#rafayel x non mc reader

[ryusjwks]

BY NAME, ON PAPER.

warning: reader is non!mc, angst, unrequited love, arranged marriage, one sided love. I'm not trying to misromanticise him it's just my brain, you might hate me, well I hate myself too (for this)

You woke up to his empty side of the bed.

Sylus had left early again. No note. No message. As if he had disappeared without even leaving behind the silence he carried. Maybe he came during the night, laid beside you, and then slipped away again without noticing or caring that you were there. His scent was gone from the pillow. Long gone.

You still prepared breakfast for two—just out of habit. You placed his favorite coffee at the end of the table, tried to keep it warm, but as the hours passed, the steam faded, just like your patience. In the end, you cleared it away, untouched. You were used to it by now. Used to waiting.

The rest of the day passed with no trace of him. Your phone was silent. And yet, Sylus always knew everything. He watched people, had them followed. Even you. But now? Now you weren’t even worth watching. Or maybe he just couldn’t be bothered anymore.

In the afternoon, you locked eyes with Kierian as he passed through the hallway. He didn’t look away, but his face wore that familiar expression: a silence mixed with pity. Maybe he felt sorry for you. Maybe he still held some fragment of respect—for you were Sylus’s wife, after all. By name. On paper.

In the evening, you sat by the window in the living room. Waiting for Sylus to come home. A shadow, a sound, the jingle of keys… Maybe he’d notice you this time. Maybe tonight… But instead, darkness came. Cold crept in.

When night fell, you were still awake. You told yourself, “I’m not waiting,” but your eyes kept drifting to the door. Your heart kept beating in the same place, stubborn. It had even grown fond of not being loved.

He came home past midnight. Heavy boots echoing through the hallway. His gaze landed on you for a second—blank, tired, distant. “You’re still up?” he asked, like he was seeing you for the first time.

You didn’t answer. What was there to say? That you missed him? That it hurt to go a whole day without a word from him? You only lowered your head. Smiled. That was an answer too, wasn’t it?

He walked past you to his room and shut the door. Quiet. Firm. You stayed in the living room, standing in a house that wasn’t yours, waiting for a man who never really was.

You were Sylus’s wife. But not his partner.

Just a hollow title draped over your shoulders. And each day, it grew heavier.

[ice-cream-writes-stuff]

ERrOr 0.2

Love and Deepspace Various! / Reader

《File welcomes you! Enter! ... Good Luck.》

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Wiping down a few menus scattered around the café, you glance at the cloudy skies.

Not quite sunny, but rather plain. Reaching over to the blinds, you lower them down. Ready to close up since you had the key.

DING!

A young man wearing a familiar smile comes in, a jacket wrapped around him as hands laid in his pockets.

“...Are you still open?” He asked politely, the friendly and attitude lighting up the rather quiet cafe. 

Blinking at him, rag in hand. A somber, almost knowing grin creeps up your face. “I… Yeah, please. Come in.”

You move away from the blinds, barely having the courage to look at his handsome face. Setting yourself up at the register, you ask for his order, rag held tightly between your fingers.

He eyes the menu behind you, scanning over the titles until he settles on a few things. Two mini apple parfaits and a single coffee. 

Not even bothering to right down the order, you keep eye contact when asking for his name. Voice almost shrill as the rag becomes tatters in your grip.

“Oh! It’s Caleb.” 

-

Holding the tearful girl in your arms, you keep your mouth shut. Patting her back as she wails incoherent nonsense by your ear. 

While, you wished to tell her the truth, you knew deep down you couldn’t. The only solace you could offer in her time of sorrow were merely gestures of comfort. Hoping it would be enough to appease the both of you.

Glancing at the apple parfaits sitting on your kitchen counter, you hold MC tighter.

-

Xavier blinked at the small bunny shaped dessert, the white porcelain plate glimmering against the sun from the window. You sit in front of him as he blinks the sleep away from his eyes, his lunch barely touched.

“Hi..? Are you awake?” You smile far to chipper, blinding him more the sun rays. Expecting the fawning gaze you directed at him, his lips part into a frown.

The expression you wore was unfamiliar to him. 

“...Mn, ‘sorry.”

“It’s fine, I thought some dessert would wake you up. Don’t worry, it won’t be on your bill!” You wink.

Amused, he nods, grabbing a spoon, lightly poking at the jiggly rabbit shaped pudding. You giggle, enjoying his actions openly. Xavier relaxes a bit, forgetting the small details from before.

“Hey… Is…” You pause, biting at your lips,nervously gripping the tray.

“Hm?” He hums, his beautiful blue eyes keeping sole attention on you.

“Is MC-... I mean-! So, are you and MC doing anything later? I’m free after closing, maybe we get something to eat?” You ask hopefully, knowing you would be dismissed from the offer. You even asked Zayne a day ago if he’d like to meet up for some grub.

Not knowing the next chance, you would be able to see him out and about! Yet before he could even give an answer, he got an urgent call from the hospital. Leaving in a hurry as he grabs your notepad and pen, writing something down before placing it on the table. Leaving soon after… Checking what he wrote in such a rush … HIS NUMBER!? 

You recall skipping home, swinging the paper about joyously.

“I would-”

“FINALLY! I FOUND IT!” 

Rafayel beams, the doors bell announcing his entrance as a sweating MC follows behind. Features censored for readers! 

“YOU…!” She grits out, before gasping and making a beeline towards you. Eagerly like a cat drawn to milk. “I’m so sorry about him, (Y/N)! I’ll kick him out right now!”

Yet she makes no move to do so as she sticks to you like glue, wrapping a hand around your waist easily. She plucks the cafe tray from you.

She holds it as if she were a brave knight, the tray her shield to protect what a knight holds dear! 

Glaring at the purple haired male. “Go, shoo fishy~!” She waves him off, the merman in question scowls.

“Sorry Miss Bodyguard, but I can’t at the moment, now if you would move-” Rafeyels tone was filled with annoyance as the female hunter shakes her head.

“Excuse me, I’d like to order…” 

Blinking, you regain your bearings as MC hisses at the new voice.

“Right! Sorry! Coming right over!”

Moving out her grip, you walk over to the disguised Sylus, you follow after him like a loyal dog. 

   “Not him too..!” She grunts stubbornly under her breath, exasperated. Sighing before receiving a text from Zayne that he was about to stop by the cafe for lunch. Asking if she wanted anything.

With another reluctant sigh, she texts back.

Rafayel huffs, scanning the small cafe, before his eyes settle on the small fish doodle placed near the menu, a few other animal drawings scattered around as well.

-

{Part 1. Side Story 1. Side Story 2. Side Story 3. Side Story 4. Side Story 5.}

[To celebrate the Caleb update! A two parter! I hope you guys like this new installment, if you guys got more caleb ideas or your favs, let me know! Thanks for reading! See yall later!]

@mangooes @deputy-videogamer @yoongi-tunes @3ophelia3 @kuni-k @paledonutking @i-literally-dk @liz9898

[lazylattedgleam]

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LOST AMONG THE PAGES

(A Zayne x NONMC!Reader fic)

(Word count: ~3.4k)

(Credits: All images from the net. Except for the color editing and brush strokes and writing are made by me.)

(Credits: Pinterest)

*TW: Angst, maybe not well written, NON!MC Reader, Reader has Anemia, heavy blood loss during periods, fights, shouting, feeling of betrayal and heartbreak, shaking, crying, unrequited love.

*Index: Reader speeches are white, bold and italicised.

Zayne speeches are blue, bold and italicised.

MC speeches are pink, bold and italicised.

Others are white and just italicised.

Thoughts are written inside single inverted commas and italicised, sometimes struck through.

Texts and chats have ‘Indented’ font.

Calls have double inverted commas, white and italicised. They are differentiated from other speeches. (Except for main characters like MC and Zayne, they will follow their color code as mentioned earlier and italicised.)

Actions are written inside asterisks, white and bold.

Diary entries have ‘Chat’ font.

If you’re uncomfortable with the following genre or any of the trigger warnings, then please don’t read ahead.

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“His love for her was as pure as the flower Jasmine herself…”

Memoir: Three. Ending

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(Credits: The Feels)

Time…12:23 a.m.

Date: 06/XX/2048

Day: Saturday

Dear diary,

I rarely do write these days, my mind is too much consumed by the void of my thoughts and feelings…my thoughts filled with them..them and them…work has been fine, sales going good, yet everything feels too gloomy…I do make him lunch everyday, barring the days they go out to eat, it hasn’t increased, but my soul feels like it did…we don’t text much, just few ‘Hi’ and ‘Hellos’, here and there…and sometimes he checks up on me over text or call…I think Zayne too has figured out I’m in need of space maybe that’s why he hasn’t once visited me in over two weeks…Although I look at their Moments posts, I didn’t know Zayne had that app…they seem happy, just like their pictures do…

Yesterday was at the park…

Few days ago at Destiny Cafe…

Couple days before that by the Lakeside…

Azure Square…

My eyes hurt watching them…it feels like I’m developing a new variant of iritis…

Fun fact: he fails to tell me that he’s going out, everytime…either I get to know it from Yvonne, or MC, or from the Moments posts…So I’ve stopped caring the need to know…if they tell me, I just hum along and let go.

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Time…02:38 a.m.

Date: 13/XX/2048

Day: Friday

Dear diary,

I don’t feel like writing anymore, not even twice in two weeks…what happened to me? He rarely calls, all I get are mostly texts, that is also if I’m lucky enough…I’m dying to talk to him, would he even remember it’s our anniversary next week? Or maybe they have plans…

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(Credits: The Feels)

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PRESENTLY:

Next week arrives way quicker than I ever wanted it to, every day feels like a blur recently, like I can barely remember the tasks I’ve performed…It’s our anniversary day…I will go to the hospital and drop off a flower bouquet to him in his office…

…I had a special lunch prepared for him,

‘Dice beef, rice, roast meat sauce, broccoli and white broccoli, crispy fried shredded onions, and tamagoyaki’, I’d learnt during the early stages of our relationship. It was always my plan to make our first anniversary very special, filling him with surprises…I place a six packed box of coconut macarons on the side each had a tiny milk chocolate snowman on them: orange juice, and like usual a handwritten note…within a heart shaped card. I then head out to our shop, picking out a freshly custom made jasmine-bouquet, as I add a card to it, ‘Happy 1st Year’, maybe if I wasn’t dull from the inside I’d have been more creative…

“Soooo a whole year huh?” “Mhm”, I smile softly as I pay after I was done.

…Upon reaching the hospital I was immediately greeted by Yvonne and Dr. Greyson. “Happy 1 year anniversary! Congratulations to the both of you!”, she says excitedly, hugging me. I hug back. “Congratulations”, Dr. Greyson nods as I smile at both of them, “Thank you very much you two.” “Dr. Zayne is free right now, plus it is lunch time so yeah.” “Thanks a lot Y, I’ll be off then.” “Okay! Do tell me your plans for tonight later!” “Will do!”.

Taking a deep breath in I knock on his door… “Come in”, I hear his voice, it sounded softer than usual…could he have been expecting me? I take a deep breath in as I walk inside…

“Happy 1 year (Name)!”…of course she is here…I regain my posture as I smile at her, it’s forced… “Thank you very much.” “I’ve been so excited for today, I mean Zayne, a year with someone! Now that’s a milestone!”, she jokes and laughs… “oh! I’ll go out now, you two talk…do tell me your plans for the night later bye guys!”, as she leaves…

I feel a strange sense of satisfaction and comfort at that…but the main thing still remains…Zayne…it’s been very awkward over these weeks, and ever since all that happened…I don’t know how to approach him…

I take in a breath as I walk to his table, handing out the bouquet to him…as I placed the lunch box on his table, I smile… “Happy Anniversary…”, I want to say more, pour out my heart but I don’t… He stares at the gift, soon opening his lunch, I could see a tiny glimmer in his eyes…I made him his favourite after all… “Thank you…”, he says with the similar softness he holds out for her…my heart skips a beat…but then again…it’s compulsion…

“Happy Anniversary…(Name)…”

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…Maybe I still have hopes and dreams…I reach his pace, my mind at a pseudo-peaceful state for the time being…I want tonight to be ours just ours…I want to make it perfect…so perfect perfect perfect…I work hard…pacing around his living room space decorating, minutely adjusting each and every piece, so that there remains no fault…

I fill the room with golden fairy lights, some over the front door, his bedroom and hung over the mould of the balcony. Next I decorate the gaps in between with small thick bunches of Jasmines, some beside the table and chairs too, arranged in a pattern…now all I need to do is wait for his arrival for the last minute touch ups…

…The clock strikes 11:00 p.m. The lights turned off, the room illuminated by the fairy lights. Keeping the balcony door open, as a gentle soft breeze came in through greeting my features…

I’m wearing my best dress for him…it was a navy blue tube top with intricate white snowfalls patterns delicately lacing around the waist and bust area—custom made…a silver necklace with an elegant cursive ‘Z’ locket, matching silver earrings and a bracelet—custom made…maroon lip gloss, mascara and my hair let down.

The door opens, as I catch a glance of him enter…he looks too good to be true…He stares for a while… “I’ll be out after changing…” “Will you want to have dinner first?” “Yes.”.

While he goes to freshen up, I prepare the table, placing neatly each item around the table…I had starters, main course, dessert and drinks. As I light up the candle placed at the centre of the table, making sure no wind blows it out, but thankfully luck was on my side, the wind was just a gentle summer breeze… Beside the candle was a bucket with ice and a bottle of champagne, now I know he’s a lightweight and he doesn’t prefer drinking…but it’s our anniversary, I want it to be the best…

He came out after a while wearing -his nightly rendezvous outfit-, my breath hitches…I want to compliment him but what if it becomes awkward…my gestures and thoughts went back to how it used to be like at the beginning of our relationship…maybe time is a loop…

As we sit down to eat, he gets my chair put like the gentleman he is and then himself sits…Having his favorite cuisine on the table, maybe I thought he’d smile…but he didn’t…

“Champagne?” “It’s our anniversary after all, a couple glasses wouldn’t hurt.”, I chuckle hoping he’d too…but he didn’t…

He’s sending me mixed signals…which I neither comprehend nor interpret…atleast he’s here…that’s all that matters now…a part of me couldn’t wait to write about tonight in my diary again…

…we eat quietly, not much words are uttered, except for the occasional, like for passing items or ‘the food is good.’, my mind wanders back to the times before her, as I analyse them, was he always cold to me too? I used to believe that was how he showed affection, was I wrong?

I pour myself a glass and drink it…he didn’t say anything…I was a lightweight too…but he didn’t know…and another…and another…and another…

My inhibitions lowered but I still had my senses to myself…placing the glass down, I chuckle a bit…

“Not even a ‘you look beautiful tonight’??? Dr. Zayne now that’s straight up meeeeeaaaannnn! *hic* I set up soooooo much ‘fff you, dressed up ffff youuuu, surprises surprises surprises! Even made and got your favorites! But nothinggggggg!”, I pout as I slur… “Whyyyy Zayne whyyyy is it because I’m not herrrrr???? I knowwww I’m not pretty like her orrrr successful like herrrrr or know you from Adam like her! But hell I’ve been good!! I’ve done so much for you! And you don’t even giveee me minimum gratitude! That’s meeeean”, I giggle as I pace around the room…

“Please sit down you’re drunk.” “Shhhhhhhhh I speak todayyyy, I’ve been holding backkkk for tooo longggg!”, I press my finger on his lips. “These are soooo soft and plum…I was anxious whether you’d at all kisssss me toniiiightttrr! How many timesss have we evennn kisssed in our relationship?? Even forehead and cheek kisses have ceased to exist…What haveee I done wrong Zaynie??? Alll I ever yearned for is you, your affectionnn and your loveee… you know my past, my desperations, my heart, then why…why…”, my voice cracks, my eyes filling with water, becoming hazy… “I *hic* gave you a Jasmine bouquet today…you didn’t say much…at least you accepted *I giggle* they’re your favoritessss I knowwwwwww…they symbolise purityyy, looove and afftection, did you know? Of course you did…that’s what I feel forrr yewwww!” I sloppily poke at his chest with my index finger…

“I’m barely drunk…did you know I was a lightweight…? Do you know my favorite flowers or my favorite colour! No you don’t! You barely ever ask! It’s always me me me! I think of you more often than I breathe! And you don’t—” “I want the old Zayne back…I saw how you watch her…how your eyes light up…how your face embraces colours…because those are all the ways I act around you! Have you ever noticed!?”, as I sob heavily…

He was left speechless, I could see his hands clench… “You’re so much wiser than me…tell me Zayne is it all in my head?? Do you never see how I always beg for footnotes in the story of your life?! Tell me…do you…only Tolerate Me…?”, my body begs to be wrapped up in his arms…but that is just wishful thinking…

As I was a mess on the floor, he was still there…I wanted to leave, I wanted to stay…I wanna walk but I can’t, my body is shaking convulsively…

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That was all I could remember, before I passed out…the next morning, I wake up in a comfortable bed…as my inhibitions come back to me…it’s his bed…

He was getting ready to go to the hospital, my head is a mess… “You should rest…I’ll get you some painkillers—” “You’re a wonderful man.”, as I get up on my own, barely…and go to the bathroom to wash up…my face is a mess, makeup all smudged together…eyes puffy and red…thank god I don’t have work today…

…I reach home, my head now better having taken the pain killers from before…I should just—

Ring! Ring! Ring! Ring!

MC was calling…not now I can’t deal with it… especially not her of all people right now…so I put my phone on silent…although she keeps on calling for a few more times…I would’ve felt bad if I didn’t hold a grudge from last night, plus I was hurt and mad at him, I cannot deal with either of them now…

…I was about to take out my diary and write when I heard the buzz at the door. I groan as I walk over to open…MC…

“(Name)! Dear lord are you alright?! I called you so many times! I was worried sick!”

“I’m alright I just—”

“This is unexpected of you (Name)! How can you be so careless!? Do you know how worried I was?! How worried Zayne was!?”

That was it that was the last straw…it ticked me off fully…

“You weren’t worried about me when you took his heart away.”, I speak sharply.

“What…”

“No don’t you dare ‘what’ me! I’m tired of this hurting! Why weren’t you there when he was available when he was single! Why why why couldn’t you come then?! First of all you come into his life and he doesn’t even tell me! He tells me nothing about his childhood, and I was fine with that, it’s his privacy his choice! Then he doesn’t tell me he’s having dinner with you! I was fine with that too! Then he starts acting completely aloof! Like I don’t even exist! I’m his girlfriend dammit!”, tears prick my eyes again… “I don’t hate you MC I don’t! I think you’re a great girl and an amazing friend to both me and Zayne…but please understand…you’re so so so nice! You’re too great! You’re too amazing at everything you do! Heck you’re even more read that me! But how the hell are you are so dumb that you can’t realise the way he looks at you! He looks at you like you’re all he sees! Like you’re his elixir of life, his honey, his will to live in this messed up world, his one and only! Have you ever ever noticed that?! No right? But I have! And I’ve tried so hard to keep it in, blaming myself for overthinking but there’s a limit a limit to each one of us, and that threshold has been crossed! So please I beg you, please let my boyfriend stay mine, please just be his friend…please!”, I breathe heavily, my body shaking convulsively, as tears stream down…

She’s left speechless…just like he was last night. O could see the tears prick at her eyes too…

“I-I am sorry I never—”

“Please just please leave…”, she doesn’t speak another word and goes…

I heave a frustrated sigh…I’m too tired, I feel dizzy…

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…Later that night…

I wanted to write in my diary, but there was another buzz at the door…who’s it now…

I drag myself off the bed as I walk over then opening the door…Zayne…

He steps in, his presence carries a strong aura…he looks…his usual cold, stoic and…angry…?

“Why are you—”

“Who gave you the permission to talk to her like that?”, he utters with pure hatred in his voice…

I freeze at that…

“If that’s what you’re here for—”

“Answer.”

“Why should I Zayne? Am I answerable to you? Is it my compulsion?? But if I remember clearly you never answered to my texts whenever you’re with her. I said what I said because I’ve had enough. I put my phone on silent and she still didn’t get the hint, I had no other choice.”

“Then that’s your manners? That’s how you treat people who are genuinely worried about you and check up on you? She’s been nothing but nice to you.”

“Oh you wanna talk about manners now?! Let’s talk! Where were your manners when you didn’t even bother telling me you went out to dinner with her, or you were at the park with her, or when I poured my fucking heart out to you last night and got no fucking ass response?! Thanks for giving me the best fucking post-anniversary present by the way.”

“You’re still hung up on that.”

“Hung up?! Zayne hello? Do you need a brain doctor or another heart doctor to check if they’re functioning all well?! Do you not realise the pain, the hurt and the betrayal I went through?! Are you void of feelings for everyone except for her?! You make me wonder if you ever saw me as something valuable. I’m your fucking girlfriend Zayne! I hated having to hear from other people about my boyfriend because he wouldn’t tell me about his whereabouts! Do you know how embarrassing that feels?! Be glad they’re not gossipers or Dr. Zayne would’ve had quite the reputation by now.”, I scoff “and do you even know how many lies I have to tell often just to make you not seem like a cold hearted asshole?! But I guess for you you thought those were all my compulsions, just like yourself…I can’t believe I read into you this wrong…I’ve always cared for you, catered to your needs, tried to make myself perfect for you?! Heck I even greet you like a battle hero returning from a war, whenever you came home!! What have you done?! A nod, a word, rarely a kiss on the cheek and forehead!? Tell me Zayne, I asked you last night I’ll ask you again today! Was it all in my head? Were we a healthy couple only in my head?! Was it just me!! Or did she cast some love spell upon you and had you enamoured—”

“Watch your tone (Name)…you barely know about her…I’m her primary care physician and I know her the best, plus she’s always been with me since childhood, I cherish her…”

“Do you know how hard she works as a Hunter, wanderers everywhere…and you don’t even know about her heart’s condition…do you know she has the Protocore Syndrome, and she could, touch wood, drop dead if gone through tremendous amount of stress??? Do you even know what the Protocore Syndrome is? If you did your research you would have.”

I stand still hearing that…I’ve heard about the Protocore Syndrome, read and researched about it, heck so many people came to our shop to collect flowers for them who died from this, or they who were suffering from it! Heck I knew about it better than most!

‘It was disease caused when Protocores, that were special energy cores dropped from high-level Wanderers, negatively affecting a person's body. There are currently three types known to affect humans, and each one causes different symptoms and levels of disease progression.’

