cheriqube

[cheriqube]

Fishsticks

My take on Rafayel's and MC first meeting as kids. Content: Mostly fluffy(?) Kind of angsty if you squint. Not canon compliant! Reader is AFAB, is referred to as 'girl'. No use of Y/N. 5.2K words

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It wouldn’t be long before Rafayel turned into a glorified fish stick. Two, maybe three hours tops? Then the ocean’s last great deity would be nothing more than a shriveled husk, stranded helplessly upon dry land like a dumb, oversized, tragically misplaced whale. No disrespect intended to whales, of course, he mused with a faint smirk, even now unable to resist a sardonic thought.

The young Lemurian’s mind churned as swiftly and chaotically as the muttered curses slipping through his parched lips. Every grain of sand felt viciously sharp, tiny shards of fiberglass embedding themselves deeper into his scales the drier they became, scraping mercilessly into his gills and fins. Definitely not his preferred exit from existence, but admittedly, there was a grim sort of poetry in it.

Pure, twisted artistry. The Last Sea God Abandoned. Rafayel could already picture it vividly: his tragedy immortalized on canvas, paraded shamelessly in some grubby human gallery, patrons sipping champagne while greedily devouring his suffering.

After what felt like two grueling hours of stubborn defiance—twenty minutes in actual, painful reality—he finally allowed himself to collapse in exhausted resignation. But hey, give him some credit; he'd made at least some pathetic inch-by-inch progress toward salvation, hadn't he? This whole melodramatic spectacle was turning into a rather embarrassing performance.

Still, despite the hopeless theatrics, there remained an irritatingly persistent spark inside him. It was a reckless whisper confidently promising he'd make it back to the sea—because he had to. At least, that's the story he desperately clung to, repeating it like a mantra even as doubt stubbornly clawed at his thoughts.

Trapped somewhere between complete despair and detached indifference, Rafayel let his head sink back into the gritty warmth of the sand, his gaze reluctantly drifting upwards toward the glaring sun. It burned like an overexposed photograph, harsh and brutal against his vision. How did humans tolerate such relentless brightness? Beneath the waves, sunlight danced softly, fractured into glittering patterns, gently cascading through the currents in a mesmerizing ballet.

It painted everything in hues of liquid gold and shifting sapphire; a sight infinitely more enchanting than this merciless blaze. He much preferred that tranquil beauty to this cruel, blazing spotlight. Especially now, as he lay helpless beneath it, slowly roasting alive.

For the first time, Rafayel actually paused to take in his surroundings. Up until now, he’d been too consumed with the singular, burning need to get back to the ocean to bother looking around. But now, stranded and marinating in his own bad decisions, the reality set in—this beach was far too close to Linkon, a sprawling human city that hummed with noise and metal and artificial light.

His guardian had warned him, of course. Don’t get too close to the surface. Stay clear of the cities. They’ll ruin you. But did he listen? Naturally not. He was a god, after all. Listening to others felt… beneath him. Why take orders from subordinates when you’re supposed to be the one giving them?

Still, as he lay half-buried in the sand, salty skin cracking under the sun, he couldn’t help but admit, just this once, maybe his judgment hadn’t been so divine after all.

Rubble and discarded remnants of human life choked the shoreline, a grim demonstration of the tsunami’s wrath. Shattered wood, twisted metal, and forgotten plastic clung to the coast like scars, making each step a gamble. The sea churned a venomous gray, seething with fury, and the sand had turned the color of ash. Dark, heavy, solemn.

Rafayel could still feel the weight of the tsunami’s rage, echoing in the waves and soaked into the earth itself. Its sorrow hadn’t just passed through; it had seeped in, stained everything it touched. In a way, he understood it. Sometimes, he felt like that too. Wild and wounded, desperate to be heard.

Jagged rocks jutted from the water like ancient blades, defiant and raw, while scattered boulders created a fractured path that led nowhere but the deep, open sea. It was tragic, chaotic… and yet, there was beauty in its ruin. A haunting kind of beauty. The kind that made you stop and stare, even if it hurt.

With a deep breath, Rafayel finally let his eyes flutter shut, arms stretched wide across the sand like he was offering himself to the sun. Maybe, for the first and last time, he’d get a tan. Or maybe he’d just combust into ash like an overcooked scallop. Honestly? He had no clue. But now seemed like the perfect time to find out.

Just as the edges of sleep began to blur his thoughts, the oppressive heat of the sun suddenly faded. A reprieve? A benevolent cloud, perhaps, drifting in with divine timing, moved by the tragic sight of a young, too-beautiful-to-die sea god wilting under its gaze?

Curious, he cracked open one eye, half-expecting to see a majestic puff of white mercy above him. Instead, he was greeted by a small, wide-eyed human child peering down at him like he was some exotic beachside cryptid. He gasped—you gasped—then thunk!

In a flurry of startled motion, he sat bolt upright and slammed his forehead directly into yours. Both of you recoiled, groaning and clutching your heads in synchronized agony, as if the universe had decided you needed to suffer together.

You let out a dramatic “owwwww” as you stumbled back a few clumsy steps, clutching your forehead like it had been personally betrayed.

Rafayel snickered, wincing as he rubbed the sore spot between his eyes. “What was that for?!”

You blinked at him, still dazed, and jabbed a finger in his direction like a tiny, furious judge. “W–what? You hit me!”

The two of you stood there, frozen in mutual indignation and confusion, both flustered and vaguely starstruck. Rafayel had never seen a human child up close, his only references were the blurry surface images drifting through currents and warnings from his guardians.

