mydeimosmeow

[mydeimosmeow]

changed this blog’s name dont forget me guys…💔

[mydeimosmeow]

this was so beautiful oh my god?????

Request for youuuuuuu:

zayne's a librarian at your uni library. He sees your names in books he loves to read all the time (in those check out library slips). You two start leaving notes to each other between the pages (a post it here, another there, commenting on how this one line in the book spoke to you or him).

On the recommended tags in the bookshelves, you sometimes slip in a tag yourself (even though you're not an employee working in the library yourself), knowing zayne will end up finding it bc he's the only one who spends the most time looking for books and recommending books to people who spend the most time there.

I'll leave the ending up to you ;D just needed librarian!zayne cuz he's been stuck in my head for far too long

OHOHOHO I SEE YOU I SEE YOU! Lemme see what I can cook, librarian Zayne oh lord how did I never think of that? Sksksk here is, librarian zayne fluff dedicated fully for @blessdunrest

I finished this in record time omg you can tell how excited I was to write this. LOL hope you enjoy! And please tell me if i cooked :D

Was going to post this tomorrow but then I finished my other draft so I thought I’d give you double treats :))

It was supposed to be a normal day at the library for Zayne.

The late afternoon sunlight filtered in through the high windows, casting a warm, dappled glow across the wooden floor.

The scent of old paper and quiet settled around him like a familiar blanket. He had just finished shelving the last of the returned books—most left in disarray by hurried hands and careless minds.

He didn’t mind, not really.

There was something grounding in the ritual, in the quiet order of things finding their place again.

With a quiet sigh, he sank into the worn chair behind the desk, reaching for the thick, lined library slip book.

One by one, he flipped through the entries, scanning the familiar handwriting.

Natasha, Year 3 – Fundamentals of Molecular Science.

Ada, Year 2 – Cosmos Within, a sci-fi classic.

Then—

Y/N, Year 3 – The Sun and Her Flowers.

His hand stilled on the page.

Something in his chest tightened—not in alarm, but in surprise, a subtle ache blooming beneath his ribs.

That book.

It wasn’t just any poetry collection.

It was his book.

The one he’d carried in his bag long after he’d read it, pages dog-eared and underlined, ink smudged from restless nights.

It wasn’t something people around here cared about—too tender, too raw, too honest for most.

Especially not anyone in his year. No one ever borrowed it.

Until now.

His fingers brushed over your name. Familiar, yet distant.

You weren’t someone he spoke to much, not directly.

You were always there, though—in the same lectures, across the hallway, once in a quiet corner of the library with your headphones in and your eyes half-lost in the page.

But now, you held a part of him you didn’t know he’d shared.

And somehow, it felt like fate had just nudged him, ever so gently, across a line he hadn’t realized he’d been standing on.

He closed the slip book slowly.

And for the first time that day, the silence of the library didn’t feel so solitary.

—•

When you came to return the book the next day, Zayne was tucked behind the counter, half-lost in a page of scribbled notes and quiet thoughts.

The world outside was muted—just the soft hum of the air conditioner, the occasional creak of floorboards, the rustle of paper.

He liked it that way.

Predictable. Still.

Until your voice broke the stillness.

“Hey, I’d like to return this.”

He froze.

The pen in his hand paused mid-word, ink pooling slightly on the page.

Slowly, he looked up—and the moment his eyes met yours, something in him shifted.

It was subtle, a quiet unravelling.

As if time, that steady companion of his, had faltered.

You stood there, framed by the light pouring in from the glass panels behind you, The Sun and Her Flowers held gently in your hands.

There was a calmness to you, but your eyes—there was something in them he hadn’t seen before. Not just curiosity.

Not just politeness. But softness. A quiet depth, like a poem waiting to be read aloud.

And for the first time, he noticed you.

Really noticed you.

The way your hair caught the light, the way your fingers held the book like it meant something, like it had left traces on your heart too.

You weren’t just a name in a slip book anymore.

You weren’t just another student passing through the quiet halls of his routine.

You were real.

And radiant.

And standing in front of him holding the very thing that had once made him feel a little less alone.

He cleared his throat, but his voice felt like it had to pass through miles of thought before it could reach you.

“Was it… good?”

He didn’t mean the book.

Not really.

You giggled—a soft, melodic sound that made something stir in the quiet corners of his chest.

Then you gave a small nod, placed the book gently on the counter, and turned to leave without another word.

Zayne stood there, momentarily caught in place, lips parted slightly in awe.

Like he’d just witnessed a small miracle, something fleeting and beautiful that brushed past him before he could reach for it.

His fingers hesitated before closing around the book, still warm from your touch.

He didn’t mean to open it again.

He’d read it a dozen times before. Knew the verses like he knew the beat of his own pulse.

But now, with you lingering like sunlight after a storm, he found himself drawn to it—not for the words, but for the trace of you that might still linger between the pages.

As he lifted the cover, something fluttered out.

A small, folded note.

It landed softly on the counter, and with careful hands, he opened it.

‘I notice everything I do not have, and decide it is beautiful.’

A line from the book.

Yes.

But in your handwriting.

Zayne stared at it, breath caught in his throat.

The words weren’t addressed to anyone. Not signed. Not meant to be found.

And yet—

It felt like a secret.

A whisper of something unspoken.

Like a sliver of your soul had slipped into his hands.

His heart stirred with something quiet and inexplicable. Longing, maybe. Recognition.

The faint ache of possibility blooming in his chest.

Because suddenly, it wasn’t just a quote.

It was a mirror.

And for the first time in a very long while, he felt seen.

—•

That night, Zayne didn’t sleep.

He lay in bed, the glow of the city lights casting quiet shadows on his ceiling, the note still echoing in his mind like a song he couldn’t forget.

Over and over, he replayed the moment you stood in front of him—the way your eyes lit up, the way your laughter lingered even after you left.

He thought of a hundred things he could say to you.

A hundred ways to start a conversation.

Maybe ask what part of the book moved you most.

Maybe tell you it moved him too.

But no matter how many versions he rehearsed in his head, something held him back.

It wasn’t fear, not exactly. It was something softer. A quiet reverence for the way it had all unfolded.

Because this felt like your thing. The book, the note, the brief but meaningful collision of your worlds. A fragile thread tied in silence and serendipity.

And he didn’t want to pull too hard and unravel it.

So he made a decision.

He reached for one of his favourite books—Letters to a Young Poet, the worn spine evidence of how often he’d returned to its pages.

With slow, deliberate care, he opened it to the passage that had once given him comfort on a lonely night and slipped his own note inside.

‘Perhaps somewhere, in the quiet, we’re already speaking the same language.’

No name. No explanation.

Just the possibility of being understood.

The next morning, he shelved it beneath his recommendations display, straightening the spine with a kind of quiet hope.

He lingered for a moment, fingers brushing the cover one last time, as if to will it toward you.

Then he stepped back, heart thrumming in his chest, and waited.

Because sometimes, love doesn’t begin with grand gestures.

Sometimes, it begins with a shared page.

He waited.

Each day, he kept an eye on the entrance from behind the counter, feigning focus on paperwork while his gaze flickered toward the door every time the bell above chimed.

The minutes ticked by in soft, library-quiet rhythm. Students came and went, laughter echoing faintly from the courtyard beyond.

The book remained untouched on the shelf, nestled between other titles that meant far less to him.

And then—

You appeared.

Just like that. As if you belonged in that moment.

Zayne’s breath caught in his throat.

You moved with quiet purpose, your gaze sweeping the shelves, fingertips trailing along spines as if reading by touch.

There was a crease in your brow, that same thoughtful expression he remembered from the other day. You were searching.

Maybe for something you couldn’t name.

Maybe for the exact book he’d left behind for you.

He didn’t move.

He just watched—heart pounding, chest tight with something he couldn’t quite name. Hope, maybe.

Or longing.

Or the fragile beauty of watching a possibility begin to unfold.

The way you walked, the way your hair caught the morning light—it all felt like a scene he would’ve once written down and tucked away for safekeeping.

And in that moment, watching you reach out toward the shelf where his secret waited, he didn’t need to speak.

Because some silences said everything.

And his, just then, was quietly pleading.

You reached for the book—his book—and he swore time held its breath.

Your fingers wrapped around the worn spine, and with a small, satisfied smile, you turned on your heel and made your way toward the front desk.

Toward him.

Zayne straightened instinctively, his heartbeat loud in his ears, though his expression remained composed—habitual restraint masking the storm beneath.

You placed the book gently on the counter, the very one he’d chosen for you, with the note nestled like a secret between its pages.

“I’d like to borrow this,” you said, your voice soft but sure.