But he didn’t know that…he barely ever asked me about my day or work…whereas I…

I look up at his face, I want to scream but I don’t, there is barely a point anymore…

“Do you know that my life’s worth research is about them and how I can save my patients, how can I save from it? You say you don’t know about my childhood, well here’s a fact I will give you, I became a cardio-surgeon because of her, because she suffered from this deadly disease…because I wanted to cure her and never lose her…she is the most important person in the world to me.”

“Do you know what it’s like to have a disease like such, when you have the case of a high probability of death at any given stance if your over stressed or overworked? You should consider yourself lucky…And as her primary physician it is my duty to care the most for her, in whichever way you take it.”

That was the last straw…that broke my heart, shattering and stepping on it completely…

“Zayne…you…wow…”, I was speechless once again, but right now…I didn’t know anything it felt like I’m in a foreign place where no one knows me…I feel like a refugee of a war…

“I have Anemia Zayne…Anemia…”, I speak softly, my voice broken, eyes filled with tears once again…I could feel him stiffen, cussing under his breath, saying he’d gone too far…too far…

“I’m…I’m sorry…I…I didn’t mean to compare any disease with another, I just—”

“Maybe the next the I should just stop taking all my meds and supplements and bleed myself close to death…or maybe if I had sickle-celled anemia, with a probability of death maybe then you would’ve noticed me…if I would’ve just laid on the bed at Akso in the ER…maybe then you’ll finally notice me…”

“I know what Protocore Syndrome is Zayne…I have everyday many customers come in to collect flowers for their dear loved ones they lost or are on the verge of losing, or even for themselves…they share me their stories and I listen as my heart breaks hearing those…all I could do was give them the best of flowers and well wishes from the bottom of my heart…I know it Zayne I do…and I’m sorry…I didn’t know about MC…I’m so so sorry…I’ll apologise to her…”

“I don’t hate her…I don’t…I— *voice cracks* I just…I was hurting like anything…and it vented out like that…I’m sorry…” *I fall to the floor, crying out loud, I don’t hold back anymore…* maybe he tried to reach out for me, but I speak up before he could…

With my broken voice, my breath coming out in heavy successions… “Please just give me closure…I’m too tired…too…tired…”

He drops down and holds me tight, as I bawl to his chest…I couldn’t anymore…it feels so natural but it’s the end…I know it is…

“Please let me…have…closure…”

Maybe his voice cracked a bit too…

“I’m sorry (Name) I’m so so sorry, I couldn’t be the man who should have treated you properly…I’m sorry I should have told you earlier…I thought I was over her but I wasn’t…maybe my brain created an image of you as her, that you were her…whenever we’d sleep together, go out, or tried to kiss…all I could imagine was her face…hence I stuck to forehead and cheek kisses…I’m so so sorry…”

As I sob and sob loudly, while he kept holding me…just like that, it was over…we were over…

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(Credits: Pinterest)

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[sometimeslwish]

The Ocean Beyond The Sea [ao3]

Saw this edit, then remembered the song and made this post, saw this edit later on, got the writer blues, got some encouragement from @comatosebunny09, remembered the rafayel x nonmc reader drabble I started writing after s:ate but never finished and BAM, this came out.

As you can tell, it was quite the sequence of events that led me to churn out 2.3k words in two days after a few weeks of not writing.

Tags: Rafayel x non mc reader, gn reader, angst, mentions of death and drowning, drowning as a metaphor for both death and love, assassin reader, mentions of stalking (from both reader and Rafayel, although his is more subtle)

Bottom Of The Deep Blue Sea

You've always wanted to drown.

Not literally– or well, maybe so... It's hard to explain.

The ocean has always called to you. Since before the experiments, before escaping and before the N109 zone. Like a voice in the back of your head that keeps singing to you.

It's because of the heart inside of you. A heart that you shouldn't have.

You resurface from the water, blinking away the droplets as you stand up. You don't take a deep breath, it's unnecessary, with this complicated evol of yours.

It's a blessing and a curse.

It means it's hard to kill you– a weed that will continuously grow no matter how many times you uproot it. You'll adapt and overcome, take in whichever form necessary to survive, over and over again, whether you want to or not. You will survive. Like a phoenix. Like a true human weapon.

It means people want your power.

People like Ever, who will stop at nothing, the same people who experimented on you in the search for immortality.

You get out of the tub and grab a towel, making quick work to dry yourself and get ready for the night– or well, day ahead. You never know in the n109 zone, it's easy to forget with the constant darkness.

. . . . .

There's blue eyes staring at you.

They're beautiful and captivating, you want to get lost in them and never come back out.

Oh, how you wish to drown.

. . . . .

There's a song that you've always hummed as you went on your missions. A song that gave you the reputation you have now. "A phantom with a siren like voice that leads you to your death" people warn.

You don't mind it.

You've never felt like yourself anyways, only a ghost floating around, unable to leave.

You didn't even realize you were humming it, at first, until Sylus pointed it out on your first partnered mission. You'd shrugged before finishing the job, giving a simple "I don't know, it's always been with me," for an answer.

He'd accepted it with no questions asked and the topic had been dropped, forgotten into the darkness of the night.

. . . . .

Endless blue. You're surrounded by it.

You can hear children's laughter and a voice narrating a story. You stay and watch from afar, taking the time to enjoy the sight before it's too late.

You wonder if you'll ever find him, if you'll ever meet again. If he remembers.

You hope he does.

Oh, how you want to drown.

. . . . .

You find him in an auction.

All you catch is a glimpse of purple hair, but you know it's him. You'd recognize him anywhere, from any angle. How could a devout follower not?

Sylus takes one look at you and that is all he needs to know.

"It's him."

You don't need to answer.

It's him.

Later that night, you reveal one of your cards to Sylus.

"Would you believe me if I said that I know someone from a past life?" You blurt out on your way back to the mansion.

It takes him a few seconds for him to answer and when he does, he takes you by surprise, "Yes."

You get to see a side of him that not even the twins have seen, one you're not sure you'd ever see.

He looks tired, but not his usual tired. It's soul tired, like centuries have been taken from him when he sits down. You get to know one of his secrets, memories of a past life shared with miss hunter, just like you and Rafayel.

You bond over the shared problem, even if the variables and solutions to it are completely different.

Two peas in a pond, destined to die at their lover's hands. You feel a little bit less alone.

"I guess you can say we're friends now." You pat his back and smile at his unimpressed stare, saying nothing else as you turn to leave to your room.

You try not to think about how it's the first time you've smiled in years. The motion feeling wrong after so long.

. . . . .

You shouldn't.

You really shouldn't, but you don't have anything else to do. Not like you have better examples anyways, with the way Sylus sends Mephisto to his little miss.

You watch him from afar. Alternating between staring at his paintings and watching him interact.

He looks even more beautiful than last time.

You follow him. Carefully and without raising suspicion. You never approach him, simply watch.

He's with the little miss and the smile he gives her makes you green with envy.

Oh, how you need to drown.

. . . . .

You've made a habit of it.

The twins call it stalking, but you call it shadowing. Ever so in denial.

You do it when you're free, when the sea lets up and doesn't tug at the heart.

It's to keep him safe, you lie to yourself, knowing he's more than capable enough.

For backup, just in case things go wrong. They never do, he's always in control, always steps ahead.

You wish you would come closer, but you never find the right time. Opportunities pass you by as you overthink. You've met the little miss' eyes a few times, acknowledged her when she recognized you. Each time, you leave before she can do anything about it. As if you were delegating your job.

A job he didn't ask you to take.

. . . . .

You make eye contact with him through the glass of a shop. It's sudden and unplanned, you don't get to hide behind something or someone.

Blue and pink eyes, staring into your soul, throwing you into an endless, calming blue. It feels like the breath was knocked out from your lungs and simultaneously put back in.

You're thankful she's with him, because you need to run and hide. It keeps him from chasing you.

It's finally happened, he knows. You wonder how long you'll get to run before he finds you. You won't be able to hide, you've seen what he can do.

You just hope you're ready for when it's your turn.

Oh, how you long to drown.

. . . . .

Miss hunter makes it to the n109 zone with his help.

You avoid her like the plague.

He'll close in at any second now, you can feel him right around the corner.

You'll never be ready.

Running from her is easier, you just ask Sylus for a vacation. He doesn't ask why, simply grants it.

You go to a villa near the beach. The ocean's call is stronger there, but it calms you instead of driving you restless.

. . . . .

You make the mistake of lowering your guard when miss hunter goes back to Linkon.

You're completely in your element, fighting the men without breaking a sweat. You're too focused to notice who the owner of the gaze you feel on you is.

You come face to face with him when you're done, his back against a wall, your dagger just a few centimeters away from his neck and his own against your chest, right where your heart is.

He's supposed to be with miss hunter, not in this alleyway with you.

Your gasp is unbidden and you stumble back as you pull away, dropping your dagger to the floor like it burned you.

He's beautiful, always been. Divine, otherworldly, enchanting. No word in any language would be enough to describe his beauty.

There's recognition in his eyes. He crouches to pick up your dagger, a poor imitation of his old one.

"I finally found you, my beloved bride."

Will you finally get to drown?

Take Me Back To Eden

[orphicmeliora]

ISHQ MUBARAK

PAIRING: Rafayel x Desi!Reader

SUMMARY: Amid the whirlwind of a grand Desi wedding, a wandering artist finds unexpected inspiration in you, someone who hums old songs and wears their heart like bangles. In the spaces between celebration and silence, love takes root—soft, slow, and impossibly tender.

WORD COUNT: 11.5k

NOTES: Owned up to my ethnicity with this fic, the motivation? Do it messy, do it cringe, but don't give up. Also, desi wedding galore.

You don’t remember the moment your motherland stopped feeling like home—only that it happened quietly, like the way bangles lose their shine without you noticing. 

Your phone buzzes with another voice note from your sister—her voice crackling through bad signal and laughter, layered with the chaotic clamor of a house overrun with wedding prep.

"And don’t forget to bring those gold jhumkas! The ones from Ammi’s collection? Yes, those. And for the love of everything holy, DO NOT show up in sneakers this time!"

You smile to yourself, forehead pressed to the airplane window as the clouds scatter below like torn cotton. The sun casts long fingers across your lap. You're almost home. Almost.

It's been two years since you left for your master's degree. Two years of cheap takeout, solo library marathons, homesick breakdowns, and video calls at odd hours just to see your baby cousin learning to walk or your Dadi yelling about the price of onions. But nothing—not even the rigors of academia or the pride in your independence—quite soothes the ache you feel now.

You press your palm over your heart, feeling the thrum of it. Your childhood echoing in a language your mouth still dreams in.

You don't realize you're crying until the plane begins to descend.

Not the dramatic kind—just a quiet leak from the corner of your eyes, like your heart forgot how to hold its shape and is spilling through the seams. You swipe at your cheek, pretend it’s nothing. No one notices. Everyone’s too busy adjusting tray tables and waking up their kids. Somewhere behind you, a baby shrieks. Ahead, a flight attendant hums an old song under her breath.

Below you, the land stretches like a story you used to know by heart but haven’t read in years. Dry fields. Slow rivers. Crowded rooftops and ancient roads. You inhale, and it smells like recycled cabin air, but your mind tricks you—it smells like incense and heat. Like dust and sweat and the inside of your Dadi's spice drawer.

It smells like home.

You've been gone for too long. Long enough for your tongue to wrap around a new language, for your silence to grow roots. Long enough to know what it's like to eat alone, cry alone, celebrate alone. Your degree is somewhere in your bag, folded between old receipts and melted chocolate. People will clap you on the back and say they’re proud.

But no one knows how hard it was.

How many nights you watched weddings through your screen, bangles chiming through pixelated videos, your sisters laughing in outfits you'd never worn. How often you let a Desi song play on loop just to fall asleep, the lyrics whispering in your ears like an apology.

Maybe you’re being dramatic. Maybe it’s the altitude.

You didn’t mean to drift. Life just kept pulling. You forgot the names of streets you once knew like the back of your hand. You forgot how loud your family gets when they’re happy. Or angry. Or hungry. You forgot the colors.

And then—an invitation. One of your cousins is getting married. You're not even sure which one. You stopped keeping track when they all started sprouting kids and growing beards. But it’s a month-long wedding and everyone will be there. Everyone. Your siblings. The aunties who’ll definitely judge your weight and your unmarried status. The cousins who still call you by that embarrassing nickname. Your Nana. He's the one you miss the most. 

You haven’t even landed yet and already your heart feels too big for your ribs. You missed this place like you miss an ache—constant, dull, a part of you. There’s a fear too, coiled in your gut. What if you’ve changed too much? What if it’s not the same?

What if it is—and it hurts?

The plane touches down.

You reach into your bag, reapply your lipstick, and whisper a silent prayer.

Let this month stitch something back together in you.

Let it feel like home again.

The heat hits you first—thick and cloying, like a shawl draped around your shoulders the moment you step out of the car. The driveway is already full, colors blurring as cousins pour out like a flood. A kaleidoscope of voices tumbles over each other: squeals, shrieks, the holler of your Chacha shouting “Move, move! Let her breathe!” as someone tries to shove a laddu into your mouth before your suitcase has even touched the ground.

“Oye hoye! Look at her! Gori hogayi hai!”

“Do you even eat there, or just survive on air?”

"Beta, you remember me, right? I'm your mother's chachi's devar's wife."

You blink. You're not sure who to hug first. A tiny cousin is already clinging to your leg like a koala. Another one, maybe eight, is dragging your bag toward the door while telling you about how she’s getting her ears pierced next week and do you want to come?

There’s laughter from every corner. Someone’s phone is playing a song on full volume. An uncle you barely recognize is wiping his forehead with a handkerchief and asking about your thesis. 

By the time you enter the house, your cheeks ache from fake smiling and your ears are ringing from the overlapping chaos of children crying, elders blessing you, and someone setting off fireworks even though it’s 3 PM on a Tuesday.

Then you see him.

Your grandfather.

Sitting in his usual chair, white shalwar kameez freshly pressed, glasses perched low on his nose, a bowl of peeled oranges in his lap like always.

“Meri beti,” he says, arms open.

You bury your face into his chest, the scent of sandalwood and old paper wrapping around you like a lullaby. The noise fades for a moment. His hands tremble slightly as they hold your shoulders, but his smile is steady.

“You’re home,” he murmurs, like it’s a truth the universe should bow to.

“I missed you, Nana.”

“I can tell. You’ve lost weight. And that glow—where is it? We’ll feed you. Don’t worry.” His eyes twinkle. “You’ll be shining again in two days. Just you wait.”

You laugh, and for the first time in months, it doesn't feel hollow.

Behind you, your sisters are already arguing over which lehenga you’ll wear to the wedding. Your brothers are negotiating who gets the guest room. Your mother is shouting from the kitchen. Somewhere, a child wails about someone stealing their last gulab jamun.

The house is bursting at the seams.

And in the middle of it all, you exhale.

This—this chaos, this noise, this life—it fits into your bones in a way your quiet studio apartment never could. You’d forgotten what it was like to belong so loudly.

Nana leans in conspiratorially, whispering, “Don’t tell your mother, but I saved the last gulab jamun for you. Come. Before your sisters sniff it out.”

You follow him through the courtyard, dodging small feet, a rogue football, and a chorus of voices calling your name.

In your chest, something cracks open.

Your room still smells like jasmine and old notebooks.

The bedspreads have changed, but the walls are the same—covered in faded posters, hand-painted memories, and glow-in-the-dark stars your childhood friends insisted would help you sleep. It’s chaos and comfort all at once. There’s barely space for the four of you to sit, let alone stretch, but somehow you’re all sprawled on the floor, feet tangled, arms overlapping.

“Remember when she tried to run away because Ammi wouldn’t let her buy that glittery purple sharara?” your oldest sister snorts, pointing at you with a tube of lipstick she’s stolen from your makeup bag.

“I was ten!” you protest, laughing.

“You were dramatic,” your second eldest sister smirks, flicking her braid over her shoulder. “We found you sulking behind the swing set with a granola bar like it was your last meal.”

“She still does that,” the middle sister teases, nudging your knee. “Only now it’s over men and deadlines.”

You groan, flopping back on the rug. “I regret coming home.”

“No, you don’t,” your eldest murmurs, softer now, brushing your hair out of your face. “You missed us.”

The room quiets for a beat. There’s no music, no screaming relatives, no henna fumes or wedding bells—just the sound of four hearts syncing up again after too much time apart.

You missed this. The shared language of glances. The way you don’t have to explain your silence here. How your sisters know when to pull you into a hug without asking why your voice trembles.

There are binders. Color-coded. Made by your middle sister who’s taken on the role of wedding planner with the precision of a military general.

"You're wearing yellow for the haldi, green for the mehndi, red for the shaadi, and blue for the walima. No negotiations."

“Don’t even think about escaping wedding shopping tomorrow,” the other two warn. “We’re going to that madhouse bazaar. And you are wearing yellow.”

“Why yellow?”

“Because,” they say in unison, “it makes your skin glow.”

You don’t argue.

The laughter rises again, old and new, stitched into the seams of the night.

You fall asleep to the sound of your sisters breathing next to you, lulled by the hum of belonging.

The market is loud enough to make your teeth vibrate.

Rickshaws honk like they're being punished. Street vendors chant their deals in an unholy chorus. The smell of frying pakoras, gasoline, and rose garlands drapes itself over you like a second skin. It's sticky, messy, and somehow—it’s exactly what you needed.

You haven’t walked these streets in years, but your feet still remember the way the uneven tiles make your sandals catch. The colors around you scream in every direction: turmeric yellow, chili red, emerald green, sequins that wink in the sun like mischief.

Your mother is already fifteen steps ahead, deep in bargaining mode with a vendor who looks like he hasn’t smiled since 2004. Your sisters flank you like a desi SWAT team—one arguing about blouse necklines, the other snapping photos of lehengas to send to the family group chat that currently has 472 unread messages.

Your ears ring with:

“Aunty, yeh last price hai!”

“Beta, is mein lining nahi hai toh thoda dhekhna padega…”

“No, not that dupatta! It looks like mosquito netting!”

You’re half-listening. Mostly trying not to sweat through your kurti. The dupatta keeps slipping off your shoulder. Your bangles ring with every breath. A rogue toddler grabs your hand thinking you’re his mom. You're exactly three seconds from turning around and running straight back into the AC of the car when—

Everything quiets.

Not literally. The market is still chaos incarnate. But your mind blanks for a beat—just long enough to feel like something shifted in the air.

Across the narrow, crowded street, in the shade of a peeling blue storefront, someone is watching you.

He’s sitting on a wooden stool, a sketchpad balanced on his knee, a pencil paused mid-stroke. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, collar open, dark hair messy like he ran a frustrated hand through it too many times. His skin catches the sunlight in that golden, almost unfair way.

And his eyes.

His eyes are the sea right before a storm. Quiet, searching, endless.

You blink.

He doesn’t.

His gaze is fixed, not on your face, but on your earrings. Your jhumkas—the same ones your Nani gave you when you were fifteen. They're old, oxidized gold with tiny red beads, and they swing every time you move. You feel suddenly hyper-aware of every motion, every breath, every step. Like you’re under glass.

He tilts his head, sketchpad now forgotten on his lap.

And you—you don’t look away.

You should. You should say something to your sisters, fake a call, pretend you’re not affected. But there’s something magnetic about the way he looks at you, like he’s not just seeing you, but seeing through you. Like he’s been starved of color, and you just walked into his line of sight wrapped in a hundred shades of it.

A scooter zips between you, breaking the line of sight.

You gasp a little, startled, and look down—finally breaking the gaze.

Your heart is hammering. Not out of fear. But something… unspoken. Ancient. Like your soul recognized something your brain hasn’t caught up with yet.

Your sister bumps your shoulder. “What are you looking at?”

You glance back. He’s still there—but now, sketching. As if the moment never happened. As if you didn’t just crash into a silent kind of thunder between two strangers in the middle of a chaotic market.

You turn back to your family.

But you feel him still—like a thread tugging at your wrist.

Rafayel wasn’t supposed to be here for long. He came for pigment—something earthy, something unnameable. He thought the reds would inspire him, or maybe the deep indigo he heard came from this region. He didn’t expect... this.

He didn’t expect you.

You are standing in the middle of all this noise, holding up a sky-blue sari to the light, and laughing. There’s a smear of haldi on your wrist. A streak of kohl at the corner of your eye. You’re trying on glass bangles that catch the sun and break it into prisms.

And he cannot move.

It isn’t a thunderbolt kind of moment. It’s the kind that creeps up his spine and sets his chest aching.

It’s the way your laugh folds into the bazaar’s song and yet stands out.

It’s the way your sisters shout over one another, but you tilt your head and listen; patient and amused.

It’s the way you look radiant even when you're scolding a rogue child.

Paaon tale mere zameenein chal padi (The earth beneath my feet has started to move) 

Aisa toh kabhi hua hi nahi (This has never happened before) 

He doesn’t know the song. He doesn’t understand the lyrics playing from a rickshaw parked nearby, but the melody sticks to his skin like paint.

He hears his name being called distantly—his guide, confused, trying to tug him back toward the dyes. But he’s rooted. Drenched in the color of you.

He watches you laugh, mouth full of stories he doesn’t know yet, voice lifted in that language he hasn’t learned.

He steps back.

He’s an intruder here. A guest.

But oh, how his fingers itch to draw you—no, paint you—with every shade the sun left in this country.

You pass him without seeing him again. The crowd swallows you.

Rafayel is left standing in a pool of spilled marigold petals and longing.

And for the first time in months—his fingers twitch.

Inspiration bleeds through the haze of his block, like color finding water.

It’s three days later.

You’ve barely slept. Between pre-wedding events, endless fittings, and relatives using you as a glorified errand runner, you’re running on three hours of sleep and one aggressively sweet cup of chai. You’re back in the market—again—because your younger cousin decided she hates her mehndi outfit and apparently you’re the only one she trusts for “aesthetic guidance.”

“I swear I’ll owe you for life,” she says, fluttering her lashes.

“You already owe me for when I lied to your mom about you sneaking out to that concert,” you mutter.

You're too tired to dress up. Hair in a braid. Simple shalwar-kameez. Just your everyday silver jhumkas, because you feel weird without them now. No makeup, no pretense. You’re not here to be seen.

Which is, of course, why he finds you now.

You’re crouched by a rack of embroidered dupattas, texting your sister and regretting all your life choices, when you hear a low, thoughtful voice just behind you:

“You dropped something.”

You look up—and there he is.

Closer now. Too close, maybe. The kind of close where you can smell the faint sea-salt in his cologne and count the tiny flecks of light hidden in his dark eyes. He holds out his hand, palm up. In it is a single silver jhumka.

You feel for your ears, finding one bare. You hadn’t even noticed it was missing.

“Thanks,” you say, reaching out.

