fictional-character-fanboy

[fictional-character-fanboy]

(7) 🦭 signed, sealed, delivery pending...

Your time with the aunt-nephew duo, despite all their peculiarities you chalk up to rich people stuff, is going so well until it gets to the small talk part. You never thought it'd come to almost beating the living daylights out of your savior, but here you two are. Fuck that guy.

genre: fluff, comedy | word count: 9K | read on ao3

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note: howl pendragon-coded rafayel, yayyyy! what's that? "what's with the summary" you say" well... THE GIRLS ARE FIGHTINGGGGGGGG (rafayel didnt intend that to be the outcome at all. when ur so emotionally intelligent and a lil bit manipulative and want to help her unwind but it backfires on you bc your pookie doesnt play like that. ur kinda proud but again. that wasnt the intended outcome)

“Hello.”

Just hearing Mom say that with a voice so thin and tired that some of it doesn’t get picked up through the phone is enough for your heart to shrink in place like a child who’s aware of an incoming scolding would.

“Mom,” you gasp. You’re standing barefoot on the cool white tiles, their chill bleeding up through your soles. The clothes clinging to your body are too big, borrowed, the soft collar of someone else’s sweater sagging against your neck. “Mom, it’s me — it’s me.”

There’s a sound — a breath being sucked in too fast, and then her voice rises, making the speaker pop and crackle against your ear: “Oh my God. Oh my God!—”

“Is the ferry okay?” The phone cord coils loosely at your side, warm from the sun that slants through an arched window and makes the gold fixtures on the table gleam. You keep winding it around your fingers without thinking, make it tight enough to cut blood circulation, letting it bite into your skin before unwinding it again. Then again.

Please tell me it didn’t sink, please.

The plastic sheath creaks faintly with each nervous pull, a rhythmic distraction just steady enough to stop you from breaking open. “The ferry — is the ferry alright? Did it — did it make it back?! The fishermen — I thought they were — I tried to get them before the they hit the rocks but — fuck, I — I don’t know if it made it—”

“Who is that?” another voice shouts suddenly from the receiver, rapidly accelarating in proximity and booming with rage and fear. You can hear the sound of Mom’s phone being snatched. “Who is that?! Give me the — Is that you?!”

“Dad,” you choke, fighting the tremble in your bottom lip.

This is his breadwinner. Your entire family’s livelihood. The fact that a possible sinking after you were thrown overboard hadn’t occured to you until you were underneath a warm shower and letting your thoughts flow with the water is worse to you than being the reason why the ferry was lost. You truly don’t know what to say.

“Dad I — I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to — I thought I could get them back in, the boat was listing, the rocks were farther so I thought it would be fine, and then the wave — I don’t even know if the ferry’s — oh god, the ferry—”

Mom interrupts your babbling. “Shhhh, shhh, the ferry’s fine, baby, it’s fine, those people drove it back here—”

Your elbows come down on the luxurious table and you sink down on your forearms from relief, rubbing your face with your free hand. The position is a bit awkward because you have to hold the receiver of this old rotary phone to your ear, but you couldn’t care less.

“Where the hell are you?” Dad spits.

Mom cuts in again, her voice warbling with restrained sobs: “We thought you were gone. The coast guard said the water was too cold — and after that kind of storm your chances weren’t… that it was too late to keep searching. But we didn’t stop. We didn’t stop, do you hear me?”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. They were drifting and I thought if I could just — if I could just get there in time. I didn’t — I thought I could help. I really thought I could do something right for once and instead I nearly—”

Ruined everything.

You can hear the ocean just beyond the glass in the silence that follows.

“Where are you now? Where have you washed up? I don’t recognize the number, who are you with?” he says, more insistent now. “We looked everywhere in the surrounding islands.”

“Someone pulled me out — he said this is his aunt’s place — Orphias she said, I think? The owner’s name is Talia.”

Your father swears under his breath, sharp and furious. “Private island section? That’s miles off route and from the Teeth! How—”

“I don’t know! I can’t make sense of it as well, but I didn’t pry. Beggars can’t be choosers.” When you receive no answer, you bite down on your lower lip. “Dad?”

“You stay put, we’re on our way now.” You nod even though they can’t see it. The hand not holding the phone presses to your chest, as if that might calm the erratic thump beneath. “Stay on your toes, alright? I don’t like this. The storm couldn’t have taken you that far — who did you say it was that saved you?”

“This guy — Rafayel. The nephew. He brought me here from what he told me.” You hear an intake of a big breath. “Don’t ask. I don’t know. He was—”

You stop yourself. If you talk anything related to Rafayel, Dad would freak the fuck out. A naked man on the beach so far away from the ground zero of your fall who you had to piggyback to his aunt’s house? Nothing you could say would be able to salvage any part of that sentence.

“Okay,” he says. An engine starts in the background. “Okay. How are you doing? Are you hurt at all?”

“Took you long enough to ask,” Mom nags in the distance.

“I’m okay now, I think — I’m dry, she gave me clothes — I had a hot shower…”

Dad starts ranting to himself under his breath in the unique way that he does that’s reminiscent of a sped-up tape put in another room you hear the muffled echo of. “Jesus Christ. You scared the life out of us. Hours. Gone for hours. You don’t just venture out during a fucking storm and— ”

And of course it’s Mom who stops it. “—Don’t, not now. We’ll talk about it when we see her.”

That’s how you know you’re in for a lecture. You deserve it, though. The ferry’s safety more than makes up for it.

“Are the fishermen okay?” you say, a bit ashamed to remember to ask about them this late into the conversation, but it’s fine you think — shame is a familiar companion nowadays, what’s more for the late night conversations you have with her?

“Yeah, they made it. One of ’em got a concussion, another one fractured his arm. That storm shook the poor fellas like a rattle.”

And the third one brought you here.

Yeah, that checks out.

It’s the kind of confirmation you needed. And your family, of course. An identity verification of some sorts and a guarantee that nothing bad would happen to you. Though the second part of that sentence, you feel guilty just thinking about after getting taken care of by a host like Talia who took in a stranger into her home. A wet dog, in a sense.

You move to lean against the wall next to the telephone, tilting your head back to rest on the smooth, cool surface of the wallpaper. There is a slight ache in your shoulders from the strain of the stress (and also the almost-drowning, but mostly the stress of losing the ferry), but the exhaustion is a familiar one, the kind that comes from a day spent pushing against the world, one that you welcome feeling, now that you know you haven't fucked up that colossaly. Relief, in other words, is the best drug.

"Can you get this Talia on the phone?" Mom asks. "We need the island code to find the coordinates, baby."

"You guys don't know about any Orphias?"

Dad grumbles. "You expect someone to know every single grocery store in the city?"

"Well. If it's a luxury store and the person in question is a store connoisseur—"

"Okay, alright, smartass. If you can talk back like that, I guess you're fine."

"Talia, please?" Mom reminds you. She sounds lighter, though, after hearing the brief bickering.

“I sure hope you haven’t gotten yourself into some weird island cult.”

As if to answer her question, light footsteps fade into your awareness from the outside and you turn your head to the direction of the source just as a gentle knock on the door resonates. It’s Talia hovering in the entryway, the light from the spacious hall casting a soft glow outlines her figure in the warm, golden haze of the afternoon, somehow made brighter by the smile on her face.

"Just wanted to say I prepared some snacks for you, in case you were hungry," she offers, keeping her voice down in a whisper to not interrupt yor call. She seems to hesitate, then adds, "And also... if you're not, that's all right too. You can take your time. There's no rush."

You can't help the smile that crosses your face, grateful and touched. "Thanks. Actually, could you..." You gesture with the old corded phone, once again mentally shrunk into a kid half her height when you say, "My parents would like to speak to you. Just to give their thanks. And directions. To fetch me. If that's alright?"

"Of course," she replies, fully entering the room and stepping forward to take the receiver from your hand. "I understand, they must've been worried sick. Don't worry, I'll handle it. You go to the kitchen, it's just on the left from the hall. Help yourself to whatever you'd like. I'll be right there in a moment."

Kindness is inherently woven into her attitude in the same way the scent of the sea lingers in the fabric of the sweater she's given you, reinforcing the decision of not telling the details of your arrival to your parents. You’d hate to put a woman like this in a bad position.

You murmur a quiet, "Okay, thank you," and leave the room, the hushed conversation of numbers and coordinates becoming background noise as you make your way to the kitchen from where the inviting aromas of baked treats are emitting from. It’s the flute to your snake.

The door to the kitchen creaks open under your hand, hinges sighing into a stillness too perfect to last, and immediately you’re greeted by a chaotic shock of what you first think is a purple Cookie Monster perched on the marble countertop. You stand frozen for a while, blinking rapidly to understand just what you're looking at. 

Rafayel is halfway to toppling a tall rectangular tin off the highest shelf, arm stretched, the draped sleeve of the damn curtain he has on brushing precariously close to the burner on the gas stove, which is clicking softly beside him, the faint heat of a forgotten flame warming the copper kettle that rattles lazily against its cradle. He’s framed by the cabinetry that gleams beneath glass-paned arches — crystal knobs and shell-tiled backsplash gleaming in the slanted afternoon light, inside them are shelves forming a sort of shrine: delicate teacups, polished silver tins, bundles of dried herbs bound with gold thread, and much more you can’t quite identify from your angle.

One leg is tucked under him like a smug little prince, the other dangles, toes tapping against the edge of an opened carved oak cabinet, and the sound of clinking make you notice the anklets he has on. It's feline, the way he's trying to balance. Either get on the counter with both knees, or don't. What is he thinking?

"You're going to break the counter or the cabinet standing like that," you say flatly.

He turns his head half-way to give you a view of his profile, dusky violet hair tucked behind one ear, a long, dangly purple gem earring catching the light, swaying with the movement. It's weirdly painting-esque, especially with the ensemble he has on, which fits his overall vibe, and you really shouldn't be surprised it does. Because of course the butt-naked meet-cute conversational-hazard man dresses like a Studio Ghibli fever dream styled by a Milan Fashion Week intern on mushrooms. 

“Are you calling me fat?” He frowns with a displeased pinch between his eyebrows. “I’ll have you know I’m streamlined for agility.”

Your gaze drops to the sash tied too elaborately around his waist holding the curtain in place, and the peach-colored gems and tassels at the ends of them hanging dangerously close to the open flame, and point to it with a hand. "Are you fireproof as well?"

He scoots away from the stovetop, but doesn’t give up on his destination — one particular tin. “Ah.”

"Get down before you light yourself on fire."

He sighs and pouts at that, but slides off the counter nevertheless, with a surprising grace that doesn’t quite match the amount of fabric he has on, his bare feet slapping softly against the cool marble tiles inlaid with spiraling shell patterns.

"Fine. But only because you asked nicely," he says, brushing invisible crumbs from his curtain. "You didn’t. But I imagined you might’ve if I waited long enough."

He twirls once, with the idle flourish of a flower being spun between someone's fingers, the heavy velvet draped around him swishing in soft, watery folds. It's almost hypnotic. You want to run your hands through the fabric to see if it's as soft as it looks. 

"So? Thoughts?"

You identify the curtain as a wisteria purple robe. It has beautiful peach-colored patterns that shine with his every move. Underneath, a waistcoat that's in the same peach-tone hugs his frame with a couple misbuttons — embroidered with faint glints of coral gold that shimmer when he moves. A silk shirt spills open beneath it, loose-laced and collarless, you can see from the yawning sleeves of the robe that its cuffs are unbuttoned and trailing down his wrists. The ensemble being held around his waist by the sash aside — which you think is a tassled curtain tie back — his base clothes are white, the shirt and the slacks.

You blink at him. At least he knows how to color code, you'll give him that. 

"You're giving sentient curtain from Beauty and the Beast."

"Thank you," he beams. “I knew you would appreciate my vision. See these embroideries? They mixed apricot yellow and cerise to—”

"That wasn’t—"

"It was. Don’t backpedal now." He’s disinterested in furthering that conversation, attention distracted with the tin he’s fiddling with. He sniffs its contents with a frown. "Huh. Smelled better from the high shelf.”

You subtly throw your head back and close your eyes, exhaling, then, drift toward one of the tall stools tucked under the curved lip of the kitchen island and hop on one of the middle ones. You tune Rafayel out as you gape at the feast right in front of you. Snacks? These are snacks?

God, rich people.

Folded grape leaves stuffed with lemony rice, thin slices of cured meat, wedges of blue and brie and something veined with wine, jewel-toned berries, pistachios still in shell, and golden crackers fanned into spirals, pastries and oh gosh — meticulously arranged as though she was expecting guests. This was the kind of thing that gets instagrammed, not eaten.

"—altitude nostalgia. Did you know humans smell differently at different elevations?"

But your stomach has been grumpily bubbling under its breath for a while now, and this is food, and the combination of those two things makes you an uncaring, shameless heathen. Your mouth is watering. Who even cares that one plate is probably worth more than you are. Fuck it. In a single motion, your elbow is on the table and you're leaning over the plates, already grabbing a handful of the closest pastry and taking a huge bite.

It's flaky and buttery and filled with cheese and walnuts, and the crust practically melts on your tongue. You have to fight the urge to moan in delight, and subsequently come to realize the sound of your chewing is too loud. Rafayel's talking has ceased.

A featherlight touch on the wrist that might otherwise have you suspect you brushed against fleeting clothing hanging in your closet snaps you from your blissful, mindless gorging trance, and you turn to find Rafayel staring at you. His face is blank, and there's a slight tilt to his eyebrows, gaze flitting between your eyes and puckered lips, his hand on your wrist to stop the pastry from meeting its tragic end between your teeth.

"What?" you ask, muffled and full-mouthed, lips sticky, and cheeks bulging with the remains of the pastry. You try not to feel self-conscious about the crumbs on the sides of your mouth. Instead, you raise an eyebrow. "Don't judge. I'm a growing woman."

"Growing into what? A pearl? Slow down. Chew."

"You're not my dad, what's it to you?"

"I just don't want you to choke when I just saved you from drowning, you know. But you've got some..."

"Got some...?"

He points to his own cheek and mouth area, mimicking the mess you have on your person. Then, without warning or hearing what you might say in return, he reaches out and wipes away a fleck of crust on the corner of your lips. It might be an intrusive or an impulsive thought he gave into, you don’t know, but your face warms at the proximity regardless of the context or the reason behind it, the sudden familiarity of his gesture, and the way his thumb lingers, brushing lightly across the swell of your bottom lip as if to savor the texture. You're suddenly acutely aware of the intimacy of the act and the fact that you met this man only hours ago.

What is this? Is he just very touchy?

The copper begins to hum, steam from it rising in polished spirals, catching the light through a stained-glass transom high above the doorway.

You jerk back, wiping the rest of the mess with the back of your hand, and avoid the view of his hand staying frozen in the air, hovering in the spot where your face was, and the perplexed look on his face. "I got it."

His fingers curl inward as he retracts his hand, sliding it to his side. He doesn't respond, simply watches you in silence, his eyebrows furrowing for a brief moment as he rubs his thumb and forefinger together before smoothing out again, and you wonder if maybe you should've said thank you, after all. But the moment has passed, and the thought of apologizing now seems awkward, so you do the next best thing, which is to change the subject.

"What's that for?"

“This,” he announces, tilting the tin so the embossed label is emphasized with the light falling on it — a stylized silver fish leaping over a crescent moon — “is a Moonpetal brew. Aunt Talia only brings it out for very special occasions."

You eye the tin, then him. "Moonpetal? Sounds like something out of a fairy tale."

Or out of a very expensive, fancy health food store, the kind that promised enlightenment in a biodegradable pouch.

"Everything is a fairy tale if you know what perspective to look at," he says, his voice regaining some of its melodic lilt. He pops the lid with a soft thwack and a fragrant cloud billow out – notes of jasmine, something salty-sweet sea-salt caramel, and an underlying freshness that reminded you of rain on warm stones. It's surprisingly lovely.

He dips two fingers into the tin, his rings clinking faintly against the metal, and pulls out a pinch of what looks to be dried, silvery-white petals mixed with tiny, dark, almost iridescent leaves. He brings them close to his nose, inhaling deeply, eyes fluttering shut for a dramatic moment that makes his long lashes brush his cheek. "I missed this."

"Haven't been around lately, then?"

"You could say that," he answers, the way he dips his head to stare at the tea makes the purple waves of his hair shift like disturbed water. There's a particular undercurrent to his smile that you could only describe as something distorted underneath the surface of the sea.

Talia re-enters the kitchen then, catching you off-guard. You were too engrossed in the exchange to notice her arrival, but the sound of her humming catches both of your attentions. Her shawl is gone, lilac skirt swishing around her ankles and cream-colored blouse, which she's rolled the sleeves of to her elbows, is buttoned to her throat. The sun from the windows puts its spotlight on her immediately, making the shells on her earrings shimmer, the silver and opals winking in the light, and you notice that her nails are painted a pale purple.

"Sorry about that," she says. "It took longer than e — good gods, Rafayel."

Rafayel turns to her and spins, letting the robe flare, and strikes a pose. It's such a childish move that it takes you aback. "How did I do?"

"I remember that robe," Talia murmurs. She's smiling, though, even as her hand goes to her heart, clutching at the fabric of her shirt. "You used to run around with it all the time. You'd sneak in my room and steal it to play superheroes." Her eyelashes are damp, and the lines at the corners of her mouth are deepening in a way that suggests laughter. "I should've known you'd find it. You never could keep away from that thing."

You feel compelled to look away from the moment, and stuff a cube of cheese in your mouth, focusing your attention on the smooth marble counter, veined like seafoam. Somewhere above, a crystal suncatcher swings lazily from a brass hook, scattering color across the whitewashed archways.

"Hard to part with," he agrees. He runs his fingers through the folds of the sleeve, tracing the embroidery, his smile morphing into a distant, nostalgic shape. "This is a good look, right?"

"It is, you look just like a prince," Talia replies, her words holding an otherwise undetectable ‘humoring him’ element that comes off as genuine — and you have no doubt that she is being genuine, it’s obvious from her face that Rafayel is quite endearing to her.

Her attention turns to the kettle on the stove when it starts to whistle, and a flicker of surprise crosses her features. "Oh, were you going to make tea, dear?"

"Uh-huh." Rafayel glances at her and nods. "Moonpetal, to soothe her nerves."

“Good thinking, I was going to get that out for you anyway,” She steps closer, peering at the tin, her eyebrows lifting in mild surprise. "But didn't I put that on the highest shelf?"

"I came just in time to witness his mountain climbing expedition," you insert yourself into the conversation. With a smirk, you point to the open cabinets. "He's lucky the entire kitchen didn't come crashing down on him."

Talia gives him a disapproving frown, but her vast sunrays pf fondness breaks through the unenthusiastic storm clouds. She reaches out to gently adjust the collar of his robe. “Well, since you’ve already retrieved it for me… Come, let’s make it properly together.”

Talia brushes past him to retrieve ceramic cups painted with mother-of-pearl scales. Her fingers linger on his shoulder, a fleeting touch that seems to weigh more than it should.

You feel horrible for interrupting, but it’s worse to just sit there and be served. “Is there anything I can—”

Both aunt and nephew shut down the idea at the same time and their voices blend in different octaves of refusals, making you unable to differentiate who said what. So you sit back and make youself invisible for the time being, watching as Talia moves to the counter beside the stove, the colorful, slightly oversized duckling that is Rafayel trailing after her.

Both of them look out of this world. Or rather, the world of ordinary people you live in. It’s a weird feeling how you’ve intruded in this world, sitting on the kitchen island as they make tea together may just be the equivalent of the economy and business classes coming closest together when they’re separated by a curtain.

“Show me how you remember we steep it.”

Rafayel is an artist contemplating which color he should start out with as his hands hover over the teapot, and you nibble a pistachio shell into splinters as a thought crosses over your mind. They don’t seem too familiar with each other for some reason.

Well, it’s not your business.

The Moonpetal tea, surprise surprise, is what one would think liquid moonlight would taste on the tongue — cool and fresh and effervescent on your tongue, with a lingering salt-kissed sweetness that makes your shoulders relax against the wrought-iron chair. You’d helped Talia arrange everything on the patio overlooking the valley, where seabirds wheel in arcs below like scraps of paper caught in a draft, and was engaging in small talk here and there when she leaned forward, sunlight catching the opals at her throat.

“Your parents mentioned you’ve been managing their ferry? That’s wonderful! Such an important role,” she says, refilling your cup which has a thin gold band on the rim, delicate and precise. (Everything in this house is.) The porcelain clinks softly. “You must feel so connected to the sea.”

Your fingers spasm around the saucer, droplets of tea sloshing dangerously. Of course the conversation has stirred this way. You were hoping for your parents would arrive before that and you wouldn’t have to go through the ‘So, what do you do?’ question. The idea of discussing the life you're already averse to talking about with a rich woman, no less, is more daunting than the cult thing.

And worst of all, it's hopeless already, right off the bat. She's trying to be poetic about it, but there's nothing romantic about being the wheel of the car that transports people on a day-to-day basis. You aren't sure sure if you're connected to the sea. If anything, you're connected to the people who use the sea to connect. A bridge of sorts.

“Um, well. Yes. For a long time, actually.” A pause. The breeze picks up, ruffling the wisteria hanging from a lattice overhead. “I, uh, worked on the same ferry since I was fifteen or sixteen. I left a few years ago, but...”

“I assume it was for school," she prompts, her smile gentle, encouraging, but you feel anything but pacified. Your stomach plummets darkly at the mention of school, at the memories of sitting on a bench in a crowded campus and knowing you were nothing. Knowing you were less than the people around you, and the sinking realization that all of it had been for nothing because you were crawling back home at the end of the day, the world still as large and uncaring as ever, leaving you behind to rot in the past. Just another faceless, nameless drop in the ocean.

“Yes,” you say, the word brittle. “School.”

There's a silence, filled by the low hush of the wind.

You can't bear it. Not to make it awkward, you stumble over your words with the grace of a newborn calf trying to ice skate. "I — I got my degree and everything, it's just that the, um. Job hunt wasn't successful. So." You try to force a laugh, but the sound sticks in your throat.

Talia hums thoughtfully. "So many young people are struggling with the same problem these days. It's hard to find steady work." Her fingers tap the table, a gentle, contemplative rhythm. "What a blessing it is for you to become the captain of the family business!"

Yeah, lucky me.

What a blessing, to be a failure in the outside world and have to return to the safe haven of the familiar. To know that the only place that values you is the one you feel so humiliated to feel such relief in stepping foot on again. And to feel that way, to feel embarrassed, ashamed of that sense of security and joys you've come to rediscover connecting with people and taking control of the ferry that was a ball and chain to you when you were younger; to feel unworthy, and small, and like a little girl again, a child in oversized clothes playing dress-up in adulthood. Lucky, lucky, lucky.

You bite your lip. Hard. Enough to draw blood and distract yourself from the shame that burns on your cheeks. Don't cry, don't cry, please don't fucking cry in front of a literal stranger. Your knuckles turn white from gripping the handle of the teacup.

"Not captain," you correct, attempting a weak smile, though the corners of your lips feel weighed down, refusing to rise properly, staring at the dregs of tea leaves swirling into shapes that look suspiciously similar to sinking ships.. "My dad is the captain. I'm just helping out."

"Don't be modest! Captain-in-training, then," Talia insists, her own smile never faltering. "That's a huge responsibility. One that takes dedication, and skill, and commitment. It's not something that everyone can manage." She lifts her teacup in a subtle toast. "And from what I hear from my nephew, you're quite the hero. Without you, who knows what those fishermen's fate could've been—"

The world narrows to static, blurring underwater as memories surge — your mother’s disappointed sigh when you moved back home, classmates’ LinkedIn posts gleaming like knives (Curatorial Assistant @ Metropolitan Museum!), the ferry’s deck tilting beneath your boots as waves swallowed the bow…

“—really admire that kind of dedication,” Talia was saying when you tune back in. "But what did you study, if you don't mind me asking?"

Your lungs refuse to inflate properly, and you get in a careful cough in to get rid of that feeling. It doesn’t work.

Rafayel’s chair screeches suddenly as he stands, his robe billowing like a storm cloud. It startles you.

He's been so silent this whole time that you forgot he was there, curled up in his chair and observing the two of you speak, his head tilted in a way a cat’s would while watching a bird from a window. Now, his sudden motion makes the wisteria above shudder, and the wind picks up, sending the purple hair tumbling across his shoulders in waves of silk, his earring swaying.

"I'm bored," he says, the words clipped. He gives his aunt a pointed glance. "Are we done here?"

Talia's brows furrow. "Don't be rude. We have a guest, Rafayel." Her chiding is gentle, but firm. There's a certain authority to her that reminds you of how a parent would scold their child.

"Well, she clearly is. Look at her," he gestures toward you with a flourish of his sleeve, and for a second, his smile is a slash of lightning across his face. “Soooooo bored. All that landlubber talk is making her wilt. Glub glub glub, job job job. That's how it sounds. I can't stand to watch anymore."

Your mouth drops open. Landlubber?

But before you can protest, he's rounding the table, the hem of his robe dragging over the stone tiles, his bare feet making no noise. When he reaches you, he extends a hand, the gesture grand and sweeping. A prince from a fairy tale. The beads and thin chains of the bracelets you hadn’t noticed because of the concealing layers of fabric clink and shingle with the motion.

"Come," he says. "I want to show you something."

You stare at his offered palm, at the delicate bones and tendons that shift beneath the skin, the fine tracery of veins that run up the inside of his wrist.

"Umm," you trail off, wary of his motives and stealing a glance to a suspiciously calm-looking Talia. There's no trace from her earlier admonishing, it's all soft interest and a certain understanding now you aren't privy to. You wonder what that means. "It's okay, I'm not—"

"Yes, you are, you hate these talks," he cuts you off, and his hand stays suspended in mid-air, waiting. Patient, yet insistent. His fingers twitch. The sea breeze plays with the ends of his hair. Then, softer, gentler: "Indulge me."

Rafayel brings you to a damn lagoon, of all things.

Of course there's a secluded lagoon tucked away right in the middle of the island. Of course this happens to be an atoll.

As a kid, you'd spend hours scouring the coastline, looking for hidden places to be candidates for your secret base away from your siblings. It was thrilling, discovering a place that was yours and yours alone, untouched and untainted. Raf's cove and grotto became that for you, in a way, a private oasis that's yours to explore and enjoy. Except that it wasn't just a simple nook in a rock, rather, it was a legitimate, actual, real-life hidden paradise.

But this is something else. This is... a level of fantasy you're unfamiliar with. A shock and flash of endless blue, opening your eyes to sunlight after staying in the dark for a long time.

Everywhere is a kaleidoscope of hues, shades, and tints — a thousand variations of green and blue that shift and blend and shimmer in the afternoon light, creating a dazzling display cupped in the bowl of sugar-white sandbars, cradled within the surrounding forest that forms a ring around it. The water is crystal clear and pristine, reflecting the sky and the surrounding landscape with mirror-like perfection.

As you step closer, the sand squishes underfoot, cool and silky against your toes, and the sound of the lapping waves is a soothing backdrop to the rustling leaves and chirping birds. You swear you can see parrotfish nibbling at coral pillars and striped damselfish darting through shafts of sunlight and the shadows of large schools.

Yeah, you wouldn't take one step outside if this was where you lived.

You can't help the wonder from spilling forth, hundred percent sure that your eyes must be sparkling. "Wow..."

"Admit it," Rafayel says, already knee-deep in the shallows, and you sputter at the sight of the hem of his robe floating on the surface, the luxurious velvet a violet stain on the waters that's drifting and rippling gently. Not only is he ruining the fabric by not taking it off, but his pants are also intact. Can velvet even go in the washing machine? What is his pants made out of? How much would the dry cleaning bill would be? Oh god. Fucking rich people. "This beats talking about spreadsheets."

"We weren't even talking about spre—"

You're interrupted by something flying at your face, a pearly moon snail shell that thumps harmlessly against your collarbone before it ricochets off you and plops into the water with a plink.

“Catch!” He lobs another — a spotted cowrie this time — and instinct makes you lunge sideways like a goalkeeper avoiding a penalty shot. The shell sails past into a tide pool where three startled hermit crabs abandon their lunch.

“Are you five?” You swat at the next projectile, a spiraled whelk that left sand grit in your palm.

His grin sparkles with mischief as he flicks his impossibly long hair back, the wavy strands sweeping behind him, a silken curtain unfurling in a gentle breeze, and you ignore the Mom-like urge to tell him to tie his hair up. “You’re smiling.”

You weren’t — until he says it, and then you're fighting a traitorous twitch of lips as he bends to pluck something from the seabed, and there the lower half of his hair goes, getting wet. The robe is halfway ruined at this point.

Water sluices off his arms as he presents his prize, a conch shell blushed pink as dawn clouds, still glistening with seawater.

You open your hands to the sides, shaking your shoulders once. "What are we doing?"

