don't mean-" you pause. "I mean all of it. Back then. Now. There’s care."
He says nothing. But he looks back down, and you watch him pause and thumb the canvas, as if he started remembering his past life with you. He thinks of his studio, how warm the tiles looked during sunsets.
On the eleventh night, he snaps at you.
You'd suggested a different route, one that shaved time off the return, and he'd looked at you with something cold in his eyes.
"I’ve memorized these outskirts dozens of times more than you have," he says. Rafayel hadn’t intended it as sharp as it came out. But it was the truth. Exhaustion seeps into his bones, a reminder of tireless nights, high on nerves.
“We’re taking that route.” No room for questions. Icy.
“I’m not taking any risks,” He explains. His voice is final.
You pause. "Okay, you’re right."
Yes, you claimed you could take his jabs, but the skin around your own heart was not yet tough, and tonight you needed time to clear your head.
That was it. No argument, just acknowledge and wounded silence. You fall back into your positions.
This is how it should be, Rafayel thinks, but a part of him wavers.
On the ride back, he takes your suggested route without comment. It’s not shorter, but prettier.
Neither of you say anything.
On the thirteenth night, he brings you a new dagger.
Not ceremonial, not pretty. A working blade, short and practical, the kind the kingdom's smiths wish they could make for the hunting staff. He holds it out the way you’d offer something to a person you weren't sure about yet.
You look at it. And then at Rafayel.
"Your dagger's edge is going," he says. "The blade is sharper than any material your people could mine."
“You need to cut rope and canvas faster.”
You take it slowly, and the transaction furthers without preamble. You turn it over once, check the weight, and tuck it into your belt without a word.
“I can only use it with you, otherwise, people will question where I got this.”
That night he catches you admiring its handiwork on three separate occasions. A small oh, escapes your mouth, shocked at just how sharp it is. Rafayel pretends not to notice when you sneak it into your own bag before passing through the gates.
On the sixteenth night, you bring him food.
Not palace food. You'd had the sense not to do that. Something from the market, wrapped in cloth. Dense bread, dried fruit, a strip of cured meat. The kind that travels well.
"I didn't know what you liked," you say, which is honest. Three years of dressing you and you'd never once thought to ask what he ate.
Rafayel unwraps it slowly. He eats without speaking, which you've learned means he's thinking.
"The bread's from the southern quarter," he says finally. "They mill it differently down there."
"Is it good?"
He shrugs, “My taste buds are not human, so you tell me.” He splits it in half and you two share the portion, there and back, comparing the dense bread coral, fruit to dried kelp, and cured meat to beached squid.
The thirteenth night, you ask him something he doesn't expect.
"Were you lonely? When you were here before."
Rudy's hooves are quiet on the grass. The kingdom is a smear of gold light behind you.
Rafayel's first instinct is to say no. The word is already formed, already on its way out.
"Yes," he says instead.
He doesn't know why he tells you the truth. He hates that he does. He spends the rest of the ride cataloguing every reason why you, your family, and your kind can't be trusted. He monologues that every detail otherwise is a trap.
By the time you two reach the beach, he’s vowed to uphold a cold, functional silence.
It lasts exactly four minutes before you tell him that The body is stuck. We tied the knots all wrong. And the sight of you fumbling with his knots, Help, please? elicits a sigh from him. He teaches you how to undo his knots, and doesn't forgive himself for it in the morning.
On the eighteenth night, you build a fire with him.
He gathers driftwood and snaps his fingers, setting the twigs alight easily.
“When did you learn magic?” you ask, offering him more market food. The physical labor has been demanding, so you’ve made sure to secure assortments of food, different varieties at night. Rafayel tonight has decided to spear a fish.
You opt to ask about his fire-lighting abilities rather than his… carnivorous diet.
“Young, but we also learned early that the less people who know, the safer.” He doesn’t offer more explanation, and you stay quiet. Every beautiful, magical thread woven by his people seems to suffer and tarnish on land. You wish that night, into the fire, that sometime in the future it wouldn’t be this way.
“Does the fire stay… lit in the water?”
He looks at you flatly. “Magic still abides by mathematics, physics, and the law of nature.”
“Of course,” and you look sullen.
Your deflated look irks him for some reason, and he finds himself saying.
“I’ll tell you a secret, then.” And he blows a flame from his finger to the campfire.
“Dragons are real. They’re just asleep.”
On the twenty-first night, you bring him a new satchel.
His old one had been falling apart for weeks. One strap nearly gone, the buckle replaced twice with whatever he could find. You don't make a production of it. Just set it down beside him when he arrives, laid out evenly.
Rafayel goes still.
"The tinctures you used are worn and old," you say. "I hired a glassblower. It’s taken a week longer than I expected, but the sand you find on land is better than wet silt.” You look at the bag again, “But I’m not sure if they’ll hold all the elixirs you have," you mumble.
The buckle on the new satchel is good quality. You'd chosen dark leather, no ornamentation. Nothing that would catch light on a night run. You clearly thought about it.
“You gave me a dagger, I needed to give something back.”
Stop, he tells himself. Stop noticing.
He picks up the satchel. He doesn't thank you. But that night, when you stumble on an uneven patch of ground, his hand finds your elbow before you've registered the fall. An automatic, unthinking reflex, and he doesn't pull away quite as fast as he used to.
On the twenty-fourth night, you ask him about home.
Not anything deep. Just, "What does it look like? Where you're from."
Rafayel is quiet long enough that you assume he won't answer.
"The water is a different color than it is here," he says finally. "Greener. Shallower near the coast. You can see the bottom for miles. We have a palace too."
"That sounds beautiful."
"It is." A pause. "Was."
You don't push further. But something in his shoulders drops, barely perceptibly, like a clamshell left slightly ajar that had been bolted shut for years. You wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t.
On the twenty-ninth, he asks you something back.
It surprises you both.
"Have you learned how to ride a horse and shoot an arrow, without falling off yet?"
You consider this seriously, because he remembered. "Yes. It took a year, but I like being good at something no one expects me to be good at," you say.
"That’s how I got Rudy, actually. They passed her down to me from a retired teacher. She was meek at first, but I think she just needed someone to play with her. And now look at her, she’s aged backwards."
Rafayel looks at Rudy.
Rudy looks back at him with her large, sparkling eyes.
"Mm," he says, “She’s just like you.”
It is not a compliment. It is also not nothing.
On the thirty-first night, neither of you mention it's been a month.
On the thirty-fifth night, you two argue about something completely inconsequential. This time, there’s less heat behind it.
Since your drop-off points change every night, there’s always a minor decision about which route to take back. Typically, you let Rafayel handle it. But tonight, you wanted to see the migration of fireflies. You think crossing a different path in the will do. Rafayel tells you that it’s best to go around. But you are both wrong,
Rudy takes a third option entirely and you get to see the fireflies, arriving no later than either of your suggestions would have managed.
"She's smarter than both of us," he says, patting and braiding her mane.
"She's smarter than you," You correct, and this time, there is no heat directed back at you.
"That’s the same thing," he lectures.
"You said both of us,” you remind him.
"I was hoping you were too sleepy to catch on." He scoffs.
You smile, yet neither of you laugh. If you closed your eyes, much of this conversation would sound like the quips you two shared in his studio. You file this thought away carefully, the way he once filed away your laugh. Neither of you notice the symmetry yet.
The thirty-eighth night, it's too quiet.
You've been tired all week. The public hearings, the performance of grief, the careful management of your father's suspicion. It's catching up. You don't have much to say and for once you don't try to fill the silence.
Halfway to the beach, Rafayel speaks unprompted.
"A lot on your mind tonight, hm?"
"Just tired," you say.
He nods. Says nothing else. But the pace he sets is slower than usual, and when you reach the vault he takes the heavier side without negotiating it, and you think. He noticed. Not as surveillance, not as strategy.
He just noticed.
On the fortieth night, it’s raining again.
On the ride back, Rudy slows and the rain softens to a drizzle. The kingdom's torches blur gold through the wet, he thinks. You’re still here.
Every night, you’ve come back, met him at the tree behind the hill. And for reasons he can't quite name, he expects to see you every night forth.
He turns your conversations over in his mind and feels the specific, miserable quality of a person who has just realized the fire inside him that burns has a very persistent visitor recently. He’s fed that fire with revenge and misery and visions of sweet death, and you’ve sat next to him, stoking it, letting it intimidate you. You’d back off once it burned you, but you came back after it healed.
Stop, he tells himself. He has been telling himself to stop for months. Before that, he has told himself to stop for longer than that.
It hasn't worked yet.
On the fiftieth night, Rafayel comes to scornful development.
You work in your usual rhythm. His hands, your hands, the canvas, the rope, the route. Rudy knows the way now without being told.
At some point on the ride back the silence stops feeling like a battleground and starts feeling like something else. You're not sure what to call it. Something that has been earned, maybe. Something that costs nothing to hold onto now, after costing everything to build.
Rafayel stares at the horizon.
He is so angry, but the fire is now directed at himself. He’s used to burning in the flames created by others, but the ones made by himself. He asks himself if this was all a mistake, if he should have done this by himself.
He couldn’t.
The thought makes him want to scream.
You help Rafayel wrap the bodies of twenty-seven more deceased. Your time together now moulding itself into one that is unguarded, as trustworthy partners should be. The consistency is an anchor both of you don’t voice, but need in each other’s lives.
It takes approximately two more months before the vault begins to look noticeably different if you spare more than a glance. You’re nervous, but you continue.
On some night of the fourth month, you kneel beside him in the vault, wrapping one of his distant cousins. You smooth the canvas twice, checking the folds, making sure nothing will shift during transport.
"Ready?" you ask, looking up at him.
Rafayel looks at you because the truth eats at him again, ugly and complicated and impossible to ignore.
You will always be your father's daughter.
You have his eyes. His kingdom. His blood running through your veins. The same blood that ordered the slaughter, that built a vault for bodies, that turned beauty into something cannot be restored.
Even as you are here on your knees in the dark, handling his family with more care than your own family ever showed the living, he cannot see you differently.
Not with that crown waiting for your siblings, and then for you. But he knows that one thing about you, and it is that you will inherit debts that you cannot pay. You will try to pay them anyway. And you will permanently ink the debt into your account.
No one can erase it, or change it.
It doesn't absolve you.
It doesn't undo anything.
But it means something to him, when it shouldn’t.
"Rafayel?" Your voice pulls him back. You're frowning now, concerned. "Did I… tie it wrong?" You cross your arms and survey the canvas, swearing that it’s the same pattern.
"No," he says, and his voice comes out rougher than he intended. "You didn’t."
You don't look convinced, but you let it go.
On the ride back, he's quiet. But it's different now. The anger that's been his constant companion for years is still there. It will always be there. But it's no longer the only thing he feels when he looks at you.
On an early night of the fifth month, You meet Rafayel again, who noticeably shows signs of losing sleep. He doesn’t tell you about the ruminations of his mind, the dreams and nightmares that intensify, and who their subject is.
He finds his hands don't leave the reins, and he doesn't pull away, and the silence between you shifts from something that was cold to something less defined.
The wind blows your hood off, and your hair is wild. Vaguely, he thinks that you could turn dusk into dawn if you wanted to. Because right now, Rafayel is watching you close the distance between land and sea, and he'll remember this forever.
He doesn’t have a name for the air you two share, but he feels it right now, sees it before his eyes.
Your conversations find homes in the past. He opens up more easily than you thought, as if the dam that towered between you had turned into one blocking a river, gingerly dismantled to let a gentle stream of water through.
You meet him again by the same tree behind the great hill. Tonight, you two are taking a route further away. The beach is better isolated and better suited for longer, larger drop-offs. There is no body.
"Were you something akin to a seamstress back home too?" You start.
"Yes, it was part of my training as next in line," he offers, snacking on fruit. "It's a cultural tradition to know how to decorate yourself, unlike a certain land dweller."
You cough and counter, "We tend to spot the strengths in others, for better or for worse."
You hand the reigns over to him, as you two would switch every so often. "Like I said before, you have an eye for that kind of stuff."
You pause. He waits for you to catch on. "Wait, Rafayel, next in line?"
"Took you long enough," he rolls his eyes jokingly.
He hand you his apple, and you take bit before offering it to Rudy. Hey, I was gonna eat the rest of that. He frowns. She needs more energy than us! Look at hardworking she is, accompanied by an approving Neigh.
"Paying too much attention to the road and not your guest, are we?" You elbow him, grabbing a bar from your sack. Here, it's just molasses and starches.
He offers a bite to you and you obey, "Yes, unlike the tomes would have you believe, Lemuria is weak but thriving far, far away. They never intend to make contact with humans again." He takes one for himself, making an unpleasant face.
You chew on this, the puzzle pieces no longer making sense. "What made you abandon the peace back there, then?"
Rafayel shuffles closer to block you from a sudden, chilly wind. "Internal conflict. My uncle took the seat by calling us cursed omens. He vowed to never allow us back until we brought those lost to us back."
"I would not have believed that Lemurians turned their back on each other if it didn't come from you." For some reason, you had always envisioned the species you'd read about in books to be... harmonious people.
"We might find enough common ground with land dwellers if we keep continuing this conversation." His pout is visible through his tone, even if he's behind you. You roll your eyes.
"Did you ever try spirits before? They're made from milled wheat," you clarify.
While intoxication is not the smartest idea on this mission, no one is perfect. You can't help but want to share what you couldn't before with him, in the time that you had left before he returned.
Here, just a sip. Stop when you feel warm. You offer him a cap.
"It's a good thing," Rafayel continues, "My uncle took the woman he wanted as bride. I'd wager he cares more about ruling with his love than our family dispute."
"Do the citizens know?"
"How did you guess we had a structure that divided between ruling and ruled, too?
"There would have been uproar otherwise."
Rafayel stops after his first sip, handing you the cap. "No, our people live and die by love. It turned out rather the opposite of what you'd expect. Our people cheered him on and value him dearly."
"Mmm," you ponder, "Humans live and die by power." The sip leaves your throat warm.
Rafayel's mind whirrs. "I suspect that's why your father abandoned my aunt."
"Human love... doesn't look like that." You hum in agreement, choosing your next words carefully. It's still strange to think of your father led by fascination, obsession. "Common people marry for love. My family marries for the economy."
"Who were you bound to marry, then, for power?" Rafayel thinks about all the gowns he mended and tailored for you, to think he was polishing a pearl for other men.
"Whoever the King finds best suits. I am... next in line." You say, remembering where you hail from.
"And you?" You ask, launching the ball back into his court. He shakes his head.
"I wasn't moved by anyone back home. I found myself unfit for the crown before my uncle cast us out. Vengeance feels better."
"What about when you go back?"
Rafayel shakes his head, "I can't see a life for myself that far and long."
"Your mother said Lemurians live for hundreds of years."
Rafayel pouts, "I think I've had enough adventure for one lifetime."
"No way. You must live," at this, you turn around, urgent. "Who else will visit my grave and tell me if we've been able to traverse by sky, yet? And no," you wag your finger, "Riding a dragon does not count."
He throws his head back and laughs, "You are still as greedy and demanding as ever."
At the end of the fifth month, you come to a conclusion. It’s dreadful.
It’s time, you think. The vault has begun clearing out, and you soon need to make a big move. You tell Rafayel it’s best to stay low for a bit.
The next few nights you don't meet Rafayel. Instead, you hold up your promise to Tabitha and Jerome, meeting them at guard-approved taverns.
You begin a story of grief, lie about meeting a handsome young man one night from a small, far away town. You talk about how he's kind, and lives an honest, humble life. Since the passing of your mother, the Queen, you've started to think about a life away from the kingdom.
Tabitha greedily consumes your woeful tale, heartstrings pulled by the story. Jerome shakes his head, scolding you for your careless behavior.
You one-up him the next meeting and say you two have taken over his grandmother's abandoned cottage, decided to start a secret life together, and that you'd need to start packing your own things.
In other words, you'd need to increase the cargo you leave and come back with, so don't be surprised. Jerome sighs and waves dismissively at your antics, and Tabitha orders you another drink. You sip greedily, having found a cover.
On a night in the middle of the sixth month, it's safe to say your nerves are fried.
During this time, your public hearings at the city's center have started. Civilians come to you, you listen to their stories, promise and deliver short-term aid with a near endless budget while the King's guards list down every visitor's surname, trade, address, and sketches of their faces.
Rafayel catches on. After all, you're meeting him late at night. The lack of sleep catches up to you. You struggle to get through the initial, routine pulse check on any potential risks.
"I secured the cargo," you finish, face rather tired. Surprise colors his eyes, but Rafayel's always been more expressive with his brows. They raise, and then bend into a suspicious, sharp curve.
"How?"
"Turns out, us land dwellers do fall for love stories." You proudly rest both hands on your hips, "Hear my tale."
Tonight, you two are taking a route further away.
"During her nightly rendezvous to mourn her mother, the princess met a handsome young man from a small village. In the time they've spent together, they became enamored with each other. He asks her to carve a secret life with him because his grandmother left him a cottage, in which they want to decorate together. This is the perfect balm for a young maiden so she will furnish their secret home by carriage."
Rafayel narrows his eyes, "The young man you're escaping with comes from a large kingdom, with a palace, not a cottage."
You roll your eyes. "I'm not talking about you!" Rafayel rolls his eyes back. "But your studio would be pretty close to a cottage, don't you think?"
You hear him scoff behind you. He's thoroughly offended now.
"After all this is done, if you really wanted to see Lemuria that badly, you just had to ask." He leans a chin on your shoulder, and you glare.
