The Bond remembers
Synopsis: You were only meant to be a life model—just another muse in Rafayel’s class. But when you touched his painting, something ancient stirred. Dreams followed: a glowing city beneath the sea, a violet-eyed god, a sacrifice made in the name of love. Now, the past is bleeding into the present. And neither of you can resist the pull of a bond that’s waited eight hundred years to return.
Content warnings: Soulmates, reincarnation, divine bond, immortal love, slow burn yearning, pining, memory awakening, Lemuria-inspired tale of past life sacrifice, first kisses, emotional, soulbonded sex—including grinding, oral, praise kink, body worship, and soft angst that heals as much as it hurts.
Pairings: Rafayel x reader
A/n: this fic is so special to me—I poured my whole heart into the bond, the yearning, the underwater dreams, and ALL the Rafayel soul-ache (his god of tides myth broke me). I really wanted to explore something slow, sacred, and emotional… with a touch (okay, a lot) of steamy intimacy too hehe. thank you for reading!!
You’re used to being looked at.
Not in the way strangers leer on subways or the fleeting glances in crowded rooms. No, this is the quiet, calculated attention of artists—where every tilt of your chin, every arch of your spine, becomes something to be studied, understood, immortalized.
The art studio smells like charcoal dust and old wood varnish. The spotlight above you casts soft shadows along your skin, bathing you in that familiar warmth. Pencils scratch. Brushes drag. Someone sneezes. You barely move.
Then you feel it. A stare that lingers a little longer than the rest.
You don't know why it strikes you, but it does—like a thread being pulled taut across your collarbone. Your gaze flickers, subtle, and lands on him.
He’s not drawing. Not right now. His hands are still, resting over his sketchbook, fingertips lightly stained in colors that don’t belong to today’s palette. And his eyes—violet, no, more like twilight bruised with a hint of storm—are entirely fixed on you. Not your form. Not your pose. You.
The session ends. The instructor claps, voices rise, stools scrape against the floor. You reach for the silk robe hanging nearby, slipping it over your shoulders as the cold air starts to bite. You’ve done this a hundred times. It’s routine. Predictable.
So you’re not sure why you approach him this time.
“Your piece,” you say, feigning casual. “You looked… focused.”
He doesn’t look up right away, as if he's reluctant to let go of whatever spell he’d put himself under. But when he does, there’s a slow, knowing smile that curves his lips.
You shrug, the silk shifting against your skin. “Hard not to.”
He closes his sketchbook, stands. He's taller than you'd expected. “I didn’t finish it,” he says smoothly, brushing a faint streak of ochre from his wrist. “Not here, at least. I prefer to work where it’s quiet. Where things breathe.”
“Art. Memory. Obsession,” he adds, that smile widening slightly as he gestures toward the door. “Would you like to see it?”
You hesitate—half out of instinct, half out of surprise. But there’s something magnetic about him. Something veiled behind his poise, like danger dressed in velvet.
His studio is tucked in a quieter district, away from the city hum. The building is old, with high arched windows and white-washed brick. He walks ahead of you, unlocking the door with a key that glints under the moonlight. You step inside.
The air is cooler here. And quieter. Paintings line the walls—some abstract, others disturbingly real. But at the center of the room, draped beneath a white cloth, stands something tall. Almost human in shape.
He says nothing, only watches as you step forward, fingers brushing the edge of the veil.
No… not quite. Marble. Cold. Eternal. But your expression. Your body. The tilt of your lips caught mid-thought. The way your fingers rest against your thigh just like they had earlier.
You gasp—quietly. Breath stolen.
“Not what you expected?” His voice is low now, like the final stroke of a bow across a cello string. “I didn’t want to capture what everyone else saw.”
He’s beside you now, but not touching. Not yet.
“I wanted to carve what I saw.”
You stand frozen, staring into the marble eyes of yourself. It's not just the accuracy that unsettles you—it’s the way it feels like she's watching you back.
Your marble double is beautiful, yes, but there’s vulnerability carved into her lips, strength in the tension of her shoulders. Like you’d been captured in the exact moment your thoughts had strayed—just before the end of the session. How did he know?
You don’t realize how long you’ve been silent until you hear the soft shift of his coat as Rafayel steps closer behind you.
“I thought you might run,” he says, voice smooth, low, and almost amused.
You glance over your shoulder. “Should I?”
He tilts his head slightly, a few purple strands falling into his eyes. “You tell me. You’re the one standing face-to-face with your own ghost.”
You huff out a quiet laugh, breathless. “It’s not a ghost.”
“No,” he agrees, moving to your side, his hand barely brushing the edge of the pedestal as he circles it with a kind of reverent attention. “It’s a moment. Suspended forever. Just for me.”
You swallow. “That’s a little intense.”
He hums. “Oh, cutie, I’ve been called worse.”
There it is—that lilt in his voice. Playful. Velveted and dangerous. And suddenly you feel it again—that strange heat blooming low in your chest, curling under your ribs. It doesn’t feel threatening. Just… unexpected.
You shift your eyes back to the statue, trying to compose yourself. “You really made all this… from memory?”
“Of course.” His tone softens, as if the answer should’ve been obvious. “I don’t need a photograph to remember how your collarbone caught the light. Or the way your fingers twitched when you were trying not to shiver. I remember all of it.”
You go still again, pulse thudding in your throat. He isn’t teasing anymore. Not fully.
“…Why me?” you ask, voice quieter now. “There were a dozen models in the academy files. Some who’ve done this for years.”
He steps closer, and when he speaks next, it’s not playful—it’s precise.
“Because you don’t flinch when people look at you,” Rafayel murmurs. “But you do when someone sees you.”
You meet his eyes then, caught in a silence that says more than either of you is ready to admit.
And yet—he leans in, ever so slightly, and adds with that crooked smirk returning, “Besides… I don’t think the others would’ve let me get away with sculpting that dimple just right.”
You laugh—actually laugh this time—and the tension crackles, not with discomfort, but something almost magnetic. The kind of static you feel right before a storm.
He turns then, breaking the moment, and gestures toward a dark curtain tucked into the far corner of the studio. “Want to see the rest?”
You blink. “There’s more?”
“Oh, cutie…” He tosses you a glance over his shoulder, that spark unmistakable in his eyes. “You’ve barely seen the beginning.”
You follow Rafayel through the studio, brushing past the heavy curtain as he pulls it aside with a lazy flick of his wrist. The space behind it is smaller, dimmer, lit only by scattered floor lamps and soft light pouring in from a tall, arched window. The air smells faintly of turpentine, dried roses, and something else you can’t name. Something sharper.
You weren’t expecting this.
The walls are lined with canvases—some finished, some half-covered with strokes and smudges of color. There’s a narrow table covered in sketchbooks, loose pages, and clay fragments. You take one step inside and then another, until your breath catches in your throat.
Paintings. Sketches. Charcoal etchings. Miniature sculptures in rough, beautiful progress.
“I—wow,” you murmur, hand lifting on instinct but stopping just short of touching one of the canvases. Your painted self sits on a chair, sunlight sliding down your bare shoulder, hair falling loose around your face. In another, you’re half-turned, caught mid-laugh—something he never would’ve seen from the platform. Not unless…
“You watched me when I wasn’t posing.”
He leans casually against the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable save for the slow tilt of his head. “You were always more interesting between the poses.”
You laugh under your breath, unsure if you’re flattered or unnerved. Maybe a little of both. “You had time to do all this?”
“You modeled for the entire semester,” he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I’m a fast worker. When I’m… inspired.”
You glance around again. There are easily a dozen versions of you here—each one different. Each one seen through his eyes.
“I didn’t know I was that inspiring.”
“You didn’t know,” he echoes, pushing off the wall now and walking toward you with a lazy grace. “That’s what made it so addictive.”
You glance over at him, heart thudding a little harder in your chest. “You sound like a man with a problem.”
He smiles. “Oh, I am. But I’m not in a rush to fix it.”
There’s a beat of silence, and you take the chance to breathe—slowly, evenly. You think back to how this all started.
You’d signed up to be a life model on a whim. It was good money, flexible hours, and easy enough work if you could sit still for long stretches of time. You never expected to enjoy it. But there was something about being seen through an artist’s lens that made you feel like more than just skin and bone. You became texture. Shadow. Light.
Rafayel had been one of the quieter students in the class. Never asked questions. Never joked around with the others. He showed up late sometimes, left even later. But his eyes… they were always on you. Focused. Sharpened like a blade in water.
And now, standing here among the pieces he’d carved and painted in secret, you realize— Maybe he hadn’t been sketching you like the others had. Maybe he’d been studying you.
You look back at him now, and say, almost too softly, “I never thought I’d be a muse.”
He steps closer, close enough that you can smell the faint traces of clay and paint on his clothes, on his skin. “You were never just a muse.”
His gaze drops—first to your mouth, then to the dip of your throat, before lifting again. “You were the thing I couldn’t get out of my head.”
The words strike something deep in you. It’s not even what he says, but how he says it—like it was inevitable. Like he’d already resigned himself to it long ago.
You should leave. That would be the logical thing to do.
But instead, you ask, “And now that the semester’s over?”
He leans in just a touch, one hand lifting to gently brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers are cool from the clay. His smile? Absolutely sinful.
“Now,” he murmurs, “I get to sculpt you from memory.”
You don’t move away from his touch—not when his fingers ghost behind your ear, not when they linger for just a second too long. Instead, you tilt your head slightly and meet his gaze. Steady. Searching.
“You say that like I’ll disappear,” you murmur. “Like one day, I’ll just… fade out of your mind.”
Rafayel lets out a soft exhale—part laugh, part something else. “Oh, cutie. If only I could be that lucky.”
You raise a brow. “Lucky?”
He steps past you then, glancing down at the statue once more. His voice shifts—quieter now, thoughtful. “You think it’s lucky, remembering everything? Every line, every glance, every pause you took between breaths?”
You watch him as he brushes his fingers along the edge of one canvas, his movements delicate, reverent. There’s something in his voice that makes your skin prickle—not just flattery, but the sharp edges of something deeper. Obsession, maybe. Or something far more dangerous.
“You don’t forget anything?” you ask softly.
