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𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐫 𝐏𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧(𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬)

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘐 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯'𝘵 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘰 𝘐 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘱𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘺 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘐 𝘴𝘶𝘣𝘮𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘵.

ℕ𝕊𝔽𝕎 𝔹𝔼𝕃𝕆𝕎 𝕋ℍ𝔼 ℂ𝕌𝕋

𝗖𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀: 𝗕𝗿𝗲𝗲𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗞𝗶𝗻𝗸(𝗦𝗽𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗳𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆), 𝘗𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘺 𝘔𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴, 𝘉𝘶𝘭𝘨𝘦 𝘒𝘪𝘯𝘬(𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥), 𝘉𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘨𝘦, 𝘙𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘚𝘦𝘹 (𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥), 𝘚𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘚𝘦𝘹, 𝘊𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘔𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘰𝘴 𝘗𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘚𝘦𝘹𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘜𝘴𝘦, 𝘚𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘈𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘳(𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵)

𝕀𝕗 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕗𝕚𝕟𝕕 𝕒𝕟𝕪 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕤𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤 𝕥𝕣𝕚𝕘𝕘𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘, 𝕡𝕝𝕖𝕒𝕤𝕖 𝕕𝕠 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕡𝕠𝕤𝕥!

》Chaos Daddy, yes Chaos Daddy, is King of Camelot which means he can have whatever he wants whenever he wants. He chooses to spend his time using sex as a stress reliever. And Arthur has a lot of pent up stress so...buckle up people it's time to hit the road.

》Let's get this out of the way first.

》No matter what you do, Arthur is always going to ask consent. Whether it is to cum inside of you or if its to kiss you. He's always asking and it's sexy as fuck. He's the King of Camelot, King of Chaos, and the King of Consent. Chaos Daddy will not fuck you without a definite yes. No matter how possessive he is, how jealous he is, how fucking desperate he is, he's going to ask.

》King of fucking Consent-

》Arthur is constantly stressed, little things sending him off the rails due to his new powers. With Chaos now as his new power, he has heightened senses. The tiniest things that his lover does can set him off. It could be the way they walk or the tiniest tease of a lick to their upper lip. He will whisk them away and have them up against a stone cold wall in no time.

》If he has his arm regenerated, it most likely resembles something of his old arm. It's just maybe black and clawed like a demon's regenerated limb. I'd say sort of like Derieri's.

》When he's finally gotten his lover in a private corner, Arthur is sure to use his body language and hands to show them what he wants. Hands wandering along their body, groping and squeezing the squishy parts of their flesh.

》A sign that he wants sex could be him gripping his partner's thighs. Honestly, Arthur is a thigh man. Drilling into his partner from above, he grips both hands into their thighs and splits them apart to the point where their muscles are getting that delicious stretching feeling.

》There's always a hand on his partner's thigh because Arthur does not quit. He will have his hand on their thigh when eating them out, using his tongue to lick along their entrance and eat them out with such skill.

》Chaos daddy likes to fuck his lover from behind in a mirror so he can see their expressions. Eye contact is a big thing for Arthur because he loves to see the expressions that his partner makes. Their faces and noises get him off, causing him to just fuck them harder than before.

》Arthur has a major breeding kink due to him being a king in all. He has to eventually have an heir and the idea of his lover being swelled with his seed makes him go crazy.

》He will often go for 3 rounds of sex when he's up for it. These aren't just sexual rounds, its a 'session' for him. He wants to ensure that his lover knows that they are his. He will be fucking them, cum inside of them, keep himself inside for a few moments, and then go for another round with his release still inside from the previous sessions.

》 The dirty talk is real-

》"You're so lucky to be filled up with your King's seed...Be a grateful bitch and take it~!"

》"You're my loyal slut..."

》"Tell me you want my seed. Tell me you want me to cum inside of you...~ Beg me for it~..."

》"If you want to come on my dick then beg for it..~" 》"Want me to come inside you? That's so sexy baby."

》Makes a BIG DEAL about you having his 'royal seed' inside of you. Even if he asks to come inside of you, he still makes you beg for it. He thinks that you're his slut and that you need to be grateful that such a powerful king is taking the time to fuck you.

》Of course, this is all just talk because he is actually the sweetest little aftercare sunshine ball even if he's been taken over by Chaos.

》Speaking of Chaos, he uses Chaos to get himself off. Once his lover found him masturbating using Chaos. His hand was bracing himself on the bed post whilst using makeshift stone hands to force his thighs apart whilst another rubbed up and down his shaft. He looked at his lover, one eye open, and moaned their name to come help him relieve his stress.

》 "C-Come over here and h-help your King~!"

》Let's just say that his lover ended up being shoved down onto his dick, riding him whilst the hand played with his balls. Chaotic hands roamed all over both their bodies, and the only sounds the poor people in the castle could hear were Arthur and his lover loudly moaning each other's names despite Arthur using Chaos to fuck them both.

》He has their wrists tied above their head, summoning Chaos tentacles to feel along their body whilst he thrusts his hips forward in a deep and rough motion. He can feel everything that they do, able to imagine its his own hands feeling along his partner's body. Whenever Arthur feels his partner tighten on him, he throws his head back and gives out a loud moan or a broken whine.

》Very expressive when it comes to being in bed. He knows what he wants- He will tell you what he wants in the moment and then ask you if you're okay with it.

》Luckily, his lover is usually a very open person~ 》He makes sure he slowly slides into them, hips touching each other, and fills them up all the way before slowly rolling his hips into them. The best way Arthur does this is in doggy position.

》They will have their body pressed into the bed, ass up, whilst Arthur's back and whole body is pressed up against them. He gives a few short shallow thrusts before pulling out and then fucking right back into them.

》If his partner doesn't hold back, Arthur doesn't hold back. And he will comply when you want more- fucking harder, deepening his cock inside of them, causing them to be louder and louder than usual.

》There's a lot of 'yeahs' and praising from his side, constantly telling them how tight they are and how good that they feel. When he cums inside of them, its to the point where there's a bulge in their stomach.

》Arthur will purposefully go multiple rounds to see this bulge, even if its the smallest thing. Its indication that his dick is big enough to keep all of that seed inside of his lover. And sometimes he will sit back whilst using Chaos to fuck his partner after, and jack off to the sight.

》Poor poor poor (Name)....

》Any kinks his lover have will be incorporated into his sex routine-

》He enjoys cumming right at the same time as his partner because the feeling of them clench around him must cause his whole body to feel like its being milked.

》Throne sex is a must for Arthur as well. Either getting off by choking on his dick in the throne room, or by riding him on the throne whilst no one else is there. Its a power move for Arthur, finding himself wanting someone to walk in. Even if its a poor servant, he's going to feel amazing.

》"Yeah, you like that? Bouncing on my royal cock? Hm? Say it~" 》He will start training his partner to please him the right way. It starts by him slowly sticking his fingers in his lover's mouth to train their gag reflex. Arthur does not care what kind of gag reflex his partner has, he is going to be fucking his hips into his lover's mouth if he feels like he wants to release. He chases after the feeling, finally accomplishing what he wants at the end.

》He will first fuck your throat with his fingers before you are allowed to suck his royal dick. It's a privilege...Earn it.

》ANYWAY YEAH DADDY CHAOS DOES DO A LOT OF GOOD <3

》I HAVE A LOT MORE TO SAY BUT THATS IT

𝕌𝕡 ℕ𝕖𝕩𝕥: ℤ𝕖𝕝𝕕𝕣𝕚𝕤 ℕ𝕊𝔽𝕎 ℍ𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕔𝕒𝕟𝕠𝕟𝕤

Hi flamey! I love how much you love Kyojuro because same.

Do you think he has any sexual quirks? Like a habit or anything unusual he does during sex?

He definitely has habits!

Like how he kisses you constantly throughout. The only time his lips get to rest are the few seconds he takes to shift positions, otherwise they're locked on you; your lips, your neck, chest, palm of your hand, wrist, inner thigh...

And the way he checks in, no matter your dynamic with him. Like this? Does that feel good? Am I doing right? Am I doing well for you?

Or how during the throes of his orgasm he winds his arms tight around you and holds you as close as he can, pressing his face into your shoulder. He just wants to be near to you.

And then he thanks you, every time, without fail, all sleepy and rosy-cheeked, soft and warm as he gazes at you through half-closed golden eyes.

Match My Freak!

Synopsis. Trying out new kínks? Careful, he might just get addicted.