And you? You’d certainly never come face-to-face with a mermaid—or, well, whatever he was. A mermaid boy? Mer-kid? Mer–child? You weren’t exactly sure what to call him. Up until about fifteen seconds ago, they were nothing more than bedtime stories and glittery cartoon nonsense.

But here he was. Breathing. Blinking. Possibly sunburnt. And very, very real.

You were the first to break the silence. “Are you… really a mermaid? Or is that, like… a costume or something?” Your gaze drifted down, wide-eyed, to the tail sprawled out behind him—an iridescent masterpiece of blues, greens, and glimmers of violet that shifted with the light like living stained glass.

Rafayel’s expression soured instantly. Offended. Deeply. The kind of offended only a divine being could muster. Being gawked at by a human was bad enough, but to be questioned like some beachside street performer in glitter and spandex? Unforgivable.

“I’m a mer-MAN, actually,” he snapped, his voice sharp with wounded pride. He crossed his arms in an exaggerated huff, the pout on his face somehow both regal and childish. “And no, it’s not a costume. What kind of ridiculous question is that?”

Then, with a theatrical flick of his tail that sent a spray of sand in your direction, he added, “Not that it matters. You need to get out of here. Before I make you leave.” It was a bluff, of course. An empty threat dressed in bravado, tossed out in hopes you’d take the hint and scurry off without getting curious. He wasn’t exactly in the best shape to be intimidating… but he could still pretend.

Not that Rafayel expected much from a human child. Especially not one that had the nerve to poke at him like some beached curiosity. His voice remained cold, edged with disdain. He didn’t trust humans. Didn’t like them. Didn’t want anything to do with their noisy, stinky, chaos-loving ways—

“I think your scales are beautiful.”

The words tumbled from your lips before you could stop them, completely bypassing his scowl and the thinly-veiled threat. You weren’t listening to his attitude… you were looking.

His scales had caught you in a spell. No, he had. You’d never seen anything like him before. He shimmered like the ocean trapped in a prism, a living tidepool of blues and greens, glinting purples and silvers, every movement catching the sun like a whispered secret. He reminded you of the fish you’d stared at through thick aquarium glass, or seen flicker across TV screens and glossy textbook pages.

He was a storm In starlight. A rainbow with teeth. A myth dragged straight out of the sea and dropped into your world.

The sudden shift left you uneasy, a quiet tension blooming in the spaces between heartbeats. Had you said something wrong? Surely, it was just a compliment. Nothing more, nothing less.

Rafayel was utterly disarmed, the bravado he'd worn like armor crumbling in an instant, replaced swiftly by a charmingly flustered vulnerability. Heat surged to his cheeks, blooming into a deep scarlet that stood out vividly against his normally composed demeanor. His mouth fell open slightly, poised to retort with some witty comeback or playful threat, but nothing came forth except a choked silence.

Anxiously, you shifted your weight from one bare foot to the other, relishing the comforting scratch of the warm sand beneath your toes. It was something to ground you amidst the awkwardness of the moment.

“You-you don’t even realize what you're saying,” Rafayel stammered, each word tumbling clumsily over the next as embarrassment overtook him completely. “Where I come from, if someone says they like your scales, it-it means something entirely different. It means that you genuinely... like them!” His voice trailed off into an awkward murmur, thick with confusion yet woven through with threads of cautious curiosity. His eyebrows knitted tightly, reflecting the storm of intrigue and bewilderment swirling within.

“Okay, so maybe I do like you,” you admitted casually, watching carefully for his reaction. “What d’ya have to say about that?”

A mischievous hum escaped your lips as you brought the sleeve of Caleb's oversized sweatshirt thoughtfully up to your chin, the soft fabric comforting and familiar. With exaggerated deliberation, you pretended to consider Rafayel's words, eyes sparkling with playful amusement at his evident discomfort.

The words achieved exactly what you'd intended. Rafayel froze completely, eyes widening in startled disbelief. Truthfully, there was sincerity beneath your playful facade; why shouldn't you like him? Rafayel was charming in an unconventional way, a bit sassy perhaps, but fascinatingly mysterious. Plus, he was literally a mermaid! That alone elevated him beyond ordinary.

Rafayel opened his mouth, then closed it again quickly, abandoning any attempt at speech as if words had suddenly vanished from his reach. His pulse thundered wildly in his chest, each heartbeat resonating loudly enough to drown out the quiet crash of the waves. It felt as if every nerve within him buzzed simultaneously, shaken and uncertain. He couldn't grasp why he was so deeply affected by you… your voice, your laughter, even your playful teasing. Why, despite your obvious humanity, did you feel so strangely familiar?

“You look like you could use some help,” you pointed out brightly, gesturing once again toward his glittering tail, partially submerged in the sandy shore, surrounded by disturbed grains that marked his fruitless attempts at escape. Pointing, it seemed, was rapidly becoming your new favorite pastime.

“No, no, no! Absolutely not—I don’t need your help—” Rafayel protested emphatically, his voice edging on frantic despite the stubborn set of his jaw.

Confidently, you stepped closer, moving gently but determinedly over the sand. Rafayel immediately released a startled, almost desperate yelp, freezing you mid-step. You paused, eyes flicking upward to his face, cautious curiosity mixing with genuine concern at his apparent distress.

“Yes, you do!” you chirped back defiantly, inching toward him without hesitation.

“No!” he insisted, backing away as much as he could in his stranded state. Yet despite the melodrama, Rafayel made no real attempt to repel you. “If you so much as lay a finger on me, I swear I’ll curse you—I know how! I'll cast curses that—”

But whatever wild threat he'd intended evaporated abruptly into the evening air as your warm, determined fingers clasped tightly around his trembling hands. Rafayel instantly fell silent, his eyes glassy and distant, lost somewhere far beyond the moment. It was as though your touch triggered a spell of its own, placing him in a delicate trance.