He glances back at you. That smirk returns, but it’s tempered by something real beneath it. “Not when it matters.”
And suddenly, you find yourself smiling. A slow, curious smile that edges toward something bolder. “Still…” You walk closer, deliberately slow, and come to a stop just in front of him. “If your memory ever fails you—and I’m not saying it will—but if it does…”
“…You could always ask me to model again.”
There’s a pause. One heartbeat. Two.
And then he laughs—low, rich, and surprisingly warm. “Are you offering?”
You shrug, casual. Teasing. “You do have all the lighting equipment already. And I wouldn’t want your next masterpiece to be inaccurate.”
“Ah,” he hums, circling you now like you’re already on the pedestal, “so generous. Offering your time, your form, your presence. Truly, my muse is merciful.”
You roll your eyes, but it’s half-hearted. “Don’t get used to the praise.”
“I don’t need to,” Rafayel says, stopping just behind you again. His voice lowers, brushing against the shell of your ear. “I already carved it into stone.”
The words settle deep in your chest—too intimate, too serious, too... him.
You’re quiet for a moment, eyes scanning the works around you again, until your voice slips out, softer than before. “Do you do this often?”
He doesn't answer right away.
When he does, his voice is distant, like he's remembering something from far away. “No.”
Just that. A single word. Honest. Heavy.
You glance at him, this time really looking. Behind the velvet charm and practiced poise, there’s something guarded in his expression—like there are doors he keeps locked tight, even as he offers you the keyhole to peer through.
“So what made you do it this time?” you ask, your tone barely a whisper.
He looks at you, then. Really looks.
“I don’t know,” Rafayel admits, lips curving into something almost rueful. “Maybe I saw you before I ever knew your name. Maybe I just wanted to remember what it felt like to want something I couldn’t quite touch.”
You swallow, heart fluttering in your chest like wings against a glass cage. He isn’t just playing anymore. Not entirely.
And you? You should be afraid of how deeply he’s seen you. But instead, all you can think is— What else is he hiding in this studio? And why does part of you want to be the one to find it?
Your fingers trail lightly across the edge of one of the canvases—this one smaller than the rest, no more than the size of a dinner plate, but framed in silver. It doesn’t quite match the others. It’s abstract, layered with swirling, iridescent hues that shimmer like oil over water. The colors shift the longer you look, bleeding from violet to blue to a shade that doesn’t quite exist in the normal spectrum.
It’s faint. Like a heartbeat caught beneath the canvas.
You snatch your hand back instinctively.
“What was that?” you murmur, frowning slightly. Your eyes flick to Rafayel, who’s now quietly watching you from across the room. His arms are crossed loosely, expression unreadable—but there’s a twitch at the corner of his lips.
He shrugs, lazy and amused. “Sensitive, aren’t you?”
“I’m serious.” You glance back at the painting, hand still hovering just above it. “It… moved.”
“Did it?” he drawls, wandering over now with that slow, predatory grace he seems to wear so effortlessly. “Maybe the studio’s just messing with your head. Happens sometimes. Low lighting, late night, a mysterious artist with questionable morals—” he taps his chin theatrically—“Classic cocktail for hallucinations.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “That’s not funny.”
“Oh, I wasn’t trying to be funny. I was going for enigmatic. Did it work?”
You give him a dry look, but there’s a flutter of unease in your chest. Not fear—more like your instincts whispering, something’s not quite right here.
Your gaze drifts back to the painting. The colors shimmer again, but softer this time. Gentle. Luring.
“…What did you use to paint this?”
He lifts a brow, and this time his smile shifts—just a flicker tighter. “Trade secret.”
Your lips part, but before you can press further, he closes the gap between you. “Come on, cutie. You’ve seen my secrets. Let me keep a few.”
You hesitate—but his voice is velvet, and his presence overwhelming, like the painting itself. Warm, close, disarming. Distracting.
Still, your gaze lingers on the painting one second longer.
It did pulse.
And your skin still tingles faintly where you touched it.
You step back, breaking eye contact with the canvas. “…Fine. Keep your little secrets, artist boy.”
He smirks, clearly victorious. “Thank you. I promise they’re all very harmless.”
You eye him. “That’s exactly what someone with very harmful secrets would say.”
Rafayel lets out a soft, theatrical sigh. “You're impossible.”
“And you’re not nearly as subtle as you think.”
But even as you say it, you catch the gleam in his eyes—a flicker of something deep, unspoken, ancient.
And you wonder—not for the first time tonight—just how much of him is artifice… and how much is something else entirely.
You should probably leave. That would be the smart thing to do. But your feet don’t move.
Not when he’s looking at you like that—head tilted, violet-pink eyes half-lidded, like he’s measuring something unseen. The room still hums faintly, thick with the scent of mineral dust and paint thinner. The pulse of that strange painting seems to echo in your fingertips even now, long after you stepped away.
“You’re still curious,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m not denying it,” you murmur.
He moves then, sweeping past you toward the far end of the studio. A large sheet rests over something draped in shadow—another canvas? A sculpture? It’s hard to tell.
He stops, turns to glance at you over his shoulder. “I’ve been working on something new,” he says, voice smooth as wine. “It isn’t finished, but…” He steps aside and lifts the sheet away with a slow, elegant motion.
It’s a painting—tall, vertical, and haunting.
But not like the others. Not posed. Not serene.
This one is raw—your expression caught in mid-thought, lips parted as if about to speak, hair slightly mussed, something stormy in your eyes. It doesn’t feel like a portrait. It feels like an argument. A secret. A confession you didn’t know you made.
You stare. “That’s not how I looked in class.”
“I know.” Rafayel leans one shoulder against the wall beside the canvas, watching you. “That one’s from memory too. But a different kind of memory.”
You glance at him. “When did you see me like this?”
He shrugs. “Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I imagined you this way. Wanted to see you like this.”
You exhale slowly. He’s toying with you again, as always—but something in your chest flutters, caught between intrigue and tension. “You’re impossible to read.”
You turn back to the painting, letting the silence settle between you again. There’s something about this piece that pulls at you in a way the others didn’t. You don’t feel like a muse here. You feel like something else—like he painted what you hide even from yourself.
“…Do you want to sit again?” His voice breaks the stillness.
He nods to the chair near the easel—closer than the platform in the academy. Much closer.
His expression is casual, but his eyes? They gleam.
“I have a few hours,” he says lightly. “If you’re brave enough.”
You hesitate for only a heartbeat. Then you move toward the chair, dragging it a little closer to the light, the hum of the room still buzzing faintly in your bones. You sit, heart ticking a little faster, but your posture relaxed.
You meet his gaze head-on. “Alright. Show me what you see.”
Rafayel smiles, slow and satisfied, as he lifts his brush.
The chair creaks softly as you shift into it, smoothing your hands along your thighs—suddenly hyperaware of your posture, the slope of your shoulders, the angle of your neck. You’ve done this before, countless times under the sharp gaze of students and instructors. But this time, it feels different.
Rafayel stands only a few feet away, sketchpad balanced loosely in one hand, charcoal stick in the other. The dim, amber glow of the studio lamp halos him in warmth, but his focus is sharp—eyes narrowed slightly, expression unreadable.
Not because he told you to—but because somehow, you want to.
The scratch of charcoal fills the silence, soft and rhythmic. You watch the way his wrist moves, fluid and precise. His eyes flick up to meet yours, then back down. Again. Again. Every glance is deliberate. Each line he draws is a secret he’s pulling from you without permission.
You clear your throat. “Do you always draw this close?”
He doesn’t look up. “Only when the subject is interesting.”
Your brow lifts. “And am I interesting because I sit still well, or because you’ve made an art gallery of me in the back of your studio?”
That earns a soft chuckle from him—a real one, low and warm. “Neither. You’re interesting because you’re still trying to figure out if you like being seen.”
Your lips part, but the words don’t come. He’s not wrong. You’ve always worn your calm like armor in these sessions—but Rafayel sees through it, and you don’t know how to stop him.
You shift slightly, just enough for your knee to brush the edge of the lamp’s glow. “What about you?” you ask. “You act like someone who enjoys the attention, but you keep everything else locked up.”
He glances up this time, and for a second—just a second—something flickers in his eyes. Something colder. Older.
“Maybe I do both,” he murmurs. “Maybe I want someone to look close enough to ask.”
You meet his gaze, and neither of you looks away.
“…So?” you ask softly. “What are you drawing now?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes flick to your mouth. Your hands. The curve of your jaw. Then he says:
“The way you sit when you think no one’s watching. The way you try to hide the fact that you’re intrigued.”
You blink. “That’s not very objective.”
He smirks. “Who said I was going for objectivity?”
You exhale, letting your gaze wander across the scattered canvases and sketches that surround you both. The studio feels like its own world now—removed from the streets below, the sounds of the city, the weight of normal life. Here, there’s only this strange rhythm between you.
You tilt your head, eyes returning to his. “How long have you had… whatever this is?” You gesture vaguely toward the paintings. “The obsession.”
He hums, dragging the charcoal in a soft curve across the page. “Since the first session, probably. You didn’t look away when I stared. Most people flinch. You didn’t.”
You smile faintly. “Maybe I wanted to be seen.”
He pauses, then looks up, slower this time. His voice is quieter when he speaks next.
“Then you should be careful,” he murmurs, “because I don’t just look, cutie. I remember. I keep.”
Your breath catches—not from fear, but from the weight behind those words. The intimacy in them.
You sit in stillness again, pulse steady but a little too loud in your ears.
And across from you, Rafayel draws.
The charcoal moves again. Slow, deliberate. You don’t speak for a moment, letting the quiet settle around you like mist.
Your hand drifts idly to the edge of the table beside the chair, fingers brushing across splattered wood and scattered graphite stubs. You’re not really thinking about it—until your skin skims something slick and strangely warm.
Not from pain. Not from fear.
Your fingers jerk back, and for a second, the edges of your vision blur—like the room shifted, just slightly out of alignment.
Something buzzes faintly at the back of your mind, like a note played on a frequency just out of reach.
You look toward the doorway—the curtain still drawn back from earlier. The painting. The small one with the impossible colors.
Faintly. Softly. But unmistakably.