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Gojo x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, established relationship, unprotected, bondagé, creampíe, bréeding, cúmplay, exhíbitionism (Choso’s), oral (female + male), grínding, breathpIay (Nanami’s), Sukuna is BIG big, with tattoos there, overstím, fíngering, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 5.5k

A/N. Hope y’all have a great week <3

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - Tied up (for now)

“You’re really serious about this, doll?”

And Toji can only look up when you’ve finished tying his wrists to the headboard with a dainty lil’ bow. Pulling back to admire your work, “Dead serious.”

Fuck, this wasn’t his usual scene. Why aren’t you the one that’s helplessly bound and spread so shamefully on the mattress? Why aren’t you the one with your pretty thighs quivering, hips arching up at his mercy? And why is he the one so turned on by it?

“Fine then.” Toji’s biting his lip as your puffy folds start dragging down, down, down his swollen cock so slowly. So utterly torturously. “Ya wan’ it hard or gentle when I fuck ya?”

You bristle at his absolutely smug tone, hissing out a low, “You mean when I fuck you?”

“Heh, jus’ kidding doll.” he chuckles, waiting until you’ve barely just let your guard down before flattening his feet on the bed. Abs rippling, biceps bulging as he leverages his hips up - right along with you. “I’m choosing.”

It’s all that’s said before he juts his cock up to give you one, sharp thrust. Feeling your eyes roll all the way to the back of your head as he expertly hits your syrupy sweet spot in one go. 

“You little-” All the breath goes out of your lungs as he repeats the motion. Making you whirl your head down, nails digging warningly into Toji’s abs when you spy the devilish smirk playing at his lips, the furrow in his brow that did not bode well for your poor cunt. “You’re ngh- all tied up, so why can’t you act that way?”

“Whaaat?” he drawls, fucking out whatever retort is on the tip of your tongue with another mean ram of his hips. “S’it that bad if I wanna hah- teach my girl how to do it properly?” This time keeping up a pace of quick, shallow jabs that have the mattress creaking, sweat beading at his focused brow, “C’mon now, if you’re gonna tie me down n’ fuck me then do it right, doll.”

It’s all you can do to spread your legs wider around his toned hips. Toji’s cock too massive, the stretch too much. Too good as his fat head hits at your every bundle of nerves each and every time.

“G-good good.” you hear him choke out. “Fix that posture now, arch some more, pretty- jus’ like that yeah-”

You’re wobbling precariously on top of Toji as he greedily scoots down the mattress further, eyeing how your snug cunt was sucking him up so obscenely. Sinking down until your swollen folds were just kissing his soaked balls. A disbelieving little laugh leaves as he watches the way your hips stutter down pathetically to take him in deeper and deeper.

“Oh? Quick learner, huh?” He’s tugging subconsciously on the restraints, “Alright then, doll, see if you can- take- this-”

And God, Toji has never been more thankful for those long hours at the gym. Because he’s bucking his hips up so wildly into your tight pussy, all the way until his tip was nudging your bruised cervix. Dragging against your gummy walls with nothing but the power of his hips and the feeling of you and your perfect cunt and you-

“C’mon now ah-” he groans at the way you’re squeezing him so tight. Angling his head to watch the way the fat of your ass bounces against his thighs, sweet sweet juices trickling all the way down to his twitching balls. “Faster. You can move those hips faster f’me, right?” And fuck, does he wish he could touch you right now. To toy with your pretty, forgotten clit. To move those hips of yours rougher down his cock. “Yeahhh, now spit. Jus’ like I do.”

“Hngh-” you gasp as he makes you spit right onto his awaiting tongue. Once. Twice. Some of it missing, hitting his plump lips. Walls squeezing so hard, stars behind your eyes as you take it so well. “Shit shit shit- too- much-.”

“Aww, what’s the matter? Can’t talk properly anymore?” Toji’s licking lewdly at his now-wet lips, grinning at your strangled moans, “Didn’t you say you were gonna f-fuck- be in charge this time, woman?”

You all but scream with that rough cadence at which Toji’s bouncing you on his cock. Bruising. Powerful thighs smacking against yours, blinking away the big, fat tears in your eyes, you moan, “You’re so mean, Toji.” 

And of course, Toji has the audacity to throw his head back and laugh - laugh. Letting out a mocking, “S-so mean, Toji.” 

“F-fuck you!”

At this, the only response you’re getting is him beckoning you closer with a slow nod of his head. And you barely even realize how you’re deliriously complying before he grazes his teeth across your earlobe. Humming out a ragged, “Who’s fucking who, doll?”

RIP!

He didn’t need an answer - and you didn’t either. Both of you knew, despite those pathetic restraints digging into his wrist - now laying tattered and useless on the floor. Two big arms pin your hips against his own. Ruthless. 

“Because I think I hafta teach you that lesson first of all.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - “She's My Collar”

It’s around this time that you know your husband has stopped thinking about you. When you know he’s just past pussydrunk that all he can do is lap messy at your cunt, feeling well and fully intent on breaking you.

“Kento.” you whine brokenly around your third orgasm. Tugging on those sweaty strands of blond resting at their favorite position between your legs. Nanami’s hot tongue pooling your sweet sweet juices like he was addicted. “Ken- ngh-” He doesn’t hear, of course.

Your lips wobble, the overstimulation too much. His tongue too mean. Pushing past that feeble resistance, making you pull more forcefully on his hair now, “Ken.”

And fuck, you don’t think you’ll make it out alive. Because that focused little furrow of Nanami’s brow only deepens, letting out a deep groan as he wraps his glossy lips over your ravaged clit. Cheeks hollowing while he sucks like it was his favorite candy - and it probably was. 

“Ken!” you yelp, subconsciously gripping at that familiar yellow tie of his. Yanking - hard. “Ken- s’too much ngh-”

You manage to blink away those tears in your eyes as Nanami’s sloppy, depraved tongue finally stalls and shit, you didn’t know if this was better or worse. Because he was so pretty kneeling before your legs - eyes all glassy and half-lidded, neat hair uncharacteristically disarrayed, such a pretty pink blush all over his face as Nanami’s eyes flit down to the tie currently restricting his airflow. 

“Oh!” you hastily drop your white-knuckled grip on it, “I-I’m so sorry, Ken. Are you o-”

“Little freak.” And you watch, jaw sagging open, when he’s wrapping your shaky fingers back on the piece of fabric. Tongue darting out, so wet and glistening with your syrupy juices, “Tighter.”

You barely have time for anything else before he’s so happily diving back in. Nose deep in your puffy cunt, tongue lapping so teasingly at your sloppy entrance as he murmurs, “So? Not gonna use that again?”

You don’t know what to say - but to Nanami, that doesn’t matter. And he’s only having the time of his life trying to make you choke him with his tie. Smug smirk obvious against your swollen folds as he bites down lightly on your oversensitive clit. 

You’re bucking your hips up, “Fuck!” Pulling on that tie so tightly that he’s almost jerked away from your heavenly cunt. And, unfortunately for you, this seems to be the exact reaction that Nanami wanted. 

If you thought the tie would get you some semblance of mercy then you were wrong. So utterly fucking wrong. 

Because two hands of Nanami’s are just bruising on your hips, sure to leave neat little marks for him to kiss away later. Reeling himself back to your dripping wet core, “Hah, fuckin’ cute.” Thumbing open your puffy folds to admire the way your entrance is winking and glistening up at him. “So fuckin’ cute. Don’t think you can take this pretty pussy away from me, my love.”

“B-but Ken.” you’re giving him a playful squeeze. Drooling all over the fresh sheets, “Dunno if I can ngh- cum again…”

“Of course you will.”

He’s flashing you the most devilish side-grin as you tighten your hold on his tie, veins popping up along his neck with the strain to make out with your cute cunt once more. Making your knees so weak as he spits.  A steady, lewd stream of saliva right on your messy hole. Spying on how it drools down your slit, “M’gonna make sure of it.”

And fuck, if Nanami wasn’t a man of his word.

Making your head spin as his hot tongue bullies into your tight pussy, giving long, steady licks at all those sweet spots he’s mapped out. In and out. In and out - over and over.

But it wasn’t enough for him. 

“C’mon now,” Nanami smacks and groans his lips against yours, tilting his head back to look up at you from between your legs. “Pull on it. Use me.” When you can’t let out anything but delirious whines, the harsh feeling of his watch stings into your thigh. Deliciously cool as a long finger is circling around your clit, greedily eyeing how sloppily you were grinding up to meet his frenzied cadence. “Use me- fuck. Use me, my girl.”

