#lads rafayel x you

[mandalhoerian]

Fish in a Birdcage ৎ୭

ৎ୭ ⸻ rafayel has quite the storm raging in his mind during his artistic expedition to aridum. which, the root of his crisis he was trying to wean himself off of wasn't supposed to tag along to make him spiral further. funny thing is, you just think he's sick. he is. just infected by something far worse than you can imagine: crippling dependency.

ৎ୭ ⸻ SO MUCH BUILD-UP, momentary sickfic, anxious attachment issues, rafayel being hot and cold with the reader, angst, exhibitionism for like 0.01 seconds bc of bond shenanigans, switch4switch and constantly changing dynamics that comes with it, handjob, slight obedience kink, impromptu bondage play with rafayel's neck piece praise kink, obedience kink blink and you miss it, p in v, CLOTHED SEX ITS SO HOT 2 ME, unprotected sex, multiple rounds.

ৎ୭ ⸻ hello lads fandom, FIRST WORK HERE (it sucked my soul out i've been working on this for like tHREE weeks)!!! this is my adaptation of rafayel's nightly rendezvous card intertidal zone. a lot of it is based on my reading and understanding of the card, i'm so sorry for releasing this when caleb just released but, i hope you enjoy, much love <3 ( lil tag: @comatosebunny09 )

ৎ୭ ⸻ 26K, read on ao3

In retrospect, finding out Aridum was a city in the middle of a desert should have made you stop and think more about how the climate would actually affect Rafayel before diving straight into travel plans.

You know, a Lemurian.

Who, logically, wouldn’t fare well in the dry heat.

Rafayel flicking off your genuine concern like it was a bug on the surface tension of his fish tank was the first red flag you should have paid more attention to. In your defense, since he’d been there before and was confident enough to initiate banter, it was easy to give in and trust he knew what he was doing as he batted his lashes at you with those pretty dual-colored, sparkly wide eyes that left you starstruck in the face and said, “As long as I’m with you, I’ll be fine.”

Well. He was with you now and he wasn’t fine.

Because for once in his life, Rafayel didn’t have enough energy to run laps around you. Just a few minutes outside the hotel, lingering near the grand fountain square framed by towering palm trees that offered scant shade, and he began to deflate pitifully like a garish balloon leaking its vigor into the sweltering air. His usual dynamism, the kind that pulled attention to him as effortlessly as a river carved its path, had dimmed to a sluggish ebb, so much so you found yourself glancing over your shoulder every ten seconds, vigilance heightened by the unsettling absence of his ever-present current. The languid pace like he was moving through molasses made him look like an entirely different person than the one tugging you through the airport with even the luggage excitedly rolling behind him.

And it had been just a single day since you’d set foot in Aridum.

That wasn’t to say the trip had been a disaster or he was in terrible shape — you two were still on day one. Back in Linkon, he was, on paper, enthusiastic about pointing out local landmarks for you to go together like he knew the city personally, but he had quickly lost that energy when it actually came to the execution. You chalked it up to him not being able to get any sleep the previous night because of a mix of jetlag and the discomfort of a new bed, but regardless, it was still concerning to watch him only interested in stopping by street stands where he could buy himself cold water bottles and stand in a shaded corner in order to drink them slowly under shelter, while also dragging you with him, so there wouldn't be even a split-second distance between you two.

You were thankful you didn't have many plans in mind. Rafayel always packed enough enthusiasm for the both of you, but now, as you watched with wide-eyed worry how his spark had suddenly wilted, the drastic shift in his personality left him finding everything he suggested doing utterly unnecessary for the day. On top of that, after only managing to sit still for five minutes or so, it'd become obvious to see that the environment of this city, complete with a sun beating down hot enough to cook you alive, had taken a toll on Rafayel's temperament far more drastically than expected — rendering his eagerness completely sour.

But still, you wanted to cheer him up, you did. It broke your heart seeing someone who brought so much life into every room shrivel down to such a defeated shell. Maybe that's why you couldn't help yourself when you caught him pouting at something on the phone screen as if it'd done him a great offense.

So, you began teasing. “Rafayel, we haven’t even been out for thirty minutes, you're sweating already?"

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” you countered, only to squint at his face more closely. “Wait. You’re not?”

He threw his arms out like he was expecting a grander reaction. “Do you know what that means?”

“That you’re a human raisin in the making?”

He groaned, a sound that was more theatrical than pained, but you still caught the edge of frustration in it. “It means I’m seconds away from crumbling into sand. You’ll have to gather me up and carry me home in a jar.”

You started walking towards one of the fountains near some empty seats where shade was available, while he dragged himself behind you like a zombie. "Let's sit you down before you begin to form cracks."

The fountain’s spray misted faintly in the air, enough to make the stone bench beneath feel less like a skillet. Rafayel took extra care positioning himself on one of the seats before collapsing backward, draping one arm over his flushed face.

He took the bottle of yet another ice cold water you fished out from your bag without protest, but his free hand found your wrist and lingered there — light at first, then tighter, like he needed to anchor himself. The unexpected heat radiating from his skin sent a little jolt up your arm. You were about to comment on it, but then he tipped the bottle back and drank, and you swore you could feel the tension in his throat as if it was your own.

When he finished, he let out a breath — not a sigh, just an exhale that sounded heavy, deliberate, sprawling beside you, one leg stretched out, the other bouncing restlessly as he tilted his head back and squinted at the cloudless sky.

“I think I’m dying,” he announced, as if that wasn’t thr fourth time he’d said it today.

After your attention was made aware that he indeed wasn’t sweating by the dry hairline of his, though, the mood to banter had dissipated like a mirage. You began fussing. Was it normal that he didn’t sweat? If a normal person was like this, they needed to be taken to the hospital. However, Rafayel had done nothing but up the ante in complaining, that had to indicate nothing was seriously wrong, right? He’d know his body the best. Right?

“I told you to put on sunscreen this morning. Did you?”

He scoffed, “I don’t need it,” — and you heard the imaginary Lemurian in his tone rolling his eyes at your human expectations.

“Not with that attitude,” you shut him down, already skimming through your bag at an increasingly faster pace. “Now, keep still.”

Finding what you were looking for, you uncapped the bottle, reaching out with one hand to tilt Rafayel’s head left and right to gauge where to start. His skin under the pads of your fingertips felt almost brittle and paper-thin — unnatural on Rafayel, making you unconsciously rub like it was a stain you could get rid of. Without meaning to, you frowned, and he made a soft, lukewarm grumble, nudging your leg with his foot, reminding you what you were doing. Which was fussing over a grown man who should have been responsible from the start and able to take care of himself.

“Show me your forehead,” you said, wanting to get it out the way first.

He obediently carded his bangs back, silent, half-hooded eyes flicking everywhere on your face going ignored as you rubbed sunscreen in and felt what alarmingly was similar to a fever. It was a relief to hear him humming at the feeling, you hoped it would help as you quickly moved to spread the white lotion over his cheeks and smeared a stripe right across the bridge of his nose as he fixed his hair, squinting at your ministrations.

Though, somehow, he looked contented enough that you had to stop him from nuzzling into your hand. “Rafayel, I’m working here.”

All you got was a breathy, “Mmm,” as if he was speaking through the pleasant haze of sleep.

How contradictory of him, as always. For someone constantly grumbling about the unbearable heat, he leaned into every touch with a docility that defied reason — and worse, he initiated them, either molding against you like water taking the shape of the container it was poured into, or his fingers ghosting over your skin as though drawn by instinct. You couldn’t make sense of it. The mere thought of physical contact when the air was this heavy and oppressive made your skin crawl, but he seemed to revel in it. No, thrived on it.

It wasn’t just the way he didn’t flinch — he leaned in harder, his breaths hitching faintly, brow furrowed like he was wrestling with a need he barely understood. You’d swear the heat radiating from your skin would only make it worse, yet he tilted his face into your touch as though your thumbs brushing his cheekbones offered a balm, a strange, cooling relief.

Maybe, he perceived your skin to be indeed cooler than his.

It had to be something unique to his Lemurian physiology. His reactions didn’t make sense otherwise. What human would ever enjoy the sensation of warmth pressed against warmth in such sweltering conditions? And yet here he was, biting back what suspiciously sounded like a placid sigh, while you struggled to reconcile the peculiar contradiction.

“C’mon, don’t let me do all the work,” you muttered, quieter than you intended, the heat and the moment distracting you entirely.

You must have sounded a tad bit worried, because Rafayel didn’t react with his usual playful defiance or the melodramatic sulking he resorted to when things didn’t go his way. Instead, he fell silent, sinking more fully against your side as though he belonged there, and successfully narrowed the angle you were working with. His head tilted slightly, guiding your hand to the sharp line of his jaw with an unspoken invitation, eyelashes fluttering as he blinked, the haze of his voice turning soft and almost vulnerable. You couldn’t even see his face properly from looking at the top of the purple mop of hair blocking you.

"Do my neck too?"

Before you could decide, his hand encircled your wrist. Not tightly — not forcefully — but with a loose, guiding pressure that was maddeningly deliberate. He led your lotion-slicked hand to curve around his throat, the smooth, simmering heat of his skin pressing against your palm.

You hesitated, the instinct to pull away warring with the strange tension settling between you both, but his thumb found the delicate underside of your wrist and began tracing slow, thoughtful patterns that seemed designed to leave you paralyzed. You knew damn well how tenderly and skillfully he handled paintbrushes, and it was evident by the practiced precision of each touch that he was using the same sensibility on you, whether he was fully aware of it or not, which sent a warm burst of blood rising to your cheeks.

Seeming restless, Rafayel sat up straight and finally allowed you a clear view of him. His head tipped further back, exposing more of his neck to your hand, eyes darkened into to a shade of purple that seemed otherworldly in the harsh light of day. They glittered like faceted amethysts film-burned blue around the edges, soaking in every sunlit fleck of your features with a focus that made your chest tighten, like you were being studied with the assessment of the artist Rafayel before another’s painting, his focus unbroken save for the low hum he let slip, soft and unguarded.

You swallowed hard, aware of how exposed you were. The bustling world of Aridum hadn’t stopped turning just because the two of you had stumbled into whatever this was. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of your neck, but it wasn’t just the desert heat making you feel like you were suffocating.

This shouldn’t have been happening. Not here, not now.

Your breath shuddered as you finally regained enough sense to break the silence. "Do it yourself," you murmured, voice uneven as you pressed the bottle of sunscreen into his chest. You looked away, clumsily rubbing your hands on your arms to mask the way they trembled, pretending to rid yourself of excess lotion while wishing desperately to erase the heat radiating off your skin.

Rafayel sighed, a low sound of reluctant acceptance, as he pulled himself upright. His fingers glided over his neck, spreading the sunscreen where you hadn’t, his movements smooth and unaffected as he worked the lotion over his collarbones and along the nape of his neck. The sight was annoyingly graceful, as though he wasn’t feeling the same unbearable tension you were. If you’d have thought of bringing a small electric fan along today, it would have been inches from your face already.

"Maybe we should’ve gone out at night," you said abruptly, grasping for any lifeline to shift the moment’s focus. Your gaze darted to him as he worked, your cheeks burning hotter than the sunlight that baked the streets. "Now I feel bad."

"What for?"

"Making you come along. This must not be very inspiring.”

Rafayel let out an honest-to-goodness laugh. It rolled from his throat so easily and naturally that it seemed even he wasn’t aware of it until the sound tapered off into a quiet chuckle. Shaking his head, he leaned toward you until his temple rested lightly on your shoulder, his gaze unfocused as he stared absently at the fountain ahead. "I’m not giving up time with you just because the sun here wants me dead."

He completely bypassed the part about inspiration, but the sincerity in his words hit you like a splash of cool water on overheated skin. Your shoulders relaxed as you melted into a sigh, letting your head fall atop his, but the sticky warmth made the closeness unbearable almost instantly.

You promptly peeled yourself away with an, "Ugh.” He had already filled his making-you-feel-hot quota for the day, in every sense of the word.

Rafayel straightened just enough to meet your gaze, "That’s how you answer my heroic declaration?" he asked dryly, one brow arched in faux offense.

He didn’t budge, though, even though the heat seemed to bother him more than it did you. The stubborn set of his jaw spoke volumes, and it took a gentle nudge of your elbow to get him to finally sit upright. Even then, he let out a dramatic whine from deep in his chest as if being forced to separate was a personal betrayal.

"You’re lucky I’m rewarding it with mercy," you shot back, brushing a hand through your hair to vent your own rising frustration with the heat. "Come on, let’s head back. I need to get my fishie in the water before he dries up completely."

"But you wanted to see—"

"There’ll be plenty of opportunities in the future," you interrupted with a wave of your hand. "If anything, this was a good lesson about choosing the time we go out more carefully."

To your relief, Rafayel didn’t push back. He rose to his feet with you, though his sluggish movements and the slight downward pull of his lips suggested reluctance. As much as his leaning on you had been irritating in the heat, the sight of his faint frown made your chest tighten, and without thinking, you looped your arm through his and pulled him closer, even though the contact made your already overheated skin feel unbearable. His shoulders straightened slightly at the gesture, but the small crease between his brows didn’t disappear.

"I hear it’s seafood night at the hotel restaurant," you offered, attempting to lift his mood. He was obviously bummed out, but his stubbornness refused to show why outright. It was cute to a degree — childish almost, so endearing you couldn't find it in yourself to grow impatient with him. But you hated seeing him down. "If we head back now, we might snag a rooftop table.”

"Snag? Puh-lease. Worst case scenario, one glimpse of me and I could get us prime seating any time, anywhere," Rafayel scoffed. Still, the corner of his lip twitched upward as if tempted to smile, and you found yourself mirroring the reaction immediately. “And that whole thing would still be less bothersome than you assuming I haven’t secured us a reservation already.”

Later that evening, after dinner on the rooftop, the mix-up with the room service attendant delivering Rafayel’s envelope to your room turned out to be a convenient excuse to check on him. It had been hours since you insisted he take time to rest, and while he promised to settle in and let you know how he felt after freshening up, you hadn’t heard from him since.

You were greeted by the humidity hitting you in the face like a solid wall of rain when the door got opened though, instead of your boyfriend. Thick as fog like it had its own gravity.

Rafayel stood in the doorway, his hair dripping and clinging to his flushed skin in lazy dark purple rivulets, robe loose, the soft fabric blotched dark with water where droplets had slid from his neck and shoulders.

The room behind him radiated a different kind of heat — not the oppressive dryness of the desert, but the heavy, steamy warmth of someone trying to crawl their way back to comfort in the only way they knew how.

He looked better, at least.

The brittle edge that had been clinging to him seemed softened, as if he’d soaked away some of the tension in the beath he’d clearly stepped out of upon you knocking on his door.

Still, the sight of him — damp like a wet cat instead of a fish in his natural environment, robe-clad, the faint sheen of exhaustion still lingering in the way he leaned against the door frame left an odd twist in your chest.

He didn't look any worse for wear than he had earlier in the day when he’d claimed he wanted to spend the rest of his night marinating in ice cold water, and while seeing him not suffering was a relief, you clearly weren't expecting for him to actually mean what he said, even though the water obviously wasn’t ice cold.

The envelope, as it turned out, held a ticket to the memorial hall and an invitation to an art salon gathering hosted by one of his friends. Neither looked to be sparking any interest in Rafayel, however, despite him having come here for as much stimulation as possible for his inspiration.

You understood. It just wasn’t possible when he wasn’t feeling well.

The room itself was telling the entire story, in fact, chaotic in its stillness against the beauty of the floor-to ceiling windows framing the desert skyline in soft, shimmering lights of the city crowned by the full moon hanging proudly above. Papers were scattered across the floor in uneven piles, some curling slightly at the edges where they’d caught the artificial moisture in the air, blank and untouched, and some haphazardly sketched in a way you couldn't even begin to guess what they would become later. A few uncapped pens sat nearby, ink untouched, next to a can of soda that had long since gone warm. It wasn’t hard to guess what he’d been doing — or trying to do — in the hours since you’d left him.

So, you told him to stop forcing himself. Come enjoy the scenery with you.

It was your first instinct, but the words didn’t feel enough. You weren’t an artist, you didn’t know what would be good for the block he was going through. Even though your concern was genuine, you were clumsy at best at consolation.

But, he did lower himself onto the floor beside you anyway, his hands brushing against the scattered papers as he sat and leaned back on his palms. Like this, it was easy to imagine him search for his vision to come to him among the mess as he was attempting to draw, and end up with his gaze drifting out the window instead.

And then, as if he were a tide and the moonlight was pulling him inexorably to shore, he began to open up. Pushed by your mention of watching the view together, he spoke of sceneries. Of what traveling to discover secret corners of nature meant to him before everything changed — before he started creating. About how he used to just look at the world and feel it. Admire it. He didn’t need to do anything with it back then. A sunset was just a sunset, the sea was simply the sea, and neither asked anything of him but to exist alongside them.

Once he began to create, however...

Those discoveries done from a place of pure enjoyment became material, their beauty and pain turned into fuel. The act of looking became an act of taking. Of extracting. He started to see the world not as it was, but as something that could be stripped bare and transformed. A beautiful, bleeding wound. Every sunrise painted became a slice taken from the sun. Every ocean wave he put down on canvas was a handful of ocean lost. He couldn't experience sceneries for themselves anymore without having to to capture and translate them into a demand.

He didn’t look at you while he spoke, but the portrait of his honesty could be interpreted by even the most art-blind.

It was then that he dropped the bomb on you: “If one day, I become someone who only takes from you… If I were like that, would you leave me?”

That question dropped into the space between you like a stone in still water, sending ripples through everything you thought you understood about this moment.

But Rafayel was watching you in a way that made your pulse trip over itself, dissecting every flicker of your expression, like you were sitting in the middle of a high-stakes exam you hadn’t studied for. His fingers splayed on the ground besides yours were mere inches away, but even in that minimal distance, you sensed him drawing further back — a subconscious, reflexive reaction to fear, as if he needed to protect himself by retreating into some remote part of his mind, distant and closed off from the rest of him.

"Oh you silly fishie..." was your immediate response despite the whiplash he'd inflicted upon you, fondness rolling off your tongue easily, folding over itself into a dull ache for the struggle he was going through. "I won't leave you."

Your hand slid towards him, pinky finger crossing over until it brushed against his — gently, giving him ample chance to pull away before you covered his entire hand with your palm.

He was feverish again, despite all attempts made to soothe him, and the urge to smooth the pads of your fingers over his flushed skin, mapping each ridge and freckle that dotted his knuckles, surged forward within you. And you gave in, trying to make up for what you knew words would never be able to express, as you lightly rubbed lines onto the back of his hand.

It seemed to melt something in him, and he eased into your touch. It was an involuntary response to you reaching out for him — he tilted into you like he always did. It only lasted a second or two, however, before you felt him falter; like he noticed the instinctual motion midway, then consciously pushed down the reaction by gripping his thighs in an effort to sit back and avoid leaning in. Your heart dropped a little, confused, and you stole a peek at his face through the corner of your lashes to try to guess what he was thinking about.

What you saw only amplified how wrong everything felt. His features, which normally softened whenever you reached out for him, tightened, pensive. He frowned, holding back — hesitant about something, unreadable except for a subtle unease creeping in around the edges.

Even before he broke the silence, you had the awful premonition that his next words weren't going to be what you hoped to hear.

"Are you sure?" he asked, measured and quiet, and you knew you were right. This was trouble.

You squeezed his hand lightly despite wanting to do the very opposite, reassuringly, "Do you really think I’d stay even a second longer with someone I know is bad for me?"

He remained unresponsive.

“Rafayel?”

You made it about yourself, idiot, you realized.

Instead of acknowledging him and his cue for more reassurance and affirmation, you'd shifted the attention from him to trust in your decision making. You hadn't meant to, you hadn't done it deliberately — but...

Gosh, you were absolutely terrible at this.

So much so that Rafayel being the more emotionally in-tune of the two of you even in his vulnerable state was setting a humiliating new standard for how low you could go.

It was pathetic, really, how utterly you failed to pick up on what should have been an obvious cue. There wasn’t a shred of doubt in your mind that he’d taken your clumsy words as a glaring sign you found his struggles trivial, insignificant compared to your own convenience. All you’d managed to do was shove him deeper into the spiral of insecurities he was already battling.

This was supposed to help him clear his head. All it had achieved so far was adding onto his concerns.

Despite your determination to pour everything you had into assuaging the gnarled knot of his self-doubt, you were woefully unqualified for the task. Unmoored, you floundered blindly through half-finished thoughts, grasping for ways to communicate your feelings — gracelessly, imprecisely — all in hopes of soothing whatever ugly thoughts tangled around your boyfriend's brain like weeds choking the life from fertile soil.

Your stammering words stuck to the roof of your mouth like taffy, thick, unwilling to yield, and suddenly useless, coming out slow as you spoke. “What I mean by that is… My life has been consumed by you. In the best way possible. You made it ito a beautiful, chaotic mess bursting with life. I couldn’t possibly leave you.”

And he heard it — you felt it in the faint shuddering breath he drew as a silent response.

His thumb swiped over your pinky in absent response, stroking soothingly over the thin bones as he stared at your joined hands. His shoulders hadn't relaxed even marginally, but there was still an immeasurable kindness in the gesture.

“Besides, you’re not someone who takes. That’s not true at all. You’re just…”

He looked up then, turning his head to you, a doe-eyed, half-dazed blink breaking past the glassy stare he'd fixed on the empty space in front of him. His hand twitched underneath yours, flexing as he made a questioning noise, wordlessly urging you to elaborate as he invited comfort from your explanation. The way he tilted his head, the corners of his furrowed brows slightly angled upwards — the effect was childlike, innocent almost.

Receptive.

Breaking through your hesitation to touch him lest he shrink away again, you lifted both hands to cradle his cheeks gently, smoothing your thumbs across the high sweep of his cheekbones until his eyelids slid shut.

A soft sigh fell from his parted lips, his body pliant in your grasp as he melted under your fingertips, as if the gesture were more potent than any reassurance you might offer. The climbing tension within your ribcage dissolved with a single exhalation at the sight — helplessly endeared by his sheer willingless to submit to your awkward, inexpressive attempt at consoling. Subtle adoration burned quietly beneath each featherlight caress you placed along the slope of his nose or the soft patches underneath his eyes.

"You're just feeling a little anxious," you continued carefully, brushing a stray piece of damp hair away from his temple. It stuck stubbornly, refusing to let itself be tucked behind his ear before you tried again, gentler this time, hoping to soothe any lingering reservations you hadn't managed to wash away. “That’s probably why you’re overthinking things.”

In the brief silence that followed, anxiety bubbled low in your stomach once more, especially when he seemed to be focusing somewhere on your neck and ignoring looking you in the eye directly. It came as yet another whiplash and a sinking feeling simultaneously when he covered one of your hands with his, tilting his chin to plant a kiss into the centre of your palm as if making up for the withdrawal from earlier.

"What, were you playing tricks on me?" you murmured.

Shaking his head, "A token of my gratitude," he clarified. A gentle huff of laughter slipped past his lips, so faintly that you would've missed it had you not been staring at him with rapt attention in your bewilderment. "For you. Who accepted someone like me."

You frowned, eyebrows immediately drawing close. “Rafayel—”

He leaned in all of a sudden, one of his arms slid behind your back, while the other stretched across in front of you, caging you in with an unnerving ease. Both his hands rested flat against the floor now, framing you on either side like a living barricade. Your own left arm shot down to slap a palm down so you wouldn't topple over on your side. The droplets falling from his damp hair onto your neck was a sharp, sudden cold in comparison to the alarming heat radiating from his body, making you jolt in place as he loomed close enough for his breath to fan across your face.

"You're burning up again," you said weakly, trying and failing spectacularly to disguise your nervousness with indignance as his lips brushed softly against the apple of your cheek before ghosting lower, pausing just beneath your ear, testing for a reaction.

Meanwhile, him taking your hand that was balled up in a fist on the ground to slowly bring it towards his mouth left you frozen and dizzy from the contradictory sensations prickling under your skin.

Rafayel hummed against your wrist in response, dropping light kisses along the ridge of bone connecting your thumb to the rest of your fingers in the interim. It was impossible to ignore how every one of his touches ignited something different within you — the sensation of him painting the length of each finger with tender brushes of his lips and heated exhales sent pulses of liquid warmth flowing through your bloodstream.

The abrupt shift had left you uncertain about many things, chief among which being whether your previous efforts actually sank in at all or not.

Apparently they had.

The combined assault was distracting, but even amidst the whirlwind of thoughts vying for attention, you struggled to fully comprehend just how drastically the moment had veered off course — how your own worry-stricken attempt at appeasing him ended here instead, with your pulse hammering in your ears as he pressed even closer, draping his arm around your waist to turn you sideways until you were nearly sitting on his lap, faces inches apart.

A glimpse hope of maintaining control over the situation arrived in the form of a can toppling over during his handling of you, clattering on the hardwood flooring and startling you enough to snap free of the strange trance Rafayel had ensnared you in during his momentary lapse in focus.

Being so close gave you a good look at the change in him that manifested suddenly; his features visibly hardened as he turned his head at the disturbance, seemingly irritated to have been interrupted midway — a dark glint shone through his lashes before shifting over to you, misty, hazy, indescribable in its raw complexity.

His bathrobe hung loose, the neckline slouched further down one shoulder from having moved so much earlier, displaying more skin than was appropriate, and you weren’t sure if you were imagining the faintest hint of familiar coloration mottling his chest.

Which was dry.

Not only had his skin absorbed all the moisture that clung to it like a sponge after stepping out of the bathroom, there was no hint of perspiration whatsoever — not a bead of sweat lining the ridges of his collarbone or dampening the strands of hair stuck to his forehead.

As if responding to your inner thoughts, he lamented, "As you said, I'm anxious... Well, more like... Restless," before leaning in further to bury his face in the crook of your shoulder. "Ever since I arrived here, I feel..."

His arms encircled your waist, pulling you flush against the expanse of his chest and filling your nose with the scent of bodywash. It was no less than holding a solid block of heat capable of radiating more than enough warmth to replace an actual human furnace. The sheer amount of radiated temperature seemed ridiculous in such conditions, but the way he tried the loosen the already disheveled robe covering his other shoulder despite coiling around you, which had to be the source of the biggest discomfort concerning heat, was even more ridiculous. Shouldn’t he have let go of you before complaining?

"The air feels like it's burning, like there's not enough moisture anywhere. My heart's racing and I feel so miserable," he admitted quietly, muffled in the material of your shirt.

Yeah, you were taking him to a hospital.

This wasn't normal by any means, especially since you were now a hundred percent sure Rafayel couldn't sweat in order to regulate his internal body heat.

How could you let this go on for so long? He had been suffering these symptoms for a whole day now, hiding it all under layers of petulant frustration and overdramatic complaining to escape having to ask for help.

He was always like this. So secretive and reserved about his struggles underneath all the goofiness, especially those directly related to him being a Lemurian.

You put a hand on his burning chest and pushed yourself away to put some distance between the two of you and this moment, ignoring his quiet gasp and the way he clutched your waist. "I'm taking you to a—”

Suddenly, the world spun off its axis, a dizzying blur of motion that ended with your back colliding against the floorboards.

The impact sent a ripple through the room — drawing pens clattering and rolling away, half-sketched papers crumpling beneath you, while others scattered into the air like startled birds, carried by the gust of displaced air.

As you blinked up, trying to shake the daze from your mind, the world sharpened into focus.

The light cascaded over Rafayel like liquid mercury, accentuating every sharp edge and soft curve of his form. His bare legs straddled your hips, knees pressed firmly into the ground on either side of you, pinning you in place with an effortless authority. His hands had found yours in the chaos, and now your wrists were restrained above your head, his long fingers encircling them with a grip that was firm yet somehow shaky.

The bathrobe he wore hung precariously, one shoulder already exposed to the moonlight’s caress while the other threatened to follow suit, the fabric dipping low to reveal a tantalizing V that stretched from his clavicle down to his navel. Tendrils of lilac hair curled lightly downwards with gravity, catching the light from outside, glittering like morning dew against a canvas of violet satin and plopping down onto your face, each impact making you blink. And his face, suffused with a flush so intense that it seemed to glow under the pale lighting, as if all the blood in his body had rushed to stain his fair skin with an undeniable rosy bloom.

The cool floorboards beneath your skin were contrasting harshly with the heat of his touch, and the helpless position left your pulse racing in a way you couldn’t entirely blame on adrenaline.

Rafayel lowered himself until his nose brushed lightly against yours, his breaths shallow and uneven, eyes caught halfway between hazy drowsiness and burning intensity — a vivid shade of sunless plum made darker not by the shadows cast across his features, but a deeply buried and masterfully concealed emotion on the verge of making itself known to you.

To call it desire wouldn't do it justice.

It was something far stronger than fleeting arousal or casual infatuation — you hadn’t been looked at this way before. Weren’t even sure if a man could look at someone like this. There was nothing superficial or mundane about this particular weight. It sought to consume you. To burn you alive, leaving you to crumble into ashes like incense offered up to a deity. And the worst part? You had no idea what exactly you were being consumed by, or why.

All of this, because you had merely wanted to—

“No. I’m not going anywhere,” he hissed as if sensing your plan, breath dragging along the edge of your ear. "I'm just... restless.”

But—

“In every sense of the word.”

Oh?

Your mind reeled, dizzy from the intoxicating cocktail flooding your senses — from his breaths washing over the side of your neck, to the overwhelming sensation of Rafayel on the verge of draping over you like a living brand, hot and firm, trapping you in place.

"Especially when you're by my side," he purred.

Oh.

He pulled back to stare you down, heavy-lidded and glinting like knives honed razor sharp, yet somehow tender in his approach. If anything, it served only to accentuate the danger of whatever it was simmering below the surface. This was different than his Ebb Day state, but similar enough in its intent to be instantly recognizable — especially since it bore all the marks of the manic rush he fell victim to when succumbing to the lure of his instincts.

It was something primal in you that scattered your thought process into oblivion and made you look away instinctively, averting your attention toward the window off to your left — but the sparkling view of night time in Aridum was soon curtained by a flash of Rafayel's hand as he cupped the side of your face in one smooth motion.

The slight roughness of the pad of his thumb brushed along your cheekbone until his fingers sank into your hair, fanned along the outer edge of your ear, and turned you back to face him. The gesture felt proprietary, like he wanted to make certain he'd captured every last scrap of your undivided attention, like it physically hurt to allow even the smallest opportunity for you to withdraw and escape his grasp.

“Rafayel,” you forced your common sense to come out of its hiding place. “I don’t think—”

"But even so, I can't let you go. I don't want to," he breathed against your lips, punctuating his command with an achingly slow drag of his nose tracing yours. The contact made something molten unfurl in your belly, warm and sticky-slick and pooling in the hollow space below your navel, curling its tendrils through your veins like sweet, syrupy nectar. "What should I do?"

It would be easier than breathing to surrender and give him whatever he was asking for, but... but...

It felt wrong when he was so distressingly hot to the touch, not to mention you couldn't shake off the feeling he was doing his best to distract you from your worry by acting more brazenly suggestive than you'd ever seen him be before.

"You should rest, I don't think you'll enjoy getting worked up in your current condition—"

Your efforts were derailed with the subtle scrape of chapped lips running up the slope of your neck and a bite into the fleshy part below your ear as punishment for daring to answer his plea with platitude.

A shudder shook your frame, nerves firing off confused messages in quick succession throughout your brain, half demanding the sudden pressure recede and half urging more from the tingling heat. Your hand flew to grip his bare shoulder, fingers digging in until the tight bunch of muscle strained beneath his fevered skin — not enough to stop his ministrations, but enough to serve as a weak deterrent.

"Such lovely lips, spinning such pretty excuses," Rafayel huffed, drawing back and sweeping his thumb across your chin with gentle disapproval. "When we both know you don't want me to let you go either."

The words trailed off into something softer, tender, almost wistful, and were followed by the pad of his finger slipping past your parted lips, stroking along the underside of your tongue before drawing back and skimming across the wet patch he'd left glistening upon your bottom lip. As if magnetized, his smoldering stare followed, entranced by the minute trembling of your mouth, darting occasionally upward to capture your own hooded eyes at the sudden boldness of his gesture. He licked his own lips slowly as if thirsty, mirroring the same lazy stroke he'd used against your mouth, allowing you to take your fill of the sight.

No.

Before you could fall into his enticing trap again, your palm pressed firmly against Rafayel's chest until he eased back obediently, giving you space to rise, every single sensation previously pink at the edges quickly melting into clarity about taking care of him properly.

"This isn't the right time," you insisted breathlessly once you managed to catch your breath and speak, steadfast with the strain of iron will alone — pushing forward when your mind threatened to wander where his moistened lips had been just seconds before.

The mood was quickly dispelling, much to Rafayel's clear irritation, judging by the petulant slouch of his shoulders. You emphasized your point by putting your hands on his forehead, cheeks, neck, every patch of skin you could reach, the clear intent of medical examination being communicated silently until he relented with a dramatic sigh, turning his face upwards to expose more of his throat as if giving permission.

"It's fine," he groused reluctantly, although his grumbling somewhat relenting in volume under your gentle inspection. "I'm not dying."

"That's the opposite of what you said earlier today. Are you sure you don't want—"

His hands closed firmly around your wrists, tugging you off gently before you could finish speaking. "It's really not that bad.”

You’d be more convinced if he'd just told you about how miserable he was feeling.

"Is it a Lemurian condition?" You frowned up at him, taking note of how carefully he cradled your hands in his palms, stroking the insides of your wrists. "If it's making you feel awful, shouldn't we see someone about it?"

Rafayel tilted his head at you with a peculiar sort of fondness written across his features. It was difficult to identify what precisely made his smile curve upward into something distinctly knowing, yet warm — something infinitely affectionate yet impossible to quantify.

"Already doing that," he answered cryptically, tilting forward until he met your forehead with his own, nuzzling into the creased spot directly between your brows, eyelashes fluttering shut.

Ugh, this man.

"Do you know for a fact if you'll be okay?" you asked as delicately as possible without sounding too overbearing. That would definitely push Rafayel closer to defensive territory again and have him brush off any attempt at assistance, or even conversation, so you needed to walk the tightrope of concern while still keeping it mild enough for him not to clam up. "This trip still has a few more days left. What if you don't get better?"

The corner of his mouth twitched faintly with a ghost of a smile, perhaps pleased by your attentiveness —— "I enjoy this kind of concern."

—— which was starting to irritate you a little. "Well, I don't. Seeing you suffer and not doing anything isn't enjoyable."

He had the audacity to grin at that, broad enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes as he ducked his head coyly before turning it sharply to brush the tip of his nose against the shell of your ear and murmuring, "Not enjoying seeing me suffering does imply some enjoyment in seeing me otherwise."

"Rafayel!" You snapped finally, jerking out of his embrace with exasperated incredulity, only to meet an unrepentant smile waiting for you beyond your escape. He wasn't deterred whatsoever, which was a little unnerving.

Or rather, the rapid shift to your own pent-up restlessness was about to become in the next two days.

The limbo between then and the memorial hall day unfolded in a whirlwind of contradictions, each more puzzling than the last — starting from the abrupt ending to your interlude in front of the window, where he suddenly pulled back without any warning at all, leaving you cold and stunned with the excuse that he wanted to go to sleep, subsequently kicking you out of his hotel room as if possessed by a demonic force capable of inducing selective amnesia.

Like he wasn’t asking to fold you in half like a laptop mere moments ago.

The result was you forcing mandatory house rest until the day of the memorial hall visit came, settling awkwardly between coddling and hovering — a weird blend of fussing over his health like a mother hen and trying desperately not to make him feel infantilized as a result of said fussing.

All of that only ended with him either clinging close or deliberately distancing himself in confusing waves that seemed to occur at random intervals with little rhyme or reason.

It was simultaneously bewildering and heartbreaking. You had no idea how to react when he gave you zero insight into his thoughts and behaviors unless coaxed open, and even then, his answers were cryptic.

(So much for enjoying your concern.)

Really, this was your fault.

Maybe you shouldn't have pushed. But you worried.

Especially when he was dismissive like that despite being openly going through something other than a fever and a creative block, made worse by his inability to leave the hotel due to the hostile environment. Both of which you could do nothing to help with.

He would sit at the edge of the bed, his sketchbook propped open but untouched, pencil hovering above the page as though waiting for some divine spark that refused to come. At times, he’d stand by the window, reminding you of a cat sitting by its food dish for its owner to fill it with dinner, paw swiping irritatingly at its empty confines. Then, just as abruptly, he’d abandon his spot to sprawl across your lap instead while you were busy with paperwork online, one arm draped loosely over his stomach as he stared blankly at the ceiling in defeat, and demanding you play with his hair.