His fingers brush yours as he passes it over. Not by accident.

Not subtle.

He doesn’t let go right away. Just an extra second—barely long enough to call attention to it. Long enough to make your skin burn.

You straighten, suddenly aware of how much taller he is. He’s dressed simply—white shirt, sleeves rolled again, one button casually undone at the collar—but there’s something meticulous about him. Like a man who knows exactly how to exist in a frame.

His sketchpad is slung under one arm. His eyes never leave your face.

“I saw you here a few days ago,” he says, voice calm, eyes sharp. “You were… hard to miss.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Because I was yelling at a shopkeeper?”

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Because your earrings sounded like a song I forgot I knew.”

You stare at him.

He doesn't blink.

You break eye contact first. “That’s dangerously close to a line.”

“Wasn’t one,” he says softly. “If I were trying to impress you, I’d have quoted poetry. Or lied.”

“You’re not trying to impress me?”

“No.”

He pauses, tilts his head.

“I’m trying to remember the exact curve your bangles made when you laughed.”

You forget how to breathe.

Your cousin chooses that exact moment to shout your name from two shops down, waving a hideous magenta lehenga like it’s a victory banner. You don’t look away from him, but your mouth curls into something that’s halfway between a smirk and a smile.

“Duty calls,” you say.

He nods but doesn’t step back. “You’ll be back?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“If you keep staring at my jewelry like it owes you answers.”

That smile again, this time more open. “Only if it keeps making music.”

You take a step back, heart beating far too fast for someone who just met a man whose name she still doesn’t know.

But as you turn to leave, he says, “Wait.”

You look over your shoulder.

“I’m Rafayel,” he says. “Painter. Traveler. Terrible at remembering things.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Things?”

“People.”

You hold his gaze.

Then, with a half-smile, you say, “Try not to forget me then.”

“I already tried,” he says quietly. “Didn’t work.”

You're sitting on the veranda with a bowl of cut mangoes, trying to ignore the sound of your cousin playing “Sheila Ki Jawani” for the seventh time this morning. The shaadi countdown has entered a new phase of intensity—someone’s having a breakdown over missing heels, someone else is sobbing about flowers, and a child just ran past you naked holding a samosa.

Typical Thursday.

Your phone buzzes. It's your sister.

come outside

RIGHT NOW

ur not going to believe this

You’re already outside, but you get up anyway, curiosity prickling down your spine.

Then you see it.

The house next door—your grandparents’ old neighbor’s bungalow that’s been empty for months—is open. Curtains drawn back. Movers bustling. A man standing at the gate, talking to your mother.

Not just any man.

Him.

Rafayel.

White shirt again. Sunglasses pushed into his hair. A small smile playing on his lips as your mom gestures wildly, no doubt trying to understand who exactly this foreign-looking man with art-supply-colored fingers is and why he’s moving in next door during a wedding.

You freeze.

He glances toward you, and his smile shifts—something quieter, softer, almost smug.

Your stomach does a flip it has no business doing.

Of course, your mother clocks the silent exchange. She calls out your name like she just uncovered a scandal.

“Come say hello! Our new neighbor just arrived! Artist banda hai, you’ll like him!”

Before you can fake a phone call or a divine intervention, your entire extended family flocks to the gate like vultures spotting free pakoras. Uncles. Aunties. Cousins. At least three toddlers. Your sister’s already live-tweeting it in the family WhatsApp group.

Someone asks if he’s married.

Someone else asks if he’s single.

Your chachi squints suspiciously. “Artist? Matlab, kya karta hai full-time?”

Rafayel doesn’t flinch. “I paint.”

“Paint? As in walls or...?”

“Canvas,” he says, deadpan. “And sometimes silence.”

Your mamu side-eyes him like he just spoke French.

A cousin snickers. “Do you also paint feelings, bhai?”

“Yes,” Rafayel says. “But only the unspoken ones.”

The chaos halts for one holy second as they invite him into the house. He walks in like a man accepting a dare. Hair a little too perfectly tousled, expression unreadable—but his hand brushes yours lightly as he passes.

You feel it in your wrist.

Your grandfather is already seated at the head of the room, his cane leaning beside him, newspaper folded with surgical precision.

“Artist sahib,” he says, voice low and amused. “Come. Sit. Tell us—what exactly are your intentions toward our pigment?”

Rafayel blinks. “My... intentions?”

Cousins snicker.

You groan. “He means what color you’re looking for.”

“Ah,” Rafayel says, lips twitching. “Ultramarine, if I can find it. And maybe vermilion. Something that bleeds a little.”

That shuts them up. Slightly.

Nana nods, eyes gleaming. “Good answer. Sounds expensive.”

One of your younger cousins leans in and whispers—loud enough for everyone to hear— “He looks like a drama hero. All broody and tragic.”

Another pipes up, “He’s hot. Is he rich too? Or is this a starving artist situation?”

You elbow her gently. “You all have no shame.”

“We just care about your future, sis,” she says sweetly, then looks straight at Rafayel. “Do you like chaat?”

He nods. “If it burns the roof of my mouth and makes me question my decisions, yes.”

They love him. Instantly.

Tea arrives. Biscuits. Then laddoos. Then a plate of steaming samosas. Rafayel is juggling a cup, a plate, a toddler in his lap, and three questions from three different relatives at once.

But he keeps looking at you.

Between bites, between glances, in that moment when your jhumka catches the light and you sip your chai with both hands around the cup—he watches. Not like a man who wants to undress you with his eyes. Like a man who wants to learn you like a language.

Aisa lagta hai kyun teri aankhen jaise  (Why do I feel as if your eyes) 

Aankhon mein meri reh gayi  (Have settled in my eyes)  

Nana clears his throat loudly. “You know,” he says, tone casual, “in my day, a man came home only if he meant to stay.”

The entire room goes still.

You make a strangled sound into your tea.

Rafayel’s mouth quirks. “Then I hope I’m not offending tradition. I was told there’d be snacks.”

Nana sips his chai and gives a secretive smile.

And you know you’ve lost this round. Rafayel has officially infiltrated.

It’s nearly midnight, but the house is still humming.

The elders have finally gone to bed, the kids tucked away like mismatched socks in spare rooms and floor mattresses. From the rooftop, faint laughter still drifts—your cousins playing antakshari. A fan creaks overhead as you sit cross-legged on the bed, brushing your hair out with slow, absent strokes.

The day is still clinging to you in pieces—Rafayel’s fingertips brushing yours at the doorway, his long lashes lowered as he sipped chai, the way your Nana watched him like he was trying to read a painting that kept changing under his gaze.

You try not to smile.

But then the door creaks.

“Knock knock,” comes the sing-song voice of your eldest sister as she slips in uninvited. “Or should I say... Rafayel Rafayel?”

You groan. “No.”

“Oh yes.” She plops down beside you, stealing the brush from your hand. “Explain to me how the world’s most expensive painter just so happens to be hanging around our living room? Looking like a Renaissance sculpture with abandonment issues?”

“He’s here for pigment,” you mutter.

She wiggles her brows. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Your second sister pokes her head in. “Are we talking about the mysterious artist who doesn’t eat sugar but somehow accepted two laddoos from Dadi?”

You chuck your pillow at her. She dodges, cackling, and climbs in beside you. “Oh, you’re blushing. This is historical.”

You bury your face in your hands.

The third walks in dramatically, arms crossed. “I just want to know if we’re getting an international jiju. I need to update my Snapchat story accordingly.”

“There is nothing going on!” you yell, tugging the dupatta over your face in mock shame.

But they know better. They’ve seen the way you looked at him. The way you didn’t look at anyone else. The way you spoke a little softer around him.

The way his gaze lingered even after you'd left the room.

“You know what he told Nana?” your eldest sister says, smirking. “That the light in our courtyard reminded him of Florence. Florence, yaar. Who talks like that?”

You mumble through your scarf, “A pretentious idiot with a brush addiction.”

The second sister hums. “A pretentious idiot who kept staring at your jhumka like it was whispering secrets.”

Your third sister nudges you, “Are you gonna kiss him or sketch him?”

You groan again. “Can I have one peaceful night in my own house?”

But when they finally leave, trailing whispers and giggles behind them, the room is too quiet again. You lie back, fingers still warm from brushing your hair, the ghost of a gaze heavy at your wrist.

The courtyard isn't special.

It’s cracked tiles, uneven shade from a too-old neem tree, and the constant whir of a dying pedestal fan set up for the caterers. But somehow, in the late afternoon light, it feels like the only place untouched by wedding chaos.

You escape here more often now. Everyone’s too busy with haldi prep, last-minute fittings, sifting through bangle boxes and earring piles. The aunts are arguing over oil brands, the cousins are choreographing dances with the passion of Broadway stars. You’re slipping away before someone hands you another gift basket to decorate.

There’s a rustle—fabric, leaves—and then him.

You don’t startle. You’re almost used to it now. His quiet arrivals. The way he steps into a space like he was always meant to be part of it.

Rafayel.

Squatting on the ground this time, surrounded by ceramic bowls—actual hand-thrown ones—filled with powders that shimmer like magic. Ground turmeric, dried marigold, beetroot, crushed hibiscus, even something that smells faintly of cardamom and ash.

He looks up but doesn’t speak.

Just watches you as you approach, the corner of his mouth twitching in recognition. His eyes flick to your anklet when it chimes faintly against the stone. His gaze lingers. Longer than polite.

You sit without asking. Without needing to.

“Are you starting a spice shop?” you ask, picking up a pinch of burnt orange powder.

“I’m making a base for coral,” he murmurs. “The kind that dries dusky, not bright.”

“And that requires... cooking ingredients?”

He dips a brush into water, adds a swirl of powder. The hue that blooms is molten. Dreamy. “Natural pigments have soul. Artificial ones lie.”

“You sound like my Nana when he talks about real ghee.”

That earns a chuckle.

Then, a quiet beat.

“You always come here after everyone else is busy,” he says. Not a question.

You shrug. “Hard to be the youngest. Loud family. I disappear and no one notices for ten minutes.”

“I notice.”

It’s soft. Not performative. Like he’s telling you he breathes. A simple fact.

You glance at him. And this time, you really look.

He’s beautiful, yes—but not in the obvious way. Not in the way your cousins whisper about, half-laughing. There’s something in the curve of his mouth when he concentrates. In the quiet reverence with which he holds pigment. In the way his knees are dusty from squatting too long and he hasn’t even noticed.

“Why do you keep showing up wherever I go?” you ask, not sharply.

He doesn’t flinch.

“I think I was always going to end up here,” he says, still mixing. “You just happened to be in the frame.”

You should roll your eyes.

Instead, your fingers tap absently at your bangles.

“That’s a line.”

He glances up. “Maybe. But it’s true.”

You want to say something back. Something clever. Instead, you reach out and swipe a finger through the coral pigment he’s just finished blending. It stains your fingertip a shade deeper than the sunset.

“Will it stay?” you ask.

“Days,” he replies. “Weeks, if it gets under your nails.”

There’s a pause.

Then—

“Better than henna?” he asks.

You go still.

He doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t say how he knows.

Maybe you had mentioned it once, offhand. At the bazaar. While he handed you a tissue for your chili-stung mouth.

You hadn’t thought he was listening.

He was.

You look down at your coral-stained finger.

“It’s different.”

“How?”

You hesitate. Then:

“Henna… feels like a promise. This feels like a secret.”

He nods. “Some promises lie. But secrets—secrets always tell the truth.”

Your eyes meet. Not flirting. Not play. Just that pull again.

You rise to leave—because if you don’t now, you’ll stay, and if you stay, you’ll say something you aren’t ready for. But as you brush past him, he lifts his hand like he might reach for your wrist. Stops. Thinks better of it.

Still, you feel it.

The warmth of him. Close. A little too close.

“Next time,” he says, quietly, “tell me what color you want. I’ll make it for you.”

You pause, turning just slightly.

“And if I want a shade that doesn’t exist?”

His smile curves, slow and knowing.

“Then I’ll invent it.”

You don't remember agreeing to be the haldi handler, but somehow your arms are covered in it and your cousins are weaponizing rosewater like it’s war paint.

The inner courtyard is a riot of flowers, steel thalis, and three aunties yelling conflicting instructions. There’s singing, of course—off-key and heartfelt—and a cousin blasting Punjabi remixes from a Bluetooth speaker taped to a potted plant.

You’re wiping your hands on the edge of your dupatta when he appears.

Rafayel.

Again.

Leaning against the carved stone archway like he walked out of a Mughal painting and forgot to go back in. His sleeves are rolled up. He's wearing a kurta—pale ivory, thin enough that the shadows of his movements peek through. His gaze is easy but intent, scanning the courtyard until it finds you.

You freeze. Your cousin, of course, does not.

“Oh hello again, Sketchboy.”

You groan.

Rafayel’s lips quirk, just barely. “It’s Rafayel.”

“I know. She told me.”

You send her a glare. She ignores it.

He walks in further, cautious not to step on the wet haldi puddles. “I was looking for your grandfather,” he says, to you.

Her eyes gleam. “Nana’s upstairs. But since you’re here—do you want to help?”

He raises an eyebrow, and she thrusts a bowl of turmeric into his hands.

“You are always hovering around her,” she says with a wicked grin. “Might as well get your hands dirty.”

You open your mouth to protest—to save him—but he just nods. Calm. Graceful. Hands the same golden bowl back to you, and another box on top of it, like it’s a peace offering.

“For your bangles,” he says, eyes warm. “So they match the rest of you.”

Your cousins howl.

Another one whistles. “He’s got lines! Who gave this man lines?!”

You flee before they start chanting wedding shlokas.

He follows. But only after you’ve gone far enough that no one can see how your cheeks burn beneath your earrings.

That night, you escape to the rooftop.

The city is hushed, just the whisper of distant car horns and the soft rustle of leaves. The stars blink lazily. The fairy lights from the courtyard glow below like grounded fireflies. You breathe in silence.

And then—

You know it’s him before he speaks.

He doesn’t say your name. Just steps beside you, a safe distance away, holding two steaming cups of chai.

“Your sister cornered me,” he says mildly. “Asked if we were in love yet.”

You snort. “I hope you told her we weren’t.”

“I told her we weren’t yet.”

Your laugh catches, half a sound.

He hands you a cup. You wrap your fingers around it slowly.

The night presses close. The chai smells like cardamom and something darker—clove, maybe.

“You were looking for Nana?” you ask.

He nods, gaze distant. “I asked him about indigo. Real indigo. He told me a story about how it dyes memory, not just cloth.”

“That sounds like him.”

“He said…” Rafayel turns, voice quieter, “...some colors never leave the skin. No matter how hard you scrub.”

You don’t reply.

You just drink.

The wind teases the hem of your dupatta. His shoulder is only inches from yours now, even though neither of you moved. You can feel the warmth of him in the space between.

“I remember the sound of your anklet before I saw your face,” he says, out of nowhere.

You turn your head sharply.

He’s not looking at you.

Just the city.

“But I think…” he adds, barely audible, “...I would’ve found you either way.”

And your heart does something reckless.

You shift your hand slightly. It brushes against his on the cement railing. He doesn’t pull away. Neither do you.

Neither of you say anything about it.

But you don’t let go.

The house is a riot of colors and movement.

Marigold garlands are being strung across doorways. Plates of samosas, mithai, and chai pass from hand to hand with military precision. Your eldest massi is in a standoff with the decorator over the exact shade of pink for the drapes. The children are being bribed with mango juice to stop climbing the stage pillars. Your cousin nearly sets his kurta on fire trying to light a candle.

And you’re in the center of it all—trying to fasten a stubborn anklet that refuses to cooperate with your patience or your Garara.

“Uff, I swear I’m going to cut it off,” you mutter, crouched on the low veranda step.

“Would that be considered an act of war here?”

The voice is low, amused—and far too close.

You freeze.

Looking up, you find him standing above you, bathed in the golden hue of the setting sun. Rafayel. Dressed simply—white kurta, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair is tousled like he’d run a hand through it one too many times. His eyes, though—sharp as ever—are focused only on you.

He kneels slowly before you, tilting his head up. “Need help?”

You blink, heart thudding. “You know how to tie an anklet?”

“I know how to observe.” His voice drops a little. “You were pressing too hard. The clasp just needs a little patience.”

He reaches forward before you can protest. His fingers brush yours, gentle, cool.

It’s suddenly very quiet despite the chaos around you. Like the volume’s been turned down on the world just so you can hear the sound of your own pulse.

He fixes it carefully, then lets his hand linger a second longer than necessary against your ankle, his thumb grazing skin. Your breath catches.

When he finally looks up, there’s something unreadable in his eyes. Something reverent.

“You wear color like it was made for you,” he murmurs. “Sound, too.”

You blink. “Sound?”

He gestures lightly. “Your anklets. Your bangles. That jhumka. You don’t just move. You announce yourself.”

You try to laugh it off, but your cheeks are warm. “Bit poetic for someone who paints with mud and beetroot juice.”

A flicker of a smirk curves his lips. “You haven’t seen what I can do with turmeric and heartbreak.”

You’re saved from replying by the sudden shriek of your sister yelling your name from the terrace. “OYE—stop flirting! We need help with the gajre!”

Rafayel’s eyes crinkle with silent laughter as you groan and get up, brushing off your hands.

“I’m not flirting,” you shout back automatically, already turning away.

But you feel him watching you go.

The anklet chimes with every step, traitorous and delighted.

The courtyard is transformed.

Fairy lights drip from the trees like liquid stars. Orange and pink drapes flutter in the breeze. Someone’s playing the dhol like their life depends on it, and the beat rattles through the ground and into your ribs. Laughter crashes like waves—loud, unrestrained, warm.

This is what you missed.

Home.

Family.

And right now, the stage belongs to you and your sisters.

You’re twirling, lost in rhythm, dupatta flying behind you like fire, bangles clashing with the music. Your sisters flank you, all of you laughing, dancing in sync, every step a memory coming alive. Anklets sing with every movement. Across the crowd—near the water fountain where the elders have congregated—he stands.

Rafayel.

Wearing deep blue, like storm clouds threatening to pour. Hair swept back now. A quiet shadow among all this noise. But his gaze never wavers.

Not even for a second.

It’s not just admiration. It’s... hunger. The kind born not of lust, but of longing. His eyes drink you in like he’s found the muse he crossed oceans to chase.

And for a moment, you dare to meet his gaze mid-spin.

The world doesn’t slow—it stutters. Your breath snags. The dance fades into background noise. His lips twitch at the corner, not quite a smile, not quite a challenge.

He looks like he wants to walk straight into the fire of it all.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he stands rooted, one hand curled around a cup of chai he’s forgotten, the other clenching loosely by his side like he’s holding back something urgent. Something unruly.

The music swells. You turn away, cheeks burning, heart loud.

You shouldn’t be thinking about him this much.

You shouldn’t be wondering how it would feel to rest your head against that chest, warm and steady like thunderclouds before the rain.

Tu hi tu hai joh har taraf mere (Now that you are there all around me) 

Toh tujhse pare main jaaun kahan (So where can I go far from you) 

You mouth the lyrics with the music, not realizing how they cling to you like a secret.

Later that night, when the guests begin to trickle out and the lights grow softer, you pass him by in the corridor. He’s leaning against the arch, one leg crossed over the other, gaze unreadable.

“You danced like you were trying to set something free,” he says quietly.

You pause, heart skipping.

“And did I?” you ask.

His voice is low—dangerous. “No. You caged something else instead.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

But neither of you moves. The moment stretches like silk—thin, shining, threatening to snap.

Until your little cousin barrels down the hall screeching, “SWEETS!”

Rafayel glances up, chuckling. “Always the dramatics in this family.”

You smile, but it trembles a little at the edge.

Because you know it now.

This isn't just a crush.

It’s something deeper.

The smell of mehndi hangs thick in the air—earthy, sweet, nostalgic. The house is glowing with fairy lights, cushions thrown everywhere, dhol beating loud enough to shake your ribs. Cousins are dancing. Aunties are gossiping. Kids are high on sugar and unregulated enthusiasm. Everything is bright and loud and spinning.

Except you.

You sit on the edge of the steps, hands folded neatly in your lap. Bare.

Everyone else has swirls of deep brown trailing up their arms, names of lovers hidden in curls, flowers blossoming across skin like poetry. You? Nothing.

Because in the chaos—between fixing someone’s ripped lehenga, calming your crying niece, and being sent to find a charger for the henna artist’s phone—you missed your turn.

By the time you got back, the artist was packing up. Everyone else had gone back to eating, laughing, taking selfies.

No one noticed your hands were still empty.

No one asked.

You don't cry. That would be stupid. It’s just mehndi, right? You’re not the bride. You’re not even the sister of the bride. You’re just... here. The guest. The helper. The fixer. The extra set of hands.

But god, it hurts.

You slip away from the crowd, down the back path that leads toward the garden. It’s darker here. Quiet. Your bangles don’t jingle. You’ve stopped moving like music.

That’s when you hear him.

“You look like someone punched your soul.”

You turn.

Rafayel stands leaning against a tree, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a small paper cup of juice. He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t try to crowd you. He just looks.

You try to laugh it off. “What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you were invited again.”

“I wasn’t,” he says. “I was summoned. By your grandfather. Said there’d be sweets.”

You snort. “Of course.”

He walks forward slowly. Stops beside you, close but not too close.

You look down at your bare hands.

He sees.

“What happened?”

You shrug. “Nothing. I was just—busy.”

“With everyone else.”

You look away.

He’s quiet for a long beat. Then:

“Would you let me?”

He reaches into his satchel and pulls out—of all things—a fresh, sealed henna cone.

“I heard you say how much you wanted it. I may have… spent the last few days learning.”

You stare at the tube. Then at him. Then back.

“You what?!”

“I watched tutorials. Got a few lessons from the lady who sold me the bangles. Look, I might’ve accidentally stained my hands orange in the process, but…” he shrugs, sheepish. “I can try?”

You stare.

And then you laugh.

Loud and full and stunned. “You? Want to do my mehendi?”

“I figured…” He rubs the back of his neck. “If I can paint on canvas, I can paint on you.”

Just then, your cousins stumble onto the terrace. Spot the henna cone from above. Spot Rafayel.

“Oh my God, look at him! He’s going to do her mehendi?!”

“I thought he was a foreigner!”

“He’s not even Desi and he’s trying! What is this, a fanfic?”

“Bhaiya, please marry her—”

Rafayel, flustered and surrounded, gets to his feet. “Okay—I take it back, this was a terrible idea—”

You’re laughing so hard you have to lean against a pillar.

But eventually, you pull him by the wrist and escape up the back stairwell, breathless and grinning.