“Like- hah fuck- this?”

The tie is now serving a different purpose - and you’re just dragging Nanami around like it’s some leash. Angling his pretty face just right to drag your sloppy cunt all over, nose nudging at your clit. Tongue poking and prodding your gummy walls. 

And he lets you. God, he lets you. 

“Yeah, use me- fuck jus’ like that, my love.” he spits into your cunt, letting his glasses fog up at the heady proximity. “Fuck- making such a mess all over. Hah-” 

“Oh my god- yes. Ken, feels too- good-” Dangerously good.

It was getting so hard to tonguefuck you exactly the way Nanami would like, too. Your slutty walls squeeze him too tight, hips stuttering wildly all over his nose. That tie around his neck only getting more snug, having his head feel so sinfully light. So drunk off the feeling. 

You’re gasping, pleading when Nanami fights against the pull of the tie, “F-fuck ohmygod m’so close- hah-”

But not as much as when you finally cum, sending thick, sweet gushes of your slick down Nanami’s chin. Stars behind your eyes, ankles locking so hard around your husbands broad shoulders. Just covering the lower half of his face - all the way until you could catch it dripping down his jawline, soiling his expensive tie. 

Yet, Nanami doesn’t mind. In fact, he enjoys it. Enjoys untying the restraint around his neck, leaving pretty red patterns. Swiftly putting it around your own neck, Tight. “Your turn.”

♡ GETO SUGURU - Knots

“S’too hah- loose.”

It’s all that’s said before Geto Suguru is pulling on that messy ponytail his long locks have been haphazardly bunched up into. Plopping the dark little hair tie back into your twitching fingers, “Do it again.”

If you were in a better state of mind - you’d probably have snapped at him right now. Given him a piece of your mind, but oh it was so difficult to not listen to what your beloved boyfriend was saying - not when he had you folded in half beneath him in such a tight mating press, swollen cock so meanly ramming into you, spreading the obscene pool of cum forming below you.

And neither of you could bring yourselves to be disgusted by it - not one bit. 

“D-do you hah- do you have any idea how fuckin’ gorgeous you look right now, angel?” Geto’s ragged voice is grazing your ear, having you bucking sensitively into his hips. He takes your incoherent whine for an answer, “So why don’t you be a hngh- good girl f’me and tie my hair so I can see you better, hm?”

“B-but Sugu-” you’re sobbing, cunt flexing reflexively around his unforgiving cock. “You said that last time.”

Why would you still talk coherently? In Geto’s eyes, that was a failure. And he’s only giving you a sly grin, trailing a finger down to draw circles on your ravaged clit, “Oh, did I?” He did. “I must’ve ah- forgotten.” He didn’t. “Only once more, pretty, I promise.” He doesn’t.

“P-promise?”

“Promise.”

As if to prove his case, Geto’s gesturing for you to look down at where your poor, overfilled cunt was sucking him so good. Like you were trying to milk something delicious - like it wasn’t enough. Even though your folds were puffy and glistening with his cum, spilling all the way down to his twitching balls. 

He’s grunting at the sight of a thick, slow glob of cum running down your thigh. “So p-pretty, right?” Pulling you down across the soaked silky sheets to ram his hips harder. “So gorgeous? Y’know m’gonna keep this up until-”

Whatever sinful little threat - promise - dies in Geto’s throat as your shaky hands strain upwards to bunch the long curtain of his hair. 

Hips only stuttering ever-so-slightly at that heavenly feeling of your fingers raking his scalp. 

“Mhm, so f-fucking good when you listen.” he lets out a guttural groan, head dipping into the crook of your neck to help his poor girl. “Better hah- make this one be the one, angel - unless ya want me to fuck fuck fuck- fill up this pretty pussy again? And again? And again and again and-”

 And you knew - shit, you knew better than anyone how half-jokingly tying your boyfriend’s hair up in the middle of sex had led to this. 

So you’re giving him a delirious headshake, feeling like one more bout of Geto filling you up with his seed and you’ll fucking explode. Squealing through tears, “I-Ill tie it- Sugu, ngh-”

Mercifully, Geto lets you tug and angle his head all you want so that you can get to work on trying to fucking make it out alive. 

Meanwhile, he busies himself with trailing down on your bloated stomach, eyes widening in wonder as he reaches about halfway down. Five fingerpads pressing down so hard and-

Oh. Fuck. One more isn’t going to be enough.

“God- fuck, didn’t know this hah- tight pussy could even hold that much.” he breathes out. Eyes locked on that steady stream of white dribbling out of your stuffed hole, pushing and pulling with each thrust. Each mean, sloppy thrust. He groans, “Makes me wanna- ngh- give ya more.” Fat tip nudging at your cervix, sending you gripping so searingly onto his scalp. “So ya better hurry up, angel.”

And at this point, all you could do was let out wet whines, bracing yourself with two hands on Geto’s hair while you desperately buck up to try to meet his maddening tempo. Jagged, sloppy thrusts. Only getting meaner. Closer.

“I-I am!” you sob, only having made it past the first loop in Geto’s ponytail. “M’trying so hard, Sugu.”

“Then try harder.”

And, shit, did he grow bigger? Stretching out your gummy walls as much as they;d go. So fucking hard with the way you’re so full with his seed already. So fucking wild as he can’t manage to see that heavenly view without those dark locks falling into his face.

So fucking good and you can feel your release just dancing right in front of you, edging you with each drag of Geto’s veins down those sensitive spots in your cunt. With each twist of your fingers on his hair. Dipping a rough hand down to your poor clit and-

It’s all it takes for you to cum. So watered down and sensitive at this point, merely faint, distant tingles that have you smacking your hips up to meet Geto’s.

And he wasn’t too far behind, either.

Slamming you with one, two harsh thrusts that you think you feel right in your stomach before bestowing you with thin ropes of his seed. Vision hazy, stars behind his eyes with each twitch of his cock. But ah, did he have the perfect view to all this sin. 

Hair pulled back in the perfect ponytail to eye the way your greedy cunt happily milks his fucking soul dry. One he’s almost sad to untangle. 

Balls clenching dangerously at that adorably betrayed look on your face, Geto hums, twiddling with the hair tie around his finger, “Whoops. It came off~ Guess you have to tie it again, huh?”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - DIY

You’d meant it as a joke, you really did. 

When your poor, needy boyfriend came up to you when you were in the middle of a work call with your coworker - eyes glassy, cock so rock-hard and leaking angrily all over his fist - you’d just told him to “get off to your panties.” Fully expecting a pouty Choso to tell you to end the call, maybe even sulk until you cheered him up.

What you did not expect was to be splayed out on your living room couch, Choso pressing up from behind. Your shorts pulled down just enough for him to drag his weeping cock all across those panties peeking.

Until they were so flimsy and drenched, until you were frantically hitting the mute button on your phone, looking over your trembling shoulders to whimper out a quiet, “Ch-Cho-”

“Shhh.” he whispers, hot breath hitting your ear. Sending goosebumps down your spine - all the way down to where he was sliding his swollen cock underneath your panties. Just gliding down your sopping wet cunt, “M’jus’ doing what you wanted, right? Jus’ ‘getting myself off’. You just keep going with your call, baby.”

Choso knew that contact name - that loser from your department that was too fucking close despite your relationship with him. The one that insisted on extra work calls, just a tad too touchy. A bit too starry-eyed.

And fuck, all it takes is one graze of Choso’s fat head against your puffy folds, feeling the way your sweet slick beads and rolls down his length - and he was in heaven. Eyes rolling to the back of his head, breathing out a ragged, “Oh, baby you feel so good.” Hips moving uncontrollably back and forth between them. Again. And again and again. “How do you feel so f-fucking good when m’not even inside you?”

“Sh-shit-” you wiggle your hips back, addicted to the feeling of his toned abs rubbing against your back. The scratch of those tufts of dark hair, the lewd thump! thump! thump! of his prominent veins against your cunt. “I wan’-”

“No.”

Shit, did you just get wetter? Choso makes a mental note to tease you for how much you loved this mean little tone of his later. But for now, he’s reaching over to the phone still limply in your hand. 

Deftly pressing the unmute button, he murmurs, low and dangerous. “Jus’ keep going with your call.”

You don’t even have the time to respond, because a confused voice sounds from the other end of the line. “Hey, is everything alright?”