He's not looking at you, instead, he's holding the conch between his palms, his long, slender fingers curving around its elegant curves. "You'd rather stay and talk more with Talia about what your shame thinks you're failing at?"

Your smile drops. The hot flashes are immediate. "Excuse me?"

"You're excused," is the casual response. An infuriating smile curls across his face as his thumb traces the delicate contours of the conch, lingering on a particularly rough patch.

"Listen here," you snap, stomping up to him, and the splash is louder than intended. "I don't know where you got that from, you don't know what you're talking about—"

"Don't I?" Rafayel interjects with a knowing look.

He leans in, his lavender scent wafting over you, a hint of saltwater and a curious muskiness that reminds you of the depths of the ocean.

"You think these hands," he turns your palm upward, tracing saltwater calluses you'd tried scrubbing away with pumice stones, "are any less worthy than ones clutching a piece of paper from some ivory tower and treat it as a golden ticket to life?" His touch lingers over a fresh rope burn near your thumb webbing, and the heat of his skin seeps into yours. "How are you any less of a person? Is the fisherman's soul any less noble than that of the scholar's, or the artist's?"

You're speechless for a moment, staring at his hand cradling yours, the smoothness of his unblemished, ring-clad fingers a striking counterpoint to the weather-worn texture of yours. You try to pull your hand away but he doesn't relent, staring right into your soul with those horizon eyes of his.

“Of course not. That’s not — that’s not what this is about.”

“Isn’t it?”

His habit of answering with more questions is starting to grate on your nerves. You catch a brief flash of hurt in his quick blinks when you yank your hand away, feeling the sharp edge of his rings scrape against your skin. “What do you know about any of this? You’re just a wealthy kid who can afford to drag velvet through saltwater and mud like it’s nothing and — and you go around wearing a fur with nothing underneath, what... Spare me the lecture on shame or the dignity of hard work, you’re the last person who should be talking to me about it.”

He laughs in your face. He. Laughs. In. Your. Face.

And not a polite, demure chuckle either, no, the man throws his head back and cackles like a witch on a broomstick. Like you’ve just said the funniest thing in the world. Your blood boils. You're ready to grab the conch and bash his pretty face in, or at least shove his smug ass to dunk his head in the water, anything to get that mocking look out of his features. How dare he, to belittle you like that, to act like the entire conversation is a big joke. To mock your struggles and experiences and make them seem so trivial, when it's something that's been plaguing you since forever. Just because he's a trust fund brat doesn't give him the right to ridicule you—

"Yeah, okay. Alright. I get it." His laughter dies down with a loud exhale that has weight behind it, a distant look on his face that goes from somber to a prickly smile that raises the little hairs on the back of your neck. "I don't think it's me who you're angry at. I'm not the one calling my work, and the work of my family, worthless. Inferior. Isn't that right?"

The gentle approach suddenly turning into an unabashedly exposing angle hit you in the sternum, knocking the wind out of you, your chest starts to rise and fall in a panicked rhythm, hands curling into fists at your sides. "I'm not fucking doing this," you murmur, turning on your heels to march the other way.

"Where are you going?" Rafayel calls after you, infuriatingly light and playful in a way that gives away its purpose.

You’re not going to take this lying down.

"Don't talk to me," you throw back without looking.

"Why are you so determined to be miserable?”

You freeze mid-step, heart racing as you pivot on your heel. Your gaze locks onto him, eyes wide with disbelief, and your lips part in a silent gasp, any clever retort you could come up with having slipped away just when you needed them most. "What did you just say to me?"

He is a demon from the depths of hell, cloaked in a guise so enchanting it could make angels weep, cradling the conch shell still, turning it over as though contemplating an orb of secrets. The smile playing on his lips curls like a wicked crescent moon, glinting with trouble and utterly devoid of remorse, giving you the dread that he’s privy to every shadowy thought that dances through your mind.

"You don’t get to live what you meticulously planned in your little dream journal when you were sixteen, isn’t that what this is? End of the world as you know it?"

That is the final straw.

You realize now that you’re no more than an insect pinned under glass, a specimen for his twisted analysis during your fleeting stay in his world. The way he speaks, dripping with condescension, casually dismantling any shred of common sense and courtesy while he picks you apart — it all coalesces into a singular point of white-hot rage.

As soon as the words "My dream journal?" leave your mouth in a shriek that’s raw and torn from your throat, you're already on the move, a storm surging forward to retrace her path.

Your hand snatches his collar, fingers bunching into the soft fabric of his ridiculous robe, and you yank him down with a force that knocks the smirk clean off his face.

“You think this is about some childish fantasy? This is my life you’re sneering at and feel oh so comfortable just telling me to stop being miserable like a king demanding a court jester to stop the performance! You stand there, draped in… in whatever that is, looking like you’ve never had a real problem in your entire existence, and you dare to—to—"

Words fail you for a moment, choking on the sheer audacity of him. You jab a finger in his face, trembling. “You know nothing! Nothing about what it’s like to pour your heart and soul into something, to sacrifice, to believe you’re finally on the right track, only to come to hate the world you fought so hard to become a part of laugh in your face and send you crawling back with your tail between your legs! To have that piece of paper, that golden ticket, turn out to be worth less than the fancy toilet paper in your aunt’s gilded bathroom!”

The outburst rips through you and shakes your lungs, shuddering and violent as a rogue wave. Rafayel’s provoking smirk is gone and has been for a while now, replaced by a chilling attentiveness that is almost a calculated switch flip. He isn’t playing with the conch anymore. The silence that envelops him is more taunting than any argument could muster, as if he’s forgotten that it was he who kept prodding the beehive that is your emotions.

His eyes, wide and glazed over, seem to have lost their focus, and his lips part slightly. There's a subtle shift in his stance — not retreating, but leaning ever so slightly toward you in the space between you that has compressed.

But you don't see it.

Instead, you're consumed by the pounding of your own pulse echoing in your ears and the solid presence of him beneath your grip that you want to crumple up like paper. The warmth emanating from his skin where your knuckles graze the curve of his collarbone register as your own with how your blood is on fire. You’re too far gone, drowning in a turbulent sea of anger and humiliation, the raw sting of a confession laid bare keeping you blind to how still he’s become, blinding you to his dazed expression, as if he's caught in the eye of something both sacred and shattering.

“It’s not just about not getting to live what I planned!” you continue, voice cracking, like a mirror, or a dream, the pent-up shame and frustration of months, years, finally breaching the dam. “It’s the looks! The pitying smiles! ‘Oh, back so soon?’ ‘Couldn’t hack it out there, huh?’ It’s seeing everyone else move on, build lives, while you’re stuck in reverse, replaying all your failures! It’s the crushing weight of knowing you disappointed everyone, especially yourself. And then,” the words tumble out of your mouth like sea glass, smooth and worn down by years of turmoil and emotion. “then the worst part is… sometimes… sometimes it doesn’t even feel that bad. Being back on that ferry, feeling the deck under my feet, the people, the salt spray on my face… it feels right. It feels like breathing again after nearly drowning. And that, that tiny bit of relief, that’s the most shameful part of all! To find comfort and secretly enjoy the thing you were supposed to leave behind because it means you’ve failed at everything else! What did I do it all for if I was going to end up right back where I started, then?”

You take a moment to swallow down the angry tears, not looking up from your shaking hand about to rip his necklace right off. “Every single day I betray myself whenever I feel any kind of joy here. So yeah. Yeah, it is the shame. Is that what you wanted to hear? Does it feel good to hear that you were right?”

The ensuing quiet is deafening, filled only with the sound of water gently lapping against the shore and the occasional squawk of a seabird overhead. You can almost hear the ghost of his damned smirk in the breeze, can imagine his smugness, the satisfaction of having cracked open your vulnerabilities and laid them bare for his observation and mockery. Your cheeks burn with embarrassment and anger, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him, not willing to give him the satisfaction of seeing the humiliation in your face, the stinging in your nose that signals imminent tears, the tightness in your chest that threatens to suffocate you.

"No," he says softly, and the unexpected tenderness in his tone startles you.

Your head snaps up in a whip of your hair, your watery glare piercing through him, daring him to continue his charade of concern or pity, whichever cruel act he chooses to indulge in next. But his face betrays none of that. Instead, his features are etched in an earnest, worried way that's as foreign as his touch had been to you.

His brows are drawn together, lips pursed in a slight frown, and his irises are a stormy plum, darkened with a sincerity that seems out of place in the vibrant colors of the lagoon. His fingers twitch and relax, a rhythmic, anxious pulsing that makes the opals in his rings catch and refract the light, casting tiny, scattered prisms on his skin.

What is he, a child? What’s with the sudden remorse? He’s the one who provoked you to get the reaction he wanted. This isn’t a bonding moment, nor was it indended to be so. He taunted you without using a single offensive insult, made assumptions about you that hit all the weak places, all from his high horse — just to appear backpedaling at the very last second?

Yeah, no. You don’t fuck with that. He’s playing with you, the bastard.

"We’re done here," you spit, drop the grip you have on him, and begin marching off toward the direction of the manor, hoping to put enough distance between you and him before the dam breaks and the flood comes, your feet kicking up small splashes of water.

You stop though, sniffle vindictively, holding a finger up as if you just remembered something, and turn around, "One more thing. I hope you enjoyed making a show out of me and the momentary entertainment you got. Because the moment you take a step outside this island and cross my path, the first thing that I see that'll fit in my hand will be used to knock you flat on that dumb, pretty face of yours," you promise. "I don't care if you're rich enough to get me in trouble. Trust I have more reach than you. I don't even care you saved my life. Fucking stay away from me."

"You think my face is pretty?"

"Go fuck yourself!" The scream is so loud and sharp that the flock of seagulls perched on the rocks scatter in alarm, taking flight in a cacophony of screeches and flapping wings, leaving him alone in the center of the lagoon, his silhouette a lone figure in the midst of the disturbed waters and the swirling sand.

Rafayel stares at the wake of your departure, the conch shell in his hand. A slow, drunk smile unfurls across his face — half-dazed, half-devotional — as his knuckles drift upward, the pad of his thumb catching on the swell of his bottom lip.

As you round a curve shaded by flowering jacaranda trees, their purple blossoms fallen confetti on the path, you hear them. Voices. Familiar voices. Your parents. They are alare ready on the patio, Mom is sitting in one of the wrought-iron chairs, her shoulders hunched forward as she speaks animatedly with Talia, who is perched on the edge of her own seat, listening with that same serene attentiveness. Dad stands a little way off, near the balustrade, his arms crossed, looking out at the view, though his posture is stiff, alert.

The sight of them, solid and real, and oh-so-familiar, nudges a younger version of yourself from deep inside. You are suddenly a child again, wanting nothing more than to run to your mother and sob on her shoulder, to have your father stroke your hair and murmur comforting words after a nightmare.

“Mom? Dad?”

Their heads snap up. Mom gasps, a choked sound, and then she is out of her chair, stumbling slightly as she rushed towards you. “Oh, my baby! My baby!”

She collides with you in a fierce hug, her small frame trembling against yours, the familiar scent of her soap and worry enveloping you. You cling back, burying your face in her hair, the fight with Rafayel momentarily forgotten, replaced by a wave of overwhelming relief and a fresh surge of guilt for the fear you’d put them through.

Dad is there a second later, his big hands gripping your shoulders and rubbing your back, his eyes, red-rimmed, scanning you from head to toe. “You’re alright? You’re really alright?”

“I’m okay, Dad,” you manage thickly. “I’m so sorry I almost lost the ferry—”

“No, no, don't,” Mom sobs, pulling back to cup your face, her thumbs wiping at tears you hadn’t realized were falling. “We thought… we thought…”

“We’re just glad you’re safe,” Dad finishes, gruff with emotion. He turns to Talia, who has risen and is watching with a soft smile. “Mrs. Talia, we… we can’t thank you enough.”

“It was truly no trouble at all,” Talia says warmly. “Though, I must correct you. It was my nephew Rafayel, who found her and brought her here. He’s the real hero of the hour.”

As if summoned, Rafayel has appeared at the edge of the patio, presumably sneaking through while your family was having a group hug, his purple robe now clinging damply to his frame, the ends darkened and heavy. He's avoiding your gaze, his own fixed on a particularly interesting patch of flagstone near his bare feet, a subtle pout playing on his lips, looking less like a Ghibli prince and more like a drowned, petulant kitten.

Your parents turn to him, their expressions shifting to awe and gratitude.

“Rafayel, is it? Young man, we owe you everything,” Dad says, extending a hand.

“Yes. Yes, we do. Thank you, dear,” Mom echoes, stepping closer. “How can we ever repay you?”

“No need.” He finally looks up, his smile radiant, but his body language awkward, almost shy, as he takes Dad's hand in a firm shake. His fingers, long and pale, are a striking counterpoint to Dad's work-roughened grip, the glint of his rings catching in the sunlight and highlighting his slender digits. "I'm happy to help. Anyone would've done the same in my place."

"Nonsense," Dad insists, pumping Rafayel's hand enthusiastically. "You went above and beyond.”

"There must be something we can do. A reward, a gift, anything. It's the least we can offer."

"Oh, no. Really, you're too kind. Seeing her safe is the only reward I could ask for."

"But—"

"I won't accept anything, please, I insist." As they speak, the two of you lock gazes over their heads, and his smile stretches a fraction wider. "Besides," he continues, returning his attention to your parents. "There's no greater treasure than reuniting a family."

The conversation that follows is a short one. Your parents want to take you home as soon as possible and get you checked out by your doctor. They are adamant to pay Rafayel though, or at least send a gift, and he remains unfailingly polite and gracious in his refusal, which is infuriating since you know him to be the opposite of those things.

In fact, every part of this is irritating. The exchanged numbers with Talia, the promise of staying in touch, the hugs goodbye; all of it feels surreal, like it's happening to someone else, and you're merely an observer, hovering somewhere outside your own body. And then, just like that, it's over. You are being ushered away and find yourself in the boat your parents have taken here instead of the ferry. The motor chugs to life, and the shoreline slips away, carrying with it the island, the manor, Talia, and Rafayel.

He's standing on the dock, the sun beginning its descent behind him, his silhouette growing smaller and fainter. He raises a hand in farewell, a gesture that seems both oddly formal and strangely intimate. You don’t return it.

You miss Raf so bad.

“Are you absolutely sure you’re alright?” Mom's voice carries over the rhythmic slap of waves against the hull, a question she'd posed at least a hundred times. Dad is keeping one ear on the conversation, his hands steady on the wheel as he navigates through the choppy waters. “No headaches or dizziness?”

Wrapped snugly in a blanket she had insisted upon, you feel the boat's engine thrumming beneath your feet, a comforting vibration that seems to resonate with your bones. "I'm fine, Mom. Just tired," you slur your words, leaning into her shoulder. The warmth and familiar scent of her lull you into a drowsy haze now that you're fully safe.

“Let me just check,” she tuts, her hand gently probing your side through the blanket. “You said you hit your side when you fell?”

You remember the sharp pain when you tried standing up on that beach, the way you’d clutched your side, the blood staining your ripped turtleneck and the sand you were resting on. “Yeah, I think I got a nasty cut on the rocks or something.”

Mom frowns, her fingers pressing more firmly. “Where? I don’t feel anything. Are you sure it was this side?”

You sit up, a knot of unease tightening in your stomach, pulling the blanket away and lifting the hem of the borrowed sweater, then the t-shirt underneath. Your fingers trace the skin of your side, where the jagged rocks of the Teeth should have left their mark.

There's nothing.

Not a scratch, not a sore bruise, not even a faint pink line to indicate where the bleeding stripeis had been. The skin is smooth, unblemished,.

You stare, bewildered, your mind racing back to the searing pain, the crimson stain, Rafayel not wanting to be piggybacked because he was afraid of hurting you further. It was real. You recall it clearly.

“See?” Mom sighs, relieved. “Nothing there. You must have just imagined it in all the chaos, poor thing.”

[fictional-character-fanboy]

My bride ✨️💙

[fictional-character-fanboy]

Loathe To Paint You, part two

masterlist , series masterlist , ao3

18+ MINORS DNI

previous part | next part

pairing ; rafayel x non!mc reader

synopsis ; thomas and abigail try to bring you and rafayel together. the two of you need to take pictures to convince rhys that your relationship is real

word count ; 6.6k words

author's note ; hi all! i hope you enjoy this chapter!

content warning ; vulgar language, raf gets a little handsy, they argue and bicker

my painters ✐ᝰ. ; @zeskyzed , @drowsyapple , @llamabois , @romils , @debrahhhhhhh , @kebarney , @mentaltrouble2201 , @itsmeaudrieee , @flamedancer13 , @lolightrealm , @ghoulishnero , @leeniverse , @justpassingdontworry , @yumesagashite , @m0ss-gremlin , @yunozumi , @azlyneamie099 , @m00nchildwrites , @mxkvlio , @nautismgremlin , @jexireads , @rafshottestgf , @blcknebula , @eve-ishu , @namjoons-toenails , @kaiii07 , @imhere2dosomething , @vyntheria , @queenkymmie , @animegamerfox , @achilleas-dream , @beaconsxd , @butterbiscuit444 , @eolivy , @shypotatoes013-blog , @cayrelyra , @curryexpress , @needsumcomfypillowstosleep , @plzdonutpercieveme

The smell of paint is thick in the air, the combined chemicals and pungent scent stinging inside your nose. You always placed the blank canvas in the center of the room, with it laying on the ground or perched up on an easel. The cans and tubes of paint you bought always surrounded you in a half circle, always available when you need to the change pigments and colors depending on what it is that you are painting. The nearby speaker blasts whatever music it is you’re into right now, drowning out the outside world’s noise. Below your feet is one large plastic tarp. It is covered in numerous paint splatters from previous projects, keeping the smooth concrete floor nice and clean. You always have been a messy painter.

It’s something you have grown used to, an environment you have carefully curated whenever a strike of inspiration hit you. It didn’t matter if the painting’s design was minimalist or if, like now, you found yourself throwing paint at an enormous canvas, the smells bring you a sense of home and comfortability.

Abigail absolutely hates the smell. Can’t stand it. She always plugs her nose whenever you bust open the tubes of paint she brings you, dramatically commenting on how repulsive you smell when you’re done. You always tell her that she’s lucky to even get a percentage from the works you sell, that if she continues to complain, you’ll settle into an early retirement. She always shuts up after that.

You look up at the egregiously tall canvas. The center is covered in layers upon layers of tape, keeping. The canvas perfectly clean underneath while the surrounding areas are covered in dark reds and burnt oranges.

You can barely see the skin of your hands, dried and fresh paint devouring your arms from your fingernails up to the middle of your forearms. From there, the paint scatters across your skin in small and thick droplets, splattered in weirdly shaped circles. You scrunch up your nose and grab the side of the canvas, peeling it off of the wall. The canvas falls to the ground with a clatter, the wood connecting with the concrete floor.

Barely glancing at it, you crack open a tub of red paint, a can you have had for the past year but didn’t know what to use it on until now. Your hand dips below the surface, the paint making itself at home underneath your fingernails and into the pores of your skin.

You throw the paint onto the canvas. It streaks across the side, adding more chaos to the already destructive design of hellfire you had in mind. You let out a frustrated yell, taking out all of your grievances onto the painting.

Are you a bit annoyed with the fact that Abigail and Thomas have so carelessly put you into a fake relationship with your mortal enemy? Yes. You could say that.

Are you a bit annoyed that Rafayel has been posting thirst traps on his Moments page ever since the plan began? Yeah, it has been pretty annoying.

But the most frustrating thing, the one thing that has driven you to the brink of pure insanity is the fact that whenever you and Abigail contacted Thomas, Rafayel was conveniently unavailable to take time out of his day to meet and go over the details of your fake relationship. So, you are doing what you know best: throwing paint at a canvas and hoping that something good comes out of it.

Your music suddenly comes to an end. Abigail must be here to collect you for a meeting or something. Just as you scoop up a handful of paint, a voice rings out from behind you.

“You know, if you wanted to drown the canvas, you could have taken it to the ocean instead.”

Your body freezes. Slowly turning on your heel, you glare at a familiar head of purple hair and the smug smile that sits on his face. You straighten your posture, a scoop of red paint sitting in your hand. You inch towards Rafayel, the Lemurian still not having noticed the paint.

“Drown it?” you scoff.

“Your layers of paint have made it thicker than it needed to be,” Rafayel critiques with a casual shrug.

“And what if that was the intention?” you counter, slowly stepping over the paint cans.

“Then I would say that you have entirety missed the point, as you usually do, and would advise you to start over and,” he sucks in a patronizing breath, “try again.” You glare at him, feeling your cheeks heat up from anger and irritation.

Fuck you, Rafayel, you fish looking motherfucker. I’ll get you back soon, just you wait and see.

“What are you doing here? Why the fuck are you in my studio?” you raise an eyebrow at him, moving your handful of paint in front of you, looking down at the dark red color with a glare.

“Oh? Haven’t you heard?” Rafayel closes some of the distance between the two of you. He wears black pants, casual yet fancy, and his white dress shirt has gold leaves on the collar, the shirt’s buttons beginning halfway down his chest.

You have to hold back every urge and temptation that courses throughout your body to not throw the paint at him. To get his pristine and undoubtedly expensive white shirt dirty, to stain the puffed out cuffs. You chuckle and tilt your head to the side, shifting all of your weight onto your back foot.

“What haven’t I heard, Rafayel?” your eyebrow perks up.

“We—” he steps forward, now only a few centimeters away. You suck in a breath, eyes fixed onto his blue and pink ones. He taps your nose, his free hand gently pushing the handful of paint down to your side, the paint slipping between your fingers and onto the floor, pooling by your feet. “—have a date today.”

“We do?” you blink as he turns away, suddenly feeling your heart slowly come back to life. It pounds inside your chest.

Rafayel nods and stops to look at other canvases inside your studio. He tilts his head to the side, his gaze lingering on the darkened shapes and figures inside the mess and chaos of your brush strokes.

“Thomas heard that Rhys is planning on going to a local art competition tonight. Something at a carnival in Linkon or whatever,” he shrugs again and swivels on his heel.

“Are you talking about the carnival that Akso Hospital holds? The carnival that raises money for sick children in need?” you narrow your eyes at him, watching as he turns his attention back to you.

“Is that what it is? Wow, I really need to listen to Thomas,” he offhandedly says, shrugging as if it is nothing. “Anyways! Thomas, Abigail, and I are waiting for you and your…Alanis Morissette, ‘I’m not like other girls’ session to come to an end.” He waves his hand around, gesturing to your messy hands, smock and overalls, and cliche yet classic messy bun that your hair is tied back into.

Your jaw drops. You look down at your overalls, which are a light jean color with numerous paint splatters and stains soaked into the material, before looking back up at him, watching as the painter walks away with some pep in his step.

“What the fuck is wrong with Alanis Morissette? She’s an icon,” you mumble to yourself with an eye roll.

Abigail’s office is just down the hall. The two of you work, and live, close together in a small house right on the oceanfront, nought with the money from your very first exhibition and pieces that you sold. The space is minuscule compared to what Rafayel’s grand Whitesand Bay home has to offer. It’s a mere shack compared to Mo Art Studio. Then again, your art is only showcased through curated exhibits and don’t have public access like how Rafayel does. His special exhibition floor, to you at least, is just an extension of his already inflated ego. It’s a way for him to to bask in the attention of others.

Fuck, it drives you insane. You hate that purple haired twat so much. You hate that he flaunts his expense wealth, which by the way, you need to ask Thomas what kinds of deals that he makes for Rafayel so you can get in on the action too. You hate how everyone in the room gravitates towards him. You hate how he could take a big fat shit on a canvas and present it to the world and they’d still fat to their knees and proclaim him a genius. You hate just how easy art comes to him and that he barely needs to do any work to create masterpieces.

Hell, he even managed to secure a job as a professor at Linkon University only a couple of years after his debut!

“Ah! Thank you for finally joining us,” Thomas exclaims as you enter the room, hair slightly damp from the quick shower you took to get all of the paint off of you, just another step of your artistic routine.

“Took you long enough,” Rafayel comments with a side eye. You glare at him, not even hesitating to pinch his arm as you pass him, sitting next to him in the empty seat at the table.

“Play nice, you two,” Abigail groans, bringing out papers with a list of questions on it. She places them in front of you and Rafayel with Thomas quick to lay a pen on top of the papers. “So you two clearly know nothing about each other besides you shared hatred.”

“So you want us to fill these out?” you ask, looking up at Thomas and Abigail, who sit across from you two. They nod in sync. You glance at Rafayel, who simply stares at the paper and pen. “Let me guess, you don’t know how to read or write. I always knew you were illiterate—”

“I can read thank you very much.”

“Wow! Really? I’m so proud of you. I bet first grade was really hard for you last year,” you snicker to yourself, feigning total support and concern.

“I know how to fucking read! Can you just shut up?!” Rafayel turns and raises his voice at you, his tone bordering on anger and embarrassment. You gasp, placing your hand on your chest.

Thomas and Abigail roll their eyes, crossing their arms over their chest. Abigail groans, mumbling, “Here we go again…” just as you begin to speak again.

“Rafayel…I am so disappointed in you,” you somehow manage to make yourself cry, your eyes immediately filling up with tears. His expression falters when he notices your saddened expression. A part of him actually feels guilty for yelling at you. You sniffle. “How dare you silence women’s voices? Are you just another Alpha Male who thinks that he can get whatever he wants in life?!”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Rafayel rolls his eyes. Any ounce of guilt he felt towards you vanishes within a second. Your cries turn into laughter, unable to contain your joy from teasing him. You turn to Thomas and place your hands on your lap.

“Thomas, I regret to inform you that Rafayel loves to silence women. It’s his favorite hobby as you can clearly see—”

“I love women!” Rafayel rolls his eyes and throws his arms up into the air.

“You love it when they’re quiet and don’t have anything to say!” you lean in to interject, waving your finger as if you hold the moral high ground when it comes to the matter about women’s voices.

“You don’t even know what you’re talking about,” Rafayel turns to look at you, getting all up in your face. You shrug with a smile, leaning back into the seat. You gesture towards your crotch, giving him a knowing and smug smile.

“I have a pussy, Rafayel, I think I know more about the matter than you do.”

“I can’t work with her!” Rafayel stands from the table, his anger aimed directly at Thomas. His agent looks tired, exasperated, dejected. Thomas shakes his head.

“Rafayel, I want you to sit down and fill out the damn form,” Thomas points to the paper on the desk.

Rafayel, on the other hand, shakes his head no and looks away. He gently stomps his foot on the ground and you snort, earning an immediate glare from Abigail.

“No!”

“Rafayel, I swear on my wife’s life that—”

“You leave Solana out of this! She is a wonderful woman and you will not swear a single thing on her life!” Rafayel quickly retorts. Thomas rolls his eyes.

“Rafayel…buddy…work with me here. I want to help you get that exhibition with Rhys and she will help get you there whether you like it or not!”

“Yeah?!” Rafayel uncrosses his arms, his hands falling to the side. All eyes are on him in the room. He looks between everyone, making sure to glare at you, which only furthers your laughter. He points to you and angrily says, “Bitch is as bitch does, Thomas!”

“I also want you to stop saying odd shit,” Thomas pinches the bridge of his nose.

“What does that even mean?” Abigail mutters to herself, blinking at Thomas for an explanation that will never come.

Rafayel huffs to himself, rolling his eyes, and sits back down. He crosses his arms back over his chest and turns his back to you. His toned muscles flex under his thin dress shirt and you can’t help but stare and memorize the lines in his back and shoulder blades, the way his muscles tense before relaxing into place.

If you didn’t know any better, you would think that you find Rafayel handsome. And oh my, my, is that a scary thought for you to have!

“Why don’t we do this,” Abigail chimes in, catching everyone’s attention in the room. “Why don’t we make this a game, hm? Whoever answers the most questions correctly gets to choose the matching outfits for our activities today—”

“—as well as the outfits for the carnival tonight!” Rafayel chimes in. You can’t help but roll your eyes.

If anything, he’s going to win and make you wear an outfit that is so horrendously ugly. It’s a targeted attack! Rafayel knows exactly what he’s doing and you’ll be damned if you let him win.

“Fine! I agree to these terms,” you look at him with a hidden challenge behind your eyes. He immediately catches on, a smirk forming across his face.

“You’re on,” Rafayel holds his hand out.

You nod, reaching out to shake his hand, when he draws it back at the last moment, sliding his fingers through his hair. Thomas and Abigail hold back their laughs, Abigail holding onto Thomas’ forearm to the strength to not laugh. Rafayel turns back to face the other two, a smug smirk on his face as he crosses one leg over the other.

“You’re a child, you know that?” you groan.

“I thought I liked to silence women’s voices?”

“Two things can be true. They aren’t mutually exclusive,” you roll your eyes. You glance at Rafayel at the same exact time he looks at you. There’s a ‘really?’ look on his face. You smirk and adjust yourself in your seat, angling your body towards him. “Mutually exclusive means that two things can’t happen simultaneously. You being a child and a piece of shit aren’t, so they can happen at the same time.”