Then, some time later, it was back to deciding being near you was unbearable, pulling away entirely whenever you reached out for reassurance, no matter how casual or friendly your intentions, retreating back into his personal bubble to focus on attempting to get something on paper mindlessly, pages fluttering with restless action, crumpling here and there under the rough treatment before being smoothed out hastily.

The cycle continued nonstop. Restlessness, fatigue, clinginess, building you up while you didn't let it show because time and place, solitude, then back again — you never knew what Rafayel's whimsies were going to bring, and the uncertainty of it wore you thin, fraying your already wan nerves.

The humidifier was a desperate, last-ditch effort, the kind born out of sheer frustration and the kind of exhaustion that makes rationality optional.

You’d bought it from a small local shop at the crack of dawn, spurred on by the memory of walking into Rafayel’s suite only hours before, where he’d bullied the hotel staff into delivering two oversized sacks of ice — each roughly the size of a small child — and ordered them to be dumped unceremoniously into his bathtub.

At 3 AM. In the dead of night.

By the time you returned and set it up, the machine had barely begun spitting out its first gentle stream of cool mist before Rafayel sat down beside it, legs folded beneath him like a solemn monk meditating in front of some sacred relic. His quiet intensity as he stared at the thing made you wonder if he was grateful, resentful, or some combination of both — because with Rafayel, it was never as simple as one emotion at a time.

Still, the day turned out to be noticeably easier on him, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, the worst had passed.

He still looked like death warmed over, often pink on the face and worn, but at least he wasn’t on the brink of staging another late-night ice-bag heist.

He even tolerated your awkward attempts to distract him, accepting your offerings of snacks, endless glasses of ice water, iced tea, whatever cold beverages you could scrounge up, and a marathon of that one TV show the two of you had been meaning to watch together.

And, of course, there was the doting.

So much doting.

Which was rare for you.

You were not, by any stretch of the imagination, the kind of person who showered people with attention. You weren’t the mom friend. You didn’t hover. But something about Rafayel in this state, rightfully whiny, subdued, far too fragile for your liking, made you want to roll him over in bubble wrap and shove him in your pocket to keep him safe from everything.

In some ways, you were more anxious than he was.

The helplessness swung at you like you were a tree and it was an axe, the inability to snap your fingers and fix him, to just make it better was torture. Worrying felt inevitable, but useless. And the not knowing what to do with yourself in between bouts of fretting? That was worse. Still, he wasn’t showing any signs of further deterioration, which felt like a victory you didn’t want to jinx.

You were so relieved you briefly considered leaving all your savings to the shop clerk who’d sold you the overpriced humidifier. She had probably thought you’d lost your mind, judging by the way you thanked her like she’d just handed you a ticket to salvation, practically singing her praises as she rang up your purchase. And honestly, if you could go back in time, you would’ve thanked her even more profusely.

Because it worked. Rafayel was better — well, better-ish. Better enough that you decided it was safe to move forward with the plan to visit the memorial hall.

Which, eventually, became a visit to the ocean.

An ocean.

In the middle of a desert.

The sheer impossibility of it left you breathless, like you were standing at the edge of a fever dream made real. The water stretched out endlessly, shimmering beneath the brutal sun, and you couldn’t stop marveling at the sheer absurdity of it — a body of water so vast, so alive, nestled in a place it had no right to be. It felt like a miracle.

It was a miracle.

And just when you thought the desert couldn’t surprise you further, the skies proved you wrong soon enough later, crowning the experience with snowfall at the end of the trip. Snow, delicate and silent, drifting from the sky like a benediction.

You couldn’t help but marvel at it all — at how the world had managed to gift you two impossibilities in the span of a single day. It felt like the desert itself was defying logic, bending over backward to offer something beautiful, something extraordinary, as though it wanted to prove it wasn’t all hardship and sunburnt misery.

But Rafayel stood by the edge of the ocean with a look that made your chest ache — a look that spoke not of wonder, but of mourning. To you, it was a miracle, but to him, it was a tragedy: a dying ocean trapped in a place it could no longer thrive, its very existence a reminder of something slipping away. An everlasting eulogy engraved into reality.

He didn’t look away from the canvas of pain he had set up and started painting for himself until you voiced all of what you thought out loud for him to see.

And this time, you truly felt like you had broken through — like you’d reached him in a way that mattered.

It was there, in that rare, fragile moment, that Rafayel dove straight through your hesitation, sidestepping the awkward pauses you were fumbling with, and pulled you into an embrace before you even had the courage to ask if you could. It was as though he had heard the unspoken thought aloud, plucking it out of the air with startling precision.

And then he’d confessed — softly, almost too softly — that at the time, he had wanted to come here before, with the most important person in his life.

Those words lodged themselves in your chest, a bittersweet ache blooming alongside the unmistakable joy bubbling up within you. You hugged him back as tightly as you could, pouring all the gratitude you didn’t know how to put into words into that one simple gesture. Gratitude for trusting you enough to share that. Gratitude for showing you yet another new side of himself, something unguarded and rare. A treat, indeed, one you hadn’t expected but cherished all the same.

Relief flooded through you, so potent it felt like a physical weight lifting from your shoulders. You hadn’t even realized how tense you’d been until that moment. Your body relaxed, and with that relaxation came fatigue, the kind that crept up on you and left no room for resistance. Before you knew it, you had fallen asleep during the entire way back, lulled into a rare sense of peace you hadn’t felt in days.

And yet.

Like clockwork, he withdrew the instant you arrived back at the hotel.

Rafayel never thought he’d truly understand what it meant to drown.

As a creature of the sea, he wasn't meant to in the first place.

Not until you.

The realization had hit him like a storm breaking over still waters — not all at once, but in slow, rumbling waves that built. He didn’t even feel himself breaking; it was more like a slow erosion, the kind that wears stone into sand. Quiet, but irreversible. Your optimism. Your touches. Your encouragement. Inching in and in and in one step at a time.

(It was snowing in the desert.)

He had been holding himself together in the driver's seat, hands knotted around the steering wheel and knuckles bloodless with how tightly he gripped. Every inch of him vibrated with anxiety, away from where you lay fast asleep beside him, breathing shallow and uneven like he was afraid of exhaling too loudly. But there you were, oblivious, asleep, your head leaning softly against the window as if his world hadn’t collapsed in on itself.

(It was snowing in the desert.)

It wasn’t the desert heat that was killing him, though it might as well have been. (Everything about this place grated against him — the air, the dry scrape of his skin, the silence of the fading ocean that was too vast to be comforting. Too big. Too empty. Fading. Fading. A warning from cities away that this land was no place for a creature like him.) He wasn’t meant for this — for the cracked earth and the relentless sun and the suffocating absence of water. His body ached for moisture, for the cool, familiar embrace of the sea, but it ached even more for you. (He didn’t even realize how long he had been watching you from the corner of his peripheral vision — how long he had been unraveling, thread by thread.)

You’d tilted his world off its axis, turned everything he thought he knew into something unrecognizable. Once, pain had been his anchor. It was always there—constant, unyielding, something he could hold on to when nothing else made sense. It had driven him, fueled him, given him purpose when nothing else could. He had sought it out like a man dying of thirst seeks a mirage, and it had never failed him. Pain was constant. Pain was reliable. Pain was everything. Inside. Outside. It was all he had ever known, and it had kept him alive — fed the anger that gnashed his insides with teeth and claws, soothed the beast that prowled just under his skin, tempered the instinct that drove him relentlessly onward. Toward destruction. Towards home.

He had used it as a shield, as armor, as the whip he wielded against those who dared to clip the tails of his people. A weapon. A tool. A brush.

And then there was you (who he'd willingly sought out, angry and grieving and resentful and hurt.)

You, who didn’t fit into his carefully crafted world of suffering and art and revenge. You, who had made him forget (as easily as you forgot him) what it felt like to hurt, to ache, to yearn for something greater than himself. To hate. To see others bleed while his fingers flew across canvas after canvas, leaving only beauty in their wake — only soaring wings, only gleaming scales, only flowing water, only living fire, only reaching skies, only rushing wind, only rising floods...

Only you.

(It was snowing in the desert.)

Except now, he did yearn. He yearned in a way that was foreign and unbearable, in a way that felt like drowning — not in water, but in light, in warmth, in the overwhelming weight of wanting something too much. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that he wanted you this much — needed you this much — when he didn’t even know who he was without all the hurt and hatred inside. It wasn’t fair that he felt something hot and ugly churning under his skin whenever you smiled up at him in admiration, filling his stomach with lead until he thought he might collapse beneath its heaviness. It wasn't fair that there were times when he thought it might actually be better not to have met you again at all.

(That thought filled him with dread so immense it threatened to crush the breath from his lungs; the possibility of having spent his entire life stumbling aimlessly through darkness towards a destination he was no longer sure even existed — )

He watched you sleep, the rhythm of your breathing steady and unbothered.

His gaze lingered on your hands, resting loosely in your lap, fingers twitching faintly as if even in sleep, you were reaching for something. (Reaching for him?) He wanted to take them in his own, to press them to his lips, to hold on so tightly he’d never have to let go. But he couldn’t. (He wouldn’t.)

Because the moment he did, he knew he’d lose whatever fragile standing he had left.

(“Isn’t it a surprise that there’s an ocean in the desert?”)

His thoughts spiraled, looping back on themselves in a tangle of contradictions that refused to resolve; questions without answers, fears without resolutions. What had he become, to need you like this? To depend on you like this? To depend on you so completely that even the idea of your absence felt like the loss of something vital — something essential — an emptiness he wasn't prepared to face.

(What must you think of him? Did you even know what you did to him? What would you think of him?)

He had told himself he could manage it, that he could stay close enough to feel your warmth but far enough not to burn. But that was a lie, wasn’t it? He was already burning. He had been burning since the moment he met you. An addictive pain — the kind that made him ache for more even as it seared him from the inside out.

And before he knew it, the car was parked beside the hotel entrance around the far corner of the garden, and Rafayel didn’t remember driving there at all.

He blinked, confused for a moment as to how exactly he had managed to pilot the vehicle, when you stirred quietly in the passenger seat, drawing his attention like a moth to flame.

You groaned softly, eyelids fluttering, but remained firmly locked within slumber's grip as he unbuckled your seatbelt for you, as gently as if he were handling fine china. Your head leaned sideways against the headrest and faced him, slack and soft with sleep. His fingers twitched around the plastic buckle, curling into a fist until he thought they might cramp under the strain.

He leaned forward, forehead coming to contact with the cool leather surface of the steering wheel, squeezing his eyes shut tight enough to blot out your presence entirely.

There was too much to process — too many feelings, thoughts, sensations threatening to overwhelm him if he looked directly at them, instead swirling through his head like debris caught in a vortex, invisible yet disorienting nonetheless.

But they all blipped out of existence the moment he turned his head around, following the impulse to look.

(“Isn’t it a surprise that there’s an ocean in the desert?”)

The urge struck Rafayel with all the force of a lightning bolt — bright, sudden, unavoidable — and suddenly the knuckles of his fingers were sliding across your cheek, feather-light in gentle arcs along the arch of your cheek, savoring every inch of satin flesh as it shifted beneath his caress.

The sensation of touch buzzed pleasantly underneath his skin previously starved, reveling in the sweetness of contact after so many days of withdrawal.

The artificial light coming from outside bathed your sleeping form in a glow that cascaded like a gentle waterfall, chiaroscuro shadows casting angles upon your features, emphasizing every line and curve, and for a long time, all he could do was stare. He could feel your breath against the tips of his nails, warm puffs of moist exhales against his calloused flesh, and found himself fixating on the gentle undulation of your chest as you breathed — unconsciously, mindlessly unaware of what such a simple act did to him.

The memory of your voice echoed in his mind, soft and certain, cutting through the chaos like a beam of light.

"Isn’t it a surprise that there’s an ocean in the desert?"

You had a way of reframing everything, of taking the pieces of his broken world and rearranging them into something that almost looked like hope. (He hated it. He loved it. He hated that he loved it.) It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair.

You hadn’t asked to become such an integral part of his existence — so intrinsic and fundamental and irreplaceable. Yet somehow, here you were. Here he was. The absence of water, the grief of it. The grief of what it meant to lose something so essential, so intrinsic, that one didn’t know how to live without it. And that grief had found a new home in you. You, who had become his ocean, his escape, the source of every ache in his chest and joy in his heart.

(Isn't it a surprise that there's an ocean in the desert? Isn't it a surprise you're the muse calling to him and not the muffled, fading cries of the dying ocean in pain, not the skeletal remains of an era he'd never get back?)

He gazed, and gazed, and gazed, drinking you in like a thirsty man lost in a sea of golden sands, watching the subtle play of lights over the curves of your face — the delicate angle of your chin, the arch of your nose, the graceful slope of your neck as it curved into collarbone and shoulder — memorizing every detail he could, without the pressure of having to wrench himself back before he drowned in your wake, without the need to pretend to your face he was anything less than desperate to be with you all day, every day, in every way possible. And that the sound of your voice in his ears was enough to get the paintbrush running across paper from the sheer momentum of his imagination.

But he couldn't keep going like this.

Somehow, somewhen, between the start of your journey and now, this thing had begun shifting irrevocably past his ability to contain it any longer. Had grown exponentially until it seemed to dwarf his capacity to handle it. All it would take was being away from you for a mere few hours to bring him to a level of misery that was honestly embarrassing.

And you had no idea.

No idea that orbiting around him in these past few days like a second moon had only served to exacerbate the foul joy of watching you fawn over him.

It made him sick to his stomach to admit it, but soaking in the knowledge (in his soul, through the bond) that you cared so deeply for him went straight to his head like some drug he hadn't realized he needed.

It felt so despairingly good that he would wrap himself around you like a vine climbing towards sunlight if he could for the rest of his days, absorbing your rays of affection like photosynthesis... or a parasite.

(Was he being punished by the sea that this love was eclipsing his fury and vengeance? Or rewarded that he held both equally in his grasp despite how terribly wrong it felt at times? Regardless, his inspiration was the punchline, once only capable of singing into the canvas elegies of lament and sorrow, now composed ballads and odes that poured out effortlessly.)

You would hate him if you ever found out just how perversely his emotions swung in every direction; so high one moment that the ecstasy of relief nearly shattered his reserve of control, and so low the next that he feared he'd choke to death from the guilt that clawed up the back of his throat like a strangled animal's cry for mercy.

This entire ordeal had flipped the script completely — instead of keeping you at arm's length as he normally did (regarding… everything), Rafayel now clung onto you desperately like Tantalus to a branch of fruit he’d finally gotten a grasp of, and what if he was exposed? The question rose like bile in his mouth whenever he began slipping.

“I won't leave you.”

Liar, his grudge wanted to answer.

It remembered. It never forgot. It told him you'd flee and never look back if he let a sliver of this dependency that bound him tighter to you with each passing day slip out from his fingertips — if he allowed you even the tiniest insight into the strange workings of his head and his heart.

Because you didn’t understand. You couldn’t. You had no idea what you were talking about when you told him you wouldn’t leave. How could you, when you didn’t know the depths of what you were promising to stay for? You didn’t know the true nature of Lemurian love, its ferocity, its weight, its cost. The all-consuming, all-encompassing reality of it — how they loved as if it was the only thing tethering them to existence itself. How they lived for it, how they died for it. How he had been dying for it.

If you saw it — if you saw him — you would run. He knew you would. Because if he laid bare just how much he depended on you, how much of his breath, his will, his very being hinged on you, you’d be overwhelmed. You’d leave.

Why else would he be tearing himself apart like this? Miserably trying to wean himself off you, forcing himself to let go only to grasp harder each time he felt you’d finally come to hate him and slip away?

He didn't know how long he sat there in silence.

Just a bit longer, he would keep watching you with these feelings out in the open. Just a little bit longer. He couldn’t bear to wake you up.

By the time you stirred, groggy and disoriented but blissfully unsuspecting, it felt as though several eternities had passed in the span of minutes, and he had to struggle with all the strength of a raging current to force himself back into this skin of his that felt too tight and suffocating around him.

But, still resting his temple against the steering wheel with an arm slung on top of it and another hanging lazily at his side, feigning ease, nothing betrayed his inner turmoil.

He watched quietly as you slowly regained your bearings, resisting the temptation to reach out and brush aside that one piece of hair out of place on your head, letting you find the words first.

(So adorable. So endearing.)

(It was not only snowing in his desert. There was also an ocean in there.)

"Rafayel..?"

"Yeah?"

"How long was I asleep?" You blinked at him blearily, one hand lifting to rub the lingering tiredness from your eyelids as you peer into the darkness of night beyond his silhouette. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

Everything he'd been thinking about vaporized and left behind nothing but softness, so tender it scared him; it seeped into the spaces in his heart left vacant and curled inside them, filling every corner, until it made the next smile he offered you come free of burden. "You were sleeping so well, cutie. I didn't want to disturb you."

The unconscious put of your lips and the way that strand of hair bounced around when you slid down your seat a little had him leaning in before he knew what he was doing, smoothing the unruly thing, fingertips betraying him by skating across the outer edge of your ear while he watched you tilt your cheek instinctively.

His body warmed immediately, gravitating towards you in a half-hug that kept you cradled close to the side of his frame as he nuzzled into your hair above your temple with a hum, dipping his nose deeper into the crown of your head near where your neck curved gracefully upwards before inhaling deep — greedy, thirsty, like he’d die if he couldn’t seep up all the scent of you.

Your breathing hitched a bit, and that’s what halted him right at the corner of your mouth with a sharp exhale — he couldn’t be doing this, he was just thinking about how he needed to pull back and —

Art salon.

Yeah, the art salon gathering.

He was supposed to be on his way to there like yesterday.

If only his body didn’t move like a most willing pupped tethered by strings to yours and refused to walk away whenever he tried.

“…Rafayel?”

It suddenly hotter in this car like a tide pool at noon. So stiflingly hot he was breathing fire even with the snowy weather outside. So unbearable the deepest V-cut known to mankind that had his whole chest out for the world to ogle did nothing to help.

He could… He could skip.

Yeah, he needed this. It had been literal days of non-stop withdrawal and a push-and-pull of his frustration that you wouldn’t touch him (because oh noo, he was sick — which, he wasn’t!) and stubbornness to not let you touch him. He’d gotten to a point that he was drunk off your scent alone and he couldn’t keep doing this forever, and why should he? Why did it matter about this event at all? Who cared — who cared about some stupid gathering? He wasn’t functioning anyways until he—

Stop. He had to stop. He was already so late.

He imagined catching himself by the scruff of his neck and yanking himself back to the driver's seat, within safe borders. Far away from your mesmerizing lips and wandering eyes and cute squirming in your seat under the thin cover of innocence.

And pulling away and practically fusing with the car door was exactly what he did.

He needed to prove to himself, just this once, that he could function without the constant reassurance of your presence — that he wasn’t helplessly anchored to you, no matter how much the pull of your moon whispered otherwise.

He had to dilute himself. This — and his inspiration problem, involving you or not, was his to figure out. And he had to figure it out if he wanted you to stay by his side.

"...Do you wanna go back to your room first?" he heard himself ask you quietly.

"You're not coming with me?" The tiny furrow of worry between your brows spoke volumes about your confusion, and despite wanting to reach out and smooth it away, to wipe every ounce of uncertainty from your face with a tender kiss, Rafayel clenched his fingers around the door handle of the vehicle until they cramped, his heart aching strangely inside his chest as you stared quizzically at him.

He brought out the invitation that came with the memorial hall ticket, waving it a little with little to no enthusiasm, "I still have to attend my friend's art salon thing."

The way your shoulders deflated and face dropped at the mention made him waver in — not enough to follow through with ditching the whole thing, but certainly making his resolve weak enough to crack like glass under pressure. "But you don't look well. You need to rest."

How could someone manage to resist getting spoiled like this, he thought miserably as he closed his eyes while you continued fussing, peering worriedly up into his face with the cutest scrunch to your forehead, palms searching along his cheeks heat before trailing down the length of his arms, and he wanted nothing more than to give in to that impulse of being coddled to bits by your hands alone.

He was a weak man.

You nearly lifted off the passenger seat and fell into his lap the way he embraced you, his arms coiling around you like kelp around a rock, holding fast as though you might slip away with the wind. His face buried into the crook of your neck, breath warm and uneven against your skin, his grip snug yet teetering on the edge of too much — like he didn’t trust himself to let go. There was a desperation in the way his hands trembled slightly, his fingers pressing into your sides, not hard enough to hurt but enough to leave the faintest impression of how badly he needed this. When your pained whine broke through, it was like snapping a thread, he instantly loosened his hold, guilt washing over his features as he pulled back just enough to make room for you to breathe. But he stayed close, his forehead dipping to rest against your shoulder as a heavy sigh rumbled deep from his chest, raw and apologetic. You leaned heavily into him, your fingers threading into his hair in a gesture that should have comforted him, but instead left him drowning deeper in the tangled sea of his emotions.

"See? You're burning up again," you mumbled as your cool lips grazed his temple in a comforting kiss. He was no better than a child. He knew it. And he hated how much he basked in your coddling, reveled in the unspoken message behind your words: Don't hide it. Tell me when you hurt. I care. "Maybe we can go together? Will you feel okay if I'm there?"

He would. He would feel more than okay, because that's what made him function.

But he couldn't keep being like this.

"Do you wanna turn me into a sea creature beached on the sand after the ocean recedes," he whispered, mostly kidding except not really, hiding in the dip of your neck just below your ear, hand tracing absent shapes into the small of your back above your tailbone. "Unable to breathe on my own, waiting helplessly for your tide's return?"

Your fingers stroking through his hair slowed, then stilled entirely at the edge of his nape. You pulled back only far enough to meet his lowered stare, confusion dancing within your own, bright and clear and genuine. You had no inkling of what was going on with him, and he didn’t want you to find out either. He would be fine. He was going to handle it.

"Don't you trust me?" Rafayel said. "How about we make a promise? I promise... I'll be okay without you tonight."

It hurt to lie to you so directly, but seeing your doubt dissolve to appease him helped soothe that sting considerably. (Even if it felt a little too convenient to rely on such flimsy methods.) You nodded, seeming convinced in spite of yourself, and his stance firmed — strengthened with your faith and affirmation alike, like he'd just taken a double shot of espresso. He would be okay. He wasn't going to keep imposing his feelings upon you even if a part of him desperately yearned to, no matter how difficult the prospect seemed.

(Say no, a small part of him whispered traitorously, selfishly, insistently. Ask me to stay. You know I can't say no to you, he wanted to plead. Needed to be affirmed once more, reassured that he was welcome to indulge, to remain, to lean into the comfort you offered freely.)

"Okay..." you echoed uncertainly, but gave him another soft smile — tentative yet warm, gentle encouragement. He watched quietly as your expressions shifted in quick succession, cycling through shades of hesitation and worry before settling on resignation. You nodded again, firmer this time, seemingly steeling yourself against whatever doubts you harbored. He wanted to kiss it all away.

But instead, he gently pushed you back, sinking further into his seat, looking out the view beyond the windshield to gather his wits against the force that was your presence beside him.

"You can head back," he repeated, not turning to meet your searching stare. "I can handle it."

The art salon had an air of cultivated elegance, grandiosity reflecting into soaring ceilings and walls adorned with curated artworks, with conversations floating in fragmented pieces, the occasional laughter punctuating the steady hum of "cultured" discourse — all the while Rafayel stood at the periphery, his posture consciously maintained with the kind of deliberate nonchalance that masked a profound discomfort, one hand buried in his pant pockets and the other holding a flute glass of champagne, ghosting the suffocating room with an expression of aloof disdain, attention drifting from painting to painting without ever settling. Humans circled him like murmuring specters, their faces a study in muted curiosity and empty civility. He loathed their presence. (Yet, here he was.)

The room's overwhelming sensory overload grated against his composure — cloying mingling of varnish and wine, sharply polished sheen of curated lighting, artifice of smiles that never reached their eyes...

He should leave. (No, he had to stay.)

The dichotomy was a pendulum swinging between contempt and an unspoken compulsion to endure. He’d insisted he didn’t need you here, insisted on proving — to himself as much as to you — that he could function without your constant presence. But the more he replayed his own words in his mind, the more it was obvious the joke was on him.

He rolled his eyes as an overly enthusiastic laugh erupted nearby, a sound sharp enough to pinprick through his already thinning out patience. His hand twitched in his pocket, the movement a reflexive manifestation of his barely-contained frustration.

(Focus.)

The art, exquisite as it was, did little to distract him as the chatter blurred into a meaningless drone, the edges of the room constricting him under the weight of pretense.

And then. The tug.

At first, it was delicate — an unsuspecting tremor sifting through his awareness, like the faintest ripple across an otherwise still surface that he thought he was imagining and hoping this was you. But it swelled rapidly, a deluge of sensations sweeping him off his feet towards your pull with a force that left his breath stuttering and the floor wavering beneath, erupting into vivid, agonizing clarity.

His lips tingled, a ghostly imprint of a kiss not yet given.

Heat bloomed under his skin, first at the base of his throat, spreading like a slow, insidious current. The faintest pressure, then, at his collarbone, radiating outward, like silk dragging over sensitive skin, a tingling warmth that prickled and spread, until it seemed to rewrite the very contours of his form, leaving him trembling with phantom caresses that lingered far too long to ignore.

He could feel the press of your palms against his chest, the drag of your nails over the planes of his stomach, each sensation so precise it made his breath catch, and the ache in his hands mirrored the way you gripped at yourself. Every brush of your hand — every hurried, seeking stroke — burned through him like smoldering embers, and he swore he could hear the faintest hitch of your breath, feel the tremor in your thighs.

A siren song of need that echoed his own, calling him under, drowning him in you.

Come to me, come to me, stay with me.

His breath hitched with the oxygen turning into lava-hot needle prickling in his lungs, his legs going limp as noodles and giving way. He collapsed into the nearest chair with a jarring lack of control, the motion abrupt, almost violent.

One hand clamped onto the edge of the table as he hastily discarded the champagne glass to cover where the bond was glowing, fingers digging into the wood as if it were the only thing keeping him from being swept away.

A single candle at the table’s center responded instead of Rafayel, its once languid, uninterested flame quivering violently, and then erupting into an erratic flare, a burst of light so sharp and sudden it cut through the room like a gasp. The activity drew murmurs from those nearby, heads turning, eyes widening as the flame seemed to writhe with a life of its own as wax spilled over the edges of its holder, dripping down in frantic rivulets, glistening like molten gold beneath the trembling glow.

"Hey, Rafayel, man, you good?"

A hand on his shoulder made him flinch violently and slap it away, the contact snapping him partway out of his spiraling thoughts. "Don't."

He was already rising, the chair scraping noisily against the floor as he pushed himself upright with a force that bordered on frenetic. The friend stood as well, confusion clear, but Rafayel didn’t wait to explain — with a curt shake of his head, he turned on his heel and strode toward the exit, leaving the other man standing there with his hand half-raised, a bewildered, "Hey, where are you going, come back!" hanging unanswered in the air.

The murmurs of those left behind — curious stares, the faint scrape of chairs and clothes ruffling — faded into irrelevance, they barely even registered. The bond burned like a tether, yanking him back to you, and he had neither the strength nor the desire to disobey.

By the time he reached the cool air of the night outside, he was seething. He had heard you loud and clear.

You merciless, cruel, horrible witch of a woman, punishing him with your sweet truth in an act so loving yet selfish, selfless yet entirely possessive, driving him completely to his wit's end until the only remaining thought was yours — to worship you wholly, thoroughly, obsessively, as deeply as he wanted.

He was in love.

You were in Rafayel’s room.

Because for his sanity to be tested like you intended it would be, of course you had to be in there of all places.

He was able to crash in the way he wanted like a dam bursting without knocking holding him back. In fact, he didn’t even bother calling out at all.

And honestly, he wasn’t even lucid enough for coherent thoughts such as those the moment his vision tunneled on your frame in the middle of his space, your back turned to him, an unaware and unintentional siren in a fluffy white robe loosely tied at your hips.

His robe.

Rafayel was moving before he registered the full picture — prowling the distance between you within seconds, hand snatching up yours and spinning you around. Just being this close and touching you uninhibited got the synapses firing faster than bullets in his head. He pushed forward into your space with no preamble, crowding you against the floor-to-ceiling window. He spared another two or three precious seconds taking in your startled expression with vindication (“Rafayel, what are you doing here?” before putting a stop to all the unnecessary talking with a kiss.

How could he expected himself to stay away from this?

One knee pushed between your thighs, a subtle but undeniable acknowledgment of what he’d felt, and you faltered, clutching the sides of his shirt so abruptly the lily decorations peppered through out clinked. A quiet noise escaped past your lips, muffled by his own and intensifying the building pressure simmering in his gut as he played with the collar of your robe — his robe — and drank greedily from you.

He felt a push at his chest.

The separation between you that couldn’t be more than a tight space to breathe each other’s air brought the world rushing back into focus — Aridum’s quiet, serene snowfall materialized behind your head like a mockery of their frenzied tangle of limbs, the ambient sounds of the city bustling in the distance dampened.

Your eyes searched his, glazed and hazy with steadily-building arousal, yet waiting nonetheless for an answer, shiny lips parted in wordless wonder.

Rafayel could say nothing. The words were there, soda fizz under the surface threatening to erupt into something incomprehensible at best if he opened his mouth.

His palm engulfed your cheek and drew you right back in, continuing the kiss with more urgency to prevent you from tumbling out from his grasp again — let the action speak for him.

The need that thrummed deep beneath rendered him mute, save for strained sighs and grunts of effort louder than the rustle of fabric and the thuds of feet shuffling around on the floor as he plundered your mouth, tongue chasing yours. It tasted like toothpaste and chapstick, like fresh mint leaves, like nurturing warmth cooling his into something calmer.

Rafayel’s hand left your face and slid down your back to seize your waist, dragging you closer, flushing your hips against his firmer and pushing his thigh more brashly. Not even a second later, his other hand bracing your wrist against the window pulled your arm into him to spin you around like in a dance, switching positions without breaking away.

And you bit him.

He recoiled with an “Ah,” that was more surprised than pained, drawing away just enough to swipe his thumb over the curve of his bottom lip where your teeth had punctured him.

“Why are you here?”

Something rotten and vicious was about to bare his fangs at you through a smile he barely stopped from telling on himself by holding back, ‘You called,’ from slipping.

The other, more acceptable answer came in a quick and effortless sweep of your legs off the floor, draping them over either side of his waist, one palm supporting you underneath like the cradle of a hammock as he pivoted towards the bed. “This is my room,” he said — low, simple, keeping eye contact to witness your frustration. “You’re the one who walked in here.”

He saw in the curl of your mouth that you would’ve continued arguing semantics if not for Rafayel bending to deposit you gently atop the bed for you to settle safely beneath him. The mattress creaked under his shifting as he eased further and started descending to resume getting lost in your kisses until a finger landed upon his lips.

“What I meant was,” you started, and Rafayel exhaled against your touch and nuzzled into it like an obedient pet coming to heel with a lowered tail before his master. “Shouldn’t you be at that art salon?”

He stared, blood about to keel over the boiling point.

His beloved was pouting. So adorable that he wanted to bite down.

You’d been so patient with him, hadn’t you? The little divot between your brows called out to Rafayel, begging to be kissed.

“I regret going in the first place,” he said, getting closer to breathe those words directly against the curve of your ear, savoring its delicate shell and the heat emanating from it against his lower lip — basking in the short tremble he could pull out of you that told him all he needed to know. “Stay here with me—”

His arm dipped around your waist and tugged you insistently closer, shakily eager, while your hands scrambled at his biceps, the side of your neck stretching upward to meet his halfway and melting further into him like candle wax molding against Rafayel and pooling liquid sweetness inside him like a basin filled.

Ring — ring — ring — ring — ring — ring — ring!

What the hell? Now?

A surge of irrational anger flared inside Rafayel, sharp and sudden, as if the hotel room phone had personally wronged him so bone-deep that his ancestors themselves had been insulted by its shrill, untimely ring. He clicked his tongue sharply against the roof of his mouth, a frustrated noise brimming with disdain as he reached out with the intention of silencing the nuisance immediately.

But before his hand could reach the red button, your fingers curled gently around his wrist, halting him mid-motion. The touch was soft, warm, and unassuming, yet it cut through his irritation more effectively than words ever could. His breath hitched as he glanced down at your hand, stilling under the quiet weight of what you were going to say next.

“Wait,” your dulcet murmur came. “What if it’s something important?”

More than this?

The irritation got you a side eye for that — but he quickly caught onto where this was heading from the way you gave him a pointed, sultry glance under your lashes and the faintest devilish curl at the corners at your lips. The grip around his wrist turned into your fingers interlacing with his as you guided him to accept the call, holding his gaze so intensely throughout that the beginning of the reception’s announcement went unheard in his ears.

“The guest of this room is unable to answer. Please leave a message."

Rafayel hadn’t even found a chance to breathe, let alone process what was even happening when you pushed him off and knocked him flat onto his back, straddling his hips with surprising speed which elicited an involuntary jolt from him.

He froze, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and the thick, burning, moistureless air that was overheating him. A thousand words tumbled in a rush into his mouth at once, all died under his breath in a sigh as his senses swam and short-circuited in response to your boldness, the sheer power radiating off your figure captivating him. For a single, stretched heartbeat, all he could do was look up — look at you.

The light from the ceiling framed your form in a way that bordered on divine, spilling past the loose strands of hair that fell around your face and catching on the curves of your silhouette like a lover's caress. Shadows slithered around you, dipping into the soft folds and valleys of the bathrobe that clung to you in all the places his gaze couldn’t help but follow.

And then the vision struck, slicing through his mind like a blade dragged cleanly through water.

No, you brought it to him, conjuring it as surely as though you had whispered it directly into his mind.

The blues wouldn’t just be blues — shadowy cobalt would bleed into the depths below, heavy and still, fading into fractured glacier blue as the water grew lighter near the surface, where the sun struggled to break through. The greens would soften into glassy jade, shimmering faintly, caught in the shifting light as if the water itself pulsed with life. Shadows would stretch in drenched charcoal, not oppressive but endless, framing the brightness above almost like curtains opening.

And there, close to the surface, you would hover like the sun underwater, light spilling from you in ripples and shards. Your form would glow with submerged gold, warm and radiant, a halo of sunlit pearl surrounding you where the sunlight hit the water and scattered around your silhouette. You wouldn’t simply stand still — you would drift, your movements impossibly fluid, arms outstretched in a gesture that could be comfort or inevitability, a quiet invitation to a homecoming. Shadows would gather around your curves in bruised honey, soft and subtle, fading into the glow that surrounded you, the kind of light that looked almost too warm to belong in the cold ocean.

The person who the painting was drawn from the perspective of would see you not as a person, but as something greater. His arms would float above him, slack and surrendered, the only movement from his fingers angled upwards, glowing faintly with washed ash gold, the last vestiges of warmth clinging to his skin, while the rest of his form darkened in the embrace of storm-drift gray. Faraway air bubbles would be glacier silver-blue catching the warm light as they ascended toward the unreachable surface, reflections flickering like distant stars against the background of salt-shadow teal.

This was a homecoming.

The bursting of colors landing on his imaginary canvas came to a head when the branding heat of your mouth found his ear, screeching into stuttered motion and scattering like seagulls afterwards. His head lolled sideways under the zapping pressure, inviting more of the world-halting caress that left him all limp.

Then it was gone — only a cool tingling remained where yout moist breaths once ghosted him —

"Hey bro, why'dya leave? Get back here—"

Shocked as if he had short time memory about it being a voice message, he squirmed for a beat, eyes flitting in panic between the call display and you with the mortification of every single drop of blood in his body rushing southwards.

His friend’s voice fractured into static buzzing under the pounding of his ears when you bowed forward once more, towards the red mark on top of his mark that was practically vibrating under his skin, trailing kisses across its glow. Every skin contact point with you burned even with the layers of clothing in-between, melting into an acute throb as you reached the base of his throat and dipped into the hollow between his collarbones — fingers dancing along the strip of his neckpiece before delving underneath, dragging down and delicately, deliciously tugging.

That was all it took for Rafayel to flip your positing and roll you beneath his body, propping himself up with one forarm and holding your wrist to just — stop you for a minute, expression tight as he asked, “Are you sure?”