“Y-yeah!” you wince when your voice cracks ever-so-slightly at the end. Torn between moving your hips away and bucking down for more more more- “Perfectly- fine.”

“Oh, well, anyways about that upcoming project…”

“No no no no fuck- hold his pretty pussy still.” And Choso was only pulling your shy hips closer by those slutty panties of yours. Fist tightening around the excuse of fabric, fingers so bruising on you as he grinds his painfully hard cock deeper. “She’s so hah- wet, baby. Leave her with me.”

Trying to run away? Choso didn’t like that, not one bit, as he snakes a hand down to pinch your pulsing clit between his fingers. Rolling the sensitive nub in a way that has you letting out a gasp. A loud gasp. 

“What was that?”

You’re so desperately trying to hold back your loud, slutty moans as Choso toys with your pretty clit that you almost miss the question. You would’ve - if it hadn’t been for the way he grunt into your ear, “Answer, baby. S’r-rude to leave someone hanging.”

“Ah- I uh-” you mutter into the phone. Giving your boyfriend a warning sideglance, “S’just my…pet. He’s really needy right now.”

The word “pet” has barely escaped your glossy lips before Choso’s rutting into you harder. So debauched. So sloppy with the way his precum was dribbling down your thighs, making such a mess of your drooling cunt.

“Oh yeah, I have a pet too. A dog, always wantin’ to go out on walks and-”

Your slick just a glossy sheen down his fingers - all the way down his wrist - from where he was just abusing your ravaged clit. Giving a light flick! before groaning, “Yeah. Needy. F-fuck this ‘pet’ of yours is real needy.”

And then he’s ramping up his pace - grinding like he was possessed. Like he couldn’t give less of a shit if your coworker could hear the lewd squelches from down below. Your muffled moans as Choso draws messy lil’ patterns on your clit, simultaneously spreading your puffy folds to slide his cock faster between them.

Rougher. More desperate. Getting off to just the mere feeling of your panties digging into his hand as he pulls on them lazily, and your cunt clenching and trying to suck him up. 

In his feverish state, Choso’s angry, red tip just barely slips between your dripping slit and into your sloppy entrance. Having you keen, “Cho!”

And that’s all it takes for him to cum - thick, hot globs of cum to paint your pretty walls white. Pulling out to absolutely soak your panties with his seed, pooling between your legs - your stomach - where was still playing with your clit. Smearing it everywhere, like he was proving a point. 

The very same point that has him pulling your limp arm close enough so your phone was right at his ear.

“Hey, maybe you and I can walk our pets together. Then head out for a dinn-”

“I’m the ‘pet’, n’ she’s a bit occupied right now.” he grunts into the phone. Ignoring the flustered bursts of protests from your coworker, “Do it yourself.”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - X marks the spot

“You can take it, right?”

You don’t even know what broken little response you’re blabbering out, and it didn’t matter either way. Because Sukuna is shoving his fat head into your sloppy hole - just barely. Not getting too far past that first little ring of resistance, after which, you’re letting out a sinful yelp. Which, of course, makes him immediately pull out completely and do it all over again. 

“Kuna- oh my god-” you gasp, legs trembling as you grip onto the bathroom sink at this dingy little party. “Not gonna- hngh- fit.”

And it’s true, you needed to breathe. To stretch, to maybe spread your legs more - anything and everything to make up for Sukuna’s massive cock and the pathetic preparation you’ve had.

But he’s only giving your ass a sharp smack! Letting out a dark chuckle when you squeal and scramble to claw at the cool tile. “N’ who was the one that hah- dragged me in here cuz she got too hot n’ bothered seeing some rando flirt with me?”

You’re batting your lashes behind at him so deceivingly innocently, “S’not m-my fault. She was trynna hngh- get your number right in front of me.”

“Right.” Smack! “S’this slutty pussy’s fault, huh? And I say this good girl can take me.” Sukuna’s bending his knees, angling his angry, weeping tip to smear his precum all over your gaping hole. He hums at how glistening wet you were for him, how nicely you were dribbling all the way down your thighs. “See? Be grateful I even wet this lil’ cunt for you. Now, lemme feel how tight you actually are, brat.” 

Oh God, maybe this is why Sukuna usually stretched you out - teased you for hours - before splitting you apart on his swollen cock. 

And he’ll never admit it, but just one, shallow grind into your cunt and the man feels like he could cum right then and there.

“H-holy shit-” he breathes, eyes widening in genuine surprise at the way your puffy folds were bulging around him. Not even quarter of a way in yet, yet big, fat tears were wetting your cheeks, “Damnn, girl- ngh- fuck. No one else could compare.”

He can’t stop himself - and you can’t either. The stretch too sinful. The nudge of Sukuna’s fat head against your sweet spots too good that you’re fucking yourself back into his throbbing cock. Inch by inch. So agonizingly slow. 

For once in his life, he’s awe-struck. Staying so teasingly still to watch the way your ass bounces back against his toned pelvis, trying to bully his too-big cock inside your gummy walls. 

“Shiiit- tightest lil’ thing I’ve ever fucked.” Barely even at the halfway mark before you start slowing down ever-so-slightly, “Awww, what happened to my lil’ show? We’re not even all done, yet.”

Fuck, he twitches wildly when you’re turning back with your dewy eyes and it feels like he’s pushing into your lungs. You whine, “I can’t, Kuna- won’t- s’too big!”

Sukuna clicks his tongue, “Not this again.” A large hand coming around your neck, fingernails sharp at your racing pulse as he tilts your head up. “Open that filthy mouth now.” Giving you a dangerous, sickly-sinful grin before spitting a steady stream of saliva. Wiping at the excess on your lower lip so gently, “Won’t have this mouth saying what my cunt can’t do, okay?”

And shit, he’s so big. So unforgiving. So ready to break you apart on his relentless cock. Feeling annoyed at that version of you who’d usually complain about all the stretching out your boyfriend would do.

“Jus’ a bit more-” he’s groaning. Hissing at the way his heavy balls are smacking against your ass. Starting to toy with your neglected clit, “Bit- fuck you take me so perfect- more-”

And it’s all you can do to let out wet, fucked-out groans as he finally moves with purpose. Not as rough as he wants, yet - just calculated, deep grinds just to fit inside. 

“She’s gonna take me ah- allll up.” He’s running his mouth against yours now, free hand dancing down to that bulge beginning to form at your stomach. “Gonna feel myself in here, right? Take m-me until-” Just devouring the sight of your folds struggling and swollen around his thick cock - now, not too far from that ring of ink around his soaked base. “-til I can’t see this tattoo anymore, right?”

You’re jolting, “Oh- please!”

“Please what?”

The fat of your ass almost pressing against his sculpted abs, big arms keeping you so close. “Please jus’ stuff me full, Kuna.”

Fuck, do you even know what you’re saying? He doesn’t know - he doesn’t care either. 

Because in one, fluid motion, Sukuna is pinning your arms back with one of his, using the leverage to bury himself so deep. All the way until your pretty pussy was sucking up that tattoo at his hilt. heavy balls smacking your clit, your slick slobbering all down his thighs - his abs - everywhere.

“X marks the spot, huh.” he huffs, words strained. Reeling back, back, back - just dragging his massive cock along your walls. Slamming back so mean until you’re pushed further up the counter, until he can’t see his tattoo anymore. “Now…lemme show you why you shouldn’t be jealous of any trash, brat.”

♡ GOJO SATORU - Splash zone!

It’s everywhere. Dripping from your burning cheeks to glossing over your swollen lips, dripping all the way down to your blue lingerie. Gojo’s cum was everywhere.

But he doesn’t seem like he’s had enough with the way he’s slapping his angry, spasming head by your cheek. Smearing whatever’s left of his Earth-shattering orgasm, “Yeahhhh, fuck- you’re so sexy.” he groans. Breathing as ragged as his words, “Now, open that f-fucking mouth f’me, sweetheart.”

It’s like on auto-pilot when you do - looking right in Gojo’s crazed, half-lidded eyes when your tongue lolls out. All creamy and filthy with his cum, dribbling down to the hardwood floor in a lewd drip! drip! drip! 

“Now now.” You feel a sudden spike of- fear? Anticipation? At Gojo’s tone, dropping to a low hum as he smacks his thighs in a gesture that tells you to come and sit. “Who said you could waste my cum?”