“Did your fancy degree tell you that?” Rafayel sneers.

“Yes, it did, actually,” you straighten your posture and flip your hair over your shoulder, “it also told me that with a face like yours, it’s understandable as to why you’re deemed a social recluse.”

Rafayel’s jaw drops. The room falls silent. Thomas and Abigail look at teach other, silently sharing the hope that your bickering will be over.

After a couples seconds of you and Rafayel staring t each other, Thomas claps his hands and gathers the papers in his hand, clicking a pen as he writes your names at the top so the two of them have an answer sheet.

“Wonderful! You’re both quiet! Amazing! Now only speak when you’re spoken to, okay? Great,” Thomas says, talking over himself before you and Rafayel can respond.

“Okay, so, we’re going to ask a question and you’re going to have to say what you think the other person’s answer is, got it?” Abigail continues for Thomas, already so in sync with him unlike you and Rafayel. The two of you share a glance of disgust before nodding.

You want to gag at the idea of having to get to know Rafayel. You liked watching him from afar, not up close and personal. Rafayel was much more tolerable when across the room, when you were forced to listen to his laughter from afar and listen to stories he was involved in whenever someone had a funny memory to share. You preferred it that way.

What was that saying that Abigail always love to use?

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

“Alright, Rafayel, what is her favorite color?” Thomas asks.

“How am I supposed to know that?” the Lemurian snorts, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Rafayel.”

“Fine! Fine!” he throws his hands up in the air, dramatic as always. “Her favorite color is green. Not like the grass, but the vomit she throws up after a long night—”

“You know what you piece of shit?” you turn to Rafayel.

The two of you stand in sync. You push a finger into his face while he rests his hands on his hips. All Thomas and Abigail are able to do is watch. Watch as their careers as successful agents crash and burn, the fire from your feud with Rafayel only making the fire even worse.

While the two of you hurl insults at each other, Abigail reaches into the bottom drawer of her desk, pulling out a half-full vodka bottle. Thomas snatches it from her hands, drowning the rest of the liquid. You and Rafayel catch wind of him, watching as he chugs the rest of the vodka. The two of you go quiet, looks of horror plastered across your faces. Abigail watches with surprise, a hint of pride in her face once Thomas sets the bottle down, his face red.

“Are you…okay, Thomas?” Rafayel asks. Thomas nods, coughing, and gives him a thumbs up.

“I needed a sweet treat to subside the horror that is you two.”

“Vodka is a sweet treat?” Abigail’s voice is full of glee and wonder.

“It’s sweet enough,” Thomas shrugs.

“So much happened,” you turn to look at Rafayel, who just shrugs in response. You two wear the same look of shock on your face, turning back to Thomas.

“Okay, so you two clearly need to wear a time out shirt,” he says, standing and circling the desk, “wait — Abigail add that to the list, it’s a cute photo idea to have.”

“Photo idea?” you turn to your best friend and agent, who avoids eye contact. “Don’t…don’t tell me that we’re going to have to take photos together.”

“Do you want the exhibition or not?” Abigail sighs, looking at you. “We need to convince Rhys that you two are in love, okay? If you don’t have any photos together, or even know what his favorite color is, then you two are fucked! Your careers will be over!”

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. Rafayel shifts beside you. He stands, turning to exit the room. Thomas opens his mouth to yell at him, but he waves his hand over his shoulder.

“Save it! I’m getting a new outfit from the car!” Rafayel’s voice bounces off of the walls.

Fuck. You hate him. You hate how easy it is for him to command the room and the way his voice can be heard no matter what. Fuck you, Rafayel, truly.

“What…what are you going to have us do?” you quietly ask, avoiding their gazes as you watch Rafayel through the window.

You approach the glass, tilting your head to the side as he slips across the loose gravel of the pathway through the front lawn. Thomas and Abigail stand on either side of you. Thomas brings out the car key, staring at it. He turns to look at you and Abigail, a mischievous smile forming on his face.

“Watch this.”

He storms out to the car, Thomas’ family SUV, and grabs the door handle. The yanks it. It doesn’t budge. He groans, tugging at it again. The Lemurian sighs, placing his hands on his hips. He waits for a few seconds, hearing a faint click sound. He smiles and fixes his hair, pretending that he isn’t about to crash out over a locked car door. He places his hand on the door’s handle and pulls on it again.

It’s locked!

You, Abigail, and Thomas laugh from inside the small house. The three of you watch as Rafayel struggles to open up the car door. Thomas keeps locking and unlocking the doors before the artist can open them. Rafayel kicks the drivers side door, leaving a massive dent into the metal. Thomas clicks the button that opens up the trunk.

Rafayel rushes around the SUV as soon as he notices the trunk opening. He looks around for a brief moment before reaching inside, grabbing a few of the black bags that holds premade outfits. Rafayel glares at the car, slowly inching away. The trunk doesn’t close, though. He reaches up and slams it down, huffing to himself about how difficult that was for no reason.

The man begins to cross the path when the car trunk opens again. He freezes, turning around. He rushes back over, closing the trunk with one arm. He begins to walk away when the door opens again. Rafayel throws the black bags to the ground and storms back over to the trunk. With one final slam, the door closes. As soon as it closes, the car alarm begins to blare off. Rafayel gasps and falls to the ground, scrambling across the lawn, capturing the black bags in his hands.

The three of you continue to laugh at Rafayel, doubled over as your sides begin to hurt from laughing so much. As soon as the artist reaches the door, though, the three of you quickly muffle and cover up your giggles, turning to look at something random inside of Abigail’s office.

“Thomas!” Rafayel screeches, his feet pounding against the wooden floor. “Your car is haunted!”

“Oh? Is it?” Thomas pretends to act concerned, which makes you laugh some more. Rafayel immediately glares at you, placing his hands on his hips, the bags of outfits hanging at his side.

“What’s so fucking funny?”

“I think it’s ridiculous to think that a car can be haunted, Rafayel,” you snort, covering your mouth with your hand.

Before Rafayel can get the chance to retort, Thomas grabs the bags from him and looks at the corresponding tags. The agent looks at Abigail, who is quick to move across the room.

“Should we start off with the park date?” Thomas asks. Abigail nods  She crosses the office and grabs your wrist, dragging you towards the door of the office.

“You can change in here or the bathroom that’s down the hall,” she calls from over her shoulder, pulling you into your bedroom that’s nearby.

“Park date?!” you ask, watching as she dives into your closet. She immediately begins to pull out clothes, tossing them onto your bed. “What do you and Thomas have planned?”

“You two are going to go on some dates while we take pictures of you, okay? We need Rhys to believe that you two are a couple—”

“We can say we’re really private,” you breathe out, already changing into the clothing items that she points to. “That we didn’t want anyone to find out or hold our relationship against us?”

“I love you , but no. Absolutely not. What are your feelings towards tandem bicycles?”

“I — what?! You’re going to make us ride a bike together?” you gawk, turning to look at her as she fixes a necklace around your neck.

“You’re right. You two would purposefully crash to kill the other,” Abigail murmurs to herself. You hold back a bitchy comment, not wanting your irritation to get the best of you, and sigh. “What? It’s not like we’re going to have you two marry each other.”

“You’re right,” you roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest, “I get to waste a few weeks of my life around the one person I can’t stand instead of making art and meeting someone who actually wants to be near me.”

“Stop being dramatic,” Abigail frowns, “you were going to sit your ass on the couch and watch Linkon’s Most Wanted with a tub of ice cream and you know it, so don’t even pretend to act like you have a life.”

You suck in a breath and look at yourself in the mirror. It’s a casual outfit, a simple pair of jeans and sneakers with a cute blouse and jewelry to match. It would be a cute date outfit for literally anyone else in the world.

This is going to be a long day.

And a long day it was. It was filled with constantly bickering from behind face smiles and laughter as well as many outfit changes as Thomas and Abigail directed the two of you on how to act. Rafayel cringed when he put his hands on your waist while you fought the urge to vomit. Maybe then will Rafayel see the shade of green he thinks you adore so much.

The two of you took pictures in the parking, holding hands and laughing with one another while Thomas and Abigail snapped pictures. You laughed about how much you hate each other, how to want to rip out the other person’s throat at any given moment!

Rafayel carried you in his arms while the two of you walked along the beach’s shore. You held onto him, running your fingers through his hair while the sun was high in the sky. Rafayel told you that you are very round and weigh more than a cow.

Lastly, as the sun begins to set, Thomas and Abigail thought it would be appropriate to have a few pictures with the sunset as the backdrop while at the pier, a known romantic spot for couples.

The two of you stand at the Whitesand Bay Pier. Rafayel stands behind and to the side of you, one arm draped behind your back. You stand beside a few other people, tourists you think, and remain close to Rafayel so you don’t bump into them.

“Can you not touch my ass?” you groan, pushing your butt into the palm of his hand while the two of you watch the sun begin its descent. Rafayel pinches your ass cheek, earning a shocked gasp and smack on the arm from you. His palm flattens against the low of your back before eventually dropping back down to your ass.

“They told us to act like how we would in a relationship!” Rafayel is quick to defend himself. You glare at his response, rolling your eyes before you turn back to the sunset.

The blue tones in the sky begin to turn orange and pink. It truly is one of the best things about Whitesand Bay, the way that the sky turns into a different painting every night. It truly is a sight for sore eyes and it always helps you calm down during your times of need.

And being so close to Rafayel just happens to be one of those times.

“So what you’re telling me is that you love to silence women’s voices and use them like your personal fidget toy?” you shoot the man some side eye, feeling his fingertips tap the back of your jean pockets. He slips his hand inside the back pocket and his fingers make themselves right at home. You roll your eyes and groan, moving to take a step away when he pulls you right back to him.

“What the hell was that for?”

“I just want my girlfriend to be at my side,” he looks down at you, a chaotic grin smacked across his face, “do you want to be the reason we don’t get Rhys’ last exhibit?”

“No,” you huff the word out, already being pushed past your breaking point.

Rafayel leans in. Your breath gets caught in your throat. He dips his head down, his eyes now at the same level of yours, and keeps the charming smile on his face. You look away from him, needing to stare at anything that aren’t his beautiful blue and pink eyes, and get your shit together. Rafayel, on the other hand, has other plans for you.

His touch is gentle. The artist turns your face to look at him, the upper half of his body turned to face you while he keeps his legs cemented at your side, effectively trapping you between him and the railing at the pier. Your eyes meet his and you can’t help but lean your body into his, feeling his thumb slowly stroke a small part of your jeans while his slender fingers remain tucked in your back pocket. It’s oddly calming and reassuring.

“What are you…” your words trail off.

He raises an eyebrow and leans in, his forehead pressing against yours. A quiet chuckle emits from his throat. Your heart pounds inside your chest, bouncing off of your ribs, just absolutely rattled. You close your eyes and keep your hands to yourself. His breath mixes in with yours. He pushes in further, his lips hovering over yours, his nose nestled into place.

Is he…going to kiss you?

Suddenly, Rafayel pulls away. You stay where you are, missing the warmth from his embrace, and slowly open your eyes. His blue and pink hues stare back at you in complete and utter amusement. Your expression sours and you look away, a hint of embarrassment tingling in the back of your mind. Your cheeks heat up.

“What? Did you want me to kiss you?” Rafayel muses with a chuckle.

“Why would I want to kiss you? Your breath smells like fish,” you retort, looking everywhere but his eyes.

“I can kiss you if you want me to,” he chimes in again, leaning down.

For a moment there, you wanted to say yes, to have him kiss you and take away the weird tension that floats between you two. But you catch yourself before you can give into the temptation. You shake your head no, quickly pressing the palm of your hand into his face, shoving him away from you. 

“Okay! Okay! We won’t kiss,” a piece of you dies on the inside, “disaster averted.”

“Yep! You said it!” you pull your hand back, wiping his spit off against your jeans.

“Bullet dodged!” Rafayel’s voice is a little too cheery when he says that.

“Uh huh! For sure!” you laugh with him, the two of you sharing snarky expressions.

“Your lips will remain unkissed!”

“I…okay—”

“I’m free at least!”

“Free?!” you repeat his word, brows furrowed.

“I don’t have to torture myself to sell our relationship—”

“Okay! I get it!” you snap, glaring at him. Your cheeks are hot from a mixture of embarrassment and anger.

Were you really that repulsive to him that he wouldn’t kiss you? You aren’t the worst looking person, hell, you are a look better looking than ninety percent of Whitesand Bay’s population! You are a damn fine catch and you will not let an insufferable twat like Rafayel make you feel any less than that!

He turns to look at you, watching as you pull away from him, hands on your hips. He goes quiet, gulping from nervousness.

“I…I’m sorry,” Rafayel stammers, eyes widening. You cross your arms over your chest, raising your eyebrows at him to let him continue his sentence. He nods to himself, looking to the side at Thomas for help but his agent — and yours — aren’t there. “You just seem like the type of girl—”

“Girl?!”

“Shit! Fuck! Woman,” he corrects himself, “you seem like the kind of woman who hasn’t been kisses in awhile so I just wanted to offer...” Rafayel looks down at you, noticing the way the tips of your ears turn a deep red color and the bulging vein that pops out in the middle of your forehead.

Rafael doesn’t need to be an expert in body language and expressions to know that he has pissed you off.

“I mean, like,” he stammers, trying to cover his ass, “you just seem like you haven’t been in a relationship for awhile. I, uh, no offense but you know…you seem like a lot of work. I feel bad for the guy who comes by and tries to snatch you up, no offense.”

You raise an eyebrow at him and you swear you hear him whimper from terror.

“It would take a team of guys to help you feel secure, like an entire hoard or maybe even a school of fish. Maybe then you will get all of the kisses you want!” Rafayel is internally screaming at himself to shut the fuck up but his mouth just doesn’t want to listen. He goes quiet and you stand there as the world passes you by, the sun sinking lower and lower into the horizon.

“Is there anything else you would like to tell me about your perceptions of my love life? Or, in your words, lack thereof?” your voice is dangerously low. It both terrifies and excites Rafayel. He purses his lips and his eyes dart away from yours.

“I’m just…in a really weird place right now—”

“Oh really, Rafayel, where is that place? You’re already at the finish line and decimated me!” you raise your voice, groaning and turning away from him. You take a few steps towards the spot where Thomas and Abby once were but feel Rafayel grab your wrist, pulling you back to him.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” he fumbles over his words, shaking his head down at you.

“Fuck you, Rafayel!” you yell at him, yanking your wrist away from his touch. He scoffs and places his hands on his hips, glaring down at you.

“Jeez, can you not take criticism well? I think we’re going to have to pull out of the charade if you aren’t able to handle it! Even little guppies can handle tough love from their friends,” Rafayel says.

“Is that what you call tough love?! Rafayel, you just insulted me!” you laugh through the shock and anger, your fists balling at your sides. “And also, that’s fucking rich of you to say seeing how after one person said that weren’t a fan of your work, you haven’t been able to produce anything new or noteworthy!”

“Wow,” he crosses his arms over his chest, “that was a low blow.”

“Was it? Or was it just some much needed tough love,” you gently punch his shoulder, mocking him from before.

You begin to walk away from him, pushing through the crowd of people. He quickly catches up and grabs your wrist, forcing you to drag him along as you reach the parking lot where Thomas and Abigail stand in next to the car you all came in.

“What the fuck do you want, Rafayel?!” you yell in his face as soon as you break free from the crowd. You turn to look at him, anger written all over your face.

“I have a feeling that I fucked up—”

“I have a feeling, all right! It’s called nausea, you piece of shit!” you continue to yell. Rafayel’s fingers tighten around your wrist before he drops it. He shakes his head and clenches his jaw.

“You know, this is exactly why we would never work out together!” Rafayel yells back. People look at you but neither of you care. “From the first day I met you, you have proven to be so self absorbed and two faced! I could never find myself being in love with a bitch like you! You’re too much to handle!”

“And you aren’t? Look at the state of you, Rafayel! It took you two hours to decide on an outfit to wear for stupid fucking pictures! And why would I want to be with someone who has been nothing but cruel to me the first time we met? You’re an asshole!” you cross your arms over your stomach, nausea overtaking your body as well as the sudden urge to cry.

“Um, excuse me,” a maternal voice catches both you and Rafayel off guard.

You look at the woman, who has a crying baby in her arms as well as a five year old on a leash who keeps shouting curse words you have just said. You swallow the lump in your throat and force a smile onto your face. Rafayel stands beside you, completely stone faced as his eyes burn into the side of your face.

“I hate to interrupt your argument but there are a lot of children here today and as you can tell, it is causing a lot of chaos—”

“Right! I am so sorry, ma’am, we’ll take this somewhere else, we’re so sorry,” an apologetic look forms on your face. You sigh and look up at Rafayel.

The expression on his face makes you pause. His brows are furrowed, cheeks a light pink color, and his ears are completely red. He slowly breathes in and out, his breathing ragged and hollow. A piece of you wishes he wouldn’t look at you while another part of you wishes he only ever looks at you like that. You gulp and reach out for his hand, your fingers slipping between his. Without another word, you guide Rafayel away from the crowd and move deeper into the parking lot and towards the SUV.

Before you can reach the car, though, Rafayel stops you. You pull against his hand but he doesn’t budge, remaining in place in the middle of the street.

“You think I’m an asshole?” his words are quiet, just loud enough for you to hear.

“You think I’m two faced, am not worthy go being kissed or loved by a single person, and you called me difficult in so many ways possible,” your fingers go limp, ready to drop his hand, but Rafayel’s grip on you remains firm. “Let me go.”

“No,” he takes a step forward, “do you really think that I’m an asshole?”

“Yes,” you force the word out of your mouth, “I can’t wait for this fake relationship to be over so I can get away from you for good.”

You rip your hand away from his grasp. Rafayel’s face contorts, softening for a brief moment, before it hardens once again. He watches as you walk away, taking the slow and agonizing steps away from him.

“I need time alone. Away from you,” you groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. You look to the side, noticing that your house isn’t that far away. You can very easily walk home from here. No need to be near him more than you have to, right? “I’ll see you tonight, Rafayel,” you call out from over your shoulder. You leave the parking lot and quickly disappear with the group of tourists, disappearing and finding shelter amongst the chaos.

likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated <3 i love seeing what y'all have to say! <3

[fictional-character-fanboy]

You Were Meant For The Ocean

tw: angst, hurt/no comfort, non-mc!reader x Rafayel, couldn't proof read through the tears :')

wc: 1.1k "You were meant for the ocean." He smiles, watching you lay out on the patio with a book in hand. The warm sea breeze washing over you the salty air carrying into his studio.

"I think so too." You smile looking over at him as he paints. He gets up and lays out beside you, squishing the two of you together on the lounge chair. "Raf-"

"I'm tired and I want to take a nap." He lays on top of you, nuzzling into your chest.

"You're such a pain." You roll your eyes but you smile, fingers gently caressing his hair as you continue to read under the warm sun.

What warmth you felt that day. In your hubris you assumed there were many warm days to come. How wrong you were.

-

Watching Rafayel fall head over heels in love with his bride all over again ached your heart in a way that could only be described as soul crushing.

How could you compare to her? Tied by destiny and blessed with the ocean's love. How could you ever compare?

Did you have any right to him? Whatever the two of you shared, it wasn't in any official capacity. But some part of you thought that maybe… Well, it doesn't matter now does it?

It was far too easy how you slipped out of his world. You took quiet steps out the door. Who were you to interfere with destiny? What's the point of making a fuss when you won't be heard? Why fight what has already been written?

-

Rafayel didn't notice your absence for a long while. He was so wistfully in love it blinded him to the rest of the world. It was perhaps months until he realized you hadn't stopped by his studio in ages. There was a time he would come home to his studio and find you lounging on the patio, reading your book and waiting for his return.

When he pulls out his phone to text you he's struck with the painful realization of just how much he's neglected you.

"We should get lunch soon. That cafe by the beach is opening this weekend! c:"

"The arcade just restocked with a bunch of cute plushies we should try to get them~!"

"I heard from Thomas that your art exhibition is happening in 2 weeks. Why didn't you tell me?? I wanna come!"

"Are you alright? You haven't been answering my texts or calls lately.."

"Are you busy? We should meet up!"

"Raf this is getting a bit ridiculous.."

"Can we talk?"

"Lose my number."

He quickly tries calling your number but its sent directly to an automated voicemail. He starts texting you but they remain unsent. He pulls open his social media to check on you but he finds himself blocked from all your accounts. Panic starts to settle in his chest. When was the last time he saw you? Or even spoke to you? He can't remember. In no time he reaches your apartment but when the door opens its a complete stranger that had just moved in a week ago. What the hell?

He's desperate now and rushes to your job. Surely you'll be there right? He's told by your coworker that you were transferred to Skyhaven. You had put in the request yourself. Your co-worker was surprised that he wasn't at the farewell party.

Your departure was sudden for everyone. Every person he calls has no idea why you made the move. Until Thomas.

"Listen… I kind of figured something was up when she didn't show up for your last 2 exhibitions. I thought you were going to bring her when you asked for the tickets but then you brought that other girl around. I didn't want to pry so I left it alone, I figured you were in one of those hyper-fixation phases but then that other girl kept showing up wherever you were and she stopped coming around. I only heard about her leaving because her coworkers called me to invite us to her farewell party. I wasn't sure if you two were on bad terms so I just sent the invite via email. To be honest I was also surprised when you didn't show up but she didn't look surprised at all…"

Rafayel was shaking where he stood. Text messages, calls, emails all went unseen because he was too preoccupied with his beloved bride.

It felt like the world was collapsing in on him and to make matters worse the clouds parted to show Skyhaven floating high above him.

-

You look down at Linkon. The city seems so quiet from high above. Far off in the distance you can see the beautiful hue of ocean blue peeking through the skyline. Your heart longs for it.

"You were meant for the ocean…"

You close your eyes as that dull ache spreads across your chest. "Not anymore."

-

Months pass and Rafayel is in the throws of an artistic frenzy. Painting after painting of raging seas, stormy oceans and bleak, desolate islands. His beloved bride was his only solace but every time he sees her now, he thinks of you and the guilt rages on in his chest.

He's back out on the beach, searching for shells to mix into paint when he sees you for the first in what felt like ages. But you're not alone.

"Caleb! It's freezing!"

"Come on~ You said you used to love the ocean!"

"Used to, Caleb. Used to!" You're bundled up in a warm coat standing in front of a tall man with deep brown hair. He laughs as he helps you bundle up more. "Plus who goes to the beach during the winter?"

"It's the only time I had off. Besides…" He pulls you in closer, nuzzling your red nose, "You look kinda cute when you're freezing." He teases, making you pout more. "Ah, just too cute." He leans in to gently kiss you.

Does he have any right to feel the jealousy in his chest? In a twisted turn of events he finds himself longing for you. Is that even fair? He has his beloved bride. The only one to ever have his heart. So why does his heart ache for you? What is this soul crushing feeling?

He wants to run to you. Hold you again. Feel your warmth. Breathe in your scent. He wants to go back to the days where you lounged on his patio and he could sink into your arms. He wants what he's lost, selfishly so.

You don't even notice him in the distance. Your fingers intertwined with Caleb's as you both walk further down the beach. Away from Rafayel.

"You were meant for the ocean…" He quietly murmurs, the sounds of the crashing waves drowning out his cries.

"I really thought you'd like the ocean, baby." Caleb muses, keeping your cold fingers warm in his pocket.

"Not anymore…" You softly sigh, looking out at the waters that no longer held your heart.

[fictional-character-fanboy]

YOU HAVE (2) MATCHES!

after you match with your ex boyfriend and your childhood best friend on a dating app and somehow double-book them for the same night, you can’t be surprised when they both arrive on your doorstep with the intent of… reconnecting.

warnings. mdni. fem!reader, ex boyfriend!xavier, childhood best friend!caleb, threesome, pwp, possessiveness, pet names, very ooc situation that was lowkey inspired by the movie challengers, they fight over you like crazy, praise kink, spit kink, oral ( m + f receiving ), eiffel tower, cowgirl dp, very very very unprotected, implied multiple rounds, a little mxm at the end…

a/n. this is my 2k special :D thank you guys for reading my writing, i hope this fic isn’t too freaked out…. LMFAO. there’s genuinely no plot here it’s just filth… we listen and we don’t judge

Like either the best or worst things do, it all started with a bottle of red wine… and a romance novel.

But mostly the alcohol. You swear it.

After all, dating apps were never your style. You had some standards when it came to that sort of thing. You wouldn’t have been caught dead scrolling through a catalog of half-hearted selfies and suspiciously vague bios—if not for the liquid courage coursing through your veins and the far too detailed scenes that had your alcohol-clouded brain wandering into very dangerous territory.

Memory lane, more specifically. It was a treacherous place to be these days, and right now, it stretched endlessly before you, a boulevard littered with the ghosts of your jaded love life—one that, admittedly, had seen more dust than action in recent months.

Looking left, you’d find the innocence of it all. The firsts. The butterflies. The late-night texts and sweet moments spent together that still made your heart stutter.

And to the right? Well. That’s where things got a little more interesting.

That was where the memories best left untouched lurked—some better, some worse. The weighted glances. The heated kisses. The hands—firm, knowing, and far too talented—either muffling your moans with a palm clasped tightly over your mouth or roaming your body like they had a map no one else was allowed to see.

Maybe you only missed the feeling of those hands on your skin. 

Or worse, you missed the men who owned them.

Rolling your shoulders back in an attempt to protect your peace and the last remnants of your dignity, you decided it had to be the former.

You just needed to get laid, that’s all. This sort of thing happened to women who’d been out of the game too long, right? There was only so much your hand could do. And honestly? You’d been stressed. Work had you wrapped around its cold, lifeless fingers, and your last romantic encounter was so far in the past it might as well have been a history lesson.

Yeah. That was it. A perfectly rational, logical explanation for this desperate situation.

And… a desperate situation like this called for equally desperate measures.

That was how you found yourself downloading Linkon Link-Up!, a name so ridiculous it almost made you sober up. Almost. But you powered through, because at this point, pride was a luxury you couldn’t afford.

$10.99 later—because of course, you had to pay to see who was swiping right on you—you were in.

Setting up your profile was the easiest part. A few recent photos of yourself. A bio that coasted the line between unserious and downright unhinged, reading ‘here for a good time, not a long time’. You weren’t looking for anything serious, right? It was best to let that be known. 

Though, maybe you’re drunker than you thought, because when the preference selection screen popped up, you paused.

More properly, when the age range slider popped up, your brain did something… questionable.

A sugar daddy wouldn’t be the worst idea, right? Just a mild trade-off—financial stability in exchange for, well…

You shook your head, physically dispelling the thought. Focus. This was not a game. This was a crisis. And crises required immediate action.

With a morally sound(ish) age range selected, you took a deep breath and dove into the sea of single men waiting on the other side.

Heavens help you.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

The following morning, you woke up with a start—heart racing, brain lagging, and a deep sense of regret settling into your bones before you even opened your eyes.

You were still sprawled out on the couch, an empty wine glass precariously balanced in your grasp. Your spine protested loudly as you sat up, each vertebra cracking like the soundtrack to the bad decisions you made the night prior.

With a yawn, you rubbed your eye with the heel of your palm, reaching for your phone on autopilot. You likely had a plethora of emails waiting for you—all of which could likely bore you to death, you’re sure. 

But when your vision finally adjusted to the screen, you froze.

A notification sat at the very top.

✉️ You have (2) matches!

Your stomach soared, and your fingers moved faster than your common sense could, immediately tapping away at the notification without a semblance of shame.

And then?

Then, your soul left your body.

Because staring back at you, clear as day, were the only two men your drunk self had been reckless enough to swipe right on before passing out.

Your ex-boyfriend.

And your first everything.

Xavier: Baby I mean… not baby. I cant believe I finally found U on this app Can U unblock my phone number? Thats the only reason Im on here in the first place. I miss U.

Your thumbs moved faster than your brain could process, and before you had the chance to reconsider, your reply was sent.

you: sure, xav, I’d like to make plans lol. I just unblocked you (sorry about that…)

The message barely had time to breathe before your phone buzzed with a new notification.

Xavier: Hi. Its Xavier How does next Friday at 8PM sound? Ill pick U up if that’s okay Im away on a mission until then. If I wasnt, Id come see U right away

Mission. God, that word still did something to you. All you could think about was the way he used to behave when he returned home from a mission that forced him away from home for longer than he’d prefer. So affectionate and loving and pent up and—

You have to calm down. Maybe your dry spell has been affecting you worse than you originally thought. Terrible, you are.

you: sure!! sounds like a plan :)

With a satisfied nod, you locked your phone… only for your gaze to catch the time in the corner of the screen.

7:12 AM.

Oh. Shit.

You launched off the couch like you’d been electrocuted, your body still sluggish from last night’s poor life choices, but you managed—just barely—to stumble your way through your morning routine.

Which, today, began with an ice-cold shower.

