#lads rafayel

[nekoashiii]

⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ Get out!

Pairings: Lads men x afab!reader

Summary: Your 4 year old child, is fighting with their dad over you. part 2

If you enjoyed this, check this post out too!

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ sylus

The sun had barely crept over the horizon when a small, warm weight landed on your stomach. You let out a soft groan, blinking sleep from your eyes as a tiny giggle filled the air.

“Mama! Wake up!”

A little girl with curly white hair and big red eyes beamed down at you, her chubby cheeks flushed with excitement. Your daughter, Elena, was already full of energy despite the early hour.

You reached out, gently tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “Sweetheart, it’s too early… come cuddle with us instead.” You said as you hugged your daughter to your chest and laid on your side, using her like a small warm plushie to hold

Elena pouted, but before she could argue, a deep, gravelly voice interrupted.

“Excuse me, little one,” Sylus drawled from behind you, his arm tightening possessively around your waist. “I believe your mother is mine in the mornings.”

Elena huffed, climbing over you to plant herself between the two of you, effectively shoving Sylus away. “No! Mama is mine today.”

Sylus narrowed his dark red eyes, feigning insult. “Oh? And what am I supposed to do, hmm? Spend the morning alone?” He sighed dramatically, running a hand through his white, tousled hair. “How tragic.”

You smothered a laugh as Elena folded her arms, her tiny frame full of defiance. “You have all day with Mama. It’s my turn now! Get out of bed dada”

Sylus turned to you, his lips quirking into a smirk. “Sweetheart, tell our dear daughter that monopolizing her mother isn’t allowed.”

You stretched with a soft yawn, brushing your fingers through Elena’s soft curls before placing a hand on Sylus’ chest. “Sorry, love, but she does have a point.”

Sylus let out an exaggerated groan, flopping onto his back. “Betrayed. By my own wife and child.”

Elena giggled and latched onto your arm. “Come on, Mama! Let’s go make pancakes!”

Before you could even respond, she was already tugging you out of bed. You barely had time to throw on a robe before being dragged toward the kitchen.

Sylus followed at a much slower pace, arms crossed as he leaned against the doorway, watching the two of you. His lips twitched in amusement as Elena enthusiastically handed you ingredients, most of which you didn’t even need.

“Flour, eggs, milk,” you listed off, cracking an egg into the bowl.

“And chocolate chips!” Elena added excitedly.

“That wasn’t part of the original plan,” you teased, ruffling her hair.

“But Mama, chocolate makes everything better,” she argued.

You sighed dramatically. “Fine, fine. Chocolate it is.”

Elena cheered as you mixed the batter, and soon enough, the scent of warm pancakes filled the kitchen. You plated them neatly, setting them on the table, but before you could sit down, Sylus was already pulling you into his lap.

“Alright, little one,” he said, smirking at Elena. “I was patient. Now it’s my turn.”

Elena gasped. “No fair! You get Mama all the time!”

Sylus held you close, his lips brushing against your temple. “Exactly. Which is why I should get the first bite.”

Elena narrowed her eyes before suddenly grabbing a piece of pancake and stuffing it into your mouth. “Mama gets first bite!”

You nearly choked, laughing as Sylus sighed in mock defeat.

The morning continued like this, the two of them constantly bickering over who got more of your attention. If Sylus wrapped an arm around you, Elena would climb onto your lap. If Elena got you to braid her hair, Sylus would find a way to pull you into a slow, lingering kiss—only for Elena to dramatically cover her eyes and shout, “Eww, Papa!”

It was an endless tug-of-war, but one thing was clear: you were deeply, endlessly loved.

And honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ Caleb

The day had been long. Between running errands, cleaning up after a particularly chaotic dinner, and making sure your 4-year-old son had actually bathed instead of just splashing water everywhere, all you wanted was to crawl into bed and melt into your pillows.

But, of course, fate—or rather, the two most stubborn males in your life—had other plans.

Just as you pulled back the covers, ready to slide under the sheets, a little whirlwind of energy burst into the room. Your son, Noah, padded in with a determined expression, his favorite stuffed apple plush clutched in one arm.

“I’m sleeping with Mama tonight!” he declared, climbing onto the bed as if he owned it.

You sighed, already sensing the inevitable battle brewing.

“Noah,” you started patiently, “you have your own bed, sweetheart.”

“But I don’t want my own bed,” he pouted, scooting closer. “I wanna sleep here with you.”

Before you could formulate a response, heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway, and in walked Caleb, still in his colonel uniform, just back from the fleet, arms crossed over his broad chest. His sharp eyes immediately zeroed in on the intruder in his domain.

“Noah,” Caleb said, voice edged with authority. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Noah puffed out his little chest, glaring up at his father. “I’m sleeping with Mama.”

Caleb raised a brow. “No, you’re not. I sleep with Mama.”

“Well, not tonight.”

“Yes, tonight.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “Are you two seriously about to argue over this?”

Neither of them responded. Instead, they were locked in a silent battle of wills, Caleb towering over Noah, while Noah, unafraid, jutted his chin out defiantly.

“I got here first,” Noah announced.

“I’ve been here for years,” Caleb countered, placing a knee on the bed as if preparing for battle.

Noah tightened his grip on his stuffed apple plush. “Mama likes cuddling with me more!”

“Excuse me?” Caleb scoffed. “I am a very good cuddler. The best.”

“No, you’re too big! You take up all the space!”

“I do not—”

“You do! And you snore!”

Caleb looked personally offended. “I do not snore.”

“Yes, you do,” you cut in, unable to hold back your smirk.

Caleb’s mouth fell open, betrayal clear on his face. “Sweetheart—”

“It’s true, Daddy,” Noah added smugly. “You sound like a big grumpy bear.”

Caleb scowled. “I am a big grumpy bear.”

“I don’t wanna sleep with a grumpy bear.”

“I don’t wanna sleep with a tiny bed hog.”

Noah gasped dramatically. “I am not a bed hog!”

You sighed, leaning back against the pillows. watching the two go on and on “Alright, enough.”

Both of them snapped their heads toward you, watching as you pinched the bridge of your nose in frustration.

“You two fight over me every single night. And honestly?” You sighed, dragging yourself out of bed. “I’m sick of it.”

Caleb and Noah blinked.

“What?” Noah asked innocently.

You grabbed two pillows from the bed, shoving one into Caleb’s hands and the other into Noah’s tiny arms.

“You two can take this argument somewhere else.” You gestured toward the door. “Both of you—out.”

Noah’s jaw dropped. “But—”

Caleb furrowed his brows. “You’re kicking me out, too?”

“Yes. Out. Both of you.”

“But Mama—”

“No buts! I am going to sleep alone, in peace, without a four-year-old climbing all over me or a six-foot colonel trying to wrap himself around me like an octopus.” You crossed your arms over your chest. “Go fight over who gets the couch.”

Caleb narrowed his eyes. “I’m not sleeping on the couch.”

Noah smirked. “Guess I’ll get the couch, then.”

“Oh no, you won’t,” Caleb shot back.

You sighed and physically pushed both of them toward the door. “Out.”

Noah whimpered. “Mama, wait—”

“Goodnight, sweetheart.” You kissed his forehead before turning to Caleb. “And you—” You gave him a pointed glare. “Good. Night.”

Caleb exhaled through his nose, clearly displeased with the outcome. “This is mutiny.”

“Call it whatever you want, Colonel, but it’s happening.”

With that, you shut the door in their faces.

For a moment, there was silence. Then—

“This is your fault,” Caleb muttered.

“I still get the couch,” Noah replied smugly.

You grinned, sinking into your blissfully empty bed, enjoying the first real night of uninterrupted sleep in weeks.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ Rafayel

Life with Rafayel was never dull. Being married to one of the most renowned artists in the world came with its own set of challenges—his erratic work schedule, his bursts of inspiration at ungodly hours, and, of course, the ever-looming threat of someone discovering his biggest secret.

Rafayel wasn’t just a celebrated painter, sculptor, and occasional recluse. he was also a Lemurian—a species of deep-sea mermen that most humans believed to be myths. Lemurians were creatures of the ocean, rarely venturing into the human world.

But Rafayel had. He had chosen to leave behind the waves, to live among humans, to build a life with you. And together, you had a daughter—little Seraphina—who had inherited his everything. His attitude, his stupidly handsome face shape, his genes left nothing for yours to take root in seraphina.

And now, the two of them were bickering. Again.

You rubbed your temples, exhaling deeply. “Can you two please stop fighting over me for five minutes?”

Rafayel, ever the dramatic artist, was sprawled on the couch with a faux-wounded expression, his purple hair draped over his face. “I cannot believe this betrayal,” he murmured. “I, your devoted husband, have been abandoned.”

Seraphina, all four years of attitude and tiny hands on her hips, stood her ground. “You had Mama all day! It’s my turn!”

Rafayel gasped, looking personally offended. “Excuse me, little guppy, but I believe it is always my turn.”

Seraphina pouted, her violet eyes—exactly like her father’s—narrowing. “Mama played with me first.”

“Mama kissed me first this morning.”

“Well—Mama let me sit on their lap while we ate breakfast.”

“Mama lets me sleep in the bed next to them.”

You groaned. “Rafayel, she’s four.”

“And?” He arched a perfect brow. “She must learn that a wife’s love belongs to her husband first.”

Seraphina huffed, turning to you with pleading eyes. “Mama, tell Daddy he’s being mean.”

You sighed, knowing full well that no answer would satisfy either of them.

Rafayel rolled onto his side, reaching a hand toward you as if on his deathbed. “My love, tell our traitorous offspring that no one can replace me in your heart.”

“I am not a traitor!” Seraphina stomped a tiny foot. “Mama loves me so much! Even more than you!”

Rafayel sat up instantly. “Oh, now that’s where you’re wrong.”

“No, I’m right!”

“You wish, little one.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, wondering how your life had come to this—caught between two extremely possessive, competitive merfolk.

Seraphina suddenly latched onto your leg, wrapping herself around it like a tiny octopus. “Mine,” she declared.

Rafayel narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me?”

Seraphina stuck her tongue out at him.

Rafayel smirked. “Well then.” He cracked his knuckles and stretched his arms. “If that’s how you want to play it.”

In one swift motion, he scooped Seraphina up, ignoring her protests as he carried her toward the glass doors leading to the backyard’s infinity pool—built deep enough to accommodate his real form.

Seraphina’s eyes widened. “Wait—WAIT! What are you doing?!”

Rafayel grinned mischievously. “Throwing you back into the sea where you belong, little guppy.”

“NOOO!”

You laughed, watching as Seraphina clung to her father’s arm, suddenly realizing her fight for dominance might have backfired.

“Say it,” Rafayel teased, holding her above the water. “Say I win.”

Seraphina squirmed. “Never!”

Rafayel raised a brow. “Alright then—”

“MAMA HELP!”

You folded your arms, amused. “This seems like a father-daughter matter.”

Seraphina gasped at your betrayal. “Mama, no!”

Rafayel gave you a smug look. “Oh, so now you need me, hmm?”

Seraphina groaned dramatically before finally giving in. “Fiiiiiine. You win.”

Rafayel set her back on the ground, ruffling her purple hair. “That’s my girl.”

She huffed but then immediately clung to your side again. “But Mama still loves me more.”

Rafayel scoffed. “Dream on, little guppy.”

You sighed, shaking your head. This was your life now.

[ryusjwks]

yapping abt nonmc

Non-MC reader fanfics are always written by authors who know exactly how to hurt a person. The pain is so intense and so well-crafted that, dear God, sometimes I find myself rereading the same paragraph over and over again. And after a while, I start to see myself as that woman—waiting to be loved but never receiving it in return.

Imagine loving someone. Looking at them with the most fragile, the most human part of your heart. When you hear their voice, everything inside you comes to a halt, and your entire existence shifts toward them. But they… they don’t even notice you. Or if they do, their recognition is not with the powerful grasp of love, but with the light touch of mere acknowledgment.

To you, they are a star, the very center of the universe. But to them, you are just another speck of light in the sky. If you were to disappear, they wouldn’t feel your absence. You turn back, realizing your hands are empty, crushed under the weight of your love. And they? They continue revolving around another world, another sun.

You are a meteor, trying to rise and shine, but unable to enter their orbit—shattered by the gravity of a planet that was never meant to hold you. You dissolve into dust, fading into silence. And they move on, as if nothing ever happened.

This plays out differently for each character, but the ending remains the same.

In Zayne’s case, you are either his fiancée or his wife. He is always cold and distant. His words are measured, his presence heavy yet quiet. Even if storms rage behind his eyes, his face remains unreadable. He has always been this way, and you have accepted it.

But then, he smiles—at her.

That smile is like spring breaking through the ice, subtle, warm, and gentle. As if, for just a moment, the layers of frost within him have melted. And in that moment, you realize he was never truly like this—not for everyone. He is not just a distant man; he is only distant toward you.

And that’s when it sinks in. A weight settles inside you, stealing your breath for just a second. Because you have seen it now—he can be affectionate, he can be warm, he can smile. But that smile was never meant for you.

You are likely Sylus’s assistant, though in rare cases, you might be his wife. Sylus has always been indifferent—to everyone. To you. You walked in his shadow on the battlefield, threw yourself in front of bullets for him, but to him, it was merely necessity. A duty. Your presence was nothing more than part of the mission. Until she came along.

With her arrival, Sylus changed. His face softened when he looked at her, the sharpness in his voice faded. He made sacrifices for her, and when he spoke to her, the rigidness in his posture eased. Sylus was no longer the man you knew. Everyone questioned if he was still the same person, but you already knew the truth.

He hadn’t changed. He had simply never been yours.

With Xavier and Rafael, the pattern is almost identical. You are nothing more than a companion who has traveled through centuries with them, defying time itself.

As time weaves its path, they always take the lead—making decisions, guiding, fighting. And you? You are merely a shadow beside them. A witness. While they sacrificed their homelands for love, you were the one who heard the cries of the people they left behind. On one side was their passionate devotion, and on the other, your quiet grief.

For them, time had stopped. But for you, the world kept turning, though it no longer resembled the place you once knew.

And then there’s Caleb.

Caleb was always by MC’s side. He was her protector, her shield, her most trusted person. And you were there too. You grew up in the same house, sat at the same dinner table, shared the same stories. But his eyes always sought only MC.

Through the years, you watched how he looked at her. How he stepped forward at the slightest sign of danger, how every word he spoke to her carried an unshakable certainty. You bore witness to his protection, his sacrifices, his unwavering love—but never once was any of it directed at you.

You were there too. You lived those same moments. But you were never the center of his world.

Some see her as a mistress, a backup, an extra wedged between the main character and the LI. As if she were a mere footnote in someone else’s story, placed there by mistake. But she’s not.

She is not just someone trying to insert herself where she doesn’t belong. She was there from the very beginning. She walked the same path, fought the same battles, gazed at the same sky. She was never a stranger lingering on the edges of the story—she was a part of it.

The difference is that her name was never written into the main plot. Her words never echoed, her presence was never at the center. And yet, she was never just a replacement. Because love isn’t a competition, it isn’t a role to be filled, it isn’t about winners and losers.

She simply loved. With everything she had, without expecting anything in return. Her eyes were always on him, but his eyes were never on her.

[berrryparfait]

why is he in my bed ?! ♡ ‧₊˚ ⋅

— ༉‧₊ᐟ featuring: caleb, zayne, xavier, sylus, rafayel x fem-afab!reader

— ༉‧₊ᐟ premise: you're woken up in the middle of the night by something hard and warm between your legs... what on earth is going on? 「i must still be dreaming, for this is an overwhelming ecstasy.」

— ༉‧₊ᐟ tags/cws: [nsfw] pure smut, dubcon on reader's part, dry humping, creampie, needy af, sleep (and p*ssy)-drunk, "good girl" affirmations

— ♫₊ᐟ soundtrack: morning sex – ralph castelli

✧ a/n: i promise i'm not horny i'm just deeply interested in the science and academia behind dry humping and sleepy sex like istg i'm doing this for research purposes... okie thank u for reading enjoy this scientific report :>

When you dream, you’re in your happy place. A place full of sunshine and rainbows and unicorns and undisrupted peace. Your slumbers are deep, quiet, and tranquil, with no one around to—

Wait, what’s that pressing up against my ass?

Large, calloused hands cup around your breasts as you feel it—hard and imposing behind you. “Caleb?” You whisper in surprise, your question left unanswered as he breathes in your scent and snuggles up closer behind you. Before you can clear your mind enough to react, he grinds against your ass and you notice for the first time that he’s completely naked. The act sends a shock wave of pleasure down your spine, and he lets out a groan as he rolls into you once more. “A-Are you alright? What’s gotten into you?” He pays your words no mind, dry humping you in a steady rhythm as he grunts and whispers “Shh shh shh…” into your ear. His thumb hooks around the waistband of your panties and roughly pulls them down to your knees. He doesn’t even bother to pull them all the way down. He needs you now, and desperately. With your ass exposed to him, he instantly pushes the tip of his cock between your folds, and you moan in shock as he squeezes himself all the way in. The covers are still around you. It’s hot, sticky, and suffocating, but you don’t care. He thrusts into you with such speed that you wonder how long he’s been waiting for this. How much he needed this. With one final move of his hips, he fills you with his thick seed, and your eyes roll all the way to the back of your head. Panting, he pulls his cock out from deep within you and falls asleep, exhaustion and satisfaction overcoming him. “Just what will I do with you…”

Zayne is inside you before you even wake up. Your eyes blink open as you feel a heavy arm holding you down by the waist, the space between your legs feeling strangely full. “What in the—” You turn around and come face to face with a groggy, lust-drunk Zayne, his face flushed pink and his body hot to the touch. “What? What are you—” He pushes all the way into you, effectively silencing your feeble questions. “Ah, fuck—” he gasps, his hands trembling with the feeling of dragging his cock along your walls, your pussy so tight it steals the air from his lungs. He pounds into you from behind as you call out his name, eyes squeezing shut from the sheer size of him. Your mind has been fucked empty, no other thoughts capable of being formed save for the graphic image of the two of you in this stuffy bed with nothing but sweat between your bodies. In the blink of an eye, he pulls you upright and pushes your shoulders down, fucking you doggy style as he grabs your hips and rocks deep into you, a relentless repetition of thrusts that drives you crazy. “Good girl…” Your panties are resting helplessly at your ankles, your tight shirt pushed up above to your tits. He cums without warning, hot ropes of cum leaking out of your pussy as he backs away and falls onto the bed, spent. “Out cold just like that. Aftercare my ass.”

You feel your blankets readjust themselves as a weight settles to your left, though you can’t quite see what it is in the darkness. A soft hand on your waist tells you it’s Xavier, and you cuddle up next to him as you doze off once more… But Xavier doesn’t seem to stay still. You hear the sound of a zipper being pulled down and frown in confusion, wondering why he’s stripping on your bed in the middle of the night. He flips you over to face him so you’re both lying face to face. You realize he’s breathing heavily, his hands restless and reaching to pull your pajama pants down with haste. “Xavier, it’s 3 in the morning…” But your words fall on deaf ears. You feel his hard length press into you, slowly, tentatively—as if he’s using his last ounce of control to ensure you don’t get hurt in the process of accommodating his cock. That control quickly dies. He’s pumping in and out of you before you know it, shallow and in quick succession like a man starved. His shirt is still on and so is yours, pants and underwear still around his and your legs—he’s in such urgent need of release that he doesn’t even care. You moan and grab the fabric of his shirt as he plows into your pussy, your forehead touching his and your lungs inhaling his air. “You’re…so…good…” he whines as he slams into you harder, his eyes shut tight against his rapidly arriving climax. With a delicious moan, white streaks of cum erupt from his cock, coating your pussy and staining the sheets beneath you. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear before collapsing from exertion, and he’s fast asleep in an instant. You tut at him, amused. “You’re lucky you’re so cute.”

Something big and warm is touching your inner thigh. You can feel it through the fabric of your nightgown. “Sylus? Is that you?” A rough hand glides over your bare arm in a caress that could only mean one thing: he’s incredibly horny right now. Still cloudy with sleep, you distantly realize that you’re about to get railed. One of his hands wraps around the base of your neck—not forcefully, but hard enough to assure you your suspicions were correct—while the other reaches down to pull his pants and boxers free. Your nightgown is white silk and very much easy-access, so it doesn’t take him long to push the smooth fabric up to your waist. “Sylus—” Your voice is cut off by the torturous glide of his cock up the length of your pussy, a small warming before he shoves it in all the way. He lets out a low grown as the friction begins to intensify, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he fucks you from behind. He’s going so fast that you have to make a conscious effort to catch your breath, the ecstasy of his length sliding against your walls turning your brain into mindless mush. You’ve never heard him make sounds this loud before. He uses his right hand to lift your leg up, giving himself a better angle to pound into your pussy as you bounce your ass against his groin. “Good girl… You’re so wet for me…” he hums as you arch your back and somehow make him even bigger than before. At last, he pulls you in with such force that his tip rubs against your deepest spot, and it’s enough for both of you to come undone. He shudders as his warm, sticky cum fills you, forming a puddle on the bed that you’ll have to clean up in the morning. He sure as hell wouldn’t be able to. Not even an earthquake could wake him from the sleep he just seamlessly fell into. “I’m going to kill you tomorrow, you hear me?”

You’re being pushed. Repeatedly. Something or someone is slamming against you in your sleep. “Hey, stop that—” You turn to see Rafayel naked in your bed, his erection so obvious that you can see it in the pitch black room. He’s dry humping you with a pathetic eagerness that almost makes you feel bad for him. “Woah there, I just woke up, Raf…” But the pleasure spiking in your core was undeniable. Why was the sight of Rafayel panting like a dog in heat so…hot? He roughly yanks your pants down to your knees and gets on top of you, forearms braced on either side of you. Precum glistens on the tip of his dick as he quickly inserts himself between your folds, and it isn’t long before he begins thrusting into you with no intentions of stopping. You grip the bed sheets as his crotch rubs against your clit, his labored moans and whispers in your ear sending you into overdrive. “Fuck, you’re so tight…” You bite your bottom lip and arch your back, the new angle allowing him to hit your g-spot and making you see stars. So many dirty, sinful thoughts come to mind with his cock between your legs, but you can’t quite grasp any one of them—not while he’s mercilessly fucking you. “Raf… I’m going to—” He grabs your ass with both hands and lifts your hips up, his cock driving into you with full force as you cry out and beg for him to go faster. Finally, with one last powerful thrust, he cums deep into your pussy, thick pools of white dripping down your thighs as he twitches and writhes in pleasure. He smiles down at you rather ridiculously before slumping into a tired heap on top of you, and you have to hold back a smile of your own as you roll your eyes. “Never know what to expect with this one.”

— ⋆˙⟡ ©berrryparfait

《 please do not copy / plagiarize / translate my works or publish them on any other platforms. 》

[koririchanart]

fun high school au life!!!🍎🐟⭐❄️

[zomgcaleb]

Rafayel actually loves when he uses his car after you.

Yeah, the rear-view mirror is tilted a little awkwardly and his side mirrors are pushed too far out. And yeah, the Bluetooth is still hooked to your phone and you may have a hair tie or two that you forgot to take with you and maybe there’s some extra change you’d left in the cup holder by mistake. And of course, his knees almost touch the dash and his head grazes the ceiling from his new chair settings.

But you did it. Because you were there. In his car.

He has traces of you everywhere and he holds that so dear to his heart. Especially when it’s on something of his.

[bizarrelovetriangel]

r e l a x.

they give you a massage (sylus, caleb, xavier) / you give them a massage (zayne and rafayel).

mdni. 18+ only. fingering. handjob. oral (male and female giving and receiving). dry humping. creampie. overstimulation.

sylus

You've had a busy week at work and your body has been terribly sore, so Sylus offered to give to a massage.

Instead of feeling relaxed like he said you would be, you're gripping the bedsheet and biting down the back of your own hand, completely flustered and tensed.

Sylus knows exactly what he's doing with his hands and yet, he refuses to admit to his crimes by playing clueless.

As if you can't see his smirk after accidentally brushing his hands against the sides of your breast for the third time in just five minutes.

"What's wrong, sweetie? Didn't I tell you to relax? Just close your eyes and trust me. I'll make you feel good."

You're cursing Sylus so hard in your head.

You're on his bed, lying on your stomach with absolutely no cover.

You've once gotten a massage from an actual professional massage therapist before, so you know removing your clothing is just protocol.

What's different from the massage you're getting right now are all the 'accidental' touches that your unofficial massager has been doing.

Sylus is hovering over your figure with his knees on the sides of your hips and planted on the mattress while his hands are kneading your figure.

On one hand, the oil that he's using smells wonderful, and his strong hands really does wonders when he's pressing down and pulling at your tensed muscles the right way.

On the other hand, he's teasing you so much that you can't even feel at peace.

It started off with brief, almost unnoticable brushes on the sides of your breasts as his hands roam around your torso, feeling up your sore spots.

It wasn't until his hands began to linger a little too long on your ass that you grew suspicious of his actions.

You gave him the benefit of the doubt and kept quiet, closing your eyes and burying your face against the soft pillow. You thought, maybe, you can just fall asleep while he gives you a massage, even if he has to keep himself entertained along the way.

But you learned quickly that you will certainly not be able to fall asleep for as long as Sylus' hands are on you.

As he's stroking the back of your thighs, his hands traveled up to your ass once again, and this time his thumbs had gotten lost to graze the folds of your vagina.

Your head shot up in shock.

Sylus pretends not to notice.

He starts to hum a song while his hands slide down to your aching calves, giving them a good squeeze that had you wincing.

Only then did Sylus give you a look. "Something wrong, sweetie?"

"You...."

"Hmm?"

"You know what you're doing." You narrowed your eyes at him accusingly.

He tilted his head. "I'm not a professional, but of course I know what i'm doing. You have nothing to worry about."

You scoffed and put your face back down on the pillow. It looks like you're just going to have to deal with all the antics. You'll get your revenge later on.

Or so you thought.

The little not-so-accidental touches soon became more obvious and unbearable.

After several more minutes of Sylus' game of mixing in actual good massage techniques with lecherous caresses, he stopped trying to be subtle.

His fingers now had their undivided attention on your core and making their way inside you. Your hips reflexively raised as the wave of tingling sensation took over, and Slyus gently pushed them back down against the mattress.

"You're tensing up, sweetie."

There was that smirk again.

"And whose fault is that?!"

"Yours, obviously. You wouldn't need a massage if you didn't overwork yourself."

You hate that he's right even when he's trying to deflect your accusations. "Hmph."

After giving him a playful smack on the chest, you rested the side of your face against the pillow and closed your eyes.

Not a second later, his fingers are moving deeply in and out of your pussy, now wet with oil and from your arousal.

Your breath hitched at his fast pace, gripping the sheets of the bed with while listening to the lewd sounds of his sticky fingers going inside your oil-covered slit.

Your right arm reached behind you to capture his hand. You wanted to make him pause for a moment just to give yourself a moment to breathe before you burst right then and there.

He was quick to figure out your intention, so Sylus got your wrist first and pinned it on your back, just with one hand.

The bed shook slightly as he lowered his hips onto you. His placed his other hand on the mattress, right by the side of your chest to support his weight so that he's not crushing you.

His cock is pressed up right against your ass.

You were so distracted by his fingers that you failed to notice when he had pulled down his pants and boxers. Now, he's throbbing and rubbing his pre-cum on your skin.

Sylus took a moment to wipe a drop of sweat on your forehead before kissing it.

"This...isn't a massage, Sylus."

"I told you, didn't I? I'll make you feel good."

He slowly went into you.

And almost immediately, you clenched up at how good he felt. Sylus took a sharp breath before lowering his chest on your back and wrapping his left arm around your neck.

Not tight enough to choke you, but just so he could keep your face against him as he starts to move faster and harder.

All the oil he put all over your body during the massage had now been spread onto him too as every inch of him connected to you.

The air around you becomes heavy. His low groans and your muffled moans mingle with the sound of your bodies roughly colliding repeatedly.

He didn't stop for a second. Not until he was out of breath. Not until you came first. Only then did Sylus allow himself to come, right on your ass and back.

"Sylus...."

Out of breath, you flipped over as Sylus looks down at you while running a hand through his sweaty hair.

"You better not be giving anyone else a massage like the one you just gave me."

He chuckled. "Of course not, kitten. That special service is reserved only for you."

"Good." You winced as you felt your hips twinge. "Because you kinda suck. I'm now more sore than before the massage - hey, can you at least try not to look so proud?!"

zayne

It's not unusual for Zayne to be overworked, given his highly demanding job. That's why you often find yourself pampering him on his days off. This time, you decided to give him a massage so that you could help to relieve his tensed muscles.

You're not a professional, but you have learned from Zayne himself how to properly give a decent massage, as he had given you one a couple of times before. He was describing to you what he was doing and explaining what it does to your joints and muscles, so you can at least do the basics.

Right now, he's lying down on the white couch of his living room, stripped down to his boxers and facing the ceiling. You're by his side, kneeling down on the floor and sitting on the back of your feet so that you're in the same level and can easily move around.

His glasses are off and his eyes are closed, enjoying the way your hands are pressing his biceps while listening to you ramble about what you've been up to at work.

"Oh! and I just remembered something annoying that happened the other day!"