Fuck, you should’ve known better. Should’ve known better than to listen to his goading request. Should’ve known better than to sit yourself down so prettily on his thick thighs. Mewling a little, “But, Toru- You told me to-”

“Did I?” he muses, running a thumb along your bottom lip. Pooling his cum on his fingerpad, “Must’ve been my mistake.”

With a low, guttural growl, Gojo’s then kissing you. No care or concern for the taste of himself on your tongue - running solely on the taste of you and your cunt and you-

“O-oh, Toru.” you gasp away from the sloppy kiss when your boyfriend starts circling your swollen, needy cunt with his dripping wet fingers. Neat fingernails just grazing down your silky slit. “Shit- please.”

He bites down your neck, breath hot and feverish. “Use your words properly, sweetheart.”

Right now all you could do was buck your hips down his long, long fingers, trying so desperately to guide them towards where you needed them the most. Moaning out a shaky, “P-please. Wan’ your fingers so deep inside.” once you finally give up taking things into your own hands.

And, well. Maybe you’re an idiot - maybe you’re a mastermind.

Because you get exactly what you want, Gojo’s fingers bullying their way to roam your gummy walls. Fingertips kissing and prodding at each and every familiar little spot he knew would have you all crying and breathless on his lap. 

The only catch is the teasing. Fuck, the teasing.

“Oh. F-fuck- jus’ look at her.” he growls. “That cunt of yours is such a hah- good girl. How come you’ve got such a naughty mouth, then?”

He doesn’t expect you to respond - and you don’t think you can. Not with the way Gojo doesn’t even bother to fucking ease you into it, immediately thrusting his fingers in and out of your sloppy entrance with reckless abandon. So mean. So dangerously calculated with each time he’s pressing your g-spot. 

Hard. Sloppy. 

The squelches so obscene that it made your face burn. Gojo’s muscled thighs bouncing ever-so-slightly to make you fuck yourself back like such a slut. 

“Yeah? Ya like that, huh?” he chuckles when you’re scrambling to grab at his hair, his shoulders, his biceps - anything and everything to keep your sanity intact. “S’only payback.”

You raise your unfocused eyes up at Gojo, whimpering out a teary, “Wh-what?”

“I’m just-” The smug bastard he is, he quirks his index just right to abuse your magical spot. Hard. “-saying. If you wasted my cum, well, m’gonna have to hah- get back somehow, right?”

It’s all that’s said before Gojo’s speeding up his movements. All but dragging his fingers across your heavenly walls, so so sloppy with the way you’re slobbering all the way down to his wrists. In and out in and out in and-

“Hey now, the fuck do you hah- think you’re doing?” You’re snapped out of your lustful little reverie, and so is the hand snaking down to play with your pulsing clit. Not a moment wasted before Gojo is using the same hand that was currently fingerfucking you stupid to thumb over the sensitive bundle of nerves. “This pussy belongs to me n’ I’m in fuck- charge of how you cum, mmkay?”

You’re giving him a delirious nod - but that wasn’t enough. 

And soon enough two fingers are being shoved between your kiss-bitten lips. Gojo’s free hand pressing right at the back of your throat as he wiggles his fingers enough to imitate you nodding. “Yeah, thought so.”

Fuck, it makes you so embarrased. It makes an obscene mix of cum and saliva drool down the corner of your mouth, coating Gojo’s palm. It makes your snug cunt clench too tight around the fingers having their way with you. So hard that you wondered how the hell his wrist wasn’t cramping up. 

It makes you cum. Hard. Violent. 

Until your vision is spotty, nothing but broken moans muffled from your lips. Squirting all over Gojo’s fingers like he’s infuriatingly wanted so badly. Your poor pussy just gushing, a sickly sweet sheen of your slick coating everything from his wrist, to his thighs, to the overpriced sheets that had just been laid out. 

Even messier than Gojo had been.

Until your boyfriend is groaning from above, awe-struck, “Hey, sweetheart, I think you squirted more than me so maybe we should try to even out the-”

“Satoru!”

A/N. Think I’m ovulating rn, who’s gonna match my freak HM?

Plagiarism not authorized.

⛈️

Baking with Mami Tomoe

Making sweets with Tomoe is the best

If you don't know how to bake Tomoe would teach you the basics first

In the first few tries you were actually really good for a beginner which made Tomoe impressed

Tomoe will let you choose on what you want to make first

Tomoe will try to make it more entertaining for you other than baking in quietness

The both of you would sometimes scold Bebe for eating some of the ingredients

Sometimes you and Tomoe would have food fights and playfully boop each other's noses with flour or complete each other on whose the best at baking

In the end the both of would eat the sweets that you made with Bebe and drink tea

jjk men having wet dreams about you and waking up needy and pants soaked…….. thank you for listening to my ted talk 🌚🌚

໒꒰ྀ ྀིᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ yes and yes. omfggg the big men of jjk being so whiney and needy >> such a good combooo

★ ┆ NOCTURNAL EMISSIONS .ᐟ ── JJK VARIOUS ‧

FT ‧ gojo, getō, nanami, toji, sukuna, choso

⟣ WARNINGS ‧ MDNI | f! reader | pwp, dub con, somnophilia, dry humping, lots of messes ( winkwonk ) from vv needy men, dirty taaalk, warnings will be noted and will vary on each character. ᡣ 𐭩 | WC ‧ 1.4k + |

͙͘͡★ SATORU GOJO!

somno, dry humping, fingering, mind fuck ( ?? ) !

Gojo’s eyes are snapped wide. Simply, laying silent and annoyed – tight-lipped and motionless, yet his wet cock is the only thing moving… agonizingly too… Feeling himself twinge between stiff legs ‘till it itched; each panging throb forced his meaty log to rub right up against the mess oozing through thin fabric.

“Fuck…” Gojo was more than annoyed watching how you peacefully drift off beside him, unbothered and probably coveting in the sweetest of dreams… A silent ponder hoping some were of him, just how his every thought was of you. Well, Clearly. The sappy mess globbed up in his pants was an apparent sign even his dreams clutter of just you, to which, Gojo could no longer stay silent about…

“Dreamin' baby?… Bet you are…” Shimmying himself close, the gentle press he rolls with smeared the gluey muck across your bare skin, “Any about me?… I’d hope,” Voice so smooth you swear you could hear your boyfriend echoing in your cute little head, “Just had one of you… i was fucking that pretty pussy…” Like sand falling, he whispers gently at the shell of your ear, taking a nip before, “Mmh… just like this…” Gojo’s hand slips right between the sweet heat of your legs.

“Ah… mmpf–” You twitch. Your brows too, knitting together into a deep parabola. Was this a dream still? A sudden naughty turn from baking with friends sure was a jump! — Ah! But that pinch twisting at your pearled hood felt all too real…

Gojo worked quick. Cooing across naked flesh soothed you back – even soothing the tight bundle of nerves throbbing at his persistence worked well too, “You were wet just like this baby…” The pads of his fingers mush between your slit, gently scrissoring folds open to catch at those lewd webs, “Better be dreaming of me fucking you… so fuckin’ wet…” Gojo hooks a digit in.

“… To… Toru…?” Bedhead sluggish with sleepy eyes drooped, all you could feel was Gojo pressing flush against your ass harder than usual — was there a wet spot too? Each roll he shoved against you worsened the damp spot; all seeping with warm cum and more pre to bleed through your clothes… And was there a damn finger popped in your pussy?!

“Hehe…” That mischievous and annoying giggle hucked right into your neck, “Look who's having a wet dream now, naughty girl…” Needy bastard.

͙͘͡★ SUGURU GETŌ!

somno, oral sex ( f –> m ), cum shot !

The rather poignant moans slipping out from between Getō's lips woke you up. And the obvious tent building in your boyfriend's briefs was standing proudly from strong hips; an obelisk of flesh that jutted out as far as a forearm was a clear indication he was hungry even in deep thoughts...

Bored and damper with a small smile, you listen to how this eruption was caused by you, "Y/n... baby... More..." Tenderly cuddling up to his side to watch his ache – to watch the little twinges in his features spark... Suguru was so cute when he'd have naughty fantasies... Watching how his length jerked around in confines; forcing tight cloth wrapping his capped tip to suffocate. To further damp in wet seed, 'till the dark spot bubbled out with more ropes of cum.

"Fuck–mmh–Please... Need you... fuck..."

Your measly hand dipping between bodies seemed to have drawn out those very feeble dreams he was crying out for to beyond... Especially the second you popped his cock out; he was drenched – sweat and cum were glistening along his length.