While that's tempting, you also couldn't see that far into the future. "Okay okay okay, let's not get too carried away here."
"Point is, we can bring more of your people back, Rafayel." You say this in earnest, pushing his face away.
While it's a silly story your friends have fallen for, it's also the privilege of being a young maiden that can fall for flighty, fancy stories.
Rafayel relents, "Bold move, princess."
"Let's see the outcome first," you yawn. “We should plan to move tomorrow.”
A wave of exhaustion floods your bones. You feel Rafayel reach forward to grab Rudy's reins. You move away.
"What are you doing?"
He settles you against his chest. "Rest. I'll wake you when we arrive at the beach. You need energy for the morning." Rudy slows down again at Rafayel's signal.
You deny, "This is nothing, I am not yet taxed. And I must memorize the route..." Yet, the rhythmic trot and makeshift support puts you to sleep instantly. Memorize it on the way back.
You jolt awake to leather reigns in front of you, but not in your hand.
"Where are we?" You wipe off some drool.
"The beach," Rafayel responds, "We've determined this will be safe for larger drop-offs. She'll meet us tonight to confirm the location."
His mother greets you, watches the two of you separate and carry his distant cousins over. She puts a hand on Rafayel's shoulder, speaking quietly. He glances at you, glances back, and nods.
Rafayel walks over to you, "Can you build a fire?"
He begins taking off his gear. You tend to freeze in moments of fight or flight, but his mother's presence brings you back and you tear your eyes away. You start gathering firewood, and he settles all but his trousers on a log.
"Wait for me. You'll be okay," he says. He wades further into the water, submerging himself. A long iridescent tail splashes the sea, and he sends his cousins back home.
The waves carry his trousers back. His mother strides over. She finds a moment to speak with you.
"I don't believe I received your name."
Tonight is the last delivery before most of the kingdom's events quiet down. Which means, the next drop-off will be one of the last three. You're suddenly on edge, anxious about what she'll say.
You tell her.
She sighs. "When your father found my sister, he didn't treat her the way you've treated Rafayel."
You shake your head. "My father will answer for his crimes, but I'm not sure when. I'm sorry about your sister, ma'am. How can I help?"
She turns to you and takes your hand, accepting your offer to get to the point.
"Are you acting out of love or pity, my dear?" You blink. There's anticipation in her eyes, and a deep-set frown. You wonder if she's upset that the oath is not active.
"I..." You hesitate. But what's the harm, given that the Lemurians will leave history forever in a few weeks?
"Maybe, years ago, I might have naively fallen in love with your son. Now, the picture is bigger. Too big. It's complicated and... wrong to feel such a way. So, neither I'm afraid. Compassion, maybe duty to a debt, is more fitting."
His mother shakes her head in disagreement. "Love is love." She sighs. "I just haven't seen Rafayel so lively in a long time. Yet-"
Lively? He's stoic, sullen, sarcastic, moody and enigmatically emotional. Lively isn't a word you'd use to describe him, but you opt for silence.
"The oath," she begins, "Is a sanctified practice for our people. It bonds two people together past death. It's stronger than what humans will ever experience, but your people celebrate something similar. Marriage. My sister told me about it, and it is in no way comparable."
The fire crackles. You can't look away from the constant, random licks of flame.
"You took that away from my son," her voice breaks. "Love is the rarest rite for our people, and Rafayel has sacrificed himself to bring our people back. You will die, he will live alone." The fire gets louder in your ears.
"You humans, all you do is take and take."
The man in question returns before you two can say more. His mother slips her mask back on before leaving you, offering Rafayel a soft, quick hug before they say their goodbyes.
You bring it up the next night, since you two will be enacting the largest part of your plan, and also saying goodbye soon. You give yourself this opportunity for peace of mind.
Rafayel can tell something’s been wrong over the last two weeks. You two would still meet, reporting any gossip, news, or suspicion from within the Kingdom.
On his way over, he brings back more driftwood. With a snap of his fingers, the pile alights, brightening the fire.
"Sit with me while I dry. It's too cold out for you." He pats his seat, asking you to come closer. You think about the shelled wreath, and the bond.
"Rafayel, your mother told me what the oath really means," you say.
"Oh, that. Yeah," he says, calculating his next words.
You swallow, unable to look away from the fire.
"Is infinite patience common amongst Lemurians?"
"What makes you ask that?" He moves closer to you instead, careful not to get you wet. To shield you from the wind, you think.
You shake your head, but Rafayel doesn't move away.
"Didn't you tell me Love drove your people? Shouldn't you hate me for what I've taken from you, for the rest of your thousand-year-life? I could have convinced your family another way. Any other way. But now that you've secured the return of your people, you don't have to be so kind anymore."
"You can... drop the act." You breathe.
You turn, noticing a familiar leather-bound arrowhead sitting brazenly on his chest. The necklace you had given him.
You choose to ignore it for now. The obsidian must not be worth much of their currency, and you figure he's spent most of his time away from the kingdom beneath the sea.
Oh, Rafayel knows where this is going. He's studied humans enough to understand that, sometimes, they loved digging themselves deep into a misunderstanding.
"I've hated your people since I could remember. Nothing can change what's happened," he starts.
You watch him lean back and watch the sky again.
"Even though the people working for your kingdom show me kindness while I was there, it would have been a different story if they knew who I really was." Rafayel thinks about your staff headmaster who took him in, the pleasant breakroom antics with your maids and cooks and cleaningmen, the goodbye party hosted in secret before he left.
"You were the same as them. I didn't trust you."
"Some days I wake up and feel the same way I did back then. Other days, I wake up and feel even worse. There's an impending doom haunting me, that you'll betray me and I will lose everyone."
You nod, numbly, "Of course."
Rafayel shakes his head, drops his head and looks at you from, chin on his shoulders.
"You're in my nightmares, and you're also in my dreams. In my nightmares, you're there when I find my family over and over again. Sometimes they're alive, begging to be let out. Sometimes, they're in worse condition. You've always been there, stabbing me in the back and trapping me in with them. Yet in my dreams, you're there when I think about ruling Lemuria." He says, casually.
"I've had these dreams when I was your seamstress. I had them when I left. I've had them every night since meeting you again. I don't know what to do with these feelings. It's very confusing, but one thing I'm sure about. Nothing has been an act."
You look away in disbelief. If the timing lines up prior to the bond-
"The oath changed nothing," he says, reading your mind, and you're at a loss.
"Don't hide from me," he leans in, holding your gaze. "Not when I'm being honest with you." It's not a command, there's no burning sensation on your chest.
It's a challenge that you won't back down from. You swallow.
"I can abandon this mission when I die, but you cannot."
"I'm aware. I don't regret my decisions. I'm doing this for my people. I'm doing it with you. No one else needs to understand," he says, and you falter.
"Gods, even I don't understand you, Rafayel." You put your hands in your face, mortified. "This is the first time you've really told me what you're thinking, or how you feel, and you're confusing."
"Really?" Rafayel sounds surprised. You nod, and Rafayel frowns. "That's not good."
How can he be so casual about this? Your mind gestures at nothing, yet everything, to capture the situation's essence.
"Ask then," Rafayel says, sincerely. "If I withhold anything, you just have to trust me. And I'll tell you when the time is right."
You nod, you look up at the fire again.
Rafayel breaks the surface tension set by the fire's crackling first.
"Do you despise me? I lied to you. I took your freedom away." He looks into the fire, several questions melting into just this one, if he's pushed you away.
"No," you shake your head, also looking at the fire. "So don't worry, Rafayel. You are many things to me. You are my friend. You are my ally. Before all this, you were my favorite seamstress. You didn't take anything away. You only brought me joy and showed me the truth. All I can do is my best to repay you."
You dig in the sand, drawing abstract shapes. "But neither of us would be here if it weren't for my mother and father's... ill fascination, and it feels so wrong as it continues to underline everything. It can't be dismissed lightly, ever. Don't you feel the same way?"
Rafayel turns to you, shakes his head.
"How?"
"It's easy," he says, turning to you. "Dismiss it anyways. Just for this moment."
There is no command, there is no oath. There is no one around, only the waves lapping at the ocean quietly, and Rudy, who nibbles on the grass, is distracted. You look at the obsidian arrowhead hanging boldly around his neck again.
"Okay," you finally say.
You lift your hand to smooth the arrowhead between your thumb and forefinger.
"My necklace," you observe, acknowledgement finally materializing its existence to you.
"It reminded me of you when I was away. It drove my bloodlust. It cut into my skin very often, and I bled, but I heal fast. Now, it doesn't cut me anymore."
The breeze is gentle.
You softly tug on the leather, inviting his space into yours.
You lean in, bump his nose, and he smiles, drawn to your essence. The two of you pause to take in one another's soft gaze. Yet, because of that waver, the sounds of waves crash, pulling both of your attentions away.
The moment passes.
"Rafayel," you gulp, "We should speed up the deliverance. We'll have to skip this week. I'll. be holding a string of public audiences, a charity to promote my sister's crowning."
Rafayel simmers in the heat and in his thoughts. "You will greet hundreds of people. If one were to slip in poison, none would be the wiser."
Rafayel's hair is black, but hints of purple return with the salt water. You realize he must have dyed his hair with what looks like squid ink.
"Some opportune bandit could approach you in broad daylight."
"That is by design," you say. Rafayel clicks his tongue in disapproval.
"Once we're done. What will you do after?" Rafayel asks, sincere with his curiosity. Assuming you make it out alive, you think.
"You'll be the first to know. With my father as the king, I'll stay and counsel Genevieve."
Eventually, the night bleeds into more quieter, intimate questions. Without control of the momentum, Rafayel sweeps you into the late hours of the night, yet he doesn't have a chance to ask you to meet him one more time, after all this is over.
He returns you near but far enough from the gates.
It's the last you see of him for a while.
It's the last day of the hearings. In the town centre lies a silk rug, a pearlescent throne propped on a temporary stage, and the purest white petals scattered like an everlasting spring. You refuse to sit, instead, greeting each guest at eye level.
A short older man and his children are the first to kneel in front of you. He's been waiting for his chance to speak, you assume, from the desperation that colors his voice.
"My chickens, they starve. My soil is poor without rainwater. The clouds have rained not once this year. We are on the brink of starvation."
Your scribes capture each citizen's name, post, and desire. Besides you stand your assigned guards. You know their protection is a farce. In fact, if you were captured they'd rejoice at the intel, leaving you for dead.
"My family will see that emergency water gets distributed to our lords of the land." Your swallow, "In the meantime, you and your children are welcome to the grand hall until you see another harvest."
You flick your head and the scribes hesitate, but they officiate a pass for the family. "We'll inform our staff. Be well."
The old man bows, and you enclose his hands in yours, shaking it twice. Some staff begin handing his children bread as they depart. A picture perfect image of charity, you think.
Stange.
He doesn't let go, and his grip tightens around yours. The old man raises his head, and the look in his eye is unfriendly.
"Excuse me, sir," you say, calm on the outside but distraught internally. Sharp pain strikes your palm, like a glass shard.
A small note. The barn, 8pm. We have him. Attached is a lock of dark hair.
No, it can’t be Rafayel. The handwriting is foreign, and the note is too vague.
You're certain this is a bluff, as most culprits are men with dark hair. But, if they did manage to capture him, and they end his life without a word. You couldn't bear it.
The old man lets go. The ceremony ends around sunset. You inform Genevieve and Leo of the note, and they beg you not to go. You tell them the same story that you told Tabitha and Jerome, using this opportunity to get the stories straight. It's one life for another, you plead, and Leo closes his eyes.
They'll attend from the shadows.
You round the corner, the staff headmaster greets you. At least you're in familiar territory.
"Wesmont," you say. "Why such a suspicious method to call upon me?"
He adjusts his monocle. "My apologies princess, but you've put me in a sort of a bind."
You gulp. Leo and Genevieve watch from afar, drawing no attention.
"I am obligated to inform your father of his treasured missing inventory, as well as your nightly rendezvous with a highly skilled, unprofiled assassin."
By the gods, your worst nightmare is coming true.
"How-"
"Do not worry, Tabitha and Jerome said nothing. I was given double the budget to increase surveillance and security. Your movements have consistently acted in accordance with treason."
"Come along."
But you have no choice, as two strong guards tear you away.
You panic. "No-"
Genevieve's face morphs into one of horror, confused, panicked, and Leo's unsure how to proceed with the situation, knowing that your father now is directly involved.
Leo pulls your eldest sister away, as they need time to think.
When you wake up, your father sits in front of you. You're chained by the ankle.
"My little fawn," he swirls his wine.
"It's highly unfortunate that you've lied to your own family. Since when did you discover the Chambers?"
"I was looking through Mother's possessions, and found her key. I've had a lot of time to myself. And then I discovered your unused resources, Father."
"Stop trying to fool me, child. Who are you helping, if not the same enemy that murdered your mother in cold blood?"
"What?" You seethe, "That's vile of you to think, Father. Continue your search for the murderer, but it has nothing to do with my trades."
Immediately, he laughs. "There are no coincidences in this world, child."
"Don't blame this on me, too," you say, "I don't know who killed mother, and I tire of your plots. You keep me in the dark, and then use me as you please."
"Why didn't you tell your siblings, then? They could have helped you."
"Their knowledge doesn't help my goal," you lie.
He turns on a sickening sense of humility. "What goal, my dear fawn? Tell me, then, who are you helping steal our precious resources? Is it another kingdom, or... by the gods, do they still exist?"
In this moment you make a split decision to lie like your life depended on it, "What do you mean exist? You're insane father. The only people who should have these beasts are people who know what to do with their remains, not leave them there to depreciate in value."
"I've sold them off."
"And what did you do with this wealth?"
"You'll never find it, I hid it away," you bite your lip.
"You're nightly rendezvous. You've been transporting money?"
At this, you find an opportunity to stare at him, frozen and desperate. Please, believe me.
"How did you..."
"I'm not stupid, little fawn. What are you going to do with this money?"
"I want to leave this family. You use me for bait, you turn everyone on me. I might as well leave." Fear strikes your veins, because of your father, because you've never had to lie this much, and gods, you fear for Rafayel.
"Leave!" Your father laughs scornfully, "You are indebted to us, forever," his voice booms, along with the slam of his staff.
"Removing you from the family is easy. But I need you, you ungrateful child. I birthed you for the alliances you'd bring us. I will hunt you down, to whichever corner of this world you go."
"Fine, but you'll have to cut your losses father. You're in no need of more money."
He holds up his hand and silences you. He's enraged.
"You've been poorly raised. You are a disgrace."
"You raised me." You seethe.
Immediately, he laughs.
"Lock her away until she complies.'
Your struggle against the guards is useless. Kicking does little to slow them down. They toss you into a darkened, stone vault with a bath and cot.
Spoiler: Read only if the terms Backtrackers, Starfall Forest, Isaiah, the Farspace Fleet, Ever, and Professor Lucius are familiar to you.
Xavier and Caleb discuss Isaiah.
Slam.
In the living room of Xavier's apartment, Caleb pins Xavier against his living room wall. The concrete digs into his back, and the only reason Xavier chose not to slice Caleb's hand off was because of you. How could he explain himself if he hurt your brother?
Caleb doesn't give the blonde any space to react, tossing the hunter into his own kitchen chair. Xavier scans his surroundings, it's bright out. Morning, the birds chirp, yet the air is tense.
"I found a familiar face in Ever's Intelligence Network." Caleb seethes, sharply discards multiple files onto the table. They scatter across the desk. There's no light in his eyes, and Xavier understands he's under interrogation.
"A friend of yours."
Caleb slides a single file towards him.
It's Isaiah's personal file. Listed on the first page is his Evol's Metaflux pattern.
Xavier stays silent, expression cold as glass.
He quickly reasons that the Fleet and Ever have ties. How, specifically, and why, well, he plots a way to extract that from Caleb.
Caleb, who Xavier chanced upon one day months ago in front of your apartment door. His broad stature innocently carrying groceries, fishing for keys. He remembers the air turning into ice once they locked eyes.
You looking for my sister? The brunette asked, nearly demanded.
Yeah, I'm Xavier. He responded airily in attempt to disarm him. We work together. Just dropping off her coat. She forgot it.
Sharpened eyes. Caleb looked him up and down before swiping it from his hand. I'll return it to her. Thanks.
And in he went.
That afternoon, Xavier scanned a couple files from the Association, learned about the tragedy responsible for your deceased family members.
Well, one of them was alive and kicking.
Caleb singles out another file.
Faint but unique energy signatures recorded from 200+ years ago. An unprecedented landing covered up as a meteor event. Several unidentified persons whose Evols matched Isaiah's in profile. Backtrackers.
Another file.
Xavier's personal file from the Association, his Evol signature very dissimilar.
Another file.
Ever's latest project details on Evol suppression, a scientific achievement by none other than Isaiah. The ability to unscramble and tap into difficult signatures. When Caleb lines up the decoded signature, it matches to Xavier's.
Xavier restrains himself from touching the surpressor on his neck.
The last document.
Isaiah's name recorded in the successful elimination of Gaia Research Center's last surviving researcher, Josephine, via detonation. Your profile photo lays still next to Caleb's.
Xavier breathes out.
His refrigerator hums, and it buys him time before Caleb reaches for his back pocket.
"Isaiah defected," Xavier calmly says, standing defenseless. "I had nothing to do with the incident, on my life," and Xavier's never taken an oath so quickly.
He must be off his game, because that was the least believable way he could have said things.
Caleb's eyes sharpen. If Xavier moves an inch, he'd bleed.
