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missadangel · 2 days ago

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The Heart of Rome (Marcus Acacius x OC)

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XXX. In Aeternum et Ultra (Final Chapter) (Smut!18+!MDNI!)

I know, I know, I’m feeling pretty sad too. Writing this chapter was super tough for me since I’m not a fan of goodbyes and usually skip the last episodes of TV shows. Hope you like this final chapter. Huge thanks to everyone for sticking with the series from start to finish! If you can’t get enough of Marcus, I’ve got some good news—I’m working on a totally different fanfic about him, so keep an eye out! But first, I need to have a little cry. Catch you later!

Familia ante omnia

Family over all

As you galloped forward on your horse, Unio, the fabric of your stola danced wildly in the wind, creating a constant struggle against the air that tugged at your dress. The jewelry you wore felt like it might slip from you at any moment, but you had no intention of stopping, no matter what. The guards accompanying you were more concerned about your well-being than about reaching Publius on time. They knew you were with child, as your belly was visibly prominent, and they feared what Marcus would do to them if anything happened to you. Yet your worries were not only for the fragile life nestled inside you; they were also intertwined with a deep protectiveness toward Publius, your beloved child. The thought of jeopardizing his safety was simply inconceivable.

When you arrived at the port of Ostia and passed through the streets, the locals looked at you with curiosity and surprise, many greeting you as you went by. But you could only glance at them out of the corner of your eye. Your heart soared at the sight of Darius ahead, a swell of joy washing over you as your eyes landed on Publius standing beside him. Overwhelmed with concern, you dismounted carelessly and landed awkwardly, tripping as your stola caught on Unio’s saddle. The loyal creature whinnied as if it were worried about you, and you fell to the ground.

"My lady!"

"Your Highness!"

Suddenly, everyone gathered around you anxiously; the guards jumped off their horses, and people from the harbour rushed to your side. Darius was holding Publius' hand as he approached you.

"Aunt Aurelia!"

You struggled to push yourself off the cold, hard stone floor, using your palm for support and turned your head to the sound of his voice. As the guards helped you to your feet, a sharp pain shot through your ankle, probably from the fall, but you made your way to Publius anyway.

"Publius, my love!" you cried out, opening your arms wide. He ran to you, and you embraced him, kissing the top of his head. Then you took his face in both hands, examining him for any sign of injury.

"Are you alright, darling?"

He nodded. "Darius saved me," he said, pointing at him. Just as your heart began to settle, you turned to Darius and felt a sharp flutter of unease wash over you when you noticed men in black cloaks being restrained by guards behind him.

You stepped toward them, gripping Publius' small hand tightly, but a sharp pain surged through your ankle once more, causing you to stumble. Darius quickly approached, concern etched across his face. "My lady, are you alright? Let me help you," he said, extending his arm toward you. You grasped it, but your gaze remained fiercely locked on the men before you.

“Darius, are these the scoundrels who tried to abduct my son?” you asked.

"Yes, my lady. We apprehended them just before they could board one of the ships," he replied.

As you glared at them, Darius continued. "I have been pursuing the rumors as you requested. Upon further investigation, I identified the Greeks' involvement, aligning perfectly with your predictions. I sensed an impending attack today, which is why I was prepared and had my men ready as well. We intercepted them just in time."

Your eyes widened in disbelief as you processed his words. "Did they know we would be outside Palatine Hill today? If the threat was so imminent, why didn’t you warn me?"

Darius lowered his head, his posture tense. "My lady, I needed to confirm my suspicions before informing you. We had taken all necessary precautions around the harbor. I would never intentionally endanger you or your children, yet I understand that’s no excuse. You are right; I ask for your forgiveness."

You squinted, grappling with your anger. "What was it you needed to confirm? Speak plainly."

He let out a troubled sigh, the weight of his revelations pressing heavily on him. "During my investigation, my men and I became convinced that someone was aiding the Greeks. Regrettably, it’s someone in a position of authority—a member of the Roman Senate."

"What?! Who is it?"

Darius hesitated, unease clouding his features as he met your gaze.

"Say it, Darius," you urged.

"Senator Consus, the Emperor's chosen regent," he finally confessed.

You froze, a cold realization settling in your chest as disbelief washed over you.

"Do you realize what you're saying?” your voice trembled.

“Yes, my lady. I was just as incredulous when I first learned of it. I had him followed to confirm the truth. The men at my side are my witnesses.” He gestured toward the guards, who bowed their heads respectfully. “And those two over there—they are nothing but traitorous praetorians, the very ones who led the Greeks through the city gates under Consus' sinister command.” His voice was taut, almost a growl, barely concealing his outrage. “He must be paying them well.”

This couldn’t possibly be true. Someone from your own family, someone you had placed your trust in—how could he do such a thing? Marcus had relied on him, had entrusted him with your safety, your children’s, his throne, and Rome. A chilling thought crossed your mind: your aunt Antonia. Of course, she was cunning; she must have been the architect of this treachery. It had to be her.

“Bring him and my aunt Antonia to Palatine Hill at once,” you commanded with steely resolve. “Get a carriage for me and Publius, and escort us there.”

Darius nodded sharply. “And what about these mutts and the traitors, my lady?” he asked, casting a disdainful glance at the captured men. “What are your orders for them?”

You took Publius's hand tightly; he clung to the fabric of your dress, still looking frightened and uneasy. As you looked coldly at the traitors, you noticed the fear in their eyes, which pleased you. You turned to Darius and issued a direct order.

"Kill them all.”

When you arrived at the Palatine Hill, the first thing you did was take Publius to his chambers. The poor boy was still trembling with fear. It took a while for his racing heart to settle, but you held him close, wrapping your arms around him, offering warmth and reassurance, whispering promises that no one would ever harm him again. Eventually, the children and Decima arrived at the Domus Severiana, and all were relieved to see Publius, breathing a sigh of relief. You weren't sure if Paulina was aware of her mother and husband’s betrayal, so you decided to wait until you were sure.

Your own discomfort was acute, as the sprain in your ankle throbbed with each movement. You retrieved olive oil and carefully applied it to your swollen ankle before wrapping it tightly. It was the most effective remedy you had, even if the pain lingered stubbornly. When Flora found out about your fall, her face turned pale, tears spilling down her cheeks. You swept her into your lap, showering her with gentle kisses, cradling her close as you reassured her that you would be alright. Marcius, with a fierce glint in his eye, declared his determination to hunt down Publius’ kidnappers and make them pay. His protective instincts echoed those of his father, making you smile despite your pain.

After learning that your aunt Antonia and Consus had been brought to Palatine Hill, you changed out of your soiled clothes into something fresh and regal, with the help of the slaves. As they placed your crown above your head, you contemplated what to do about your aunt and Consus. You left the children with Decima and carefully made your way downstairs, escorted by the slaves. Going down the stairs was quite difficult, and you knew it would take weeks for your ankle to heal.

Upon entering the grand hall, a sense of solemnity enveloped you; Darius walked alongside, escorting you. The grand doors swung open, and as you stepped inside, a hush fell over the gathering. Every head bowed in reverence, a sea of respect felt to your bones and gave you strength. You moved deliberately towards the imperial throne. Darius guided you and helped you settle. The jingling sound of your elaborate earrings, shimmering bracelets, and a heavy necklace proclaiming your imperial authority. With dignity, you adjusted your palla, the luxurious fabric gliding against your skin, reminding everyone in the room of your status.

Soon, Antonia and Consus were brought before you, and you could sense Darius’ protective stance beside you, his gaze unwaveringly locked on them. For a moment, you chose silence, wanting to carefully analyze their expressions, to search for a flicker of innocence that would ease the dark cloud gathering in your heart. Desperation surged within you, hoping beyond hope that Darius was mistaken, that this betrayal was merely a cruel illusion. But as the truth dawned upon you—reflected in their troubled faces and the guilt that lingered in their eyes—you felt a tumult of hurt and anger swell within.

“Your Highness,” they both intoned, bowing their heads.

“Aurelia, my dear,” Antonia said, a hint of annoyance in her tone. “May I ask why have we been brought here in such haste?"

"You should address me as 'Empress Aurelia'," you replied icily, your gaze piercing. "For I stand before you as your Empress, not as your niece."

Antonia was taken aback by your demeanor and fell silent.

“My lady, there seems to be a grave misunderstanding. Please, allow me to explain,” Consus interjected. You silenced him with a simple raise of your hand, the gesture commanding immediate compliance.

“There is no need for explanations, Consus. Your collaborators have already divulged to us, one by one, the extent of your schemes—what you have plotted, what you have executed. Or will you dare to deny it?”

Consus cast a furtive glance at Antonia, a flicker of nervousness dancing across their faces, amplifying your growing ire.

Your aunt stepped forward, her voice imbued with concern. “Aurelia, if we could speak alone—”

“Why? Speak here, in front of everyone,” you snapped.

She took a deep breath, visibly bracing herself. “Your Highness, we were only looking out for you and the children. The rumors have become perilous—just the mere suggestion that Publius could be the son of Elagabalus is a threat to your safety and that of your children. We were only trying to ensure that Marcius was safe-"

“Enough!” As you rose to your feet, the atmosphere shifted, silencing her with a palpable tension. Darius instinctively reached out his arm, and you gripped it.

Antonia's brow furrowed in concern. “Aurelia, your leg—are you hurt?”

“My heart hurt far more. How dare you engage in such treachery? How dare you aid our enemies? What right do you have to entertain whispers about my nephew, heir to the throne, the son of Emperor Geta? Do you not know that he is as dear to me as my own flesh and blood?”

“Of course I do,” she said then bowed her head. “Forgive me.”

You ignored her and turned to Consus. “And what of you?” you asked. “My husband placed his unwavering trust in you, surrendering not only his throne but also the very essence of our lives—mine and our children's—into your hands. How could you dare to so brazenly betray that trust, your sacred position, and the honor of Rome?”

Consus swallowed hard, revealing a glimpse of his unease. “Forgive me, my lady,” he stammered. “I made a mistake. But I assure you, my intentions were never malevolent—please believe me. It was all meant to serve the good of Emperor Acacius and, in turn, you—”

“Enough with your hollow denials. I refuse to hear another word. I cannot fathom that members of my own family would resort to such deceit. You have shattered my trust in you. Let me be perfectly clear: being part of this family does not shield you from the consequences of your actions. Do not presume that I will simply forgive and forget,” you declared, your tone sharp and unyielding.

“I can explain my actions to Emperor Acacius upon his return. It would be wise for us to wait for him, my lady,” Consus suggested.

You recognized the underlying implication in his words—his belief that, despite your title, you were not as powerful as an emperor simply because you were a woman. Such archaic sentiments still lingered among certain senators and consuls, destined to persist through the ages. However, you were confident that Marcus would support you. You knew it was time to wield your authority with clarity and purpose, perhaps for the first time so openly. Yes, you had to.

“If my husband, Emperor Acacius were here,” you proclaimed, your voice resonating throughout the chamber, “What do you suppose he would say about your duplicitous scheme to abduct his beloved nephew—the very boy he cherished as his own son—all while conspiring with those treacherous Greeks? I can tell you this: he would have brushed you aside without a second thought, commanding your swift arrest and throwing you into the depths of disgrace. And I intend to do exactly that.”

Your gaze flicked toward Darius, and in an instant, he understood your silent command. With a subtle nod, he gestured to his guards, who moved swiftly to secure your will. Consus and Antonia seized by the arms.

“Senator Consus,” you said with icy authority, “I, Empress Septimia Aurelia, and by my decree, I hereby relieve you of your duties. Effective immediately, you are suspended from the Council and will be imprisoned until my husband’s return, at which point he alone will determine your fate.” Your voice rang clear and firm. “Take him away."

“My lady, please show mercy,” Consus pleaded, his voice trembling with fear, but the guards obediently dragged him from your presence at your gesture.

Your aunt Antonia, stricken with despair, approached you and fell to her knees, grasping the hem of your dress with desperate hands. "Aurelia, please forgive this stubborn old aunt. I beseech you, show mercy."

Your gaze hardened as you addressed her. "Do you know what wounds me the most?" you asked, looking at her in the eye. "That the treachery came from my own blood whom I took in as a mother. How could you do this to me? You've proven that my true family consists only of my husband and my beloved children. Now stand."

With a cold dismissal, you signaled for the guards to assist her back to her feet.

"Though my anger runs deep, I cannot bring myself to imprison you out of respect for your position and the memory of my mother. Thus, I am exiling you to Leptis Magna, where you will spend the remainder of your days."

"But Aurelia—" she objected.

You cut her off with a fierce shout, "My decision is final! You will never again approach my family!"

The sorrow etched on your aunt's face tugged at your resolve, nearly swaying you, but you steeled yourself against the rising tide of compassion. You had to be strong. ”One final question," you said, your voice steady and unwavering. "Was Paulina complicit in this betrayal? Did she know what you were plotting?"

"No, I swear," she sobbed, tears streaming down her cheeks, "My Paulina is innocent. She had no idea."

"Take her,” you ordered. This time, she went quiet, her shoulders sagging under the weight of despair as the guards moved in. They guided her away with firm hands.

Your chest tightened as you watched her departure. How naïve you had been to think that after years of yearning for true familial bonds, you might finally have found kinship in your aunt and cousin. But now, betrayal loomed large, casting a shadow over your hope. In the silence, you found comfort in the loyalty of three people you knew would always stand by you: Marcus, Lucius, and Decima. Geta would have been among them if you hadn't lost him. The ache of his absence remained a constant heavy weight in your heart; hardly a day passed without his memory echoing in your mind. Yet, amidst the pain, you couldn’t help but feel a current of gratitude that coursed through you, grateful to the Gods for bringing you Publius. In his presence and the reminder of his father, you always found a flicker of comfort that eased the relentless sting of your sorrow.

In the past few days, you orchestrated a significant shift within the council by nominating the consul Gracchus to replace Marcus as regent, a proposal that was met with unanimous approval. Gracchus, a man celebrated for his honor and deep respect, managed in just two days to accomplish what Consus had failed to achieve over an entire week, deftly resolving the pressing issues plaguing the city. His profound regard for both Geta and yourself was palpable, and as Publius embarked on his journey towards emperorship, you recognized the wisdom in keeping Gracchus close at hand. There was a sense of loyalty about him; you felt a strong intuition that he wouldn’t betray your trust, a stark contrast to the sting of betrayal you’d faced from those who were once dearest to you. But time, as it often does, would reveal the truth, and yet your instinct whispered that Gracchus was different.

One morning, the long-anticipated news swept through Domus Severiana like a refreshing breeze, igniting a joy within you so intense that it felt like your heart might burst from your chest. The glorious Roman fleet, under the command of your beloved Marcus, had been sighted off the coast of Ostia. This announcement sparked a wave of exuberance that enveloped the entire city even before the ships reached the shoreline. Your children, innocent and full of excitement, danced with glee in the courtyard, eagerly awaiting their father's return.

A splendid flurry of preparations erupted within the Domus Severiana as you issued orders for the finest foods to be prepared and the balneum to be filled with warm water and infused with sweet scents. You chose to wear your finest purple stola for this special day and insisted that your hair be styled impeccably with elegant hairpins. You yearned for Marcus to see you in all your beauty, a glowing vision he had missed just as much as you longed for his presence. He was returning in triumph, just as he always did, and your gratitude to the gods compelled you to send exquisite animals to the temple of Jupiter for sacred sacrifice.

As the sun arched across the sky, painting the day with golden hues, you and the children eagerly awaited the arrival of the ships in the bright courtyard of Domus Severiana. Darius lined up the guards, positioning them with precision outside the gates in anticipation of Marcus’s grand entry. From the bustling street, the jubilant cheers of the crowd rose like a wave of happiness, sharing your joy. Tomorrow would mark a grand victory celebration and a solemn ceremony within the temple of Jupiter, but today, the victorious emperor was yours alone, to embrace and cherish.

Then, the gates opened, and the guards snapped to attention, forming a proud honor guard. There he was, a vision of strength and grace. The moment his gaze met yours, a surge of warmth filled your chest, and before you could take a step closer, the children burst forth, racing towards him with uncontainable exuberance. “Father!” they cried, their voices ringing out in pure delight.

He was so mesmerized by your beauty that the children had to tug at their father's shawl to get his attention. Marcus then knelt, arms wide open, as he welcomed the little ones into his embrace. He swept them up in a joyful whirl, showering each child with affectionate kisses on their cheeks. From where you stood, propped gently against the arm of the slave girl beside you, you felt a pang of envy watching their jubilant reunion. They peppered him with questions, their voices a sweet chorus of innocence, and he responded cheerfully, never once faltering in his joyful responses. You remained an observer for a moment, unable to draw any closer due to the lingering ache in your ankle, but that was alright. It filled you with warmth to watch him revel in fatherhood, the man you had missed with all your heart, even more dazzling and beloved than the memories that replayed in your mind during his absence.

"Father, did you bring me a present, I wonder?" Flora asked, her eyes sparkling with hope.

"Our father is returning from the battlefield; how could he possibly buy you a present?’ Marcius grumbled, glancing at his sister.

Marcus chuckled, his voice warm and teasing. "Ah, sweetlings, I've journeyed through war. However, I could not resist bringing you a treasure from the city I conquered."

He gestured to a soldier standing off to the side. Moments later, the soldier returned, carefully bearing a finely crafted cage that held three enchanting nightingales. "One for each of you. Treat them with kindness, yes?"

"They're lovely," Flora whispered in awe, leaning closer to admire their delicate feathers.

"We should name them," Marcius suggested enthusiastically.

"They sing so loudly, it’s like a music!" Publius added, his eyes wide with wonder.

As the children busied themselves with the birds, Marcus turned his attention towards you. You felt a pull to move closer to him, but the gnawing pain in your ankle held you back.

"My lady, what troubles you? Are you hurt?" he asked, his brows knitting tightly in worry.

"It’s nothing, truly."

"Mother fell off the horse," Marcius interjected, making an innocent yet alarming revelation.

You shot him a frown, and he bit his lip in response.

Marcus's worry intensified as his gaze darted from your face to your leg and back to you. "You fell off the horse?" His eyes filled with unease as he gently placed his hand over your stomach. "I hope nothing has happened to our child."

"Calm yourself, my love; our little one is perfectly healthy," you reassured him, placing your other hand over his.

“You didn’t mention this in your letter,” he said.

“I didn’t want to burden you with worry. I promise, I'm fine,” you replied, brushing your fingers softly against his cheek.

"But how did it happen?" he asked examining your leg.

"I'll tell you everything, but now, you must rest. Your bath is ready, let me feed you before that," you said with a smile.

“Very well," he said, pressing a tender kiss to your hand before wrapping his arm around you.

As you stepped towards the triclinium, your eyes constantly met, filled with the longing that had built over the long weeks apart. "I missed you terribly," he murmured, a soft smile playing on his lips.

“I missed you more, my love,” you replied, snuggling closer, feeling the warmth of his presence ease your aches.

"You still haven't told me how this happened," you urged anxiously, your gaze fixed on the wound in Marcus's shoulder. Its deep, angry red color sent a pang of sorrow through your heart, the sight nearly unbearable.

You had first spotted the wound during his bath, where the water had turned a shade darker around him. Now, sitting on the edge of your bed, your hands were gentle yet trembling as you examined his injury. The slaves had diligently prepared an herbal concoction at your request, and the air was filled with the earthy aroma of healing plants as you carefully began to apply it to his wound.

"My men raised the tower on my orders to breach their walls, but the drawbridge was stuck. There was no time to lose," he said. “Without hesitation, I put the galea on my head, drew my sword, and dashed toward the chain to break it free. Despite their efforts to shield me from the arrows raining down, a few struck true. In the end, I managed to drop the drawbridge, and we surged into the city." He added this with a grin.

Your brow furrowed in concern. "Did you really need to take such a reckless action? You could have given the command to someone else."

Marcus tenderly cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing a reassuring line along your jaw. "I had to think quickly in that moment, my love. We were cornered, trapped between the walls and their menacing catapults; there was no other choice."

"But what if an arrow had struck closer to your heart?" you whispered, your throat tightening at the horrifying thought. The mere idea sent chills through you, echoing a sharp ache in your chest.

"I already have an arrow stuck in my heart," he replied with a soft smile, his fingers tucking away a few strands of hair that had fallen across your forehead.

"When you say it like that, it sounds as if my love is causing you pain."

"True, it hurts," he said, his voice low and soothing, "But it’s a beautiful kind of pain. It burns deep within me, yet it's a fire that purifies—a flame that sanctifies. It’s a fire I crave to consume me." He murmured these words as he leaned closer, the sweet aroma of wine drifting from his breath.

You touched his lips with your trembling fingers, feeling the warmth radiating from him. "Marcus," you breathed, "I can't lose you." Your words broke, and a sob welled up from deep within you, tears spilling down your cheeks.

"Shh, carissima," he soothed, his thumb gently wiping away your tears. "You won't lose me.”

You smiled and turned your head slightly to kiss his palm.

“I love you, my beautiful Aurelia. I will love you forever, in this life, the next, and the one after that,” he whispered as his hand glided up the back of your neck in a gentle caress, his fingers softly brushing through your hair. Inhaling your scent, he pressed his lips to your hair, his breath warm against the long strands. You arched your neck, eyes closed, a soft sound escaping your throat.

You were so delicate, here in his arms; so light, so beautiful.

All your worries melted away as you pulled his mouth down to yours; he allowed you to remove his tunic, your fingers trailing over his muscled chest. A groan of desire escaped from his throat as you kissed him deeply, fiercely. He gave all of himself to you in return, stroking the tip of his tongue around the inside of your lips, pulling you closer to him possessively, tugging your lower lip gently between his teeth. The sound you made then is almost a growl, impossibly arousing to him.

It's a battle, a dance, a music. Everything you could think of fits, for this.

"I love you for waiting for me, for taking care of me, for taking care of our children, for being everything I ever wanted - and more." He purred, kissing your neck, letting his tongue run over your pulse point. You felt him smile as your lips met again, and then he pushed forward, beyond you, tilting his mouth over yours to deepen the kiss. You leaned into him, wrapping your arms around his neck, and he slipped his hand inside your cream-coloured tunic, his thumb brushing against your nipple beneath the thin fabric.

You broke away from the kiss, gasping sharply in response to the caress, realizing how much you've missed his touch and how much you needed it now. He took the opportunity to press tiny wet kisses along the line of your jaw, working his way over to your ear. “Have I told you how much I have missed you, darling wife?” he whispered, his breath warm against your cheek. Without waiting for a response, he continued, nibbling at your earlobe.

“Countless times, but I would gladly hear it again—I’ve missed you just as deeply, my dear husband,” you said in a whisper.

With that, he grabbed you by the waist and laid you gently yet eagerly on the bed. His fingers were no longer gentle as he undressed you roughly, and when you were completely naked, he slowly slid the knuckles of his hand from your ankle up your thighs, making you shiver. “I have missed your sweet taste,” he whispered. You moaned with pleasure when he lowered himself to you and drew your nipple between his lips, suckling against you and stroking the sensitive flesh with his tongue. As he continued to worship your breasts, one hand slid down your leg and gently grasped your ankle. "It won't hurt if I do this, will it?" he asked and, careful not to hurt you, he lifted your leg and placed it carefully over his shoulder. Your heart fluttered as you realized his intentions, and you could only nod fervently in response; he chuckled at your reaction and bent down to spread your other leg to the side. You held your breath as he lowered his head between your thighs, his warm breath showering your wet folds.

He claimed you with every yearning touch, noting how much you longed for this; you moaned as he curled first one, then two fingers into you, now nibbling, sucking greedily, ravenously on your clit, causing your hips to rock against him, your every breath another gasped cry. Since he was full of longing, he loved it as he saw how desperate you were for him, how you craved more and more. He was too, quickly lost himself in you, in what you did to him and the way you responded. You were all he could breathe, the warmth of your skin, the dampness, your scent, feeling your familiar response to his torture.

As always, he loved it.

It wasn't long before you were nearing your climax; he could tell by your movements; of course, he could, he knew you so well, so he deliberately increased his torment in the next step, giving you all the pleasure he could, and you cried out his name over and over again as you came. Then he held you in his arms and kissed your forehead, which was glistening with sweat.

"So beautiful," he whispered, looking into your half-closed eyes as he gently caressed your flushed cheeks. You wrapped your arms around his neck again to kiss him hungrily. Your lips slid down his thick neck, planting kisses on his skin along the way, and now he was fully aroused, feeling so hard it almost hurt. His eyes sparkled like gems as he rubbed against your thigh, spreading his moisture over your skin and marking you with it. You reached down with your hand, found it, stroked it, running the nail of your thumb along the groove that connected head to shaft, and it was enough to make him spread your legs wide, urgently positioning himself between your thighs with a moan of pure pleasure.

“I need to feel you, my love,” he gasped. “I need to be inside you.”

And he pushed himself fully inside you, then reached for a pillow and propped it under your leg, making sure not to hurt your ankle when you bounced against his thrusts. You shuddered, your eyes gleaming as you gazed up at him, admiring how caring and protective he was of you even at this moment.

He made love to you until his control began to slip through his fingers, and the pleasure of being inside you was too much. He could feel you quivering under him, your warm breath against his ear as you sobbed in pleasure, and you moved together until you seemed to exist only to feel the ecstasy of it. You arched under him, and he pulled back, then slid his full length inside you, he repeated and repeated again. Clinging at his back, you were begging him not to stop. Soon, your walls began to constrict around him, and he felt himself close to the edge.

In that moment, your fingers intertwined and your eyes locked, as you came together in perfect harmony. Then he collapsed to you, his weight cushioned on you, and you were still trying desperately to catch your breath. He reached down, once he was able to muster the strength, and pulled the sheets over both of you, covering you both. You snuggled closer to his chest, truly cherishing the warmth and happiness of your reunion, feeling an immense gratitude for this beautiful moment shared together.

Years later…

On the deck of a merchant ship sailing to Alexandria, you sighed deeply, feeling the gentle sea breeze against your skin. You leaned on the polished wooden railings, your gaze lost in the mesmerizing expanse of the Mediterranean Sea, its sapphire waves sparkling under the brilliant midday sun. It had been many years since your last sea voyage, but the rhythmic rocking of the ship, a comforting reminder of your childhood, felt soothing rather than irritating. Perhaps you were finally acclimating to it, as this was now the third day of your journey.

“Do you think the children will be alright while we're away?” you asked, concern threading your voice like a delicate vine.

Marcus, seated on the steps of the deck, his strong hands deftly sharpening his pugio, looked up with a reassuring smile before returning to his task. “Don't worry, my love. They’re all grown now and can take care of themselves. Besides, with Darius and Octavius watching over them, no one would dare to cause them trouble.”

He spoke the truth. Marcius and Publius had matured into young men, now fifteen years old, while Flora had blossomed into an exceptionally beautiful young woman. Marcus, fiercely devoted and protective of his only daughter, had resolutely declined all marriage proposals from patrician and noble families. In the traditions of Rome, marriage typically started at the tender age of twelve, but to you, she would always be your little girl. Over the years, you had been blessed with two more sons: Aurelius, now ten and full of mischief, and the sweet Severus, who was just seven, Both boys are eager imitators and antics of their older brother. Although Flora was the apple of her father’s eye, you harbored an equal love for all your children; each held a special place in your heart. Thus, it seemed wisest for them to remain in Rome during your absence.

Over the years, Marcus continued to fulfill his duties as emperor, his mind preoccupied with thoughts of passing the throne to a deserving successor, to Publius. He had faced the trials of war twice more, yet through his unwavering strength and strategic prowess, he had restored Rome to its rightful glory.

Publius, steadfastly at his uncle's side, was actively engaged in the affairs of the city, addressing the council's decisions, negotiating treaties in the grand hall, and hosting messengers from far-off lands. Marcus meticulously trained him, preparing him for the weighty responsibilities ahead, trusting him completely—an admiration that Publius returned tenfold. Your heart swelled with pride as you observed his remarkable transformation into a capable and responsible young man.