He met your gaze and nodded, careful to keep his hands steady as he reached for the library slip book.

He scribbled your name beneath the title, signing off with the date.

It felt strange, somehow, how something so mundane could feel so momentous.

When he handed the book back to you, your fingers brushed his—just for a second—and it was like something sparked beneath his skin.

You smiled at him, small and genuine, a quiet thank-you in the curve of your lips.

And then, just like that, you turned and walked away.

He didn’t call out after you.

Didn’t ask if you’d find the note.

He only watched, the image of your retreating figure imprinting itself on some tender part of him.

And still, he hoped.

Because now, it was your turn to read.

And maybe—just maybe—you’d understand what he hadn’t been able to say aloud.

—•

You returned the book a few days later, the same gentle grace in your steps, the same soft air of quiet that always seemed to surround you.

But this time, there was something different—a faint smile tugging at your lips, one that wasn’t there the first time.

Something knowing.

You placed the book on the counter without a word, just a small nod in his direction, as if acknowledging something unspoken between you.

As always, you turned to leave.

And Zayne felt it—

That sudden ache of something slipping through his fingers.

The almost. The maybe. The not yet.

His heart, though carefully guarded, wilted slightly with the weight of that silence.

But then—

Something fluttered out from between the pages.

The note.

His own handwriting stared back at him first—his quiet offering. The line he had hoped would reach you.

But beneath it, written in a different hand—your hand—was something more.

‘Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart.’

A passage from the same book.

But this time, it wasn’t just a quote.

It was an answer.

Zayne stared at the words, the corners of the paper trembling slightly in his hands.

And then he smiled—

Small. Real. Disbelieving.

Because he understood.

You had read between the lines.

And you had answered in the only language he had trusted you to understand.

—•

It became a quiet ritual.

Every few days, Zayne would slip another book onto the recommendation shelf—never flashy, never obvious.

Just something thoughtful.

Something that meant something.

Between the pages, always the same—a note.

A single line, a question, a passage underlined just for you.

And somehow—without fail—you’d find it.

He never saw you take the books. Not once.

But they would vanish from the shelf by the end of the day, and a few days later, you’d return them with that same gentle smile and a new note waiting for him inside.

It was wordless magic, threaded between pages and ink.

A quiet conversation unfolding one borrowed book at a time.

He began to choose the titles more carefully.

Books that mirrored the seasons.

Books that carried pieces of him.

The ones he had clung to during sleepless nights.

The ones that had taught him to hope again.

And every time you responded, your words felt like echoes of something he had longed for but never dared to name.

It wasn’t a game.

It wasn’t even courtship.

It was something purer.

Something softer.

Like trust blooming in the silence between hearts.

He began to look forward to mornings—just to see if the book was gone.

Just to see your handwriting again. Just to know that somewhere out there, you were reading his words and choosing to answer with your own.

And in the quiet of the library, amid the soft turning of pages and the hush of footsteps, Zayne began to fall in love—with the mystery, the stillness, and the girl who spoke to him through stories.

Sometimes, you left little traces of yourself behind.

Not just in the notes you slipped into returned books, but in the soft, handwritten tags you began sliding beneath his recommendation shelf.

At first, they were small, almost shy—just a few words scrawled in the corner of an index card, barely noticeable unless someone was truly looking.

But Zayne noticed. Always.

“This one hurts in all the right ways.”

“Read if your soul is tired.”

And once—

“For Zayne.”

That one stayed with him the longest.

He found it tucked just beneath the worn copy of Norwegian Wood he had placed out that morning.

And the moment he saw those words—so simple, so personal—he felt the breath catch in his throat.

Like the air had grown too thick, like the space between you had suddenly narrowed into something unbearably intimate.

He never asked how you knew which books were from him.

He never had to.

Somehow, your heart always seemed to find what his had quietly left behind.

Those tags became a part of the shelf, a secret language only the two of you spoke.

And each one made his chest ache in the most tender, bittersweet way—because they weren’t just about the books anymore.

They were about understanding. About being seen.

And for someone like Zayne, who had always spoken best in silence and stories, it felt like falling in love without ever having to say the word.

And then—suddenly—you stopped.

No new checkouts. No returned books. No quiet notes tucked between the pages, no soft little tags beneath his shelf.

Just… silence.

A hollow kind that wrapped itself around Zayne’s chest and refused to let go.

He flipped through the library slip book again and again, hoping he’d missed something.

But your name—your name—hadn’t appeared in almost two weeks. And that absence, so small on paper, felt unbearable in reality.

Something wasn’t right.

The unease gnawed at him—restless and sharp.

You’d become a part of his world in ways he hadn’t realized until your presence slipped away like mist, and suddenly the quiet of the library felt colder, lonelier.

As though even the books missed you.

So he began looking.

Between classes, after closing hours—his gaze lingered at corners of the campus you might pass through, eyes searching, heart pulsing with quiet desperation.

And just when he thought he had imagined you into something too delicate for reality—

He found you.

Sitting beneath a tree in the far stretch of the campus field, where the sun filtered through the leaves and spilled golden light across the grass.

You were curled up with a book resting in your hands, its cover closed, your fingers still turning pages like you were searching for something within.

The expression on your face was distant, thoughtful, touched by something fragile.

Zayne hesitated, standing there for a moment, heart thudding like it was about to burst from the quiet he was about to shatter.

Then, for the first time, he stepped closer—not as the boy behind the counter, not as the name beneath your borrowed stories, but simply as himself.

And you looked up.

As if you knew he would come.

As if you’d been waiting.

“Took you long enough,” you said with a soft giggle, eyes warm as they met his.

Zayne stood there, breath caught, as you held the book out to him—its cover familiar yet unknown, as though it had always existed but waited for this moment to be seen.

“Here,” you murmured, placing it gently in his hands. “It’s for you.”

He looked down.

The title read: The Quiet Love I Found in the Library.

His fingers curled around the spine, the weight of the book grounding, reverent.

He said nothing—couldn’t.

But his eyes lifted to you, and in them was every note you had exchanged, every shared silence, every book passed between trembling hands and hopeful hearts.

The wind stirred the grass around you.

And in that quiet, unremarkable moment, everything changed.

[mydeimosmeow]

holy shit

wrath of the sea god

♱⋅── rafayel x reader

♱⋅── about: Rafayel is a creature worthy of worship. Something born from the deep sea, something incomprehensible, something that should scare you. And yet his siren song only lulls you in closer, and you fear it may be too late to even think about running away. (deep sea monster!rafayel)

♱⋅── word count: 5.9k

♱⋅── warnings: mdni, smut, inhuman raf, possessiveness, overstimulation, worship, breeding kink, tw yandere, tw drowning, tw teratophilia, tw thalassophobia

art credit to @/hcneyvae on x, dividers by @cafekitsune

psst, if you want more monster!raf read this next

What does it mean, to drown in something?

To watch the surface break above you, disrupted by the last bubbles of oxygen leaving your lungs, like a lover’s final kiss. To feel the vicious urge to fight, to struggle, to scream even as you feel your final dregs of strength escape, leaving you cold and gnawing and alone. To not feel fear, because even as your vision goes dark the melody is still there, the voice still singing, cradling you gently as you draw blood. To know, perhaps, that drowning was the only way this story could have ended. 

What does it mean, when I kiss you and finally feel like I can breathe again, even if you were the reason I sank in the first place?

Rafayel has been nothing if not the perfect boyfriend. Clingy, annoying, hopelessly devoted, but perfect for you nonetheless. 

Three months into your relationship, and you’ve begun to notice things that are only just slightly… Off.

For one, Rafayel runs terrifyingly cold, and the baths he gives himself twice a day are even colder than he is, and when he teasingly splashes you with it you scream, complaining he’s soaking in the arctic or the depths of the ocean’s abyss.

But the approach of summer means more baths, more moisturizers, and more of poor Rafayel always complaining about how it’s too hot, too dry. His skin gets bumpy, rough, textured patches growing on the sides of his neck, his arms, down his ribs too. Like something coming to the surface, something cracking through the flesh. 

The list of anomalies goes on.

His joints bend just a little too much, his fingers curving at unnatural angles when he moves quickly or reaches for something. His spine rolls more like an eel or a shark than a human’s, like a creature still adjusting to having bones, something he brushes off as old habits from dance or ice skating. Whenever you take flash photos his eyes come out hollow, even the faintest glimmer makes them shimmer like something not meant for the surface. 

It’s becoming more common to catch Rafayel slipping now, uncanny moments where he fumbles and slows down, repeating certain movements or habits, as though remembering them. Reminding himself of them. 