"The Backtrackers are about four or five different factions now," Xavier continues, and Caleb remains silent. "We had a difference in philosophy."
Caleb's voice cuts. "I don't care about why you're here. On Earth." Quick, analytical, and Xavier's strangely... pulled in.
"What are you doing around my sister?" His voice drops an octave. The crux of the conversation has arrived.
"You think I believe that?" Caleb restores his folder to its original appearance. Neat, tidy, strict.
A fire starts in Xavier's chest. In this moment, the upper hand is his.
"Ever is in charge of several projects." Many that are heartless in the same way that a royal family sacrifices innocent lives to fuel a dying planet.
"And if you know as much as I do, they're vile." Xavier stands at this point, internally done with the conversation, makes his way to the kitchen.
What he actually needs in this moment, faced away, is to take a breather. To push down the deep, bubbling nausea that causes him the same sweat when he wakes up from awful nightmares. Starfall forest, its deafening core muted out the screams of mangled souls, human cries.
"I don't believe it's right to toy with human lives."
Xavier's voice drips with buried hate. He pushes through, however, hasn't felt this desperate in a long, long time, but he needs Caleb to know.
Caleb's brows furrow. The twisted wires and plates in his arm suddenly heavy, as if he finally acknowledged their titanium makeup.
"There's no justification for that. Your sister's involved. I'm here to help cut it off at the source." To counteract the insanity of this conversation, Xavier starts making tea.
Caleb settles on his left foot, slow, rocking back but never forth. He has a look that peels Xavier apart, puts him back together, but everything doesn't fit quiet right after.
He's been tense, shoulder set back stone-like, holding a heavy weight on his shoulders like that of the Colonel, but the air shifts, and all Caleb can do is let out a ragged sigh. He's bone tired. A potential lead lost.
"Fine," Caleb concludes, "We're done for today." He puts the folder back in his jacket. Straightens the table and chair, is about to put on his shoes.
Xavier just wants him to relax. He also thinks Caleb would look good smoking a cigarette, right about now.
"You're not staying? I'm making tea." Xavier turns around and Caleb really looks at him this time.
"I said we're done here." Caleb's heart is tired. He's wrapping up his script.
"Chamomile helps with sleep." Xavier leans agains his kitchen island, flicking his chin at Caleb.
"You look tired. I happen to be an expert at insomnia-curing remedies. Ask your sister."
Caleb turns, nearly offended. Xavier can feel the 'excuse me' ooze from his glare.
"I-"
"Unless you have somewhere else to be? Your sister's away for two weeks on private commission. I'm sure you can sleep in her bed if you end up staying late." Bold, Xavier internally utters to himself.
Caleb has this incredulous look on his face. Instead of a panther, Xavier thinks he looks more like a cat, extremely on edge.
"You can choke me out if I ever hurt your sister, but it won't happen." The kettle starts to whistle.
Xavier grabs a china set from his cabinet. "If it did happen though, just know I'm a good fighter."
He sets it on his kitchen table.
"You'd probably lose."
Xavier swear he sees an irritated quirk in his mouth, the twitch of a brow, but he graces him with ignorance.
"I... have no other plans," Caleb concedes, having cleared out his reports in anticipation of this confrontation and any... unexpected cleanup. So now, with the night free, Caleb's trying to find a spot to stare a hole into, anywhere to look as casual as possible.
He leans against the kitchen table, arms crossed, forearms flexing, slightly closed off.
"Good, sit. My chairs are comfortable, so it didn't really hurt when you threw me against my own furniture." Caleb coughs.
"Do you want to... help me finish my puzzle?" Xavier's ask is calm. Caleb quirks another eyebrow.
"It'll bore you to death," Xavier says, "Helps you sleep, too. It's worked for me. Hundred times, at least."
And Caleb can't help but let out a reluctant laugh. He's never encountered disarming like this, but just for now, he'll admit that perhaps Xavier and him have shared similar enough experiences to come to similar enough conclusions.
He gazes downwards as if to hide, a defense mechanism, shocked at how easily Xavier's dismantled his guard. Xavier's not sure if Caleb's practiced this look in the mirror, but that is truly his best angle.
"You're an observant one," Caleb notes, and he looks up, expression more unguarded. Like this... he looks younger. You once mentioned that you had a soft spot for kittens and puppies. Xavier sees where that might have came from.
"Well, I've assembled a 70,000 piece diorama. If you actually want your puzzle finished, I'm your guy." It's extremely nerdy and unexpected coming from Caleb's mouth. Xavier doesn't chuckle, not wanting to offend him, so he smiles as he hands his tea over.
"Alright then," Xavier starts, "You're hired. I can pay you in tea and expensive cookies from predatory tourist shops."
"Sounds... fair enough" And as Xavier pulls out his half-finished tapestry, Caleb tries to fill the empty air.
"My sister mentioned you don't cook very often," and Caleb doesn't even know why he's saying what he's saying now.
Xavier's about to cringe, recoil instinctively. Not his best look, but Caleb takes it in stride, "If you're ever open to taste testinf my meals for her, you know where to find me."
Xavier hums, pretending to think. He's also shocked, not sure what's happening, but it feels... awkwardly fresh. "I'd have to up the labor to 2 puzzles."
Caleb sips and he lets the hot liquid settle and soothe him. "Deal," he says.
That night, Xavier tosses and turns in the strange development and relief of meeting... a new ally? A potential frenemy? He's not sure about all that.
One thing's for sure. Xavier hope to find more opportunities to tease him in the future.
You and Rafayel danced far too long around each other. He wants you, loud and clear.
"Hey," he rasps, pausing his gentle trail of kisses down your ribs, stomach, waist, hips. His goal that night was to make sure you knew he wanted every square inch of you.
"This isn't casual," he declares.
You're not surprised by the finality in his voice.
Rafayel negotiated with others. With you, there wasn't any room. Not in any way that harmed you. He just. would. not. budge. On carving a space into your life.
"What, not a pump and dump kinda guy?" You joke, nervous and deflective.
Rafayel frowns. He gets up, drags you down his silk cushions until you're flush against his knee. The pressure lights up a fire in you, and you moan. He drags his nails from thigh to calf, bites your inner ankle, hard, before soothing it with a kiss.
"I'm more of a one and done, rest of my life kinda guy." His stare is grave. You gulp.
"Is this too much for you?" He kisses your toes.
"No," you whisper.
"Then are you nervous, or do you not like me?" Did I read you wrong? For the first time, he worries his plush lips.
You found it scary how his resolve was simple, honest, intense since the beginning. At first, you let your disbelief color his commitment comical. But now...
Could it be that easy? To give your whole self, shamelessly.
"It's just hard for me to believe," that someone as well-loved as you would look at someone as normal as me.
He bends down, covering you from the rest of the world. He guides your chip upwards so you have no choice but to look at him. The silence is heavy.
He looks a bit sad, conflicted.
"Like, I'm dreaming or something. Too good to be true." You fill in, realizing the effect of your own insecurities.
In the rain, a small flame ignites in his eyes, and he lets out a shaken breath, as if there had been frost ready to shatter his throat. The relief you hear brews a bit of guilt in your stomach.
"I like you more than I can handle, Rafayel."
He exhales fully, closes his eyes, touches his forehead to yours, slowly opens his eyes.
"Me too. I like you more than you can imagine, if you couldn't already tell."
You nod, emotions flaring up, courage rising.
"You scared me," he says, dropping his head into the crook of your neck. You feel soft, pliant lips leaving raging marks on your throat.
"I'm sorry," you say, wrapping your arms around his back, pulling him in for a hug. It's meant to comfort and console, and Rafayel stuff his unchecked temptation down to caress you.
"Don't be," Rafayel groans, the position too tempting. He lifts his head and plants a kiss on you. You return the kiss, half-mindedly unbuttoning his shirt on the way down.
Another moan. "You're gonna be the death of me. But as long as it's you, I'm happy to go out that way."
A few days ago.
No-hunt zone 47-C.
"Accompany me to Italy."
Rafayel's sunglasses slid down his nose. The invite was nice and all, if you two weren't currently on-the-run from someone off Rafayel's hitlist. His vendetta cross the line of some unhappy third parties.
Rafayel, the nerve, just shrugged when very unplanned guests filed into your negotiation room. Guests who donned scary looking suits and illegal cyber-kinetics twisted into their necks.
You tossed a flashbomb. Rafayel stamped a few men wrist-to-wall with daggers he could depart with, and off you two sped in his lambo. After crossing the no-hunt zone, you opened the sunroof to blast the tires of some unlucky bastard.
Sinking back into the leather seats was only a temporary relief.
"You don't think they'll plant some hitman on the plane ride over?" You kick your feet up. Rafayel monitors his rear and side view mirrors.
"Nah, they couldn't afford the seats I got us," he jokes, taking an exit.
You laugh, but it trails off. White noise from the tunnel becomes deafeningly loud.
You and Rafayel weren't dating, but you guys were somewhere on the line.
Willingly lingering around Rafayel's schemes turned into a sticky web fast. Each one meant you had roles to play. Enemies, co-conspirators, traitors, partners, strangers, every act carried some tension.
Often, you'd end up either at each other's throat, or his heat would radiate behind you, hands pinning your wrists to some wall in a hostage act.
And Rafayel picked up on your lingering gazes.
But he kept this knowledge discreet. Let you slip out of his fingers, just to observe and take his time reasoning why you would reactively distance yourself. Additionally, he couldn't surrender the key to seeing you beg him to cross the line.
His hesitation made you run off with assumption. Figured he wasn't really interested.
"What's the event?" You ask.
Rafayel shifts gears, dutifully responds to your questionnaire.
"Two weeks. Venice Biennale Preview Days the first weekend, Private Viewing at Galleria Borghese the second, and few parties in between. Villa Medici, Roman Palazzo." Rafayel's eyes are on the road, proud of his offer.
"As your bodyguard? My international rates are pro-rata to how far I am from my 24-hour noodle shop."
Rafayel hums, hiding the disapproval of your incredulous question. He frowns, shakes his head, but entertains your deflection.
"As my plus one. So this one's off the books. Your rates aren't even a topic of discussion."
You gulp.
Out of all the days, you didn't expect Rafayel to pick this moment to add Lovers to the list of your fake identities.
Banquet attendances were always professional with Rafayel. Despite the heavy attention Rafayel paid you throughout the night, your employer-employee guise was real and required upkeep to other guests.
Which mean you've spent plenty of nights watching beautiful, beautiful women -intelligent, funny, well-spoken, and down to earth women- bring laughter, clever quips, philosophical revelations, and sustained touches to all but seduce Rafayel. He would entertain conversations. You weren't sure what else he entertained.
You reason the world is unfair and call it quits towards feeling any type of way. It wasn't worth shaking your confidence over. These women were extremely qualified suitors.
"Can I ask, what made you think this was the right time?"
"It came to me just recently," Rafayel comments breezily. You shoot him a look and he explains, "I was struck by inspiration."
You contemplate.
"It's strange," he begins musing, tunnel lights brushing over you two intermittently.
"I know how to draw a bath to your liking. I know when you've cried because you'll ask me for late night drives and someone to spar with. I know when something good has happened because you'll ask me to try your cooking and invite me to the best dates," he corrects, "best outings of my life. I know the memes that make you laugh, what infuriates you, what scares you, what motivates you, and you know all of these things about me, but I don't know what you're thinking right now."
Only later would he tell you that the inspiration was an undying sense of love, and purpose. He'd woken up to the two mug sets you made for him, plate and spoons and all in his sink, and decided he never wanted to see them back in your cupboard, or separated. Rejecting him would be the equivalent of beaching a whale, a death by stranding.
"I'm thinking about how many important families you'll be offending." You joke. It was a half truth.
"You told me once that these parties are full of connections, sponsors, potential leads. Is it really a good idea to show up with an outsider on your arm? The employer ruse hasn't failed us yet."
You're not fully sure how high society works, but you know reputation weighs more than diamonds and gold in his circles.
Rafayel tilts his head and thinks about your concerns seriously. You exit the tunnel to a beautiful sunrise.
"Hold this," he says, and you're confused by the abrupt halt. But you comply, open your palm.
He slips his fingers in between yours, places a kiss on the back of your palm.
You laugh in shock, bright. "Rafayel?"
He smiles.
"Don't worry about the politics. Think of it as another adventure. A new experience? If you don't like it, we can still put it down in the books. Another story to tell."
When he puts it that way, it was no different than any other time you spent together.
Rafayel pulls into a non-descript garage, opens your side of the door, extends a gentlemanly hand.
He's switching cars, cutting off any stray followers.
"My lady," he offers, and you take his hand and step out.
"Okay, yeah, that sounds fun. Let's go drink some mummified wine and die from excess cheese." Rafayel's eyes light up, and he kisses the back of your hand.
24 hours later.
Florence, Italy.
You're drinking a lot of wine. The first weekend is an extravaganza.
Rafayel is busy striking conversations with collectors, some who you think aren't really collectors. You've read the whole catalogue prior and trade cursory remarks about each piece's history. His hand never leaves your waist, never stops caressing your arm, tracing lines down your forearm.
"Thank you for attending," the organizer, and older woman, shakes your hand.
"It's an honor," you bow and return the favor.
She's one of Rafayel's long-time informants. You admire the crows feet impressed around her eyes, softly drawn on. Her warm greetings leave an open path throw the crowd.
Just then, a bit of ice chills your neck.
"Rafayel!" An elegant voice chimes from the crowd. You turn and hope for the best. It feels like walking onto a stage.
Eloiette, the banquet's swan, as beautiful and unique looking as her name, floats across the banquet hall to you both.
You pull away from Rafayel's grasp.
Uh uh, leaving me now? he whispers, pulling you back.
Your internal self's jaw is agape, pausing momentarily to yell at him. He doesn't budge.
She's already taken survey of you, splitting her eye contact between you two on the way over.
"It took me forever to find you." Eloiette swivels her head. "Oh? I don't know you. You didn't attend Academy with us." She states, emphasizing facts clear as day.
Ah, this game.
You shake your head, "No, I'm a hunter." Her lack of response forces you to add, "Combat specialist." Rafayel smirks, a newfound pride swelling.
"Best gal around. Not a single scratch." Rafayel gently compliments. You feel warm, you know that's a bold exaggeration.
"Oooh, well..." Eloiette trails off, interest fading quick. "Rafayel, come meet my parents? They'd love to pick up the last conversation."
Intentionally vague. Check.
He smoothes a thumb down your waist, irked at the overlooked introduction. Before he can fill you in, you pat his shoulder and mouth, Just go.
His eyebrow ticks, but he sighs and let's go.
"I'll find you," he promises.
"You're fine, have fun," you wave. Give him a genuine smile.
You turn around to sigh, only to come face to face with another. His slicked back hair, features sharp and dark, suit jacket low cut and staged to be inviting to his broad frame. Next to him, a genetic copy, but shorter in stature and fairer in features.
They're intimidatingly attractive, yet all you can think about is gossiping about this fact with Rafayel, wishing he was beside you right now. The face sits like a stone in your chest.
"I don't think we've met before," the handsome man greets, voice attractive. He extends an open palm to you.
"No," you exchange a professional, swift shake, "We haven't."
Before you can let go, he places a quick peck on the back of your palm, and your brain freezes.
"I'm Baron. This is my sister Ilena. She designed your dress, and I have to say - you are more than what either of us envisioned."
"Aha..." You're not sure if hand kisses are customary, so you drop his hand, and deftly maneuver over to Ilena, extending your hand.
His sister can't watch any longer, rolls her eyes.
"Sorry about my brother. But it's true, you're just what I imagined in my designs." Ilena eyes you up and down, light flashing off her crystal headdress.
Thankful for some semblance of normal conversation, you smile. "Well, it's an honor to meet you. The dress fits like... silk beds sheets. I could fall asleep in it."
"Oh, you know how to whoo a girl. I don't believe in suffering for beauty." Ilena banters.
"Would you join us at our villa? I'd love for you to model. Paid commission of course." There's fire in Ilena's eyes. You can only assume inspiration has struck her.
She flicks her brother's shoulder. "Drag Emmanuel out for a photoshoot, will you?"
"He's been in a creative slump for weeks," Baron comments, fixing his shirt.
"Well tell him I'm here to save him," she declares, "He'll recover."
You couldn't help but latch onto her energy. Maybe you two could be friends, but right now, all you saw was an opportunity to make yourself useful, accepted even by this crowd of strangers.
You had a couple mornings free.
Rafayel didn't want to overbook you, and while he extended invites to meet his clients, you politely declined, wanting to roam stone streets and soak in the sun.
"Where and when can I meet you?" An embossed business card finds itself in your palm.
"Studio address is on the back. Tomorrow, 3pm. I'm here for the week before we drive back." You nod, studying the address.
"So you'll come?" Baron reiterates. You nod, polite. A charming smile slips onto his face. You wonder how many women have been pulled in by his magnetic charm, yet all you can feel is the opposing, repelling charge.
Your heart sinks. Man, you have it bad for the fish.
"I look forward to seeing you tomorrow-" Suddenly, two waves crash into each other.
"Ilena," Rafayel's voice, amiable, pulls your attention. He steps into your space, eyes the card, smiles, gives you a squeeze.
His tone swiftly grays out when he greets, "Baron."
"Rafayel," Baron returns. He offers an arm to Ilena, clearly signalling that he'd like to make an exit soon. Ilena grabs on, but she's affixed to the floor.
"I didn't think you'd make it," Rafayel remarks. Ilena grimaces.
"Oh, you know, I was feeling quite gray but found enough vigor at the very last moment." She waves him off, airy as always. Rafayel laughs.