Your intentions were crystal clear, but it was necessary to check in before continuing any further even though he needed this like air right now, and the prospect of hearing it straight from your lips that he was wanted —

Looking somewhere off to the side, you replied, “Otherwise you’ll actually go back,” thoughtfully, but there was something resentful in there, the statement almost bitter sounding in its delivery.

The overjoyed press of his lips to hide the smile he just knew would annoy you betrayed what he was thinking on the spot.

“So cute,” breached containment however, full of affection as he moved aside your hair behind your ear tenderly, fore and middle fingers taking your love’s sensitive edge between them and caressing, causing you to turn your face further away from him. “You must have missed me quite a lot.”

That sentence was accompanied by the press of his knee into the junction between your inner thighs, innocent enough unless you factored in that one certain revelation of earlier that entirely changed the context in intent. Especially when your pupils dilated visibly before him as you choked out a tiny gasp of surprise, revealing your guilt in glaring clarity.

“What, not pleased you got caught?”

A wicked impulse seized him — one daring him to keep playing this card to unlock so many possibilities as to how he could have you tonight.

He could have you show him what you’d done while he watched until you begged to be touched — on your back with legs wide open for his viewing pleasure, or hovering right above his face in 4K Ultra HD quality that he could just lay down and enjoy and perhaps contribute with his breath if he felt generous enough. You were having fun all on your own, yeah? He just wanted in on it. Not knowing wasn’t a sin, but not learning was.

If you didn’t think you were ready to bear the consequences of this decision of yours, you should have rethought before choosing the room he frequented, shouldn’t have turned him into a fish out of water in public by calling out to him like that, should have known better that Rafayel could be the vilest when he was provoked.

“Or, are you?”

His words were a double-edged knife. Pick the surface-level meaning and you ended up with him teasing you about missing him quite literally, nothing more, nothing less. Take him for what lay beneath, however...

Unfortunately, or, fortunately, you were one slippery fish.

"Why should I be ashamed?" The confidence that dripped from your reply rang genuine. You were so unbothered by his instigation that he realized this was going to be harder than expected, perhaps more rewarding as well. A delightful prospect. "Do you wish I wouldn't miss you?"

Oh, your pride, your grudge was truly an impressive sight —

gleaming razor-sharp even under scrutiny, glittering steel reflecting his image in fragments, and yet tempered by enough warmth to invite him closer instead of warding him off.

"Not at all." His heart sang. "But it couldn't compare to how much I missed you."

"And you still left," came a mumble, sounding more dejected than anything, carrying the weight of his deeds for the past two days.

It was that easy to change his mood.

Rafayel cooed instinctively, rubbing soothing circles into the skin above your knuckles as he pressed a string of quick kisses into the curve of your wrist — lips brushing tender apologies along its path until he reached the palm of your hand cupping his face, where he lingered to feel you stroke delicately over his lower lashes.

"I'm here now," was his gentle promise, one spoken nuzzled against the backs of your fingers. "I'm not going anywhere."

"What are you going to say to your friend? You didn't even pick up his call," you admonished softly, drawing his attention towards where the voicemail was still being displayed on the hologram screen hovering from the nightstand, accepting a prompt about how to proceed.

Rafayel made a show of leaning back to sit back on his heels, staring down at you as he slipped his fingers underneath the tightly-belted thick, sash-like band to pop the clasp to the side apart, the metal closure disengaging with a small clack as the ends slid free and exposed the zipper underneath.

He drank in your every reaction — every detail of you sprawled out before him: your robe coming undone ever so gradually, tantalizing glimpses of skin peeking between its parted folds, a little bit of collarbone here, the curve of your breast there, teasingly hinting at the shape of a nipple underneath the white fabric, then another flash of thigh, an exposed inch of inner leg from your feet shifting restlessly alongside his shins.

He pulled the whole belt free in one smooth yank — the sudden momentum making it snap with a harsh crack. It curled like a ribbon in his palm as he surveyed you, gauging your reaction; watching your widened stare catch onto cloth held loosely in his fist as he flung it haphazardly to the side.

Then, he started tugging at your ankle to raise it higher — dragging his knuckles along your heel, the sole of your foot, caressing into the arch of your instep, traveling along the softness of your calf all the way down to your knee, a single fingertip trailing underneath, slinking gradually but surely toward the inner side, tracing hypnotic spirals into the silky flesh that made your breathing hitch unevenly.

The ends of your robe were riding further up past your thigh along with the slow march, your naked skin revealed in gradual increments the higher his palm slid — revealing more and more until his hand stopped at the underside of your thigh, entirely disappeared from view because of the bunched up cloth, and pulled your leg up gently to drape it over the curve of waist.

Falling right back in on instinct, he leaned down, propped above your splayed form on his forearm beside your shoulder and bent to drag his nose upwards along the line of your cheekbone, saying, "I'm busy."

Your answering snicker was endearing and familiar, drawing forth a swell of warmth inside him like the sun rising over a tranquil ocean's horizon. "Still trying to run away?"

“Just returning to the original plan.”

There would be no running away now — not anymore, not ever, at least not from you and what you made him feel. He'd tried; failed, obviously, as evident in his return here, where the answer awaited him with open arms.

"Who says I'm going to agree? I still haven't forgiven you.”

Rafayel adored that one pout of yours, the one that curved at its edges like the swoop of a bird's wing, delicate and lovingly rounded in its downturned shape. It drew his mouth upward to meet its match, slotting perfectly against its twin seamlessly in the union of a kiss, lingering as if they belonged together like puzzle pieces. You melted sweetly under the fondness contained within the gesture, sighing quietly in surrender; every angle of his mouth was drawn to yours inexorably, it was gravity pulling falling stars back to their courses.

"Not yet," he amended dutifully once he could manage words again, and felt your smile widen before sealing his mouth over it. "Let me."

"If you beg," you shot right back, the curve of your mouth pronounced against his chin, smug satisfaction dripped from every word and its delivery as you pulled away again just enough to meet his half-hooded stare evenly — daring him to refuse you. "Properly."

You kissed the little groan that was about to spill past his lips, but it wasn’t enough to satisfy him. Neither was it intended to.

"How would you like me to repent?" He dragged the question into an offer, a honey trap ripe for plundering. "On my knees? On my back?"

He let his arousal to show on his fact at those mental images, conjured by practiced ease, crafted to seduce. The soft puff of your exhale danced across his chin, sending his nerves tingling. A sign he was on the right track? Or did it merely betray surprise at whatyou had in mind? Either possibility stirred his blood.

"You know what someone in your position shouldn’t do?" you whispered, low and hushed, conspiratorial yet laced with a dangerous authority that quickened his pulse. His brows rose involuntarily, the shift in your tone sending anticipation skittering down his spine. Your lashes swept low, casting faint shadows on your cheeks as your pointed stare locked onto him, sharp enough to pierce. "Ask me what to do when you’re supposed to be coming up with ideas on your own. That’s weaponized incompetence."

His head snapped back so fast that something audibly clicked in his neck.

Mouth wide open.

"Weaponized in—" The sensual, submissive haze he’d been wrapped in evaporated like morning dew under the brutal heat of the desert sun, vanishing so quickly it left him sputtering. The words faltered on his tongue as insult overtook every carefully cultivated mood, his composure fracturing into clumsy indignation. Propped up on his elbows above you, his face twisted into a comically muddied mix of offense and disbelief, his tone taking on an incredulous sharpness as he glared down at you.

"Say that again and I’ll spit bubbles at you!" he snapped, his threat hanging in the air like a gauntlet thrown by a petulant prince.

"Pffft!"

The insolent brat you were being in that moment, daring to laugh straight in his face, was both impossibly cute and maddeningly infuriating. He stared down at you, eyes narrowing with mock offense, the knowledge that your laughter was entirely at his expense gnawing at his frayed patience. He was torn between kissing you senseless or flipping you over and finding some other way to wipe that smug, adorable smirk off your face.

"What do you mean weaponized incompetence?" Rafayel shot back, the words almost trembling with disbelief. "You think I can't please you properly without you guiding me through it step-by-step? Is that what you're saying?!" His irritation swelled, a balloon of indignation puffing up and threatening to burst as he fought, tooth and nail, to keep the whine rising in his throat from escaping. "I like you telling me what to do because I enjoy indulging in your desires! Not because I’m incapable of being creative in bed!"

A frustrated huff crowned his ranting, "Stop laughing!" he barked, though his rising pitch only seemed to add fuel to your uncontrollable amusement.

You shook your head firmly, slapping your hands over your face to muffle the sounds of your laughter, but it was no use. Your entire body curled inward instinctively, knees drawing up as you rolled to your side, burying yourself deeper into the cocoon of your mirth. It only made it worse for his pride — your stifled giggles shaking through you like tremors, every failed attempt to contain yourself sending them bubbling up again.

Rafayel let out a growl of frustration, throwing his body off yours with an exaggerated thud, landing face-first into the pillow beside you in utter defeat. The mattress jolted slightly from the force, but the muffled yell he buried into the pillow caused a chain reaction that only made your laughter harder to suppress. The giggles came fast and bright, and he swore they sounded far too gratifying for his current temperament, his scowl deepening with every shake of your shoulders and every wheezing gasp for air that he felt in the bed, he didn’t even need to look.

The fact that you were utterly immune to his wrath, impervious to every “Stop,” he threw your way, made it all the more maddening. How was he supposed to maintain the upper hand, to reestablish even a shred of dignity, when he couldn’t even intimidate you?

"I'm sorry," you gasped finally, though the apology was weakened by the cracks of laughter still slipping through. You managed to sit upright, though it took visible effort, your hands brushing away tears from the corners of your crinkled, joy-stricken eyes. A few lingering giggles escaped as you cleared your throat, attempting to sound sincere but failing miserably. "I didn’t think you’d have such strong feelings about this topic."

Rafayel lifted his head from the pillow, his hair disheveled, his glare shooting daggers your way, though the deep flush blooming across his cheeks betrayed his struggle to keep his composure. He opened his mouth to retort, to say something, but instead all that escaped was a muffled, irritated groan as he flopped back down into the pillow.

“Rafayel.”

He rolled onto his back with dramatic flair, hands folded primly over his stomach and ankles crossed, the picture of theatrical innocence. The pout he wore, however, was pure spite, lips pushed forward just enough to make his point. “If you think I’m sooo weaponizing my incompetence, maybe I should actually start doing that. Let you handle everything yourself. Clearly, you’ve got it all figured out.”

“Rafayel…”

“No, no, go ahead,” he cut in, stubbornly resolute, almost belligerent in its exaggerated persistence. “I’m useless, right? I don’t know what I’m doing. Teach me. I won’t even lay a single finger on you.” He puffed his cheeks, a childish act of defiance paired with the way he turned his head away, sulking with the finesse of spoiled royalty.

The exaggerated display drew a sigh from you, long and exasperated, but tinged with a quiet amusement that he didn’t miss. He wasn’t fooling you — not for a second—but he relished the moment all the same.

“Well,” you began, feigning hesitation, with false reluctance. “Since you’re already laid out, I guess…” You trailed off as you shifted to straddle him, slow enough to test the limits of his so-called resolution, the soft white robe you wore parting ever so slightly as you moved, revealing tantalizing glimpses of skin before your knees closed firmly around his hips, framing him like twin prison bars.

His eyes darkened as he watched you, taking in the sight hungrily, every detail sinking into him like a drug he couldn’t resist. His hands betrayed him almost immediately, fingertips skimming the hem of the robe where it hung loosely, their touch feather-light as they ghosted over the tops of your thighs. It was instinctive, reflexive — completely unrepentant.

“I thought you weren’t touching me,” you teased with a playful lilt that interrupted the heat thickening the air between you like an unwanted knock on the door.

His hum was deliberately innocent, his head tilting as though to feign ignorance. But the dark gleam in his eyes and the smirk curling at the corners of his lips told a different story entirely. “I really like this robe,” he murmured with a calculated drawl. “What, I can’t touch my own clothes now?”

The claim was absurd — blatantly so — but it made you pause, his fingers grazing the fabric in question as though testing its texture, when in reality, it was clear he was savoring the warmth of your skin beneath it.

(Truthfully, it was also you who looked lovely draped in what was his — but that went without saying.)

Your mouth opened, the gleam of a retort on the tip of your tongue, but the words dissolved into nothingness as his hands shifted, palms hot against your sides, skirting along your ribs in an intentional, testing motion. He knew the heat of his touch stole the breath from your lungs, burning through the fabric like a spark setting fire to paper.

“You go on,” he said, infuriatingly smug as he leaned back into the pillows, his hands never straying far from your sides. “Help yourself. Take as long as you need. I’ll just… be appreciating this fabric in the meantime.”

His fingers traced the lines of your ribs, the motion slow, languid, before sliding downward to hover just above the curve of your stomach. They lingered there, resting near the knot of the belt holding your robe together. The edge of his thumb dipped just slightly beneath the fabric, brushing over its folded loops, a movement so subtle it was barely there, as though he wanted to test how much he could push you. He toyed with the fabric, rolling it between his fingers like he was unraveling a puzzle.

The pause in his pent-up desire — the break that had proven to be a blessing — was wearing thin. The front he was putting on, all casual indifference and smug bravado, was crumbling, betrayed by the way his gaze kept flickering back to you, and, of course, the growing press of his impatience beneath you, hard and neglected, made it abundantly clear that he was more than ready to pick up where you’d last left off.

You broke first.

With nary a warning, your hand shot out, snatching the ends of the thin, ribbon-like scarf draped loosely around his neck. You wound the fabric around your fist once, twice, tightening it just enough to make your intentions clear…

Then you yanked.

The pull wasn’t violent — no, it was far too calculated for that. Enough pressure to catch him off guard, to tip him forward slightly, but not enough to hurt. It was a demand, plain and simple, one he found himself surrendering to before he even had the chance to consider resistance. His wide-eyed surprise melted almost instantly like cotton candy in water into something darker, something sharper, as his lips curled into a grin that spoke volumes about just how much he was enjoying this game.

"First, you ask to beg for my forgiveness," you continued, pulling him a little closer, and his chest tightened as though the leash around his neck extended all the way to his lungs.

Your gaze pinned him down like a blade, your lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, wasn’t quite a smile — something far more addictive.

"And then," you murmured, sweet but laced with unmistakable bite, "you start ordering me around like a brat."

A jolt of concentrated heat shot through him, not from embarrassment but from the sharp edge of thrill that ran through his veins. He let the tension in his body slacken just slightly, a calculated move that allowed him to lift from the bed a little, meeting your challenge with his own. The faint tug of the scarf against his neck only heightened the electric energy between you, and he found himself biting back a grin.

“Well," he said at last, letting his weight sink into the bed with a noncommittal shrug, the barest shift of his shoulders enough to convey his defiance. "I’m just playing my part." He tilted his head just enough to make the scarf strain, wanted to see what you’d do with the provocation. “The sleazy husband.”

“You want a reward for that?”

“Acknowledgment of how committed to the role I am would be nice.”

“Oh yes, the most infuriating actor—”

“Aaand you goofed it—”

“—impossibly—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah—”

“—handsome," you went on, and his smirk faltered ever so slightly. “Disarmingly clever, annoyingly witty," you added, the sharp edge softening with each word, though the grip you kept on the scarf didn’t loosen. If anything, you pulled him closer, closing the space between you inch by inch. "—and worst of all," you finished, dropping into something softer, something so intimate, "Completely, devastatingly, undeniably competent."

“Well, aren’t you good at apologizing…” he said into himself, embarrassingly beet-red at having fallen for your trick.

“I’m still waiting for yours, you know,” you pointed out distractedly, playing with the crystal flame lilies scattered on his wine berry shirt, tracing the petals of a bloom while seemingly entranced, following the silvery droplets dangling in a chain. “But I’ll be graceful this time and keep going with mine...”

Before he had a chance to blink or register the motion — your free palm slipped underneath the thin fabric covering his heart, caressing right alongside the pulsing red mark — and squeezed with a vengeance (such a fierce boob grab!), applying enough pressure that the pads of your fingers sunk into flesh, then widened the buttonless V-cut of his shirt by yanking, no, downright ripping it open by the lapels with both hands, and Rafayel damn near felt like a virgin at how scandalous that single action was that he almost covered himself up.

But then again, he could hardly claim innocence right now, could he? He was practically a champagne bottle about to pop down there. Just from that. Who was he, the main female character getting her corset ripped in a bodice-ripper novel?

“Ohmyg—hi? What happened to hello? How are y—”

“Shut up or no head.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Kisses were rained along his collarbone, the length of his neck, and nipping gently at the spot behind his ear that got the hairs on his nape rise to attention. It would’ve been funny what a child’s play it was to tease him until his ears matched the scarlet blossoms on his shirt, except nothing about this particular situation bore humor — least of all, his response to it.

Which was practically none at all. Because he simply lay there, stiff as a plank from how turned on he was, and you worked him diligently as if he was an instrument and you were the virtuoso.

It was also because he was zeroed in on the cleavage peeking out from the gap in your robe as you made your way further downwards, tongue flickering along the dips and bumps of his upper abdomen — surely able to feel more than hear each inhale and exhale getting closer to moaning territory the longer you kept teasing. He even caught a nip slip here and there, getting impossibly harder in response, culminating in him twitching and tightening beneath you whenever you — purposefully! — brushed against his erection.

“Rafayel,” you sighed dreamily, and he moaned for real this time at how his name fell softly past your parted lips, pouring into a pleased hum against his navel where a trail of wetness gleamed — followed by fingertips curling gently around the hem of his pants’ band. “You’re so quiet. Not leaving it up to chance, huh?”

And the only response he gave was an impatient roll of his hips toward your head, granting you permission — eager acquiescence, even — while a loud, unabashed gasp slipped into his lungs as your hands found the zipper of his pants. With a practiced tug, you freed it from its track, and his pants slid low on his hips, just enough to reveal the waistband of his underwear. Your fingers followed immediately, hooking under both fabric barriers to ease them down until they rested tautly just below his hips. The motion tugged on his shirt as well, once secured by the overlap tucked into his waistband, and with nothing anchoring it anymore, the luxurious fabric parted effortlessly, exposing the sculpted expanse of his chest and abs in one sweeping reveal. His stiffening length, freed from its confines, ached visibly — leaping subtly toward contact, as though craving the touch it had been denied for far too long.

"See? You're being so good... why do you keep wanting to provoke me?" came your lilting reproach, spoken against the soft skin of his pelvis, lips fluttering teasingly across its planes in playful grazes of their silky plush. "

“Permission to talk?”

A sharp, in-drawn breath escaped him the moment a single finger traced along the underside of his shaft, lingering over a wildly pulsing vein — evidence of the frenetic race of his heart currently pumping pure liquid lightning straight through his veins — but he recovered quickly, allowing it to dissolve into an exhale long and drawn-out instead.

“Go ahead, handsome.”

His hips lurched instinctively in search of something tangible, of a sensation besides the torturous tickle of warm breaths dancing lightly along his arousal, "Give me my reward, then. I've waited so long for this, it's been torture."

“Doesn’t sound like you minded the wait. You left me, didn’t you?”

Ah, yes. The grudge. You were becoming like Rafayel the longer you stayed by his side.

"You know I hate waiting. Let alone like this," he said, all whiny and punctuated with a shudder — one that was met with an accompanying jolt that surged straight from the base of his erection when your lips brushed teasingly alongside it. "I didn't think you'd be this cruel..."

"Are you really asking?"

"Can you give it to me instead of wasting time talking?" came his blunt retort, brows drawn together in an impatient furrow that radiated ‘I’m being wronged,’ energy.

"Not wasting time at all, just wanted to spend more time with you. Feels nice, right? You deserve this,” you murmured comfortingly against the swell of his abs rising and falling with each heavy breath — and oh, he almost melted into a puddle at that, visibly deflating with his chest cavity just filling up all warm and fuzzy with love.

It did feel nice but — just — just — fuck — he needed to be touched or he actually was going to disintegrate into sea foam. Not joking.

A brief kiss landed on on the left side of his Apollo belt in consolation before a drag of your tongue along its path followed, transitioning into you breathing more warmth directly into his base, then placing a loving peck to his tip — eyes twinking at the tremble that surged through him. “I really love seeing you so reactive. Does it feel that good? Just breathing on you like this?”

His hips pushed upward in tiny nudges, bumping insistently against your cheek, practically begging to be held properly inside your mouth. "It doesn't feel good at all — just, come on, hurry... I keep my lube in the top drawer on the left... It's edible, you know..."

Thankfully, you didn't smirk at him. Didn't stop to tease him about his eagerness, either, wordlessly going about reaching over to rummage for a bottle in his nightstand — an act that forced you to draw away from his straining member completely, your warmth vanishing suddenly in one agonizing instant, causing him to nearly whine from the loss.

You popped open the lid to squirt some lubrication into your palm and recapped it while staring down at him with a curious gleam. "You had something like this with you the whole time—"

Your words got cut off upon him grabbing your dripping hand and directing it straight where his impatience stood angry at the delay, shuddering out a moan at how incredibly silky the glide was.

"Finally... yesss," he hissed, thrusting upwards to feel more friction — the delicious slickness spreading across your enclosed grip driving him absolutely wild. "Ahh—kkhfff... Keep going, you have to keep going, don't let go... Please. Please?”

Something in your face twisted weirdly at his breathy begging, making his heart flip at the unflinching lust in your widened gaze trained firmly onto his jerking hips.

He had your fist trapped around his swollen cock, urging you into pumping it once you settled into a steady rhythm stroking its turgid crown, twisting and curling into each new swipe upwards along his pulsing flesh; encouraging you by squeezing tighter every few strokes until you took over completely. Then, he threw his arm over his forehead haphazardly, basking in the blissful waves flowing through his veins at long last, watching you watch yourself pleasure him through fluttering lashes, breathing hard through half-parted lips.

"That's it," he sighed huskily, rocking his body into the hand rubbing and grinding against his dick's ridge with expert motions; thumb circling its glistening head and caressing alongside its slit where precome beaded out generously, smoothing over the entirety of its surface and working into the underside, swirling tantalizingly over the bulging vein there until all his thoughts melted into a haze of pure sensation, mind wiped clean of everything except the singular, simple fact that he desperately needed to come. "Like that — nnhhh, yes! That feels amazing — feels perfect — love those sweet little fingers... So close already, I can't, I can't—"

At his muttered groans, your pace stuttered noticeably before resuming its previous speed, which wasn't fast enough according to the stretching throb inside his core, his blood rushing loudly through his ears like boiling rapids. "No, faster..." he urged you, rutting into your palm even harder in a frantic effort to increase the pressure and bring him to the precipice quicker. "I can't hold on much longer — need more, I need more. Tighter. Tighter."

The corners of his vision pulsed white and Rafayel whimpered as he jumped inside your curled fist when the unexpected sensation of having your forefinger slide through his sticky fluids gathered at its tip, swirling clockwise before ascending back up in an unhurried stroke that carried a slippery coating alongside it to smooth out the glide to put pressure right into the slit — a sensation that lingered for seconds afterward with ghostly echoes, drawing a sudden choked gasp from his lips at how intensely good that single touch felt.

“Thaaaaat’s it, yeah, I love that, you have such a beautiful voice.” Your free palm swept up alongside his ribs to rub gently against their curve as though to soothe the ragged sounds ripping past his throat; traveling upward to cradle his head against yours where your cheek brushed alongside his temple, holding him still with tender care and easing some of the tremble wracking through him. "Can you feel how much I'm enjoying us being together like this — how badly I've missed you? Please let me hear those pretty sounds, I wanna hear them loud and clear. Will you be generous for me and share it all?"

His reply died in his throat in favor of a low keening sound — something raw and broken — when you squeezed tighter.

The way your nails dug ever so delicately into the sides of his cock, applying pressure just shy of pain was truly exquisite torture, making his head swim and rise up from the bed so he could crush his lips against yours, biting hungrily into your plush mouth and delving deep into its depths until oxygen became nothing but an afterthought. Every neuron of him burned alive in chain reaction as your tongue wound and slid alongside his, curling along the underside before retreating for him to suckle on your lower lip eagerly until it swelled red.

"Mmnghhfuck! Hhhaaa—keep—" Words spilled past his slackened lips like ribbons unfurling, senseless as he struggled to convey how excruciating it was to contain his euphoria within, desperate for any sort of outlet to relieve the pressure rising inside him rapidly —

— and then broke off suddenly on a low moan when he caught a flash of your unoccupied hand that was just cradling his neck having found its way between your thighs, the view out of sight because of the robe —

Then, Rafayel saw the pearly gates.

His orgasm slammed straight into him, so unexpected and yet wholly expected all the same that he gasped around it like he was in a headlock, utterly disoriented by the sudden assault on his senses, soaring impossibly higher with each jerk of his hips into your fingers' grasp and shooting thick white streaks across his stomach; leaving behind faint smears wherever it hit its mark — warm, sticky ropes landing atop his defined abs and even reaching as far as his sternum.

He knew something was wrong when it didn't stop.

Far from it, really: each pulsing contraction seemed to force more of its fluid past his cock's narrow slit, painting your pumping digits liberally with his release — even staining the lapels of your robe in messy spots. It lasted so long that Rafayel started seeing stars sparkling around the edges of his blurring vision; making everything appear fuzzy like static. "Nggh—too much—ah! Aaa—hhh! Nnhhfff... Khhffffcking hell... Can't believe—still going—"

"Don't hold back now, just ride it out, nothing wrong with it," you murmured fervently, brushing some hair back from his sweat-soaked temple and — then — kisses, so many kisses. "I know you wanted this so badly, it's okay... You deserve this. Let go for me, yeah? Can't you let go for me? All this stress will go away. Isn't that nice?"

What came out instead was an embarrassingly high moan, hoarse with overuse, entirely at odds with the self-assuredness he'd wanted to project with each thrust of his hips, spurred onwards by instinct alone in a mad dash for euphoria.

Just how pent-up was he?

He couldn't recall the last time he'd felt pleasure this acute, sharp as shrapnel beneath the layers of desire, making him so out of it that he wasn't even aware of the embarrassing mess he made like he’d just wet himself being cleaned up with a tissue by you.

And it still wasn't nearly enough.

He surged forward, wound his arm around your waist and tossed you to the side gently so your back lay flush against the sheets before following suit in a tangle of limbs that ended with you under him — where he belonged: cradled between your thighs, seated fully inside their heated clasp as he hovered above you — one elbow propped beside your shoulder while the other wandered aimlessly downwards and undid the trusty knot holding your robe together in one go.

"Rafa—"

“Sorry, I'm sorry, I can't, I'm so thirsty," he said, as he raised the lube-and-come-sodden hand of yours up to his mouth to lap at the trails trickling over your wrist; sucking on your fingertips in apology — no trace of shame coloring his cheeks as he did, far too focused on the task of cleaning them thoroughly to be distracted by something as trivial as embarrassment. He didn’t even taste himself. Just the blueberry.

So engrossed in it that he didn’t even notice you burning holes with your gaze at his lips sealing around your thumb while he ran his tongue underneath it in short, quick flicks until it was glistening once more, except this time with spit instead of lubricant.

All the while, he traced the clean strip of skin revealed by the parted folds of your robe with a searing hand, starting from the valley of your cleavage between your breasts all the way down the slight convex curve of your torso leading towards the V that marked the point where your thighs began, drawing delicate circles into your navel, slipping downward inch by tantalizing inch in search for hidden oasis.

Taking notice of how wrecked you looked through the curtains of your fingers splayed over his eyes and forehead, Rafayel rewarded you an equally debauched looked as his lips curled into a smirk against your palm.

A loud, viscous pop of your wetness echoed in the room when his fingers tenderly made contact — positively dripping for him. Your mouth flew open upon feeling him draw his forefinger's pad gently against your entrance, lingering teasingly at the seams in an excruciating crawl, tracing lightly around it as you pulsed hungrily against his fingertip.

"So thirsty," he mumbled absentmindedly to himself — mouth watering.

Rafayel pushed open your legs by the backs of your thighs to allow his head better access. If he was on a normal day, he would plant feverish kisses on the insides of your quaking knees and thighs and mark you everywhere, made it more sensual, more teasing, but he was borderline parched — not to mention more impatient than a driver stuck behind a cyclist in a one -lane road.

You yelped at his mouth diving between your legs in reckless abandon. His tongue lapped up your slick in deep, obscene flicks, then plunged inside into the warm haven awaiting him inside, devouring your sweet nectar in loud slurps, uncaring of how sloppy and unrestrained he was currently acting; far too hungry to concern himself over anything save for indulging greedily in your flavor.

"Rafayel, shit, that feels—oh my god..." He had to push your hips down by splaying his hand along the plane of your stomach as you arched helplessly, otherwise you would have simply lifted right off from his greed ravaging you without mercy or restraint. "That's so—you're so—fuck! What—what’s gotten into you? Ahh...!"

Any hope of responding to that died the second your hand tangled itself tightly into his hair and tugged to bring him impossibly closer against you, his head blanking. It felt so good when your heel planted itself onto his shoulder blade and pressed insistently there in a silent plea for more, sending ripples of heat fanning out across his nerve endings in their wake.

Without hesitation, he latched his lips around the swollen bud peaking proudly from beneath a layer of velveteen flesh and flicked upwards, suckling hard before closing around it fully — then rolled his tongue in circles around its rim with the intent to render your world spinning madly with each passing stroke. The fingers locked around your trembling thighs kneaded deeply into their skin, coaxing the delicious, involuntary spasms coursing throughout you until the only thing you knew was the blissful torment his hot mouth wrought.

"You're so delectable on my tongue, did you know? The prettiest moans come pouring out from your lovely lips when I'm between your legs like this," he said, the sentences pieced together like beads on a pearl necklace fragment by fragment between licks and sucks, sounding just short of reverence. "Your taste drives me wild, I swear it's addictive... Am I making it up to you yet? Please say yes. Tell me it's working."

"Yesyesyesyesss—" A sharp inhale cut off anything else you tried to babble further as Rafayel rewarded you with another generous helping of his enthusiasm by diving back in and running his tongue in earnest up through your center. "You feel amazing, you — feel — so — g-good—"

"—don't think that's enough, though. Didn't you call me incompetent earlier?"

"What," you choked out angrily when a puff of warm breaths skated dangerously close to where you were most sensitive. "Oh my god—"

"I hold grudges, cutie. You taught me that," he said in a sing-song reply, lighthearted in tone, nearly drowned out by the thready groans bleeding through.

"I apologized already — what more do you want? Stop teasing, Rafayel!"

A pregnant pause followed as he stared up at you from between your legs, and saw your eyes widen with realization at just what you'd requested.

"As you wish," he relented, a dark edge to his mischievous grin when he rose back up and braced his knees against the mattress better, pulling your hips tight into the cradle of his thighs until one of your legs was thrown over his shoulder. "Have it your way — and don't forget you asked for this."

The slow sink inside your wet heat was traitorously misleading: a gentle, sweet meeting at first that masked what was brewing underneath.

A dragged out whine fanned his flames as you threw your head back. “You asshole—”

"I could have made you come once, twice..." he said, in a smooth purr that dripped sinfully past his lips.

Your mouth fell open on a silent gasp; the first wave of pleasure rolling through you upon being filled suddenly in one deep plunge. Your torso twisted to allow you to hide your face into the curve of his forearm draped next to your shoulder.

"You know I love taking my time with you," he continued, pausing to bury his face into your hair to breathe you in deeply, adjusting your leg to fall from his shoulder straight onto his hip. You took advantage of Rafayel getting close, grabbing onto his back so quickly that you missed the first time and yanked his shirt down to bunch halfway down his midsection and get stuck at his elbows. "And you just had to take that from me. I don't know which one of us is greedier... "

An apology was voiced, muffled by the crook of his elbow, almost incoherent by your gasps.

He cupped your chin and made you look at him. “Are you comfortable? Not hurting you, am I?”

Your throat clicked audibly. Then you shook your head rapidly in answer to both inquiries: yes — no — everything was okay — and Rafayel breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

And then, out of nowhere your fingers started moving around the expanse of his upper back, and before he could question the non-sexual way it came across when he was literally inside you, you said, "You're sweating."

"Yeah...?" Confusion muddled his hazy mind clouded with dull pleasure begging for him to start moving again, but you looked at him with wide, eager expectation dancing behind your expectant eyes — as if you couldn't quite believe what you'd seen.

"No — your temperature. It's still high but you're sweating now," you told him excitedly. "Rafayel — that's huge! This means your body is cooling itself down!"

He huffed.

"Of course it is, I've got the hottest woman in the world under me," he said with a roll of his hips, earning an enthusiastic moan from you in the process. Your arms snaked themselves around the back of his neck tighter until both forearms crossed at their crease, palms moving upwards in an intoxicating drag through the back of his skull. "You the cure to all of this..."

His forehead dropped unceremoniously yours where it stayed, and he sucked in an uneven, shaky groan that tapered into something resembling a whine as he started rutting steadily against you, driving into that spot where you liked it the best with growing desperation with the occasional staccato grunt at the fluttering squeeze and murmured encouragement.

At some point, his mouth wandered towards your pulse, scraped his teeth against it gingerly before latching on it in an open-mouthed kiss that was hard enough to bruise.

You tilted your chin skywards with a sigh to give him better access and tangled your fingers encouragingly deeper into his hair, and something inside him sparked awake in response, a fiery need demanding him to paint every inch of your skin violet, rose and mauve so that it may glow evermore brightly for everyone to see —

"Way too beautiful for your own good... Driving me crazy... Every single day... Couldn't keep my hands off you the moment I got in here..." he hissed furiously as though he were possessed, snapping his hips harder upon finding the angle he desired, searching relentlessly for something within you both to satisfy the frenzied race to the peak taking control of him completely; searing kisses littering everywhere he could reach along the underside of your chin and neck whilst spewing senseless litanies into your skin in between them. "Can't believe I could have this forever... Right? Say I can have this forever. It'll drive me insane if you don't, I swear—"

"Forever," you echoed hoarsely, your nails digging tightly into his scalp as his pace increased once more. "Y-you can have me forever—anytime, wherever—"

Your assurances came with a startled cry of ecstasy as he sank his teeth into the juncture connecting your shoulder and collarbone in a bite that bordered on a savage instinct to ensure he was there, he'd been there, and would always be there. "You're not leaving, are you? Aren't gonna leave me anytime soon, right?

Every syllable was marked with a measured grind into you as if determined to force every word inside your head by burying it deep in your core — imprint it permanently into your brain; until the only thing filling your thoughts was him and him alone. "Not letting you — I'm not letting you. I can’t let you go, it’s too late — too late. Say it. Say it.”

"As — many times as I ne-ed to," you panted underneath him, arching upwards so beautifully for him as his grip loosened marginally to let you find that perfect angle that caused your back to bow like a perfectly tuned instrument in his hands; singing nothing but divine music. "'S not changing, ever. Won't change... Agh!"

His hips bucked in answer to your nails sinking deep into the skin of his shoulders as though clawing for dear life. "Yeah? Yeah? Promise—?"

All you could do was sob into his mouth hungrily swallowing yours — a mess of moans falling endlessly past your lips swallowed whole, accompanied with plaps and slaps of wet thrusting. There'd never be a time when he wasn't craving the taste of your flesh burning scorching white hot against his own, craving more and more until everything blurred into a haze of delirium.

"Tell me... Tell me—hah, tell me, princess. Let me hear it..." His chest rumbled deep within where yours rubbed deliciously against his bare flesh with each fervent roll of his body. Even then, it wasn't nearly enough; couldn't possibly be, not with how ravenously thirsty he was for anything and everything having to do with you: your sounds, your expressions, those intoxicating stares filled with nothing but need for him and only him. Not while his stomach twisted itself in knots tight enough to tie sails and yet remained impossibly empty at the same time, yearning for the sweet relief of gratification flowing freely and quenching his deepest thirst. "Wanna hear you, gotta hear you say it—"

"I'm right here, m'here, not going anywhere, not leaving... I'myours, just don't let go, don't let go of me—"

He heard it as though you were underwater; faint, muffled underneath the thick fog clouding his senses, so indistinct yet simultaneously loud enough to drown out anything else within reach.

Every coherent thought vanished from his mind, melting into thin ribbons streaming across an ocean of red flames, then bursting forth anew into embers scattering throughout his vision in a dizzying display, igniting behind his eyelids with blinding light every time he blinked them closed. When he opened them, new constellations blossomed instantaneously; bright orange ones with maroon tinges shining bright among the black canvas.

"M'not gonna—! Can't let go—couldn't even if I tried. They wouldn't even be able to pry you away from my cold, dead hands."