You’re lounging on the couch in his studio, your legs kicked up onto his lap as Rafayel holds a book in one hand, the other caressing your ankle with the gentle rub of his thumb. Something prickles against the back of your neck and you look up over your phone, expecting to see Rafayel still engrossed in his reading. Instead, he’s staring down at you. Watching you, unblinking, for so long that your skin begins to crawl. 

At first, you don’t really mind— willingly lost in the warmth of his gaze, the way it seems to hold so much unspoken devotion, the way his pupils dilate viciously when you finally meet his gaze. But then minutes pass. He doesn’t shift, doesn’t fidget, doesn’t break eye contact.

"Raf," you say, laughing a little, trying to shake the unease creeping up your spine. "You're staring."

His lips quirk, just slightly. "Am I? Can’t help it, cutie."

You hum, expecting him to look away. He doesn’t. Instead, he tilts his head, something you’ve always considered adorable, the way his full lips pout and innocent doe eyes seem to plead up into yours, studying you with an intensity that makes your chest tighten.

Then you realize what’s wrong.

"Blink," you whisper, suddenly uncertain if he's forgotten how.

He does, slow and deliberate, like he’s remembering only because you told him. And when his eyes open again, they shine, hollow and flat, reflecting the dim light of the room like something that doesn’t belong in the light.

“Shit!” 

This is the last time you cut steak with a dull knife. 

It’s nothing severe, but you must have nicked a vein in your thumb, because the damn countertop is splattered with blood, a thick stream of it nearly at your wrist as you run for a paper towel. 

Rafayel was supposed to be by the stove, tending to the vegetables busy sauteing, but when you move to rip a sheet from the dowel, you find yourself bumping into him headfirst. How did he manage to cross the kitchen so fast?

His gaze flicks to your hand, brows furrowed. You follow it, noticing the vibrant red already soaking through all the layers of makeshift gauze. Maybe you cut yourself deeper than you though.

"It’s nothing, Rafayel," you say, knowing how worked-up he can get when you injure yourself, fully expecting a dramatic lecture later. 

Turning, you step to throw away the bloody napkins when his fingers close around your wrist too fast. Too tight. Rafayel’s pupils dilate, nearly turning his entire eye black as his body physically follows the trail of blood down your wrist, lips parting just slightly as if—

As if he’s tasting the scent of your blood on his tongue.

"Rafayel," you call to him again, voice shaking. Why is your voice shaking?

He blinks, slow, as if waking from something deep. His grip loosens, but his fingers linger, his thumb dragging just barely across your pulse against the inside of your wrist before he exhales a quiet, low sound from deep in his chest. Something between a sigh and a growl.

“You really should be more careful, miss hunter. You could get hurt next time.”

Neither of you notice the slight acrid smell of something burning in the background. 

The next time it happens late at night. 

After spending the weekend lazing in each other's company, the two of you decided to end the day with a movie, drifting from various positions on the couch to curling up against Rafayel’s chest, the soft glow of the TV flickering across the room. The credits are rolling, low music humming beneath the sound of his steady, rhythmic breathing. He’s cold, almost unnaturally so, compared to the sticky, sweltering summer night air, but you can only be thankful for that fact as his chill and the gentle rise and fall of his chest lull you into something hazy, that liminal space where thoughts slip too easily from your grasp.

When suddenly, it just stops. Rafayel’s body goes still beneath your touch. 

No breath. No movement.

Just complete and utter stillness.

It doesn’t register at first, not fully. Still feigning sleep, you fight to keep your own exhales even, purposefully holding your breath to get your heart to calm from its erratic skip, the hairs on your arms prickling, some primal part of you sensing it before your mind catches up. Wrong.

You shift slightly, pretending to be lost in a dream, just enough to press closer to his chest, to feel the gentle rhythm of where his lungs should be. Wrong.

But nothing comes. Rafayel’s chest does not rise, his heartbeat does not echo against your cheek. The only movement is the gentle circling of his fingers against the tender flesh of your ribs, tracing the curve of bone. Other than that, he is completely, utterly motionless beneath you, the kind of eerie stillness that isn’t possible for a human. A stillness reserved for hunters, for predators. Wrong. 

Something is wrong.

Your pulse kicks, a sharp, violent thud-thud-thud against your ribs, under the tips of Rafayel’s fingers, and in that instant—

Rafayel breathes again.

A slow, deep inhale as if rousing from sleep. His arm tightens around your waist, fingers slipping under your shirt as he shifts beneath you, stretching out his long limbs with an exaggerated yawn like nothing happened at all.

“You still awake?” His voice is drowsy, laced with warmth, so natural you almost believe it.

You nod, pressing closer, trying to shake the creeping chill settling in your bones. Maybe you imagined it. Maybe you were too tired, caught somewhere between dreaming and waking, your mind playing tricks on you. You were simply tired from the long week. Simply haunted by nightmares that no longer exist. 

But you feel it. The way Rafayel’s fingers idly stroke over your side, slow and soothing, almost seeking out your own heartbeat as close as he could get to it. The way he breathes too deliberately now, a flawless imitation of what he thinks you expect to hear. A rhythm that’s just a little too shallow, a little too perfect. 

Then, there’s something prodding and coaxing into your brain, and instantly, the feeling of calm returns. But your pulse does not slow, because the thought has already settled in the back of your mind, something cold and certain.

He didn’t start breathing again for his sake.

He did it for yours.

Rafayel must have been sculpted by divine hands. A Greek statue given breath, something carved from impossibly white marble and polished by time itself. 

His is a kind of beauty that isn’t soft or gentle, but arresting, almost violently so. One that makes your breath hitch every time he turns to face you, all sharp cheekbones and full lips, somewhere devastatingly between beautiful and handsome, possessing every muscled curve of a swimmer’s body honed by centuries in the depths. It isn’t just his face, his form, his effortless strength. It’s the way he moves. Angelic and otherworldly— graceful, powerful, always with the effortless magnificence of the ocean itself.

And, of course, his voice.

He hums under his breath sometimes, a habit he seems to be letting slip the longer the two of you are together, barely audible in the quiet hours when you’re cooking or painting or lounging together. At first you mistook it for an old record or the echoing sound of the ocean from the open balcony doors, and when you ask him about if Rafayel simply laughs it off, the sound addicting enough that soon you’re laughing too.

But on late nights after sex you hear him humming again, something absentminded and indulgent, like the sound exists only for his own amusement. And for yours. 

Oh, but when Rafayel sings, it’s something else entirely. It’s after an opera the first time you heard it, and any memory of the show prior is dissolved into a monotonous drivel at the music Rafayel makes. You swear you felt it in your ribs, melody settling beneath your skin, an ancient song that spoke to your soul in ways that left you dizzy and aching and yearning for something you couldn’t name. 

It left you hungry.

And still, Rafayel’s paintings hurt the most.

Each one nearly brought to life with each brushstroke, enough that you swear you can hear the crash of waves or the sharp sting of sea-salt, each one that brings a deep, unknowable sorrow and guilt to your core. Each one hurts to look at a little more than the last. 

There’s one painting in particular that hangs in his studio, larger than the rest. A towering, floor-to-ceiling masterpiece of muted blues and violent reds, brushstrokes slashing across the canvas with all the power of a storm at sea.

At first, you think it’s simply a shipwreck.

Then you’re lured in closer.

Bodies tangled in the waves, limbs limp and reaching. Some still clutching weapons, some are already swallowed by the dark. But every single figure seems perfectly content, relaxed, embracing death as they are lulled—just like you just like you—to the sirens below.

They are not the innocent beauties of fairy tales. They are terrible, glorious, vicious beings. Something between human and god, their bodies half-submerged, lips parted in a song you cannot hear but can still feel, something clawing at your heart, begging you to listen. Begging you to come closer. 

And Rafayel is among them.

It takes you a moment to recognize him, but once you do, you cannot unsee it. The slant of his jaw, the sharp curve of his cheekbone, his lips curled not in hunger, not in rage, but in something unreadable. Something almost mournful.

"Do you like it, cutie?" His voice startles you.

You turn, pulse jumping, but Rafayel’s only watching you with that same lopsided smile, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He looks like part of a masterpiece himself, bare shoulders kissed by the low light, the soft glow catching on his collarbones, his throat, his hands. 

"They were hunted." Not a question.

A laugh. Short, humorless. "Of course they were, don’t you know Lemurians cry pearls?"

Your fingers tighten at your sides, but nothing you could think of saying seemed appropriate. After all, what did you possibly have to offer a mourning god? 

You look back at the painting. "And worshipped?"

Rafayel’s gaze lingers on the canvas for a long moment before sliding back to you, eyes failing to reflect the light of the sun as he tucks himself into your embrace, pulling you close. You swallow hard, body naturally yielding to relax into his embrace. You’re not prey, and yet, something in you screams at you to run.