The swirling shades now pulse gently, like the slow rhythm of a sleeping heartbeat. Not steady. Not quite natural. The light ripples across the studio walls, reflecting off silver frames and casting strange shadows behind Rafayel’s silhouette.
You stand slowly, not taking your eyes off it. “It’s doing it again.”
Rafayel doesn’t move. His head tilts slightly, one brow raising. He watches you, not the painting.
“You’re not screaming,” he says, voice low, thoughtful.
“You’re not running either.”
You glance at him, jaw tightening. “Should I be?”
He smiles, but there’s something else behind it now. Something deeper. Interested. “Most would’ve broken the door down by now.”
You look back at the painting. That shimmering glow calls to something deep in your chest, strange but not unwelcome. Like a dream you can’t remember but know you’ve had.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he stands, setting his sketchpad down carefully on the table. Then, slowly, he walks to your side, eyes never leaving your face.
“It’s made with a pigment you can’t find on the surface,” he says at last, voice almost too casual. “Coral stone. Grows in deep ocean pressure, where light folds in on itself. Very rare.”
You glance at him. “And the pulsing?”
“Side effect. The material’s… reactive.” His tone is deliberately vague.
He leans in slightly, head tilted as he studies your expression. “That’s the interesting part.”
You stare at him, heart thudding, the air now humming softly around you. “It reacted to me.”
“Yes.” His smile stretches. “And you’re still standing here. Still looking.”
There’s a beat of silence. Long. Charged.
You don’t know what he’s expecting from you now—fear, maybe. Or retreat. But all you feel is a slow-burning fire in your chest, drawn by the pull of something unknown. Him. This place. The strange materials he works with. The secrets layered beneath his art.
“…Is it dangerous?” you ask.
“Only if you try to understand it too fast,” he replies. Then adds, with a slow, playful drawl, “Like me.”
You look up at him, eyes narrowed, heart steady.
Rafayel grins then—sharp, amused, intrigued in a way that feels far more dangerous than anything glowing behind a curtain.
“Well, cutie,” he says, “in that case… welcome to the deep end.”
You take a step toward the painting.
Rafayel doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t say anything at all. He just watches, eyes half-lidded, lips parted slightly like he’s holding in something unspoken.
The canvas pulses again—soft waves of color folding into one another, blooming and collapsing like a living thing caught in rhythm with your heartbeat. You hesitate just before your fingers reach it.
His response is so quiet you almost miss it.
“…If you want the truth, cutie, you should probably turn around and go home.”
You glance back at him, eyes sharp. “But if I want the interesting answer?”
He gives a soft, velveted laugh. “Then touch it.”
Your fingertips graze the painted surface—and the world tilts.
Color surges beneath your skin, blooming through your veins like warm lightning. The room swims. Not violently—more like the sensation of being pulled underwater without drowning. Shapes swirl at the edge of your vision, fractals folding into memories you’ve never had. You see light refracting in deep sea currents. Hear whispers in a language that doesn't exist. The hum becomes music.
It doesn’t hurt. But it changes you—just for a breath.
And behind you—something shifts.
You whip around, breath catching in your throat.
Rafayel is standing still, but the air around him ripples—just once. Like gravity bent sideways. Like the studio itself responded to your touch.
His eyes glow faintly—violet brightening into a glassy, inhuman shimmer. His hair drifts slightly, as if underwater, and for a heartbeat, the shadows on the walls crawl inward, drawn to him like a tide responding to the moon.
Then it all vanishes. A blink—and he’s just Rafayel again.
But your heart is pounding now. “That was—”
He doesn’t let you finish.
“Side effect,” he says smoothly. Too smoothly.
You blink at him. “You reacted.”
He lifts a brow, expression unreadable. “Did I?”
“Yes.” You step toward him now, breathless but steady. “That was your Evol, wasn’t it?”
Then—finally—he speaks. “You’re not supposed to see that. Not yet.”
He sighs through his nose, almost amused, almost annoyed. “And yet here you are. Still not screaming.”
“I told you,” you murmur. “I like puzzles.”
He studies you again—really studies you. You expect him to retreat behind one of his deflections, the playful teasing or velvet charm.
But this time, he doesn’t.
“You touched something that should’ve cracked your mind wide open… and you’re still standing. Still you.”
You swallow, pulse thudding in your neck. “Should I be afraid?”
Rafayel’s expression softens just slightly, though something ancient still lingers behind his eyes. “Maybe. But I’m starting to think you’re the kind of girl who’d smile with a knife in her hand.”
You laugh—soft, uncertain. “What does that make you?”
He steps close. Just close enough for his voice to drop again, low and rich. “A very willing volunteer.”
The studio feels different now.
Not just in atmosphere—but in weight. Like the air between you and Rafayel has thickened with something older, heavier. Unspoken things shift just below the surface.
He’s still watching you—not with playful interest this time, but something else. Something sharper. Ancient.
You cross your arms, trying to steady your breath. “You said I wasn’t supposed to see that yet.”
“I did.” His voice is quiet now, velvet-dark. “But it’s not the first time you’ve done something you weren’t supposed to.”
Your brow furrows. “That sounds like more than just tonight.”
A faint smile ghosts across his lips. “Maybe it is.”
You pause, searching his face. That unreadable look in his eyes isn’t unfamiliar—but tonight, it feels less like a mask and more like a lock. One you’re finally finding the edges to.
He lifts a brow, amused. “Tell you what?”
There’s a silence then. Long. Intentional. His fingers trail along the edge of the sketchpad, absently picking up the charcoal again, as if drawing gives him something to anchor to.
“There are stories,” he says, “about how the soul remembers what the mind forgets. That even when time folds in on itself, there are things we carry forward—things that find us again.”
You tilt your head. “Are we talking about art now, or something else?”
Rafayel’s gaze lifts to meet yours—and it’s too much. Like looking through centuries all layered behind violet eyes. He smiles, but it’s the kind that doesn’t quite reach the surface.
“If you’re real,” he says. “If this is real.”
You blink. “I’m right in front of you.”
“I know. And yet, the last time I saw your face…” He stops himself, eyes narrowing slightly, as though something painful brushes the edge of his memory. “You were dying in my arms.”
Your mouth goes dry. “What?”
He watches you. Measuring. Waiting.
“…I think I knew you once,” he says, barely audible. “Long before this. Long before now. But I don’t know if you’re her. Or just another face I want to believe in.”
You take a slow breath, pulse hammering. “You think I’m someone who… died?”
“Not just someone.” His voice is a whisper now. “The only person who ever made me want to stay.”
He steps closer, but not too close—like he’s afraid getting near might break the spell. “So you see… when you touched that painting, and you didn’t break, didn’t crack—I had to wonder.”
You meet his gaze, heart racing. “Wonder what?”
“If your soul remembers mine.”
The silence that follows is thick enough to drown in. You don’t speak, don’t move. Because suddenly you understand why he’s been watching you all semester. Why he sculpted you from memory. Why he seems pulled to you—not with infatuation, but with recognition.
You’re a puzzle he hasn’t solved in 800 years.
“…And if I’m not her?” you ask, voice barely a whisper.
Rafayel’s eyes dim slightly, but the softness never fades. “Then I’ll still paint you until my hands forget how.”
His words hang in the air like smoke:
Your heart is a wild, fluttering thing in your chest, trying to make sense of a weight that doesn’t belong to this life. Of a name unspoken, a rainstorm long gone, a dying moment that shouldn't exist in your memories—and yet something stirs.
But before you can reach for it— Rafayel steps back.
The motion is quiet, gentle. Not rejection. Something else. Like he’s pulling a curtain shut over a window that should never have been opened.
“That’s enough,” he says softly.
His eyes lower, lashes casting shadows across his cheekbones. “If we go any deeper… I don’t think either of us will come back the same.”
You hesitate. “Isn’t that the point?”
He lets out a slow breath, then meets your gaze with something raw behind his usual teasing exterior. It’s not fear. It’s not disinterest. It’s care. Restraint forged in the fire of something ancient.
“I’ve waited too long to get this wrong,” he says.
It hits you then—this isn’t just intrigue to him. This isn’t flirtation or artistic obsession. It’s something sacred. The way someone might cradle a long-lost melody at the edge of memory, too afraid that humming it aloud will ruin it forever.
He looks down at the sketchpad—still open, lines half-formed.
You don’t argue. Don’t push.
But as he leads you to the studio door, your hand trails along the edge of the curtain again. The painting behind it hums faintly, still pulsing like a distant heartbeat. Waiting.
You glance back at him one last time.
Rafayel catches your eyes, and though his expression is calm, you can feel it. The storm hasn’t passed. It’s only been postponed.
--------------------------
That’s how long it’s been since you left Rafayel’s studio—since you touched that painting, felt something move beneath your skin, and saw his eyes burn with light not meant for this world.
Winter break came like a snowstorm that buried everything. The city slowed. The academy emptied. And for a while, you told yourself it had all been a trick of the light. Stress. Exhaustion. A beautiful artist and his strange materials.
From the moment your fingers touched that coral pigment, something inside you began to stir.
It started small—barely noticeable. A flicker of déjà vu when you passed by deep water. The whisper of a name you didn’t know on the edge of dreams. But the dreams…
The dreams were different.
You saw a city of glass and coral, spiraling towers bathed in soft blue light, luminous creatures drifting through vaulted domes. You saw him. Rafayel—but not as he is now. His hair flowed like liquid starlight, his eyes glowed brighter than the surface sun, and the sea bowed to his will. You saw yourself too—kneeling in shallow water, trembling as golden hands touched your face with reverence.
In one dream, they tried to take your heart. You remember the blade. You remember his voice, shaking as he said no.
And you remember the feeling of falling into his arms as he chose you—over them.
You wake up each time with your heart in your throat, your sheets damp with cold sweat, whispering his name into the dark.
The semester starts again.
The halls of the academy buzz back to life, laughter and boots crunching ice into slush. Students carry portfolios and half-finished canvases under their arms. But you? You find yourself in front of the model roster sheet again, pen hovering.
You write your name down under his class.
You tell yourself it’s for the money, the familiarity. Routine.
But when you walk into the room that first day, and see him at the far end of the studio—his back turned, sleeves rolled up, brushing powder onto a canvas with long, elegant fingers—your chest clenches.