More vivid blotches appeared before him at random intervals, painting his desert landscape in abstract patterns shifting so erratically they threatened to form fractals at any moment, jagged shapes overlapping and warping themselves until they resembled colorful stains splattered across walls in chaotic messes; or perhaps simply the shadows of clouds skirting the edges of his sight drifting past without a care — all blending together and merging seamlessly as though water droplets bleeding into fine lines until none could tell where one ended and the others began.

"Gonna be... gonna be stuck with me for life," Rafayel said, sounding entirely half out of his mind with the way he was babbling endearments (something about a bride) in-between little laps that trailed upwards along your quivering sternum toward your heaving chest; kissing you so fervently as though possessed, driven wholly by base instincts demanding he give in to whatever compulsion overtook him. "Always been mine. Always. Always—can't ever leave, yeah? I won't forgive you—won't forgive you this time—"

"Rafayel, I'm gonna come, please..." you whispered hoarsely against the crown of his head nestled between your breasts, your hands grasping onto his shoulders helplessly in an attempt at anchoring yourself. "I can't keep going, I'll fall apart. Please, don’t stop, don’t stop—"

One of his fingers slid down to repeatedly flick through your swollen folds, teasing and circling around your clit while his tongue swirled around a nipple; pulling and sucking hungrily with fervent desire, giving a pointed twist once he'd latched on.

"Come for me, then, do it, c'mon, cream all around me, let me have it, let me have this — you can do it, I’ll help you along.” His lower body lifted suddenly, pulling back until only his cockhead remained caught inside; followed by a quiet pop indicating his lips breaking contact from where they were buried in your chest. "I need you so bad I can hardly stand it anymore... Wanna feel you — feel all of you — need all of you..."

All it took was one sudden shift after a steady build-up of rhythm of shallow, quick thrusts: the smallest rotation of his pelvis and thrust straightwards, hips knocking against yours in a violent shove of flesh meeting slick flesh for you to fly apart spectacularly when he buried himself into that specific area right below your cervix.

With a shuddering breath that dissolved instantly into a shrill cry tearing through your throat, your thighs locked tight around his waist — holding him prisoner while your nails sank fiercely into his scratched back as your entire body trembled uncontrollably through the aftermath.

“Yeah, there you go, cutie.” A comforting, grounding caress landed on your forehead, tracing the arc of its curve towards the back of your ear; then repeating itself multiple times in slow, unhurried strokes — to remind you he wasn't going anywhere, anytime soon. “There you are, that was beautiful. You got me seeing stars.”

"It's... It's snowing outside... In the desert," you said faintly, eyelids slow in their blinking, and Rafayel thought how utterly gorgeous you looked, all worn down and exhausted and so drunk in your post-orgasmic euphoria to talk nonsensically about what was happening outside.

"Yeah," he agreed, equally hushed as he peppered a trail of soft kisses across the bridge of your nose. You closed your teary lashes instinctively against the ticklish sensation. "It's so soft... and beautiful..."

You were the snow in his desert. Though, too blissed out to pick up on what he was implying.

Too busy stiffening up when you felt his cock jump inside you.

"You... you're still hard?"

“I didn’t come in the first place, whoops. Busy being too competent, I guess,” he said breezily, tilting his hips so that he pressed deep inside, directly into the tender spot inside you where pleasure flared to life unbidden.

"Let me... Let me rest, fuck, give me a minute..." Your hands scrambled for purchase against his scarred back; anchoring yourself by clawing surface level trenches down along its expanse and dragging red tracks as he continued his grinding in torturously slow and shallow rolls. "Need — I need to catch my breath, you're gonna make me pass out, shit, hold on — !"

Rafayel had you for three more times after that.

The first was the short prologue to what was coming, picked up from where he’d left off in the same position — head buried in your neck, making you tightly embrace him like he’d fly off the earth if he wasn’t held. No sooner did his hips start bucking roughly against yours before he spent himself inside in long pulses that coated you inside in heated spurts, sending sparks rippling out into your limbs from where you clenched weakly around him through your own release that hadn’t yet run its full course.

The prettiest sounds in the whole entire world spilled from him as he pulled out with a schlick, dripping his neglect-thickened seed onto the sheets, and you were naive as to think this was it. You both had indulged yourselves enough for the night, fucked through the absence-abstaining makes the heart fonder phenomenon, it had been fantastic to witness him get so serious. Surely now would be a good time to cool off and step into the bath together now that you’d been able to make him sweat and the sex-heavy humidity clinging thickly to your body was getting more comfortable the more you became aware of it. The room was absolutely boiling, stuffier than a sauna like he’d projected all the heat trapped inside his body everywhere. Perhaps opening up a window wouldn’t hurt…

“That was one,” he said then, staring down at his flushed erection straining proudly between his legs like a compass needle pointed north — the faint strand of semen connecting his tip and stomach swaying and snapping apart. “This isn’t anywhere near enough.”

To your shock, Rafayel got off the bed, hauled you in by your legs until your bottom half was dangling from the bed, and folded you completely in half with no warning. Your legs were pushed against your chest and were hooked over his shoulders, and the speed of with which all of it happened punched out a wheeze from you.

"Can I? Are you okay?" he asked urgently, patting your thigh rapidly twice, pausing — then adding another firm slap there before you nodded hurriedly in confirmation rather than a verbal response, because fuck, his weight holding you down felt absolutely incredible like this.

Your ankles started bobbing in sync with his hip thrusts as he drove deep inside your heat, the sink easy, smooth and soft and the mess you both made between your legs pouring out and splattering everywhere as he kept mumbling, “I can’t stop, I’m sorry, I can’t stop, can’t stop—”

This round lasted longer, though it was the worst frenzy you’d seen Rafayel in. Nothing was slow about it, he was mercilessly pistoning himself into you and unpredictably switching between shallow and deep that had your clit being scraped against and A-spot drilled into. You couldn’t even keep your eyes open from how intense pleasure was kneading you violently like a dough. If it wasn’t for his mouth gluing itself onto yours, the entire floor and the poor downstairs guests probably would have heard what was happening with how loud his moaning became — because he was downright voluntarily overstimulating himself.

With one particularly desperate sob, Rafayel finally buried himself to the hilt within you — throbbing — in harsh jets of liquid fire with jerking, abrupt twitches of his hips, milking himself into your body as he found yet another release that was as intense and concentrated as the previous. You cried brokenly, shuddering as that final thrust abused your clit over the edge of orgasm number two, involuntarily flinching and trying to get away when he pushed all the accumulated, positively flowing stringy mess right back into your puffy cunt with a strange, entranced look on his face. You had to slap his hand away and kick his weight off you, powerless and exhausted and fully feeling like your vagina was gaping and would never close back up.

A soft kiss on your cheek brought you back to earth.

“Still alive?” he croaked, gently maneuvering you higher up the bed and laying you back comfortably. You had to avoid the giant, wet and shining spot that had to be dripping down on the floor at the edge of the bed, face burning as Rafayel’s sweat-drenched forehead leaned against yours. “I’m not going easy on you… I have to say I’m impressed how good you’re taking it.”

You realized, once more with feeling, that he was rock-hard against your hip despite having already come three separate times — two of which had filled you to the point of pouring out of you — and had no sign of calming down any time soon.

He was beyond insatiable.

Though the third and final time was far sweeter, the pace much slower and drawn out as though he’d suddenly regained some sense and clarity. By that time, you were growing deliriously tired, the earlier carnal fucking accommodated itself to you by morphing into tender lovemaking. Rafayel had you on your side, comfortably able to hug pillows and anchor yourself, while straddling your thigh and hooking your other calf over his waist and held it there firmly, out from your space to let you breathe with his back straight. Just looking down at you with obvious, sensual longing to lean down for kisses the entire time and looking so fucked out had been enough to rekindle your desire.

He was driving himself languidly into you, either eyes closed and head thrown back, or focused dead-on at the spot between where he was slipping in and out of you — watching your cunt eagerly swallow his white-coated cock and attempt to suck him right back in each time he pulled out until only his tip remained buried. Over and over.

And eventually, his shaky breaths and sweet sighs started turning into fast-paced, restrained moans. You saw him hanging on the precipice of wanting to go fast again, the tension his body pulled taut like a bowstring about to snap.

At one point, your robe and his shirt had found themselves slingshotted into the far, opposite corners of the room at some point but he still had his pants and was positively drenched in sweat like he’d just taken a bath and shining under the dim lighting.

"Drained all of my stamina, I'm empty, completely dry... I’m gonna need an IV drip. I can’t believe it. This is crazy, you know... I could die happy like this... But I wanna come. I wan—nnah come inside you so bad again, wanna fill you up—make you full with me—"

He went completely motionless and stayed burrowed in you when your palms cupped his face gently, forcing him to look down at you with his shiny eyes. "You've got to calm down first."

“I don’t think I can,” he murmured, panting, “I really can’t. You feel so—”

Your thumbs stroked the outer corners of his eyes with aching tenderness. “We’ll stop and try to calm you down a bit continuing then, okay? Try for me. No need to rush when we have time to ourselves. No one’s going anywhere.”

He stumbled and nearly fell to his elbows on top of you. “Tell me to,” he said, in a begging voice. “You can just tell me to calm down. Anything you want, anything. You know I’ll listen.”

All these months of living with the revelation about the bond and it still came as a shock to you, but you figured if it was for his own good...

So you ordered him: "Calm down and relax, Rafayel. Everything’s fine, you’re okay."

And god, did he listen well.

You were shocked, as you always were each time, to see just how willingly compliant he was. Seeing his body literally change its chemistry to conform itself to your desires and let go of all tension was unbelievable. You immediately felt bad that you’d forced it on him somehow like some admitted, invasive tranquilizer, because you could have made him relax naturally, with your own labor, a glass of water and massage, maybe, gradually work him through it—

“There’s nothing to worry about. Don’t think about it too much. Just focus on me, yeah?” A quiet command that lacked any real intent to order accompanied an equally soft kiss planted softly against the corner of your mouth, and all thoughts went flying out of the window when you saw how mellowly at peace he was, gazing dreamily at you without the slightest care in the world.

After that, everything became a blur once again. But a pleasant one. Slow, like molasses trickling lazily throughout your bloodstream at room temperature — soothing all aches into pleasure-flavored coziness at being joined, no rampant race towards a climax involved. There was no concept of time whatsoever: just the two of you together.

After your pillow talk about what he believed inspired him — what he wanted would, you internally filled in the blanks — and how he was running out of reserves exclusively saved up for the purposes of his art, you had to make it clear to him that there would be no pain involved in your relationship.

You didn’t know if he expected to be hurt by you in the future or implied he had no problem with that happening, but you couldn’t even tolerate him saying those things for the sake of love, or whatever it was. Him being intimately familiar and nonchalant with the concept bothered you down to the bones.

Not only were you trying to work around the huge rock he’d just dropped on top of your heart with the revelation that Aridum had to represent pure suffering to him as a Lemurian, you were also slightly upset he’d wanted to subject himself to it because he was lost more beautiful things in life had made their way into his life to inspire him as well. His paintings, all of them, had taken a new context and an additional layer of tragedy with that revelation, despite the fact that he’d basically said you made him draw from a different fountain and clogged up the other one.

It was a bittersweet happiness to hear Rafayel wanting to explore brighter, happier sides of life together when the sketch he showed you he was working on while you were sleeping depicted a man drowning in the sea and a figure beckoning him from above, close to the surface. Something still very painful.

“That’s one bleak drawing.”

“Depends on what you see.”

“I see a dying man hallucinating. Maybe that’s someone close to him and his brain is comforting him with a vision. I don’t know.”

“Interesting take. Maybe it’s not just a man at all. Maybe it’s a reunion. It looks peaceful, doesn’t it?”

Now you looked again, it did look peaceful. Just like Rafayel was right now, next to you on the bed with his forehead almost touching yours.

"I'd like to think he isn't drowning, then."

Rafayel just smiled.

[snow-snowball]

𓆩❤︎𓆪 Nice ass, bro! 𓆩❤︎𓆪

You slapped his ass and complimented him.

characters: Sylus; Xavier; Zayne; Rafayel.

a/n: English is not my first language, so I apologise for any mistakes.

Sylus:

• Honestly, he expected something like this from you.

• So when you smacked him on his nice backside, Sylus merely raised an eyebrow.

• “Are you serious? Are you that bored, kitten?”

• “You have such a lovely butt, darling! I couldn’t just walk past it!”

• He simply grabbed your wrist and pulled you closer.

• “And what if I do this?” His hand began to slide from your waist down to your rear. “Hmm, I won’t stop, you know that, right?” Sylus lowered his head onto your shoulder. You felt a slight sting from his bite, followed by his slippery tongue licking the spot he had just bitten.

• “Sylus—I—I was just joking!”

• “Joking, you say?” The man straightened up and put on a pensive look, then suddenly his ruby eyes sparkled with mischief as he lifted you by your thighs. “Well, it seems the joke has spiraled out of control.” In a swift motion, he threw you over his shoulder and playfully smacked your ass, striding toward your bedroom. “Kieran, Luke, I’ll be busy for a couple of hours, so put your work on hold.” Sylus waved his free hand dismissively at his subordinates, who chuckled at the scene, before disappearing with you.

Xavier:

• Xavier lay on the couch with his eyes closed.

• You knew perfectly well that he wasn’t actually asleep; he was just pretending. That’s why you tiptoed closer to him.

• The Hunter had heard you long ago but continued to feign sleep. He was curious about what you were planning to do.

• Noticing his eyelashes fluttering slightly, you raised your fist to your mouth, stifling an impending laugh. Once you reached him, you were greeted with a stunning view of his backside, snugly wrapped in light blue jeans. You let out a whistle, momentarily forgetting your purpose. Gathering your composure, you playfully smacked his firm rear, the sound of your playful slap echoing through the room.

• Xavier propped himself up and looked at you with a puzzled expression. “Why did you do that?”

• “Great butt, darling!” you exclaimed, raising your finger triumphantly with a bright smile.

• The hunter sat there for a while, resting his chin on his thumb, deep in thought. “Alright then, I guess I’ll...” He suddenly pulled you close, settling you on his lap as his hands went straight to your hips, squeezing them and making you gasp. “Your ass is way better than mine. Mind if I chill like this for a bit?” He leaned his head to the side and gave you an innocent puppy-dog look—classic forbidden move.

Zayne:

• The man sat in the armchair, engrossed in a medical book. He was too absorbed to notice when you came home.

• You felt a twinge of worry that your husband hadn’t greeted you. But upon finding him reading in the living room, you crossed your arms and gave him a slightly displeased look. He still didn’t pay you any mind. With a sigh, you approached him, placing your hand on the book to close it and then letting it fall to your side.

• Slightly startled, Zane glanced at you and immediately stood up to embrace you. “I’m so sorry, darling; I lost track of time.”

• “It’s fine; I guess the book is more important than your wife!”

• “Don’t say that…” He looked at you seriously, taking your warm hands in his cool ones. “You will always come first to me.” The doctor held you gently, as if afraid to chase you away. He caressed your back with his large hands, burying his nose in your hair and kissing the top of your head.

• You couldn’t stay mad at him for long and wrapped your arms around him in return. You stood that way for a few minutes until your hands slid down, squeezing your husband’s toned behind and playfully tapping his firm thighs. “Wow! Dr. Zane, you’ve a nice ass!”

• The man let out a weary sigh; this wasn’t the first time you had done this. “As you wish, my dear.”

Rafayel:

• He was painting in his studio as usual, inspiration pouring out of him like a raging river. The masks were bold, and the colors were alive and vibrant.

• All would be well, except Rafayel kept getting paint smeared all over his backside.

• You quietly slipped into his room and froze at the doorway. His gorgeous ass was wrapped in tight pants, with paint smudges dotting the surface, and oh my, it bounced so enticingly with his movements.

• You spotted a small tube of paint and, seizing the opportunity, squeezed some onto your palm. Sneaking up behind him, you delivered a playful smack to his ass, causing him to jump in surprise. Raphael inadvertently jolted his hand, ruining what could have been a masterpiece.

• “What the hell?! You! You! Are you out of your mind?!”

• “I gotta say, this painting is just killer.” You pointed at his backside playfully. “The imprint of my hand fits perfectly into it!”

• The artist turned his head and noticed the marks your hands had left on his pants. Frowning, he turned away from you, arms crossed over his chest.

• “Did I hurt your feelings?” You stepped closer, wrapping your arms around him from behind. Your paint-splattered hands slipped beneath his shirt. “What a bummer, though! I still have some touches left to add—Ouch!”

• He suddenly spun around, pushing you back against his desk and looming over you. “Looks like you’ve taken it too far, Miss Artist.” He dipped his fingers into bright red paint, smirking as he locked eyes with you. “Now it’s my turn to create.”

© 2024 do reblog, but don’t copy or publish my work on other platforms, or translate (without my permission) into other languages. Any coincidences are coincidental! The dividers belong to me! If you want use them, just tag me: @alexvolleyball

[enyaliuswrites]

➽ Things Rafayel would do as a lover

Rafayel is the type of lover that will paint or sketch you a lot. Like A LOT. Mate has multiple books worth of drawings and paintings of you, either getting his references from imagination (he’s such a god at drawing frfr), a picture, or real life. But, he’ll always say that it’s not perfect. (It is in your eyes)

Usually, you’ll find yourself doing work or studying in front of Rafayel as he quickly props a easel and starts painting or grabs a sketchbook and pencil and starts sketching. He’ll make random retorts to stop you from your responsibilities,

“Come on, cutie, let’s do something fun together. You don’t have to do work, right? It’s so boring, I can see how much you don't wanna do it.”

However, after you ignore him and actually start doing work he’ll shuffle around and bring his art equipment. Once in a while he’ll say something like,

“Your facial expression is really cute when you're so focused.” 

or, “Hey, don't move, I’m nearly finished, just a liitttleee bit more.” 

If you’re focusing for a long time, he sees how stressed you are and he’ll boop your nose or cheek, smearing paint, charcoal or pencil led. Then, he’ll lift you up and force you to relax with him. Whether that be just lying down together on the floor in a peaceful quietness that is later broken by him going on a rant about whatever it is that happened that day, “I tripped over a paintbrush and I’m pretty sure I sprained my ankle for a second.”, or it be getting something to eat together.

Rafayel is the type of lover that will never press hard even if he sees something that's bothering you. He’ll wait until you’re ready but he’ll try his best to distract you or to lift your mood in the best way he can.

He’ll most definitely self-declare himself as your fashion consultant, taking control of your wardrobe and even buying more clothes every time you meet him, “Just a little gift, cutie.” 

One time you made a blushing Rafayel admit that he wanted to match clothes with you and that's why he bought you so many clothes. From that day onwards you guys started to coordinate outfits whenever you would meet.

If you’re a university student, Rafayel is the type of lover that will offer to guest speak at your university just so he can keep an eye on you, catching a glimpse of you and rushing over to see you. 

He’ll beg you to not go to your classes and hang out with him and even when you remind him that you can't do that he’ll pout and probably sulk at the bottom of your campus pool for a couple of minutes as you beg him to stop since a crowd’s starting to gather.

Rafayel is the type of lover that brings those disposable old cameras everywhere you go together and snap pictures of you when you’re unaware to print them out and stick them on his wall or a photo album afterwards.

Rafayel is the type of lover that makes handmade gifts. From paintings, sketches, scrapbooks, accessories from seashells. He’ll give them to you even when there’s no occasion, 

“You can't just expect me not to make you something when we haven't seen each other for so long.”

“Rafayel, we saw each other yesterday.”

And when there is an occasion he goes all out, a pop-up scrapbook, a corkboard with pictures of you two together and some of himself (“So you don't miss me too much, cutie.”) and a painting of you. Honestly, he gives so many gifts you swear that you can't store them all. 

A/N: Rafayel is such a sarcastic, drama queen, but honestly he's so much more than that. Art creds: Fireworks Vow - Love and Deepspace Dividers by @omi-resources

[strwbrychffoncke]

"—baby take off my clothes cause i got somethin' to show ya,, 1.9k words ⸺ event masterlist synopsis: your plan to make rafayel stay with you a little longer before his newest art exhibition works a little too well.... contains: nsfw! lnds rafayel x afab!reader ,mc!reader ,reader is wearing a dress ,teasing (giving) ,u get carried ,kissing ,making out ,marking ,biting ,missionary(?) ,needy!raf ,kinda whiny!raf ,overstimulation (brief) ,creampie ,some cute fluff afterglow ,implied cunnilingus ,thomas cameo at the end lmao ,think thats it note: (mostly edited pls standby....) released much later than i intended but i had sm trouble writing but we somehow prevailed..........

-

"do you really have to go, raf?"

he lets out a long sigh, strokes from the paintbrush light and airy on the canvas in front of him.

"i already told you that you should come with me."

"but i want you to stay here with me," you almost whine, wrapping your arms around his neck from behind and leaning forward, pressing you body against his.

his breath stutters ever so slightly at your clinginess, heart picking up its speed in his chest.

"and besides...."

you rest your head on his shoulder, lips just centimeters away from his ear.

"isn't this a little much for an art exhibition?"

your voice is a hushed whisper, the sheer sound and feeling of it sending sparks through rafayel's entire body.

he's long since lost interest in his current piece, vouching to save it for later as he feels you unravel your arms and step back to give him room to turn around.

and rafayel feels his breath hitch at the sight before him.

its nothing extravagant, but maybe the simplicity of it is what stirs something up inside of him: you're wearing a silk pink slip dress, the color resembling a seashell you once found on the beach and gifted to rafayel, for good luck you'd said with a smile— and he feels like he was feeling that look right this moment, being able to look at you like this).

the neckline is just low enough for some cleavage to peek through, the top part hugging your breasts so nicely, simple crystal-like ornaments embellishing the outline (reminding him of the way light reflects off of the ocean's surface) while the bottom accentuates your waist and falls perfectly around your hips, ending just above your ass— if you so much as bent over slightly, you'd easily flash someone.

"'too much?'" rafayel mumbles your words back to you, hands reaching out to grab a hold of your hips.

"if you ask me, this is too little."

you can't help but let a laugh slip as he pulls you closer, hands pinching and caressing the silk of the fabric hugging your hips, gaze roaming up your body before making eye contact with you.

"no way am i letting anyone else see you in this."

his eyes are narrowed but his expression resembles a pout as he holds you close against him.

ah, there was that possessive side of him.

you laugh again in amusement, short and sweet, hands moving up to cover his momentarily before slowly trailing up his arms then up to hold his face, one of his hands shooting up to wrap around your wrist, turning his head towards it and planting a kiss directly onto the pulse point.

you pull him closer towards you, leaning down just slightly as if you had some special secret reserved for his ears only (despite the studio being occupied by only you both).

"then take it off."

in the next second, you capture his lips with yours, and as rafayel kisses back with equal and slowly growing fervor, the last thing on his mind is the art exhibition he's supposed to be attending in a little under an hour.

-

rafayel thinks you must've cast some sort of spell on him

since the very first time he met you to this life, you've had him wrapped around your finger without even trying— the sea god, folding to your every will.

sometimes, he thinks you forget the sheer amount of power you hold over him.

you don't know when exactly he's carried you to his bedroom, but you feel the soft mattress beneath you as he continues devouring your lips, legs wrapped around his waist to keep him close as his hands roam over your body and slowly begin sliding the silk straps of your cute dress down, eager to free your breasts. he doesn't waste a second in leaning down to kiss and mark one, sucking hard on the nipple while squeezing and prodding the other in his warm hand.

"hah, raf—ah—"

your hands bury themselves in his unkempt hair, tugging at his lavender locks, pleasured sounds filling the room as rafayel switches to the neglected one, swirling his tongue around the bud, taking his time marking your tits in pretty bruises and bites.

after a couple of minutes he releases the mound with a pop, pulling back slightly, hair a mess and panting, taking in the sight of you.

he leans up towards your face once more. "you're terrible, y'know?" he mumbles against your lips before stealing kiss after kiss from them. "invading my mind like this... look what you do to me, princess."

he pins your wrists against the mattress, swallowing your whines when he bucks his hips between your thighs— against your dampening panties.

patience wearing thin, he leans back to his full height, ridding himself of his pants and freeing his hard, leaking length from their confines.

you feel your mouth water at the sight, wanting nothing more than to be filled of him completely.

rafayel smirks at the sight, stroking himself a few times before grabbing you by the ankles and pulling you impossibly closer, groaning at your choice of panties— a thong-shaped one with lace, color matching your dress— sliding them down your legs and tossing them to the floor. he grabs hold of your thighs, spreading you open, hiking one of your legs over his shoulder and holding it there with one hand, other aligning himself with your leaking entrance.

"ready, princess?"

he doesn't wait for your answer.

with a single thrust, he buries himself completely inside of you, immediately moaning at the feeling of your walls hugging him tight at the sudden intrusion and growing more aroused at the moan you let out, back arching off the bed and gripping the sheets tight.

already impatient, his hips quickly form a rhythm, throwing his head back and panting into the air of the room, pleasure heightened by hearing your sweet whines and groans.

"sl-slow, slow down, raf—"

"can't— you can take it, can't you? the way you're— ahh— squeezing me tells me en-ough—"

his voice is strained and god he sounds so needy despite being the one on top, and he is— he can never get enough of you; no matter how much time you spend together, its never enough.

he's been patient, so patient, and every day with you is a blessing and a curse because he always wants more.

and you can feel it in the way he's thrusting into you, beads of sweat forming on his body, hotly panting and whining as you squeeze his cock because he always felt too good to imagine.

you think he's a bad influence. his neediness has rubbed off on you.

but he's more than willing to give every part of himself to you in every way you desire.

"ah—!"

"that feel good, princess? there?"

he pries the leg against the mattress wider, granting him more space between you as he continues hitting the same spot within you that seemed to make you flutter around him.

at this point, he knew your body and mind exceptionally well, making his mark on you in every way that he could.

"you feel too good, too good— hah, ahh— should buy you more of those pretty dresses, yeah?"

you huff out a laugh that's quickly cut off by a moan, throwing your head back deeper into the mattress, hands flying up to grip his strong arms hard as you feel yourself coming undone.

"close— so close, rafa-yel, please—"

"gonna— hah— cum inside, ah—"

your arms reach up around his neck again, pulling him closer to kiss him.

your tongues dance to their own tune as his hips slam into yours, and with some final particularly hard thrusts you gush around his cock, breaking the kiss as you cry out in pleasure.

rafayel lets your thigh down in favor of leaning his body against yours, keeping you in place as his lips trail down your jawline towards your neck, sucking marks into the sensitive skin as he chases his own orgasm.

"too— much, too much, raf—"

you're whining into his ear, sensitive from your orgasm, overstimulation intense, legs wrapping around his waist and tugging him impossibly closer against you to try to ground yourself in any way.

"so good, so good, princess, i'm gonna cum—"

with a couple more thrusts and a harsh bite to your shoulder, he spills himself inside of you, cry escaping your lips at the sensation of his teeth as his warmth fills you.

he rides out his high with a few more languid thrusts, planting soft kisses against his marks on your neck and shoulder before his movements completely cease.

neither of you speaks for a long moment, only holding each other close as you both catch your breath.

you rake your hands through his messy hair (courtesy of you), giggling as he pushes into your touch, eyes flitting up to you.

"so needy," you jest with a little smile.

rafayel lets out a scoff, lifting his head to look at you properly.

"says the cutie that was vying for my attention," a teasing smile tugs at his lips. "it seems i'm rubbing off on you," he proclaims, all too smugly.

"you're a bad influence," you huff, pinching his cheek.

"your bad influence," he winks and you roll your eyes, reaching to peck the same cheek you pinched.

you both stare at each other for another long moment before the artist moves to get off of you, standing at his full height, holding your thighs as he slowly pulls out, rubbing them in an act of comfort when you let out a small whimper at the loss.

"hey," you breathe out, lifting yourself up onto your elbows. "aren't you going to be late?" you tilt your head, remembering the reasoning behind this passionate night in the first place.

he lowers himself to the ground, face level with your heat, watching the globs of cum drip and stain the sheets below. he can feel himself get hard again at the sight as his hands give your thighs a gentle squeeze, planting a kiss on the inside of one before his dark gaze meets yours.

"who says i'm still going?"

-

epilogue:

thomas called the familiar number for what felt like the upteenth time that evening, trying not to lose his mind outside of the venue where more and more guests began showing up.

"where the hell is he???"

by the time and hour had passed since the designated time of arrival, thomas had already baked up some half-assed excuse as to why rafayel wouldn't be showing his face at yet another exhibition.

thomas lets out a frustrated sigh once he gets the chance to take another breather.

"at least i have the paintings," he mumbles to himself, swirling the glass of champagne in his glass as he fishes out his phone from his pocket to check for any update.

1 new message.

he unlocks his phone to check it out, and in the next second, he's gripping it so hard he thinks he might crack the screen.

"oops left my phone off thx for covering for me"

the animated sticker that accompanies the message does nothing to quell his frustrations as he shoves his phone back into his pocket without bothering to answer and downing the champagne in one go.

he makes his way back inside, deciding he'll need a lot more than just one glass tonight.

-

a/n: why is rafayel so hard to write for i have to scroll through art to get inspo but i love him very much :x

-

[froggiequarium]

1k words; rafayel making nail art... for you (working on this when i'm supposed to be working on a new fic for main oops.... raf invaded my mind what can i say?)

-

rafayel noticed your little habit of constantly switching out your press-on nails every couple of weeks. infact, you often began asking him his opinions on which to use next after catching his curious eyes glued to you as you prepped your nails for the newly decided set, and he'd confidently point out the one he thought would suit the season or occasion better.

one day, after showing him the new sets you'd bought during a sale and oogling at the cute art and charms they were decorated with, he offhandedly asked if they were difficult to make.

"hm? well, i've seen videos that make it easy, but usually things look easier than when you actually try it yourself, so i just stick to buying them," you sheepishly point out with a little laugh.

and suddenly, rafayel has an idea.

in the next week or so, when its around the time to switch out your nails once more, rafayel calls you and tells you to meet him at his studio, that he has a surprise waiting for you.

curious and excited, you immediately make your way there, having no other plans for the day, mentally going through special days to make sure you're not forgetting any occasion.

though, it wasn't likely, given rafayel's nature of spoiling you with surprise gifts for no particular reason.

you make your way inside of his studio and find him in the living area, just finishing arranging some things before his gaze flits up to yours.

"well hello, miss bodyguard. you got here quick."

you take slow steps towards him, grinning.

"a certain fishy said they had something for me, i couldn't just keep him waiting."

he grins back.

when you close the distance and are standing right before him, he holds his hands out, palms facing up.

"give me your hands," he coaxes.

you do as you're told, sliding your hands over his, and he grips them gently, inspecting your hands— you don't have a new set on yet, just as he expected.

perfect.

"why don't i do your nails for you this time?"

you tilt your head.

"is this your surprise?"

"part of it."

"are you sure? i didn't think you'd be interested, and i'm used to doing it myself...."

"nonsense, let me decorate your hands for you this time, cutie."

you raise an eyebrow, suspicious at his insistence, but allow yourself to be dragged to the couch and seated next to him as he reaches for the utensils that you use to prep your nails.

"why did you have everything ready? were you that confident i'd let you do my nails for me?"

he holds up the nail clippers, moving close to begin snipping down your nails.

"its already been a couple of weeks since your last set, so i knew you'd be working on another one sooner or later."

something about the attention to detail rafayel pays when it comes to you makes your heart thump a little faster in your chest.

"right..."

he's finished trimming and filing your nails quickly before he grabs a spikier tool to push your cuticles back, trimming some as he sees fit. afterward, he's grabbing another tool and begins gently buffing the surface of each nail. when he reaches for a small alcohol wipe to drag over each nail bed, you speak up again, realizing something.

"wait, what set are you even going to put on? did you decide without me?"

he cleans the last finger, setting the wipe down beside him before reaching for the nail glue to have ready.

"give me a second."

he reaches for a little box that was hidden in plain sight behind a cup of paintbrushes on the nearby table. its a pretty blue and wrapped in a little purple ribbon. he hands it to you, and you slowly take it from him.

"this is the real surprise," he smiles, gesturing for you to open it.

you look up at him before pulling at one of the ends of the ribbon, gently unraveling it and popping the lid off of the box. you can't help the little gasp that escapes you at the sight within.

it's a new set of nails, pristine and pretty, looking like the ones that are on the pricier end of the websites you buy from.

they're a mix of pearly white and ocean blue, different images from seashells and little fish to a seahorse being painted on a few of them, embellished with small colored-pearl looking charms and some shiny gold glitter for highlight. even more, the shape of them is exactly your preference.

you're looking at them for a long time in silence due to the awe of the detail and beauty of them. rafayel watches you marvel at them, but grows too eager to hear your thoughts.

"do you like them?"

rafayel's voice breaks you from your trance and you finally manage to tear your gaze away from the nails to meet his eyes.

"did you.... make these?"

rafayel only shrugs in response.

"i decided to try it out. it wasn't the easiest thing, but it was simple enough, and i got the hang of it easily. still, i think my back is still hurting from the weird angle i had to be at to paint on such a tiny canvas," he whines, rubbing his lower back for emphasis.

you breathe out a laugh, pushing yourself forward and kissing the pout off of his lips.

"these are the prettiest nails i've ever had, raf. thank you," you beam.

his ears are bright red.

"its not that big a deal," he looks to the side, shy. the volume of his voice is lower at his next words. "besides, there's more where that came from, so its nothing..."

you nod, making a note to ask to watch him at work later. for now, you hold the box out to him, gaze expectant.

"well, i'm ready for my new nails, mister nail artist~"

he's back to his normal self at your words, pleased expression crossing his face as he snatches the box from you before picking up the glue.

"leave it to me!"

needless to say, you received the most compliments on this set than you had from the other sets you wore, everyone hounding you for which new nail place you went to this time for such a beautifully effortless result.

you were all too satisfied to turn to each of them and proudly reveal the secret nail tech, the curious gazes immediately growing stunned.

"my boyfriend!"

-

you cant convince me he wouldn't be good at nail art.... inspired by the next press-on set im going to use looking cutely painted (not ocean themed though) & it made me think ab how rafayel would definitely make you your own sets.... nail tech raf anyone???

-

[hellinistical]

in which your heart is not your own, owed to Rafayel. Rafayel x fem.reader. mdni.

tw: heart mutilation. obsessive tendencies. death of siblings. death of a friend. familial disowning. pet names. kidnapping. betrayal. miscommunication. manipulation. sexual manipulation. blood. nearly attempted murder. oral (f. receiving). piv. sensory deprivation (sight). manic episodes. fantalization of murder. death of reader. horrible mother-in-law. slightly ooc rafayel. virginity loss. stalking. harassment. not proof-read.

wc: 23.3k

The blindfold became a second skin, its silken weight a constant reminder of your curious bargain: love without sight. You weren’t blind or anything; quite the opposite. It was an arrangement sealed by whispers in the dark, by a voice that melted into your bones and hands that knew your body better than you did.

The room was alive as if the humid air pulsed with his presence. His touch was reverent, deliberate, as though tracing unseen constellations across your skin. He didn’t speak often, and when he did, his words were like the low hum of a distant storm—calm, commanding, magnetic. You had never known such intimacy, yet a lingering ache settled in your chest. A hunger to see the one who worshipped you so wholly.

The nights were your sanctuary, tangled in his arms, consumed by his worship. But the days were long and solitary. You would roam the halls of the vast, echoing estate, guided by touch, sound, and memory. Each room carried his essence: rich, intoxicating, and mysterious. Yet, no mirrors adorned the walls—no reflective surfaces offered even a shadow of him.

And truly, tonight was no different. 

His touch was a paradox of restraint and possession, a delicate balance between firm and tender. One hand pressed against your stomach, grounding you, anchoring you to him as though he feared you might drift away. His thumb traced slow, deliberate circles on your skin, each movement a silent confession of need. The other hand cradled your chin, tilting your face upward with such care it made your breath hitch.

You felt his warmth everywhere, radiating from him like an endless flame, seeping into your own body. His movements were unhurried, deliberate, as if he were memorizing every shiver, every arch, every breathless sound that escaped your lips. The blindfold over your eyes heightened every sensation; every touch felt amplified, every brush of his lips on your skin a spark against the kindling of your longing.

“Do you feel me?” he murmured, his voice low and edged with something primal. 

Of course, you could. You nodded, your hands gripping the sheets beneath you, grounding yourself against the intensity of him. He shifted slightly, and the hand on your stomach pressed down harder, making you gasp. He stilled for a moment, as though savoring the sound, and then continued his slow, relentless worship of you.

"I want you to know," he said, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, "how deeply you are mine."