"Is there a difference?"

You don’t answer. 

You think of the way he moves, the way he sings, the way your breath catches every time he looks at you, the way you could drown in the depths of his eyes, the cloudless blue like the ocean at dawn, stained with a red more vibrant than blood. Like a shipwreck. Like a massacre. 

“Would you worship me, cutie?” Rafayel purrs against the shell of your ear, nipping the tender flesh. Your knees buckle, and you’re already kneeling before him, looking up at those same eyes as he smiles at your answer. 

You already do.

You’ve been noticing gaps in your memory.

Not big ones. Nothing you can really say for certain, just little things, things you used to chalk up to your goldfish memory. Forgetting why you stood up. Losing track of time mid-conversation. Finding yourself already doing something before you even register why.

And it always—always—happens when Rafayel is speaking to you.

It’s never forceful. Never obvious. But there’s always a soft hum in his voice, a subtle pull in the melody beneath his words.

You don’t even remember when he began doing it, and that might be what frightens you most. 

You’ve always been weak for Rafayel, giving in as soon as he pouts and complains about how he might die of neglect, how he just needs you so badly, and how, oh, won’t you do this for him? There’s no command. No sharp pull at your mind, no unnatural force prying into your thoughts. Just his voice, smooth and honeyed, curling around your resolve like the tide creeping onto the shore. Gentle. Patient. And before you even notice, you're waist-deep, sinking into something you can’t quite name.

"Let’s go to the beach," Rafayel suggests, fingers lazily tracing patterns against your thigh.

You frown down at him, in the midst of filling out a hunter’s report when he snatches your computer away, replacing it with his own head plopping down in your lap. 

You glance at the clock, it’s already six pm. Late, not to mention the drive is an hour away. And you have a mission early in the morning.

"I can’t," you say.

He hums, thoughtful. "Mm. No, of course not." He turns his head, pulling your sleep shirt up just enough to kiss your stomach, lips cool against your skin, grazing your hip as he speaks. "But," a pause. A slow, indulgent breath. "Wouldn’t it be nice? Just us. Moonlight on the waves. I could take you out past the shallows, show you things no other human has ever seen."

You close your eyes. You can picture it too easily. The salt in the air, the sound of the tide pulling you both forward. His hands on you, weightless in the water, his voice a hum against your throat. A melody entering your brain. 

"It’s a Tuesday," you murmur, weaker now.

Rafayel begins sitting up, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "So what?" Another to your jaw, "Work is so boring, you don’t need it anymore. Not when you’re with me." You feel him smile, sucking a mark right against your pulse. "It’ll be worth it, promise."

You should say no.

You should.

You should shut out the idea of indulging him, of the welcoming feel of sand beneath your toes and the gentle curl of the tide. And how nice the fading sunlight feels on your skin. Because you’re already standing at the shoreline, waves licking at your ankles, the city far, far behind you. Rafayel’s fingers laced with yours, his smile easy, teasing as he pulls you forward. 

You don’t remember driving here.

Your pulse stutters. "Rafayel."

He turns to you, eyes dark, unreadable, his mouth curving into a wide smile, a sweet gummy one that has too many teeth. Rows upon rows, like a shark’s, gone by the time you blink. "Yes, my muse?"

You swallow hard. The words tangle on your tongue, and you forget, just for a moment, why you were about to say them.

But the worst is when he begs.

Because it doesn’t feel unnatural, it doesn’t feel wrong.

Because it feels good.

You don’t realize how much you’re giving him until your body won't stop trembling, until you’re wrecked and obedient, until he’s cooing praise against your skin like you’re something precious. 

“Can’t–” you sob, barely getting the word out. “Can’t cum again. Please, Raf, Raf, please don’t.”

Your hands scramble for his head, still buried between your thighs, tugging violently against those sweat-slick strands of hair as you all but scream as he whines into your cunt in protest.

You’ve lost track of how many times he’s made you come, lost track of how long you’ve been beneath him, beneath his touch, beneath the spell of his voice. Time means nothing, just a rhythm of sensation and need.

All that you can feel is the hot layer of sweat making the sheets stick to the sharp arch in your back, the painful overstimulation of your clit as Rafayel moves to suckle against it once more, lapping greedily as you kick and push at his shoulders with a cry. You can’t take it, not again, not when you’re already raw and aching and falling apart.

"Just one more time, cutie," he begs, relenting just long enough to kiss your marked-up thigh. "Please? Look s’cute like this, taste even sweeter."

Rafayel’s pale skin glows faintly where his lips brush yours, a ripple of bioluminescence that pulses in time with your heartbeat. The dull blue light blooming along his veins, casting soft, eerie shadows across the sheets, a reminder of the alien beauty woven into his flesh and blood.

You’re sobbing, shaking your head as the entire room spins around you even without the extra stimulation. But Rafayel simply unlaces your poor trembling hands from his hair, unfurling your fists and kissing your palm before intertwining your fingers together, pinning them to the bed as he leans in closer. His hands are cold, an icy restraint to your feverish skin, and you shiver, goosebumps prickling along your arms.

"Last time, promise."

You don’t believe him. You shouldn’t.

But Rafayel’s voice is addictive, liquid gold, sinking into your skin, forcing you to relax against him just enough for his mouth to reacquaint itself with your swollen clit, immediately making you scream again as your hips mindlessly buck, writhing to get away, to find mercy from his touch as you fight to hold onto the last scraps of your fraying resolve.

“Don’t.” His voice is a purr, a low warning against your flesh as his hand tightens, pressing your wrists together, bruising. “Don’t run from me. Don’t make me chase you.”

Your body stills, responding to his command before you can even process what he's said. Surrendering as he hooks your ankles around his neck, forcing you up onto your shoulders as his tongue delves back into your cunt, curling inside you, savoring every spasm, every quiver. It’s a slow, indulgent kiss, his tongue is colder than his lips, drooling and messy as he brings you closer and closer to the edge for the nth time. 

"You’d never leave me right?" His voice once again sings like a promise against your skin. "You can’t. You wouldn’t, she’s too sweet for that—" His nose grinds against your clit and you moan, seizing. "Always so needy, always taking me so well. Practically made to worship me."

You're babbling nonsense now, incoherent. Rafayel coos, kissing you through it, one hand never letting go of yours as the other greedily gropes up the plush of your ass, your breasts, and he watches with rapt fascination as you arch for him. He rolls your nipple between his fingers, and wonders absentmindedly how it is you humans produce milk. How he could get you to do that for him.

A deep trill vibrates through him at the thought, more felt than heard, a sound that curls around your ribs and settles there. 

“You know that you’re mine, don’t you?” he breathes, voice dipping lower, “Mine. Made for me. Nothing else in this world could satisfy you like I do. You’ll never need another god.”

Rafayel’s words slip into you, twisting through your mind, settling like truth in your core. And just like that you shudder, body tensing, and you’re cumming again, hard.

Squirting across Rafayel’s awaiting mouth and jaw as you scream his name like a prayer, cum dripping down his heaving chest. Rafayel moans, lapping at the mess, and you feel his devotion in the way his entire body trembles as he consumes you, as he claims you, his offering, his sacrifice. His beloved bride.

His fingers subconsciously trace your empty ring finger. Worshiping it, memorizing it.

You don’t even realize you’re still nodding as his fingers loosen their grip on your thighs, finally setting you back down on the bed as a pleased little sound spills from his lips. His tongue drags up your limp body, lazy and lingering, kissing every inch of you, bringing your hand up to kiss your ring finger as well.

Nuzzling his face between your breasts, Rafayel looks up at you, eyes glowing, too bright, too colorful, too gorgeously inhuman.

When sensation finally returns to your legs, the haze of pleasure fading and your breath evening out, you’re revolted by the feeling of something releasing its hold on your mind. Shuddering, you press a hand to your temple, trying to shake off the eerie feeling of something slipping out of your head.

Rafayel watches you, tilting his head, his fingers brushing lightly down your arm as he pushes himself up on his elbows. Grabbing your chin, he swallows any questions you might have asked, kissing you with the same reverence he did your clit and every inch of your body before, the taste of you still on his tongue. When he pulls away, his expression is soft, almost tender, even as his hand curls back around your ankle, a possessive shackle.

“You’ll never need another god,” he repeats, the words sinking into your bones, echoing in your mind. His fingers tighten, just enough to make your breath hitch. “Because you’re mine.”

And yet, you’re the one who can’t seem to breathe without him.

You suppose it should scare you, knowing Rafayel isn’t human. Even if you have yet to understand what a Lemurian really is or wants, what Rafayel’s true form really looks like, what or who truly resides in him. 