Maybe you just needed to sober up. Maybe you were punishing yourself for the decisions you made while three glasses deep in a bottle of red. Or, maybe, you just needed a moment to cool down after the very intense heatwave that came with matching with both your ex-boyfriend and your childhood best friend on a dating app.

And then, mid-rinse, you froze.

You totally ignored Caleb’s messages, didn’t you?

Dread pooled in your stomach. Hastily toweling off, you grabbed your phone, opened the forsaken app, and—yep. There he was. Still waiting. Still patient.

Still Caleb.

Caleb: woah pips, you look… different good different! sorry, I should’ve clarified. you’re beautiful. always have been. I’m a bit lost for words. I don’t mean to be so forward but if you wanna reconnect… my new number is 678-999-8212 :)

You exhaled sharply, a smile ticking at the corner of your mouth. At least he was still sweet.

Now much more sober (and a tad bit forgetful), you did what could only be described as an incredibly ill-advised thing: you typed his number into a new message thread.

you: hi! sorry about the late response, I just saw your message as I woke up right now

Caleb: good morning then :) don’t worry about it, I figured it was a bit late for me to send those messages. ah, I’ve gotta go. duty calls. but would you mind if I scheduled a bit of your time for myself? since we’re both free rn? I come down from Skyhaven next Friday. does that work for you? and if it does, do you still live in the same apartment I last visited you in? :P

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.

you: yeah, it does! and yeah I do. see you then :)

And with that, you set your phone down and continued on with your morning, blissfully unaware of the sheer amount of chaos that your mindless agreements were about to unleash.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

The following days were a drag, but after an incredibly long work week, Friday night had finally arrived.

And whether it was because your brain had been working overtime beneath the harsh glare of your office’s fluorescent lights, or because you hadn’t gotten a decent night’s sleep in what felt like forever, your plans for the evening had conveniently slipped your mind. Both of them.

It was like clockwork, really. 

You’d just gotten out of the shower—your skin slick with the lotion you’d just applied, your damp hair framing your features and smelling faintly of your favorite shampoo, the one you only used when you were treating yourself. You soon found yourself nestled into bed, robe loosely tied around your torso, and then—

A knock at the door.

It was easily ignored. Whoever it was would leave soon enough. Your bet was that it was a solicitor of sorts, one who would pass you up without a second thought.

But then the knock was followed by an all-too-familiar voice, and suddenly, you were slipping out of bed and bolting across your apartment.

And the second your hand twisted the knob, all of the commitments you’d made earlier in the week came flooding back within seconds. Well… one of them.

“Xavier,” you breathed. 

He looked just as handsome as you remembered. A plain white shirt hung loosely on his frame, and even then, your eyes found the swells of his biceps, the veins trailing down the underside of his arms. You were ogling, and you knew it.

Then he leaned in, like a moth drawn helplessly to a flame only you could light. His hands flexed at his sides, unaware of where they should be, but painfully aware of where they wanted to be. Where you wanted them to be.

“I see you’re not ready for our date.” His voice was soft, just like always, but there was something else there—something deeper, something heavier, something barely restrained. “That’s okay.”

Your eyes met his, and for a moment, you could’ve sworn they sparkled in a way they hadn’t before. “I—no, I’m not ready. I’m sorry, I…”

It sounded bad to admit you’d forgotten the date, didn’t it?

But Xavier didn’t seem to mind. Not at all.

“It’s okay,” he repeated with a coy tilt of his head, his gaze raking down your form in a way that felt borderline desperate. There was heat in his stare, so intense it left your skin tingling in its wake. He leaned against the doorframe, slipping one hand into the pocket of his jeans. When his gaze returned to yours, it was softer. “I’m just happy to see you.”

You looked away. Maybe celibacy has affected you in ways you hadn’t fully accounted for until now.

You shook the thought from your head, stepping aside. “Sorry. Come in.”

And he did, stepping over the threshold—but not far. He kept close to you, whether by instinct or intention, you couldn’t say.

Before you could think twice, your body was moving—feet padding quickly across the hardwood as you made a run for your bedroom. There was a very real chance that if you didn’t put some distance between the two of you now, you’d never leave your apartment at all.

His hand clasped around your wrist, and with a gentle tug, you were pulled flush against his chest. There was no mistaking that.

“You don’t have to go. You look pretty just like this,” he murmured, eyes tracing the curve of your collarbone. His finger followed the same path, slow and deliberate, until it brushed the hem of your robe. “I missed you.”

Your skin prickled with goosebumps. Your mouth was suddenly dry. “Xavier…” was all you could manage on a shaky exhale.

An exhale that spoke of restraint. Of self-control. Of a need that wasn’t even close to one-sided. An exhale that told him you missed him too.

His fingers slid along your jaw until your chin was caught between his thumb and forefinger. “I missed hearing your voice,” he added, eyes now locked on the swell of your bottom lip.

You swallowed hard, blinking slowly, your gaze struggling to hold steady on his. “Is that… all you missed?”

It was an olive branch, and you both knew it. One he wouldn’t dream of turning down.

His answer came without hesitation. “No.”

Then—his hand on your waist, pulling you closer. His fingers curled into a fistful of your robe, anchoring you to him, like he couldn’t risk you slipping away again.

“I also missed being around you, and…” A pause. He seemed to be searching for the right words. “Not talking.”

A smile ghosted the corner of your mouth. “How?”

“You know I’m not good with words,” he said, forcing his eyes to meet yours. “I can show you better than I can tell you.”

You threw caution to the wind and slowly nodded. “Show me.” 

The words hardly had the chance to leave your lips before they were pressed shut by his mouth on yours. He groaned into your mouth, one of his hands resting on the back of your head while the other kept an iron-like grip on your hip. 

Your arms wrapped around his neck, drawing him impossibly closer in a way that made his mind grow fuzzy. Soon, your back found the wall with a thud, his arms around you taking the brunt of the impact as he pressed you against it.

“You missed me too?” he asked against your lips, his teeth tugging at your bottom lip before his kisses trailed down the slope of your neck. 

His hand cupped your jaw, turning your head to allow him better access to the skin that his tongue was currently exploring like it were the first time. But it wasn’t the first time. No, it was far from it. He had taken the time to learn you well. He knew your body like the back of his hand, knew what made you cry out and what made you come undone. 

You nodded in response, your hands grasping at the fabric of his shirt. “Yes,” you said through a short pant. “I missed you.”

Xavier’s mouth was on yours again in an instant, his tongue swiping at your bottom lip to gain an access that you could never deny him. You sighed into his mouth, a sound that he would never grow tired of hearing, as your hands came up to cup his jaw. 

He was more than overwhelmed by what he was feeling, and yet all he could feel was you. You made him dizzy with each sound you made, with each tug you made at his shirt, with each taste of your sweetness that he had long been deprived of. To know that you were just as eager for him as he was for you made his head swim with all of the things that he has longed to do to you from the moment he saw you last. 

“Missed this,” he babbled against your mouth, allowing his thoughts to flow freely now. “Missed kissing you.” 

“Think she’s a good kisser, huh?” A familiar voice called out. “Who do you think taught her?”

A gasp of surprise left your kiss-bitten lips as both you and Xavier turned, finding Caleb standing in the doorway. He took a step inside, kicking the door shut behind him while his hands worked at the zipper of his coat. 

Your frazzled voice cut through the air. “Caleb, what’re you…”

“Left the door open,” he answered, shrugging the thick article of clothing off his shoulders. “Thought I’d just let myself in.” 

Xavier’s hand on your hip tightened its hold as Caleb approached, an easy grin finding his lips as he reached out to smooth down the back of your hair. 

“Inviting two men over to your apartment on the same night?” he questioned, clicking his tongue in playful scolding. “Tsk tsk tsk. I didn’t take you for that kind of girl, pips.” 

“I… I didn’t mean to,” you stammered, eyes flickering between both Xavier and Caleb. “I’m sorry, I— I just lost track of the days, and—”

“It’s okay,” Caleb said, shrugging one shoulder as he let his other hand trace the curve of your elbow. “Things happen. We get it, don’t we?” he added, his eyes flicking over to Xavier. 

Xavier didn’t bother with a reply to Caleb, his hand running along your side. He was more so concerned about how you felt at this moment, all blame set aside. “Do you want him here?” 

You opened your mouth to reply, but Caleb beat you to it. 

“‘Course she does,” he replied easily, his feet planting firmly beside Xavier’s as they both looked down at you. “Wouldn’t have made plans with me otherwise, right?”

Xavier’s jaw set as he looked at the other man through the corner of his eye. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

The brunette laughs, but it sounds strained. Forced. Like being in the same room with you and another man who was kissing you senseless only moments ago wasn’t as easy as he was letting on.

“You weren’t doing much talkin’ before I got here. Maybe now’s a good time to start.” 

You swallowed, your eyes finding the floor. “I’m really, really sorry. I didn’t mean to invite you both here on purpose, I swear. I just… I was… I care about you both, and I was careless.” 

Xavier’s hand cupped your jaw, tilting your gaze upward until it met his. “We know you didn’t mean to, baby. You’re a good girl.” 

And for all intents and purposes, he meant that. When Caleb nodded in agreement, you realized he did too. It was a semblance of a relief, but you weren’t exactly out of the woods yet. You still had two men looking at you with eyes that almost looked… hungry, despite everything. 

You cleared your throat, crossing your arms over your chest. “Still. I’m sorry. It’s unfair to you both.” 

“Sure is,” Caleb said with a slight shrug of his shoulders, reaching out to gently cup your cheek to redirect your eyes to his, “but we can help you make up for it.” 

Xavier’s throat grew tight at the sight of him touching you, at the sight of you leaning into it. “Stop it. Don’t crowd her.” 

You turned to look at Xavier, allowing him to see the readable ease in your eyes. “It’s okay, Xav.” 

The corner of Caleb’s mouth tugged up. “Yeah. It’s okay, Xav.” He gave him a sideways glance. “But by all means, you’re free to go. More for me that way.” 

That didn’t go over well with Xavier if the arm around your waist had anything to say about it. “Like I’d leave you alone with my girl.” 

Caleb scoffed, his mask of nonchalance slipping. “Your girl?”

Xavier’s reply was immediate, his voice still soft despite the weight of his stare. “My girl.”

You could feel the air thicken around you, the room now charged with an energy that you haven’t ever felt before. It made your pulse quicken, that feeling swirling in your stomach that couldn’t quite be put to words. 

A moment passed, and you could have sworn that the energy between them had dissipated, but then, Caleb’s deep voice cut through the silence like a knife. 

“I was her first.” His eyes hardened as they found Xavier’s. “And she was mine.”

And you could have sworn the Earth had been spun on an axis, because nothing could have prepared you to hear Xavier’s laugh. It was low, almost threatening in a way that you have never heard before. 

“I was her best,” he calmly replied. “It doesn’t matter who came before that.”

“Why don’t you let her make the choice?” Caleb retorted. “Pips, who do you want to leave?”

You huffed, the sound nearly frustrated. “Stop it,” you said, brushing past both of them. You sank onto your couch, your elbows resting on your knees as you ran a hand over your hair. “Just stop fighting, or… whatever the hell that was.”

A beat, and then they followed behind you like two kicked puppies. Xavier took a seat on your left, and Caleb on your right.

You kept your eyes ahead, even as you felt both of their gazes pierce into your side profile. You weren’t sure how much time had passed before you felt Xavier’s hand rub your thigh and the brush of Caleb’s hand along your neck. There, he pushed your hair behind your shoulder as he leaned in to press a longing kiss to your jaw. 

“I’m sorry,” Caleb whispered against your skin. He placed another kiss.

As if it had been telepathically planned, you felt Xavier’s lips on your neck. He drew out his tongue, soothing the rampant thumping of your pulse point with another soft kiss. “I’m sorry too.” 

You slowly straightened up, and to your surprise, they did too. Their lips continued to leave soft kisses of apology to both sides of you, Xavier’s hand settling on your upper thigh while Caleb’s traced the curve of your back. 

After a soft clearing of your throat, you spoke. “I just…” you paused, taking in a deep breath as you attempted to find the right words. Your relief—and theirs—came in the form of seven simple words. “I want both of you to stay.”

A heavy silence consumed the three of you. 

Panic coursed through your veins, and you immediately shot up, your feet taking you further away from them as if it would quell your embarrassment. “I— I’m sorry, I shouldn't have…”

They rose to their feet too, and before you could utter another word, they were standing right in front of you once more. Only this time, their competition seems to have subsided. A different sort of energy swirled within their darkened eyes now.

Xavier was the first to speak, his hand taking yours. “Are you sure?” 

You choke on your words. “Wait, what? I mean… I want to, I just don't know how that would work. I’ve never…”

“I haven’t either.”

“Neither have I.”

Well. At least you know that they won’t have to fight over who was present during your first threesome.

A moment passes, then Caleb stepped forward, tucking your hair just behind your ear. “We’ll figure it out together. Slowly,” he said. “And it ends if and when you want it to. That’s the bottom line.”

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

Your bed was plush beneath your bottom, your legs hanging off the edge of your mattress while each man was sitting on either side of you. 

Staring ahead for a moment, you turned your head both ways. Then, you gave them a sheepish smile. It was awkward, but you weren’t uncomfortable. Not even close. 

Your eyes then fell to your robe that slipped off one of your shoulders, the satin sash just barely keeping the fabric closed in on your torso. A breathy laugh leaves you. “I feel naked compared to you guys.”

Then, after exchanging a look that only lasted one second but spoke a million silent words, their arms began to move. You blinked, and then… they were both shirtless. (Judging by the smile on your face, you felt like you had just discovered a magic trick.)

“Do you like what you see?” Xavier asked you, a hint of a smile on his lips as he redirected your ogling from his abs to his eyes.

Caleb let out a quiet laugh. “Mm. I think she does.” His hand ran along your thigh, his fingertips just barely slipping beneath the hem of your robe. “I know that I love what I see.” 

Your face warmed up quickly, and it only seemed to get worse when their lips began to kiss warm stripes down the sides of your throat. Xavier took more liberty there, carefully slipping your robe further down your shoulder so that his mouth could leave open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your shoulder. 

A familiar heat began to swirl around in your lower stomach, your thighs pressing together out of instinct. With your eyes slipping shut, your fingers raked through the hair on the back of their heads, earning you two breathy groans that only seemed to spur you on further. 

“So pretty,” Xavier murmured against your skin, one of his hands slipping beneath your robe to lightly skim over your stomach. 

His touch left sparks in its wake, your skin feeling as though it had been set ablaze. When you parted your thighs the moment his hand stopped just above your mound, he took it as a silent ask of yours. 

“A little more,” he whispered, using one hand to nudge your thighs apart only slightly, “there you go, baby.” 

Caleb took hold of your inner thigh, hooking your leg over one of his thighs so that you were spread out a bit more easily. He tugged the sash of your robe loose, allowing it to fall open to reveal the most intimate parts of your body. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he said against your shoulder, his pupils blown wide with utter admiration as he looked up at you. “Can I take it off?”

You nodded, and he did just that, letting the robe fall away from your form entirely and wind up discarded somewhere on your bedroom floor. Not that it mattered, anyway. You had completely enraptured them both.

Xavier’s hand slid between your thighs, his middle and ring finger running along your sex in a slow swipe. He exhaled shakily, eyes lidded with desire. “You’re so wet. Is this all for us, honey?”

Your breath caught in your throat—and all you could do was watch with your lip pulled beneath your teeth. “Mhm,” you hummed in confirmation. 

While Xavier’s fingers began to circle your clit in tight, teasing circles, Caleb’s followed suit. His middle finger circled your entrance before slowly pushing inside, mindful of the smallest noises you were making. So long as they were born from pleasure and not pain and that glassy look in your eye never changed, he knew he was doing something right. 

“Such a pretty pussy,” he commented, his eyes glued to your core as his hand established a slow yet rhythmic pace. “Need to work you open, pretty girl. Can you take another for me?”

Your eyes struggled to stay open as your body was consumed by a sense of unwavering pleasure, your sounds—once soft and breathy—were now louder. Prettier. More encouraging.

“Yes,” you said through a whine.

“Mhm, ‘course you can,” Caleb said, carefully adding another finger. 

He gave you a moment to adjust before he began to pump his fingers in and out and in and out, watching your expression carefully with a grin so smug you weren’t sure if you should smack or kiss it away. 

Your eyes caught the tent that had formed in Xavier’s pants, prompting you to run an experimental palm over the bulge in the fabric. His stomach tensed, his eyes finding yours almost immediately. And when your hand reached for his belt, his smirk returned. 

“Is that what you want?” he asked, tilting his head as he looked down at you. “Our greedy, greedy girl.” 

You swallowed the lump in your throat as you nodded. “You don’t want me to have it?” 

Xavier chuckled, the sound vibrating against your cheek as he leaned in to kiss it. “Of course I do,” he asked, withdrawing his hand from the apex of your thighs to carefully maneuver you. “I think a pretty girl like you should always get what she wants.”

He positioned you with your back turned to him, his chest pressed against your back while Caleb knelt on the bed in front of you. Xavier’s hands ran along your sides until he retracted them altogether, and that was when you heard the metallic clinking of his belt being undone. 

You reached forward, your hands making work of the button that just barely restrained Caleb’s erection. You pulled the zipper down slowly, your eyes finding his with a silent plea, and he was more than happy to do the rest of the work for you. 

When he pushed his pants and boxers down his legs, you couldn’t help the way your eyes widened when you saw his length. He was bigger than you remembered, that was for sure. But you took on the task with a newfound bravery, wrapping your hand around his shaft to stroke it. 

Behind you, Xavier’s hands found your waist, bending you over so that both of them could have proper access to you. He watched as you jerked Caleb off, his own hand wrapping around his cock as he gently tapped his tip on your clit. He chuckled softly when you jumped, his soothing hand running down your back to arch it in the way he missed. 

“Arch your back a little more for me... there it is,” Xavier urged, lining himself up with your entrance. He didn’t push in yet, he just… watched. He wanted you to feel him, how heavy and familiar and warm he was. He wanted you to know that every inch of him was for you, no matter how much things had changed. 

And when you looked back at him, eyes hazy with need, he couldn’t help but lean over you to press a kiss to your lips. 

“Please, Xavier,” you whispered. 

His hand puckered your lips, forcing your mouth open just slightly. Then, he spit in your mouth just as he pushed his tip inside of you, watching as you collected it on your tongue. 

“Save it,” he instructed, his voice measured as he turned you back towards Caleb. “Use it.” 

You did as you were told. You flattened your tongue, running it along the underside of Caleb’s cock, using both yours and Xavier’s saliva as lubricant. In time, Xavier pushed deeper inside of you, both of his hands working to collect your hair into a loose makeshift ponytail so that it was well out of your face. 

“F-Fuck,” Caleb groaned, his hand running along your cheek as he watched you wrap your lips around the head of his length. 

He held himself back, biting back the incredibly strong urge to thrust up into your mouth. He could hold back. He would hold back. For you.

But when you took him in deeper, so deep that his eyes rolled back in his head, he was quickly realizing that you had this under control. He watched through lidded eyes, one of his hands reaching for yours to lace your fingers together. 

“Mm, you’re s’fucking–” Caleb choked on the words, his lip wedging in between his teeth as he swallowed a loud moan that threatened to spill from his lips. Instead, it came out as a whimper. A loud one. “Knew that pretty mouth would feel good, but… fuck, pips.”

Xavier all but moaned as he watched you, his thrusts slow and deep behind you so as to not overwhelm you. But fuck did he want to bury himself as deep as he possibly could, pull out until only his tip was left inside you and then bully his way back inside. 

Then, he heard your muffled moan, and that was when he realized he had done exactly that. 

It was worth it. More than worth it. 

“Missed this pussy,” he said through a strained moan, his lips pressing wet kisses down your spine as he loomed over you. His pace was growing sharper by the minute, the sound of his hips slapping against your ass filling the room. “It missed me too, didn’t it?” 

You nodded with a mouthful of another man’s cock, and for a reason Xavier couldn’t pinpoint, it made his own twitch inside of you. Fuck, he wasn’t going to last.

Caleb was faring even worse. 

He threw his head back, his stomach tensing up, but just before he came undone, he lifted you off of him. Instead, Caleb’s lips found yours in a sloppy kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth, saliva long forgotten. If he was going to blow his load like a two pump chump, he was going to do it when he was actually pumping, that was for damn sure. When he pulled away, he pulled you even closer. 

“C’mere, sweetheart,” he urged. “He’s hoggin’ you. It’s my turn.”

Then, you found yourself positioned in a straddle over Caleb’s lap with Xavier kneeling just behind you. Sandwiched between them, you let Caleb position you just above his tip, your hands pressed firmly to his chest as you began to slowly sink down on him. 

“Gonna be another stretch, but you got it, pretty,” Caleb praised, his fingers flexing against your hips as you took him inch by inch. He sighed heavily, leaning forward to leave feverish kisses on your stomach. “Fuck. Give me a minute.” 

You sat still while being so, so stuffed full, leaning back against Xavier’s chest while he ran his hands along the sides of your arms. He kissed the back of your neck. “Feeling okay, baby?” he asked.

You nodded, turning your head to kiss him properly. “Yeah, I’m okay.” A beat of silence, then you added, “I think I can take you both.”

Xavier blinked, his eyes finding Caleb’s for just a moment before returning to you. “What?”

Caleb smiled, running his hands along your thighs. “If she wants to try, I think we should let her try. Right, pips?”

You nodded. “Right. I want to try.” 

The blonde exhaled a shaky laugh, his lips finding your cheek as he ran his hands from the flare of your hips to the swell of your breasts.

“There’s my brave girl,” he whispered. “But if it’s too much, it’s too much. Just say the words and we stop. We don’t want to break our favorite girl.”

Xavier kept a firm grip on your waist as positioned you a bit differently, leaning you over Caleb’s chest so that he could his cock pressing against your sex. You gasped, your thighs tensing up slightly, only for Caleb’s soothing hands to relax them once more.

“Shh, deep breath for me,” he whispered in your ear, and when you did, he carefully pressed in. “Big stretch now, baby. Keep breathing.” 

You lean your head forward on Caleb’s shoulder, feeling the way they both stretched you out to make you feel full in a way you never have before. They remained as still as statues, almost as if they were afraid to move. Afraid to hurt you, to do something wrong. 

And so, you took a leap of faith. 

You rocked your hips forward a single time, a moan of pure ecstasy leaving your lips. Then, you did it again. It felt better that time, too. 

Caleb’s voice was as rough as gravel as he watched the way you moved, all fluid and rhythmic and beautiful. “Atta girl. Knew you could do it.”

“Shit,” you breathed, your hesitant movements growing more confident by the second, “‘m so full.”

“And you’re doing so well,” Xavier added, snaking an arm around you to rub tight, purposeful circles on your clit. “Doing such a good job for us, pretty baby. I—fuck... I’m so proud of you.” 

Caleb leaned forward, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your sternum as you continued the rolls and swivels of your hips that had all three of you seeing stars. Xavier, whose lips were on your throat, took the initiative to guide Caleb’s mouth to your nipple. He ran a hand through his hair, keeping his palm on the back of his head even after Caleb wrapped his lips around the peak of your breast.

“There you go,” he whispered in your ear. “Just had to show him how you like it.” 

Caleb moaned around your nipple, his tongue laving over the hardened peak once more before he switched to the neglected one. His large hand palmed at your breast, wanting you to feel as much pleasure as possible. 

“Use those hips, shit,” he panted against your breast. “Fuck, pips, where’d you learn how to do that?” 

Xavier smiled against your cheek, kissing it before he spoke. “Who do you think taught her?”

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

After what might be your third—maybe fourth?—orgasm, you collapsed on the bed, your limbs spread out on the mattress. 

A sated sigh left your lips as you close your eyes, your head falling back against the pillows. 

Caleb chuckled, running a hand along your thigh. “Tappin’ out on us, pips?”

“Hm? No, no… I’m… right behind you guys,” you tiredly bumble. 

Xavier laughed too, flattening onto his stomach as he nudged your thighs apart. “Take a breather, honey. You more than deserve it. You need to be cleaned up, anyway.”

Like routine, Caleb did the same, kissing your inner thigh. “Mhm. No need to fear, though. Your cleanin’ crew is here.” 

And just like it had over the past however many rounds, their seemingly innocent promise of ‘cleaning you up’ turned into yet another attempt to coax an orgasm out of you. Their tongues lapped at your pussy as they ate you out at the same time, neither of them caring at all as your slick dripped down their chins. 

“Such a messy girl,” Xavier teased in between soft sucks of your clit that made your hips twitch. 

Caleb smiled, keeping your hips pinned to the mattress. “Easy there, sweetheart.” 

You laughed, your eyes fluttering shut as you gave into their ministries. Caleb dipped his tongue in and out of your entrance while Xavier’s focused on your clit, ensuring that you felt satisfied no matter what. 

And eventually, their tongues naturally end up touching. 

Then, you felt them stop. 

You opened your eyes. “What’s wrong… oh?” 

Your eyes must have been deceiving you, because when you looked down at them, you saw the two of them making out with each other. You rubbed your eyes with the back of your hand, and when you opened them once more, you quickly realized that you hadn’t been deceived whatsoever. 

And suddenly, for the first time all night, you begin to feel like a third wheel. 

“…Ahem.” 

Slowly, the two men pull away from each other, their eyes finding yours once again. 

Xavier turned to look at Caleb. “Sorry, baby. Had to see what you liked about him for myself.” 

Their lips met again, and all you could do was watch.

“Mhm. I’m startin’ to understand it now.”

a/n ……….

coughs. looks away. itches scalp.

what exactly are you supposed to say after writing 6k words of pure filth……… don’t perceive me guys i’m horrified🧍 i’m not very good at writing porn without at least a LITTLE plot but… at least i tried it out lol i’m practicing

if you enjoyed, please comment/reblog <3 i actually feel out of my mind for writing this so plsplspls tell me any thoughts you have 😭

edit: this didn’t show up in the tags but 500 notes??? without being in the tags???? i’m keeping this up for the freaks of nature (affectionate) who read this for me <3

[fictional-character-fanboy]

(6) 🦭 signed, sealed, delivery pending...

When a last-minute opportunity presents itself to become a distraction from the shame of not attending the reunion of your university friend group, you take it. One thing, though, yes, you might have been wrong for chickening out. But falling overboard in a storm, almost drowning, and getting saved by the biggest oddball of a skinny dipper out in the wild is a bit too much for instant karma, you think.

genre: fluff, comedy | word count: 13k | read on ao3

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note: apologizing for late chapters is getting old now i know, but i swear it would have come out earlier if it hadnt been for tumblr's ridiculous mature content label flagging issue . i've been wrestling with that bicth now ever since that update dropped on the 11h. all seal raf chapters are FLAGGED and i cant get them out of superhell. and apparently its their image recognition bot, i had to change the banner image. god if i have to deal with this bs AGAIN im crashing out i hope you enjoy the chapter

The wetsuit is half-zipped, clinging damp against your hips, something that doesn’t quite want to let go. You’re sitting on the flattest rock you can find near the lip of the cove, knees drawn up, elbows balanced on them, phone balanced precariously between your fingers. The mist is still stitched thick between the cliffs, and the morning sun hasn’t quite managed to cut through it yet. Cold air brushes against your bare arms, lifting the baby hairs, biting gently. Your knees are cold. Your mind is worse.

The group chat lights up again.

You scroll without reading at first, just watching the little cascade of names and icons — familiar and sharp-edged in ways you can't explain. It’s watching someone else’s memories keep moving while yours have stalled out in the same old frame. Same island. Same ferry. Same breath caught in your throat.

Yesterday’s conversation still occupies your mind, and you read through it once more.

"F4NT4STIC 4 REUNION ERA" (Yesterday, 13.37) [ tara ♡ ]: LADIES . YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT ISSSSSSS [ simone (👹🤙) ]: girl i already took the days off. if yall flake i’m showing up to macie’s with a suitcase anyway [ fleetwood mac ]: LMAOO i mean my living room is still 80% cardboard boxes but sure, suffer [ simone (👹🤙) ]: if there’s karaoke i’m unplugging the speaker with my teeth [ tara ♡ ]: also HELLO??? miss ferrymaster of heartbreak bay??? [ tara ♡ ]: we see you reading and not respondingggg [ tara ♡ ]: THE WAY SHE’S STILL NOT ANSWERING [ fleetwood mac ]: come online and disappear if you're alive. don't write anything if you’re still in love with your ex [ fleetwood mac ]: you’re still in love with him???? [ fleetwood mac ]: damn it didnt work [ simone (👹🤙) ]: she’s gonna come back in like six hours and act like nothing happened [ simone (👹🤙) ]: literally text back. we're not mad you couldn't come. stop acting like this is a break-up !!!