Your husband’s cock dragged against your gummy walls deliciously as he teased to pull out once again, only to push through your ings and fill you up. His hand on your stomach searched for where he may be inside your guts, and upon finding it, he pressed down again, 

“O-oh!” 

“So needy…but that’s okay,” His lips brushed against your forehead, trailing kisses down to your cheek, jaw, and neck, the hand holding your chin sliding down effortlessly to hold your hip as his thrusts worked you through almost hellishly slow. Your lips were puffy, overspent with not enough reward as he took the hand off your stomach to pinch your puckering clit. 

The syllables falling from your mouth were nonsensical. 

Grateful. That’s what he told himself he was. Grateful for your presence, for your laughter echoing softly in the vastness of his world, for the way your body responded to his touch as though it were made for him alone. But the truth?

No, gratitude wasn’t enough to contain the storm inside him. He was enamored—utterly captivated by the curve of your lips when you smiled, the way you furrowed your brow in thought, the quiet sighs you made when you slept. Obsessed, perhaps. He would trace the shape of your hand in his mind long after you had fallen asleep, commit the cadence of your voice to memory like a sacred hymn.

In love? The word seemed too small, too human for what he felt. His longing for you was consuming, a tidal wave threatening to pull him under. His heart, if it could still be called that, didn’t just yearn for you—it burned, a constant, searing ache that no touch, no whispered word could soothe.

Yearning. Yes, that was it. A raw, endless yearning. Not just to hold you, to worship you, but to be known by you. To shed the shadows that cloaked him and bask in the light of your gaze. Yet, the fear lingered, sharp and unrelenting. What if the truth of him made you recoil? What if the blindfold, that fragile barrier, was all that held this tenuous, perfect illusion together?

Every night, he battled with himself. The desire to see your eyes widen in recognition warred with the terror of seeing them widen in horror. And yet, he couldn’t stay away. You were his sanctuary, his punishment, his undoing.

As his hand lingered on your skin, tracing slow, reverent lines, he wondered if you could feel it—the desperation in his touch. The way it whispered what his lips could not: Stay. Don’t turn away.

Well, truly, he had his mother and her jealousy to thank, he supposed. It was her envy that had cast the first stone, her cruel game that brought you here, blindfolded and bewildered. And your sisters—ah, yes, your sisters. Their bitter whispers had stoked your doubts, planted the seeds of curiosity and rebellion in your mind. They had warned you, hadn’t they? Told you no man could love like this without hiding something monstrous. They had been so sure, so certain, that the one who adored you so fervently could only be a beast in disguise. He hated them for it, hated the cracks they had tried to drive between you. Their envy had been a quieter thing, but no less potent, planting seeds of doubt in you that he struggled to uproot.

His hand slid up from your hip, lingering just long enough to feel the warmth of your skin beneath his palm. Slowly, deliberately, he intertwined his fingers with yours, as if anchoring himself to this moment. His thumb brushed the ring on your finger—a masterpiece of his own making.

The ring had been the first gift he’d ever given you, long before you’d come to this place, to him. A delicate band of gold, adorned with a singular blue gem.  He had poured his essence into its creation, shaping it with his own hands, imbuing it with fragments of himself. It was meant to be a promise, though he hadn’t dared to speak the words aloud when he placed it on your finger. You are mine, as I am yours.

His own creation, forged in a moment of reckless hope. The gemstone glimmered faintly even in the dim light, its color a reflection of something deep and hidden within him. A piece of his essence, captured and bound in that delicate band, as much a promise as it was a claim.

And it may have been foolish- stupid, even, to get sentimental at such a time when he should have been focusing on the pleasure of his wife, but timing be damned.  He took your hand, kissing it tenderly.

And you…you were just about gone. 

Needy. Insatiable. So full of want. Your mind became saturated at his prolonged drags, your back long since off the feather-stuffed sack you called a bed. 

He threw your ankles over his shoulders, locking them around his neck carelessly, your thighs jittery, your muscles tender from his earlier man-handling. 

Your husband’s hand slid upward, wrapping around your throat. His grip was firm but careful, more a reminder of his presence than a threat. Yet, even as he reveled in the softness of your skin, a darker thought flickered through his mind.

Sometimes—only sometimes—he wondered what would happen if he just... snapped it.

What would it be like to end it all, to sever the connection so completely? To see you shatter, your life slipping from him like water from a cracked vessel. The power of it, the utter control. He imagined it in flashes—your eyes wide with shock, the sound of your breath halting, your skin going cold beneath his touch.

The thought thrilled him, excited him. His pulse quickened at the heady rush of power, of having you utterly and completely in his grasp. The idea of snapping your fragile neck—the utter finality of it—was both intoxicating and terrifying. But no. 

No.

Not his lady love. 

He tightened his grip just enough for you to feel it, but not enough to hurt you. His eyes, though unseen, burned with the ferocity of his internal battle, trying to wrestle with the darkness in him that was so close to taking over.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, his voice rough, a raw edge to it. He pulled his hand away, but his breath was shallow and uneven.

"Husband?" Your voice trembles with both curiosity and unease, a soft whisper that feels too loud in the silence that suddenly envelops the room. The warmth of his body, the heat of his touch, is gone—vanished like a fleeting dream.

You sit up, instinctively reaching for the space where his form had once been, only to find it empty. The bed feels cold now, the soft sheets still clinging to your skin but no longer warm with his presence. For a moment, you’re disoriented, your pulse quickening in the sudden, oppressive quiet.

He had been there, hadn't he? His hands, his lips, his breath... all so real, so consuming. And now, nothing. The absence of him presses down on you like a physical weight.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed, the cool floor beneath your feet grounding you in reality, but still, the question lingers: Where is he?

A subtle shift in the air, like a quiet breath, stirs your senses. Something is wrong. You feel it in your bones, the pull of something deep inside you—a fear that has no name, only the cold certainty that the distance between you and him is more than just physical. It feels like he's slipped beyond reach, as though the very essence of him has evaporated into the shadows.

“Husband?” You call again, this time louder, more urgent, the words trembling on your lips. The sound feels strange in your mouth, a name you no longer feel certain about.

The silence is deafening, and the lingering scent of him on your skin becomes both a comfort and a cruel reminder of the emptiness now surrounding you. Your fingers brush over the empty space on the bed where he should be.

And then, faintly—so faint you almost wonder if it's your imagination—a whisper floats from the shadows, a voice low and almost broken.

"Don’t search for me."

The words send a shiver down your spine. They're not a command, but a plea.

*** The sun shone brightly, filtering through the leaves above as you stood by the lake, the warmth of the day wrapping around you like a comforting embrace. The water lapped at your calves in a gentle rhythm, its cool touch refreshing against the summer heat. You smiled to yourself, wringing out your hair, the droplets catching the light as they fell, each one a tiny diamond in the air.

Birds flitted from branch to branch, their cheerful songs blending with the soft rustle of the leaves in the breeze. The day was perfect—everything about it seemed touched by the gods. The soft chirping of the birds, the way the water shimmered under the sun, the gentle sway of the wildflowers on the bank—it was all part of the peaceful symphony that made this place feel like a dream.

You couldn’t help but feel grateful. This hidden lake, tucked away from the hustle of the village, was your secret retreat, and it always brought you peace. You had come to bathe here often, and the nymphs who lived in the lake were like old friends, joining you with their laughter and playful antics. Their bright laughter echoed through the trees, and you found yourself smiling as their voices floated over the water. Sometimes, they would gift you flowers woven into crowns, and other times they would tell you stories in their musical voices that made you laugh until your sides ached.

A soft ripple in the water caught your attention, and before you could turn around, a gentle but playful grip wrapped around your breasts.  You gasped in surprise, but laughter bubbled up from within you as the familiar presence of Hersilia, the naiads’ most mischievous, appeared behind you, her long, wet hair trailing behind her like silken strands in the water.

“You’re getting too comfortable, my friend,” Hersilia teased, her voice lilting with joy. Her fingers, slick with water, pinched at your sides, sending a shiver through your body. You swatted at her hands, laughing as you tried to push her away, but she was quick—too quick—and only giggled harder as she danced just out of reach.

“You can’t catch me!” Hersilia sang, her feet skimming across the water’s surface, sending soft splashes that sparkled like diamonds in the sunlight. The mischievous glint in her eyes told you this would turn into another playful chase through the lake, and you couldn’t help but grin.

“Do you always sneak up on people like that?” you asked, feigning annoyance, but your laughter betrayed the mock seriousness in your voice.

"Always," Hersilia replied, her voice light and teasing. "If you didn’t want to be caught, you should have kept an eye out." She twirled in the water, her movements fluid and graceful like a dance. “Now, you’re mine.” With that, she lunged toward you again, her wet hands reaching for your sides, causing you to squirm and giggle even more.

“Catch me if you can!” she called out, her voice full of challenge as she darted into deeper water, her lithe body cutting through the surface like a serpent.

As soon as you put your hands in the water to splash the naiad, your heart still light from laughter, you froze. Your sisters voices carried over the water as they called out to you. Hersilia’s teasing grin faltered, and in a blink, she disappeared beneath the surface as if she were never there, the ripples from her intrusion fading just as quick as she did. 

Your sisters' figures stood silhouetted against the sun at the top of the hill, their skirts fluttering in the breeze. Algaura, ever the patient one, raised a hand to shade her eyes as she looked for you, while Clidippe cupped her hands around her mouth, her voice ringing out.

"Are you planning to live in that lake forever?" Clidippe called, her tone sharp but not unkind. "Mother’s been asking after you, and we’ve wasted enough time chasing you down!"

You sighed, casting a glance at the shimmering lake. For a moment, you thought you saw Hersilia’s laughing eyes just beneath the surface, but when you blinked, the water was clear, its secrets tucked away once more.

Reluctantly, you waded toward the shore, water dripping from your dress as you stepped onto the soft grass. "I wasn’t hiding," you called back, wringing out the hem of your gown.

"You’re always hiding," Algaura said, her voice softer, though you could hear the faintest hint of amusement. "Come on now. We shouldn’t keep Mother waiting."

You climbed the gentle slope to where your sisters stood, their expressions a mix of exasperation and affection. Clidippe crossed her arms, arching a brow. "You’ll have to explain to her why you look like you’ve been dragged through the lake."

"Maybe I was," you quipped, earning a laugh from Algaura and an eye roll from Clidippe.

“Besides, you know you’re not even supposed to be out—there’ve been rumors of kidnappings at the markets lately,” Algaura added quietly, her voice laced with concern. Her eyes darted around as if she expected danger to leap out from the trees. You knew she wasn’t wrong. As princesses, you and your sisters were always at risk, especially during times of unrest. The weight of your station pressed on you, even now, as you walked back toward the village.

Clidippe, ever the brash one, scoffed. “Never mind the kidnappings. We have enough trouble with peasants constantly vying for your attention, Y/N.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder, her tone dripping with disdain. “Honestly, the way they fawn over you—it’s ridiculous.”

You couldn’t help but sigh at Clidippe’s dramatics. “It’s not my fault people are kind to me,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips despite her exasperation.

“Kind?” Clidippe shot you a sidelong glance, her lips curling into a wry smirk. “Please. Half of them would give anything to whisk you away. The other half just want to curry favor for their own benefit.”

“Not everyone has ulterior motives, Clidippe,” Algaura interjected, her voice calm but firm. “Y/N has a way with people—it’s why they like her.”

“Too much, if you ask me,” Clidippe muttered, though there was no real malice in her words. She glanced at you, her expression softening slightly. “I’m just saying, you should be careful. You’re too trusting sometimes.”

You looked between your sisters, touched by their concern even if it came in different forms. Algaura’s quiet worry and Clidippe’s sharp protectiveness were two sides of the same coin, and though you often found their nagging tiresome, you knew it came from a place of love.

“I’ll be fine,” you assured them, your voice light but sincere. “I always have you two watching over me, don’t I?”

Algaura smiled gently, reaching out to tuck a strand of wet hair behind your ear. “Always,” she said softly.

Clidippe rolled her eyes, but her lips quirked into a reluctant smile.

Still, it didn’t stop Clidippe from popping the back of your head with a playful but firm slap. "Run out again, and I’ll tell Mother everything," she threatened, though the smirk tugging at the corner of her lips betrayed her true feelings.

You yelped, rubbing the spot where her hand landed. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“Try me,” Clidippe said, arching an eyebrow with a look that only a sister could perfect—a blend of teasing and warning. “One more stunt like this, and I’ll make sure Mother knows all about your little escapades to that lake. Let’s see how much ‘kindness’ you get after that.”

Algaura sighed, ever the peacekeeper. “Clidippe, don’t be so harsh. She’s not a child anymore.”

“Exactly,” Clidippe shot back, throwing her hands in the air. “Which is why she should know better!”

You stuck your tongue out at Clidippe, earning a pointed glare. “I’ll be good, I promise,” you said, though the sparkle in your eyes made it clear you’d likely end up sneaking off again.

Clidippe rolled her eyes dramatically, muttering something under her breath about you being incorrigible. But as the three of you reached the village gates, the lighthearted bickering melted into an easy camaraderie.

Despite her threats, you knew Clidippe would never actually tattle. 

***

True to your sister’s words, the palace was already in an uproar. Servants scrambled through the halls, their frantic footsteps echoing off marble floors. The air buzzed with tension as your name was shouted by guards and attendants alike.

Ushered through the hidden servant’s path by Clidippe and Algaura, you reached your chambers in a hurry. Even so, the chaos outside did not abate, nor did the sharp, commanding voice of your mother as it carried through the palace. The tone was unmistakable: fury tempered only by concern.

“Get in, and don’t say a word,” Clidippe hissed as she shoved you inside.

“Stay quiet,” Algaura added in a softer tone. “We’ll try to talk to her.”

You nodded and hurried to change out of your damp dress, tossing it into the hidden laundry chute as you pulled on a fresh gown. Your hair was still damp, but you quickly twisted it into a loose braid, praying it wouldn’t give you away.

No sooner had you seated yourself by the window with an open book than the door burst open, your mother’s imposing figure framed in the doorway. Her face was a storm, eyes blazing as she took in the sight of you.

“Where have you been?” she demanded, her voice like the crack of a whip.

“Mother, she’s been here,” Clidippe interrupted smoothly, stepping into the room. Her tone was casual, but there was an edge of urgency to it. “We checked ourselves—she’s been reading by the window.”

Algaura appeared beside her, nodding in agreement. “It was a misunderstanding. The servants must have miscounted.”

But your mother was not so easily deceived. Her piercing gaze flicked between your sisters, then settled on you. She took a step closer, her presence filling the room.

“You think me a fool?” she snapped, her voice low and dangerous. “Your hair is still wet. You reek of the lake.” Her eyes narrowed, and you felt the weight of her judgment bearing down on you. “Do you have any idea the panic you’ve caused?”

“Mother, it wasn’t—” Clidippe began, but she was cut off by a sharp wave of your mother’s hand.

“Enough!” she barked, silencing the room. “Both of you, out. Now.”

Clidippe and Algaura hesitated, glancing at you with apologetic looks, but they knew better than to argue. They slipped out of the room, the door clicking shut behind them.

Left alone with your mother, you felt as though the air had been sucked from the room.

“I have warned you,” she said, her tone cold and measured, “time and time again about your reckless behavior. And yet, you defy me.”

“Mother, I didn’t mean—”

“Silence,” she interrupted, her eyes boring into yours. “You are a princess. Your actions affect more than just yourself. Do you understand that? While you frolic at the lake, the palace is thrown into disarray, and our reputation is put at risk.”

You looked down, shame burning in your cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry will not suffice,” she said sharply. “You will spend the next week confined to your chambers. No visits to the garden, no trips to the library. Perhaps solitude will teach you the responsibility you so sorely lack.”

Your heart sank, but you knew better than to protest. “Yes, Mother,” you said quietly.

She studied you for a moment longer, her expression softening ever so slightly. “I do this because I love you, Y/N. But you must learn. For your own sake.”

With that, she turned and left, the door closing behind her with a decisive thud and the unmistakable click of the lock. You sat in silence, the weight of her words pressing down on you. Outside, you could hear your sisters murmuring, their voices laced with guilt.

Your chambers were vast, grandiose in a way that reminded you constantly of your status as a princess. High ceilings, intricate tapestries, and polished floors—all designed to impress and suffocate in equal measure. Large windows let in streams of sunlight, and a balcony overlooked the sprawling gardens below. But what use was beauty when it felt like a gilded cage?

You paced the length of the room, your bare feet making soft sounds against the cool stone floor. The confines of the space didn’t ease your restless mind. You considered the balcony, leaning against its railing and staring down at the manicured hedges and fountains below. It was tempting—freedom was right there. But jumping wasn’t an option. The drop was too far, and while you could climb, you doubted you’d make it down without breaking a limb or getting caught.

“Damn it all,” you muttered under your breath, smacking your palm against the railing in frustration. The sting in your hand was nothing compared to the helplessness bubbling inside you. You had barely been out at the lake an hour, and now you were stuck here for a week.

You threw yourself onto the chaise by the window, staring at the ceiling with an exaggerated sigh. The room might have been big, but it felt smaller with each passing moment. You hated being confined like this, unable to explore the world outside, the woods, the lake, the freedom.

The sound of soft footsteps in the hall made you sit up. It was likely a servant delivering food or linens—maybe even your sisters trying to sneak in a visit. You darted toward the door, pressing your ear against it and listening.

“Y/N?” came a whispered voice.

Algaura.

Relief flooded you as you opened the door just a crack. Her face appeared, smiling sheepishly as she squeezed through the gap.

“Mother would kill me if she knew I was here,” she said, glancing around nervously. “But I couldn’t leave you alone all day.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” you admitted, hugging her tightly.

She pulled away, her expression thoughtful. “I brought something to cheer you up,” she said, producing a small bundle wrapped in cloth. She unwrapped it to reveal a handful of flowers—wild ones, from the woods near the lake. “Don’t tell me I’m the only one who can bend the rules now and then.”

You laughed, the tension in your chest easing slightly. “You’re the best.”

“Don’t let Clidippe hear that,” Algaura said with a wink. “She’ll never let me live it down.”

It’s quiet for a moment before she adds on. "You know, Clidippe was right- there really are lot of suitors outside. It's a little...strange."

Algaura’s words made you pause. You sat back on the chaise, the wildflowers resting in your lap. “What do you mean?” you asked, tilting your head.

She leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed, looking thoughtful. “It’s not just the usual nobles hoping for a chance to curry favor with Mother and Father. There are strangers—people I’ve never seen before. Foreigners. Merchants. Even a few peasants who’ve somehow wormed their way to the gates. All of them asking about you.”

You frowned, your fingers brushing absently over the soft petals of a flower. “That doesn’t make sense. Why would they be asking about me specifically?”

Algaura shrugged, though there was a flicker of unease in her expression. “You’re beautiful, Y/N. It’s not surprising people would notice you. But this... It feels different. Like they know something we don’t.”

Her words sent a shiver down your spine, though you tried to laugh it off. “Maybe they’ve just heard about my charming personality,” you joked, though your voice wavered slightly.

Algaura didn’t laugh. Instead, she studied you closely, her brow furrowing. “Be careful,” she said softly. “I know you hate being cooped up, but maybe Mother was right to keep you here for now. There’s something strange in the air lately. I can feel it.”

You shifted uncomfortably, the weight of her warning settling over you. Algaura wasn’t one to be superstitious, but when she got a feeling about something, she was rarely wrong.

“Strange how?” you asked, trying to keep your tone light.

She hesitated, as though weighing her words. “It’s hard to explain. Just... I don’t trust all those people outside. It’s like they’re waiting for something.”

The unease inside you grew, twisting like a knot in your stomach. You glanced toward the window, half-expecting to see shadows moving in the garden below. But there was nothing—only sunlight and swaying trees.

“I’ll be careful,” you promised, though the words felt hollow.

Algaura nodded, though her worried expression remained. “Good. Because something tells me this is just the beginning.”

***

The rumors had started as whispers—passed from one mouth to another, carried on the breeze that swept through the markets and the quiet corners of taverns. But in time, they grew louder, more insistent, until the very air around the kingdom seemed to hum with the story of a princess more beautiful than any goddess of old.

A beauty that rivaled Aphrodite herself.

It wasn’t just your appearance that captivated people’s attention; it was the mystery that surrounded you.  No one had truly seen your face, at least not in the way they wanted to. 

Each rumor twisted, shaped by the imagination of the masses, until you were not just a princess—but an otherworldly vision. Some said you were touched by the gods themselves, a living incarnation of love and grace. Others whispered that you were an enchantress, capable of bending the hearts of even the hardest of men.

And so, like a ripple in a pond, the word spread far beyond the kingdom’s borders—across oceans, over mountains, through forests, and into lands where they did not even know your name. But they knew the legend.

The first few days, it had been easy to dismiss. A few admirers calling out from below, a few bouquets of flowers left at the foot of the palace gates. It was nothing new, nothing you hadn’t experienced before. But soon, it became something else entirely.

You could barely step out onto your balcony without being greeted by the sight of eager faces staring up at you, their eyes filled with something darker than mere admiration. They had no shame, no respect for the space between royalty and commoner. 

The flowers had turned from sweet-scented lilies to strange, unfamiliar blossoms. Some with petals as black as night, others with thorns sharp enough to pierce your skin if you weren't careful. And the gifts—small trinkets, strange tokens, even jewelry—felt like offerings, as though they thought you were some kind of goddess to be pleased.

It wasn’t just the courtyard. It was everywhere. As you walked through the palace halls, you could hear the faint, eerie whispers of your name on the wind, drifting in from outside. Even the servants, usually busy with their duties, glanced nervously at you, as if they too were starting to sense that something was amiss.

The situation grew increasingly unsettling, day by day. At first, it had been easy to brush off the behavior of a few overzealous suitors, but now it was spiraling into something far more disturbing. The crowds gathered outside the gates and beneath your balcony grew more persistent, more entitled. No longer were they content with simply offering their gifts or admiring you from afar.

It wasn’t long before your guards began to report strange incidents: men lurking in the shadows, eyes fixed upon the windows, waiting for the right moment to approach. 

There were whispers among the palace staff about people who had tried to slip past the guards, pretending to be servants or tradesmen. Some had been caught trying to scale the walls, attempting to break into your chambers when the moon was high in the sky. And then, there were the ones who had been caught near the palace gardens, staring at the windows with expressions that were almost manic, as if they believed they had a right to be there.

At first, you had relished the attention. The excitement of being desired, the feeling of power that came with being the center of so many people's gaze. The flowers, the gifts, the glances of admiration from every corner of the kingdom—it all felt flattering. After all, who wouldn't enjoy being the object of such longing?

But as the days wore on, that thrill began to dull, replaced by an uncomfortable weight that grew heavier with each passing moment. The whispers that once made you feel cherished now felt like chains, dragging you down. The crowd below, once full of eager faces, began to feel suffocating. Their eyes were no longer filled with admiration, but something far more possessive. They expected something from you—something you could never give.

It felt like an impossible request: to want someone who loved you for you, not for the polished image they had built of you in their minds. The desire for genuine connection, something real, was becoming a sharp, aching void in your chest. You longed for someone who saw beyond your beauty, someone who wasn’t captivated by your face alone, someone who wanted you, with all your flaws, your doubts, your fears.

The thought flickered in your mind, almost in jest, that perhaps you could somehow make them stop looking at you like that. If you marred your appearance, disfigured the thing they worshipped, maybe then they would stop seeing you as an object. But the idea made you sick, even as it seemed to offer a twisted kind of solution to your growing dread. You knew, deep down, you weren’t brave enough for such an extreme. You couldn't bring yourself to erase the one thing that had given you power in the first place, even if that very power was suffocating you.

But the yearning for something real, something honest and untouched by the expectations of the world, gnawed at you relentlessly. The pressure, the eyes on you, felt unbearable. Every interaction, every glance, every whispered word from the crowd below reminded you that you weren’t truly seen. You were only admired for the idea of you. And the more you thought about it, the more it consumed you.

***

Angry. Angry pacing. No, anger didn’t quite cut it. Aphrodite was seething. On a marble bay window, Talia stretched, wine red lips staining her glass. "I don't know why it bothers you so much, friend. You should be glad the mortal seems just as uncomfortable with the comparison that you are mad it was even made."

Aphrodite’s pacing halted, her golden hair shimmering in the sunlight streaming through the bay window. Her eyes, sharp and brimming with fire, flicked toward Talia with a look that could shatter glass. “Glad?” she hissed, her voice dripping with venom. “Glad that a mortal child—a mortal princess no less—is being called more beautiful than me? Glad that my name is on the tongues of men not for my glory, but for how she surpasses it?”

Talia smirked, taking another languid sip of her wine. “Yes, actually. It’s amusing. Mortals and their fleeting obsessions. The girl could slip on a rock and ruin her face tomorrow, and your precious title would be safe again.” She tilted her head, her crimson nails tapping against the glass. “Why waste so much energy on someone who doesn’t even want the attention she’s getting?”

Aphrodite’s nostrils flared, her fists clenched so tightly her nails dug into her palms. “It isn’t just about her,” she snapped. “It’s about the insult. The audacity. Do you know what I’ve heard, Talia? Some say she might be a daughter of mine. That she carries my blood and my beauty, unclaimed.”

Talia chuckled, a low, throaty sound. “And is she?”

Aphrodite’s jaw tightened. “No. But mortals are stupid enough to believe it. And if they’re willing to believe that, what else will they start to question? My divinity? My perfection? My place?” She resumed her pacing, her heels clicking against the marble floor. “This isn’t just about a girl. It’s about what she represents. A challenge. An insult to my name.”

Talia leaned back, watching her friend with amused detachment. “And yet, the mortal hides herself away, terrified of the world outside her palace walls. She doesn’t seem much of a challenge to me.”

Aphrodite’s lips curled into a bitter smile. “That’s the only thing keeping her safe.” She turned to the window, gazing out at the distant horizon. “But even the most beautiful rose wilts when plucked from its garden. And I intend to see just how much pressure she can withstand before she breaks.”

"You take everything so personally," Talia drawled, her voice as smooth and rich as the drink in her hand. "Mortals are fickle creatures. They say what they wish, worship who they will. Their praise and comparisons mean nothing in the grand scheme of things."

Aphrodite’s lips curled into a sneer. "Nothing? It’s not nothing when their whispers spread like wildfire, tarnishing my name. Diminishing my glory. What is a goddess without her reputation?"

Talia raised an elegant brow, her dark eyes gleaming with amusement. "A goddess still," she replied, lifting her glass in a mock toast. "You’re acting like a jealous lover, fretting over someone stealing the affections of their beloved. But isn’t that what you do, Aphrodite? Stir hearts, twist desires, ignite jealousy?"

Aphrodite’s expression darkened, and the air in the room seemed to grow heavier, as though the weight of her rage pressed against the walls. "This is different," she hissed, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "She is no goddess. She’s a child. A fragile, mortal girl. And yet they dare speak her name in the same breath as mine? I will not tolerate it."

Talia set her glass down, finally meeting Aphrodite’s gaze. "Then what will you do?" she asked, her tone carrying a hint of mockery. "Strike her down? Curse her beauty? Destroy her entirely? Wouldn’t that only prove their point, that she poses a threat to you? It’s a delicate line, dear friend, and one that even you may not wish to cross."

Aphrodite’s jaw tightened, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. She hated that Talia was right, hated the truth in her words. 

Talia raised her glass in a mock toast. “Ah, there it is. The vindictive goddess I know so well.” She smirked. “Do be careful, dear. Mortals are fragile things, but they can surprise you when cornered. I’d hate for you to get your hands dirty and find yourself with more than just a bruised ego.”

Aphrodite turned on her heel, her gown sweeping the floor like the tail of a restless serpent. Her fiery glare softened for a fleeting moment, replaced by a look that was almost calculating, almost...fond. She raised a hand, her golden bracelets chiming softly with the motion, and gestured toward the attendant waiting in the shadows of the chamber.

"Fine then," Aphrodite declared, her voice now calm but heavy with authority. "Bring my son."

The attendant, a young nymph with wide, shimmering eyes, immediately bowed low, her silken hair falling over her shoulders like a curtain. "Of course, goddess," she murmured, before slipping out of the chamber as quietly as a passing breeze.

Aphrodite moved to her seat, a throne carved from pure alabaster and inlaid with veins of gold. She sat gracefully, her hands folding in her lap as her expression hardened once more. The flickering flames of the room’s lanterns cast long shadows across her face, accentuating the sharpness of her features.

Talia, still lounging by the bay window, arched a curious brow. "Your son, hmm?" she mused, her tone laced with intrigue. "And what role will he play in your scheme, I wonder?"

Aphrodite didn’t look at her, her gaze fixed on the far door as though willing it to open. "He will do as I command," she said simply, her voice void of doubt. "It’s time he learned the responsibilities that come with being the son of a goddess. And who better to teach this mortal girl her place than someone who understands the weight of divine beauty?"

Talia chuckled softly, shaking her head. "Ever the strategist," she murmured, swirling the last of her wine before downing it. "I suppose I should prepare myself for the fireworks that are sure to follow."

Aphrodite didn’t respond. She simply waited, her mind already weaving the threads of her plan, her lips curving into a smile that promised both charm and danger. Soon enough, the door opened, and soft, steady footsteps echoed through the chamber.

She didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The air itself seemed to shift with his arrival, a presence both magnetic and unnerving.

"Mother," came the voice, smooth as silk but carrying an undertone of reluctant obedience.

Aphrodite smiled, her eyes finally lifting to meet his. "My darling," she purred. "I have a task for you."

***

It was stupid.

Really stupid.

Did you tell your sisters? Nope. Did you leave any warning behind? Not a chance.

A horse? Ridiculous. Too obvious. And besides, what was the fun in making it easy? You were faster on foot anyway.

Even a snack? Who needed a snack when you were on the verge of discovering the truth?

The fact that you were going to be found out, eventually, didn’t bother you. It was bound to happen. But right now, you needed answers. You needed to understand.

“Huzzah, huzzah,” You giggle excitedly to yourself, quiet. 

So, you set out for the Oracle. No more distractions. No more idle questions from your sisters. No more waiting for someone to tell you what to do. You were going to make your own decisions for once.

And if it helped to get some fresh air, all the better.

The cool night air wrapped around you like a cloak, the quiet stillness of the palace gardens turning into the bustling sounds of the village as you moved further away from the gates. You felt the soft crunch of gravel beneath your boots, your breath coming steady and slow.

You had no idea where the Oracle’s temple even was. Not a clue.

But you knew your nymph friends—Hersilia and the others—would. They always seemed to know everything, didn't they? If anyone could point you in the right direction, it was them. So, you made a snap decision, leaving the overgrown paths of the village behind and heading straight for the hidden lake.

It was a place you had frequented many times before, the secret sanctuary where the cool waters were the only constant, and the ever-playful nymphs danced and sang, unseen by the world. The lake was deep in the woods, far enough from the prying eyes of the palace that no one would think to search there. And it had been a while since you last visited, at least since the rumors and the crowds started gathering.

The walk was familiar, like returning to a dream you hadn’t quite finished. You stepped lightly over roots and rocks, your thoughts swirling, but your purpose clear. You needed answers. The air was thick with the scent of pine, and soon the rhythmic calls of the birds shifted into the soft sounds of water lapping against stone, guiding you toward the hidden clearing.

When you arrived at the lake, the scene was just as you remembered—peaceful, serene, untouched by time. The cool mist from the water wrapped around you as you approached the edge, your fingers grazing the surface. You could hear the faint whispers, just beyond your sight, of the nymphs who lived here, hidden in the depths.

"Hersilia?" You called softly, hoping she’d hear you through the quiet.

There was a splash. A ripple in the water, followed by the unmistakable sound of giggles. And then, as if materializing from the mist itself, Hersilia appeared—her form rising from the water with a grace only a creature of the lake could possess. Her pale skin glistened like moonlight on the water, and her green hair cascaded around her shoulders like flowing seaweed.

"Well, well, look who decided to show up." There was a false playfulness to her voice.  "What brings you here, little princess? Trouble?"

You smile, opening your mouth to say something, but she puts a hand up. 

“You’ve been gone so long,” she murmured quietly, more to herself than to you. The light from the lake’s surface danced in her eyes, and for a moment, you could have sworn there was a tinge of sadness in her expression. “I thought you might have forgotten us... forgotten me.”

The guilt pricked at your chest, the weight of time and distance settling in. You hadn’t meant to stay away from your friends, but with everything that had happened—the palace, the rumors, your mother’s constant grip on you—it had been impossible to carve out any time for yourself.

“I haven’t forgotten you,” you said quickly, taking a step toward her. “Mother had-” “I’m not taking you to the oracle.”

“What?”

Well. That certainly threw a wrench into your plans. 

The air between you both felt heavier now, as though the very weight of the unspoken history between you was pressing down on you both. She seemed to take a slow, deep breath before she met your eyes again, her gaze still carrying that trace of sadness.

"I don’t know if I should help you," Hersilia admitted, the hesitation in her voice unmistakable. "The Oracle, Y/n… It’s not just any place. You have no idea what’s been happening with the gods. There are rumors. Things changing in the heavens, in Olympus. You don’t want to go there... especially now."

You could tell she was holding back, her eyes flicking away as if she didn’t want to speak more of it. But there was a distinct shift in her tone—one that suggested there was more to this than just the Oracle being difficult to reach. Whatever it was, it clearly troubled her.

She took a step closer, the water barely shifting with her movement. "I’m your friend," Hersilia continued, her voice almost pleading now. "I care about you, and I don’t want to see you fall into something you don’t understand. The gods are... fickle. And the Oracle, well, she doesn’t always show you what you want to see. Sometimes, you can’t unsee it."

Hersilia’s eyes hardened as she stood her ground, the playful demeanor that had once been there entirely gone. The air between you both seemed to thicken, and the tension was palpable. Her lips pressed together, her usual kindness replaced by something much more firm—almost fierce.

"And I don't want you asking my sisters for help either," she added, her tone brokering no argument.

You opened your mouth to protest, but she cut you off, her voice unwavering. "No, Y/n. I don’t want you going to the Oracle." Her words were final, as if she'd made a decision that you couldn’t undo.

For a moment, you stood there, your thoughts swirling. There was something in the way she spoke, something in her eyes, that made it clear she wasn’t just worried about you getting lost or confused. There was a deeper fear in her, something you couldn't fully understand. Her words about the gods, about the Oracle... they lingered in your mind like a warning.

"But why?" you finally asked, your voice softer now. "Why don’t you want me to go?"

Hersilia hesitated, her jaw tightening. She seemed to struggle with how much to reveal, her gaze shifting between you and the water. She opened her mouth as if to say something more but paused, taking a deep breath.

"You don’t know what you’re asking, Y/n," she said quietly, her voice thick with emotion. "You don’t know what’s at stake. You think you’re ready, but you’re not." Her hand reached out, almost as if to touch you, but she pulled it back before she could. "The Oracle’s answers aren’t simple. They come with a price. And sometimes... once you’ve seen what she has to show you, you can’t unsee it. You can’t go back to the way things were. I don’t mean to sound like a cliche, but that’s final.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy with a sense of warning, but also with an underlying sorrow. Hersilia was afraid—not just for you, but for what you might uncover. It was clear now that there was something deeper at play, something she feared you wouldn't be able to handle.

The silence stretched between you both, and she finally spoke again, softer this time, her voice laced with regret. "Please. Don’t go to her. Not now. Not yet."

Indeed, it threw a wrench in your plans. 

…

Oh well!

You make your way home in a hurry not to get caught. If the nymphs wouldn’t help you, surely he would. 

Despite the nagging feeling in your chest, the desire for something real—something not tied to your appearance or your royal status—pushed you forward. The evening air felt lighter as you walked back, your footsteps quick and determined. Hersilia’s words had barely sunk in before you were already moving, not willing to let the uncertainty weigh you down.

When you finally reached your balcony, your pulse quickened, and your thoughts buzzed with the familiar restlessness. There was only one way to escape the constraints of your palace, the constant eyes that sought only your beauty. One way to chase something genuine, something more than the false promises of suitors and endless admirers.

You closed your eyes and whispered the words, calling for Zephyrus, the playful west wind who often answered your summons. The breeze picked up immediately, carrying the scent of distant flowers and fresh rain, and with it, his presence.

"You called?" His voice was light and teasing, and before you could even spot him, you could feel the air shift around you—lighter, warmer, like the embrace of an old friend.

Zephyrus appeared, his grin wide, almost absurdly cheerful. His tousled hair was windblown as usual, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous gleam. He crossed his arms, the playful energy about him almost infectious.