You suppose it should scare you that despite not knowing any of this, you listen to his every whim regardless. 

The ocean is calm tonight, with the full moon hanging directly overhead and her silver providing the only light over rolling waves. You’re floating on your back, eyes closed, weightless in the gentle pull of the tide, safe knowing Rafayel couldn’t be far away. He never is. 

At least, you can only assume that’s still the case. Since the ocean itself is dark enough that it blends in with the horizon, dark enough that you wouldn’t be able to see your own toes should you stop floating, the only sounds are the gentle crashing of waves on the distant shore. 

Rafayel was untraceable in the water, his powerful twenty-foot-something Lemurian form outpacing yours as soon as he hit the water, cutting through the black waves with a grace that should be impossible for a creature of that size. That was nearly an hour ago, and only an occasional singing that seemed to both surround you and come from deep within the ocean served as reminders that your lover was never far away.

There it is again, that distant sorrowful song, and you try and hum along, not realizing how far from shore you’ve drifted. 

Something brushes your ankle.

Jolting upright, you spit out a bit of salt water from your scare, scanning the horizon as you tread water. Rafayel is nowhere in sight.

Of course you don't even realize he's been circling you, tail cutting above the waves before twisting around your kicking legs. Laughter echoes into the night, sweet and addicting, enough to have your body relax involuntarily into the cold rock of the waves. Enough to send every other sea creature swimming away in terror.

Then, warmth. Hands, familiar and steady, slide up your bare ribs. There wasn’t even so much as a splash as Rafayel swims closer, arms pulling you in tight, nuzzling deep into the crook of your neck as you feel the entire length of his tail tighten like a coil around your body. He could drown you before you'd even remember to scream.

Rafayel kisses up your neck, savoring the taste of sea salt, arousal, and fear against the broad, cold length of his tongue. It feels rougher than usual. 

“Need you, cutie.” A trill, something deep and low, vibrating in his chest as his entire body tightens its grip around you. Grinding up against you. “Need you s’bad.”

His voice is a low, syrupy murmur, words dripping into your ear with the same fluid grace as his body winding around yours. You shudder, pulse thrumming as the coil of his tail tightens, the powerful muscle shifting against your skin, keeping you perfectly in place. The realization should terrify you. Perhaps it should terrify you more that it doesn’t. 

But Rafayel’s still nipping at the delicate skin of your neck and jaw as that soft, mournful hum resonates from his chest. The sound vibrates through your bones, familiar and soothing, seeping into your mind as easily as seawater through the crevices of a sinking ship.

You shiver, the sensation of his touch and the water deliciously cold against the heat pooling in your belly.

“Missed you,” he murmurs, turning you so you straddle only a fraction of his enormous tail, clinging to his shoulders and the scales that now rest there. “Hate that you can’t swim with me, can’t see my home.” There’s a teasing lilt to his voice, the same playful lightness you’ve heard a thousand times. But beneath it lies a deep, aching hunger that has his clawed fingers pressing into your ribs, hard enough to draw blood.

“I-It’s not exactly possible,” you stammer, voice shaking, breathless, the world narrowing to the feel of his enormous body wrapped around yours, the prodding of something slimy and thick between your legs, the soft vibration of his hum still echoing inside your head. “I can’t breathe underwater like you, Rafayel.”

He pouts at that, tail flexing, shifting, and you feel two other appendages begin to caress your thighs, gently snaking around them. Not that you could see what exactly they were, not with how impossibly dark the ocean is, left completely to his mercy. 

“Poor little human,” Rafayel coos, feigning sympathy as his hands begin to wander, cupping and squeezing roughly at your breasts. A constant fascination he excuses for the fact that fish don’t produce milk and thus have no need for such… interesting appendages. “Your silly human body isn’t much fun. Too fragile. I can fix that.”

His words send a chill through you, something prickling at your spine—but then his lips are on yours, firm and insistent, stealing the breath from your lungs as his fingers tangle in your hair. His inhumanly long tongue invades your mouth, rough and tasting of salt and sea, and you melt, hands clawing into his shoulders as he swallows your moan, fucking his tongue down your throat. 

His tail shifts again, something sharp nicking your inner thigh as you gasp into the kiss, only allowing Rafayel to press in closer, deeper, grinding against your core.

Your body reacts on instinct, earning another low trill, hips rolling to meet the pressure, Rafayel’s hands still busy pleasuring your chest as something else forces your legs wider, guiding his cock to grind against you once, twice, fighting the tense ring of muscle as you quiver. 

“Please, cutie. Please let me in, my sweet darling. Please, please,” he’s rambling, begging so sweetly into your lips as you feel the jagged cut of his teeth trace down your neck, collarbone, grazing your nipple, licking up the drops of blood as your flesh splits as easily as rotten fruit on the edge of a knife. “So good to me. Always so good to me.”

You barely recognize the moan that leaves your throat—something needy, desperate. And at that sound Rafayel shudders, something else writhing against your pussy as it suddenly pushes in, thrusting and sucking gently at your entrance before following a rhythm he knows will make you fall apart. 

“Rafayel, wait, cold. It’s cold—” 

“Shh, you’ll warm it up.”

You can only moan in response, clinging onto Rafayel like a lifeline as the ocean surges around the both of you, your limbs trembling and useless as one of Rafayel’s hands goes to circle your clit, matching the tempo of his thrusts as you come undone with a silent scream.

“Say it again for me,” he whispers, reverence dripping from every syllable. His eyes—too blue, too bright—burn into yours, possessive, adoring, hungry. And when he looks at you like that, how could you ever refuse? “You’re mine, aren’t you?”

Your heart stutters. There’s a pull, something deep and heavy, sinking into your chest. The hum returns, curling around your thoughts, coaxing you to say the words, to give him what he wants. What you both want.

“Yes,” you whisper, the word slipping past your lips before you even realize it. “Yours.”

Rafayel’s pupils narrow into slits, and his mouth crashes against yours, hungry and savage. His tail tightens, grinding against you with purpose now, every slow roll of his hips sending another shockwave of pleasure through you, something else beginning to press up against you as well as the first intrusion begins to retreat from your poor overstimulated pussy. 

“Do you trust me?” he asks, teeth scraping against your pulse, marking delicate skin of your throat. Something under the water coils tighter, pulling you closer, keeping you where you belong.

No. 

“Yes.”

His laughter is the last thing you hear, soft and sweet, washing away every other thought before the roar of the ocean swallows you whole.

The cold is instant, biting, sinking into your bones as the saltwater tears into your nose and mouth. Panic claws up your throat as your chest seizes, lungs heaving uselessly, instinctively, drawing in nothing but seawater.

Instinct demands you thrash, but Rafayel is there, hugging around you like a devoted lover, like a predator with his kill. He drags you down deeper, enraptured, scales scraping against your skin as his body locks you against him, pressing you against the seafloor as the two of you hit the bottom, soft sand floating under your back. 

How easy would it be, to leave you full of his brood and writhing, before dragging you to some island far, far away. 

He’s dazed at the thought, still inside you, still thrusting, still playing with your body as if you aren’t suffocating, as if the way you kick and claw at his back, nails tearing into flesh and fins, is only a sign of pleasure. You feel him shudder, and it isn’t just from the tight, helpless way you squeeze around him.

It’s your eyes that Rafayel can’t seem to look away from. They’re wide, wild, locked on his face with desperate, pleading terror. Adoration. Fear. Love.

So human, so fragile, and all you can focus on is him, the rest of the ocean blurring into a black abyss.

Rafayel adores it, finally being the epicenter of your attention. 

A low, pleased rumble vibrates through his chest, pupils blown wide, swallowing the blue of his eyes until they’re black and endless, reflecting your horrified face right back at you.

All the screaming has left you dizzy, and Rafayel moans, pushing deeper, grinding his enormous tail against your overstimulated clit as your throat convulses around a silent moan as you watch the bubbles leave your throat. 

Smiling, Rafayel’s lips curl, exposing sharp, jagged teeth, feeling each shudder, each pitiful, heaving spasm as your lungs beg for oxygen. He wonders how they must feel, those delicate sacks of air tightening, twisting inside you.

Pressing his palm against your chest, right over your heart, Rafayel feels the stuttering beat as it races then begins to falter, slowing to a delicate pulse under his touch. 

He could watch you like this forever.

Your nails rake down his arms, leaving raw, bloody scratches as the world begins to go dark. He shudders, his cock twitching inside you at the sting, the way you keep fighting even as your movements grow sluggish, your limbs growing heavy. Your chest heaves one last time, and then your eyes leave Rafayel’s, rolling back as your lips part in a silent prayer. 

No. No, don't look away from him.