“I can’t carry you,” you sighed dramatically, bracing your feet against the soft, shifting sand. You tugged at the stubborn mermaid with every ounce of strength your small limbs could muster, gritting your teeth against the effort. “Ugh, you’re so heavy!”

The accusation snapped Rafayel instantly from his reverie, and a scowl replaced the bewildered expression that had softened his features only moments ago.

“Heavy?” he spluttered indignantly, his voice pitched with scandalized outrage. “Did you really just call me heavy? First, I never asked for your help, and now you’re implying I'm big—”

“Well…” you mused mischievously, dropping him suddenly and stepping back to dust off your hands in exaggerated indifference. The mer-child toppled onto the sand with an unceremonious thud, limbs sprawled and hair wild as he landed gracelessly like a sack of potatoes. “You're right, I don’t have to help you. Maybe I'll just say bye.”

“Wait-wait a minute! You're seriously going to abandon me here?!” Rafayel called after you, disbelief crackling sharply in his voice as you purposefully trudged away, your back facing him. Each step was slow, exaggerated, crafted purely for dramatic impact.

Rafayel’s eyes widened comically, panic surging through him as he scrambled upright. The water was so tantalizingly close—just a few agonizing feet away—he could practically feel the gentle lap of the waves beckoning him home.

“Yep,” you drawled lightly, enjoying the theatrics of your exit, until a quiet sniffle reached your ears, stopping you in your tracks. A small pang of guilt squeezed your heart, compelling you to whirl around anxiously.

Your eyes widened in instant remorse as you caught sight of Rafayel, now dramatically collapsed onto the sand, his face buried deep within his hands. His body shook gently, as though he were some tragic royal mourning a lost love on a theater stage. The effect was immediate—you fell entirely into his trap, your resolve shattered.

“Oh—no, no! I-I'm sorry! I was just joking!” You rushed back over, sliding onto your knees beside the crestfallen mer-child, placing a gentle, reassuring hand on his trembling back. Your heart twisted uneasily at the spectacle you'd inadvertently caused.

“You… you really would've left me here to die,” Rafayel whimpered softly, voice dramatically thick, muffled behind his crossed arms. “How cruel can one human be? I'm the last of my kind, you know!”

“I’m really, really sorry, okay? Let’s just… start over.” Your voice softened as you crouched beside him, offering the olive branch with a small, sheepish smile. You told him your name, letting it hang in the air between you like a peace offering.

The sorrowful quiver in his voice stabbed sharply at your chest, twisting into a deep ache. A hot flush rose to your cheeks as guilt churned anxiously in your stomach. You dropped your gaze to your restless hands, twisting nervously against each other in your lap. It was only supposed to be a playful joke, yet somehow, you’d managed to upset him anyway, and that realization was unbearably uncomfortable.

Rafayel stayed quiet for a moment. Then, as if sampling something foreign and sweet, he whispered your name back to you. Slowly, deliberately, rolling it around his mouth like it meant something sacred. The way he said it sent a strange warmth skittering up your neck and into your cheeks, leaving you flustered for reasons you couldn’t quite pin down.

After a pause, he finally lifted his head. His face was suspiciously dry, not a single tear in sight.

“My name is Rafayel,” he declared, trying for regal but landing somewhere between smug and bashful. “From Lemuria.”

He stopped there, deliberately omitting The Last Sea God. No need to add that complication. Humans had a habit of getting grabby when divine titles were involved.

“Rafayel,” you repeated, grinning. “What a pretty name!”

That did it. With an audible groan, he buried his face in his arms again, but not before you caught the flash of crimson coloring his cheeks. Compliments weren’t rare for him—he was objectively, irritatingly beautiful—but when they came from you, they somehow bypassed all his practiced indifference. And he hated that.

“Yeah, thanks,” he muttered into the crook of his elbow. “So… are you gonna help me now?”

With a laugh bubbling from your lips, you reached out and gently took hold of one of his arms, then the other, tugging him carefully toward the waterline. He didn’t resist, just grumbled theatrically under his breath as you resumed the awkward task of dragging a slippery sea god across the sand like a misbehaving seal.

The foamy edge of the tide met your feet with a sharp, icy kiss, and you inhaled through your teeth. The contrast between the sun-warmed sand and the cold embrace of the ocean made you shiver, but you pressed forward, wading deeper until the water licked at your thighs, your legs stinging with each step.

“A little further, please,” Rafayel requested softly, his voice unusually gentle, and since he asked so sweetly, how could you refuse?

“Okay,” you said, glancing down at him with a mixture of triumph and exhaustion. “You should be able to swim from here, right?”

Moving him grew easier as the ocean buoyed his weight, gently lifting him from your aching grasp. Soon, the cool seawater rose to your collarbones, forcing you to balance precariously on the tips of your toes. Caleb was definitely going to murder you for returning his favorite sweatshirt soaked with salt and smelling like seaweed, but you knew his anger would melt into fond annoyance within minutes. It always did.

Finally, Rafayel managed to gracefully slip from your hold, freeing himself effortlessly. He turned to face you, his silvery tail shimmering beneath the gentle afternoon sunlight, the ocean rippling around him like satin.

“Thank you,” he murmured quietly, avoiding your eyes with sudden shyness, his gaze cast downward toward the glittering reflection dancing atop the waves. He reminded you of someone who longed to stare into the sun—captivated yet unable to bear the brilliance.