"I see you two have met." Rafayel turns to you, "Academy," he supplies. You make an O shape with your mouth. Of course they were all talented.
"I'm stealing your friend for a small favor," Ilena asserts, keeping the details mysterious.
Baron glazes you up and down once more before announcing abruptly, invisibly drifting Ilena away, "Lovely meeting you."
And they're gone.
The air is crisp between you and Rafayel. He waits until they're out of hearing range before turning to you. "Two things. One, dance with me? Two, 'see you tomorrow?'"
The orchestra gently murmurs in the back, their tuning session slowly morphs into the main show. You nod to both, resting a palm on his chest. Rafayel degloves, clasping your hand.
You've been to enough dress rehearsals to recite a basic waltz.
"I'll be Ilena's dress-up doll" Rafayel warmly leads you through the six-step box pattern, "Baron will be there, I guess."
"Mm," he responds, gears turning in his head, "She designs, he crafts. Family business." He has an important meeting with the organizer of tonight's event, tomorrow. Inside, he's sad he won't make it.
He twirls you, and once you're back in his arms, the light catches you in a new way. The shimmer of your eyes, dewy makeup making the fair angles of your face glow, blushed cheeks, lip in a new color that makes you look divine.
You're stunning.
Rafayel can only think about you in this moment.
He decides against dissuading you spending time with Baron. Instead, he simply returns with a calm, "You'll look great. Call me after and tell me which ones you like. I'll get them for you."
You tune out the strings and flutes and buzzing chatter of the other guests around you.
"What? Rafayel, there's really no need-" you can't imagine how much unreleased, custom-made clothing must cost.
"It hurts my feelings if you reject my gifts," he pouts.
You pout back, and he laughs.
"Thank you," you whisper, smoothing down his already pleated collar, letting him lead you into a new phase of the dance.
"So. Cute." he says almost absentmindedly, not at all minding your agape jaw.
You deflect.
"So, are you gonna tell me about your Academy days? What was apprentice Rafayel like? Was he studious, serious, rebellious, the model student, a slacker?"
Rafayel gives you a playfully disapproving frown.
"Me? Slack off? Those two concepts don't exist together."
You raise a suspicious eyebrow, remembering all the times he'd call you for spontaneous walks, breaks. A new cafe spot to check out, a new development in the family of squirrels by your favorite park, walks on the beach.
You open your mouth, and he presses a finger against your lips.
"I take it back," he smiles, tapping your nose.
"Oh I know, I'll go and ask Ilena instead. But she might sugarcoat all the fun details. Maybe Baron? Eloiette even-"
"Tsk tsk, who cares about them? You should be focused on dancing with me right now."
You sweep your gaze upon the dance floor. Moments like this were rare. Dolled up as your were, officially in Rafayel's arms, enjoying a dance that was too intimate it suddenly made you nervous again. You shake the thoughts out of your head.
"You're right," you admit. Rafayel's surprised he doesn't hear you press him for more information. You know you can coax it out of him later. For right now, you relax and lean back, letting him sway you to the pulse of strings.
No Eloiette. No pressure about not having enough status to be deemed worthy by the people in Rafayel's circle.
Any other day, you would have challenged him to lead the dance, make him do a little twirl and dip him. He would let you have your fun before faking you out, and the two of you would tussle on the ground. Yet, there was something nice about letting him take care of you like you were precious in his arms.
Just for tonight.
"Can this not be our only dance for the night, then?" You close the distance, perching onto his shoulder. He lifts you easily in another twirl.
"Beceause this is fun," you say when he dips you, "Now that we're good at it."
He grins, pulling you in tight to glide through the next steps. "The orchestra's set to play for an hour. We can dance for as long as you want, beautiful, but I think you might step out after 20 minutes."
You stay airy, getting lost in the natural fluidity, a few curls untucking themselves from your ear as he twirls you. "Nuh-uh, I've been to enough of your dress rehearsals. And I recall someone being the first one to ask for a break."
Rafayel frowns playfully, "And if I recall correctly, it's because my toes were suuuper sore," he shoots back, and you burn with embarrassment, memories of many clumsy lessons sparkling back into memory.
You feel his lips near the shell of your ear.
"I can go all night otherwise."
The heat on the back of your neck doesn't leave.
"Tell me when you want to stop."
"Okay," you say, unable to manage another quip.
In his embrace, the world closes in to just the space between you, time slows to imprint this memory.
When the orchestra slows, you lean on his chest. You give into your selfish desires.
"Rafayel," you say.
"Mmm?" He runs a hand up your back.
"Don't dance with anyone else." It comes out as a whisper.
His hand finds your jaw. He tilts your chin up, looking for answers in your eyes to several unspoken questions between you two. You're too afraid to lean in, or close your eyes, so you smile. Blink a few time innocently.
"Do you mean it?" And you breathe.
"Yes."
...
That night, Rafayel doesn't get much rest. He sent off a courier to Ilena with your measurements. A preventative measure to protect you from, what Rafayel assumes, will be Baron's excuse to get up close and personal under the guise of a mere tailor intaking a new client.
The picture of Baron touching you, an accidental slip over measuring tape, causes him to flinch. He tosses an arm to cover his eyes from the moonlight, bed cold and empty, wishing you had stayed.
You insisted on using the spare room, stating that you needed some down time to recover from the all the night's events.
After the banquet, you two found a pool hall and settled a mean score, walked the gardens, stealing glances in between exchanging stories about Rafayel's academy life, your night, and the upcoming days. You two sat on the rim of the water fountain.
He takes the opportunity to tell you about Eloiette. A long time ago, her father had decided they were the perfect match for each other. Rafayel didn't entertain it until their family name appeared in trafficking deals, and he figured the connection, the bridge, was already formed.
The night extended to lounging by his hotel room's fireplace. Yet after another hour, with a yawn, teary eyes, and full body stretch, you had announced it was time for bed. You two lingered by his door, stewing in the silence after saying goodnight.
He unwillingly fades into unconsciousness.
In the early morning, the singsong of birds and a gentle knock wakes him up. He still had a whole six hours, it was that early. He tosses a shirt on, opens the door and comes face to face to you in your pajamas.
"Good morning," he smiles, tired, and pulls you in.
"Oof," you catch yourself from tripping by his swift pull. "Morning, Rafayel, I just wanted to say... hi before getting breakfast."
He gives you a questionable look, knowing that service doesn't start for another two hours.
"Really?"
"Not really." You confess, "I just woke up and wanted to see you."
Suddenly, you're in the air bridal style. You go along with his antics, since you're not making much sense yourself. You could have avoided this whole interaction, waited until night to see him again.
"Perfect, you can 'see me' by taking a nap with me before the day starts."
He drops you onto the king bed. His own lean frame comes after, pressing his full weight onto you.
"You look like you didn't sleep well," you smooth his undereye and card your fingers through his hair. He murmurs something, but it's muffled by burrowing his face into your chest.
You figure this isn't a good time to bring up the revelation you had last night about your relationship.
When you take a peek, he's fast asleep. The birds are still chirping, shadows from tall trees speckling across the bedroom, hinting at a fresh breeze. It's warm weather, and you want to cry.
In the morning quiet, you admire the peace he's created and has always created for you. Your consciousness slips away as well.
When you two wake up, it's the best sleep you two have gotten. Neither of you bring up that it's the first time together. You're cocooned against his chest.
"Morning," he greets you again, this time fully rested.
"Rafayel," you return, gazing into his eyes.
The two of you stay in that moment, unsure who moves first into a soft kiss. It's just what you imagined. He moves, soft and malleable and sweet, against your lips for some time. You pull back for a breath.
"How do you feel?" He asks, caressing your cheek with a hooked finger. He's trying really hard to remain grounded, but all he wants to do is kiss and hold you.
"Nervous. Calm." You press a kiss on his finger. "I didn't expect that to happen so suddenly."
"Is that bad?" A hint of concern flashes in his eyes.
"Not at all."
"Maybe this isn't the right time, but..." You try to find your words, breathe out. "I don't want to pretend with you anymore."
As the weight of your words fully settle, the sun brightens, reflecting his mood.
"Good, thank god," Rafayel sighs against your lips. " I don't want you to pretend either, so this is the perfect time, a little late even."
"Do you trust me?" He tilts your chin up. You nod and lean in, unable to contain yourself anymore. He meets you halfway, eskimo kisses you, before getting lost in your lips.
Rafayel files through all of your potential worries. He lands on one unspoken fear of yours that you had mentioned in passing.
He's reading some historical retelling of foreign war. Rafayel's gaze switches to your frame, purple hues divided by his lens frame. Reading glasses were rare. A flippant compliment sits on your lips. Rafayel wins your race.
"What's wrong? Come here, beautiful." He uncrosses his legs, leans back, and you're thoroughly distracted by his half open shirt, tight slacks, and the curve of his strong thighs. You gulp, stopping at his feet.
Rafayel lifts you near effortlessly, biceps straining comfortably.
"Sit," he pats his thigh, "Tell me what's on your mind." Hesitation seals your lips, but you rest in his crevice. He snakes an arm around your waist. He laces your fingers together with his free hand, swipes a thumb. His comfort is seductive, it's the only way you can explain it.
"Rafayel, I really, really need you right now."
"While that makes me want to take you right here, right now, I have a better idea."
You whine.
"Let's bathe first, wash off everything from last night."
You whine again, but he bridal style carries you into the bath tub. He washes your back, massages your breasts, and dives too often around you inner thighs. He washes his hands from the suds, and dives a finger into your folds. You toss your head back.
"No, ah, I need you- Let me clean you, or else I can't hold back anymore."
You turn around and wash his chest, his torso, thighs, back, before moving your hands over to his cock and balls. You lather his dick up, massage the skin on his balls. Rafayel does his best to stay in control. His breath is ragged, and he shifts between crunching forward and tossing his arm back, around the tub, to watch your flushed face give him so much attention.
After, he helps you into your robe, leaving you nearly instantly dry. Right as the both of you are done brushing your teeth, and swings you over his shoulder and lays you down on his bed. Unraveling your robe reminds you of the way he slipped off your dress last night, and you're wet for the next two hours as he devours you.
That's not enough though.
You two are on a small island, a quick summer vacation. You take advantage of the hot weather, use it as an excuse to wear the skimpiest bikini in the hopes Rafayel will tear it off.
It works.
He fucks you in a private, upscale cabana. Your neon green bikini is just a couple of strings and barely enough cloth. It hides very little, emphasizes your curves in all the right ways.
You had walked up to him preparing cocktails and small bites. You ran your hands along his neck, guided his hand toward to unbutton his own silk shirt that you were wearing, and it was game over from there.
Rafayel slips your excuse of a thong aside and slides his cock in.
A low moan pools from you, his brows furrow as he tries not to cum at the sight of you spreading open for him. God, you look beautiful, he mutters. Rafayel swipes your lip before planting a quick kiss in apology.
"Hold on," he warns, and you find purchase on his shoulders, his shirt open and half off his shoulders.
Your legs bar his waist, sitting comfortably above his unzipped khaki shorts. His biceps strain. One hand wraps around your waist, the other flat, gently pressing your stomach down, and he pistons forward. He's long, and thick, reaching spots that make your toes curl and eyes roll back.
Your scream washes away as the ocean crashes. When you come to, he's still fucking you, flushed, eyes stuck to your sweating, glistening frame, half sticky from the suncreen, half damp from the island's unforgiving heat.
In your brief lucidity, you're mesmerized, eyes trailed down his abs. His thrusts are fluid, powerful, relentless, and the curve at which he opens your pussy up sends shocks and shivers up your spine, digs into your brain.
Rafayel's slender fingers dig into your hips now, buried deep in your flesh. It helps him find purchase and leverage to thrust into you easier. He breaks a sweat pounding into you, and he looks unfairly hot doing so.
"Put me somewhere I can hold onto, please," you beg, and he dutifully follows your orders. He walks you over to a table, tips you toward him as you let go.
Arms now behind you and gripping onto its ledge, it's the perfect position to desperately grind down on his cock. Ugh, you feel buzzed. He massages all your sweet spots and you're high off him jackhammering into you, like an addict.
He drags the head of his cock all the way to your entrance before sliding back in. The squish is filthy.
While not veiny, the column on his underside is prominent. You love licking a strip down his frenulum, his most sensitive spot. It also adds a delicious drag and pressure pressing against your back. Makes you feel full in a way you've never experienced.
"Rafayel, kiss me, please."
"Say more, baby."
"I fucking love you, fuck a baby into me, please." You blurt, too honest.
Rafayel groans, and he hikes you up with a knee. He dives in for a kiss, soft, hot, wet, and dirty. When you break, you feel his cock swell. Juicy, full, red and angry. You circle your hips and squeeze on the way down.
You look ruined, and Rafayel tosses his head back in ecstasy, thinks about kittens to stop himself from coming.
He's back, and fucks up into you way too easily.
Standing missionary made you nervous at first, what if you were too heavy? But Rafayel would't have it any other way, on land and in the ocean. He started lifting so you two could last longer, and you're thankful, because tou two loved facing each other.
Your tits bounce, one slips out from the thin bikini top. A blush stains your chest and neck in webbed patterns, and he watches you, tucks the memory away for nights away.
You feel a band inside you pull taught. Rafayel catches your signal, feels the way a pressure build inside your pussy. He dutifully maintains a consistent pace, the pressure inside you swelling and hardening.
You feel another desperate kiss from him. All you can do is numbly mumbles, I'm gonna come all over your cock, Raf- ah, Rafayel-, and he groans, coaxes you with urgent circles on your clit. You whine, slowly arching your back until it's too much.
You pull back, he catches you, and you're squirting all over his stomach, his chest. Your face is screwed tight, a couple tears escape and your hips convulse, each twitch letting out more juice.
He's stretched you out, left his mark on your pussy by leaving her slightly agape. She's squirting, drooling. It drives him crazy, impatient, and he can't help but dive back in while you're mid orgasm.
"-!"
You jolt, another hiccup, take in the pleasant feeling of being filled up while your pussy tightens around him. Even thought your body is resistant from coming so hard, Rafayel knows you, and forces himself past your tight band to drive into you. You go mad, tossing your head back this time.
His chest glistens from sweat, wooden shell necklaces bouncing. Sweat slicks his brows, darkening his bangs, and his sunglases are nearly falling off. You reach up to try and fix it, but he catches your hand on the way up and kisses your knuckles.
He bumps you up and your free hand finds his shoulder again.
"Ugh... oh my god, Rafayel, I can't-!"
He shoots right back by biting your neck, panting out, "Yes... you... can... sweetheart," and you sob. Why does he have to be romantic with the pet names right now?
He pistons into you and you claw into his back, leaving moons in his back. As a moment of clarity arrives, your brush the nape of his neck, whisper into his ear.
"Please," you beg, panting from the workout.
"Please what?" Rafayel's barely conscious. He drops his head into the crook of your neck.
You begin losing strength, thoroughly fucked and becoming limp.
"Cum inside me, please, I want you so bad-" Your ask gets interrupted by his moan, raspy and low, deep from his chest. It's filthy, and you wish you could hear Rafayel make that noise more. He leans back, watching a white ring form where the two of you join.
You pant, quietly, letting out little moans when he pulses.
He pulls you close and you wrap all arms and legs around him, letting yourself sink down onto his cock to drink it all up. You kiss his nose, his cheek, brush the nape of his neck again lazily as he finishes shooting ropes inside you.
The two of you pause, drinking in each other's hazy gaze. The distant sound of seagulls, crashing waves, and birdsong start slowly filling the space in. You're surprised no one's caught you. They wouldn't be able to see you anyways. Rafayel made sure to fuck you at an angle where he was always covering you.
"Mmm, taking a vacation was the right move." You comment, and he leans in, pliantly moving his lips against yours, makeout turning sloppy.
"We haven't even made it into the water yet." When you pull back for air, he responds, a smirk gracing his lips.
Right, you bite your lips, heat pooling again at the thought of taking his other form in. You two conspired to go out at sunset, the waters promising a warm, balmy 75 degrees.
"How about lunch first? And a shower." You reach over his shoulders for a towel, and he laughs, carefully sitting down on the daybed. He covers you with a towel, adjusts his shirt onto your shoulders, fixes your crooked bikini.
You get up, cum and juices dripping onto his slacks. Rafayel laughs, grabbing his swim shorts. You button up, he cleans the inside of your thighs, swipes you front to back, tosses the first towelette in a laundry bag, hands you a second one after your done, and cleans himself with a third.
His hand remains on your thigh as if to preserve this moment. You sit back down on his lap, now dry. You're wading in the pool post-sex hormones, enjoying the soreness.
"What's the matter?"
"Wanna see some cool sights too before the sun sets? It's a hike." He massages circles into you.
"Yes. Let's goooo. I'm hungry." You give him a quick peck before getting up and pulling him along. Rafayel steadies you, an arm around your waist upon seeing you stumble, still dizzy from how breathless he left you.
Your smile and shy, thanks, leaves him feeling warmer than any hot weather could.
"Sooo... do all your friends live across the world or do I just never see them?" Rafayel asks, playing with your hair. He fakes a gasp. "Or, are they made up?"
You two are on his daybed, simply seeking each other's warmth. Rafayel's on his side, head perched up by his arm. You slap his chest, exposed because of his unbuttoned shirt.
"Rude! You just never see them." You huff, and he smiles, capturing your hand. He pulls you forward and closes any gap between you. You're in thin pajamas, so you can feel his heat and the hard planes of his abs.
"Do I get an introduction any time soon?" His real question crops up. "Do they know we're dating? In love, on the way to marriage with five kids and a mansion?"