You feel it. Like gravity pulling toward the sea.
Rafayel turns. And when he sees you—his expression doesn’t shift.
A flicker. A pause. Like he’s been waiting for this.
You don’t speak. Neither does he. But the moment stretches between you like a thread pulled tight through time.
And the soul in your chest begins to remember.
The students begin to gather their things—brushes clattering into tins, sketchbooks snapping shut, chairs scraping across the floor. Someone laughs near the back, muffled behind their scarf. The air smells faintly of varnish and cold.
Rafayel closes his sketchpad with a quiet, final motion. He doesn’t look at you—not yet. He’s already halfway to the door, coat slung lazily over one shoulder, hair loose, untied. Like nothing happened. Like he hasn’t haunted your dreams for twenty-one days straight.
Like he wasn’t holding you in the depths of a forgotten world—choosing you over everything he was meant to protect.
Your voice rises before you can stop it.
He freezes. One hand still on the doorframe.
Slowly, he turns. Violet eyes meet yours, unreadable. Calm. Too calm.
“Yes?” he asks, as if nothing’s changed.
But you see it—the flicker behind his gaze. A flash of recognition. And something else, too. Restraint.
You take a breath. Step forward.
His brows lift, just slightly. He turns fully now, facing you. There’s a beat of silence where neither of you moves. The others file out behind you, unaware. Unimportant. The world shrinks to the space between you and him.
“You came after me,” Rafayel says softly, almost to himself. “Of course you did.”
“Something’s been… happening. Since that night,” you say. “Since I touched the painting.”
He doesn’t interrupt. He watches. He waits.
“I didn’t think it was real,” you go on. “But then I started dreaming. Or remembering. I don’t even know which it is.” You shake your head, breath catching. “You were there. Not as you are now. You were…”
“…More,” he finishes, quiet.
“And I was…” You swallow. “I think I was meant to die. But you stopped it. You saved me.”
His eyes close. Just for a moment. Like your words strike a place he’s been guarding too tightly for too long.
“You feel it too, don’t you?” you whisper.
Then—his voice, soft and steady:
Something in your chest folds inward at the way he says it. Like it matters. Like it changes everything.
You search his face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wasn’t sure,” he says. “And I didn’t want to force it. If you were her, you would feel it in time. If you weren’t…” His jaw tenses. “I didn’t want to break you chasing a ghost.”
“But I’m not broken,” you say, stepping closer. “I’m still here.”
His breath catches—just slightly. And you swear, in that moment, the air shifts. Like the ocean, rising behind his eyes.
“You shouldn’t be,” he says, almost in wonder. “Not again.”
You reach for him. Not with your hands. Not yet. Just with your voice. Your presence. The truth you’re not afraid to look at anymore.
“Then maybe we were never meant to forget.”
You wait—for him to reach for you. To say something more. To close the space between your bodies the way your souls already have.
Rafayel stands there, barely a foot away, and yet there’s a wall between you. Not one made of distance or doubt—but of memory. Of fear. Of something ancient and fragile, breaking open again.
His hand twitches at his side, fingers curling faintly. You catch the motion. He wanted to touch you. He stopped himself.
“Why won’t you say it?” you ask softly. “Why won’t you let this be real?”
He meets your gaze, and gods, his eyes—there’s a whole world inside them. A depth you’ve seen only in dreams and drowning.
“Because the last time I did,” he says, voice barely audible, “I lost you.”
The words hit like a wave to the chest.
You don’t remember how. Not clearly. The dream ends in his arms, in the choice he made to protect you. But after that—nothing.
Just a pressure in your ribs. A cold that clings to your bones. A final heartbeat, echoing in his silence.
Still, you don’t ask. You don’t need to.
Because even now, standing before him in this studio full of light and pigment and breath—you can feel it. The pain. The love. The unspoken ache buried so deep in him that he’s sculpted you again and again just to survive it.
And somehow… so have you.
“I don’t remember everything,” you murmur. “I don’t know the names or the place or the time. But I feel it.”
You step forward, slowly.
His jaw tightens. His eyes burn. Still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach.
And it hurts, the way he holds himself back. Not out of cruelty. But reverence. Like you’re a flame he already burned himself on once.
“I want to remember,” you say. “But even if I never do—I still choose you.”
Something shifts in the room. Not big. Not loud. Just the faintest tremor beneath your feet. A hum in the floorboards. In the air.
His Evol. His soul. You don’t know.
But he does. He feels it too.
“You don’t understand what that means,” he says, voice rough now. “What it costs.”
“Maybe not yet,” you whisper, “but I understand what it feels like.”
His eyes close. One slow breath. And when they open again, there’s something soft in him. A crack in the marble.
He doesn’t touch you. But his voice reaches you anyway.
“Not yet,” he says. “If you’re really her… this time, I’ll wait.”
Because you understand. Because this time—it’s him who’s afraid to lose you.
It starts the same way it always does—cold.
The weight of water presses in around you, dark and endless. Your limbs move slow, your chest burns. You're drowning, sinking toward a seabed that glows faintly with bioluminescent vines. Your dress fans around you like seafoam. You know this place. You’ve been here before.
A figure gliding through the currents like gravity doesn’t apply to him. Hair like flowing starlight. Eyes like amethyst struck by lightning. He reaches you just as your vision begins to blur.
He cradles your face in both hands, and you remember this part—the fear, the pleading, the way you mouthed “please” even as your lungs gave out.
You didn’t know what you were asking for.
You didn’t know what it meant.
But still, you kissed him.
A desperate, breathless thing—your lips pressed to his in the dark as your heart sputtered its last beat. And instead of death— You breathed.
The kiss lit your chest with warmth. Not fire. Not air. Something older. Your eyes flew open underwater.
And you weren’t dying anymore.
He held you close, his forehead pressed to yours, and when you looked at him again, something had changed behind his eyes. Something vast. And sacred.
Not with words. But with the kiss.
The unspoken offering. The soul deep vow.
You became his follower. His chosen. His beloved.
You were only human—but in that moment, your soul was marked with the sea. Claimed by a god who didn’t yet know the price of it.
The dream shifts. Fractures.
You see the temple now—carved of pearl and obsidian. Lemuria, luminous and ancient. The central flame of the sea god ceremony burns in a great sphere above a blackened altar. The people bow. They chant.
You stand in the center, trembling. Rafayel stands beside you, lips pale. Silent.
He’s been told what must happen. He has been given the blade.
Your heart is needed to sustain the fire. Your heart, bound to his.
You remember the way he looked at the high priest. The way his fingers refused to close around the handle. You remember the way the entire sea trembled when he said no.
And then—his power unraveled.
The light of Lemuria flickered. The waters darkened. The fire went out.
You remember the way his arms wrapped around you again—just like the first time.
You remember whispering, “You chose me.”
And him replying, brokenly:
And still, somehow… you died.
You wake in the dark, gasping. Salt on your tongue. The echo of his kiss still burning your lips.
You touch your chest—right over your heart. It’s whole. It’s yours. But it remembers.
The dream returns like a memory you never meant to forget. You’re underwater again—but this time, you’re not drowning.
The world around you is impossibly still. Pale coral arches reach above your head like the bones of a cathedral, glowing with soft blue light. Strange flowers drift on unseen currents, petals fluttering like wings. Fish made of shimmer and shadow pass by in slow spirals. It's quiet. Sacred.
Rafayel is nearby, watching you with something unreadable in his eyes. Not the reverent awe from the ceremony. Not the pained hesitation. This is something gentler. Curious.
He stands barefoot on the stone, hair floating around his shoulders like silk in the current. His robes are darker here, marked with shifting patterns that seem to move when you look too long.
You float a little clumsily in front of him, trying to adjust to this strange new weightlessness.
“I thought I was dead,” you murmur, your voice somehow carried clearly through the water.
“You were,” he says, gaze never leaving yours. “Until you chose otherwise.”
You swallow. “I didn’t know what I was choosing.”
“No,” he says softly. “But you meant it anyway.”
You’re not sure what to say to that.
Instead, he moves toward you—slow and fluid, like he’s always belonged to this world and you’re only just being invited in. His hand reaches out, not to touch, but to hover near your cheek.
“Does it frighten you?” he asks. “Being here?”
You think about it. Then shake your head.
“It should,” you admit. “But it doesn’t.”
His smile is faint—barely there. “You’re strange for a surface-dweller.”
“You’re strange for a god.”
That makes something behind his eyes flicker. Not offense. Amusement. Maybe even affection.
You spend what feels like hours in that place. Days, maybe. Time doesn’t move here like it does above.
He shows you Lemuria not as a ruler, but as a guide. A hidden garden of crystal reeds that sing when touched. A cave where ancient murals tell stories in light. A forgotten chamber where fire dances in airless flame.
Watches when you laugh, like he’s memorizing the sound.
How his powers respond to emotion. How he carries the weight of his people even when no one is watching. How he hides pain behind poetry and sharpness.
How you hum when you think. How you press your hand to your chest when something stirs too deeply. How you’re always looking up—even underwater—like you're still searching for the stars.
You never touch. Not yet.
But one night, you sit side by side on a stone ledge beneath a glowing coral arch, legs drifting just above the sea floor.
And when he speaks, his voice is quieter than it’s ever been.
“Once the ceremony begins, I won’t be the same.”
You turn to him. “What do you mean?”
His eyes search yours like he’s trying to decide whether to lie.
Then: “A part of me must burn to keep Lemuria alive. It’s always been this way.”
You nod slowly. “And what about me?”
He looks away. That silence is your answer.
You don’t understand yet.
Something terrible is coming.
But you also feel this: The way he leans just slightly toward you, like he’s afraid of breaking something holy. The way your bond tugs at your soul, even before either of you speaks its name.
And before the dream ends, you whisper the words you won’t remember come morning.
“I’m not afraid of the fire. Only of losing you in it.”
The dream begins in silence.
Not the silence of fear or sorrow—but the heavy, sacred quiet that comes just before something ends.
It’s the night before the ceremony.
The air in Lemuria glows low with golden biolight. The current is still. Even the reefs seem to hold their breath. Somewhere beyond the palace walls, the people prepare for the great rite—songs and rituals to awaken the ancient fire. But here, in this quiet chamber of smooth obsidian and woven pearl, it’s only the two of you.