His voice softened to something vulnerable, almost pleading. “You can’t tell anyone you saw me, okay? Promise?”

Shivering slightly, your teeth chattering uncontrollably, you nodded vigorously. You wouldn’t breathe a word to anyone—not a single soul. Your heart held the secret safely tucked away.

“You…you really should get out of the water,” Rafayel noted with gentle concern, noticing your trembling. “It doesn’t look like it’s good for you.”

“N-no, I’m okay,” you protested, stubbornness coloring your tone. “I want to stay in… just a little longer.” The truth was simpler, quieter: you didn’t want to leave him yet. You craved the strange warmth of his presence, curious about his story, his home, most importantly, about him. You secretly wished you could see him every day, even knowing how impossible such a dream was. Still, you clung tightly to that tiny speck of hope, refusing to let it slip through your fingers. “I… I like swimming. Really.”

The Lemurian giggled at your insistence, the sound light and silvery like wind dancing over water. Then, with surprising tenderness, he lifted his hands and placed them gently on your shoulders. “This might help,” he murmured, almost bashfully.

The ocean around you had stilled, waves brushing gently past your body like silk ribbons, serene and infinitely tender. The waters felt alive, quietly rejoicing at Rafayel’s safe return home. And somewhere deep within, hidden beneath layers of conscious thought, you understood their gratitude, their happiness. It was a quiet celebration whispered in currents and tides.

From his palms radiated a soft, pulsing warmth that seeped deep into your skin, chasing away the tremble in your bones. The cold retreated like a shadow at sunrise, leaving behind a glowing calm that settled in your chest. For a heartbeat, you questioned everything. Was this real? Were you actually in the ocean, being magically warmed by a mythical sea boy with glowy hands? If it wasn’t real, you didn’t want to wake up.

He didn’t move his hands, and part of you was certain that if he let go, the chill would come crashing back in full force—icy, bitter, and deeply unwelcome.

You floated together in silence, not speaking, not quite looking at each other, but acutely aware. The kind of silence that felt full instead of empty. Like something important was being said without words.

Then Rafayel finally broke the stillness, his voice barely louder than the whisper of the sea. “Did you mean it?”

You glanced up, surprised by the tremble in his tone. His eyes met yours—vibrant violet-blues that shimmered with something distant, almost ancient. There was a strange familiarity in them, like he was seeing something in you that even you hadn’t yet discovered. His expression was gentle, searching. A softness poured from him that felt vital, but strange, like a melody you didn’t know the lyrics to.

“Mean what?” you asked, your voice quieter now too, respectful of the moment.

“That you liked me,” he said again, more deliberately this time, and his face flushed pink, rosy with nervous hope. He looked like he needed the answer—not just wanted it, but needed it. Even if your version of liking wasn’t quite the fairytale romance he might’ve been imagining.

“Of course I did,” you replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Rafayel’s breath caught in his throat. He nearly pulled away, hands twitching upward as if he might bury them in his hair in disbelief, but stopped himself just in time. His face suddenly shifted, a serious look overtaking his features—well, as serious as a sea child with a flushed face and sparkly eyes could manage.

Your eyes went cartoonishly wide the moment the words left his mouth, like someone had just proposed marriage in the middle of a math test. Then came the laughter: bright, genuine, and unstoppable. You laughed so hard your sides ached, until you caught the way Rafayel’s expression shifted from confident to confused, and then to downright devastated.

“We should get married,” he said matter-of-factly, as if it were the natural next step.

“Wait—wait, you’re for real?” you gasped, stifling your giggles as guilt crept in. “I’m only nine! And you don’t look much older than me either!”

He blinked, long and slow, as though your words were puzzling and distant, as though the concept of age was a tiny detail he'd forgotten to care about. “Well... you could just come back with me to Lemuria,” he said earnestly, like he was solving a simple puzzle. “We’ll get married in fifty years. Is that better?”

Clearly, Rafayel had no idea how human lifespans worked, or how short they were in comparison to… whatever he was.

You giggled again, but this time it was softer, laced with warmth, and you offered an immediate apology, sensing how tightly wound he’d suddenly become. “I can’t just leave, Rafayel. I’ve got someone really important to me here. I can’t abandon him. Caleb needs me.”

You saw it then—the way his face faltered, the way his grip on your shoulders tightened ever so slightly. Maybe wasn’t the word he wanted to hear.

“But maybe…” you added gently, “maybe one day I’ll run away with you.”

Maybe?

Maybe?

The word echoed in Rafayel’s mind like a crack through crystal. His lips formed a pout, but there was a storm behind his eyes. Who was this mysterious someone you couldn't leave behind? What kind of human could possibly be more important than the thread of fate Rafayel felt between the two of you? The thought gnawed at him—uninvited, irrational, and too loud to ignore.

“Next year,” Rafayel said, his voice steady with conviction, “let’s meet on this same day, at the same time. And every year after that… until you’re ready to marry me. I’ll chase you until I find you again if you don’t return to me.”

It wasn’t fair, he told himself. You were just a human girl, someone he’d only just met. And yet, deep in the marrow of his being, in the secret place where memory blurs into myth, Rafayel was certain he knew you. Not in this life, perhaps, but in another. A thousand tides ago. A thousand names ago. He knew you, and he had already chosen you. And you him.

He said it like a vow, carved into the ocean air, a promise wrapped in tides and time. Beneath his calm exterior, though, was an ache too vast for his small frame to carry. So much hurt pressed against his heart, fractured and layered like coral reef. But none of that mattered. Not now. Not when he looked at you and saw something he couldn’t explain—something that felt right. Even if it wasn’t today, or tomorrow, or ten years from now… he would wait. As long as it took.