As you broke into a rant, you failed to notice that your hands had increased their strength as they moved around Zayne's lower abdomen.

Your fingers squeezed his abs, though your mind was mostly focused on giving Zayne the full details of a particular problem you had at work.

You didn't catch the way Zayne's heart skipped a beat, and the way his breath started to become uneven as your hands moved on to his thighs.

You were so distracted with your own thoughts that your ears didn't pick up the quiet groans coming out of Zayne's mouth as you rub down his quads.

His legs twitched as your fingers darted to the inside of his thighs, and he let out a cough when your fingers brushed against his bulge behind his boxers.

And yet, you still haven't caught on.

Zayne started to sweat nervously as he tries to keep his thoughts and his body tamed: to stop blood from rushing south.

But it's already too late.

He's already hard and throbbing.

Especially when you're patting him down all around the one place that's begging for your attention.

"Darling..."

"- and then I was like - huh?"

You snapped back to reality when one of Zayne's hand caught your right one.

"...here..."

Your gaze shifted from his red ears, to his adam's apple that bobbed as he gulped, and down to where he placed your hand, which was right on the big tent that formed in his boxers.

At last, you understood what he wanted and immediately granted his wish.

You tugged on the band of his boxers and pulled it down to his calves, and Zayne fully discarded it by moving his own feet and kicking it off him.

You wrapped one hand around his cock and rubbed your thumb against its tip, spreading the pre-cum that oozed out of it.

His stomach tightens up as your fist moved up and down, and low grunts emerged from his lips as you picked up your pace.

The sight of his flushed, swollen cock had your mouth and your core soaked with hunger.

You squeezed your thighs together as you placed your weight on your knees, then you moved your face towards his hips and ran your tongue from the tip to the base of his cock.

Zayne took a sharp breath once your mouth swallowed him down. He ran a hand across his chest, feeling his own heart racing as he watched your head bob up and down, with some strands of your hair falling out of place.

He closed his eyes as you moved faster. His hips jolted up reflexively, making you take even more of him. He forced himself to hold back on thrusting into your mouth, but you were the one that pulled him even farther down your throat while your hands took care of the rest that you couldn't reach.

Your name falls out of his lips before ropes of cum suddenly shoots into your mouth, spilling out from your lips.

Zayne's moans did nothing to your clenching cunt as you watch his cock continuously twitch, even after his release.

Though you didn't have to wait for long because without even giving himself time to recover from his orgasm, Zayne sat up and pulled you onto his lap.

His mouth desperately meets yours while his hands are already working on undressing you. "...need you..." he mutters between kisses.

You complied and helped him get rid of your underwear, then you wrapped your arms around his shoulders. Still, you paused for a moment to ask, "Aren't you sore though? I don't want you to feel even more tired. I'll - "

"I'm fine." Zayne cuts you off with certainty in his tone and desire in his eyes. "I just want to feel you."

As a silent response, you kissed his lips and locked your thights around his hips. Zayne adjusted himself before his cock penetrates you completely.

You wanted to spare him from moving, since, despite of his reassurance, his muscles really are overworked. You swayed your hips against him, but it seems that Zayne couldn't stay still either because he continued to push his cock into you.

He buried his face against your neck and his mouth sucks off your skin while his hands grips your ass hard. His heavy breaths stutter as both of your strengths increase, causing your flesh to clash at every second.

You re-adjusted your steady grip on his shoulders before taking control by grinding down his cock hard and fast.

Zayne catches one of your breasts into his mouth and lightly bites your nipple, earning a loud gasp out of you. Your pussy clenched around his cock, and the noise you made had echoed from his own mouth.

"C-coming...!"

You reached your climax around the same time. Zayne didn't have time nor power to pull out and your hips felt stuck against his, so all of his load was shot inside of you.

Zayne softly pressed his lips on your left shoulder before resting his forehead against it as he catch his breath.

You combed your fingers through his hair before attempting to get off of him. Zayne, however, kept you trapped against him with his hands remaining on your ass, pressing you down on him.

"Let's just stay like this.... for a little longer...."

caleb

The very second he arrived at your apartment and saw your overall worn out appearance, Caleb declared himself as your butler for the weekend. Not only did he do all the cooking and cleaning, he also decided that you needed a massage.

So here you are, lying face down on your bed, only wearing your underwear, with Caleb hovering over you with his knees on the side of your hips, running his hands throughout your body to fix your aching muscles.

He's actually doing an amazing job. Only a few minutes after he started and you're already feeling your body loosening up.

"Have you ever given anyone else a massage before?" you asked curiously, lifting your face from your pillow for a moment.

"Nope." Caleb grins. "You're my very first customer, pip-squeak. Don't forget to rate me at the end of my service, okay?"

"Mhmm."

You assume he just did his research very well, as always. Since you're in good hands, you decided to give in to the warmth and comfort he's providing and closed your eyes for a little nap.

Little did you know...

Caleb couldn't be more glad you're not looking at him right now.

He's having a big problem and it's demanding to be freed and inserted into something. Into someone.

He truly did have the full intention of giving you the best massage you'll ever have. He noticed that your body isn't in good condition because of your work, and the least he could do is make you feel relaxed with a massage.

The good news is that it seems to be working well, and you're even starting to fall asleep, which means your body is relaxing.

The bad news is that he underestimated his self-control. He had taken showers with you without popping a boner, and yet....

The sight of you lying so beautifully underneath him only in your red bra and panty had gotten his mind wandering along with his hands.

Every time he massaged the insides of your thighs, his eyes automatically flickers to your crotch as he gets a glimpse of your pussy behind your underwear.

He wanted, so badly, to bury his face between your thighs and have a taste of you. But even more, he wanted your body to feel relaxed. He didn't want to disturb you right now, so Caleb suppressed his desires.

It's not the first time, anyways. Before you were aware of his feelings, before you became an official couple, he always had to hide his sexual urges from you.

So, this is nothing. That's what Caleb repeatedly told himself as he continues to give you a massage.

Still....

It's okay to adjust himself once every while, right? His boxers and pants are getting uncomfortably tight, after all. He just needs to adjust it for a second.

Caleb stuck a hand in pants to get rid of the discomfort.

Then, he pumped his cock a few times.

'Fuck...'

He lets out a shaky breath before withdrawing his hand and resting it on the small of your back. His own actions only made things worse because now, he's throbbing uncontrollably and his thighs are pulsing. His hands are sweating, his stomach is clenching, and his face is burning.

He forced himself to keep going with the massage, but he was only torturing himself. The more he touched you, the more he wanted you.

"Hmm? Caleb, are you done?" you asked as his hands no longer made contact with your body.

"I..." Caleb's incomplete response came out low and deep.

Suddenly, his chest fell against your back and his lips grazed your right ear. His heavy breaths tickled you before his lips softly met your skin.

"I need you."

He rutted his crotch against your ass and your eyes widen at the feeling of his stiff cock through his pants.

He growled under his breath before moving faster, causing your body to bounce against the mattress of your bed.

"Caleb..."

You raised your hips to meet his, and his hands quickly latches to your waist before humping you even harder.

You slowly turned around and put your hands on the back of his neck, then you kissed him deeply and pulled him down with you.

Caleb moans into the kiss while his hands quickly removed his pants and boxers. You pulled away for a moment to help him undress, then your bodies re-attached like magnets soon after.

He wasted no time putting his cock inside you, spreading your thighs farther apart so he could pound as much of him into you as far as possible.

Your bed creaked and shook at every moment he made. The air around you feels hot, and you found yourself gasping loudly and clutching onto his back as he picks up the pace.

You cried softly against his neck as you came, and your toes curled as he relentlessly chased after his own high, drilling into you while clasping your hands. Soon, his hips stutters and he pulls out right before shooting his load right across your chest.

After using his shirt to wipe your chest, Caleb collided beside you, catching his breath as he stares at the ceiling.

You propped on your elbow and faced him sideways with a grin on your face.

"Hey, Caleb." Your fingers toyed with the pendant of his necklace. "You wanted me to rate your service, right? I'd give it a 4.5 out of 5."

He lets out a laugh, catching your hand and kissing your fingers. "What was the 0.5 deduction for?"

"...need another round..."

"Oh?" Caleb raised a brow, unable to hold back a smirk at your flustered expression. "Weeeell then, please allow me to compensate."

rafayel

Rafayel accepted your offer to give him a massage, especially since his back and shoulders have been tensed after painting for days with very little to no rest.

You had been away for work so you couldn't scold him properly to take breaks, and now you want to make up for your absence by helping him relax.

Not even five minutes after you started, Rafayel wondered if he had made a bad decision.

Today, for some reason, he's extra sensitive and not just emotionally, but physically, too.

Earlier, you breathed too close to his neck and he got chills, and not out of fear. You put your hand on his chest for thirty seconds and his heart wanted to jump out of his body. You slid your fingers down to his stomach, and blood rushed below his hips.

Rafayel shifted nervously on his bed. He's only wearing a single towel wrapped around his hips, and he's facing down against the mattress so that you could have easy access to his back and shoulders.

As you heavily but carefully drew circles on his upper back, Rafayel groaned against his pillow. You took that as a positive sign that he's feeling good from your massage, so you continued.

You pressed down to his lower back and giggled at the way he twitched.

"I didn't know you're ticklish here, Raf."

"...I'm not..."

Your thumbs moved in circular patterns just above his hips, slightly nudging the towel covering him. He lets out another sigh of relief, so you exerted more pressure down to his muscles.

Your eyes darted to his face for a moment and you wondered why his ears have turner red. Was it because of the massage?

"Rafayel, am I doing okay? If you want me to stop, just tell me - "

"No, don't stop!" he replied a little too quickly. "I mean.... keep going. You're doing great, cutie!"

"If you say so. Just making sure I'm not hurting you, that's all."

"Not at all!"

Rafayel stiffens as your hands returned to his back, as that's where he told you is the most painful part of his body is.

However, he needed your hands somewhere else.

Rafayel took a deep breath before turning around to face the ceiling. He's doing his best to breathe calmly, but his thoughts are making it impossible.

"What's wrong? did I - "

Rafayel grabbed one of your hands and guided it to his chest and let it travel down to his stomach, then right below his hips. His cock was standing tall through his towel, aching for your touch.

"It hurts here, too. Will you help me?"

You silently agreed with a nod, unable to take your eyes off his reddening cock, feeling as if you're in a trance.

Wrapping your hands around his shaft tightly, you slowly began to stroke him. A shaky, quiet moan comes out of Rafayel's lips.

Just a brief touch and he already feels like he's going to burst. He's unable to stop himself from fucking your hand, legs spread out and fingers grasping the bed sheets.

Rafayel cursed under bis breath as he came faster than he'd liked. He had come right on your hand and some had gotten to your face.

You licked the cum that got lost to your lips and Rafayel's face flushed at such a lewd image. He pulled you into the bed and embraced you sideways to cover your neck with passionate kisses

While he distracted you by leaving hickies below your jaw, his hands got rid of your shorts. You gasped as his fingers made contact with the crotch of your panty.

You grinded your ass against his hips to encourage him to continue, and so Rafayel moved your underwear aside and put his cock in you, at the same time his fingers massaged your clit.

His name comes out of your mouth as your body curls up with pleasure, allowing him to fuck you at a better angle.

"So good..." he pants against your ear, struggling to move at a slow pace.

He wanted to take his precious time to feel you, yet he also wanted to go fast just like what his throbbing cock in desperate need for release wants him to do.

In the end, he managed to keep things slow and sensual, appreciating every inch of you without a rush.

You rolled your hips back against him to meet him half-way, coating his cock with your slick as you struggle to contain your own desire for him.

Rafayel whines from behind you as you feel him picking up speed. "C-coming..." He tightened his hold on your hips before losing all his control and hammering into you, causing you to match the loud moans that he was letting out.

He quickly pulls out and rubs his cock against your legs before painting your skin with strings of his cum.

After coming not a minute after him, you turned around to face him. You brought a hand to his hair and brushed some sweaty strands away from his face, then you kissed his nose.

"So this is what happens when you get a massage."

"...only from you." he pouts. "Now, I feel even more tired. I'll have to stay in bed all day tomorrow. You'll stay with me, right, cutie?"

"Hmmm... nope."

"Why?! Is it because you don't love me?"

You flicked his forehead with your fingers. "Someone has to stop Thomas from barging in the room to see my lazy, exhausted fishie slacking off."

"Ah." He smiles and hugs you tightly, nuzzling his face against yours. "my hero."

xavier

It's not that you're ticklish.

There's just something about the way Xavier is kneading your body that makes it difficult for you to suppress amused giggles.

It might have something to do with his soft touches that doesn't help much with your sore muscles, although it does make bring you lots of warmth, comfort and joy.

That's why you allowed Xavier to give you a massage. He insisted that he gives you one after reading online that it'll help with tensed joints and muscles, so he watched some tutorial videos beforehand.

Now, you're on your couch, lying down facing the ceiling. According to Xavier, the less clothes, the more effective the massage will be. So, you decided to strip down completely but put a small towel over your breasts and crotch.

You're not even really sure why you bothered to cover up, considering Xavier has seen you naked more than enough times to feel shy.

In fact, when he saw you with the towels, he looked a little confused, though he never asked about it. He only told you to lie down and get comfortable.

After following his instructions, Xavier's first step was to give a few drops of oil on your stomach. It's slightly warm on your skin, and its scent was something similar to the fragrances that you frequently use.

He gave your tummy a few rubs, and you couldn't help but smile at how careful and gentle he was being.

When it was time for him to take care of your sore spots, you bit the inside of your cheek to stop your laughter.

You did feel some pressure, which felt nice. It just didn't last for long, as Xavier didn't exert the right amount of force.

It's not that he doesn't have enough strength - of course, he does; he is a strong hunter, after all. More likely, he's unsure of how much pressure to apply, at what angle, and for how long.

While it's not the best massage you'll ever get, he's still making you feel happy and relaxed in his own way. That's all that matters.

"You're not hurt, are you?" Xavier asked as he pressed on your hamstrings.

"Nope. I'm okay! Keep going, Xavier! You're doing great!"

"Okay!"

The way his face lit up had you melting and wanting to cuddle him. He's just too precious for his own good.

"...."

Ten minutes later, your eyes snapped wide open as you felt something....different, touch your thighs.

"What was that...?"

You looked at your legs and caught Xavier red-handed, pressing his lips on your inner right thigh.

"It's fine." He smiles at you. "It's part of the massage."

"...is it?"

"Mhmm. Just relax. It'll make your body feel better."

He resumed on applying pressure with his hands on your legs, so you brought your head back down on your pillow and closed your eyes for a little nap.

A minute later, you felt another kiss on your other thigh. You decided not to question him and let him do whatever he wanted.

But after the third kiss, which was slightly higher than the previous two, your muscles tensed up. Particularly, your pussy clenched as his lips lingered dangerously close to your core.

He does it a few more times, and the moans he's muffling against your skin absolutely didn't help your case: it only made you wet. And with Xavier being so close, he might notice.

He's over here, sacrificing his time and energy to help you feel relaxed, and yet you're getting turned on.

No, no, no. You'll have to control yourself. At least, wait until after he's done.

"Ngggnnhh,,,"

Oh god, he's doing it again.

This time, his kisses are even louder and higher. His hands are holding up your thighs so he can make space for himself.

You didn't even notice until now that Xavier no longer stood by the side of the couch, but he's now on it, too. He's right between your legs.

While you're looking down, Xavier met your gaze and your held your breath for a second. You know that look. It's the same one he often gives you in the bedroom during intimate activities.

"Xavier...."

"...I'm adding my own special techniques in the massage."

He scooted closer to your hips and lowered his face to give your thighs more kisses.

"This might be more effective."

Your face burned as you felt his tongue slide against your sensitive skin. You were unable to look away from Xavier's intense gaze directly on you.

"It feels good, right?"

You failed to come up with a coherent response as the towel that poorly covered your crotch had been dropped on the floor.

"I know you're still sore, so just stay like that." Xavier lowered himself so his chest is not too far from touching the couch. He's propped on his elbows and peeking at you between your legs. "I'll help you relax."

With that, Xavier's mouth rams into your cunt. His tongue feels your folds while his hands clings onto your thighs, spreading them wider.

You arched your back and hissed at his actions. One of your hands reached to down Xavier's face, but he caught it with his left and intertwined his fingers with yours, letting it drop to your side.

He gave you no time to calm down; his lips and tongue worked fast on making you fall apart just within a few minutes, but only because he had other things in mind.

Xavier pulled down his pants and boxers and brushed his cock against your pussy, not a minute after your orgasm. You were still sensitive, so when his tip traced around your folds, you were unable to keep your volume quiet and your insides felt like exploding.

"Xavier!"

He put the back of your legs over his shoulders, giving himself more space before grinding dick right between your folds. His breathing quietly picked up at the feeling of your core that's soaked just for him.

His eyes darted over to your face for a moment to flash you a smile.

And as much as you love Xavier, you were cursing him in your head.

How could he smile like you like that, as if he's not teasing and torturing you and calling it a 'massage'?

You can't even hate him because every cell in your body craves for him in every way possible. Anytime he smiles at you, you're on your knees for him - sometimes, literally.

"Ah!"

You were pulled out of your trance as soon as Xavier put himself inside fully you in one hard thrust.

His face flushes and his eyes are fixed on your breasts, watching them move along with the rest of your body as he repeatedly snaps his hips against yours.

The couch budges and the wooden floor creaks at Xavier's heavy plunges. The grunts leaving his parted lips joins your cries of pleasure and the sounds that your bodies are making as they collide.

Xavier is too far from your reach and there was nothing for you to hold onto, so you ended up running your hands down to your chest and squeezing your breasts as you gasp for air.

He let out a low growl under his breath as he watched your movements. He fucked you even faster at the same time he lowered his face down to your chest.

He captured your hands and pinned them by your sides before his mouth sucks in your left breast, with his tongue circling around your nipple.

He then switched to do the same on your right breast, though his teeth slightly nipped you as he felt his hips tingling.

Xavier made sure to push his cock in the deepest part of you before cumming. His voice echoes throughout your living room as he released every drop inside you while still his rolling his hips, slower and slower until his stamina is drained.

Your release quickly followed after his cock was pulled out. Xavier rested his body on top of yours, with his face on your chest, listening to your racing heart.

While you breathe heavily, your index finger traced the shell of his left bright red ear. His skin is slightly glowing with white light, too, as his evol sometimes acts up during or after he has an orgasm.

You'll never not be in awe of him.

"Hey, Xavier. Are you feeling tired?"

"Mhmm..."

He's sleepy now.

"Do you...want a massage?"

He opened one eye to catch your teasing grin "....if it's like the one I gave you...yes, please..."

"By the way, what kind of massage tutorial videos did you watch? They're kinda not that effect- "

"Don't worry about it."

[aleksatia]

Please Verify Your Lover Before Proceeding

One of the strangest nights of your life. You had a little too much at Tara’s birthday—the drink tasted light, but turned out vicious. Your brain took a vacation through a Deep Space Tunnel, and your body was on full autopilot.

Somehow, you ended up with him, fully convinced it was the right one. But oh, how wrong you were—drunk and blissfully unaware, you’d just mistaken one of your men for another.

Author’s Note: Please don’t take these drabbles too seriously — they’re purely for fun and unhinged emotional relief. I desperately needed a break from the recent angst spiral to be able to return to it with (somewhat) intact mental health 😅 Logic may have been slightly sacrificed along the way, and yes — this is basically an AU.

CW/TW: Impaired consent due to intoxication, Mistaken identity during intimacy, Sexual situations, Mild voyeurism / indirect third-party involvement, Emotional confusion / post-intimacy guilt or shock, Strong language & innuendo, Humor + chaos.

It wasn’t… Caleb?!

You didn’t remember falling asleep—only that the table was sticky, the music was loud, and your messages to Caleb had begun to look more like encrypted runes than words. But you’d been so sure he’d understand. He always did. He was reliable like that.

When arms slid under your body, you didn’t resist. Of course he came.

The world swayed as he carried you, steady and strong. You nuzzled closer to his chest and sighed. Everything smelled clean—sharp, cool, and oddly antiseptic—but you chalked that up to his military instincts. Caleb always smelled like order.

A car. Then motion. And then—blankets. Pillows. The faintest hum of electronics nearby. Hands tucking you in like you were fragile. Like you mattered.

“Stay,” you mumbled, fingers clinging to his sleeve.

He exhaled through his nose. “You need water.”

You frowned. “You never let me just feel things. Always hydration and discipline.”

“That’s hardly a criticism.”

You cracked one eye open, just a sliver. His silhouette hovered near the bed, sharp and still.

“I asked you to stay,” you said again, lips barely moving.

“You also asked me to bring snacks,” he murmured. “And a crowbar.”

You groaned into the pillow. “That sounds like me.”

“You texted me eight times in ten minutes.”

“I thought I texted you once.”

“There were diagrams.”

You made a noise of protest, buried your face deeper in the pillow, then muttered, “Well. I wouldn’t have let anyone else see me like this.”

Silence. A rustle of fabric. Then the cool press of a glass against your hand.

“Drink,” he said softly.

You did. Begrudgingly.

Because of course Caleb would come for you. And of course he’d bring water.

You drifted off with the world tilting gently beneath you, like the bed was floating somewhere through space. The weight of him settled beside you—solid, grounding, exactly where he was supposed to be. You reached out, blindly, and found his hand. Twined your fingers with his and dragged his palm to rest flat against your stomach. He let you. Of course he did. He always did.

Sleep took you again.

You weren’t sure what woke you. The dark still pressed heavy against your closed eyelids. But your body stirred, aware before your mind caught up. His chest was warm against your back. One arm wrapped tight around your waist. Your legs tangled together beneath the blanket.

And he was hard.

You shifted—just a little—and felt it. The unmistakable pressure, hot and firm against the curve of your backside. Your breath caught. A single beat passed. Then another. Your pulse quickened.

Desire slid into your veins like heat meeting cold.

You didn’t think. Not in full sentences. Not in anything that might pass for logic. You only felt: the warmth of his skin, the weight of his body, the way his presence lit something low and needy inside you.

You turned, slow and quiet, until your chest met his. Eyes still closed. Your nose brushed his throat. You inhaled deeply, searching for that familiar scent—leather, wind, the faint sharpness of steel.

Your hand found the plane of his abdomen. His skin was warm, smooth, the muscle beneath taut and unyielding. Your fingers followed the line of it lower. Slipping beneath the edge of his waistband. Seeking.

He gasped.

The sound was rough. Strained. Not what you expected.

But it didn’t stop you.

Your hand closed around him. Firm. Intentional. He was already hard, already pulsing with heat, and you stroked once—slow, deliberate.

The moan that tore from his chest startled you. Not because of the sound itself, but because something about it was… off.

Not unfamiliar.

But wrong.

Before you could process it, his hand shot out and caught your wrist—tight, urgent. He didn’t push you away. Not yet. But the question was there, suspended in the air between you, pulsing louder than the beat of your heart.

Still, you didn’t stop.

Your lips found his throat. You bit—softly. Your tongue traced the line of his jaw, then higher, brushing the shell of his ear.

“I’m aware of what I’m doing,” you whispered, voice low, slow, thick with sleep and need. “And I’m not nearly as drunk as I was.”

His breath hitched.

You smiled.

“Let me thank you,” you murmured, your fingers flexing slightly, teasing his grip on your wrist. “For taking care of me.”

His fingers trembled against your wrist. The grip loosened—not quite a surrender, but not a refusal either. An uncertain signal. A warning draped in permission.

You ignored it.

You didn’t want hesitation. You wanted heat. Contact. Caleb would’ve already had you on your back by now, reckless and absolute, dragging you under without room to think. 

But this? This felt… cautious. Careful.

Too careful.

You pushed the thought away.

With one fluid movement, you rolled on top of him. Straddled his hips. Your thighs pinned his firmly in place as you shifted, slow and deliberate, letting the friction of his arousal drag against you through too-thin fabric.

He exhaled like you’d knocked the air from his lungs—and then, suddenly, he surged upward.

His arms wrapped around you, crushing you against him, and his mouth found yours in a kiss that was nothing like Caleb’s.

It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t dominant. It was hungry and startled, like he was discovering the shape of you for the first time. Like he didn’t know how to kiss you—only that he had to. Urgently. Now.

It should’ve been a clue.

Instead, it turned the fire in your chest into something wilder.

You moaned into his mouth. Your hands fisted in his shirt—no, bare skin now—your nails scraping across his shoulders as you ground your hips down again.

“Caleb…”

He froze.

Every muscle in his body went taut beneath you.

And then—his hands shot up. Not to push. Not to hurt. But to catch your face, firm and deliberate, his palms warm against your cheeks as he held you just far enough away to see you clearly.

“Open your eyes,” he said, voice sharp. Not cruel—but commanding.

Not Caleb’s voice.

Your heart stuttered.

You opened your eyes.

And stared straight into green.

Not warm purple. Not storm-dark, half-lidded with possessive heat. No.

Sharp, clear, unflinching green.

Zayne.

You jerked back like you’d been shocked, your limbs tangling in sheets that weren’t yours, weren’t his.

This was Zayne’s apartment. Zayne’s bed. Zayne’s body.

And you were half-naked, straddling a man who wasn’t the one you’d summoned in your drunken haze.

Your voice cracked. “Oh my god.”

You scrambled back so fast you lost the sheet. There was a heroic attempt to rise with dignity, followed by a valiant battle with the comforter, and then—gravity. Your heel caught on the edge of the blanket and you toppled clean off the bed.

The floor greeted you with a muffled thump. Fortunately, Zayne had expensive taste. The rug was thick, soft, and tragically unjudgmental.

You lay there for a second, face-down, tangled in linen and a full-body mortification spiral.

From above, Zayne’s voice: “Another point in favor of sobriety.”

You groaned into the rug.

“Impaired coordination,” he continued, in a tone that could only be described as clinically disappointed. “Reduced motor skills. Poor spatial awareness.”

You flailed upright with the rage of a woman who wished the carpet would eat her alive. Your face was on fire. Your hair looked like a stormcloud with trust issues.

“You’re not helping,” you hissed.

“I’m educating.”

“Zayne—!”

“Also: tendency toward misidentification of romantic partners. Should I add that to the list?”

You made a strangled noise. A mix between a gasp, a sob, and the dying shriek of someone who had just remembered exactly where her hand had been several minutes ago.

“Are you writing this down?” he added mildly. “I can fetch a datapad.”

“I’m never drinking again,” you muttered, yanking the sheet tighter around yourself like it might smother the memory. Or you. “And if I do, I’m never texting Caleb for help again.”

There was a pause.

“Why would he send you, anyway?”

Zayne tilted his head, expression infuriatingly neutral.

“Possibly,” he said, “because you texted me. Not him.”

Your face went very still. Then very pale.

“Oh God,” you whispered. “I… I didn’t say anything indecent, did I?”

He didn’t answer.

Your stomach dropped.

“…Zayne?”

He looked at the ceiling. “There were words. Phrases. Some suggestive punctuation.”

You let out a dying noise.

“And a photo,” he added blandly.

You buried your face in the sheet. “Please don’t finish that sentence unless you want to resuscitate me.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then—so dryly you almost missed the humor under it—

“…I’ve already cleared it from my device.”

You made another noise.

Possibly a prayer. Possibly a scream. Possibly both.

You mumbled into your hands, voice muffled and pitiful, “Zayne, I’m so sorry. You should’ve left me there. Let me deal with my drunk disasters alone…”

Without warning, he reached for your wrist and pulled you upright, settling you on the bed beside him with calm, practiced strength.

“Look at me.”

You shook your head instantly. “I can’t. I’m too embarrassed.”

“That’s your punishment,” he said, voice flat but glinting with something undeniably sharp. “You kissed me. While thinking I was someone else.”

You winced and slowly peeked up at him—only to find no trace of anger. None.

Instead… he looked like he was on the brink of laughing.

Zayne. Laughing.

There was warmth tugging at the corners of his mouth, rare and real. His eyes shimmered with quiet amusement. You didn’t think you’d ever seen him this entertained by anything—let alone by you.

And then—his hand moved.

Gently, his knuckles traced the curve of your cheek. His fingers tucked a rogue strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that stole the breath right from your lungs.

“So,” he said softly, “you and Caleb. It’s serious?”

You closed your eyes, barely whispering, “Zayne… please don’t.”

But his voice was quiet again, low and steady. “You can message me. Or call. Any time. No matter what state you’re in. I mean it.”

You didn’t even realize you’d leaned into him until your shoulder brushed his. Your body betrayed you—drawn toward his warmth, the way his presence steadied everything. Your pulse slowed, and then shifted. It wasn’t beating for Caleb anymore.

It was singing. For him.

“For the record,” you murmured, “what if I… try to seduce you again?”

His voice was a breath against your ear.

“Did I resist the first time?”

You swallowed hard. Then—he whispered:

“Just promise me, next time… you’ll be sure it’s me.”

And you nodded. Because next time, it absolutely would be.

It wasn’t… Rafayel?!

You hadn’t meant to end up in his bed. That much you’d be forced to admit later—probably while he quietly reviewed the sequence of your poor decisions like a disappointed professor grading a very chaotic thesis.