He kisses your palms lightly, eyes closed. Rafayel avoids your gaze when he asks something particularly meaningful.
In public eye, it's all jokes between you two. He's bold, confident.
"I wanted to workshop our backstory. Wanna join the creative brainstorming session?" You stroke his cheek. He returns his gaze to you, a current of determination swelling.
"There's no need to make up any lies. We met as kids by chance," he looks at you from lowered lids, "Reconnected after I studied the arts."
But behind closed doors-
He slides over, pins your wrist to your side. He's above you now, the world to that space between you. This cat and mouse game, you fall for it every time. Rafayel's intimate yet sly, begs innocently only to trap you.
He traces a finger up your chin. "Why do you need to lie? I want everyone to know."
You look to the side and consider thoughtfully, "You're okay with that? You might get unwanted attention. Tara's grandmother is a huge fan. They're good people, but it's natural to ask for favors." You meet his eyes. "I'm happy to fend off requests and all-"
"The only attention I care about is yours." A hint of sadness laces his voice. The next words come out sincere and honest. "One of the more happier days was introducing you to my family. Do you feel differently about this stuff?"
Rafayel's always been a romantic. You wrongly assumed he wanted to protect his identity as a celebrity. Shame settles in your chest.
You intertwine fingers, and he lowers himself. "I assumed you wanted a low profile." You gravitate upwards. Foreheads touching, you breathe out, "I'm sorry, Rafayel. Thank you for telling me."
"I couldn't wait any longer to bring this up." He looks down. "It's been eating at me."
You plant a kiss on your lips, and he returns your exchange.
"Don't wait until it bothers you next time, okay?" Now the wave of determination thrums inside your chest.
His gaze sweeps both your eyes, "Okay."
You slip away from his grasp and hold up a pinky. "Promise?"
Rafayel slides his pinky and kisses your knuckles. "Promise."
~
"Rafayel, the artist? No way! You're dating him?" Tara's eyes expand like saucers. She gasps, slightly hitting her hand on the way up. Her beer can shifts the picnic table. The sun is warm, and a breeze billows through the park.
"Uhhh, the guy's gotta be old as ashes." Nero states. You two lock eyes, his immediately embarrassed. "For someone as famous as him?" Nero explains.
Tara slaps his shoulder. Simone coughs, and Andrew orders another round to fill in the space. "No, you dummy. My grandmother's a huuuuge fan. She's been to every exhibit."
Tara pulls out her phone and taps a few keys.
"I thought the same at first too," Tara admits shamelessly, and you laugh to ease up the tension. Simone shakes her head but relaxes. Andrew chuckles.
"But look, he's pretty young." She sweeps her phone for everyone to see. It's a snapshot from the most recent exhibit. He looks... intimidating, formal, kind of standoffish.
Andrew whistles, "A real pretty boy over there." Simone lights up, a sparkle electric in her eyes. She sends you a proud look. You know she, Tara, and you will debrief in waaay more detail later.
Nero exclaims, shifting his glasses, "I refuse to believe the genetic lottery achieved this."
You laugh. "He's fun. Sweet." you say, feeling out of place describing Rafayel to people who don't know him. "We met young, he taught a couple lessons in university, and I reconnected with him for work purposes."
"Does he like karaoke?" Tara asks, plucking a couple grapes from the communal fruit platter.
"Does he drink?" Andrew probes.
"Will we ever get to meet him?" Simone completes.
"Does he game?" Nero asks, the only question that throws you off.
"I'm not sure, but he can sing. He'll drink. And surprisingly, yeah I've caught him staying up late once or twice playing a shooter." You make your rounds. "I'll invite him when it makes sense. Something easy."
"My birthday's soon, invite's open." Simone offers, like an angel of hope.
"The more the merrier," Tara concludes, "House party, bar hop, karaoke, and see where the night takes us."
"But, all of that to say, I can't make the summer camping trip. We're going on... vacation." You think back to his burning desire for the tropics.
"Ooooh, well take photos!" Tara exclaims, and the topic shifts. The group cheers, and you promise to make it up to them on their next trip.
-
"Ready?" Rafayel emerges from his closet. A baseball cap, compression turtleneck, jacket, jeans, sneakers.
"Yeah, wow, it's been a while since you pulled those out." A blush creeps up. You fight it. As beautiful as Rafayel looks in formalwear, he looks like an undercover idol in streetwear.
Early on in your relationship, the both of you worried about unwanted attention in busy areas. Now your dates were more elaborate, or in spaces where people knew him.
He frowns. "That just means we need another city date. Soon. I miss-" He's not bold enough to tell you that sneaking around the city like lovesick teenagers still makes his heart thump.
"Me too," you say, smiling to fill in his embarrassment. "I've been having fun though."
"Not too stuffy? Too many balls, charity events?"
"Mmmm-" You walk up and fix his jacket, "I could use some air at a night market." Rafayel grins, catlike, and kisses you.
"Next weekend then," and you nod.
He unlocks the car door and the two of you speed down to Simone's house, park a couple streets away. Simone's not home yet, everyone's setting up an early surprise for when she gets home.
You knock, Tara opens Simone's door and exclaims in greeting. Rafayel offers a soft hi. You two hug, and Tara whispers. This is him?!
You whisper back, Yes! Let me introduce you.Tara leans back and gestures the both of you in.
You intertwine fingers with Rafayel. He glances down, delighted, before the surprise can show on his face.
"She made it, guys!" Tara cheers, handing over some unblown balloons.
"Hey, sorry I'm late." You portion half out, smiling.
"This is Rafayel, my boyfriend."
And it feels unreal to say. He presses your palms deeper, and you swipe one thumb down his index finger.
"Hey boyfriend," Andrew greets, and Simone slaps his shoulder.
Rafayel laughs, "Hey, nice to meet you." He sits right down on the carpet and begins blowing up balloons. You sit next to him. The door handle jingles 20 minutes later, and you all snap a candid photo of her shock from a crowd yelling Surprise!
The rest of the night...
Does not go how you expect.
Rafayel shoots the shit too well with Andrew, whose refined interests emerge, almost flourish. You all thought he was a Bro™, but Simone groans when they start talking about the tea market. When the group migrates to the bar, they're still talking, just about bets, gambling, watches, economy, and wine.
Nero's a bit quieter, but later when the entire group is drunk and you all stumble to the 24 hour arcade, you find him and Nero in a shoot off. Rafayel's precise, despite appearances. Him and Nero swap techniques, upping the ante and nerd out over retro, vintage videos games.
Within all of this, you're in the booths huddled and giggly with Tara and Simone. Every so often, Rafayel would swing by and shamelessly plant a kiss to check in. He's so drunk, you think, patting his cheek. You'd wave him off, letting him know you're fine. Tara and Simone would look away, continuing their topic before you join back in.
"He fits in," Simone smiles.
Tara's still squealing from his, "I told you, the more, the merrier."
"Yeah, I'm shocked," you comment, sipping away. "Was Andrew always into..."
"High society stuff?" Simone responds, "Yeah, he's on the forums, dragging me to these events and all."
"Sounds like we have another couple in the making," Tara conspires, with her classic, bright grin.
"Ugh, let's not talk about that tonight," Simone pushes her. Tara feints hurt, rests her head on your shoulders.
"Thanks for inviting him, he's a good guy," Tara says, and you can't help but melt. She always knows the right thing to say. "You don't really open up about your dating life."
"Mmm," is all you say, gearing up for next girly, sentimental topic since it's about you. "I'm serious about him."
Now it's Simone who pats her own cheek, as if to drain the alcohol away. "That's too cute, stoppp." Okay, the alcohol is really settling in her system now.
You hear Rafayel bust out in laughter and Nero's got his hands on his knees. No way, Rafayel pulled Nero into Dance Dance Revolution.
Before any more can be said, someone rounds the whole group up for a table hockey tournament, then bowling, then hoops, absolutely sloshed. It's 4am when Simone gives her birthday speech, rounds everyone up for a group hug. People begin trickling home.
"It was great meeting you all," Rafayel hugs everyone. Andrew's set up a date with Rafayel for a grand tea exhibit, and exchanges usernames with Nero.
"See you!" Tara waves, Simone drunkenly waves, hanging onto her shoulder. Nobody would expect it, but Tara's capacity to hold alcohol is military level.
~
When it's quiet and the both of you are rummaging through your fridge for pre-hangover aids, Rafayel leans against the counter. You hand him a glass. He's in sleepwear, so are you.
"That was fun," you say.
"I like them," he responds, before sweeping you in by your waist. Both your breaths are stained with vodka. It's fine. "Thank you," he says, before hugging you.
"Of course," you say, cupping his cheek.
"I've always wanted to be a part of your life." You lean back and he sets the glass down for you.
You lean back, "You're my most important person." You start getting a sense of how important this was for him. To have the people in your life acknowledge him as a fixture. Real stakes, not someone you mention in passing. God forbid, an afterthought, if things didn't go well.
You think about how meeting Aunt Talia felt like taking one step closer to becoming his family. You think back to taking in his Lemurian form. Sometimes, you'll wake up to Rafayel gazing at you, caressing your hair. He looks at you like... like...
"Mine too," he nuzzles your neck, words settled with heavy thoughts and unspoken labels.
Your thoughts fizzle out.
Rafayel kisses your neck. Deep in his bones, he's drunk off the thought of marrying you, asking you to be his wife.
His touch is tender. Light traces along your jaw as he soaks in your gaze. The gentle swipe of a stray hair tucked behind your ear, knuckles that just barely graze your cheekbone.
His palms, slightly rough, brush down your shoulder to elbow, gently removing your dress straps. Your shoulder is sensitive, he discovered early on. He noses up your neck, sinks his teeth in momentarily, and peppers kisses back down.
Rafayel doesn't stop at your shoulder. He falls into a plush loveseat and plants kisses down your back. You shiver, feeling his warmth on your spine. He unzips your dress, tantalizingly slow.
Unraveling him excites you.
"The charity ball was, ah-, surprisingly fun," you manage, watching slowly evolving state of undress in the dressing room mirror.
"It kiiinda looked like you had more fun watching people throw their coin at Thomas and I." Rafayel stands, pulls you into his warm embrace. He tilts your chin up and unclasps your costume necklace, replacing it with the pendant he gift you. A seashell.
"Watching everyone win each other's favor is entertaining," tearing your eyes away from the mirror to meet his soft, burning gaze. "And the wine was good."
You rest against his chest, lean arms warm around you.
Rafayel laughs, lightly, bringing you back to the present. The fire in his eyes didn't smother.
You kiss his jaw, "What's on your mind?"
A faint pink dusts your collar area at the implication. "The tides will be low soon." Rafayel softens his gaze, lowers them. "Do you want to go somewhere different this time?"
"I'd love to," duh, you always agree immediately. Rafayel's ability to plan was superior, bar none. Romantic dates, dorky arcade runs, formal balls, spontaneous scenic excursions, meaningless people watching.
In the beginning, your attempts to return the effort were extinguished, immediately. When you accept my invites, I'm honored. His quiet moment of honesty left his ears pink. Rafayel just loved being with you. It took you some time to accept, guitlessly.
"How do I pack?" The same pink dusts his cheeks. That smoulder in his eyes was unyielding.
"Mm. We're going where the oceans are warm. So dress... tropical." Rafayel tugs you in closer, voice huskier now. A confession waiting on his lips. He kisses the shell of your ear.
"Easy enough. But, why does it sound like you're scheming?" You twist and turn until you're facing him. The perfect position to swipe a finger down the bridge of his nose. He kisses your finger.
"The oceans are cold here in Linkon. When we tried last time, the slick worked, but you were shivering."
Ah- now the pink dusts your cheeks.
Taken aback that Rafayel remembered your personal mission to take all of him, that warm feeling returns.
When you accepted all of Rafayel, you meant it. To take his Lemurian seed was the ultimate bond. Both of you wanted it. You brought up the idea. The first few tries ended up with both of you shy and embarrassed, laughing at just how incongruous the biology was.
After, Rafayel had sought out a slick that would gel and hold underwater, resist friction, but wash away once out of water.
He'd eaten your pussy on land, brought you to orgasm on a lazy morning, prepped you with a kiss to breathe underwater. You still weren't used to opening your eyes effortlessly, but when you felt him open you up, you peeked, letting the salt sting. Rafayel's gaze never left you, and his new form carving into you was dizzyingly addictive, thrusts insultingly assertive.
Rafayel memorized how the sunlight, billowing like curtains, painted a glow on your. Your hair afloat, eyes taking on a new hue underwater, bright and glimmering, only shutting when you tossed your head back to cum. You were beautiful, and he was captivated.
You gripped his shoulders. He felt a shudder, a different kind that indicated your dropping temperature. Out of concern, Rafayel use himself to blanket you for the rest of that noon. You didn't want to stop, and so he gave in despite the worry in his heart.
You cup his cheek, the sensation immediately bringing him back to the present. He breathes, suit still crisp from the chill. Because he's pressed close, heats radiates through.
"I'm looking forward to it," you confess easily. He's taking care of me. Again. You kiss him, "Thank you for thinking about me. When'd you come up with the idea?"
"While I was taking a walk."
"Mmm, where many of your great ideas come from."
Rafayel has the warmest hugs, you think as he leans in. He's the type to cuddle all night. Often you'd wake up with him slumped over you. You tip toe and sling your arms around his shoulders, tall enough to whisper in his ear.
"I'm excited, Rafayel." Another kiss on his ear, "I wanna practice some more. Are you busy?" While you wait for an answer, your lips find purchase on his neck. He smells sharp, fresh, lavender base notes now overpowering given the late hour.
He alternates between light gasps and moans. You feel his hand slide up your inner thigh, lifts it so he can wedge a leg in between, giving you some extra height. You breathe at the pressure. He's delicious.
"You know I'll always make time for you," he says, oddly honest given your newfound eagerness to seduce him. You realize the two of you are talking about different things, so you lean back, cup his face, acknowledging the truth.
"I know. I love you, Raf," you gently say, peppering kisses. He snakes his hand to the small of your back and presses you in, drinking in your kisses. Rafayel's neediness tended to come out when you two were... entangled. At first, you thought that only happened in romance books, but he was unashamedly sentimental during sex. You found it adorable.
Your mind drifts as he drinks in your kisses, soft lips grazing over soft lips, slowly, like you had all the time in the world. He sprinkles in nips and tugs here and there, as if his only intention was to relearn everything about your body.
You kiss him deeper, mind latching onto different memories until you land on one summer, early into your relationship. Heat buzzed and cicadas chirped.
You had a terrible fever, whole body chill that left you in between ice and fire, unresponsive for days.
Rafayel shifted his schedule immediately. Your breakfast and medicine were prepared by him. A kiss on your forehead as he left for morning client meetings.
Around noon the soft click of your apartment door opened. More hot food. You weren't hungry, just lifted the blanket in invitation for a nap. He swapped into home clothes and held you for an hour.
By the time you rose, your living room was orange. You reheated his lunch and cleaned up a bit, only to find he'd taken out the trash on his way back out.
A handwritten note saying he had client dinner. You pulled out your mat for some yoga, took a walk around your apartment building, called Tara, drafted a piano piece. Rafayel came back with dinner, and you felt so... cared for.
You still remember the cool, tamed scent of cologne on his suit as he took off his shoes, unbuttoned his shirt collar, lean chest peaking out, slight disheveled frizzy hair. Rafayel looked beautiful, yet mature, untouchable even. How was he yours? You'd spend days wondering when someone more beautiful would sweep in and take him away.
Five sharp imprints on your thigh brings you back. You're in the air, both legs purchased around his waist. He plans to keep you in the air, biceps straining effortlessly. His nails, you'd file them down for him later. You open your eyes to his dashingly shy expression.
"I love you," he returns, "I love you."
You do the honor of unbuttoning his shirt, loosening his tie, and peeling away all of his layers, leaving both of your hearts bare for the entire night.
Teamwork between you and Sylus is nonexistent. You have uncanny synergy, but you're not looking to ride someone's coattail.
Plot Heavy! Action, blood, it's gritty in the N109 zone.
Sylus is always there. Your eyes will meet, time will slow down as your life flashes before your eyes. You can't tell whether he looks at you in disappointment or exasperation, but you can't look away.
Poison gassed in the N109 zone, willing victim of kidnapping, willing subject of experimentation, damaged hearing from setting off detonations, severe blood loss in gun fights, high speed car chases and crashes.
Scaling and falling off skyscrapers, reconnaissance in close proximity to sex rings and drugs, intentional capture transporting illegal goods, too often sacrificed as Wanderer bait, all in the name of securing more information about the Aether Core. Sylus makes sure you're never dead.
You wouldn't call it teamwork, but a synergy. You've witnessed Sylus' reputation proceed him, saw pride appear in his smirk whenever he secured deceptively favorable deals or pulled the rug from underneath a rising rival.
You don't like it.
"The situation was under control." He listens but doesn't respond. You already know he doesn't agree.
"Everything, everyone was wildly out of control."
Inwardly, you groan. He's going to correct you.
"Your strategy isn't clean, neat, or orderly-"
His eyebrow quirks.
"I'm throwing them off guard."
Sylus releases a deep, rich laugh, but your silence signals the severity of this topic.
"Not everything is straight cut. You can't predict every variable, Sylus."
"You can. I've done it."
The clatter of your gun hits the table. It slides, resting in front of him.
"You scare people just by looking at them. I don't have your luxury. Not everyone can do things your way."
"Then let me help you."