“I wasn’t joking,” he murmurs when you’re alone again. “I really want to do your henna.”

You look at him—at his stained fingers, at the sketchbook peeking from his bag, at the way he’s looking at you like you’re the most sacred canvas he’s ever seen.

“Okay,” you whisper.

“Okay?”

You hold out your hand.

He takes it like it’s made of glass.

And begins.

You sit cross-legged on the marble balcony, the air sweet with mogra and anticipation. Somewhere behind you, your cousins are whispering by the window, spying, no doubt—but for once, you don’t care.

The moonlight falls soft on your arms as you extend your hands toward him. Your skin glows under its silver wash, and for a second, Rafayel just stares.

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice low. He’s already kneeling in front of you, henna cone poised delicately between long fingers.

You nod.

“Positive.”

His gaze lingers on your face—eyes searching for hesitation, for teasing. There’s none. So he exhales, rests his hand lightly under your wrist, and begins.

The first line is slow.

Tentative.

You hold your breath as the cool trail touches your skin. His touch is featherlight, reverent. The henna’s earthy scent begins to bloom between you as intricate curves unfold beneath his steady hand.

You glance at his face—and your breath catches.

He looks... different.

Focused, yes, but something else flickers there too. A sort of awe. As if your skin is sacred and this—the act of decorating it—is worship.

“You’re good at this,” you whisper, half-teasing.

He smiles faintly. “I practiced on oranges and my own leg,” he murmurs. “This is... better.”

You laugh softly. “I should hope so.”

The pattern snakes up your palm in elegant spirals. Your fingers twitch once, brushing against his wrist, and his entire body stills for a second too long.

“I didn’t expect...” he starts, then stops.

“Didn’t expect what?” you ask.

“That I’d care this much about doing it right.”

He doesn’t meet your eyes. You don’t press.

The air between you grows heavier as he works. The world shrinks to nothing but the warm hush of your breath and the cool glisten of henna tracing lines over your skin.

It’s too much—too quiet, too close, too everything.

So you break it.

“Did you come really come this far just for color?” you ask, softly.

His hand pauses for a moment.

“No,” he says. “Not anymore.”

Your heart stumbles.

“I came for inspiration. I was blocked, empty. Nothing made sense on canvas. But now...”

He glances up.

“You do.”

And there it is.

The truth, plain as stars.

Your throat tightens.

“Rafayel—”

He gently lifts your other hand. Brushes his thumb over your knuckles. “May I?”

You nod, breath caught between your ribs.

He begins again, slower this time, more deliberate. Every curve of henna—a confession he isn’t ready to say out loud.

As he draws, you realize what he’s weaving into your palm. A crescent moon, delicate and shaded, blooming from a sea of waves and lotuses—an ocean of you and him.

And hidden in the swirls of your wrist, nestled between the paisleys—

A single stroke. He signs his name, woven into the intricate design.

You don’t say anything.

Not now.

Instead, you close your eyes.

You don’t need words.

The henna speaks for you.

You wake to the scent of dried henna warm on your skin. The morning sun slices through sheer curtains, dancing over the gold trim of your pillow.

You sit up slowly.

Your hands are dry now, the patterns stained into your skin like secrets.

You lift them to the light—and stare.

You had seen it forming last night, glimpses between breathless silences and the brush of his fingers. But in the full glow of morning, it’s mesmerizing.

Waves. Lotuses. The crescent moon—so delicate it looks like a smile. Everything twined with the tiniest, near-invisible strokes of text—

His name. Hidden in the curve of your wrist. Not loud, not bold. Secret. Intimate.

You run your thumb over it. Your chest aches in a way it shouldn’t.

Outside your room, the house is already alive—laughter, clinking dishes, someone shouting about roti. But here, it’s still quiet. Still yours.

You press your palm to your cheek and smile. Just a little.

You weren’t planning to wear anything that would draw attention.

But your sisters had other plans.

Somehow, you ended up in an emerald-green lehenga and so many churiyan stacked on your arms, you feel like a walking wind chime. They curled your hair, pinned your jhumkas just right, and lined your eyes with a black liner so sharp it could cut.

“You look like heartbreak—personified,” your cousin said, snapping your picture.

You didn’t say it, but you were already holding it.

Because on your hands—woven into your skin like a soft, silent rebellion—are Rafayel’s designs.

His ocean.

His name.

You weren’t going to tell anyone. You were just going to survive the event, perform the group dance, maybe eat a gulab jamun or four, and avoid thinking too hard.

But the universe had other plans.

You walk into the courtyard.

Someone sees your hands.

And the chaos begins.

“OHHH MY GODDDD!”

Your middle sister grabs your wrist like its evidence. “Yeh kisne banaya? This is NOT the henna artist’s work.”

Your aunt peeks over her shoulder. “Arey haan, this is too modern.”

Your youngest cousin squints, snatches your hand, flips it over. “Kya likha hai yahaan…? R… A… Rafay—”

You pull your hands back. Mortified. 

“RA-FAY?” she shrieks. “WHO. IS. RA-FAY?”

You freeze. For once, you have no comeback.

Your sisters are SCREAMING. Your chachis are huddled like spies in a Netflix crime doc. One of your brothers actually drops his phone and shouts “Plot twist!!”

You try to mediate the situation, but it’s too late.

You're in the spotlight now.

“You didn’t even TELL us?”

“Is he rich?”

“Is he tall?”

“Are you in love?”

“Kya kahani hai?!”

“Show us his picture!”

“NO NO, call him HERE.”

You’re backing away when you bump straight into a very solid chest.

Rafayel.

Wearing—of course—a black kurta with the sleeves rolled up and a subtle smirk playing on his mouth like he knew this would happen. Like he planned it.

Of course he did.

The entire family goes silent.

Your chachi is fuming.

Your sister whispers, “No. Freaking. Way.”

A cousin mutters, “Ladka hot hai. You’re excused.”

And Nana?

Sitting with a cup of chai, cross-legged on the divan. Watching.

He smiles. Doesn’t say a word.

Just sips.

You, somehow, find your voice. “What are you doing here?”

Rafayel’s tone is innocent. “Nana invited me.”

Nana, not your Nana, not your grandfather. Just Nana, as if—

Your grandfather raises his cup in the air like he’s won.

The rest of your family stares. You brace yourself for questions, for teasing, for death-by-curiosity.

But Rafayel just turns to you, eyes steady, and says:

“You didn’t wash it off.”

You don’t blink. “You wrote your name on me.”

“I asked permission.”

“You did not.”

“You didn’t stop me.”

Your mouth opens. But you’re short-circuiting. The lehenga’s too tight. The night’s too loud. The mehndi is still dark.

And Rafayel, without even touching you, has you unraveling.

Your aunt whispers to your mother, “Ab inki shaadi krwani hai.”

Nana nods sagely. “Larka acha hai. Artist hai, lekin acha hai.”

You look at Rafayel. “You’re enjoying this.”

He leans down, voice low, just for you. “More than you know.”

The music's gone thunderous again—bass so heavy it could realign your spine. Everyone's dancing now. A blur of color and sweat and wildly offbeat choreography.

You duck out, breath catching in your throat, heat rising in your cheeks, pulse still tripping over Rafayel’s words.

You didn’t wash it off. You didn’t stop me. He said it like a fact. Like a challenge.

You need air.

The side courtyard is quiet. Just fairy lights and the faint echo of Raataan Lambiyan bleeding through the walls. You press your back to the cool stone and try to remember how to inhale like a normal human being.

“Running away again?”

His voice cuts through the quiet like silk.

You don’t open your eyes. “I’m not running.”

“Then what are you doing out here?” he asks, footsteps soft as he approaches.

“Hiding from my family. They’re about five minutes away from planning our engagement.”

He laughs, quiet and real.

“Would that be such a bad thing?”

You open your eyes.

He’s standing in front of you now, too close for comfort, but not close enough to touch. That maddening in-between space where the air buzzes and you don’t know whether to step forward or step back.

You go for sarcasm, because that’s safe. “Do you always move this fast?”

He shrugs. “I don’t move fast. I move when it feels like I’ll regret standing still.”

You hate how that lands. You hate how it feels true.

He takes a half-step closer. “Why does it scare you?”

You meet his eyes. “Because you’re—we're—”

We're too different. You don't say but he realizes nonetheless. 

Something flickers in his expression. He doesn’t respond.

And then—just as you’re about to turn, to leave, to end this before it spills over—

Your dupatta catches.

Snagged, pulled, stuck—right on the button of his kurta.

Classic. Cosmic. Catastrophic.

You both freeze.

His hand lifts slowly, carefully brushing over the embroidery. You feel it in your chest, not your shoulder.

“It’s delicate,” he murmurs, eyes still on the fabric. “Like you.”

“Don’t,” you breathe. “Don’t make that a metaphor.”

“I wasn’t going to.” He finally looks up. “I don’t need metaphors. You’re already the art.”

You exhale sharply, but you’re not smiling.

You’re bare.

No sarcasm. No shield. No exit.

“Why me?” you ask. “You could have anyone. You could walk into a gallery and have a dozen muses lined up.”

He leans in just enough that you forget how to stay still.

“I don’t want a muse,” he says. “I want a mirror.”

You go still.

Your heart has the audacity to lurch.

And then—just like that—he untangles the thread. Slow. Gentle. His fingers ghost over your shoulder as he frees you. Doesn’t linger. Doesn’t press.

He steps back.

But you feel it like he touched your soul.

“You’re dangerous,” you whisper again.

This time, he smiles like he agrees. “So are you.”

And with that, he leaves you standing there—wrapped in green, stained with his name, and completely unraveled.

You should’ve seen it coming.

It started with your sisters plotting by the sink. Then whispering way too obviously during dinner. You knew they were up to something—your family doesn’t whisper, they scheme.

So when the plans for the “pre-wedding cousin trip” were announced—beach day, whole squad, bride, groom, chaos—you weren’t surprised.

What did surprise you?

The moment you climbed into the rental van and found Rafayel, already seated by the window, sipping Rooh Afza from a paper cup, like he belonged there.

“Kya— Why are you here?” you ask, switching languages without realizing, clutching the doorframe like it might save you.

He shrugs, deadpan. “Don't look at me like that. Your sisters practically kidnapped me. I'm a victim”

Your middle sister grins from the driver’s seat. “We needed an adult to supervise.”

Your eldest sister chimes in, “And someone hot for aesthetics.”

You stare at them.

They wink at you.

You climb in, praying the universe has a sense of mercy.

It does not.

Because Rafayel ends up beside you.

Because the van is packed.

Because fate is dramatic like that.

The beach is wild.

Desi playlists blasting from a Bluetooth speaker. Cousins racing into the water, someone trying to fly a kite, the groom being bullied into a photoshoot, and your dupatta turning into a weapon in the sea breeze.

You try to fade into the background. Let the younger ones scream over one of Atif Aslam’s songs and the older ones debate biryani vs kadhai. You sit near a rocky patch, toes buried in the sand, finally breathing.

Rafayel appears like a ghost beside you.

Shoes off. Sleeves rolled up. A soft salt-touched breeze threading through his hair.

“Didn’t take you for a beach person,” you say.

“I like water,” he replies. “It never lies.”

You glance at him. “Is that how you paint?”

He nods. “Water remembers things the canvas forgets.”

You don't know what that means, but it sinks into you anyway.

“Do you swim?” he asks suddenly.

You raise a brow. “Do you?”

His smirk is dangerous. “Want to find out?”

Before you can answer, one of your cousins yells, “WE’RE DOING A SANDCASTLE CONTEST—COUPLES EDITION!”

Your sisters immediately point at you and Rafayel.

“THEY’RE A TEAM!”

You open your mouth. “We’re not—”

Too late.

You’re being handed a bucket, a mini shovel, and more pressure than a family dinner.

Rafayel just chuckles. “Let’s win.”

You glare. “I hate you.”

He leans close. “Puh-lease, you love me.”

You blink.

Then he grabs the shovel and starts building like he didn’t just drop an emotional grenade on you.

—

The tide creeps in slowly. Your team lost (your youngest cousin's “Shrek castle” won by sheer chaos points). Everyone’s packing up.

But you’re still standing at the edge of the water, ankle-deep, jeans rolled up, watching the waves.

You hear him before you see him.

“Come on,” Rafayel says, walking straight into the tide like a painting coming alive. “One dip won’t kill you.”

“You don’t have extra clothes.”

“I’ll dry.”

“Your shirt’s linen.”

He grins. “Then let it wrinkle.”

You stare.

He walks farther in.

The ocean wraps around him, warm and gold and endless.

“You’re insane,” you call.

He looks over his shoulder, hair damp now, smile soft and sure.

“Come anyway.”

And somehow—you do.

You step into the water.

And it feels like everything else—your name, your past, your aching chest—gets washed back to shore.

He doesn’t touch you.

He doesn’t need to.

You’re already drowning.

And for the first time in weeks—you want to be.

The day of the wedding it's like there’s gold in the air.

Not just in the shimmer of embroidered sarees or the edge of the bride's red veil trailing behind her like a royal train, but in the laughter, the glint of bangles clinking like tiny bells, in the chaos of cousins running wild with stolen stage props and half-baked plans.

Music weaves through the air—old Bollywood, newer remixes, and a few chaotic mashups that only your loudest cousins know how to dance to. Your aunties are shouting across tables, bargaining over bets and rules like they're trading on the stock market.

And Rafayel?

He’s seated quietly at the edge of it all, in a crisp sherwani you still can’t believe he agreed to wear. It’s ivory, with subtle hand embroidery at the collar, and when he shifts in the golden sunlight, he glows like he belongs in an oil painting. A silent observer, sketching it all with his eyes.

But then his gaze finds you, and he forgets how to breathe.

You’re helping your niece with her bangles, bent slightly forward, the jhumkas by your ears swaying like they have their own rhythm. Your hair is pinned up in an updo. And that smile—God. You look like a moment he wants to paint into forever.

You catch him looking. He doesn’t look away.

Tera dil woh shehar hai  (Your heart is a city) 

Jis shehar me ja ke lauta na main kabhi  (A city I went to once and have never returned since) 

—

The joota chupai begins like a war. Your cousin army steals the groom’s shoes, hiding them under a sea of lehengas and fake distractions. The groom’s side retaliates. There are negotiations, ambushes, ransom demands. Rafayel watches it all unfold with mild horror and deep fascination.

“You people are intense,” he mutters when you pass him, breathless and triumphant with one stolen shoe in hand.

“We’re efficient,” you say. “You’d better watch your shoes.”

“If you want me, just ask nicely,” he retaliates.

Your breath catches at the implication—but you don’t stop walking.

—

Then comes the game.

A table is laid out with dozens of objects—glass bangles, a peacock feather, a toy gun, a spoon, a fake mustache, lipstick, a paper crown. A speaker blasts snippets of Bollywood songs and everyone rushes to pick the object that best matches the lyrics. It’s madness. It’s brilliant.

“Kala Chashma”—a cousin dives for the sunglasses.

“Bole Chudiyan”—you grab the glass bangles.

“Desi girl”—he snatches a bindi and sticks it between his brows with a flourish. The entire family howls.

Rafayel doesn’t win most rounds. But when “Ishq wala love” plays, he doesn't reach for anything. He just looks at you.

And that… is enough.

—

Later, after the crowd has dispersed for dinner and the courtyard is quieter under strings of fairy lights and the stars above, you find him sketching near the tree.

He looks up.

“You look beautiful,” he says, as if it’s a confession. “Not just tonight. Always.”

You feel your throat tighten.

“Rafayel—”

“I’ve tried not to,” he says softly, stepping closer. “I told myself this is temporary. A trip. A burst of color. A muse.”

He exhales like it hurts. “But it’s not. I love you.”

The world stills. The lights flicker. A firecracker cracks in the distance.

You close your eyes.

Because you want to believe it. God, you want it.

But what happens when the trip ends? When you go back to your studies, your deadlines, your life? He’s famous, traveling the world. You're rooted in something smaller, softer, real.

“It��s not enough,” you whisper, stepping back. “We won’t survive. Not for the long run.”

And before he can speak again—before he can soften your doubt into something brave—you slip away, heart thundering.

—

Days pass. 

The wedding is over. The chaos settles into memory.

Your room is quiet. His suitcase is still in your foyer. Neither of you reach for each other.

Nana watches you mope around, pretending not to stare at your phone every ten minutes. Watches Rafayel sketch for hours but never finish a single piece.

He huffs.

“Enough,” he mutters one morning. “I didn’t survive three bypasses and a youth of British colonial nonsense to watch two idiots destroy their own love story.”

Nana’s plan starts like most historical disasters do: with the elders whispering in corners.

You should’ve been suspicious when your aunties started wearing their fancier clothes to breakfast. Or when your second cousin first removed—who usually dresses like a teenager on laundry day—showed up in a sherwani and borrowed your brother’s perfume.

You definitely should’ve noticed when your mother gave you the look. That silent, smug “don’t-ask-just-go-wear-the-red-one” look.

But you were tired, still aching from how things ended with Rafayel, still pretending not to notice how your phone stayed silent. So you let yourself be dressed, fed, ushered into a car.

“Whose wedding are we going to, again?” you finally ask.

Your brother shrugs. “Distant cousin. Friend of a cousin. Someone’s son. I don’t know.”

You narrow your eyes. “You guys don’t not know things.”

No one answers.

The venue is decorated like a fever dream. Red and gold and ivory everywhere, fountains flowing with rose petals, dhol beats rolling thunder across the marble floors.

There’s a wedding chair up front.

Two.

One of them is empty.

The other is ocuppied by you.

“I swear to God,” you whisper, turning to your sister, “if this is a prank—”

“It’s not,” she says sweetly. “It’s a plan.”

And that’s when you see him.

Rafayel. Wearing a sherwani—how many has he bought?—looking utterly bewildered and completely beautiful.

“What sort of mating ritual is this,” he asks, blinking at your grandfather, “if I may ask?”

“An intervention,” Nana says smugly, holding the sehra. “Sit down.”

—

You are mortified. Beyond mortified.

There are aunties placing flower garlands around your neck. Cousins taking selfies. Your niece is live-streaming. Nana is pretending he’s hard of hearing when you question him.

Rafayel is frozen in place, eyes darting between you and the absurdly ornate garden. “Are we… getting married?”

You pull him aside by the wrist.

“No! God, no. It’s not real. They’re messing with us.”

“Are you sure? These rituals look too real.”

“Just—ignore it.”

He looks at you for a moment too long.

“I wouldn’t have minded,” he murmurs.

Your heart does a backflip.

“What?”

“If it were real.”

You forget how to breathe.

Eventually, you manage to escape the fake-wedding-ambush with your dignity mostly intact. The others cheer like a cricket match has just ended. Nana looks annoyingly pleased with himself.

But the damage is done.

Rafayel walks you to your room that night. The air is quiet again, heavy with things unsaid. The corridor is dimly lit. Soft golden sconces cast shadows against the marble, catching on your bangles as you fidget, still breathless from the mayhem.

He leans against the wall just outside your room, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. He’s always been like this—wrapped in riddles, walls so carefully constructed you never thought you’d see past them.

But tonight… tonight he looks wrecked in the way only someone in love does. Beautiful and broken. Holding himself still like the wrong word might make you vanish.

You speak first. Quietly.

“I thought I was protecting myself. Maybe even protecting you.”

His gaze flickers to you. “From what?”

“From falling too deep. From making it harder when we part ways. From hoping.”

A long silence stretches between you. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t interrupt. Just listens, and that alone makes your throat ache.

“You’re Rafayel,” you say with a hollow laugh. “The world’s darling. Painter. Traveler. Terrible at remembering things.” 

“Things?” Rafayel raises an eyebrow. 

“People,” You acquiesce. “And I’m just… me. The girl with an entire extended family who thinks you’re my groom now.”

His lips twitch, almost a smile. “That was chaos.”

“That was Nana.”

He laughs, finally. It’s low and warm and you’ve missed it more than you’ll ever admit.

Then his voice drops. Soft. Bare.

“Do you really think I care about any of that?”

You blink at him.

“You think I look at you and see someone ‘lesser’? I see the girl who made me forget I was lost. Who walks into a room and makes everything brighter—even when she’s holding grief in her chest like a second heart.”

You feel your eyes sting.

“You think I planned this? You think I came to this country looking for inspiration and expected you to be it?”

His voice catches. “But there you were. With anklets that sang like wind chimes. With that laugh that makes me forget my own name. I didn’t mean to stay. But I did.”

Your fingers tremble against your bangles. 

“I missed you,” you whisper.

He exhales shakily. “You tore through my silence like a monsoon.”

His hand lifts, slow and reverent, and tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“And I haven’t been able to breathe the same since.”

You swallow thickly, wanting to believe it, wanting so badly to let it all go and just fall—into him, into the soft promise of his hands and his voice and his everything.

“We live worlds apart,” you murmur.

“Then I’ll build a bridge.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“No,” he says, “it never is. But you and I? We’re worth the complication.”

The air between you is charged, your hearts beating in tandem like two instruments tuned to the same storm. You step forward, and he does too, and for a moment the distance shrinks until only choice remains.

You look up at him, eyes wide and soul trembling.

“What now?”

“Now,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your cheekbone, “we try.”

“And if we fail?”

“Then at least we did it holding on to each other.”

The salt-laced wind rushes past you as you stand at the edge of the dock, bare feet grazing warm planks, the scent of sea and paint lingering on your skin. Somewhere behind you, laughter echoes—Rafayel’s, low and lazy, like sunlight stretched across a hammock.

A seagull calls overhead.

In your hand, a half-finished sketch of a bustling spice bazaar in Marrakech. On your wrist, a silver bangle you picked up in Istanbul, etched with waves. Next to you, a weather-worn travel satchel stuffed with fabrics, pigment jars, dried flowers, postcards. Places you've seen. Places you've lived. Together.

You hear footsteps.

“You’re sketching again,” he murmurs, peering over your shoulder.

“Trying to keep up with your genius,” you tease.

He rolls his eyes dramatically. “Please. Your mango vendor has more soul than my cathedral.”

He slips his hand into yours.

Your rings clink.

Cities blurred past. Paint on his collar, your poetry scrawled in margins, nights tangled in hotel rooms with rain drumming against old windows. Bickering in markets. Singing old Bollywood songs while doing laundry in some forgotten corner of Prague.

Once, he painted you wearing bangles and jhumkas and nothing else. You framed it in the kitchen of a houseboat you rented in Kerala.

The world doesn’t feel so wide now. Not when you’ve danced in its shadows with someone who speaks in art and sarcasm and glances that set your pulse racing.

He presses a kiss to your temple.

“Where next?” he asks, voice muffled against your skin.