(Yesterday, 23.35) [ you ]: sorry. alive. extremely salty. [ you ]: had to scrub barnacle residue off my soul before texting back. [ fleetwood mac ]: SYBAU girl you disappeared like a victorian child into the mist 😭 [ simone (👹🤙) ]: anyway. macie's wine count is at 3. tara made a playlist. theo hasn’t cried yet [ you ]: bold of you to assume he won’t [ fleetwood mac ]: we placed bets. i give him until desert [ tara ♡ ]: also you were right, he brought the seal mug he made in his pottery course. Unironically. [ you ]: I feel the emotional blackmail all the way from over here … [ fleetwood mac) ]: i had to leave the room. i was spiritually unprepared [ you ]: move it like half an inch every time he looks away and pretend like nothing happened to freak him out that paranormal shit is going on. for my sake. please [ tara ♡ ]: That's horrible. How do you come up with stuff like this? Do you want us to get kicked out if he makes a scene? [ tara ♡ ]: I'll send you pictures 😘 [ simone (👹🤙) ]: we set a place for you vtw. it’s got a rock on it. and a fork. [ you ]: that’s exactly how i would’ve wanted it <3

Your thumb pauses above a message. Just names. Names that once belonged to cramped dorm rooms, midnight indomie, and mutual breakdowns in libraries that smelled of old glue. The kind of friendships that were lifelines — loud and chaotic and necessary. And they still are. But you’re quieter now. Less sure what part you should play in their world.

Tara’s already published several scientific papers, both on her own and with her teacher — ResearchGate profile overflowing with content. Simone’s backpacked solo through South America and made it look unreal the entire time, every photo gold-dusted and cinematic and you’re sure she lives in an indie travel documentary. Macie just got picked up for a docuseries pilot. The one who shall not be named passed his bar exam and launched a website in his name that has to be surely coded by a tech god and branded by a Parisian design firm.

And you?

You still have this wetsuit from sophomore year. A freezer full of discount frozen meals. A collection of ferry schedules memorized down to the second.

You still work shifts that stretch into your bones. Still sleep in the room with the glow-in-the-dark stars you stuck to the ceiling at fourteen. Still get asked by tourists if you ever get tired of paradise. As if it’s not the same damn shoreline every day. They don’t know paradise comes with guilt-paid free health insurance and the inability to look into your parents' eyes without sweating through your shirt.

The museum front desk application sits untouched on your desktop. The deadline came and went while you were distracted by nothing in particular. There’s a half-written email to the local heritage center still sitting in your drafts. Volunteering was mentioned once, briefly, in passing, and never again.

You told your advisor you were taking a year. Time to figure things out. To recalibrate. To breathe.

But the year kept slipping. One month into the next. One season curling into the other. You started taking the same walk every morning. Then you stopped bothering with a route. Some days, even brushing your teeth was something that had to be earned.

You tried to make plans. Tried to start a spreadsheet. Color-coded your week and pretended it meant something. It lasted three days. Then the shame of seeing your own optimism undone by inertia sent you spiraling into the sea with your phone on do-not-disturb.

Sometimes you wake up already disappointed in yourself. Sometimes you manage to coast until lunch. The rest of the time, it sneaks up in strange places: folding laundry, stirring pasta, passing your own reflection and not recognizing anything urgent in your own eyes.

You keep saying you’ll get out. That it’s temporary. That you’re not stuck. You tell yourself that so often it’s started taking the shape of a prayer. Or a dare.

But every time you scroll, you feel it. That sharp, quiet pinch in your ribs. You're watching a starting line recede in the distance while your legs stay tangled in the sand.

A sharp twist of your mouth curls before you can stop it, too bitter to be a smile, too wry to be pain. You toss your phone a few inches further across the towel, willing the distance keep the elephant in the room away for a while longer.

And Theo. Of course he’s there.

Ha.

You sit still. A breath leaves your nose. The rock beneath you is cold, uneven, your palms flat against it. Wet grit clings to your fingers. You focus on that. The gulls loop overhead, shrieking into the pale air. Below, the tide moves against the rocks in shallow bursts, licking foam into the cracks and pulling it back again with a hiss. The world hasn't stopped, but it’s ignoring you on purpose.

No, you're ignoring it on purpose. 

A sleek head breaches the surface a few yards out, rising between two fingers of rock where kelp sways below in long green ribbons. A huff leaves him in a pfbbbth sound — short, damp, unimpressed — and he glides forward in a meandering path, stirring flecks of foam in his wake. The water around him flattens, then rolls behind his body in lazy spirals. Even the cove is used to making space for him.

You don’t smile. It almost happens, your face twitches because it wants to. But it doesn’t make it all the way. He’s watching you, waiting, head tilted just slightly.

"Someone’s a little restless today," you mutter.

He barks again. Short. With an imaginary question mark at the end of it. Surely it’s because he hasn’t received his usual cooing greetings and your, “Hi, hi, hi, my cutie pie,” — but your spirits are as gray as the weather. You can’t summon the cheerfulness.

"Yeah, yeah, I’m coming."

You slide into the water slower than usual, the cold biting at your ankles and climbing. Raf circles once, then again, but doesn’t dart off the way he normally does. He floats closer instead, trailing you as you wade out to the deeper part. When your feet finally lift from the sand, you turn toward him.

"I should’ve just gone," you say. "I don’t know why I’m so scared of a little get-together. Who cares if I’m not working yet? I should just say I’m taking a gap year… Like for uni graduates. Or say like I’m looking into Work and Travel but haven’t really liked any of the choices or something."

He tilts his head. How clueless and cute. Smooth brain. No ridges or lumps, no valleys or bumps; all ideas slide right off.

"You don’t even know what LinkedIn is," you mumble. “You’ll never have to. I’m so jealous, you don’t even know.”

Raf makes a bubbling snort.

You hate how bitter it makes you, sometimes. Hearing them talk about opportunities and networking and beautiful apartments with friends who leave them soup in the fridge. And you smile, as you’re supposed to. It’s good news. You’re proud. You are.

But it still seeps into the spaces between each of your vertebra, shapes you into a shrimp before the stateliness of ambition and purpose, making you feel small for not having more to offer, and worse for resenting even a flicker of it. There’s something sour in you that can’t be sweetened into a lemonade.

And you don’t want to be that person. You don’t. But you are. Quietly. Privately. The kind of ugly that you don't admit aloud unless you’re alone. Or talking to a seal.

"I hate that I get annoyed," you say under your breath. "Every time one of them says they’re doing great, I get that twist in my stomach like I swallowed a rock. Even when I’m proud of them. Even when I love them. What does that make me, huh?"

Raf offers no reply. Just a slow blink and inquisitive, a train’s choo-choo sounding breathing from his flaring nostrils.

"It makes me pathetic. That’s what."

Your throat tightens. You wipe your nose with the back of your glove and look up toward the cliffs, eyes still hot.

"There’s something you’re unlucky with. You know what?" you say, voice hoarse. "Of all the fish in the sea, you ended up with me. Should’ve gone for a marine biologist. Or a rich heiress with a yacht."

Raf surfaces again, blinking at you with deliberate slowness that mirrors a cat’s. Then, with a low chuff, he glides closer and presses the side of his head against your shoulder. You’re still floating when he wriggles around, flippers flopping clumsily, and half-latches onto your side, a wet, overgrown toddler trying to hug a pool noodle. His whiskers tickle through the neoprene.

You flip onto your back and float, arms out, hair fanning around your head with a seal glued to you. The sky above is pale and empty, the kind of soft gray that feels too big when you're already too full. You drift for a moment with your ears half-submerged, the world muffled except for the splash of Raf's flippers somewhere nearby. Clouds move. You don't.

"Watch. You’ll get discovered by some cute environmental documentary crew next and leave me behind. Get famous. Start an OnlyFans for your flippers."

Pause.

“OnlyFins,” you snort to yourself.

Raf lets out a long, wet blort, and disappears underwater with a cute bloop. 

You barely have time to curse before something nudges your ribs — hard. Then again. And then you’re yanked downward, the flipper hooked around your waist is basically an overly confident tugboat.

You surface with a gasp and a splash, hair in your eyes, sputtering.

Raf bobs a few feet away, grinning in the smug way only a seal can, going "AUUUUU," over and over again, following that up with a performative spin and a slap on the water.

"No more jokes, fine," you cough.

He dives again, leaving a trail of bubbles — pops up, and pauses, twisting back to look for you. His head bobs once. Twice. Then he disappears again, darting just beneath the surface, drawing a path for you to follow. A loop, a spiral, a flourish. He resurfaces ahead with a sharp snort and flicks water in your direction.

You blink water from your lashes. "Okay, okay, I get it. Impatient little show-off. Seashells aren’t going anywhere, let me go get my gear, damn."

He dunks under again, tail flippers wagging just enough to be smug about it.

And after your preparations, you follow.

Because if anything makes sense — if anything ever feels whole — it’s this. Salt in your mouth. Raf’s stupid flipper smacking water like an impatient bunny stomping his foot. A sky so wide you can’t get your arms around it.

You may not know how to move forward. But here, right now, you don’t need to.

Here, you can just be.

By the time the end of the day rolls around, the dive with Raf has dried to salt on your collar, and your limbs are already back in work-mode — anchored, alert, one hand on the wheel, the other near the comms, watching the weather shift with a sailor’s instinct and a whole life of knowing exactly when things stop making sense at sea.

The last round trip of the day is quiet in a different way today, though. No commuters or tourists, and no one but you on board.

A rare fluke of timing: your dad tied up with engine trouble on the backup skiff; the senior deckhand down for the count after slipping on ice during today's last unloading shift and sent home limping; the second deckhand called out with food poisoning from bad market shrimp; the engineer out for two weeks recovering from wrist surgery after trying to fix a rusted coupling by himself; the backup engineer already covering freight route duties on the north side; and the high schooler who usually mans the snack kiosk bailed last-minute for a school recital he 'forgot' to mention until this morning. Even the part-time lookout who mostly just watches Raf from the upper deck found a way to slip away.

You’d said yes before your dad even finished the ask instead of just cancelling the entirety of the day off — if a perfectly fine excuse for why you didn’t show up at the reunion made itself available to you, you would take it without question. It was serendipity, why let it go to waste?

And it was only one run, the weather wasn’t supposed to break yet. You knew the route. You could handle it.

Though, frankly, it felt good to be trusted with something this real and just empty your head for the rest of the day.

So it's just you, the hum of the engine, and a stretch of sea that's growing moodier by the minute.

You clock it before it starts showing.

The pitch is wrong.

Movement is expected, up-down, up-down, sometimes with more vigor and distance. No, it’s not that. It’s the angle, the timing, the tension underfoot that rolls in just a half-second too late. The swell pattern doesn’t match the forecast, the wind has teeth it wasn’t supposed to, and the gulls have gone silent over the water.

You glance up from the console, watching the sky fold itself into layers. That soft lilac haze from earlier has gone bruised at the edges. There’s a kind of waiting baked into the air now, the hush before the sky opens its mouth and howls.

You should’ve already turned back. You know the signs. You’ve trusted them before.

But the timing’s tight, and you know the shape of this route better than the lines in your palms. If you hold speed and cut between the outer channel markers, you might beat the worst of it. The system’s moving in fast — but not fast enough to make you fold early. Not if you don’t have to.

Besides, there’s only one round trip left back home. The radar isn’t red yet. The pressure’s dropping, but the water’s still got give in it. Dad made worse calls in tighter windows.

So you stay the course.

Pushing until everything starts pushing back.

The ferry bounces over a swell so hard you almost lose your grip on the wheel, rattling the life preservers along the wall with a thwack loud enough to echo inside your skull. Water sprays white across the decks, and something about the sound makes your bones ache. For a moment, you swear you can taste seaweed. Feel the drag of sea lines on your wrists, rough as rope burn.

But you catch yourself. Stabilize your footing, hands steady on the wheel, leaning into the rise and fall as they taught you in driving school all those years ago. The first day your father stood beside you and showed you how to balance the revs and the brakes on this machine, how to feel each part working together to drive, how it wasn't about forcing the craft, but guiding it with trust — it’s all muscle memory.

Trust the machine. Trust your gut. Trust your judgment.

So you do. And you guide. Until the storm arrives. Until the weather begins to roll in dark as tar — resentful black clouds, brindled with light, coiling together as if building, brewing, churning in unison above. Eerything then becomes curtained with rain and water, a shower splintering against the ferry roof. Sheets of water cut across the deck is a fog obscuring everything further than a foot away. Wind batters against the sides of the hull, shrieking louder and louder every minute, whistling shrill through every seam and corner and vent, and by now the ocean is actively trying to shove this boat off the face of the earth.

Everything turns sideways for one split second, and your heartbeat almost rips out of your throat, and when the ship steadies itself it takes several painful heartbeats of thinking I fucked up, I fucked up before you regain equilibrium and resume steering.

Everything starts to make sense. 

Raf had been strange from the moment you showed up this morning — clingy, louder than usual, almost pacing the cove. He kept making pup noises at the tide, splashed too close to shore while you suited up, and refused to go too far in the open water — his favorite thing was to drag you out further before. When you finally entered the water, he didn’t dart ahead the way he usually does. He hovered, brushed against you, circled you so tightly you had to push him off just to move forward.

You didn’t think much of it. You were too busy rereading texts, too busy spiraling over group photos and inside jokes and what-the-hell-was-he-thinking-by-showing-up.

Raf’s insistence was a complication you didn’t have room for when you’d been already feeling stifled enough. Even underwater, he kept doubling back to check on you, tapping your hip with his nose, making strange high-pitched whines that only made you more irritated.

When you got out, he followed you up the hill, paralleling you from the sea. Right up the ramp. Flopped against the loading zone and refused to budge, and not in the usual cute way. He clung to your boot when you tried to walk. Grabbed the hem of your jacket and yanked. Made noises so loud and pitiful that a couple tourists pulled out their phones to call wildlife protection. They thought he was hurt.

You shoved him back toward the cove and joked that he was a diva — a barnacle, a stage-five clinger.

He bit Elias when the poor old guy tried to help nudge him off the deck.

You didn’t look him in the eye when you closed the gate. Didn’t even wave, muttering something about spoiled animals and going inside. Because you had a job. Because you were on the schedule. Figuring out how to phrase it, how to make ferry work sound intentional, how to talk about staying without admitting you failed to leave. You practiced the words, hoping the right ones would dull the sting.

You didn’t notice how restless he went in the way he took the lead once the engine started.

You didn’t want to.

You'd practically ignored him the entire day for being annoying. To entertain the idea he was like that because he sensed the incoming weather... but you were too wrapped up in the reunion and your own spiraling thoughts to notice what he was trying to tell you. He knew something was coming — you’re sure of it now — and you hadn’t listened.

Too busy nursing your own useless grief.

And now you’re the only one out on the water when the storm decides to bite, regret and fear coiling around each other snakes in the pit of your stomach. The poor little man must be terrified wherever he's hiding. You hope he's tucked away safely somewhere sheltered and cozy, not roaming around trying to find you and ending up hurt or lost or trapped. If something horrible happened to him during this storm, it would be all your fault.

And now, as the radio crackles to life, a sharp burst splinters through the chaos, and all those words ash-scatter.

"—ayday—day—fishing boat—toward—Devil’s Teeth—repeat, Dev—no powe—can’t steer—"

It cuts out, sharp as a snapped line.

Your hand’s already moving. Mic in hand before the words even sink in. "Copy, how many aboard?"

Nothing. Just static, thin and needling, buzzing against your skin.

Your heart doesn’t lurch. It drops clean and heavy, straight into the pit of your stomach.

You flick your eyes to the GPS. The rocks are close — less than a kilometer to starboard. But you don’t need the chart to tell you that. You can already see them, those serrated black silhouettes clawing up from the water ribs punched through the ocean’s skin.

The Devil’s Teeth. The name alone carries some horror. They don’t forgive. Sharp enough to sheer a hull clean if you come at them wrong, but deceptive enough to trick even seasoned sailors into thinking they’re safe.

Above the water, they jut out like gap-toothed palisades — almost orderly, almost safe. From a distance, they seem to mark a clear path, multiple narrow channels that promise passage. But beneath the surface, the truth spreads wide and uneven, masked by the shifting tide, what looks navigable from above is a maze fanning out is a hidden reef below, disguised by the illusion of space, a trap waiting to splinter anything that trusts too easily.

Now, you watch from the waterboarded windshield as the ocean breaks against them sideways, spray exploding into the air in fractured bursts, mist swirling breath from something alive and restless. You’ve seen them before. Too close once, from a rescue boat.

You know the pattern they form, the way they beckon, offering what looks to be safe passage only to tear apart anything foolish enough to trust it. And you know the names of the people they’ve taken.

You flick the comms again, voice tighter now, a thread of instinct winding tight in your chest, tugging you toward the danger. "Any vessel transmitting, identify yourself.”

The wind shrieks through the cracks, high and thin, something caught between teeth. Water lashes the glass, streaking down in frantic rivulets as the ferry pitches harder, the deck groaning with the weight of the sea.

Your breath catches as you scan the horizon, nothing but the vertical outlines of the Devil’s Teeth. Black knives from the churn. For one terrible moment, everything slows. The sea draws back, coiling, holding its power just a beat too long. Waiting.

And then it breaks.

You move, but it’s not a choice. It’s reflex tangled with terror, the wheel wrenching in your hands as the ferry shudders beneath you. The shift is too sharp, the hull protesting with a low, gut-deep moan as it fights the turn. Your muscles burn, braced against the pull as the deck tilts hard, balance slipping for half a heartbeat. The bow dips — just a fraction — before you correct, knuckles losing color where they grip the wheel.

The spray blinds you for a moment, mist shearing across the windshield. But you blink, steady, locked on the path that doesn’t exist but has to be there. The space between those treacherous spires where, if you’re off by even a meter, the sea will swallow everything.

Raf knew. He tried to tell you. Fuck, you hope he’s not out here. He’s too much of a smart cookie for that, but still, you hope to god he’s safe.

The comms hiss softly, a broken thread of sound lost in the roar that fills the wheelhouse.

"—adrift—can’t—hold—taking on water—drifting t—engines are—"

Static. Again.

But you don’t need to hear it. The truth is already laid bare on the horizon.

Your eyes are locked on the shape just beyond, the battered fishing boat barely holding its own against the waves. A thing too small for this weather, its hull pitching wildly, the wind tossing it like it’s a toyboat in a child’s pool.

You flick the comms again, voice tight. "Vessel approaching Devil’s Teeth, do you copy? Repeat, do you copy? I need the status of anyone aboard!"

The answer is silence, thick and pressing.

But the sea answers instead.

Each wave shoves the boat closer to the rocks, their sharp edges barely visible between the peaks of the swells. You can make out three figures, barely, blurred shapes clinging to the railing, fighting against the chaos, one at the bow, steady but strained, another near the stern, slower, unsteady.

And the third—

A hollow space where someone should be.

"Shit," you breathe, throat tight.

You throttle down, the ferry groaning as the engine strains against the push of the current. The bow swings wide, cutting across the waves, too close but angled just right to shield the smaller boat from the worst of the wind. The wheel vibrates in your grip, the metal cold and damp, the pulse in your fingertips matching the beat of the sea.

The deck is bobbing harsher under your boots as you cut the engine to idle. A deep, unsettling quiet follows, the kind that means the sea is holding its breath.

You shove the throttle down, setting the engine to idle, the ferry rocking in protest as it fights against the churning sea. You can’t leave it drifting for long, but there’s no choice now.

The door to the deck slams open under your hand, wind tearing through as if the sea itself is trying to conquer its way inside. Salt spray slices across your face, cold and biting, nails and claws of an animal trying to get you. You barely register the sting. Your focus is on the deck below, where the equipment locker sits by the stairs. The rope should be there.

You swing down the short, steep steps, boots skidding slightly as the ferry shifts beneath you. The locker groans as you yank it open, cold metal biting into your fingertips. The rope’s there, coiled tight, damp and heavy.

You haul it out, the weight dragging at your arms as you push back up to the deck, boots pounding on slick metal, breath burning in your throat. The rope is rough and solid in your hands, the damp fibers biting into your palms as you step toward the railing, eyes locked on the men still fighting the sea.

"Line! Now!" Your voice barely carries, but the men on deck move. One of them, older, face lined with years of fighting the ocean, catches your eye, and you know you can trust him with this. He knows. He moves fast and nimble as you toss the line, and he hauls hard, pulling the boat closer inch by inch.

The younger man beside him fumbles, hands trembling as he secures the line, but his eyes are wide and fearful, darting between the shifting boats, the storm reflected in them. You can't have him slipping.

"Hold!" you shout, stepping to the edge.

The fishing boat rocks violently, a wild thing barely clinging to the world. But it holds. For now.

"Get them across!" You wave the first man forward, stretching your hand. His grip is iron, calloused and cold, and he hauls himself over with a grunt. The second follows, shaky but determined. His boots slip, but you grab his arm, steadying him as he clambers onto the ferry.

"One more!" The older man’s voice is barely audible over the wind. He points—

And you see him.

Near the stern. Slumped, half-draped over the edge. Too still.

"I’m going." Your words are lost in the chaos, but you’re already moving.

The wind slams into you the moment you step across, boots slipping on slick metal. You grab the railing, knuckles white, muscles straining as you pull yourself onto the listing deck. The world tilts beneath your feet, the boat rocking harder as if it knows it’s losing.

"Come on," you mutter, heart pounding.

He’s heavier than he looks. Deadweight. His clothes soaked through, dragging with seawater. Your fingers slip against the slick fabric as you grip his arm, muscles screaming as you try to pull him up.

"Help!" You barely need to say it. The older man is there, hands grabbing the man’s other arm. Together, you drag him inch by inch toward safety. The wind howls, the sea pushing harder, trying to reclaim him.

You’re so close.

"Almost there," you breathe, arms burning with the weight.

The man’s head lolls, his breath warm against your neck, but it’s faint. You brace, dragging harder, the metal beneath your boots slick and treacherous. Every muscle in your body screams for relief, but you hold on.

"You hang on, girl!" The older man shouts, his voice raw, but the younger one is there now too, reaching to grab the man’s collar and help.

"I’ve got him—" You don’t finish. The deck tilts—

The ferry shifts—

And the wave hits.

It’s not a push. It’s a blow. A force that tears you off balance, rips your grip from the man, and sends you weightless for a heartbeat before the world crashes back in. Or, you crash into the world. It resembles falling on solid ground from considerable height, except that it swallows you right up.

Cold.

Needles slip beneath your skin, knifing past layers of wool and overalls until nothing is left but frost-bright pain. Nothing blazes brighter, burns colder; the sea owns it all, every sensation, every heartbeat, every flicker of memory, snuffing them out one by one until all that remains is fear. Cold, bone-deep, blinding fear that has you kicking and flailing.

The water wants you. It pulls without pity, claws without remorse, wrenches without warning. Everything happens at once: pressure and chaos, liquid ice tearing at your lips and choking down your throat. The current twists around you, a tangle of unrelenting hands dragging you deeper even as you fight.

Down. And down. Until light bleeds away, dissolving like ink in water.

Something flashes just outside your blurring vision—

Then something else—

And another—

Infinitesimal silver glints cut through the dark. Shifting shadows dart between the pinpricks of pale light as shapes coalesce above. Thin silhouettes slice through the dark, through the gloom as you fall farther from safety. The pressure builds, crushing against your skull, a terrible humming filling your ears as if the entire ocean is singing an ode to your demise. Your chest begins convulsing fiercely, throat contracting in response as you begin thrashing around, lungs on fire and desperate for oxygen. Drowning in the sea, alone, terrified and hopeless, primal instincts demanding you do everything you can to stay alive, struggling uselessly to kick upwards towards the surface.

Wherever that is.

You reach upward desperately with a lone hand, vision having tunneled from lack of oxygen and panic combined. In that brief moment, something soft brushes the tips of your fingers. Like... fur...?

There's no way to know. Darkness has already consumed your consciousness, the struggle to survive giving away to oblivion and acceptance the moment your lungs breathe in water.

                    Singing.

Somebody has been singing to you.

Nearby. Simple, wordless, a melody winding slowly through the haze. Notes rise and fall around you — lavender smoke, crocheting your consciousness together bit by bit. You think maybe the song sounds familiar, that you could remember how it goes if only you could focus enough. As it is, your pulse stirs in time with the tune, waking limbs that were limp and numb as they thaw, muscles flexing as if remembering the shape of themselves.

Warmth comes first. Gentle heat kissing along the edges of your senses before bleeding inward in honeyed tendrils. Softness next: fur beneath your chin, blankets pulled tight across your chest.

The quiet of snowfall settles around you after that, muffling, easing, cushioning every inch of you as reality drifts into your awareness.

Everything returns in increments: salt crusted to your lips, drenched clothes wrapped around your frame, a layer of sodden clay. Beneath you: sand. Matted to the backs of your arms, your calves, the hollow of your throat. Behind your shuttered eyelids, sunlight filters softly. Red glow, distant orange. Sunglow, the color of melting copper. There is sky above you and beach below, but most importantly — there is breathing inside you again, each exhale shuddering as your pulse struggles toward normalcy, softly but surely.

Slowly, ever so gradually, you pry your eyelids open.

A canopy of branches, feather-soft green interspersed with golden brown, stretch overhead in a gentle dome. The bark glistens in the morning light, sticky still from the previous storm. Below the shelter, sand stretches outward in a sweep of endless shoreline, punctuated only by tufts of grass and gnarled driftwood that form a natural barricade from any casual passerby. The tide ebbs gently just past that barricade, washing fizzy seafoam high up the shoals before sliding back out lazily in a smooth curl, and further still, the horizon stretches — spun cotton candy, pink on blue, melted into haze at the edges, mingling seamlessly with the sky. And you're tucked carefully among the roots of one of those great trees, cradled and swaddled by the same fur-coated bundle your cheek is pillowed on, wrapped protectively in its embrace and held secure.

It takes your brain a full minute of groggily attempting to piece together these strange details before you realize there's a figure in the water, maybe twenty feet out, half-shrouded by the hush of early light.

Your brain coming back to you is akin to hitting the floor after falling for some time. You flinch. Sit up too fast.

A tangle of dark gray, thick hide spills from your shoulder, pooling in the crooks of your elbows. You shove it off with a gasp, limbs sluggish but panicked, fingers catching in the strange texture. It hits the ground with a muted thump, heavy as wet rope but somehow dry and fluffy at the same time. The cold hits you immediately then, skin pebbling beneath the cling of soaked denim and wool and the frigid touch of salt wind. A full body shudder grips you, hard, teeth rattling in your skull, blood singing through your veins faster.

But not even that kind of cold is enough to distract you from the sight before you.

There’s a person waist-deep in the shallows, facing the sun.

Long hair drips like spun violet ink down a narrow back, plastered in curling sheets to sharp, bare shoulders. You've never seen natural hair that long in your life, it trails all the way down her body to fan out against the waves, streaming in shimmering bands over the crests of each swell, lit gold in the early sun. She tilts her head back to face the dawn fully, and you can only see the barest hint of her profile from the angle, the delicate slope of nose, the lushness of parted lips. There’s something arresting about the stillness of her, the way the sea seems to hush around her body. A statue the tide forgot to reclaim.

For a breathless, silent moment, she simply stands there, perfectly balanced, completely undisturbed, arms spread at her sides as if greeting the daybreak directly, skin glittering in the light, slick with seawater and—

A scar. A slash across one side of her shoulder, pale even against her skin tone, stretched tight as though dug deep enough to make bone.

Huh, you absentmindedly think. I think it's the same side as Raf's?

You break out of your trance with a loud gasp with the thought of your seal friend, which causes her to whirl around to face you, startled and wide-eyed.

Which brings another revelation. The person in question is a man, not a woman.

Skinny dipping, at that.

Your brain catches up to your eyes in a rush of static and shock. This is a Family Feud moment.

Name something a burglar would not wanna see when he breaks into a house.

The contestant yelling it with his whole chest. Naked grandma!

Naked HUH?

The buzzer in your head goes off.

Question: What’s the last thing a girl wants to see when waking up alone on an unfamiliar beach after falling unconscious?

Answer: Naked man.

You make a strangled noise and scramble back so fast the pelt half-slides off you, and at the same time, sharp pain lances through your right side, turning the motion into more of a hunch than a duck and roll. The sudden flare knocks what little breath is left out of your lungs, knocking sense back into you in the process.

Wait, what happened? Why does it hurt?

"Easy! Easy." The naked dude darts forward through the surf without missing a beat, water splashing everywhere with his hurried strides. The sound of his approaching footsteps makes you instinctively curl inward, arms hugging tight around your midsection while wincing. You don't look up, mostly out of embarrassment, and your thoughts immediately go brrrr when you become hyper aware of the fact you're definitely going to see things you won't be able to unsee. "You'll bleed again if you keep squirming like that! All my hardwork's gonna go to waste!"

You flail one arm between the two of you in a futile barrier while the other cradles where the injury is, still keeping your face down and staring down furiously at the ground to avoid looking anywhere higher than knee level. "Ah-ah-ah! Stop, stop!”