"I'm not looking for a free ticket, Sylus." He hates how disappointed you sound. He cringes at how bitter his name sounds coming from you. He doesn't have the guts to ask if you're scared of him.
"Okay, darling," He attempts. Your patience runs thin, a part of you curious if he's really getting what the issue is, "Let's do things your way."
You pinch the bridge of your nose, unfairly wishing for more convincing validation and acceptance. You know Sylus doesn't believe in you. "Don't pity me."
"Not pity. Concern." Sylus rises. He stalks toward you, "But if you have to, I'll let you learn through experience." Your mouth hangs open, shocked at his arrogance. Your gun reappears in his extended hand, but you turn away and leave him in the cold room.
Xavier. That's your way of doing things.
You knock on his door and run over some details. The Nest, another inside job. He's gentle, works with you, suggests alternatives not from a place of disagreement, but a complex problem to solve. You propose a couple emergency routes and exits, and he approves.
You two work almost too well. Straight to the point, consultant-like. Even though you can crack a couple laughs out of him, it's rather polite. A couple smiles here, but no true fire or excited investment.
"When you get to the Nest. Ask for Lehaiya. Tell her to talk to Hicks. He'll know where her sister is." Intel, for free. Insane.
"What do I owe you?"
"Nothing right now. A future favor."
"Deal." You fist bump him.
"You shouldn't agree that easily." His hand lingers.
A bird hits the window and you swing your head. Xavier peers out the window, scans the ground, but there's nothing. Swiftly he concludes, "Someone's following us. Could be you, could be me."
You're next to his frame, shoulders almost touching. "Right, they shouldn't have left evidence. Birds don't drop feathers after one collision."
"Sloppy job." Xavier comments. You can't tell what's behind his calm gaze.
Back in his office, Sylus flicks his tie off in annoyance. He tsks, tenderly scolding Mephisto for running in too hard. The feed through Mephisto is choppy now, yet he hears the mockery.
"Return, Mephisto," Sylus orders, urgently gathering the necessary tools to fix his familiar up.
...
Xavier's plug leads you down a strong trail. Lehaiya points you to an underground businessman, her ex, who, after you help secure raw materials for, introduces you to a a black listed scientist. They trade you the location of confidential records, some incriminating evidence on the estate owner for a sample of your DNA and a couple vials of blood. You infiltrate, but the boss, a sharp old geezer catches you snooping around his men, and here you are again, gun against your throat.
"No one walks out of here for free, love." Geez, you think. A gulp is all you can must, no other sudden movements. He's older, salt and pepper hair, heavy rings on his fingers, mentally in tact, unfortunately in shape. Dangerous.
"Something caught in your throat, dear?"
"I'm looking for files from Ever. Heard you're a one-stop shop." You respond immediately.
"That fetches quite a price. And what can you do for me?" Your silence is bruising to the ego, but he's not looking for money. "Need anyone dead?" It's one of the two identities you resort to. He hums, "Not on my roster, no. I've no ill will."
Fuck.
You can't believe a stranger is going to be the last person you see.
The gun is cold as it shifts against your neck.
...
...
...
Click.
"You'll be my stand-in at the Mostroch auction tonight. My face isn't allowed there, but you're a nobody." He lowers the gun. "Run off with my money and you're dead. Understand?"
"Great," you say. You're glad you didn't lead with having a bounty on your head. If he's looking for a no-face, you would be six feet under by now, useless.
"Follow me to my office then. My assistant will dress you. I'll run you through the dialogue. Tap out at 10 million. Send me the ledger after from a device of your choice. The files you're looking for will appear." As you trail him through the deeply rich, blue hallway, he makes conversation. You're still damp from the cold sweat.
"Next time, just say you have a pretty face. Anyone can think of a use for that here."
"Given the choice, I refrain from that type of work." He sighs, "Then you should leave this place, soon." You say nothing, but Sylus surfaces in your mind. He's shielded you from much of the N109 zone.
His assistant delivers a glass of "water." but he holds up a hand. She sews in tracking devices in places you can't reach instead, all the while, dread forms in your gut. Maybe your reliance on danger and recklessness is catching up to you.
...
"Gettin' ready for the auction tonight, boss?" Luke swings his legs over Sylus's desk, careful not to touch any papers.
"She doesn't want my help," Sylus grinds out. It's been weeks. Hollowed cheeks and a paler complexion to his normal tan are the only signals of his deteriorating health. He's worried sick about you. Luke's mouth hangs agape, taken aback. but Kieran swoops in.
"Have you tried, you know, including her?" Kieran points out.
"I already have everything figured out."
"Yeah, but sometimes I just ask Luke for his input even though I don't need it." Kieran swings his legs, "Sometimes he has great ideas." Luke gawks, "I always do?!" and Mephisto decides it's opportune time to squawk out an alert.
Sylus listens to their exchange while he tightens his tie. The spirit of their suggestion lingers on his mind as he cruises down the near-empty highway. He loses a few pursuers, deflates their tires with no more than two bullets.
...
"Lot 63, ladies and gentlemen. 'The Cardinal's Daughter,' previously attributed to the school of Caravaggio." Classic, art for money laundering in public society.
A bidder raises their paddle.
"Fifty thousand."
"We'll start at fifty thousand—do I have fifty? Yes, paddle 23—"
"Sixty."
"Seventy-five."
You raise your paddle, a feather mask on as part of the charade.
"One hundred."
The light is warm and blue each time a bidder raises their paddle. Sylus, who sits first row, instantly recognizes your voice. He turns.
Your hair is done, your dress isn't a color that he'd choose for you, and that broach. How did you land in the hands of his supplier? One of the only good ones, a sensible man, he'd add.
"Two hundred fifty." Sylus raises his paddle. His voice is undeniable, and a cold sweat starts coating your back again. There's no way my luck is this low.
"Two seventy five." Another bidder raises.
"Three hundred." Your call.
"Five hundred." Sylus.
Fuck! Sylus is playing games and you're not sure how far he'll go. Pamphlets flip. You're sure the guests are re-reading the historical significance of this piece.
"Do I have five hundred? Five hundred, going once—"
"One million." You hope the jump is adequate. Sylus doesn't even prefer this style-
"One point five million."
His gaze never leaves yours. You feel like a mouse pushed side to side by a cat. His teasing isn't enough to deter you from securing those files.
"Two million." You cringe at the 20% budget spend.
"Two million." The announcer pauses.
"Any advancements on two million? Going once. Going twice—" You remain elegantly seated. The silence stretches unfairly long.
Nothing.
"Sold! To paddle 7 for two million dollars!"
You let out the deepest sigh. The crowd's murmuring fades away into the next auction. The announcer's moved on, yet you feel like a rock just crushed your leg. You leave the auction room to the main ballroom, too pre-occupied to think about Sylus. Your device chimes with a successful purchase, you quickly send the ledger. Files are download itself onto the device, and you port it over to your personal.
A tap on your shoulder.
"Sylus, not now-"
"Sylus? The leader of Onychinus? Oh, my old man will be happy to hear that." You turn around and it's not any one of Salt & Pepper's assistants. He's also not Sylus. "Mr. Kovrov, I'll be happy to escort you out." His smile tells you that either you left a terrible trail, or Salt & Pepper organized another deal, and you really were being sold off.
"I'm sorry, we don't know each other." You say rather loudly.
"I'm just an assistant. Please, right with me. The car's waiting." He grips your bicep and waist rather firmly. Your mind is rapid-fire as he guides you through the ballroom's edgemost walls.
"Make a scene and you lose a limb in the car. We don't need you in one piece, just alive" He whispers, and you feel the hot breath fog up your ear.
Fuck.
You walk out as calmly as possible. What he doesn't know is yes, you're thinking about taking him down the first step you take outside, but you're partially saying goodbye again. To Tara, Simone, to your family, to Sylus-
You're faster than Kovlov. In one motion you push his arm away, swing your leg back and he hits concrete head first, knocking him unconscious. He screams. There's blood, a car door opens, and another man rounds its corner, shoots you in the leg. You fall, and he bounds your wrists and feet together.
"This bitch." You hear his muffled voice.He drags you by the feet and drags you into the back seat. The knife strapped to your inner thigh slips by his attention.
He speeds off into a tunnel. They must need you alive and whole because Kavlov's bluff falls short. You still have all your limbs. The Association's method of undoing restraints comes in handy, quietly. A moment of dark covers.
"Shit!" Suddenly the car skids forward. Someone hit the back. You use this momentum to stab him in the leg, loot his gun that you spotted earlier, and leap out the back door.
The speed has you tumbling and you keep your roll tight. More scrapes, bruises, whatever. The offending car drifts around you, blocks you off from the wrecked car. You hear the driver's door open.
A warm pair of hands slide around your waist, pulling you towards the chaos. Since when did you lose your initiative? You just have to get the files back safe-
"Game's over," Sylus's voice cuts you, raspy. You've never heard him so upset. He settles you in the passenger seat from the driver's side. You're on autopilot when he orders, "Bandage your wound. I'll touch it up when we get home."
When he places you down on his chaise, he lets out the most haggard, broken sigh. A small kit emerges. Your leg rests on his thigh, and he undoes the bandage from your torn sleeve.
"The situation was not under control," you admit, taking out your hard earned files. "Risked my life for these." Sylus barely acknowledges the device, applying antiseptic and monitoring blood loss.
"Those weren't Dimitri's men. You wound up in the Butcher's hands." Dimitri. The old man. The Butcher? You don't need to guess hard to figure out their services.
"My post-operational plan was kinda weak." You offer. He's done tending yet remains on his knees, absentmindedly kneading your calf. You hesitate.
"It was. You need to proof the guest list. Everyone's under a fake identity."
You stand up and tilt his chin. He looks at you, and all you see is sadness in his eyes. "You did great, but going in blind is a death sentence," and his breath is shaky.
"I should have done that, huh?"
Sylus gulps, nodding solemnly, and the red gleam in his eye beats like his heartbeat. He looks skinnier, tired. He dips his head, silver hair meeting your torso for reprieve, or balance, you can't tell.
"Can you help me out next time?" The question comes out, weak.
"Always, darling." He rasps, and his hands find purchase on your waist, sinking his grip into your flesh. "I thought I was going to lose you." His voice breaks, and you feel dampened silk against your stomach. You quickly learn that Sylus is a silent crier.
You comb his hair with steady rhythm, hoping to soothe him, giving him time to cry. Eventually you move, accidentally relying on your injured leg to bend down. He catches you and helps you sit on his thighs. You cup his face and wipe a tear away.
You gulp, "Thank you for saving me." Sylus touches your forehead to his, and you press back, a final acceptance. "I just wanted you to see me as your equal, Sylus. You're so capable, I fear you'll just drop me if I can't keep up." The truth is out, you close your eyes.
"Sweetie," he coos deep and rumbly. You're getting way too used to his petnames, "I'm sorry for telling you what to do. You're clearly capable. I just, when it comes to you, I need a guarantee."
The surprise in your eyes tells him you two have just made progress in trying to understand each other. Knowing that he's coming from a place of love, not arrogance, annoyance, or worse, unimpressed disappointment, has you sheepishly embarrassed.
"I'm sorry," you lean back, and he kisses your cheek, "for worrying you," and now he's peppering you. You kiss his cheek when you find and opening, and his leans in, noses your ear. "Next time, can you hear me out on my ideas, at least?"
"Yes, of course. We'll can talk our plans out from now on, both of us." His grip around you is tighter now, and you can't help but feel like he's rather animalistic with his territory.
"That's all I wanted," you confess, and you hug him back. He's warm, large. You don't fit into his soft angles perfectly, but he doesn't seem to care. Sylus hugs you tightly, slowly shifts to feel all parts of you, in every configuration. He caresses you nonetheless.
You tap his cheek and he makes a noise. "You haven't been eating," you comment, and he simply hums. "I'm hungry," you state, changing you tactic, and that's his trigger. He sits you on his kitchen island, touches his fridge and stove for the first time in days. When you eat, color returns to his face, and the light restores in his eyes. Neither of you acknowledge that it's not the food.
You and Gojo don’t work on paper. He’s the heir to one of the country’s largest banks. You’re looking for steady income. You doubt your orbits will cross paths beyond college, but your gravities intertwine.
Relationship: Gojo x Reader
Edit 1/19/26: Reformatting italicized dialogue to quotations. In progress.
AO3
Shoko’s the one who doubles your physics study group from a measly count of two, you and her. "Geto’s the best tutor of his year, she says, willing to help out kids who’ve skipped a year."
His friend Gojo is standoffish, but he warms up to you after your knack for mental shortcuts and stupid mnemonics surprises him, saving him from failing a midterm.
"Holy shit, do that again," he says, poking your shoulder like there’s a button somewhere, and you swat him away. Shoko pokes you, so does Geto, and you squirm. You run away, knowing Shoko isn't the type to sprint if she can avoid it.
Gojo’s competitive side is electric. It shocks him into reaction. Before anyone can question it, he dashes after you. All you feel is a gust of wind before a tug opposite your direction latches on, jolts you backward, and you both tumble down the hill at the ass crack of dawn, frozen and bruised from the packed snow.
In your 2nd and 3rd year, you learn through several all-nighters together that Gojo really needs to know his shit academically and be the guy who's well-spoken, charming, and generous to appease his elders.
He complains he’s keeping it together by a thread, low on sleep and high on stress. Geto says that, "The only way out is through," deep in his self-help era. Shoko offers sympathies but admits, "I can’t relate, good luck."
You opt for a don’t-ask, don’t-tell policy, and just sprinkle 5-hour energy into his coffee. "Drink this." It works, because he’s the one who wakes you up just in time for your final, and he holds it over your head all semester.
By the 4th year, you guys have frolicked through hell and back together.
Gojo is ticked off when his rich friends restrict invites to certain afterparties and functions. He attends both, maintaining appearances, but deep down he much prefers to smoke out Geto’s room, the four of you fucking around board games, baking in Shoko’s apartment, making fun of noir films at yours, hitting the gym, and taking late night drives to scream at the ocean.
After graduation, you score an internship in the same city with Shoko, who’s relieved but also visibly upset that Geto’s going abroad.
"Uh, anyone gonna miss me, guys?" Gojo pouts, and everyone says "No," holding a pause for 3 second before launching apologetic slaps on his back. "Thanks guys," he says, sore, "If you forget about me, I’d die from sadness."
He squeeze Shoko's shoulder, "Don't worry, Geto showed me his calendar. He's got flights booked to see a certain someone," he pauses for dramatic flair. Shoko rolls her eyes, takes a drag, and blushes. Gojo winks at you like you had anything to do with securing this information, and you nudge Shoko. She gives you a shy smile.
So you, Shoko, Geto, and Gojo keep in touch after college. No one migrates the group chat, and it’s the busiest thing you’ve seen. Your phone doesn't shut up. Good mornings and nights multiple times a day, group calls that last hours. Occasionally, all or some of you meet up in each other’s cities for extended breaks and holidays. Pairs were easy, trios sometimes, rarely all four. Impromptu dinners would turn into overnight stays and weekend-long trips.
Near the end of the 1st year, Gojo rejects several of the group’s invites. He explains that he has a girlfriend. Everyone understands. You shoot a text congratulating him, say that it took longer than anyone expected. Shoko asks for a photo, you call him a cougar, and Geto asks to meet her father for an internship.
The three of you always bet that Gojo would be the first to split off, noting his life trajectory just seemed destined for a different road. The group chat only quiets a bit, but Gojo doesn’t seem to change much.
Year 2, Shoko reveals Geto's officially asked for her heart. She tell you through drunken whispers at the crack of dawn. You giggle, high off the lack of sleep and joy, mumble sweet congratulations as your eyes droop close.
You beg her to hear how it went down and she happily tells you how Suguru swept her off her feet, that suave bastard. Geto asks for a double date in the group chat, and Gojo jokes, "That’s really not a good idea, buddy." Shoko reacts with a question mark, and you send a frozen, shocked frog sticker.
In Year 3, the four of you rent out a cabin in the mountains to celebrate your promotion. Geto is the first to touch your drink with his, commencing the night with a short speech. To his credit, it’s good, and you credit his public speaking skills to the slew of literature he’s been reading.
Shoko leans on you, and Gojo surprisingly wraps you in his arms. I knew you could do it, is what he wants to say, lips so close to the shell of your ear. Instead he says, "Look at her, our token smartass strikes again."
Shoko spills your barren love history to the group during Uno. You fake mock betrayal at being subjected to mere gossip fodder during a tough round. But it's okay, anyone that one that gets made fun of, affectionately, for the night, is actually an intervention out of care.
Shoko consoles you, "It’s okay, practice makes perfect." Geto laughs at your staunch theory of self improvement before entering a relationship, and Gojo warns you to stay away.
"Uh oh, trouble in paradise?" Geto asks. Shoko shakes her head disapprovingly. "Don’t listen to him, not every relationship is like that," and you’re happy to change the subject.
2 months later Gojo reveals he parted ways with his girlfriend to focus more on his identity and career. The reason is incredibly vague and none of you are able to pry more out of him, so Geto says "Try finding better excuses, bro." Shoko gawks and asks "Stooped to hiding from us now?" And you send him the number to a hotline. Gojo fires back, laughs and giggles on all fronts, but he’s serious.
Year 4, Gojo sends a picturesque photo of him in foreign land. Different mountains, a bright smile, surrounded by other friends. Geto sends a row of flirtatious smirking emojis, Shoko snarks about not being invited, and you bully him into purchasing souvenirs.
Your bullying results in a surprise FaceTime, just the two of you, with choppy audio and what should be an unflattering angle of Gojo’s chin, but is quite flattering, and he asks if the trinket he picks out is to your liking. It's bright, and the light softens all of his usual sharp angles.