In contrast, Marcius had chosen a different path. While brilliant and clever, he had little interest in the intrigues of politics. His true passion lay in the art of combat. He had trained rigorously, honing his skills until he often found himself in spirited duels with his father, coming tantalizingly close to besting him. Marcus, filled with pride, gleefully admitted that one day Marcius would surpass him in skill, and he was confident that eventually, Marcius would rise to become a commander like himself, leading armies to victory.

The warm touch of Marcus' arm around your waist distracted your thoughts.

“Are you hungry? They’re serving food,” he said.

You turned your gaze in the direction he pointed. A crowd of passengers was bustling around, filling their plates with food, while the laughter and chatter of children rang out, reminding you of your own dear ones as they happily filled their stomachs. Here, aboard the ship, you embraced the simplicity of life as one of the ordinary noble families, shedding the heavy mantle of being emperor and empress. It was your choice; it felt more comfortable this way. Besides, the citizens didn’t need to know that their emperor was slipping away from the city for a few months, did they?

“I’ll fetch our food, my lady. Please have a seat,” he said with a charming smile, kissing you tenderly on the cheek before striding off to the food line. Your heart fluttered as you watched him move through the crowd, his presence still captivating despite the years that had shaped you both. Time had left its mark—slight wrinkles now framed your eyes, and silver strands had become more prominent in Marcus’ curls—but he remained strikingly handsome. Despite these physical changes, the essence of your relationship—the love, cherished affection, unwavering respect, burning passion, and deep admiration—had remained beautifully intact, just as it was on that fateful first day.

Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted. A palpable tension surged among the passengers as nervous whispers filled the air. People scrambled to one side of the deck, eyes wide with fear, drawn to the railings in rush. You approached Marcus, who was equally drawn to the commotion. The Magister Navis, the ship’s captain, shielded his eyes with his hand and squinted intently at the distant vessel. After a heart-stopping moment, he dropped his hand, his eyes widening in disbelief.

“The ship has no flag,” he muttered, a tremor of uncertainty in his voice. A wave of murmurs swept through the crowd, but you still struggled to grasp the full meaning.

“Pirates,” Marcus hissed.

You stared at him in disbelief, then back at the ominous shape of the ship on the horizon, creeping closer and darker. Tales of pirates attacking and capturing merchant ships had floated through for years, but you had never imagined facing such danger firsthand.

“How many archers are on board?” Marcus asked, his tone firm and commanding as he focused on the captain.

“This is a simple, merchant ship, sir—only twenty,” the captain replied, his face pale and drawn. “But how can we resist them—with what?”

“With what we have,” Marcus growled, steel threading through his voice. “Get the archers here now, and anyone else who has skill with a sword.”

The captain's expression shifted to confusion. “Sir, are you a soldier?”

In one fluid motion, Marcus swept aside his cloak to reveal gleaming armor that shimmered like silver in the dim light. “Does this answer your question? Do as I say now—there is no time to lose.”

The captain nodded, looking at the other passengers, who stared at them with fearful eyes. “We need the help of men who know how to use swords. Women and children, please, head down to the hold and remain out of sight; we’ll stand guard against the pirates.”

As they exchanged nervous murmurs, Marcus grasped your arm, guiding you toward the hold with a firm yet gentle touch. “You need to go with them.”

“But I can help!” you protested. Your archery skills had sharpened remarkably, and you yearned to prove your worth. But Marcus, protective as ever, remained resolute, a stern expression etched across his handsome face.

“Aurelia, it’s far too dangerous. Please, stay where it’s safe.”

“How can I just sit there while you fight?” you asked, fire igniting in your chest. “Let me watch your back; I’m ready to stand alongside you!”

Marcus smiled. “I believe in your abilities my brave wife, but your safety is my top priority."

You frowned and crossed your arms stubbornly.

"If you don’t, I might have to lock you in there—and I wouldn’t hesitate,” he said then.

“Must you always play the protector?”

“You know the answer to that, my lady,” he replied as he led you down with the others.

As you entered the hold of the ship filled with anxious women and men, Marcus cast a discerning glance over their figures, illuminated by the low light. “Are you really going to hide here among the women? Do you truly call yourselves men?” he asked, his tone sharpened by disappointment.

The men exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of uncertainty and intimidation as they averted their gazes. Marcus sighed. “Look at yourselves. Even my wife is ready to fight by my side.”

One of the men, his voice trembling slightly, spoke up, “Forgive me, but I’ve never handled a sword before.” The others nodded in reluctant agreement, their faces betraying them.

Marcus then rummaged through the ammunition in the hold, finally pulling out small, sturdy knives. He distributed them carefully, urging, “At least defend your women until the last moment. If you must meet your end, do so with honor.” Then he turned to you. “Whatever happens, don’t leave here.”

“I can’t promise that,” you replied stubbornly.

He glared at you. “Aurelia.”

“If you want me to stay put, you must take care of yourself out there. I can’t just stand here if something happens to you,” you insisted.

Marcus grinned. “Fair deal.” He gave you one last look, kissed the top of your head, and then closed the door before heading up on deck.

One of the women placed her hand on your shoulder and smiled. “Your man is very brave,” she said admiringly.

You smiled back. “He certainly is. He’s a hero,” you replied. You glanced at the worried women and children. “He’ll save us all. Don’t you worry.”

But soon, the air thickened with tension as shouts erupted from the deck, announcing the imminent arrival of the pirate ship. At first, their voices roared a warning to the captain, demanding he surrender the vessel. The captain’s steadfast refusal rang out like a rallying cry, and then you heard Marcus’s commanding voice slice through the chaos.

“Archers!” he called, the urgency palpable.

The pirates, undeterred, shouted back, their threats hanging in the air like a storm cloud ready to burst. When arrows flew through the air, the battle ignited, sending waves of adrenaline through you. Anxiety gripped the crew, their fears palpable, and you had hoped that the enemy would be outnumbered. But as you peered through the wooden slats of the ship, dread knotted in your stomach. It was clear that the odds were far less in your favor than you had hoped.

Chaos erupted as pirates leaped from their ship onto yours, swords clashing and fierce shouts echoing throughout the vessel. Time stretched on agonizingly, and then, suddenly, the sound of approaching footsteps jolted everyone to attention.

Instinctively, you grabbed a bow and arrows from the armory, your heart pounding in your chest as you aimed at the door, prepared to defend your position against any intruder. Behind you, children let out frightened whimpers, and women murmured desperate prayers to the gods for protection. Then, as if fueled by your quiet resolve, the men behind you drew strength from your presence. You caught a glimpse of their determination, and you nodded, silently encouraging them.

Just then, someone burst through the door, pushing it open with a heavy shoulder. He stood there for a moment, eyes wide as they took you in, then glanced at the anxious faces behind you. A cruel grin broke across his face. “What have we here?

"Stay back or I'll pierce your skull!" you barked.

The pirate looked at his friend and grinned. “How ambitious. Put it away, lady, before you hurt yourself.” He said as he approached you and you released the arrow, and just as you said, it pierced the man's skull.

The other man opened his eyes wide, staring at his friend's collapsed body, filled with anger. “You whore! I’ll kill you!”

You picked up your new arrow, placed it on the bow, and drew back the string. In just a few seconds, you finished him off. The only reason they had managed to get down here so easily was that Marcus and the others must have been in trouble. You couldn't just stand by; you had to act. Turning to the others, you said, “Whatever happens, don’t leave here. I’ll help them.”

Perhaps if you had expressed this before taking up the bow and arrow, they might have stopped you. But now, they only nodded. The admiration in their eyes gave you strength. You jumped over the lifeless bodies of the pirates on the floor you had just killed, left the hold, and made your way out onto the deck from the stern of the ship.

It wasn't as easy as you had imagined being in a real battle. But you had to do it; you had to help your man. When you reached a high vantage point on the back deck, you leaned forward and scanned the scene ahead, your heart racing. Marcus was surrounded by at least five men, and the battle was not going well. The Captain and the others were fighting with all their might, but the situation was dire.

You needed to think fast. Your supply of arrows was limited, so every shot had to count. Taking a deep breath, you drew your arrow, waited, and aimed carefully. You knew that if you hit someone, it wouldn’t take long for them to notice you, and you would be in immediate danger. You had to be quick. A moment later, you saw someone push Marcus to the ground, and without hesitation, you released your arrow.

It went straight through the man's throat and he collapsed violently.

His opponents and Marcus looked in surprise in the direction of the arrow, but you ignored their expressions, concentrating solely on the most critical target: your opponent. You quickly drew another arrow and took out the other man. Their surprise lingered a bit too long as they realized you were a woman, but then the man you believed to be their leader shouted out. "Over there, kill her!”

"No! Aurelia!" Marcus roared, taking advantage of their confusion to cut down the first two and then one with angry sword thrusts. He ran towards you, but there were two more approaching you too. Fear took over your body, your hand shaking as you aimed again with the new arrow, but you tried to pull yourself together and as one man was about to swing his sword at you, you released your arrow and it struck him in the chest and he fell to the ground.

Marcus threw his pugio at the other man and neutralized him; the sharp knife pierced his back, and he collapsed. You looked at him and smiled proudly, but before you knew what was happening, an arrow suddenly shot towards you. You felt a sharp pain in your arm and screamed in agony.

“Aurelia!” Marcus shouted at the top of his lungs as he rushed to your side. Fortunately, the arrow had only grazed you, but the wound was deep enough to bleed. He grabbed your arm and pulled you back, away from the path of raining arrows.

“Are you all right?” The concern in his voice was evident.

“It just grazed my arm,” you replied through clenched teeth. You groaned as Marcus sheathed his sword, tore a piece of your dress, and wrapped it around your wound.

“Didn’t I tell you to stay downstairs?” he said, a mix of anger and concern in his voice. “Did you get hurt anywhere else?” He didn’t notice the men approaching behind him as he examined you from head to toe with great concern.

“Marcus, behind you!' you shouted to warn him. And it was only a matter of time before he drew his sword, turned and lunged, cutting down both men in one swift motion.

“Stay behind me,” he ordered you, then turned to the archers. “Archers!” He pointed his sword at the pirate ship. With fewer pirates now, they could finally use their arrows. “Draw!” The archers lit their oil-soaked arrows, prepared to aim. “Release!” Marcus shouted, and fiery arrows rained down on the pirate ship. Some struck the sails, while others hit critical parts of the vessel, causing it to burst into flames.

As the pirates onboard scrambled to extinguish the fire, Marcus urged the archers to attack again. Soon, the ship was engulfed in flames, forcing the pirates to jump overboard. With the immediate threat diminished, Marcus turned to you. “Now that most of their archers and crew have been neutralized, you’re in less danger. If you want to help, assist me in taking out the rest. Can you do that?”

You understood his words, nodded with a smile, and nocked an arrow on your bow. “I’ll watch your back!”

He shot you a wink before leaping from the ledge to the ship’s deck below. As he charged towards the dwindling band of pirates, you took aim, releasing one arrow after another with precision. Each shot found its mark, felling foes intent on rushing him. The air crackled with tension as archers and fighters alike poured their souls into the battle, and soon the ship was free of the pirate threat.

A triumphant cheer erupted around you as the last remnants of the enemy fell, echoing with the exhilaration of victory. Your heart swelled with joy as you glanced at Marcus, who was beaming as he approached you, the sunlight glinting off his sweat-drenched brow.

When he reached you, his gaze was intense, locked onto your lips as if they were the very lifeline he had fought for. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close, and kissed you with a fervor that made the world around you fade away. You both basked in the heat of the moment, utterly unbothered by the sweat and blood that clung to your skin. “I have fallen in love with you once again, my love,” he cooed, planting another passionate kiss on your lips.

From a distance, the rest of the crew watched in awe, expressions filled with admiration and gratitude. They may not have known your true identity, but they felt respect for the bond you shared, as if they could sense the strength of your love that had sealed your fates together.

After three long nights and four exhausting days, the ship finally docked at the bustling port of Alexandria. The turbulent days following the pirate attack had forged bonds among the passengers, and you found yourself surrounded by newfound friends who deeply respected you for your courage. As the captain maneuvered the vessel into the harbor, the salty breeze filled the air, and excitement thrummed through the crew as everyone gathered on deck, eager to welcome solid ground once more.

As the captain docked the ship, everyone gathered on deck, preparing to disembark. Marcus said goodbye to those he had fought alongside, then you bid farewell to the women before finally stepping onto land. You sighed deeply, looking around in awe and longing. “Oh, how I've missed this place.”

Marcus took your hand, the bag containing your belongings in his other hand.

“I hope Vicius' house isn't far from here. I feel utterly drained,” he confessed, his exhaustion evident in his tone.

“Me too,” you replied, a playful smile dancing on your lips. “And I desperately need a bath; I still carry the brine of the sea with me. The house is just up that way—we’ll need to walk a bit.” You pointed down a sun-dappled street, its cobblestones warm beneath your feet.

Lucius knew you were coming, but your reunion with him could wait; now you really needed to rest. As you walked towards Vicius' house, navigating the vibrant streets of Alexandria felt like stepping back in time, but this time, you were not alone. Your husband, the man you loved dearly, walking beside you. You narrated tales of the places from your past: the market, the baths, the Valetudinarium, and the other significant spots that shaped your youth. Marcus listened intently, asking questions that encouraged you to delve deeper.

After about half an hour of walking, you smiled as you entered a familiar road At the end of the street stood Vicius' house, where you had spent your childhood and youth.

It felt as if the house was welcoming you with open arms. “Marcus, look! There it is! Oh, it hasn’t changed at all after all these years!” you exclaimed, running ahead toward the house.

Marcus smiled at your joyful sprint, as if you were a little girl rather than a woman nearing the end of her thirties. He followed close behind, sharing in your delight. You opened the door, and memories flooded back, enveloping you. For a moment, you simply stood there, taking in the beauty and the emotional weight of returning after all these years as a completely different person.

Carefully, Marcus set down the bag and sword belt on a sturdy oak table, then stepped closer, wrapping his arms around you from behind, their warmth enveloping you. “So, my beautiful Aurelia grew up in this house,” he murmured, looking around.

“Not as grand as your villa, but it's nice here too,” you replied.

“My villa stands grand and peaceful because you fill it with your light,” he said softly. “Every place becomes something beautiful with your presence, my love,” he breathed, his voice a velvet caress.

“Marcus,” you cooed, a smile curling your lips as you turned your head to meet his gaze. "This place takes on a whole new significance now that you’re here, my beloved husband."

He smiled in response and drew you to him, capturing your lips in a tender kiss. After meandering through the various rooms and reliving cherished memories, you led Marcus out into the courtyard, eager to share the garden, where flowers danced in the breeze, and the neighborhood. Gratitude washed over you for Lucius, who had taken the time to prepare the house, leaving it cleaned and stocked with provisions in the kitchen. Though you had intended to visit him tomorrow, you knew today was a day for rest.

In the early hours of the day, after enjoying a simple yet satisfying breakfast, you left the house and made your way outside. Stepping into the streets of Alexandria, filled with the scent of sea salt, you set off to visit Lucius at the Valetudinarium. Marcus wore a simple tunic instead of his armor, along with a cloak, while you donned a plain stola, accessorized only with earrings and bracelets. It felt much better to walk around like this—without a crown on your head or any extravagant items to showcase your status and draw curious glances from passersby. He appeared to feel the same way, as he seemed more relaxed. It was nice to stroll around Alexandria like this, at least until you returned to Rome; it felt like a vacation. As you walked through the streets where you had sometimes cried in a corner and where you had also run with joy, you took in the surroundings. The harbor, the market, and the houses around it had changed slightly after all these years, but to you, everything felt familiar.

As you strolled through familiar streets that had witnessed both your tears and your laughter, you soaked in the vibrant sights and sounds surrounding you. The harbor glistened under the sun's golden rays, turquoise waters gently lapping at the docks, while the market buzzed with animated chatter and the rich aroma of spices filled the air. Though some things had changed over the years—the colors of the market stalls perhaps a little brighter and the paths a touch more worn—everything felt inherently the same to you, a cherished tapestry of memories.

When you arrived at the Valetudinarium, the guards at the entrance stopped you. The frustrating part of disguising your identity was that you couldn’t enter as an ordinary woman when you could easily go in as an empress. Fortunately, Lucius recognized you and approached the guards, explaining the situation. The guards immediately bowed their heads, apologized, and let you pass.

“Lucius!” you called out joyfully, running to him and giving him a hug.

“Aurelia,” he chuckled, patting your back, “I nearly forgot your radiant face, my dear.” His gaze flickered toward Marcus, who stood by, watching the reunion with a smile.

“Your Highness,” Lucius greeted with a nod, tapping Marcus lightly on the shoulder.

“Just call me by name, please,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting in a friendly grin as he returned the gesture.

“Works for me,” Lucius grinned. “Come on in,” he said, inviting you inside.

You missed this place; after all, you used to spend half the day here. As you made your way to Vicius' room, Lucius filled you in on the changes and updates about his life. He had written to you in his letters about being married and having a son. As he shared stories about his wife and child, you walked through the familiar corridors. Now that he was supra medicus (the chief physician), he had been given Vicius' room.

When you finally reached the room, a deep sigh escaped your lips, the memories flooding back with every glance.

“I’ve organized the room a bit, but I haven’t touched any of Vicius' belongings. They’re all in that closet; would you like to take a look?” Lucius asked.

“Of course. Thank you, Lucius,” you replied, grateful for his thoughtfulness.

You helped him carefully arrange Vicius' cherished items on the table while Marcus examined the assortment of medicine bottles lining the shelves.

“Oh, I remember this,” you murmured, lifting a small vial of medicine that caught the light. “This was the concoction I crafted that saved that boy's life. Vicius told me to keep it and to feel proud of my work.” The memory warmed your heart, and the image of his proud face appeared before your eyes.

“How smug you were for figuring it out before I did,” Lucius said sarcastically. Then he glanced at Marcus. “She stubbornly kept making the mixture all morning; you wouldn’t believe how determined she was.”

Marcus grinned. "Knowing well about her stubbornness, I absolutely believe it," he said, looking at you with a smirk.

You giggled and looked at Lucius. “Jealous much?”

Your laughter faded as your gaze fell upon one of the other bags. It was the bag you had meticulously packed for days, preparing to take to Rome with Vicius, a dream that had been shattered by the very incident that had led you to Marcus.

“These clothes don’t belong to Vicius; I completely forgot to dispose of them,” he muttered, his voice tinged with regret. “Do you remember that man?”

You looked at him, opening Vicius's bag and peering inside. “Which one?”

“The one from Rome, the consul or something.”

“Oh yes, I remember,” you replied, your attention focused on the items in the bag.

“These clothes definitely belong to a member of the Senate,” Marcus said, looking a little thoughtful. “Why was he here, I wonder?”

“I can’t say,” Lucius replied. “Vicius kept him a secret and worked hard to heal that man. He said he was suffering from an incurable disease.”

Suddenly, you noticed a letter tucked away at the bottom of the bag. As you reached for it and carefully unfolded the paper, a ring adorned with emeralds slipped out, landing softly on the floor and rolling toward Marcus. "I remember this letter," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "Vicius wrote this man's last will and testament here. We were meant to deliver it to his family when we arrived in Rome."

A shudder ran through you as memories washed over you—the man’s illness ravaging his body, the tortured look in his eyes as he grasped the harsh reality that Vicius wouldn’t be able to save him. When you turned to collect the ring, you noticed Marcus standing frozen, his eyes wide as he stared at it.

“This... But how?” he murmured, his voice trailing off as he studied the ring with an intensity that made you curious.

Lucius and you exchanged confused looks.

“Marcus? What’s wrong?” you asked as you approached him.

“This ring,” he said, a whisper of disbelief in his voice as he turned it over in his fingers. What was it about the ring that fascinated him so much, you wondered. Marcus handed you the ring.

“Read the inscription inside,” he said, and you did. The delicate engraving revealed itself, a legacy etched into metal—a family ring, typically passed down from father to son, a tangible connection to those who had worn it before. As your eyes settled on the name within the band, 'Acacius' leapt out at you in bold letters.

You remained frozen, your mind racing with possibilities. “Marcus,” you finally managed to utter, the revelation heavy on your tongue. “That consul... that man... was he your father?”

Silence enveloped the room like a shroud, yet the storm of emotion swirling in his eyes spoke volumes. A wave of pain washed over him as he seated himself heavily with a deep sigh. “I had just risen to the rank of general, commanding the legions stationed here. In my anger, I refused the ring he offered. I thought he had returned to Rome, oblivious to the fact that he was gravely ill. Tullia said he died in Alexandria, but…” His voice quivered.

“The gods seem to possess an unusual sense of humor,” Lucius murmured.

Quickly, you reached for the letter you had earlier retrieved from the bag, handing it over with a sense of urgency. “He must have written this to you,” you insisted, your heart aching for him.

Marcus took the letter, eyeing it, his hands trembling.

“We'll give you some space,” you offered softly, glancing at Lucius, who nodded in agreement before stepping towards the door. As the door creaked open, Marcus abruptly grasped your wrist, drawing you closer.

"Please remain here with me," he requested softly.

“I'll be right outside,” Lucius assured, retreating into the hallway as the door closed behind him.

Taking a seat beside Marcus, you instinctively encircled your arms around one of his to offer warmth and support. After a moment to compose himself, he began to unfold the letter and read words aloud.

"My beloved son, Marcus. If you are reading this letter, it means I have already taken my final breath. I journeyed to Alexandria, driven by the longing to see you, just after Septimius’s passing. It has been years since I last beheld your face, and the pain of that absence has weighed heavily on my heart. I understand that you still harbor deep-seated anger towards me—anger for forcing you into a marriage with an unfaithful woman unworthy of your love and for never honoring your valor as a soldier. But this time, I come not to seek your forgiveness for my past transgressions or to persuade you to join the Senate, as I did during our last encounter—a plea that you rightly rebuffed. My son, the illness I’ve has rendered me incapable of undertaking any journey; Vicius insists that I may not return to Rome."

Marcus swallowed hard, the emotion welling in his chest, and you placed a comforting hand on his back. He took a moment to steady himself before continuing. "My last request, should this letter reach your hands, is that you take our family ring, and bestow it upon your firstborn son—whether you wear it or not, it holds our legacy after all. One last thing..." he faltered, searching for words.

"What is it, my love? Please continue," You urged gently, meeting his gaze.

He pressed on, though a frown creased his brow. "When Vicius returns to Rome, he will seek your assistance. I implore you to aid him. He will bring with him Princess Aurelia, the only daughter and firstborn child of Septimius, and you must make it your solemn duty to protect her at all costs. Only you can do so. Guard her against the treachery of Macrinus, the scheming empress Julia, and the twin emperors, the princess’s half-brothers. If it becomes necessary, marry her to ensure her safety."

"Gods," you breathed, your hand instinctively covering your chest as shock coursed through you.

"These are the final wishes of a dying old man, and I have faith that you will honor them, regardless of your resentment towards me. I hope, one day, you will find it within yourself to forgive me.

Your father, Marcianus Acacius."

For a while, you remained silent, the weight of Marcus' father’s letter pressing upon you like a heavy shroud. The emotional turmoil it stirred would take time to process.

Later that evening, Lucius invited you to his home for dinner. You found comfort in the warmth of pleasant conversation and the sight of him happily seated beside his wife and son. Marcus seemed quiet but enjoyed spending time with Lucius’s son.

When the night finally drew to a close, you returned home. Lying in the comfort of your bed, your mind drifted back to the letter, its words lingering in the air around you like a whisper.

"So, it seems we were always destined to meet," you murmured softly, looking into his eyes.

"Indeed, my love," he replied with a smile.

Resting your head against his chest, you murmured, "How do you think our lives would have unfolded if we hadn't met that night? Do you think we would still have fallen in love in the same way?"

Marcus gazed at you. "Without a doubt. But this time, I would have asked for your hand at once," he chuckled. "And besides, my father entrusted me with your protection; how could I have dared to ignore it when I beheld your breathtaking beauty?"

You chuckled softly, "If my heart hadn't been so stubborn and weighed down by the sorrow of Vicius's death, and if our paths had crossed in your villa from the very beginning, I would have wanted to marry you without hesitation."

He leaned closer. "It seems the Gods have woven our fates together, my lady." He intertwined his fingers with yours, and together, you admired your hands, captivated by the unique contrast in sizes, skin tones, and textures. “In the end, all paths lead to one remarkable fate,” he mused. “Isn’t it beautifully strange?”

“It truly is,” you whispered, your heart fluttering softly at the moment.

Then, he captured your lips in a kiss, igniting a passionate fire within you that flared and crackled, leaving you both suspended in the exquisite bliss of the moment, fully immersed in the magic that was undeniably yours.

"Are you going to give the ring to Marcius, or will you wear it?" you asked, your voice carrying a hint of playful curiosity as you packed your belongings that morning.

The morning sun bathed the courtyard in golden light, bringing to life the memories you created during those cherished months. While peace and warmth filled your days, a persistent ache for your children tugged at your heart. You have missed them so much.

Marcus slipped the gleaming ring onto his finger. "I'll give it to him one day. Until that day arrives, I want to wear it."

A soft smile broke across your face; you understood his desire to honor his father's last wish, that connection to family bonding him to the legacy he would one day pass on.

"Are you ready to leave? Do you have everything you need?"

"Yes, I have everything. I believe I'm ready to leave now."

"Aurelia," Marcus said, his eyes twinkling as he took your hand in his, "I have cherished my time here with you, living this simple, ordinary life, much more than I ever did as Emperor or General."

Your heart swelled at his words. "Me too," you replied softly. "It has felt as effortless as breathing. There’s something magical about stepping away from the burdens of power—without slaves bustling around, consuls debating, or guards pacing.

"We can always come back here if you wish, whenever the Empress's duties wear you down," he teased with a smirk.

"Actually, that won't be necessary," you said.

"Will it not? You surprise me, my lady. May I ask why?"

"There’s a very simple reason," you said, your gaze softening. "You are my family. As long as I have you and our children, I can make a home anywhere—whether in a modest house like this or a grand palace. Titles and status mean little; what truly matters is that you stand beside me as my husband. Together, we can turn any place into a haven of joy and love."

"My enchanting wife," he breathed, drawing you into his embrace, his arms encircling you with a protective warmth that seemed to shield you both from the trials of the outside world. It was a warmth that whispered of resilience, an unspoken promise that together, you could withstand anything life threw your way.

And so, with a gentle whisper of fate, the tale of General Marcus Acacius and Princess Aurelia drew to a close, for now. Yet, the embers of their love glimmered with an unquenchable flame, destined to endure through the sands of time, stretching into the infinity of eternity.

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your likes, comments and reblogs are soo important to me, and thank you for all support, love you all❤️

#fanfiction #fanfic #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal gifs #ao3 fanfic #general marcus acacius #marcus acacius #gladiator ii #marcurelia #marcus acacius x oc #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius smut #marcus acacius fanfiction #marcus acacius x you #general acacius #gladiator 2 #gladiator ll

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garden0fyves · 12 hours ago

Text

thinking about...baby trapping d1 athlete!toji, but you can't tell who's trapping who.

(tiny bit of context here. unedited.)

to toji, it's bad enough that you're the best thing to happen to him. it's another that you’re every wet dream toji has had in his life, and if it means ‘accidentally’ filling you with his seed to keep you, then he’ll do it. no one can ever experience this again, you’re all his. he’ll make sure of it. but, what toji doesn’t know is that you’ve stopped taking your birth control. you’ve started taking multivitamins and timing your late night dates in time with your ovulation cycle. you’ve been celebrating his wins with his cock buried to the hilt inside of you, and your legs tight around his waist as he stuffs you full.

toji’s hands are strong on your hips as he buries his cock deeper inside of you. his jaw ticks when your tight cunt squeezes around him, and he twitches inside of you. your gaze is so soft, so pretty as you look up at him. you’re both sophomores in college and have so much to lose, but god his coach will just have to understand this “mistake”. he’s never seen how pretty you look underneath him, never seen the soft gasp you let out when toji presses a fat finger to your clit. and although he never will, he'll just have to accept that toji will be a father soon. toji's eyes narrow when you pull away from his lips to watch his face. your eyes drift from his eyes to his nose to the scar that rests on his lips. "i love you." you whisper softly, voice and eyes equally as watery.

if toji weren't already madly in love with you he’d have cum then and there, shooting you full of his love from the simple acknowledgement of your love for him. but, that’s already happened and toji’s slowly (very slowly) getting used to your sweet confessions when he’s fucking you particularly well. “i love you too, pretty girl.” he presses a wet kiss to your lips before he kisses your jaw and down to your shoulder. here, he bites down to leave the most obvious hickey he’s probably ever left a day in his life. toji doesn’t notice the way your legs tighten around him, only the clench of your cunt and the flutter of your eyelashes as your eyes fall shut.