You smile. “Wherever the color is.”

He bumps his shoulder into yours. “Wherever you are.”

You turn to face him. Sea spray in your hair. Love in your eyes. The kind that didn’t arrive with fireworks or grand declarations. Just persistence. And softness. And staying.

Somewhere, a song plays in the distance, wafting from a small celebration down the beach.

Ae mere dil mubarak ho (Congratulations to you, my heart) 

Yahi toh pyaar hai (Only this is love) 

You both freeze.

Then you laugh. Loud and bright and free.

He groans. “That song is going to haunt us for the rest of our lives.”

You lean into him. “It brought you to me.”

He grins, his eyes soft with something eternal.

“No. You brought me to you.”

And just like that, with the sea behind you and the whole wide world ahead—you walk forward, fingers intertwined, hearts unafraid.

TAG LIST: @datfangirl

[aroseforyounme]

I've been reading all these non MC!reader fics and they're all so delicious in their own ways. They really make think about like what would it be like to be the person that's yearning so very desperately even if they believe that it's hopeless. What would it be like to watch the greatest love story to ever unfold live and in color right in front of their eyes while their own world breaks to pieces in the sidelines? what does that pain feel like? That resignation?

How do you go against something that they fought for over and over and over again? That they believe to be written in their stars? They'll choose MC. They'll always choose MC.

And who is the reader? All they can ever hope to be is a friend-a footnote in their grand story. Maybe they'll get a sliver, a fraction of warmth that he'll show MC but it won't ever be what the reader wants. They're second best, at most a distraction. And can they live with the pain of constantly being looked over-of constantly being brushed aside.

Maybe at first they suck it up. They tell themselves that it's better to be in his life than to face a future without him in it in some fashion. They try their best to ignore the yawning pit in their stomach, the way their chest aches, the hallowing of their entire being each time he looks over at MC and his gaze softens. Becomes loving.

It's okay. It's okay. It's okay.

And maybe they stay that way-stubbornly rooted in place, determined to rot. Maybe they stay to laugh with them (because at this point MC has become a friend, without their permission and even real understanding), only to go home and sob what's left of their heart out. It's in those darkest moments that they even attempt to acknowledge the pain within them. Maybe they keep doing this until it all sort of numbs over. And despite all that they love him and so they wake up to do it all over again.

It's okay.

Until maybe it isn't.

Until maybe something vital cracks and splinters and all they can do is push back, get away. Until maybe they finally catch a glance of themselves in the mirror and the haze lifts long enough for them to finally see.

Blood shot eyes, swollen and itchy. Skin leeched of any and all color, leaving only a sickly tinge. Hallowed cheeks. Cracked, dry lips. Exhaustion given form, given substance. Defeat and misery lovingly woven into every stitch of clothing.

That's reader-this new version of them anyhow. And it's in that moment, in the dim lighting of their room, staring at themselves through their dirty, grease stained mirror, that they really and truly see themselves. See the version of them that broke apart to keep a love alive that had no purpose being birthed in the first place.

And maybe that's when they finally, truly understand. Maybe that's when they can let go.

----------------------------------------------------

And something that's so incredibly delicious to me is when we switch gears in this moment. In the moment where the reader is finally, slowly, painfully, getting themselves together, that's when he starts waking up for real.

Maybe he loved reader all along and was too stubborn to look away from what he's already decided is his forever. Maybe he loved reader but he refused to even acknowledge that because if he does??? If he does acknowledge those feelings-if he opens that specific box and lets himself love the reader, then what was the point?

How can he stand to look himself in the eye? Is his love really that fickle? Can he truly look away from the one he'd been obsessing over for years just because of the reader?

How dare they.

How dare they come into his life and show him a love so very different than the one he'd shared with MC but beautiful in its own right? How dare they come into his life and upend the plans he'd made, the future he'd envisioned?

And he struggles with this-struggles with the love he has for the reader, the slowly burgeoning one, cultivated over years of camaraderie, with the love he has for MC, beautiful and cosmic and with decades of shared history.

A budding sunflower forced to grow through concrete, a tough thing that refuses to go unacknowledged. The reader had been there, time after time after time. A smile reserved only for him resting on their face. And he'd grown complacent-reliant on their easy affection when things had become difficult with MC.

(And isn't that telling).

Until that sunflower was gone, plucked by greedy fingers and left to wither away against the burning concrete.

He'd try to save it. Try to reestablish a connection that's already broken no matter how many times he tries to replant that flower.

Reader leaves and he's left holding the remains of their love, the petals having long since fallen off.

Misunderstandings. A love that was just right but wrong in all the ways it could ever be. Maybe non mc!reader is better off. Maybe they're not. Idk but I find any and all fics with a non mc!reader to be delicious all the same.

[erisnxxi]

Organized Love and Deepspace Non-Mc Fic Recommendations

Sylus

☆ Angel of Her Own Making - by bwennie (link here)

☆ Dragon!Sylus x Non-MC!Reader - by clairewritesfanfics (link here)

☆ Heartbreak Anniversary with Sylus - by mephisto-reporting (link here)

☆ Sylus with non!mc reader - by yukithestar (one, two, three, four)

☆ enough - by captivating-flavors (link here)

☆ away (loosely part 2 of enough) - by captivating-flavors (link here)

☆ wilted promises - by shaiyasstuff (one, two, finale)

☆ delayed beginnings - by shaiyasstuff (one-shot, sequel, epilogue, bonus)

☆ The Great (Unnecessary) Divorce Incident - by mangooes (link here)

☆ The Winner Takes it All - by misshuntereevee (one, two)

☆ one in the head, two in the chest - by comatosebunny09 (link here)

☆ hurst so good - by comatosebunny09 (link here)

☆ The Sin & The Sinner - by saintobio (link here)

☆ Calm and Serenity - by blueivyy99 (masterlist)

☆ Impartial Hearts - by ladsonlads (link here)

☆ A Blooming Predicament - by subliminalwish (link here)

☆ merry christmas, mr. sylus - by comatosebunny09 (link here)

☆ merry christmas, mr. sylus (aftermath) - by comatosebunny09 (link here)

☆ sylus x non mc reader - by comatosebunny09 (link here)

☆ Lonely Birthday - Sylus - by i-messed-up-big-time (link here)

☆ BY NAME, ON PAPER - by ryusjwks (link here)

Zayne

☆ Nocturne of Twilight - by chuluoyi (part one)

☆ Dawn's First Light - by chuluoyi (part two)

☆ pit-a-pat - by shaiyasstuff (one-shot)

☆ Heartbreak Anniversary with Zayne - by mephisto-reporting (link here)

☆ Heart of Glass - by shaisuki (masterlist)

☆ My Wedding Vow Is To Divorce You - by kira-loves0905 (link here)

☆ Claiming Something That's Not Yours - by authorssmc (link here)

☆ evermore - by shaiyasstuff (link here)

☆ Lonely Birthday - Zayne - by i-messed-up-big-time (link here)

Caleb

☆ Rotten Apples - by rcvcgers (masterlist)

☆ mine - by captivating-flavors (link here)

☆ The Colonel's Keeper - by saintobio (link here)

☆ The Colonel's Saint - by saintobio (part two)

☆ The Terminator's Curse (spinoff of The Colonel Series) - by saintobio (link here)

☆ weightless paradise - by huxhsz (masterlist)

☆ back to friends - by hxlxnaaa (link here)

☆ Heartbreak Anniversary with Caleb - by mephisto-reporting (link here)

☆ Lonely Birthday - Caleb - by i-messed-up-big-time (link here)

☆ even when there was rain, sunshine came - by yuansie (masterlist)

☆ seven years - by cosmoszyn (link here)

☆ eighth year (part two of seven years) - by cosmoszyn (link here)

☆ LETTERS UNSENT - by orphicmeliora (link here)

Xavier

☆ glass half full - by shaiyasstuff (drabble)

☆ 3:07 a.m. - by shaiyasstuff (one-shot, sequel)

☆ we can't be friends - by kitimeq (link here)

☆ Duty's Cruel Embrace - rcvcgers (masterlist)

☆ Lonely Birthday - Xavier - by i-messed-up-big-time (link here)

Rafayel

☆ Heartbreak Anniversary with Rafayel - by mephisto-reporting (link here)

☆ Ocean Memories - by yuansie (masterlist)

☆ fate - by shaiyasstuff (one-shot, sequel)

☆ Loathe To Paint You - by rcvcgers (masterlist)

☆ You Were Meant For The Ocean - by sapphirexsolarium (link here)

☆ Lonely Birthday - Rafayel - by i-messed-up-big-time (link here)

◇ There's probably a lot of non-mc fics out there that i haven't read/seen BUT these are the ones that I'm currently reading / already read!

◇ To the authors mentioned THANK YOU FOR YOUR AMAZING WRITING/WORKS AND I LOVE YA'LL 🙈💗

◇ All links are up to date / will be updated!

◇ This list will be updated as well!

Last Edited May 13, 2025 11:06 am

♥ dividers used is made by enchanthings ♥

[mephisto-reporting]

Hearbreak Anniversary with Rafayel

Summary: It was your anniversary with Rafayel. One year of togetherness. But what if he does not show up when you expect him to? What if he was spending it with MC? Pairing: Non MC! Reader x Rafayel Note: MC in this fic goes by the name Lina (my name... so if you are angry, you can be angry at me :3). This oneshot was based on this request. I will write this for the other LADS men too. Content Warning: Fear of abandonment, self worth issues, angst, hurt and slight comfort, Rafayel grovelling, Rafayel POV

Rafayel version | Zayne version | Sylus version | Caleb Version

The soft glow of the sunset filtered through the gauzy curtains of Rafayel’s studio, painting the space in warm hues of gold and orange. The place smelled faintly of him—a mix of turpentine, salt, and the faint trace of his cologne. You had spent hours here today, your hands busy arranging the decorations you’d so carefully prepared for this special occasion. Sea shells, shimmering like iridescent pearls, lined the edges of the room, their opalescent beauty a nod to the ocean he once called home. Candles flickered softly on every surface, their flames dancing to an unseen rhythm. You’d even managed to find strands of silken seaweed and glass ornaments, hoping to evoke the beauty of his heritage, the beauty of him.

Every corner of his art studio had been dusted, tidied, and then transformed with touches of magic, warmth, and care. You even placed the tiny trinkets and mementos you had kept from your shared moments—little souvenirs from your adventures together, knickknacks that held meaning between the two of you. You wanted him to feel at home, to feel the same sense of belonging that you had with him. You even wore your best clothes, the ones he had once complimented.

Today was your first anniversary. The thought alone sent your heart fluttering, and you’d poured all that love into this space, into this moment.

A few months ago he had told you this was just another day for him. A god’s sense of time was different, fleeting, perhaps even insignificant. But to you, it meant everything. It was a celebration of love that had somehow defied the odds—of a mortal heart tangled with one belonging to something far greater. So you ignored the whispering doubts that crept into the back of your mind, choosing instead to focus on trust. Rafayel had chosen you, not her. No matter how many stories tied them together, no matter the whispered inevitability of their connection, he had assured you. It was you he loved now.

But as the hours passed, that fragile trust began to tremble.

You sat in the chair by the window, smoothing down the dress you’d picked especially for today. Time crawled. The soft golden light of day gave way to a dark, yawning sky, and still, Rafayel didn’t come home. The anniversary dinner, meticulously prepared and carefully plated, sat untouched on the table. Each tick of the clock became a cruel reminder of his absence.

Worry gnawed at you. What if something had happened to him? Perhaps the art sale ran late, or he was caught up with his patrons. But he always came back home, right?

Your heart twisted as you reached for your phone, dialing a number you didn’t want to use but needed to.

“Thomas?” you asked hesitantly, your voice trembling.

“Oh, hey,” Rafayel’s manager greeted casually. “Everything okay?”

“Is Rafayel still at the sale?” You tried to keep the panic from seeping into your tone, but the silence on the other end was damning.

“Uh… no, he left hours ago. Said he was going to grab dinner. Lina was with him.”

Your grip tightened on the phone, your knuckles turning white.

Lina.

The name struck like a knife.

“Thanks, Thomas,” you whispered, hanging up before he could ask anything more.

You sat there, staring at the flickering candles, their light casting long shadows across the studio walls. He was with Lina. On your anniversary. You had trusted him, convinced yourself that you were enough despite the insecurities that had clawed at your heart since the day you met him.

But now, they came roaring to life.

You had known, of course, who Lina was. She was the one linked to the sea god, his past, his history—his heart. You tried not to let it affect you, tried to bury the insecurities that rose whenever she came up in conversation. Rafayel always assured you there was nothing between them. But then why was he with her, of all people, on your anniversary?

Tears blurred your vision as your chest tightened painfully. Lina.

She was everything you were not. Strong, beautiful, a part of Rafayel’s past, his first love. How could you compete with that? How could you compete with someone who had shared so much more with him, someone whose bond with him was carved in the very fabric of his existence? She was a part of him, woven into the his story, while you were… just someone who had stumbled into his life, someone insignificant in comparison.

Lina... The woman who was forever tied to his past. The sea god's bride. The one he’d loved for so long, the one who had always been there, time after time. You had told yourself, time and time again, that it was nothing. That Rafayel was different with you. He had assured you that there was nothing between them anymore.

But if it’s nothing, why is he with her now? On our day.

Your fingers trembled as you held the phone to your ear, but you couldn’t even bring yourself to ask any more questions. The answers were irrelevant now. His absence, her presence, they were all you needed to know.

Tears pooled at the edges of your vision before spilling over, streaking your face like tiny rivers tracing paths through dusted cheeks. It wasn’t fair. Nothing felt fair. He had promised you. He had promised. But promises were like ocean tides, weren’t they? Sweeping away whatever they could, leaving only bits of broken shells behind.

Lina was everything you could never be. She was strong, beautiful, powerful—everything that Rafayel deserved. She had the sea god’s heart, had always had it, and here you were, just a fleeting ripple on the surface, barely a mark to him. She was woven into the fabric of his past, his future. What are you to him? What have you ever been?

The memories of your relationship, the quiet moments of closeness, the laughter shared under the soft, flickering light of his candles, all those moments seemed so... fragile now. Fragile and fleeting. You were nobody. Just a distraction, a place holder. Nothing more.

You stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor like the scratch of claws on stone. The studio, his studio, filled with remnants of him, was suffocating. His scent lingered in the air, the faint trace of his cologne mixing with the oils and paints scattered everywhere. His taste still clung to your lips from the last time you’d kissed him, the memories of his touch branded into your skin. It was all too much. Too much. The studio, so full of him, was now a suffocating reminder of what you had lost. You didn’t want to stay. You couldn’t.

You tried to hold the tears back, but it was useless. Every doubt, every fear you’d bottled up over the months came crashing down, drowning you in their suffocating weight.

This wasn’t love. This was a cruel game, one you couldn’t win.

You couldn’t breathe. You had to get out.

Your legs moved before your mind could catch up, carrying you toward the door. The wind hit your face the moment you stepped outside, cool and biting, but it wasn’t enough to quell the storm raging inside you.

You ran.

The streets blurred into one indistinct smear of light and shadow as you ran aimlessly, your feet pounding against the pavement, carrying you farther and farther from that studio. From him.

Eventually, the pavement gave way to sand, and the sharp tang of the ocean filled the air. The moon hung high above, casting a silver glow over the beach. Your chest heaved, your lungs burning as you collapsed onto the sand, letting the waves crash against the shore in a soothing rhythm that mocked your turmoil. You kept running, further and further away from whitesand bay, along the beach.

You stumbled, falling to your knees in the sand, clutching your arms around yourself. Your chest heaved as the tears fell freely, the sound of the ocean mixing with your sobs. Lina. You could picture them together, her hand in his, the same way they had been for so many years before you. The seagulls cried above you, indifferent to your pain. And in that moment, you realized that the world didn’t stop for you. It never had. You stared out at the endless sea, the dark horizon stretching in front of you.

How could I have been so blind?

The waves crashed against the shore, each one louder than the last. You are nothing to him. The thought echoed in your mind over and over, relentless, until you could barely breathe under the weight of it.

And just when you thought the world couldn’t get any colder, the tears started again. They fell freely now, salt mixing with the salt of the sea.

You had wanted to be enough. But maybe that was a joke after all. But even as your body trembled with the weight of the heartbreak, you knew one thing: You could never go back. Not to him, not to that studio, not to any of it. You were just a wave, crashing onto the shore, and he was the sea god.

The night wrapped itself around you like a suffocating blanket. The cold air bit into your skin, but it wasn’t enough to numb the ache clawing at your chest. Each crashing wave seemed to echo the bitter truth you couldn’t escape: you were never going to be enough for him. You curled tighter into yourself, trembling as the tears continued to flow. The sand clung to your dress, to your damp hands, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. The world had narrowed to the storm raging inside you—a tempest of betrayal, doubt, and misery.

The sharp chill of the ocean breeze whipped your hair against your tear-streaked face, but it was nothing compared to the icy grip of despair coiling around your heart. Every promise he’d made, every word of reassurance, felt like shards of glass now, cutting into the fragile hope you’d built. The waves surged closer, the cold spray dotting your skin. Your sobs mixed with the crashing tide, swallowed up by the vast, indifferent sea.

You hugged yourself tightly, your body shaking as the cold seeped deeper into your bones. Yet, you stayed there, rooted to the spot, as if the ocean could somehow wash away the ache inside you. But no wave could reach that far, no tide could touch the place where your heart ached. You wanted to scream, to shout at the world for the injustice of it all, but the air in your lungs wouldn’t let you. You were too small for this world, too insignificant for him. You would never be the sea. You were just a small wave, lost in the expanse of the tide.

Rafayel’s POV

The door to the studio swung open, and Rafayel stepped inside, laughter trailing after him. “You should’ve seen the look on that shopkeeper’s face when I said we’d take both cakes,” he said, his voice warm and light. He turned to Lina, who chuckled softly as she followed him, holding one of the carefully boxed pastries. “He probably thought we were insane.”

Rafayel kicked the door shut behind him, balancing his own box of confections, his grin still in place. “I can’t wait to see my cutie’s face when she tries these. She’s going to love them.”

But the moment his gaze swept across the room, his laughter faltered and then stopped entirely.

The studio was transformed. Soft candlelight flickered, casting golden hues across the walls. Seashells glimmered like scattered pearls, carefully arranged along the edges of the space. Strands of delicate seaweed draped like garlands, their green silkiness catching the light. Trinkets, small but unmistakably meaningful, dotted the surfaces—each one an ode to moments he had shared with you. The table was set with plates of untouched food, lovingly prepared, and the air held a faint, tantalizing aroma that now felt unbearably heavy.

He froze, the pastry box slipping slightly in his grip. His throat tightened as his eyes roved over every detail, taking in the love and care you had poured into the space. The decorations, the mementos, the effort—it was overwhelming.

“Rafayel?” Lina’s voice broke through the silence. She stepped forward, her brows knitting in concern. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” His voice cracked, and he set the box down on the nearest surface with trembling hands. “I fucked up,” he whispered, barely audible. His fingers grazed one of the seashells, its surface smooth and cool. He trailed his hand over a string of seaweed, the soft texture almost mocking him. “I fucked up bad.”

Lina’s concern deepened. “What are you talking about?”

Rafayel turned toward her, his expression stricken. “The anniversary. Our anniversary. It slipped my mind.” His voice was a low, shaky whisper as he glanced back at the table, the untouched plates, the flickering candles. “She did all of this… for me. For us.”

He called out your name, his voice echoing through the space. “Are you here? Cutie?” His steps quickened as he moved through the studio, searching. The bathroom. The bedroom. The small corner where you sometimes curled up to read. “Are you asleep?” he called, though he knew better. Each empty room was another blow to his gut.

Panic clawed at him as he returned to the main room, his gaze darting to the table again, the small trinkets, the soft glow of candles still burning. The room felt haunted, filled with the ghost of your hope and effort.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair, gripping it tightly. He grabbed his phone and immediately dialed Thomas.

“Thomas, did she—did she say anything to you? Did she mention where she might go?” Rafayel’s voice was taut with desperation.

Thomas hesitated. “She called me earlier. She asked if you were still at the sale. That’s all she said.”

The weight of Thomas’s words slammed into Rafayel like a wave. You’d called, searching for him, only to learn the truth he had tried to ignore. It had slipped his mind completely. He didn’t know you were setting all of this up. For him. For the both of you.

“Thanks,” Rafayel muttered, ending the call and immediately dialing your number. He paced the studio, his heart racing as the line rang once… twice… three times—

And then he heard it. The faint buzz of your phone, abandoned on the sofa near the window.

“Shit!” Rafayel cursed, grabbing the device and staring at the darkened screen as if it could offer him answers. “Shit, shit, shit!”

He collapsed onto the chair you had once sat in, his head in his hands. Where were you? His gaze drifted to the table again, the untouched dinner, the carefully arranged decorations.

How could he have been so blind? So careless? You had given him everything, and he… he had been too wrapped up in himself, too foolish to see what truly mattered.

Lina hesitated before taking a few careful steps toward Rafayel, watching his every move with growing concern. She’d never seen him like this before. His usual confident, almost cocky demeanor had vanished, leaving only raw distress in its place. He sat slumped in the chair, his phone clutched tightly in his hands, his chest rising and falling with each shaky breath.

"Rafayel..." she began softly, her voice gentle but concerned. "What’s going on? What happened?"

Her hand brushed against his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him, but the instant her fingers made contact with his skin, he flinched as though struck. His body jerked back, his eyes flashing with something wild—something dangerous.  His eyes, usually a mischievous swirl of pink and blue, flared into a startling, unearthly bright blue before he clenched them shut, his jaw tightening.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice hoarse as he pulled away, his fists curling. “Lina, I—sorry. I didn’t mean to—” He forced himself to inhale deeply, reigning in his emotions as the scales receded and his eyes returned to their usual hue. “I’m fine,” he lied, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. “I just... I need to find her.”

Lina’s hand hovered uncertainly before falling back to her side. “Rafayel,” she began gently, “her phone’s here. Her purse. Even her car keys. Where could she have gone?”

“I don’t know,” he snapped, the sharpness in his voice born of self-directed frustration. “And that’s what’s driving me insane.” He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots as if the pain could ground him. “She’s out there somewhere, without her coat, without her phone... and it’s freezing tonight.”

Lina straightened, crossing her arms. “Then let me help—”

“No.” His interruption was immediate, his tone brooking no argument. He turned to her, his expression pained but resolute. “This is my fault. I need to fix this myself.”

“But—”

“Please, Lina,” he cut in, softer this time. “If she’s out there, you’ll hear from me. Just… if you see her, let me know. But I have to do this alone.”