"Did you miss me?" he asked with a wink, his tone always more teasing than serious. "Though I must admit, I was wondering when you'd summon me. Been a little too quiet around here, don’t you think?"

You grin, then pause.  "I need your help, Zephyrus. I... I need to escape for a little while. Everything’s just... too much. I can’t take it anymore. Not with them all watching, and the pressure of being what they want me to be."

Zephyrus raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "Ah, I see. The princess wants a little freedom, hmm? Can’t say I blame you. But you know, I’m not some simple errand boy, dear." His grin widened, clearly enjoying the drama of the moment. "What’s in it for me?"

You narrowed your eyes at his teasing, but you were desperate, and you knew how to play his game. "Come on, you owe me one. You know you do." You leaned in, dropping your voice to a mock serious whisper. "Besides, I’ve heard rumors that you were getting bored of your usual windblown routes. Thought I might spice things up for you."

Zephyrus chuckled, clearly enjoying the banter. "Oh, you’re good," he said, and with a mischievous wink, he gave you a nod. "Alright, alright. You’ve convinced me. But you know this is going to cost you, right? A favor in return. That’s how we wind spirits work."

You sighed, rolling your eyes again. "Fine. Whatever it takes. Just get me out of here, Zephyrus."

The wind spirit beamed at you, a glint of excitement in his eyes. "Deal. Hold on tight, princess. Let’s give you the escape you’re looking for."

In an instant, the air around you seemed to rush in all at once, sweeping you off your feet. The room, the palace, the overwhelming pressure—all of it disappeared in the span of a breath.

“But, just a question. Where’re we going, honey?”

Zephyrus’ voice rang in your ears as the wind swirled around you. You could feel the familiar pull of the air as it wrapped you in its embrace, but something about his question gave you pause. You hadn’t quite thought this through—hadn’t really figured out how to explain what you were doing.

You didn’t want to lie, but you also didn’t want to admit how reckless your plan was. Still, there was no backing down now.

"The Oracle," you said with a defiant smirk, though your heart raced a little in your chest.

Zephyrus was quiet for a moment, and you could almost feel the wind hesitate, swirling around you with a sudden, cooler edge. Then, with a small laugh that was half disbelief, half amusement, he replied, "The Oracle? Really? That's where you want to go, princess?" He paused again, his voice laced with something that wasn’t quite concern, but it was close. "Do you even know what you're getting yourself into?"

You clenched your jaw. "I need answers. I can’t stay in this cage forever, Zephyrus."

The wind spirit’s playful tone shifted, a bit of seriousness creeping in. "And what happens when the Oracle gives you those answers? What do you do with them then?" His voice lowered, sounding almost like a warning. "Once you know the truth, you can't un-know it. You can't go back to the way things were."

You swallowed, his words striking a nerve. But you had already made up your mind.

"Take me to her," you insisted, a firmness in your voice that you hadn't expected.

Zephyrus was silent for a moment longer, then sighed dramatically. "You’re impossible, you know that?" But despite his teasing, there was a note of respect in his voice. "Alright, princess. Hold on tight. We’re going to the Oracle."

***

Hersilia stood by the lake, her usually bright and carefree demeanor now clouded with concern. She had been watching you from a distance, making sure you didn’t stray too far, but when Zephyrus appeared and swept you off without a second thought, a pang of disappointment shot through her.

She had warned you, tried to keep you safe, but it seemed you were determined to walk your own path—even if it meant putting yourself in danger. Hersilia’s lips pressed into a thin line as she sank back into the water, disappearing from view. She didn’t want to see you go like this, but there was little she could do now.

She’d failed to stop you.

Hersilia had just sunk beneath the water, her form dissolving into the deep blue, when she felt a chill run up her spine. The temperature dropped sharply, and a hand—cold, lethal—clamped around her throat. It was like the water itself had frozen solid.

Her breath hitched, and her body stiffened in shock. She barely had time to react before the sharp pressure against her ribcage told her an arrow was now hovering just under her skin, its tip pressing against her in a way that made her heart race.

The voice that followed was low, chilling—an echo of power she recognized but feared.

"The mortal. Where did she go?"

Hersilia’s eyes widened in panic. She opened her mouth to speak, to beg for mercy, to tell him where you’d gone—but her words died in her throat. The hand around her neck squeezed harder, and before she could finish her sentence, her form began to flicker, her essence dissolving into the air.

Her last vision before she vanished was of a figure stepping forward, eyes dark with fury and an edge of something colder beneath.

"Raf—"

But before she could finish, before she could offer any explanation, her form began to dissolve. The pain from the arrow flared once more, but it was the overwhelming force of his power that caused her body to vanish into a shimmer of water, evaporating like mist in the morning sun.

The man, now left with nothing but the ripples of his presence, clicked his tongue in annoyance. His voice, laced with venom, echoed through the quiet air. "Using my name. What gave you the right?"

And with that, he was gone—disappearing as swiftly and silently as he had come, leaving only an eerie silence behind.

Hersilia's fading form lingered in his mind for just a moment longer, but her disappearance meant nothing now. He had other things to tend to. The mortal—she—was his concern.

***

Zephyrus had kept to his word. He’d dropped you off and told you to call him again when you were ready to come home. 

The air was thick with the scent of incense, thick enough to make your head spin, and the shadows in the temple seemed to stretch long and ominous. You’d barely made your way through the murky halls, the flickering torches casting strange reflections on the walls. The oracle’s place wasn’t nearly as grand as you'd imagined, no golden temples or sacred fire to mark the divine presence. Instead, the stone was worn, the floors cracked in places, and you even had to kick a few scattered skulls out of your path as you walked.

"Damn... Apollo really doesn't care for who he picks despite all the glamorization," you muttered, your voice bouncing off the cold walls. You were beyond unimpressed. The long, winding journey to the Oracle had felt so much more grandiose in your mind, but here you were, standing in a crumbling temple with nothing but a handful of whispers from those who’d come before you.

You kicked a skull out of the way and glanced around, half expecting something extraordinary to happen, but...nothing.

The Oracle, seated on an old stone bench, was the only thing that stood out in this place, an elderly woman hunched over with wisps of white hair framing her face. She looked as though she’d seen everything—and yet, the air about her was as dull as the rest of the temple.

You sighed, a little too dramatically, and crossed your arms. "Erm…hello. I’m uh..I’m Y/n. So, you're the Oracle?" you asked, cringing at how your voice came out. "What is this place? I thought there’d be more...mysticism. More fanfare. Less dust."

The old woman’s eyes flickered up at you from beneath heavy eyelids, and for a brief moment, you almost felt like you had stepped on something sacred. But her gaze held no such intensity. It was passive—almost bored. "It’s not the place that matters, child. It’s the answers you seek."

You raised an eyebrow. “Right. And what kind of answers are we talking about here?”

She blinked slowly, her wrinkled hand reaching out to beckon you closer, her fingers shaking slightly. “That depends. What is it that you seek?”

"Um... was hoping you could tell me about my fate? Ya know, my er- my love life." The oracle raised a brow. "You ventured here for...your love life?" 

Well, when she said it out loud, it did sound silly. 

You shifted uncomfortably under the Oracle’s gaze, suddenly aware of how ridiculous it sounded. "Well, yeah," you muttered, rubbing the back of your neck. "I mean, it’s kind of important, right? Who doesn’t want to know about their love life?"

The Oracle gave you a long, steady look, her eyes narrowing as if she could see right through you. "You came all this way to ask about something so fleeting?" Her voice was both calm and oddly judgmental. "Do you not seek more? A purpose? Power?"

You flushed, feeling small. “I—uh—guess... but it’s just that love’s been on my mind, and I thought maybe you could help me out with some... insight? I mean, if I’m going to get it wrong, I’d at least like to know how to fix it.”

She hummed under her breath, studying you carefully. The silence stretched out long enough to make you question whether she’d say anything at all. Finally, her cracked voice broke through with a sigh.

"Fine. Apollo knows this isn't what I signed up for. First the girl with her dreams and now this-" she clears her throat. "Alright, lemme see." you look excitedly, expecting some magical prowess to be on display- maybe glowing eyes, floating hair, anything. but the old lady just closes her eyes and hums a little bit before talking. "A monster." "Beg your pardon?" "Your love is a beast. Be careful of your trusts."

How anticlimactic. 

You blinked, trying to process her words. "A monster?" you repeated, feeling a bit insulted. "What do you mean? Like, a literal monster?"

The Oracle’s eyes remained closed, her wrinkled hands folded in her lap. "A beast," she repeated softly, almost as if she were speaking to herself. "The kind that lurks in the shadows, hidden behind a beautiful face." She paused, letting the silence linger for a moment before adding, "Not all monsters show their fangs at first."

You stood there, bewildered, feeling the excitement you had felt moments before quickly draining away. This wasn’t what you’d imagined when you came looking for answers. "Isn’t there more to it?" you pressed, desperate for something more concrete. "What does this monster want with me?"

The Oracle finally opened her eyes, locking them onto yours with a piercing gaze. "What they want doesn’t matter," she said. "It’s what they take that you must worry about. And how far you’re willing to go to follow them."

You felt a chill run down your spine. You were used to cryptic answers, but this one had a weight to it. It wasn’t just vague—it felt... ominous.

"Are you saying I should just stay away from this person?" you asked, heart hammering in your chest.

The Oracle didn’t answer immediately. She was quiet for a long moment, her fingers tapping gently on the edge of her chair. When she finally spoke, her voice was lower, almost a whisper.

"If i say anything else, it's 5 coins a word." "What?"

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at the Oracle’s antics as she faded into her strange muttering. The whole experience had been so anticlimactic, and the Oracle’s smugness didn’t help at all. Five coins a word? Seriously? Highway robbery indeed—except without the actual highway, just a confusing old lady hiding in some forgotten corner of the world.

You shook your head, turning to leave the dreary little hut behind, already regretting the trip. As you stepped out into the open air, you could hear the faint rustle of trees and the call of birds overhead. It felt good to be back in the world where things made sense—or, at least, where you could pretend they did.

“Alright, whatever,” you muttered to yourself, starting to walk back toward the place you’d landed, grateful that at least Zephyrus wasn’t hovering around anymore. "You have a good day too," you muttered sarcastically, throwing one last glance at the hut as you made your way toward the lake once more. It was clear the Oracle wasn’t in any mood to provide more answers, and frankly, neither were you.

***

Your sisters sat on either side of you, Algaura leaning in with a furrowed brow while Clidippe played with the tassels of your blanket, clearly uninterested but humoring you nonetheless. You were pacing in frustration, your hands gesturing wildly as you retold the story, the words tumbling out of you faster than you could stop them.

“I mean, can you believe that? The Oracle actually charged me for every word! I paid her all I had left—five coins a word!” you exclaimed, throwing your hands up in exasperation. “And then, then she tells me my love is a monster. A beast—like, are you kidding me? Is that some kind of riddle? I don’t even know who she’s talking about!”

Clidippe snorted, not even looking up from the blanket. “Sounds like a bunch of nonsense, honestly. Why would you go to that old crone for advice in the first place? She’s just as cryptic as everyone else. ‘A monster’? Please. It’s probably just some dramatic thing to make you worry.”

Algaura, ever the more thoughtful one, tilted her head. “I’m with Clidippe on this one, Y/n. It sounds like something made up to keep you hooked on her words. Monsters? That’s absurd. It’s just another way to keep you tethered to superstition.”

“But, what if it’s not?” you muttered, sinking down beside them, running a hand through your hair. "What if there really is someone out there that—" You cut yourself off, swallowing hard. “What if that’s the whole point? What if I’m going to fall for someone... dangerous?”

Clidippe rolled her eyes. “Oh please. Don’t be so dramatic. You’re looking for some deep meaning in a riddle when you’ve already got enough suitors begging for your attention. If you’re smart, you’ll just stick with someone safe. You’ve got everything you need, don’t let some fortune teller confuse you.”

Algaura, however, seemed less sure, her lips pressed together in contemplation. “Maybe Clidippe’s right about not overthinking it. But still, I can’t help but wonder if there’s more to what the Oracle said than just her usual rambling. Could it be…? No, never mind.” She quickly shook her head, cutting off her own thought.

Clidippe let out a sharp yelp as you flopped onto the bed, crashing right into her. She groaned, smacking your arm in mock annoyance. "Uggghhhh... Is it too much to ask for a guy that can rock my shit without being weird?"

You felt the bed dip as you lay there, burying your face into the pillow in frustration. “Seriously! It’s like every suitor out there either has some insane expectation or, like, weird obsession. What do they even want from me? I can’t even breathe without someone offering me their life.”

Algaura, sitting at the edge of the bed, gave you a sidelong glance, her lips curling slightly in amusement. "You do realize that many of them are after your title, right? It's not you, it's the whole princess thing. You’re a catch, Y/n."

“But I don’t want to be a catch,” you groaned, your face still buried in the pillow. “I just want someone who actually likes me for me, not for what I can do for them, or because of some ridiculous prophecy.”

Clidippe snorted. “Who said you needed anyone? You’ve got everything you need right here, don’t you?” She gestured to the lavish surroundings of your room, the fine fabrics, the jewelry, and everything else. “No one’s worth losing your peace of mind over. You’re a princess—act like one.”

You lifted your head, a frown tugging at your lips. “But what if there’s something more, Clidippe? Something out there I’m missing. The Oracle said—”

“Ugh, stop going on about that!” Clidippe threw up her hands, clearly fed up. “That old woman probably saw some rat scurrying around and thought it was a monster. You’re overthinking it. Trust me, the best thing you can do is just enjoy being you.”

You stared at the ceiling, the weight of her words settling in. Maybe she was right. Maybe you just needed to stop worrying about the unknown and focus on the life in front of you, the one that was full of luxury and comfort.

But something about that thought still felt hollow.

***

That night, you could slept like a baby. How? only Hypnos knew. But it didn't matter. soft feathers fell gracefully to your floor, the sounds of feet padding across even softer. His eyes searched in the dark, looking at the figure hidden in the blankets.

Aphrodite said just one arrow should work. But then- you turn, shuffling, exposing yourself. 

Gods you were beautiful.

His fingers trembled as he held the delicate, glistening arrow between his fingers. The moment had come. He had watched from the shadows, unseen, waiting for the right moment to strike. Aphrodite had been clear: One arrow to make you fall in love, and everything would be his. But as he stared at you, his breath caught in his throat, and the arrow—a weapon meant to bend hearts—slipped from his grasp, pricking his own skin.

A sharp, cold sensation shot through him, a tremor that reached deep into his chest, igniting a burning heat inside him. The world blurred as the room seemed to shift. His thoughts, once precise and calculated, became erratic. His pulse quickened as a foreign ache stirred deep within his bones.

No... No. This wasn’t part of the plan. He was supposed to control this. He was supposed to be the one to make you fall, not the other way around. Yet, as he watched you, still sleeping, he could feel his heart pounding louder than ever before. It wasn’t just the allure of your beauty; it was something deeper, something he couldn’t name.

He took a slow step forward, watching you with an intensity he had never experienced before. The arrow was forgotten now, discarded on the floor. His mind raced, thoughts tumbling over one another as he tried to make sense of the overwhelming feeling that had taken hold of him.

And then, as if guided by an invisible force, his hand reached toward you. The same hand that had been meant to hold the arrow now reached for the warmth of your skin, trembling with a new kind of desire—one that wasn’t born of manipulation or divine intervention, but of something far more real. Something he couldn’t control.

Your skin was... soft. Softer than he imagined it could be. The warmth of it seeped into his fingertips, sending a jolt up his arm that made him freeze. His breath hitched, his heart racing uncontrollably as if it were trying to match the rhythm of your own. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but this—this was entirely different.

His thumb brushed over the curve of your shoulder, featherlight, as if afraid the touch might break you or, worse, wake you. It was a tenderness he didn’t recognize in himself, a care he wasn’t sure he was capable of. The simple contact stirred something deeper, something raw and unguarded that he didn’t want to confront.

For a fleeting moment, he let himself indulge in the serenity of the moment. The way your chest rose and fell with each breath, the peaceful expression on your face, the strands of hair that had fallen across your cheek—all of it captivated him, held him in place like an invisible tether.

And then, as quickly as the moment came, reality sank in. What was he doing? He wasn’t supposed to touch you, wasn’t supposed to feel this. You were the mortal. A fleeting existence compared to his own. Yet here he was, unable to pull away, unable to resist the pull that seemed to come from within his very soul.

He clenched his jaw, withdrawing his hand slowly, reluctantly. His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, a mix of confusion and longing swirling in his chest. He had come here with a purpose, but now, he wasn’t sure he could go through with it.

"Well, fuck... Mother will not be happy about this," he murmured under his breath, dragging his hand away from your shoulder as if burned by his own foolishness. He let out a frustrated sigh, his eyes flicking down to the arrow he had dropped earlier. With a swift movement, he retrieved it, inspecting the delicate tip as if it held the answers to his predicament.

The temptation to stay lingered in the air like an unspoken promise, but he shook his head, steeling himself.

No. Not tonight.

With one last look at your sleeping form, a mixture of awe and frustration playing across his face, he stepped back into the shadows. You were still, serene, and unaware of the storm he had just unleashed within himself.

"I’ll come back for you," he whispered into the silence, the words hanging in the air like an unbreakable vow.

And then he was gone, leaving only a faint trace of feathers and the lingering warmth of his presence.

***

The rumors hadn’t stopped. If anything, they had grown more wild and insistent, with whispers of suitors climbing palace walls and offering impossible treasures for just a glimpse of you. It was overwhelming, stifling even, and yet none of it mattered—not when the oracle’s words kept echoing in your head.

"A monster."

True love was true love, wasn’t it? That’s what all the stories said. Love wasn’t supposed to care for appearances or stature. And if your destined love happened to be a beast? Well...so be it. You’d face it head-on, the way you had faced everything else in life.

Which is how you found yourself perched on a windswept cliff, staring out at the vast expanse of sea. The roar of the waves below filled the air, mingling with the occasional caw of seabirds circling above. The sky was painted in soft shades of twilight, the sun dipping low on the horizon, and still, you sat there, waiting.

For what, exactly? You weren’t sure. Some grand, monstrous entrance, maybe. Something to finally give you the excitement your heart craved.

Instead, there was nothing but the rhythmic crash of the waves and the wind tugging at your hair.

You sighed, leaning back on your hands, letting the cool stone press against your palms. "Honestly," you muttered to yourself, "if this beast is real, it’s taking its sweet time."

You kicked a pebble over the edge, watching it tumble down into the frothy waters below. It felt absurd, waiting for some mythical creature to show up like a character from a bard’s tale. And yet, here you were—bored, restless, and hoping for something, anything, to happen.

A light tap on your shoulder broke through the quiet, startling you out of your thoughts.

You turned your head sharply, expecting to see someone standing behind you—but there was no one there.

"Huh?" you muttered, frowning as you scanned the empty cliffside.

Another tap, this time on your other shoulder.

You whipped around again, irritation bubbling up in your chest. "Who—hey!"

Before you could finish, something soft but firm slid over your face, plunging you into darkness. A blindfold.

Your hands shot up, scrambling to pull it off. "What in the gods’ names—"

"Shhh," a low, velvet voice whispered in your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

Your breath hitched. "Who are you? What do you want?"

A chuckle, soft and almost amused. "You called, didn’t you? Now I’m here."

Your heart raced as you froze in place, the voice far too close for comfort. "Called?" you echoed, confusion laced with a flicker of fear.

"Yes," the voice murmured, shifting to your other side. You could feel the faint brush of air against your cheek as the figure moved. "You waited for your beast. And now your beast has come."

Out of pure reflex, your fist shot forward, connecting solidly with something—or rather, someone. A sharp grunt of pain followed as the figure stumbled back.

"Ow! Seriously?" the voice hissed, filled with both surprise and indignation.

Your hands immediately flew up in panic, blindly waving in the air. "Sorry! Sorry—oh gods, that sounded like it hurt! Are you okay?" You reached for the blindfold, but no matter how you tugged at it, it didn’t budge.

"Would you stop—" the voice cut off, clearly frustrated. "Leave it," they commanded, the irritation in their tone mixed with a faint hint of amusement.

You froze, your hands hovering near the cloth covering your eyes. "What—what do you mean, leave it? I can’t see!"

"That’s kind of the point," they muttered dryly, and you could almost hear the smirk in their voice. "If I let you see me, it’d ruin the fun."

"Fun?" you echoed incredulously, half-tempted to swing again. "What kind of fun is this? Who just sneaks up on people, ties them up, and—"

"You’re not tied up," they interrupted smoothly.

"Blindfolded, whatever!" you snapped. "This is ridiculous!"

They chuckled, low and rich, sending another shiver down your spine. "You’re just mad you didn’t see it coming. But don’t worry, little mortal. I’m full of surprises."

Before you could deliver a follow-up punch or throw out another retort, his grip was sudden—fast, firm, and impossibly smooth. He scooped you up effortlessly, as though you weighed nothing at all.

"Hey! What the—put me down!" you protested, thrashing instinctively. But his hold didn’t falter; if anything, it tightened, keeping you steady despite your struggles.

"Stop squirming," he said, his voice closer now, velvet smooth and annoyingly calm. "You’ll hurt yourself, and I’d rather avoid that."

"Avoid that?" you snapped, kicking your legs uselessly in the air. "Maybe you should’ve thought about that before grabbing me like some—some deranged kidnapper!"

His laugh rumbled through you, infuriatingly warm for someone committing what absolutely felt like an abduction. "Kidnapper? Dramatic, aren’t we? I’d say this is more like… escorting."

"Escorting? You didn’t exactly give me a choice!"

"No," he admitted, and you could practically hear the grin in his tone. "I didn’t."

You twisted again, trying to wrench yourself free, but he was impossibly strong. And now, despite the blindfold, you were acutely aware of something—his warmth, the way his hands cradled you with surprising care despite his teasing tone.

Your voice dropped to a mutter, frustration blending with confusion. "Who even are you?"

There was a pause, and then: "Wouldn’t you like to know?"

And then he threw you off the cliff. 

The air was ripped from your lungs as you felt yourself being hurled into the void, the edge of the cliff disappearing behind you. The blindfold fell off now, flying away to return to its owner. 

A scream tore from your throat, panic flooding every part of your body. But instead of the gut-wrenching drop you expected, the wind surged around you, catching you with a powerful, almost gentle force.

"Zephyrus?!" you gasped, recognizing the familiar warmth of the west wind as it wrapped around you, carrying you upward and away from the rocky descent.

There was no response.

"Zaephryus, answer me!" you demanded, your voice rising with the chaos of your emotions. But this time, he didn’t answer. No playful quip, no cheeky banter—just a strange, disquieting silence.

You tried to crane your neck, but the wind was too fast, too strong, rushing around you as if it were trying to shield you. Something wasn’t right. The usually carefree spirit felt… afraid.

"What’s going on?" you shouted, your voice carried off into the night. "Why aren’t you talking to me?"

Still, there was nothing. Only the sound of the wind, howling louder than it ever had before.

You stumbled as you were dropped unceremoniously in front of the palace gates, the sudden shift from the wind's embrace to solid ground leaving you dizzy and disoriented. You barely caught yourself, hands pressing against the cool stone walls for balance.

"What in the—" Your words cut off as you tried to steady yourself, confusion flooding your senses. The wind was already gone, leaving only the strange echo of its absence.

You glanced around, expecting something, anything, to make sense of the situation, but it didn’t. The night air felt thick and tense, and the sound of your own heart pounding seemed louder than ever.

Why had Zephyrus brought you here? Why had he ignored you so completely?

A chill ran down your spine as a shiver of dread prickled the back of your neck.

And that’s when you heard it—a soft whisper in the air, so faint you almost thought it was your imagination.

"Aphrodite..." The word drifted past your ears, a whisper that felt like it had come from the very air itself, and your stomach dropped.

You’d heard rumors about her, about what she could do, but this? This felt like something darker. Something that made the air feel heavier, as if the world around you was closing in.

What had you gotten yourself into?

***

The days in the palace had turned into a surreal rhythm. It was odd, almost dreamlike, to move through the grand halls filled with invisible hands that seemed to anticipate your every need. The peace was nice, and the constant arguing was a thing of the past. For once, you were allowed to exist in the silence of your own thoughts without boredom…at first.

Still, the so-called "beast" was a mystery. He was everywhere and nowhere all at once. His voice followed you through the corridors, rich and smooth, a deep timbre that wrapped around you like the softest silk. He’d talk to you during your strolls in the lush gardens, his voice carrying on the wind. At meals, you’d hear him as though he were seated right across from you, but the chair always remained empty yet all only at night. When you first arrived, he’d told you that everything in the palace belonged to you. And he kept true to his word about that. 

And yet soon enough, you became lonely again, only looking forward to the night, when he would visit you. 

Oh, how his hands would worship you, smooth over your body, lips whispering praises as he lost himself in you every night…

But still…

“You’re avoiding me,” you’d accused once, poking at the air with a fork.

“I could never avoid you,” he’d replied smoothly, a chuckle in his voice. “I am always with you.”

It was infuriating.

You tried to reason with him, plead with him, even bribe him to show himself, but every time he’d laugh softly and give the same answer:

“No, my love.”

The palace, as beautiful as it was, began to feel like a gilded cage. You couldn’t leave, though you hadn’t really tried yet. Something about the way the invisible servants seemed to watch your every move was unsettling. They weren’t unkind, but they were a constant, quiet reminder that you were not entirely free.

***

And yet, despite the strangeness of it all, you couldn’t deny that you’d started to enjoy your conversations with the beast. He was clever, funny even, and he always seemed to know just what to say to draw a laugh or a blush from you.

But there was one thing you couldn’t shake:

Why wouldn’t he let you see him?

You sat on the edge of the plush velvet chaise, the weight of the ring on your finger now feeling oddly familiar, though still heavy with unspoken meaning. The palace felt more like a home each passing day, but something about the silence from your sisters made the air feel thicker, colder. You needed to talk to him. Needed his presence, his guidance.

“Husband?” you called again, voice soft, yet laced with the hint of a question that had been bubbling inside you for days. You hadn't been able to shake the thought of them—Algaura, Clidippe.You missed them. And there was a strange part of you that wanted to show them this strange new world you had found yourself in. It wasn't just about the palace or the mystery of your beastly husband—it was about you, too.

You were different now, weren’t you?

The air shifted, faint at first, but undeniable. His voice rang out, a deep, soothing sound that filled the space despite his absence.

“What do you need, my love?”

His words never failed to make the corners of your lips twitch into a smile, despite the frustration simmering in your chest. You swallowed the rising feeling before it had a chance to take root. This was him—your husband. The one you’d been growing to care for, though you'd never seen his face, never truly understood the full weight of the creature that he was.

“I—well... I’ve been thinking about my sisters,” you began, your fingers absentmindedly playing with the ring on your finger. “I miss them. Could... could I invite them to visit?”

There was a pause, a long stretch of quiet that made the silence in the room feel as if it were pressing in on you. You held your breath, unsure of his answer. What would he say?

He responded, his tone carefully measured, yet a softness lingered within it. “Your sisters…”

He didn’t continue immediately, but his voice didn’t waver. “Why would you want them here?” His question wasn’t harsh, but there was a clear undertone of concern.

The question hit you harder than you expected, but you pushed through. “Because... I miss them. And because I want them to see... see you. See this place. It’s... it’s not so bad here, not really.” You bit your lip, mentally cursing yourself for the half-formed confession. But it was the truth.

“You wish to bring them here to... what?” he asked, his voice almost... quiet. There was a trace of something you couldn’t quite place in his tone. Was it hesitation? Was he afraid of what your sisters might see, or worse, of what they might think of him?

No, impossible. He was too secure for that. The thought of him caring about their opinions was laughable in itself. You licked your lips, your mouth suddenly dry. It wasn’t about fear—at least, not for him. Was it about you?

“I just wish to spend some time with them. Maybe have tea. Please?” you murmured, your voice soft yet earnest. You didn’t know why you were so nervous, or why you felt the need to plead your case. But the words tumbled out before you could stop them.

There was no immediate response, but the weight of his presence filled the room. You felt it—oddly comforting yet undeniably strange—the weight of his head resting in your lap. It was something he did when he was deep in thought, seeking your touch without words.

Your hand moved instinctively to his hair, fingers threading through the invisible strands as you began to gently massage his head. It was surreal, feeling the texture and warmth of him, knowing he was there yet unable to truly see him. His arms wrapped around your waist, grounding you in the moment.

“I could say no,” he finally said, his voice low and deliberate, the vibration of his words almost tangible against you. “But I don’t want to deny you something you long for.”

Your heart leaped, a mix of hope and relief flooding your chest. “You mean...?”

“I’ll allow it,” he said, his tone softer now. “But only if you promise me one thing.”

You stilled, your hand pausing in his hair. “Anything,” you whispered.

“Promise me you’ll tell me if their visit troubles you.” There was something in his voice—a protectiveness that made your chest tighten. “I’ll arrange for them to come, but your happiness is my only concern.”

You exhaled slowly, your hand resuming its gentle movement. “I promise.”

And though you couldn’t see his face, you could feel the warmth of his contentment, the invisible lines between you both softening in the quiet of the room.

***

Clidippe and Algaura sat across from you, their expressions a mix of confusion and awe as the servant poured tea into delicate cups, their hands trembling slightly from the sheer surprise. They must have been in a state of adrenaline; Zephryus had whisked them to the palace on your husband’s orders. You, on the other hand, could barely contain your excitement. The familiar faces of your sisters, so long absent from your life, were a welcome sight.

Clidippe raised an eyebrow, eyeing the invisible space next to you, where the beast’s presence loomed. “So… this is where you’ve been all this time?” she asked, her voice cautious, yet carrying a sharpness that suggested she wasn’t quite ready to believe everything she was seeing.

You, on the other hand, were practically buzzing with excitement. "Isn't it incredible?" you asked, your voice bright and brimming with enthusiasm. "The palace, the gardens, the servants—it’s like something out of a dream!"

Clidippe glanced at Algaura, her lips pressing into a thin line. "A dream... or a curse," she muttered under her breath, though loud enough for you to catch.

"Clidippe!" you scolded, though your grin didn’t falter. "Don’t be so dramatic. It’s not a curse. It’s... well, okay, it’s unconventional, but I’m happy here!"

"Happy?" Algaura asked, raising a skeptical brow. "With an invisible husband?" She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Have you even seen him yet?"

You hesitated, your hands tightening slightly around your own teacup. "Well... no, not exactly," you admitted, trying to sound casual. "But we talk all the time, and he’s kind, and thoughtful, and... he loves me."

Clidippe let out an incredulous laugh, setting her teacup down with a sharp clink. "Y/n, how can you know that if you’ve never even seen him? What if he’s some monster? What if he’s—"

Algaura, always one to amplify a dramatic moment, leaned forward, her voice rising slightly. "What if he’s evil or—" she gasped, eyes wide with mock horror, "—ugly?"

"Algaura!" you scolded, setting your teacup down so forcefully that the porcelain rattled. "He’s not evil. And even if he were... um, ugly, it wouldn’t matter!"

"Wouldn’t it, though?" Clidippe chimed in, arching a brow. "You’ve got this whole fairytale thing going on here, but isn’t it weird that he hasn’t shown you his face? What’s he hiding?"

You crossed your arms, glaring at both of them. "He’s not hiding anything. He told me he wants me to get to know him for who he is, not what he looks like. And honestly, I think that’s kind of beautiful."

"Or kind of suspicious," Algaura muttered under her breath, earning a glare from you.

"Look," you said firmly, "I didn’t invite you here to criticize my life or my husband. I wanted you to see that I’m happy, that I’m okay. Can’t you just trust me on this?"

Clidippe set her teacup down with a deliberate clink, fixing you with a serious gaze. "We can't, actually." Her words were sharp, cutting through the fragile layer of joy you'd been clinging to. "You're being a fool."

Her bluntness stung, and you felt your chest tighten. "A fool?" you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes," she continued, unrelenting. "You’re living in some enchanted palace, surrounded by invisible servants, married to someone who won’t even show you who he is. And you think that’s normal? That that’s love?"

Algaura nodded reluctantly, her earlier teasing replaced by a more subdued concern. "Clidippe’s right. We just... we don’t want you to get hurt. What if—"

You held up a hand, silencing her. "I know what you’re going to say. What if he’s dangerous? What if he’s lying? What if this is all some trap? I’ve heard it all before."

"And have you considered any of it?" Clidippe pressed. "Because, honestly, it doesn’t sound like you have."

Your lips parted to argue, but no words came out. Deep down, you knew they had a point.

"You’ve always been headstrong," Clidippe continued, her tone softening. "And we love that about you. But sometimes... sometimes you’re so stubborn you can’t see the cliff you’re about to walk off of."

The room felt heavy, the warmth of the tea and the laughter from earlier evaporating into an uncomfortable silence.

"I’m not walking off a cliff," you said finally, your voice quiet but steady. "I know this seems strange to you, but I feel safe here. He makes me feel safe."

"Then why hasn’t he shown you who he really is?" Clidippe asked gently.

You didn’t have an answer. And that, more than anything, made their words cut even deeper.

***

Later that night, long after your sisters had left, you waited eagerly for your husband, who, as per usual, arrived with a gust of wind blowing through the naked windows. You giggle excitedly as the wind blew into your hair, smiling big as you feel him embrace you tenderly. “I take it you enjoyed yourself?” He murmurs in your ear, his lips gently nipping the shell. “I did! They were happy for me, husband,”

You feel him tense for a split second before relaxing. “Happy? They didn’t question it?”

You pull away, waving your arms as you clarify. “Oh, no- they definitely did, but it was just curious questions, nothing to fret over. Oh! And Helina had made the most delicious tea earlier. I think she had put pomegranates in it!” He chuckled at your excitement, patting your head affectionately, “That so? Then I will give you all the world of pomegranates.”

His hand slid down to your jaw, and with the other, he returned the blindfold to your eyes so that he could stop hiding. 

It’s a natural thing now. But… when he does so, you can’t help but think about how your sisters had questioned your love if you’ve never seen your husband.

The thoughts leave just as quickly as they came, his lips following a trail only known to him as he lifts you off your feet.

***

The feathered mattress was comfortable as it ever was, staying cool against your hot skin as your husband ravished you. Your knees were pressed up to your chest, your hands grasping at the pillows, sheets, him- whatever you could find to anchor you. 

You tried to keep quiet, truly, but it was much harder than you thought. The blindfold, coiled with his touch and pleas for you to be more vocal? It was simply too much. It was one thing to not have the blindfold and not see him, but to have your sight denied? 

You could feel how the goosebumps rose, hairs sticking up, your arms feeling all but off. 

“C’mon, sweet princess, please don’t hide your voice. Sing for me, yeah?” His voice murmured softly as kisses decorated your skin, down your inner thighs.

“Husband-” “Rafayel.”

What?

You open your eyes, the black from them being covered of course blocking what you could see. 

“Call me Rafayel.” His voice was light. Airy. In need. 

When you don’t immediately address him as so, he presses a kiss to your clothed cunt, tapping it so affectionatley. “C’mon princess, don’t hesitate now of all times.”

And the words he used were like honey, his lips on your clothed folds a dessert to your sense of touch. 

“I- okay, Rafayel,”

He hums in delight, kissing your cunt again, your underwear wet and soft against his lips as he moves your thigh to open wider, make more space for him. “Thank you, my love,”

You didn’t even question why he was only now giving you a name to address him as; “husband” was perfectly fine for the months you had been here beforehand. 

Then again, how could you focus, when your husband’s- when Rafayel’s- lips were so loving and his fingers so tender as he pulled the fabric to the side, all but worshipping your cunt. 

His fingers patted it softly, humming in approval at just how wet you were, giving a quick kiss to your exposed clit. Your hips jerk, he’s enjoying it as he spreads your folds open, bringing his tongue to lay flat, swiping up, up, up to the tippy top, his nose bumping your clit as he groans. 

“Pretty girl, my sweet wife, I’m sorry for keeping you waiting every day for night to come, ‘s not because of you. Could you ever find it in your heart to forgive me?” Like you were ambrosia, he drank, drank, drank from you, not waiting for an answer, as he already knew. 

But again. 

Your sisters words crept in the back of your mind as the night carried on….

***

…Doubt is a cruel thing. It slithered into your mind and refused to let go, wrapping its coils tighter with every passing moment. The warmth of his presence, his gentle words, the invisible hands that cared for you—they all felt too good to be true now, tainted by the seeds of your sisters' concern.