It had all made perfect sense at the time. Tara’s birthday had involved five kinds of glowing drinks, three games with suspiciously flexible rules, and one hot tub that felt like the gateway to another dimension. By the time you stumbled out into the hallway, barefoot, blissed out, and humming a song you didn’t know, your brain had decided it was time to find him.

You’d made it to the door. That counted. The hallway swam slightly, edges soft in the low light. The lock read your fingerprint and clicked open. Inside: dark, warm, quiet. Moonlight spilled faintly across the floor. Familiar outlines slid past as you moved—sofa, shelf, the slight turn toward the bedroom. 

You didn’t think. You didn’t need to. Your body knew the way.

So of course you’d climbed into the bed without thinking. Of course you’d tucked yourself against him and whispered half-intelligible things into his skin. And of course, when strong arms wrapped instinctively around you, you took that as confirmation that yes, this was right. This was where you belonged.

He shifted under you when you kissed the hollow of his throat, but didn’t speak. His breath stilled, then deepened. When your fingers trailed down his chest, finding the edge of the sheet and the warmer skin beneath, he flinched—but still said nothing.

So you kept going.

He tasted like the dark—clean, quiet, unexpectedly warm. The muscles in his stomach twitched as your mouth moved lower. His fingers curled in the sheet. You caught his wrist, guided his hand to your waist, and exhaled against his neck, letting your body press fully to his.

It was quiet for a long moment. Then—his voice, rough, barely above a whisper.

“You’re drunk.”

You hummed an agreement against his collarbone and licked it, slow and deliberate.

“We shouldn’t,” he said. But his hand stayed on your hip.

“We won’t,” you lied.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he pulled you closer.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was a sudden, visceral shift—the kind that made you gasp against his mouth and cling to him harder. His mouth found yours like he’d waited years to taste it. His hands moved over you like he was mapping terrain he hadn’t dared to touch before.

This wasn’t quite the slow-burning, theatrical Rafayel you were used to. He liked to draw things out—playful, teasing, all about the build-up. But this... this was different. Urgent. Focused. Like he’d waited long enough and wasn’t in the mood for his usual games.

It wasn’t a thought, not really. More like a drunk idea dressed up as instinct. Your fingers fumbled at the hem of his shirt, gathering soft fabric, dragging it upward. He shifted—just enough to help—and the shirt came off in a blur of warmth and motion. You blinked at the bare skin in front of you, something in your brain slurring oh yes, that’ll do, and you pressed your hands to him like the rest of the scene couldn’t continue without contact.

When he pushed you down into the mattress, you welcomed the weight of him. His hands moved with surprising coordination, slipping under the fabric of your dress, tugging it down with quiet urgency. When his mouth found the curve of your jaw, your throat, your shoulder—you arched into him, fingers tangled in his hair, your dress forgotten somewhere near your knees.

He groaned—quiet, desperate—and for a second, his forehead pressed to yours. His breath was ragged. His eyes never left your face, even in the dark. Then he drew back just slightly, the moonlight skimming across your skin—and he stilled. His gaze moved over you, unhurried, almost cautious, like he wasn’t sure what he was allowed to touch. Not quite the hungry, theatrical boldness you’d come to expect. No smirk. No whispered praise. Just silence, and a look that felt... different. 

Like he was seeing you for the first time.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, the words almost accidental, half-swallowed.

You smiled lazily, fingertips skimming his ribs. 

“I thought you’d be used to me by now,” you said, your words slightly slurred, softened by heat and alcohol. “My body’s not for watching tonight. It’s for enjoying. For doing things.”

He made a sound in the back of his throat—something between restraint and surrender—and kissed you again, harder this time. His body moved against yours in a way that left no doubt: he wanted this. 

He wanted you.

So when your legs wrapped around his waist, he didn’t stop you.

And when your hands slipped down his back, dragging him closer, he moaned into your mouth.

And then—

“God,” you whispered, “I’ve wanted this since I saw your last painting… the way you had me sprawled out, all silk and shadows—like you were already touching me.”

The words hung there for a moment, sticky with heat, stillness, and something just a bit too specific.

Then—he went absolutely still.

Not the intoxicating stillness of desire. The clinical, surgical stillness of a mind calculating disaster in real time.

You blinked up at him, a little dazed, your body still aching from the closeness, the heat of his skin against yours.

"Rafayel?" you said softly.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he said, calm and mechanical, "Lights. On."

There was a barely audible click—and then light flooded the room like divine judgment.

You froze.

He was already half-sitting, breathing heavily, shirtless and flushed, his eyes locked on your face with a mix of focus and sheer, silent horror.

And then you saw his face.

Not rose-blue eyes glinting with mischief. Not a lopsided, teasing mouth.

Not Rafayel.

You saw precision-cut cheekbones, sky-blue eyes sharp as scalpels, and a jaw that had never once wobbled mid-sentence with poetic nonsense.

Xavier.

You shrieked. 

Actually shrieked.

You slapped both hands over your bare breasts with a speed that could qualify you for Olympic fencing and scrambled backward in the bed, pulling the sheet up with wild eyes and lungs full of panic.

“Oh my God,” you gasped, suddenly and violently sober. “Oh my—oh my GOD—”

Xavier, to his credit, didn’t move. His breathing was steadying. His expression was unreadable, but his knuckles were white against the mattress.

“I thought—” You stared at him like he’d grown horns. “I thought you were Rafayel!”

“Yes,” he said tightly. “I noticed.”

“I didn’t just crawl into the wrong bed—”

“You broke into the wrong apartment.”

“I kissed your neck!”

You flushed, vividly, because that hadn’t been the only place you'd kissed—just the only one you could admit out loud.

“I was painfully aware.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?!”

“I was... reassessing reality.”

You buried your face in the sheet with a strangled sound of anguish.

After a moment, you heard him get up—quiet, efficient. Fabric rustled. Then something soft landed next to you.

You peeked out from the sheet.

It was his T-shirt. White, loose, and—dear gods—smelling exactly like him. A mix of clean cotton, green tea, and that cool scent you’d never been able to place, only feel. It was like someone distilled self-control and made it wearable.

You looked up at him. He stood by the bed, wearing only joggers, one brow raised.

“Put it on,” he said calmly. “Before your shame kills us both.”

You yanked the shirt over your head so fast you nearly headbutted yourself in the process. It fell down over your thighs like a dress. You smelled like him. That was worse.

You sat there, radiating nuclear embarrassment.

He watched you for a long moment.

And then, quietly: “You really thought I was him?”

You nodded, mute.

“In the dark. After drinking... whatever that glowing thing was.”

You sighed, covering your face. “I regret ever convincing you to switch to a biometric lock and give me access.”

“I don’t,” he said quietly. “I just regret being the wrong destination.”

He sat down on the edge of the bed, not close. Measured. That familiar weight of his presence returned—less physical now, more intellectual. You glanced sideways at him, unsure what you were allowed to say.

“I should go,” you offered weakly.

“No. You’ll trip. Or misidentify someone else. You’re a hazard tonight.”

He sighed. “Stay here. I’ll take the couch.”

“Fair.”

He glanced at the ceiling. “Let’s try not to confuse the doors next time.”

That earned a groan. “I’m never going to live this down.”

“I might require compensation,” he said dryly.

You turned, still hugging your knees. “How do I make it up to you?”

He tilted his head slightly.

“Next time,” he said, “you come to the correct bed. On purpose.”

You blinked. “Wait. Are you saying—”

“Fully conscious,” he added. “And able to tell your men apart.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I’m sober now. That could technically be—”

“No.” His voice was softer now. “Not tonight.”

He reached out, gently touched the crown of your head, and pressed the softest kiss there—quiet, a little too tender. Your heart seized.

“Tonight,” he said, “I’m still trying to process the fact that I don’t leave enough of an impression to be distinguishable in bed.”

You winced. “I mean... in the dark... you did feel a little like him...”

He gave you a look that could have withered a houseplant.

“I’ll stop talking now.”

“Wise.”

Still, he stayed close. He reached for the crumpled blanket and helped you lie back, adjusting the pillows behind you with quiet efficiency. You didn’t speak. Neither did he. He pulled the blanket up over your waist, smoothed it once, and stepped back—not far, just enough to give you space you weren’t sure you wanted.

He turned to leave. You caught his hand.

He froze.

When you spoke, your voice was quiet, stripped of awkwardness.

“If I confused you with someone else... that doesn’t mean I never wanted it to be you.”

His eyes met yours.

“I’ve wanted it to be you,” you went on, “for longer than I like to admit. But you’re so... precise. Reserved. I didn’t want to cross a line. I didn’t want to lose what we do have, whatever it is.”

He was silent.

Then he smiled. Just barely. A corner-curve of the mouth. Trouble in disguise.

He stepped over to his nightstand, tore a page from his notepad, and scribbled something.

You sat up as he folded the note and tucked it beside your pillow.

“Good night,” he said.

“Xavier—what’s this?”

He was already at the door.

“Open it when I leave.”

And then—he was gone. Out of the room, the door closing behind him with soft finality.

You opened the note. In clean, minimal handwriting:

"1x Free Visit. Valid for: the right door. Condition: Full sobriety. —X"

You sank back into his bed, clutching the note to your chest. Your fingers found his pillow—still warm, still carrying the quiet, unmistakable scent of him—and you pulled it close, burying your face in it with a helpless little sigh. Half in love, half in horror.

Somewhere, in the haze between drinks and desire, you’d made a mistake.

But maybe—just maybe—it had been waiting to happen all along.

It wasn’t… Zayne?!

How on earth had you let Tara drag you into a masquerade party?

If only you’d known what was coming.

You’d arrived in your normal clothes, and within minutes, she’d stuffed you into the only spare costume she had left. You’d barely downed your first drink when you caught your reflection in the mirror: an almost indecently short nurse’s dress, thigh-high fishnets, unforgiving heels, and—because humiliation demands layers—two pigtails perched like cherries on a sundae.

Glass after glass drowned out the voice of reason until, eventually, you started having fun. Maybe a little too much fun. Because that’s when the idea formed.

You messaged Zayne.

“Still working?”

He replied almost instantly. “Yes. Another sleepless night. Want to keep me company?”

You smirked, picturing his face when you’d peel off your coat and reveal the gloriously inappropriate disaster you were currently wearing.

“Call me a cab and you’ll get a surprise,” you typed, giggling.

You dropped him the address. The letters on your screen were already beginning to dance, so you tucked your phone into your purse and made a wobbly descent toward the pickup point.

You passed out in the car.

Your legs carried you on autopilot when you arrived. The building seemed darker than usual, quieter. Like a hospital at 3 a.m.—eerily clean and vaguely menacing. You could’ve used a saline IV and a glucose drip, but you soldiered forward, heels clicking ominously against marble floors.

At one point, you had to catch yourself against the wall, nearly toppling over. You burst into laughter at the absurdity of it all.

Someone whistled.

Zayne?

He didn’t usually whistle… but then again, he didn’t usually see you like this. Drunk. Sultry. One wardrobe malfunction away from a lawsuit.

“Doctor,” you slurred, dropping your purse with a dramatic gasp. “I think I need assistance.”

You bent down in the least ergonomic way possible—legs locked, heels steady, dress defying gravity. Your hands fumbled across the floor, patting around blindly while he, poor man, had an unobstructed view of everything that made your outfit barely legal.

“What are you waiting for, Doctor?” you purred. “Put me to bed, stat.”

“Might need an ambulance,” he muttered.

“Tonight, you are my ambulance. My emergency contact. My…” You paused, reaching for a word.

“Grateful audience?” he offered dryly.

“Well, if you’d rather just watch, Doctor. Or are you going to perform a proper exam? I think I twisted my ankle…”

He chuckled.

Zayne—laughing?

You blinked at him, trying to steady the room, but he stepped in, catching you carefully beneath the arms and lifting you upright. Then, without a word, he scooped you into his arms and began carrying you toward the bedroom.

You looped your arms around his neck, closed your eyes with a happy sigh, and let yourself melt into the warmth of him.

Once you were laid out on the soft bedspread, you stretched out one leg toward him—gracefully, or so you believed. The stiletto heel pointed at his chest like the barrel of a gun.

 “My ankle, Doctor,” you reminded him.

Obediently, he slipped off the shoe. His strong, confident fingers wrapped around your foot, gently massaging it. It felt so sweet—so good—you tilted your head back, relaxed, and moaned.

He braced your leg against his chest and reached for the other. The second heel hit the floor with a dull thud. He began to knead your other foot, and it awakened something in you that felt anything but patient-like. Your heart pounded loudly beneath your ribs, urging you toward something bolder. Braver.

Your leg began to slowly slide down his torso, inch by inch, until it came to rest precisely where you wanted it—against the hardness that told you he wasn’t as detached as he pretended.

You heard him exhale sharply. His fingers tightened ever so slightly around your ankle.

“You need sleep and hydration,” he said, voice low, breathless. “Doctor’s orders.”

“Nooo,” you drawled, pouting. “I’ve been a very, very naughty nurse tonight.”

He paused.

Not just physically—his whole energy shifted, like something inside him pulled tight. His hands were still on your ankles, but they weren’t moving anymore.

“You’re drunk,” he whispered softly. “This isn’t fair to you.”

You blinked, pouting deeper. “Ugh. Your professional ethics are showing.”

His thumbs brushed lightly over the bone of your ankle. “They tend to, when my patient is trying to seduce me.”

You stretched like a cat, deliberately languid, as your calf slid back up his chest. “I may be tipsy, but I’m also extremely committed to bad decisions. And I would absolutely do this sober.”

He didn’t speak.

You tilted your head, arching a brow—at least, you thought you did. It was hard to tell with the ceiling gently rotating overhead. You squinted, trying to make out his face. But the low light, the alcohol, and the sheer gravitational rebellion of the night blurred the lines of his features. He was all shadows and warmth and intent.

“Unless… you’re just not interested?”

That got him.

He surged forward—fast, smooth, a whisper of movement—and braced himself over you, catching your wrists with one hand, his body caging yours without fully touching. His face hovered just above yours, close enough that his breath tickled your lips.

“I’m interested,” he said, voice low and strained. “That’s the problem.”

You grinned.

“I knew it,” you whispered. “Even doctors are weak to naughty nurses.”

Still grinning, you reached up, hooked a finger through the front of his shirt, and pulled him closer. His nose bumped yours. His hair brushed your cheek. His breath hitched.

You crashed your lips against his in a kiss that was all wine and wicked intent. He let out a surprised breath—half gasp, half groan—but his body was already surrendering. Resistance ebbed away with every exhale.

With a burst of surprising strength for someone three cocktails and a questionable decision deep, you pushed him back onto the bed and immediately latched your mouth onto his nipple, biting just enough to make him jolt. His fingers tangled in your hair, breath catching.

Your lips continued their descent, tracing his abs like a cartographer mapping out forbidden territory. The soft trail of your tongue drew out a sound from his chest—low, needy, beautifully vulnerable.

You’d just reached his belt when you purred, mock-innocent:

“Mmm, Dr. Zayne, I think you’ve just entered my private treatment room...”

“Oh, cutie,” came the reply, tinged with amusement, a spark of offense, and a whole lot of lust, “I think you just fell into your own damn trap.”

Your fingers froze mid-buckle.

You blinked. Once. Twice. Your head gave a small shake.

No. Nope. Not yet.

Because now you knew. You knew exactly whose voice that was.

Still crouched low, you began to slide—gracefully, like a wartime spy—off the bed, dragging half the sheet with you. It took some maneuvering, but you made it to the floor in one piece, curling under the blanket like a small, trembling tent of denial.

“Do you think if you can’t see me, I’ll just disappear?” came Rafayel’s voice, far too amused for anyone who’d just been mistaken for someone else. He shuffled to the edge of the mattress.

You could feel him hovering.

“Say I’m dreaming,” you mumbled from under the blanket, your voice muffled by mortification. “If you’re any kind of gentleman, you’ll pretend I’m asleep and this was all a fever dream.”

“Naaaah,” he replied in a pitch-perfect mockery of your earlier whine. “Up until ten seconds ago, it was a very sweet, very erotic dream. I’m not quite ready to downgrade it to a nightmare just because the starring role was apparently meant for someone else.”

“Raf...” You had no idea what to say. Your head was pounding, your dignity in shreds. “I swear, this isn’t what it looks like.”

“Oh really?” he drawled. “Because it looked a lot like a drunk and debauched nurse opening the gates of heaven before kicking me headfirst into hell. Or are you going to tell me calling me by someone else’s name was a charming little accident?”

You peeked your nose out from under the blanket to breathe, and his face was suddenly right there. Way too close. That smug grin said it all: you owed him emotional reparations until the end of time.

“I don’t even know how I ended up here.”

“Yeah,” he smirked, tugging the blanket off your head and grabbing both of your ridiculous pigtails in one hand, pulling you closer. “I gathered that much. What I don’t know is how often you pull stunts like this with your good doctor.”

“What? No!” You struggled slightly, trying to pull back, but he tugged again, tilting your head up with a wicked glint. “There’s nothing serious going on! A girl has needs, okay?”

Rafayel tilted his head. “Sweetheart, I saw those needs up close and in high definition.” He tapped a finger against his temple. “Etched forever in my memory. Like a museum piece. ‘The Lustful Nurse: A Study in Confused Devotion.’”

You groaned and tried to bury your face in the sheet again. He didn’t let you.

“Oh no you don’t,” he said, catching your chin and forcing you to meet his eyes. “You wanted a doctor. I stepped in. Professionally. Valiantly. Heroically, some might say.”

“Heroically?” you snorted. “You didn’t even stop me!”

“I did, cutie. I said something about hydration. And moral boundaries. But then your foot was—how do I put this—communicating with certain regions of my anatomy, and I lost the thread.”

You sputtered a laugh before you could stop yourself. His grin widened, full of wolfish charm and barely-concealed affection.

“I’m just saying,” he continued breezily, “next time you feel overwhelmed by your... medical urgencies, I’d prefer you direct all prescriptions and referrals to me directly.” He leaned in slightly. “I happen to think I played the role of attending physician beautifully.”

You tilted your head. “Does that mean… you’ll forgive me?”

He pretended to ponder. “Hm. That depends. Will the cure involve exactly the moment where we left off?”

You blinked.

“With the nurse on top, making some very compelling arguments with her mouth?”

Your cheeks flushed. “Only if the nurse is sober.”

“Oh, definitely sober,” he agreed. “I want her full faculties engaged when she begs next time.”

You rolled your eyes. “And what if next time, she shows up in horns and a succubus tail instead?”

His eyes gleamed. “Darling, that is your default setting.”

Before you could retaliate, he grabbed the sheet and wrapped you up like a particularly offended caterpillar, tucking the ends with unnecessary flair.

“Hey!” you squeaked, now entirely cocooned.

“There,” he said, with deep satisfaction, flopping you gently onto the mattress like a tragic little gnome. “A very dramatic gurney roll. Perfect hospital protocol.”

He leaned over and pressed a surprisingly soft kiss to your forehead, lingering for a beat.

“Rest now, Nurse Chaos,” he murmured. “Your doctor will go brew you something for the hangover of the century.”

And with a final wink, he vanished toward the kitchen—barefoot, shirtless, and infuriatingly smug.

You sighed into the pillow, flushed and cocooned, and groaned: “I am never drinking again.”

From the kitchen, his voice rang out cheerfully: “Liar.”

It wasn’t… Xavier?!

You were so drunk you didn’t remember ordering a car. But apparently, you had. Your phone—bless its barely functioning GPS—had autopiloted to the first name on your address list. And that felt… correct.

The car ride was a blur. The city swayed too much. You told the driver about the ocean at some point. He didn’t respond.

When you stumbled out in front of the building, something felt off. The lights were dimmer than usual. The entryway looked taller. Moodier. But you were too focused on the door—because for some reason, it refused to open.

You glared at the scanner, then at your hand, as if your fingerprint had betrayed you.

Eventually, after a prolonged and increasingly hostile battle, the lock beeped. You triumphed with a muttered, “Told you.”

The elevator was missing.

Replaced by a flickering light and an echo.

You turned. Someone stood by the stairwell.

No. Two someones. Identical silhouettes in matching black. Both leaning against the wall like shadows in waiting.

“Hi,” you said carefully.

Both of them smiled. It was disconcerting.

You blinked. “Are you... the neighbor?”

One of them nodded. The other tilted his head in sync.

You decided that meant yes.

“I’m looking for the elevator,” you whispered, as if sharing a classified secret.

“Out of order,” one said.

“Stairs only tonight,” the other added, perfectly in time.

You squinted. “…Okay.”

The stairwell was infinite. You lost a shoe on the third landing, your dignity on the fifth. Your left heel gave up entirely and got left behind somewhere between realms. You told it you’d come back for it.

Eventually, floors blurred into memory. The hall looked darker than it should’ve. You walked along the wall like it owed you support.

And then—him again. Them.

Same neighbor(s). Same smirks. Still somehow here.

You blinked. “Didn’t I pass you?”

“Not yet,” one said, cheerful.

“Still on track,” said the other.

You frowned. “Where’s… he?” You didn’t say the name. You didn’t need to. Your brain filled it in: Xavier. Of course.

One of them pointed to a door. The other followed the gesture like a synchronized swimmer.

You nodded gratefully, only swaying a little. “Thanks, Mr. Neighbors.”

The door surrendered instantly—possibly out of self-preservation. You stepped inside with a victorious little “Hah,” completely and utterly confident…

…that you were finally at his home.

You were, quite literally, trapped in your own dress.

One arm was hooked behind your neck, the other somewhere near your lower back, and the fabric had bunched halfway over your face like a smug, pastel-colored straitjacket. Your shoulder popped audibly as you twisted in what you were reasonably certain would qualify as a Cirque du Soleil audition gone wrong.

Somewhere in the room, a crow cawed.

You flinched. “Shhh. Bird,” you hissed at it. “Don’t judge me.”

You staggered blindly toward the edge of the bed, hands fumbling forward until they landed on what you assumed—hoped—was Xavier. The solid warmth under your palms shifted slightly. And then—

A sound. Not a protest. Not quite a groan.

Something… different.

“Babe,” you slurred affectionately, still muffled by the offending dress, “help me. I’m being strangled by haute couture.”

The air around you shifted. A dip in the mattress. The brush of hands—warm, steady—finding the zipper and carefully easing it down your spine.

Strange. He always had cool hands.

“Curious,” he murmured, voice low and amused.

“Right?” you replied brightly, stepping out of the uncooperative fabric as he pulled it down. “Also, before you say anything—I don’t know how I got here. I couldn’t find my door. And I was thinking about us and… I figured, you wouldn’t mind if we kept things casual. No pressure.”

“No objections,” he said easily.

The dress pooled on the floor. His hands paused at your hips, waiting.

You didn’t move. Your legs weren’t really cooperating anymore.

You sighed and flopped backward onto the bed—unexpectedly plush. Softer than usual. Your brain tried to inform you that his mattress wasn’t this springy. You silenced it with a groan.

“You just gonna sit there?” you muttered, eyes half-shut.

“I don’t think you realize—”

You didn’t let him finish. You grabbed his wrist and pulled him down beside you. Somewhere in the corner, the crow cawed again.

You winced. “Ugh, it’s back. Rude.”

Something flickered uneasily in your chest, like a memory trying to surface. Something wasn’t quite right.

But nothing had been right since the third round of absinthe.

“He’s warning you,” he whispered, so low it barely reached your skin. “You’re drunk. Not thinking clearly. You should leave.”

But his voice didn’t move away. His hand didn’t loosen. His mouth stayed close—too close.

You exhaled shakily. “Shut up and kiss me,” you muttered. “You can give me the lecture tomorrow.”

He hesitated for half a second.

Then: “If I start, I won’t stop,” he warned, his voice suddenly hoarse. Deeper than usual. Rougher.

Maybe he had a cold. Poor thing.

“And does it look like I want you to stop?”

You opened your eyes just enough to reach for him. Your fingers slid into his blonde hair—soft, thick, impossibly light. Almost glowing in the dark. You tugged gently, guiding him down to you.

He hovered above you, braced on his arms, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath. Then—his mouth dipped.

He didn’t kiss you right away.

Instead, he ran his tongue slowly along the curve of your lips.

You gasped, mouth parting instinctively, and he kissed you—deep, searching, intense. Different.

You moaned softly, wrapping your arms around him, pulling him close. His body felt broader, heavier. Or maybe you were just very, very small tonight. You couldn’t tell.

And you didn’t care.

“Here,” you whispered, breathless, guiding his mouth to your shoulder.

He obeyed. His fingers brushed the strap of your bra aside with reverent slowness, and his lips descended—warm, deliberate—on your skin. A rush of goosebumps chased the touch, spreading outward in every direction.

Yes. You were exactly where you wanted to be. And his mouth was following that same map.

Both your hands tangled in his hair, urging him downward. Your pulse was a drumbeat under your skin, and your hips rose instinctively when his lips traced down your sternum, lower, over your stomach, kissing every inch like he was memorizing it.

You were burning.

“More,” you gasped, arching beneath him. “Please… lower. There…”

He paused.

“As much as I want to—”

“Please,” you interrupted, too desperate to care. “While I’m still brave enough.”

Something in your voice must have undone him, because he stopped resisting. Slowly—agonizingly—he eased your underwear down your legs. His hands were steady. Careful. But everything in him was tight with restraint.

He kissed the inside of your thigh. Then—closer.

Your back arched violently when you felt him—tongue, lips, heat—all of him focused on one singular purpose. His movements were slow at first, cautious, like he was still asking permission with every breath. And when you answered in moans, he got bolder. Greedier. More confident with every cry that escaped your lips.

Your legs locked around his shoulders. The world narrowed to the rhythm he built between your thighs. Your hands fisted in the sheets, your head thrown back, mouth open in broken sounds.

You couldn’t hold it. You were close. Right there.

And then—

“Please, Xavier—don’t stop—”

He froze. A beat of silence. Then—

“Kitten,” came the voice. Low. Dangerous. Almost purring. “I can almost understand how you failed to notice where you were. But mistaking me for another man…” A pause. “That’s nearly a mortal insult.”

From the corner of the room, the raven cawed again.

Your blood turned to ice.

Eyes wide, you finally—finally—looked down.

Not blue. Glowing red. Smoldering. Amused.

Everything slid into place with a sickening click.

“Sy—Sylus?!”

He licked his still wet lips, slowly, like he’d just finished dessert and wasn’t entirely satisfied. “Disappointed?”

You squeaked. Instinct took over—you clamped your legs tighter around his neck in pure panic, your thighs locking like a wrestler’s hold.

“What the hell are you doing in Xavier’s apartment?! With your damn bird?! Were you following me?!”

“Sweetie,” he drawled, voice vibrating between your legs, “I’d like to remind you that you broke into my house, seduced an innocent man—” he paused, smirking, “—and are currently attempting to murder him with your divine thighs.”

You released him so fast he nearly fell backwards.

He caught himself with a laugh, rolling onto his side with the elegance of a man who’d never in his life been embarrassed.

You scrambled toward the headboard, dragging the sheet with you, curling in on yourself like your bones were trying to retreat into your body.

He propped himself up on one elbow. “God, you’re adorable when you’re horrified.”

“I’m traumatized!”

“You say that,” he mused, glancing meaningfully at your flushed cheeks and the way you were still breathing hard, “but your body tells a very different story.”

“You—! I called you Xavier!”

“I noticed,” he said, mock-wounded. “Took me a whole half-second to recover.”

“You could’ve stopped me!”

“I tried. Several times. You were extremely persuasive.”

Sheer horror twisted your face. “If you really wanted to stop me—!”

“I didn’t,” he said plainly.

Your mouth opened. Closed. Then:

“You took advantage of my condition!”

“Kitten,” he sighed, tone maddeningly patient, “it never crossed my mind that you were disconnected from reality and didn’t know who you were seducing. Shall I throw myself out the window in penitence? Or would a dueling pistol be more poetic?”

“You’d survive the bullet,” you muttered darkly. “I’d have to try a guillotine.”

His lips twitched. Despite yourself, yours did too.

He noticed. Of course he did.

And then he delivered the killing blow: “I’m happy to pay for your therapy bills for the rest of your life. If you’ve been… emotionally scarred.”

You snorted.

“No. I… I think I’m okay.” You hesitated. “Sylus.”

“Yes, kitten?”

“We’re adults. I hope no lasting wounds were inflicted.”

He gave a dramatic sigh. “Only to my ego. But I shall take this trauma to the grave. Shall I drive you back to your… actual lover?”

You flinched. “Xavier’s just a friend,” you said slowly. “Well… a friend with benefits. Sort of.”

You swallowed.

“But with you… it was different. I didn’t realize how different until…”

Your voice dipped.

“Until I couldn’t stop wanting more.”

For once, Sylus didn’t grin right away. His eyes darkened, and the smirk curled slower this time—deeper. Sharper.

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” he murmured. “Just don’t make the same mistake twice.”

You blinked. “The drinking, or… you?”

He chuckled. “Kitten, we already crossed that line. Might be time to consider someone a little more... stable than your friend with occasional benefits.”

You snorted. “I’d rather start with dinner.”

He stood, stretching lazily, reaching for his shirt. “Dinner after dessert? Bold move.”

You watched him check his watch. The smug bastard.

With a sigh, you pulled the sheet tighter. “The dessert was good. But the waiter cleared the plate too fast.”

His eyes gleamed as he looked back at you. “Then next time, sweetie, the waiter will bring the whole damn menu.”