You sit beside him on a wide, polished ledge, your legs dangling in a pool of slow-moving current. Above you, light filters through a ceiling of living coral, casting soft shadows that drift across your skin.
Neither of you speaks at first.
He sits close—closer than ever before. His shoulder brushes yours. His fingers rest on the stone between you, twitching once, like he wants to close the space and doesn’t know how.
“I dreamed of the surface,” you say quietly. “Last night. I think I remembered what stars look like.”
His lips quirk. “Do you miss them?”
He hums. “They pale in comparison to your light, you know.”
You laugh, soft and tired. “Flattery won’t change what’s coming.”
The smile fades from his face. “No. It won’t.”
You look at him then, really look. The lines of his jaw. The quiet weight in his gaze. His beauty, yes—but more than that, the sadness he wears like silk beneath his skin.
“I wish it didn’t have to be this way,” you whisper.
And finally, finally, he turns to you. His voice is low, almost breaking.
He reaches for you. Fingers brushing your cheek, your jaw. There’s hesitation in him—like a god afraid of touching something mortal and fragile. But you lean into him. Let him touch. Let him feel.
“I don’t know what will happen tomorrow,” he says, so softly it hurts. “But if there’s a world after this one… I’ll find you in it.”
You breathe. “You promise?”
His forehead touches yours. “With everything I am.”
You press your lips to his. Not desperate like the kiss that saved your life. This one is soft. Reverent. Like two souls saying goodbye before they’re torn apart.
Your fingers curl in the silk at his shoulder. You could have more. You both know it. You could fall into each other here and now and let everything else go.
And when he speaks again, there’s a tremor in his voice. “If I touch more of you, I’ll never let go.”
You just stay like that—forehead to forehead, the fire of Lemuria flickering in the distance, and the sea whispering of things it already knows it will lose.
You wake up with a gasp. The sheets are tangled around your legs. Your skin is damp with sweat, and your chest aches like something was carved out of it in the night.
You press a trembling hand over your heart.
Not the ceremony. Not your death. Just him.
The way his hands trembled. The promise he made.
You don’t hesitate this time.
You throw on a coat over your clothes and leave your apartment before the sun finishes rising, wind biting at your skin. The academy isn’t open yet, but you know he has a private studio nearby—on the edge of the district, tucked between half-forgotten buildings where light paints long shadows.
You reach the door and pause. For a moment, all you can hear is your heartbeat.
Then your knuckles lift, and you knock.
And when the door opens— He’s there.
Sleep-rumpled, bare-footed, paint smeared faintly on his wrist like he’s been working through the night.
He stops when he sees you. His eyes widen. And something in them breaks. Your eyes meet his, and he goes still. Entirely still.
Like he knows you’re not just looking at him. You’re seeing him.
Through the centuries. Through the weight of what he’s carried.
And somehow, through that endless ache that’s lingered between you since the moment your soul touched his again—you feel it.
That thread woven between you, stretching across lifetimes, and still just as strong.
You step forward. Quiet. Unhurried. He moves aside.
It’s warm inside, dimly lit with scattered lamps. The scent of salt, paint, and something faintly floral clings to the air. The walls are lined with canvases again, some half-finished, some covered. But you barely glance at them.
You turn to him. He closes the door, slowly, carefully, like any sudden movement might shatter what’s happening between you.
You still don’t speak. You just look.
And he knows. That you remember the fire. The sea. The altar. The way he whispered “always” and chose you over an entire civilization.
“…You’re not her,” he says softly, voice fraying at the edges. “But you are.”
“I’m not who I was,” you say. “But I carry her. She’s in me.”
His throat works as he tries to swallow the weight of everything behind your words. He takes a step back, not away from you—toward something deeper. Something buried.
Your voice barely makes it out.
“Everything,” you say. “Lemuria. The fire. What happened. Why I died. Why you—” Your voice breaks. You inhale. “Why you’ve been alone for so long.”
His eyes close. One breath. Then two. He doesn’t ask if you’re sure. He doesn’t warn you away.
He only steps forward and nods toward the armchair near his worktable. You sit, and he sits across from you—close, but not touching.
And then, for the first time in eight hundred years, Rafayel begins to speak.
He leans back in his chair, elbows resting on his knees. His fingers lace together, but his hands don’t stop moving—twitching, flexing, like they’re remembering something. Or trying not to.
He stares at the floor for a long moment.
“I wasn’t always like this,” he says. “The whole ‘mysterious artist who might be a little unhinged’ thing? That’s new. Took me a couple centuries to refine.”
You don’t smile. But he knows you heard the joke.
His eyes flick up to yours, then drop again.
“Lemuria was real. A city beneath the sea, ancient as anything you’ve ever read about and ten times more arrogant. We weren’t gods—not really—but we were close. More powerful. Longer-lived. Bound to elements. Mine was fire.”
“In the ocean, I know. Hilarious.”
You’re silent, letting him continue.
“Our survival depended on balance—between power and the sea. Every few hundred years, we held a renewal ceremony. Something to keep the core of Lemuria alive. It required a sacrifice. A living soul, given freely. Always human.”
He leans back, eyes distant now.
Your breath catches. He hears it—but keeps going.
“I didn’t choose you. The council did. You were caught in a storm. A shipwreck. They pulled you from the water and called it fate.”
“But I was the one who pulled you the rest of the way. I found you when you were drowning—dying. And you…”
He looks at you again, voice quieter.
“You kissed me. Just once. Desperate. Barely conscious. But it was enough.”
You feel the heat rise behind your ribs.
“You didn’t know what it meant. Neither did I, not really. But the bond was made. You became mine. Not in some ceremonial sense. Not a title. Real. Your soul tied to mine. I should’ve broken it then. I didn’t.”
You don’t speak. You can’t.
“We had time before the ceremony,” he says. “Not much, but enough. I showed you the city. You smiled at things I’d forgotten to see. I told myself it was fine. That we’d find a way to make it work. The ritual had been done before, right? It would be painful. It would be cruel. But you’d be honored. Remembered.”
He rubs a hand over his face.
“I didn’t know what the fire would ask.”
“They didn’t tell me. They let me fall in love with you knowing what it would cost.”
You stare at him, chest tight.
“And when the time came…” He laughs, but there’s nothing amused in it. “I dropped the blade. Like a fool. Like a man instead of a god. I chose you.”
His eyes lift, finally meeting yours again.
The words drop like stones.
“The fire died. The sea went silent. The city collapsed in on itself and slipped into slumber. My people… gone. All of them. And you…”
His hands curl into fists.
The silence between you is unbearable.
“I searched,” he whispers. “Every century. Every continent. Every flicker of something familiar. Until now.”
Your throat tightens, your chest aching like the memory is still carved into it.
And then, very quietly— “You never hated me?” you ask.
Rafayel looks at you, and his voice is nothing but raw truth.
“I hated myself enough for both of us.”
You sit with the weight of his words echoing in your chest. Not as a story. Not as a myth. But as memory.
Pieces of the dreams begin snapping into place—too vivid to be fiction. The drowning. The kiss. The glow of Lemuria’s fire before it went dark. The way he held you. The way he chose you.
He said it so simply. So quietly.
You still feel it—that cold, final moment. The pain. The way his arms wrapped around you as everything collapsed. Not in a temple. Not in fire. But in a goodbye you never got to speak.
You study him now. He’s staring at the floor again, trying to hold himself together.
But because he always has.
You can see it all over him now—grief carved into every line of his face. Regret tucked behind every flicker of his eyes. He’s worn it for centuries like armor, and now it hangs off him like a second skin.
And even though he's the one who remembers everything, your own soul is screaming that it recognizes him.
That this man—this tired, deflecting, beautiful man—is yours.
Not because he claimed you. But because you chose him, too.
Your fingers twitch once on your lap. And then, slowly, you reach forward.
No words. No hesitation. Just the soft, deliberate motion of your hand covering his—warm skin to trembling knuckles.
He stills instantly. Like he can’t believe it’s real. Like the fire that once destroyed a city might spark again beneath your touch.
His head lifts. And when his eyes meet yours, you see it.
The eight hundred years of silence. The fury. The ache. The guilt. The hope he buried so deep he stopped believing it could ever breathe again.
And something inside him breaks.
But in the way his fingers curl into yours without thinking. The way he leans ever so slightly forward, breath catching. The way his voice—when it finally comes—is barely more than a whisper.
“…You still want me?” Your voice is soft. Cracked open.
“I don’t know what this life will ask of us. But yes.”
Then his fingers tighten around yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear again. Like the bond has always been there, tugging at him through lifetimes. And now, finally—finally—you’re here.
And this time, he doesn’t let go.
His fingers tighten around yours. Not with desperation—but with certainty.
As if he’s grounding himself in your warmth, your presence. Your soul.
At first, it’s subtle. A shift in the air. A pressure beneath your skin. The kind of sensation that makes your breath catch in your throat. Then his Evol stirs.
You feel it hum in the floorboards. In the space between your bodies. The pull of gravity—not toward the earth, but toward him.
Your heart stumbles as the air thickens with heat and stillness. The lamps in the studio dim slightly, like shadows drawn inward to watch.
His shirt shifts slightly, neckline tugged just low enough from how he’s leaning forward, and you see it: The mark.
Etched into the skin over his heart, faintly glowing with light that moves like liquid gold beneath his skin.
A marking—long-forgotten, hidden, sacred.
Flowing like a river. Like the pull of tides. The bond.
It pulses once. Then again. And your own body answers—not visibly, but within.
You feel the pull so deep it hurts. Like your soul is trying to leave your body just to meet his halfway.
You gasp and close your eyes, clutching his hand harder, like if you let go, the bond would rip you apart. Your heart pounds. Your skin burns. It’s too much and still not enough.
“Rafayel—” you whisper, and your voice is wrecked with it.
He moved without thought, closing the space, kneeling before you, both hands now on yours. His breath is shallow. His pupils dilated. His voice when it comes is strained—barely held together.
“I feel like I’m dying,” you whisper. “But it’s not pain. It’s—”
“I know.” His forehead presses gently to your hand, his hair brushing your skin. “The bond was never meant to wake like this. Not after everything. Not after time.”