And now it was your turn to blush. Your face lit up like the sun had turned its gaze directly on you. How could someone you’d only known for thirty minutes speak with such unwavering devotion? It was terrifying. And beautiful. And weirdly… comforting.

Without thinking, your hands floated up to his cheeks, cupping them with the gentlest reverence, like he was something fragile and rare. The gesture felt achingly familiar, like you’d done it a thousand times in a hundred forgotten lifetimes. Rafayel didn’t flinch. He didn’t move. He simply leaned into your touch, eyes flickering with quiet awe.

“I promise,” you whispered. “But—”

Your voice faltered the moment your name rang out over the waves, sharp and urgent. You whipped your head toward the sound, panic rising like a wave inside you. Caleb.

You weren’t supposed to be out here. Not this far. Not alone.

The sun was beginning to sink below the horizon, its final light spilling across the sea in ribbons of gold and rose. It caught in Rafayel’s eyes, turning them into twin galaxies—deep, endless, impossible to look away from.

He was glowing. Or maybe the sea was. Or maybe it was something else entirely.

Your name came again, closer this time, slicing through the magic like a knife.

You had to go.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t stay longer.” Your voice trembled with regret, fragile as seafoam. It wasn’t your fault—none of this was your fault—and yet the apology hung heavy in the air, like a promise you wished you didn’t have to make.

Now.

“Next year, okay?” you added softly. “Same day. Same time. And every year after that.”

You tried to smile, but it barely reached your eyes. It was a ghost of joy, hollowed out by the ache in your chest. You didn’t want to leave any more than Rafayel wanted to let you go. His hands stayed firmly planted on your shoulders, as if by sheer will alone, he could keep you anchored there forever. The sea murmured around you, reluctant to give you up.

Only when you quietly whispered his name did his grip falter. His fingers slid from your shoulders like seaweed slipping through the tide, falling back to his sides with quiet defeat.

“I’ll see you again,” you muttered, the words catching in your throat like sand in the wind.

You both lifted a hand in parting. Then, with one last look, you turned and began waddling out of the water, the hem of your soaked clothes heavy and dragging. Rafayel stayed where he was, motionless, then ducked behind a jagged rock, the coral-slick surface cool against his skin. He needed to see it. Needed to see who was taking you from him this time?

A boy. Slightly older than Rafayel, but not by much. Dark hair, sharp gaze, and wearing a thin white patient’s gown and matching sweats that fluttered in the salty breeze.

Then he noticed you were wearing the same thing—only yours was half-hidden beneath a dark cotton sweatshirt. Your feet were bare, and bandages wrapped your right hand and neck like the sea had tried to take pieces of you with it. A pang of unease twisted in Rafayel’s chest.

Is this… what all humans wear? he wondered. Are you sick? Hurt? Trapped?

He didn’t know. And that frightened him more than anything.

“You’re lucky I found you before they did,” the boy said abruptly, grabbing your soaked arm and pulling you against him protectively. “What were you thinking, coming all the way out here?”

Caleb. Rafayel heard the name in your voice earlier, soaked in affection.

“I’m sorry… I just wanted to swim…” you murmured, voice barely more than a ripple in the wind. You looked down at your feet as you walked, salt still clinging to your skin, hair dripping a steady rhythm onto the ground. You truly sounded ashamed, like a child who’d broken something delicate. But you hadn’t said a word about Rafayel. You’d kept your promise.

Wherever it was you stayed, wherever you were being taken back to, it needed you to return. Urgently.

The older boy sighed, not with irritation, but with weariness softened by care. “Don’t apologize,” he said gently. “You didn’t do anything wrong, okay? I just need to make sure you’re safe.”

His voice trailed off as the two of you disappeared down the beach, toward the dock bathed in the last golden blush of sunset. Maybe back to the city. Maybe to somewhere secret, tucked away from the world.

For a long time, Rafayel didn’t move. The sea lapped at his tail, beckoning him home, but he stayed crouched behind the stone, eyes fixed on the path you’d vanished down. Only when the beach was swallowed by dusk did he finally slip beneath the waves and return to the deep blue—where a very angry guardian awaited.

He didn’t care.

He didn’t know who that boy was. He didn’t know where they were keeping you, or why you wore such strange clothing. But he would find out. He had to. Because you were living in his head now, like a melody half-remembered, a face from a dream. He couldn’t stop thinking about you—about the bizarre certainty that he’d known you before, long before this life.

He would tell you next time. He would tell you everything.

About Lemuria, about the sea that sings his name. About how he’s a god—the last sea god. About all the lifetimes you’d met before. About how, century after century, you always found each other, and always fell in love.

But that’s how a child thinks. That stories are spells. That if he tells you, really tells you, you’ll remember too. That your eyes will light up and your arms will open, and you’ll come back to him forever.

Because you promised.

Next year.

Same day. Same time.

And every year after that.

[cheriqube]

LaDS WIP

[cheriqube]

Resident Evil my beloved. Leon!!

[cheriqube]

[cheriqube]

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠;

pairing: leon kennedy x fem!reader

summary: After a chance meeting with the woman in red, Leon shows you why your insecurity is completely unwarranted.

words: 3.3k

warnings: 18+ only (face-sitting, p in v sex, light choking, they’re both switches)

notes: this is a mashup of two very similar requests.. have not written smut in months… cannot believe this man broke my dry spell

You feel sick. Nauseous. Something bitter and acrid—jealousy, you believe—poisons the aching well of your chest.