Suguru twisted around, unconsciously sucking in his lower lip at the tease, "Yes... mmh..." Clammy skin throbbed under your touch... The wrist-thick girth you twist at oozed, just begging for attention.

Heeding to his needs, you squeeze yourself between his splayed legs; settling to wrap pretty lips around Suguru's crown. And like a suction, you swallow him up; impaling yourself with his slab of cock meat 'till it punched at the fluttering length of your barriers. Blocking the entirety of your windpipe with ease, but too determined to fill his dreams with more fantasies, you gurgle him whole…

Perhaps the sloppy sounds coming from your mouth did little to dissuade him awake, but the tight lip you ring around his midsection forced his face to scrunch in, "Ohmyfuck... baby, yes..." He was close — again!

Salty in white thickness, the slobber you bubble out forced another geyser of hot cum to shoot.

Balls tightening and clenching up to empty across your tongue, Getō gasps, "Baby?! Fuck!" Hips jerking upwards, either surprised to see his pretty girl working his hard cock, or the overstimulation catching him by his throat.

Either or, he was damn grateful to have such an attentive girlfriend, "Holy shit... Babe--" Getō stutters, but the faint smile hanging by a thread was all he could muster up peering down at your muck-covered, pretty face...

͙͘͡★ KENTO NANAMI!

marriage, mentions of pregnancy, cock warming !

Sensitive skin chafing along his briefs, the sap pearling out was sticky. Damnnit. Again?

It's happened three times this week on your honeymoon already, and it's becoming agonizing… He always tried to ignore the way he'd moan and twist himself awake, but it was extra hard dismissing the wet patch soiling his third pair of briefs… It made him feel like a hormonal teen – embarrassing for a grown, now wedded man, but he couldn't help it! You're so beautiful and everything he yearns for – you're just cooped up in his every damn thought!

“Honey…” Nanami sighs.

The soft pads gliding across the curvature of your back form a parabola to arch in chills. You wind your hips, “Mhm?… Oh…” You recognize that sticky patch soiled low in his pants. Memorizing the way how he'd shimmy so close ‘till he could stuff his face into the nook of your neck before humming.

“Mrs. Nanami… My lovely wife…” Gentle voice feathering across the shell of your ear, Kento was gentle, besides the small pinch at your side to make you giggle, “Want to have a lazy morning?”

⊹ ࣪ ˖

“Then you found out you were pregnant.” As those words cooed out, his cock throbs deep inside gummy walls, and your heart does too, “Those are your wet dreams?” You giggle into the pillow, but the soft hump rolling against doughy globes robs that very breath.

“Mhm… Well, I think so? I fucked you full, so I assumed you'd be round and full with my kids…” The tender thrust bucking up into you signifies what he's been craving these past few nights – inner thoughts swirling with the idea of you being packed like a snow cone!

“Oh…” You gulp as Nanami pulls you closer by the hips, nudging in ‘till he was balls deep. It was like putting his dick to sleep in a pillow.

Sinking in every thick, turgid inch of cock meat into spongy walls that snap and suck him in, you could feel your husband worm right up to your womb. Thumping to invade soft barriers – he was stuffing you to the hilt purposely, as if he was trying to fuck the same thought into you…

Nanami hums, “What? Don't you want some one day? Or do you just like being stuffed?” Either or…

͙͘͡★ TOJI FUSHIGURO!

somno, cunnilingus, squirting, he's grouchy!

“Make me a mess…” Toji is irritated, this is a damn work night and he's woken up with drawls sticking to the fat of his thighs, again. Breaking those sweet sweet eight hours of sleep – if any, all of it was swept away with filthy thoughts of you…

Grumbling between the sweet heat of your legs, “I’ll make you a mess.” The assassin speared a wet muscle up and between your folds; flicking at your hood ‘till it puffed out… “Let’s see how you like it…” With a forceful shove, his lips mashed into those soft pillows.

Your head mashed into pillows yourself, unaware of the man feasting below your waist. Only aware— barely aware of those flitted blissful dreams…Which now, all warp into filthy scenes of sweating bodies humping and rolling together… His tongue was working as one of a spring bouncing into place; romping in and out so deep, he was fucking with your imagination...

His mouth suckled over the fine features of you lewdly, nestling the fat into the crook of his nose to ground his lips into lush flesh further. Smooshing folds down to nip at, Toji smirks, watching you swerve in sheets just how he was.

“Oh!— Fuck?!” Your eyes snap back wide, were you cumming? Peering down, “Toji?!” And gasping with wailing hands reaching for the shaggy strands sticking out beneath sheets, you were on the brink.

Still leaden, your were too late to pop off that suction forcing you to topple over... The unexpected clench twisting inside you made your eyes bug out. A sudden breathlessness rose to your throat – all the air in your body was forced out in one huge rush, just like the geyser spewing out from between your legs.

Pussy leaking, the man hiding under sheets peeked up, “Annoying huh?” Shaken and mottled with chills, no. Not… really? Though, the sheets and the entirety of his mouth were soaked, so were a couple of clothes, that was the only peeving thing about this… but it is laundry day anyway…

͙͘͡★ RYŌMEN SUKUNA!

cum eating, blow job-ish, he's also vv grouchy !

"Wake up." One of his strong arms sling over your shoulder, "Brat. Wake up." And it twists at the skin trying to nuzzle under the blankets.. Sukuna sighs, heavily, "You have a mess to clean up. Wake up right now." The rough nudge at your body was more than enough to wake you...

Humming, you whirl around only to get a crotch-level shot of your husband! Blinking, he clearly scooted his damn butt all the way up to the headboard, making sure you'd see the very mess he was complaining about soon as you roused. —And the still pounding cock that jutted in embarrassing need. That thick, meaty pole standing rock hard shaded into a deep red, the cum-soaked skin so flushed, he couldn't stop twitching... oh he was aching...

"Clean me." Sukuna waves a hand around. Subtly pointing at the gooey puddle pooling at his tummy, and it was a lot. Thick too, cooling ropes of midst cum stuck to his barred skin like a busted open bottle of glue.

"Sukuna... It looks like you made this mess—”

"No. You did. You keep sticking yourself in my head. It's annoying waking up like this." . . .

Sighing, "It's O.K to say you were dreamin' of me, again..." He hisses at that remark, but your cooling tongue flicking out simmered his temper...

Nectarous lotion and salt lathered over your lips as your hand dragged a long, languid tease across his shaft, "You're so moody when you're needy." Sukuna went to bite at those words, but feeling you vacuum up the globs of cum forced him to gnaw at his lip instead.

Sukuna's cum strung in your mouth as if you were flossing with it; running thickly down your throat, you slurp his tatted tummy clean. The thick blobs felt like gum rolling around in your mouth, trying to drink him up 'till the only slime trailing and glistening across skin was your messy spit.

"Good girl... Don't forget my cock now.." Milking the rest of his hot load with tight lips, you gurgle down his seed like a smoothie.

Suckling at the King's crown, Sukuna eventually deemed himself clean once you finally kitten-licked all the way down to his fist-sized baby makers... Sparkling new!

͙͘͡★ CHOSO KAMO!

he's a mess, dry humping, he whimpers ofc !

Twisting and turning, Choso was shamelessly humping at the sheets, again. It was almost the AM, but those sweaty limbs linking with yours kept forcing you awake...

"Choso..." You whine, but no louder than the one wafting straight into your back. Choso nestled beneath the covers and sunk himself further down the bed than usual; cramming himself against your spine to hump at the plush of your thighs 'till another bubble of cum oozed out his rubbery tip.

This was the third load he's cried out, so far! It's like a never-ending dream of fucking you raw when your around... He just couldn't stop thinking of you no matter how hard he tried! Even the agonizing nights when he slept on the couch, he'd fuck himself straight into the pillows – hearing whines of your name echoing from down the hall kept you up those times!

Choso's hips keep rutting like a damn dogs, feet kept kicking, and cock still throbbing knowing you were around, no matter what...

The longer he rolled his hips into yours, Choso's mess went tacky. It began to string out in fine lines through the sheer gaps in his confines; almost frothing like icing the longer he kept at it, unknowingly soaking your lower half too.

You couldn't stay sore with him, especially when his droopy eyes fluttered open. He looks so embarrassed out of his mind as he looks up at you like a bad puppy, realizing the mess he's created, he feels like an animal... Shame.

Whines turning into frantic rambles, "I'm sorry... l don't know what get a hold of me... Please..." And the soft whimpers following each syllable soften your gaze.