The sloshing of jogging doesn’t stop.

“Just — man, don't charge at me, I don't know you!"

He stops short as though you've thrown a rock at him, legs cutting off mid-stride with a chaotic splash. For one blessed second, all is still again — except for the water lapping at his shins and your pulse banging against your teeth.

Then, a noise.

A half-choked sound that might be a laugh. Or a cough. He doesn’t come any closer. Just stands there, suspended mid-motion, your words having pinned him in place. The water stills around his legs. The surf hesitates, then draws back with a hush. You're still locked on a particularly blurry patch of sand wet with the red of your congealed blood like your life depends on it, but you hear the the tiny inhale that catches weird in his throat, and the breeze picks up with a stutter again.

He erupts worse than a volcano all of a sudden. “You’re joking! What? You don’t know me? You don’t know me? After everything — you just made me go through, that’s—”

“—a very reasonable response!” you shoot back, your voice high in octave, blood rushing so rapidly to your head that you’re not even comprehending properly.

“Wow,” he says, all affronted drama and wounded pride in one breath. “It's not like I'm gonna eat you. Humans aren't even safe for consumption anyway!"

"Whoa-hoh—" you start, but he steamrolls over you before you can properly get a word in.

There’s the wet slap of a foot shifting in the surf, heralding that he’s gearing up for a rant. “Most people say thank you, you know. Or ‘hey, cool of you to make sure I didn’t die horribly’—"

"You're naked, random guy!" you shout hoarsely, throwing out a pathetic arm to shield you from any and all compromising views. This is the politest way you could have put it. The next best thing was to shout, 'Don't come near me with your dick out.' Which. Yeah.

An awkward pause follows the admission, thick enough to make you glance up before thinking twice about it. You get a flash of purple before you look away once more, clutching the strange gray fur to yourself as some sort of feeble shield.

"—der why," he mumbles, more to himself than anything else.

"Excuse me?"

He deadpans, stopping just short. “I said, so now you’re body-shaming the guy who literally rescued you from certain death?”

“I’m shame-shaming the fact that you’re approaching me with your — your — entire situation out in the open!”

"You have my pelt," he says, with almost childlike seriousness, expecting you to be able to read his mind from the tone of his statement alone.

"Uh, okay?" you respond articulately, weirded out by how the conversation was lacking common sense. "What does that have to do with your clothes?"

This time, the quiet stretches out like taffy.

“I want you on the other side of this damn island if you’re an exhibitionist, I swear to god don’t think for a second I’m not capable of—”

“I am not!” The way his voice changes pitches has to be studied. “Have you lost your mind in the ocean? I can’t believe you’d suggest such a thing after everything I’ve done for you—”

You tune out his yapping. Yeah, this isn't getting anywhere. You're stranded on an island with a man you don't know, politely asking him to put his penis away, which, he won't get the hint for some reason and making it a 'I am who I am,' moment. Do you have to yell "Pervert!" at this guy for him to get a move on? Things couldn't get more absurd.

You rub your forehead wearily and groan in defeat. Is there something ironic about this exchange? Because you sure feel there should be something ironic here. There is probably supposed to be a joke somewhere here. The universe loves to deliver them in bundles.

An idea strikes you.

"Here, hold on," you say, shakily standing up while keeping your face diverted elsewhere. Your side does hurt, but the burn doesn't stretch as bad as when you felt it at first. "Just... turn around, please. No sudden moves."

"No sudden moves?" He answers with audible skepticism, the shuffling on the sand giving away his complying after a moment. The nervous waver in his words does manage to placate you somewhat. An exhibitionist wouldn't act this way. “I’m turning my back to you. How am I gonna know what you’re doing? For all I know, you could be ogling me with your squidlike human eyes, which, mind you, I wouldn’t blame you for—”

God, he loves the sound of his own voice, doesn’t he?

Muting him out once more, you pick up the fur coat blanket thing from its dropped position with an audible, "Hup!" It's bulky in your grip, almost too thick to lift, yet remarkably light at the same time — trying to pick up water without getting wet.

“—I’ve been told I’m distractingly shapely in the flesh, but I didn’t exactly wake up today planning to be admired in the wild. And it’s not even my best side, you know? My shoulders are uneven. I think. They used to be non-existent—”

You're in no position to be in awe right now though, so you brush off all possible questions concerning the bizarre phenomenon until later. With as much caution as you can muster, you raise it up like a curtain until the only part you can see of the man is his luscious hair, and start walking up to him.

“—Not that I’m implying anything. You are not the ogling type. Then again, I once trusted a cormorant and it stole my entire lunch while I was mid-swim, so what do I know? I’m just out here, my back wide open, accosted, and trying very hard not to hold a grudge—”

Then, you drape the cloak of fluffiness onto his shoulders in the gentlest manner you could possibly afford, avoiding touching his skin. The pelt closes around his back, reminiscent of the wings of a giant bird closing protectively, encasing him from neck down to calves. A gasp slips out of him. So small you might've missed it if you hadn't been holding your breath, waiting for any negative reaction.

His own hands come up to pull the flaps snugly closed, then he slowly looks over one shoulder at you with such stunned wide-eyed silence you almost want to crack a smile at him, but promptly freeze in place as soon as you lock gazes.

Not only does he have the most enticing eyes you've ever seen with vertical heterochromia transitioning from blue to pink like a bi-color tourmaline, but he has such an attractive facial structure that is both masculine and delicate all in the same breath it punches all of your buttons in one go and oh god — it is so not helping this entire situation. This stranger is the epitome of beauty. Handsome face and lovely features and soft bone structures and everything you didn't expect from a random naked dude on a beach you couldn't recognize as a local.

And the hair. You'd seen it from afar already but... it reminds you of strands of ashen lavender blossoms dripping with morning dew, wet waviness disappearing underneath the collar of the pelt. You'd kill to have this Rapunzel hair. It's unfair how a man—

You snap back to attention with a hard blink as the initial shock wears off.

"There you go, now I won’t get flashed," you exhale with obvious relief, trying to will yourself to act casually so you don't seem weird to the stranger who probably saved your life.

His head tilts, just barely. Long strands of wet hair slip over his shoulder as he stares down at the pelt wrapped around him — your handiwork. The fur shifts slightly under his touch, and he goes very still, watching it settle again. You wonder what he’s waiting for.

“You gave it back to me,” he says.

The words come out soft, a little too careful for something so simple. He looks at you, expecting the world to shift around what he just said. He’s silently saying this should mean something to you, too — but it doesn’t. And that mismatch only deepens the quiet between you.

You blink.

He lifts the edge of the fur in his hands, shaking it, then looks at you like the answer should be obvious.

A pause. “Right,” you say slowly. “And… that’s important to note because?”

He shifts his weight, brows drawing together in a look that’s too serious for the situation. “You could’ve kept it.”

"Wet as my clothes are, you need it more than I do.”

He is surprisingly docile and red in the face now that he has something on for modesty and can’t quite look you in the eye. The tips of his fingers peeking from all the fur in his grip are fidgety.

You give a wry grimace before remembering the manners Dad always told you to have around new acquaintances. "Yeah, um — uh, thanks. For saving my life.”

You tell him your name, and bow your head a bit in acknowledgment. His shoulders pull in tight at the sudden gesture of goodwill — though you aren't quite sure why — but relax after a breath as he meets your stare squarely, searching for something. The intensity throws you off balance; those odd and piercing mismatched shades fixed solely on you make the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end in both curious and fearful wonderment.

"And you are...?"

"Oh," he says, as if the question took him off guard, too. One hand comes up to brush through damp locks. Almost self-conscious, if the look on his face is anything to go by. There’s some sort of a faraway look in his eyes. "Raf — Rafayel."

"Were you the third guy on the fishing boat, Rafayel?" You recall that last crew member was slumped half overboard and passed out, prompting the rescue attempt that sent you both to sea in the first place. If Rafayel was wearing his pelt when you attempted to pull him up, the added weight could have been a factor in tipping both of you over. You find it's all a blur in your memory, though, and suppress a shudder. "Did you fall with me or—"

A shadow passes over his features as quickly as the changing tides. When he speaks, though, it's measured, almost cautious. "Yeah, I—" He pauses, shakes his head. Locks those impossibly colored eyes on you again, bright in the early morning light. "How are you feeling, though? Still hurts?"

"My side feels bruised like I was elbowed in the ribs but besides being chilled to the bone from falling into the ocean, I'm alright," you supply honestly. "I saw the blood on the sand, though. It feels unreal that I'm up and about right now. How can a scrape bleed that much?"

Rafayel's mouth goes flat as a line, looking you up and down with a concerning intensity deepening his tone. "You're lucky I was able to pull you back from the worst of it."

Shallow as it is, your wound isn't even dressed, but you decide not to engage in a conversation about the technicalities, patting him on the arm once in thanks and walking around him to get out of the forest line's shadow.

The beach stretching wide and strange before you is a postcard you don’t remember collecting. The sand is darker than you're used to, siltier, almost gray, and littered with glinting shells you don’t recognize, long and spiraled in augers, brittle as glass. Pale reeds jut from the shore at uneven angles, hissing faintly in the breeze, and the driftwood here is stripped bare, almost white, tangled in patterns that look too intentional for nature.

The water itself is clear, almost iridescent, casting strange reflections across the shallows, warped ripples that shimmer pink and green, an oil slick pretending to be pretty. And further out, offshore, strange half-drowned statue-shaped stones loom out of the surf.

You know this archipelago better than most, its coastlines and hidden inlets, the soft-bellied coves that tourists miss, having traced its map with your own hands, ferry lines, rock clusters, the way sandbanks shift after storms. Usually, it takes you seconds to place yourself. A curve in the shoreline, a type of dune grass, the slope of a treeline, something always gives it away.

But this place doesn’t register. No matter how long you stare, it refuses to sort itself into something known. The landscape’s been scrubbed clean of every tell you’re trained to read.

The most logical possibility is Seolhwine’s Hook — the island nearest to the Devil’s Teeth. That makes the most sense, right? You were heading back when the squall hit, and it’s the only one close enough for a current to drag you to overnight, and for Rafayel to be able to swim with you. But even then… even that doesn’t feel right. You’ve docked at Seolhwine’s before. This doesn’t match.

“I hate to say it but... Do you know where we are?” you ask finally, turning to him.

"My aunt's," he answers with a straight face.

You pause mid-shiver, your brain tripping over the simplicity of the statement.

You give him the flattest look you can afford, eyebrows lifting slowly. The pelt is clutched too high at his chest, his fingers wound tight in the fabric, you think he might be afraid of dropping it, though it doesn’t seem he notices he’s doing it. You can’t tell if he’s being deliberately evasive or if he genuinely thinks this is the helpful version of an answer.

"What?"

"Look, I’m all for jokes usually, but right now I need an actual place name — not just that your aunt lives here. I’m cold, I’m tired, and I just want to figure out how to get home—"

"It's my aunt's island."

You blink. Once. Twice. The explanation hangs in the air, weirdly self-satisfied. And it’s not satisfactory at all. Not even close.

What’s with the serene confidence of someone stating the color of the sky, as if “my aunt’s” is a perfectly normal answer to what island are we on? As if those two words magically orient you on a map?

You wait for more. Anything. The punchline. The name. Even a smirk. But there’s nothing.

Is he joking? Is this some elaborate bit? Or does he genuinely think that’s helpful?

The frustration in you sharpens. You’ve had to deal with flaky locals and clueless tourists and broken ferries before, but your patience is thinning by the second. You’re exhausted, still damp, still bleeding a little, and now stuck playing twenty questions with the world’s most uncooperative pretty boy.

"My aunt’s island."

He says it again, but there’s a slight shift in tone — firmer. He's correcting you. Thinks you’re the one being slow. And somehow, that makes it worse.

You stare at him. This time longer. He looks so damn earnest about it, truly believes he’s given you a helpful answer. It’s not smug. It’s not sarcastic. It’s not even deliberately vague to give away he’s fucking with you just to be a tease. It’s literal. Painfully, infuriatingly literal.

You’re trying to get directions from a very impatient child who only answers exactly what you ask and nothing else. Nuance is definitely a foreign language he never got taught.

But something tugs at the edge of your thoughts.

Because as stupid as it sounds — and it does sound stupid — it’s not impossible.

You look around again, really look this time, and you realize something’s been bothering you since you first stood up. It’s too pristine. Too quiet. There’s no old trailhead, no ferry dock, no graffiti-scuffed boulder where kids have carved hearts. No signs. No fishhooks, no cigarette butts. Just wind, tide, trees.

It clicks.

They’re marked on the maps you’ve seen, but only just. Annotated with little circles and names like SH-07 or East Ellinor. Places people like you aren’t supposed to go. Places the ferry routes steer around.

You’ve never been to one. You’ve never had a reason to. The people who owned them had their own transport, their own staff, their own little worlds with locked docks and private everything.

That’s why you didn’t recognize it. It’s not not on the map. It’s just never been part of your map.

You exhale, slow. Let the realization settle.

"So you're saying this is one of the private islands."

Rafayel’s brows lift in vague approval and he nods fervently. "Yes! That. Exactly. It's very private."

You rub your forehead, as if that’ll push the absurdity back into place.

Of course it is. Of course you almost drowned and then washed up on a privately owned island like some shipwrecked stray. Of course the first person you meet is a socially weird, mostly-naked man claiming ownership through familial inheritance like it’s a perfectly casual thing to drop.

You stare up at the sky for a moment, trying to piece together how the hell you even got here.

None of the private islands are anywhere near the Devil’s Teeth — most of them are tucked deep in the inner chain, clustered where the water’s calmer and the currents don’t rip you sideways. But this? This place isn’t close to any of that. You were unconscious, but you remember the storm. You remember going overboard, water in your lungs, panic in your throat, and then nothing. Blackout.

But you weren’t alone.

Rafayel said he pulled you out. Which means he swam you here.

You glance at him again, still draped in that ridiculous pelt and giving you weird pointed looks conveying that he wants to tell you something so bad. He doesn’t look winded enough for someone who hauled another body through open water during a storm. But if he did — if that’s how you got here — then he swam farther than you can make sense of. And maybe lost his clothes in the process. Somehow the latter makes more sense compared to the hypothetical that precedes it.

You were near open sea. This doesn’t add up. Even if he unexpectedly took you somewhere else than Seolhwine's, it just happening to be his aunt's private island is no coincidence.

You look back at him, more confused than before.

"Come," he says softly, extending his hand toward you with palm upward. "I'll take you to her. We'll help you get home. I promise."

A dozen different responses crowd your tongue as you stare down at his offered hand. All the questions rattling between your ears, each booking it for your lips faster than the next. None make it far. Suspicion should be there, but your instincts are unresponsive. They don’t find anything worth questioning about the situation despite the red flags.

Sure, maybe a weird randomly naked guy saved your life, brought you to a secret beach that doesn’t look on any travel maps, and claims to have ties with some rich aunt that owns the whole damn thing...

But he isn't dangerous.

You know that fact unequivocally. Call it a hunch, maybe? Gut intuition. It makes no sense considering your rational side has zero interest in jumping through hoops to trust the random person that literally dragged you out of the ocean to the least convenient place he ever could — but then again, life tends to toss the strangest circumstances and situations your way whenever you least expect it.

What matters most is getting back home, your parents have to be dying of worry — a search party must be out there wasting resources. Having someone who seems oddly comfortable on the island lead you directly to shelter would certainly speed things along.

"Hey," he gently adds when you're quiet for too long, breaking the train of thought running rampant inside your mind. The softness in his tone brings your attention back to him entirely, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He offers his hand a little higher, which draws your focus back on it with curious clarity. How smooth it lookd, even from this distance, perfect nails without a single scratch or imperfection, fingers delicate, elegant bones visible under the pale skin. "I just want to help. You're safe with me. I won’t hurt you."

You stare at his hand, then at his face, then back again. The tone is soft, the words gentle, but something about it scratches at the back of your brain. The kind of voice usually reserved for nervous animals crouched under porches. Any second now, he might start whistling and offer a treat.

Though the weird phrasing shouldn't work its weird magic on you, it does. Maybe because it sounds so nostalgic and familiar in a way that it invokes a sense of safety in you? Or maybe because you're tired, soaked to the bone, bleeding lightly still, and sore all over and this guy seems too nice to be anything less than honest?

Perhaps both. Probably both. You really have no business trusting strangers who wear big pelt blankets instead of actual clothing and give basic information away akin to some kind of social anxiety sufferer with performance issues, yet here you are, contemplating on the idea of taking his hand.

What the hell, you think eventually. Sure. What alternative is there? If the worst comes to pass, you intend to make him have one less limb to his name — it would be his own fault for walking around like a Resident Evil nude mod. How did that one text post go? Boy put that boaner away lest a sloppy little critter grabs hold of it.

But you’re not that sure what kind of answer you expected when you ask him where you’re headed, but he doesn’t so much point as let his hand drift outward, loose and imprecise — more communion than instruction, as though the land might whisper the route if you stand still long enough. He plants himself in the emptiness with the ease of someone who’s never needed a map, naming vague landmarks with the casual grace of someone expecting the road to rise just because he’s ready to walk it.

As someone who has mastered the art of minding your own business, you don’t call out this behavior. As long as he gets you someplace you can call help from, Rafayel is free to be a weirdo.

But you do press him for information.

“She has lavender near the steps, and her door is the color of the sea,” he offers, like that narrows it down. “The path smells of sage sometimes, if the wind’s right. And there’s a stone shaped like a sleeping dog near the turn — you have to squint a little. The house groans when it’s too warm. There’s a wind chime that only rings when someone she doesn’t like shows up. And the garden gate bites if you don’t know how to open it.”

Not helpful. But then he refuses to add anything else more along the lines of fucking common sense and normal people direction-giving. What does he expect, the scent alone pulling you in the right direction if you just walk long enough?

And maybe he's right. Maybe you're the weird one for expecting something as formal as an address out here. If this really is a private island, there might only be one house. Maybe 'lavender and a blue door' is all anyone needs. Maybe people out here remember things by the curve of the land and the way the air smells after rain.

It isn’t a real plan. It’s the shape of a promise, just strange enough to follow, just vivid enough to believe in for a little while. The way he speaks about it, there’s no room for doubt, and you’ve learned to believe in the word of a local in all your years of living around the archipelago.

So you follow.

The pelt shifts when he moves, catching bits of drift and sand, trailing slightly as he walks beside you through the underbrush. He doesn’t shiver, unlike you. And that makes sense, considering how warm and cozy you were when that thing was your blanket when you first woke up.

The morning light hasn’t yet burned the fog from the trees, and the forest path ahead is dappled in grey. Your boots sink into the softened moss with a squelch. His bare feet barely make a sound, but your skin does hear something because of your wet socks.

You glance sideways at him. No wince, no flinch, not even when he steps straight on a gnarled root that would have you cursing in three languages.

“Seriously?” you mutter. “You don’t even feel that?”

“I’ve walked stranger paths,” he says. Great.

You stop walking with a groan. The wind catches your soaked clothes, cutting straight through to the bone. Your arms are already shaking.

“Okay. New plan.”

He watches as you crouch in front of him, back turned.

You look over your shoulder with an encouraging gesture for him, “Climb on.”

He tilts his head. “Huh?”

“Piggyback. You're barefoot, this path is hell, and I'm freezing. Carrying weight warms you up.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You're not that heavy, and I’ve hauled crates bigger than you off ferries for years. So. Just. Climb on.”

He makes a strangled noise. “I didn’t learn bipedalism just to be carried like a pup by you!”

Such drama. There really is no time for this and you’re not in the mood for negotiations.

You grab one of his wrists and tug it over your shoulder. His entire hand twitches in response. “If it makes you feel better, this is entirely me being selfish. I want to get warm.”

He hesitates, and it’s not pride, he keeps glancing at your side, where the torn side of your turtleneck still clings damp and darkened. His hands hover like he might stop you.

“You’re not healed,” he mutters. “Not properly.”

You hitch his arm higher on your shoulder. “It’s fine.”

“That wound’s still raw.”

“So are my fingers. Cold does that.”

He makes a frustrated noise.

“Listen, enough with courtesy stuff, okay? I don’t care, I’m freezing,” you cut in. “And you don’t have shoes. We’re both going to be miserable either way, so pick your poison.”

He sighs, dragging it out. Eventually, he caves, muttering something under his breath that could be an insult but could also be a compliment. He hoists himself up, arms settling uncertainly around your shoulders, pelt-covered legs bracketing your hips, and you make sure he won’t slip away from your grip because of the material. You’re trekking along the forest in no time, feeling pleasantly distracted from the cold.

“This is deeply undignified,” he mutters.

“And being inexplicably naked in front of a stranger isn’t? Where and why did you lose your clothes anyway? You still haven’t told.”

There’s no response, except from a huff he lets out from his nose, which fondly reminds you of Raf. It must be a tale particularly embarrassing for him to tell, and he did have the fur to make it up for, so you once again don’t pry. Master of minding your own business.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Get comfortable.”

He doesn’t. He sits stiffly at first, as though unsure how much weight he’s allowed to give you. Then he starts shifting. Sighing. Squirming. Grumbling under his breath about the jostling, the pace, the way your shoulder bone is probably bruising his ribs.

"You walk uneven," he complains after the first bend. "See, it hurts after all, yeah? Put me down."

"It's a forest," you grit out. "The ground walks uneven."

"I wish you would listen for once."

"That's a wasted wish on a star. You've known me for like what, fifteen minutes?"

He exhales through his nose again, slow and beleaguered. No witty answer to that one, it seems.

The longer you walk, the more he settles. His complaining slows into occasional muttering, then thoughtful silence. The forest begins to close in around you. Damp leaves brush your arms. The world smells of pine sap, wet bark, and something almost metallic beneath the rot. The silence here is dense, broken only by the soft rhythm of your boots against the ground and the occasional rustle of something unseen in the undergrowth.

Then his voice, soft and close beside your ear: “Do you name the trails you take at sea? Or are they just known to you?”

“What?”

“The water routes. The ones you steer the ferry along. Do they have names?”

He’s talking about sea lanes. You’re about to question how he doesn’t know these things, considering he’s a fisherman, but remember he might not be one. His aunt owns an island. This is a rich kid who probably wanted to fish and got the locals involved in his request.

“They’ve got designations. Letters, numbers. Eights and alphas and things like that. But most of us just… call ’em what we call ’em.”

“Like?”

You think a moment, breath fogging in the damp air. “There’s Shiverstretch. That’s the fast cold current between Dolos and Ternhook. Everyone calls it that ’cause it’s a backslap to the face, especially on the morning runs. And there’s Dead Hour Channel — no wind, no sound, just this long, empty drift. Makes you paranoid that something’s watching. I don’t like that one.”

You feel him shift slightly on your back, listening.

“There’s Longshout,” you add. “Named after a guy who tried to boat through in a storm and ended up yelling for help the whole way ‘til he ran aground on Fallow Reef.”

Rafayel snorts quietly. “That one sounds personal.”

“It is. He still works the east docks. Won’t shut up about it.”

“How do you find your way around, then? I always wondered. Do you read the water like seals do?”

“Reading the water is one way to put it, I guess. They’re charted. We use navigation systems. Landmarks. Depth markers.”

A pause. The trees rumble, disturbed by a sudden gust of wind, brittle leaves dropping pebbles onto the path in front of you. Rafayel shifts awkwardly behind you, almost toppling off to the left before righting himself with a steadying grip.

"Question," you say. "What indicators do you use? Chip on a tree or something?"

He whispers eventually, cheek lightly pressed against yours. You feel his eyes on you. "Smells."

You blink, twisting around to glance at him. He seems surprisingly somber all of a sudden. "Uhhh...."

"Just focus on the road, we're almost there. You'll see."

The path winds past the last of the scrub grass, and then it opens.

The trees fall away in a hush of damp leaves and saltlight, and there, cradled in the middle of the forest-clad small valley, is a sprawling, mansion of a house that doesn’t quite belongs to any century in particular. Can't be called old or modern. The word you’re looking for is neo-classical architecture made to be a beach house. Pale limestone, veined and sun-bitten, gleams beneath the overcast sky. Its walls are streaked with wind-carried brine, but the stone holds strong, weathered soft rather than worn down. And there is the giveaway Rafayel was talking about: blue door.

Lavender spills along the pathway in loose drifts, unruly and fragrant, tangling with sea-thrift and clover like the garden grew itself wild. Carved wooden shutters hang half-closed against the morning chill, and a curved archway frames the entry looks the part of a half-remembered temple. There’s something mythic about it, a story you were almost told once. A place that holds onto memory whether you want it to or not.

And then there’s the scent, ocean first, bright and sharp, but something warmer curling beneath it. Resin, maybe. Incense burned into the beams. Citrus oil in the wood grain.

You adjust your grip beneath Rafayel’s knees as you approach the door. Acting as a barrier between your bodies, his pelt is still slung down your back , trailing behind like a second spine, damp at the edges. He hasn’t said much since the last hill. Just rested his chin between your shoulder blades and hummed, quiet as tidewash.

You reach the first step. Hesitate. The house isn’t grand in the usual way, no columns, no gates, but there’s a heaviness to it. Not unfriendly, but expectant.

You knock.

Silence falls. The melted caramel of sunlight scatters through the dark glass in the windows. Rafayel shifts on your back, going rigid so suddenly it almost jolts you. His breath stills sharply against your spine, and in that single suspended moment, you can feel the piano wire of tension strung through his bones.

You don’t get the chance to ask why. Wood cracks loudly within the doorframe, and there's a pop, a groan, and then a soft, sweet creak as the lock disengages, allowing the door to slowly swing inward with an audible squeak.

The scent hits first, warm and strange. Spiced velvet, a whisper of cloves, dried orange peel, and something more ancient baked into the lintel wood. Then the figure behind it, unexpected.

For an “aunt,” she looks barely older than him. Mid-thirties, maybe, though it’s hard to tell. Her features are sharp, dignified, and her presence is a light cloud, wrapped in layered satin and lace shawl, white and lilac, all shot through with shimmer where the light catches on glinting jewelry. Her hair is swept back, rich violet and pinned with silver shells, and her eyes—

Dusty purple brightening with shock.

“Rafayel?” she breathes, her grip whitening on the frame. Her gaze darts down, takes in the sealskin clinging to your back, the way his taut arms still drape over your shoulders like iron bars. “Gods, is it really you? Look, look at you! Oh... oh!"

Rafayel slides off you, and she practically throws herself out the door as soon as the initial shock wears off, taking two long steps across the threshold until she's directly in front of you, cupping his cheeks with hands that only tremble the smallest bit. He meets her halfway, tilting his forehead to rest against hers as his own hands come up to gently caress her elbows, cradling them lightly. His motions are hesitant at first — touching with clear clumsiness, as if handling glass. But the moment she exhales an astonished little laugh, something changes, he pulls her close, tightening his grasp not to let her blow away on the wind. The woman leans fully against him then, looping her arms around his neck with a relieved shudder that shakes both their frames.

And you're there, a comical stick figure at the background of a well-drawn manga panel with a big arrow pointing at you.

You hope they won't hunt you for sport. Private island. Two eerily good looking family members. Girl who got deliberately delivered there when a closer island was the most blatant option. This has the potential to be a horror movie premise.

But no. Nope. Too late. She glances past his shoulder as soon as her embrace is complete and the silent reunion done with, locking eyes with you, and your soul flees your body, trying to squeeze itself back through your pores like some furtive worm to avoid the full brunt of her curious scrutiny.

She raises one perfectly shaped brow, but before either of you can exchange any words or reactions, Rafayel says something.

You say something, because it's in a language you don't know, one that doesn't bother to make itself easy, sharp at the edges, rounded at the core. It rolls out of his mouth, mist over moorland — thick, tangled, hard to follow. The stone-teeth syllables grind against each other, but every so often, they break open into something strange and sweet, the howl of a reed pipe carried on sea wind.

It just plays into the horror movie vibe because why would he blatantly switch language to probably speak about you, judging from the glance thrown your way, as if you aren't there? Probably conspiring how to eat you! You do feel like tenderized meat.

The woman hums again, a thoughtful note this time, and the conversation carries on in murmured exchanges of tone and gesture — softness here, a flicker of frustration there. And yet you can pinpoint the exact moment everything changes. Rafayel says something. But she draws back, cups his cheeks in her hands, and stares at him hard, searching. Whatever she finds isn’t enough, because she shakes her head once, firm, decisive. He asks again. Another shake, stronger this time, more insistent. Her fingers flex tight against his skin as if she means to hold him there, but he speaks again, something softer, fainter, and her hand relaxes, trembling on the edge of defeat. A faint frown crosses her face, a small downward curl that somehow turns the lines at the corner of her lips into parenthesis, closing off the shape of whatever she might have said next.