He stepped closer, then paused, amused. “Now get dressed. I’ll take you home—unless, of course, you’d prefer to linger in the restaurant.”

You gave him a flat look. “Turn around.”

He laughed. That low, rich laugh that made your pulse misbehave. And then he moved—close enough to feel the heat from his body. Two fingers caught your chin—his thumb and forefinger gentle but sure—and he tilted your face up just enough to press the softest, briefest kiss to your lips.

“I adore you,” he said, barely above a whisper. “You good with the dress on your own?”

You nodded dumbly. He stepped back, already halfway to the door. “Good. Be quick.”

You blinked. “Wait—you’re leaving? Just now?”

He flashed a grin over his shoulder, hand on the doorframe. “Don’t worry. Next time, kitten—I’ll cancel everything.”

And then he was gone.

Just like that.

You stared at the door. Still half-wrapped in a sheet. Still burning.

Gods help you. You were in so much trouble.

It wasn’t… Sylus?!

You’d somehow made it home on your own, though the details were fuzzy at best. All you really remembered was that your heels had developed a personal vendetta against straight lines, repeatedly dragging you leftward, and at least twice you nearly embraced a lamppost like a long-lost lover.

You’d spent an impressive amount of time talking to a stray cat outside your building. He meowed, you answered—telling him, in great detail, that Sylus was probably going to hold your drunken calls and voice messages over your head for at least the next decade. Especially if you kept making them during business meetings.

You and Sylus were in that strange stage of something that wasn’t nothing, but also wasn’t something. There was intimacy. Oh, there was intimacy. But no promises. No forward motion. Just a precarious dance between magnetic pull and emotional inertia.

The memory of him made your stomach twist. You’d almost called him again, just to say you couldn’t make it up the stairs. That he should come carry you, arms and all, straight into bed and wrap you up in his sinfully warm embrace.

So when you saw the leather jacket draped over the arm of your couch, you didn’t question it.

Of course he’d come.

Of course he’d let himself in.

And of course he’d decided to take a shower. You could hear the water running in the bathroom, steady and confident, like it belonged to him.

You methodically stripped down to your underwear, fully intending to throw on your robe, only to remember that said robe had likely fallen victim to last week’s laundry crisis.

Doesn’t matter.

Waiting for him to come out felt like a personal attack. You simply didn’t have that kind of patience. Besides, something about the heat, the scent of soap and steam, was pulling you in like gravity.

You cracked the bathroom door open.

The air hit you like a sauna—thick with steam, saturated with warmth. Light filtered dimly through the haze, barely illuminating the tiled space beyond. Inside the glass enclosure, the outline of a naked male figure shimmered like a mirage. He stood with his back to you, a thick lather sliding down from his hair, tracing the lines of his shoulders and spine.

You grinned.

With a quick shrug, you let the last of your clothes fall, and stepped inside the shower, the heat swallowing you whole. Silently, deliberately, you slipped your arms around him from behind.

He jolted.

You responded by digging your nails gently into the firm ridges of his abs, resting your forehead against the damp heat of his back.

“Shhh. Don’t say anything, okay?” you murmured, your voice hoarse. “My head’s already splitting. Just… help me get clean.”

For a moment, he was motionless—utterly still, like your touch had turned him to stone. You could feel the rapid thrum of his heart under your fingertips, every inch of him wound tight. And then, wordlessly, he shifted to the side, letting the stream of hot water hit your skin.

You closed your eyes and tilted your face up into it. Water filled your ears, muffling the world, like slipping under the surface of a dream.

“This is a terrible, terrible idea,” he muttered at last—but you felt him reach for the bottle of shower gel.

“Right now it’s a medical emergency,” you mumbled back. “You wouldn’t leave a helpless girl in need, would you?”

Your hand trailed down his chest again, teasing—until he caught it, firm but careful, and turned you gently so your back was to him.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he began to soap your shoulders and arms with the soft rhythm of the loofah. Tender. Meticulous. Each motion measured like a vow he wasn’t sure he should make.

It was starting to feel less like a shower and more like a very specific kind of torture.

When he reached your hands, he took them one at a time—cradling each palm, massaging your fingers slowly, purposefully, working the thick, fragrant lather between them like it was the most important task he’d ever undertaken. Then the other hand. Same care. Same unbearable, aching slowness.

When the loofah returned to your back, he traced long, deliberate lines over your skin. Gentle swirls. Careful strokes. Avoiding—so infuriatingly precisely—anywhere remotely intimate.

Your blood turned to molten heat.

He hesitated. You didn’t.

You caught his wrists, tugging them forward, down and then up—guiding his palms over your belly, then higher, until you pressed them firmly against your breasts. You felt the slight tremor in his arms, the sharp inhale against your neck. That surprised you. Sylus was never hesitant. Not once. But maybe… maybe he was punishing you, making you work for it after your little drunk-dial escapades?

You leaned back into his chest, into his touch, giving him space—permission.

And that’s when you felt it.

Hard. Pressed right against you, nestled between your cheeks, unmistakably eager.

You moaned, slow and approving, your spine arching just slightly, sliding your soapy skin against his torso. A tease. A promise. A challenge.

His grip tightened.

Resisting.

Why? Was he mad?

But you knew exactly which buttons to push.

“Don’t stop now,” you purred, voice dipped in syrup. “My legs need your attention too.”

He exhaled against your neck, ragged and low, like a knight realizing the battle was already lost. “You’re not yourself,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t…”

“Then leave,” you murmured, swaying your hips back against him. “Unless you’re too polite to walk out mid-procedure.”

He didn’t leave.

He moved.

More soap. More silence.

Then a shift.

He sank to a crouch, one hand slipping down your thigh, the other gently lifting your foot. Water cascaded down your body as he lathered your calf with careful strokes, like he was preparing you for worship, not hygiene.

You reached out blindly for the wall, chest rising and falling with ragged, expectant breaths.

There was something so devastatingly intimate about it. So unassuming and utterly charged. Like your skin had become a live wire and his hands knew exactly where to touch, and more dangerously—where not to.

Your entire body buzzed with the aching need for him to forget his restraint.

To finally, finally stop pretending he didn’t want this just as badly as you.

Smirking to yourself, you reached—decisively—for the bottle of intimate wash, squeezed it into his waiting hand like it was a silent command.

For a few long seconds, he just stood there, his palm full of scented foam, unmoving. Until you parted your legs just a little wider in wordless invitation.

And then—you felt him.

There. Exactly where your body pulsed with need. Exactly where you’d needed him all along.

His fingers slid between your folds, gentle at first, exploring with maddening patience. Soft, slow strokes that made your knees weak. That dragged needy moans from your throat, one after another.

It felt different.

Unfamiliar.

Too… unfamiliar.

“Sylus,” you whimpered, your voice ragged, “you’re killing me tonight with this patience…”

And then—

He froze.

The heat disappeared, the contact broken. A faint chill rushed down your spine, goosebumps blooming across your skin.

You blinked, suddenly, sharply aware of a single terrifying thought:

Sylus had told you he’d be out of town. Work trip. He mentioned it during one of your calls, half-distracted, but clear. 

So how was he here?

How was he in your shower?

Your stomach dropped.

You turned. Slowly. Reluctantly. As if giving your brain time to come up with any explanation, any excuse, any miracle.

Your heart slammed against your ribs as you looked up into a face that was very, very much not the man you thought you’d been grinding against in your own shower.

Oh gods.

Oh hell.

This wasn’t Sylus. This was someone else entirely.

And in that moment, standing there stark naked, soaked to the bone, legs still parted like an offering—you wanted nothing more than to melt into the steam and swirl straight down the drain.

Preferably with the rest of your dignity.

“Pip-squeak,” he said slowly, clearly, planting his hands on either side of your head against the wall. There was nowhere to run.

“Tell me you didn’t expect the leader of Onychinus in your shower tonight.”

You bit your lip. Your chest was still rising too fast, your brain pulsing against your skull, and the thick steam made it hard to breathe. You tried the fainting strategy—gracefully sliding down the tiles like a wilting Victorian heroine.

It did not work.

Caleb caught you halfway down with a sigh and set you firmly back upright, unimpressed by your performance.

It was then that you realized—fully, painfully—that you were completely naked. You crossed your arms. Then your legs. And very carefully avoided his eyes.

Unfortunately, that meant your gaze landed squarely on—

Yep. Still hard. Still very hard.

Caleb followed your line of sight, made a vague sound somewhere between a groan and a growl, and turned away. In one fluid motion, he wrapped a towel around his hips and tossed you a second one without looking.

You caught it. Barely. And wrapped yourself up like a guilty burrito.

Now that your brain was clawing its way out of the absinthe swamp, you couldn’t for the life of you explain how you’d managed to confuse two very different men. But to be fair…

They did seem equally capable of awakening some deeply primal needs in you.

You groaned. “This is humiliating.”

Caleb glanced over his shoulder, towel still knotted dangerously low around his hips. “For you. I’m traumatized. I have decades of cold showers ahead of me now.”

Your jaw dropped. “You’re traumatized? I groped my best friend and begged him to shampoo my sins away!”

“I did shampoo you,” he said flatly. “I’m considerate like that.”

“Caleb.”

“What.”

You hesitated. “You’re… not gonna make this worse, are you?”

He arched a brow. “Define worse.”

You gave him a long, warning look.

He held up both hands. “Fine. I won’t mention the moaning. Or the way you pinned me to the glass like a woman possessed.”

You whimpered into your hands. “Please stop talking.”

“Done,” he nodded solemnly. “We’ll bury it. Deep, deep in the vault. Like national security secrets.”

A pause.

“Unless,” he added thoughtfully, “you’d prefer a repeat performance. Next time with scented candles and less identity confusion?”

Your lips twitched despite yourself. “Caleb... are you flirting with me right now?”

“I was naked and obedient in your shower. I think the flirting ship has sailed.”

You laughed. Helplessly. Warmth bloomed in your chest where panic had been just moments ago.

Then he stepped closer, voice dropping low, quiet:

“All righty, Pip-squeak. You’re still swaying. Get some water. Get in bed. And if you ever confuse me with that white-haired bastard again, I will take it personally.”

Your smile widened. “So you forgive me?”

He reached out, knuckled a stray wet strand of hair from your cheek. His touch lingered.

“If the cure,” he murmured, “is what almost happened five minutes ago—then yeah. You’re fully pardoned. But next time?”

You leaned into his hand.

“Next time, I won’t be stopping you,” he said softly.

And just like that, your pulse forgot how to behave.

[mysticcoffeebean]

So cute!!! 🥺

Pt 1

Continuation of the Selkie!Rafayel AU! 🦭🦭🦭 Save a seal, you may or may not accidentally acquire a clingy husband doing so

[rafayelscutiee]

this is me right now.

[nekoashiii]

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ Not Now!

Pairings: Platonic!Lads men x Their kid

Summary: Your husband is calling your phone, but a little gremlin keeps declining it.

Requested by: @mitskunicheesecake

Notes: Zayne and Xavier will be on part 2

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ Sylus

Sylus sat in his office, fingers drumming against the desk as he stared at his phone. His calls kept going to voicemail. No, not voicemail—his calls were being declined.

He narrowed his eyes, dialing again.

"Come on, sweetheart, pick up," he muttered under his breath.

The phone rang once. Twice. Then—

Call declined.

Sylus exhaled sharply through his nose, irritation prickling beneath his skin. He had told you to keep your phone close. You were out running errands, and he didn’t like when he couldn’t reach you. With the kind of business he ran, being unreachable meant something could be wrong.

Still, he tried again.

Declined.

His jaw tightened.

This time, instead of calling again, he switched to texting.

Sylus: Sweetheart, answer your phone.

No response.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. He was about to send luke and kieran. Then, A message.

Your Number: No.

Sylus blinked.

No?

His fingers immediately moved to type, but before he could, another message came through.

Your Number: Go away.

His eyes narrowed. That didn’t sound like you. Not exactly. What happened to you? Did E.V.E.R get their hands on you?

His phone rang. A video call.

He answered immediately, expecting to see your face. Instead, a small figure appeared on the screen, curled up on your side of the bed, holding your phone in tiny hands. Their round face scrunched up in annoyance.

"Daddy," Elena huffed. "Stop calling Mommy."

Sylus let out a slow breath, his irritation flickering into something amused. "Is that why my calls are being declined?"

Elena nodded, her little fingers tapping at the screen. "You’re too loud. Mommy’s busy. She said she’ll be home soon."

Sylus leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand down his face. "You’re hanging up on me, aren’t you?"

"Uh-huh," she said sweetly. "Bye-bye, Daddy. I wanna watch yutuube"

The call ended.

Sylus stared at his phone for a long moment, his amusement fading into something else. His little girl had declined him—multiple times. And worse, she hadn’t even looked guilty about it.

With a sigh, he pushed back his chair and stood. Work could wait.

When Sylus stepped into the house, it was quiet.

He slipped off his jacket, draping it over the couch before making his way to the bedroom. The door was slightly open, and when he pushed it wider, he found his daughter still curled up in bed, your phone clutched in her small hands.

She looked up, her big red eyes widening when she saw him.

"Daddy!"

"Princess," Sylus said, voice slow, deliberate. He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, watching as she quickly tucked the phone under the pillow. "I see you’ve been busy."

She blinked, tilting her head. "Mommy is busy," she corrected.

"Is that so?" He reached forward and grabbed her, pulling her onto his lap despite her squeal of protest. "Now, tell me, Princess. What should I do with a little girl who ignores her father?"

She squirmed. "Nothing!"

"Nothing?" His grip tightened slightly, just enough to make her giggle again. "Are you sure about that?"

Elena kicked her legs, laughter bubbling up. "Okay! Okay! I won’t do it again!"

Sylus smirked before giving her forehead a kiss. "That’s what I thought."

Just then, the sound of the front door opening made them both pause.

"Mommy’s home!" his daughter gasped, suddenly wiggling out of his grip. She scrambled off the bed and ran toward the door.

"Kids and their videos these days" Sylus let out an amused huff before going to greet you at the door.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀Caleb

Caleb sat in his office, his uniform jacket draped over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled up as he stared at his phone. His brows furrowed as he hit redial.

Once. Twice.

Declined.

His jaw tensed.

He tried again.

Declined.

Caleb leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose. He knew you were out shopping, the messages were lighting up his phone

"thank you for shopping"

but you had given Noah the phone in case he needed anything, the shops were noisy and you couldn't hear the ringing

So why the hell was his own son declining his calls?

He dialed again. This time, instead of a decline, the call went through—but no one spoke. He could hear faint background noise, you were definitely outside.

"Y/n?" Caleb said, voice firm.

A beat of silence. Then, a small huff.

"Daddy, stop calling," Noah finally said.

Caleb blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You’re calling too much," Noah complained. "Mommy said we’d call you if we needed something."

Caleb pinched the bridge of his nose. "And what if I need something, huh?"

Another pause. Then Noah sighed dramatically. "What do you need, Daddy?"

Oh, this little—

Caleb exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. "Put Mommy on the phone."

"No."

Caleb froze. "Noah—"

"Mommy’s busy," Noah said in a tone that was far too smug for a four-year-old. "She’s looking at boring grown-up stuff. And you’re distracting us."

Caleb clenched his jaw. "I am your father, Noah."

"Yeah, I know," Noah said casually. "But Mommy said ugh, Caleb is calling again and told me to ignore it."

Caleb’s eye twitched. "She said that?"

"Uh-huh."

"…Are you lying to me?"

A long pause. Then, a quiet, "Maybe."

Caleb let out a slow breath. "Noah."

Noah giggled, and before Caleb could say another word, the call ended, Caleb stared at the blank screen.

As soon as he stepped inside, he heard Noah’s laughter coming from the living room. He walked in to find him sprawled on the couch with a snack in hand, looking far too comfortable.

Noah turned his head, eyes widening when he saw Caleb. He immediately sat up, gripping the phone he had confiscated like it was a lifeline.

"Daddy!"

"Son," Caleb said, crossing his arms over his chest, his gaze held no mercy. "We need to talk."

Noah scrambled off the couch. "Uh—Mommy! Daddy’s home!"

Caleb caught him by the back of his shirt before he could escape. "Nice try, bud. You and I have unfinished business."

Noah wriggled in Caleb’s grip, his small hands flailing. “I didn’t do anything!”

Caleb arched a brow. “Didn’t do anything? Didn’t do anything?” His voice was calm, but there was a dangerous edge to it. “Son, you declined my calls like I was some kind of scam number.”

Noah squirmed harder. “You called too much!”

Caleb exhaled through his nose. “I called twice.”

“Exactly! Too much!”

Caleb stared at him, unimpressed. “You’re gonna stand here and tell me you had zero problem ignoring your father?”

Noah hesitated. “Uhh…” His grip on the phone tightened. “I just—Mommy was busy! And you always talk forever!”

Caleb scoffed. “Forever? I would’ve been on for two minutes. That’s not forever.”

Noah puffed his cheeks. “It is when I was watching cartoons.”

Caleb took a deep breath, rubbing a hand down his face. “I can’t believe this. My own son, my own blood, betraying me like this.”

Noah huffed. “I had to, Daddy.”

Caleb let out a dry chuckle, crouching so he was at Noah’s level. “Had to? Had to hang up on me? Where did you learn that, huh? You got someone else teaching you bad habits? That a bad influence I need to deal with?”

Noah shifted guiltily. “Nooo…”

Caleb narrowed his eyes. “Are you lying to me again, Noah?”

Noah swallowed. “Maybe.”

“Unbelievable,” Caleb muttered, shaking his head. He pointed at the phone clutched in Noah’s hands. “Hand it over, soldier.”

Noah gasped, gripping it tighter. “No!”

“I outrank you, kid,” Caleb warned, voice low. “Don’t make me use my colonel voice.”

Noah’s lips wobbled. “But—but—”

“Three… Two…”

With a dramatic whimper, Noah finally surrendered the phone. Caleb took it and stuffed it in his pocket. “Now, what do we say?”

Noah shifted on his feet. “...Sorry?”

Caleb nodded. “That’s right. And?”

Noah sighed heavily, like Caleb was really putting him through it. “I won’t hang up on you again.”

Caleb smirked. “Good. Now, what should your punishment be?”

Noah gasped. “Punishment?! Daddy, no! It was a mistake!”

Caleb tapped his chin. “Hmm… I could make you do laps in the backyard. Maybe push-ups. Or—" his eyes gleamed—"no dessert for a week.”

Noah gasped again, even more dramatically. “Mommy!” he wailed, turning toward the kitchen. “Daddy’s being a tyrant!”

Before Caleb could grab him again, Noah sprinted off, his little legs carrying him as fast as they could.

A second later, you poked your head out of the bedroom, blinking. “What’s happening?”

Caleb sighed, standing up. “Your son is staging a rebellion.”

Noah clung to your leg. “Mommy, Daddy’s bullying me!”

You crossed your arms, raising an eyebrow at Caleb. “Are you bullying our son?”

Caleb smirked. “Teaching him discipline.”

Noah tugged your sleeve. “Mommy, I was so good today.”

Caleb barked a laugh. “Yeah? Good at declining my calls.”

You sighed, shaking your head. “Caleb, you’re an adult. You shouldn’t be getting into power struggles with a four-year-old.”

Caleb scoffed. “He started it.”

Noah giggled from behind your leg.

You groaned, rubbing your temple. “You two are exhausting.”

Caleb smirked, stepping closer to wrap an arm around your waist. “And yet, you love us.”

Noah nodded rapidly. “Uh-huh! Right, Mommy?”

You sighed, looking between them. “Unfortunately.”

Caleb chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before ruffling Noah’s hair. “You’re lucky your mom’s here to protect you, kid.”

Noah grinned up at him. “I know!”

Caleb shook his head, amused. “Unbelievable.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ Rafayel

You had been invited to an exclusive art exhibition downtown—one that featured some of Rafayel’s earlier works. Since he despised public events and would rather gouge his own eyes out than attend, and Thomas would respectfully gouge out rafayel's eyes if he did not attend, you went in his place, both to support him and to keep up appearances.

Seraphina, your four-year-old daughter, had come along for the car ride but quickly grew bored when you arrived. The moment she saw the endless rows of paintings and the adults murmuring about “artistic depth” and “symbolic brush strokes,” she looked up at you, unimpressed.

“Mommy, this is so boring.”

You sighed, crouching down to smooth out her dress. “I know, sweetheart, but it won’t take long. Daddy worked hard on these paintings, and I have to talk to some of the nice people here, okay?”

Seraphina pouted. “But I don’t care about paintings. I wanna watch cartoons.”

You pulled out your phone and handed it to her. “Here. You can call Daddy if you need anything, alright?”

Her eyes lit up as she clutched the phone. “Okay!”

You smiled, kissing her forehead as you left her at the staff room and locked the door with your keycard so no one could enter other than Thomas, after everything was secure you turned toward the exhibition hall.

—

Back home, Rafayel was in his studio, adding the final details to a massive canvas when his phone vibrated. He wiped the paint off his hands and glanced at the screen.

Landlubber 💜 is calling…

A small smile tugged at his lips as he answered. “Sweetheart, are you finished already?”

Silence.

Then—

Click.

The call ended.

Rafayel blinked, staring at his phone.

What?

He lowered the device, then brought it back up, frowning. Had the signal dropped?

Before he could think too much about it, the phone vibrated again.

Landlubber 💜 is calling…

He answered immediately. “Sweetheart?”

Silence.

Rafayel stared at the phone in disbelief.

What the hell is going on?

The phone buzzed again.

This time, he answered with narrowed eyes. “If you hang up on me again—”

“Oh. Hi, Daddy.”

Rafayel exhaled through his nose. “Seraphina.”

His daughter hummed in acknowledgment.

“Why are you calling me just to hang up?” he asked, his voice carefully restrained. “Is everything alright?”

“I didn’t hang up,” she said cheerfully. “I was just checking.”

“Checking what?”

“If you’d answer.”

Rafayel pinched the bridge of his nose. “Seraphina—”

“I miss you, Daddy.”

Rafayel’s frustration wavered, replaced with something softer.

He leaned against his desk, rubbing a hand down his face. “I miss you too, little fish.”

“Then come get me.”

Rafayel sighed, he could already imagine thomas chasing him down the exhibition “I can’t. Mommy is working in my place.”

“But I’m not. Please daddy” She whined.

“Mommy will bring you home soon.”

Seraphina made a displeased noise. “That’s too long.”

There was a pause. Then, her voice turned thoughtful. “Daddy?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re not painting without me, are you?”

Rafayel glanced at his half-finished canvas. With a pause he answered. “Of course not.”

Seraphina gasped. “You are!”

“I didn’t say that.” “You didn’t deny it!”

Rafayel chuckled. “You caught me.”

Seraphina huffed. “That’s not fair. You promised we’d paint together!”

“And we will,” he assured her. “I’ll wait for you.”

Another pause. Then—

“Okay. But no touching the pink paint.”

“No pink,” Rafayel agreed solemnly.

“Or the sparkles.”

“No sparkles.”

Seraphina hummed. “Alright. You’re forgiven.”

Rafayel smirked. “Good.”

There was a brief silence before he heard her yawn.

“You sleepy?” he asked.

“…No.”

He smiled knowingly. “Close your eyes, little fish.”

Seraphina whined. “But I wanna talk to you.”

“I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

“…Promise?”

“Promise.”

A beat of silence. Then, a soft rustling as Seraphina got comfortable.

“Okay,” she murmured.

Rafayel listened to her breathing slow, his heart aching with warmth.

He didn’t hang up. Not yet.

Instead, he stayed on the line, listening to the quiet rise and fall of his daughter’s breath.

Minutes passed before he finally spoke.

“I’ll come get you soon,” he whispered.

Then, finally, he ended the call.

[daddyslittlecrow]

House Hunting with the LADS Boys 🏡💖

TYSM @beelsdessert for the request ❤️ first time making myself write in snippets cuz I needed a break from the heavy stuff 😮‍💨

First time writing about Rafayel & Xavier so sorry if it’s not up to par I’m just not as disgustingly obsessed with them x

Featuring: All of them ❤️

Pics from Pinterest!!

Rafayel

Non-negotiables: Near the sea (duh) and a room big enough for him to paint in, preferably with a window looking out at the crashing waves.

Rafayel hadn’t been impressed with the homes you viewed so far. There was always something that turned him off, voicing his concerns dramatically as soon as you were out of the realtor’s earshot.

“Did you see the size of that bath? Cutie don’t lie, even you’d find it uncomfortable sitting in it for more than 10 minutes.”

“Maybe it’s time you took shorter baths then?” You teased.

“Maybe you should start taking one.” He sulked.

He learned his lesson when you gave him the silent treatment for the rest of the journey back to your apartment.

You didn’t have much faith for this viewing as you stepped out of the car. The salty air of the sea filled your nose. The beach was just a 2 minute walk away.

During the tour, you tried your best not to fall in love with the house. Exposed wooden beams, weathered wood panelling the walls. So bright and airy with a rustic charm.

The sitting room had large glass doors that opened onto a stunning sandy beach. There was an even a loft, perfect for Rafayel to paint to his heart’s content.

You could sense he was anxious to see the master bathroom.

“The previous owners recently remodelled the bathroom. I think they went a bit over the top with the ocean theme…” The realtor looked at you both apologetically before ushering you inside.

Both your jaws dropped.

The walls were adorned with sea glass, strategically placed to replicate a school of various fish. It was gorgeous.

In place of sea glass on the far opposite wall was a floor to ceiling window, opening out to the glimmering sea. Almost kissing the bottom of the window was a faucet.

You both walked up together and almost squealed (more so him) as you saw the three steps leading down into the bath. It was huge, almost big enough to swim in.

You both spent the entire night in it the day you moved in.

Xavier

Non-negotiables: Doesn’t really care, as long as there’s a bed or sofa in the house for him to sleep, he’s happy.

Xavier never thought about having a “dream home” before. He’d literally live a shoe box so long as you were with him.

You have a really good feeling about this one as he turns the wheel and drives through the gates. You didn’t mind taking charge of organising the viewings - actually enjoying scrolling through listings, imagining your lives in every image you swiped through.

He’ll nod his head, lost in his own world as you both followed the realtor into the 4th house you were looking at. You were listening intensively, making sure the facts you’d written down matched what the realtor was saying.

Your eyes scanned each room, looking for signs of hidden problems. Bubbling wallpaper, discoloured ceilings. The last house had been perfect until you spotted a cockroach running from under the fridge, eager to welcome you into his home.

Everything about it was perfect. The rooms were big but it still felt cozy. 2 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms. Perfect amount of space. You’d probably use the 2nd bedroom as a shared office. The kitchen was your favourite though, already visualising the two of you covered in flour while you tried (and failed) to teach Xavier your best pie recipe.

The second you both walked into the final room of the house, the conservatory, Xavier knew this was your home.

He gasped as he looked up, huge windows exposing the sky. You couldn’t help but smile at his reaction. As soon as you saw the image on the listing, you knew he’d love it.

“This would be amazing at night. Gazing at the stars. The moon.” He imagined you both, sprawled out on the couch, pointing out the constellations as you snuggled into him. Every night could end like that.

He immediately started the conversation to buy, wanting to move in a quickly as possible.

Caleb

Non-negotiables: If you won’t let him rebuild your grandma’s house then he at least wants a garden big enough for your future kids to play in. And maybe a dog (but he’ll bring that up when you’re settled in).

You’re not as interested in this as him. Of course you were excited about finally sharing a home and there had been a really cool looking sitting room in….house #2 maybe? Or was it #6? You couldn’t keep track.

You just knew you were sick of both your apartments.

Gravel crunched as Caleb drove you down a winding driveway. The house came into view and you bit back your signature line. It was too big.

“Aw c’mon pipsqueak. Every house is gonna seem too big when you’ve been cramped up in that box you call an apartment.” You couldn’t say no when he pouted, a look that always made you resign. Dumb pheromones.

So you just let him take you by the hand as he practically raced into each home, hoping this would be the perfect one. But when the realtors finally showed you the garden, Caleb just couldn’t see the vision he held in his heart.

It made your heart clench to watch him shake his head in quiet disappointment. You knew he was trying to imagine your kids running around and messing about. Just like you both did all those years ago.

“Caleb honey, we’re not even at the baby stage yet. We’ve loads of time to decide. How about I look for something smaller? Don’t look at me like that! It would be temporary!”

You were surprised at how much you liked the house you were currently viewing. 3 beds, 3 baths AND a hidden toilet under the stairs. There was even an authentic fireplace nestled in the wall of the living room.

Caleb secretly watched as your smile grew, his heart filled with adoration for you. He was happy he had finally found somewhere you liked.

But just like every other time, he waited for the garden. You looked at him, studying his reaction as you stepped outside. He tried his best to hide the disappointment but you knew.

The sun was starting to set, casting a rosy glow onto the manicured lawn.

It was definitely big enough. At least a full acre, dotted with various trees. Towering oaks. A couple of birches. You spotted the familiar red spheres. Apple trees too.

One of the larger trees had a swing tied to a thick overhanging branch. It looked exactly like the one Caleb made for you when you were small. Before you knew it you were sprinting, halfway to the tree before you heard his footsteps behind you.

When you reached the swing you pushed on it, testing its strength. Once you were satisfied it wouldn’t snap and kill you, you hopped on. You looked at him expectantly.