“gonna be mine forever.” he whispers against your shoulder. it’d be a red flag if the same thoughts weren’t running through your mind. “gonna be yours forever, baby. gonna get married and have your babies.” you purr your words, eyes sliding open just to watch his reaction. toji’s dark green eyes slide up to yours. there’s something new in them, something primal as your words settle on his pussydrunk mind. “gonna be my pretty little wife, hm?” he pulls his hips back just to slam back into your pussy. you gush around him, back arching in pleasure. “tojiii!” you whine his name because he knows it’s true. he’s using your words to torture your poor cunt.

although his thrusts are sharp, they’re still filled with love. you can feel his love through the way his fat finger teases your clit. the way his kisses are gentle against your body despite the pounding your pussy’s experiencing. your stomach’s beginning to flip as your orgasm builds. your pretty pussy’s so loud, making noises toji’s never heard before. you’re so wet that the sheets are beginning to soak. every time toji’s fat cock slides into your cunt he feels like he’s reached heaven over and over again. “she’s taking me so well- fuck! one day,” he begins, cutting himself off with a throaty moan. “‘m gonna fill you up riiight here. make you a mommy, baby. fuck, you’d be so fucking pretty.”

toji presses a hand against your stomach, adding extra pressure so that he can feel the way his cock rubs against your soft insides. “why are you gonna wait? make me a mommy now. don’t wanna wait, wanna have your baby now.” your poor boyfriend can barely handle the words as they fall from your lips. toji’s head falls into your shoulder and stays there—tired and barely maintaining control. “don’t say that.” he whispers your name like a prayer, like he’s begging you to take your words back. by now, your legs have long tightened against his back. your thighs burn from the strength it’s taking you to keep him inside you. (as if you needed it)

“can’t- we can’t baby, not yet. gotta make it to the league first, mama. make sure you have everything you want.” you whine at his words because no matter how sweet they are, they aren’t what you want. you know toji means it. he always does. but right now, you want his child. fuck whatever millions he’ll make in the future from catching a ball. you want something permanent. something that screams that you love him more than anyone ever could. “doesn’t matter.” you whisper, sliding your nails up his back before they’re being dragged back up and into his hair. “cum in me, baby. give me a baby then you can take care of both of us.”

toji’s chest tightens with a newfound affection as the images flicker through his mind. you smiling and swollen with his baby, mini versions of the two of you running around. how fucking gorgeous you’d look being a mother—the mother of his children. he feels like a teenager again, like he’s never fucked before and it’s all overwhelming. he’s cumming, deep and plentiful into your fluttering pussy. you cry his name out, your own orgasm bullying it’s way to the surface. “god, you’re so good. my girl- fuck!” his hips jut into you at an attempt to get impossibly deeper in you. despite the overstimulation wracking your body, you soothe him by running your nails through his scalp. the sweat on your body’s ignored, the cum sliding out of you and onto his cock temporarily forgotten. “i love you.” you hum, pulling his head back just a little. “i love you too, mama.” you giggle, knowing that his little nickname may just be true soon.

to neither of your surprise, three months later you’re posting a baby reveal on your instagram’s. a tiny replica of toji’s jersey covers your belly as the two of you stand on the field with the biggest smiles anyone has ever seen from either of you. your phone’s never blown up so quickly, but you couldn’t care because your heart’s never felt so full.

back to the club!

#gardenofyves #yvieyaps #toji fushiguro x reader #fushiguro toji x reader #toji fushiguro #toji x reader #toji smut #toji fushiguro smut #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen

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inseobts · 3 days ago

Note

Hey, hope you’re doing good. I know you have many request but I have an idea.

Reader is the "sister" of Ace, Sabo and Luffy. Reader disappeared after Sabos death and years later, after Aces death, Luffy met her in the new world and he is so happy that she’s alive.

Maybe Reader has a devil fruit power that let her body turn into fabric and can make it harder so softer to fight enemies

Luffy’s ‘sister’

luffy x reader (platonic I guess)

a/n: I wrote it thinking it happens after the time-skip and before dressrosa arc. Also I didn't know if you wanted it to be platonic or not so I tried to stay in the middle + some talks about Ace and Sabo to make it emotional but also funny.

tags: post-timeskip, asl's sister, memories, humor

words count: 3.1k

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

“Captain! There’s a ship up ahead!” Usopp shouts, peering through his scope “It’s not attacking, but… there’s someone standing on the mast!”

Luffy’s eyes narrow. A lone figure stands tall against the wind, their long coat billowing like a flag. He squints, and for a second, his breath catches.

No way.

Before anyone can react, the figure leaps from the mast. They’re coming straight for them.

Zoro reaches for his swords, but Luffy throws out an arm “Wait!” His voice shakes. The others hesitate, Luffy never sounds like this.

The person lands gracefully on the deck, boots tapping softly against the wood. The wind carries their voice as they straighten.

“It’s been a long time… Luffy.”

His world tilts. He knows that voice. That face. His heart slams against his ribs.

“Y/N??” His voice cracks as he shouts your name.

The crew watches in shock as their captain rushes forward, arms flailing. Before you can react, he crashes into you, hugging you tight.

“I thought you were gone!” Luffy shouts into your shoulder, his grip like iron “You disappeared! After Sabo—” His voice stumbles, raw and unguarded.

You tense at the names, but slowly raise a hand to his back, patting him “I didn’t die, Luffy.”

“But you weren’t there!” He pulls back, eyes glistening “Why did you leave like that? Why didn’t you come back?!”

You sigh, fingers curling slightly “Because I wasn’t strong enough.”

“That’s stupid!” Luffy exclaims, pouting “We needed you!”

Before you can answer, Zoro clears his throat “Uh, Luffy, mind explaining?”

You glance at the swordsman, then at the rest of the crew “Oh… right. I guess you guys don’t know me.”

Luffy grins, though there’s still a hint of sadness in his eyes. He turns to his crew, beaming “This is Y/N! My sister!”

“WHAT?!” Nami, Usopp, and Chopper yell at the same time.

“Not by blood,” you correct, crossing your arms “Ace, Sabo, and Luffy—” Your voice falters just slightly “We swore to be siblings when we were kids.”

Robin watches you carefully “Then why have we never heard of you?”

You don’t answer immediately. Your fingers twitch, and a thread unravels from your sleeve, dancing between your fingers.

“I disappeared,” you finally say “After Sabo’s ship was destroyed, I—I lost it. I ran. And then when Ace...”

Luffy flinches, and you stop. The air between you is heavy.

“Anyway,” you clear your throat, rolling your shoulders “I got stronger. And now I’m here.”

Sanji steps forward, eyes softened despite the cigarette between his lips “You survived all this time alone?”

“Not alone,” you smirk “I had my own crew for a while. And my devil fruit helped.”

Before anyone can ask, your body shifts. Your arms ripple, turning into woven fibers, flowing like silk before hardening like steel. You smirk “I ate the Nuno Nuno no Mi. I can turn my body into fabric, make it soft, hard, anything I need to fight.”

Franky whistles “That’s super cool!”

You chuckle, but then Luffy suddenly grabs your shoulders. His grin is wide, bright, filled with something he hasn’t felt in years.

“You’re here,” he says, voice full of relief “You’re really here.”

Your breath hitches. You never thought you’d see that smile again, not aimed at you. Not after everything.

But here he is. And something deep inside you, something broken, starts to mend.

“Yeah,” you murmur “I’m here, Luffy.”

And for the first time in years, you let yourself believe it.

Luffy doesn’t let go. His grip is strong, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he loosens up even a little.

You sigh “Luffy, I need to breathe.”

He finally steps back, laughing “Oops. But I still can’t believe it! You’re alive!”

The crew watches closely, their curiosity thick in the air. Nami crosses her arms “Okay, so you’re Luffy’s ‘sister.’ But why are you here now?”

You hesitate. You’ve had plenty of time to think about what to say, but now that you’re here, nothing comes out easily.

“I heard about what happened.” Your voice is quieter now “To Ace.”

Luffy’s smile falters, and the ship falls silent. The crew shifts uncomfortably, all of them stealing glances at their captain.

Your hands clench into fists “I wasn’t there for him.”

Luffy’s expression darkens, but he shakes his head “It wasn’t your fault.”

You let out a bitter chuckle “That’s funny, coming from you.”

His jaw tightens, but before he can say anything, you push forward “I looked for you after Marineford. I heard you were alive, but by the time I tracked you down, you were already gone. Off training, I guess.”

“So you’ve been looking for him this whole time?” Robin asks.

“Not exactly,” you admit “I had my own things to take care of. But when I heard the Straw Hats were back in the New World… well, I figured it was time.”

Luffy tilts his head “Time for what?”

You sigh, rubbing the back of your neck “To come back. To fight alongside you.”

For a moment, Luffy just stares. Then, his face splits into the biggest grin.

“That’s awesome! You should join my crew!”

The words hit you like a punch.

Your mind pulls you back, years and years ago. Four kids, sitting in the woods, dreaming of the future.

“I’m gonna be King of the Pirates!” Luffy had shouted, grinning from ear to ear.

Ace had smirked “Then I’ll be the one to make sure no one beats you.”

Sabo had laughed “I’ll see the whole world first. Every inch of it!”

And you had thrown your arms up, puffing out your chest “Then I’m gonna be the strongest and most beautiful pirate captain ever! The most beautiful and powerful woman that no man can defeat!”

The boys had groaned at your declaration, but you had been serious. You wanted to stand among the greatest, make a name for yourself, lead your own crew.

But after Sabo’s death, that dream had faded. You let yourself forget it, bury it deep. You lost sight of what you wanted.

Yet here Luffy is, standing in front of you, still believing in his dream like nothing had ever changed.

And somehow, that makes you smile.

“I haven’t decided yet,” you say honestly “But I’ll stick around for a while.”

Luffy pumps his fist in the air “That’s good enough for me!”

Zoro steps forward, eyeing you critically “If you’re going to be traveling with us, I want to know what you can do. A devil fruit alone doesn’t mean you can keep up.”

Your lips curl into a smirk “You want to test me, swordsman?”

Zoro’s hand rests on Wado Ichimonji’s hilt “I want to make sure you won’t be dead weight.”

Luffy laughs “A fight! Yeah, let’s see what you got, Y/N!”

You crack your knuckles “Fine. Let’s take this to the deck.”

Within minutes, the crew forms a rough circle around you and Zoro. You stretch your arms, fabric threads extending from your sleeves before retracting.

Zoro rolls his shoulders “You ready?”

You grin “Always.”

The moment the words leave your mouth, he vanishes. Fast. But you’ve fought swordsmen before.

You twist, your body unraveling into woven strands as his blade slices through where your torso should be. He lands behind you, eyes narrowing at your now fabric-like form.

“Interesting” he mutters.

You re-solidify and whip your arm forward, threads shooting out like a whip. He blocks with his sword, but the force pushes him back.

Sanji whistles “Not bad.”

Zoro lunges again, this time faster. You harden your right arm, making it as dense as wood, and block his strike. But you misjudge his strength. His blade slices clean through, cutting your arm right off at the elbow.

Chopper gasps “Zoro! You cut her arm!”

But you don’t even flinch. Instead, the severed fabric of your arm ripples and knits itself back together, new threads forming until your arm is as good as new.

“Nice try” you tease, flexing your fingers.

Zoro’s eyes flash with interest “Huh. So that’s how it works.”

Before either of you can move again, Luffy jumps between you, laughing “Okay, okay! You’re strong! Zoro, she wins!”

Zoro scoffs but doesn’t argue. He sheathes his sword “You’ll do.”

Luffy throws an arm around your shoulders, grinning “Then it’s settled! Y/N is sailing with us!”

You shake your head but don’t push him off. For the first time in years, something feels right.

Maybe this is where you’re meant to be.

The next few days aboard the Sunny feel… strange. Familiar and unfamiliar all at once.

Luffy drags you around, introducing you to every part of the ship as if you’re not already well aware of how a crew operates. You humor him anyway.

Chopper asks you a million questions about your devil fruit. Franky gushes over how “super” your ability is. Brook tells you a story that somehow turns into a song. Sanji cooks you meals that make your stomach ache with nostalgia.

At night, you sit alone on the deck, staring at the stars. You remember sitting like this with Ace, Sabo and Luffy, talking about the future, making stupid promises.

“You’re thinking about them, aren’t you?”

You glance over. Luffy is sitting beside you, his usual grin absent. His expression is quiet, thoughtful.

You sigh “Yeah.”

A long silence stretches between you. Then—

“I miss them too.”

Your chest tightens. Luffy isn’t good with words when it comes to things like this, but the way he says it, the raw honesty in his voice, hits you harder than anything else.

“I wish I could’ve been there for Ace,” you admit “I wish I could’ve helped.”

Luffy shakes his head “Ace wouldn’t want that. He did what he wanted. Just like Sabo.”

The name makes your throat tighten. The last time you saw him, he was setting out on that boat. You were kids. You never got to say goodbye.

“Do you ever wonder if things would be different?” you ask quietly.

Luffy looks up at the sky, thinking. Then, he grins “Nah. Because I’m still gonna be King of the Pirates!”

You blink at him, then let out a small chuckle “You really haven’t changed, huh?”

“Nope!” He grins wider, stretching his arms behind his head “Back then, we all had our own dreams, right? Ace wanted to make sure no one beat me, Sabo wanted to see the world, and you—”

He turns to you, his grin turning softer.

“You wanted to be the strongest and most beautiful pirate captain ever.”

Your breath catches. You haven’t thought about that in so long.

Luffy leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees “And y’know what? You already did it.”

You stare at him “What?”

“You’re still a captain, even if you don’t have a crew right now. And you’re already the strongest and most beautiful woman pirate I know!”

Your face heats up, and you smack his arm lightly “Idiot. You don’t just say stuff like that.”

“But it’s true!” Luffy laughs “You didn’t give up, Y/N. You’re still out here, still fighting. That means your dream is still real.”

His words settle deep in your chest. You lost sight of that dream for so long, let yourself forget it after Sabo’s death. But hearing it from Luffy…

Maybe he’s right.

Maybe your dream never really died.

You exhale, a small smile tugging at your lips “Yeah. Maybe it is.”

Luffy grins “Then let’s keep going together!”

You laugh, shaking your head “You really don’t let things go, do you?”

“Nope!”

You roll your eyes, but something in you feels lighter.

The next morning, the crew is gathered around the deck, eating breakfast. Luffy, as always, is stuffing his face like he hasn’t eaten in weeks.

You sit next to him, sipping your drink when he suddenly smacks the table “Oh yeah! I should tell you guys some stories about when we were kids!”

You nearly choke “Luffy—”

But it’s too late. The crew is already interested.

“Oh? This sounds fun” Robin says with a knowing smile.

“Yes, tell us more about our dear Y/N!” Brook laughs “Embarrassing stories, if you have them!”

You glare at Luffy, silently warning him to shut up. He ignores you completely.

“Okay, okay, so there was this one time Y/N lost a bet and had to marry one of us!” Luffy announces proudly.

You drop your cup “Luffy, shut up!”

“Wait, what?!” Nami and Usopp both exclaim.

Sanji nearly chokes on his cigarette “Marry?! Who?!”

Luffy grins mischievously, pointing his thumb at himself “Me!”

You groan, burying your face in your hands “I hate you.”

The crew erupts into laughter.

“Wait, wait,” Franky says between chuckles “How did this even happen?”

Luffy leans back, grinning ear to ear “So we were playing this game, and Y/N lost as always. Ace said the loser had to marry one of us for the day.”

“Ace was the priest” you mutter, shaking your head.

“And Sabo was the one crying like a proud parent” Luffy adds “Like, real tears! He was all, ‘No! Y/N, you're too young for this!’”

Usopp is wheezing “He actually cried?!”

“Yeah!” Luffy nods enthusiastically “I don’t even know if he was faking it or not, but it was so funny!”

You groan “I wanted to punch every single one of them so bad, but Ace said it was against the ‘sacred marriage rules.’”

Zoro smirks, raising a brow “So, did you two actually go through with it?”

Luffy shrugs “Yeah! I even made her a ring out of leaves.”

“And then I threw it at his face, and he started crying like a baby, so Ace had to end the act.” you grumble.

The crew bursts into laughter again. Even you can’t help but smile a little.

“Man,” Luffy sighs, looking up at the sky “We were so dumb back then.”

“You still are” you retort.

He laughs “Yeah, but it was fun, right?”

You pause, thinking back to those carefree days in the forest. Even with all the fights, the chaos, the stupid dares, you wouldn’t trade those memories for anything.

“Yeah,” you admit with a small smile “It was.”

Luffy grins wider, shoving more food into his mouth.

The conversation shifts, but as the crew laughs and jokes around, you can’t help but feel a warmth in your chest.

Then suddenly Zoro smirks, arms crossed “So, she’s not your sister but your wife?”

Silence.

Then—

“EH?!” Usopp nearly spits out his drink.

“ABSOLUTELY NOT!” you yell at the same time.

Luffy tilts his head “Huh? But she’s my sister.”

Brook chuckles “Well, technically, if you were married, wouldn’t that make her your—”

“NO!” you cut in before he can finish that cursed sentence.

Sanji slams his hands on the table, looking like he’s about to explode “Luffy, you idiot! You were married to such a beautiful lady, and you didn’t even treat it like a sacred bond?!”

“It was a joke, you idiot!” you snap.

Luffy just laughs, completely unfazed “Yeah! It was just for a day! She couldn’t be my wife for real anyway, she actually had feelings for Ace.”

Dead silence again.

Then—

“WHAT?!”

Your eyes widen as your face heats up “I did what?!”

Luffy nods confidently “Yeah! I'm not that stupid... You totally liked Ace, right? I mean, you always got flustrated when he teased you. And you looked all shy and stuff whenever he did something nice for you.”

You freeze, blinking at him in utter disbelief “Luffy, what are you talking about?!”

Luffy grins, oblivious to the red creeping up your neck “Well, yeah! You were always blushing around him, and when Ace told you he’d protect you, you got all embarrassed and smiled like you were secretly happy.”

Your eyes twitch as you realize what he’s saying “Luffy, that was just because Ace was a big annoying idiot!”

Luffy tilts his head, thinking it over “Hmm… Well, maybe it wasn’t exactly that. But you definitely cared a lot about him!”

You rub your temples, trying to keep your cool “I did care about Ace, but NOT like that!”

The crew watches, barely containing their laughter as Luffy’s words continue to spiral.

Luffy isn’t fully convinced “But you were always jealous when he’d hang out with Sabo, you wanted to be with him all the time.”

You stare at him in disbelief “What?!”

“Yeah! I thought you were just mad ’cause you wanted Ace to spend more alone time with you!”

You grit your teeth, ready to explode when suddenly, Robin, who has been quietly listening, raises her hand and looks at you with a knowing smile.

“Ohhh! So you liked Sabo!”

You freeze.

“Eh?” Luffy tilts his head in confusion.

Robin’s expression remains calm as she leans forward, explaining “Yeah, from what Luffy is saying you always seemed a little flustered when Ace teased you, but not because of him, it was because Sabo was watching, right?”

Your heart skips a beat as you realize the implication. The room goes quiet. The crew looks between Robin and you as the pieces start to fall into place.

“What do you mean?” Usopp asks, his voice shaky, as if he’s starting to understand.

Robin continues, her eyes twinkling “When Ace said he would protect you, you didn’t get flustered because you liked him. It was because you wanted Sabo be the one to protect you, not Ace.”

Your face burns “I—I didn’t like him like that!”

Luffy blinks, completely oblivious “Huh? I always thought you were shy around Ace because you liked him.”

You fight the urge to bury your face in your hands “No! I didn’t!”

But as the crew starts piecing Luffy’s stories and your reactions together, you realize they’ve started to connect the dots. Robin did a good job analysing is all. Yet Luffy never caught on.

Franky scratches his head, still a little confused but grinning “So, wait, you liked Sabo the while marrying Luffy?”

“NO!” You practically shout, flailing your arms “I—”

Luffy, ever the oblivious one, just laughs “Heh, it’s okay, Y/N. It happens to everyone! I mean, you liked Sabo? It’s cool!”

Your embarrassment grows tenfold “Luffy, I swear—”

The crew is in full-on teasing mode now, and you just want to hide. Sanji’s voice cracks as he dramatically falls to his knees “Sabo, you lucky one…”

You finally give up. You collapse into your seat, covering your face with both hands “I hate all of you. We all were just kids… I was just a dumb kid with a dumb crush for a dumb kid...”

Despite your frustration, a small smile sneaks onto your face. This was ridiculous, but it felt… kind of good. Having these memories out in the open, even the embarrassing ones, made you feel like you were truly home again.

Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.

Now this is your new life with the Straw Hats.

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cherrylibby · 3 days ago

Text

Jealousy at Mach Speed

Jake Seresin had a reputation.

It wasn’t exactly unearned—the cocky smirk, the smooth Southern drawl, the way he could charm just about anyone within five minutes of meeting them. It was part of who he was.

And usually, you were fine with it. You knew that, despite the way women threw themselves at him, Jake was yours.

But tonight? Tonight, that logic was a little harder to believe.

Because as you stood at The Hard Deck, watching some girl drape herself over him, laughing a little too hard at something he said, you felt a sharp sting of insecurity settle in your chest.

Jake didn’t push her away. He didn’t tell her to back off. He just stood there, smiling, sipping his drink like he didn’t have a care in the world.

And suddenly, all the old doubts—the ones you thought you had buried—came rushing back.

Maybe you weren’t enough for him.

Maybe he’d realize that soon.

Maybe he already had.

You didn’t say anything right away.

You just grabbed your drink and made your way to the other side of the bar, setting up camp next to Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw, who immediately raised an eyebrow at your sudden mood shift.

“Alright, what’s wrong?” he asked, taking a sip of his beer.

“Nothing,” you said, too quickly.

Bradley snorted. “Uh-huh. And I’m about to win Pilot of the Year.”

You didn’t respond. Just took a long sip of your drink, staring at the wall.

Rooster followed your gaze across the bar—right to Jake, who was still talking to that girl. Understanding dawned on his face.

“Y/N,” he sighed, “you know Jake isn’t interested in her.”

You shrugged. “I don’t know anything.”

He groaned. “Okay, no. We’re not doing this.” He stood up. “I’m getting him.”

“No—Bradshaw I swear—”

Too late.

Jake turned the second Rooster called his name, eyes instantly locking onto you. His face shifted, brows furrowing as he excused himself from the conversation and made a beeline for you.

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice low as he reached you. “Everything okay?”

You plastered on your best fake smile. “Peachy.”

Jake narrowed his eyes. “Try again.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “I don’t know, Jake. Maybe you should go ask her.”

Jake blinked. “Wait, what?”

You gestured toward the blonde at the bar. “She seemed really interested in whatever you were saying.”

Realization hit him like a brick wall. His eyes widened slightly before his expression softened.

“Oh,” he murmured, stepping closer. “Sweetheart…”

You shook your head, looking away. “Forget it. It’s stupid.”

Jake didn’t let that slide. Instead, he gently tilted your chin up, making you look at him. “It’s not stupid if it’s bothering you.”

You sighed. “I just… I don’t know. I saw you with her, and I just started thinking… why me? You could have anyone.”

Jake’s eyes darkened—not with anger, but something deeper.

“Y/N,” he said, voice firm. “I don’t want just anyone. I want you.”

You swallowed, feeling your resolve crack. “Yeah, but for how long?”

Jake exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Sweetheart, forever isn’t long enough when it comes to you.”

Your heart stuttered.

Jake cupped your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks. “You think I don’t notice every little thing about you? The way you scrunch your nose when you’re trying not to laugh. The way you pretend to be annoyed when I flirt, but I see that little smile.” He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. “The way I feel like I’m home whenever I’m with you.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “Jake…”

“I don’t care about any other girl. Never have. Never will.” He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “I’m yours, Y/N. Only yours.”

Tears pricked at your eyes—tears you hated because damn it, you were not a crier.

Jake noticed, of course. He kissed the corner of your eye, then your cheek, then finally—finally—your lips.

It was slow, deep, filled with every unspoken word between you.

When he pulled away, he smiled softly. “You believe me now?”

You let out a watery laugh. “I think so.”

Jake chuckled, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.”

And just like that, the storm passed—leaving nothing but love in its wake.

#jake hangman seresin #jake seresin #jake seresin fanfiction #jake seresin x reader #top gun #top gun hangman

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zaynessbeloved · 3 days ago

Text

The Bond remembers

Synopsis: You were only meant to be a life model—just another muse in Rafayel’s class. But when you touched his painting, something ancient stirred. Dreams followed: a glowing city beneath the sea, a violet-eyed god, a sacrifice made in the name of love. Now, the past is bleeding into the present. And neither of you can resist the pull of a bond that’s waited eight hundred years to return.

Content warnings: Soulmates, reincarnation, divine bond, immortal love, slow burn yearning, pining, memory awakening, Lemuria-inspired tale of past life sacrifice, first kisses, emotional, soulbonded sex—including grinding, oral, praise kink, body worship, and soft angst that heals as much as it hurts.

Pairings: Rafayel x reader

Word count: 16.8k

A/n: this fic is so special to me—I poured my whole heart into the bond, the yearning, the underwater dreams, and ALL the Rafayel soul-ache (his god of tides myth broke me). I really wanted to explore something slow, sacred, and emotional… with a touch (okay, a lot) of steamy intimacy too hehe. thank you for reading!!

You’re used to being looked at. Not in the way strangers leer on subways or the fleeting glances in crowded rooms. No, this is the quiet, calculated attention of artists—where every tilt of your chin, every arch of your spine, becomes something to be studied, understood, immortalized.

The art studio smells like charcoal dust and old wood varnish. The spotlight above you casts soft shadows along your skin, bathing you in that familiar warmth. Pencils scratch. Brushes drag. Someone sneezes. You barely move.

Then you feel it. A stare that lingers a little longer than the rest.

You don't know why it strikes you, but it does—like a thread being pulled taut across your collarbone. Your gaze flickers, subtle, and lands on him.

He’s not drawing. Not right now. His hands are still, resting over his sketchbook, fingertips lightly stained in colors that don’t belong to today’s palette. And his eyes—violet, no, more like twilight bruised with a hint of storm—are entirely fixed on you. Not your form. Not your pose. You.

You look away.

The session ends. The instructor claps, voices rise, stools scrape against the floor. You reach for the silk robe hanging nearby, slipping it over your shoulders as the cold air starts to bite. You’ve done this a hundred times. It’s routine. Predictable.

So you’re not sure why you approach him this time.

“Your piece,” you say, feigning casual. “You looked… focused.”

He doesn’t look up right away, as if he's reluctant to let go of whatever spell he’d put himself under. But when he does, there’s a slow, knowing smile that curves his lips.

“You noticed.”

You shrug, the silk shifting against your skin. “Hard not to.”

He closes his sketchbook, stands. He's taller than you'd expected. “I didn’t finish it,” he says smoothly, brushing a faint streak of ochre from his wrist. “Not here, at least. I prefer to work where it’s quiet. Where things breathe.”

You blink. “Things?”

“Art. Memory. Obsession,” he adds, that smile widening slightly as he gestures toward the door. “Would you like to see it?”

You hesitate—half out of instinct, half out of surprise. But there’s something magnetic about him. Something veiled behind his poise, like danger dressed in velvet.

“…Sure.”

His studio is tucked in a quieter district, away from the city hum. The building is old, with high arched windows and white-washed brick. He walks ahead of you, unlocking the door with a key that glints under the moonlight. You step inside.

The air is cooler here. And quieter. Paintings line the walls—some abstract, others disturbingly real. But at the center of the room, draped beneath a white cloth, stands something tall. Almost human in shape.