After that, the calls don’t stop. He stays up with you when you’re knee deep in submitting to the scientific journal, or when you’re struggling with a recipe. You pick up when he calls, bored, but you know that despondent look means something’s actually wrong.
He calls you when anything good happens, too, triumph over his superiors, a fresh vine of tomatoes acquired, a cute dog that took a liking to him. You two spend way too much doing dumb crafts together, and you send a photo of the baked clay animals on your shelf. He sends one back, a picture of his desk. It’s serious, solemn, and gray, entirely unlike him.
Whenever he travels, and he’s always traveling, he flashes you his classic airport fit, says he got you a matching one, and you snort when the delivery arrives at your door. It smells good. He saves Shoko’s photo of you in the group chat, snapped after you picked her up in your car for a girls-only-weekend, all-inclusive of sleepover, wine, and a camping trip.
You’re sporting a hoodie in the shade of blue that only he would choose. "Is that yours or are you seeing someone?" She asks. "Uh, this is mine," you say. "I didn’t know you wore cologne," she comments, and you scramble for the truth. "It must be a unisex brand, it came like this!"
Year 5 goes by. Shoko isn’t shocked when you ask her to proofread your dating profile. You send it to the group chat for review. Geto gives you serious advice about "adding full body photos," which was also Shoko’s suggestion that you didn’t take, and Gojo says that you’re "washing down your personality in your profile."
"Why are you pretending to be someone else?" Gojo texts. You answer in earnest that you’re looking for love so you gotta sell yourself, embellish a but, and to send any handsome friends your way. Shoko sends you a list, Geto visibly stresses at how many good men she knows, and Gojo unsends a message.
You hit the jackpot with a nice, modest guy. He’s ambitious, caring, but you two aren’t on the same wavelength. You fall in love for a year and out of love in the next. It ends in year 6, when Shoko and Geto host their annual new years party.
You invite your boyfriend. Geto talks shop and gets along with the guy, Shoko is polite and impressed by his resume, and Gojo, who's able to make it in person for once, turns on business charm out of nowhere, flinging jokes that are particularly unfunny to you. Your boyfriend finds them hilarious, and he has a great time.
He leaves early for another event, without you, and Gojo motions neck-chopping in disapproval.
"C’mon, stop giving her a hard time," Geto scolds, "He’s nice and treats her well, that’s a start." Shoko comments, "On paper he’s great, but do you really feel he’s the one?" And Gojo rules him out, "You two can’t laugh about the same things, how’s that going to work?" For the first time, you’re genuinely embarrassed.
"Okay okay, wow I got the message guys!" You’re looking for your purse, suddenly tired, and Gojo grabs your arm. "Where are you going-" but you stop him, "I’m going to miss the train," and he doesn’t let go, "I can drive you back." And you say that’d be inappropriate, because you share an apartment with your boyfriend.
Unsurprising to everyone, within the next six months, you and your boyfriend come to the agreement that you don’t understand each other’s needs. It’s stale without a shared foundation, and you can’t get deeper before disagreements brew.
He apologizes that it has to end this way, and you thank him for the time. The train ride back from dinner is oddly not so different, and you DM Shoko. She calls you, and you two stay on the phone all night. She checks-in weekly. It’s the fifth week when your news ends up on speaker. Shoko's with Geto and Gojo.
"You’re in the area?" You ask. "Surprise business trip," he responds, taking out a bottle of aged whiskey. Geto looks at him, and you can tell there’s silent guy-to-guy conversation brewing. Shoko brushes their silent conversation aside, pours the whiskey, and asks you if you’re busy this weekend. Your eyes light up, and Gojo can't look away as you set your phone high enough to pack.
You toss an overnight bag in your car. Three hours later, you fling yourself onto them for a group hug. The four of you shoot the shit, take a walk way too long for 1am, load up the karaoke machine, and surprisingly receive just one noise complaint. There's cake, beer, vodka, fruits and vegetables per Geto's request, and fried chicken. A part of your heart sings and how good it feels to be back together.
Gojo takes the floor in the guest room and you take the bed. The two of you chat about everything but his love life. Instead, he’s more interested in yours. "What happened?" You’re on the mattress’ edge, and Gojo is already turned on his side looking at you. "Like you guys said, we worked on paper, but I could tell he wasn’t in love with me."
You whisper, "I did my best though."
Gojo huffs out a breath, ruffles his bangs. He reminds you, "It’s not about being the best. Perfect doesn’t exist... even though I’m pretty close," and you toss a pillow at him. He laughs, catching it easily. "But seriously, it’s a two way street. He wasn’t enough for you, either then." And you lay there, feeling better and more deserving than you ever did about the breakup.
Just then, your phone lights up with a dating app notification. Gojo watches you reflexively check your phone, and he sighs. "Delete it." He says. "Why?" You tear your eyes away from the screen, incredulous. He’s shameless, "because you’re with me right now and I need undivided attention," going so far as spamming pouts like a macro. You burst out laughing, "Fine you sad puppy, happy?" And he smirks, satisfied. Even though you just close the app, he feeds your willingness to please him, for weeks.
Year 7, Gojo’s frequently ripped away with business calls, surprise meetings, and emergency flights.
He still calls you though.
One Saturday, while you have Shoko over for another girls-only staycation. Shoko watches your chat about the day unfold over FaceTime, and when he drops the call she gives you a long look. "You two always do that?" She asks.
"Yeah, picked it up from our group calls, and with you." You over explain, dragging out some parts. Shoko knows you're trying to figure her out. She’s buffing her nails, her own nervous tick when she’s stewing on a thought, or decision.
"You alright?" You ask, and Shoko sighs, asks "Have you been on social media recently? Checked the news?" You narrow your eyes, well aware she’s digging for information to confirm her secret suspicions, but all you can say is "No, why?"
She pinches the bridge of her nose and texts Suguru. She doesn’t know, before answering you. "Nothing, I just overheard Satoru stress about something to Suguru when you slept over that weekend." You pout when she refuses to tell you what’s going on, and all she says is "Ask Satoru about it."
With uncanny timing, a text notification comes in. That’s not fair, Gojo’s contact lights up your phone. He’s texting you under the table of a board meeting. When’s our sleepover? Let me fly out so we can stop messing up each other’s sleep schedule.
You text back saying your humble abode is too modest to house him. He rolls his eyes, reacts with a middle finger, and he sends over his calendar, before abruptly being called to speak at the board meeting.
Shoko says she needs a smoke when you flip your phone over to her.
"Well if it's that important that it has to come from him, let's talk about something else. I really wanna try out this new pattern on your nails. Are you and Geto getting married anytime soon?" You shift the topic piece by piece. Shoko snarls. A cute, empty threat, but her cheeks are tomato red.
Gojo sends you his flight details next month, and when you pick him up at the airport, he’s buzzing with excitement. He's in a hoodie, a cap, mask, and those stupid circular sunglasses. Gojo runs and embraces you. It takes most of your strength to not fall over.
"I missed you," he says, something foreign coloring his voice. Looking back, you should have picked up on this. "I missed you... too? Are you good?" You pat his back and he only squeezes tighter.
"Yeah, just excited. Let's go." He hops into passenger and connects his aux.
The ride back is loud with classic rock, all easy enough to duet. The both of you are shouting, and mock crying to sad lyrics. You two detour and drive into the mountains, watch the sunset, and skip rocks into the fields. Dinner at the barcade is louder.
"We're kinda old now, don't you think?" He says, dropping coins into the machine. "No," you disagree, "My joints are still working fine. Maybe drink more broth? Else you're gonna lose all our matches from now on."
Gojo looks at you, and he laughs. "I've been slacking, but you just gave me reason to keep up my health." He's purchasing a ton, looks like you'll be here awhile. You two mosey over to hoops, then ski ball, then table hockey. "Sometimes I wish I could go back and change everything."
Your brows quirk, in disbelief. He looks deep in thought, so you send a fast one, hoping to score a point. "Everything?"
He shakes his head and laughs, "Not everything, I'm just being dramatic," effortlessly blocking your disc and sending it back down. "Hmmm, looks like my joints are working fine." You flip him a finger and glare daggers at him in mock rivalry.
When he serves, you ask, "What would you want to change?"
You block his serve and rally for a bit. In the end, you score the point, just narrowly. That's game. Gojo stretches, revealing a narrow sliver of his abdomen. You look away, but Gojo brings your attention back. "Not taking over my father's business," he finally answers.
Gojo motions you over to next game, trading shoulder bumps here and there. It's a game you developed to see who can knock over the other first. Stupid, pointless, but you two do it anyways.
"You don't enjoy it? I thought you loved the thrill, the game." Darts, easy.
"I do," he says. "I like bending the rules and seeing how far I can get. But the work's digging its claws into areas of my life I don't want it to."
You almost fly a dart into the owner’s faded family and friends photo wall, and the two of you scramble to hide it by rearranging other posters over it. When your knuckles bump into each other, you can’t help but intrusively think that Gojo moves like air, here if he wants to be, gone the next.
"Okay, you gotta be a bit more specific here. Like, unwanted under-the-table favors, grueling overtime on trips, shitty deals and projects. Are you getting bullied?!" You rationalize until it becomes silly.
Gojo chuckles, "Getting bullied is a great way to put it."
Gojo stands behind you, grabs your elbows and adjusts your stance. Oh, you think, this is... new, but not new. You guys gave each other points all the time, just not like this. Gojo's height blocks the overhead lamp. If he leaned down, it'd be easy to steal a kiss.
"Like who I marry."
Shock, surprise, jealousy splashes your bones. Wait, what? That last one doesn't belong there, you think. Your brain scrambles to recover, act normal.
"So, your family put it in super fine print or something when you signed it." Neither of you are really moving, but Gojo has half a mind to slip a dart into your palm.
"Yeah, I'm locked in a bad deal."
Unattainable, the label crosses your mind again.
The cool plastic brings you back, and you send it into the center. Your body is on autopilot. It's off by just a millimeter, and you do your best to feign annoyance at the score difference.
"Well, maybe it'll be like college?" You step away and grab the next dart, dropping the dart in his hand. "You meet some pretty cool people in those circles up there, I imagine."
"Sure, but-" Gojo pauses, words caught in his throat.
"Buuut...?" You flick your head towards the board and sit on the empty pool table's edge. Gojo tosses it without looking, landing dead center.
He moves toward you.
In two seconds, he's caged you against the rim. You put a hand on his harm to stable yourself. Internally, Gojo laughs at himself for how close yet far away you are. It took two seconds to have you within his arms, yet years to say these four words.
"You know me best," Gojo confesses.
Your mouth hangs, and Gojo could lean forward right there. Seal the deal.
"I'm pretty sure that spot belongs to Geto, and by proxy, Shoko." You don't back down, deflect so hard that it slaps him in the face.
"Have I been reading you wrong?" He asks, voice thin. There's too much tension for either of you to stitch all the pieces together. "Do you like me?"
"Even if I did, it wouldn't work." You conclude, all by yourself.
"Don't say that," Gojo pleads, asking for room to negotiate. You're sickened by how good he sounds begging for you.
"I just don't see how it'd work under your terms and conditions," you weakly joke.
"Can we at least try?" It's not too late, he lies to himself.
Gojo doesn't look away, but his jaw ticks. He hasn't quite figured out the situation himself, but he wanted to work on it with you. He drops his head on your shoulder, and you pat his back. You wouldn't admit that the weight of his body is a salve to your cracking heart.
"We'll... always be here for you. Invite us to your wedding, okay?" You say, kicking yourself.
You camp out in your living room with him later that night, a makeshift tent with plenty of snacks, unfinished board games, and a video game paused on the screen. You two agreed to go home after the Darts conversation.
Late night sugar rush and stupid movies end with your knees pressed together, heads resting on shoulders, sober, slightly sorrowful, and ready for bed, against the couch.
In the dead of the night, right before you get up, Gojo opens his palm. "Hey, I need to be honest with you about one more thing."
"Oh no," you think aloud. "Are you dying?" You joke, poking his palm.
Gojo flicks your finger and you flick back. Something shifts in the air and he’s quick, moves his palm down, snakes a finger from your wrist to palm, breaking open your loose fist. Your heart stutters, neither moving when he weaves you two together, hands rougher than you expected, cold and hot in places that keep you guessing.
"Not dying literally. Just metaphorically. You should see the news." News? Shoko flashes in your memory, and you’re reminded how different Gojo is now, expectedly feeling far out of your reach, he’s not just the doofus of your friend group, yet he still is.
He asks for your phone, does a quick search of his name on social media. Gojo lets a smile appear on his face when he sees your For You page. No wonder you hadn't heard anything yet. It's all cats and recipes.
So weird to see him use my phone, you think. Your attention sways, and he watches you, face lit and flickering by the TV mirroring your device, unable to prevent time from stopping.
WALL STREET BUZZES
Insurance Titan's Daughter to Wed Private Equity Dynasty’s Heir in Deal of the Decade
You scroll the aggregation of news outlets and they all use the same words scrambled in different orders. You’re not sure whether a cold congratulations or heated scolding is in order, but you know that the stone forming inside your gut is not the thing to focus on.
Rather, your immediate reaction is to pull your hand away, but Gojo doesn’t let go. "Wait-" he says, and with uncanny timing, Gojo’s phone lights up. It’s the same woman’s name on the TV.
"Oh my god," you say, horrified, dropping your phone, successfully ripping your hand away this time.
Gojo doesn’t stutter when his own phone rings. Terrible timing. He picks up, a silvery voice comes through, the speaker deathly calm and elegant, asking about his whereabouts. Your gut twists imagining yourself in her position, of being in dangerous proximity to getting tangled up in some stupid emotional affair.
Gojo is too calm, and too nonchalant about her slow descent from generous kindness to suspicious tension. He ends the call without any resolution, saying they’ll talk during the week to formalize papers. Your stomach twists and you want to heave.
"My fiancee," Gojo sighs, before attempting to lay on your shoulder. "What the hell?" You move away entirely, as if activating his barrier for him. Gojo sits there. "You’re engaged. Have some decency. I don’t play this game." He looks at you. "There is no game," he says, not thrown off at how fast you accuse him of adultery. "We’re arranged," he says rehearsed, "It’s business." He doesn’t seem enthused by it, and that far away look returns to his eyes.
"You couldn’t have said anything?" You pry, and Gojo admits, "I didn’t like talking about stuff out of my control. I was trying to reign it in, call it off, renegotiate, but there was no other way around it. You’re right, I needed to tell you earlier so you could be part of it. I’m sorry."
You’re silent, and your head is a mess. He’s desperate to find out why you’re so hesitant to speak, and he pokes your shoulder. "What are you thinking about right now?"
"You need a serious lesson in risk aversion and transparency." You say, "What just happened didn’t need to happen. Or, you're right, this could have all happened earlier." Years ago.
Gojo snorts, and you frown. "I’m serious, where are your morals?"
He says point blank, "There aren’t any feelings involved between us, so I don’t see the need. I'm sorry for trying to sort this out without involving you."
You move further away. "I... just hate the feeling of anything done in secrecy. It’s gross. It feels wrong."
You withhold expressing any more indignation, lest some premature pettiness seeps out. And I’m not some appointment you can book and leave at the drop of a hat, you manage to not say.
It's too late, you whisper.
Realizing the severity of the situation turns his own expression grim. He searches your face and finds nothing hopeful. You say with enough finality that settles in Gojo’s jaw, "You should go back to her."
He looks past your TV, past the walls of your small apartment, and you know his mind is whirling, rejecting the current situation.
"She didn’t sound too happy," you point out, snapping Gojo out of his thoughts with a sigh, clearly upset and confused. "Suddenly so considerate about a stranger, now?" He pins you with a hard question.
You don’t have an answer, so you do what you know best. "Why not give the whole thing a chance?" You say the first thing that comes to mind. "You sound miserable. You don’t have to be. That kinda lifestyle might be what you want, in the end. And her..." you swallow, "she could be the one, you know?"
The words come out easy, all too familiar with this role. "Stop changing the subject. I know what you’re doing," He says, unable to read but feel you. "Just thinking about your happiness," and you awkwardly look away. Gojo sighs and forces you to look at him, "You are my happiness."
"Okay," you say, and the two of you have nothing more to say. You sleep on the couch, and Gojo’s on the floor, but your backs are turned away from each other. He doesn’t move very far away, though. He stays close to the foot of the couch, and it’s a sick, confusing, relief to you.
You see him off in the morning.
The chat between you and Gojo naturally goes quiet. Out of respect, boundaries primarily, alright? It’s the first time he takes forever to respond, chat bubble disappearing and reappearing periodically. He calls you, "I don’t care about a PR disaster," he says, and you realize some people just need to say things they won’t actually do.
Gojo interacts with you only through group chat after, which is consequently lively as ever, and your heart finds some relief in keeping pretenses.
The chat flares one day when Suguru asks when Gojo's wedding is, and if they get VIP seats. He drops the bomb for everyone’s sake, you guess. Gojo texts back that the arranged marriage and consequentially, business merger happens in June.
Invites will be sent out shortly. I’ll die if you guys don’t show up. Dramatic as always, Geto texts. Shoko is inquisitive, So, what does this change? And Gojo shoots a quick reply, Nothing, just better omakase for y’all. You stay quiet. I hate fish, Shoko supplies, and it manages a weak laugh from you. Wait, I love fish. Give me yours at least, you text back.