After a long, hesitant pause, Lina relented, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Fine. But don’t do anything reckless. I’ll keep my eyes open and let you know if I find anything.”

Rafayel nodded, murmuring his thanks before grabbing his coat and storming out into the night.

The cold air bit at his face as he ran through the streets, his breath forming short puffs in the frigid night. He clutched his phone tightly, the screen glowing as he swiped to a recent photo of you, showing it to every passerby he stopped.

“Have you seen her?” he asked a bewildered man on the corner. “This woman? Please—it’s urgent.”

The man shook his head, muttering an apology before hurrying off. Rafayel grit his teeth, suppressing the wave of panic threatening to consume him. Where are you?

The thought repeated like a drumbeat as he made his way to the beach. The icy wind off the water made him shiver, but he pressed forward, searching desperately. He called your neighbor, pacing along the shoreline as he waited for an answer.

The voice on the other end was soft, a little worried. “No... the lights are off. The door’s locked. I haven’t seen her since this afternoon.”

His heart skipped a beat, the silence that followed pressing like a weight on his chest. Where were you? Where could you have gone? You were working so hard fore him, for the both of you since the afternoon and he wasn’t even there to experience it with you together. He could imagine it, the smile on your face as you placed those shells, the excitement in your movements as you cooked his favorite food. His eyes darted to the horizon, a dark line of water stretching out before him, and his legs moved faster, pushing him toward the shore, toward the place where you sometimes went to escape.

The beach was empty when he arrived, the wind biting at his skin, the waves crashing softly against the sand. He scanned the shoreline, dread filling him as he searched. There was no sign of you, but his heart refused to let go of the hope that you might be here.

He walked for what felt like hours, the weight of the cold creeping into his bones as the night deepened. The autumn air turned chillier, the first hints of winter brushing against his skin. You hadn’t taken your coat. You hadn’t taken anything. What was he thinking? You’d never leave without saying something. So why was he—

His breath hitched as his gaze landed on something ahead. A small lump on the sand.

His heart stopped, the world narrowing down to that single, fragile form crumpled against the cold ground.

“No!” he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. He ran towards you, his legs moving faster than they ever had before, fear propelling him forward. His feet barely touching the ground as he pushed forward, his every step frantic. He reached you within seconds, his pulse hammering in his ears. He knelt beside you, his hands trembling as he gently touched your shoulder.

“Cutie?” he called, his voice cracking. His knees hit the sand as he reached you, and his heart twisted painfully at the sight. You were curled in on yourself, your arms hugging your knees, your face hidden. Tear tracks glistened on your cheeks, even in the dim moonlight, and your body trembled from the cold.

“Shit,” Rafayel hissed, his voice barely a whisper as panic surged again. You were cold, so cold. Damp from the wet sand, your skin pale as if the very life had been drained from you. He pulled off his jacket, draping it around you as gently as he could, his hands still shaking.

Why didn’t I see it? Why didn’t I see how badly she needed me?

He slid his arms around you, his heart aching as he pulled you into his lap, cradling you as though you might break into a thousand pieces. He brushed the strands of hair from your face, his thumb gently caressing your cheek as he whispered your name over and over, praying that you would wake up. That you would hear him. “Fuck,” he breathed, feeling a wave of guilt crash over him. “What did I do? What the hell did I do…”

But he couldn’t. Not now. Now, all he could do was hold you, his arms wrapping around you protectively as he rocked gently, trying to warm you, trying to make everything okay.

“I’m here, okay? I’m here. I’m so sorry, cutie.” he whispered, his voice breaking. His mind raced, but nothing could erase the hollow ache in his chest. The thought of losing you, of failing you—he couldn’t bear it. He wouldn’t. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, the words tumbling from him like a confession he had never intended to make. “I’m so sorry. I fucked up. I messed this up, I—I’m here now.”

He clutched you tighter, trembling with the weight of his regret. The wind cut through the beach, but he barely noticed, too consumed by the sight of you—so still, so fragile, in his arms. His mind raced, scrambling for something, anything, to fix this

Your eyes fluttered open weakly, barely meeting his. You were too exhausted to respond, your body utterly spent.

“Hey,” he whispered, his voice unsteady as he gently tucked his coat tighter around you. “I’ve got you. I’m so sorry.” His thumb brushed the tear-streaked curve of your cheek, his chest aching at the evidence of your heartbreak. “You shouldn’t be out here. It’s too cold...not like this. Not alone,” Rafayel murmured, his voice thick with emotion. His hands trembled as he tried to warm you, his arms sheltering you from the relentless chill of the wind. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve—” He broke off, his throat tightening painfully. Words felt so useless now, but he couldn’t stop them. He needed you to know. “I’m the biggest idiot in the world. I forgot something so important, something that should’ve been at the center of my mind.” His arms slipped beneath you, lifting you effortlessly despite your protests—if there were any.

Your lips moved faintly, but the sound was lost in the cold wind. He leaned closer, his ear near your mouth. “What is it? I’m here. Please... say something.”

“I thought... maybe you'd care,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. The words struck him harder than any physical blow ever could. He felt the sting in his chest, his breath hitching as guilt twisted the knife deeper.

“I do care!” he exclaimed, his voice desperate. “More than anything. I was just... I was so caught up in everything else, and I—I didn’t realize how much you needed me. How much you’ve always been there for me. I messed up, cutie. I know I did.”

You shivered against him, and he shifted to shield you better from the biting wind. “Let me take you home,” he pleaded, his voice softer now. “We’ll fix this. I’ll fix this. I’ll make it right, I swear.”

For a long moment, you didn’t respond, and his heart hammered in his chest. Finally, you gave the faintest of nods, your head resting against his chest. You shivered in his arms, your eyes fluttering shut again, too drained to muster a response. Panic surged in Rafayel as he felt how cold your skin was against his. He shifted, standing with you carefully cradled in his arms, his coat wrapped tightly around you.

“Hey, hey, stay with me,” he pleaded, his voice urgent but soft. “I need you to hold on, okay? Just a little longer. Let’s get you somewhere warm.” He pressed his cheek to your temple for a moment, as though the simple touch might reassure you—and himself—that you were still here with him.

Rafayel didn’t waste a second. He scooped you up gently, careful not to jostle you. The warmth of his jacket wrapped around your frame and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat seemed to soothe some of the tension in your body. He murmured quiet reassurances as he carried you, his voice a constant presence in the cold, empty night. His normally cocky demeanor had shattered into shards of raw vulnerability, replaced by a frantic urgency to get you home—his home. Your breathing was shallow, your limbs slack in his hold, and every uneven step he took felt like walking a tightrope with everything he valued most precariously balanced in his grasp. He adjusted his hold, cradling you tighter against his chest. “Look, I know I’m an idiot sometimes. Fine, most of the time,” he admitted, his words a jumble of nervous energy and shaky humor. “But this isn’t the time to prove me wrong, alright? Just hang on a little longer. I’m taking you home.”

By the time you reached the studio, the candlelight had dimmed, but the room still held the warmth of the love you had poured into it. Rafayel carried you inside. By the time he reached the threshold of his room, his shirt clung to him, drenched from sweat and your tears. He nudged the door open with his shoulder, careful not to jostle you, and hurried inside.

The room was cold and dimly lit, the heater long dormant. He set you down on the bed, fumbling with the blankets to cocoon you in their warmth. Your body trembled, and his chest constricted as he watched you stir faintly before slipping deeper into unconsciousness.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, barely audible at first, as if the walls themselves might condemn him. Then louder, more desperate, his voice cracking. “I’m so damn sorry. I was stupid—so, so stupid. I should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve kept you safe. Should’ve—” He stopped himself, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek to stifle the sob building in his throat. His eyes flickered between his usual hues and that unearthly blue every now and then.

His hands hovered over your face, fingers trembling as he brushed damp strands of hair from your skin. “You’re too good for me, you know that? Too good for someone who screws up as much as I do. But I promise—” His voice broke, the words spilling out in a frenzied rush. “I promise I’ll make it up to you. Il love you, cutie. I love you so much.” And then, because even in his rawest moments he couldn’t help himself, he added with a weak, self-deprecating chuckle, “I am lucky I’m this charming, or I don’t think you’d ever put up with me.”

He turned on the heater, pacing back and forth as he muttered under his breath, berating himself in every way he could think of, his brattiness peeking through as he cursed the broken world that had led to this moment. He glanced at you repeatedly, as if reassuring himself you hadn’t vanished, that you hadn’t slipped through his fingers.

When you stirred, your eyelids fluttering open, he froze mid-step. His usual confident smirk was gone, replaced by wide, guilt-stricken eyes. “You’re awake,” he blurted, his voice filled with relief but tinged with apprehension. “I know I screwed up,” he admitted quietly, his lips brushing against your temple. “But—seriously, who let you do this to yourself, huh? Oh wait, that’s me. Fantastic job, Rafayel. Bravo.” He huffed out a shaky laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, sitting at your bedside. The words spilled out before he could stop them, over and over again. “I’m so, so sorry. This—this isn’t how it was supposed to go. You’re supposed to be mad at me, not like this. Not…” His voice cracked, and he scrubbed a hand down his face, frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

Then, almost instinctively, the mask of bravado slipped back into place. “But, hey, look at you, stealing my bed like it’s your right. I mean, sure, I offered, but still.” His smirk faltered, his voice softening. “You better not make a habit of this, you know? Making me worry this much.”

You shifted, your eyelids fluttering completely open, and the sight of your weary gaze meeting his nearly unraveled him.

“Raf?” Your voice was weak, barely audible, but it was enough to snap him upright.

“Hey, you’re awake!” He forced a grin, though it couldn’t hide the guilt pooling in his eyes. “Good, because I was just about to start serenading you with an apology song. Don’t ask for a refund… the lyrics are terrible.”

You tried to sit up, but he was on you in an instant, gently pressing you back down. “Whoa, whoa, no sudden moves, alright? Just... stay put for once. Let me handle it for a change.”

"Handle what?" you asked, your voice edged with exhaustion and confusion.

His grin wavered, giving way to something more honest, more afraid. “Everything. All of it. I... I screwed up, okay? I’m the idiot who let you get like this, who didn’t see—who didn’t stop—” His words tangled, and he exhaled sharply. “I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry, and I’ll keep saying it until you believe me. Or, you know, until you tell me to shut up. Whichever comes first.”

Your lashes fluttered weakly again, and a barely audible sound escaped your lips. “...Rafayel...?”

His heart soared and broke all at once at the sound of your voice. “I’m here,” he said quickly, leaning closer so you could hear him clearly. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

Tears welled in his eyes as you looked up at him, your gaze heavy with exhaustion and something he couldn’t quite name—hurt, maybe, or disappointment. It cut him deeper than any blade ever could.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice a choked whisper. “I know that doesn’t fix this, but I swear, I’ll spend every moment making it up to you if you let me.”

For a moment, silence hung between you, broken only by the hum of the heater and the soft whistle of the wind outside. Finally, you whispered, your voice trembling, “I waited...”

“I know,” he whispered, his tears falling freely now. “You shouldn’t have had to. You deserve better than that, better than me—but I’m begging you, please give me another chance. Don’t give up on me yet.”

Finally, your voice, though weak, broke the quiet. “You forgot... something that meant so much to me.”

Rafayel’s throat tightened, but he nodded, accepting your words. “I know. And I’ll spend as long as it takes to make it up to you. I’ll show you how much you mean to me. I love you,” he whispered against your skin, the words soft but raw with sincerity. “More than anything. More than I can even say. I don’t deserve you, but… please, let me try. Let me make it up to you.”

“Don’t leave me,” he repeated, his voice a breathless whisper, “Not like this.” His voice cracked on the last word, and for a moment, you could see the mask slip—just for a second. Rafayel was scared. Scared of losing you. Scared of failing you. It was the one thing he had never let you see, the one thing he kept locked away in the deep recesses of his heart, but now, it was clear as day.

As you looked at him, something shifted between the two of you—an understanding, perhaps. You could see his desperation, the way he clung to the edges of his composure, trying to hide the vulnerability he never allowed anyone to witness.

I thought... I thought this was everything I could give. Everything I could be..." your own voice cracking.

He shook his head again, his grip never loosening. “You’re so much more than all of this. I’ve been blind, cutie. And now I can see it—see you.” He gently cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks as if to erase every doubt that had taken root there. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for making you feel invisible.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, the tears still staining your face, but the weight of his words was a strange kind of relief. He was here. He saw you now. The storm of emotions inside you hadn’t dissipated, but his presence, the raw sincerity in his voice, made you feel something close to safety.

Rafayel kissed your forehead softly, the gentle pressure of his lips a tender promise. “I’m here, cutie. And I’ll do everything I can to make this right. You won’t feel invisible again.”

You nodded slowly, the tears still flowing, but there was a flicker of hope, however faint. "Just... don't forget again," you whispered.

“I won’t,” he promised, his voice firm, but his eyes were full of vulnerability. "I won’t. Never again."

You didn’t respond immediately, your eyes closing as if you were too weary to respond. But when Rafayel reached for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours, a faint squeeze answered him. It wasn’t forgiveness, not yet, but it was enough—a thread of hope that he clung to with everything he had. For now, you didn’t pull away, and that was a start.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

Rafayel version | Zayne version | Sylus version | Caleb Version

[blueivyy99]

Calm and Serenity (Part 2)

Sylus x Non!Mc

summary: you didn't know what sylus saw in you. he said you were calm, quiet and serene and that's what he needs. you believed it. he showed it. not until little miss hunter came. she's everything you're not. news that she's in danger can make the ever so calm sylus to run and leave everything behind. it made you think, would he do that for you as well?

tags: angst, romance, hurt and comfort, confused sylus, non-mc reader (this is it for now)

note: thank you for the love in the previous chapter 🥹

Series Masterlist

It's been a month or two since the last time you've been with Sylus. It saddens you that the time you get to spend together is cut short, only seeing each other at night when he pleases to have dinner or greet you goodnight.

You asked Luke and Kieran about what's happening, but they don't know either. They just know it has something to do with Miss Hunter, about Aether Core, about something that you have very little knowledge about. You mentally noted to search about it later.

“He is very grumpy lately,” Luke said, "He was glaring at us like he wants to skin us alive whenever me and my twin are being a little louder than normal.”

"The only one safe from his anger is Miss Hunter,” Kieran added. "I don't appreciate that Boss is playing favorites in our team.”

You tried not to let out a shaky breath. Luke noticed and he had to elbow Kieran to make him shut up.

"Sorry, Y/N.”

You gave him a small smile. "It's okay. I'll try and catch Sylus one of these days. I'll talk to him.”

The twins scurry away while arguing. They think they offended you and they are passing on the blame with each other.

On normal days, it's not easy to get you offended but lately, every little thing just makes you … sensitive.

Maybe it started when you wanted that crow brooch that is neatly placed on Sylus's table …

When you asked him for it he just said, “It's for Miss Hunter,"

He took it from your hand. Albeit gently, it still weighed heavy in your heart.

You know you don't always get your way but with the little seeds of jealousy slowly growing in your heart, it's easy to feel hurt and feel neglected.

You just wanted that damn brooch and you know that he can buy another piece. Or even make you a custom-made one, one that is more inclined on your taste.

You took a deep breath.

Sylus is stressed. You know that and it's not right to add more to his burden. It's just a brooch after all.

“I-I didn't know, but when you have the time to grab one, remember me, okay?” you said.

"Next time, sweetie.” He replied and quickly went back to reading reports.

You don't know if he took your words seriously, but you have enough faith in him to trust that he did.

Or maybe the disappointment started when you wanted to go to Linkon.

There's a newly opened arcade shop that you're really itching to go.

Normally, Sylus would agree and watch you play. He's not the best when it comes to the claw machine, anyway.

So imagine your surprise when he rejected your offer. Not only that, the answer that followed chipped away at your heart little by little.

“Me and Miss Hunter already went there. It's not as fun as the other ones you've tried. You're just gonna waste your time there. Not even new plushies,” he even had the audacity to roll his eyes at that.

It seemed like he didn't think before speaking or he didn't see anything wrong with what he said.

Truthfully, there is none. The logical part of you knows he didn't say anything wrong. But for fuck's sake! Really telling your girlfriend that you went to the arcade with another woman? That's new. That's not something she expected of Sylus.

“You went with her?" you asked. You're anticipating his answer. Praying it's something logical. Something acceptable.

Please tell me it has something to do with those missions.

He looked at you, trying to see what's in your mind but you didn't show anything. Blocking any negative emotions from seeping on the cracks of your face. You tried to look as curious and as genuine as you can be.

Thankfully, he believed that.

“Yes. We went there after getting some intel around the area. She dragged me inside and she played until her heart's content. I remembered she went home with that crow plushie with a bib. She looked happy,"

You almost wanted to scoff at his face. You wanted that plushe as well, he seemed to forget about that. If it's only about the plushie maybe you can push down these negative feelings but here he is looking so endeared while saying that. As if he's not talking to his girlfriend.

Patience. Patience.

“I see. Good for her.” you said. "I also want that crow stuffed toy. Good thing to know they have them."

You tried giving him a hint. It's not like you to make anyone guess what's on your mind.

But then there's silence. And a beep on his phone. He tore his gaze away from you and your statement long forgotten.

At that point, you're holding yourself together trying not to scream and yell at him.

Maybe that's where it started. Maybe it's when you know that the distractions were not just caused by the missions but by Miss Hunter herself.

==

You sighed. It's evening and Sylus is still nowhere to be found. You texted him but you're met with silence. You wanted to call, but you hesitated. It feels like you don't have the right to do it.

Worry starts gnawing at you when Luke and Kieran hurriedly go out. They didn't even have the chance to say a proper goodbye.

Minutes kept ticking, and you heard it.

Explosions.

Your heart stopped and you wanted to run to where it was because something tells you that Sylus is there. He's in danger.

But before you can even step out of the base, Sylus's men stopped you.

“Boss’s orders to not let the Madame go out when the mission is in full swing. Please wait for him here."

You wanted to pull your hair out. You're trembling with worry but anywhere you go, someone will stop you. You can't even sneak out because that will surely trigger the alarms.

With a heavy heart you slumped on the couch.

“Fucking hell, Sylus what is happening when are you coming home!” you muttered to yourself.

You kept pacing and pacing every second seemed to last a lifetime.

Until the door opened.

And there he was, shirt torn, hair deshiveled and a few scratches on his body.

"Thank God you're alive!” you exclaimed and caught his heavy body before he lost consciousness.

"Sylus? Sylus!” you tried shaking him, but he won't wake up.

You settled him on the couch and grabbed the nearest first aid kit you can reach. Sylus might have the fastest regeneration in the world but it won't ease your worries about the small cuts that still remains on his body.

You tried suppressing your tears seeing him like this but you just can't. As you press the cotton on his cuts, you can't help but open your mouth and nag him about being careless.

“I know you think that this body is invincible, but please be careful! You need to come home to me. You have to come home to me. No matter how I'm annoyed at you right now, you don't have the rights to make me worry like this.”

“What's so important in that mission that you exhaust yourself like this? What's so important about Miss Hunter that you're willing to do such great lengths?"

You know that he can't hear you, but still you talked to him until you calmed down and ask his men to help you settle him in bed after changing him. You called the physician to check him up for anything. You kept yourself busy to shrugg of the nerves but those questions still linger in your head.

Sylus is a strategist even though he looks smug and arrogant. He carefully plans everything and tries to move in quiet only letting the results speak for themselves.

But this? This is not the usual.

Explosions everywhere and declaring a full on war with his enemies is not his style. You know that there's nothing really beneficial for him in this deal with Miss Hunter.

You managed to understand a bit about what their goals are. Getting that Aether core for Miss Hunter.

Tough mission, yes. But Sylus won't grab it if he won't benefit from it. And that's what you're left puzzled with. Sylus is a businessman, everything should be give and take.

So? What's in it for him?

==

You didn't expect the answer to voluntarily come to you. You went to his study to look for something or anything that you can help him with now that he's still unconscious when you stumbled upon a journal.

You thought it was not Sylus's. You never see him as someone who will write down his thoughts but you were dead wrong.

You opened it expecting it to be a list of things related to Onychinus, but you were greeted with phrases, sentences and some sketches about Miss Hunter.

You read each of them, it was a jumble of words. You almost thought it was a fairytale.

Past lives.

Dragon and Sorceress.

Kindred Spirits.

Energy Linkage.

Sweet Evil Trap.

All of it is too much. Too much for your poor little heart to take. And from what you understood, Miss Hunter is from his past. Someone who has a part of his soul.

Someone he waits for.

And the bitter realization although still unfounded, you concluded that maybe she's someone he still loves.

But what about you? What's your place in the grand scheme of things?

“I’m keeping you around because you’re still useful.”

Those lines ring in your ears. Sylus always say that to everyone but you. You thought that maybe you are an exception. That you're not someone disposable to him because you matter.

And as you soak up all the information that you knew, you started to doubt yourself as well.

note: aaackkk thank u for reading lemme know your thoughts! Part 3 soonest!

[destheoren]

Love and Deepspace Non MC Reader Fics

(list inspired by: @erisnxxi )

made this collection for myself and to keep track of everything I've read so far. some are crossposted on tumblr and ao3 so I'll try to add both links (though i might miss some so let me know).