The room felt suffocating as you stared at the flickering flame of the oil lamp, its light casting eerie shadows across the walls. The knife was cold in your hand, its gleaming edge a stark contrast to the warmth of the flame. You could feel your heart hammering in your chest, a mixture of fear and doubt twisting in your gut.

What if they were right? What if you were blind to the truth, just swept up in the illusion of safety and comfort he'd created? What if this whole thing, the grand gestures, the unseen servants, the kindness he'd shown you... what if it was all a game, a way to keep you trapped in his web?

You shook your head, trying to push the thoughts away, but they kept creeping in, clawing at the edges of your mind. "What if he's just using me?" you whispered to yourself, the words tasting bitter on your tongue.

You glanced at the knife again, its sharp blade gleaming menacingly in the lamplight. It wasn’t like you intended to hurt him—at least, not physically—but you had to know. You had to see what he was, who he really was.

With trembling hands, you set the knife down and reached for the lamp. It was an impulsive decision, one born out of fear, not logic. But you needed to know the truth, and if that meant seeing him for who he truly was, then you'd face it. Even if it broke your heart.

The silence of the room was deafening as you quietly slipped out of bed and headed toward the door. You weren’t sure what you were going to do once you found him, but at this point, the uncertainty gnawed at you more than anything else.

Your pulse raced in the stillness, every step heavier than the last as you ventured deeper into the corridors of the palace. The shadows seemed to stretch longer, the air thicker with each breath you took. The further you went, the more you felt like you were walking into something you couldn’t turn back from. Something... irreversible.

The palace seemed to whisper as you moved, the halls groaning underfoot. And just as you reached the doorway to his chambers, your breath hitched. Was this really what you wanted? To confront the beast, to strip away the mystery, to shatter the fragile peace you’d built?

But there was no turning back now.

You pressed the lamp to the door, the faint glow barely illuminating the intricate carvings etched in the wood. The knife felt like an anchor in your hand, both a lifeline and a threat.

"Please..." you murmured, unsure whether you were praying or pleading with yourself, "Just... just let me see the truth."

And then, with a deep breath, you pushed open the door.

You froze in the doorway, the oil lamp trembling in your grasp. The sight before you was almost too much to comprehend. Your husband—no, this—was not what you had expected. Not in the slightest.

His body lay still, relaxed in sleep, draped in the faintest sheen of moonlight that filtered through the window. His skin shimmered faintly, as though kissed by the gods themselves, and his chest rose and fell with a peaceful rhythm. His wings, vast and impossibly beautiful, were folded neatly behind him, feathers soft and iridescent, catching the light in a cascade of colors that seemed almost otherworldly.

You took a hesitant step closer, the flame of your lamp flickering as though it too was stunned into silence. His features were perfect—sharper than you imagined yet softened in slumber.

You had known his presence, felt his warmth, his embrace. But now, seeing him like this, unguarded and vulnerable, the fear that had driven you here melted away like mist in the early morning sun. The knife in your hand felt foolish now, heavy with the weight of your doubts, and you realized just how misplaced your fears had been.

His beauty was undeniable. Everything about him—from his sculpted features to the grace with which he rested—was perfect. The lavender curls of his hair framed his face so gently, his long lashes resting peacefully against his cheeks.

Another step forward. The lips that had whispered sweet nothings to you now parted slightly as he breathed. And those hands... the hands that had touched you so tenderly, cradled your face, and drawn soft gasps from your lips—they rested loosely on the bed, every vein and knuckle a masterpiece.

But it was the wings that held your attention. They weren’t just wings; they were art. Each feather seemed crafted by divine hands, glimmering with colors you couldn’t even name. They exuded warmth and power, a silent testament to his nature—whatever that nature might truly be.

Your throat felt tight. You wanted to cry out, to drop the lamp and run to him, to apologize for doubting him, for letting your sisters' words cloud your mind. But something rooted you in place. A mix of awe and fear kept you there, staring down at the man—the being—you’d married.

Who are you? the thought screamed in your mind, louder than you intended. Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

But you knew. 

You knew he was a god. 

How stupid- how foolish of you.

And then, as if sensing the weight of your gaze, his eyes fluttered open. Those eyes... they were a storm of colors, shifting like the tides, deep and endless. He blinked, confusion crossing his face before realization struck. His gaze fell to the lamp in your hands, and then to the knife, still clenched tightly in your trembling fingers.

His expression changed. Hurt. Betrayal. A crack forming in his once serene features.

“Y/n,” he said, his voice soft yet heavy with disbelief. “Why?”

His eyes, once warm and filled with a tenderness you had come to know, now held a coldness that made your heart drop. The air between you thickened with the weight of unspoken words, his grief pulling at the edges of his features.

“Why?” His voice was a whisper, rough with emotion. “After everything… after I’ve shown you nothing but care, why would you—” His breath hitched, his wings shuddering slightly as if even they were trying to shield him from the sting of your doubt.

You opened your mouth, but no words came. The knife trembled in your grasp, the edge of it catching the faint light of the room. The lamp you had forgotten to put down flickered as if in sympathy for the tension that crackled in the air.

“I didn’t mean… I just…” Your voice was small, barely a whisper. What did you mean? What could you say to undo this?

You had wanted to confront the fear that had been gnawing at you, the doubt planted by your sisters. They had warned you, raised questions you hadn't wanted to entertain. What if he’s a monster? What if he’s only been pretending to be kind? It was foolish, you knew that now. But in the quiet moments, when your mind wandered, the questions took root.

He reached for the knife gently, his movements slow, cautious. His fingers brushed yours, a brief, almost hesitant touch. “You thought I was a monster,” he murmured, more to himself than to you, the pain in his voice evident.

You recoiled, clutching the knife to your chest in an instinctive defense. "No, I didn’t—I thought—" Your words faltered as you met his gaze again. “I was scared. I didn’t know what to believe.”

The hurt in his eyes deepened. He stood, his wings flexing as he moved closer, his presence overwhelming yet gentle. “I’ve shown you nothing but who I am—who I really am,” he said, each word deliberate, his voice breaking slightly. “And yet, this doubt… it lingers in your heart?”

“It was your sisters, wasn’t it?”

His grip on your wrist was firm, his eyes narrowing with a hurt that twisted in a way that made your heart ache even more. The anger in his voice was unmistakable, sharp like a blade itself.

"It was your sisters, wasn't it?" he repeated, the words heavy with accusation. The quiet rage simmered beneath his words, as if the mere thought of their influence was enough to unravel whatever fragile peace you’d built. His wings twitched, his body rigid with tension.

Before you could respond, he yanked the knife from your grasp, tossing it aside with a flick of his wrist. It landed with a soft thud on the floor, its sharpness now rendered useless in the face of his fury.

The silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. His anger wasn't just at the doubt you’d harbored—it was at the outside voices that had planted the seeds of it. He had allowed himself to believe in you, in what you could be together, only for that fragile trust to be shattered by their words.

"I warned you," he spat, his breath quickening. "I warned you not to listen to them. They know nothing of us, of what we are." His fists clenched at his sides, the muscles in his jaw tightening.

It felt as though the very air around you had shifted, turning cold and heavy. You wanted to apologize, to explain, to beg for his understanding, but the words seemed to stick in your throat.

The beast before you—your beast—wasn’t just angry. He was hurt, deeply so. It wasn’t just the betrayal of your doubt. It was the years of isolation, the weight of everything he’d carried in silence, the belief that for once, someone might truly see him for who he was.

"I wanted to protect you," he muttered, his voice cracking slightly as he looked away, fighting the emotions that were bubbling to the surface. His wings were tight against his back, the darkened feathers almost trembling with the weight of it all.

The truth was, you had been foolish. You had let the whispers of your sisters cloud your judgment, but now, standing before him, you saw the depth of his pain—the depth of your own misunderstanding. It wasn’t just about him being a beast; it was about him being someone who had allowed you into his world, and you had almost thrown it all away.

"You—" He stopped himself, swallowing hard. "I thought you understood me." His hands went to your throat for a brief moment, his eyes full with the intent to snap it, but something stops him. It wasn’t the pitiful way your hands clawed at his grasp to let you go, or your pleas for forgiveness, no. It was the fact that he even considered to snap it. Rafayel thought that surely he was done with such fantasies, the urge to break you apart every time he bed you- to rip your head, to bite and tear into your flesh, to utterly consume you, he thought he could hold back, no, that he must hold back. In a mix of horror at himself and grief- mourning at your betrayal, he took a step back, letting you drop to the floor and crumpling. 

Your heart dropped as his wings unfurled, the magnificent span of them taking up the entire room, and before you could even fully comprehend what was happening, he was gone. His words, cold and final, lingered in the air long after his form disappeared into the night sky.

"You...You have betrayed me. And I have no need for traitors. I- I’m- forgive me, for not earning your trust," 

The words echoed in your mind like a death sentence. The finality in his voice, the hurt that bled through his anger—it was all too much. You were left standing there, breathless, as the silence rushed in to fill the void he had left behind. The weight of his absence crushed down on you, suffocating. Tears welled in your eyes, but they didn’t fall. Instead, they stung—burning with the guilt of your actions, of the doubt you had let fester and bloom in your heart. You were a fool to let anyone, even those you loved, make you question him. He had shown you nothing but care, nothing but love, and you—you had betrayed him with your own insecurities.

"No," you whispered to yourself, shaking your head as if to rid yourself of the thought. But it didn’t work. The guilt remained, a gnawing feeling that twisted in your gut.

You rushed to the window, pressing your palms against the cold glass, but there was nothing—no sign of him, just the empty expanse of the sky. He was gone, and you were left in the wreckage of your own foolishness.

"Please," you whispered, the desperation in your voice thick. "Please, come back."

But the wind only howled back at you, carrying his absence like a cruel reminder of what you had done.

It was too late to take it all back. Too late to explain that you hadn’t meant to hurt him, that you were just scared. But now, there was no one left to explain it to.

Tears finally spilled from your eyes as you sank to your knees on the cold floor, your heart shattered. The bed, once a place of warmth and love, now felt empty, a reminder of the broken trust between you.

You had lost him. And you weren't sure how to find him again.

***

A month passed in a haze of silence. The palace, once full of warmth and life, now felt like a cold, oppressive shell. The servants remained kind, as they always had been, but their smiles were hollow, their eyes carrying the weight of something unsaid. You could feel their pity, even if it was never spoken aloud.

The days blurred into one another, each one spent in the same routine—quiet walks through the gardens, meals that were eaten alone, and long hours in your room, staring out at the world outside the palace walls, wishing for something—anything—to change. The silence of your husband’s absence was deafening. He hadn’t returned, hadn’t even sent word.

Your thoughts were consumed with guilt and regret, constantly replaying that night over and over in your mind. What if you had just trusted him? What if you had never listened to your sisters, to the doubts that they planted in your mind? But it was too late for what ifs. The damage was done, and you were left with nothing but a gnawing emptiness inside.

The loneliness was suffocating. You had always relied on your sisters to bring laughter and comfort, but now, with no one to share your thoughts and fears with, you felt more isolated than ever. You missed them terribly—their teasing, their warmth, their presence. You needed to see them again.

The palace felt like a prison, and you were a prisoner of your own making.

So, one evening, you made up your mind. You couldn’t stay here, not like this. You had to see your sisters, to feel some semblance of normalcy again. You had to fix what you had broken, no matter how impossible it seemed.

You slipped out of the palace, as quietly as you could, hoping that no one would stop you. The night air was cool, the scent of fresh flowers and earth filling your senses, but the sense of relief was short-lived. You couldn’t escape the tight knot in your chest—the dread of what you had lost and the uncertainty of what you would find.

“Zephyrus?”

He was there in an instant. Zephyrus’s voice was soft, as if he knew the weight of your request, even before you spoke it. "Of course, my lady. Home it is."

The wind responded to his call, swirling around you gently, as if coaxing you back into its embrace. You didn’t know if it was the wind’s touch or the weight of your own thoughts, but you felt the shift—the pull toward something that felt more familiar, more comforting than the cold emptiness that had become your palace.

With a quiet sigh, you felt the wind lift you off the ground, carrying you away from the place that had once been your home but now felt foreign. The cool air rushed past your skin, and the familiar feeling of flight made your chest tighten in both relief and sorrow.

"Zephyrus," you murmur again, this time with a hint of vulnerability in your voice. "Do you think… do you think I’ve ruined everything?"

There was no immediate answer, only the soft whoosh of the wind as you flew. His silence was not comforting, yet somehow, it gave you the space to reflect, to finally let yourself feel everything that had been buried inside.

It didn’t take long before you saw the familiar landscape below—green fields, gentle slopes, and, in the distance, the village where you grew up. Home. Your heart tightened, knowing that even this place might no longer feel the same after everything that had happened.

But this was where you belonged, wasn’t it?

Zephyrus landed you gently in a quiet corner near the palace, not far from where your sisters lived. His presence faded into the wind, leaving you standing there, facing the uncertainty of your future.

***

As you spoke, recounting everything that had happened—your marriage, your betrayal, your husband’s departure—it felt as though the words were echoing in an empty room. You saw the concern on their faces, the sadness in their eyes, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to ease the discomfort in your chest.

Clidippe’s eyes softened as she listened, but the skepticism in her voice was impossible to ignore. “So, he just… left?” she asked, her tone tinged with disbelief. “After everything? You let him leave like that?”

Algaura, who had been quiet until now, finally spoke up, her voice sharp. “You were so sure, Y/n. So sure he was something special. And now look at you. Empty-handed.”

Their words stung, each one sharper than the last. You hadn’t expected their support, not really, but this felt… different. You thought they would understand, that they would see the pain you were in, that they would comfort you in a way only family could. But instead, you felt like a stranger in their presence, isolated by your choices.

“I—” you started, but the words faltered in your throat, swallowed by the knot of guilt that tightened with every passing second.

Algaura’s eyes narrowed. “What, Y/n? What now? You want us to feel sorry for you? To fix this mess?”

Clidippe reached out, her hand resting gently on your shoulder. “We don’t blame you, Y/n. But you need to think about this. What’s next for you?”

You couldn’t answer. The emptiness inside you, the pain of knowing that you had hurt someone you loved deeply, it all churned inside, and there was no easy way to make it right. Not now. Not ever.

“I don’t know,” you whispered, feeling the weight of everything crash down on you. "I thought... I thought I knew what I wanted, but now... I don't even know who I am anymore."

The silence stretched between you and your sisters, an uncomfortable weight. They didn’t have the answers, either. And neither did you.

It felt wrong. It felt like no matter how hard you tried, there was no going back. You couldn’t undo what had been done. And worse yet, the wound you had created in your heart was only growing deeper, as if the space where your husband used to be was now an aching void you couldn't fill.

And the worst part? You weren’t sure you even wanted to anymore.

***

Clidippe and Algaura were more than pleased after you left. "Perhaps, he'll take one of us to be his wife?" Clidippe said, almost cheerfully. 

Algaura let out a small laugh, though it was cold and cynical. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he did. After all, we’re far more deserving than Y/n, aren’t we?”

The two of them exchanged a glance, one that spoke volumes, though it said nothing aloud. The tension was palpable, their earlier concern for you now replaced by something darker, more calculating.

Clidippe leaned back, her expression shifting from one of mirth to something far more calculating. "I always thought Y/n was too naïve to keep something like that. Such a fool to waste an opportunity with someone like him."

Algaura scoffed. "Exactly. So much potential thrown away. It’s almost laughable." She leaned in, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial tone. “But I’m not so sure. There might be a way for us to claim what she couldn’t.”

Clidippe’s eyes gleamed with a quiet determination. “Let’s wait and see. If he comes back... we’ll be ready.” She paused for a moment, as if contemplating something more. "We don’t need her to ruin things for us again."

Algaura smirked, a cold, confident expression. "No, we won’t let her."

"Better idea. Why don't we just go to the cliff and have that wind god take us?" "Sister!”

Clidippe raised an eyebrow, but the mischievous glint in her eyes betrayed her amusement. "You know, I might just be tempted to take you up on that offer. Imagine the look on her face when we show up with him in tow."

Algaura laughed again, but this time it was tinged with something darker. "What a sight that would be. A wind god at our side, whisking us away... too bad we’d have to deal with her first, wouldn’t we?"

Clidippe shrugged, her smile widening. "Why deal with her when we can let her waste away in her pitiful loneliness? It's more fun this way, don't you think?"

The two sisters shared a knowing look, their plans already forming in the corners of their minds. Whatever they did next, it was clear they had no intention of letting you get in the way of their ambitions.

***

“You what?” Aphrodite fumed as she tended to her son.

Rafayel flinched, his wings tensing behind him as his mother’s words echoed in the grand hall. "Mother, please, calm down."

"Calm down?" Aphrodite’s voice rang out, her tone venomous. "You’ve disgraced yourself, and worse—her! You let a mortal get the better of you, make a fool of you, and you hide it like it’s some kind of prize?" She spun around, eyes blazing with fury. "Do you even understand what this means?"

Rafayel, for the first time, didn’t know how to respond. His silence seemed to only fuel his mother’s rage.

"You don’t know the first thing about real love, Rafayel!" Aphrodite’s voice cracked as she gestured toward the grandiose chambers. "That mortal girl is just a stepping stone. You’ve thrown away everything for her—your honor, your name, and now your position among the gods."

"But mother, she loved me," Rafayel said softly, the weight of his words falling heavily in the air between them.

Aphrodite’s laughter was cold. "Love? No, my son. What you call love is nothing more than infatuation. Mortal affection is fleeting, and you—" She narrowed her gaze, "—you have let it consume you. You cannot afford such weakness. Not as my son. Not as the being you were destined to be."

Rafayel stared at her, a distant sadness in his eyes. "You don’t understand. She’s different."

Aphrodite’s lips curled into a sneer. "And you will suffer because of it. You always do." She turned away, as if dismissing him. "You had a job to do, but you couldn’t even do that.”

Rafayel’s shoulders sagged under the weight of his mother’s fury, his wings folding tightly against his back, as if trying to shrink from her anger. His eyes, usually so confident and composed, were now filled with a mixture of sadness and uncertainty. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it again, unsure of how to express the turmoil swirling inside him.

"Mother, please..." he whispered, his voice quiet and vulnerable, almost pleading. "I didn’t mean to disappoint you. I just... I didn’t want to be alone anymore. She—she makes me feel alive. I’ve never felt anything like this before."

“That doesnt matter.”

"I... I thought you would be happy for me," Rafayel murmured, eyes dropping to the marble floor, a tear slipping down his cheek. "I thought you'd want me to be happy. You said... you said I should follow my heart. And now I’m following it... and you hate me for it."

His voice cracked as the reality of his mother’s rejection washed over him. He wasn’t the confident, untouchable creature he pretended to be. He was raw. He was hurt. And all he wanted, more than anything, was to share that with you. To be with you. But now, in this cold, unforgiving space, he didn’t know if he even deserved to.

"She’s everything I’ve ever wanted," he said softly, as if confessing a secret he was scared to admit. "And I don’t care what anyone says, not even you, mother. I love her. I love her more than you could ever understand."

His heart hammered in his chest, torn between the loyalty he had to his mother, the goddess who had raised him, and the love he had for his wife- you.  "Please... just try to understand. This is real. She’s real." His voice faltered. "I don’t want to lose her."

But it was no use. 

“You just let mother take care of this. Mother will fix  everything.”

Rafayel's body jerked as the magic took hold of him, his wings freezing mid-flap. The transformation was swift, brutal, and without mercy. His form shrank, feathers sprouting where skin once was, his wings no longer elegant and powerful but instead simple and fragile. His sharp, pleading gaze locked with his mother’s, but the words he tried to speak caught in his throat, swallowed by the magic that overtook him. He could only chirp, a sound far from the voice he had once used to proclaim his love.

His body was small, vulnerable, caged. The bars of the iron cage pressed against his delicate wings, and a bitter taste of defeat filled his mouth. He flapped once, twice, but there was no escaping the confines of his mother's wrath.

Aphrodite stood, her face set in stone, her anger still simmering beneath her calm demeanor. She waved her hand dismissively, ignoring the bird trapped within the cage. The motherly affection she had once had for Rafayel seemed like a distant memory.

"You’re a fool, Rafayel," she said coldly, her voice dripping with disdain. "But I will make sure everything works out. I always do. You will see. You will forget this mortal... and you will return to me. You will learn that I know what's best for you."

***

Talia's expression remained impassive as she watched you from her perch, her fingers lightly tapping against the railing of the balcony she'd been lounging on. She had seen this coming, even before you had realized what was happening. You and Rafayel? It was almost too predictable. That beautiful, foolish boy who had so easily fallen for you, swept up in his own infatuation, despite the consequences. Talia knew Aphrodite too well to not expect such a response.

Still, there was a pang of something in her chest—was it pity? Yes, perhaps it was pity. For you, for the way your world was now falling apart, even though you were too blind to see it coming. It wasn’t that Talia enjoyed watching you suffer, but it was hard to ignore how predictable everything had become.

Aphrodite, beside her, glared. 

“You pity a stranger over your friend.”

A statement. A fact. Not an accusation. 

"She humiliated my son, broke his heart, and shattered his trust. I should’ve intervened sooner."

Talia leaned lazily against a pillar, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers, utterly unbothered by the goddess’s rage. She was no stranger to Aphrodite’s dramatics.

"And yet," Talia replied, her tone as light as the breeze, "it was your son who fell for her, wasn’t it? Who bound himself to her in secret? Perhaps your anger is misplaced."

Aphrodite’s glare could have turned lesser mortals to ash. "Watch your tongue, Talia. My patience with you is thin."

"Yes, yes, your patience," Talia said with a dismissive wave. She pushed off the pillar, stepping closer to the goddess with a confidence that bordered on reckless. "But let’s not forget, Goddess, you’re the one who proclaimed yourself the expert in love. Perhaps your son inherited your taste for chaos. Shouldn’t that make you... proud?"

Aphrodite’s hand twitched, her nails biting into her palm as she considered smiting the infuriating nymph. Instead, she closed her eyes, taking a slow, measured breath. Talia always knew how to strike a nerve.

"This isn’t chaos," Aphrodite finally said, her voice quieter but no less sharp. "This is betrayal. She doesn’t deserve him. And I will not allow her to destroy him further."

Talia’s lips curled into a faint, mocking smile. "You sound more like a mother scorned than a goddess of love."

Aphrodite turned away, her expression unreadable as she gazed down at the mortal world below. The fields stretched endlessly, the winds carrying whispers of sorrow. Somewhere down there, you were grieving. Somewhere, you were suffering.

Good.

And yet...

For a fleeting moment, a pang of something unfamiliar—something dangerously close to guilt—flickered in Aphrodite’s chest.

"I protect what is mine," she said at last, as much to herself as to Talia.

Talia tilted her head, watching the goddess with an almost pitying gaze. "If you keep him caged, Aphrodite, you’ll lose him too. Just like she did."

The golden cage trembled violently as Rafayel clawed against the spell that bound him. His bird form shimmered, wings beating with a frantic energy that sent feathers scattering like falling stars.

“Rafayel, stop!” Aphrodite’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding. But he couldn’t—he wouldn’t. The bars bent under his growing form, groaning under the pressure as he swelled beyond the confines of her magic.

His breathing was ragged, desperate. His talons stretched into fingers, his wings unfurling as the feathers melted back into flesh. With one final, guttural cry, the cage snapped, its golden fragments raining down like shards of light.

"Rafayel, please—" Aphrodite’s tone shifted, now tinged with worry. She reached out to him, but he recoiled, his back to her as his transformation completed.

He was silent, his chest heaving as he stood tall, his silhouette framed by the moonlight pouring through the open window. His lavender hair clung to his damp skin, his iridescent wings unfurling to their full, magnificent span.

“I can’t stay here,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and trembling.

“Son, listen to me,” Aphrodite implored, stepping closer, her divine grace now softened with maternal concern. “That girl doesn’t deserve—”

“She does!” he cut her off, spinning to face her, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “She made a mistake, yes, but so did I. I left her to face her doubt alone, Mother. I love her, and I don’t care what you think anymore.”

Aphrodite’s hand hovered in the air, her lips parting as though to protest, but the raw pain in his voice froze her.

Before she could speak, Rafayel turned, his wings extending. With a mighty leap, he soared through the window, the force of his departure sending a gust of wind through the room.

“Rafayel!” Aphrodite called after him, her voice breaking.

But he didn’t look back. The stars blurred as he flew, his heart pounding with one singular thought:

He had to find you.

***

How ironic. 

How ironic that you had returned to the cliff where this had started. 

Only to find your sisters. 

The air was thick with the scent of saltwater, the wind teasing your hair, but it did nothing to soothe the aching void inside you. You stood there, frozen, watching your sisters with a hollow heart. They laughed, carefree, on the edge of the cliff, their voices carrying on the wind, full of mirth.

"Zephyrus! Zephyrus, catch us!" they called in unison, like children daring fate. Their voices rang in the cold air, their words both a plea and a taunt, as though they were so certain he would appear. But there was no response. No gust of wind, no comforting presence.

How….oh, how your heart hurt.

Your chest tightened as you felt the coldness settle in your bones. You should have known. Should have known that their trivial games would come at a cost. Your sisters were so used to their charm, their beauty, their privileges that they believed everyone else—everything—would bend to their will. Of course…you should have known when they had suddenly decided to question your love when they first visited you, instead of being happy for you. 

And yet, you ran. 

You ran to them. You needed them. One last hug, one lass embrace-

Clidippe took a step forward, laughing as she always did, confident in the wind's power to save her. Algaura followed, grinning, her trust in Zephyrus unwavering.

But Zephyrus wasn’t coming.

The air seemed to still as they jumped. No wind rushed to catch them, no graceful hands reached out. Instead, the two of them plummeted into the dark abyss, their screams quickly swallowed by the sea.

A sick feeling churned in your stomach, a blend of guilt, betrayal, and something much worse. 

You barely registered the tears that spilled down your cheeks as you watched the empty space where they had fallen, knowing that nothing could bring them back.

“Why didn’t he catch them?” you whispered to yourself, voice raw with disbelief. Was it because of your own failure? Had you made him so bitter, so distant, that he had forsaken them, too? Or was it their own arrogance that had led to their doom?

“No…no-! No, no, no, no. NO!” You ran to the edge of the cliff, almost stumbling off but the wind was pushing you back. 

“Zephyrus! Let me go! Let me- my- my sisters! Zephyrus-” You gasp for air as you swallow back the thick knots forming in your throat, blocking your breath. Your stomach was in your heart, your heart in your lungs, everything out of place. 

The weight of your heart pressed down, harder than the cold air around you. How had everything fallen apart so quickly?

A soft rustle disturbed your thoughts, and you turned sharply, hoping for some form of relief. But all you saw was the wind, swirling around you in a turbulent dance.

And then, his voice—gentle, familiar—came through the chaos of your mind.

"I'm here, my love."

Rafayel stood before you, wings glistening in the moonlight. His form seemed to fill the space, ethereal and powerful. His eyes were filled with something softer now, the pain from before replaced with something new. Something deeper.

“Rafayel…” you breathed, your voice trembling as you rushed toward him.

He took a step forward, his eyes never leaving yours. The distance between you, the betrayal, the pain—all seemed to fade with each passing moment.

"I didn't mean for this," he whispered, reaching out to you. “I should have never left you. I thought... I thought if I kept my distance, you'd be safe, but I was wrong."

You wrapped your arms around him, the warmth of his presence surrounding you, and for the first time in so long, you allowed yourself to feel something other than emptiness.

“I didn’t want them to fall,” you whispered into his chest, your tears soaking his clothes.

His hands held you tightly, pressing you against him as if to shield you from the world. “You didn’t cause this, love. They made their own choices, and now they must face the consequences. But you... you are everything to me.”

He gently tilted your chin up, his gaze locking with yours, and for the first time in ages, you felt truly seen.

“Will you come back with me?” Rafayel asked softly. "Let me show you that you are loved. You’ve been through too much alone."

But-

No.

He had left you.

He left you.

The weight of your heart pressed down, harder than the cold air around you. How had everything fallen apart so quickly? The faces of your sisters, their laughter, their screams—they wouldn’t leave your mind. The sight of Rafayel, his tender gaze, his outstretched hands, was too much. It was all too much.

You stumbled back, your legs trembling beneath you. His voice called out to you, soft yet desperate, but you couldn’t face him—not now, not like this. The world spun, your breath coming in shallow gasps as the reality of what had just happened sunk deeper into your soul.

“Stay with me,” Rafayel said, his voice pleading. But you couldn’t stay. You couldn’t.

Your feet moved before you realized what was happening. You turned, your body propelled by something primal, something desperate. You ran. Away from Rafayel, away from the cliff, away from the memories that clung to you like a shroud. Back, back, back—to home, to safety, to the one place you knew might offer you solace.

The lake.

Hersilia!

Her name echoed in your mind like a lifeline, a prayer. She would know what to do. She always did. Your breath hitched as you pushed forward, the terrain blurring around you. The sharp branches clawed at your skin, the cold night air stung your face, but none of it mattered.

You needed her.

The lake came into view, its surface eerily still under the pale moonlight. Your feet slipped on the damp grass as you stumbled toward the water’s edge.

“Hersilia!” you cried out, your voice cracking. “Please, I need you!”

***

When you came to that secret lake, the air felt wrong, heavy, and strange. The surface of the water was no longer the welcoming mirror of moonlight you remembered. Instead, it churned faintly, disturbed by an unseen presence. Around you, the nymphs who once danced and sang in joy screamed and fled into the shadows of the trees, their translucent forms flickering like dying embers.

Were they afraid of you? Or of something else? You couldn’t tell, and you didn’t care. Your mind could focus only on one thing.

“Hersilia!” you cried out, your voice raw and desperate. “Please, I need you!”

No answer came, only the sound of the water lapping against the shore. The nymphs’ fearful whispers drifted to your ears, fragmented and faint.

“She doesn’t know...” “Should we tell her?” “No! Let her be.”

Their words were like shards of glass cutting into your heart. You shook your head, refusing to believe what they might mean.

“Hersilia!” you shouted again, your voice breaking as you collapsed to your knees by the lake’s edge. “Please, it’s me! It’s—”

Your words died in your throat as you caught sight of the water. There, faint and ghostly, was a face—a face you knew too well. Hersilia’s face, but pale and ethereal, like a memory clinging to the surface of the lake. Her once-lively eyes were dulled, her expression distant.

“Hersilia,” you whispered, reaching out.

The image wavered and dissolved, leaving you staring at nothing but ripples in the water.

“She is gone,” a trembling voice said behind you. One of the braver nymphs had stepped forward, her form flickering as if she might vanish at any moment. “Hersilia has been gone for many moons. You... you did not know?”

But then a nymph shrieked, her voice piercing the stillness of the night like a crack of thunder. Her trembling finger pointed behind you.

Your heart stopped. You turned slowly, fear and hope warring within you.

There, standing at the edge of the clearing, was Rafayel.

His lavender hair was disheveled, the soft curls wild from flight. His wings, now fully unfurled, glistened in the moonlight, each feather shimmering like mother-of-pearl. His eyes, those deep sea-blue and pink hues, were filled with an emotion so raw it took your breath away—grief, anger, love, and longing all at once.

“Rafayel...” you breathed, rising to your feet.

He didn’t move closer. His gaze bore into you, searching, as if trying to understand something unspoken. The nymphs had scattered entirely now, their fear palpable in the air. Only the two of you remained by the lake, the silence deafening.

“I thought...” His voice broke, soft and trembling, but then it shifted, cracking with something darker. “I thought I would never see you again…” His gaze hardened, and his tone grew sharper, more raw. “And you—” He took a step forward, his wings shuddering with restrained emotion. “You run away? You run away from me?”

His laugh was almost maniacal, echoing in the quiet night like something unhinged. The sound made your blood run cold.

You instinctively took a step back, your heels slipping into the cool water of the lake.

"You..." Your voice trembled, barely audible as fear gripped you. "You killed Hersilia?"

The words hung heavy in the air, your body stiffening as his gaze locked onto yours. His eyes darkened, unreadable and sharp as a blade.

Before you could even register his movement, he was suddenly there—his hands gripping your arms tightly, pulling you closer with a force that left no room for escape.

"She was a bad influence," he said, his voice low and cold, venom dripping from every syllable.

Your breath hitched, your heart pounding against your chest as his words sank in. "Rafayel, she was my—"

"Your what?" he snapped, his wings flaring wide behind him in a display of frustration. "A friend? Someone who told you to run from me? To leave your place by my side? To keep you from your fate?”

You shook your head, tears brimming in your eyes. "No, she—"

"Don’t lie to me!" His voice cracked, raw and filled with pain. For a moment, the grip on your arms loosened, as though he realized the weight of his own actions. His hands slid down to your wrists, trembling. "Everything I’ve done... I’ve done for you."

Your breath caught in your throat as his hands closed around your neck, tightening with a force that made it hard to breathe. His eyes burned with a desperation that mirrored the one you'd felt in your own chest—his need, his possessiveness, overwhelming everything.

"And you're staying with me," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "You want someone to love you. Y/n? You don't want to be lonely? Well neither do I."

His words echoed in your mind, each one heavier than the last. The suffocating grip on your throat made it difficult to focus, the edges of your vision starting to blur. His pain was raw, but it was tainted with something darker—a twisted form of affection that you couldn’t bring yourself to understand.

"You’re hurting me," you gasped, struggling to free yourself, but his hold only tightened, his face inches from yours.

"Not enough," he spat, his voice full of anguish. "Not enough for you to understand how much I need you. How much I need you to stay."

His eyes flickered for a second, showing you the vulnerability that you once recognized. The part of him that wasn’t a monster, the part that had loved you with a gentleness you hadn’t thought possible. But then it was gone, replaced again by something darker, more volatile.

You couldn’t tell if he was trying to protect you—or break you.

And it didn’t matter.

Because he snapped your neck. 

The world went black. No pain, just the crushing emptiness that followed when your body stopped fighting, when everything ceased to exist in an instant. Your breath, your heart—gone.

Rafayel stood over you, his chest heaving with ragged breaths, his eyes wild, still filled with that insatiable need. He had done it. He had taken everything.

He dropped to his knees beside your lifeless form, his hands trembling as he reached for you.

Rafayel’s lips pressed softly against yours, his tears falling gently onto your still face. His heart was heavy, the weight of his love and his violence crashing together in an unbearable torrent. He had taken everything from you—your life, your love, and now... your silence.

"Till death do us part," he whispered against your lips, his words full of regret and sorrow. "And for you, I give you half my heart."

He layed you down as the nymphs hid in the lake in horror, watching as the god tore his chest open, golden blood spilling in torrents as he took his heart, ripping it in half, its aorta limp and loose, the left ventricle almost coming apart as if it were tender and slow cooked. He gasps in pain, closing his eyes as he opens your chest, tearing your heart out. 

And the same, he rips it in half. 

Half to you, half to him….

***

When you woke up, you gasp, clutching your neck. Could it be?

Was it truly just a horrible dream?

You turn to look beside you, reaching out. 

Your husband was invisible; you could feel the warmth of his back against your hand. 

But…there was an itch in your chest. Like something didn’t quite fit. 

[djarinova]

[01:34 am] - rafayel x f!reader

˗ˏ✎ synopsis:- rafayel is unable to stop himself from getting handsy as the two of you dance under the rainbow lights.

˗ˏcontent - reader + rafayel are drunk, needy!rafayel, reader is wearing a dress, rafayel is jealous, he pulls up your dress slightly in a crowd of people so he can feel your ass, public making out - divider by @/saradika

˗ˏwc - 1021

The strobing lights from above the crowd reflect enticingly off of your skin, the glistening beads of sweat allow your body to be littered in speckles of red and blue and purple. Rafayel's hands grip your hips, acting as the only way of communication between the two of you—the music is loud, the thumping from the speakers sends vibrations from your feet all the way to your head—and as the conductor of how the two of you dance. There's something so intoxicating about having you submit to every push and pull of his hands, knowing that you'll allow him to have control of the flow and rhythm of your body.

Rafayel bites his lip, the sudden rush of blood heading south leaves him feeling lightheaded. His mind is cloudy with an inspiring mix of euphoria and an almost uncomfortable level of hunger. He can feel the curves of your chest against his body, the rise and fall of your breathing, the heat radiating from your skin. At every point where the two of you meet Rafayel feels his skin tingle with anticipation. The electricity between you converges at these small, inconsequential places of contact, and each time you touch Rafayel he feels as though you're sending a bolt of lightning straight through his body—it thrums throughout him, into the tiniest corners of his very being. It makes him feel like a madman.