You peck at his swollen lips. Still too sensitive, Choso winces, and his hips jolt forward.

The wet center of his crotch nudges with yours; poking the hard blanketed tip right between the sweet heat of your legs. All you could feel was runny sap dampening your shorts, almost cooling as it soaked through to your panties, even feeling the moisture cling against your bundle of nerves.

"It's ok baby... I love you too." Nuzzling your nose into his, Choso was on the brink of groping cloud nine, again...

<– BACK: PINNED ⊹ ࣪ ˖ NEXT: JJK MASTERLIST –>

HI TUMBLR DEATH NOTE FANDOM!!!!! have a little ryuzaki :3

Rotten Right to the Core

Caleb x MC

Author's Note: No thoughts, only Caleb's toxic ass behavior. This was shorter than I planned but sometimes the words lead you and not the other way around. Hope y'all still enjoy 😘 Word Count: ~1500 | Read on AO3 Summary: Caleb wants to feel you without any barriers. 🔞Content Warnings: Dead Dove, afab!MC, she/her MC, taboo (pseudo-cest), PIV, rough sex, edging, biting, protected sex until it’s not, dubcon (sexual coercion), possessive Caleb, spanking, Girlboss/Gaslight/Breeding Kink, hair pulling, putting it back in

Incoherent words fall from your mouth, muffled by the scratchy material of your grandmother’s couch while Caleb ruts into you from behind. Ever the one to take advantage of your time home alone together, your brother had you pinned to the cushion the moment you got home from a full day of classes at the Hunter’s Academy. You barely had time to for your bag to drop to the floor before his tongue was down your throat and he had you folded in half over the armrest. He’s been different since leaving for the Skyhaven base to train as a pilot. Caleb has always been the overprotective, obsessive type but now that you were no longer living under the same roof it was like he was trying to tattoo himself inside you whenever he was granted leave to visit home.

“This is just the welcome home I needed,” he groans.

His fingertips dig into the flesh of your hips, pulling you back on his length with obscene wet slaps echoing off of the walls. Your body was already sore from the way he tossed you around like a rag doll, placing you in various positions and seeming unable to get enough. Heavy, firm balls slap against your puffy abused clit, teasing at an orgasm he had denied you over and over again until you felt on the verge of madness.

“Caleb, please!” you whine, voice pitched high and eyes full of tears.

A deep chuckle vibrates against your back as he pins you further with his chest.

It was borderline cruel the way he made you beg for release. You never understood why he insisted on drawing it out and tormenting the both of you, especially considering that more times than not you were on a time crunch to finish before Gran could catch the two of you. It was like he wanted to get caught, always pushing the limit further and further, seeing how close you could get to the sun without incinerating.

“You know just what I like to hear.” His warm breath is like silk against your eardrum. “I want something else from you, though.”

You don’t hesitate to answer, unable to bear the thought of waiting any longer.

“Anything.”

Caleb’s hand grips your jaw, pulling your gaze back to meet his until your neck aches from the strain. Danger flashes in his amethyst eyes.

“You have no sense of self-preservation, dear sister. You don’t even know what you’re asking for. But it’s too late to take it back.”

He bites your ear painfully as he continues to pump into you, teeth clamping hard while his tongue flicks at jewelry in your lobe. You cry out in a heady combination of pain and please, tightening around his erection.

“Shit, you feel so good,” he moans your name. His heavy cock falls out, leaving you dripping and clenching around nothing as a pitiful plea escapes your lips. “Stop being a whiny brat. You’ll get what you want. Take the condom off.”

That snaps you out of your tormented, blissed out haze, shocking you to your core.

“What do you mean, take it off—”

As you push up on one arm to turn around and face him, you collapse onto your chest once more as Caleb pushes you down and pins your arm behind your back. His hand encircles yours in deceptive softness as he guides your fingers to the tip of his hard cock to pinch the latex.

“What I mean… is take it off, pip,” he repeats.

“B-but we don’t… not without…” you grapple for understanding as responsibility pushes through your lust-filled brain.

“Yeah, well I wanna feel you. All of you. Without anything between us.”

You hesitate, knowing it would be an incredibly irresponsible thing to do. You just got into the academy and were top of your class. Before long you would be assigned to a squad at the Association, something you’ve dreamed of doing since you saw Hunters fighting off Wanderers on the broadcast as a little girl.

Caleb must sense your hesitation. Soft lips press to your cheek, a trail of soothing kisses pecking lovingly against the skin. The hand not currently wrapped around your own dips between your thighs as he starts to swirl your swollen clit. Still sensitive from the constant edging, your mind swims as your forehead falls to the cushion to stop the room from spinning. His touch is light, gentle even as your brother’s calming voice soothes you like a balm.

“I know this is new for us and you’re nervous, but it hurts that you don’t trust me to take care of you.”

“It’s not—”

“You have the implant—”

“How do you know tha—” you ask, but he cuts you off again.

“And I’ll pull out. I promise.” A soft sigh falls from his lips as he starts to pump against your hand that was still gripping him. “Just need to feel you.”

You never knew how to tell him no when he gets like this, all soft and sweet even if it never lasted.

“I-I—you promise?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“…okay,” you give in, body going pliant in his hold.

Pinching the latex, you start to tug. Caleb pulls back to give you space to work the condom down his length with a snap!

“There’s my sweet girl,” he praises.

Releasing your arm, he grabs himself to swipe the sticky bare head through your soaked folds with a hiss. Up and down over and over again as it keeps bumping your clit in a maddening tease. Just when you think he’s never going to put you out of your misery, he slides in with a single deep, hard thrust that takes the air from your lungs.

“Caleb!” you cry out just as he lets out a loud quivering groan.

Hand pressing against his abdomen you attempt to make him ease up. But just like before when you tried to stop him, he traps your arm against your lower back while his long cock bruises your cervix. His hips regain the brutal pace it had before the condom came off, the skin-to-skin contact making his glide through your walls much easier. Despite your pleas for him to slow down, you gush around the intrusion.

“I know you like it soft and sweet, pip-squeak, but you also like when I just take what’s mine. Don’t you?”

His hand cracks across your ass, leaving behind a sting that has you grinding your teeth. Head shaking in denial, Caleb lands another smack across the sensitive flesh followed by another and another.

“Don’t lie to me. I can feel your cunt squeezing the life out of me every time I do.”

“No—”

Crack!

“Want to try that again?”

“Caleb!”

Crack!

“Just tell me the truth and I’ll let you come.”

Like a carrot dangling in front of a horse, you give, desperate for the release. Your muffled response gets lost in the cushion. Fingers thread through the base of your neck, pulling at your roots until your face is unobstructed.

“Say it again,” he demands, panting harshly into your ear.

He was just about as far gone as you at this point.

“I like it,” you mewl, not having the strength to deny it any longer.

Your body was starting to grow heavy and you didn’t have much left to give.

“Like what? Use your big girl words.”

You loved hated when he did this. He was a total sadist sometimes. Face heating to an unbearable degree, you rush out a response.

“I like it when you take what’s yours.”

“You love it when I take what’s mine,” he corrects.

“I love it when you take what’s yours,” you repeat between high pitched moans.

You would give him anything he wanted right now if he would just give you what you needed. Your dignity was long gone, that ship having sailed years ago when it came to him.

“Now tell me you want my cum.”

“Caleb,” you hyperventilate, on the verge of tears again at his constant teasing.

“Shhh, it’s okay sweet girl. Almost there, I promise. Tell me what you want.”

“I want your cum.”

“Whose cum?”

“My brother’s…” you murmur, knowing exactly what the pervert wants to hear.

Caleb always did want what he wasn’t supposed to have, you above all.

“Yeah? You want your big brother’s cum? Well, who am I to deny a pretty girl her request.”

Fingers pinch your clit, the mere touch enough at this point to make you go blind with pleasure. Your abdomen tightens and your ears ring almost painfully as you’re overcome with your release. You barely even notice when Caleb pulls out with a growl and wetness coats both holes between your legs. The moment seems to go on forever until he finally releases you, allowing you to collapse face-first into the couch with your heart pounding against your ribcage.

Grabbing his still stiff cock, Caleb swipes it through the mess he made of your ass and pussy, gathering the sticky release together on the tip.

So out of it, you don’t even realize what he’s doing until it’s too late.

Caleb slides back into your abused, tender hole with slow intentional deep strokes.

“Caleb!” you scold, so depleted of energy that your protest comes out as a pathetic mumble.