Ada Wong in the flesh. In that dress.

He looks at her like she controls gravity, like she wanes moontide, like nothing else matters. 

You feel sick. He chose you in the end. No, no, no—you thought he did. 

Years of radio silence, some unspoken no-contact rule torn to shreds. She’s back, a ghost in red, and she ensnares him. It’s over. You know it.

“How cute,” says the woman, in her high heels and manicured nails and styled hair. She drops from the windowsill and joins you inside the bedroom. Beautiful and dangerous and you fully understand her appeal. It’s why your hackles rise like you’ve been threatened. “I admit, I’m surprised to see you here. With another woman, no less.”

Leon steps back upon her approach, spares a glance your way before regarding her. “Why are you here?“

“I have my reasons.” Ada then turns to you, gaze razor-edged and calculating. “By the look on your face, I suppose my reputation precedes me.”

You imagine yourself bathed in insecurity, a smell thick enough to catch on the wind. She’s admirable to a painful degree—intelligent, mysterious, beautiful, witty. Traits compounded by the physicality of her presence.

She is your opposite.

She is everything you’ve always wanted to be.

He was hers once upon a time. 

And you hate her for that. 

“You’ve been mentioned once or twice,” you say, mirroring the guard of her own posture. A lot less elegant in practice. “It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.”

“I promise, I came here to take one thing, and it isn’t Leon. This time, at least.”

At this, the mentioned man moves. Silent, if not for the thud of his boots upon the floor. He presses a hand to your shoulder, urges you back toward the door.

“Never again,” he says to her, and the gravel in his voice gives you pause. Skips your heart a few beats.

Ada feigns a grim frown, halfway to a pout. “You used to be fun.”

“I won’t play your game anymore. We’re done.”

“You always say that.” She turns to you one final time, sauntering backward toward the open window. “He always says that, dear.”

With a red-painted smile, she steps onto the balcony and disappears into a realm of blackhole shadow. 

Silence festers in her wake. The nausea returns tenfold. Leon jolts you back with a grip on your upper arm. 

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop. We’ll finish this, and then we’ll talk.”

The serum is returned to one Chris Redfield at a BSAA base an hours’ drive away. The way Leon talks, he’s an important man, but you have more important things on the mind.

Things that you sift through at the paid-for hotel early into the night.

Leon returns some time between questioning your entire relationship and self-flagellation. He finds you stretched out beneath the sheets, in a bed too cold and empty to tolerate.

“I didn’t mean to be gone so long,” he says, perching upon the edge of the mattress to untie then toe off his shoes. “We just started talking and—“

“It’s fine.”

His boots thump to the floor. “You’re mad at me.”

“Not at you. Myself.”

“Why?”

Many reasons. Mainly, “I just… I don't feel good enough for you.”

His gear is already off, thrown carelessly to the end of the bed. He’s obviously tired, exhausted even, but your brain’s been half-eaten by dulcet words and every time you blink you see nothing but red. Red dress, red nails, red lips.

“Don’t let her do this,” he says, crawls across the sheets and plants himself at your side. Hovers over you by the brace of an elbow. “She’s good at what she does. I would know.”

“I’m sure.”

He huffs out a joyless laugh and curls a large hand about your neck. Your pulse drums against his palm. “Listen to me. There is nothing she could say to pull me away from you.”

“She’s everything I’m not.”

“I don’t give a shit. There’s no comparison, no competition. It’ll always be you. Do you understand that?”

You lean into his touch, close your eyes at the tender caress of his thumb over your jaw. “I know. I just—I second guess myself sometimes.”

“You shouldn’t.” His kiss warms your cheek, then he pulls away to sit up. “I’ll be right back. Gotta shower.”

“That’s probably a good idea.”

He leaves to the adjacent bathroom, and the buzz of running water lulls you into a doze. 

When the door opens, he’s bare. Fluffing his hair with a towel. Sorting through a suitcase filled with folded clothes on the dresser, skin a golden glow from the lamplight’s cast. His back still drips wet, and you climb out of bed to finish what he started.

When you take the towel from his hand, he glances over his shoulder, smiles soft as you trail the fabric down his spine. 

Beautiful. Yours.

“You always forget your back,” you say, press an open-mouthed kiss between his shoulder blades.

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist.”

Your arms circle around his waist, flesh warm and soft and sweet-smelling against your cheek. “I never can.”

“My point exactly.” He loosens your grip and turns, fits a hand beneath the hem of your shirt. Furrows his brow in thought, maybe worry. “What you said earlier. Feeling like you aren’t good enough.”

“What about it?”

“I’d like to prove you wrong. If you’ll let me.”

You would let him do anything he wanted. Not that you’d ever admit such a thing out loud. 

But the anticipation adds a heaviness to your breath and a surge of electricity to the pump of your blood.

Yes. Yes, absolutely, yes. 

“I would love that.”

He continues his ritual of stripping you. Shirt, sleep shorts, underwear. An act of reverence, soft in the way he coaxes you to bed, whispers against your skin, roams loving hands over curves and dimples and scars. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, back pressed to the sheets, head cradled by a fluffed-up pillow. 

He soothes a hand over your forehead, looks at you all low-lidded and delicate. “For what?”

“I had a moment of weakness. I know that—that she doesn’t mean anything to you now.”

He kisses you then, an appetizer of quick pecks, a palm rising over the swell of your ribcage. A simmering heat coils in the pit of your stomach, makes you fist a hand in his hair and dig fingers into the curve of his back.