Your throat tightens. “What does it mean?”
His voice is hoarse. “It means your soul remembers mine. It means I never stopped carrying you. And now, you’re carrying me again.”
“I can’t breathe,” you whisper.
He looks up at you then, eyes burning with that same ancient ache, and says— “I’ll hold you through it. I swear.”
You grip his hand tighter. Your pulse thunders against his. And beneath it all—the mark glows brighter.
The fire he gave up Lemuria for, burning again in the space between your ribs. And still, he holds you. Because this time, he’s not letting go.
You don’t know how long you sit like that. Hands entwined. Breath shallow. Skin flushed with something deeper than heat. His forehead rests against your hand, and your fingers press into his like you’ll drown without him.
The mark on his chest glows brighter now—like molten gold spilling beneath his skin, threading through his veins. It pulses with the slow, aching rhythm of something that never truly died.
It starts in your fingertips, where his touch meets yours. A subtle warmth that spreads—up your arms, across your chest, down your spine. Your body tenses, not in fear, but in stunned surrender. Like your soul is unfolding, opening ancient doors it didn’t know it still carried.
“Rafayel…” Your voice is barely audible.
He looks up—eyes shining, wide, and for the first time, afraid.
Not of you. But of what this means. Because the bond is awake now.
And you feel it. So does he.
You lean forward without thinking. Just enough that your knees touch, your hands still laced together between you. Your foreheads meet—like they did once, long ago beneath the sea.
You feel it—his soul brushing against yours.
Not metaphorically. Not emotionally.
It’s like something inside you—something buried so deep it became myth—rises with a gasp and rushes to meet him. And his soul? It surges forward like the tide, like fire drawn to air, like it’s been starving for this for eight hundred years.
You both freeze. The moment stretches thin.
Like two halves of a lock finally twisting together. You both exhale at the same time—ragged, quiet, trembling. You press your forehead harder to his, your breath mingling, and your voice breaks.
His hands tremble as they rise—fingers brushing your face, your jaw, the side of your neck.
“And I feel you,” he whispers. “Like I never stopped.”
It’s too much. But neither of you lets go. Because it’s not your bodies craving closeness now. It’s your souls. Colliding. Merging. Grasping onto each other like they will die if they’re pulled apart again.
You wrap your arms around his shoulders and bury your face into the crook of his neck. He pulls you in with a sound that’s almost broken—relief and disbelief and hunger, all tangled together.
And there, in the silence of his studio, surrounded by memories and broken time and fire reborn— You hold each other like the world already ended once.
And this time, you refuse to let it happen again.
You sit wrapped in his arms, the mark on his chest pulsing against you like a second heartbeat. One you know now. One your soul aches for. Neither of you speaks. There’s too much to say, and none of it would be enough.
Breathing each other in. Holding the weight of eight centuries between your ribs. Letting the silence crack open everything that once went unsaid.
The ache in him—that deep, hollow grief buried beneath every teasing smile he ever gave you. The longing in you, echoing back from the dreams and the fragments and the salt still crusted on your soul. The fear that it could happen again. The desperate hope that it might not.
And somehow, love—tangled and broken and real—fills the air between you like light in water.
You shift slightly, just enough to look up. He feels it and pulls back a little too—but not far. Just enough so your faces are inches apart again.
You stare into his eyes. And they’re not violet now.
Lemurian blue. The glow from centuries ago, lit from within, as if his soul is rising to the surface and showing itself to you, fully—not hiding, not shielding, not afraid anymore.
Your breath catches. You don’t realize your hand is on his cheek until he leans into it, closing his eyes for one long, shuddering moment.
And when they open again, you whisper—broken, honest, whole. “I want to kiss you.”
His breath stumbles. You shake your head, just slightly. “Not because of the bond. Not because of then.”
Your thumb brushes his cheek, and your voice trembles.
“Because I’m drowning again. And this time… I want you to save me.”
His lips part. But he doesn’t speak. Instead—slowly, reverently—he leans in. No ceremony. No ritual. Just him.
And when your mouths meet, there’s no fire. No crashing waves. Just stillness. Warmth. The kind of kiss that quiets the world around it.
That tells your soul: You’re home.
His lips meet yours like a breath caught between lifetimes.
At first, it’s gentle—tender. The kind of kiss that trembles with restraint, with awe, with the weight of finally.
But the moment stretches. And the bond stirs again.
You feel it low in your chest, deep in your belly, under your skin—like a thread catching fire. His soul brushes yours again, not tentative this time, but seeking. And you both feel it: want, sharp and full, no longer content to stay beneath the surface.
Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt.
His hand moves to the back of your neck, firm now, grounding you as he deepens the kiss—lips parting, breath shared. His other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer until your bodies touch, chest to chest, and that mark between you flares.
You gasp against his mouth—stunned by how much you feel. Every beat of his heart, every tremble in his fingers, every shattered breath.
And he groans low in his throat, like he’s been starving for this, like your kiss is the first breath after centuries underwater.
Your hands slide up, one to his shoulder, the other to his jaw, tilting him closer, needing him closer. The kiss turns needy, like the bond has teeth, like it hurts to be apart even by inches.
You shift into his lap on the floor without thinking, knees on either side of him, your bodies pressing together like a tide rising. The heat between you builds—slow, consuming. His hands find your back, your hips, steady and worshipful and claiming.
But still careful. Still him.
Because even now—he’s holding the storm back for you.
Your foreheads touch again, both of you breathless, lips barely apart. His voice is rough, reverent, shaking. “I’ve wanted you for so long…”
You whisper, “Then have me. Now. This time.”
He exhales, eyes closing—like your words are both mercy and temptation.
But still, he rests his forehead against yours, and for one long moment, the kiss slows again—returning to where it began.
That this time, you came back.
His breath fans against your lips. Your bodies press together, heart to heart, soul to soul—and still, it’s not enough.
His hands slide up your sides, slow and reverent, fingers tracing the shape of you like he’s memorizing a map he already knows by heart. You feel his touch like heat, like electricity, but it’s gentle. Not rushed. As if he’s asking permission with every inch.
And you give it. Freely. Because you trust him. Because you always did.
Your hands cup his face, thumbs brushing along the high bones of his cheeks. His eyes are still glowing—soft, pulsing with that same sea-blue light that once illuminated the depths of Lemuria. You can’t stop looking at him. He’s beauty and ruin and tenderness all at once.
“Let me see you,” he breathes, voice low and raw.
His fingers move to your shirt, slow and trembling. He peels it over your head inch by inch, gaze never leaving your face. His eyes darken as more of you is revealed, not with lust, but with a reverent kind of ache. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks.
You’re bare to him now, chest rising and falling, pulse fluttering beneath your skin.
And the way he looks at you?
Like you’re the only thing in the universe that ever made sense.
When his hands do move, they’re light, like seafoam brushing the shore. Palms skimming over your ribs, your waist, up to the curve of your shoulders. You shiver, not from cold—but from being seen.
“Every time I dreamed,” he whispers, voice shaking, “this is where it ended. I always woke up before I could touch you like this.”
You reach for the hem of his shirt, voice soft. “Then let’s stay awake.”
He unbuttones it slowly—and there it is. The mark.
Alive with golden light. Spiraling and shifting with every breath he takes. You lift your hand and lay your palm over it, and he gasps, eyes fluttering closed.
“Gods—” he murmurs. “You feel like fire.”
“And you feel like the sea,” you whisper, leaning in.
Your mouths find each other again, deeper this time. Slower. The kiss rolls like a tide—soft waves turning into something stronger. His hands cradle your waist, yours slide into his hair, anchoring each other as your hips begin to move, instinctual, finding rhythm in closeness.
You’re bare from the waist up, his palms warm on your skin, your body pressed into his lap, straddling him. The heat between you isn’t sudden—it’s steady, like something alive and rising with every breath.
His hands settle at your waist, thumbs stroking along your sides, and your arms loop around his shoulders like instinct. You roll your hips forward, slow and searching.
He breathes out against your jaw—a sound, soft and sharp and undone.
“Don’t stop,” he whispers.
The bond pulls at both of you now—familiar and foreign all at once. A string tugging from somewhere deeper than the body, deeper than desire.
You grind again, and he shudders beneath you.
Your mouths find each other once more, this kiss less gentle—still reverent, still him, but now laced with hunger, with need. Your hips keep moving, slow and steady, pressing into him in long waves that make your pulse trip and your breath stutter.
His hands slide up your back, fingers tracing your spine, pulling you closer until there’s no space left to give.
You break the kiss first—just enough to breathe, to look at him.
He’s glowing again. Eyes bright, chest marked with light, jaw tense with restraint. But it’s his expression that stills you.
It’s not lust. It’s longing. The kind that never died. The kind that waited. You whisper, breathless, “You’re shaking.”
“I’ve never had you like this,” he murmurs, voice thick. “Not like this. Not when we could’ve had forever.”
You stroke his cheek. “Then take it now.”
He swallows hard, eyes locked on yours. “You feel it too… don’t you? Not just the bond. The way it’s pulling. Tighter. Deeper.”
“It’s like it’s begging for more,” you whisper.
You pause—hips stilling—but his hands slide to your lower back, guiding you again.
“Don’t stop,” he says, voice quiet but rough. “We’ve already passed the line. I’d rather drown in you than float in a world where you’re not mine.”
Your heart cracks open at that.
“I don’t know where you end and I begin anymore,” you admit.
“You never did,” he says. “Not really.”
Your hips begin to move again, slowly, rhythmically—dragging over the hard line of him beneath you through the fabric that still separates you. Each motion sends heat curling deeper into your belly, and you feel it—the way his breath hitches every time your bodies align just right.
Rafayel groans softly, hands gripping your waist tighter now, grounding himself in your skin. His thumbs draw slow circles over your hips, encouraging, urging.
“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he murmurs, lips brushing the edge of your jaw.
You tilt your head, gasping as his mouth trails lower—your shoulder, the dip of your collarbone—kissing like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you with his lips.
“I think I do,” you whisper.
And you do. Because it’s happening to you, too.