"Hey, uh," you finally intervene when their staring contest becomes too intense. They both startle, seeming to remember your existence at once. You smile nervously, holding one raised palm up in defense and nonthreatening greeting. "Sorry to interrupt, ma'am, but could I, um..." Your free hand gestures vaguely to indicate the general situation you find yourself in. "Use your phone? I don't mean to intrude or anything, I just. I got thrown over board during the storm, I don't even know if my ferry was capsized and I really, really need to get back—"

Rafayel says something else under his breath, hasty now, almost tripping over his words.

Her brows furrow in mild concern at his rambling. "Oh dear, I apologize, yes! Do forgive me for being impolite, I forgot myself for a moment there."

You nod politely in acknowledgment of her apology, lowering your arm hesitantly. "Not a problem, it happens."

"It's been so long since our house had guests," she admits candidly, placing an elegant hand over her heart in embarrassment. "Come, come in, please, you need a hot shower and change of clothes." She takes you by the arm and guides you inside. "You're drenched! Look at those goosebumps. Oh, you poor thing."

She leads you into a grand hallway filled with golden hour sunlight spilling through windows framed by sheer white curtains billowing lazily in the breeze, and it is not unlike stepping straight into the interior design section of an expensive department store. You could smell the money dripping off every nook, cranny, wall, and corner. If your wet socks were making muddy imprints on the flooring you knew you'd pass out from mortification on the spot. The floors here look pristine and polished enough for you to see your reflection clearly on its surface. Even the vase tucked neatly into the center of a glossy dark wood console table is worth more than your boat. Everything about this mansion is clean and orderly, it must be heaven on earth for a neat freak like your dad.

"He needs clothes the most, I think," you try to joke, letting her steer you through the main hall with wide curious steps and an awestruck stare. Rafayel, wherever he is behind you two, remains silent. You think he might have disappeared somewhere.

Her grip tightens around your arm like a mother hen dragging her chick into a coop to shelter from winter, her nails lightly digging into the sleeves of your sweater with a pleasant firmness that feels strangely grounding. "Don't worry about him, you focus on getting warmed up now."

"Thanks, ummm..." you begin, hoping it's polite to ask for her name while inside her home. But before you could continue, she turns to regard you with a serene smile — so gentle and graceful she could've been sculpted from marble if it weren't for her very lively personality. She smells nice, too. Floral. Very floral. The same kind of perfume bottle your aunt kept on display near her sewing machine that you stole a few sniffs of when Grandma wasn't looking.

Her attention is summer afternoon sunbeams on your chilled skin. "You can call me Talia.”

[fictional-character-fanboy]

I just listened to House of memories by Panic! At the disco and oh my lord, I kept thinking about Mc and the love interests/ an edit of it

If you're a lover, you should know

The lonely moments just get lonelier

The longer you're in love (up to this point it’s clips of the li with mc being happy)

Than if you were alone (here it shows all of them in despair)

Memories turn into daydreams (daybreaker zayne?)

Become a taboo (I thought of foreseer Zayne and astra)

Those thoughts of past lovers, they'll always haunt me (flashes through the li memory cards)

I wish I could believe you'd never wrong me (I thought of rafayel here)

Then will you remember me in the same way

As I remember you? (This part screams Xavier and Sylus to me)

[fictional-character-fanboy]

Interdimensional Epiphany l Rafayel

CHAPTER 3

Chapter 2 | Chapter 4 next Thursday

Summary: A fortnight of compensated leave from your company was supposed to be a rejuvenating experience. Things take an unexpected turn when Rafayel, your choice of ML, starts becoming self-aware. His love knows no bounds, not even interdimensional ones.

Warning(s): Subject to change as we progress further into the story. The series has major character deaths, subdued manipulation, heavy angst with a happy(?) ending, slight yandere themes, fluff, did I mention angst? For this chapter, obsession, yearning (I'm so bad at tagging send help)

Word count: 1.7k

Playlist coming soon.

Notes: The schedule for this series and Against Blood & Water has been switched, so new chapter every Thursday from now! This chapter is shorter because I got hit by writing block so forgive me y'all but the next one is about to be BIG big. Keep in mind, that as cute and a total man-child Rafayel is; he can also be vengeful and undeterred from what we've seen in his anecdotes. If you feel that this is too serious for him, then you simply need a better understanding of the red-flag side of Rafayel shown in some parts of the game. This story circles partially around that side of his as well, so I don't feel it should be that much uncharacteristic. Mikayla is the name of the mc in this fic and aside from Rafayel no-one else is aware of being a video game character. Anyways, hopefully you enjoy the read and stay tuned for the series. Lmk if you wish to be added to the tag list for this. ♥

Taglist: @loveanddeephistory @ittybittyfanblog @lyssandraxo @micasosa34 @hyein21 @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @blessdunrest @altair718 @3fg7 @froleineeeee @mikachux3 @aiehtta @beaconsxd @poptrim @animecrazy76 @zackenblacken @rainycreationfart @invaderzia1 @his-ocean-emissary

In a dimly lit studio, Rafayel sits at his easel, brush in hand, but his attention is far from the canvas. The strokes he makes are erratic and disconnected, as though his mind is somewhere else entirely — which it is. The woman he intends to paint — you — the one who occupies his every thought, is not physically there, but your image fills every canvas in the room. He knows your face in the details of his daydreams and in the short time he sees you — the cupid bow of your lips, the way your hair cascades like a waterfall around your face, the rounded curve of your eyes. But today, he’s not interested in accuracy.

The paint smudges onto the canvas, a blur of colors that vaguely resemble a figure, but nothing more. A quick swipe of cerulean blue for a dress, a few scattered strokes of brown for your hair, but nothing to capture the essence of who you are, only the feeling of you. His movements are slow, almost hesitant as if he’s trying to pull you out of his thoughts and into reality but struggling against the weight of his emotions.

His gaze drifts away from the painting, shifting toward the other canvases scattered across the room. Most of them are carefully hung on the walls, and when the walls can no longer accommodate the overflow, he places the remaining canvases on the floor, ensuring that each one remains visible. They all share a single, unifying theme: they are all portraits of you.

He turns his attention back to the canvas before him. It is yet another depiction of you, this time in a flowing cerulean dress, your feet gently immersed in waters that conceal his hidden sanctuary beneath. The image is a reflection of his vision—an idealized representation of the subject that has so recently overtaken his thoughts, dreams, canvases, and heart.

You look like the sparkles of the ocean on an early summer morning.

He raises his hand slowly, still lost in reverie, his fingers lightly grazing your painted figure with a tenderness that has always eluded him. He fantasizes about what it would be like to stand beside you, to kiss the radiant smiles from your lips in the hope of capturing even a fraction of your boundless joy.

There is no urgency in his movements as he attempts to translate the depth of his emotions onto the canvas. You are not meant to be confined within the boundaries of this frame; you are meant to be with him, to be by his side.

His dusky eyes shift to a vivid ultramarine blue, and glowing scales of the same hue begin to emerge along his cheekbones and neck. With deliberate slowness, he leans in and presses a lingering kiss to the canvas, as though the paint could somehow hold the essence of your lips.

He had waited all of yesterday, but not once did you "log in." In the end, he didn’t get the chance to see your face. His longing turned to frustration, which poured itself out onto the multiple canvases now scattered around him. He had painted in a frenzy, driven by a sense of hysteria, but as time wore on and the number of filled canvases grew, his heart sank deeper into an overwhelming sadness. The prolonged distance from you forced him to confront the bitter reality that you existed in a world entirely different from his own, and that he was, at best, a fleeting interest to you.

He yearned to bridge the chasm between your worlds.

Determined, he rose from his seat, deciding to visit Destiny Cafe once more, hoping that today, perhaps, you'd logged in.

He washed the dried paint from his hands and stepped out of his studio. As he opened the door, he was met with the sight of Mikayla standing on the other side, her fist raised mid-knock. He briefly searched his memory, trying to recall if they'd planned something for today, but her voice cut through his thoughts.

"I know you’re surprised, Rafayel. I wanted to surprise you since I didn’t have anything keeping me tied to my desk today, so here I am." She gestured dramatically, flashing him a grin. "Surprise!"

He frowned, replying half-heartedly, "While I appreciate the gesture, MC... I really have urgent matters to attend to right now. Can we do this another time?"

She planted her hands on her hips, her tone tinged with mockery. "What? Since when did you start getting busy?"

His fingers twitched involuntarily, a fleeting desire to draw his dagger against her rising but that’d mean going against his well-laid plans to resurrect Lemuria… He couldn’t afford that.

"Well, since now," he snapped, his words sharp as he pushed past her, his impatience evident. "So if you’ll excuse me, I really must be going." And with that, he made his way toward Destiny Cafe, the door swinging shut behind him.

You tapped impatiently at the loading screen of the game, settling deeper into the warmth of your armchair. As the screen flickered to life, you were greeted by the sight of a clearly frantic Rafayel, who seemed to instantly calm the moment his gaze fell on you. Before you could even blink, he broke the silence.

“Where were you?” His voice carried a subtle edge of barely concealed concern. You noticed that his words didn’t show up in the speech bubble again.

You exhaled a soft, amused sound, mildly impressed by the devs' decision to enhance the game's interactions with features like these to ensure players didn't miss a day. Deciding to humor the thought, you spoke aloud, as though addressing no one in particular, “My friends from college showed up yesterday and whisked me away on a spontaneous girls' trip. I didn't even get a chance to pack. Ended up buying a few clothes while we were there. The whole day was a whirlwind, and I barely had time to log in for my daily rewards or stamina. So, that’s that."

You watched him nod slowly in response, though you couldn't help but chuckle at the thought that he might actually understand what you meant.

Just then, your phone buzzed with a message from him. You quickly opened it and found yourself momentarily stunned by what you saw.

Sushi nom nom: Maybe you could let me know next time...?

You blinked once. Then twice. Your jaw practically hit the floor. Staring at the message, you couldn’t quite process what you were reading. What caught your attention next was the absence of the usual three automated replies you'd get from him. When you tapped the text box to reply, it opened with an actual cursor, something that had never happened before. You briefly wondered if this was a result of recently maxing out his affinity. It was the only logical explanation, after all.

Still dazed, you responded with a simple thumbs-up, then closed his chat window — only to be greeted by yet another unexpected surprise. None of the other characters’ chat boxes appeared in your messages. There were old, programmed messages from Twinkle Toys, Tara, and Linkon City Hall, but nothing from any of the other leads. You switched between the tabs — the calls, then the moments posts — but none of their accounts were visible.

Frustrated, you returned to Destiny Cafe and screamed aloud when you opened the memories tab. There weren’t even options for the other characters in the header. You had wasted so much money to obtain Beyond Cloudfall and rank it up, only for it all to disappear. You checked everything — Playtime, Deepspace Trials — but it was as if the other four characters had vanished into thin air. The only character left was Rafayel.

You went back to Destiny Cafe’s interface, and there he was, sitting on the armchair, inspecting his nails with an air of casual aloofness. A hundred questions flooded your mind: How? Why? Did the game glitch? You shook off the storm of thoughts, taking a deep breath before setting your phone face down on the plush fabric of your armchair. After a few seconds of holding your breath, you exhaled and picked your phone back up. You checked the memories tab again. Nothing. There was no change. The only option available was Rafayel.

Listless, you returned to the home screen, but then Rafayel’s voice sliced through the silence.

“What? You thought putting your phone down for a while would bring them back?”

You froze completely. The only sign that you were alive was the occasional fluttering of your eyelids. Rafayel stood up from the armchair and walked toward the screen, hands stuffed in his pockets. He outright smirked, leaning forward as he stated, “They’re gone for good. All that’s left of them is nothing. Zero. Zip. Zilch. Nada. Niente.”

He didn’t even look sorry as he said it, and right now, that was the least of your concerns. You subconsciously noted the lack of his speech bubble or captions once again. 

This was it. The mod you had downloaded back in your early Love and Deep Space phase, driven by the greed of securing an unlimited supply of red dias and crystals, was finally catching up with you. The consequences were here. Your phone had been hacked.

"Shocker, hm?"

His voice broke the silence, and you instinctively dropped your phone, watching it clatter onto the table. Without thinking, you dove under your blanket, burying yourself in its soft folds, seeking some semblance of comfort, some escape from the growing dread. You stayed hidden for what felt like an eternity, ten minutes at least, before you dared to peek out, your eyes slowly lifting to glance at your phone.

Rafayel’s lips curled into a faint smile as he observed your wide eyes, the disheveled state of your hair sticking out in all directions from the static electricity. He didn’t even bother to mask the amusement in his gaze.

"Adorable," he remarked with a smirk, clearly relishing the flustered expression on your face.

You sank deeper into your armchair, burying your face in your hands in a futile attempt to shield yourself from the absurdity of it all. Here you were, trapped in a situation you couldn't even begin to comprehend, and still, you couldn't shake the fact that you were being charmed by a 2D character — a handsome, fictional man who didn’t even exist... or did he?

Maybe it was better for your brain to get fried every Friday than dealing with whatever this was. And here you thought your compensated leave time was going too good to be true…

Check out my other works if you liked this ♥

[fictional-character-fanboy]

━━━ 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲

━━━ 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒊𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒔 ━━━

pairing: love & deepspace x reader au: non mc genre: angst with comfort | part two of almost is never enough synopsis: a series from the boys where they pick mc over you. warning(s): cursing, mentions of wound, death ( major character!)

all i wanted | sylus ft. rafayel | wc: 2.4k | release date: 4. 25.25 ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ think of me when you’re out there

bubblegum brain | xavier ft. sylus | wc: 1.4k | release date: 4.24.25 ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ everything's on fire, panic in the streets.

brutal | zayne ft. caleb | wc: 2.3k | release date: 4.23.25 ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ im so insecure, i think that i’ll die before i drink

wicked witch of the westside | rafayel ft. xavier | wc: 1.1k | release date: 4.22.25 ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ oh, what a pity you say you miss me now

911 | caleb ft. zayne | wc: 2k | release date: 4.21.25 ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ he knows that im love sick, he kissed me and promise i will be alright. we both know it’s bullshit

taglist is CLOSED! please leave a comment to be added <3 (please specify if you’ll like to be tagged in all or a certain li)

[fictional-character-fanboy]

HAHAHAHAHAHHA

[fictional-character-fanboy]

forever boy

synopsis: you used to tell caleb everything. so why doesn’t he know about your new tattoos?

tags: fluff to angst to fluff, you get tattoos without telling caleb and he freaks out and you argue, he guilts you into showing him, surprise reveal (guess what the tattoos are), references to the fleet stuff and his bionic arm, caleb has nightmares, pathetic puppy caleb is back, he’s in the doghouse (ha get it) for less than a day, groveling, happy ending word count: 2.3k

a/n: i am proud of this i think. i made up some dates bc idk the timeline in this game. i also have no tattoos if you were wondering. there are allusions to a beloved recent drabble of mine in here can you guess which one

“Get off of me!” you squeal, gasping through chortles as Caleb's fiendish fingers dance over your belly.

“No can do, pips. Tickle monster doesn’t let his victims off that easy.”

He’s had you pinned down on the couch for almost 10 minutes now, poking and prodding at your sides until you’d grown nauseous from laughter. 

But still, Caleb won’t relent. Each time you swat his chest, try to bring your knee up between his legs—cute—he only moves his hands faster. For all the months he’d spent starved for your smile, he’s making up for lost time, he thinks. 

“I’m not…laughing because I’m having fun,” you wheeze, wriggling under him unsuccessfully. “This is basically torture. When I get free…I’m making sure you get a dishonorable discharge.” 

“What?” he smirks down at you. “If this is so torturous, why don’t you just push me off? Waitttt,” he gasps, leaning in conspiratorially. “It can’t be because I’m stronger than you, can it?” 

As his infuriatingly smug, annoyingly handsome face looms over you, Caleb doesn’t realize he’s flown too close to the sun. Before he can react, you capitalize on the opening. Squirming out from beneath him, you take advantage of his surprise and use the momentum to flip him over, your hips now on his waist in a straddle. 

“What were you saying?” you ask sweetly, the triumph in your voice slightly dampened by the way you’re still gulping down oxygen.

“Huh,” he shrugs, voice entirely too cheery for someone who’d just been bested. “I guess I stand corrected. Looks like someone’s been getting their reps in.” 

“Won’t you admit defeat, then, Mr. Monster?” you smirk. And as you lean over him to assert your victory, Caleb can’t help but gawk at the way your lips part, your shirt rides up, your tattoo shines in the warm light of the—Wait. Your tattoo?!?

No matter how many times he blinked, there was no mistaking it. There, right on the side of your once-bare ribcage, lies the prominent, pitch-black ink.

You’re still hovering over him, your light, playful chuckles fanning his face, but they slowly fade out when his muscles go rigid. Perplexed, you follow his gaze down your body until you finally spot your exposed skin, and with the way you go rigid, Caleb can tell an argument is brewing between you. 

The tense silence permeates the air, as if erasing the precious laughter he’d so giddily won from you just moments before. 

Like usual, you break first. You couldn’t stand his silence, you’d said the last time. The way it makes you feel small, like you’ve done something wrong, like you’re in trouble. “So help me God, Caleb, I’m an adult and I can make my own decisions. Whatever you’re about to say, drop it. You can tickle me until my sides bleed, just—don’t.” 

But Caleb, as much as he loved hearing your voice, wasn’t listening. While you were begging him to drop it, to leave it alone, he was too busy simmering over you doing something so drastic, so permanent to your body without his knowledge—like you didn’t trust him with the information. Didn’t trust him to hold your hand through the pain, to drive you home from the parlor, to wash and treat your tender flesh.

That awful feeling he thought you’d both moved past—had worked so hard to move you past—made him suffocate in his skin. 

“Were you ever going to tell me?” he asks lowly, gravel filling his voice. “Were you…hiding it from me?” 

As he rises to lift your shirt and get a clearer view, you intercept his hand in uncompromising resistance. He’d reached for you with his right arm. But somehow, your touch still manages to sting. 

It’s Caleb’s turn to laugh, now, but the sound is hollow. “You won’t even show me,” he chuckles humorlessly. “Not even when I already know.” Firmly, but gently as ever, he lifts you off of him and onto the opposite side of the sofa. 

You scoff at him, and the look of incredulity on your face would cause a less devoted man to back down. “Don’t lecture me about keeping secrets. I have a tattoo, Caleb. You have a double life.” 

“It’s for your own safety that I—”

“Is it for my own safety that you treat me like a child?” 

He pauses, and before he can stop it, he feels his face shift into the mask molded for him against his will. The face—his own, but somehow not—that plagues his nightmares. Cold, unfeeling, uncaring, indomitable.

“You don’t have to trust me anymore. But I’d appreciate it if you said it to my face instead of making me believe you did.” 

He hears the soft gasp that escapes you, but he refuses to look—too consumed by his emotions, too ashamed to face yours. It’s when he turns to leave that he hears your quick footsteps, and almost immediately, you’re whipping him around to look at you.

Your shirt is raised to the base of your sternum. 

And in the warm light of the living room, the soft glow of the summer evening illuminating the streaks on your skin, Caleb sucks in a breath. 

VIII IX MMXLVIII

August 9, 2048. 

The date your lives had changed. The date he’d broken his promise to always be by your side. The date part of him—physical, or something more—had died. 

With a bold, decisive line striking through it.

His eyes dart to the space below. You had another one, he realized. This was the one he’d glimpsed earlier, then—the one that’d made him question your faith in him.

IV XVIII MMXLIX

April 18, 2049. 

The date his life had been revealed to you. The date you’d fought your way back into it. The date your shattered souls had met again and vowed to mend each other. 

This one is different from the last. The numerals are pure. Pristine, clear, unmarred. Unapologetic.

An insidious, deserved pang spreads through his chest. You’d wanted to remember both dates, to etch them into your skin. You’d needed to move past the first. You’d needed to savor the second. 

A space on your sacred body, dedicated to him—to you both. To your tragic end, to your new beginning. Forever. 

“Are you happy now, you jerk?” You seethe, yanking your shirt down and snapping him out of his reverie. 

And as your voice wobbles, Caleb is anything but. 

“Pip-squeak,” he starts hoarsely, feeling anxious bile scald the back of his throat. “I didn’t think…If I’d known….”

“But you didn’t know, Caleb. You didn’t need to know,” you stress. The pained inflections in your voice seem to sync with your steps as you walk to him, your head level with his shuddering chest. “I will bare my soul to you. Happily. When I am good and ready. But forcing me to do it before then? Just so you can convince yourself that I trust you? That gives me all the more reason not to.” 

The bite in your tone numbs him to the way you push past him, shoving his shoulder hard enough to bruise. When you retreat to your bedroom, he hears the sharp click of the door lock and allows a wry grin to cross his face at the irony. And he thought you’d been shutting him out before. 

You wake up with swollen eyes. An uncomfortable reminder of last night’s humiliation. 

With a sigh, you roll your way out of bed, your limbs sore from being hunched in the fetal position for so long. You usually slept with a human-shaped back pillow, but you supposed that arrangement was on pause for the time being. 

You wonder how he’s doing. How he’d spend the night, if he’d left in the middle of it. As much as you hate to think it, you wouldn’t blame him. 

As you exit—or try to exit—your bedroom, though, it seems your worries are unfounded. 

There, slumped against the wooden door, is a sleeping, miserable-looking Caleb. Eyebrows drawn, nose scrunched, hands twitching—he must be having a nightmare.

With a resolute swallow, you push down the pain from the night before and, against your better judgment, prop the door open just enough to slip out. 

Kneeling beside him, you stroke his hair gently and hold his left hand in yours. “Caleb,” you call softly. “Wake up, please.”

At the sound of your voice, his eyes flutter open—slowly, at first, until they focus on you. In an instant, surprise, regret, and a flicker of hope flash across his face. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, tightening his grip on your hand. “I shouldn’t have—even if you hadn’t gotten them for us,” he breathes shakily, “I shouldn’t have pried.”

He’s sitting up now, having pushed himself off the door to get as close to you as you’d allow. The next time he speaks, the rasp in his voice suggests he’d slept about as well as you had. 

“You should…” he begins, swallowing thickly. “You should only tell me your secrets when you’re ready. I’ll wait. I’m lucky to know anything about you at all.”

Your chest constricts, and the ghosts of mortification and unwarranted guilt are the only things stopping you from forgiving him. With a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes, you remove your palm from his grasp, pretending not to notice when he chases your touch. “You should stretch your legs.”

The day is slow and awkward.

Your top-floor apartment is sweltering in the summer heat, so you don a loose crop top—it’s not like you have anything to lose anymore—and Caleb tries not to stare at your ribs.

It’s Sunday, the day you usually reserve for chores, and you try to ignore the way he follows you through every room: dusting your bedroom fan, mopping the kitchen floor, cleaning the bathtub while you wipe the counter. It’s a wordless process, but a seamless one—evidently, even a stalemate can’t jeopardize your synchrony. 

He disappears when you’re finishing up, and as you wonder if he’d gotten sick of your anger, the scent of your favorite food wafts through the air. In curiosity, hunger, and abashed dependence—you couldn’t boil an egg without starting a fire—you warily make your way to the kitchen you’d both left spotless. 

It still is, for the most part; the only hint of disturbance is the freshly cooked meal sitting on the island. One plate, one glass, one set of silverware. And Caleb sits in the living room, pretending to busy himself with a diagram, forlornly glancing over to you every few seconds. There if you need him, but not daring to intrude.

It’s nighttime when he tries again. 

You’re reading on the couch, instinctively avoiding the cursed spot from the night before, when Caleb shuffles into the room. In utter dejection, he makes room for himself on the floor between your legs and hugs his knees to his chest. The action tugs at your dwindling resolve, weakened by the care he’d shown you today, and before you know it, you’re running your fingers through his hair. 

He stiffens and relaxes at your touch before leaning back into you, enveloping himself in your embrace. As he presses innocent, lingering kisses to the inside of your knee, you feel the quiet tension in the room begin to build. 

This time, he breaks the silence.

“I never would have imagined those days meant so much to you,” he begins softly. “Wasn’t sure if you thought the first was a blessing in disguise. If you thought the second was some kind of curse.” Your hand falters in his tousled locks, and he exhales shakily. “I was just…surprised, pips. And hurt, I guess. You doin’ something so serious without tellin’ me—it never would’ve happened before,” he murmurs. “I didn’t mean to guilt trip you into showing me, I just…” 

“I didn’t tell you because I was embarrassed,” you whisper, saving him from the struggle of finding the right words. “Not because I don’t trust you. I do, if you can believe it. More than anyone.”

Caleb stills against you, and you place a hand on his shoulder before continuing with a sigh. “I basically saw those numbers in my sleep, at one point,” you chuckle in self-deprecation. “They flashed in my head over, and over, and over—the day I lost you, the day I found you. So I figured the only way to stop it was to carry them with me, always. And when the clarity hit…I thought I was silly. Immature. Like, I had something etched onto my body for you, Caleb. I felt like I was too attached. Too dependent on you.” 

“Is it bad if I say I’d like that?” he quips with a tired smile. “Pip-squeak,” he sighs. “You could never be too attached to me. When I saw those dates—when I realized what they meant,” he swallows, “I wanted to hold you to me ‘til I couldn’t breathe. Wanted to tattoo your tattoos inside my eyelids so I could see them every time I blink,” he jokes, kissing your palm. “That’s too attached, by the way.” 

As you giggle at him—your first in almost 24 hours—he brightens slightly. “I really am sorry for forcing your hand. Makin’ you feel like your only choice was to tell me. But, for the record, those are the least embarrassing tattoos I’ve ever seen. Gideon has one of a monkey, you know.” 

And after you duck your head into his shoulder to stifle your laughter, you haul him up and into your bedroom—no door for a mattress, this time. You’re both due for some much-needed sleep. 

The next day, you stand in front of your bathroom mirror while Caleb hugs you from behind, admiring the inky black lines on your exposed waist. Leaning in to kiss your cheek, he whispers into your ear: “You know, they say rib tattoos hurt a lot. You shouldn’t have had to go through all that alone. Why don’t I get matching ones so we can share the pain?” 

[fictional-character-fanboy]

What they're like on their wedding day:

(Requested)

Zayne: Fidgets with his cufflinks while he waits at the altar. He sees you and is stunned into silence; it takes him a moment to be able to say “I do”. Smiles the whole day.

Xavier: He’s never been more awake. Wants the ceremony both to last forever and to be over ASAP. Good luck on that honeymoon, and make sure to eat energizing food.

Rafayel: Checks that everything is perfect before starting. At the end, goes in for a second and third quick kisses in excitement, then remembers everyone is watching and gets bashful.

Sylus: Hums the wedding march along with the orchestra. Insists on carrying you out bridal-style and he’ll laugh if you make a fuss about it. Won’t stop complimenting how good you look.

Caleb: He’s all confidence until you appear, instant tears - the ceremony has to pause to let him compose himself. Holds your hand the entire time. Can’t stop saying “I’m your husband!” afterwards.

[fictional-character-fanboy]

NSFW—

Xavier surprisingly wakes up before you the morning after, reluctantly slipping away from the warm sheets with a kiss to your hair before strolling into your shared bathroom to freshen up.

he walks back to the bed immediately, desperately and painstakingly jostling you awake. he asks—quietly, almost bashfully—for you to leave more lipstick stains on the rest of his body like the pretty red ones he just saw on his neck in the mirror.

just one more round? please? you can pick the color. :(

[fictional-character-fanboy]

This is so raf mc core I couldn't not

Ref under cut

[fictional-character-fanboy]

🍎 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ when u come back

— synopsis: you call him home without meaning to, and caleb holds onto it like a promise—because even if neither of you says it outright, you already belong to each other.

— note/s: so i wrote an essay for my english class abt caleb. turns out i wrote the WRONG kind of essay. so i had to write another one. pure suffering but its caleb so all is acceptable!!

cross-posted on ao3! ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡

the first time you say it, it's an accident. it slips out like breath, like something inevitable.

"you know, being with you... it feels like home."

"what did you just say?" he asks, voice quiet, almost careful. you don't even notice, but caleb does.

you grumble. "i said, 'caleb is a big dummy,'" 

his hands still where they’re tying his boots, and for a second, he forgets how to move. he laughs lightly, because he knows that isn't what you said, but he plays along anyway. 

he holds onto the words a little too tightly.

he turns the word over in his head. he never thought much about it before. four walls, a roof, a place to return to. but you said it like it was something else, like it was something living. like it was something unshakable, something that belonged.

he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t want to break the moment. but when you leave the room, he flexes his fingers, trying to shake off the feeling sinking into his skin.

—

caleb has never been afraid of fire. he’s seen too much of it, grown up with the heat of war, of broken things burning. he doesn’t flinch at destruction, doesn’t look away from the ruins. but when he sees you standing in the doorway, sleepy-eyed, hair a mess, wearing his jacket over your shoulders—

he understands why people call it warmth.

“what,” you say, voice rough from sleep, “are you staring at.”

he doesn’t answer, just reaches for the kettle, pours you a cup. you take it without thinking, your fingers brushing his, and the contact is so brief, so small, but it sets something off inside him anyway.

he swallows it down. grins like there’s nothing pressing against the inside of his ribs. “thought you were gonna sleep in.”