Surely you must be noticing this too?

You feel him squeeze your hips—if you had been any more sober it would have hurt because of how hard he squeezed—and you look up to find his eyes waiting for you. With a tilt of your head you question him, are you okay? But he shakes your concern off with a nod and a laugh, the darkness of which you couldn't possibly hope to hear over the music…

Rafayel doesn't think he'll ever get sick of the sight of you dancing. He watches as your concern bleeds back into joy, your eyes screw shut as his hands start to explore your figure. The dark red of your dress is absolutely maddening for Rafayel. The colour doesn't usually affect him like this, but this shade… it brings out such a primal feeling inside of him and, coupled with the number of drinks you've shared this evening and the amount of wandering eyes he's seen gawking at you, it's about to pounce on you like nothing you've ever experienced.

Rafayel's hands settle back on your hips, and for a brief second you think he's giving you a respite from all his needy touching. But then he draws you closer, a hand quickly appears at your jaw and with his index finger under your chin Rafayel tilts your head upwards. His other hand ventures south again and he starts massaging the flesh of your ass. A startled sound escapes you as he searches blindly for your bare skin beneath your dress, but his mouth is on yours before your mind is able to catch up with his actions.

You melt into the kiss, your hands slinking around his neck in search of something soft to hold on to, and the noise of the club seems to fade away completely. All you're able to focus on is him. The way he chases you, desperate and pleading, as you try to pull away for air. The way he whines into your mouth when you take his lower lip between your teeth. The way his hands are pushing you as close to his body as humanly possible, your hips flush against him, and when you feel something hard pressing against you through the thin material of your dress it's like a jolt of electricity passes into you. Your eyes flutter as they roll back into your head and as your hand begins to palm his hardness through his trousers Rafayel seems to lose his very last shred of composure.

He pulls away from you lightning fast, you notice a small trail of saliva sticking to his chin and smile. He steps around you to pull down the back of your dress and grabs you by the hand, pulling you towards the exit and out of the doors without so much as a word. You stumble, the fresh air hits you like a freight train and the alcohol suddenly feels much more intoxicating than before.

Rafayel catches you, somehow much more steady than you despite having the same number, if not more, of shots as you.

“Careful there little one,” he smirks, already pulling out his phone and getting a car to come pick you up.

He tells you it'll be 10 minutes. The words are whispered against your neck, his face finding itself a refuge between your ear and your collarbone. He nips at you, making you whine, the tender skin above your collarbone becomes almost raw with how long his mouth is attached to it. His teeth act as small talons to scratch and claw at you with, his tongue rolls over the delicate marks, a bruise already beginning to form on your skin from where it was sucked on so meticulously by the untamed artist.

He pulls away when the loudness of the club starts to infiltrate the quiet night air. Now that you can get a clear look at him the full blown lust in his eyes cannot be mistaken. It makes you feel giddy.

“You okay, sweet one?” He asks, the tips of his ears are bright and you can see the beginnings of his embarrassment starting to surface across his cheeks too.

“Y-yeah,” you splutter, “I-I'm okay.”

You smile as Rafayel reaches an arm over your shoulder. He pulls you against the side of his chest, and you can hear the thumping of his heart against your back when you reposition yourself. Standing back-to-chest the two of you wait on the curb for the car.

Rafayel is unable to stop his hands from wandering over your figure, but the night is beginning to get tired and the people are few and far between, so the overly touchy—and visibly drunk—couple go largely unnoticed.

[m00nkissedlover]

・｡A Drunk Valentine 💝

You've ordered: a dark chocolate liquor donut! enjoy!

"But, hey, what can you do? I'm a touchy feely fool~"

Rafayel x reader | word count: 1,059 words

Summary: you accidentally leave out liquor chocolates...what's the worst that could happen? 💝

Warnings: mentions of liquor chocolates, rafayel gets a little tipsy (i imagine him as a lightweight-), mild spice (MDNI). not really a warming, but lowkey clingy rafayel 🤍

Note: my first love and deepspace fic! i haven't played the game (yet), so if anything in this fic seems inaccurate, feel free to (respectfully) let me know. happy valentine's day! 💕

Your Valentine's Day with your boyfriend was rather eventful and warmed your heart to its core. First thing in the morning, you woke up to a pleasant and delicious breakfast in bed. After feeding each other and sneaking kisses, the two of you relaxed in bed for the majority of the day, just enjoying each other's presence.

Later on, Rafayel took you out for a lavish dinner, set right by the ocean. And at the end of it all, you two exchanged gifts. He gave you the gift he'd been working on for weeks on end: a gorgeous painting of you as a merperson. You gave him clay figures you sculpted to look just like the two of you. The night ended off with you and Rafayel playing around in the ocean, splashing each other and having an all around good time.

You two finally made your way back home, stepping into your cozy shared apartment. You had dried off with the towels Rafayel had in the car, but your skin still begged for a shower.

"I'll be right back, I'm gonna go get in the shower." you told your boyfriend, getting a thumbs up in response.

As you disappeared down the hallway, Rafayel floated around the apartment, looking for something to hold his attention until you got back. His eyes soon settled upon two boxes of chocolate, one blue and one red. There weren't any names or labels on them, both boxes filled with the same chocolates.

Surely, you wouldn't mind if Rafayel snuck a few, right? After all, you two were probably going to eat them together after your showers.

---

You exited your shared bedroom, all cozy in your pajamas. Now all you needed was for Rafayel to shower and you two could spend the rest of Valentine's Day cuddling and watching a movie.

"Rafayel, the shower's free!" you announced, walking down the hallway. Usually, you'd already hear him making his way down the hall, but this time, you didn't get a response at all.

"Rafayel?" you called out, hearing a faint mumbling from the living room.

There you saw him, slumped onto the couch, his cheeks flushed and eyes half lidded. He was giggling and mumbling something incoherent, his fingers stained with a bit of...brown? Your eyes traveled down to where the blue box of chocolates sat, wide open with half the box gone.

"Rafayel, how many of these did you eat?" you asked, rushing over and taking the box.

"Why are you so...worried about it? Aren't those...for me?" he asked, his speech a bit slured.

"No! They're liquor filled chocolates, for my boss!" Rafayel raised an eyebrow, scooting over to where you kneeled near the couch.

"You...bought chocolate...for your boss?" he questioned, a frown on his lips.

"Of course I did. My boss gave everyone chocolate yesterday and I just wanted to return the favor." you said, sighing as you looked at the half empty box of chocolates. "I'll have to buy another one."

"Why are you...buying chocolates for...another man?" Rafayel asked, reaching over to tilt your chin up.

You almost burst out laughing at his question, taking his hand and intertwining your fingers. "Rafayel, my boss is a woman."

The purple haired male blinked at you, him frown now turning into a pout. "But maybe she-"

"She's married. And has kids." you said, already knowing what your boyfriend was thinking. He was so clingy when he was drunk, especially right now.

"Come on, let's go get you in the shower, and then we'll get you sobered up, okay?" you hummed, cupping his cheeks in your hands. You couldn't deny how cute he looked, all drunk and blushing and pouty.

As hard as it was to lug a six foot drunk man to the bathroom, you somehow managed to get him there. You let go of him to turn on the shower, turning around to take your leave.

"Let me know if you need anything." you said, sneaking a glance at him unbuttoning his shirt.

Before you knew what was happening, Rafayel pulled you into the shower with him, clothes and all. He pressed you back against the frosty glass, his knee moving to slip between your legs.

"What the hell?" you gasped, your own cheeks starting to heat up. He didn't say anything, just stared at you with those big and beautiful eyes of his.

"Rafayel, this is not the time for this. You need to shower and-!" He quickly silenced you with a kiss, his lips slowly moving against yours. Honestly, you didn't really mind, your senses going numb as you melted into it.

You could taste the sweet chocolate and bitter liquor on his tongue as he deepened the kiss, his grip on your hips tightening. Who would've thought that your Valentine's day would end with a steamy make out session, fully clothed, and in the shower? Obviously not you.

Rafayel let out a soft noise as he moved from your lips to kiss down your neck, a hand coming up to pull down the collar of your shirt. Your head was spinning, the warm steam enveloping you, your now wet clothes sticking to your skin, the smell of Rafayel's cologne in the air. All of it sent your heart into a mad frenzy. And you just wanted more.

You tangled your hand into his hair, sighing softly as his lips pressed to your collarbone. You were starting to feel warm and tingly all over, hearing his deep breathing in your ear.

"Rafayel." you breathed out, your eyes fluttering shut. He continued to kiss over your skin, his movements becoming a bit slower. Then, you felt him still against you.

"Hello? Rafayel?" you murmured, nudging his head with your shoulder. Oh, look at that. He got you all worked up only to fall asleep right in the middle of it! And this was why he didn't drink often.

You somehow managed to get yourself and Rafayel out of the shower and into warm and dry clothes. He sluggishly flopped into bed with you, curling up to your chest like a cat would and falling asleep almost immediately.

His soft snores made you smile as you ran your fingers through his hair, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

What an eventful evening.

Note to self: write names on chocolate boxes next year. 💝

© m00nkissedlover, 2025

[writer-freak]

Spoiled Rafayel x bodyguard reader

Idea: Spoiled bratty rich girl x bodyguard who's forced to put up with it

Warnings: Gn reader, fluff, AU, strong reader, Rafayel being overdramatic, Rafayel being a tease and a bit of a brat, pretty short I just wrote down whatever came to me A/n: I had this little idea of for a spoiled rich girl x reader and who would fit better for this type of a scenario than Rafayel. Reader isn't really meant to be Mc and this is more of an AU. Maybe I'm gonna write some more for this idea as I find it pretty fun.l

"You're not carrying me?" Rafayel blinked at you, all wide, expectant eyes, his lips forming into a pout. "But my legs hurt."

You pinched the bridge of your nose. "Your legs don’t hurt. You just don’t want to walk."

He gasped, clutching his chest like you’d just stabbed him. "How dare you accuse me of such a thing? I—"

"You literally just told me that your custom-made boots are the most comfortable things you've ever owned."

"A betrayal of this magnitude... and from my own bodyguard!" He dramatically leaned against the nearest wall, resting the back of his hand on his forehead.

"Rafayel."

"Look at me, left to suffer. The streets are so—so dirty, and here I am, expected to walk like some commoner."

You were this close to walking away and letting him figure it out himself. But no, you were his bodyguard, and no matter how insufferable and annoying he was, you were stuck with him.

Unfortunately.

"Listen, your highness," you drawled, grabbing his arm and forcing him back upright. "You have two perfectly good legs. Use them. Or do you want me to throw you over my shoulder and carry you like a sack of potatoes?"

His eyes shined at that, a wicked smirk appearing on his lips. "Oh? How bold of you. Are you sure you can handle all this?" He gestured vaguely at himself. "I am quite the precious cargo."

You let go of his arm. "Walk."

"Ugh, fine." He sighed like you were asking him to climb a mountain instead of just taking a few steps. "But if my legs fall off, I hope you can live with the guilt."

This was your life. Babysitting a spoiled, dramatic, and entirely too attractive pain in the ass.

You weren’t sure exactly when things started to change.

Maybe it was the way he started listening to you more, actually taking your orders seriously instead of treating them like some funny suggestions.

Maybe it was the way he’d hover a little too close after a fight, his eyes scanning you for injuries, lips drawn into a rare frown.

Or maybe it was the way your heart didn’t jump in frustration anymore when he teased you, but instead, your heart jumped with some other more dangerous feeling.

"You know," Rafayel mused one day, sprawled across a luxurious couch while you stood stiffly by the door. "I think I've grown quite fond of you."

You arched a brow. "Oh? In a ‘you’re my favorite servant’ kind of way?"

He grinned. "In a my bodyguard is the only person I trust and also happens to be devastatingly attractive kind of way."

You stared at him. "Rafayel."

"Yes, my dear protector?"

You exhaled sharply, trying so hard not to let his words affect you. "You can’t just—just say things like that."

He tilted his head, his eyes glittering. "Why not? Does it fluster you?"

You turned away, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck. "I’m leaving."

"But who's going to protect me from all the dangers of the world that are out to get me?"

"You'll be fine."

"Wait, wait!" He scrambled up. "Fine, fine! I won't tease you. At leasdt not as much." He looked at you, his gaze softer now. "But you are my favorite."

You sighed, but this time, you couldn’t quite fight off the small smile tugging at your lips.

Maybe this job wasn’t so bad after all.

Divider by: @cafekitsune

[syneilesis]

I forgot I started a sub!Rafayel fic when the beta version of the game came out but never finished it because I got derailed by the darker and angrier facet of Rafayel in his Abysswalker era lol

Anyway, I'm posting it now in its first draft (un)glory. It's supposedly smut but I never got to that point lmao so this is still relatively sfw

Rafayel keeps making incessant and silly demands of you. You retaliate by putting him in his place.

Today is a weird day. It's also a busy day, but that's probably why today is a weird day.

You look down and Rafayel looks up at you, silk ties snaking around his wrists and on the bed frame, firm and tight. Redness begins to take over his cheeks and the rest of his face and ears. His eyebrows are drawn down, as are his lips, but his eyes flare with something you can't identify right now, hot and unyielding and it stirs your gut, the embers in his gaze.

“Apologize.”

Rafayel's nostrils flare in defiance and his head whips to the side, huffing despite his being in the disadvantaged position. “Why should I? I did nothing wrong.”

His clothed hips touch the inner sides of your thighs, bare, and they graze the hem of your skirt.

Above him you sigh in frustration, originally not planning to arrive at this compromising position but unwilling to back out nonetheless.

“You strongarmed me into becoming your plus-one for that high-profile art gala and I got mobbed by a group of reporters asking me whether I'm your girlfriend! There were cameras! Videos rolling! And when I turned you weren't there to help! You'd already sneaked out! I literally had to run away—like a coward!”

Rafayel isn't fazed in the slightest. “You could have told them off in the first place. Didn't you say yourself that you're strong, Miss Hunter?”

The urge to roll your eyes burns so bad. Sure, Rafayel has his moments—plenty of them, to be exact. Nearly all the time. He's a brat, whiny and self-assured, but he isn't malicious.

+++++

Rafayel is sitting on the floor, leaning against the wooden ladder, hands above his head just pressed into the third step, bound by a silk tie with a knot that is firm and tight but doesn't bruise his paint-stained wrists. Bright crimson spills across his cheeks, his nose, his ears—his whole face as if overbaked by the sun, almost matching the color of his expensive formal jacket. It makes you want to tease him, tell him that he's no different from a lobster, but you hold back, because this isn't the time to say such cheeky words, not when things are only beginning.

His two-toned eyes follow your movements, his brows tugged downward, as are his lips. Every minute shift from him draws attention to his exposed collarbones and his chest, the first three buttons of his shirt opened and splayed like a recently bloomed hibiscus flower. Barefoot and seemingly helpless, Rafayel is a dash of paint against the plain white of the studio—striking like a lightning bolt.

“What did I do to deserve this?” He tugs his hands a little, and the ladder shakes behind him.

“Careful,” you warn, “you don't want the ladder to topple on you, yeah?”

“I can get out of this easily, you know,” he says, and you can hear the pout in his defiant voice. It's true, though. Despite his slender build, Rafayel is a competent fighter. In this kind of situation, his Evol is also an appropriate means to escape—and destroy.

“I know. But you're not going to do that.”

“And what makes you so sure?”

You step towards him, careful of the discarded papers on the floor, and stop when your feet cage his squirming legs. He freezes at the contact, craning his neck to meet your amused gaze.

“Because,” you answer, singsong, bending down to trace a finger along the dip of his collarbone, then further to his chest, tapping the mole on his left pec. He gulps at the touch, and you almost miss his shudder. If anything, he reddens more. “You want to know where this is going. You're curious, but you also don't want to admit it.”

[scorpyuu]

✨ Nightly rendezvous ✨

Before 🍎 comes home.

Which one is your favourite?

[b-ibilly]

Are we seeing this zayne girlies?!

AND THE BUSINESS PROPOSAL SCENE ?!

[ilovemitsuya]

How he used to look at MC vs now.

his smile<333

[odoraful]

𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓'𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄.ᐟ

what happens when you don't use their pet name to call them?

⟡ content: zayne/sylus/xavier/rafayel x gn!reader; more dialogue heavy; silly and cute

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

ZAYNE ⟡

“Can you help me put this on, Zayne?”

From the reflection in the mirror, you tried not to react at the twist in his brow and the momentary confusion in his eyes. Wordlessly, he moved behind you, fingers taking the necklace out of your hand. With his gaze focused on the task before him, you could see him open his mouth, hesitating to speak.

“Did I do something wrong?” he questioned.

Zayne’s deft hands carefully laid the chain around your neck, centering the pendent between your collarbones.

You plastered on your most innocent expression, despite the twinge of guilt you felt at his question.

“Hm? Why do you ask?”

Swiftly, he clasped the ends of the chain together. His eyes flicked towards yours in the mirror.

“You’re calling me by my first name. I thought pet names were an important step in a relationship for you.”

You nodded. “Yes, Zayne, I do think it’s an important step.”

His eyes narrowed at your continual uncharacteristic responses.

Folding his arms, he mused aloud. “It took you some time to drop the title ‘doctor’ for me and to just use my name. After we became official, you were quick to call me ‘love’.”

You fiddled with your necklace, trying to, impossibly, force away the heat from your face.

“So, either I did something to make you upset, or”—he leaned in close to you, the side of his face almost touching yours—“you’re playing a trick on me.”

You gave a mock frown. He cocked his head to the side, awaiting your response.

“Okay, okay, it was a prank.” Sighing, you surrendered to his deductions. “I wanted to see how you’d react, but you saw right through me,” you mumbled.

His lips quirked. “I’ve known you for long enough to figure these things out.”

Wanting to wipe off the amused look he had on his face, you quickly planted a kiss on his cheek. His face turned into surprise. He chuckled, shaking his head at your triumphant smile.

“Thank you for helping me, my love."

SYLUS ⟡

“Sylus, could you play that new record you bought?”

You called from the sofa. Standing by the record player, he turned to face you. The offence on his face was unmistakable as he placed his hands on his hips.

“Sylus?” he scoffed. “We both know that’s not what you call me.”

Your brows furrowed, feigning confusion. “What are you talking about? Isn’t that your name?”

“Sweetie,” he levelled a look of scepticism at you, “that hasn’t been my name for the past month we’ve been together.”

“I still don’t know what you mean, Sylus.”

He paused. Gears turned in his head trying to unpack what was happening, much like he would do when reading the truthfulness of a dealer during a bargain.

“Y/N.”

You’ve never heard your own name being said in such a serious manner. Perhaps you got a taste of your own medicine.

“I’m not particularly fond of lose-lose situations.” The softness in his tone made you feel weak. “You can tell me if I’ve done something to annoy you. I won’t be angry.”

“Not at all!” you quickly blurted out. Unable to hide it any longer, you confessed. “You haven’t done anything to annoy me. I was just trying to pull a small prank.”

All the tension visibly released from his body. A relieved sigh escaped him. “You really do play some dangerous games, kitten.”

Playfulness returned to his voice. “Now then, how will you correct your mistake?”

“Honey,” you drawled out each syllable, making it sound as syrupy as the nickname itself, “could you play that new record you bought now?”

Sylus couldn’t help but laugh at your exaggeration. “Why of course.”

XAVIER ⟡

“Xavier, do you want to try this?”

Subtly glancing at his reaction from the kitchen, you saw his face immediately fall into a pout. The look was fatal, and it took all the willpower you had not to drop the ruse right then and there.

“That’s not my name,” he answered.

“What do you mean?” you chuckled, continuing to put icing on the sugar cookies you baked. “Of course it is!”

“No, it’s not,” he insisted.

Placing his book down, he walked to stand at your side by the counter. You avoided his eye contact, pretending that nothing was amiss.

Resting a hand under his chin, he began to think. “You usually call me bunny, sweetheart, sunshine, or darling.”

Your jaw dropped in amused shock. “You remember all the names I’ve called you?”

His mouth twitches. “There are some more, but… they might be a bit embarrassing to say aloud right now.”

That was enough to make you look at him with wide eyes.

“Xavier!” Your face turned pink as you slapped his shoulder. There was no force behind the hit, but enough to convey your embarrassment.

“You did it again. You used the wrong name.” He stuck his bottom lip out.

You gently poked at his cheek, trying to lift the corner of his lip upwards. “Come on, don’t be sad darling.”

Immediately, he brightened before you.

“It was just a joke I saw couples do online. I wanted to see how you’d react.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “And was my reaction satisfactory?”

“I think it was,” you smiled at him, "but it’s a shame I didn’t film it, it would’ve made for a good Moments post.”

He shook his head. “But, the nicknames we use are only for us.”

The finished cookie in your hand had a bite suddenly taken from it as Xavier leaned down to have a taste.

“I don’t want anyone else to know.”

RAFAYEL ⟡

“Are you ready to go yet, Rafayel?”

He continued to hum to himself, completely ignoring you. You folded your arms as you watched him busy himself with something trivial. He flung open a random cupboard and inspected what appeared to be an assortment of spare art supplies.

“Rafayel,” you called again.

He then turned his attention to the fishbowl in the centre of the room, where a small orange fish darted around.

“Reddie, do you hear something?” he asked, gazing so earnestly into the bowl. This fish paused its movement and stared back at his owner.

“Rafayel~” you sang his name aloud this time, extending the last syllable.

He gasped, apparently receiving some confirmation from Reddie.

“You hear something too? Thank god. I was thinking there must be something wrong with my ears.”

Surveying the room around him, Rafayel intentionally looked past you standing barely a few metres from him, tapping your foot against the wooden floorboards of his studio.

“It sounds like”—he continued—“some kind of voice. Someone familiar to me, but I can’t make out who it is.”

“Rafayel!” you shouted his name between fits of laughter. Only he could respond to your jokes with his own dramatics.

He sucked in a breath in puzzlement. “I wonder who this person is calling out to.”

“Baby,” you finally conceded, “I’m talking to you!”

It seemed like he couldn’t keep up the act either, as he started laughing with you.

“Took you long enough,” he huffed, moving towards you and linking your arm with his. “Otherwise, Reddie and I would have been searching for this phantom voice for the rest of the day.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

[strwbrychffoncke]

"i want you constantly ,eternally ,unconditionally,, 2k words ⸺ event masterlist synopsis: rafayel can never get enough of looking at you, hearing your voice, your scent ,touching you, or tasting you— and it seems that you share the sentiment contains: nsfw! lnds rafayel x afab!reader ,somno warning ,reader is wearing a nightgown + panties ,morning sex ,needy!reader ,switch!reader ,switch!raf ,dry humping ,grinding ,unprotected sex ,riding ,kissing ,sucking ,marking ,raf helps you ,orgasm ,moment of respite ,then top!raf ,implied overstim ,dumbification if u squint ,think thats it note: (edited!) meant to write fluff today n here we are......

-

rafayel was completely and utterly consumed by you.

whether it was seeing you in his studio, listening to you ramble about anything (from work to the new limited time desserts you tried at your favorite bakery), tugging you close to lose himself in your scent (something that always drove him a little crazy), holding you close in any scenario (from making it a rule to keep your hands interlocked while on a date or feeling your body on more passionate nights), or fighting his cuteness aggression, settling for nibbles on your full cheeks until he was able to get a proper taste of you later in the night: rafayel always sought you out, never seeming to be able to get his fill of you.

and with the saying that "you reflect those you spend the most time with," it seems that he's begun to rub off on you.

-

you were the first to wake up when the sun's rays started shining through the clear prismatic windows of his bedroom, stretching out your limbs before turning to face the warmth beside you.

you sleepily reach a hand towards his face, brushing his purplish bangs away from his closed eyelids, faint smile covering your lips before slipping your touch down to caress his pale cheek.

even as someone who spent hours upon hours on paintings, you thought, at the end of the day, he was the prettiest piece of art amongst them all.

especially after the nights you'd spend treating his body as your personal canvas:

the muse taking over as the artist.

the thought alone flitting through your hazy mind managed to rouse something in you suddenly, thumb caressing the soft fat while you began raking your half-lidded gaze down his face, dragging your finger towards his jawline.

he's let you do stuff like this before as he slept and vice versa. it wouldn't hurt....

your finger begins tracing his neck, and move slowly down the exposed skin of his chest—

but at a small sound from his throat, your hand pauses just before reaching his abs over his shirt, looking up at his face:

luckily, he's still asleep.

you let out a small sigh of relief, warmth of his body rapidly seeping into your fingertips as your other hand moves to caress his chest, just over the area shielding his beating heart.

you lean forward to plant a long, loving kiss against the skin before pulling back, glancing back at his face to see a small grin pulling at the edges of his lips— almost as if he were able to feel your affections even under the guise of sleep.

so cute.

you retract your hands, gently moving to lift yourself up with your arms, shifting your position as you move up to straddle him, careful as you swing one leg over his torso to prevent from waking him.

your shuffling causes him to stir just slightly. you sit still on top of him, watching for him to wake, but he's still fast asleep.

your hands are planted on his chest, looking down into the beautifully crafted face of his as you slowly begin rolling your hips against his to create some friction in the place you began needing it the most.

your hips move up and down against his clothed cock, hand coming up to cover your mouth to try and keep quiet, feeling the growing bulge under you as your panties grow wetter by the second.

when you decide you can't take it anymore, you move back just slightly, giving yourself room to free rafayel's cock from the confines of his boxers. your hands move slowly again, carefully, watching his face as you release his length, watching his eyelids twitch slightly before they settle once you've successfully freed him.

your mouth waters at the sight of him— not new but always such a view— momentarily considering sucking him off but quickly deciding against it, feeling too needy to feel him inside of you instead.

maybe that action can be saved for later.

firmly grasping his semi-hard cock in your hand, you begin stroking it slowly to full hardness, precum oozing from the tip as your hand moves up and down, slick smearing over both the shaft and your palm. small hums and whines begin to escape the male under you, but the noises only spur you on. your hips involuntarily begin bucking against his thigh in response, panties almost soaked at this point, desperately seeking relief in your impatience.

it doesn't take long before rafayel is ready (probably painfully so if he were awake). you lift your hips, pulling the damp fabric to the side and aligning yourself with his cock before you slowly begin lowering down, impaling yourself on him bit by bit.

you bite your lip as the tip invades your leaking walls first, trying your best to suppress a pleased moan at the sensation that you so desperately sought after the past couple of minutes.

a whine is ripped from your throat as you lower yourself about halfway onto the girth, eyes squeezing shut as you will yourself to keep going, need overtaking your comfort of adjusting right now. in the next few seconds, you lower yourself completely to the hilt, sitting comfortably atop the resting lemurian.

you let out a shaky sigh, back reflexively arching at the fullness inside of you, taking even breaths as you open your eyes back up to peer at the mermaid below you.

his face is contorted into something akin to pleasure, brows knitted and eyes squeezed tight, breath slightly picked up, but he's still in the land of dreams.

you drag the tips of your fingers from his chest down to his abs, hands flattening over them. you then lean forward, planting a sweet peck against his lips before sitting back up, gaze filled with appreciation and lust all at once.

you lift your hips off of him slightly before sitting back down, humming in satisfaction at the pleasure already filling your body.

in no time at all you set a steady pace, concern for waking the artist leaving your mind with each bounce on his pretty cock.

-

rafayel wakes with a start, strangled whine crawling its way from his lips as his eyes flutter open to his vision full of you—

and he thinks you look so beautiful on top of him like this.

you, who's brand-new sleep gown is hugging your figure so nicely, one flimsy sleeve slipping down your shoulder, body curved into a pretty arch, boobs close and swaying through the thin fabric as you move, face contorted into pleasure, lips parted and panting, small noises emitting from your throat (no doubt muted as you try to keep from waking him— he doesn't know if that's thoughtful or cruel of you), looking so needy as you move your hips up and down over his cock, using him to your utmost pleasure.

his hands fly up to grip your hips, startling you from your pleasured daze and eyes shooting forward to meet his.

"rafa—yel..."

with his eyes now open and singled on you, you momentarily pause riding him to grind your hips down against his, shared moans floating between the two of you at the sudden sensation.

"did you... hah.... have a nice dream?"

"i think i— ah— prefer what's in front of me," he manages a playful smirk, your eyes narrowing slightly and sly grin painting your lips.

under his gaze, you drag your hips up, feeling the delicious slide of him against your walls until only the tip is teasing your entrance.

"sorry for waking you," you wink at him before slamming your hips down against his, taking him fully again in one go.

a loud, drawn-out moan is shared between the two of you, rafayel cursing as his hands move to grip your thighs tight.

"are you— hah— trying to kill me, cutie?"

you lean your upper body forward, hips moving faster against his cock as you latch your lips onto his, delving your tongue into his mouth.

when you break the kiss to refill on oxygen, needy pants escaping you, rafayel's hands come up to push down the top of your gown over your breasts, quickly latching his lips onto one, squeezing and massaging the fat in his warm hands.

"hah! raf— so good, ah~!"

his hips begin to meet your downward thrusts as he continues kissing and sucking at your pretty tits, humming into them. the increased sensations are too much, and you feel the edges of euphoria crawling up your system.

"rafayel! hah, close, don't ah, stop—"

he releases the skin of your boob with a wet pop to respond.

"shouldn't i be, hah, telling you that, princess?"

his lips latch onto your nipple and only then do you realize your thrusts have grown sloppy, hips losing their rhythm as your orgasm approaches.

"rafayel!" you can't help but whine his name in response.

he hums against your skin, words slightly muffled against it.

"asking for my help after you— hah— decided to use me? how unfair, ah—"

you whine again, and he watches the way your eyes water as your head falls against his shoulder, voice right next to his ear.

"please, rafayel... mmm wanna— cum."

and despite how much he loves to tease you, he always was weak for your whining.

after leaving another mark on you, he speaks up again.

"don't worry princess," he whispers, pecking your cheek lovingly. "nngh, ive got you~"

suddenly, you feel his hands practically engulf your lower hips, squeezing the edges of the fat of your ass before he's moving you up and down while meeting your thrusts, setting his own pace for the both of you.

you cry out in pleasure, hands gripping tight onto rafayel's strong shoulders as you steadily approach your high.

"rafa— hah— yel! close, close, im—"

"cum on my cock, princess, cum for me, ah!"

with another pleased moan escaping your throat, you throw your head back, feeling yourself cum all over rafayel's cock.

at the same time, rafayel is moaning and whining against you, nuzzling his face against your neck and muting himself by sucking more marks into your neck as he releases rope after rope of thick pearly white essence inside of you, hands still working your hips over himself to ride out his high while ensuring you take everything he has to offer you.

exhausted despite the still-early hour, you sigh out as you slump against him, feeling so full and warm, completely satisfied as you float back down from your bliss. rafayel places soft kisses on the side of your head.

"enjoy yourself, cutie?" he chuckles. his voice is right next to your ear, breath tickling it slightly.

"yes," you breathe out, nuzzling your head into the crook of his shoulder.

he let's out a little breathless laugh, hands sliding up your back to hold you closer against him before he whispers into your ear.

"what if i told you that i wanted more?"

in seconds, you're under him, chest against the mattress as he shifts behind you, holding your hips up to create a deep arch as you feel the tip of him rubbing against your still-leaking folds.

"raf, wait, we can't—"

"don't tell me you were planning on leaving me after that?" his voice holds a hint of something darker in it.

you pick up your head, weakly looking behind your shoulder.

"we had plans today, don't you— ah— aaah!"

your protests are cut off by your whines as rafayel fully enters you once more in a single thrust, snug once again against your slippery walls.

"don't leave me, not like this," he pants out as he begins setting a quick pace, moans quickly escaping his lips as he holds your hips in place.

you can't do much but take it, whining against the mattress, saliva dripping down your lips and to the sheet beneath you, hands gripping the blanket for stability, so full and still sensitive from your previous orgasm.

as his hips meet yours in an erratically-growing and equally needy pace, your pleasure-filled mind could only think one final coherent thought:

you likely would not be leaving the bed anytime soon.

-

a/n: something ab morning sex does it for me ig

-

[froggiequarium]

dyeing your hair ft. rafayel bc i just dyed mine earlier & imagine he'd be good at/willing to do it for u

-

"huh? is it supposed to look like this...?"

"it looks a little chunky.. did i do something wrong?"

you skim over the box dye and the small now-empty bottle before looking back at the bowl.

"lets just keep mixing it."

rafayel does as you say, taking the brush and mixing the dye together with the developer in the bowl. after about a minute, a light color begins seeping through the pearly mixture.

"oh, look!"

"guess that's a good sign," rafayel comments, still mixing.

"do your paints take this same amount of effort too?"

"hmm.. sometimes; depends on the color im trying to achieve."

you both watch as the mixture turns a deeper and deeper shade of red as the minutes pass while simultaneously becoming smoother and smoother.

"it looks so yummy..."

he glances over at you, eyebrow raised.

"did you not eat or something, cutie? i would've made something for you, y'know!"

"no its just— look at that and tell me you don't wanna sample it."

he looks back at the bowl of soft red and back at you.

"i don't think i wanna sample this." you huff a breath through your nose before he voices his reasoning. "doesn't it smell weird? is this how it's supposed to smell?"

"what do you mean? it smells amazing!"

"...you have some strange tastes," he comments before going back to slowly stir the rest of the chunks smoothly.

"anyway, as long as i'm here, you're not getting a lick of this."

"i bet it tastes like strawberries...."

"...you're so weird," he laughs, hand slowly coming to a stop.

"okay, its done, now what?"

"now to paint my hair!"

"oh, do you need your renowned artist fishie to do the honors?"

you're in the middle of clipping up a section of your hair when your eyes trail over to the gleam in his.

"do you really want to?"

"isn't that why you asked for my help in the first place?"

"well, yeah, but—"

"relax, cutie, and just trust me!"

"well, if you're sure," you point to your hair that's left loose. "then, start here at the bottom. my hair is kind of thick, so the trick is coloring in sections to equally distribute it."

he hums along, dipping the brush into the bowl of red and pulling it up to swipe over your hair in careful strokes to paint each section.

knowing how rafayel gets when he's in the zone, you don't make much conversation, simply humming along to the music playing in the background as you watch him delicately paint your hair through the mirror.

once he's finished with the bottom, you unclip some more hair, still keeping one section confined to your head, and he quickly gets to work on the next one.

a comfortable silence has enveloped you both, and as he paints, you can't help but feel slight doubt creeping into your mind, prompting you to break the quiet.

"rafayel?"

"hmm? yes, cutie?"

you hesitate for a moment, his eyes catching yours momentarily in the mirror.

"its just— do you think.. this color will suit me?"

a grin spreads across his lips as he dips the brush back into the bowl gathering more red.

"is that what you're worried about?" he moves it and begins painting a strand.

"i'm already almost done, don't tell me you're going to make me paint your head all over again." he's teasing you, and you can't help a small grin crack.

"well, its been awhile since i've dyed it last so i'm just worried..."

"well, if you ask me, i think anything looks good on you," he winks at you through the mirror. "or off, for that matter."

"rafayel!" he laughs and you let out a sigh before getting back to the matter at hand.

"aren't you biased? what if this ruins my look or doesn't compliment my skin tone, and you lie and tell me that i look great?" you cross your arms, pointed stare gazing at him through the mirror.

"ouch, do you doubt an artist's eye that much?"

you don't answer as he finishes the section. he unclips the next one himself, setting the hairpiece aside as he begins again, his soft voice breaking through the silence once more.

"to answer your question, i think it suits you perfectly, cutie."

his hand is gentle as it paints the stray strands of your hair, and you feel like you're one of his canvases being painted in his vision.

"you really think so?" you pause before your next question bubbles up. "you won't like it any less now that the color is changing?"

"since when do you care what i think?" he jokes.

"rafayel..." you whine.

he laughs before giving his actual answer.

"of course not. you could dye it every color under the sun and i'd help you every time, admiring the you in each different hue of the world."

you smile at his answer, heart fluttering in your chest.

sometimes, it slipped your mind just how romantic he could be at the most unexpected times.

"okay, it looks like i'm all done here, buuut it still looks like there's a good amount left in the bowl," he turns to you, an eyebrow raised.

"what should we do with the rest of it?"

"add extra to any empty-looking spots!" you smile, eyes trailing towards his pretty locks.

"...unless you want some highlights?"

he looks down at the bowl before smiling.

"hmm, i'll consider it for another time. right now, it's all about you, cutie."

you fall back into a comfortable conversation as he touches up some spots here and there, relaying your worry and excitement for the result.

rest assured, he couldn't wait to see the finished product of his work, either.

-