Status: Unedited & Incomplete tags; More fics to be added soon

symbols (will use soon):

✧ - smut

♡ - yandere/possessive/obsessive

☆ - angst

✴︎ - isekai/reincarnation/transmigration/reverse isekai

☁︎ - fluff

𖥔 - self aware au (technically counts as nonmc)

Caleb:

Rotten Apples by hcntrcss: (ao3) (tumblr)

Echoes in Space by feralaffection: (ao3)

Live, for Me by kat_the_cat: (ao3)

Psychosomatic by minamidwinter: (ao3)

The Colonel's Keeper by saintobio: (tumblr)

Weightless Paradise by luvl3ss: (ao3) (tumblr)

The Engineer's Gravity by mephisto-reporting: (tumblr)

back to friends by hxlxnaaa: (tumblr) (ao3)

keeper by "anonymous": (ao3)

mine by captivating-flavors: (tumblr)

best friend's brother au by mandalhoerian7: (tumblr)

Caleb's Spitfire - MC Twin AU by lily-jaxk: (tumblr)

fake dating by militaryapple: (tumblr)

Caleb becomes a wet rat (and gets unpixelated?!) by 4-the-l0ve-0f-art : (tumblr) (ao3)

Sylus:

Rewriting Fate by feralaffection: (ao3)

when love arrives-- and when she leaves. by cainis: (ao3)

Inside an Otoge: Mister Dragon, Let Me Love You by writerclaire: (ao3) (tumblr)

A Second Life for Strays! by stupidboy: (ao3)

Error 404 by ittybittyfanblog: (tumblr)

Impartial Hearts by ladsonlads: (tumblr)

surprise encounter by kitimeq: (tumblr)

calm and serenity by blueivyy99: (tumblr)

breaking my heart, 'tis the season, i guess by cainis: (ao3)

the sin & the sinner by saintobio: (tumblr: 1, 2, 3)

heartbreak anniversary with sylus by mephisto-reporting: (tumblr)

hurts so good by comatosebunny09: (tumblr)

merry christmas, mr. sylus by comatosebunny09: (tumblr: 1, 2, 3)

sensitive by comatosebunny09: (tumblr: 1, 2)

a curse between us by eelliotss: (tumblr: 1, 2)

Fourth Wall by always-just-red: (tumblr)

Onychinus' Finest by always-just-red: (tumblr)

Emptiness by antaresr: (ao3)

ikigai by lighting_and_shadow: (ao3)

maybe by captivating-flavors: (tumblr)

enough by captivating-flavors: (tumblr: 1, 2)

Sylus' Darling - MC Twin AU by lily-jaxk: (tumblr)

out of bounds by novthirty: (tumblr)

Zayne:

Nocturne of Twilight by chuloyi: (ao3) (tumblr: 1, 2, 3, 4)

My Wedding Vow Is To Divorce You by kira-loves0905: (tumblr)

lost among the pages by lazylattedgleam: (tumblr)

just give me your forever by shaiyasstuff: (tumblr: 1, 2)

heartbreak anniversary with zayne by mephisto-reporting: (tumblr)

Gymnopédie no. 1 by deltachye: (ao3)

giliw ko (my dear) bybarefootindecember (ao3: 1, 2) (tumblr: 1, 2)

date by captivating-flavors: (tumblr)

Rafayel:

jealousy in the game by melkar: (ao3)

Intimations of Immortality by thyrd_pardie: (ao3)

When you suddenly wake up in Linkon City by irandial: (ao3) (tumblr)

heartbreak anniversary with rafayel by mephisto-reporting: (tumblr)

Fourth Wall by always-just-red: (tumblr)

Rafayel's Muse - MC Twin AU by lily-jaxk: (tumblr)

a blessed bond, broken by time by yuansie: (tumblr: 1, 2)

ocean memories by yuansie: (tumblr)

burning hearts by maddamoiselle: (tumblr)

Xavier:

Meet Me at the Edge of Time by oeggchi: (ao3)

three hours past midnight by savouringmidnights: (tumblr)

glass half full by shaiyasstuff: (tumblr)

we can't be friends by kitimeq: (ao3) (tumblr)

Multi

Insatiable by Aceecee: (ao3) (tumblr)

Fake by urlulugululueverythinggoessmoothulu: (a03)

Wildest dreams by tactfulao3: (ao3)

Cats & Deepspace by thxforthemmrs: (ao3)

on the sideline by rqyup: (tumblr)

they forget your anniversary by yeosatinyngz: (tumblr)

Hugs are Mandatory by whosashan: (tumblr)

Sneakyyy by whosashan: (tumblr)

Bitter by whosashan: (tumblr)

Borrowed Time by eelliotss: (tumblr: 1, 2, 3, 4)

I am in love and deepshit by amethystheartsx: (tumblr: 1, 2)

tempatio by morningstarfirstsin: (tumblr) (ao3)

A Hymn to You by lapetitecafe: (ao3)

[jinwoosungs]

08/19/24; 04:41pm

{ 18+ headcanons / drabbles }

[ lovemaking + aftercare with them ]

featuring: sylus, zayne, xavier, rafayel

thanks to @/nyashykyunnie for her input for zayne and rafayel.

[ minors don’t interact; by choosing to interact with this content, you have consented to viewing something n-fw despite the warnings. ]

sylus has spent hours mounting you, thrusting his cock in and out of you as you became a bit dazed in response. as you made your slow descent into madness, (your mind and body so drunk off the pleasure sylus had given you), you take a moment to admire this devastating man.

a light sheen of sweat was seen across his powerful body, letting out gasps and grunts of your name as his eyes hungrily look down at the area where he remained connected with you. just seeing the way you take in his cock so well was enough to make the onychinus leader tremble, the sheer amount of pleasure he felt coursing through his veins being immeasurable.

as if spurred on by your moans and the way your pretty, manicured nails grip at the sheets, sylus lets out a growl of your name, tossing one of your legs over his shoulders, pumping his cock with fervor in and out of your slick heat before stilling his hips completely just moments later, forcing your cunt to take in all he had to offer the moment he shoots his seed inside of you.

you moan at the sudden sensation of sylus filling you to the brim with his cum, feeling it mixing together with your own juices, leaving you panting. sylus places a chaste kiss against your cheek before landing against your body. he places the entirety of his weight on you, leaving you aching and breathless as you writhed beneath him.

“sy… please, you’re too heavy for this.”

his tired and weak chuckles were heard against your ear, and you felt the way he gently bites down against the lobe of your ear. “aw, my poor kitten, did i wear you out?”

you let out a huff in response, refusing to answer him, (yet the heat felt against your cheeks and the notable ache between your legs were more than enough proof of sylus’s relentless lovemaking). with a shake of his head, your lover gently holds down your hips before pulling out of you, earning a deep sigh from you.

knowing that you had been thoroughly rendered unable to walk by him, sylus gently takes you into his embrace, humming as he saunters toward your shared bathroom. your eyes take in the marble onyx tub, watching as sylus turns on the faucet, filling it with hot water before pouring a bottle of your favorite scented bubbles into the mix.

once your bath was prepared, sylus gently places you inside of the tub, earning a content purr from you as you were surrounded by the waters. once you were settled inside, sylus joins you, allowing your back to meet with his chest when his arms automatically wrapped around your front. you giggle upon seeing the bath waters fall onto the marble floors with sylus’s added weight. letting out a rich chuckle of your name, sylus busies himself with washing your hair, threading his fingers through them as he massages your scalp in the process.

once your hair was washed and thoroughly rinsed, sylus helps you further by spreading your legs, earning a soft moan from you when you felt his thick fingers exploring the depths of your core, cleaning you of the respective evidence of yours and sylus’s release. your meek whimpers fill at the air, feeling sylus lean down to gently bite down against your shoulder.

“hmph, the sounds you’re making are truly difficult to ignore. you’re making it hard to resist you, but i know how tired you must feel… so i’ll behave.” he admits with a grunt, with you visibly relaxing in his embrace, allowing your lover to further spoil you with his massages as he spends a copious amount of time in the bathtub with you.

zayne was simply admiring the way you gently rode him, gasping as your legs trembled in response to each painstaking thrust made against his cock. it takes him a herculean effort not to climax with you riding him so passionately that you were practically bouncing up and down his aching shaft.

filled with a desperation to be the sole cause of your release, zayne places both his hands on your hips, purposely speeding up your bounces against his cock. your eyes end up rolling to the back of your head, the pleasure almost too intense for you to handle. your back arches in response to the way zayne slams you up and down his dick, with the palm of your hands settled on his chest to help you with maintaining your balance.

“you are… magnificent. i will never get enough of you…” zayne admits to you in a breathless whisper, making you gasp as your walls sweetly clench around zayne’s cock. as your cunt grips at his dick in a vice grip, you felt every pulsating vein from zayne, making the doctor grunt before thrusting his hips upwards, his cock twitching wildly inside of you before completely releasing himself into you. your walls were coated in white, making you moan as you felt your respective releases flowing out of you and down the length of zayne’s softening cock.

with you becoming out of breath coupled along with the ache you felt all across your body, zayne’s eyes go wide before quickly pulling himself out of you. you were left moaning at the sudden loss of him, yet zayne was too distracted with his desires to take care of you for you to notice.

“you shouldn’t have exerted yourself. despite how-“ zayne cuts himself off with a cough, “despite how pleasurable it was for both of us, i should have known better than to keep pushing you. and for that i’m sorry.”

“it’s okay, z-zayne. i… it felt really good. i don’t regret it at all.” you reassure your beloved with a satisfied smile on your face, making the cardiac surgeon blush an even deeper shade of red.

zayne lets out another cough, flushing a noticeably in response when he leans closer to you, giving your lips a quick kiss before hurriedly disappearing into your shared bathroom. in his rush, zayne had forgotten to put on some clothes, giving you the perfect view of his backside as you grinned at the sight.

the sounds of running water were all you could hear, and it wasn’t until several minutes later that zayne reappears into the bedroom, picking up your pliant form with ease before taking you into the master bathroom with him. with your arms wrapped around his neck, you watch as he carefully settles you within the bathtub. the lingering scent of lavender fills your senses, and you couldn’t stop yourself from letting out a moan the moment you felt the warm waters surrounding your aching body.

with you practically melting into the bathtub, zayne places one last kiss against your hair. “enjoy your bath, my love. and i’ll return once everything is ready for you.”

you frown, wanting him to join you, too. but his sudden departure from the bathroom makes you pout a bit. but alas, your lover had always been like this-

becoming a complete and total mother hen when it came to caring for you. knowing it was best to not argue with zayne when he became so passionate, you decided to wash yourself, cleansing your body of the sweat and fluids that remained as evidence of your copulation just moments ago.

losing track of time of how long you had been in the bath, you end up feeling a bit startled when zayne reappears. he smiles back at you, now dressed in a pair of sweatpants and shirt. with a plush towel in hand, zayne sweetly beckons at you to stand up for him, allowing him to dry you completely as he begins to drain the bathtub of the water.

once he was satisfied, your lover wraps you in the towel and carries you out of the tub. not allowing you to lift even a single finger, zayne rids your damp body of the towel, choosing instead to don your form in a comfortable robe before carrying you once more. with you clinging to him, you gently place kisses against his jawline, eyes trailing toward your shared bed when you realize that zayne had completely changed the sheets and blankets. you become flustered at this fact, feeling embarrassed at being the reason why zayne had switched out the bedding with something fresh and new.

zayne senses your embarrassment, yet doesn’t comment on it. as he settles himself into bed with you, you saw that he had another surprise up his sleeve. watching him with love filled in your gaze, you notice the way he brings over a tray filled with your favorite foods over from the nightstand, picking up one of the utensils as he cuts a piece of it off for you, hand feeding you the morsel as you let out a dreamy sigh, feeling overjoyed that you were able to call the king of aftercare as your own.

xavier didn’t hold back when it came to his quick pounds deep inside of you, holding up your leg as he kept fucking himself against you. your mind was void of all coherent thoughts, becoming filled with the delicious friction caused by xavier’s cock nestled so deeply within you.

your moans and constant cries of his name makes a surge of confidence go through him. your sweet mewls and the sensation of your walls gripping him so tightly was enough to make the young hunter lose his damn mind. his eyes had long been eclipsed by darkness as evidence of the way they had remained dilated at the mere sight of you. there was something achingly addicting to the sensation of your walls squelching in response to each of his heated thrusts, filling him with the need to make you lose all control for him.

“hah… fuck… you’re squeezing me so much…! you’re practically milking me.”

the pleasured phrases falling from xavier’s lips makes you cry out even further, sobbing into your pillow while he slams his hips even deeper into you. the man had become obsessed with having your walls gripping him oh so tightly, and he briefly wondered if he could make you spill your juices onto him.

his darkened eyes focus on your swollen bundle of nerves, watching the way your pretty pussy practically devours his cock. with a grunt of your name, xavier reaches forward to give your swollen pearl a gentle pinch, earning a gasp from you. he was relentless in taking you now, gently rolling your swollen clit between his fingers while continuing his movements. with his cock continuously disappearing and reappearing, you lost the last bit of your control, letting out a hiss as you came.

feeling the increase in moisture surrounding his already sensitive cock, xavier stills his hips with his eyes clenched shut, already shooting the rest of his seed deep inside of your womb with his balls tightening in response. a low string of curses manages to escape from xavier, basking in the sensation of his cock emptying everything that it had as he kept on pumping his seed inside of you.

by the end of it all, you were too drunk and exhausted to say a single word, eyes going a little hazy. xavier wasn’t faring any better, but manages to pull out of you all the same.

you had your eyes closed, ready to doze off when you felt a strong hand suddenly spread your legs. a soft whine escapes from you, and you manage to look down to see xavier himself placing his face between your legs. the sensation of his wet tongue cleaning at your entrance makes you shiver, yet you lost all the energy to protest. instead, you allow xavier to spread your legs even further for him, placing your hand against his golden strands of hair to help with guiding him against you as he utilizes his hot mouth alone for the sole purpose of cleaning you.

not wishing to forget your every expression, rafayel decided to make love to you in the missionary position. with his hair covering his face in tune to his every thrusts, the young artist couldn’t help but admire just how responsive you were to his every touch.

each time he rams his cock back inside of you, your breasts would bounce beautifully, your gaze becoming even more filled with lust and adoration for him.

your moans were nothing short of being absolute music to his ears, and he basked in the way he was able to play your body like a symphony, using his cock for the purpose of your pleasure alone.

the mere sight of your gorgeous face twisted in absolute and utter pleasure was almost too much for rafayel to bear, making him insane as he leans down to capture your hardened nipples within his hot mouth. the sensation of his tongue licking a stripe up your aching breasts makes you gasp, hands already delving into his soft strands of hair. you lightly pull against those strands, earning a grunt from him as he began to shamelessly suckle on your nipples.

your climax was quickly approaching, and the moment rafayel felt your walls clenching around him so tightly did he lose all sense of control. stilling his hips, he pumps the rest of his seed inside of you, fully emptying himself with a low hiss of your name.

you were practically sobbing beneath him, hands clenching at the ruined sheets below you as you took in all that he had to offer. the lemurian’s gaze looks down at the spot where you remained connected to him, becoming filled with pride at just how well you managed to take him in.

“such a good girl for me… you’re my sole princess.” rafayel admits to you with a soft smile, pressing lingering kisses against your damp skin. when both of your respective releases simmers down to a manageable level, rafayel remains buried deep inside of you.

knowing that your body was aching, he spends a good amount of time massaging your shoulders and hips, applying the right amount of pressure on them. still feeling a bit naughty, the artist ends up wrapping his arms beneath your back, picking up your form, ensuring that your heaving breasts were settled before him as he spends yet another good chunk of time littering them with kisses all while gently sucking on your sensitive nipples.

he continues to chuckle at how responsive you still were, finally ceasing with his almost hedonistic massages against your skin. realizing just how tired you were when you let out a yawn, rafayel makes sure his limp cock was still connected to your slick walls (despite how much of a challenge it was to place you both beneath the covers without breaking such an intimate contact.)

seeing the way your lover struggled makes you giggle weakly in response, earning a playful glare from him that was certainly not a pout. you listen as rafayel huffs before placing your face within his naked chest after managing to pull the comforter over both your forms.

“sleep, my princess, and i’ll be sure to treat you to something nice when morning comes.”

his gentle voice was all the urging you needed to succumb to your exhaustion, allowing your eyelids to grow heavier before falling into a deep slumber…

end notes: it is so easy to thirst for the lads boys and i am just so shameless at this point 🫠

all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!

[ryusjwks]

I have seen many fics with quite, npc-alike, normies reader in non-Mc angst fic but whats your thoughts about reader that share same character traits with MC? Strong, actroverted, sassy, witty, outgoing, hummorous but some how they still choose her. Reader dont know what they lack but deep down cant denny MC aura as the main character. Like Reader can offer all Mc can offer so why cant the MLs choose them? I like to picture the jealousy that Reader struggling with since Mc is also their friend, a different kind of self doubt n stuff😤👀

First of all, thank you for the question! I’ve actually been wanting to talk about this topic for a long time, but I never really had the opportunity.

In my opinion, non-MC reader characters are the embodiment of perfection. The fact that they are willing to endure every hardship for the one they love and are ready to challenge the world for them is simply incredible. I have deep admiration for such people in real life as well—they are the epitome of pure devotion and selflessness, and they truly deserve the world.

However, when we look at this situation from the MC’s perspective—even if the non-MC were just like MC—there are many reasons why they would still be unable to attain that love. The main issue is that the other love interests’ souls and very existence are intrinsically bound to MC.

Even if the love interests were to acknowledge the non-MC’s feelings and develop emotions for them in return, leaving MC would be nearly impossible. This is because MC is the one who gives meaning to their souls, guides their existence, and grants them the joy of living. Their very being is shaped by MC’s presence, making it impossible to sever that bond.

I recently read a headcanon on this topic, and I believe it provided one of the most logical explanations for this dilemma. In the end, the unrequited love experienced by non-MC characters only adds to the depth of their tragedy and sacrifice, making their devotion even more poignant

[ice-cream-writes-stuff]

ErROr.3

Love and Deepspace Various! / Reader

《File welcomes you! Enter! ... Good Luck.》

-

Enjoying the momentary peace of the cafe, you watch your break time come into fruition. Grabbing your lunch bag, you get ready to head to head over to the break room. But cease your actions when the oh-so familiar door opens to a new customer.

With a somber smile, you place your bag down and look towards the newcomer. Greeting them cheerfully as you pull out a pen and paper for their order.

"Hi (Y/N)!" MC waves to you as Xavier and her step inside. That catches your attention immediately. "Oh, hey! Stopping in for lunch?"

"Yes." Xavier replied as you fan yourself with your notepad. "Hah... Isn't our precious city protected by such lovely people." You say dreamily as MC giggles, face warm as Xavier cheeks tickled pink.

"Well, I'll get your favorites. Hang on a minute please~"

You skip over to the kitchen as the Hunter duo eye the small bag nestled between the register and tip jar.

"Hm?" Xavier doesn't make a move to grab, instead relaying on context clues.

"Ah, it's their lunch." He realized.

MC stiffens, her palms becoming clammy with guilt. "Y-you don't think we're interfering with their break... R-right?" She gulps, as Xavier becomes more quiet.

His lovely eyes slowly widening as the two of them stand quietly in shame.

You arrive back with their items, carrying them with practice eased. "So, what table did you wan- huh?"

Xavier grabs the trays with food from your hold as MC grabs your lunch. The two Hunters nod at one another, a unspoken truce between the pair in loves rivalry. They stood close, shoulder-shoulder as they escort you to a near table.

"Wow..." You gape at their straightforward tactic, rather impressive!

Xavier sets the food down as MC pulls out your chair. Pushing you in as she gently lays your bag on your lap. "You should have lunch with us." Xavier states as MC readily agreed. "Yeah, it's much more fun this way."

Opening your bag as you bite of your dish you brought from home. Smiling with each tasty bite.

You glance away from the two, opening up your phone. A old article displayed of some T.V show, a young woman's photo was shown. Long brown locks a sweet smile as her gleam, underneath her photo was a description of her time as producer.

MC eyes the article, questioning you about it.

"Oh, it' just something I found. Why, does it look familiar?"

Your tone becomes softer as she shakes her head. Xavier peeks at the screen, but he too, didn't seem all informative about the subject. Lips thinning into a tiny frown, shrug.

"I guess it doesn't matter, I was actually looking for a article for Lemire!~" You replied, switching the tab to a cute photo of a plush version of the hero sitting on your dresser.

MC smiles sharply, "AH I SEE... So, he's your protecter?" After saying those words, she recoiled a bit. "And here I thought I was your knight... Damn plush." She whispers under her breath as Xavier was silent at the revelation

-

Humming along to the rather "old" song from a old "familiar" idol. You laugh at the sillimanites of his voice. Glancing at the image on the screen, the idols blonde tresses all a flurry as he smiles the viewer.

You do your best to copy the well-trained steps as you dip the mop in a half-hearted waltz.

"!-" A small gasp leaves Zayne as he watches you break the object in two within your hold. You toss it behind your back, ignoring the way it seemed to try and reteach itself.

"Dr. Zayne! A cup of coffee and slow dance?" You invite, masking your worry with a grin.

The doctor grimaces, "I apologize, I thought you would still be open. I'll see myself out-"

You don't answer his apology, merely instead reaching out to him. Gripping his sleeve like a lifeline as you shake your head. "NO! N-no, your fine." Pulling him closer, you drag him in a spinning twirl as he gapes at you.

"It's okay Doctor Zayne; I needed a new dance partner anyway." You say happily, tone becoming begging. "If it's the song, I can change it." You hastily reply.

The doctor, although tired on his feet and wished for a small cup of coffee so he can finish some overnight paperwork. Lets himself indulge in your desire to dance with him. The music keeping the two of you close as you grin effortlessly as he lets you lead.

-

Trying to keep still, Rafayel eyes his sketchbook, as you sat on the rather nice couch. MC stands behind the artist as she fidgets with her gloves. Trying to keep her composure as you shift in the rather... Flowy, outfit.

"Miss Bodyguard, please stop moving. You're annoying my concertation for the subject."

You look towards the female, curious.

"The same goes for you."

"Right! Sorry!"

Rafayel sighs, "I'll put a pause for a moment."

You get up, stretching as you waddle in the clothes without a care. Rafayel rolls his eyes, but follows suit. He walks to your side, notebook left in his former chair.

"Next pose, I'd like you to look at a reference I have for you. "

Pulling out a slip of paper, he hands it to you.

MC carefully peaks at the sketch book, eyes widening.

"That's... That is way too-!" She hushes herself, opting ignore the rather detailed drawing. ...Maybe she'll sang a small photo though on her phone while the artist was distracted.

You on the other hand, gaped at the pose. "I-I.. I.."

Rafayel raises his fingers to your chin, tilting your head to look at him. "Can you do it?" He asks softly...

You could see the hidden depths of the sea in his eyes. Strong, tantalizing.. Always moving..

A happy sigh leaves you as you nodded without much thought. Too preoccupied with his attention on you. "Yes.. Of course."

"Good."

The paper falls out from your hands as it's floats to the ground.

-

Caleb eyes the pomegranate in your hand, cutting up the fruit.

Pipsqueak had invited you over to the apartment for a movie and snacks. Though she hadnt realized that Caleb coincidentally chose to stop by before he would return to his duties.

Without much of a word from you during hus visit, you kept to yourself in the kitchen. Cutting up fruits for a snack for all three of you. He recalled chiding Pipsqueak for lacking in her "Host" duties. Yet the girl pouted and had told him she wouldn't get far arguing you to relax with them in the living room.

Being polite, the male offered his assistance.

"Ah, no. It's fine." You reply, focused on rinsing the apples and pomegranates. He watched you quietly, waiting for the moment he could step in.

It was...

Too much!

Though, it may of looked strange. You were honest reveling in his attention, trying desperately not to make a fool out of yourself!