“couldn’t,” you mumble, cradling the cup. “you weren’t there.”

he doesn’t know what to do with that. it shouldn’t make his pulse stutter, shouldn’t make his throat tighten. but it does.

and when you yawn and shuffle over to lean into his side, still half-asleep, he thinks—

this. this is it.

—

you make fun of him for how easily he fixes things. broken radios, busted engines, anything with wires and circuits. you hand him something ruined and he brings it back to life.

“what about people?” you ask once, chin resting on your palm, watching him work. “you think you could fix them too?”

he laughs, but it’s a quiet thing. “people aren’t machines.”

“but if they were?”

he glances at you, something unreadable in his expression. you wait for him to say something teasing, to brush it off, but he doesn’t.

“then i’d fix you first,” he says.

it catches you off guard. something shifts between you, heavy and quiet.

“i’m not broken, caleb.”

“i know,” he says, too fast. and then, softer, like it’s just for him: “i just don’t want you to be.”

—

there’s a storm outside. neither of you are sleeping.

you’re lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, listening to the rain hammer against the windows. lightning flashes, and a second later, thunder rolls through the sky like a growl. caleb sits on the floor beside you, legs crossed, fingers absentmindedly fiddling with a lighter.

“can’t sleep?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.

you shake your head. “you?”

“nah.”

silence stretches between you. the kind that’s comfortable.

you reach for his hand without thinking, fingers brushing over his palm, over the calluses, the old scars. he doesn’t pull away. just lets you trace the lines there, slow and careful.

“you ever think about leaving?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

“leaving what?”

“everything.”

he tilts his head back, looking at the ceiling like it has answers. “yeah,” he admits. “sometimes.”

“would you?”

he turns to you then, and there’s something in his gaze, something unreadable but steady. “not without you.”

your throat goes tight.

you don’t know how to say what you’re feeling, so you squeeze his hand instead. he squeezes back. the rain keeps falling, the storm rages on, but here, in this space between you, it’s quiet.

—

you’re both terrible at goodbyes.

when he leaves, it’s never for long. never more than a few weeks at a time. but it still lingers, still settles in your chest like something heavy.

he pulls you into a hug before he goes, arms tight around you, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. like if he holds on tight enough, he won’t have to miss you.

“stay out of trouble,” he murmurs against your hair.

“no promises,” you say, trying to sound light, but your voice wavers.

he pulls back just enough to look at you. his eyes are warm, steady. “i’ll be back soon.”

“you better.”

he grins, but it’s softer than usual. then he’s gone, and the space he leaves behind feels bigger than it should.

—

when he comes back, you’re waiting.

he doesn’t get a chance to say anything before you’re throwing yourself at him, arms around his neck, holding on like you’ll never let go. he catches you easily, his laugh breathless against your ear.

“missed me that much?”

“shut up,” you mumble, but you don’t pull away.

he just holds you tighter. presses his face into your shoulder, breathes you in like he’s been drowning and you’re air.

and when you whisper, quiet but certain, “you're here,”

he closes his eyes and thinks, yeah.

he’s home.

[fictional-character-fanboy]

pit-a-pat | zayne

synopsis : He was never really yours. Not when she existed.

content : ANGST, zayne x non-mc!reader, some cannon some non-cannon, doctor zayne (a dash of sylus x reader)

writer’s note : The girl mentioned in the story is supposed to be MC from the game but let’s pretend she isn’t :)

It started beautifully.

Not with fireworks or declarations, but with something quieter—something softer.

You met Zayne on a Tuesday. The skies were overcast, and the campus café was packed with students trying to squeeze in one last coffee before the end-of-term chaos. You had just picked up your order, arms full of books and notes and a half-finished thought buzzing in your mind, when you turned too quickly and collided with someone.

The impact jolted through you. Your books scattered, your pen rolled under a chair, and your coffee splashed onto your sleeve. You let out a soft curse under your breath, flustered, apologizing before you even looked up.

Then a hand reached down, brushing against yours.

“I’m sorry,” came a low voice.

You looked up.

And that was the first time you saw him.

Zayne.

Tall, composed, sharp around the edges but inexplicably gentle in the way he moved. His eyes—hazel green, clear and steady—met yours like they already knew you. Like they had always known you.

He picked up your pen, handed it to you.

“I owe you a coffee,” he said. “Let me make it up to you.”

You smiled. Gave him your number.

The rest unfolded the way falling does—slow, weightless, inevitable.

There were no grand gestures. No overly rehearsed first dates. You didn’t even realize you were falling in love with him until you already had. He was simply there, steady and quiet and comforting in a way the world rarely is.

He never raised his voice. Never made you feel like you had to be more or less than exactly who you were. He wasn’t perfect—he kept things to himself, and his silences could stretch into days—but you loved him all the same. You told yourself it was enough. That love was never about loudness, but about staying.

And Zayne stayed.

For eight years.

You stood beside him through every sleepless night of his internship, through every heartbreak he brought home from the hospital. You held his hand when he was promoted, when he won awards, when the weight of lives saved and lost pressed too heavily against his shoulders.

You built a quiet life together. Shared takeout containers and cold pillows. Lazy Sunday mornings and long nights where your laptop glowed across the room as he dozed off beside you in his scrubs.

You became a writer, the kind with notebooks full of fictional heartbreaks, never quite knowing you were walking toward your own.

And you thought—foolishly, recklessly—that he was your ending.

That one day, you would wear white, and he would wait for you at the altar, hands trembling, heart full.

But some love stories are not meant to be lived. Only written.

—•

You stood outside his office now.

Your hand clutched his notebook, the one he left behind this morning in his rush to get to the hospital. His keys jangled faintly against your palm. You had texted, but he hadn’t responded. It wasn’t unusual. He got busy.

You told yourself that.

But the dread sitting in your chest was new.

The door to his office was slightly ajar. You stepped closer without thinking, intending only to knock—just knock, hand the things over, and leave.

But then, you heard his voice.

Low. Familiar. But not like you’d ever heard it before.

“I did this all… for you.”

Your body went still.

Inside, Zayne was standing with a girl you didn’t recognize—not at first. She was smaller than you, delicate. Her eyes were wide and wet. Zayne’s hand hovered just beside her cheek, and his other gripped her forearm like she was something slipping from his grasp.

“I planned this. To be your physician. To work here. Just so I could see you.”

The world tilted.

A cold, sharp pressure settled in your chest, and your fingers loosened. The keys dropped first, hitting the floor with a sound that sliced through the silence. His notebook followed, landing with a dull thud on the waiting chair beside the door.

Both of them turned.

She looked at you with startled recognition.

Zayne’s eyes locked onto yours. And in that instant, everything changed.

You knew.

You remembered her now. He had mentioned her once. His childhood friend. The one with the heart condition. A passing story over dinner, shared like a memory too old to matter.

You hadn’t thought anything of it then.

But you understood now.

She wasn’t a memory.

She was the reason.

The reason he became a doctor. The reason he worked here.

The reason for his choices, his ambition, his silence.

The reason he stayed up at night, staring at the ceiling.

The reason he chose a life of saving people—so he wouldn’t lose her.

You wanted to ask him if it was all a lie. But the words wouldn’t come.

Because deep down, you already knew the answer.

And he didn’t deny it.

He didn’t say your name. He didn’t come after you.

He just stood there. Watching.

And that hurt more than anything else.

You turned and walked away.

Not out of pride. Not out of anger.

But because staying would’ve shattered you in ways you weren’t sure you could recover from.

You made it to the elevator before the tears came. Quiet ones, slipping down your cheeks like they had every right to be there. You didn’t wipe them away. You didn’t try to breathe through the ache.

You let them fall.

Eight years.

Eight years of loving someone who had always belonged to someone else.

You had been writing your love story in ink.

But he had written his in pencil. And now, he had erased you.

You don’t go home right away.

You wander the streets with no destination, the city blurring past you like watercolor in the rain. Cars pass. People pass. The world keeps moving, unaware that yours has come undone.

By the time you return to your apartment, it’s dark.

You don’t bother turning on the lights. You sit on the edge of the bed where he’s slept beside you for years, staring at the familiar shapes in the shadows—his worn coat slung over the chair, the framed photo on the nightstand, the mug with his initials you always forget to put away.

And then the door clicks.

You don’t move.

You hear the soft shuffle of his shoes being kicked off. The hesitant steps down the hallway.

Then his voice.

“Hey.”

Quiet. Careful. Like the word might break.

You still don’t move.

A beat. Two. Then he speaks again. “I didn’t expect you to be there.”

You almost laugh. Didn’t expect—

You turn slowly to face him. The expression on your face is not angry. It’s worse.

It’s tired.

Empty.

“What was I supposed to see, Zayne?” you ask. Your voice doesn’t tremble, but it’s raw. “Because all I saw was a man in love with someone else.”

He doesn’t deny it.

He doesn’t even flinch.

He just looks at you with that same unreadable gaze he always has, like he’s weighing truths against silence. Like he’s trying to choose the least painful version of honesty.

“She was sick,” he says quietly. “You knew that.”

“That’s not the part that hurts.” Your words are sharp, but they don’t rise in volume. “The part that hurts is you built your whole life around her—and I didn’t know. I loved you for eight years. And I didn’t know.”

Zayne’s eyes darken, but he says nothing.

You continue, barely able to keep your voice steady. “Every step you took, every choice you made—becoming a doctor, working at Akso Hospital… You said you wanted to help people. You made me believe that was who you were.”

“I am that,” he says quickly.

“But that’s not why you did it.” Your voice cracks on the last word. “You did it for her.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You almost laugh again, but it turns into something hollow.

“You didn’t mean to,” you echo, staring at him like you’re trying to memorize the face of someone you no longer recognize. “Zayne, I built my life around you. I was ready to marry you. I was planning forever with someone who—”

You choke. You try to breathe.

“—with someone who’s heart was never really mine.”

His shoulders stiffen. “It’s not that simple.”

“Yes, it is,” you say. “You loved her. You still love her. I was just… convenient.”

“That’s not true,” he says sharply. It’s the first time he’s raised his voice. “You weren’t convenient. You were—”

“What, Zayne? What was I?” you whisper. “A distraction? A substitute? Someone you convinced yourself you could be happy with because she wasn’t here?”

He looks away. That’s all the answer you need.

You don’t cry. Not this time. There’s nothing left in you to fall apart.

Instead, you stand.

“I would’ve understood if you had just told me,” you say quietly. “I would’ve left. I would’ve let you go. But you didn’t. You let me believe I was your person. And now, I don’t even know what was real.”

He doesn’t stop you when you move past him. He doesn’t call your name.

He just stands there, in the center of the hallway, with guilt written all over his face.

And you realize, for all his brilliance, for all the lives he’s saved.

Zayne never had the courage to save yours from this.

—•

You don’t even know why you agreed to be here.

Maybe part of you wanted closure. Maybe the angrier part of you wanted to look her in the eye and find something—anything—to blame.

Or maybe, in the raw aftermath of it all, you just wanted to understand what could possibly be so powerful that it unraveled eight years of your life like thread from a seam.

The hospital courtyard is quiet when you arrive. The air is cold, overcast with a brittle kind of stillness. You sit down on the far end of the stone bench, your hands curled inside your coat sleeves. The silence hums in your ears.

You almost leave.

But then you hear footsteps—soft, hesitant.

She stops in front of you. The girl.

The reason.

She looks like something out of a different life—slight, pale, wrapped in a coat two sizes too big. Her hair is tucked behind her ears, and her face is gentle in a way that feels unfair.

You wish she had sharpness to her. Arrogance.

Something you could hate on sight.

But she doesn’t.

She looks… kind.

And somehow, that hurts more.

“Hi,” she says, tentative.

You don’t answer. You just watch her, expression unreadable, trying to see what he must’ve seen.

She glances down, wringing her hands. “Thanks for coming.”

You almost say don’t thank me. Almost. But the words stay behind your teeth.

She sits, carefully keeping distance between you.

A long silence stretches out.

“I know this is strange,” she begins, “and I don’t want to make anything worse. I just thought… maybe you deserved to hear it from me.”

Your jaw clenches. “Did you know about me?”

She hesitates. Then, “Yes.”

You inhale slowly. That answer burns.

“So you knew,” you murmur, your voice tighter than you want it to be, “and you still let it happen.”

“I didn’t let anything happen,” she says softly. “I didn’t come looking for him. I didn’t expect to see him again. And when I did, I didn’t know how to undo it.”

Undo it. As if this is something she can unspool. As if your heart was a thread to pull clean.

You turn to her then, finally meeting her gaze. “I tried to hate you.”

She flinches, but you continue.

“I wanted to. I really, really did. I told myself you were selfish. That you ruined everything. That he wouldn’t have drifted if you hadn’t been there.”

Your eyes sting. But the tears stay where they are.

“I needed to hate you. Because hating him… it’s harder. And hating myself—well, that’s already happening.”

She looks at you with something close to sorrow. Not pity. Not guilt. Just a deep, quiet understanding.

“I never meant to take anything from you,” she says. “But I think… I always had him. Even when I didn’t want to.”

You nod slowly. That’s the part that kills you.

“It wasn’t fair,” you whisper. “I loved him for eight years. I gave him everything. And he—he was building a life around you the entire time.”

The girl’s lips tremble. “I don’t think he knew how to let go of me. Not fully. I don’t even think he knew he hadn’t.”

You close your eyes. The wind picks up, threading cold fingers through your coat.

“You know what’s funny?” you say, voice hollow. “I thought we were preparing for a wedding. Turns out, I was standing in the way of a reunion.”

Silence falls again. Heavy. Unforgiving.

She blinks quickly, her throat working around words she can’t say. “I’m sorry.”

You believe her. That’s the worst part.

You wanted her to be cruel, or callous, or indifferent. You wanted her to be easy to hate.

But she’s just a girl with a fragile heart, loved too deeply by someone who was never entirely yours to begin with.

You rise slowly. Your legs feel heavy, as if grief has settled in your joints.

“I hope he saves you,” you murmur. “I hope it’s worth everything he lost.”

You don’t wait for her to respond.

You leave. And this time, you don’t cry.

But something in you quietly, irrevocably, closes.

—•

He shows up three days later.

You don’t know how he finds the nerve.

You’ve ignored his calls. His texts. The pathetic, half-sincere “Can we talk?” messages that began the night after the garden. He should’ve known better. He should’ve stayed gone.

But here he is.

You hear the knock this time. You sit still for a moment, your fingers curled around the edge of the blanket you’ve barely left for days, breath caught between dread and fury.

He knocks again. Harder this time.

You stand. Not because you want to see him—because you need to. To put a face to the damage.

When you open the door, it’s like nothing has changed. He’s still Zayne. Rain-damp, serious, heartbreakingly familiar in that coat you once buried your face into when the world felt too loud.

But he’s not yours anymore.

Not really.

“What do you want?” you ask. No softness. No welcome.

His jaw tenses. “To talk.”

Your laugh is sharp and joyless. “Of course. Now you talk.”

“I know I should’ve—”

“Spare me the guilt,” you snap. “I’m not in the mood to hear you pretend this wasn’t calculated.”

He flinches. “It wasn’t.”

“Oh no?” You take a step forward. “You became a doctor for her, Zayne. You took a job at her hospital. You became her physician. How long were you going to keep lying to me?”

“I didn’t lie.”

“You didn’t tell me!” you shout. “That’s the same thing!”

Your voice echoes through the hallway. You don’t care who hears. You want it to hurt.

He looks at you, lips parted like he wants to defend himself—but nothing comes out.

“I asked you once,” you continue, quieter now but no less cutting, “why you wanted to be a doctor. You told me it was to save lives. You looked me in the eye and lied.”

“I didn’t lie,” he says again, harsher now. “That’s still true. Saving her doesn’t make that less real.”

“It makes everything less real,” you spit. “Eight years, Zayne. I gave you everything. I built a future around someone who was still living in his past.”

“She almost died,” he snaps. “Do you understand that? She was twelve. I thought I lost her. I made a promise—”

“To her,” you interrupt. “You made a promise to her, and you made a life with me. You don’t get to have both.”

He falls silent.

His hands are clenched at his sides. His mouth is tight. You can tell he wants to argue, but he won’t. Because he knows you’re right.

“She was never gone,” you whisper. “Not from your heart. Not from your plans. And you… you let me believe I was enough. That I was your beginning and your end. But I was just—” your voice cracks, “I was just a pause in the story you’d always meant to return to.”

He shakes his head, voice strained. “That’s not what you were.”

“Then what was I, Zayne?”

He looks at you like he’s searching for the right words. The truth. But it’s too late for carefully packaged honesty.

You take a breath. It’s cold in your lungs. “You don’t get to grieve this. Not now. Not when you’re the one who ended it.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

You laugh again. This time, it sounds like it might break you. “But you did.”

You walk back inside and return a minute later with the box—his books, his charger, the old hoodie you used to sleep in. You shove it into his arms.

He doesn’t take it right away. “Please—don’t let this be how it ends.”

You stare at him, empty. Tired. “Zayne, it ended the moment you chose silence.”

He lowers his head. Grips the box like it’s the only thing holding him together.

And when he finally turns to leave, you don’t stop him.

This time, you don’t look back.

And this time—he does cry.

He doesn’t go home.

Not right away.

He drives. Somewhere. Anywhere. The roads blur beneath the city lights, each turn as pointless as the last. He forgets where he’s meant to be.

He doesn’t cry at first.

That doesn’t happen until later—when he pulls over on the side of an empty street, kills the engine, and sits in the silence he spent years wrapping around his truth.

And then it hits him.

Not like a punch. No, it’s slower than that.

It’s the steady, suffocating realization that you’re gone.

Really gone.

Not just upset. Not waiting for him to make it right.

Gone, because you loved him too deeply to stay where you were never really seen.

He rests his forehead against the steering wheel and exhales a broken sound that might be a sob. Might be a prayer. Might just be everything finally coming undone.

How did he get here?

He thinks back to when you met. Your laugh—unexpected, soft. The way you always saw right through his silences, but never pushed too hard. How you held his hand during exams, during sleepless nights, during the moments he thought he might collapse under the weight of what he couldn’t say.

And now?

Now you won’t even look at him.

And he doesn’t blame you.

He’d clung so tightly to a ghost of the past, he never noticed he was strangling the only real thing he had left.

The worst part? He meant it. Every word he said to the other girl. The promise. The devotion. He did want to save her. He did want to protect her.

But he never asked himself why.

Maybe he thought saving her would fix something in him. That if he kept his promise, if he held on tightly enough, he’d redeem himself for that helpless, broken boy who once stood in an ER, covered in blood that didn’t belong to him.

But he never meant to love both.

Not like this.

He stares out the windshield, watching the rain bead and slide down the glass. It reminds him of you. Of the way you never cried in front of him—not even when it hurt.

Especially when it hurt.

And that night in the hallway—your voice shaking but never pleading. Your eyes full of betrayal, not begging. That was love, too. The kind that breaks itself before it breaks you.

He wipes his face with the back of his hand, as if that will erase the weight in his chest.

But it stays.

God, it stays.

And for the first time since med school, since the long nights that almost drowned him, Zayne doesn’t know what to do.

Not with himself.

Not with this regret.

He was always good at silence. At burying what he didn’t want to face.

But this time, silence cost him the only person who ever stayed.

The hospital doesn’t feel the same.

It should.

Same corridors. Same sterile smell. Same rustle of nurses’ shoes against polished floors. He walks these halls every day—he knows the pattern of the tiles, the rhythm of the fluorescent lights above. He’s built a life inside this place.

But now?

It feels hollow. Too bright in some places. Too quiet in others.

He stands outside Operating Room B with a chart in his hand, staring at words he isn’t reading. His mind drifts. Again.

“Doctor Zayne?”

He blinks. A nurse is looking at him, brows slightly furrowed.

“You’re needed in Cardiology.”

Right. Cardiology. Her department.

He nods, mutters something close to thanks, and moves.

He still performs the surgeries. Still signs the charts. Still nods when interns look at him like he holds the world in his hands.

But something is gone.

And it’s not skill. It’s not precision.

Its presence.

He’s no longer in his life. He’s moving through it. Performing. Like muscle memory.

The girl—his childhood friend—she’s recovering. Stable. And she smiles when she sees him, small and grateful and warm.

But it doesn’t make him feel anything.

Not now.

Not since he saw the look on your face—the woman he promised a future to. The one who gave him all of herself without knowing he was never giving you all of him.

He remembers your hands, trembling when you pushed the box into his arms. The edge in your voice when you asked, “Then what was I, Zayne?”

He didn’t have an answer then.

He still doesn’t.

Because how do you explain to someone that they were your peace, your softness, your home—and you lost them because you couldn’t let go of a promise made by a boy who hadn’t learned how to speak his grief out loud?

Zayne finds himself in the stairwell, long after his shift ends. He doesn’t even remember walking here.

He sits on the steps. Folds forward. Buries his face in his hands.

He doesn’t cry. He already did that. He’s past crying now.

What he feels now is worse.

Emptiness.

The kind that seeps into everything.

He pulls out his phone. Opens your name. Stares at the last message you sent.

“Can you grab oat milk on the way home?”

He didn’t even answer it.

He thinks about texting. Something. Anything.

“I miss you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t know I was choosing wrong until you were gone.”

But he doesn’t.

Because what could he say now that wouldn’t sound like too little, too late?

And because maybe—deep down—he knows you deserve someone who doesn’t have to lose you to realize you were everything.

—•

You were sitting at your usual corner table in a café tucked between a bookstore and a florist—one of those quiet places where time didn’t feel so heavy. You weren’t writing. Not that day. You just sat there, fingers wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug, watching the world through a pane of glass slick with water.

Existing in the small, still spaces between grief and recovery.

You had been doing that a lot lately. Watching.

It was raining. Of course it was.

It had been seven months since Zayne. Since the silence. Since the hallway.

You hadn’t dated anyone. You couldn’t.

Not when your heart still ached in places you hadn’t named.

That’s where you met Sylus.

He walked in, his footsteps confident as he strides up to the counter.

You didn’t look up at first. Just heard the low hum of the door chime, the soft sound of boots on wet tile. Then came the voice.

“I’ll take whatever’s strongest and not completely terrible.”

It made you glance over your shoulder.

And there he was.

White silver hair that stood out against the interior of the coffee shop.

Sharp-featured. Tall. Dressed in black with a half-dried coat slung over one arm and stormy red eyes that didn’t belong in a place like this.

He looked… misfit.

Like someone who had gotten lost on his way to something louder.

He caught you staring.

Smirked.

“Judging me already?” he said as he passed your table.

You blinked, caught off guard. “You looked like you came in here by accident.”

“I did.” He set his cup on the table across from yours without asking. “Lucky me.”

You stared at him. He stared right back. There was no hesitation in him.

No over-eagerness. No rehearsed charm. Just a strange kind of confidence, like he didn’t care whether you invited him in or not.

And yet… somehow, he was easy to talk to.

That first conversation was short. Nothing special. He told you he was in the city for work. Said he hated the rain. You said you didn’t mind it.

He teased you for that. Called you a poet. You didn’t correct him.

Before he left, he asked for your name. Then he gave you his. Sylus.

He didn’t ask for your number. He didn’t flirt. He just said, “Maybe I’ll see you here again.”

And you did.

The next week. And the week after that.

Same table. Same rain.

He never asked about your past, and you never asked about his.

He talked to you like you were new. Like you weren’t made of broken pieces.

And you liked that.

You liked that he didn’t try to fix you. That he didn’t reach for your scars or ask what happened.

He just saw you. All of you.

Eventually, you started writing again.

He’d sit across from you, reading some obscure book or sketching something in a notebook he never let you see.

“You ever gonna tell me what that is?” you asked one afternoon.

“Maybe,” he said with a shrug, “when you’re done hiding behind yours.”

You laughed. For the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel strange.

He didn’t slip into your life the way Zayne did.

No, Sylus walked in with loud footsteps and called attention to all the parts of you that still needed to be held.

And when he finally kissed you—months later, after too many late nights and half-finished conversations—he didn’t whisper promises.

He only said, “You don’t have to be ready. Just let me stay.”

And you did.

Now, you’re curled up on the couch in one of Sylus’s old sweaters, legs folded beneath you, a half-read book resting in your lap.

You’ve read the same paragraph three times. The words blur and smear.

Not because you’re tired—though you are—but because your thoughts won’t sit still.

He notices.

He always does.

Sylus steps out from the kitchen, two mugs in hand. You hadn’t asked for tea. You never really need to. He knows the nights when you can’t quite find your center.

He sits beside you, close but never crowding, and offers the cup without a word.

You take it, fingers brushing his. His touch is warm. Steady.

You don’t speak right away.

He doesn’t push.

That’s the thing about Sylus. He doesn’t try to draw the pain out of you. He just makes space for it. Holds it. Waits until you’re ready.

After a long moment, you say quietly, “It’s almost been two years.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Since him?”

You nod.

Sylus leans back against the couch, stretching an arm along the top. Not possessive. Just there. Like a safety net.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You shake your head. “Not really. I just… thought I’d be past the memory by now.”

He hums softly. “Memories don’t care about time. They’re like bruises under the skin. You forget they’re there until something presses too hard.”

You glance at him, lips tugging into a faint, worn smile. “Is that your poetic way of saying it’s okay to feel like this?”

He smirks. “It’s my poetic way of saying I’m not going anywhere.”

Your smile softens. Fades into something real.

He’s never tried to replace what came before. Never asked you to forget it. He simply stayed.

When you turned away.

When you flinched at first touch.

When you said not yet.

When you said I’m not whole.

Sylus looked you in the eye and said, You don’t have to be.

And you believed him.

Now, you lean your head against his shoulder, tea still warm between your hands. He lets you rest there in silence.

No questions. No expectations.

Just the quiet knowing that this—whatever it is—is something different.

Something earned.

And when his hand finds yours and doesn’t let go, you feel it again.

That peace you thought you’d never know after Zayne.

The kind of love that doesn’t arrive like a storm.

But like a home.

—•

Two years later, you see him again.

You hadn’t expected it—weren’t prepared for it.

It’s a charity gala, the kind Sylus rarely agrees to attend, but he’s here tonight for you.

One hand on your back, the other wrapped loosely around a glass of champagne he hasn’t touched. He looks just like he always does, sharp suit, sharp tongue, a man made of storm and steel, and yet—when he looks at you, it softens him.

Always.

You never thought you’d get to feel this way again.

Safe.

Loved.

Chosen.

You’re speaking to someone—maybe a publisher, maybe a donor—you don’t really remember.

And then you feel it.

That cold flicker down your spine.

That familiar stillness before the silence breaks.

You turn.

And there he is.

Zayne.

Two years older. A little more tired. A little less certain.

He’s standing just across the room, alone in a sea of people.

He looks like he doesn’t quite belong here, like he’s watching a world he no longer fits into.

And then his eyes find you.

You don’t look away.

You let him see it—all of it.

The soft smile on your lips. The ring on your finger. The way Sylus leans in, brushing a kiss to your temple without even realizing he’s doing it.

Zayne’s expression doesn’t change. Not really. But you feel the ripple.

Because this time, you are not the one breaking.

You are not the one watching love walk away.

You’re standing still.

And someone is holding on.

You excuse yourself quietly from the conversation, fingers brushing Sylus’s wrist as you turn to whisper something.

He catches the look in your eyes. He knows. Of course he knows.

But he says nothing. Just stays close. Just keeps his hand resting at the small of your back like he’s reminding you—you’re not alone.

When you approach, Zayne doesn’t speak right away.

He just looks at you like he’s trying to memorize the life you’ve built without him. The one he didn’t stay long enough to deserve.

“You look…” he begins, but falters. His voice is rougher now. Thinner.

“Happy?” you offer gently.

He nods. “Yeah.”

You glance back at Sylus, who’s watching from a respectful distance, sharp-eyed and protective as ever. He always gives you space when you need it. But never too far.

“I didn’t know you were back in the city,” Zayne says.

You nod. “We moved here last spring.”

“We?”

“My husband and I.”

He flinches—just barely. But you see it.

You don’t gloat. You don’t need to.

There’s a grace in moving on that silence can never rewrite.

“He’s good to you?” Zayne asks.

You smile. “He sees me.”

The words hang between you. Heavy. Sharp. True.

Zayne swallows hard. “I’m glad.”

You nod. And this time, it’s real. “So am I.”

You don’t stay long. Just long enough for him to see that you survived him. That you bloomed after the break. That someone else saw what he couldn’t hold.

You return to Sylus without looking back.

He slides his arm around your waist and leans in, his lips brushing your ear. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I am now.”

And as the music rises and the crowd begins to move again, you rest your hand over your husband’s and let yourself forget the boy who couldn’t choose you.

Because you’ve already chosen the man who never had to be asked.

[fictional-character-fanboy]

I’m watching the movie Space Sweepers on Netflix and chat… bubs is lowkey fyne