His thighs move to bracket your hips, the change in angle folding your legs up toward your chest. He’s solid against you, all hard-won muscle and dizzying weight, taut in the legs to keep himself still. His length twitches against your lower belly, rests heavy and hot against your skin. 

“Leon,” you breathe, shifting your grip to just above his knee, a span of giving flesh that you can squeeze when you feel as if you might fly away.

He noses just beneath your jaw, trails open-mouthed kisses down the slope of your neck. Suckles at the skin, just shy of bruising damage. Gooseflesh rises, stands the hair at your nape on end, and you force a cheek into the pillow.

He pulls away, hovers over you. “What do you want?”

Your head whips around to glare at him, and you almost seethe upon witnessing the teasing grin on his face. “No. Fuck you, we’re not doing that right now.”

“Well, fucking you is kinda the end goal here. Gotta work up to it, though.”

You hate that his jesting cracks your irritated exterior. You hate it even more when your face begins to heat. You hate it even more when your lips bloom into a giddy smile.

“Fine.”

“That’s what I thought.”

You shove at his shoulder, and he takes the hint to roll onto his back. Splays out, bares himself for you. The lamp’s orange bloom subdues his features, and you gaze upon him, the hard—

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered, but you can do a lot more than stare.”

He reaches for you with a greedy hand, fingers sliding up the inside of your thigh, and a bolt of arousal twitches your hips toward his touch. Then he retreats, and you follow as if he’s leashed you. Throw a leg over his hip, seat yourself on his lower belly. 

“Higher,” he says, voice thick as honey, hands tight around the fat of your hips.

Your brain short-circuits a moment—all the blood’s been pooling between your legs—before you realize what he means. And you bite back a chest-deep groan. 

Sit on his face. 

The higher you climb, the further down he moves. Meeting you halfway, an anticipation that sends his hands shaking against the back of your thighs.

“Don’t do that hovering shit,” he says, a borderline groan, and you twitch as the heat of his breath fans between your legs. “I want you to sit. Got it?”

You’re fit to faint. He’s checking all your boxes and he looks so pretty beneath you. Hair a halo of spun gold upon the pillow, eyes dark and intense, lips pink and spitslick and perfectly inviting.

You card fingers through his hair, tug hard—hard enough that he groans, that his head tilts back at just the right angle. And you sit, just like he ordered you to. 

“Like this?” you huff. The wet heat of his tongue laves against you, over you in firm, long strokes.

His eyes close, brow knotting in focus, and a sharp squeeze to the top of your thighs serves well as his answer.

You understand now. What devotion looks like. The appeal of idolatry. He licks into you and keens so low your legs numb with static. You untangle your hand from his hair to balance yourself against the headboard, and thank fuck he truly meant ‘sit’ because your knees quickly give out in a white flag surrender to the eagerness of his mouth.

He lifts you easily, just enough to free his tongue, just enough for him to curl slick heat over the bud of your clit. His mouth begins to suckle, tongue shifts to flicking, and you almost drive your face through the headboard. 

“Oh god, fuck—“

Your breathing staccatos and your thighs shake and heat coils in the pit of your belly and he shows no sign of stopping—

Nonono not now. Wanna wait. Gotta have him inside you.

“Leon, stop.“ You push against the weight of his hands and he relents. Cushions your backward fall atop his chest. Pants deep and open-mouthed, soothes large, warm hands over the slope of your waist. He presses wet lips to the inside of your thigh and waits for your breathing to slow. For his own.

“Goddamn,” you breathe, scoot yourself down the line of his body and brace your hands on either side of his head. “Sometimes I forget that your mouth is good for other things besides getting on my nerves.”

He licks the slick from his lips and cups both hands over the curve of your ass. “One’s a job. The other’s a hobby.”

If not for the current state of your brain—utter mush—you would’ve shut him up. But he has you in a playful mood, and the sight if him all fucked-out and messy does very, very bad things to whatever braincells still survive between your ears.

“Which is which?”

“If you can’t tell, then I need more practice.”

The words force a laugh from you, and his responding smile gleams with pride. Reverence. Idolatry. You understand now.

“I love you.”

You lean forward to kiss him and taste yourself heady on his lips, smooth both hands over his chest, down the planes of his abdomen, reel back to fit yourself over the hard length of his cock. Hot and thick and fever-red at the tip. Your mouth waters, remembers the weight of him on your tongue, the breathy moans that wash over your skin when you tease the plush head. His taste.

“Later,” he says, groans deep in his chest as you grind against him until the steely flesh glistens wet. “Let me guess, you want me to beg.”

With a greedy smile, you cant your hips, catching your clit against the tip of his cock. Over and over and over again, and your head lolls back upon the approach of orgasm. The noisy schlick of each glide.

“What’ll it be?” you pant, gaze down at him through low-lidded eyes.

He wrestles with the difficulty of composure, face flushed, chest heaving, tongue swiping over his bottom lip.

A simple call of his name, a reminder of your offer, and he acts. Shoves you sideways off of him, onto your back, and pins you there with a hand pressed flat to your sternum.

“That’s not fair.” You frown in false upset, even though his precum leaks onto your belly and you part your thighs in invitation. One he gladly takes. 

“I thought I was supposed to be doing all the work.”

 “I was having fun.”

He presses a burning kiss to your lips, licks into your mouth and forces your head back into the plush of the pillow.

“Teasing’s only fun when you’re the one doing it.” His voice lowers to a grumble, a threat that twitches your hips. 

“So you get it now.”

“Trust me, I get it. You’re lucky I’m in a good mood.”

He leans back on his haunches and smooths a hand over your belly, between the swell of your breasts, and curls thick fingers around your throat. A lingering pressure, a barely-there touch, a display of power. 