It makes Rafayel frown, wanting your gaze focused on him alone, wanting your attention back. He wants it forever. His tail coils, possessive, hugging you tight with all the devotion of a human lover as he finally, finally leans in, pressing his mouth to yours.

His hands come down to caress your jaw, fangs nicking your lips as he forces them apart, kissing air back into your lungs. 

And you breathe in again, sobbing into the kiss, body trembling, clinging to Rafayel like he’s your lifeline. You do what he knew you would. You kiss him back. Desperate, dazed, pushing closer as though you don't realize there's no where else you could go, the deep, endless dark of the ocean yawning hungrily above you both. 

He's close, so close now. Body nearly aglow with that eerie, deep-sea light, casting shadows onto your body as you welcome him even now, desperate for warmth, for safety, for him.

“Mine,” Rafayel sings against your lips in a language you cannot understand. Savoring the way you still arch up to kiss him again and again, desperate for his air and his touch despite it all. Despite knowing what he is. Despite knowing what he wants. “My mate.”

When he finally cums he feels it breach your womb, he feels you swell with it, feels it stick with how eagerly your body welcomes him, his perfect little human.

And for the first time, you truly wonder if you were meant to survive loving something like him.

[mydeimosmeow]

this was so beautiful

Crown For a Flower

Request: @queenondeezmatatas A RAFAYEL MERMAID AU SET IN THE 1800s WHERE MC IS A ROYAL LIVING IN A CASTLE BY THE SEA OFC AND THEIR LOVE IR FORBIDDEN BUT IT DONT MATTER PLSSSSS PLS PLS PLS let them be happy even if just for a millisecond😭🙏🏻

AN: This turned out to be different but I could not resist this idea. I just love dramatic stories sooooooo much. It isn't 1800s esque but I promise to get to that someday.

Pairing: Rafayel x Empress Reader

Genre: Fluff and ROMANCE

Summary: "It was a wedding unlike any other," the merwoman whispered to her sleepy daughter. "The union of Prince Rafayel and the Empress..." And so, she began to tell the tale.

The Lemurian court waited. Bowed on their knees. The seabed itself trembled beneath the drums that announced the emperor.

The tyrant. He who bled both lands and seas, had come. Invading the quiet bliss of Lemuria to uphold the ancient oath.

Peace had arrived with feet that dragged blood into its halls.

To wed, to form an alliance, the emperor came. And just like that, the court bowed lower, accepting the wedding that promised an end to a one-sided war.

Rafayel bowed with the rest of his father’s brood. The bastard, crouched behind the legitimate princes.

And standing at the altar was his aunt, Talia. The bride. The offering.

Where there should have been shame, there was only relief.

Assurance that their world would be spared. That the emperor would not strip the very seas of water to slaughter every last one of their kin.

Worse things had been done to the dragons of the West, burned alive with the mountains they guarded. And to the angels, plucked from the skies to amuse the emperor’s court.

So, marriage was a merciful fate.

It would grant them protection, from the emperor, and the monsters he had made of all others.

“All bow to the sovereign of the world,” a guard announced. And the kneeling court bowed further still.

The footfalls of soldiers echoed through the sacred hall. The clang of armor, the hiss of swords that had bled nations.

And yet, within that grim procession, there came a note of sweetness. A chime, delicate as windchimes swaying in spring.

A sound not of death, but of beauty.

“Rise.” The voice rang clear. Firm, but not unkind.

And in place of the tyrant, stood you.

The princess. Now crowned. Now empress.

Rafayel stared from a distance, his view obstructed by the silhouettes before him. But he could still hear the sound, the cheerful chime of a silver hairpin catching the current. Even as the court broke into whispers.

“I apologize,” you said, “but my father did not live to keep his word. So I have come. His heir. I shall complete this alliance.”

Rafayel pushed through the crowd, just in time to see you standing before Talia, your hand outstretched.

“That is, if your heart is not taken by another.”

The tyrant who tormented heavens, earth, and sea, had fallen. Slain by his own daughter, with the same cruelty he had borne unto others.

And now, the savior of worlds stood in their court. Not with demands, but to keep the word of peace.

The word of marriage went out. Of the newest empress seeking her groom. Word carried to every corner of Lemuria.

A simple challenge accompanied it. Issued in the quiet wake of Aunt Talia stepping down from the marriage proposal.

Rafayel stared at the wooden box in his brother’s hand. It was smooth, polished, its grain fine beneath his fingers, like a breath trapped in time.

To win the empress’s hand, One only had to open the box.

But not with hands. Not with keys. Not with tools.

The box was to be opened by its own element. In a way that required no force.

And those who resorted to force, who pried or cracked or cut, had been named. Called out by you directly.

The court had been abuzz with the puzzle. Dozens had tried.

None had succeeded.

Whatever lived inside the box shattered at the touch of violence.

A box that refused to be opened with force…What could slip into the very grain of wood itself?

"May I?" Rafayel asked quietly.

His brother sighed, handing over the box before marching off in exasperation.

Rafayel hadn't been given one of his own. He wasn’t even meant to be a part of the challenge. No one expected anything from the bastard son, barely a prince.

But he had wanted to try. Not for the marriage. Not for a crown.

He just wanted a reason to see you again.

To get a little closer. To catch another glimpse of the hairpin that had snared his attention in the court. It haunted him now. It rang through his sleep. Slipped into his drawings.

It was everywhere. Like you.

And this box… this puzzle… It was the only way to stand in your presence again.

To look at the one who wore the chime in her hair.

The one who was leaving tonight.

Leaving behind the challenge. Leaving behind Lemuria. To return to your empire.

Unless. He could solve it. Unless he could make the box bloom.

He will find you. He will make it so that you come to him

As his bride.

You stared at the block. A blooming weed stared back.

After two months, the answer to your challenge finally arrived from the courts of Lemuria.

Delicate wood had been parted. Split not by blades, nor keys, But by the slow persistence of roots.

A flower had bloomed, and in blooming, revealed your heart. Your aether core within the box.

A soft laugh bubbled from your throat. Not of amusement. But of quiet, content recognition.

A fragment of your soul seemed to glow from the cracks. Your heart, unveiled. Nestled between petals.

"Let it be known," you said, rising to your feet, "that the Empress is eager to be wed, to the one who holds the mind to unveil my heart with such beauty."

You turned, voice unwavering, lips soft with something dangerously close to a smile.

"Prepare for the wedding."

They say he never tried to pry the box open.

While others scorched it with spells, cracked it with blades, whispered incantations to break its seal. Rafayel only placed it in the sun.

He watered the soil beneath it each morning. Let the dew kiss its corners. Watched for mold, checked the grain.

He tilted it toward the light when the tide shifted, knelt beside it to whisper apologies on stormy nights. Some nights he rested beside it, cheek pressed to the stone, breathing with it as though it were alive.

And when he noticed a single thread of green peeking from beneath the lid, he didn't touch it. He simply watched.

And when the bloom finally opened, delicate and white, cradled in the broken seal, he wept.

Leaf by leaf, he witnessed the box part, not with force, but with trust.

Its edges softened. Its roots slipped into the wood like secrets. He charted the curves of each petal. Studied how they curled. How they clung.

Not for triumph. But for the quiet, impossible sight of your aether core. Glimmering red piece of you that lay in his blooms.

A treasure that refused to yield to force. Had revealed itself under his care.

"It was a wedding unlike any other," the merwoman whispered to her sleepy daughter. "The union of Prince Rafayel and the Empress..."

And so, she began to tell the tale.

Welcomed with gentle waves, the new Empress walked along a path paved in gold coins and pearls.

With a procession of two hundred, the humans came to Lemuria. With drums, with songs, with joy that had been lost for centuries.

Never before had there been such grandeur. Not for a wedding. Not for any union.

With them came the surviving dragons, seeking the calm of the sea to soothe their scorched wounds. Elves from ancient forests. Fae from veiled worlds. Angels, freed from their shackles.

Delicacies unheard of were offered to the court. Treasures brought by every race to honor the Empress who had brought order from ruin.

Peace had come to Lemuria with the promise of this union, but it had touched the entire world. It was as if the whole of creation had paused, just to witness them.

And Rafayel stood at the altar, when he heard the chimes again.

He looked up.

And there you were.

He had to force his eyes away from your hairpin, to allow himself the full, unshaken sight of you. Standing beneath the Cove of Oaths, you wore no crown. Only the hairpin.

And nestled beside it, his flower. His breath caught.

The vow taken by the heart of the ocean.

You stepped closer, alone in this moment. Alone in this oath.

This belonged to no court, no kingdom, no god. Only to you and him.