Caleb let out a chuckle as he moved to stand behind you. “Hold on then.” He murmured before he pushed against the seat of the swing.

You couldn’t help but giggle in delight as you flew higher and higher, closing your eyes at the sensation of weightlessness. The sound instantly took him back. Back when it was just you and him and Grandma.

When his only worry was forgotten homework or you finding out he’d accidentally broken your doll when he stepped on it. It really fucking hurt and it was your fault for leaving it so carelessly in the hall. So when he saw your eyes swell with tears at the plastic casualty, he built you a swing to make it up to you. He would never stop finding ways to make you happy.

He grabbed the ropes of the swing until you stopped swaying. Eyes filled with endless warm and excitement as he gazed down at you. “I think we found our forever home Pips.” He kissed you tenderly.

You pushed him away and bolted back to the house, already breathless from a fit of laughter. “Last one back has to clean all those toilets for a year!”

He shook his head, grinning from ear to ear. Then he chased after you.

Zayne

Non-negotiables: Privacy. That’s all he needs.

You two had discussed the idea of buying a home together a few weeks ago. When you it crossed your mind, you made a mental note to sit down with him and start looking. So did he. The recent outbreak of Wanderer attacks made you both exhausted by the time you clocked out. Tomorrow came and went, catching only glimpses of each other.

When work finally started to quieten down, the two of you were so decided to take a day trip outside of the city. Away from all distractions. You brought a picnic to the secret lake you discovered on a hike last summer. It was the reprieve you both needed.

By the time you were driving home, your eyelids felt heavy. Zayne’s hand was clasped in yours as he drove. You were staring out the passenger window, hypnotised by the passing countryside. You gasped when you saw the house. Then the for sale sign.

“Turn around!” You almost shouted, now fully alert. Zayne reacted immediately, slamming the breaks as he steered off the road. Thank god this road was so quiet. He cursed under his breath. His knuckles where white from gripping the steering wheel so tight.

“You’ll be the death of me, Y/N.”

“I know. Sorry. I’ll buy you some ice cream when we get back to yours. But I saw something.”

“Make it that chocolate hazelnut one and I’ll consider your debt paid.” He turned the car around and drove slowly, stopping when you pointed to the sign you saw earlier.

You called the number on the sign. The seller answered. Just your luck, they were just about to leave after a viewing no-showed.

The entrance to the house was located down a short road. You almost tripped getting out of the car.

A path fenced on either side with wild flowers guided you to the most gorgeous cottage you’d ever seen. Ivy crawled up the stone, making it appear even more enchanting.

Zayne watched as the seller emerged from the house to greet you. He admired the pale pink blossoms that shrouded over the small porch as you were both beckoned inside. Bougainvillea perhaps? He liked it.

Inside the cottage was just as charming. The sweet scent of cinnamon wafted into his nose. He followed you into the kitchen, where the seller offered a plate of homemade cookies.

“I made them for the viewing. Thought I’d have to eat them all myself.” She laughed, the wrinkles around her kind eyes deepening. You both took one as she showed you around the home. It was her mother’s before she passed.

It was clearly well loved. Despite being occupied for almost 50 years, it was immaculate. 2 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms. The perfect size for the two of you.

You always wanted a home with character and this cottage was full of it. Exposed wooden beams on the ceiling. Wood burning stove in the kitchen. It even had leadlight windows. It was perfect.

Zayne was more interested in the noise he could hear. Pure silence actually. It was a relief not to be surrounded by the bustling city. When he’d get home from the noise of the hospital, it was like he never left. It was claustrophobic at times. He felt at peace in this home.

The garden bloomed from the touch of its previous owner. She was obviously into gardening. A quaint glasshouse stood next to the cottage. His heart quickened at idea of tending to things until they were ready to bring inside. To you.

When the tour was over, the seller continued packing up, allowing you both space to discuss your thoughts. You bit your lip as you looked at him.

“What do you think? Or if it’s too far from the hospital we can-“

“I love it.”

“Really? Are you sure?” You stroked his arm lovingly, trying to fight a smile before you were positive he was onboard. That didn’t stop your mind flooding with thoughts of you both settled in. Coming home to each other.

Zayne planted a soft kiss on the top of your head. It was the easiest decision he’d made in his life.

“If you can get her to throw in that cookie recipe, I’ll buy it for us today.”

Sylus

Non-negotiables: Whatever you want. He’s had enough of all his extravagant houses. They were too empty. He never truly felt at home unless he was with you.

That being said of course he had some standards.

“Sweetie, it's nice but it's too…plain. You deserve something better.” You pouted at his words, snatching your phone back. At first, you tried to tell him that his current house was more than good enough for you.

But Mephisto had caught you later that evening, looking at inspo pics on Pinterest.

Lots of light, tall ceilings, airy. A patio with a fire pit to enjoy summer evenings with him or your guests. The complete opposite of his current grand cave. He didn't realise his recluse nature had inspired most of his design choices.

Sylus used this knowledge to guide him as he booked viewing after viewing. He wanted you to fall head over heels as soon as the house came into view. He knew you'd have envisioned your dream home and he if he had to build it himself, he'd plop a hard hat on his head.

It was fun for a while. You’d be impressed with certain aspects of the homes you viewed. All or nothing though - that was Sylus’ reasoning. You mistook it for him being picky. Used to getting what he wants.

You got to the point you were almost ready to strangle him everytime he cut off the realtor. “We’ve seen enough, thank you.”

“What was it this time?” You huffed after him, barely keeping up with his long stride. “Door frames too rectangular?”

He stopped so suddenly your face collided with the hard muscles of his back. He tried his best to stifle his laughter as you rubbed your nose. “A warning would be nice.” He ignored your quip.

“My contacts did another sweep of the house. The seller was looking for quotes from exterminators. Termites. Wouldn't want my kitten squashed when the house collapsed, hm?”

He hadn't looked at his phone once, how did he- Forget it, it's not like you'd win that battle anyway.

You let him pull you away from another perfectly good house. You and the twins had a secret bet to see how many viewings it would take for Sylus to finally say yes. You said 30, thinking it was a ridiculously high number. The Twins went higher.

It was looking like you'd be down $10 soon.

It had been a long couple of months and wondered if you'd ever find your forever home.

You sighed when you saw him waiting outside the Hunter’s Association for you. It had been a long day and all you wanted was to relax.

The glint in his ruby eyes told you you'd have to wait a while longer before you could cuddle up on the sofa for the night.

20 minutes later he pulled the driveway. You had dozed off, your body jerking as his breath tickled your ear, announcing your arrival.

Your body felt heavily as you forced yourself out of the warm embrace of the car. It was getting dark, the sun almost fully hidden by the horizon.

Sylus had a really good feeling about this one. All checks came out clean. Nice private location. All the features you liked and more. He frowned when you didn't say anything as you crossed the threshold.

You were afraid to admit to yourself how much you loved it, expecting after a few rooms, he’d be bringing you home. It really was beautiful though.

For the first time, you got lost in the thought of your future with him. Imagining the both of you sitting in the living room, watching your favourite movies. Or teasing him for accidentally dripping someone else’s blood on the carpet when he came home from “work”.

In the bathroom, you could see the both of you brushing your teeth, you elbowing him as he took up most of the mirror.

In the kitchen, it was slowdances to the rhythm of his favourite records.

Pushing aside the impure thoughts when you first walked into the master bedroom, you could see him sitting on the edge of the bed, helping you choose what to wear for one of his auctions. Zipping up your dress as you caught his eyes in the mirror, murmuring how beautiful you looked.

The hum of Sylus’ phone tore you from your daydreams. He quickly glanced at his screen, then at you. They softened with a silent apology. “I’ll be as quick as I can.“ You smiled at him reassuringly. You knew he’d never answer unless it was urgent.

You followed the realtor by yourself. He showed you more bedrooms, bathrooms, a study.

The realtor turned to you before opening the the door to the last room upstairs. “This room is a bit all over the place compared the rest of the house. We still have to get rid of some furniture the sellers left. You’re partner said you both liked to read? Just imagine it with built-in book shelves. It already has a window seat!”

You followed her inside. Despite the some cloth covered chairs and a few boxes, you smiled as you walked to the window. It over looked the garden and if you squinted, you could just make out the black peaks of the mountains.

Sylus soon found you, snaking his arms around your waist, kissing your temple. “I should've waited to bring you here. You look exhausted. I couldn't tell if you were looking at the house or attempting to sleep with your eyes clothes.” You must've daydreamed pretty hard.

You let him guide you out of the room, a little disappointed that he hadn't asked what you thought or expressed his feelings about it. You were about to ask him about it when you tripped on one of the sheet coverings. Strong hands caught you before your face hit the floor.

The joke forming on your tongue immediately vanished when you saw what was under the sheet. Sylus froze as he watched you.

A wooden crib, paint chipped with age. Nothing was really special about it. But your mind suddenly flooded with the part of your future you had never really thought about before.

Tiny feet. Tufts of silver hair. Midnight feedings. Bedtime stories. Bathtub splashes.

A mini you or him? Both?

Sylus remained silent, observing the emotions that played on your face. Didn't have to ask what was going on in your mind. He knew. It was the same visions he had had the day you told him you loved him.

“I really like this one, Sy.” A whispered confession. You looked back at him, eyes blazing with the intensity of him love for you.

“Then it's ours, kitten.”

———

Now that this is finished I have no idea why I wrote it in bullet points. I think I thought it would make me spend less time on it…

Oh well!

- Elle🫡

[sayangrafayel]

Loft talk Pt. 🍽️

Sylus: closes a cabinet

a crash is heard behind the cabinet door

Rafayel: What was that?

Sylus: The sound of someone else's problem

[shaiyasstuff]

fate | rafayel | drabble

synopsis : Who are we to stand in the line of fate?

content : rafayel x non-mc!reader, cannon/non-cannon, Shaiya is an OC, angst

(Very very inspired by this here.)

To you, he was the star, the moon, and the sky—the entire universe strung together in the shape of a boy who laughed too brightly and looked too beautiful in the sunlight.

To him?

You were background noise. A quiet, fleeting presence. Someone he could blink away and never miss.

You stare at Rafayel now, his smile too wide, his hands squishing his own cheeks as he pouts at Shaiya in that annoyingly endearing way of his.

He’s rambling—something about the lack of dessert in the break room or the injustice of early morning patrols—but his voice has faded into white noise.

You’ve been somewhere else for the past five minutes.

Somewhere darker, quieter, lonelier.

Somewhere where your heart isn’t being wrung out like this.

You ignore the way it hurts.

Ignore the way his laugh, meant for someone else, sits like broken glass in your ribs.

He once told you, voice soft and almost reverent, the story of how he gave Shaiya his scale in another life.

My heart belongs to hers eternally, he’d said.

You only nodded. What else could you do?

The other option was crying until your chest cracked open and all your feelings poured out in ruin.

You glance at Shaiya.

She’s everything you’re not—effortlessly charming, golden and kind, with a laugh that people lean toward and a presence that feels like sunlight after winter.

She’s the first person who ever looked at you at the Hunter’s Association and didn’t look away.

She reached out, befriended you, made space for you in a world that never did.

That’s how you met Rafayel.

And now here you are—watching him fall in love with the person who led him to you.

How poetic.

How cruel.

You push yourself off the table, fingers curling against the edge as the nausea rises in your throat like a tide you can’t hold back.

“Alright, guys. I’m off,” you say, forcing your voice to sound normal—light, detached, as if you weren’t quietly bleeding beneath the skin.

Shaiya turns to you immediately, concern softening her features. “Wait, already? You sure you’re okay—?”

But him?

He doesn’t even look up.

Just lifts a hand in a lazy, distracted wave, eyes still locked on her like she hung the constellations he dreams under.

That’s what undoes you.

Not the pain—the indifference.

You offer them both a small smile, the kind you’ve mastered over time—the kind that hides everything and says nothing.

Then you walk away, not daring to look back.

If you did, you knew you’d shatter.

Once outside, the cold hits you like truth—sharp and biting. You pull your jacket tighter around yourself, but it does nothing for the chill burrowed deep in your bones.

You feel stupid. So, so stupid.

What they have—it’s fate.

Already written, already woven into the threads of the world long before you even existed in it.

A love etched into lifetimes. A bond sealed by gods or stars or whatever cruel thing governs soulmates.

You knew that.

You always knew that.

So then why—

Why does your heart still break like this?

Why does it feel like you’re standing in the ruins of something that never even belonged to you?

Why does it hurt so much to love someone who was never yours to begin with?

You clench your jaw, breathe in the frost-laced air, and blink up at the sky, hoping the cold will numb more than just your fingers.

But it doesn’t.

It never does.

Because nothing numbs the kind of ache that lives inside your chest when you’re the leftover in someone else’s love story.

—•

You tap your finger against the desk absentmindedly, the rhythm uneven, fading in and out like a heartbeat too tired to keep pretending it’s whole.

Your mind drifts—

To the curve of his face in golden light, the way his smile tilts crooked when he’s teasing, how his hair falls into his eyes when he’s sketching, utterly focused and beautiful in a way that feels unreal.

And those eyes—striking, impossible, burning with colors that don’t belong in this world.

You used to think they saw you.

Really saw you.

Not just the way you lingered too long in his shadow or how you always laughed a little too late at his jokes.

But the quiet parts. The aching ones. The version of you that never quite fit anywhere.

But maybe that was just another illusion you spun for yourself—another thread you tugged loose in hopes it might unravel into something real.

You press your finger harder against the wood.

When did your heart become so traitorous?

When did longing become your default state?

You’re not foolish enough to believe you’re the first to fall in love with someone unreachable.

But it doesn’t make the ache any less specific.

Any less sharp.

You wonder what it would’ve felt like—

If he had looked at you the way he looks at her.

If fate had been kinder.

If you had met in a different life, one where his heart wasn’t already spoken for by memory and myth.

But you didn’t.

And here you are, loving him quietly, like a secret you’ll never speak out loud.

Like a prayer that never deserved to be answered.

You’re broken out of your trance when Shaiya slides onto your desk, her voice lilting and warm.

“What’s up with you?”

She’s smiling—always smiling—but there’s something softer tucked beneath it. Concern, maybe. Or pity.

You blink up at her, disoriented by how suddenly you’ve been pulled back into reality.

For a second, you forget how to hold your own expression together.

What do you even say to that?

I’m in love with someone who will never love me back, and it just so happens to be the person you’re bound to for eternity?

You don’t say anything.

You just look at her. Really look.

And for the first time, you realize how cruel the universe truly is.

Because it didn’t just give Rafayel someone to love.

It gave him her.

Bright, kind, magnetic Shaiya. The kind of person people gravitate toward without meaning to. The kind of person who lights up a room without even trying.

Even you weren’t immune. You liked her the moment you met her.

How could you not?

There isn’t a single flaw to cling to. Nothing to resent. Nothing to hate. She’s warm where you are quiet. Effortless where you are struggling. She talks to you like you matter. Makes space for you even when she doesn’t have to.

And somehow, that just makes everything hurt more.

You offer a faint smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Just tired,” you say, voice barely above a murmur.

She doesn’t press. Just swings her legs lightly and chatters on about something—about Rafayel, probably. You’re not listening anymore.

Not really.

All you can think is that maybe the universe didn’t create her to laugh at you.

It created her to show you just how deeply you could never compare.

You punch down the ugly, snarling thing inside you—the one with claws made of envy and teeth that whisper you’ll never be enough.

It writhes in your chest anyway, bitter and relentless, but you school your features into something calmer, quieter, safer.

You turn to her, your voice casual, even light. “Don’t you have a mission today?”

Shaiya blinks, caught off guard for half a second before her usual brightness returns. “I do—later tonight. Some rogue activity in Sector Twelve. Nothing serious.”

Of course not. Nothing ever seems serious for her. She always makes it look easy—missions, friendships, love.

Even Rafayel.

Especially Rafayel.

She stretches her arms above her head and hums, “Figured I’d hang around until then. Besides, someone’s got to keep you company.”

You give her a short, noncommittal nod, forcing your lips into a half-smile you hope passes for polite.

She stays perched on your desk, legs swinging, babbling about field reports and malfunctioning tech, her words drifting around you like static.

And you let them. Because it’s easier than the silence. Easier than admitting that the monster inside you isn’t just jealousy—it’s grief.

Grief for a love that never had a beginning.

Grief for a story where you were never meant to be anything more than a footnote.

And still, you stay.

Because it’s better to be near him—near them—than to be alone with how empty you feel without him.

You found yourself at the shooting range, fingers trembling as you loaded the magazine, one round after another. The metallic clicks were sharp, final—like closing the door on every hope you didn’t have the courage to voice aloud.

You raised the pistol, lined your sight, and fired.

Each bullet was an echo of grief you never gave a voice to.

Bang. You’ll never be enough.

Bang. You’ll never compare.

Bang. He will never love you.

Bang. He won’t even look in your direction.

The sounds reverberated through the still air like accusations, like truths carved into the bones of the room. Your heart thudded violently against your ribs, not from the recoil—but from the crushing, bitter clarity of it all.

You reload, slow and methodical, the movement almost ritualistic now. One last round. One last truth.

You take aim.

Bang.

Who are you to stand in the line of fate?

The silence that follows is deafening. The smoke curls like regret in the air, wrapping around your wrists, your breath, your chest.

And you stand there, unmoving, with hands that remember his warmth and a heart that remembers how it felt to believe—if only for a moment—that maybe, maybe you were meant for something more than watching him love someone else.

But fate is cruel.

And you are just a girl with a gun in her hands and grief buried beneath her skin.

—•

“Have you seen Shaiya?” Rafayel asks as he strolls into your apartment like he owns the place—like you aren’t sitting on the floor trying to hold yourself together with fraying threads and shallow breaths.

You don’t look at him right away. Just tilt your head lazily over the couch, eyes heavy with exhaustion you can’t name. “She’s on a mission,” you murmur. “Sector 12.”

You wave him off, dismissive. Hoping he’ll get the hint and leave before you break.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he plops down beside your legs with that same careless grace he always has, as if he belongs here, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The warmth of him seeps into your space, your solitude, your silence. Uninvited. Unbothered.

“You okay?” he asks, voice softer now, dipping into something almost tender.

Your breath catches, barely, like his words had teeth. You stare straight ahead, not at him—never at him.

Because if you do, your mask might slip. And he might see everything he was never meant to.

You laugh under your breath, hollow and sharp. “Do I look okay to you?”

There’s a pause.

And still, you don’t look at him. You can’t. Because he’s here—he’s here—and all you want to do is scream Why now? Why only when she’s not?

Why not when it could have meant something?

You hug your knees tighter, pressing your cheek to the fabric of your sleeve, trying to keep yourself from unraveling.

“Rafayel,” you whisper, the syllables fragile in your mouth. “What are you doing here?”

And though you don’t say it out loud, the real question lingers in the air between you:

Why are you always here when it’s too late?

His eyes narrow, the usual spark of mischief dulled into something sharper, something dangerous.

“Who did this to you?” he asks, low and serious, like he’s ready to burn down the world for an answer.

You almost laugh.

Not because it’s funny, but because he doesn’t see it—because the irony stings more than it soothes.

You, you want to say. You did this. Without even trying. Without even knowing.

But the words die in your throat, swallowed by pride, by fear, by the pathetic hope that maybe he’ll stay if you just keep pretending.

So you swallow the ache like you always do and shrug, smoothing the cracks in your voice until it almost sounds normal.

“It’s just a bad day,” you say, brushing him off with a weak smile. “Forget about it.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

Just stares at you like he’s trying to unravel a puzzle that’s missing too many pieces. And still, you keep smiling, keep pretending you’re whole.

Because if he knew—

If he really knew—

He might never come back.

And even if it hurts like hell, you’d rather have the ghost of him in your life than nothing at all.

Naturally. Because the universe doesn’t believe in mercy—only in timing that wounds with surgical precision.

One minute, you’re curled in on yourself, trying to disappear into the quiet, and the next, Rafayel is sweeping you off the floor like it’s instinct.

As if your heartbreak is his responsibility now, when it never was before.

“What are you doing?!” you burst out, hands gripping the front of his shirt, more startled than anything else.

He barely blinks.

“You’re going to sit,” he says, already nudging open your bedroom door with his foot, “and I’m going to take care of you until you tell me what’s wrong.”

He lays you down at the edge of your bed like you’re made of something breakable. His touch is gentle, absurdly so. As if he’s trying to patch up wounds he can’t even see.

Your lips tighten, your breath catching at the back of your throat.

You look at him, really look—and the pain in your chest coils tighter.

“Why now?” you whisper, the question slipping out before you can stop it. Raw. Unshielded.

Rafayel freezes.

His brows pull together, confusion flickering across his face, like he’s hearing a language he was never taught. “What do you mean?” he asks, voice low, uncertain.

And gods, that’s the worst part.

That he doesn’t know.

That he truly doesn’t see what he’s done to you.

You look away, because it’s too much—his kindness, his nearness, his obliviousness.

Because in his world, you were never anything more than a friend with a quiet smile.

But in yours?

He was everything.

“It’s nothing, just…”

Your voice falters, cracking like thin ice under too much weight.

“Just leave me alone.”

You don’t look at him. You can’t. You already feel too bare, too close to unraveling.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the shift in his expression—hesitation, confusion, something close to hurt.

And for a moment, it nearly breaks you.

He looks hurt.

He looks conflicted.

You almost laugh.

Because isn’t that just the punchline?

Why does he get to be wounded when you’re the one who’s been quietly carrying the torch, burning for him in silence?

When you’ve been holding the candle for someone who never even thought to look for the light?

Your hands curl into the bedsheets, nails digging into fabric to keep yourself grounded.

He has no idea what he’s done.

No idea what it’s like to stand this close to someone and feel a thousand miles away.

To watch him reach for someone else with the same hands you used to dream would hold you.

So you swallow the laugh. The scream. The truth.

Because what good would it do now?

“Please,” you whisper, barely audible. “Just go.”

And this time, you don’t look to see if he does.

You hear it—soft shuffling behind you, hesitant footsteps on the floorboard, the faint rustle of fabric. He hasn’t left.

You turn around, ready to say it again, sharper this time. “Raf—”

But the word barely leaves your lips before his face is right there, inches from yours.

So close you can see the way his lashes catch the light, the faint flush along his cheekbones, the way his lips part like he wants to speak but can’t.

And then—those eyes.

Those impossible eyes, glowing somewhere between dusk and dawn, blue and pink and something otherworldly in between, all of it filled with a concern so raw it knocks the breath clean out of your lungs.

He doesn’t say a word.

He just looks at you. Like you’re not breaking. Like you’re not pushing him away with everything you have. Like you matter.

And you?

You go still.

Because what do you even say, when the person who’s been slowly undoing you without even realizing it is suddenly close enough to memorize the shape of your sadness?

Your throat tightens. Words vanish.

You’re left speechless, caught in the gravity of him, wondering what it means that he’s finally looking—but you’re not sure your heart can survive it.

“Wha—”

The sound barely scrapes past your lips before he cuts in, his voice low, careful, like he’s walking across something delicate.

“You’ve been doing that a lot lately,” he says. “Shaiya told me you’ve been staring off into the distance at work. Not answering when people call your name.”

You blink.

The words hit like a pebble tossed into still water—small, but enough to send everything rippling.

Shaiya told him?

He asked?

You stare at him, stunned.

For a second, the ache in your chest forgets how to twist. Your mind struggles to wrap itself around the fact that, somewhere in his orbit, your name had drifted into conversation. That he noticed.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. You hadn’t prepared for this—for him to see through you, even just a little.

“I…” you try, voice softer, unsteady. “You asked about me?”

His brows furrow slightly, like the answer should be obvious. “Of course I did.”

And just like that, your world tilts—just enough to make you wonder what it would’ve been like if he’d looked at you like this before you broke.

You couldn’t breathe.

The walls felt too close, the air too thick, and his gaze—so full of something you’d wanted for far too long—was suffocating.

You needed to get out.

Your chest tightened, pulse racing as the weight of everything—his nearness, his concern, the unbearable hope clawing its way back into your throat—crashed over you all at once.

“I— I need some air,” you muttered, already rising to your feet, heart in your throat, limbs moving before your mind could catch up.

You didn’t wait for him to respond.

You couldn’t. You just needed to move. To run. To escape before whatever held you together came undone.

Because if you stayed a second longer, you might’ve said it.

You might’ve said I love you.

And that was a truth you couldn’t afford to let slip—not when he was still in love with someone else.

Rafayel stared at the space you left behind, still warm with your presence, still echoing with the sound of your retreating footsteps.

His fists clenched slowly at his sides, jaw tightening as something sharp and unfamiliar twisted in his chest.

You were slipping through his fingers, and he didn’t know why.

He replayed every word, every look, every tremble in your voice—and it hit him, sudden and brutal, like the tail-end of a wave he didn’t see coming.

There was something wrong.

And he’d seen it too late.

The air felt heavier without you in the room, the silence deafening.

And for the first time, Rafayel didn’t know what to say, or how to fix it, or why it hurt this much to watch you walk away.

His fingers flexed.

Because if someone had hurt you, he’d burn the world down.

—•

Your phone rang the next morning, cutting through the hush of waves and the distant cry of gulls. The sharp vibration against your thigh jolted you awake.

You blinked against the early light, skin damp with ocean mist, mouth dry with sleep and silence. It took a moment to realize where you were.

The beach.

You’d fallen asleep in the sand, curled in on yourself like the tide might take you if you let it.

Your jacket was pulled tight around you, half-covered in grains of salt and moonlight. The ache in your bones reminded you of last night—the panic, the closeness, the way Rafayel had looked at you like he finally saw you.

The phone kept ringing.

You fumbled for it, thumb swiping across the screen with sleep-clumsy hands, heart already sinking at the name that might be waiting.

Part of you hoped it was him.

Part of you hated that you hoped.

Because even now—with your cheeks kissed by cold wind and your heart cracked from trying to outrun the truth—he was still there. Still in your thoughts.

Still in the space where love had no business surviving.

“Where are you?”

Shaiya’s voice bursts through the speaker, sharp with worry, echoing in the quiet morning air. It makes you flinch, like guilt has teeth and just sank into your shoulder.

“I—” you begin, but your voice barely holds shape.

Then his voice cuts through hers—low, urgent, too close.

“Y/N? Where are you?”

Rafayel.

Rafayel.

“I’ll come get you right now.”

You go still, the phone pressed against your ear like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered. The sea murmurs behind you, waves brushing the shore like it’s breathing beside you.

Your heart pounds, wild and disoriented.

“Is that the sea?” he asks, sharp, and then—

“I’m coming. Stay where you are.”

The line goes dead.

You sit there in stunned silence, the phone still pressed to your ear long after the call ends. The wind brushes your cheeks, and for a moment you wonder if you imagined the entire thing.

Because… why now?

Why did he sound like you mattered? Why did his voice shake like that?

Why did he suddenly care—when you’d already convinced yourself he never did?

You sit there, still dazed, the phone limp in your hand, the sea brushing gently against the shore like it’s trying to comfort you.

And then—

You hear it.

Your name. Carried over the wind, frantic and raw.

“Y/N!”

You turn slowly, like your body’s moving through water, and there he is—Rafayel—running toward you across the sand, hair windswept, eyes wide, breathing like he’d sprinted across the whole city to get here.

When he reaches you, he doesn’t hesitate.

He drops to his knees in front of you, arms wrapping around your frame in a crushing embrace, pulling you into him like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“Oh god,” he breathes against your shoulder, voice trembling. “You’re okay.”

And for one fleeting, trembling moment—you feel it.

Hope.

Soft and shimmering in your chest like seafoam, fragile and glistening. You close your eyes and let yourself believe—just for a heartbeat—that maybe he came for you.

Maybe he chose you.

But fate has never been kind.

“Do you know how Shaiya felt after she found out you were missing?” he says, pulling back slightly, his hands still on your arms.

And just like that—

the moment shatters.

His words echo, cruel and sharp, ringing in your ears like a bell tolling for your delusion.

Of course.

He wasn’t worried because you were gone.

He was worried because she was.

You smile—small, broken, empty—and nod like it doesn’t hurt.

Like you hadn’t just imagined an entire world where he ran for you.

And as if the world hadn’t twisted the knife deep enough—she appeared.

“Oh my god, Y/N,” Shaiya gasped, breathless as she stumbled down the dunes, cheeks flushed, hair tousled from running.

Her voice was laced with relief, eyes wide and glassy as they landed on you. She looked like she had been worried sick—like you were someone she couldn’t bear to lose.

You stared at her, stunned, caught between guilt and something heavier.

She was panting, hands on her knees, chest heaving with effort.

And beside you, Rafayel stood quickly, like gravity had suddenly remembered who he was supposed to be standing next to.

He took a step toward her. Not you.

Always her.

And in that moment, you realized the world didn’t just forget you—it remembered you only in relation to someone else.

A side character in their story. A shadow at the edge of someone else’s light.

You pressed your hands to the sand to steady yourself, head bowed, heart splintering in silence.

Because it was never really about you.

And it never would be.

“I didn’t realize,” you say quietly, your voice barely louder than the wind. “I fell asleep.”

It’s the truth, and not.

You fell asleep, yes—but more than that, you slipped. Out of yourself. Out of control. Out of hope.