You glance at him.

He says nothing, only watches as you step forward, fingers brushing the edge of the veil.

You pull.

And there you are.

No… not quite. Marble. Cold. Eternal. But your expression. Your body. The tilt of your lips caught mid-thought. The way your fingers rest against your thigh just like they had earlier.

You gasp—quietly. Breath stolen.

“You—this is…”

“Not what you expected?” His voice is low now, like the final stroke of a bow across a cello string. “I didn’t want to capture what everyone else saw.”

He’s beside you now, but not touching. Not yet.

“I wanted to carve what I saw.”

You stand frozen, staring into the marble eyes of yourself. It's not just the accuracy that unsettles you—it’s the way it feels like she's watching you back.

Your marble double is beautiful, yes, but there’s vulnerability carved into her lips, strength in the tension of her shoulders. Like you’d been captured in the exact moment your thoughts had strayed—just before the end of the session. How did he know?

You don’t realize how long you’ve been silent until you hear the soft shift of his coat as Rafayel steps closer behind you.

“I thought you might run,” he says, voice smooth, low, and almost amused.

You glance over your shoulder. “Should I?”

He tilts his head slightly, a few purple strands falling into his eyes. “You tell me. You’re the one standing face-to-face with your own ghost.”

You huff out a quiet laugh, breathless. “It’s not a ghost.”

“No,” he agrees, moving to your side, his hand barely brushing the edge of the pedestal as he circles it with a kind of reverent attention. “It’s a moment. Suspended forever. Just for me.”

You swallow. “That’s a little intense.”

He hums. “Oh, cutie, I’ve been called worse.”

There it is—that lilt in his voice. Playful. Velveted and dangerous. And suddenly you feel it again—that strange heat blooming low in your chest, curling under your ribs. It doesn’t feel threatening. Just… unexpected.

You shift your eyes back to the statue, trying to compose yourself. “You really made all this… from memory?”

“Of course.” His tone softens, as if the answer should’ve been obvious. “I don’t need a photograph to remember how your collarbone caught the light. Or the way your fingers twitched when you were trying not to shiver. I remember all of it.”

You go still again, pulse thudding in your throat. He isn’t teasing anymore. Not fully.

“…Why me?” you ask, voice quieter now. “There were a dozen models in the academy files. Some who’ve done this for years.”

He steps closer, and when he speaks next, it’s not playful—it’s precise.

“Because you don’t flinch when people look at you,” Rafayel murmurs. “But you do when someone sees you.”

You meet his eyes then, caught in a silence that says more than either of you is ready to admit.

And yet—he leans in, ever so slightly, and adds with that crooked smirk returning, “Besides… I don’t think the others would’ve let me get away with sculpting that dimple just right.”

You laugh—actually laugh this time—and the tension crackles, not with discomfort, but something almost magnetic. The kind of static you feel right before a storm.

He turns then, breaking the moment, and gestures toward a dark curtain tucked into the far corner of the studio. “Want to see the rest?”

You blink. “There’s more?”

“Oh, cutie…” He tosses you a glance over his shoulder, that spark unmistakable in his eyes. “You’ve barely seen the beginning.”

You follow Rafayel through the studio, brushing past the heavy curtain as he pulls it aside with a lazy flick of his wrist. The space behind it is smaller, dimmer, lit only by scattered floor lamps and soft light pouring in from a tall, arched window. The air smells faintly of turpentine, dried roses, and something else you can’t name. Something sharper.

You weren’t expecting this.

The walls are lined with canvases—some finished, some half-covered with strokes and smudges of color. There’s a narrow table covered in sketchbooks, loose pages, and clay fragments. You take one step inside and then another, until your breath catches in your throat.

There’s you. Again.

But not in marble.

Paintings. Sketches. Charcoal etchings. Miniature sculptures in rough, beautiful progress.

You blink, stunned.

“I—wow,” you murmur, hand lifting on instinct but stopping just short of touching one of the canvases. Your painted self sits on a chair, sunlight sliding down your bare shoulder, hair falling loose around your face. In another, you’re half-turned, caught mid-laugh—something he never would’ve seen from the platform. Not unless…

“You watched me when I wasn’t posing.”

Rafayel doesn’t deny it.

He leans casually against the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable save for the slow tilt of his head. “You were always more interesting between the poses.”

You laugh under your breath, unsure if you’re flattered or unnerved. Maybe a little of both. “You had time to do all this?”

“You modeled for the entire semester,” he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I’m a fast worker. When I’m… inspired.”

You glance around again. There are easily a dozen versions of you here—each one different. Each one seen through his eyes.

“I didn’t know I was that inspiring.”

“You didn’t know,” he echoes, pushing off the wall now and walking toward you with a lazy grace. “That’s what made it so addictive.”

You glance over at him, heart thudding a little harder in your chest. “You sound like a man with a problem.”

He smiles. “Oh, I am. But I’m not in a rush to fix it.”

There’s a beat of silence, and you take the chance to breathe—slowly, evenly. You think back to how this all started.

You’d signed up to be a life model on a whim. It was good money, flexible hours, and easy enough work if you could sit still for long stretches of time. You never expected to enjoy it. But there was something about being seen through an artist’s lens that made you feel like more than just skin and bone. You became texture. Shadow. Light.

Rafayel had been one of the quieter students in the class. Never asked questions. Never joked around with the others. He showed up late sometimes, left even later. But his eyes… they were always on you. Focused. Sharpened like a blade in water.

And now, standing here among the pieces he’d carved and painted in secret, you realize— Maybe he hadn’t been sketching you like the others had. Maybe he’d been studying you.

You look back at him now, and say, almost too softly, “I never thought I’d be a muse.”

He steps closer, close enough that you can smell the faint traces of clay and paint on his clothes, on his skin. “You were never just a muse.”

You raise a brow. “No?”

His gaze drops—first to your mouth, then to the dip of your throat, before lifting again. “You were the thing I couldn’t get out of my head.”

The words strike something deep in you. It’s not even what he says, but how he says it—like it was inevitable. Like he’d already resigned himself to it long ago.

You should leave. That would be the logical thing to do.

But instead, you ask, “And now that the semester’s over?”

He leans in just a touch, one hand lifting to gently brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers are cool from the clay. His smile? Absolutely sinful.

“Now,” he murmurs, “I get to sculpt you from memory.”

You don’t move away from his touch—not when his fingers ghost behind your ear, not when they linger for just a second too long. Instead, you tilt your head slightly and meet his gaze. Steady. Searching.

“You say that like I’ll disappear,” you murmur. “Like one day, I’ll just… fade out of your mind.”

Rafayel lets out a soft exhale—part laugh, part something else. “Oh, cutie. If only I could be that lucky.”

You raise a brow. “Lucky?”

He steps past you then, glancing down at the statue once more. His voice shifts—quieter now, thoughtful. “You think it’s lucky, remembering everything? Every line, every glance, every pause you took between breaths?”

You watch him as he brushes his fingers along the edge of one canvas, his movements delicate, reverent. There’s something in his voice that makes your skin prickle—not just flattery, but the sharp edges of something deeper. Obsession, maybe. Or something far more dangerous.

“You don’t forget anything?” you ask softly.

He glances back at you. That smirk returns, but it’s tempered by something real beneath it. “Not when it matters.”

And suddenly, you find yourself smiling. A slow, curious smile that edges toward something bolder. “Still…” You walk closer, deliberately slow, and come to a stop just in front of him. “If your memory ever fails you—and I’m not saying it will—but if it does…”

He arches a brow. “Yes?”

“…You could always ask me to model again.”

There’s a pause. One heartbeat. Two.

And then he laughs—low, rich, and surprisingly warm. “Are you offering?”

You shrug, casual. Teasing. “You do have all the lighting equipment already. And I wouldn’t want your next masterpiece to be inaccurate.”

“Ah,” he hums, circling you now like you’re already on the pedestal, “so generous. Offering your time, your form, your presence. Truly, my muse is merciful.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s half-hearted. “Don’t get used to the praise.”

“I don’t need to,” Rafayel says, stopping just behind you again. His voice lowers, brushing against the shell of your ear. “I already carved it into stone.”

The words settle deep in your chest—too intimate, too serious, too... him.

You’re quiet for a moment, eyes scanning the works around you again, until your voice slips out, softer than before. “Do you do this often?”

He doesn't answer right away.

When he does, his voice is distant, like he's remembering something from far away. “No.”

Just that. A single word. Honest. Heavy.

You glance at him, this time really looking. Behind the velvet charm and practiced poise, there’s something guarded in his expression—like there are doors he keeps locked tight, even as he offers you the keyhole to peer through.

“So what made you do it this time?” you ask, your tone barely a whisper.

He looks at you, then. Really looks.

“I don’t know,” Rafayel admits, lips curving into something almost rueful. “Maybe I saw you before I ever knew your name. Maybe I just wanted to remember what it felt like to want something I couldn’t quite touch.”

You swallow, heart fluttering in your chest like wings against a glass cage. He isn’t just playing anymore. Not entirely.

And you? You should be afraid of how deeply he’s seen you. But instead, all you can think is— What else is he hiding in this studio? And why does part of you want to be the one to find it?

Your fingers trail lightly across the edge of one of the canvases—this one smaller than the rest, no more than the size of a dinner plate, but framed in silver. It doesn’t quite match the others. It’s abstract, layered with swirling, iridescent hues that shimmer like oil over water. The colors shift the longer you look, bleeding from violet to blue to a shade that doesn’t quite exist in the normal spectrum.

And then—a pulse.

It’s faint. Like a heartbeat caught beneath the canvas.

You snatch your hand back instinctively.

“What was that?” you murmur, frowning slightly. Your eyes flick to Rafayel, who’s now quietly watching you from across the room. His arms are crossed loosely, expression unreadable—but there’s a twitch at the corner of his lips.

He shrugs, lazy and amused. “Sensitive, aren’t you?”

“I’m serious.” You glance back at the painting, hand still hovering just above it. “It… moved.”

“Did it?” he drawls, wandering over now with that slow, predatory grace he seems to wear so effortlessly. “Maybe the studio’s just messing with your head. Happens sometimes. Low lighting, late night, a mysterious artist with questionable morals—” he taps his chin theatrically—“Classic cocktail for hallucinations.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “That’s not funny.”

“Oh, I wasn’t trying to be funny. I was going for enigmatic. Did it work?”

You give him a dry look, but there’s a flutter of unease in your chest. Not fear—more like your instincts whispering, something’s not quite right here.

Your gaze drifts back to the painting. The colors shimmer again, but softer this time. Gentle. Luring.

“…What did you use to paint this?”

He lifts a brow, and this time his smile shifts—just a flicker tighter. “Trade secret.”

Your lips part, but before you can press further, he closes the gap between you. “Come on, cutie. You’ve seen my secrets. Let me keep a few.”

You hesitate—but his voice is velvet, and his presence overwhelming, like the painting itself. Warm, close, disarming. Distracting.

Still, your gaze lingers on the painting one second longer.

It did pulse. And your skin still tingles faintly where you touched it.

You step back, breaking eye contact with the canvas. “…Fine. Keep your little secrets, artist boy.”

He smirks, clearly victorious. “Thank you. I promise they’re all very harmless.”

You eye him. “That’s exactly what someone with very harmful secrets would say.”

Rafayel lets out a soft, theatrical sigh. “You're impossible.”

“And you’re not nearly as subtle as you think.”

But even as you say it, you catch the gleam in his eyes—a flicker of something deep, unspoken, ancient.

And you wonder—not for the first time tonight—just how much of him is artifice… and how much is something else entirely.

You should probably leave. That would be the smart thing to do. But your feet don’t move.

Not when he’s looking at you like that—head tilted, violet-pink eyes half-lidded, like he’s measuring something unseen. The room still hums faintly, thick with the scent of mineral dust and paint thinner. The pulse of that strange painting seems to echo in your fingertips even now, long after you stepped away.

“You’re still curious,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m not denying it,” you murmur.

He moves then, sweeping past you toward the far end of the studio. A large sheet rests over something draped in shadow—another canvas? A sculpture? It’s hard to tell.

He stops, turns to glance at you over his shoulder. “I’ve been working on something new,” he says, voice smooth as wine. “It isn’t finished, but…” He steps aside and lifts the sheet away with a slow, elegant motion.

It’s a painting—tall, vertical, and haunting.

You.

But not like the others. Not posed. Not serene.

This one is raw—your expression caught in mid-thought, lips parted as if about to speak, hair slightly mussed, something stormy in your eyes. It doesn’t feel like a portrait. It feels like an argument. A secret. A confession you didn’t know you made.

You stare. “That’s not how I looked in class.”

“I know.” Rafayel leans one shoulder against the wall beside the canvas, watching you. “That one’s from memory too. But a different kind of memory.”

You glance at him. “When did you see me like this?”

He shrugs. “Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I imagined you this way. Wanted to see you like this.”

You exhale slowly. He’s toying with you again, as always—but something in your chest flutters, caught between intrigue and tension. “You’re impossible to read.”

He grins. “Good.”

You turn back to the painting, letting the silence settle between you again. There’s something about this piece that pulls at you in a way the others didn’t. You don’t feel like a muse here. You feel like something else—like he painted what you hide even from yourself.

“…Do you want to sit again?” His voice breaks the stillness.

You glance at him.

He nods to the chair near the easel—closer than the platform in the academy. Much closer.

His expression is casual, but his eyes? They gleam.

“I have a few hours,” he says lightly. “If you’re brave enough.”

You hesitate for only a heartbeat. Then you move toward the chair, dragging it a little closer to the light, the hum of the room still buzzing faintly in your bones. You sit, heart ticking a little faster, but your posture relaxed.

You meet his gaze head-on. “Alright. Show me what you see.”

Rafayel smiles, slow and satisfied, as he lifts his brush.

“Gladly.”

The chair creaks softly as you shift into it, smoothing your hands along your thighs—suddenly hyperaware of your posture, the slope of your shoulders, the angle of your neck. You’ve done this before, countless times under the sharp gaze of students and instructors. But this time, it feels different.

This time, he’s closer.

Rafayel stands only a few feet away, sketchpad balanced loosely in one hand, charcoal stick in the other. The dim, amber glow of the studio lamp halos him in warmth, but his focus is sharp—eyes narrowed slightly, expression unreadable.

You hold still.

Not because he told you to—but because somehow, you want to.

The scratch of charcoal fills the silence, soft and rhythmic. You watch the way his wrist moves, fluid and precise. His eyes flick up to meet yours, then back down. Again. Again. Every glance is deliberate. Each line he draws is a secret he’s pulling from you without permission.

You clear your throat. “Do you always draw this close?”

He doesn’t look up. “Only when the subject is interesting.”

Your brow lifts. “And am I interesting because I sit still well, or because you’ve made an art gallery of me in the back of your studio?”

That earns a soft chuckle from him—a real one, low and warm. “Neither. You’re interesting because you’re still trying to figure out if you like being seen.”

Your lips part, but the words don’t come. He’s not wrong. You’ve always worn your calm like armor in these sessions—but Rafayel sees through it, and you don’t know how to stop him.

You shift slightly, just enough for your knee to brush the edge of the lamp’s glow. “What about you?” you ask. “You act like someone who enjoys the attention, but you keep everything else locked up.”

He glances up this time, and for a second—just a second—something flickers in his eyes. Something colder. Older.

“Maybe I do both,” he murmurs. “Maybe I want someone to look close enough to ask.”

You meet his gaze, and neither of you looks away.

“…So?” you ask softly. “What are you drawing now?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes flick to your mouth. Your hands. The curve of your jaw. Then he says:

“The way you sit when you think no one’s watching. The way you try to hide the fact that you’re intrigued.”

You blink. “That’s not very objective.”

He smirks. “Who said I was going for objectivity?”

You exhale, letting your gaze wander across the scattered canvases and sketches that surround you both. The studio feels like its own world now—removed from the streets below, the sounds of the city, the weight of normal life. Here, there’s only this strange rhythm between you.

You tilt your head, eyes returning to his. “How long have you had… whatever this is?” You gesture vaguely toward the paintings. “The obsession.”

He hums, dragging the charcoal in a soft curve across the page. “Since the first session, probably. You didn’t look away when I stared. Most people flinch. You didn’t.”

You smile faintly. “Maybe I wanted to be seen.”

He pauses, then looks up, slower this time. His voice is quieter when he speaks next.

“Then you should be careful,” he murmurs, “because I don’t just look, cutie. I remember. I keep.”

Your breath catches—not from fear, but from the weight behind those words. The intimacy in them.

You sit in stillness again, pulse steady but a little too loud in your ears.

And across from you, Rafayel draws.

The charcoal moves again. Slow, deliberate. You don’t speak for a moment, letting the quiet settle around you like mist.

Your hand drifts idly to the edge of the table beside the chair, fingers brushing across splattered wood and scattered graphite stubs. You’re not really thinking about it—until your skin skims something slick and strangely warm.

You flinch.

Not from pain. Not from fear.

Just—wrong.

Your fingers jerk back, and for a second, the edges of your vision blur—like the room shifted, just slightly out of alignment.

You blink. Once. Twice.

Something buzzes faintly at the back of your mind, like a note played on a frequency just out of reach.

Rafayel pauses.

You look toward the doorway—the curtain still drawn back from earlier. The painting. The small one with the impossible colors.

It’s glowing.

Faintly. Softly. But unmistakably.

The swirling shades now pulse gently, like the slow rhythm of a sleeping heartbeat. Not steady. Not quite natural. The light ripples across the studio walls, reflecting off silver frames and casting strange shadows behind Rafayel’s silhouette.

You stand slowly, not taking your eyes off it. “It’s doing it again.”

Rafayel doesn’t move. His head tilts slightly, one brow raising. He watches you, not the painting.

“You’re not screaming,” he says, voice low, thoughtful.

“No.”

“You’re not running either.”

You glance at him, jaw tightening. “Should I be?”

He smiles, but there’s something else behind it now. Something deeper. Interested. “Most would’ve broken the door down by now.”

You look back at the painting. That shimmering glow calls to something deep in your chest, strange but not unwelcome. Like a dream you can’t remember but know you’ve had.

“What is that?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he stands, setting his sketchpad down carefully on the table. Then, slowly, he walks to your side, eyes never leaving your face.

“It’s made with a pigment you can’t find on the surface,” he says at last, voice almost too casual. “Coral stone. Grows in deep ocean pressure, where light folds in on itself. Very rare.”

You glance at him. “And the pulsing?”

“Side effect. The material’s… reactive.” His tone is deliberately vague.

“To what?”

He leans in slightly, head tilted as he studies your expression. “That’s the interesting part.”

You stare at him, heart thudding, the air now humming softly around you. “It reacted to me.”

“Yes.” His smile stretches. “And you’re still standing here. Still looking.”

There’s a beat of silence. Long. Charged.

You don’t know what he’s expecting from you now—fear, maybe. Or retreat. But all you feel is a slow-burning fire in your chest, drawn by the pull of something unknown. Him. This place. The strange materials he works with. The secrets layered beneath his art.

“…Is it dangerous?” you ask.

“Only if you try to understand it too fast,” he replies. Then adds, with a slow, playful drawl, “Like me.”

You look up at him, eyes narrowed, heart steady.

“Maybe I like puzzles.”

Rafayel grins then—sharp, amused, intrigued in a way that feels far more dangerous than anything glowing behind a curtain.

“Well, cutie,” he says, “in that case… welcome to the deep end.”

You take a step toward the painting.

Rafayel doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t say anything at all. He just watches, eyes half-lidded, lips parted slightly like he’s holding in something unspoken.

The canvas pulses again—soft waves of color folding into one another, blooming and collapsing like a living thing caught in rhythm with your heartbeat. You hesitate just before your fingers reach it.

“Should I?” you ask.

His response is so quiet you almost miss it.

“…If you want the truth, cutie, you should probably turn around and go home.”

You glance back at him, eyes sharp. “But if I want the interesting answer?”

He gives a soft, velveted laugh. “Then touch it.”

So you do.

Your fingertips graze the painted surface—and the world tilts.

Color surges beneath your skin, blooming through your veins like warm lightning. The room swims. Not violently—more like the sensation of being pulled underwater without drowning. Shapes swirl at the edge of your vision, fractals folding into memories you’ve never had. You see light refracting in deep sea currents. Hear whispers in a language that doesn't exist. The hum becomes music.

It doesn’t hurt. But it changes you—just for a breath.

And behind you—something shifts.

You whip around, breath catching in your throat.

Rafayel is standing still, but the air around him ripples—just once. Like gravity bent sideways. Like the studio itself responded to your touch.

His eyes glow faintly—violet brightening into a glassy, inhuman shimmer. His hair drifts slightly, as if underwater, and for a heartbeat, the shadows on the walls crawl inward, drawn to him like a tide responding to the moon.

Then it all vanishes. A blink—and he’s just Rafayel again.

But your heart is pounding now. “That was—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

“Side effect,” he says smoothly. Too smoothly.

You blink at him. “You reacted.”

He lifts a brow, expression unreadable. “Did I?”

“Yes.” You step toward him now, breathless but steady. “That was your Evol, wasn’t it?”

Another pause.

Then—finally—he speaks. “You’re not supposed to see that. Not yet.”

“But I did.”

He sighs through his nose, almost amused, almost annoyed. “And yet here you are. Still not screaming.”

“I told you,” you murmur. “I like puzzles.”

He studies you again—really studies you. You expect him to retreat behind one of his deflections, the playful teasing or velvet charm.

But this time, he doesn’t.

He just says, quietly:

“You touched something that should’ve cracked your mind wide open… and you’re still standing. Still you.”

You swallow, pulse thudding in your neck. “Should I be afraid?”

Rafayel’s expression softens just slightly, though something ancient still lingers behind his eyes. “Maybe. But I’m starting to think you’re the kind of girl who’d smile with a knife in her hand.”

You laugh—soft, uncertain. “What does that make you?”

He steps close. Just close enough for his voice to drop again, low and rich. “A very willing volunteer.”

The studio feels different now.

Not just in atmosphere—but in weight. Like the air between you and Rafayel has thickened with something older, heavier. Unspoken things shift just below the surface.

He’s still watching you—not with playful interest this time, but something else. Something sharper. Ancient.

You cross your arms, trying to steady your breath. “You said I wasn’t supposed to see that yet.”

“I did.” His voice is quiet now, velvet-dark. “But it’s not the first time you’ve done something you weren’t supposed to.”

Your brow furrows. “That sounds like more than just tonight.”

A faint smile ghosts across his lips. “Maybe it is.”

You pause, searching his face. That unreadable look in his eyes isn’t unfamiliar—but tonight, it feels less like a mask and more like a lock. One you’re finally finding the edges to.

“…Tell me,” you say.

He lifts a brow, amused. “Tell you what?”

“The truth.”

There’s a silence then. Long. Intentional. His fingers trail along the edge of the sketchpad, absently picking up the charcoal again, as if drawing gives him something to anchor to.

Finally, he speaks.

“There are stories,” he says, “about how the soul remembers what the mind forgets. That even when time folds in on itself, there are things we carry forward—things that find us again.”

You tilt your head. “Are we talking about art now, or something else?”

Rafayel’s gaze lifts to meet yours—and it’s too much. Like looking through centuries all layered behind violet eyes. He smiles, but it’s the kind that doesn’t quite reach the surface.

“I don’t know yet.”

That throws you.

“You don’t know… what?”

“If you’re real,” he says. “If this is real.”

You blink. “I’m right in front of you.”

“I know. And yet, the last time I saw your face…” He stops himself, eyes narrowing slightly, as though something painful brushes the edge of his memory. “You were dying in my arms.”

Your mouth goes dry. “What?”

He watches you. Measuring. Waiting.

“…I think I knew you once,” he says, barely audible. “Long before this. Long before now. But I don’t know if you’re her. Or just another face I want to believe in.”

You take a slow breath, pulse hammering. “You think I’m someone who… died?”

“Not just someone.” His voice is a whisper now. “The only person who ever made me want to stay.”

That silences you.

He steps closer, but not too close—like he’s afraid getting near might break the spell. “So you see… when you touched that painting, and you didn’t break, didn’t crack—I had to wonder.”

You meet his gaze, heart racing. “Wonder what?”

“If your soul remembers mine.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to drown in. You don’t speak, don’t move. Because suddenly you understand why he’s been watching you all semester. Why he sculpted you from memory. Why he seems pulled to you—not with infatuation, but with recognition.

You’re a puzzle he hasn’t solved in 800 years.

“…And if I’m not her?” you ask, voice barely a whisper.

Rafayel’s eyes dim slightly, but the softness never fades. “Then I’ll still paint you until my hands forget how.”

His words hang in the air like smoke:

Your heart is a wild, fluttering thing in your chest, trying to make sense of a weight that doesn’t belong to this life. Of a name unspoken, a rainstorm long gone, a dying moment that shouldn't exist in your memories—and yet something stirs.

But before you can reach for it— Rafayel steps back.

The motion is quiet, gentle. Not rejection. Something else. Like he’s pulling a curtain shut over a window that should never have been opened.

“That’s enough,” he says softly.

You blink. “What?”

His eyes lower, lashes casting shadows across his cheekbones. “If we go any deeper… I don’t think either of us will come back the same.”

You hesitate. “Isn’t that the point?”

He lets out a slow breath, then meets your gaze with something raw behind his usual teasing exterior. It’s not fear. It’s not disinterest. It’s care. Restraint forged in the fire of something ancient.

“I’ve waited too long to get this wrong,” he says.

You fall silent.

It hits you then—this isn’t just intrigue to him. This isn’t flirtation or artistic obsession. It’s something sacred. The way someone might cradle a long-lost melody at the edge of memory, too afraid that humming it aloud will ruin it forever.

He looks down at the sketchpad—still open, lines half-formed.

He closes it.

“I’ll walk you out.”

You don’t argue. Don’t push.

But as he leads you to the studio door, your hand trails along the edge of the curtain again. The painting behind it hums faintly, still pulsing like a distant heartbeat. Waiting.

You glance back at him one last time.

Rafayel catches your eyes, and though his expression is calm, you can feel it. The storm hasn’t passed. It’s only been postponed.

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

Three weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since you left Rafayel’s studio—since you touched that painting, felt something move beneath your skin, and saw his eyes burn with light not meant for this world.

Winter break came like a snowstorm that buried everything. The city slowed. The academy emptied. And for a while, you told yourself it had all been a trick of the light. Stress. Exhaustion. A beautiful artist and his strange materials.

But it didn’t go away.

From the moment your fingers touched that coral pigment, something inside you began to stir.

It started small—barely noticeable. A flicker of déjà vu when you passed by deep water. The whisper of a name you didn’t know on the edge of dreams. But the dreams…

The dreams were different.

You saw a city of glass and coral, spiraling towers bathed in soft blue light, luminous creatures drifting through vaulted domes. You saw him. Rafayel—but not as he is now. His hair flowed like liquid starlight, his eyes glowed brighter than the surface sun, and the sea bowed to his will. You saw yourself too—kneeling in shallow water, trembling as golden hands touched your face with reverence.

In one dream, they tried to take your heart. You remember the blade. You remember his voice, shaking as he said no.

And you remember the feeling of falling into his arms as he chose you—over them.

You wake up each time with your heart in your throat, your sheets damp with cold sweat, whispering his name into the dark.

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

The semester starts again.

The halls of the academy buzz back to life, laughter and boots crunching ice into slush. Students carry portfolios and half-finished canvases under their arms. But you? You find yourself in front of the model roster sheet again, pen hovering.

You don’t even hesitate.

You write your name down under his class.

You tell yourself it’s for the money, the familiarity. Routine.

But when you walk into the room that first day, and see him at the far end of the studio—his back turned, sleeves rolled up, brushing powder onto a canvas with long, elegant fingers—your chest clenches.

You feel it. Like gravity pulling toward the sea.

Rafayel turns. And when he sees you—his expression doesn’t shift.

But his eyes do.

A flicker. A pause. Like he’s been waiting for this.

You don’t speak. Neither does he. But the moment stretches between you like a thread pulled tight through time.

And the soul in your chest begins to remember.

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

Class ends.