"You already have my heart," you said, smiling softly as you stood before him. "Yet, I have not had the chance to have yours." You tilted your head, "Is this to your wish? Our wedding, is it more than an oath to you?"

And Rafayel looked at the flower.

"Pilin flowers," he said quietly, "grow only with love."

"They bloom yellow with infatuation... blue with lust..."

His hand rose, fingers trembling as they brushed the white petals resting in your braid.

"And white," he whispered, "with love."

[mydeimosmeow]

HI EVE NATION guess who got caleb’s myth….

im ovulating i desperately #needthat

i’m so happy but also so stressed cuz idk if i want to rank it up or save for sylus bday…i’ll probably save unless the demons speak to me.

in other news i’ve been in a writing slump recently. i rlly wanna write a proper fic for caleb or sylus but i don’t rlly have any ideas which is so annoying!! the headcanons are fun and easy to make because they’re literally just me rambling and writing shit that i think about off the top of my head but i know i can do better than that and come up with something thats actually fleshed out and not half assed. there’s also a huge lack of content for chubby/plus size readers in LADS fanfics like theres only a handful of other writers on here that i see posting fics with chubby mcs and even less artists drawing chubby mcs. hopefully when i stop feeling so unmotivated and school stops kicking my ass i’ll be able to write properly.

only idea ive had recently is calebmc slasher au but i dont rlly know how that’d work. i’ll figure it out eventually.

[mydeimosmeow]

So I recently started playing lads like a month ago and I was thinking about how the boys would react to r/mc having ocd (specifically contamination ocd because that's what I have)

I think Rafayel would sometimes tease a little bit, never in a rude way that would make you feel crazy, but to make you feel better when you're having a really bad day

Sylus and Xavier would be confused I think but they'd be really sweet and help with calming you down (just imaging Xavier comforting me in his soft voice oh)

Since Zayne and Caleb grew up with you, they'd eventually adopt some of your behavior like unconsciously. Like Zayne would be able to predict your thoughts and kinda do whatever your routine is before your brain even thinks about it. Same with Caleb, he lived with you so he's just picked up on how you react to things

[mydeimosmeow]

privated my xavier post cuz it lowkey flopped and i wanna work on it more some other time cause it felt half assed.

i think i’ll write for sylus next or maybe just keep on going with the caleb train idk yet…im kinda out of writing ideas oops. if anyone has any ideas or requests for smthn they’d like to see written or expanded upon pls send them my way 🙏

i havent written any proper fanfics in so long so when i decided to post my first caleb hc post i honestly wasnt expecting anyone to read it but now both of my chubby mc posts have like 100+ likes/notes which is cool!! im glad other ppl enjoyed my self indulgent rambling and i hope it could resonate with other people too. chubby/plus size girls are often underrepresented in fandom spaces so if my silly sleep deprived writing can help someone feel seen then thats all that really matters!!

ok im going to bed now lol

[mydeimosmeow]

where the light touches

— a cold war brews between you and sylus in the trenches of the night; mornings are for making amends.

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: so the dragon's hoard photo album on sylus's phone drabble has been running in my mind since i wrote it, and now that post might just be another masterlist. magnum opus is a godsend and i just love his laugh, i wanna hear him giggle and laugh forever okay ( ;´ - `;) a little origin story of some videos that are saved in his "sleeping 📂" album. this is part one. enjoy! ❀-urs

sylus x reader | fluff, comfort, giggly!sylus, overdramatic!reader (we love them), banter, morning cuddles

You rise with the sun. It has always been this way. Whether it’s tendrils seeping in through the curtains just as the planet turns to face Helios caressing you gently or it blasting you the heat of its full concentration by noon, you will rise in the day. 

Sylus rises with the moon. Something you’ve envied. A more tranquil beginning to wake underneath the gentle caress of a radiant pearl, to the silence of the world. He acts accordingly as well, unhurried and unperturbed by the bustle of life. Calm and collected, a sharp contrast to your energetic and flurried morning body. A more peaceful existence.

And yet, he insists on rising with you. 

Heat wakes you this morning, but not from the angry ball of gas in the sky. No, this is warmth. An internal, direct sensation that radiates from behind, from another body, another soul.

Your eyes open slowly to the gradience of the emerging sun. Darkened values of the world edging carefully with its celestial hue. A reflexive worry grips at you. Hammer to a tendon, your muscles twitch to stand— toward the curtains. To draw them closed before it all becomes blinding. 

But the vice-like grip around your waist keeps you in place. An indignant grumble tickles the hairs on the nape of your neck and sends shivers down your spine. Sleepy, raspy, deep. “Stop.” 

Still tangled in the webs of your own fatigue, you respond. “The windows—“ 

“Leave them.” he sighs, like a formidable ancient creature, and strengthens his hold around you. In one smooth motion, he flips you both from your spot. Now, his back is to the light and you are shielded from it. An instinct-driven movement, to keep you from something that he cannot stand. 

Then comes the realization that you bask in this, and so he flattens himself to the mattress ever so slightly so that the light touches your features just so. Through his half-lidded gaze, he takes pride in the decision, watching your majesty glow like molten gold. 

Sylus has sensitive eyes. You know this, you’ve seen it before, when you idled too much after waking to watch him sleep. Meanwhile, the light had slithered in through the windowed walls. Silken features scrunch, a deep crease formed between his brows, and a sizzling wince escaped his lips. 

You were quick to kiss the pain away, thinking it was nightmares that plagued him. But when his lips curled and he met you with squinted eyes that smiled just as divinely at the corners, you realize the transgressor was more luminescent than haunting. 

You stay, then, in his arms. Cocooned perfectly like he was made for you. Like you were two halves of the same whole. 

And he holds you. Like you were made for him to. Quietly, stubbornly— unwilling to let the morning steal you from him just yet. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Waking is a slow process on the rare days when the world does not call upon you. A collection of soft kisses and gentle whispers; quiet intentions and passionate touches. You are never angry, never troubled, not when the soul—yours and his—is complete. 

He mourns you when you draw away from him— “gotta pee”. After his dramatic protests, your efforts of being free from his fly-paper grasp and your cat-like fists pushing at his chest to “let me go! or i’ll go right here!”, he eventually relents and you waddle over the cold marble floors to your throne.

Alone, he sits up in bed and takes in the light that consumes the room with an irritated scowl. It urges him to catch the duvet that had fallen to his bare waist and pull it over his head. Under the covers, he checks his phone. 

Messages from the twins reporting on a finished mission (to which he replies a clipped ‘ok’). Offers from business partners he had little to no interest in. Invitations to auctions and galas. Updates on the available plushies at your favorite arcade this week. Incident reports. 

Trivial. Unnecessary. Boring. 

Until he finds one— buried amongst them all— so glaringly different and alarming. A text message, sent four hours ago— from you. 

Curious, he opens your thread of messages. 

Beloved: How could you do this to me You will pay. This is unforgivable

And before he even has the time to panic, he scrolls to see the video attached to it. Its obscure darkness and suspicious angle does nothing to deter him.  

And as it plays, he cannot hold back his smile. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

The mound on your bed is laughing. Jostled wine, spilling at the edges of glass. Breathy, rich and smooth; rare and familiar all at once. Signature exhale, fond and effortful, clear as the giggling ends. 

You crawl over the covers, towards the trembling hump and poke at where his head should be. The veil comes off, and mirthful rubies meet your inquisitive gaze. You take in his grin, and then the phone in his hand, “What’s so funny? Can I see?” 

Air meets your hand where the phone should be after your attempt at a grab. He looks annoying, looking at you like that: like he knows something you don’t. Dopey heart-eyes with an edge. Unconsciously, you pout, which fuels his mischievous fire. “What’s is it?” 

Buttering him up is a sight for him to behold. You curl around him, fitting yourself under the weight of his arm and kissing his jaw to convince him to give it up. A cat seeking comfort. A snake strangling its prey. “Tell me.” 

And the melody starts again, hitching in his chest and shaking you whose cheek rests on his shoulder. He cannot fathom how you could be everything he’s ever wished for— how could you be quick-witted, clever, strong, courageous and hilarious? You’re adorable and so, so funny. 

“Aren’t you fuming with anger?” he’s breathless. You’ve never seen him so. “Aren’t I just evil? Vile?” 

You pause. What? Why would he say that? Why is he saying it in a way that implies you should know what it means? “Sylus, I don’t…” 

At the hesitant look on your face, complete with twinkling puppy-dog eyes and a slightly jutted lip, he can’t help but lean in and kiss your forehead. White flag raised, because he is helpless to a power like you. He pulls you close, and finally shows you the video.  

Brightness is all the way up and, on the edge, you see him toggle with the volume too. The video starts with you being attacked by the front facing flash. You wince, but then go straight into your very serious, very important lamenting.