Before the words can settle, Shaiya’s already moving—reaching out, pulling you to your feet with a strength that surprises you.

And then she hugs you. Tight.

Arms around your shoulders, face buried in your neck like she was afraid she wouldn’t find you again. You freeze for a moment, caught in the shock of it—her warmth, her worry, the weight of how much she cares.

And for a moment, you let yourself be held. Let yourself pretend this closeness doesn’t sting.

But your eyes lift, instinctively, over her shoulder—to him.

Rafayel is watching. Quiet. Still.

His expression unreadable, but his body turned slightly toward her. As always.

And as her arms tighten around you, all you can think is that,

You’re holding the person who loves him.

And he’s watching the person he loves.

And you are simply—

There.

—•

“Don’t you ever disappear like that again,” Shaiya scolds, her voice stern, hands working deftly as she wraps the bandages around your scraped, sand-bitten feet.

You hadn’t even realized you were barefoot. Hadn’t felt the sting of the shoreline or the rocks beneath your heels.

You’d been too caught in everything else—your thoughts, your feelings, your unspoken heartbreak.

You look down at her—at the way her brows furrow in concentration, the way her hands tremble just slightly despite how steady she tries to be.

She cares. Of course she does. She always has.

“Sorry,” you murmur, offering her a small, worn smile. One that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

Because you weren’t sorry for falling asleep on the beach.

You were sorry for wanting to disappear.

To the side, Rafayel stands silent.

He hasn’t spoken since she arrived. Hasn’t moved from that spot.

But you can feel his gaze on you—steady, unreadable, heavy with something you’re too tired to decipher.

You don’t look at him. Not this time.

Because if you do, you’re afraid you’ll start to hope again.

And you’re not sure your heart can survive another betrayal like that.

Soon, Shaiya is called away—duty tugging her back into the world, into action, into a place where she belongs.

She gives you one last look, lingering at the door, her fingers squeezing your shoulder with silent affection before she’s gone, leaving only the sound of waves and the hush of your shallow breath behind.

And then—

you’re alone.

With him.

Rafayel doesn’t speak right away. The silence stretches between you, tense and brittle, until he takes a single, tentative step forward.

You flinch.

It’s instinctive. Small. But enough.

He freezes.

And then you see it—the way his expression falters, confusion folding into realization. His brows knit together, not in anger, but in something closer to hurt.

As if it hadn’t occurred to him—not really—that you might be afraid of him. Not because he’s dangerous, but because he’s the one holding the dagger you kept running into.

He frowns, quietly. As if he’s only now starting to see the shape of the damage. The bruises he left without ever laying a hand.

And still, he doesn’t move.

Like he knows now that any closer, and you might shatter.

“Why?” he says, quietly. Barely above a whisper.

It hangs in the air like smoke, curling into your chest, choking before you even have the chance to breathe it in.

You finally look at him.

His eyes are on you—soft, searching, and so unbearably gentle it makes you want to scream.

Because he doesn’t get to be gentle. Not now. Not when your heart has already learned to ache in silence.

Feigning ignorance, you offer the easiest escape:

“What do you mean?”

Your voice is hollow, even to your own ears.

Because you can’t say it.

You won’t say it.

You can’t tell him that it hurts—god, it hurts—seeing him with her, the way he smiles when he’s around her, the way his voice softens just for her. The way his whole world shifts in her direction, like it never had to for you.

You can’t say that every time he looks at her, it feels like a thousand quiet deaths.

That there’s nothing you can do about it.

No fate to change. No mark to rewrite.

That he was never meant to be yours.

You clench your jaw, lowering your gaze again before your eyes betray you.

Because how do you confess to a man who was written for someone else?

And worse—how do you stop loving him, when even silence tastes like his name?

His jaw tightens—just barely, but enough to see the flicker of something shift behind his eyes. Hurt, maybe. Frustration. Maybe both.

And then he turns.

No parting word. No final glance.

Just silence—cold and absolute—as he strides toward the door.

And then,

Bang.

The door slams shut behind him, loud enough to make you flinch, to rattle the air in your lungs.

It echoes through the room like an exclamation point to a conversation that never really began.

You’re left standing in the quiet aftermath, staring at the space where he’d been.

You’d wanted him to leave.

But not like that.

Not so angry. Not so broken.

Not without understanding the why behind your silence.

But maybe that’s what you deserve—for loving him in secret, for hoping in spite of fate, for carrying a heart that was never yours to offer.

The silence stretches.

And all at once, you realize—

you’ve never felt so completely, devastatingly alone.

[zaynessbeloved]

The Bond remembers

Synopsis: You were only meant to be a life model—just another muse in Rafayel’s class. But when you touched his painting, something ancient stirred. Dreams followed: a glowing city beneath the sea, a violet-eyed god, a sacrifice made in the name of love. Now, the past is bleeding into the present. And neither of you can resist the pull of a bond that’s waited eight hundred years to return.

Content warnings: Soulmates, reincarnation, divine bond, immortal love, slow burn yearning, pining, memory awakening, Lemuria-inspired tale of past life sacrifice, first kisses, emotional, soulbonded sex—including grinding, oral, praise kink, body worship, and soft angst that heals as much as it hurts.

Pairings: Rafayel x reader

Word count: 16.8k

A/n: this fic is so special to me—I poured my whole heart into the bond, the yearning, the underwater dreams, and ALL the Rafayel soul-ache (his god of tides myth broke me). I really wanted to explore something slow, sacred, and emotional… with a touch (okay, a lot) of steamy intimacy too hehe. thank you for reading!!

You’re used to being looked at. Not in the way strangers leer on subways or the fleeting glances in crowded rooms. No, this is the quiet, calculated attention of artists—where every tilt of your chin, every arch of your spine, becomes something to be studied, understood, immortalized.

The art studio smells like charcoal dust and old wood varnish. The spotlight above you casts soft shadows along your skin, bathing you in that familiar warmth. Pencils scratch. Brushes drag. Someone sneezes. You barely move.

Then you feel it. A stare that lingers a little longer than the rest.

You don't know why it strikes you, but it does—like a thread being pulled taut across your collarbone. Your gaze flickers, subtle, and lands on him.

He’s not drawing. Not right now. His hands are still, resting over his sketchbook, fingertips lightly stained in colors that don’t belong to today’s palette. And his eyes—violet, no, more like twilight bruised with a hint of storm—are entirely fixed on you. Not your form. Not your pose. You.

You look away.

The session ends. The instructor claps, voices rise, stools scrape against the floor. You reach for the silk robe hanging nearby, slipping it over your shoulders as the cold air starts to bite. You’ve done this a hundred times. It’s routine. Predictable.

So you’re not sure why you approach him this time.

“Your piece,” you say, feigning casual. “You looked… focused.”

He doesn’t look up right away, as if he's reluctant to let go of whatever spell he’d put himself under. But when he does, there’s a slow, knowing smile that curves his lips.

“You noticed.”

You shrug, the silk shifting against your skin. “Hard not to.”

He closes his sketchbook, stands. He's taller than you'd expected. “I didn’t finish it,” he says smoothly, brushing a faint streak of ochre from his wrist. “Not here, at least. I prefer to work where it’s quiet. Where things breathe.”

You blink. “Things?”

“Art. Memory. Obsession,” he adds, that smile widening slightly as he gestures toward the door. “Would you like to see it?”

You hesitate—half out of instinct, half out of surprise. But there’s something magnetic about him. Something veiled behind his poise, like danger dressed in velvet.

“…Sure.”

His studio is tucked in a quieter district, away from the city hum. The building is old, with high arched windows and white-washed brick. He walks ahead of you, unlocking the door with a key that glints under the moonlight. You step inside.

The air is cooler here. And quieter. Paintings line the walls—some abstract, others disturbingly real. But at the center of the room, draped beneath a white cloth, stands something tall. Almost human in shape.

You glance at him.

He says nothing, only watches as you step forward, fingers brushing the edge of the veil.

You pull.

And there you are.

No… not quite. Marble. Cold. Eternal. But your expression. Your body. The tilt of your lips caught mid-thought. The way your fingers rest against your thigh just like they had earlier.

You gasp—quietly. Breath stolen.

“You—this is…”

“Not what you expected?” His voice is low now, like the final stroke of a bow across a cello string. “I didn’t want to capture what everyone else saw.”

He’s beside you now, but not touching. Not yet.

“I wanted to carve what I saw.”

You stand frozen, staring into the marble eyes of yourself. It's not just the accuracy that unsettles you—it’s the way it feels like she's watching you back.

Your marble double is beautiful, yes, but there’s vulnerability carved into her lips, strength in the tension of her shoulders. Like you’d been captured in the exact moment your thoughts had strayed—just before the end of the session. How did he know?

You don’t realize how long you’ve been silent until you hear the soft shift of his coat as Rafayel steps closer behind you.

“I thought you might run,” he says, voice smooth, low, and almost amused.

You glance over your shoulder. “Should I?”

He tilts his head slightly, a few purple strands falling into his eyes. “You tell me. You’re the one standing face-to-face with your own ghost.”

You huff out a quiet laugh, breathless. “It’s not a ghost.”

“No,” he agrees, moving to your side, his hand barely brushing the edge of the pedestal as he circles it with a kind of reverent attention. “It’s a moment. Suspended forever. Just for me.”

You swallow. “That’s a little intense.”

He hums. “Oh, cutie, I’ve been called worse.”

There it is—that lilt in his voice. Playful. Velveted and dangerous. And suddenly you feel it again—that strange heat blooming low in your chest, curling under your ribs. It doesn’t feel threatening. Just… unexpected.

You shift your eyes back to the statue, trying to compose yourself. “You really made all this… from memory?”

“Of course.” His tone softens, as if the answer should’ve been obvious. “I don’t need a photograph to remember how your collarbone caught the light. Or the way your fingers twitched when you were trying not to shiver. I remember all of it.”

You go still again, pulse thudding in your throat. He isn’t teasing anymore. Not fully.

“…Why me?” you ask, voice quieter now. “There were a dozen models in the academy files. Some who’ve done this for years.”

He steps closer, and when he speaks next, it’s not playful—it’s precise.

“Because you don’t flinch when people look at you,” Rafayel murmurs. “But you do when someone sees you.”

You meet his eyes then, caught in a silence that says more than either of you is ready to admit.

And yet—he leans in, ever so slightly, and adds with that crooked smirk returning, “Besides… I don’t think the others would’ve let me get away with sculpting that dimple just right.”

You laugh—actually laugh this time—and the tension crackles, not with discomfort, but something almost magnetic. The kind of static you feel right before a storm.

He turns then, breaking the moment, and gestures toward a dark curtain tucked into the far corner of the studio. “Want to see the rest?”

You blink. “There’s more?”

“Oh, cutie…” He tosses you a glance over his shoulder, that spark unmistakable in his eyes. “You’ve barely seen the beginning.”

You follow Rafayel through the studio, brushing past the heavy curtain as he pulls it aside with a lazy flick of his wrist. The space behind it is smaller, dimmer, lit only by scattered floor lamps and soft light pouring in from a tall, arched window. The air smells faintly of turpentine, dried roses, and something else you can’t name. Something sharper.

You weren’t expecting this.

The walls are lined with canvases—some finished, some half-covered with strokes and smudges of color. There’s a narrow table covered in sketchbooks, loose pages, and clay fragments. You take one step inside and then another, until your breath catches in your throat.

There’s you. Again.

But not in marble.

Paintings. Sketches. Charcoal etchings. Miniature sculptures in rough, beautiful progress.

You blink, stunned.

“I—wow,” you murmur, hand lifting on instinct but stopping just short of touching one of the canvases. Your painted self sits on a chair, sunlight sliding down your bare shoulder, hair falling loose around your face. In another, you’re half-turned, caught mid-laugh—something he never would’ve seen from the platform. Not unless…

“You watched me when I wasn’t posing.”

Rafayel doesn’t deny it.

He leans casually against the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable save for the slow tilt of his head. “You were always more interesting between the poses.”

You laugh under your breath, unsure if you’re flattered or unnerved. Maybe a little of both. “You had time to do all this?”

“You modeled for the entire semester,” he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I’m a fast worker. When I’m… inspired.”

You glance around again. There are easily a dozen versions of you here—each one different. Each one seen through his eyes.

“I didn’t know I was that inspiring.”

“You didn’t know,” he echoes, pushing off the wall now and walking toward you with a lazy grace. “That’s what made it so addictive.”

You glance over at him, heart thudding a little harder in your chest. “You sound like a man with a problem.”

He smiles. “Oh, I am. But I’m not in a rush to fix it.”

There’s a beat of silence, and you take the chance to breathe—slowly, evenly. You think back to how this all started.

You’d signed up to be a life model on a whim. It was good money, flexible hours, and easy enough work if you could sit still for long stretches of time. You never expected to enjoy it. But there was something about being seen through an artist’s lens that made you feel like more than just skin and bone. You became texture. Shadow. Light.

Rafayel had been one of the quieter students in the class. Never asked questions. Never joked around with the others. He showed up late sometimes, left even later. But his eyes… they were always on you. Focused. Sharpened like a blade in water.

And now, standing here among the pieces he’d carved and painted in secret, you realize— Maybe he hadn’t been sketching you like the others had. Maybe he’d been studying you.

You look back at him now, and say, almost too softly, “I never thought I’d be a muse.”

He steps closer, close enough that you can smell the faint traces of clay and paint on his clothes, on his skin. “You were never just a muse.”

You raise a brow. “No?”

His gaze drops—first to your mouth, then to the dip of your throat, before lifting again. “You were the thing I couldn’t get out of my head.”

The words strike something deep in you. It’s not even what he says, but how he says it—like it was inevitable. Like he’d already resigned himself to it long ago.

You should leave. That would be the logical thing to do.

But instead, you ask, “And now that the semester’s over?”

He leans in just a touch, one hand lifting to gently brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers are cool from the clay. His smile? Absolutely sinful.

“Now,” he murmurs, “I get to sculpt you from memory.”

You don’t move away from his touch—not when his fingers ghost behind your ear, not when they linger for just a second too long. Instead, you tilt your head slightly and meet his gaze. Steady. Searching.

“You say that like I’ll disappear,” you murmur. “Like one day, I’ll just… fade out of your mind.”

Rafayel lets out a soft exhale—part laugh, part something else. “Oh, cutie. If only I could be that lucky.”

You raise a brow. “Lucky?”

He steps past you then, glancing down at the statue once more. His voice shifts—quieter now, thoughtful. “You think it’s lucky, remembering everything? Every line, every glance, every pause you took between breaths?”

You watch him as he brushes his fingers along the edge of one canvas, his movements delicate, reverent. There’s something in his voice that makes your skin prickle—not just flattery, but the sharp edges of something deeper. Obsession, maybe. Or something far more dangerous.

“You don’t forget anything?” you ask softly.

He glances back at you. That smirk returns, but it’s tempered by something real beneath it. “Not when it matters.”

And suddenly, you find yourself smiling. A slow, curious smile that edges toward something bolder. “Still…” You walk closer, deliberately slow, and come to a stop just in front of him. “If your memory ever fails you—and I’m not saying it will—but if it does…”

He arches a brow. “Yes?”

“…You could always ask me to model again.”

There’s a pause. One heartbeat. Two.

And then he laughs—low, rich, and surprisingly warm. “Are you offering?”

You shrug, casual. Teasing. “You do have all the lighting equipment already. And I wouldn’t want your next masterpiece to be inaccurate.”

“Ah,” he hums, circling you now like you’re already on the pedestal, “so generous. Offering your time, your form, your presence. Truly, my muse is merciful.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s half-hearted. “Don’t get used to the praise.”

“I don’t need to,” Rafayel says, stopping just behind you again. His voice lowers, brushing against the shell of your ear. “I already carved it into stone.”

The words settle deep in your chest—too intimate, too serious, too... him.

You’re quiet for a moment, eyes scanning the works around you again, until your voice slips out, softer than before. “Do you do this often?”

He doesn't answer right away.

When he does, his voice is distant, like he's remembering something from far away. “No.”

Just that. A single word. Honest. Heavy.

You glance at him, this time really looking. Behind the velvet charm and practiced poise, there’s something guarded in his expression—like there are doors he keeps locked tight, even as he offers you the keyhole to peer through.

“So what made you do it this time?” you ask, your tone barely a whisper.

He looks at you, then. Really looks.

“I don’t know,” Rafayel admits, lips curving into something almost rueful. “Maybe I saw you before I ever knew your name. Maybe I just wanted to remember what it felt like to want something I couldn’t quite touch.”

You swallow, heart fluttering in your chest like wings against a glass cage. He isn’t just playing anymore. Not entirely.

And you? You should be afraid of how deeply he’s seen you. But instead, all you can think is— What else is he hiding in this studio? And why does part of you want to be the one to find it?

Your fingers trail lightly across the edge of one of the canvases—this one smaller than the rest, no more than the size of a dinner plate, but framed in silver. It doesn’t quite match the others. It’s abstract, layered with swirling, iridescent hues that shimmer like oil over water. The colors shift the longer you look, bleeding from violet to blue to a shade that doesn’t quite exist in the normal spectrum.

And then—a pulse.

It’s faint. Like a heartbeat caught beneath the canvas.

You snatch your hand back instinctively.

“What was that?” you murmur, frowning slightly. Your eyes flick to Rafayel, who’s now quietly watching you from across the room. His arms are crossed loosely, expression unreadable—but there’s a twitch at the corner of his lips.

He shrugs, lazy and amused. “Sensitive, aren’t you?”

“I’m serious.” You glance back at the painting, hand still hovering just above it. “It… moved.”

“Did it?” he drawls, wandering over now with that slow, predatory grace he seems to wear so effortlessly. “Maybe the studio’s just messing with your head. Happens sometimes. Low lighting, late night, a mysterious artist with questionable morals—” he taps his chin theatrically—“Classic cocktail for hallucinations.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “That’s not funny.”

“Oh, I wasn’t trying to be funny. I was going for enigmatic. Did it work?”

You give him a dry look, but there’s a flutter of unease in your chest. Not fear—more like your instincts whispering, something’s not quite right here.

Your gaze drifts back to the painting. The colors shimmer again, but softer this time. Gentle. Luring.

“…What did you use to paint this?”

He lifts a brow, and this time his smile shifts—just a flicker tighter. “Trade secret.”

Your lips part, but before you can press further, he closes the gap between you. “Come on, cutie. You’ve seen my secrets. Let me keep a few.”

You hesitate—but his voice is velvet, and his presence overwhelming, like the painting itself. Warm, close, disarming. Distracting.

Still, your gaze lingers on the painting one second longer.

It did pulse. And your skin still tingles faintly where you touched it.

You step back, breaking eye contact with the canvas. “…Fine. Keep your little secrets, artist boy.”

He smirks, clearly victorious. “Thank you. I promise they’re all very harmless.”

You eye him. “That’s exactly what someone with very harmful secrets would say.”

Rafayel lets out a soft, theatrical sigh. “You're impossible.”

“And you’re not nearly as subtle as you think.”

But even as you say it, you catch the gleam in his eyes—a flicker of something deep, unspoken, ancient.

And you wonder—not for the first time tonight—just how much of him is artifice… and how much is something else entirely.

You should probably leave. That would be the smart thing to do. But your feet don’t move.

Not when he’s looking at you like that—head tilted, violet-pink eyes half-lidded, like he’s measuring something unseen. The room still hums faintly, thick with the scent of mineral dust and paint thinner. The pulse of that strange painting seems to echo in your fingertips even now, long after you stepped away.

“You’re still curious,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m not denying it,” you murmur.

He moves then, sweeping past you toward the far end of the studio. A large sheet rests over something draped in shadow—another canvas? A sculpture? It’s hard to tell.

He stops, turns to glance at you over his shoulder. “I’ve been working on something new,” he says, voice smooth as wine. “It isn’t finished, but…” He steps aside and lifts the sheet away with a slow, elegant motion.

It’s a painting—tall, vertical, and haunting.

You.

But not like the others. Not posed. Not serene.

This one is raw—your expression caught in mid-thought, lips parted as if about to speak, hair slightly mussed, something stormy in your eyes. It doesn’t feel like a portrait. It feels like an argument. A secret. A confession you didn’t know you made.

You stare. “That’s not how I looked in class.”

“I know.” Rafayel leans one shoulder against the wall beside the canvas, watching you. “That one’s from memory too. But a different kind of memory.”

You glance at him. “When did you see me like this?”

He shrugs. “Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I imagined you this way. Wanted to see you like this.”

You exhale slowly. He’s toying with you again, as always—but something in your chest flutters, caught between intrigue and tension. “You’re impossible to read.”

He grins. “Good.”

You turn back to the painting, letting the silence settle between you again. There’s something about this piece that pulls at you in a way the others didn’t. You don’t feel like a muse here. You feel like something else—like he painted what you hide even from yourself.

“…Do you want to sit again?” His voice breaks the stillness.

You glance at him.

He nods to the chair near the easel—closer than the platform in the academy. Much closer.

His expression is casual, but his eyes? They gleam.

“I have a few hours,” he says lightly. “If you’re brave enough.”

You hesitate for only a heartbeat. Then you move toward the chair, dragging it a little closer to the light, the hum of the room still buzzing faintly in your bones. You sit, heart ticking a little faster, but your posture relaxed.

You meet his gaze head-on. “Alright. Show me what you see.”

Rafayel smiles, slow and satisfied, as he lifts his brush.

“Gladly.”

The chair creaks softly as you shift into it, smoothing your hands along your thighs—suddenly hyperaware of your posture, the slope of your shoulders, the angle of your neck. You’ve done this before, countless times under the sharp gaze of students and instructors. But this time, it feels different.

This time, he’s closer.

Rafayel stands only a few feet away, sketchpad balanced loosely in one hand, charcoal stick in the other. The dim, amber glow of the studio lamp halos him in warmth, but his focus is sharp—eyes narrowed slightly, expression unreadable.

You hold still.

Not because he told you to—but because somehow, you want to.

The scratch of charcoal fills the silence, soft and rhythmic. You watch the way his wrist moves, fluid and precise. His eyes flick up to meet yours, then back down. Again. Again. Every glance is deliberate. Each line he draws is a secret he’s pulling from you without permission.

You clear your throat. “Do you always draw this close?”

He doesn’t look up. “Only when the subject is interesting.”

Your brow lifts. “And am I interesting because I sit still well, or because you’ve made an art gallery of me in the back of your studio?”

That earns a soft chuckle from him—a real one, low and warm. “Neither. You’re interesting because you’re still trying to figure out if you like being seen.”

Your lips part, but the words don’t come. He’s not wrong. You’ve always worn your calm like armor in these sessions—but Rafayel sees through it, and you don’t know how to stop him.

You shift slightly, just enough for your knee to brush the edge of the lamp’s glow. “What about you?” you ask. “You act like someone who enjoys the attention, but you keep everything else locked up.”

He glances up this time, and for a second—just a second—something flickers in his eyes. Something colder. Older.

“Maybe I do both,” he murmurs. “Maybe I want someone to look close enough to ask.”

You meet his gaze, and neither of you looks away.

“…So?” you ask softly. “What are you drawing now?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes flick to your mouth. Your hands. The curve of your jaw. Then he says:

“The way you sit when you think no one’s watching. The way you try to hide the fact that you’re intrigued.”

You blink. “That’s not very objective.”

He smirks. “Who said I was going for objectivity?”

You exhale, letting your gaze wander across the scattered canvases and sketches that surround you both. The studio feels like its own world now—removed from the streets below, the sounds of the city, the weight of normal life. Here, there’s only this strange rhythm between you.

You tilt your head, eyes returning to his. “How long have you had… whatever this is?” You gesture vaguely toward the paintings. “The obsession.”

He hums, dragging the charcoal in a soft curve across the page. “Since the first session, probably. You didn’t look away when I stared. Most people flinch. You didn’t.”

You smile faintly. “Maybe I wanted to be seen.”

He pauses, then looks up, slower this time. His voice is quieter when he speaks next.

“Then you should be careful,” he murmurs, “because I don’t just look, cutie. I remember. I keep.”

Your breath catches—not from fear, but from the weight behind those words. The intimacy in them.

You sit in stillness again, pulse steady but a little too loud in your ears.

And across from you, Rafayel draws.

The charcoal moves again. Slow, deliberate. You don’t speak for a moment, letting the quiet settle around you like mist.

Your hand drifts idly to the edge of the table beside the chair, fingers brushing across splattered wood and scattered graphite stubs. You’re not really thinking about it—until your skin skims something slick and strangely warm.

You flinch.

Not from pain. Not from fear.

Just—wrong.

Your fingers jerk back, and for a second, the edges of your vision blur—like the room shifted, just slightly out of alignment.

You blink. Once. Twice.

Something buzzes faintly at the back of your mind, like a note played on a frequency just out of reach.

Rafayel pauses.

You look toward the doorway—the curtain still drawn back from earlier. The painting. The small one with the impossible colors.

It’s glowing.

Faintly. Softly. But unmistakably.

The swirling shades now pulse gently, like the slow rhythm of a sleeping heartbeat. Not steady. Not quite natural. The light ripples across the studio walls, reflecting off silver frames and casting strange shadows behind Rafayel’s silhouette.

You stand slowly, not taking your eyes off it. “It’s doing it again.”

Rafayel doesn’t move. His head tilts slightly, one brow raising. He watches you, not the painting.

“You’re not screaming,” he says, voice low, thoughtful.

“No.”

“You’re not running either.”

You glance at him, jaw tightening. “Should I be?”

He smiles, but there’s something else behind it now. Something deeper. Interested. “Most would’ve broken the door down by now.”

You look back at the painting. That shimmering glow calls to something deep in your chest, strange but not unwelcome. Like a dream you can’t remember but know you’ve had.

“What is that?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he stands, setting his sketchpad down carefully on the table. Then, slowly, he walks to your side, eyes never leaving your face.

“It’s made with a pigment you can’t find on the surface,” he says at last, voice almost too casual. “Coral stone. Grows in deep ocean pressure, where light folds in on itself. Very rare.”

You glance at him. “And the pulsing?”

“Side effect. The material’s… reactive.” His tone is deliberately vague.

“To what?”

He leans in slightly, head tilted as he studies your expression. “That’s the interesting part.”

You stare at him, heart thudding, the air now humming softly around you. “It reacted to me.”

“Yes.” His smile stretches. “And you’re still standing here. Still looking.”

There’s a beat of silence. Long. Charged.

You don’t know what he’s expecting from you now—fear, maybe. Or retreat. But all you feel is a slow-burning fire in your chest, drawn by the pull of something unknown. Him. This place. The strange materials he works with. The secrets layered beneath his art.

“…Is it dangerous?” you ask.

“Only if you try to understand it too fast,” he replies. Then adds, with a slow, playful drawl, “Like me.”

You look up at him, eyes narrowed, heart steady.

“Maybe I like puzzles.”

Rafayel grins then—sharp, amused, intrigued in a way that feels far more dangerous than anything glowing behind a curtain.

“Well, cutie,” he says, “in that case… welcome to the deep end.”

You take a step toward the painting.

Rafayel doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t say anything at all. He just watches, eyes half-lidded, lips parted slightly like he’s holding in something unspoken.

The canvas pulses again—soft waves of color folding into one another, blooming and collapsing like a living thing caught in rhythm with your heartbeat. You hesitate just before your fingers reach it.

“Should I?” you ask.

His response is so quiet you almost miss it.

“…If you want the truth, cutie, you should probably turn around and go home.”

You glance back at him, eyes sharp. “But if I want the interesting answer?”

He gives a soft, velveted laugh. “Then touch it.”

So you do.

Your fingertips graze the painted surface—and the world tilts.

Color surges beneath your skin, blooming through your veins like warm lightning. The room swims. Not violently—more like the sensation of being pulled underwater without drowning. Shapes swirl at the edge of your vision, fractals folding into memories you’ve never had. You see light refracting in deep sea currents. Hear whispers in a language that doesn't exist. The hum becomes music.

It doesn’t hurt. But it changes you—just for a breath.

And behind you—something shifts.

You whip around, breath catching in your throat.

Rafayel is standing still, but the air around him ripples—just once. Like gravity bent sideways. Like the studio itself responded to your touch.

His eyes glow faintly—violet brightening into a glassy, inhuman shimmer. His hair drifts slightly, as if underwater, and for a heartbeat, the shadows on the walls crawl inward, drawn to him like a tide responding to the moon.

Then it all vanishes. A blink—and he’s just Rafayel again.

But your heart is pounding now. “That was—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

“Side effect,” he says smoothly. Too smoothly.

You blink at him. “You reacted.”

He lifts a brow, expression unreadable. “Did I?”

“Yes.” You step toward him now, breathless but steady. “That was your Evol, wasn’t it?”

Another pause.

Then—finally—he speaks. “You’re not supposed to see that. Not yet.”

“But I did.”

He sighs through his nose, almost amused, almost annoyed. “And yet here you are. Still not screaming.”

“I told you,” you murmur. “I like puzzles.”

He studies you again—really studies you. You expect him to retreat behind one of his deflections, the playful teasing or velvet charm.

But this time, he doesn’t.

He just says, quietly:

“You touched something that should’ve cracked your mind wide open… and you’re still standing. Still you.”

You swallow, pulse thudding in your neck. “Should I be afraid?”