The students begin to gather their things—brushes clattering into tins, sketchbooks snapping shut, chairs scraping across the floor. Someone laughs near the back, muffled behind their scarf. The air smells faintly of varnish and cold.

But you don’t move.

You watch him.

Rafayel closes his sketchpad with a quiet, final motion. He doesn’t look at you—not yet. He’s already halfway to the door, coat slung lazily over one shoulder, hair loose, untied. Like nothing happened. Like he hasn’t haunted your dreams for twenty-one days straight.

Like he wasn’t holding you in the depths of a forgotten world—choosing you over everything he was meant to protect.

Your voice rises before you can stop it.

“Wait.”

He freezes. One hand still on the doorframe.

Slowly, he turns. Violet eyes meet yours, unreadable. Calm. Too calm.

“Yes?” he asks, as if nothing’s changed.

But you see it—the flicker behind his gaze. A flash of recognition. And something else, too. Restraint.

You take a breath. Step forward.

“Don’t go.”

That catches him.

His brows lift, just slightly. He turns fully now, facing you. There’s a beat of silence where neither of you moves. The others file out behind you, unaware. Unimportant. The world shrinks to the space between you and him.

“You came after me,” Rafayel says softly, almost to himself. “Of course you did.”

Your throat tightens.

“Something’s been… happening. Since that night,” you say. “Since I touched the painting.”

He doesn’t interrupt. He watches. He waits.

“I didn’t think it was real,” you go on. “But then I started dreaming. Or remembering. I don’t even know which it is.” You shake your head, breath catching. “You were there. Not as you are now. You were…”

“…More,” he finishes, quiet.

You nod.

“And I was…” You swallow. “I think I was meant to die. But you stopped it. You saved me.”

His eyes close. Just for a moment. Like your words strike a place he’s been guarding too tightly for too long.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” you whisper.

Silence.

Then—his voice, soft and steady:

“…You remembered.”

Something in your chest folds inward at the way he says it. Like it matters. Like it changes everything.

You search his face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wasn’t sure,” he says. “And I didn’t want to force it. If you were her, you would feel it in time. If you weren’t…” His jaw tenses. “I didn’t want to break you chasing a ghost.”

“But I’m not broken,” you say, stepping closer. “I’m still here.”

His breath catches—just slightly. And you swear, in that moment, the air shifts. Like the ocean, rising behind his eyes.

“You shouldn’t be,” he says, almost in wonder. “Not again.”

You reach for him. Not with your hands. Not yet. Just with your voice. Your presence. The truth you’re not afraid to look at anymore.

“Then maybe we were never meant to forget.”

You wait—for him to reach for you. To say something more. To close the space between your bodies the way your souls already have.

But he doesn’t move.

Rafayel stands there, barely a foot away, and yet there’s a wall between you. Not one made of distance or doubt—but of memory. Of fear. Of something ancient and fragile, breaking open again.

His hand twitches at his side, fingers curling faintly. You catch the motion. He wanted to touch you. He stopped himself.

“Why won’t you say it?” you ask softly. “Why won’t you let this be real?”

He meets your gaze, and gods, his eyes—there’s a whole world inside them. A depth you’ve seen only in dreams and drowning.

“Because the last time I did,” he says, voice barely audible, “I lost you.”

The words hit like a wave to the chest.

You don’t remember how. Not clearly. The dream ends in his arms, in the choice he made to protect you. But after that—nothing.

Just a pressure in your ribs. A cold that clings to your bones. A final heartbeat, echoing in his silence.

Still, you don’t ask. You don’t need to.

Because even now, standing before him in this studio full of light and pigment and breath—you can feel it. The pain. The love. The unspoken ache buried so deep in him that he’s sculpted you again and again just to survive it.

And somehow… so have you.

“I don’t remember everything,” you murmur. “I don’t know the names or the place or the time. But I feel it.”

You step forward, slowly.

“I feel you.”

His jaw tightens. His eyes burn. Still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach.

And it hurts, the way he holds himself back. Not out of cruelty. But reverence. Like you’re a flame he already burned himself on once.

“I want to remember,” you say. “But even if I never do—I still choose you.”

His breath falters.

Something shifts in the room. Not big. Not loud. Just the faintest tremor beneath your feet. A hum in the floorboards. In the air.

His Evol. His soul. You don’t know.

But he does. He feels it too.

“You don’t understand what that means,” he says, voice rough now. “What it costs.”

“Maybe not yet,” you whisper, “but I understand what it feels like.”

His eyes close. One slow breath. And when they open again, there’s something soft in him. A crack in the marble.

He doesn’t touch you. But his voice reaches you anyway.

“Not yet,” he says. “If you’re really her… this time, I’ll wait.”

And you nod.

Because you understand. Because this time—it’s him who’s afraid to lose you.

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

It starts the same way it always does—cold.

The weight of water presses in around you, dark and endless. Your limbs move slow, your chest burns. You're drowning, sinking toward a seabed that glows faintly with bioluminescent vines. Your dress fans around you like seafoam. You know this place. You’ve been here before.

You look up.

And then—he’s there.

A figure gliding through the currents like gravity doesn’t apply to him. Hair like flowing starlight. Eyes like amethyst struck by lightning. He reaches you just as your vision begins to blur.

He cradles your face in both hands, and you remember this part—the fear, the pleading, the way you mouthed “please” even as your lungs gave out.

You didn’t know what you were asking for.

You didn’t know what it meant.

But still, you kissed him.

A desperate, breathless thing—your lips pressed to his in the dark as your heart sputtered its last beat. And instead of death— You breathed.

The kiss lit your chest with warmth. Not fire. Not air. Something older. Your eyes flew open underwater.

And you weren’t dying anymore.

He held you close, his forehead pressed to yours, and when you looked at him again, something had changed behind his eyes. Something vast. And sacred.

The bond had been made.

Not with words. But with the kiss.

The unspoken offering. The soul deep vow.

You became his follower. His chosen. His beloved.

You were only human—but in that moment, your soul was marked with the sea. Claimed by a god who didn’t yet know the price of it.

The dream shifts. Fractures.

You see the temple now—carved of pearl and obsidian. Lemuria, luminous and ancient. The central flame of the sea god ceremony burns in a great sphere above a blackened altar. The people bow. They chant.

You stand in the center, trembling. Rafayel stands beside you, lips pale. Silent.

He’s been told what must happen. He has been given the blade.

Your heart is needed to sustain the fire. Your heart, bound to his.

You remember the way he looked at the high priest. The way his fingers refused to close around the handle. You remember the way the entire sea trembled when he said no.

And then—his power unraveled.

The light of Lemuria flickered. The waters darkened. The fire went out.

You remember the way his arms wrapped around you again—just like the first time.

You remember whispering, “You chose me.”

And him replying, brokenly:

“Always.”

And still, somehow… you died.

You wake in the dark, gasping. Salt on your tongue. The echo of his kiss still burning your lips.

You touch your chest—right over your heart. It’s whole. It’s yours. But it remembers.

The dream returns like a memory you never meant to forget. You’re underwater again—but this time, you’re not drowning.

You’re breathing.

The world around you is impossibly still. Pale coral arches reach above your head like the bones of a cathedral, glowing with soft blue light. Strange flowers drift on unseen currents, petals fluttering like wings. Fish made of shimmer and shadow pass by in slow spirals. It's quiet. Sacred.

And you’re not alone.

Rafayel is nearby, watching you with something unreadable in his eyes. Not the reverent awe from the ceremony. Not the pained hesitation. This is something gentler. Curious.

He stands barefoot on the stone, hair floating around his shoulders like silk in the current. His robes are darker here, marked with shifting patterns that seem to move when you look too long.

You float a little clumsily in front of him, trying to adjust to this strange new weightlessness.

“I thought I was dead,” you murmur, your voice somehow carried clearly through the water.

“You were,” he says, gaze never leaving yours. “Until you chose otherwise.”

You swallow. “I didn’t know what I was choosing.”

“No,” he says softly. “But you meant it anyway.”

You’re not sure what to say to that.

He doesn’t press.

Instead, he moves toward you—slow and fluid, like he’s always belonged to this world and you’re only just being invited in. His hand reaches out, not to touch, but to hover near your cheek.

“Does it frighten you?” he asks. “Being here?”

You think about it. Then shake your head.

“It should,” you admit. “But it doesn’t.”

His smile is faint—barely there. “You’re strange for a surface-dweller.”

“You’re strange for a god.”

That makes something behind his eyes flicker. Not offense. Amusement. Maybe even affection.

You spend what feels like hours in that place. Days, maybe. Time doesn’t move here like it does above.

He shows you Lemuria not as a ruler, but as a guide. A hidden garden of crystal reeds that sing when touched. A cave where ancient murals tell stories in light. A forgotten chamber where fire dances in airless flame.

He walks beside you.

Listens when you speak.

Watches when you laugh, like he’s memorizing the sound.

You learn him slowly.

How his powers respond to emotion. How he carries the weight of his people even when no one is watching. How he hides pain behind poetry and sharpness.

And he learns you.

How you hum when you think. How you press your hand to your chest when something stirs too deeply. How you’re always looking up—even underwater—like you're still searching for the stars.

You never touch. Not yet.

But one night, you sit side by side on a stone ledge beneath a glowing coral arch, legs drifting just above the sea floor.

And when he speaks, his voice is quieter than it’s ever been.

“Once the ceremony begins, I won’t be the same.”

You turn to him. “What do you mean?”

His eyes search yours like he’s trying to decide whether to lie.

Then: “A part of me must burn to keep Lemuria alive. It’s always been this way.”

You nod slowly. “And what about me?”

He looks away. That silence is your answer.

You don’t understand yet.

But you feel it.

Something terrible is coming.

But you also feel this: The way he leans just slightly toward you, like he’s afraid of breaking something holy. The way your bond tugs at your soul, even before either of you speaks its name.

And before the dream ends, you whisper the words you won’t remember come morning.

“I’m not afraid of the fire. Only of losing you in it.”

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

The dream begins in silence.

Not the silence of fear or sorrow—but the heavy, sacred quiet that comes just before something ends.

You’re with him again.

It’s the night before the ceremony.

The air in Lemuria glows low with golden biolight. The current is still. Even the reefs seem to hold their breath. Somewhere beyond the palace walls, the people prepare for the great rite—songs and rituals to awaken the ancient fire. But here, in this quiet chamber of smooth obsidian and woven pearl, it’s only the two of you.

You sit beside him on a wide, polished ledge, your legs dangling in a pool of slow-moving current. Above you, light filters through a ceiling of living coral, casting soft shadows that drift across your skin.

Neither of you speaks at first.

He sits close—closer than ever before. His shoulder brushes yours. His fingers rest on the stone between you, twitching once, like he wants to close the space and doesn’t know how.

“I dreamed of the surface,” you say quietly. “Last night. I think I remembered what stars look like.”

His lips quirk. “Do you miss them?”

You nod. “A little.”

He hums. “They pale in comparison to your light, you know.”

You laugh, soft and tired. “Flattery won’t change what’s coming.”

The smile fades from his face. “No. It won’t.”

You look at him then, really look. The lines of his jaw. The quiet weight in his gaze. His beauty, yes—but more than that, the sadness he wears like silk beneath his skin.

“I wish it didn’t have to be this way,” you whisper.

And finally, finally, he turns to you. His voice is low, almost breaking.

“So do I.”

He reaches for you. Fingers brushing your cheek, your jaw. There’s hesitation in him—like a god afraid of touching something mortal and fragile. But you lean into him. Let him touch. Let him feel.

“I don’t know what will happen tomorrow,” he says, so softly it hurts. “But if there’s a world after this one… I’ll find you in it.”

You breathe. “You promise?”

His forehead touches yours. “With everything I am.”

You press your lips to his. Not desperate like the kiss that saved your life. This one is soft. Reverent. Like two souls saying goodbye before they’re torn apart.

Your fingers curl in the silk at his shoulder. You could have more. You both know it. You could fall into each other here and now and let everything else go.

But he pulls back.

And when he speaks again, there’s a tremor in his voice. “If I touch more of you, I’ll never let go.”

So you don’t ask.

You just stay like that—forehead to forehead, the fire of Lemuria flickering in the distance, and the sea whispering of things it already knows it will lose.

You wake up with a gasp. The sheets are tangled around your legs. Your skin is damp with sweat, and your chest aches like something was carved out of it in the night.

You press a trembling hand over your heart.

You remember.

Not the ceremony. Not your death. Just him.

The way his hands trembled. The promise he made.

You don’t hesitate this time.

You throw on a coat over your clothes and leave your apartment before the sun finishes rising, wind biting at your skin. The academy isn’t open yet, but you know he has a private studio nearby—on the edge of the district, tucked between half-forgotten buildings where light paints long shadows.

You reach the door and pause. For a moment, all you can hear is your heartbeat.

Then your knuckles lift, and you knock.

Once.

Twice.

And when the door opens— He’s there.

Rafayel.

Sleep-rumpled, bare-footed, paint smeared faintly on his wrist like he’s been working through the night.

He stops when he sees you. His eyes widen. And something in them breaks. Your eyes meet his, and he goes still. Entirely still.

Like he knows you’re not just looking at him. You’re seeing him.

Through the centuries. Through the weight of what he’s carried.

And somehow, through that endless ache that’s lingered between you since the moment your soul touched his again—you feel it.

The pull.

That thread woven between you, stretching across lifetimes, and still just as strong.

You step forward. Quiet. Unhurried. He moves aside.

You enter the studio.

It’s warm inside, dimly lit with scattered lamps. The scent of salt, paint, and something faintly floral clings to the air. The walls are lined with canvases again, some half-finished, some covered. But you barely glance at them.

You turn to him. He closes the door, slowly, carefully, like any sudden movement might shatter what’s happening between you.

You still don’t speak. You just look.

And he knows. That you remember the fire. The sea. The altar. The way he whispered “always” and chose you over an entire civilization.

“…You’re not her,” he says softly, voice fraying at the edges. “But you are.”

You nod. Just once.

“I’m not who I was,” you say. “But I carry her. She’s in me.”

His throat works as he tries to swallow the weight of everything behind your words. He takes a step back, not away from you—toward something deeper. Something buried.

Your voice barely makes it out.

“Tell me.”

He looks at you.

“What?” he whispers.

“Everything,” you say. “Lemuria. The fire. What happened. Why I died. Why you—” Your voice breaks. You inhale. “Why you’ve been alone for so long.”

His eyes close. One breath. Then two. He doesn’t ask if you’re sure. He doesn’t warn you away.

He only steps forward and nods toward the armchair near his worktable. You sit, and he sits across from you—close, but not touching.

Not yet.

And then, for the first time in eight hundred years, Rafayel begins to speak.

He leans back in his chair, elbows resting on his knees. His fingers lace together, but his hands don’t stop moving—twitching, flexing, like they’re remembering something. Or trying not to.

He stares at the floor for a long moment.

And then—he exhales.

“I wasn’t always like this,” he says. “The whole ‘mysterious artist who might be a little unhinged’ thing? That’s new. Took me a couple centuries to refine.”

You don’t smile. But he knows you heard the joke.

His eyes flick up to yours, then drop again.

“Lemuria was real. A city beneath the sea, ancient as anything you’ve ever read about and ten times more arrogant. We weren’t gods—not really—but we were close. More powerful. Longer-lived. Bound to elements. Mine was fire.”

He pauses.

“In the ocean, I know. Hilarious.”

You’re silent, letting him continue.

“Our survival depended on balance—between power and the sea. Every few hundred years, we held a renewal ceremony. Something to keep the core of Lemuria alive. It required a sacrifice. A living soul, given freely. Always human.”

He leans back, eyes distant now.

“You were the next one.”

Your breath catches. He hears it—but keeps going.

“I didn’t choose you. The council did. You were caught in a storm. A shipwreck. They pulled you from the water and called it fate.”

His jaw tightens.

“But I was the one who pulled you the rest of the way. I found you when you were drowning—dying. And you…”

He looks at you again, voice quieter.

“You kissed me. Just once. Desperate. Barely conscious. But it was enough.”

You feel the heat rise behind your ribs.

“You didn’t know what it meant. Neither did I, not really. But the bond was made. You became mine. Not in some ceremonial sense. Not a title. Real. Your soul tied to mine. I should’ve broken it then. I didn’t.”

His voice dips.

“Instead, I kept you.”

Silence again.

You don’t speak. You can’t.

“We had time before the ceremony,” he says. “Not much, but enough. I showed you the city. You smiled at things I’d forgotten to see. I told myself it was fine. That we’d find a way to make it work. The ritual had been done before, right? It would be painful. It would be cruel. But you’d be honored. Remembered.”

He rubs a hand over his face.

“I didn’t know what the fire would ask.”

His voice cracks.

“They didn’t tell me. They let me fall in love with you knowing what it would cost.”

You stare at him, chest tight.

“And when the time came…” He laughs, but there’s nothing amused in it. “I dropped the blade. Like a fool. Like a man instead of a god. I chose you.”

His eyes lift, finally meeting yours again.

“And Lemuria fell.”

The words drop like stones.

“The fire died. The sea went silent. The city collapsed in on itself and slipped into slumber. My people… gone. All of them. And you…”

His hands curl into fists.

“You still died.”

The silence between you is unbearable.

“I searched,” he whispers. “Every century. Every continent. Every flicker of something familiar. Until now.”

Your throat tightens, your chest aching like the memory is still carved into it.

And then, very quietly— “You never hated me?” you ask.

Rafayel looks at you, and his voice is nothing but raw truth.

“I hated myself enough for both of us.”

You sit with the weight of his words echoing in your chest. Not as a story. Not as a myth. But as memory.

Pieces of the dreams begin snapping into place—too vivid to be fiction. The drowning. The kiss. The glow of Lemuria’s fire before it went dark. The way he held you. The way he chose you.

Your throat burns.

He said it so simply. So quietly.

“You still died.”

You still feel it—that cold, final moment. The pain. The way his arms wrapped around you as everything collapsed. Not in a temple. Not in fire. But in a goodbye you never got to speak.

You study him now. He’s staring at the floor again, trying to hold himself together.

Not out of pride.

But because he always has.

You can see it all over him now—grief carved into every line of his face. Regret tucked behind every flicker of his eyes. He’s worn it for centuries like armor, and now it hangs off him like a second skin.

And even though he's the one who remembers everything, your own soul is screaming that it recognizes him.

That this man—this tired, deflecting, beautiful man—is yours.

Not because he claimed you. But because you chose him, too.

Your fingers twitch once on your lap. And then, slowly, you reach forward.

No words. No hesitation. Just the soft, deliberate motion of your hand covering his—warm skin to trembling knuckles.

He stills instantly. Like he can’t believe it’s real. Like the fire that once destroyed a city might spark again beneath your touch.

His head lifts. And when his eyes meet yours, you see it.

Everything.

The eight hundred years of silence. The fury. The ache. The guilt. The hope he buried so deep he stopped believing it could ever breathe again.

And something inside him breaks.

Not loudly. Not visibly.

But in the way his fingers curl into yours without thinking. The way he leans ever so slightly forward, breath catching. The way his voice—when it finally comes—is barely more than a whisper.

“…You still want me?” Your voice is soft. Cracked open.

“I don’t know what this life will ask of us. But yes.”

A beat of silence.

Then his fingers tighten around yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear again. Like the bond has always been there, tugging at him through lifetimes. And now, finally—finally—you’re here.

And this time, he doesn’t let go.

His fingers tighten around yours. Not with desperation—but with certainty.

As if he’s grounding himself in your warmth, your presence. Your soul.

And then—you feel it.

At first, it’s subtle. A shift in the air. A pressure beneath your skin. The kind of sensation that makes your breath catch in your throat. Then his Evol stirs.

Not violently.

But deeply.

You feel it hum in the floorboards. In the space between your bodies. The pull of gravity—not toward the earth, but toward him.

Your heart stumbles as the air thickens with heat and stillness. The lamps in the studio dim slightly, like shadows drawn inward to watch.

And then—he exhales.

His shirt shifts slightly, neckline tugged just low enough from how he’s leaning forward, and you see it: The mark.

Etched into the skin over his heart, faintly glowing with light that moves like liquid gold beneath his skin.

Not a scar.

Not a wound.

A marking—long-forgotten, hidden, sacred.

Flowing like a river. Like the pull of tides. The bond.

It pulses once. Then again. And your own body answers—not visibly, but within.

You feel the pull so deep it hurts. Like your soul is trying to leave your body just to meet his halfway.

You gasp and close your eyes, clutching his hand harder, like if you let go, the bond would rip you apart. Your heart pounds. Your skin burns. It’s too much and still not enough.

“Rafayel—” you whisper, and your voice is wrecked with it.

He’s already beside you.

He moved without thought, closing the space, kneeling before you, both hands now on yours. His breath is shallow. His pupils dilated. His voice when it comes is strained—barely held together.

“It’s reacting.”

You meet his eyes.

“I feel like I’m dying,” you whisper. “But it’s not pain. It’s—”

“I know.” His forehead presses gently to your hand, his hair brushing your skin. “The bond was never meant to wake like this. Not after everything. Not after time.”

Your throat tightens. “What does it mean?”

His voice is hoarse. “It means your soul remembers mine. It means I never stopped carrying you. And now, you’re carrying me again.”

Your eyes sting.

“I can’t breathe,” you whisper.

He looks up at you then, eyes burning with that same ancient ache, and says— “I’ll hold you through it. I swear.”

You grip his hand tighter. Your pulse thunders against his. And beneath it all—the mark glows brighter.

The fire he gave up Lemuria for, burning again in the space between your ribs. And still, he holds you. Because this time, he’s not letting go.

You don’t know how long you sit like that. Hands entwined. Breath shallow. Skin flushed with something deeper than heat. His forehead rests against your hand, and your fingers press into his like you’ll drown without him.

The mark on his chest glows brighter now—like molten gold spilling beneath his skin, threading through his veins. It pulses with the slow, aching rhythm of something that never truly died.

And you feel it.

It starts in your fingertips, where his touch meets yours. A subtle warmth that spreads—up your arms, across your chest, down your spine. Your body tenses, not in fear, but in stunned surrender. Like your soul is unfolding, opening ancient doors it didn’t know it still carried.

You inhale sharply.

“Rafayel…” Your voice is barely audible.

He looks up—eyes shining, wide, and for the first time, afraid.

Not of you. But of what this means. Because the bond is awake now.

Fully.

And you feel it. So does he.

You lean forward without thinking. Just enough that your knees touch, your hands still laced together between you. Your foreheads meet—like they did once, long ago beneath the sea.

The air shivers.

You feel it—his soul brushing against yours.

Not metaphorically. Not emotionally.

Literally.

It’s like something inside you—something buried so deep it became myth—rises with a gasp and rushes to meet him. And his soul? It surges forward like the tide, like fire drawn to air, like it’s been starving for this for eight hundred years.

You both freeze. The moment stretches thin.

And then— It clicks.

Like two halves of a lock finally twisting together. You both exhale at the same time—ragged, quiet, trembling. You press your forehead harder to his, your breath mingling, and your voice breaks.

“I feel you.”

His hands tremble as they rise—fingers brushing your face, your jaw, the side of your neck.

“And I feel you,” he whispers. “Like I never stopped.”

It’s too much. But neither of you lets go. Because it’s not your bodies craving closeness now. It’s your souls. Colliding. Merging. Grasping onto each other like they will die if they’re pulled apart again.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and bury your face into the crook of his neck. He pulls you in with a sound that’s almost broken—relief and disbelief and hunger, all tangled together.

And there, in the silence of his studio, surrounded by memories and broken time and fire reborn— You hold each other like the world already ended once.

And this time, you refuse to let it happen again.

You sit wrapped in his arms, the mark on his chest pulsing against you like a second heartbeat. One you know now. One your soul aches for. Neither of you speaks. There’s too much to say, and none of it would be enough.

So you stay like this.

Breathing each other in. Holding the weight of eight centuries between your ribs. Letting the silence crack open everything that once went unsaid.

You feel it all.

The ache in him—that deep, hollow grief buried beneath every teasing smile he ever gave you. The longing in you, echoing back from the dreams and the fragments and the salt still crusted on your soul. The fear that it could happen again. The desperate hope that it might not.

And somehow, love—tangled and broken and real—fills the air between you like light in water.

You shift slightly, just enough to look up. He feels it and pulls back a little too—but not far. Just enough so your faces are inches apart again.

You stare into his eyes. And they’re not violet now.

They’re blue.

Lemurian blue. The glow from centuries ago, lit from within, as if his soul is rising to the surface and showing itself to you, fully—not hiding, not shielding, not afraid anymore.

Your breath catches. You don’t realize your hand is on his cheek until he leans into it, closing his eyes for one long, shuddering moment.

And when they open again, you whisper—broken, honest, whole. “I want to kiss you.”

His breath stumbles. You shake your head, just slightly. “Not because of the bond. Not because of then.”

Your thumb brushes his cheek, and your voice trembles.

“Because I’m drowning again. And this time… I want you to save me.”

His lips part. But he doesn’t speak. Instead—slowly, reverently—he leans in. No ceremony. No ritual. Just him.

And when your mouths meet, there’s no fire. No crashing waves. Just stillness. Warmth. The kind of kiss that quiets the world around it.

That tells your soul: You’re home.

His lips meet yours like a breath caught between lifetimes.

At first, it’s gentle—tender. The kind of kiss that trembles with restraint, with awe, with the weight of finally.

But the moment stretches. And the bond stirs again.

Not quiet this time.

It tugs.

You feel it low in your chest, deep in your belly, under your skin—like a thread catching fire. His soul brushes yours again, not tentative this time, but seeking. And you both feel it: want, sharp and full, no longer content to stay beneath the surface.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt.

His hand moves to the back of your neck, firm now, grounding you as he deepens the kiss—lips parting, breath shared. His other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer until your bodies touch, chest to chest, and that mark between you flares.

You gasp against his mouth—stunned by how much you feel. Every beat of his heart, every tremble in his fingers, every shattered breath.

And he groans low in his throat, like he’s been starving for this, like your kiss is the first breath after centuries underwater.

Your hands slide up, one to his shoulder, the other to his jaw, tilting him closer, needing him closer. The kiss turns needy, like the bond has teeth, like it hurts to be apart even by inches.

You shift into his lap on the floor without thinking, knees on either side of him, your bodies pressing together like a tide rising. The heat between you builds—slow, consuming. His hands find your back, your hips, steady and worshipful and claiming.

But still careful. Still him.

Because even now—he’s holding the storm back for you.

Your foreheads touch again, both of you breathless, lips barely apart. His voice is rough, reverent, shaking. “I’ve wanted you for so long…”

You whisper, “Then have me. Now. This time.”

He exhales, eyes closing—like your words are both mercy and temptation.

But still, he rests his forehead against yours, and for one long moment, the kiss slows again—returning to where it began.

Not just want.

But knowing.

That this time, you came back.

His breath fans against your lips. Your bodies press together, heart to heart, soul to soul—and still, it’s not enough.

His hands slide up your sides, slow and reverent, fingers tracing the shape of you like he’s memorizing a map he already knows by heart. You feel his touch like heat, like electricity, but it’s gentle. Not rushed. As if he’s asking permission with every inch.

And you give it. Freely. Because you trust him. Because you always did.

Your hands cup his face, thumbs brushing along the high bones of his cheeks. His eyes are still glowing—soft, pulsing with that same sea-blue light that once illuminated the depths of Lemuria. You can’t stop looking at him. He’s beauty and ruin and tenderness all at once.

“Let me see you,” he breathes, voice low and raw.

You nod.

His fingers move to your shirt, slow and trembling. He peels it over your head inch by inch, gaze never leaving your face. His eyes darken as more of you is revealed, not with lust, but with a reverent kind of ache. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks.

You’re bare to him now, chest rising and falling, pulse fluttering beneath your skin.

He doesn’t touch yet.

He looks.

And the way he looks at you?

It’s not hunger.

It’s worship.

Like you’re the only thing in the universe that ever made sense.

When his hands do move, they’re light, like seafoam brushing the shore. Palms skimming over your ribs, your waist, up to the curve of your shoulders. You shiver, not from cold—but from being seen.

From being known.

“Every time I dreamed,” he whispers, voice shaking, “this is where it ended. I always woke up before I could touch you like this.”