It was sweet he wanted to help! But you didn't want him to not hang out with his one and only Pipsqueak!

You place down the apples and pomegranates on the cutting boards. A few other freshly washed fruits placed on the side in a bowl.

"You know... Pipsqueak talks about you a lot."

"..." You don't reply, too bashful.

"I can see why, your quite interesting."

You pause, placing down your items as you look at him straight in the eye. Caleb smiles, though he seemed unsure. Did he say something that upset you??

"... T.. Thank you." You said sincerely, determined to get your affection across. "Your interesting too, MC always talked about how nice and cool you are. She.. Really missed you. So, I'm glad I get to meet another important person in her life. Even if it's just for.. A small time."

You babbled with confidence, with every LADS, you wished to tell them what you knew about them. You could only hint at little information without being "caught" for knowing of there Myths or past stories.

So.. You'll focus on the now, and stear the story the best you could from the sidelines.

Caleb's smile parts a bit, frazzled by the words. Though he didn't mind, rather it stirred a nice feeling within him. It made everything feel so... Good. That's all there was too it.

-

Kirean and Luke follow besides Sylus, jotting down the notes from the notepad you gave the two.

"So, you have to carefully trace the creme on top-"

You pause, making sure the twins were poking each other with their pencils. Sighing in relief as they behaved, most likely due to Sylus warning them with just a look.

"And then... There! A perfect latte art!"

The twins clap respectfully, as Sylus lets a small laugh slip by his lips. "Here, try it. I know it's not your usual, but I promise it's delicious." You grin, pushing the cup to him.

The male leans down to look at the small foamy shape, resembling a puppy.

"It's quite cute." He compliments. You thank him, before turning to the twins. "Now, the materials and instructions at your disposal, get ready.... NOW!"

You cheer as the two grab their respective cups.

You smile, enjoying the silliness of it all. "I'm surprised the Twins wanted to learn Sylus. But I don't mind being called here, I love stopping by." You tell him, as the male grins back.

"I couldn't agree more."

-

{Part 1. Side Story 1. Side Story 2. Side Story 3. Side Story 4. Side Story 5.}

@mangooes @deputy-videogamer @yoongi-tunes @3ophelia3 @kuni-k @paledonutking @i-literally-dk @liz9898

[I have been reading so many non mc stuff theyre so amazingly written! I sorta wanna make more non mc content that diverts from this series? Would Ya'll be interested in that? Lemme know down in the comments! Comments, reblogs are super appreciated! Thanks for reading, see yall later!]

[hanimanny]

LaDs x non!mc , angst

non!mc idea where in every universe, in every timeline, you’re only there to watch one of the Lis fall in love with MC. you, as their closest companion, stuck by their side since the dawn of time, bare witness of a love story never for you.

and now we’re in the current timeline and you watch it happen all over again.

You've grown to watch silently, in the background. In the shadow of MC. Her beauty, her confidence, her kindness.

You've seen in all before, the way they look at her, love her, yearn for her; sucked into her gravity. And like your love for the Lis, you're pulled into too, forever following, watching, but never experiencing. 

You've mastered silent devotion, a writhing, numbing ache that you can never seem to rid. Heavy on the chest, suffocating to the heart. Since you couldn't  love them loudly like they do with MC, yearn them in the same way they yearn for her; you sit back and grow hollow, more empty. 

Even when tragedy strikes, perhaps a fatal injury by a wanderer, a horrible collision with a car, a terrible drowning, a freak accident; maybe pure exhaustion. You're left to revel in your own patheticness, of loving someone untouchable. 

In many ways, you're just like them.

Because, even in your final breath,  you think of them, and how much you love them despite all it all. 

Maybe the gods pity you, lord knows you've done enough yourself. Now reincarnated to a new world, our world. where Linkon is just some made up place in a game everyone’s been raving about on twitter. where you’re happy; whole; complete. 

Where you hold no memory of your past life. No memory of them. 

In your new life, as you play Love and Deep Space and design your MC the way you’d think the LIs would love. They’re looking at you. Really look at you, maybe for the first time since the duration of your friendship? relationship?

because after your death, something unspeakable till this day. they’ve finally noticed your absence. the silence. 

Unable to fill the hole you left, not with work, not with time, not with love. 

so when their phone lights up, months after your death, and they see you. Alive, and look it too. much more alive than they've ever seen you. Your face is so bright, almost glowing. and you bar a smile they have never seen. or at least, they don’t remember.

you’re alive and you’re happy.

Soon, they find the pattern of your appearance, when they’re phone lights up and your beaming face appears. and so they wait, daily, to see you again.

when you talk to ‘them’ through your phone, about your life, your troubles, your joys. they just sit and listen, listen to all you have to say.

Because their version of you isn't here anymore. They can’t hear your voice, see your face, feel your touch.

This time, they'll love you right, like how they should have all along. Pulled into the gravity that is, you. So they cling to you, through their  phone. 

Close enough to hear you, to see you, but never touch you.

have fun

[sometimeslwish]

The Ocean Beyond The Sea

I don't have a writer's note for this one... uuhh, reblog to show support? Idk. Anyways, the legendary tag goes for @comatosebunny09

Edit: I lied, I forgot to translate the nickname over here. "Mi vida" is spanish for "my life," it's kind of on par with "my love" or "my heart," I wanted to show how reader is devoted to Rafayel with that specific nickname.

Tags: Rafayel x non mc reader, brief sex scene, mentions of wounds and blood, mention of main character death (don't worry, nothing too deep, just a lore drop) ambiguous ending

Bottom Of The Deep Blue Sea

Take Me Back To Eden

Oh, how great it is to drown.

You smile at him, raising a hand to caress his cheek, touch reverent. He leans into it, nuzzling your palm and closing his eyes.

"My love," you greet, leaning close and nuzzling his nose.

"Mi vida," you whisper against his lips. You can feel his smile against your lips and his happiness pulls at the corners of your mouth too. You end up hiding your face in his neck, taking in his scent.

You lie in bed, limbs tangled along the sheets. It's hard to tell who is where and where you end.

It's perfect.

. . . . .

"Can I worship you," you say against his chest, "please?" You raise your eyes to look up at him. You're between his legs, your hands on his thighs and oh, wouldn't you give him all of you?

His face is flushed and now you know how bigger love can get.

"Please, my love, let me worship you," you beg again, hugging his waist and offering your chest for him to grind into. You're needy, almost just as needy as he is, desperate to show your love, to let him feel it.

. . . . .

You call out his name like a prayer. Amongst moans, pleased sighs, "I love you's" and "I'm yours."

He calls you his mate, his beloved bride, says words in lemurian you faintly recognize the meaning of. Loses himself in you as you loose yourself in him.

. . . . .

You don't shadow him anymore. Instead, you switch places with miss hunter when you have missions to do.

Sylus will greet you with mirth in his eyes and a knowing look. A look you mirror at him when you see him interact with miss hunter.

It took you a while to trust her– a threat to your house in the dark and your home in the sea.

It took her a while to trust you– a phantom with just as much power as the devil.

You're surprised you became friends, but you guess it happens when you have people you care about in common.

. . . . .

You don't heal as fast as Sylus does.

You are human, after all.

You don't bleed as much as one, though. Which you guess is good enough, less blood to clean.

It hurts and you want to go back home.

You push through still.

The reward of seeing his face and hearing his voice will be more than enough.

. . . . .

"My love, I'm okay," you try to soothe, raising an uninjured hand to touch his cheek, "Don't worry yourself sick, I'll survive."

He's not convinced, you can see the turmoil in his eyes.

Your dear heart, always so beautiful and enchanting. You close your eyes and hide your face in the comfort of his neck, leaving a soft his there.

"I'll only die if you wish it so," you whisper, it's a confession.

He tenses under you and you nuzzle into his neck and rub his back with the same uninjured hand.

He protests softly when you wrap both arms around him. When you come out from hiding, you give him a smile and show him your hands. Both completely healed now.

"See? I'm okay."

. . . . .

You pull him into the water.

For once, you trade spots. You enchant and he follows.

The fondness in his eyes makes you feel whole.

You don't know how far from shore you've gone, but you enjoy being in his arms.

It's quiet, under the water. And, even though you don't need him to kiss you for you to breathe– your body already adapted– you still kiss him.

You'll worship him even in death, you're sure of that.

. . . . .

He brings out sides of you that you thought we're dead. Lost to the experiments done on you.

He makes you laugh.

The first time it happens, it's over something ridiculous, so much so, that both of you forget all about it as you laugh.

Your laugh is loud, as opposed to your quiet demeanor.

"It suits you, I like it," he whispers against your cheek.

"You looked so beautiful," he says when he pulls away, and you understand what he means when he grabs a sketch book.

It's the happiest you've ever felt.

. . . . .

You're here again. This time, you're with him.

And miss hunter.

And Sylus.

You're not surprised. A little more, and you'd think you're cut from the same cloth.

You greet him with a nod and a soft smile.

The first of them that isn't faked or forced. It doesn't feel wrong anymore.

Miss hunter comments on your obvious happiness and you tease her with hers.

Rafayel is quick to join, and it's fun to see the men interact.

A sass battle that you, unfortunately, have to break off.

You pull him away with a soft kiss to his ear that makes him splutter and blush, your arm at his waist.

This time, he pulls you along for the tour.

You've already seen the paintings, were there through the process. You're still happy to celebrate him.

You don't gush praise for him, but with the way he looks at you, you can tell he knows you're proud of him.

. . . . .

He fills you with childlike glee.

You always hated the rain.

Getting soaked under it meant being surrounded with water without the promise of getting submerged under it.

Seeing him laugh under it made you love it.

You didn't hesitate to join him in his little game and soon, your giggles accompanied his as you played like little kids.

When you reach home, absolutely soaked to the bone, instead of feeling the usual cold, you swear you feel warmer.

You end that date by bathing together and splashing each other with the water. Love riddled giggles filling the air.

. . . . .

He spoils you and you spoil him.

Clothes, weapons, dates, jewelry. Anything you could want, anything it reminds him of you.

You don't return the favor, calling it that would be an insult. Instead, you reciprocate the love.

Paints, materials, sceneries, foods. You learn how to cook in record time and become his personal chef.

The first time you cook an entire meal for him, all his favorite dishes, he almost cries while eating. You end up caving– not really, you've never wanted to say no to him in the first place– and feeding him the food.

When he designs your tattoo after you mention considering one, getting exactly what you had in mind without even asking, you cry a little when you see it.

He's there to hold your hand and stay by your side when you get it.

He's also there to witness and encourage your impulsive decision to get piercings.

. . . . .

Lemurians live for love.

It's a fact you fully know.

You'll make sure you die for it this time.

[shaiyasstuff]

fate | rafayel | sequel

synopsis : Who are we to stand in the line of fate? That was what you used to think. content : fluff, rafayel x non-mc!reader, a happy ending since there were so many requests for part two

One bullet.

Clean. Fatal. Head.

Another bullet.

Missed—close, but enough to remind you you were still breathing.

You were back at the range. Again.

It had become your sanctuary. Or maybe your penance.

Five days.

That’s how long it’s been since Shaiya and Rafayel found you curled up on the beach, lost somewhere between sleep and surrender.

Five days since you’d let go of that last fragile thread of hope.

Because whatever you were waiting for—whatever foolish, aching part of you still believed—wasn’t coming.

It never was.

Because who were you to stand in the line of fate?

The echo of gunfire fades, swallowed by the cavernous stillness of the room. You lower the weapon slowly, slipping it back into its holster with practiced ease.

Footsteps behind you.

You don’t need to turn. You already know.

“I’m fine,” you say before she can open her mouth, forcing a smile as you dust off your hands. “You don’t have to check on me like I’m a child.”

Shaiya chuckles, light, warm. “I know. I just…”

She hesitates. “I was worried. You scared me.”

There it is again—that soft pang in your chest. The one that always came when she looked at you like you mattered. Like you were worth something.

Standing in front of you was the girl who unknowingly stood between you and the one thing you couldn’t stop wanting.

And still—you couldn’t hate her. Not when she was like this. Not when her kindness reached you in places nothing else could.

“Rafayel’s been asking about you,” she says casually, and your jaw clenches, just for a second.

You look away.

Of course he has.

But not to you.

He hadn’t shown up since that day—when he left without a word and slammed the door so hard it echoed for hours.

“Did he now,” you murmur, fiddling with your holster again like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.

Shaiya nods, watching you carefully. “Did something… happen between you two?” she asks gently.

You look at her. She’s calm. Thoughtful.

So perfect it almost hurts.

Would telling her change anything?

Would she understand?

Would it make you feel better, saying it out loud?

Probably not.

So you give her a shrug instead.

“No,” you lie, soft and bitter. “Nothing happened.”

The words burn on your tongue, but you swallow them down with the rest of the things you’ll never say.

She holds your gaze for a moment longer, like she knows there’s more but won’t press.

“I told him he should call you,” she says finally. “He kept brushing it off. Said something about how clueless you can be.”

You freeze.

The world stills for half a second.

That stupid flicker again—hope. Always rising from the ashes, uninvited. You hate it. You need it.

You offer a small smile. “Maybe I’ll talk to him.”

Shaiya grins. “Good. Because he’s driving me crazy. Get him off my back, will you?”

She waves and heads out, leaving you alone in the empty range.

Alone with the echo of her words.

Clueless.

You repeat it under your breath like a riddle.

“What did he mean?”

You don’t notice the shadow behind the wall. The quiet figure watching from just out of sight.

Rafayel.

—•

The moonlight spills like silver ink across your apartment floor as you sink into the couch, muscles heavy with exhaustion. You groan softly, letting your head fall back.

Your hand fishes your phone from your pocket.

11:48 p.m.

You stare at the screen, thumb hovering over nothing.

And then, quietly, you wonder—

What is he doing right now?

Was he annoying Shaiya again, hovering too close in that boyish, oblivious way of his? Was he in his studio, fingers stained with paint, lost in a world he never let you see?

Or was he standing on the other side of your door?

You stand slowly, unsure what draws you forward, only that your feet are already moving. Already at the threshold.

“If he’s there, he’s there,” you mumble, hand on the doorknob. “That’s it.”

But then—

“What if he isn’t?”

And just like that, you pause.

What would you even say if he was?

You’ve never said anything before. Never dared to touch the truth of what you feel.

What makes tonight any different?

You shake your head, scoffing under your breath.

“You dumbass,” you whisper to yourself.

And still, you open the door.

Because even if fate had chosen someone else, even if you were never meant to be written into his story—

Some small, stubborn, reckless part of you wanted to defy it.

Just once.

You squint, eyes adjusting slowly to the pale light pooling in the hallway.

At first, it’s just a silhouette. Then—A familiar mop of tousled lilac hair.

And those eyes—those ridiculous, impossible eyes—somewhere between the ocean before a storm and the sky just before sunrise.

Rafayel.

A boyish grin tugs at his lips when your gaze locks with his.

And you freeze.

He’s here.

He’s really here.

Your heart stutters in your chest, wild and disoriented, as your body stays rooted in place, too overwhelmed to decide what to feel.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts, his voice rushed, anxious, as if afraid you’ll shut the door before he can say more.

You blink at him, stunned. Words scatter like leaves in the wind. What is he doing here? After everything, after five days of silence and slammed doors and missed meaning—why now?

He doesn’t look at you as he speaks, eyes fixed somewhere near the floor. “I didn’t know,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to work through his own confusion.

“How you felt. I mean, I always brushed it off because I thought…”

He trails off, the pause longer than it needs to be, and then—

“I thought you didn’t like me.”

A breath.

“…That way.”

And finally, finally, his eyes meet yours.

The world tilts.

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

“Huh?”

That’s all your mouth manages.

Not “what are you saying,” or “why now,” or “you idiot, I’ve loved you this whole time.”

Just that soft, bewildered sound. Like the universe just broke its rules in front of you, and you’re still waiting for the punchline.

He shifts on his feet, lips twitching nervously. “I’m not good at this,” he mutters, half to himself. “But I had to come. Because you opened the door. And I hoped—I really hoped you would.”

And suddenly, you’re not sure if you’re breathing at all.

He grabs your shoulders—not roughly, but with a kind of urgency that makes the world sharpen around the edges. His touch grounds you, and suddenly, you’re sure—

The universe is finally, impossibly, on your side.

“I like you, Y/N. No—wait, I love you,” he says, voice cracking with emotion. “Loved you. All this time.”

His eyes are wide, vulnerable, brimming with something wild and scared. And real.

“I’m sorry I confused you. I’m sorry it took me this long to realize. I’m sorry I hurt you,” he keeps going, the words tumbling out in a rush, like he’s afraid if he stops, this moment might vanish, or worse—you might walk away.

You’re still frozen, heart thundering in your ears, head spinning. But then something snaps inside you—not painfully, just enough to pull you back to the now.

You reach up and place your hands gently on his arms, still gripping your shoulders.

His head jerks up at the touch, eyes locking onto yours—still afraid. Still unsure.

And you smile.

That’s when his worry deepens into panic. Because now there are tears spilling down your cheeks—silent, steady, unstoppable.

“W-Woah, hey—!” he stammers, hands flying up to your face in alarm, wiping at the wetness with shaking fingers. “Don’t cry, please don’t cry—what did I do—?”

You blink, dazed, lifting your own hands to your cheeks. The tears keep falling, and you don’t even remember when they started. You hadn’t planned to cry. You hadn’t planned for any of this.

And then your knees give out beneath you. Not from sorrow this time, but from the sheer weight of relief.

You sink to the floor, breath shuddering as Rafayel catches you, arms instantly wrapping around you like a net made of everything you’ve ever wanted but never dared to ask for.

Your fingers curl into his shirt. Your forehead presses to his chest.

“Is this real?” you choke, voice raw and trembling.

He holds you tighter, as if to prove it, his voice a whisper against your hair.

“It is. I promise you—it is.”

“I thought—”

The sob ripped out of you before you could stop it, raw and trembling, every word soaked in the ache you’d buried for so long.

“I thought you would never see me that way. That it was always going to be Shaiya.”

Your voice cracked at her name, your whole chest twisting with the confession. You looked up at him, face streaked with tears, the question you’d never dared ask burning in your throat.

“You told me that story… the one about your scales—” you choked, the memory of it splintering inside you. “That your heart was bound to hers…”

Rafayel’s eyes widened, devastated.

He shook his head, urgently, as if trying to erase every word you’d just said, every hurt it carried.

“No,” he whispered, hands flying to your cheeks, cradling your face like it was the most fragile, sacred thing in the world.

His thumbs brushed your tears away, and this time he leaned closer, eyes burning into yours with something fierce and unwavering.

“None of that mattered the moment I met you.”

The words landed like lightning in your chest.

“I didn’t know what it was at first,” he went on, voice thick with emotion, “But you—you made me feel like I’d been sleepwalking through every lifetime until this one.”

You stared at him, breath caught, and for the first time in forever, you felt it.

Not just hope.

Certainty.

“Screw fate,” he breathes, voice rough with conviction. “Screw all that.”

His arms tighten around you as he pulls you flush against his chest, like he’s trying to shield you from everything—even the stars.

“You’re the most important to me,” he murmurs fiercely, burying his face into your hair, breath warm against your scalp. “Not some fate-written bullshit. You.”

You tremble in his hold, sobs quieting just enough to feel the way his heart is racing beneath your cheek—fast and real, like it’s beating just for you.

“Stop crying,” he whispers, softer now, voice breaking around the edges. “Shh… I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay.”

And this time, when you close your eyes against his shoulder, it’s not in grief.

It’s in the slow, overwhelming realization that maybe—just maybe—this time, love chose you back.

Your head shot up again, breath catching, panic flaring in your chest as your fingers clutched his arm—tight, desperate, enough to make him flinch.

“Shai—”

“She knows,” Rafayel cuts in gently, before you can say another word. “She knew. The whole time.”

You go still. The wind outside could’ve stopped and you wouldn’t have noticed.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Just stunned silence.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, eyes searching yours, full of guilt and something deeper. “I know how it must’ve looked. How I was always with her. But—” he swallows, his voice catching, “it wasn’t because I loved her.”

He licks his lips, and his hands cradle your face again, his thumbs resting beneath your eyes as if he’s afraid you’ll start crying all over again.

“She was the only one I could go to,” he confesses, voice just above a whisper. “The only one I trusted… to tell how I felt about you.”

It hits you like a wave—sharp, cold, and then warm, like everything you’d been aching for was finally surfacing.

Every moment you thought he was choosing her—

He was only ever trying to understand what you meant to him.

And somehow, she knew before even you did.

“I’m stupid,” he mutters, a sheepish look flickering across his face. “I say things without thinking. I know.”

There’s an apology in his voice, unpolished and honest, as if he’s laying himself bare for the first time.

And despite everything—despite the ache, the confusion, the tears—

a soft, breathy laugh escapes your lips.

It catches you off guard.

Because all at once, the memories rush in—

the way he hovered when you were quiet for too long,

how he always brought your favorite snacks back from missions without asking,

how he’d search the crowd until his eyes found yours, even when Shaiya was right beside him.

The way he always noticed when something was off, even when you said you were fine.

He’d been showing you his heart, clumsily, messily, loudly, and yet—

You convinced yourself it wasn’t real.

You convinced yourself that fate had no room for a love like this.

And maybe… maybe you were wrong.

Rafayel blinked at you, startled by your sudden laughter.

“Did I say something funny?” he asks cautiously, lips curving just slightly, hopeful.

You shake your head, smile trembling through your tears. “No. Just… me. I was so sure none of it meant anything.”

He leans forward, resting his forehead against yours.

“It meant everything,” he whispers.

“Can I kiss you now?” he asks, breathless, hopeful, eyes locked onto yours like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this world.

You smile—soft, radiant, a little shaky—and nod.

A wave of relief washes over his face so quickly it nearly makes you laugh again. He exhales, like he’s been holding that breath for years.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, voice low and reverent, “how long I’ve been waiting to do this.”

And then—he moves.

No hesitation.

He closes the distance in a heartbeat, hands cupping your face as his lips find yours.

The kiss isn’t tentative. It isn’t shy or delicate or fleeting.

It’s real.

All the longing you buried in silence, all the moments he loved you without saying a word, all the ache and confusion and heartbreak—

It all crashes together in that single, breath-stealing moment.

It’s not rough, but it’s not gentle either.

It’s everything you both couldn’t say, finally spoken in the language of skin and breath and trembling mouths.

And when he pulls back, just barely, just enough to rest his forehead against yours again, you’re both breathless and smiling and finally, finally seen.

“Still think fate’s unbeatable?” he whispers.

You hit his chest as he chuckles, but you don’t retort.

Because for the first time in a long, long while—you don’t.

masterlist