Rafayel’s expression softens just slightly, though something ancient still lingers behind his eyes. “Maybe. But I’m starting to think you’re the kind of girl who’d smile with a knife in her hand.”

You laugh—soft, uncertain. “What does that make you?”

He steps close. Just close enough for his voice to drop again, low and rich. “A very willing volunteer.”

The studio feels different now.

Not just in atmosphere—but in weight. Like the air between you and Rafayel has thickened with something older, heavier. Unspoken things shift just below the surface.

He’s still watching you—not with playful interest this time, but something else. Something sharper. Ancient.

You cross your arms, trying to steady your breath. “You said I wasn’t supposed to see that yet.”

“I did.” His voice is quiet now, velvet-dark. “But it’s not the first time you’ve done something you weren’t supposed to.”

Your brow furrows. “That sounds like more than just tonight.”

A faint smile ghosts across his lips. “Maybe it is.”

You pause, searching his face. That unreadable look in his eyes isn’t unfamiliar—but tonight, it feels less like a mask and more like a lock. One you’re finally finding the edges to.

“…Tell me,” you say.

He lifts a brow, amused. “Tell you what?”

“The truth.”

There’s a silence then. Long. Intentional. His fingers trail along the edge of the sketchpad, absently picking up the charcoal again, as if drawing gives him something to anchor to.

Finally, he speaks.

“There are stories,” he says, “about how the soul remembers what the mind forgets. That even when time folds in on itself, there are things we carry forward—things that find us again.”

You tilt your head. “Are we talking about art now, or something else?”

Rafayel’s gaze lifts to meet yours—and it’s too much. Like looking through centuries all layered behind violet eyes. He smiles, but it’s the kind that doesn’t quite reach the surface.

“I don’t know yet.”

That throws you.

“You don’t know… what?”

“If you’re real,” he says. “If this is real.”

You blink. “I’m right in front of you.”

“I know. And yet, the last time I saw your face…” He stops himself, eyes narrowing slightly, as though something painful brushes the edge of his memory. “You were dying in my arms.”

Your mouth goes dry. “What?”

He watches you. Measuring. Waiting.

“…I think I knew you once,” he says, barely audible. “Long before this. Long before now. But I don’t know if you’re her. Or just another face I want to believe in.”

You take a slow breath, pulse hammering. “You think I’m someone who… died?”

“Not just someone.” His voice is a whisper now. “The only person who ever made me want to stay.”

That silences you.

He steps closer, but not too close—like he’s afraid getting near might break the spell. “So you see… when you touched that painting, and you didn’t break, didn’t crack—I had to wonder.”

You meet his gaze, heart racing. “Wonder what?”

“If your soul remembers mine.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to drown in. You don’t speak, don’t move. Because suddenly you understand why he’s been watching you all semester. Why he sculpted you from memory. Why he seems pulled to you—not with infatuation, but with recognition.

You’re a puzzle he hasn’t solved in 800 years.

“…And if I’m not her?” you ask, voice barely a whisper.

Rafayel’s eyes dim slightly, but the softness never fades. “Then I’ll still paint you until my hands forget how.”

His words hang in the air like smoke:

Your heart is a wild, fluttering thing in your chest, trying to make sense of a weight that doesn’t belong to this life. Of a name unspoken, a rainstorm long gone, a dying moment that shouldn't exist in your memories—and yet something stirs.

But before you can reach for it— Rafayel steps back.

The motion is quiet, gentle. Not rejection. Something else. Like he’s pulling a curtain shut over a window that should never have been opened.

“That’s enough,” he says softly.

You blink. “What?”

His eyes lower, lashes casting shadows across his cheekbones. “If we go any deeper… I don’t think either of us will come back the same.”

You hesitate. “Isn’t that the point?”

He lets out a slow breath, then meets your gaze with something raw behind his usual teasing exterior. It’s not fear. It’s not disinterest. It’s care. Restraint forged in the fire of something ancient.

“I’ve waited too long to get this wrong,” he says.

You fall silent.

It hits you then—this isn’t just intrigue to him. This isn’t flirtation or artistic obsession. It’s something sacred. The way someone might cradle a long-lost melody at the edge of memory, too afraid that humming it aloud will ruin it forever.

He looks down at the sketchpad—still open, lines half-formed.

He closes it.

“I’ll walk you out.”

You don’t argue. Don’t push.

But as he leads you to the studio door, your hand trails along the edge of the curtain again. The painting behind it hums faintly, still pulsing like a distant heartbeat. Waiting.

You glance back at him one last time.

Rafayel catches your eyes, and though his expression is calm, you can feel it. The storm hasn’t passed. It’s only been postponed.

--------------------------

Three weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since you left Rafayel’s studio—since you touched that painting, felt something move beneath your skin, and saw his eyes burn with light not meant for this world.

Winter break came like a snowstorm that buried everything. The city slowed. The academy emptied. And for a while, you told yourself it had all been a trick of the light. Stress. Exhaustion. A beautiful artist and his strange materials.

But it didn’t go away.

From the moment your fingers touched that coral pigment, something inside you began to stir.

It started small—barely noticeable. A flicker of déjà vu when you passed by deep water. The whisper of a name you didn’t know on the edge of dreams. But the dreams…

The dreams were different.

You saw a city of glass and coral, spiraling towers bathed in soft blue light, luminous creatures drifting through vaulted domes. You saw him. Rafayel—but not as he is now. His hair flowed like liquid starlight, his eyes glowed brighter than the surface sun, and the sea bowed to his will. You saw yourself too—kneeling in shallow water, trembling as golden hands touched your face with reverence.

In one dream, they tried to take your heart. You remember the blade. You remember his voice, shaking as he said no.

And you remember the feeling of falling into his arms as he chose you—over them.

You wake up each time with your heart in your throat, your sheets damp with cold sweat, whispering his name into the dark.

--------------------

The semester starts again.

The halls of the academy buzz back to life, laughter and boots crunching ice into slush. Students carry portfolios and half-finished canvases under their arms. But you? You find yourself in front of the model roster sheet again, pen hovering.

You don’t even hesitate.

You write your name down under his class.

You tell yourself it’s for the money, the familiarity. Routine.

But when you walk into the room that first day, and see him at the far end of the studio—his back turned, sleeves rolled up, brushing powder onto a canvas with long, elegant fingers—your chest clenches.

You feel it. Like gravity pulling toward the sea.

Rafayel turns. And when he sees you—his expression doesn’t shift.

But his eyes do.

A flicker. A pause. Like he’s been waiting for this.

You don’t speak. Neither does he. But the moment stretches between you like a thread pulled tight through time.

And the soul in your chest begins to remember.

-------------

Class ends.

The students begin to gather their things—brushes clattering into tins, sketchbooks snapping shut, chairs scraping across the floor. Someone laughs near the back, muffled behind their scarf. The air smells faintly of varnish and cold.

But you don’t move.

You watch him.

Rafayel closes his sketchpad with a quiet, final motion. He doesn’t look at you—not yet. He’s already halfway to the door, coat slung lazily over one shoulder, hair loose, untied. Like nothing happened. Like he hasn’t haunted your dreams for twenty-one days straight.

Like he wasn’t holding you in the depths of a forgotten world—choosing you over everything he was meant to protect.

Your voice rises before you can stop it.

“Wait.”

He freezes. One hand still on the doorframe.

Slowly, he turns. Violet eyes meet yours, unreadable. Calm. Too calm.

“Yes?” he asks, as if nothing’s changed.

But you see it—the flicker behind his gaze. A flash of recognition. And something else, too. Restraint.

You take a breath. Step forward.

“Don’t go.”

That catches him.

His brows lift, just slightly. He turns fully now, facing you. There’s a beat of silence where neither of you moves. The others file out behind you, unaware. Unimportant. The world shrinks to the space between you and him.

“You came after me,” Rafayel says softly, almost to himself. “Of course you did.”

Your throat tightens.

“Something’s been… happening. Since that night,” you say. “Since I touched the painting.”

He doesn’t interrupt. He watches. He waits.

“I didn’t think it was real,” you go on. “But then I started dreaming. Or remembering. I don’t even know which it is.” You shake your head, breath catching. “You were there. Not as you are now. You were…”

“…More,” he finishes, quiet.

You nod.

“And I was…” You swallow. “I think I was meant to die. But you stopped it. You saved me.”

His eyes close. Just for a moment. Like your words strike a place he’s been guarding too tightly for too long.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” you whisper.

Silence.

Then—his voice, soft and steady:

“…You remembered.”

Something in your chest folds inward at the way he says it. Like it matters. Like it changes everything.

You search his face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wasn’t sure,” he says. “And I didn’t want to force it. If you were her, you would feel it in time. If you weren’t…” His jaw tenses. “I didn’t want to break you chasing a ghost.”

“But I’m not broken,” you say, stepping closer. “I’m still here.”

His breath catches—just slightly. And you swear, in that moment, the air shifts. Like the ocean, rising behind his eyes.

“You shouldn’t be,” he says, almost in wonder. “Not again.”

You reach for him. Not with your hands. Not yet. Just with your voice. Your presence. The truth you’re not afraid to look at anymore.

“Then maybe we were never meant to forget.”

You wait—for him to reach for you. To say something more. To close the space between your bodies the way your souls already have.

But he doesn’t move.

Rafayel stands there, barely a foot away, and yet there’s a wall between you. Not one made of distance or doubt—but of memory. Of fear. Of something ancient and fragile, breaking open again.

His hand twitches at his side, fingers curling faintly. You catch the motion. He wanted to touch you. He stopped himself.

“Why won’t you say it?” you ask softly. “Why won’t you let this be real?”

He meets your gaze, and gods, his eyes—there’s a whole world inside them. A depth you’ve seen only in dreams and drowning.

“Because the last time I did,” he says, voice barely audible, “I lost you.”

The words hit like a wave to the chest.

You don’t remember how. Not clearly. The dream ends in his arms, in the choice he made to protect you. But after that—nothing.

Just a pressure in your ribs. A cold that clings to your bones. A final heartbeat, echoing in his silence.

Still, you don’t ask. You don’t need to.

Because even now, standing before him in this studio full of light and pigment and breath—you can feel it. The pain. The love. The unspoken ache buried so deep in him that he’s sculpted you again and again just to survive it.

And somehow… so have you.

“I don’t remember everything,” you murmur. “I don’t know the names or the place or the time. But I feel it.”

You step forward, slowly.

“I feel you.”

His jaw tightens. His eyes burn. Still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach.

And it hurts, the way he holds himself back. Not out of cruelty. But reverence. Like you’re a flame he already burned himself on once.

“I want to remember,” you say. “But even if I never do—I still choose you.”

His breath falters.

Something shifts in the room. Not big. Not loud. Just the faintest tremor beneath your feet. A hum in the floorboards. In the air.

His Evol. His soul. You don’t know.

But he does. He feels it too.

“You don’t understand what that means,” he says, voice rough now. “What it costs.”

“Maybe not yet,” you whisper, “but I understand what it feels like.”

His eyes close. One slow breath. And when they open again, there’s something soft in him. A crack in the marble.

He doesn’t touch you. But his voice reaches you anyway.

“Not yet,” he says. “If you’re really her… this time, I’ll wait.”

And you nod.

Because you understand. Because this time—it’s him who’s afraid to lose you.

--------------------

It starts the same way it always does—cold.

The weight of water presses in around you, dark and endless. Your limbs move slow, your chest burns. You're drowning, sinking toward a seabed that glows faintly with bioluminescent vines. Your dress fans around you like seafoam. You know this place. You’ve been here before.

You look up.

And then—he’s there.

A figure gliding through the currents like gravity doesn’t apply to him. Hair like flowing starlight. Eyes like amethyst struck by lightning. He reaches you just as your vision begins to blur.

He cradles your face in both hands, and you remember this part—the fear, the pleading, the way you mouthed “please” even as your lungs gave out.

You didn’t know what you were asking for.

You didn’t know what it meant.

But still, you kissed him.

A desperate, breathless thing—your lips pressed to his in the dark as your heart sputtered its last beat. And instead of death— You breathed.

The kiss lit your chest with warmth. Not fire. Not air. Something older. Your eyes flew open underwater.

And you weren’t dying anymore.

He held you close, his forehead pressed to yours, and when you looked at him again, something had changed behind his eyes. Something vast. And sacred.

The bond had been made.

Not with words. But with the kiss.

The unspoken offering. The soul deep vow.

You became his follower. His chosen. His beloved.

You were only human—but in that moment, your soul was marked with the sea. Claimed by a god who didn’t yet know the price of it.

The dream shifts. Fractures.

You see the temple now—carved of pearl and obsidian. Lemuria, luminous and ancient. The central flame of the sea god ceremony burns in a great sphere above a blackened altar. The people bow. They chant.

You stand in the center, trembling. Rafayel stands beside you, lips pale. Silent.

He’s been told what must happen. He has been given the blade.

Your heart is needed to sustain the fire. Your heart, bound to his.

You remember the way he looked at the high priest. The way his fingers refused to close around the handle. You remember the way the entire sea trembled when he said no.

And then—his power unraveled.

The light of Lemuria flickered. The waters darkened. The fire went out.

You remember the way his arms wrapped around you again—just like the first time.

You remember whispering, “You chose me.”

And him replying, brokenly:

“Always.”

And still, somehow… you died.

You wake in the dark, gasping. Salt on your tongue. The echo of his kiss still burning your lips.

You touch your chest—right over your heart. It’s whole. It’s yours. But it remembers.

The dream returns like a memory you never meant to forget. You’re underwater again—but this time, you’re not drowning.

You’re breathing.

The world around you is impossibly still. Pale coral arches reach above your head like the bones of a cathedral, glowing with soft blue light. Strange flowers drift on unseen currents, petals fluttering like wings. Fish made of shimmer and shadow pass by in slow spirals. It's quiet. Sacred.

And you’re not alone.

Rafayel is nearby, watching you with something unreadable in his eyes. Not the reverent awe from the ceremony. Not the pained hesitation. This is something gentler. Curious.

He stands barefoot on the stone, hair floating around his shoulders like silk in the current. His robes are darker here, marked with shifting patterns that seem to move when you look too long.

You float a little clumsily in front of him, trying to adjust to this strange new weightlessness.

“I thought I was dead,” you murmur, your voice somehow carried clearly through the water.

“You were,” he says, gaze never leaving yours. “Until you chose otherwise.”

You swallow. “I didn’t know what I was choosing.”

“No,” he says softly. “But you meant it anyway.”

You’re not sure what to say to that.

He doesn’t press.

Instead, he moves toward you—slow and fluid, like he’s always belonged to this world and you’re only just being invited in. His hand reaches out, not to touch, but to hover near your cheek.

“Does it frighten you?” he asks. “Being here?”

You think about it. Then shake your head.

“It should,” you admit. “But it doesn’t.”

His smile is faint—barely there. “You’re strange for a surface-dweller.”

“You’re strange for a god.”

That makes something behind his eyes flicker. Not offense. Amusement. Maybe even affection.

You spend what feels like hours in that place. Days, maybe. Time doesn’t move here like it does above.

He shows you Lemuria not as a ruler, but as a guide. A hidden garden of crystal reeds that sing when touched. A cave where ancient murals tell stories in light. A forgotten chamber where fire dances in airless flame.

He walks beside you.

Listens when you speak.

Watches when you laugh, like he’s memorizing the sound.

You learn him slowly.

How his powers respond to emotion. How he carries the weight of his people even when no one is watching. How he hides pain behind poetry and sharpness.

And he learns you.

How you hum when you think. How you press your hand to your chest when something stirs too deeply. How you’re always looking up—even underwater—like you're still searching for the stars.

You never touch. Not yet.

But one night, you sit side by side on a stone ledge beneath a glowing coral arch, legs drifting just above the sea floor.

And when he speaks, his voice is quieter than it’s ever been.

“Once the ceremony begins, I won’t be the same.”

You turn to him. “What do you mean?”

His eyes search yours like he’s trying to decide whether to lie.

Then: “A part of me must burn to keep Lemuria alive. It’s always been this way.”

You nod slowly. “And what about me?”

He looks away. That silence is your answer.

You don’t understand yet.

But you feel it.

Something terrible is coming.

But you also feel this: The way he leans just slightly toward you, like he’s afraid of breaking something holy. The way your bond tugs at your soul, even before either of you speaks its name.

And before the dream ends, you whisper the words you won’t remember come morning.

“I’m not afraid of the fire. Only of losing you in it.”

-----------------------

The dream begins in silence.

Not the silence of fear or sorrow—but the heavy, sacred quiet that comes just before something ends.

You’re with him again.

It’s the night before the ceremony.

The air in Lemuria glows low with golden biolight. The current is still. Even the reefs seem to hold their breath. Somewhere beyond the palace walls, the people prepare for the great rite—songs and rituals to awaken the ancient fire. But here, in this quiet chamber of smooth obsidian and woven pearl, it’s only the two of you.

You sit beside him on a wide, polished ledge, your legs dangling in a pool of slow-moving current. Above you, light filters through a ceiling of living coral, casting soft shadows that drift across your skin.

Neither of you speaks at first.

He sits close—closer than ever before. His shoulder brushes yours. His fingers rest on the stone between you, twitching once, like he wants to close the space and doesn’t know how.

“I dreamed of the surface,” you say quietly. “Last night. I think I remembered what stars look like.”

His lips quirk. “Do you miss them?”

You nod. “A little.”

He hums. “They pale in comparison to your light, you know.”

You laugh, soft and tired. “Flattery won’t change what’s coming.”

The smile fades from his face. “No. It won’t.”

You look at him then, really look. The lines of his jaw. The quiet weight in his gaze. His beauty, yes—but more than that, the sadness he wears like silk beneath his skin.

“I wish it didn’t have to be this way,” you whisper.

And finally, finally, he turns to you. His voice is low, almost breaking.

“So do I.”

He reaches for you. Fingers brushing your cheek, your jaw. There’s hesitation in him—like a god afraid of touching something mortal and fragile. But you lean into him. Let him touch. Let him feel.

“I don’t know what will happen tomorrow,” he says, so softly it hurts. “But if there’s a world after this one… I’ll find you in it.”

You breathe. “You promise?”

His forehead touches yours. “With everything I am.”

You press your lips to his. Not desperate like the kiss that saved your life. This one is soft. Reverent. Like two souls saying goodbye before they’re torn apart.

Your fingers curl in the silk at his shoulder. You could have more. You both know it. You could fall into each other here and now and let everything else go.

But he pulls back.

And when he speaks again, there’s a tremor in his voice. “If I touch more of you, I’ll never let go.”

So you don’t ask.

You just stay like that—forehead to forehead, the fire of Lemuria flickering in the distance, and the sea whispering of things it already knows it will lose.

You wake up with a gasp. The sheets are tangled around your legs. Your skin is damp with sweat, and your chest aches like something was carved out of it in the night.

You press a trembling hand over your heart.

You remember.

Not the ceremony. Not your death. Just him.

The way his hands trembled. The promise he made.

You don’t hesitate this time.

You throw on a coat over your clothes and leave your apartment before the sun finishes rising, wind biting at your skin. The academy isn’t open yet, but you know he has a private studio nearby—on the edge of the district, tucked between half-forgotten buildings where light paints long shadows.

You reach the door and pause. For a moment, all you can hear is your heartbeat.

Then your knuckles lift, and you knock.

Once.

Twice.

And when the door opens— He’s there.

Rafayel.

Sleep-rumpled, bare-footed, paint smeared faintly on his wrist like he’s been working through the night.

He stops when he sees you. His eyes widen. And something in them breaks. Your eyes meet his, and he goes still. Entirely still.

Like he knows you’re not just looking at him. You’re seeing him.

Through the centuries. Through the weight of what he’s carried.

And somehow, through that endless ache that’s lingered between you since the moment your soul touched his again—you feel it.

The pull.

That thread woven between you, stretching across lifetimes, and still just as strong.

You step forward. Quiet. Unhurried. He moves aside.

You enter the studio.

It’s warm inside, dimly lit with scattered lamps. The scent of salt, paint, and something faintly floral clings to the air. The walls are lined with canvases again, some half-finished, some covered. But you barely glance at them.

You turn to him. He closes the door, slowly, carefully, like any sudden movement might shatter what’s happening between you.

You still don’t speak. You just look.

And he knows. That you remember the fire. The sea. The altar. The way he whispered “always” and chose you over an entire civilization.

“…You’re not her,” he says softly, voice fraying at the edges. “But you are.”

You nod. Just once.

“I’m not who I was,” you say. “But I carry her. She’s in me.”

His throat works as he tries to swallow the weight of everything behind your words. He takes a step back, not away from you—toward something deeper. Something buried.

Your voice barely makes it out.

“Tell me.”

He looks at you.

“What?” he whispers.

“Everything,” you say. “Lemuria. The fire. What happened. Why I died. Why you—” Your voice breaks. You inhale. “Why you’ve been alone for so long.”

His eyes close. One breath. Then two. He doesn’t ask if you’re sure. He doesn’t warn you away.

He only steps forward and nods toward the armchair near his worktable. You sit, and he sits across from you—close, but not touching.

Not yet.

And then, for the first time in eight hundred years, Rafayel begins to speak.

He leans back in his chair, elbows resting on his knees. His fingers lace together, but his hands don’t stop moving—twitching, flexing, like they’re remembering something. Or trying not to.

He stares at the floor for a long moment.

And then—he exhales.

“I wasn’t always like this,” he says. “The whole ‘mysterious artist who might be a little unhinged’ thing? That’s new. Took me a couple centuries to refine.”

You don’t smile. But he knows you heard the joke.

His eyes flick up to yours, then drop again.

“Lemuria was real. A city beneath the sea, ancient as anything you’ve ever read about and ten times more arrogant. We weren’t gods—not really—but we were close. More powerful. Longer-lived. Bound to elements. Mine was fire.”

He pauses.

“In the ocean, I know. Hilarious.”

You’re silent, letting him continue.

“Our survival depended on balance—between power and the sea. Every few hundred years, we held a renewal ceremony. Something to keep the core of Lemuria alive. It required a sacrifice. A living soul, given freely. Always human.”

He leans back, eyes distant now.

“You were the next one.”

Your breath catches. He hears it—but keeps going.

“I didn’t choose you. The council did. You were caught in a storm. A shipwreck. They pulled you from the water and called it fate.”

His jaw tightens.

“But I was the one who pulled you the rest of the way. I found you when you were drowning—dying. And you…”

He looks at you again, voice quieter.

“You kissed me. Just once. Desperate. Barely conscious. But it was enough.”

You feel the heat rise behind your ribs.

“You didn’t know what it meant. Neither did I, not really. But the bond was made. You became mine. Not in some ceremonial sense. Not a title. Real. Your soul tied to mine. I should’ve broken it then. I didn’t.”

His voice dips.

“Instead, I kept you.”

Silence again.

You don’t speak. You can’t.

“We had time before the ceremony,” he says. “Not much, but enough. I showed you the city. You smiled at things I’d forgotten to see. I told myself it was fine. That we’d find a way to make it work. The ritual had been done before, right? It would be painful. It would be cruel. But you’d be honored. Remembered.”

He rubs a hand over his face.

“I didn’t know what the fire would ask.”

His voice cracks.

“They didn’t tell me. They let me fall in love with you knowing what it would cost.”

You stare at him, chest tight.

“And when the time came…” He laughs, but there’s nothing amused in it. “I dropped the blade. Like a fool. Like a man instead of a god. I chose you.”

His eyes lift, finally meeting yours again.

“And Lemuria fell.”

The words drop like stones.

“The fire died. The sea went silent. The city collapsed in on itself and slipped into slumber. My people… gone. All of them. And you…”

His hands curl into fists.

“You still died.”

The silence between you is unbearable.

“I searched,” he whispers. “Every century. Every continent. Every flicker of something familiar. Until now.”

Your throat tightens, your chest aching like the memory is still carved into it.

And then, very quietly— “You never hated me?” you ask.

Rafayel looks at you, and his voice is nothing but raw truth.

“I hated myself enough for both of us.”

You sit with the weight of his words echoing in your chest. Not as a story. Not as a myth. But as memory.

Pieces of the dreams begin snapping into place—too vivid to be fiction. The drowning. The kiss. The glow of Lemuria’s fire before it went dark. The way he held you. The way he chose you.

Your throat burns.

He said it so simply. So quietly.

“You still died.”

You still feel it—that cold, final moment. The pain. The way his arms wrapped around you as everything collapsed. Not in a temple. Not in fire. But in a goodbye you never got to speak.

You study him now. He’s staring at the floor again, trying to hold himself together.

Not out of pride.

But because he always has.

You can see it all over him now—grief carved into every line of his face. Regret tucked behind every flicker of his eyes. He’s worn it for centuries like armor, and now it hangs off him like a second skin.

And even though he's the one who remembers everything, your own soul is screaming that it recognizes him.

That this man—this tired, deflecting, beautiful man—is yours.

Not because he claimed you. But because you chose him, too.

Your fingers twitch once on your lap. And then, slowly, you reach forward.

No words. No hesitation. Just the soft, deliberate motion of your hand covering his—warm skin to trembling knuckles.

He stills instantly. Like he can’t believe it’s real. Like the fire that once destroyed a city might spark again beneath your touch.

His head lifts. And when his eyes meet yours, you see it.

Everything.

The eight hundred years of silence. The fury. The ache. The guilt. The hope he buried so deep he stopped believing it could ever breathe again.

And something inside him breaks.

Not loudly. Not visibly.

But in the way his fingers curl into yours without thinking. The way he leans ever so slightly forward, breath catching. The way his voice—when it finally comes—is barely more than a whisper.

“…You still want me?” Your voice is soft. Cracked open.

“I don’t know what this life will ask of us. But yes.”

A beat of silence.

Then his fingers tighten around yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear again. Like the bond has always been there, tugging at him through lifetimes. And now, finally—finally—you’re here.

And this time, he doesn’t let go.

His fingers tighten around yours. Not with desperation—but with certainty.

As if he’s grounding himself in your warmth, your presence. Your soul.

And then—you feel it.

At first, it’s subtle. A shift in the air. A pressure beneath your skin. The kind of sensation that makes your breath catch in your throat. Then his Evol stirs.

Not violently.

But deeply.

You feel it hum in the floorboards. In the space between your bodies. The pull of gravity—not toward the earth, but toward him.

Your heart stumbles as the air thickens with heat and stillness. The lamps in the studio dim slightly, like shadows drawn inward to watch.

And then—he exhales.

His shirt shifts slightly, neckline tugged just low enough from how he’s leaning forward, and you see it: The mark.

Etched into the skin over his heart, faintly glowing with light that moves like liquid gold beneath his skin.

Not a scar.

Not a wound.

A marking—long-forgotten, hidden, sacred.

Flowing like a river. Like the pull of tides. The bond.

It pulses once. Then again. And your own body answers—not visibly, but within.

You feel the pull so deep it hurts. Like your soul is trying to leave your body just to meet his halfway.

You gasp and close your eyes, clutching his hand harder, like if you let go, the bond would rip you apart. Your heart pounds. Your skin burns. It’s too much and still not enough.

“Rafayel—” you whisper, and your voice is wrecked with it.

He’s already beside you.

He moved without thought, closing the space, kneeling before you, both hands now on yours. His breath is shallow. His pupils dilated. His voice when it comes is strained—barely held together.

“It’s reacting.”

You meet his eyes.

“I feel like I’m dying,” you whisper. “But it’s not pain. It’s—”

“I know.” His forehead presses gently to your hand, his hair brushing your skin. “The bond was never meant to wake like this. Not after everything. Not after time.”

Your throat tightens. “What does it mean?”

His voice is hoarse. “It means your soul remembers mine. It means I never stopped carrying you. And now, you’re carrying me again.”

Your eyes sting.

“I can’t breathe,” you whisper.

He looks up at you then, eyes burning with that same ancient ache, and says— “I’ll hold you through it. I swear.”

You grip his hand tighter. Your pulse thunders against his. And beneath it all—the mark glows brighter.

The fire he gave up Lemuria for, burning again in the space between your ribs. And still, he holds you. Because this time, he’s not letting go.

You don’t know how long you sit like that. Hands entwined. Breath shallow. Skin flushed with something deeper than heat. His forehead rests against your hand, and your fingers press into his like you’ll drown without him.

The mark on his chest glows brighter now—like molten gold spilling beneath his skin, threading through his veins. It pulses with the slow, aching rhythm of something that never truly died.

And you feel it.

It starts in your fingertips, where his touch meets yours. A subtle warmth that spreads—up your arms, across your chest, down your spine. Your body tenses, not in fear, but in stunned surrender. Like your soul is unfolding, opening ancient doors it didn’t know it still carried.

You inhale sharply.

“Rafayel…” Your voice is barely audible.

He looks up—eyes shining, wide, and for the first time, afraid.

Not of you. But of what this means. Because the bond is awake now.

Fully.

And you feel it. So does he.

You lean forward without thinking. Just enough that your knees touch, your hands still laced together between you. Your foreheads meet—like they did once, long ago beneath the sea.

The air shivers.

You feel it—his soul brushing against yours.

Not metaphorically. Not emotionally.

Literally.

It’s like something inside you—something buried so deep it became myth—rises with a gasp and rushes to meet him. And his soul? It surges forward like the tide, like fire drawn to air, like it’s been starving for this for eight hundred years.