You shudder at the contact, meet the simmering shadow of his eyes, and welcome the seek of his hand between your legs. 

“So beautiful,” he whispers, sinks two fingers into the wet clench of your heat. “Fuck. So perfect. So good for me, aren’t you?”

A strained noise chokes at the back of your throat, and you break eye contact to shut your eyes. The praise lances through you, rips your composure to shreds, and the perfect rhythm he fucks you with—god he knows just how you like it—leaves you whining each time he fills you up.

“Yeah. So good for you.”

“Then open your eyes.”

The hand about your neck tightens, just enough to catch your attention, enough to make you obey.

“I want you to say it. Tell me, and I’ll give you what you want.”

Another squeeze, a kiss of danger, toeing the threshold into lightheadedness. A touch that you lean into, welcome, embrace. His thumb rises to caress circles over your clit, and you can’t help but whine. Can’t help the impatient buck of your hips.

“Fuck, okay—anything. Anything.”

He pulls his fingers out of you and slicks them up and down his length. Fits the plush head against the entrance of your cunt. 

“Tell me you’re good enough.”

“Leon—“

“Tell me you’re good enough, and that nobody else matters, and that it’ll always be you.”

He’s serious. He’s serious and if you don’t say it he’ll leave you like this and you can’t let that happen. 

“I’m good enough, and nobody else matters, and it’ll always be me.”

“That’s my girl.”

An aching pressure as he slides into you, a slick heat that slackens your jaw. You reach for him, a need borne from comfort in consummation, and he fits a hand between the curve of your back and the sheets, presses firm atop you. He noses at your neck, right beneath your jaw, and begins a slow, deep rhythm with his hips.

“Love you so much,” you whisper, arms tight over his back, palms trailing the expanse of soft skin.

“Love you.”

He kisses your pulse. The pillow beneath your head shifts as he fists a hand in the fabric. Holding himself back. Allowing you time to adjust. 

It’s sweet and lovely and kind, but you need more. Always more of him. Whatever he wishes to give you.

“Leon, c’mon.”

He grumbles out his dissent but captures your lips and increases his pace, forcing a low moan from your throat.

“Was trying to be romantic,” he grits out, and you try to manage a response but the tip of his cock nudges at your cervix and the headboard rocks against the wall.

Besides, there’s nothing more romantic than getting your needs met. A good orgasm. Being worshiped by the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. 

With one hand, you brace against the headboard, and the other draws tight circles over the slick swell of your clit.

You clench around him, and he gifts you his first moan of the night. A tight, throaty sound that leaves your belly pooling with heat.

“More of that, please,” you pant, and he laughs, breath fanning over your cheek.

The noisy glide of his cock, the weight of his body, the flowery smell of his hair—you’ve been consumed by him, by the state of your senses—all Leon, only him, always him.

The knot in your belly coils tighter, and your fingers circle faster, and your breath begins to heave, and he rises onto his hands to thrust harder, slide deeper and—

You’re gone.

His face twists up as your muscles tighten around him, and your ribs halt their breath as waves of pleasure lap over you. He fucks you through it with a choked-off moan, sliding wet through sensitive nerves, veleveteen flesh, pulsing muscles. There’s a messy gush to his thrusts, and you truly think that you might die via orgasm. A drawn-out, overwhelming affair, only ceasing when he drives in to the hilt and grips hard at your waist and whines long and low. 

He jerks inside you, curls in on himself, and you caress both hands down his tensed forearms to ease him through it. Run a hand through the softness of his hair.

Beautiful, so smart and lovely and strong and funny—yours.

Always yours.

He collapses onto his elbows, huffs out an exhausted sigh, and pulls out. Rolls onto his back beside you.

Both of you spend a worrying amount of time collecting yourself—steadying your breath, re-routing the blood to your limbs, lowering heart rates.

After a long few minutes of white noise silence, of his spend leaking onto the sheets, you sit up with a groan and turn to look at him. “Well, I think you proved your point.”

He smiles at you, a sunny gleam of teeth that tenders up your insides. Turns you soft, putty-like.

“I also have to shower again.” The roll of your eyes has him laughing and reaching for you, a hand that brushes pebbled sweat from your nose. “I’m joking.”

“You always know how to ruin the moment.”

“Maybe, but it makes you laugh.”

He’s right and you know it, and he knows you know it. Especially when a smile blooms on your face.

“Okay, maybe you’re right.”

He’s been right about a lot of things lately. His feelings for you, first off. The best way to validate his love. 

When you think of red, your blood doesn’t boil. Your throat doesn’t burn from bitterness.

You understand now. It’s in the past. She is. A piece of him, a memory that will always be there, but still, only a piece.

Nobody else matters. It’ll always be you. 

He rises from the bed and waves you over, helps you stand when your knees threaten to buckle. You glance back at the crumpled sheets, at an area darkened and wet.

“Hey, Leon?” He answers you from the bathroom, just before the shower turns on. “You’re sleeping in the wet spot tonight.”

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love their bonus costumes

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Hell ya gonna make new stuff soon cuz I got a whole weekend off work wooooo

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Omg I look up the Leon x Reader tag and it's filled with the most horny ramblings I've ever seen. No love no fluff just FUCK. I'm not gonna complain I guess 😭

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"Leon Time"

Artis: kjr0313 - twitter

Me:(♥ω♥*)

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leon kennedy go to therapy challenge

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Thanks to everyone who followed me!!! I'm expecting to put something out soon, I really want the next chapter to be a bit longer so I'm gonna put more time into it!

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Hey everyone, this is my first post woooo