When you respond, Gojo breaks your rule fast and texts you privately. You don’t have to come, but I need to see you before, or after. You let it go unanswered, despite his increasing frequency. Call me selfish, call me stupid. You sigh, looking at the new chat. Just say something.
You’ve removed his contact, only to end up remembering his phone number. Anything. You delete the chat again. You’re rarely online for a month, needing time and distance to squash any unrealistic ideas in your head and accept the gravity of where your delusions will take you. Alone.
The four of you manage to meet up at the hot springs leading up to the wedding. Gojo never addresses the ghosting or silence from your end. "Have you been feeling unwell?" He asks over dinner, and you half lie. "A new proposal, a need to secure a grant, I’ve just been using my phone less."
Shoko withholds her truth, since your frequency of sending each other cat memes has remained steady. A trinket lands in your palm, a matching watch that adjusts to his timezone, and his to yours. "Just thought it’d be cute."
He sticks his tongue at Geto and Shoko, "Out of respect, you guys don’t get the watch, just the wine glass set Shoko always wanted. They sound beautiful."
Geto rolls his eyes, "I’m soooo jealous," absolutely negative jealousy seeping through his voice. You realize Geto must have known everything, more than either you or Shoko, for a while now, and you feel the pity from his eyes. Shoko scoffs, "You wouldn’t pick the right color either way."
Gojo sighs and picks up the pieces as best as he can. "It’s just a front, guys."
"That’s not the main problem," Geto says, and you can’t help but feel like it’s your turn to say something, utterly reminiscent of a work meeting. Shoko looks at you, and you look for any reason not related to the unprocessed feelings in your chest. You fidget with your fingers and look out the window.
"Uh yeah... remember what Shoko said? Hiding things from each other, not cool." And Gojo looks at you, wishes you’d say more, knows you’re not being honest. Ironically, everyone can tell you’re hiding from them. Shoko and Geto retire early, and Gojo walks you to your room, lingering in the doorway. You thank him for the watch, bid him goodnight, and he chases your touch.
A few weeks later, you receive a letter in the mail from Gojo. "Since you’re not using your phone as much, I thought we’d try something new." You almost throw it out, but write him back to keep pretenses. A part of you rots inside, but you write just to keep pretenses up. You process mechanically, turmoil fresh and dirt after rain.
The problem isn’t a scandal. I wish you told me sooner so I never felt anything for you. You’re untouchable, always have been. I need some time away. Seeing you only hurts.
Gojo doesn’t reply, and you can’t help but think how cruel that is. Suddenly hatred is easier to deal with than heartbreak.
What you don’t know is that Gojo’s fiance finds your opened letter on his desk. She reads his response mid-draft, has half a mind with blind rage to snap a photo, and delivers the evidence to her father. Gojo walks in too late. She turns around, cold and unreadable, and he realizes she had hoped for something more.
Gojo’s fate is sealed under severe legal contracts, a fickle thread with billions of dollars threatening to snap the line if a scandal breaks.
All his devices and movements are monitored, tracked as part of the terms to rebuild reputation with his fiance’s family. "If you damage the family business and reputation any longer, you never see the light of day," his father threatens. The meeting concludes promptly, yet the only thing Gojo can’t stop thinking about is you.
Until the merger goes through, Gojo’s fate is sealed, sacrificed to act as a dutiful son, groveling on the behalf of his family.
He grabs Geto for drinks, asks him to pass on a message. Shoko sighs when he comes home late, suit jacket worn from the rain's scent. He recruits her, and they invite you over for dinner. Only then does your exterior crumble, and you wipe away a single tear in their bathroom.
You attend the wedding. The venue is stunning, it’s full of news reporters and cameras and televised. The only source of comfort you have is your private table with Shoko, Geto, and some old high school friends. Gojo’s able to make his rounds once. He trails the deep velvety brown dress on you and ends up locked in your gaze. You tear away, motioning the group for a photo together. He makes sure to get another one with just the four of you, and he’s off. You down the champagne and find escape in passing time.
You end up finding common ground with Gojo’s cousin on the dance floor instead. Except you don’t know, because you never ask her relation to the wedded couple, afraid of the answer being a relative or friend of Gojo’s wife. Three toasts in, the last with Shoko and Geto, and you’re drunkenly chatting away about creative hobbies and endurance training and the latest development in environmental sciences with her. She introduces you to her siblings and her best friend, and you have to pull in extra seats around your table. It’s a great night.
Gojo disappears from the group chat after, leaving more than just one broken heart, you discover. Geto is ticked off and grumpier for months, Shoko smokes heavier than usual, and the scent blends into your clothes. You celebrate three holidays, birthdays, and friend anniversaries together.
Just like that, years 7 and 8 go by. The group chat is quieter. You’re dating again, growing in your career, making new friends that come and go, a few stay. You’ve bought a house, started new and continued old hobbies. You grow into your features more, and Shoko loves experimenting with your makeup.
She asks you how you’re feeling now. You shake your head and say, "Everything works out the way it’s supposed to." You two cheers to that.
Sometimes you see headlines, photos, gossip articles infect your feed. You like photos and comments absentmindedly. You’ve fought the algorithm when the wound was fresh, quickly accepting the stalemate when the algorithm was irresponsive to any hiding, muting, and blocking from your end.
In Year 9, Shoko and Geto get married. They have the gall to do a destination wedding with a small intimate group, family and close friends. The price tag makes you croak, only because you're stingy. But it's Shoko out of all people, and suddenly everything feels free. That’s how you end up on the Greek Islands, sun-toasted and making small talk with the locals, sending texts off to your new friends.
You meet Shoko early, finally available after attending rituals, ceremonies with her parents and in-laws who retired particularly for the night. Geto swings by and you give him a congratulatory hug. He slips away. You and Shoko giddily chat about her becoming Mrs. Geto in less than 24 hours.
The both of you are buzzed, halfway down a glass of orange wine, before you question Geto’s absence. She admits he’s picking Gojo, out of all people, and his security up from the helicopter pad.
You shut up, sip your wine, and smile. Surely, Shoko and Geto must have met and made up. You’re not the one to pry, but Shoko catches you receiving it all too well. She holds your hand and tells you to "Trust me, it’ll all make sense very soon." You wave her off, say, "Focus on having a great, trust me on that, okay?"
So you make sure a seat is ready for him, to be polite. There’s no way you could let Shoko focus on anything other than herself the night before her grand day.
Dinner is, surprisingly, infectiously joyous like old times. You gush over Geto’s thoughtful proposal. Gojo asks about future plans. Bucket list ideas, aspirations, property, assets, god forbid kids? Honeymoon, Brazil, Southeast Asia, skiing, no kids, Shoko shoots back, like she’s been waiting for someone to ask. Geto nods like he had any definite say in the itinerary, you laugh. Gojo refers to a friend in real estate. You help Shoko pick the best unediteds from her photographer.
Shoko retires early and you say you’ll be there right when she wakes up. Geto follows behind, patting Gojo on the shoulder. They seem to be in cahoots. The waiter finishes pouring the rest of the bottle, leaving you in the warm coastal breeze, alone with thoughts of the present, and past. It’s not something you want to face tonight, so you leave, "Catch you tomorrow-"
Gojo gets up, "Wait, don’t go," and he catches your wrist, eyeing his watch comfortably snug against your wristlets. "Please tell me Geto told you what happened," and you don't move. Gojo sees the hesitation emerge on your face and walks over. From his pocket emerges a very familiar rectangle. Ivory. Faded, surprisingly pristine. He unfolds it and hands it over to you. You don’t do anything, but your own words reflect back.
He kept the letter all this time.
You dumbly nod and say, "You didn’t write back. You couldn't. That was pretty clear." Gojo shakes his head and confirms, "No, I couldn’t." You squint, accusatory, "It was hard to believe," but Gojo steps into your space and explains.
"She found your letter. No one was happy about it. I couldn’t see you until certain legal terms were met. Gojo clears his throat, but you never left my mind." You gasp. Hearing the story from his own mouth, you never thought it'd happen. Yet there’s still anger rising, just lagging in refusal to hear what else he has to say.
"You kept me sane," and Gojo takes out his phone, unlocks it and it’s a screensaver of you, in that blue hoodie. He opens up his photo album, and there’s a private set of folders, full of memories of you, with you, and ones with Shoko and Geto. He scrolls through, you notice he captured moments you weren’t even aware of. You’re stupidly sentimental, not even creeped out as you should be.
It clicks why he was able to keep in touch with Geto. You decide to fit another piece of the puzzle. "What changed, then?" Your stomach churns, afraid of stepping onto another rollercoaster.
"The newest exclusive is- I’m done. Free. Divorcing." Gojo catches you flinch and something lights up, electric, "The board’s finally happy. Relationships are good, we got the acquisition." You recompose, choose to have a conversation with the ocean instead, the quiet lapping of waves responding back. "The marriage can be dissolved quietly. People will talk for a day, two tops-"
"Slow down," you say, but Gojo can’t stop.
"I have to get something else off my chest," he says, and you groan.
"Not this again. Maybe keep it to yourself this time?" He thinks about it, but shakes head, rejecting your attempt to shut him down. Gojo motions you down to a pier for privacy. You sigh, and lag behind him, and he looks just as young nearly 10 years ago when you two snuck out to the beach after another all-nighter project. Except this time, he helps you down a steep edge, and you two are sea-level, waves lapping at your sandals.
"Stop," you say right as he opens his mouth. It effectively extinguishes the kindling fire in his excitement. You two stay there, wait for the wind to clear out the smoke. Gojo’s throat slowly, slowly dries up like sand. He swallows to wet his throat.
Were you taken? Were you tired of waiting, unwilling to see this through with him? Did he ever make you feel like second place in his heart? Arrogantly, never did he consider a reality where he’d actually lose you. A stone starts forming in his gut and he stays quiet.
But fate bestows him luck, because the shakiness in what you say next betrays you. He watches, hears you in slow motion. A memory forms, and all he can think about is that time you, Shoko, Geto failed miserably in surprising him for his birthday.
You were tasked with distracting him, except you couldn’t find a good reason to keep him out of his home. We should stay, to avoid traffic. He watches you fidget with your nails, same as before. Traffic on the train? You breathing destabilizes the same as back then. Uh, well, we haven't gotten our daily amount of sun. And just like back then, you’re unable to make eye contact, looking away. Hey, look at me, should I teach you how to lie? C'mon, let's go back to my place already. Checkmate.
You breathe out, ""I’m not interested. Anymore," still looking at the water.
"You’re lying." He brazenly accuses, effortlessly, confidently.
"I really can’t, it’s too late," You break a nail, and he glances down.
"Did you find someone else?" He probes. You feel the weight of Gojo's gaze, but you refuse to look at him. Strange, you think, that both of you know the question doesn't apply to Gojo.
"No," you sigh, "There isn't anyone else." There never will be, your heart responds.
"So, what's wrong? We can start fresh. Please, please tell me what you're thinking." Gojo touches his shoulder to yours, You stupidly realize he's doing good on his word. I should have been involved early on. He's not making that mistake again.
A lump in your throat betrays you. "I’m not interested in being left behind again." Gojo takes this quietly, seriously. "It’s been so long. I believe everything about your story, but that doesn’t change that you’re here, then you’re gone, then you’re here again. What if, you're in another situation you can't get out of. How can this possibly work?"
He breathes, takes a bold turn and closes the distance between you. "Will you let me show you? It’ll take a lifetime for me to prove that nothing will take me away." You swallow and dodge his gaze. "And if it’s not everything you expect it to be, I’ll die trying to make it up to you. You won't be able to get rid of me."
You look at him, angry, brows furrowed, tears glistening in your eyes. Gojo thanks the heavens you’re looking at him, and he thinks you look beautiful in the light, that you’ll crack your neutral, everything’s okay exterior around him. The part of you that's raw, honest, that's what he misses so deeply about you.
He opens his arms and so boldly asks for forgiveness.
You hate his invitation.
...
Yet you lean in.
Suddenly a dam breaks inside your heart. You’re sobbing in his arms, and he pulls you in tighter.
"I’m sorry, I’m so sorry." He holds you close, so tight you can't breathe, and kisses your hair over and over again, cherishing each kiss. And you just end up leaving snot on his suit.
"I'll read the fine print, next time," he grins. You look up, furrow you brows, and slap his chest. He's happy you're looking at him again.
"That's. The. Bare. Minimum." Obviously you two are talking about more than just contracts. Gojo takes the opportunity to cup your face, wipe your snot, but he leaves your glistening cheeks. You look beautiful.
Annoyed at yourself, you toss him a bone. "It’s just so much easier to shut you out. You hurt me, and I boxed you into this neat little, easy to handle box of mine, but you just won’t stay put. You’re like a misbehaved dog." He dutifully Woofs, and you can’t help but laugh.
"So what I’m hearing is, you’re giving me a chance to change your mind?" Gojo’s voice is crystal clear now, a medium timbre. "If you refuse, you’re a dummy," he says. You snort, "What happened to smartass?" You ask, and he smiles, "Mmm. we don’t always get what we want."
You wait for him to finish his quip, to make himself an exception, to say that he’s invulnerable to all of fate’s misfortune. It doesn’t come. You look up at him, and you don’t think you’ve seen this gentle smile on him.
"I know what you’re gonna say." He brushes your hair aside. ‘Satoru not getting what he wants?’ Impossible, I thought so too." He leans into you, and you have to remember that he’s still contractually a married man, so you stay just a breath away, simply touching foreheads.
"I've been carrying out duties I never asked for, waiting for them to end." You shiver, feeling the heat radiate off him. "They’ve been keeping me away from who I really want to make happy. I just hope she’s waiting for me at the end of this road."
He bumps your head. "I'm so excited to build a life with you." And like a bandit, another tear slides down your cheek, out of your control. He eskimo kisses your nose in comfort, and you sniffle, years of suppressed emotion spilling out.
"What if it all goes bad, years down the line?" Gojo cups your cheek and tsks you.
"Now you're making a version of me up inside your head," and you can’t help but burn from embarrassment. "Look at me. That won’t happen." He shakes his head, and you’re about to surrender. "Let me prove it to you, please, as long as it takes, so you know I won’t."
He wipes your tear away and you finally give in, no way to out-logic his offer. Gojo looks at you, asks for permission to kiss you through his gaze.
You cover his mouth. "We can’t do this right now," you whisper, "You’re still married, on paper." He closes his eyes, mumbles against your palm. "I know, but just don’t avoid me any longer." And you nod.
You have no fire left to fuel your insecurities. Of Gojo being so far out of reach that he'd drop you at any whim, and him being so detached in his current romantic bind that he’d treat yours the same way, of him not sticking into your side like a thorn through thick and thin.
—
Year 11, Gojo’s divorce breaks the news for a day, two tops. Any photos of him caught with a mysterious woman in a different city is subdued in favor of new gossip. What does make headlines for longer than a week happens a year later, when his second wedding announcement, to a woman whose identity remains protected, floods social media just out of people being nosey.
Year 12, Gojo makes good on a promise whispered in the early hours of dawn years ago, and moves to your city. While his real estate agents scout the neighborhoods, he calls, "Let me sleepover again?" And you’re willing to host him without question. Kick me out if you get tired of me, he texts. You thumbs down the message and send a laughing sticker, one of those cartoonish rabbits, but find his modesty oddly sweet.
He sends an official announcement to the group chat one morning. You’re only able to finish reading his text before a knock sounds, leaving several of Shoko’s video call attempts unanswered. When you open the door, his sparkly blue eyes peek above a bouquet of peonies, and you reversely mirror his confident steps into your home.
You’ve learned how to fit into all of his angles when gathers you in his embrace, lifts and carries you to your bed. You have the nerve to jokingly ask him how long he’s been eyeing property your city, and he answers "I’ve been eyeing you since we graduated. I'll go wherever you go." He slots against your mouth before you can respond, and you two lose yourselves.
When Gojo loves you, he worships you. You thought it’d be the other way around, but the way he looks at you through his snowy lashes, when he’s imprinting and melting kisses into your neck, softly kneading your chest and torso like he’s learning how to sculpt you, it’s saintly. You mark his shoulders, his back, as he dives into you for hours, closes you in with nowhere to go.
You two wake at noon, return online two days later. Satoru makes lunch, an unbelievable sight. He serves a full breakfast, pancakes crispy, your favorite.
You prepare a tray of ridiculous coffee toppings, whipped cream, cinnamon, strawberries, honey, and he kisses you for too long after eyeing it. Your coffee’s cold after sloppily making out and not so innocently feeling each other. He looks good there sitting at your dining table, like he’s always lived there. He’s just shirtless now.
Gojo finally calls the group chat back after you two dress. Shoko picks up, coughs on her salad, seeing the two of you together. Normally that’d be nothing out of the ordinary, but Satoru’s pulling your waist back in between his legs anytime you try to establish some sense of decency. Geto vomits at the PDA, and you issue a public apology.
"I’m just addicted to being seen with you," Gojo whines, and you’re horrified at how you spoil him, easily letting him have this one addiction. "Do you still have that brown dress?" You cough, further surprised by the specificity.
"The one I wore to your first wedding?" The question sounds insane. "Yeah, please wear it," he begs, and you can’t help but feel like his muse when he takes utterly beautiful photos of you in another country on a date. He snaps a private photo in his memory when he undresses you.
Year 13, another destination wedding to attend, except this time you’re the one cutting the cake and listening to speeches, meeting his parents, and oh my god, I’ve been waiting for this, is how you meet Gojo’s cousin again. The shock leaves you just in time for photos, and the sun sets just in time for your dance. Center stage doesn’t feel lonely tonight because Satoru’s the one pulling you in.