“Look at you,” you murmur, the sound scratching against your throat as if still crawling away from the grasp of a dream. The focus shifts to Sylus, fast asleep, burrito-ed in the large comforter. Love of your life, tether to the world; giant larvae. “Evil… vile.” 

The last word you grate through your teeth with so much venom, one would assume he’d betrayed you. 

It crosses your mind though, as you watch, how deeply he was sleeping. How untroubled and peaceful he looked, no matter how much you shook him around in your own frenzied irritation. When usually, he’d wake fully at the sound of your breath hitching from a nightmare.

In the video, you continue: face close to his own, pressing your lips to his cheek because it was mandatory. His lips twitch but he shows no signs of waking. “Tsk. I’m mad. I’m cold? I’m cold and I’m mad. Count your days.” 

The video ends. Beneath it, you read your equally vehement text messages. Sent 2:43 AM. 

Sylus is laughing again, subtly pulling you closer to apologize while the memory comes back to you in vague waves of annoyance.

Waking up shivering, feeling for the blanket, feeling for him— finding both out of reach. You prying the edge from under his large body— how the hell did he manage to roll in it at least twice?— settling for pressing your cold feet underneath his warm calves and praying your torso doesn’t freeze overnight as sleep captures your ire and douses the flames for then. 

But this is now. 

“Darling—“ he wheezes at your bewilderment. Lips pressing to your hair fondly, over and over. Likely getting that thing he feels he’d just learned the term for— aggression. Cuteness aggression.  

Unfortunately for him, it all rushes back. The fire is blazing, scalding. “Oh, I’m mad.” 

And he fears for his life behind the imprints of crowfeet on the corners of his teary eyes. Ever one to play with his own life, he still pushes. “Are you?” 

“You hog!” A quick attack. You whack his face with a pillow and he’s cackling. The thought of stopping and relishing in his bellyaching, carefree laughter crosses your mind for a split second, before you’re climbing his waist and squeezing the smooth skin of his hollow cheeks. “You left me to freeze!” 

“I didn’t know, sweetie.” He’s gorgeous when he speaks between chuckles. Speech bursting like hiccups of devotion. 

“What are you, a rock? I was pulling so much and— nothing!” 

He takes another blow. “You should’ve woken me up.”

“I tried.” You pause. You did. A little. But you couldn’t bring yourself to, not fully. Not when he sleeps terribly. Not when you’re the only rest he’s ever known. 

And he knows this, reads it in the way you falter. That look on your face that tells him you’re thinking about him, his wellbeing. Putting him first, still, through the haze of exhaustion; despite the blistering cold. Considering him and how he would feel to wake up in the sunlight you bathe in, sunlight he cannot stand if it were not for you. 

He doesn’t understand how you do this to him by just being. He fears how much you know him, how much he allows himself to be lured in and be exposed by you. When in the same breath, he’d lay his heart bare to you and hand you a dagger to do with it as you please.

He falls— deeply, effortlessly. Rolls in your affection twice over and more like he did in the blanket he stole in his sleep. Because just as easily as he did that with his eyes closed, he can so easily love you.

Fast, the pillow swings up by your arm, you strain to gain momentum to smack it down on his chest once more. Faster, his large hand catches your wrists in a vice, then he is pulling your face down to his. 

Laughter, both youthful and deep, bursts from his chest. His radiance ghosts over your cheek, weightless and warm. 

Just as you swoon in his joy, his heart aches at yours. It is the sun giving the moon light. The way you barely notice the wide smile on your face despite your desperate need to silence him in awkwardness. The way you try to reign in your strength with each strike despite knowing he can take the brunt of it. The way you look on top of him. The way the weight of you grounds him to this earth. The way you are so shamelessly you in this moment— he can’t help but reflect you, revere you. 

Meanwhile, you’re lovestruck and dumb. So beautiful, you think, about the hollowed dimples on his cheeks, about the curve of his relaxed smile— about the enemy. He is the enemy. 

And the enemy has soulful eyes, sorrowful as they are loving. The enemy tastes the sweetest when he is kissing your embarrassment to silence, when he is whispering, “I’m sorry.” 

You hum in defeat, melting in his affection, utterly human. Flawed and weak in the face of love. 

“I’m sorry.” He says again, slower. The words sighed against your lips. Mouth embracing yours tenderly to let you know he means it.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ more sylus thoughts ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

thank you for reading!

[mydeimosmeow]

i havent posted a drawing in a while bc my tablet was acting weird but its working again so i drew my lads mc headcanons and obvi i self insert so shes chubby :p

i also posted this on my twt @/faarspace !!

ive been thinking of using like an alias online and i like the sound of eve or fawn but im not too sure yet!!! ill figure it out eventually 🙏

[mydeimosmeow]

fight until the war's won or smth

[mydeimosmeow]

OH MY GOD CALEB MYTH PV!!!!!!!!!

[mydeimosmeow]

more chubby mc x caleb cause the ppl loved it last time and i do too.

i think he lovessss to pick you up and twirl you around like a princess whenever he can, sometimes for no reason but especially when you’re feeling insecure. he quickly shuts that down by just picking you up. if you’re worried about being too heavy, he’d feel a little wounded, playfully asking you if you think he’s really that weak and if you think he needs to go to the gym more.

speaking of the gym, caleb’s always been pretty athletic, but i think a huge motivation that helps him maintain a consistent workout routine is impressing you. he knows he’s good looking and in really good shape, but nothing makes his ego inflate more than catching you checking him out. he’s all too familiar with that cute routine of yours where you’ll sneak glances at him after he gets back from the gym or when he gets out of the shower. he’s like the king of ogling, so he knows every technique or move you think is subtle because he uses them against you constantly LMAO. he teases you whenever he catches you staring, and enjoys it a lot whenever you’re bold and feel him up, encouraging you to press your hands against his biceps or chest. or any part of him, really. he just wants you touching him :p

caleb would definitely let you practice makeup on him. as a matter of fact, i think he knows how to do makeup. its canon (i’m pretty sure) that he did your hair growing up, so he’s skilled at doing your hair, and i think he would’ve started learning and practicing makeup techniques to help you do yours at some point, probably around late middle school/early high school. he’s now resigned himself to being your personal model and makeup tester, letting himself get dolled up whenever you’re bored and want to experiment and test out new skincare or makeup.

in my last post i mentioned how he loves to see you all dressed up in cute frilly clothes, but i also think he goes crazy seeing you in casual, comfy clothing, bonus points if you’re wearing his clothes. honestly he goes crazy seeing you in general. it satiates that possessive side of him, knowing you’re comfortable enough around him to not feel obligated to always look “presentable”, and that you willingly choose his shirts or pants despite having your own personal closet at his house. it’s like you’re kids again, accidentally mixing up the laundry and using his t-shirts and shorts as pajamas. he starts getting in the habit of buying himself clothes for the sole purpose of seeing you in them, and before he knows it he has millions of shirts he knows will hang off your shoulders and sweatpants that will hang low on your waist.

kind of in that same vein, he makes sure all of your clothes smell like him to some degree. anything you leave at his place is going to smell like his detergent, and on the clothes you wear most often, he’ll spray some of his cologne on them. he invites you to do the same to his own clothing too, and if anyone notices that he smells like sweet perfume, nobody dares to comment on it.

caleb loves intimacy (sexual or otherwise), obviously. there’s something especially special to him about those quiet moments you two share, free from the baggage and pressure of the outside world. he wants you all to himself, and this is the closest he’ll ever get, so he cherishes each moment with every fiber of his being. he spends hours practically worshipping you, sososo thankful that you’re even giving him the opportunity to do so.

————————————————————————

a/n: idrk how to end this but i hope it was okay LOL praying its not super ooc pls dont stone me if it is. ignore any grammatical or spelling errors its 3 am and i was falling asleep halfway through writing this. i come up with most of these ideas on the spot. my writing process is very simple i fear.

also i write these on my phone on the app bc my laptop is broken so i hope the formatting isnt too weird???? idk how to use tumblr even though i’ve had this account since like 2016.

also would yall be interested in me making more headcanon rambles like these but for the other LIs??? pls lmk and i’ll start thinking of some for the other guys and brushing up on their lore!!!!!!

[mydeimosmeow]

Puppy boy

[mydeimosmeow]

mile high club calebmc methinks

[mydeimosmeow]

should i delete that xavier thing i posted last night im feeling insecure abt it 😓😓😓

[mydeimosmeow]

rlly praying my latest post isnt total slop IM SO INSECURE ABT MY WRITING BUT I ALSO NEED AN OUTLET LOLLL

[mydeimosmeow]

HELLO omg i didnt think that post would get sm traction