You reach for the hem of his shirt, voice soft. “Then let’s stay awake.”

He unbuttones it slowly—and there it is. The mark.

Alive with golden light. Spiraling and shifting with every breath he takes. You lift your hand and lay your palm over it, and he gasps, eyes fluttering closed.

“Gods—” he murmurs. “You feel like fire.”

“And you feel like the sea,” you whisper, leaning in.

Your mouths find each other again, deeper this time. Slower. The kiss rolls like a tide—soft waves turning into something stronger. His hands cradle your waist, yours slide into his hair, anchoring each other as your hips begin to move, instinctual, finding rhythm in closeness.

You’re bare from the waist up, his palms warm on your skin, your body pressed into his lap, straddling him. The heat between you isn’t sudden—it’s steady, like something alive and rising with every breath.

His hands settle at your waist, thumbs stroking along your sides, and your arms loop around his shoulders like instinct. You roll your hips forward, slow and searching.

He breathes out against your jaw—a sound, soft and sharp and undone.

“Don’t stop,” he whispers.

You won’t. You can’t.

The bond pulls at both of you now—familiar and foreign all at once. A string tugging from somewhere deeper than the body, deeper than desire.

You grind again, and he shudders beneath you.

Your mouths find each other once more, this kiss less gentle—still reverent, still him, but now laced with hunger, with need. Your hips keep moving, slow and steady, pressing into him in long waves that make your pulse trip and your breath stutter.

His hands slide up your back, fingers tracing your spine, pulling you closer until there’s no space left to give.

You break the kiss first—just enough to breathe, to look at him.

He’s glowing again. Eyes bright, chest marked with light, jaw tense with restraint. But it’s his expression that stills you.

It’s not lust. It’s longing. The kind that never died. The kind that waited. You whisper, breathless, “You’re shaking.”

“I’ve never had you like this,” he murmurs, voice thick. “Not like this. Not when we could’ve had forever.”

You stroke his cheek. “Then take it now.”

He swallows hard, eyes locked on yours. “You feel it too… don’t you? Not just the bond. The way it’s pulling. Tighter. Deeper.”

You nod.

“It’s like it’s begging for more,” you whisper.

“Or warning us.”

You pause—hips stilling—but his hands slide to your lower back, guiding you again.

“Don’t stop,” he says, voice quiet but rough. “We’ve already passed the line. I’d rather drown in you than float in a world where you’re not mine.”

Your heart cracks open at that.

“I don’t know where you end and I begin anymore,” you admit.

“You never did,” he says. “Not really.”

And the bond tugs again.

Like it agrees.

Your hips begin to move again, slowly, rhythmically—dragging over the hard line of him beneath you through the fabric that still separates you. Each motion sends heat curling deeper into your belly, and you feel it—the way his breath hitches every time your bodies align just right.

Rafayel groans softly, hands gripping your waist tighter now, grounding himself in your skin. His thumbs draw slow circles over your hips, encouraging, urging.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he murmurs, lips brushing the edge of your jaw.

You tilt your head, gasping as his mouth trails lower—your shoulder, the dip of your collarbone—kissing like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you with his lips.

“I think I do,” you whisper.

And you do. Because it’s happening to you, too.

The bond hums beneath your skin, alive and urgent, responding to every grind, every breath, every place where your bare skin meets his. The mark on his chest pulses between you, the light from it casting a golden sheen over your joined bodies.

You reach between you, fingers slipping down to the waistband of his pants. He shudders as you touch him through the fabric, and his head falls to your shoulder with a low, aching groan.

“Careful,” he breathes. “You’ll break me.”

You smile against his temple, even as your heart races. “No. I’m just… putting you back together.”

He lifts his head at that—eyes burning, jaw clenched, chest rising with a breath that trembles.

And then his hands are on you again, one sliding up to your breast, cupping it gently, thumb brushing over your nipple in a slow, deliberate stroke. You gasp—your hips stuttering against him—and his free hand grips your waist harder, steadying you.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, voice husky, lips trailing along your throat. “You’ve always been. Even when I had you, I never really had you like this.”

“You do now,” you whisper. “You have all of me.”

His mouth returns to yours, more urgent now, lips parting, tongues brushing—hungry and deep, but still slow. Still intentional. Every movement between you feels like a vow being rewritten into the present.

You grind down again, and this time, his hips push up into yours, seeking friction, needing it.

“Rafayel—” you gasp.

His hands slide down to your thighs, gripping tight. “You feel that?” he murmurs against your lips. “That pull? That ache?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “I feel everything.”

“Then don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”

Your hips move in long, grinding strokes, and he meets you halfway, thrusting up to meet every motion with slow, devastating precision. The press of him against you—hard, insistent, still clothed but unbearable now—makes your breath stutter and your fingers clench where they rest against his jaw.

You slide one hand down his neck, over his chest—feeling the thrum of the bond-mark still glowing beneath your palm—and lower, down the tight lines of his abdomen. His muscles tense under your touch, his breath catching as your fingers trail the edge of his waistband.

“Fuck,” he whispers, his voice broken, reverent. His head tilts back slightly, exposing his throat, as if surrendering to you completely.

“You feel so good,” you murmur, leaning in to kiss along his neck, tasting salt and heat, your lips brushing over the pounding pulse there. “It’s like… like my body’s always known yours.”

He groans, deep and rough, his hands sliding up from your hips to your chest again, palms warm, thumbs flicking over your nipples, sending sparks jolting through your core.

“It has,” he says, voice gravel and sea. “It has. Even before we had names for it. Even when we didn’t know why, we fit.”

Your bodies move together, perfectly aligned, grinding harder now—friction building, fabric doing nothing to dull the throbbing ache between your legs. You’re both lost in it—moaning quietly, panting, clinging to each other like you’ll drown without the other’s mouth, hands, heat.

His lips find yours again and the kiss is messier now, hungrier—tongues meeting, teeth grazing, breathless and needy. He presses deeper against you, rolling his hips up in a slow, punishing grind that makes you cry out softly into his mouth.

“Rafayel,” you gasp, fingers digging into the muscles along his stomach.

His hand finds your jaw, tilting your face up so he can look at you—really look.

“I love you,” he says, voice shaking. “I never stopped. Not once. Not through fire or time or death.”

The bond pulses.

And your soul sings.

You grind down harder, chasing more of him, needing him inside now, and you whisper— “Then show me. Be mine again. Fully.”

And gods, the way he looks at you then—like he’s about to fall apart and fall together all at once.

Like he’s already yours.

You can barely breathe— Not because you’re overwhelmed, But because you’ve never felt this full of him.

Of feeling.

Of need.

And he’s still so close, mouth at your jaw, hips grinding slowly up into you in time with yours. It’s not frantic. It’s not fast. But it’s deep—slow waves crashing again and again, steady and building and unbearable in the best way.

You cling to him tighter, fingers curling against the hard lines of his stomach, memorizing him with your touch. He watches you like he’s watching the sky change color—awed, reverent, and just a little broken with it.

And then your voice, soft, trembling, spilling between kisses. “I want you to have all of me.”

His breath catches—he feels that. You know he does. Because the bond pulses again, stronger, your souls tightening like a drawn bowstring.

“You already gave it to me,” he says, voice rough against your throat. “Every time you came to me. Every time you dreamed. Every time you said my name in silence.”

“I didn’t remember,” you whisper, “but something in me always did.”

You feel him shiver beneath you, his hands sliding slowly down your sides, to your hips again. Then lower. Fingertips brushing the hem of your skirt.

“Then let me remember you too,” he murmurs, his voice suddenly lower, rougher. “Now. Like this.”

Your breath hitches, and you nod.

He shifts.

One arm slips beneath your thighs, the other around your back—and before you can ask, he’s lifting you into his arms, holding you like you’re weightless. Like he could carry you across oceans if you asked.

He doesn’t take you far—just to the side room of the studio, through a half-open door, where a soft couch and scattered blankets wait. You remember this space from before. Where he showed you your statue. Where he first watched you see yourself through his eyes.

Now, he lowers you there gently—kneeling with you, kissing you again before pulling back just far enough to push your skirt higher, exposing your thighs. His gaze darkens, not with possession—but with hunger softened by awe.

“Say it again,” he whispers, fingers brushing the inside of your thigh. “Say you’re mine.”

Your breath shakes. “I’m yours.”

His eyes close. And then he kisses down your chest, slow and reverent—like prayer. Like each inch of you is holy, and he’s not worthy, but he’ll worship anyway.

His lips trail lower, soft and deliberate.From the curve of your breast, down the center of your sternum, his breath fans against your skin as his hands part your thighs gently, like he’s opening a gift he waited centuries to touch again.

Your skirt is bunched at your hips now, your underwear the last thing between you and him. He pauses there—hovering, just above, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

There’s fire in them. But there’s also restraint. Still asking. Always asking.

You nod.

And his fingers curl under the waistband, dragging the thin fabric down your legs. Slowly. Carefully. Watching every inch of you become bare to him.

When you're naked before him, he exhales. It’s not a groan. Not a curse.

It’s worship.

Like your body is art and memory and something he forgot how to breathe around. “Perfect,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

His hands slide up your thighs, parting them further, and when he settles between them, you gasp—not from the touch, but the closeness.

His mouth returns to your skin, kissing the soft flesh of your inner thigh, over and over. And when he finally reaches the center of you—he doesn’t rush. He kisses you there first. Soft. Gentle. Claiming.

And then his tongue moves—slow, deep, every stroke deliberate. Every flick of him against you feels like poetry, like remembering. His hands hold your hips down as your body begins to tremble, as you arch into him, a breathless cry slipping from your throat.

The bond flares again—harder now.

It’s not just sensation. It’s feeling.

You can feel what he feels—his hunger, his reverence, his need to give this to you. To please you. To undo you with nothing but his mouth and the bond that glows golden between you.

“Rafayel—” you moan, your fingers finding his hair, threading through, holding him to you.

He groans against your skin, the sound vibrating through you. His pace quickens just slightly, lips and tongue moving in rhythm, matched to the rise and fall of your hips, the way your legs tighten around his shoulders.

“I can’t—” you breathe, voice shaking. “It’s too much—”

“No,” he says against you, lifting his head just enough to meet your eyes. His mouth is wet. His pupils blown wide. “You can. You were always meant to feel like this.”

And then he takes you again, deeper, firmer—his tongue moving with purpose, with knowing. One of his hands rises, fingers pressing against you where you need it most, rubbing soft, slow circles in time with his mouth.

You fall apart. Shattering.

But it’s not destruction. It’s a return. To him. To yourself. To the bond.

Your soul snaps tight to his, and in that moment, you know—nothing will ever break it again. Not time. Not death. Not gods.

Just you and him.

Forever.

Your body trembles in the aftershock—waves still rolling through your limbs as you try to find your breath again. Your heart pounds like it’s never known stillness, your skin tingles, warm and wet beneath the cool air of the studio. The bond pulses softly now—slower, but still aching, still alive.

Rafayel is still there, between your thighs, his hands smoothing along your skin as if trying to soothe every inch he just set ablaze. His lips brush your inner thigh once more before he lifts his head, gaze locking with yours.

You’re glowing.

Not just the bond. You.

Your cheeks. Your chest. Your soul. He sees it. You know he does. His breath catches like he’s looking at something divine.

And you are. Because you’re his.

And now—your body knows it too.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, voice hoarse, reverent. “You’re… gods, you’re beautiful.”

You smile softly, still trying to speak, to breathe. But the words won’t come—not yet.

So instead, you reach for him. Your fingers curl into the collar of his open shirt—what little remains of it—and tug. A silent come here.

The bond pulses again, responding to your touch. To your need.

Because you need him now. Closer. Inside. Where he belongs.

He rises without hesitation, crawling up over you, his body settling between your legs, the weight of him grounding you instantly. You feel him—hard, aching, still trapped behind the fabric of his pants. Still holding back.

Still waiting for you.

Your hands trail down his chest, over the glowing mark, down to his waistband.

His voice shakes. “You’re sure?”

You nod. “I’ve never been more.”

Your fingers make quick work of the button, the zipper, the soft fabric pushed down until he’s bare before you—every inch of him sculpted, wanting. His length rests heavy between your bodies, and you feel the full heat of him now, throbbing against your thigh.

Your hands slide to his hips. “Come to me,” you whisper. “Let me feel all of you.”

His eyes flutter closed for one long, trembling breath. And when they open again, they burn like starlit oceans.

“I’ll never leave you again,” he says, voice cracking on the promise. “Not even if the world asks me to.”

He hovers above you, breath shallow, chest glowing where the bond pulses like a second heartbeat. The weight of him is heat and pressure and promise—but still, he waits. His gaze roams your face, your lips, your eyes, and then his hands are on you again—palms sliding down your sides, fingers tracing your curves like he can’t decide what part of you to worship first.

You arch into him, skin burning for more, and he gives it. His touch becomes more deliberate—fingers trailing over your breasts, circling your nipples in soft, teasing strokes that make you gasp and clutch at his back. Then lower—down your ribs, your hips—until one hand slips between your legs again.

You're still slick, still trembling.

His fingers slide through the heat of you, and he groans against your shoulder. “You’re drenched.”

“You did that to me,” you breathe, kissing his jaw, his throat. “So do something about it.”

He huffs a laugh—wrecked and reverent—and kisses you hard, swallowing the sound you make when his fingers return to your entrance, circling, pressing, stroking you until your legs tighten around his waist.

But it’s not enough.

You reach down, sliding your hand between your bodies, and wrap your fingers around him—bare, hard, heavy in your palm. His entire body tenses at your touch, a low groan rumbling from his throat like thunder under water.

“Fuck,” he murmurs. “You’re going to destroy me.”

You smile softly. “Then I guess we’ll go down together.” Guiding him now—your hand between your legs, tip brushing against your entrance, slick and pulsing—you both freeze for a moment.

The bond tugs hard. It burns—not pain, but pressure. Desire. Connection. Like your souls are screaming for the rest of it.

“Look at me,” you whisper.

He does—eyes glowing blue, wide, undone.

And then you pull him forward.

He pushes in—slow. The head of him parts you, stretching you with exquisite heat, your breath hitching as your body gives way to his, little by little.

And gods, the way he groans—deep and guttural and devastated—as he sinks deeper, inch by inch. “You feel…” His jaw clenches, eyes fluttering shut for a beat. “You feel like home.”

You gasp, holding onto his shoulders as he presses all the way inside—your walls stretching to take him fully, your body shaking with the sheer depth of it.

Like waves crashing into rock.

Slow. Relentless. Inevitable.

Your arms wind around his neck, your hips rising to meet his, and for a breathless moment—you both freeze.

Connected. Finally.

The bond bursts between you—hot, glowing, searing through your cores like golden light, your marks burning where your bodies meet. And your soul recognizes his again—not just remembered, but claimed.

You whisper, broken, into his ear, “I was made for you.”

He begins to move—slow at first, the thick press of him dragging out of you only to roll back in, deep and steady. Your legs tighten around his waist, anchoring him, and your breath leaves you in a quiet, wrecked moan.

He’s so deep, it borders on unbearable. But it’s not pain. It’s completion.

Like your body has always known the shape of him. Like your soul carved out space centuries ago—and it never faded.

The bond pulses with every thrust, hot and insistent, like a second heartbeat thudding between your bodies. You feel it everywhere—in your chest, in your spine, down to your fingertips curling into his back.

“You’re so tight,” he groans against your neck, his voice raw. “I can’t—gods, I can’t hold back when you feel like this.”

You gasp as he thrusts again, a little harder, the rhythm finding its pulse now—you, wrapped around him, hips moving in time, chasing every roll of his body with your own.

“Don’t hold back,” you whisper, lips brushing his ear. “I want all of you. Give me all of you.”

That breaks something in him. He pulls back just enough to look down at you, his hand cupping your cheek, eyes blazing—glowing. Not with fire. Not just the bond.

With divinity.

“You have me,” he says, fierce and shaking. “Every life. Every death. Every version of me belongs to you.”

And then he thrusts again—deeper, harder now, the pace picking up. Your back arches, a cry slipping from your lips as he rolls his hips in that perfect rhythm, steady and consuming. The couch creaks beneath you, your bodies moving together like waves in a storm—unstoppable.

Each push forward presses his soul deeper into yours.

Each drag out pulls a piece of your breath with it.

And the bond is blazing now—no longer just a tether, but a firestorm. You feel him in every corner of your being.

You cling to him, whispering, gasping his name over and over like a prayer.

“Rafayel… Rafayel…”

He groans, thrusting harder, faster now, his body shaking above yours. “Say it again—gods, say it.”

“Rafayel,” you moan, clutching him tighter. “I love you.”

His eyes flutter shut.

And he kisses you—deep and open and hungry, swallowing your moans as his pace slams into you, slick and perfect, pushing you toward that edge again.

“You’re mine,” he says against your lips, hips slamming into yours. “And I’m yours. This time, we finish together.”

You nod, eyes blurring, breath breaking. “Together.”

And as the rhythm deepens, as the bond tightens, as your bodies crash and rise like a divine tide— You both feel it. This was always meant to be.

Your bodies move in perfect rhythm—skin slick, muscles straining, hearts pounding in tandem. Every thrust is deep, deliberate, like he’s trying to etch himself into the very core of you. And you let him.

You welcome him.

The couch creaks beneath the steady roll of your bodies. The bond between you pulses hotter and hotter, gold light flickering where your chest meets his, your mark answering his with every grind, every cry, every gasped breath.

He’s buried inside you to the hilt, his hips snapping forward again and again, slow but hard, like he wants to feel your soul clench around him. Your lips brush his cheek, your breath stuttering. “You feel like you were made for me.”

He groans at that, his pace faltering just slightly—thrusts shallowing, but deeper somehow, grinding with purpose.

“I was,” he breathes. “Every part of me belongs here. Inside you.”

You whimper, hips rising to meet his, hands dragging down his back, anchoring him to you like you’ll die if he pulls away.

“You’re everything,” you whisper. “I didn’t even know what was missing—until you.”

He kisses you then, slow and trembling—so soft, it breaks your heart.

“I never stopped dreaming of this,” he says, voice shaking. “Even when I thought I’d never see you again. Even when I hated myself for letting you die.”

You cup his face, forcing him to look at you, even as your body tightens, your climax rising fast behind your ribs.

“You didn’t let me die,” you say, breathless. “You loved me through it.”

He chokes on a sound—like he might break. And the bond flares white-hot. It pulls, hard, like it wants to drag both of you over the edge.

And finally—you let it.

Your bodies begin to tremble with every thrust now—harder, faster, the rhythm deepening into something desperate, something final. Rafayel drives into you with growing urgency, the sound of your skin meeting, your breathless cries, his ragged moans echoing in the warm space around you.

The mark between you burns—golden fire where your chests meet, pulsing in time with every deep roll of his hips.

You feel it in your belly first—the pressure curling tight, heat rising fast, coiling deep in your core like something ancient coming undone.

“I can’t—” you gasp, clinging to him, your nails dragging along his spine. “Rafayel—I’m—”

He kisses your jaw, your throat, his voice breaking. “I’ve got you. Come with me.”

Your walls flutter around him, body tightening, and he groans—loud, wrecked—his thrusts losing rhythm, becoming wild, erratic, desperate.

And then— You break.

Your climax rips through you like a wave crashing against stone, stealing your breath, your voice, your entire self. You cry out his name as your back arches, legs locking tight around his hips. The bond erupts—golden fire spilling through your chest, your spine, everywhere.

And in that same instant— Rafayel shudders above you with a groan so guttural it sounds like it’s torn from his soul.

He thrusts deep—once, twice—then holds, buried to the hilt inside you as he comes, body trembling, hands gripping your hips like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. He gasps your name like a prayer, like an apology, like he’s finally home.

His seed spills hot and deep inside you, and the bond explodes in white-hot light, burning so bright behind your eyes you forget where the world ends and he begins.

Your souls collide. Intertwine. And for one perfect, shattering moment— There is no time. No grief. No loss.

Only you. Only him. Only this.

The world is still.

Not in the way it pauses for fear or doubt—but in the way it hushes for something sacred.

Your bodies are tangled, slick with sweat and heat, hearts pounding in tandem. His chest is pressed to yours, his weight settled over you like a blanket you never knew you needed—heavy, warm, safe.

Rafayel’s breath stutters against your neck, lips brushing the curve of your shoulder as he exhales. Long. Shaky.

Like he still doesn’t believe you’re real.

Your fingers stroke the back of his neck slowly, slipping into the sweat-damp strands of his hair, and your other hand rests over his heart—right where the mark still pulses, dimmer now, but alive.

You don’t speak at first.

You just breathe.

Together.

The rise and fall of your chests in rhythm. The soft, broken hum he makes when you shift under him and your skin brushes in a new way. The way he presses the barest kiss to your collarbone without lifting his head.

And then—Very softly— “I thought I’d never feel this again.”

His voice is hoarse, barely a whisper. You turn your head, brushing your lips against his temple. “What? The bond?”

His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you closer. “You. Like this. Us.”

You breathe him in—salt, sweat, something darker beneath it. Something eternal. “You were never alone,” you murmur. “Even when I didn’t remember.”

He lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes. There’s something raw in them still. Something softer now, too. Not fear. Not pain.

Peace.

“I remembered enough for both of us,” he whispers. “Every time I touched the sea, it brought me back to you.”

Your throat tightens, and you cup his face, your thumb brushing over the edge of his jaw.

“I’m here now,” you say. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

His lips twitch—almost a smile. “Good. Because if you vanish again, I’m following you into the next life. And the one after.”

You laugh, breathless, your smile pressed against his as he kisses you again—slow, lingering, gentle. Nothing rushed. Nothing desperate.

Just yours.

You lie like that for a long time—his body pressed against yours, your limbs tangled, the bond still humming softly between your chests like a heartbeat that doesn’t belong to just one of you.

It’s warm now. Comforting. No longer pulling. Just there.

Like it always should’ve been.

Rafayel rests his forehead against yours, his fingers tracing idle patterns over your waist—thoughtless, gentle, reverent. You match his touch, your hand brushing along the lines of his back, memorizing the slope of his spine, the dip of his shoulder blades.

“I used to wake up,” you whisper, “heart racing, not knowing why. I’d look at the ocean and feel like something was missing. Like I was looking for someone I couldn’t name.”

He closes his eyes. “I’d see you in strangers,” he says. “Hear your laugh in dreams. I tried to forget for a while. I really did. But it never worked. I always ended up painting you again. Drawing you. Sculpting pieces of you like I was trying to remember something my hands already knew.”

You exhale, your fingers moving up to rest over the bond-mark glowing faintly beneath his skin. “And all this time, you were just… waiting?”

His lips brush yours, soft and aching. “Not waiting. Surviving.”

You’re quiet for a moment. And then, so soft you almost don’t mean to say it— “I’m sorry I left you.”

His eyes open again, glowing just a little in the dark. “You didn’t,” he murmurs. You look up at him, and he leans in to kiss you—sweet and sure. “And now,” he whispers between kisses, “you came back. That’s what matters.”

You pull him closer, fingers threading through his hair, lips brushing over his jaw. “I’m not going anywhere, Rafayel.”

He smiles then. Really smiles. The kind that doesn’t hide behind flirtation or pain.

“Good. Because if the world ends again, I want to be holding you when it does.”

Later—much later—after the fire in your bodies fades into warmth, you lie together in a nest of tangled limbs and quiet breath. His arms are around you. Your head rests against his chest, the glow of the mark soft and slow now, like candlelight instead of flame.

And for the first time in eight hundred years, you fall asleep in each other’s arms, not with grief between you— but peace.

The bond stays lit, even in dreams.

And this time, it does not fade.

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST HERE AND ON MY AO3.

.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!

taglist: @syluslittlecrows

#love and deepspace #rafayel x you #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel x reader #lads rafayel #love and deep space #love and deepspace rafayel #loveanddeepspace #lads #rafayel lemurian #god of tides rafayel #student rafayel #god of sea rafayel

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giuli4nna · 21 hours ago

Text

BACK TO THE BASICS | PT 2

no matter how hard you try - you always let hamzah back in

contains : ex bf hamzah !! approx 2.5k word count

your phone screen glares back at you, bright and punishing against the dark parking lot.

9:48 PM.

no messages, no missed calls. you simply stare at the last text of the empty conversation that took place earlier between you and the man you weren’t even that interested in to begin with.

you tug open your car door, sliding yourself into the driver’s seat. you sit there, feeling stupid.

you’d spent hours getting ready. did your hair, your makeup, you even slipped into your favorite dress that clings to your body in all the right places.

all for what?

to be left sitting alone at the overpriced restaurant your date had suggested, sipping on the wine you ordered as a distraction - only for the dark red blend to somehow make the humiliation settle deeper?

you could go home. wash the makeup off, change into your pajamas, wrap yourself in the comfortable familiarity of your bed, and pretend this never happened.

instead of going in the direction of your home when you pull out of the parking lot, you make a sharp turn at the last minute - and drive straight to hamzah’s.

you don’t even hesitate when you reach his door, even though you really should. you should take a second to think, at least, to remind yourself why this is a bad idea, to remember that nothing good ever occurs as a result of being around him for too long.

you don’t think. you just knock.

a few beats pass before the door swings open, revealing hamzah in sweatpants and a hoodie. his curls are messy, and he’s slightly squinting his eyes like he’d just woken up.

he blinks. then, his gaze drags over you. slowly.

so slow, it feels like his line of view is the blade of a knife dragging down your skin.

your dress, your hair - the way you look standing in his doorway at almost 10 PM, with something utterly agitated yet vulnerable brewing behind your eyes.

his lips twitch into a smug, lazy grin. “damn,” he murmurs, leaning against the doorframe, just like last time, when he was in your position, at your doorstep. “you look good.”

you exhale sharply, pushing past him into his apartment before you can second-guess yourself. “shut up.”

hamzah watches as you storm into his apartment, his smirk deepening.

“oh, i already know something happened.” he muses, shutting the door and turning toward you. he crosses his arms over his chest, looking thoroughly entertained. “what was it? date didn’t go well? was there even a date at all?”

your jaw tightens.

hamzah laughs. “ohhh,” he drags out, his voice sounding smug. “that’s it, huh? y’got stood up?”

you glare at him, frustration bubbling up within your body. “i swear, if you say one more thing, i-”

“what?” he interrupts, stepping closer. he tilts his head, almost like he’s taunting you. “you’ll leave?”

you won’t. you both know that you won’t.

after a moment, his voice dips, softer now. “tell me why you’re really here.”

you clench your fists. you should lie - tell him you needed a drive to clear your head, and this just happened to be the first place you thought of.

hamzah steps even closer, close enough that you can smell him, warm and familiar. his fingers begin grazing the hem of your dress. his gaze slowly drops down to your body before flicking back up to your eyes.

“y’got all dressed up for another guy,” he murmurs, his thumb barely brushing against your leg. “but now you’re here.” he says it like he’s mulling over a new fact he’s just learned. he’s trying to make the situation more clear to him, contemplating how he should deal with you.

your pulse pounds.

you don’t say anything, you don’t need to - because his fingers are already slipping upwards under your dress, dragging slow and lazy circles into your bare thigh.

hamzah scrutinizes you. his eyes drag over your face. he notices the way your breath hitches, even though you swear you’re keeping it steady.

“c’mere.” he murmurs, sounding awfully sure of himself.

you take that singular step forward. his hands are on you immediately - gripping your hips, pulling you in and pressing you flush against him.

your hands slide up his chest, curling into the fabric. “you’re annoying.”

hamzah exhales a quiet laugh, his fingers flexing into your skin. “but you still came over.”

you don’t get the chance to reply - his mouth is on yours before you can even take a breath.

the kiss is deep instantly, no build-up, no hesitation. not this time.

his lips capture you while his hands slide the straps of your dress off your shoulders, tugging the fabric down and letting it pool on the floor.

his fingers trail across your skin, gripping the backs of your thighs, and before you can even process it, he’s lifting you and carrying you toward the couch.

your back barely hits the cushions before he’s on you again, his weight pressing you down, his breath fanning out against your jaw.

“you ever gonna tell me why you actually came?” he asks smugly, his mouth grazing your skin.