The bond hums beneath your skin, alive and urgent, responding to every grind, every breath, every place where your bare skin meets his. The mark on his chest pulses between you, the light from it casting a golden sheen over your joined bodies.
You reach between you, fingers slipping down to the waistband of his pants. He shudders as you touch him through the fabric, and his head falls to your shoulder with a low, aching groan.
“Careful,” he breathes. “You’ll break me.”
You smile against his temple, even as your heart races. “No. I’m just… putting you back together.”
He lifts his head at that—eyes burning, jaw clenched, chest rising with a breath that trembles.
And then his hands are on you again, one sliding up to your breast, cupping it gently, thumb brushing over your nipple in a slow, deliberate stroke. You gasp—your hips stuttering against him—and his free hand grips your waist harder, steadying you.
“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, voice husky, lips trailing along your throat. “You’ve always been. Even when I had you, I never really had you like this.”
“You do now,” you whisper. “You have all of me.”
His mouth returns to yours, more urgent now, lips parting, tongues brushing—hungry and deep, but still slow. Still intentional. Every movement between you feels like a vow being rewritten into the present.
You grind down again, and this time, his hips push up into yours, seeking friction, needing it.
His hands slide down to your thighs, gripping tight. “You feel that?” he murmurs against your lips. “That pull? That ache?”
“Yes,” you breathe. “I feel everything.”
“Then don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”
Your hips move in long, grinding strokes, and he meets you halfway, thrusting up to meet every motion with slow, devastating precision. The press of him against you—hard, insistent, still clothed but unbearable now—makes your breath stutter and your fingers clench where they rest against his jaw.
You slide one hand down his neck, over his chest—feeling the thrum of the bond-mark still glowing beneath your palm—and lower, down the tight lines of his abdomen. His muscles tense under your touch, his breath catching as your fingers trail the edge of his waistband.
“Fuck,” he whispers, his voice broken, reverent. His head tilts back slightly, exposing his throat, as if surrendering to you completely.
“You feel so good,” you murmur, leaning in to kiss along his neck, tasting salt and heat, your lips brushing over the pounding pulse there. “It’s like… like my body’s always known yours.”
He groans, deep and rough, his hands sliding up from your hips to your chest again, palms warm, thumbs flicking over your nipples, sending sparks jolting through your core.
“It has,” he says, voice gravel and sea. “It has. Even before we had names for it. Even when we didn’t know why, we fit.”
Your bodies move together, perfectly aligned, grinding harder now—friction building, fabric doing nothing to dull the throbbing ache between your legs. You’re both lost in it—moaning quietly, panting, clinging to each other like you’ll drown without the other’s mouth, hands, heat.
His lips find yours again and the kiss is messier now, hungrier—tongues meeting, teeth grazing, breathless and needy. He presses deeper against you, rolling his hips up in a slow, punishing grind that makes you cry out softly into his mouth.
“Rafayel,” you gasp, fingers digging into the muscles along his stomach.
His hand finds your jaw, tilting your face up so he can look at you—really look.
“I love you,” he says, voice shaking. “I never stopped. Not once. Not through fire or time or death.”
You grind down harder, chasing more of him, needing him inside now, and you whisper— “Then show me. Be mine again. Fully.”
And gods, the way he looks at you then—like he’s about to fall apart and fall together all at once.
You can barely breathe— Not because you’re overwhelmed, But because you’ve never felt this full of him.
And he’s still so close, mouth at your jaw, hips grinding slowly up into you in time with yours. It’s not frantic. It’s not fast. But it’s deep—slow waves crashing again and again, steady and building and unbearable in the best way.
You cling to him tighter, fingers curling against the hard lines of his stomach, memorizing him with your touch. He watches you like he’s watching the sky change color—awed, reverent, and just a little broken with it.
And then your voice, soft, trembling, spilling between kisses. “I want you to have all of me.”
His breath catches—he feels that. You know he does. Because the bond pulses again, stronger, your souls tightening like a drawn bowstring.
“You already gave it to me,” he says, voice rough against your throat. “Every time you came to me. Every time you dreamed. Every time you said my name in silence.”
“I didn’t remember,” you whisper, “but something in me always did.”
You feel him shiver beneath you, his hands sliding slowly down your sides, to your hips again. Then lower. Fingertips brushing the hem of your skirt.
“Then let me remember you too,” he murmurs, his voice suddenly lower, rougher. “Now. Like this.”
Your breath hitches, and you nod.
One arm slips beneath your thighs, the other around your back—and before you can ask, he’s lifting you into his arms, holding you like you’re weightless. Like he could carry you across oceans if you asked.
He doesn’t take you far—just to the side room of the studio, through a half-open door, where a soft couch and scattered blankets wait. You remember this space from before. Where he showed you your statue. Where he first watched you see yourself through his eyes.
Now, he lowers you there gently—kneeling with you, kissing you again before pulling back just far enough to push your skirt higher, exposing your thighs. His gaze darkens, not with possession—but with hunger softened by awe.
“Say it again,” he whispers, fingers brushing the inside of your thigh. “Say you’re mine.”
Your breath shakes. “I’m yours.”
His eyes close. And then he kisses down your chest, slow and reverent—like prayer. Like each inch of you is holy, and he’s not worthy, but he’ll worship anyway.
His lips trail lower, soft and deliberate.From the curve of your breast, down the center of your sternum, his breath fans against your skin as his hands part your thighs gently, like he’s opening a gift he waited centuries to touch again.
Your skirt is bunched at your hips now, your underwear the last thing between you and him. He pauses there—hovering, just above, eyes flicking up to meet yours.
There’s fire in them. But there’s also restraint. Still asking. Always asking.
And his fingers curl under the waistband, dragging the thin fabric down your legs. Slowly. Carefully. Watching every inch of you become bare to him.
When you're naked before him, he exhales. It’s not a groan. Not a curse.
Like your body is art and memory and something he forgot how to breathe around. “Perfect,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.
His hands slide up your thighs, parting them further, and when he settles between them, you gasp—not from the touch, but the closeness.
His mouth returns to your skin, kissing the soft flesh of your inner thigh, over and over. And when he finally reaches the center of you—he doesn’t rush. He kisses you there first. Soft. Gentle. Claiming.
And then his tongue moves—slow, deep, every stroke deliberate. Every flick of him against you feels like poetry, like remembering. His hands hold your hips down as your body begins to tremble, as you arch into him, a breathless cry slipping from your throat.
The bond flares again—harder now.
It’s not just sensation. It’s feeling.
You can feel what he feels—his hunger, his reverence, his need to give this to you. To please you. To undo you with nothing but his mouth and the bond that glows golden between you.
“Rafayel—” you moan, your fingers finding his hair, threading through, holding him to you.
He groans against your skin, the sound vibrating through you. His pace quickens just slightly, lips and tongue moving in rhythm, matched to the rise and fall of your hips, the way your legs tighten around his shoulders.
“I can’t—” you breathe, voice shaking. “It’s too much—”
“No,” he says against you, lifting his head just enough to meet your eyes. His mouth is wet. His pupils blown wide. “You can. You were always meant to feel like this.”
And then he takes you again, deeper, firmer—his tongue moving with purpose, with knowing. One of his hands rises, fingers pressing against you where you need it most, rubbing soft, slow circles in time with his mouth.
You fall apart. Shattering.
But it’s not destruction. It’s a return. To him. To yourself. To the bond.
Your soul snaps tight to his, and in that moment, you know—nothing will ever break it again. Not time. Not death. Not gods.
Your body trembles in the aftershock—waves still rolling through your limbs as you try to find your breath again. Your heart pounds like it’s never known stillness, your skin tingles, warm and wet beneath the cool air of the studio. The bond pulses softly now—slower, but still aching, still alive.
Rafayel is still there, between your thighs, his hands smoothing along your skin as if trying to soothe every inch he just set ablaze. His lips brush your inner thigh once more before he lifts his head, gaze locking with yours.
Your cheeks. Your chest. Your soul. He sees it. You know he does. His breath catches like he’s looking at something divine.
And you are. Because you’re his.
And now—your body knows it too.
“Beautiful,” he whispers, voice hoarse, reverent. “You’re… gods, you’re beautiful.”
You smile softly, still trying to speak, to breathe. But the words won’t come—not yet.
So instead, you reach for him. Your fingers curl into the collar of his open shirt—what little remains of it—and tug. A silent come here.
The bond pulses again, responding to your touch. To your need.
Because you need him now. Closer. Inside. Where he belongs.
He rises without hesitation, crawling up over you, his body settling between your legs, the weight of him grounding you instantly. You feel him—hard, aching, still trapped behind the fabric of his pants. Still holding back.
Your hands trail down his chest, over the glowing mark, down to his waistband.
His voice shakes. “You’re sure?”
You nod. “I’ve never been more.”
Your fingers make quick work of the button, the zipper, the soft fabric pushed down until he’s bare before you—every inch of him sculpted, wanting. His length rests heavy between your bodies, and you feel the full heat of him now, throbbing against your thigh.
Your hands slide to his hips. “Come to me,” you whisper. “Let me feel all of you.”
His eyes flutter closed for one long, trembling breath. And when they open again, they burn like starlit oceans.
“I’ll never leave you again,” he says, voice cracking on the promise. “Not even if the world asks me to.”
He hovers above you, breath shallow, chest glowing where the bond pulses like a second heartbeat. The weight of him is heat and pressure and promise—but still, he waits. His gaze roams your face, your lips, your eyes, and then his hands are on you again—palms sliding down your sides, fingers tracing your curves like he can’t decide what part of you to worship first.
You arch into him, skin burning for more, and he gives it. His touch becomes more deliberate—fingers trailing over your breasts, circling your nipples in soft, teasing strokes that make you gasp and clutch at his back. Then lower—down your ribs, your hips—until one hand slips between your legs again.
You're still slick, still trembling.
His fingers slide through the heat of you, and he groans against your shoulder. “You’re drenched.”
“You did that to me,” you breathe, kissing his jaw, his throat. “So do something about it.”
He huffs a laugh—wrecked and reverent—and kisses you hard, swallowing the sound you make when his fingers return to your entrance, circling, pressing, stroking you until your legs tighten around his waist.
You reach down, sliding your hand between your bodies, and wrap your fingers around him—bare, hard, heavy in your palm. His entire body tenses at your touch, a low groan rumbling from his throat like thunder under water.