You both freeze. The moment stretches thin.

And then— It clicks.

Like two halves of a lock finally twisting together. You both exhale at the same time—ragged, quiet, trembling. You press your forehead harder to his, your breath mingling, and your voice breaks.

“I feel you.”

His hands tremble as they rise—fingers brushing your face, your jaw, the side of your neck.

“And I feel you,” he whispers. “Like I never stopped.”

It’s too much. But neither of you lets go. Because it’s not your bodies craving closeness now. It’s your souls. Colliding. Merging. Grasping onto each other like they will die if they’re pulled apart again.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and bury your face into the crook of his neck. He pulls you in with a sound that’s almost broken—relief and disbelief and hunger, all tangled together.

And there, in the silence of his studio, surrounded by memories and broken time and fire reborn— You hold each other like the world already ended once.

And this time, you refuse to let it happen again.

You sit wrapped in his arms, the mark on his chest pulsing against you like a second heartbeat. One you know now. One your soul aches for. Neither of you speaks. There’s too much to say, and none of it would be enough.

So you stay like this.

Breathing each other in. Holding the weight of eight centuries between your ribs. Letting the silence crack open everything that once went unsaid.

You feel it all.

The ache in him—that deep, hollow grief buried beneath every teasing smile he ever gave you. The longing in you, echoing back from the dreams and the fragments and the salt still crusted on your soul. The fear that it could happen again. The desperate hope that it might not.

And somehow, love—tangled and broken and real—fills the air between you like light in water.

You shift slightly, just enough to look up. He feels it and pulls back a little too—but not far. Just enough so your faces are inches apart again.

You stare into his eyes. And they’re not violet now.

They’re blue.

Lemurian blue. The glow from centuries ago, lit from within, as if his soul is rising to the surface and showing itself to you, fully—not hiding, not shielding, not afraid anymore.

Your breath catches. You don’t realize your hand is on his cheek until he leans into it, closing his eyes for one long, shuddering moment.

And when they open again, you whisper—broken, honest, whole. “I want to kiss you.”

His breath stumbles. You shake your head, just slightly. “Not because of the bond. Not because of then.”

Your thumb brushes his cheek, and your voice trembles.

“Because I’m drowning again. And this time… I want you to save me.”

His lips part. But he doesn’t speak. Instead—slowly, reverently—he leans in. No ceremony. No ritual. Just him.

And when your mouths meet, there’s no fire. No crashing waves. Just stillness. Warmth. The kind of kiss that quiets the world around it.

That tells your soul: You’re home.

His lips meet yours like a breath caught between lifetimes.

At first, it’s gentle—tender. The kind of kiss that trembles with restraint, with awe, with the weight of finally.

But the moment stretches. And the bond stirs again.

Not quiet this time.

It tugs.

You feel it low in your chest, deep in your belly, under your skin—like a thread catching fire. His soul brushes yours again, not tentative this time, but seeking. And you both feel it: want, sharp and full, no longer content to stay beneath the surface.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt.

His hand moves to the back of your neck, firm now, grounding you as he deepens the kiss—lips parting, breath shared. His other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer until your bodies touch, chest to chest, and that mark between you flares.

You gasp against his mouth—stunned by how much you feel. Every beat of his heart, every tremble in his fingers, every shattered breath.

And he groans low in his throat, like he’s been starving for this, like your kiss is the first breath after centuries underwater.

Your hands slide up, one to his shoulder, the other to his jaw, tilting him closer, needing him closer. The kiss turns needy, like the bond has teeth, like it hurts to be apart even by inches.

You shift into his lap on the floor without thinking, knees on either side of him, your bodies pressing together like a tide rising. The heat between you builds—slow, consuming. His hands find your back, your hips, steady and worshipful and claiming.

But still careful. Still him.

Because even now—he’s holding the storm back for you.

Your foreheads touch again, both of you breathless, lips barely apart. His voice is rough, reverent, shaking. “I’ve wanted you for so long…”

You whisper, “Then have me. Now. This time.”

He exhales, eyes closing—like your words are both mercy and temptation.

But still, he rests his forehead against yours, and for one long moment, the kiss slows again—returning to where it began.

Not just want.

But knowing.

That this time, you came back.

His breath fans against your lips. Your bodies press together, heart to heart, soul to soul—and still, it’s not enough.

His hands slide up your sides, slow and reverent, fingers tracing the shape of you like he’s memorizing a map he already knows by heart. You feel his touch like heat, like electricity, but it’s gentle. Not rushed. As if he’s asking permission with every inch.

And you give it. Freely. Because you trust him. Because you always did.

Your hands cup his face, thumbs brushing along the high bones of his cheeks. His eyes are still glowing—soft, pulsing with that same sea-blue light that once illuminated the depths of Lemuria. You can’t stop looking at him. He’s beauty and ruin and tenderness all at once.

“Let me see you,” he breathes, voice low and raw.

You nod.

His fingers move to your shirt, slow and trembling. He peels it over your head inch by inch, gaze never leaving your face. His eyes darken as more of you is revealed, not with lust, but with a reverent kind of ache. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks.

You’re bare to him now, chest rising and falling, pulse fluttering beneath your skin.

He doesn’t touch yet.

He looks.

And the way he looks at you?

It’s not hunger.

It’s worship.

Like you’re the only thing in the universe that ever made sense.

When his hands do move, they’re light, like seafoam brushing the shore. Palms skimming over your ribs, your waist, up to the curve of your shoulders. You shiver, not from cold—but from being seen.

From being known.

“Every time I dreamed,” he whispers, voice shaking, “this is where it ended. I always woke up before I could touch you like this.”

You reach for the hem of his shirt, voice soft. “Then let’s stay awake.”

He unbuttones it slowly—and there it is. The mark.

Alive with golden light. Spiraling and shifting with every breath he takes. You lift your hand and lay your palm over it, and he gasps, eyes fluttering closed.

“Gods—” he murmurs. “You feel like fire.”

“And you feel like the sea,” you whisper, leaning in.

Your mouths find each other again, deeper this time. Slower. The kiss rolls like a tide—soft waves turning into something stronger. His hands cradle your waist, yours slide into his hair, anchoring each other as your hips begin to move, instinctual, finding rhythm in closeness.

You’re bare from the waist up, his palms warm on your skin, your body pressed into his lap, straddling him. The heat between you isn’t sudden—it’s steady, like something alive and rising with every breath.

His hands settle at your waist, thumbs stroking along your sides, and your arms loop around his shoulders like instinct. You roll your hips forward, slow and searching.

He breathes out against your jaw—a sound, soft and sharp and undone.

“Don’t stop,” he whispers.

You won’t. You can’t.

The bond pulls at both of you now—familiar and foreign all at once. A string tugging from somewhere deeper than the body, deeper than desire.

You grind again, and he shudders beneath you.

Your mouths find each other once more, this kiss less gentle—still reverent, still him, but now laced with hunger, with need. Your hips keep moving, slow and steady, pressing into him in long waves that make your pulse trip and your breath stutter.

His hands slide up your back, fingers tracing your spine, pulling you closer until there’s no space left to give.

You break the kiss first—just enough to breathe, to look at him.

He’s glowing again. Eyes bright, chest marked with light, jaw tense with restraint. But it’s his expression that stills you.

It’s not lust. It’s longing. The kind that never died. The kind that waited. You whisper, breathless, “You’re shaking.”

“I’ve never had you like this,” he murmurs, voice thick. “Not like this. Not when we could’ve had forever.”

You stroke his cheek. “Then take it now.”

He swallows hard, eyes locked on yours. “You feel it too… don’t you? Not just the bond. The way it’s pulling. Tighter. Deeper.”

You nod.

“It’s like it’s begging for more,” you whisper.

“Or warning us.”

You pause—hips stilling—but his hands slide to your lower back, guiding you again.

“Don’t stop,” he says, voice quiet but rough. “We’ve already passed the line. I’d rather drown in you than float in a world where you’re not mine.”

Your heart cracks open at that.

“I don’t know where you end and I begin anymore,” you admit.

“You never did,” he says. “Not really.”

And the bond tugs again.

Like it agrees.

Your hips begin to move again, slowly, rhythmically—dragging over the hard line of him beneath you through the fabric that still separates you. Each motion sends heat curling deeper into your belly, and you feel it—the way his breath hitches every time your bodies align just right.

Rafayel groans softly, hands gripping your waist tighter now, grounding himself in your skin. His thumbs draw slow circles over your hips, encouraging, urging.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he murmurs, lips brushing the edge of your jaw.

You tilt your head, gasping as his mouth trails lower—your shoulder, the dip of your collarbone—kissing like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you with his lips.

“I think I do,” you whisper.

And you do. Because it’s happening to you, too.

The bond hums beneath your skin, alive and urgent, responding to every grind, every breath, every place where your bare skin meets his. The mark on his chest pulses between you, the light from it casting a golden sheen over your joined bodies.

You reach between you, fingers slipping down to the waistband of his pants. He shudders as you touch him through the fabric, and his head falls to your shoulder with a low, aching groan.

“Careful,” he breathes. “You’ll break me.”

You smile against his temple, even as your heart races. “No. I’m just… putting you back together.”

He lifts his head at that—eyes burning, jaw clenched, chest rising with a breath that trembles.

And then his hands are on you again, one sliding up to your breast, cupping it gently, thumb brushing over your nipple in a slow, deliberate stroke. You gasp—your hips stuttering against him—and his free hand grips your waist harder, steadying you.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, voice husky, lips trailing along your throat. “You’ve always been. Even when I had you, I never really had you like this.”

“You do now,” you whisper. “You have all of me.”

His mouth returns to yours, more urgent now, lips parting, tongues brushing—hungry and deep, but still slow. Still intentional. Every movement between you feels like a vow being rewritten into the present.

You grind down again, and this time, his hips push up into yours, seeking friction, needing it.

“Rafayel—” you gasp.

His hands slide down to your thighs, gripping tight. “You feel that?” he murmurs against your lips. “That pull? That ache?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “I feel everything.”

“Then don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”

Your hips move in long, grinding strokes, and he meets you halfway, thrusting up to meet every motion with slow, devastating precision. The press of him against you—hard, insistent, still clothed but unbearable now—makes your breath stutter and your fingers clench where they rest against his jaw.

You slide one hand down his neck, over his chest—feeling the thrum of the bond-mark still glowing beneath your palm—and lower, down the tight lines of his abdomen. His muscles tense under your touch, his breath catching as your fingers trail the edge of his waistband.

“Fuck,” he whispers, his voice broken, reverent. His head tilts back slightly, exposing his throat, as if surrendering to you completely.

“You feel so good,” you murmur, leaning in to kiss along his neck, tasting salt and heat, your lips brushing over the pounding pulse there. “It’s like… like my body’s always known yours.”

He groans, deep and rough, his hands sliding up from your hips to your chest again, palms warm, thumbs flicking over your nipples, sending sparks jolting through your core.

“It has,” he says, voice gravel and sea. “It has. Even before we had names for it. Even when we didn’t know why, we fit.”

Your bodies move together, perfectly aligned, grinding harder now—friction building, fabric doing nothing to dull the throbbing ache between your legs. You’re both lost in it—moaning quietly, panting, clinging to each other like you’ll drown without the other’s mouth, hands, heat.

His lips find yours again and the kiss is messier now, hungrier—tongues meeting, teeth grazing, breathless and needy. He presses deeper against you, rolling his hips up in a slow, punishing grind that makes you cry out softly into his mouth.

“Rafayel,” you gasp, fingers digging into the muscles along his stomach.

His hand finds your jaw, tilting your face up so he can look at you—really look.

“I love you,” he says, voice shaking. “I never stopped. Not once. Not through fire or time or death.”

The bond pulses.

And your soul sings.

You grind down harder, chasing more of him, needing him inside now, and you whisper— “Then show me. Be mine again. Fully.”

And gods, the way he looks at you then—like he’s about to fall apart and fall together all at once.

Like he’s already yours.

You can barely breathe— Not because you’re overwhelmed, But because you’ve never felt this full of him.

Of feeling.

Of need.

And he’s still so close, mouth at your jaw, hips grinding slowly up into you in time with yours. It’s not frantic. It’s not fast. But it’s deep—slow waves crashing again and again, steady and building and unbearable in the best way.

You cling to him tighter, fingers curling against the hard lines of his stomach, memorizing him with your touch. He watches you like he’s watching the sky change color—awed, reverent, and just a little broken with it.

And then your voice, soft, trembling, spilling between kisses. “I want you to have all of me.”

His breath catches—he feels that. You know he does. Because the bond pulses again, stronger, your souls tightening like a drawn bowstring.

“You already gave it to me,” he says, voice rough against your throat. “Every time you came to me. Every time you dreamed. Every time you said my name in silence.”

“I didn’t remember,” you whisper, “but something in me always did.”

You feel him shiver beneath you, his hands sliding slowly down your sides, to your hips again. Then lower. Fingertips brushing the hem of your skirt.

“Then let me remember you too,” he murmurs, his voice suddenly lower, rougher. “Now. Like this.”

Your breath hitches, and you nod.

He shifts.

One arm slips beneath your thighs, the other around your back—and before you can ask, he’s lifting you into his arms, holding you like you’re weightless. Like he could carry you across oceans if you asked.

He doesn’t take you far—just to the side room of the studio, through a half-open door, where a soft couch and scattered blankets wait. You remember this space from before. Where he showed you your statue. Where he first watched you see yourself through his eyes.

Now, he lowers you there gently—kneeling with you, kissing you again before pulling back just far enough to push your skirt higher, exposing your thighs. His gaze darkens, not with possession—but with hunger softened by awe.

“Say it again,” he whispers, fingers brushing the inside of your thigh. “Say you’re mine.”

Your breath shakes. “I’m yours.”

His eyes close. And then he kisses down your chest, slow and reverent—like prayer. Like each inch of you is holy, and he’s not worthy, but he’ll worship anyway.

His lips trail lower, soft and deliberate.From the curve of your breast, down the center of your sternum, his breath fans against your skin as his hands part your thighs gently, like he’s opening a gift he waited centuries to touch again.

Your skirt is bunched at your hips now, your underwear the last thing between you and him. He pauses there—hovering, just above, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

There’s fire in them. But there’s also restraint. Still asking. Always asking.

You nod.

And his fingers curl under the waistband, dragging the thin fabric down your legs. Slowly. Carefully. Watching every inch of you become bare to him.

When you're naked before him, he exhales. It’s not a groan. Not a curse.

It’s worship.

Like your body is art and memory and something he forgot how to breathe around. “Perfect,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

His hands slide up your thighs, parting them further, and when he settles between them, you gasp—not from the touch, but the closeness.

His mouth returns to your skin, kissing the soft flesh of your inner thigh, over and over. And when he finally reaches the center of you—he doesn’t rush. He kisses you there first. Soft. Gentle. Claiming.

And then his tongue moves—slow, deep, every stroke deliberate. Every flick of him against you feels like poetry, like remembering. His hands hold your hips down as your body begins to tremble, as you arch into him, a breathless cry slipping from your throat.

The bond flares again—harder now.

It’s not just sensation. It’s feeling.

You can feel what he feels—his hunger, his reverence, his need to give this to you. To please you. To undo you with nothing but his mouth and the bond that glows golden between you.

“Rafayel—” you moan, your fingers finding his hair, threading through, holding him to you.

He groans against your skin, the sound vibrating through you. His pace quickens just slightly, lips and tongue moving in rhythm, matched to the rise and fall of your hips, the way your legs tighten around his shoulders.

“I can’t—” you breathe, voice shaking. “It’s too much—”

“No,” he says against you, lifting his head just enough to meet your eyes. His mouth is wet. His pupils blown wide. “You can. You were always meant to feel like this.”

And then he takes you again, deeper, firmer—his tongue moving with purpose, with knowing. One of his hands rises, fingers pressing against you where you need it most, rubbing soft, slow circles in time with his mouth.

You fall apart. Shattering.

But it’s not destruction. It’s a return. To him. To yourself. To the bond.

Your soul snaps tight to his, and in that moment, you know—nothing will ever break it again. Not time. Not death. Not gods.

Just you and him.

Forever.

Your body trembles in the aftershock—waves still rolling through your limbs as you try to find your breath again. Your heart pounds like it’s never known stillness, your skin tingles, warm and wet beneath the cool air of the studio. The bond pulses softly now—slower, but still aching, still alive.

Rafayel is still there, between your thighs, his hands smoothing along your skin as if trying to soothe every inch he just set ablaze. His lips brush your inner thigh once more before he lifts his head, gaze locking with yours.

You’re glowing.

Not just the bond. You.

Your cheeks. Your chest. Your soul. He sees it. You know he does. His breath catches like he’s looking at something divine.

And you are. Because you’re his.

And now—your body knows it too.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, voice hoarse, reverent. “You’re… gods, you’re beautiful.”

You smile softly, still trying to speak, to breathe. But the words won’t come—not yet.

So instead, you reach for him. Your fingers curl into the collar of his open shirt—what little remains of it—and tug. A silent come here.

The bond pulses again, responding to your touch. To your need.

Because you need him now. Closer. Inside. Where he belongs.

He rises without hesitation, crawling up over you, his body settling between your legs, the weight of him grounding you instantly. You feel him—hard, aching, still trapped behind the fabric of his pants. Still holding back.

Still waiting for you.

Your hands trail down his chest, over the glowing mark, down to his waistband.

His voice shakes. “You’re sure?”

You nod. “I’ve never been more.”

Your fingers make quick work of the button, the zipper, the soft fabric pushed down until he’s bare before you—every inch of him sculpted, wanting. His length rests heavy between your bodies, and you feel the full heat of him now, throbbing against your thigh.

Your hands slide to his hips. “Come to me,” you whisper. “Let me feel all of you.”

His eyes flutter closed for one long, trembling breath. And when they open again, they burn like starlit oceans.

“I’ll never leave you again,” he says, voice cracking on the promise. “Not even if the world asks me to.”

He hovers above you, breath shallow, chest glowing where the bond pulses like a second heartbeat. The weight of him is heat and pressure and promise—but still, he waits. His gaze roams your face, your lips, your eyes, and then his hands are on you again—palms sliding down your sides, fingers tracing your curves like he can’t decide what part of you to worship first.

You arch into him, skin burning for more, and he gives it. His touch becomes more deliberate—fingers trailing over your breasts, circling your nipples in soft, teasing strokes that make you gasp and clutch at his back. Then lower—down your ribs, your hips—until one hand slips between your legs again.

You're still slick, still trembling.

His fingers slide through the heat of you, and he groans against your shoulder. “You’re drenched.”

“You did that to me,” you breathe, kissing his jaw, his throat. “So do something about it.”

He huffs a laugh—wrecked and reverent—and kisses you hard, swallowing the sound you make when his fingers return to your entrance, circling, pressing, stroking you until your legs tighten around his waist.

But it’s not enough.

You reach down, sliding your hand between your bodies, and wrap your fingers around him—bare, hard, heavy in your palm. His entire body tenses at your touch, a low groan rumbling from his throat like thunder under water.

“Fuck,” he murmurs. “You’re going to destroy me.”

You smile softly. “Then I guess we’ll go down together.” Guiding him now—your hand between your legs, tip brushing against your entrance, slick and pulsing—you both freeze for a moment.

The bond tugs hard. It burns—not pain, but pressure. Desire. Connection. Like your souls are screaming for the rest of it.

“Look at me,” you whisper.

He does—eyes glowing blue, wide, undone.

And then you pull him forward.

He pushes in—slow. The head of him parts you, stretching you with exquisite heat, your breath hitching as your body gives way to his, little by little.

And gods, the way he groans—deep and guttural and devastated—as he sinks deeper, inch by inch. “You feel…” His jaw clenches, eyes fluttering shut for a beat. “You feel like home.”

You gasp, holding onto his shoulders as he presses all the way inside—your walls stretching to take him fully, your body shaking with the sheer depth of it.

Like waves crashing into rock.

Slow. Relentless. Inevitable.

Your arms wind around his neck, your hips rising to meet his, and for a breathless moment—you both freeze.

Connected. Finally.

The bond bursts between you—hot, glowing, searing through your cores like golden light, your marks burning where your bodies meet. And your soul recognizes his again—not just remembered, but claimed.

You whisper, broken, into his ear, “I was made for you.”

He begins to move—slow at first, the thick press of him dragging out of you only to roll back in, deep and steady. Your legs tighten around his waist, anchoring him, and your breath leaves you in a quiet, wrecked moan.

He’s so deep, it borders on unbearable. But it’s not pain. It’s completion.

Like your body has always known the shape of him. Like your soul carved out space centuries ago—and it never faded.

The bond pulses with every thrust, hot and insistent, like a second heartbeat thudding between your bodies. You feel it everywhere—in your chest, in your spine, down to your fingertips curling into his back.

“You’re so tight,” he groans against your neck, his voice raw. “I can’t—gods, I can’t hold back when you feel like this.”

You gasp as he thrusts again, a little harder, the rhythm finding its pulse now—you, wrapped around him, hips moving in time, chasing every roll of his body with your own.

“Don’t hold back,” you whisper, lips brushing his ear. “I want all of you. Give me all of you.”

That breaks something in him. He pulls back just enough to look down at you, his hand cupping your cheek, eyes blazing—glowing. Not with fire. Not just the bond.

With divinity.

“You have me,” he says, fierce and shaking. “Every life. Every death. Every version of me belongs to you.”

And then he thrusts again—deeper, harder now, the pace picking up. Your back arches, a cry slipping from your lips as he rolls his hips in that perfect rhythm, steady and consuming. The couch creaks beneath you, your bodies moving together like waves in a storm—unstoppable.

Each push forward presses his soul deeper into yours.

Each drag out pulls a piece of your breath with it.

And the bond is blazing now—no longer just a tether, but a firestorm. You feel him in every corner of your being.

You cling to him, whispering, gasping his name over and over like a prayer.

“Rafayel… Rafayel…”

He groans, thrusting harder, faster now, his body shaking above yours. “Say it again—gods, say it.”

“Rafayel,” you moan, clutching him tighter. “I love you.”

His eyes flutter shut.

And he kisses you—deep and open and hungry, swallowing your moans as his pace slams into you, slick and perfect, pushing you toward that edge again.

“You’re mine,” he says against your lips, hips slamming into yours. “And I’m yours. This time, we finish together.”

You nod, eyes blurring, breath breaking. “Together.”

And as the rhythm deepens, as the bond tightens, as your bodies crash and rise like a divine tide— You both feel it. This was always meant to be.

Your bodies move in perfect rhythm—skin slick, muscles straining, hearts pounding in tandem. Every thrust is deep, deliberate, like he’s trying to etch himself into the very core of you. And you let him.

You welcome him.

The couch creaks beneath the steady roll of your bodies. The bond between you pulses hotter and hotter, gold light flickering where your chest meets his, your mark answering his with every grind, every cry, every gasped breath.

He’s buried inside you to the hilt, his hips snapping forward again and again, slow but hard, like he wants to feel your soul clench around him. Your lips brush his cheek, your breath stuttering. “You feel like you were made for me.”

He groans at that, his pace faltering just slightly—thrusts shallowing, but deeper somehow, grinding with purpose.

“I was,” he breathes. “Every part of me belongs here. Inside you.”

You whimper, hips rising to meet his, hands dragging down his back, anchoring him to you like you’ll die if he pulls away.

“You’re everything,” you whisper. “I didn’t even know what was missing—until you.”

He kisses you then, slow and trembling—so soft, it breaks your heart.

“I never stopped dreaming of this,” he says, voice shaking. “Even when I thought I’d never see you again. Even when I hated myself for letting you die.”

You cup his face, forcing him to look at you, even as your body tightens, your climax rising fast behind your ribs.

“You didn’t let me die,” you say, breathless. “You loved me through it.”

He chokes on a sound—like he might break. And the bond flares white-hot. It pulls, hard, like it wants to drag both of you over the edge.

And finally—you let it.

Your bodies begin to tremble with every thrust now—harder, faster, the rhythm deepening into something desperate, something final. Rafayel drives into you with growing urgency, the sound of your skin meeting, your breathless cries, his ragged moans echoing in the warm space around you.

The mark between you burns—golden fire where your chests meet, pulsing in time with every deep roll of his hips.

You feel it in your belly first—the pressure curling tight, heat rising fast, coiling deep in your core like something ancient coming undone.

“I can’t—” you gasp, clinging to him, your nails dragging along his spine. “Rafayel—I’m—”

He kisses your jaw, your throat, his voice breaking. “I’ve got you. Come with me.”

Your walls flutter around him, body tightening, and he groans—loud, wrecked—his thrusts losing rhythm, becoming wild, erratic, desperate.

And then— You break.

Your climax rips through you like a wave crashing against stone, stealing your breath, your voice, your entire self. You cry out his name as your back arches, legs locking tight around his hips. The bond erupts—golden fire spilling through your chest, your spine, everywhere.

And in that same instant— Rafayel shudders above you with a groan so guttural it sounds like it’s torn from his soul.

He thrusts deep—once, twice—then holds, buried to the hilt inside you as he comes, body trembling, hands gripping your hips like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. He gasps your name like a prayer, like an apology, like he’s finally home.

His seed spills hot and deep inside you, and the bond explodes in white-hot light, burning so bright behind your eyes you forget where the world ends and he begins.

Your souls collide. Intertwine. And for one perfect, shattering moment— There is no time. No grief. No loss.

Only you. Only him. Only this.

The world is still.

Not in the way it pauses for fear or doubt—but in the way it hushes for something sacred.

Your bodies are tangled, slick with sweat and heat, hearts pounding in tandem. His chest is pressed to yours, his weight settled over you like a blanket you never knew you needed—heavy, warm, safe.

Rafayel’s breath stutters against your neck, lips brushing the curve of your shoulder as he exhales. Long. Shaky.

Like he still doesn’t believe you’re real.

Your fingers stroke the back of his neck slowly, slipping into the sweat-damp strands of his hair, and your other hand rests over his heart—right where the mark still pulses, dimmer now, but alive.

You don’t speak at first.

You just breathe.

Together.

The rise and fall of your chests in rhythm. The soft, broken hum he makes when you shift under him and your skin brushes in a new way. The way he presses the barest kiss to your collarbone without lifting his head.

And then—Very softly— “I thought I’d never feel this again.”

His voice is hoarse, barely a whisper. You turn your head, brushing your lips against his temple. “What? The bond?”

His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you closer. “You. Like this. Us.”

You breathe him in—salt, sweat, something darker beneath it. Something eternal. “You were never alone,” you murmur. “Even when I didn’t remember.”

He lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes. There’s something raw in them still. Something softer now, too. Not fear. Not pain.

Peace.

“I remembered enough for both of us,” he whispers. “Every time I touched the sea, it brought me back to you.”

Your throat tightens, and you cup his face, your thumb brushing over the edge of his jaw.

“I’m here now,” you say. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

His lips twitch—almost a smile. “Good. Because if you vanish again, I’m following you into the next life. And the one after.”

You laugh, breathless, your smile pressed against his as he kisses you again—slow, lingering, gentle. Nothing rushed. Nothing desperate.

Just yours.

You lie like that for a long time—his body pressed against yours, your limbs tangled, the bond still humming softly between your chests like a heartbeat that doesn’t belong to just one of you.

It’s warm now. Comforting. No longer pulling. Just there.

Like it always should’ve been.

Rafayel rests his forehead against yours, his fingers tracing idle patterns over your waist—thoughtless, gentle, reverent. You match his touch, your hand brushing along the lines of his back, memorizing the slope of his spine, the dip of his shoulder blades.

“I used to wake up,” you whisper, “heart racing, not knowing why. I’d look at the ocean and feel like something was missing. Like I was looking for someone I couldn’t name.”

He closes his eyes. “I’d see you in strangers,” he says. “Hear your laugh in dreams. I tried to forget for a while. I really did. But it never worked. I always ended up painting you again. Drawing you. Sculpting pieces of you like I was trying to remember something my hands already knew.”

You exhale, your fingers moving up to rest over the bond-mark glowing faintly beneath his skin. “And all this time, you were just… waiting?”

His lips brush yours, soft and aching. “Not waiting. Surviving.”

You’re quiet for a moment. And then, so soft you almost don’t mean to say it— “I’m sorry I left you.”

His eyes open again, glowing just a little in the dark. “You didn’t,” he murmurs.  You look up at him, and he leans in to kiss you—sweet and sure. “And now,” he whispers between kisses, “you came back. That’s what matters.”

You pull him closer, fingers threading through his hair, lips brushing over his jaw. “I’m not going anywhere, Rafayel.”

He smiles then. Really smiles. The kind that doesn’t hide behind flirtation or pain.

“Good. Because if the world ends again, I want to be holding you when it does.”

Later—much later—after the fire in your bodies fades into warmth, you lie together in a nest of tangled limbs and quiet breath. His arms are around you. Your head rests against his chest, the glow of the mark soft and slow now, like candlelight instead of flame.

And for the first time in eight hundred years, you fall asleep in each other’s arms, not with grief between you— but peace.

The bond stays lit, even in dreams.

And this time, it does not fade.

© zaynessbeloved 2025

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST HERE AND ON MY AO3.

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

taglist: @syluslittlecrows

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Credits to original creator! I don't own this! They're tagged below!

Whoever said Bibble was Rafayel's prototype was right 🗣