“shut up,” you mutter, cheeks flushed as you try to deny him the satisfaction of knowing you just had to see him. after getting upset, your mind and body instinctively threw you headfirst back into his grasp.

you’ve let him back in. again. you crawled right back to him, actually. you should feel pathetic, ashamed, but.. hamzah’s hands are already pushing your thighs apart, sliding up beneath your dress, already setting the pace like he knows how this ends.

and you let him. you let him drag his lips down your neck, let him press his weight against you, let his fingers skim higher and higher.

why? because you got stood up. because you spent hours getting ready just to be left waiting. because no one has ever known exactly how to handle you. not like he does.

and, because this was always going to happen, anyway. it was inevitable from the moment you two broke up; it was always clear that it wouldn’t be the end.

hamzah groans as his fingers find you, pressing against the heat between your legs, the thin fabric of your thong useless against his touch. “shit,” he mutters, exhaling sharply. “you’re already so-”

you don’t let him finish that sentence. you’re humiliated enough. you grip his hoodie and yank it over his head, tossing it aside before reaching for his sweatpants.

he lets out a low, breathless laugh. “impatient, huh?”

you don’t answer. you just shove his sweats down, his boxers with them, and - fuck.

it’s been so long since you’ve had him like this.

the sight of him, hard and ready for you, makes all kinds of memories come rushing back into your mind.

hamzah watches your expression shift. “say it,” he murmurs, his voice rougher now. “say you want it.”

your jaw clenches. you know he loves this - he always loves making you admit things, loves forcing the words out of your mouth like he needs to hear it to believe it.

your fingers trail up his stomach, slow and teasing. “you already know i do.”

before you can get another word out, his hands grip the backs of your knees, pushing them up, spreading you open beneath him.

“fuck,” he mutters. “i shouldn’t be doin’ this.”

his actions wholeheartedly contradict his words when he begins lining himself up, dragging the head of his cock against your soaked entrance, teasing, pressing against you.

the same words echo around in your brain, repeating like a mantra. you shouldn’t be doing this. he shouldn’t be doing this. we shouldn’t be doing this.

you don’t care if it’s a bad idea. not in the moment, at least. you might - no, you’ll definitely regret this later.

but for now, you don’t care if it isn’t the right choice, because your soul is screaming his name.

“i know,” you breathe out. “but - please do it anyway.”

that’s all he needs to hear. with a quick tug on your underwear to rip the fabric down and off your legs, he sinks in.

your whole body tenses as he fills you, stretching you open, settling so deep it knocks the air from your lungs. your ankles hook around his waist, pulling him in.

hamzah groans, gripping your thighs tighter, tipping forward to press his forehead against yours. “fuckin’..” he swears under his breath. “you feel - shit.”

your nails dig into his arms, a whiny plea escaping your lips. “move.”

he exhales sharply, his lips dragging against your cheek. “you sure?” his voice is teasing, but his grip is trembling with pent up desire.

you roll your hips, forcing him deeper, and he chokes on his next breath.

something changes in his demeanor.

hamzah’s fingers tighten around your thighs, and before you can even catch your breath, he pulls back and slams in, forcing a broken gasp from your lips.

“s’that what you wanted?” he taunts. his voice is rough, thick with something dangerous. his blunt nails dig into your skin as he begins to fuck into you, hard, like he’s trying to stamp himself back onto you - on your body, your memory, your soul.

your head falls back, a desperate moan tumbling from your mouth. “hamzah..”

“nah, don’t - don’t fuckin’ say my name like that..” he chokes out, his hands grabbing at your waist, your ribs, your throat. anywhere he can touch.

the sound of his name, in your beautiful and breathless voice, makes his pace turn brutal, like he just can’t handle this anymore.

like this is breaking him just as much as it’s breaking you.

“you.. you’re drivin’ me insane here,” he grits out between clenched teeth, his forehead pressing to yours, sweat sticking your skin together.

you don’t even have it in you to respond, not when he’s fucking you like this, pounding into you like he’s trying to fix something inside himself.

your moans pitch higher, your legs trembling where they’re wrapped around him. “f-fuck, hamzah, m’gonna-”

hamzah’s hand clamps over your mouth. “shh,” he hushes you, his cock twitching inside you. “just shut the fuck up and take it. i know you can.”

the way he says it, harsh and commanding - it’s just a sign that he’s grappling with the situation already. your body is taking a toll as well, you can feel your built-up orgasm tugging at your insides, pushing to the brink of something ruining.

he thrusts slow, deep, making you feel every inch of him. “knew we’d end up like this. always do.” he whispers shakily, and you can’t quite tell what emotion he’s tucking away behind those words.

hamzah moves harder, deeper, keeping his hand firm over your mouth, muffling the broken sounds being torn from your throat. his other hand pins your hips down, making sure you take every devastating thrust in its entirety.

“y’feel that?” he asks breathily. he drags his cock out, slow, until just the tip is pressing into you - then slams back in, burying himself to the hilt. “that’s what you fuckin’ came here for, huh?”

your nails scrape down his back, leaving angry red lines, a moan breaking out from his throat. a filthy, shameless sound. he starts trembling from the way your walls tighten around him.

you’re both spiraling. your body writhes and twists beneath him. heat crawls up your spine and coils in your stomach.

hamzah’s hand slides off your mouth, but before you can even take a breath, he’s gripping your jaw, forcing you to look at him.

“y’gonna cum for me, baby?” he rasps, eyes his eyes carrying a dark and somewhat desperate look. his thumb swipes over your swollen lips, watching the way your mouth parts around a helpless whimper.

you nod, nearly sobbing. your hips lift, chasing him, but his hands grab your waist, pushing you back down. your body is begging for release, every nerve is burning.

“good girl,” he breathes. “fuckin’.. god, just give it to me.”

he’s quickly pounding into you again, chasing his own high, dragging you down with him.

everything absolutely shatters. your orgasm rips through you, and hamzah’s right there to fuck you through it. his thrusts turn sloppy and erratic, his jaw hanging slack as he finally lets go, spilling inside you with a guttural moan.

for just a few seconds, things are quiet. peaceful and still. almost like you’re understanding each other, connected with one another, just like how you used to be.

right before reality crashes down on both of you.

hamzah pulls out too fast. you shudder at the loss, at the way his cum drips out of you, humiliatingly warm against your thighs. he sits back on his heels, running a hand through his messy curls.

you don’t move. you just watch as his expression shifts, like every realization is hitting him all at once.

his hands drag down his face. “this is so fucked up.”

your stomach churns. you knew this was coming, of course you did - and you still let it run its course anyway.

“then why do you keep letting it happen?” you voice is quiet, raw and tired from all the moaning and whining you did for him.

hamzah snaps his gaze to yours, and it’s different now. the lust is gone.

“i don’t fucking know,” he mutters. “guess i’m just as pathetic as you.”

pathetic.

there it is. the type of words that lit the first flame of the dumpster fire of a dynamic you two have created. the way of speaking that began to split your relationship up in the first place.

you push yourself up on shaky arms, blinking at him, trying to ignore the sting behind your eyes. “you’re such an asshole,” you whisper.

hamzah just laughs, humorlessly. “but you’re still the one who showed up at my fuckin’ door.”

a silence hangs in the air. hamzah’s lips twitch like he’s debating his next words.

you know what he wants to say, and you beat him to it.

“i hate you.”

it comes out too soft, too breathless, too wrong for what it’s supposed to mean. you don’t sound like you hate him, because you don’t. not at all.

it’s a lie. a cruel and desperate one at that. but, maybe if you say it enough, you’ll start to believe it to be true.

just maybe, if you keep lying to him and yourself like that - one day it’ll actually mean something.

a slow, lazy smirk spreads across hamzah’s lips.

“no, you don’t.” he murmurs.

you should say something back. you should correct him, roll your eyes, push him away, anything.

but you can’t. because you don’t hate him, you hate this. the entire situation. you hate how good it feels, you hate that it keeps happening.

you hate that you already know it’ll happen again.

hamzah knows it, too.

a/n: i hope this is a fulfilling part two, thank you to everyone who requested it (: also i hope it’s not too long and / or boring. love u !!

xoxo giulia

#giuli4nna #hamzahthefantastic #hamzah x reader #hamzah imagines #hamzah fic #hamzahsmut #hamzah angst #hamzahthefanatasticxreader

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cryinggirlnamedhelen · 2 days ago

Text

i knew you in another life, you had the same look in your eyes

ft; isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, karasu tabito, alexis ness, michael kaiser, kunigami rensuke

synopsis; what (doomed) au would they meet and fall in love with you in?

notes; fem reader in isagi, karasu, and ness, gn reader otherwise, death, grooming, sexual assault, war, violence. i know that many of them have similar topics, but all of these are set in different aus.

isagi yoichi

isagi was supposed to have died ages ago. he should have died the moment the bullet pierced through his torso, his flesh. even if it wasn’t shot through a vital organ, the blood loss would have been enough to take his life. and yet, just before he could feel his soul leave his body, bandages were wrapped around his torso tightly, barely stopping the scarlet blood from seeping out.

“i know it’s painful, but i promise it’ll be over soon. hold on.”

a woman, probably a nurse, isagi thought, relaxing. with a nurse around, he’ll be alright. isagi closed his eyes, wanting to perhaps go unconscious for a while and get some rest. after all, he had just narrowly survived a battle. but as his mind continued to linger on your words, isagi’s eyes shot open.

you had an accent when speaking, and so did he. but it was a different accent, one that isagi was taught to shoot upon hearing.

you were a nurse of the enemy side.

isagi wanted to reach for his gun; perhaps you were trying to sabotage him, or perhaps you were going to turn him in. he still had his uniform on, after all, although it was stained in blood. but he was too injured to move a muscle, perhaps he should stay still for now and escape if you betray him.

you carried him back to the camp, the enemy side’s camp. you changed him into new clothes and put him to bed, tending to his wound the entire night. isagi didn’t understand; surely you weren’t blind and had common sense, right? so why didn’t you throw him out or kill him? an enemy soldier? especially the lieutenant commander of his side of the army?

“do you have anywhere to go?” you asked one week after he had arrived. “im not rushing you or anything, your injury still isn’t fully healed yet. i just need to know if you’re still going to stay here after you heal.”

isagi glanced up at you. “well…” he thought for a moment. he did indeed plan on going back, but not before gathering a bit of information for a while first. it would be far too cruel to just kill you and leave, especially after you saved his life. “i’ve got family, but they’re pretty distant from me, so i’ll have to stay for a bit longer.”

“by family, do you mean your soldiers from the opposing side?”

isagi stiffened, eyes widening as they darted to you. you laughed. “your uniform is the one of the enemy side. not only that, but you’re not a soldier from our side, so the only plausible explanation is that you’re from the opposing side.” isagi’s eyes narrowed.

“why’d you save me if you knew i was an enemy?” he asked, hand gripping the counter. anything, he thought. he was willing to use anything to defend himself.

you thought for a moment, lips pressing into a thin line before glancing back at him. “during war, we’re considered enemies, monsters, and merciless killers. but at the end of the day, on the battlefield, we’re all just humans who can lose our lives just as easily as we take other lives.” you whispered. “working as a nurse during war has taught me that.”

isagi’s eyes brightened, and he could feel his insides turn to goo. he was strangely flustered by your statement, but he smiled. “that’s…noble.” he mumbled, eyes softening.

but good times could never last forever. not in isagi’s case, not in anyone’s case.

three months later, the camp was attacked. the opposing side, the side that isagi was on, attacked the camp, killing over a quarter of the soldiers and half the nurses.

you were among them.

isagi’s breath hitched as he heard the familiar voices of his friends and comrades in the camp. he hasn’t heard them in months, but he could recognize them anywhere. he rushed to the entrance of the camp, where you stood, and you spun around with your eyes wide.

“yoichi, you—“

a bullet pierced through your head as you collapsed to the floor, your blood soaking the ground beneath you. isagi’s jaw went slack as his knees gave out on him. “hey, w…” itoshi rin, who had shot the bullet through your head, took isagi by the collar and glared at him.

“there you are, isagi. have you been having fun over here while we were all panicking? lukewarm.” rin hissed, before dragging isagi away, where isagi reached out for your corpse, lips mouthing into the familiar sensation of your name.

itoshi rin

rin always knew that he was a quiet person. he never talked much, no one ever noticed when he was behind them, and he rarely ever even made a sound. but he never realized that it would save his life, nor did he realize that it would change his life.

rin was six when the war had started, and seven was the age when rin’s entire town was massacred, rin being the only survivor. he didn’t make a sound when he had hid in the closet, as opposed to his elder brother sae’s gasp when his parents were murdered right in front of his eyes.

“hey kid, is anyone else here alive?” the tall man glanced down at rin. in shook his head, his eyes staring straight at the wall in front of him, as if he was staring at ghosts. “how’d you survive?”

“i was quiet.” rin mumbled. “everyone else screamed. everyone else started running. but i stayed in my closet the whole time. i didn’t even make a noise when i breathed.”

“good. im looking for unpolished gems like you, kid. become a spy. you’ll serve your country to make sure that nothing like this ever happens to any other kid ever again.” the man was named ray dark, and he was a scout for spies and assassins to serve the country for the war, especially children.

and so for the next 10 years, rin trained. he became a spy and an assassin, gaining information from opposing sides and killing them afterwards. he was nicknamed the destroyer due to how brutally his victims were always assassinated, along with how swiftly he would always disappear afterwards.

three years later, at age 20, a picture was slipped into rin’s pocket by a fellow spy. this is your next target, the spy’s footsteps tapped out. if you kill them, this very war could be over. they are the child of the dictator of our opposing country. but it is extremely difficult to kill them, as they have rapid reflexes and instincts. build trust with them first.

rin tapped a quick understood before walking away. the moment he reached his headquarters, he applied as your bodyguard with his fake id. he almost instantly made it in; it was ridiculous how easy it was to be the bodyguard of the most vital person in the world.

a day later, he arrived at your quarters, watching you fiddle with your fingers. you looked up and smiled at him. “hello there. it’s rare for someone to desire an application to become my bodyguard, but i hope we get along.” rin nodded.

“the feeling’s mutual.” rin muttered, taking a glance around your room. security was tight; the walls were thick enough to not be cut through, but thin enough to hear any pleas for help. he could see tiny buttons, perhaps to press in order to ring a bell or two.

but for the next four months that rin was your bodyguard, he couldn’t help but notice. he couldn’t help but notice how kindly you treated your citizens. how calm you always were. how you pleaded with your father to stop with war constantly.

there was no point in killing you. the only result would be removing one more of the near extinct population of truly kind people in this world. but this was his job; he had to do this. and yet he couldn’t bring himself to do it, not when your smile made his chest feel warm and your laugh melted his icy exterior.

raindrops slid down rin’s back as he stood atop your body, rain spreading the blood out on the concrete floor. your neck was slit; another assassin had got the job done. rin’s knees gave out on him as he cradled you, a guttural scream of agony escaping him.

karasu tabito

karasu has always been a man who was a firm believer of gender equality. after all, what does the identity you’re born with have anything to do with how you live your life? but this was the 1500s, he couldn’t just casually say that. was he trying to get himself publicly humiliated? especially as the general of the army?

no, most definitely not.

not only that, but karasu has also always been a solemn rule and tradition follower. the rules were the most important part of anything, and breaking the rules was a shit action to do. tradition was important and needed to be respected; after all, how do you respect your elders without respecting tradition?

so karasu was practically in shambles when you joined the army.

you had chopped much of your hair off to disguise yourself as a man, but karasu had grown up with an older sister. he knew how women were; he wasn’t an idiot. but no one else in the army seemed to notice that you were a woman other than him. lucky he was the general of the army; otherwise, who knows what another man in control would do to you?

but having a woman in the army was breaking the rules. sure, you were the most talented and hardworking soldier karasu had ever seen, but breaking the rules could equal a death sentence if severe enough. how the hell was he supposed to stand up for his beliefs but also follow the rules?

he let you stay.

your gender was a secret kept between the both of you, never once reported to the shogun or daimyos or emperor. karasu didn’t want to risk it; he didn’t want to risk having you executed. sure, women could be warriors, but none of them actually served in the army.

“hey, look, why is there blood on his clothes?”

“huh? but we haven’t had a battle in days!”

“why would there be blood on his clothes, especially from that part of his body?”

“what if…?”

“no way!”

“if that’s the case, we can do, you know, to her.”

“what if we get caught? general karasu is shit protective of her. well, now we know why.”

“well, we won’t get caught. none of us have seen a woman in months, why shouldn’t we—?”

karasu’s heart dropped as he stormed into the changing room, a few of the nude soldiers holding up your clothing as if they had just found a treasure. “what the fuck are are of yall doin’?!” karasu exclaimed. “go back to your quarters, now.”

they all rolled their eyes and whined before leaving, karasu sighing before walking to his quarters. he couldn’t help but admit, but other than the fact that you were a woman, karasu did like you way more than the other soldiers. you were clever and kind and brave, and karasu can’t help but admire and adore you.

but the next week, karasu found a neck by the side of your neck, and your head was swiftly chopped off.

alexis ness

ness has always adored Magic and entertaining others. perhaps this was the reason why he instantly agreed to the offer of becoming the palace entertainer, although he was moreso a palace jester than performer.

you’ve always been a stoic yet beautiful lady-in-waiting. it was rare to see any form of expressive emotion on your face, although you were always polite. everyone knew that you were the apple of the king’s eye, but considering how he was still currently married to his queen, he wasn’t allowed to marry you just yet.

when ness spoke to you, you greeted him with the same usual stoic respect, a lack of emotion from your lips. ness didn’t understand why you were so upset, especially when you were so beautiful. someone like you should be smiling and enjoying herself, not frowning her life away.

how strange it was, when you had smiled during one of ness’ magic tricks when he was entertaining the audience at one of the banquets.

it was as simple as pulling an animal out of a hat, and yet the simple pleasure brought immense joy to you. in a room full of large plastic smiles and piercing laughter, ness could only notice your smile carved of diamond.

how beautifully addicting your smile was to ness.

from then on, ness performed magic tricks to you every day. after all, that smile of yours lit up ness’ world. it even validated ness just a little bit; how he managed to make the lady-in-waiting known to be emotionless and monotone smile.

but the more and more you spoke with ness, the more you began to fall for him as well. why did he still stick with you despite your cold and icy attitude? why was he still so kind and warm with you? why did the hearth inside of him melt your heart?

but no matter what the answer was, you had to admit, you loved ness a damn amount.

but the Queen then fell ill, and eventually died. with no Queen on the throne, the king’s eyes began to wander, and it landed on you once more.

everyone in the palace knew that you and ness were in love. no matter how hard you both attempted to hide it, your shining eyes and tiny shared smiles across banquet tables were noticed by nearly everyone. the king couldn’t risk it; getting his desired wife taken away from him.

“alexis ness, you have been charged with plotting an assassination against the king. your execution will be the thirteenth of october by beheading, and—“

your glass bowl smashed against the floor as you slammed your hand over your mouth. “no! he didn’t do anything wrong! he didn’t—!” but the attendants of the castle dragged you away before you could say anything mire, ness being knocked out and pulled by the hair and taken to a cell.

you had been forced to focus your eyes onto the swift movement of ness’ head escaping his neck.

i’ll be writing kaiser and kunigami’s shorter and in a different style because im lazy

michael kaiser

“mihya, please—“

“no. im not going. you can do whatever crazy shit you want, but im not going.”

“mihya, it’ll be a new life for the both of us in america. ellis island is only accepting immigrants now, and who knows when they’ll stop?”

“well shit, im not leaving here.”

“…fine, then i’ll just leave by myself.”

“what? no way. you’re too much of a pussy to actually do so.”

“no, im leaving. mihya, if you refuse to leave with me, then i’ll just leave by myself.”

“no, you better not leave. dont leave.”

“you just told me to leave, didn’t you?”

“no, i was—“

“goodbye, mihya.”

kunigami rensuke

while everyone else would get reincarnated in the original canon blue lock universe and live out their well-deserved happy endings there, this isn’t the case with you and kunigami.

meeting in the blue lock facility. quickly becoming best friends. developing crushes on one another. becoming in love. separating during wildcard. and suddenly, when kunigami came back, he was different. he wasn’t your rensuke, not anymore.

perhaps you’re both just doomed in every universe.

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vibelladonna · 1 day ago

Text

✑ 𝓃𝓊𝓂𝒷 𝜗𝜚 𝓉𝓀𝒶𝓉𝒷 𝓂𝑒𝓃

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: Some people fall apart quietly. You were one of them. The weight of existence had always been relentless, pressing down on you like an unseen force no one else could feel. A lifetime of existential crises, quiet detachment, and numbness that never truly faded—it all led you here.

To your quiet space, where the world was silent, where you could exist without pretense, without expectation. But solitude was never yours to keep.

Not when they noticed.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions.

𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: Anonymous! Some angst pieces feature The Tkatb Men with an MC who has battled deep depression and constant existential crises since childhood. Struggling with emotional detachment, missed classes, and social withdrawal, they turn to self-harm as a temporary escape from the weight of their mind.

soooo, Is it bad to turn to my "middle school” playlist just to feel something? I’ve been staying positive and relaxing on spring break; I need to be in my feelings when writing stuff like this. T-T

[ 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ]

✑ 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

Jericho has a way with words to make you feel better.

You sat in the deepest part of the library, a place so tucked away that even the dust seemed undisturbed. It was quiet—too quiet, maybe—but that was the point. No one came here.

No one except, apparently, Crowe.

"You're only here out of pity."

You didn’t bother looking up when you said it. You didn’t need to. The sound of his footsteps had already told you it was him before he even spoke.

There was a beat of silence. Then a soft exhale as Crowe dropped into the seat across from you, the chair creaking slightly under his weight. You knew that exhale—it was the same one he let out whenever he was frustrated but trying not to show it.

"You’ve been avoiding me." His voice was steady, but there was an edge underneath.

"I’ve been busy."

He let out a short, humorless laugh. "That’s bullshit, and we both know it."

You clenched your jaw. You didn’t need this right now. You didn’t need him looking at you like that—like he saw right through you.

Crowe leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. His eyes, usually so unreadable, had that sharp focus he got when he was putting the pieces together.

"You stopped showing up to class. You dropped out of clubs without telling anyone. I damn near had to get our friends to track you down, because no one knew where the hell you were."

You flinched, just barely. So he had noticed. Of course, he had.

“Thier, not my friends—I don’t see why you care so much." You finally looked at him, your expression blank. "You don’t have to play the role of the concerned friend, Crowe. You can go back to your life now. I’ll be fine."

His jaw tightened, and for a second, you thought he was going to snap at you. But instead, he just ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "That’s what pisses me off," he muttered.

"What?"

"You think I’m here out of pity."

You scoffed. "Tell me I’m wrong, then."

Crowe’s fingers tapped against the table—a small habit of his when he was thinking, calculating. Then, without warning, he reached forward and grabbed your wrist. His touch was gentle but firm, his thumb brushing over the edge of your sleeve where the fabric was just slightly worn from being pulled down one too many times.

"I don’t do pity," he said quietly. "I don’t waste my time on people I don’t give a shit about. And I sure as hell wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care."

His grip wasn’t tight.

You could pull away if you wanted to.

But you didn’t.

"You keep pushing people away," he continued, his voice softer now, almost tired. "But I’m not going anywhere, no matter how much you try to make me."

Something in your chest ached at his words, but you shoved it down, deep where it couldn’t touch you. You didn’t want to believe him. Because if you did—if you let yourself think, even for a second, that someone actually cared—what would happen when he eventually got tired of you? When he realized you weren’t worth the effort?

You swallowed, forcing your voice to stay even.

"You’re wasting your time, Crowe."

He studied you for a long moment, then let go of your wrist, leaning back in his chair.

"Maybe," he said simply. "But that’s my choice, isn’t it?"

The worst part? He said it like he meant it.

Crowe didn’t move from his seat, didn’t take his eyes off you. He let his words settle between you, filling the heavy silence. You hated it—hated the way he just sat there, like he wasn’t going to leave no matter how much you wanted him to.

Or maybe, deep down, you hated that part of you didn’t want him to leave at all.

He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face before leaning forward again, arms resting on the table. His voice softened. "You really think that little of yourself, don’t you?"

You opened your mouth to argue—to throw back some cold, dismissive remark that would push him away—but you hesitated. Something about the way he said it, like it wasn’t an accusation but just… sad, made your throat tighten.

Crowe didn’t wait for an answer. He just shook his head, like he was trying to figure out how the hell to get through to you.

"You act like you're nothing, like people only keep you around because they feel sorry for you. But that’s bullshit. You’re the smartest person I know, and not just in that textbook way—you're sharp. You see things other people don’t. And you're not just smart, you’re…" He exhaled, searching for the right words.

"You’re strong. Even when you don’t feel like it."

You scoffed, but it came out weaker than you meant it to. "That’s a nice way of saying I’m stubborn."

Crowe let out a soft laugh. "Yeah, you are. But that’s part of it. You don’t just roll over when things get hard. You keep going, even when you think you don’t have it in you." He leaned back, running a hand through his hair.

"And I hate that you can’t see that. I hate that you think so little of yourself when I—" He stopped himself, sucking in a sharp breath.

You stared at him. "When you what?"

Crowe hesitated. His fingers tapped against the table again, a steady rhythm. Then, finally, he met your eyes. "When I think the world of you."

Your heart stuttered in your chest.

"You matter," he said, and he said it with such certainty it almost hurt. "You’re not some burden. You’re not some pity project. You’re—you’re you. And that’s enough. That’s always been enough."

Your hands curled into fists in your lap. You didn’t know what to do with the warmth creeping into your chest, didn’t know how to process the way he was looking at you—like you were something worth holding onto.

"Crowe—"

"I mean it," he cut in before you could come up with some excuse, some way to dismiss it. "And I’ll keep saying it until you start believing it yourself."

Crowe’s eyes softened as he watched you, but there was something else there too—something unshakable, something that made your chest ache in a way you weren’t ready for.

You looked away, focusing on the grain of the wooden table, on the faint scratches left behind by years of students who had sat here before you.

You weren’t feeling those feelings anymore. Not really. Not the way you used to. It was like a switch had been flipped somewhere along the way, like something inside you had just… shut off.

And that scared you.

Because even the pain, the hurt, the exhaustion—at least it had been something. At least it had been real. But now? Now it was just numb. Like you were watching your own life from behind a glass wall, unable to reach through, unable to touch anything.

Crowe must have noticed something shift in your expression because, before you could pull away, he reached out—slow, deliberate. His fingers brushed against your chin, tilting your face up until you had no choice but to meet his gaze.

"Hey." His voice was quiet, careful. Like he was afraid you might disappear if he said the wrong thing. "Where’d you go just now?"

You swallowed hard, blinking against the sting in your eyes. "Nowhere."

His thumb traced the edge of your jaw, the warmth of his touch grounding in a way you weren’t used to. Crowe never pushed, never forced his way in—but he had a way of making you feel seen, even when you didn’t want to be.

"You’re lying," he murmured, his grip steady but gentle. "And I get it. I do. But whatever it is, you don’t have to go through it alone."

You wanted to believe him. You wanted to let the words sink in, to let yourself reach for the warmth he was offering—but the weight in your chest was too heavy.

"I don’t feel it anymore," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t feel anything."

Crowe’s fingers twitched against your skin, his grip tightening just slightly as if grounding himself in the moment. A flicker of something unguarded passed through his eyes—raw, desperate, something he couldn’t put into words. It was brief, barely there, but you caught it.

And then, before you could pull away before you could disappear into yourself again, he leaned in.

His forehead hovered just over yours, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his breath. He wasn’t forcing you, wasn’t taking anything—just waiting, holding steady, like he’d stand there forever if that’s what it took.

"Then let me feel it for you."

His voice was hoarse like the words physically pained him.

"Let me hold it until you can again."

Your breath hitched, something inside you cracking at the weight of those words. You weren’t sure what broke first—your resolve, the numb wall you’d built, or the illusion that you could keep pushing him away forever. But in that moment, something shifted.