“Fuck,” he murmurs. “You’re going to destroy me.”
You smile softly. “Then I guess we’ll go down together.” Guiding him now—your hand between your legs, tip brushing against your entrance, slick and pulsing—you both freeze for a moment.
The bond tugs hard. It burns—not pain, but pressure. Desire. Connection. Like your souls are screaming for the rest of it.
“Look at me,” you whisper.
He does—eyes glowing blue, wide, undone.
And then you pull him forward.
He pushes in—slow. The head of him parts you, stretching you with exquisite heat, your breath hitching as your body gives way to his, little by little.
And gods, the way he groans—deep and guttural and devastated—as he sinks deeper, inch by inch. “You feel…” His jaw clenches, eyes fluttering shut for a beat. “You feel like home.”
You gasp, holding onto his shoulders as he presses all the way inside—your walls stretching to take him fully, your body shaking with the sheer depth of it.
Like waves crashing into rock.
Slow. Relentless. Inevitable.
Your arms wind around his neck, your hips rising to meet his, and for a breathless moment—you both freeze.
The bond bursts between you—hot, glowing, searing through your cores like golden light, your marks burning where your bodies meet. And your soul recognizes his again—not just remembered, but claimed.
You whisper, broken, into his ear, “I was made for you.”
He begins to move—slow at first, the thick press of him dragging out of you only to roll back in, deep and steady. Your legs tighten around his waist, anchoring him, and your breath leaves you in a quiet, wrecked moan.
He’s so deep, it borders on unbearable. But it’s not pain. It’s completion.
Like your body has always known the shape of him. Like your soul carved out space centuries ago—and it never faded.
The bond pulses with every thrust, hot and insistent, like a second heartbeat thudding between your bodies. You feel it everywhere—in your chest, in your spine, down to your fingertips curling into his back.
“You’re so tight,” he groans against your neck, his voice raw. “I can’t—gods, I can’t hold back when you feel like this.”
You gasp as he thrusts again, a little harder, the rhythm finding its pulse now—you, wrapped around him, hips moving in time, chasing every roll of his body with your own.
“Don’t hold back,” you whisper, lips brushing his ear. “I want all of you. Give me all of you.”
That breaks something in him. He pulls back just enough to look down at you, his hand cupping your cheek, eyes blazing—glowing. Not with fire. Not just the bond.
“You have me,” he says, fierce and shaking. “Every life. Every death. Every version of me belongs to you.”
And then he thrusts again—deeper, harder now, the pace picking up. Your back arches, a cry slipping from your lips as he rolls his hips in that perfect rhythm, steady and consuming. The couch creaks beneath you, your bodies moving together like waves in a storm—unstoppable.
Each push forward presses his soul deeper into yours.
Each drag out pulls a piece of your breath with it.
And the bond is blazing now—no longer just a tether, but a firestorm. You feel him in every corner of your being.
You cling to him, whispering, gasping his name over and over like a prayer.
He groans, thrusting harder, faster now, his body shaking above yours. “Say it again—gods, say it.”
“Rafayel,” you moan, clutching him tighter. “I love you.”
And he kisses you—deep and open and hungry, swallowing your moans as his pace slams into you, slick and perfect, pushing you toward that edge again.
“You’re mine,” he says against your lips, hips slamming into yours. “And I’m yours. This time, we finish together.”
You nod, eyes blurring, breath breaking. “Together.”
And as the rhythm deepens, as the bond tightens, as your bodies crash and rise like a divine tide— You both feel it. This was always meant to be.
Your bodies move in perfect rhythm—skin slick, muscles straining, hearts pounding in tandem. Every thrust is deep, deliberate, like he’s trying to etch himself into the very core of you. And you let him.
The couch creaks beneath the steady roll of your bodies. The bond between you pulses hotter and hotter, gold light flickering where your chest meets his, your mark answering his with every grind, every cry, every gasped breath.
He’s buried inside you to the hilt, his hips snapping forward again and again, slow but hard, like he wants to feel your soul clench around him. Your lips brush his cheek, your breath stuttering. “You feel like you were made for me.”
He groans at that, his pace faltering just slightly—thrusts shallowing, but deeper somehow, grinding with purpose.
“I was,” he breathes. “Every part of me belongs here. Inside you.”
You whimper, hips rising to meet his, hands dragging down his back, anchoring him to you like you’ll die if he pulls away.
“You’re everything,” you whisper. “I didn’t even know what was missing—until you.”
He kisses you then, slow and trembling—so soft, it breaks your heart.
“I never stopped dreaming of this,” he says, voice shaking. “Even when I thought I’d never see you again. Even when I hated myself for letting you die.”
You cup his face, forcing him to look at you, even as your body tightens, your climax rising fast behind your ribs.
“You didn’t let me die,” you say, breathless. “You loved me through it.”
He chokes on a sound—like he might break. And the bond flares white-hot. It pulls, hard, like it wants to drag both of you over the edge.
Your bodies begin to tremble with every thrust now—harder, faster, the rhythm deepening into something desperate, something final. Rafayel drives into you with growing urgency, the sound of your skin meeting, your breathless cries, his ragged moans echoing in the warm space around you.
The mark between you burns—golden fire where your chests meet, pulsing in time with every deep roll of his hips.
You feel it in your belly first—the pressure curling tight, heat rising fast, coiling deep in your core like something ancient coming undone.
“I can’t—” you gasp, clinging to him, your nails dragging along his spine. “Rafayel—I’m—”
He kisses your jaw, your throat, his voice breaking. “I’ve got you. Come with me.”
Your walls flutter around him, body tightening, and he groans—loud, wrecked—his thrusts losing rhythm, becoming wild, erratic, desperate.
Your climax rips through you like a wave crashing against stone, stealing your breath, your voice, your entire self. You cry out his name as your back arches, legs locking tight around his hips. The bond erupts—golden fire spilling through your chest, your spine, everywhere.
And in that same instant— Rafayel shudders above you with a groan so guttural it sounds like it’s torn from his soul.
He thrusts deep—once, twice—then holds, buried to the hilt inside you as he comes, body trembling, hands gripping your hips like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. He gasps your name like a prayer, like an apology, like he’s finally home.
His seed spills hot and deep inside you, and the bond explodes in white-hot light, burning so bright behind your eyes you forget where the world ends and he begins.
Your souls collide. Intertwine. And for one perfect, shattering moment— There is no time. No grief. No loss.
Only you. Only him. Only this.
Not in the way it pauses for fear or doubt—but in the way it hushes for something sacred.
Your bodies are tangled, slick with sweat and heat, hearts pounding in tandem. His chest is pressed to yours, his weight settled over you like a blanket you never knew you needed—heavy, warm, safe.
Rafayel’s breath stutters against your neck, lips brushing the curve of your shoulder as he exhales. Long. Shaky.
Like he still doesn’t believe you’re real.
Your fingers stroke the back of his neck slowly, slipping into the sweat-damp strands of his hair, and your other hand rests over his heart—right where the mark still pulses, dimmer now, but alive.
You don’t speak at first.
The rise and fall of your chests in rhythm. The soft, broken hum he makes when you shift under him and your skin brushes in a new way. The way he presses the barest kiss to your collarbone without lifting his head.
And then—Very softly— “I thought I’d never feel this again.”
His voice is hoarse, barely a whisper. You turn your head, brushing your lips against his temple. “What? The bond?”
His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you closer. “You. Like this. Us.”
You breathe him in—salt, sweat, something darker beneath it. Something eternal. “You were never alone,” you murmur. “Even when I didn’t remember.”
He lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes. There’s something raw in them still. Something softer now, too. Not fear. Not pain.
“I remembered enough for both of us,” he whispers. “Every time I touched the sea, it brought me back to you.”
Your throat tightens, and you cup his face, your thumb brushing over the edge of his jaw.
“I’m here now,” you say. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
His lips twitch—almost a smile. “Good. Because if you vanish again, I’m following you into the next life. And the one after.”
You laugh, breathless, your smile pressed against his as he kisses you again—slow, lingering, gentle. Nothing rushed. Nothing desperate.
You lie like that for a long time—his body pressed against yours, your limbs tangled, the bond still humming softly between your chests like a heartbeat that doesn’t belong to just one of you.
It’s warm now. Comforting. No longer pulling. Just there.
Like it always should’ve been.
Rafayel rests his forehead against yours, his fingers tracing idle patterns over your waist—thoughtless, gentle, reverent. You match his touch, your hand brushing along the lines of his back, memorizing the slope of his spine, the dip of his shoulder blades.
“I used to wake up,” you whisper, “heart racing, not knowing why. I’d look at the ocean and feel like something was missing. Like I was looking for someone I couldn’t name.”
He closes his eyes. “I’d see you in strangers,” he says. “Hear your laugh in dreams. I tried to forget for a while. I really did. But it never worked. I always ended up painting you again. Drawing you. Sculpting pieces of you like I was trying to remember something my hands already knew.”
You exhale, your fingers moving up to rest over the bond-mark glowing faintly beneath his skin. “And all this time, you were just… waiting?”
His lips brush yours, soft and aching. “Not waiting. Surviving.”
You’re quiet for a moment. And then, so soft you almost don’t mean to say it— “I’m sorry I left you.”
His eyes open again, glowing just a little in the dark. “You didn’t,” he murmurs. You look up at him, and he leans in to kiss you—sweet and sure. “And now,” he whispers between kisses, “you came back. That’s what matters.”
You pull him closer, fingers threading through his hair, lips brushing over his jaw. “I’m not going anywhere, Rafayel.”
He smiles then. Really smiles. The kind that doesn’t hide behind flirtation or pain.
“Good. Because if the world ends again, I want to be holding you when it does.”
Later—much later—after the fire in your bodies fades into warmth, you lie together in a nest of tangled limbs and quiet breath. His arms are around you. Your head rests against his chest, the glow of the mark soft and slow now, like candlelight instead of flame.
And for the first time in eight hundred years, you fall asleep in each other’s arms, not with grief between you— but peace.
The bond stays lit, even in dreams.
And this time, it does not fade.
.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST HERE AND ON MY AO3.
.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!