His thumbs brushed over your cheekbones, slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing you—like he wanted to make sure you were still here. His hands weren’t trembling, but there was a tension in them, a silent plea he wasn’t voicing.

"You don’t see yourself the way I do." His voice was rough, edged with frustration, and something deeper, something almost unbearable.

He let out a slow breath, his forehead dipping against the side of your head, like the weight of what he said was too much to hold upright. "And that pisses me off."

That alone almost made you laugh. A quiet, breathless sound—more disbelief than humor.

Your throat tightened, and your chest ached. Your eyes burned. But you didn’t cry. Not yet.

Because for the first time in what felt like forever, someone wasn’t just telling you that you weren’t alone.

Crowe just proved it.

✑ 𝓈𝑜𝓁

Sol had never thought it would be this hard to find you.

He’d skipped his own classes to track you down, not bothering to tell anyone where he was going, not caring that the clock was ticking and he was supposed to be somewhere else. But when he’d gone to your usual spots on campus and asked around, there was no sign of you.

His heart had dropped lower with every dead end. When he reached your apartment, his gut twisted—he’d thought, maybe hoped, that you'd be somewhere else, somewhere safe, surrounded by other people. But you weren’t.

Sol knocked, but there was no answer. His breath came out in a frustrated puff. His instincts told him to push through, and he did. He twisted the knob, relieved to find the door unlocked, but he froze when he stepped inside.

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

The only sound was the faint hum of an old air conditioner, the muffled traffic from outside the window. Everything felt still as if the space itself was holding its breath.

He moved cautiously through the small apartment, eyes scanning the room for any sign of you. There were books scattered across the coffee table, dishes piled up in the sink. It looked like you hadn’t been taking care of yourself. Not for a while.

He moved down the hallway, his heart pounding in his chest, as his gaze landed on the bathroom door—half-open, as though you hadn’t bothered to close it completely.

He stopped, instinctively bracing himself before stepping into the room.

The scene before him stopped him in his tracks.

You were sitting in the bathtub, your knees drawn up to your chest, your arms locked around them as if you could hold yourself together that way. The water was still—too still. It was clear, untouched, yet it seemed to be drowning you all the same. Your hair clung to your face, soaked, strands matted and heavy. You hadn't moved for so long that the water had become cold against your skin, but you didn't care.

Your face was hidden, your eyes closed, and for a brief moment, Sol couldn’t tell if you were asleep or… if you were gone.

A cold panic surged through him, piercing through his chest like ice. His heart stuttered in his ribcage as his breath hitched. He didn’t care about anything else—he just needed to know you were still there, still breathing.

Sol rushed forward, reaching for your shoulder, shaking you lightly at first. But when you didn’t respond, the fear in him began to twist, hard and tight. He shook you again, harder this time, his fingers gripping you with urgency, his voice raw with anxiety.

"Hey." His voice was a whisper, but it trembled with the weight of his panic. "Hey, you okay?"

You jerked awake with a startled shout, your body stiffening in alarm, and immediately you pushed away from his touch. Your eyes flashed open—wide, but unfocused. The fear in your voice was sharp, raw, and you barely registered that it was him standing over you.

"Stop! Go away!" You snapped, your voice thick with exhaustion and frustration. It was bitter, the kind of bitterness that had been accumulating for days, weeks, months.

The weight of everything you were trying to hide, trying to bury, came spilling out with those words.

Sol froze, his breath catching in his throat. His hands shook as he stood over you, watching your form curl into itself. Your clothes were soaked, clinging to your skin like a second layer, and your hair dripped onto your shoulders, wet strands sticking to your face.

He couldn't bear to see you like this—this distant, this unreachable.

"What’s going on with you?" Sol demanded, his voice firm but laced with the underlying concern he couldn’t hide. His brow furrowed, and there was a weight in his tone like he was pleading without saying it.

But you didn’t answer.

You just turned your face away, pushing your hair back with a dismissive motion, trying to rid yourself of the mess both in your mind and around you.

The silence stretched between you both, and Sol’s patience started to wear thin, a hint of frustration creeping in despite his worry. He rolled his eyes, not at you, but at the situation itself. He couldn’t stand the way you kept pushing him away, pretending that you didn’t need help, pretending that you didn’t need someone to care.

Without waiting for an answer, Sol turned on his heel and went to the linen closet. You barely noticed his movements at first, too lost in your thoughts to even register that he had left.

When he returned moments later, however, he had two freshly folded towels in his hands.

You blinked, your mind foggy as you tried to piece together how he had found them so quickly. You were lost, disconnected from everything but the fog of your head.

You sighed, exasperated, the weight of everything suddenly pulling at your chest again. "Go away." The words were barely more than a whisper, but they felt heavy on your tongue.

Sol didn’t budge. He took a step closer to the tub, his brow set in determination. But before he could say anything, you pushed him away, your hands weak but insistent.

"I don’t want you to touch me."

His expression softened, but the concern was still there, etched into every line of his face. He stood still for a moment, allowing you the space you wanted.

You were pulling further into yourself, retreating, and he hated that. But he wasn’t leaving—not until you saw he wasn’t going anywhere.

Sol stood there, his gaze hardening as he watched you pull away, trying to retreat further into yourself as if you could escape the moment. That familiar edge of anger sparked in him—the kind that always flared up when he felt helpless.

When he could see you falling apart right in front of him, all he could do was stand there and watch you push him away

"Try me," he growled under his breath, his voice low and controlled, but the roughness in it was undeniable. It was like he couldn’t hold back the frustration anymore, the pain of seeing you like this, watching you destroy yourself without any help, without any sign that you even wanted to fight it.

He took a step closer, his heart pounding louder with every second.

The sound of it was deafening in his ears, but it only pushed him forward, closer to you.

You turned your face away, but Sol wasn’t having it. He reached out with firm, purposeful hands and grabbed your wrist, not roughly, but with a hold that wouldn’t allow you to pull away. His fingers brushed over the raised scars on your skin, and he sucked in a sharp breath.

The reality of it hit him harder than he was prepared for, like a slap to the face. He swore under his breath, the anger shifting to something darker, something he couldn’t fully express.

"Why?" he asked, quieter now, almost afraid of the answer but still needing to hear it. His voice wavered with a vulnerability he wasn’t sure he wanted to show, but it slipped out anyway. He couldn’t help it—he needed to understand.

Why did you keep doing this to yourself?

You remained silent, your lips pressed into a thin line, a stubborn refusal to give him any of the answers he was desperate for. His grip on your wrist tightened just slightly, as though he was trying to tether you to him, not letting you slip away.

"You can talk to me," Sol said, his voice softer, more pleading now, despite the cold anger still simmering under the surface. "I don’t care how messy it is. I don’t care how bad it’s been, or how bad you think it’ll sound. Just—don’t do this. Not alone. Not anymore."

His words hung in the air, fragile and thin, like a thread that could snap at any moment. And for a fleeting second, you almost wanted to reach for it.

Almost. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

The thought of letting someone see you like this, letting them truly see the mess inside—you couldn’t do it. You couldn’t let anyone in.

"I don’t need saving, Sol." The words came out cold, clipped like you were trying to freeze everything between you both. But even as you spoke, your voice trembled, betraying you.

Sol didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. If anything, his hold on your wrist tightened just a little more, like he was trying to keep you anchored to him, trying to keep you from disappearing into yourself.

"Good," he said softly, his voice steady but filled with an honesty that almost took your breath away. "‘Cause I’m not trying to save you."

He stepped even closer, his breath shallow as he dropped down to sit beside the tub, his body close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, even with the chill in the air.

His face was just inches from yours now, his gaze locked on yours.

"I just don’t want to lose you." His voice cracked on the last word, and for a moment, it almost felt like everything else stopped. His words were simple, but they hit deeper than anything else he could’ve said.

He wasn’t trying to fix you. He wasn’t trying to save you.

He just didn’t want to lose you.

Sol let the silence stretch between you, the weight of his words pressing down like a hand around your throat. His grip on your wrist loosened, but he didn’t let go, his fingers ghosting over the scars with an almost reverent touch. His breathing was slow, controlled—but you could feel the tension radiating off of him.

Then, without warning, he moved. Swift and sure, like he had already decided what to do before you could even react.

He grabbed the towel he had brought earlier, shaking it out before reaching for you again. You stiffened, instinctively trying to shrink back, but Sol didn’t give you the chance.

"Enough." His voice was firm, brooking no argument as he pulled you forward, wrapping the towel around your shoulders. The fabric was thick and warm against your soaked clothes, a sharp contrast to the chill in the room.

You didn’t protest when he dragged you up. Maybe you were too tired. Maybe you didn’t want to fight him on this anymore. The moment your legs wobbled from the sudden movement, his arms wrapped around you, pressing you against his chest.

The warmth of him was suffocating.

"You’re shaking," he muttered, tightening his hold. His fingers dug into the fabric of the towel, pressing into your back as though he could physically hold you together. "Jesus, Pumpkin… what the hell are you doing to yourself?"

You swallowed, your throat dry. You could feel the steady thud of his heart against your ear, and could hear the controlled breaths he was forcing himself to take. But it was the slight tremor in his voice that made you feel like the worst person in the world.

You didn’t deserve this.

You didn’t deserve him.

Your hands twitched at your sides, unsure whether to push him away or hold on. But you didn’t move. You couldn’t. His warmth was a stark contrast to the coldness you had wrapped yourself in for so long, and for once, you let yourself feel it.

"Why are you here, Sol?" Your voice was barely above a whisper, cracking at the edges.

"Why the fuck wouldn’t I be here?" He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and unreadable. "You think I’d just ignore this? Ignore you?"

You opened your mouth, but no words came out. What were you supposed to say? That he should have ignored this? That it was easier that way?

Sol exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before cupping the back of your head, forcing you to look at him. His fingers wove into your damp strands, grounding you with his touch.

"Hey now," he said, voice firm, unwavering. "If you think for a second that I’m gonna sit back and let you drown in this—" his grip on your hair tightened slightly, quiet desperation seeping into his words—"you don’t know me as well as you think you do."

The guilt hit like a punch to the gut.

You tried to look away, but he didn’t let you. His grip was gentle but firm, his thumb brushing against the back of your neck in a way that made you shiver.

"I don’t need saving," you repeated weakly, but it felt like a lie now.

"Yeah?" Sol’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, wasn’t quite a frown. "Then tell me—if I leave right now, if I walk out that door and don’t come back… are you gonna be okay?"

You opened your mouth to snap yes, to shove him away and tell him to leave you the hell alone. But the words caught in your throat.

Sol’s eyes softened, but there was something sharper lurking beneath. Something calculating. He saw the hesitation, the way your lips parted but no words followed, and he seized the moment.

"That’s what I thought," he murmured, his breath ghosting over your forehead.

You clenched your jaw, hating how easily he could tear through your defenses. Hating how right he was.

He sighed, his grip on your hair finally loosening as he rested his forehead against yours, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

"I’m not going anywhere, Pumpkin." His tone was softer now, almost tender—but there was something unshakable beneath it, something that made it clear you didn’t have a choice in the matter.

"So stop trying to make me."

You hated how much you wanted to believe him. How much you wanted to fall into this warmth, this safety he was offering. But deep down, you knew—this wasn’t just concern.

This was possession.

And Sol had no intention of letting you go.

✑ 𝑔𝑒𝑜

Geo wasn’t the type to care about people’s problems.

At least, that’s what he told himself. It was easier that way—easier to stay detached, to keep his own peace intact. But you?

You made it impossible to ignore.

It wasn’t anything obvious. You still showed up, still spoke when necessary, and still wore that same carefully constructed expression that kept everyone from prying too deep. The others didn’t see it—they weren’t looking hard enough.

But Geo? He noticed.

The way your laugh didn’t quite reach your eyes anymore. The way you lingered at the edges of conversations, only half-present. The way your shoulders carried just a little more weight than usual.

It pissed him off. Not at you—but at whatever had put that weight there in the first place. And the fact that no one else had noticed? That made it worse.

So when you weren’t in your usual spots after classes, he felt it. The unease settled into his chest like an itch he couldn’t scratch, and no matter how much he wanted to brush it off, he couldn’t.

Fine. If you weren’t going to say anything, then he’d figure it out himself.

The library? Empty.

Your club meetings? No sign of you.

Geo’s jaw tightened, his annoyance growing the longer it took. But then—then he found you.

The university greenhouse.

The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and fresh blooms, the warmth of the sun filtering through the glass ceiling above. And there you were, sitting on a worn stone bench, eyes closed, shoulders relaxed in a way that felt almost unnatural.

For a second, he just watched.

You looked peaceful. Or maybe… maybe you were just pretending to be.

Geo hated that he couldn’t tell.

With a sigh, he shoved his hands into his pockets and stepped forward, his footsteps quiet against the greenhouse floor. He didn’t say anything at first, just standing there like he was waiting for you to notice him. When you didn’t, he clicked his tongue in irritation.

"Didn’t think you were the type to nap in the middle of the day," he muttered, his voice just loud enough to cut through the stillness.

Your eyes flickered open, but you didn’t look surprised. Like you had already known he was there.

"Not napping," you murmured, voice slow, distant. "Just… thinking."

Geo sighed. "Yeah? And how’s that going for you?"

You exhaled through your nose, shaking your head slightly. "Too loud."

Geo frowned at that. The greenhouse was silent—just the faint rustling of leaves and the distant hum of the fans overhead. But he knew that wasn’t what you meant.

He moved closer, his gaze sharp as he took you in. The way your fingers curled slightly against the stone bench. The way your shoulders were tense, even if you were trying to look at ease. The way your eyes had that tired look—the kind that sleep wouldn’t fix.

Yeah. Something was wrong.

And it was worse than he thought.

"...You gonna tell me what’s going on, or do I have to drag it out of you?" His tone was casual, but there was an edge beneath it.

You huffed, shaking your head. "Nothing’s going on."

"Liar."

That made you pause.

Geo sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, I don’t do the whole ‘prying’ thing. But when someone who’s usually pretty good at keeping their shit together suddenly starts falling apart under the radar? Kinda hard not to notice."

You tensed, and he caught it immediately. He was right.

"...You’re imagining things," you muttered, but it was weak.

Geo just scoffed. "Yeah? Then why are you out here, alone, sitting in a greenhouse like some tragic main character?"

You shot him a glare, but he just raised an eyebrow, unfazed.

"Thought so," he muttered.

Silence stretched between you.

You swallowed hard, your gaze fixated on the greenhouse floor, tracing the cracks between the stone tiles like they held answers you couldn't find anywhere else.

Geo wasn’t the type to comfort. He wasn’t the type to pry, either. If you wanted to talk, you would. If you didn’t, fine—he wasn’t going to beg for your feelings. But he also wasn’t going to pretend he didn’t see what was happening to you.

And for some reason, that made it worse.

"Listen." He exhaled sharply, his voice carrying that familiar edge of impatience, but not with you—never with you. More like he was frustrated at the situation itself, at the fact that he even had to say this.

"I don’t care what it is. I don’t care if it’s stupid, or if you think I won’t get it, or whatever excuse you’re using to keep your mouth shut." He leaned back against the bench, just close enough to remind you he was here, but not close enough to smother you. "Just don’t sit here acting like you’re fine when you’re clearly not."

His voice wasn’t soft. It wasn’t kind. But it was real.

And for some reason, that made it harder to breathe.

Your throat felt tight, something hot building behind your ribs, but you forced it down. You were good at that—at shoving things so deep inside yourself that they didn’t exist anymore. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

Geo let out a slow, heavy sigh, his shoulders rising and falling as if this whole thing physically exhausted him. "I don’t like worrying about people," he muttered. "Kinda hate it, actually."

His words shouldn’t have stung, but they did.

His eyes flickered toward you, sharp but unreadable as if debating whether to say the next part.

"But you?" His voice dipped lower, quieter, but somehow heavier. "Yeah. You make that shit real hard to avoid."

That did something to you.

You weren’t sure what exactly, but it hit deeper than you wanted it to. Deeper than you expected it to.

Your fingers curled slightly in your lap, gripping at the fabric of your clothes like you could anchor yourself there. "I don’t mean to," you murmured.

"I know." Geo leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His expression remained unreadable, but his voice softened—not in the way people spoke to you with forced pity or careful concern, but in a way that felt... real.

"...Doesn’t change the fact that I still do."

And then—plink.

The first raindrop struck the glass above, a soft, barely-there sound. Then another. And another.

Within moments, the greenhouse filled with the rhythm of rainfall, steady yet heavy, each drop echoing against the glass panels. The scent of damp earth rose around you, rich and grounding, as the world outside blurred into a hazy wash of gray.

Geo exhaled sharply, arms crossing over his chest.

Of course, it had to start raining.

The timing felt cruel in a way—like the universe had been watching the whole time and decided this moment needed an extra layer of weight.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. But in the quiet of the downpour, in the stillness of the greenhouse, something in the air had shifted. The truth was, he wasn’t the type to comfort people. Wasn’t the type to sit around and hold hands, whispering empty reassurances.

It wasn’t something he was used to.

It wasn’t something he did.

Silence stretched between you, thick with something unspoken. The only sound was the rain pattering against the greenhouse glass, the steady rhythm filling the space between words you couldn't say.

Your chest ached. Not in a sharp, unbearable way—but in a dull, bone-deep exhaustion that never seemed to fade, no matter how much you tried to ignore it.

"...Classes are draining." Your voice barely rose above a whisper, but somehow, it felt deafening. "I feel like I go through them in a daze. Like I’m there, but I’m not."

Geo didn’t say anything, but you could feel his gaze burning into you. So you kept going because now that you started, it was hard to stop.

"I wake up, I go to class, I do what I have to, and then... I just exist." You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head. "And it never means anything. I don’t feel anything. I just... am. And I don’t even know if that matters anymore."

Your hands clenched tighter, knuckles turning white. The words felt too big, too raw, too exposed. It was terrifying.

And for the first time, you dared to look at him.

Geo’s jaw was tight, his fingers twitching against his knee like he was holding himself back. His usual sharp, cocky demeanor had faded into something else—something serious. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself.” His voice was quiet, but firm.

You didn’t look at him. “Doing what?”

His jaw clenched. "Acting like you don’t matter."

The silence that followed was thick—almost suffocating. And then, you laughed. Bitter, empty.

“Because I don’t.”

Geo stilled. The way you said it like it was just a fact like it wasn’t something that should sting—it pissed him off. He turned his head, eyes narrowing as he studied you, taking in the way your shoulders curled inward, the way your hands clenched in your lap like you were bracing for something. Like you believed what you just said.

Geo clicked his tongue. "Bullshit."

Your fingers twitched, but you didn’t say anything.

Geo exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face. He wasn’t good at this. He didn’t have the right words, the right softness people probably expected in moments like these. But he did know one thing.

His fingers moved before his mind fully caught up, wrapping around your wrist with a gentleness that contradicted the sharp edge in his expression. His thumb traced over the fresh marks you had tried so hard to keep hidden, his touch warm against the raised skin.

Geo didn’t say anything at first, just staring—his face unreadable, but his grip steady. Then, his jaw tensed, his voice coming out quieter than before, rough with frustration.

"You matter to me."

Your breath hitched. Something in your chest tightened, an ache you couldn’t quite place.

Tears welled up in your eyes, but you turned your face away, shaking your head. "You’re wasting your time."

Geo scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Then let me waste it."

Before you could react, Geo pulled you forward, shifting you into his lap like it was nothing, like he had already decided you weren’t going anywhere. His grip was firm but not forceful, an unspoken message that he wasn’t about to let you slip away—not now, not like this.

Your breath hitched at the sudden closeness. His face was just inches from yours, the warmth of his skin brushing against the coldness that had settled deep in your bones. You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, hear the faint hitch in his breathing as he realized just how close you were.

He still didn’t let go of your wrist. If anything, his fingers curled slightly, holding you there like an anchor, like some stubborn part of him thought that if he kept you close enough, he could stop you from drifting any further.

Geo’s expression was the same as always—mildly annoyed, slightly flushed—but when he tried to speak, he faltered. “I—uh, I just—”

His voice caught. He clenched his jaw, his usual sharp confidence replaced by something uncharacteristically awkward. His ears burned red, his gaze flickering away for half a second before snapping back to you. For the first time in your life, you saw Geo flustered.

And it was hilarious.

The sight of him—one of the smoothest, most put-together guys you knew—stammering like an idiot while trying to be serious?

It was too much.

A laugh broke past your lips before you could stop it.

Geo froze.

Your shoulders shook slightly, exhaustion weighing heavy on your limbs, but you couldn’t stop laughing. It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t fake.

It was real.

And somehow, despite everything, it felt good.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the suffocating weight of uselessness that always clung to you—the one that whispered you were just a burden, that you didn’t matter—faded into the background.

Geo huffed dramatically, shifting slightly but not letting you go. "Oh, great. Now you’re laughing at me."

You buried your face into his chest, still shaking with quiet amusement. "Because you suck at this," you mumbled, voice muffled against the fabric of his shirt.

"Yeah, well—" He was about to fire back, but then he heard it again.

Your laugh.

Not the usual forced chuckle. Not the empty amusement you gave when you didn’t want people to worry.

A real laugh.

And just like that, he went quiet.

His arms wrapped around you more securely, holding you there—close, warm, real.

Fuck. Geo really cared about you.

✑ 𝒽𝓎𝓊𝑔𝑜

Hyugo easily felt other’s emotions that he cared about.

It wasn’t hard to guess where you’d gone—he just knew. Like an instinct. Like something in his gut told him exactly where to find you, even before he started searching.

The rooftop was off-limits. Not just by school rules, but in the way most people never thought to come up here. Maybe they were too afraid of getting caught. Maybe they just weren’t the type to seek out heights when the ground felt unsteady beneath them. But you? You never cared about the rules.

You didn’t care about much of anything these days.

Hyugo exhaled sharply as he pushed the rusted rooftop door open, stepping into the cold wind that swept across the campus skyline. His uniform was slightly rumpled, tie loosened, the usual carefree expression wiped clean from his face as he caught sight of you—sitting near the ledge, drawn into yourself like you were trying to disappear into the horizon.

He hated seeing you like this.

It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair.

“…You missed class again.”

His voice was quiet. Careful. Not demanding, not scolding—just there.

You didn’t react. You didn’t even turn your head.

Hyugo sighed and ran a hand through his hair. The bench near the rooftop’s edge groaned as he sat down beside you, leaving just enough space that you wouldn’t feel cornered—but not enough to let you pretend he wasn’t here.

“Figured I’d find you up here,” he said, leaning back slightly, his arms resting against his knees. “Was hoping I was wrong.”

Still, nothing.

You just kept staring at the skyline, like if you looked hard enough, you might find something out there that made existing feel worth it.

Hyugo wasn’t good with words. Not like this. Not when it mattered. But he couldn’t just sit here and let you drown in whatever thoughts were eating away at you.

His eyes flickered to your sleeves. To the faint, fresh marks barely hidden beneath the fabric.

Something in his chest twisted.

“…I get it, you know.” His voice was quieter now, rough around the edges. “Maybe not exactly. Maybe not in the way you do. But…”

He hesitated, watching your fingers curl slightly in your lap, your shoulders stiff like you were bracing for something.

“…It doesn’t have to be like this.”

A sharp, bitter laugh almost escaped your throat, but you swallowed it down. Doesn’t have to be? It always was. It always would be.

You finally spoke, voice barely above a whisper. “Then tell me what it’s supposed to be like, Hyugo.”

He inhaled slowly, watching you—really watching you. He didn’t have an answer. Not a good one. Not one that would fix anything. But that didn’t stop him from reaching out, his fingers brushing over your wrist, tracing the edge of the pain you carried like it was something fragile, something worth holding onto.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his grip tightening slightly. “But I do know that this isn’t all there is. And I hate that you think it is.”

That did something to you.

Your breath hitched, the weight in your chest pressing harder, heavier. You squeezed your eyes shut, hands clenching into fists.

Hyugo just held onto you. Not forcefully. Not trying to pull you away from the edge—just keeping you here. With him.

“…Talk to me,” he murmured. “Please.”

You wanted to say no. You wanted to stay in the silence, in the cold, in the nothingness.

But when you finally turned your head, when you met his eyes—the way he was looking at you like you were something precious, something irreplaceable—

For the first time in forever… You almost believed him.

Since Hyugo wasn’t the type to cry easily.

Sure, he was emotional—he felt a lot, more than he let on—but he was always the one with a bright smile, a teasing remark, a carefree attitude that made him easy to be around. He kept things light. Kept things fun.

But right now?

Right now, as he looked at you, really looked at you—at the exhaustion weighing down your shoulders, at the way your fingers trembled slightly as if you were holding yourself together with nothing but sheer will—something in him cracked.

His throat tightened.

You noticed the way his jaw clenched, the way his eyes glistened under the dim rooftop lights, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure if he could.

Holy fuck. Did you almost make Hyugo cry?

The thought sent a sharp pang through your chest. It felt wrong. Unfair. He wasn’t supposed to be the one hurting. You were the problem here, not him. He shouldn’t—he couldn’t—

You shifted slightly, about to say something, anything to break the tension—

But then, before you could move, before you could even react, Hyugo suddenly lurched forward.

His arms wrapped around you, his face pressing against your chest, his entire body curling into you like he was holding on for dear life.

The impact startled you, making you stiffen, but he didn’t let go. If anything, he clung to you tighter, like he was afraid you’d slip away the second he loosened his grip.

“…Don’t do this to me,” he mumbled against your shirt, his voice muffled, strained.

You could feel the slight tremor in his hands, the way his breath hitched like he was barely holding himself together. His heartbeat pounded against you, fast, unsteady.

You swallowed hard, guilt settling deep in your stomach.

You didn’t mean to make him feel like this.

You didn’t mean to make anyone feel like this.

Slowly—hesitantly—you lifted a hand, resting it against the back of his head, your fingers threading gently through his messy hair. He let out a shaky breath, pressing his forehead deeper against your chest like he was trying to disappear into you.

“…Sorry,” you murmured.

He let out a soft, humorless chuckle, though it came out more like a choked sob.

“God, don’t apologize,” he muttered, voice cracking just slightly. “Don’t you dare fucking apologize right now.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your cheek against the top of his head. His warmth seeped into you, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected. You didn’t even realize how cold you’d been until now.

For a while, neither of you moved.

Hyugo just held onto you, like he was afraid if he let go, you’d fade away completely. And maybe—just maybe—you let yourself sink into him too, just this once.

“…I’ll stay.”

The words barely made it past your lips, fragile and uncertain, like they might dissolve into the night air before they even reached him.

Hyugo sucked in a sharp breath. For a moment, he didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just stared at you, wide-eyed, like he was afraid to blink in case he somehow imagined your words.

Slowly—cautiously—he pulled back just enough to see your face. The rooftop lights cast faint shadows across his features, but even in the dim glow, you could see it. The raw emotion pooled in his eyes, the way his lips parted as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words.

His eyes were red-rimmed, glossy with unshed tears.

“…Yeah?” His voice was barely above a whisper, hoarse and uncertain, like he needed you to say it again, to confirm that you meant it.

You nodded.

And that was it. That was all it took for whatever was holding him back to finally break.

A sharp, uneven breath escaped him, and his lips pressed into a thin line as his brows furrowed. His whole body trembled, hands curling into fists against your back like he was trying to ground himself.

Then, before you could process it, before you could even brace yourself, he lunged forward.

His arms wrapped around you, tighter this time—desperate. His entire body pressed against yours, warm and trembling, his face burying into the crook of your neck.

“Good,” he breathed against your skin, voice thick, raw. “Good. You better. You fucking better.”

You felt him shudder against you, his breath uneven, like he was barely holding himself together. His fingers dug into the fabric of your clothes, gripping you like you might slip through his grasp at any second.

“I—” His voice caught, and he shook his head slightly, swallowing hard. His next words were muffled, spoken so quietly they were almost lost against your skin.

“I’d miss you too much, you know?”

Something inside you twisted painfully.

You exhaled, closing your eyes, inhaling the familiar scent of him—warm, faintly like the wind, like something alive. His heartbeat pounded against yours, frantic and real, a stark contrast to the numbness that had sat heavy in your chest for so long.

You knew.

And maybe, just maybe—Hyugo was enough.

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