“I kept my promise, babygirl. I pulled out. Do you think Gran would be mad if we made her a grandma again?”

“You’re a jerk,” your swat lands against his naked hip with a smack as he laughs at your expense.

Fish in a Birdcage ৎ୭

ৎ୭ ⸻ rafayel has quite the storm raging in his mind during his artistic expedition to aridum. which, the root of his crisis he was trying to wean himself off of wasn't supposed to tag along to make him spiral further. funny thing is, you just think he's sick. he is. just infected by something far worse than you can imagine: crippling dependency.

ৎ୭ ⸻ SO MUCH BUILD-UP, momentary sickfic, anxious attachment issues, rafayel being hot and cold with the reader, angst, exhibitionism for like 0.01 seconds bc of bond shenanigans, switch4switch and constantly changing dynamics that comes with it, handjob, slight obedience kink, impromptu bondage play with rafayel's neck piece praise kink, obedience kink blink and you miss it, p in v, CLOTHED SEX ITS SO HOT 2 ME, unprotected sex, multiple rounds.

ৎ୭ ⸻ hello lads fandom, FIRST WORK HERE (it sucked my soul out i've been working on this for like tHREE weeks)!!! this is my adaptation of rafayel's nightly rendezvous card intertidal zone. a lot of it is based on my reading and understanding of the card, i'm so sorry for releasing this when caleb just released but, i hope you enjoy, much love <3 ( lil tag: @comatosebunny09 )

ৎ୭ ⸻ 26K, read on ao3

In retrospect, finding out Aridum was a city in the middle of a desert should have made you stop and think more about how the climate would actually affect Rafayel before diving straight into travel plans.

You know, a Lemurian.

Who, logically, wouldn’t fare well in the dry heat.

Rafayel flicking off your genuine concern like it was a bug on the surface tension of his fish tank was the first red flag you should have paid more attention to. In your defense, since he’d been there before and was confident enough to initiate banter, it was easy to give in and trust he knew what he was doing as he batted his lashes at you with those pretty dual-colored, sparkly wide eyes that left you starstruck in the face and said, “As long as I’m with you, I’ll be fine.”

Well. He was with you now and he wasn’t fine.

Because for once in his life, Rafayel didn’t have enough energy to run laps around you. Just a few minutes outside the hotel, lingering near the grand fountain square framed by towering palm trees that offered scant shade, and he began to deflate pitifully like a garish balloon leaking its vigor into the sweltering air. His usual dynamism, the kind that pulled attention to him as effortlessly as a river carved its path, had dimmed to a sluggish ebb, so much so you found yourself glancing over your shoulder every ten seconds, vigilance heightened by the unsettling absence of his ever-present current. The languid pace like he was moving through molasses made him look like an entirely different person than the one tugging you through the airport with even the luggage excitedly rolling behind him.

And it had been just a single day since you’d set foot in Aridum.

That wasn’t to say the trip had been a disaster or he was in terrible shape — you two were still on day one. Back in Linkon, he was, on paper, enthusiastic about pointing out local landmarks for you to go together like he knew the city personally, but he had quickly lost that energy when it actually came to the execution. You chalked it up to him not being able to get any sleep the previous night because of a mix of jetlag and the discomfort of a new bed, but regardless, it was still concerning to watch him only interested in stopping by street stands where he could buy himself cold water bottles and stand in a shaded corner in order to drink them slowly under shelter, while also dragging you with him, so there wouldn't be even a split-second distance between you two.

You were thankful you didn't have many plans in mind. Rafayel always packed enough enthusiasm for the both of you, but now, as you watched with wide-eyed worry how his spark had suddenly wilted, the drastic shift in his personality left him finding everything he suggested doing utterly unnecessary for the day. On top of that, after only managing to sit still for five minutes or so, it'd become obvious to see that the environment of this city, complete with a sun beating down hot enough to cook you alive, had taken a toll on Rafayel's temperament far more drastically than expected — rendering his eagerness completely sour.

But still, you wanted to cheer him up, you did. It broke your heart seeing someone who brought so much life into every room shrivel down to such a defeated shell. Maybe that's why you couldn't help yourself when you caught him pouting at something on the phone screen as if it'd done him a great offense.

So, you began teasing. “Rafayel, we haven’t even been out for thirty minutes, you're sweating already?"

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” you countered, only to squint at his face more closely. “Wait. You’re not?”

He threw his arms out like he was expecting a grander reaction. “Do you know what that means?”

“That you’re a human raisin in the making?”

He groaned, a sound that was more theatrical than pained, but you still caught the edge of frustration in it. “It means I’m seconds away from crumbling into sand. You’ll have to gather me up and carry me home in a jar.”

You started walking towards one of the fountains near some empty seats where shade was available, while he dragged himself behind you like a zombie. "Let's sit you down before you begin to form cracks."

The fountain’s spray misted faintly in the air, enough to make the stone bench beneath feel less like a skillet. Rafayel took extra care positioning himself on one of the seats before collapsing backward, draping one arm over his flushed face.

He took the bottle of yet another ice cold water you fished out from your bag without protest, but his free hand found your wrist and lingered there — light at first, then tighter, like he needed to anchor himself. The unexpected heat radiating from his skin sent a little jolt up your arm. You were about to comment on it, but then he tipped the bottle back and drank, and you swore you could feel the tension in his throat as if it was your own.

When he finished, he let out a breath — not a sigh, just an exhale that sounded heavy, deliberate, sprawling beside you, one leg stretched out, the other bouncing restlessly as he tilted his head back and squinted at the cloudless sky.

“I think I’m dying,” he announced, as if that wasn’t thr fourth time he’d said it today.

After your attention was made aware that he indeed wasn’t sweating by the dry hairline of his, though, the mood to banter had dissipated like a mirage. You began fussing. Was it normal that he didn’t sweat? If a normal person was like this, they needed to be taken to the hospital. However, Rafayel had done nothing but up the ante in complaining, that had to indicate nothing was seriously wrong, right? He’d know his body the best. Right?

“I told you to put on sunscreen this morning. Did you?”

He scoffed, “I don’t need it,” — and you heard the imaginary Lemurian in his tone rolling his eyes at your human expectations.

“Not with that attitude,” you shut him down, already skimming through your bag at an increasingly faster pace. “Now, keep still.”

Finding what you were looking for, you uncapped the bottle, reaching out with one hand to tilt Rafayel’s head left and right to gauge where to start. His skin under the pads of your fingertips felt almost brittle and paper-thin — unnatural on Rafayel, making you unconsciously rub like it was a stain you could get rid of. Without meaning to, you frowned, and he made a soft, lukewarm grumble, nudging your leg with his foot, reminding you what you were doing. Which was fussing over a grown man who should have been responsible from the start and able to take care of himself.

“Show me your forehead,” you said, wanting to get it out the way first.

He obediently carded his bangs back, silent, half-hooded eyes flicking everywhere on your face going ignored as you rubbed sunscreen in and felt what alarmingly was similar to a fever. It was a relief to hear him humming at the feeling, you hoped it would help as you quickly moved to spread the white lotion over his cheeks and smeared a stripe right across the bridge of his nose as he fixed his hair, squinting at your ministrations.

Though, somehow, he looked contented enough that you had to stop him from nuzzling into your hand. “Rafayel, I’m working here.”

All you got was a breathy, “Mmm,” as if he was speaking through the pleasant haze of sleep.

How contradictory of him, as always. For someone constantly grumbling about the unbearable heat, he leaned into every touch with a docility that defied reason — and worse, he initiated them, either molding against you like water taking the shape of the container it was poured into, or his fingers ghosting over your skin as though drawn by instinct. You couldn’t make sense of it. The mere thought of physical contact when the air was this heavy and oppressive made your skin crawl, but he seemed to revel in it. No, thrived on it.

It wasn’t just the way he didn’t flinch — he leaned in harder, his breaths hitching faintly, brow furrowed like he was wrestling with a need he barely understood. You’d swear the heat radiating from your skin would only make it worse, yet he tilted his face into your touch as though your thumbs brushing his cheekbones offered a balm, a strange, cooling relief.

Maybe, he perceived your skin to be indeed cooler than his.

It had to be something unique to his Lemurian physiology. His reactions didn’t make sense otherwise. What human would ever enjoy the sensation of warmth pressed against warmth in such sweltering conditions? And yet here he was, biting back what suspiciously sounded like a placid sigh, while you struggled to reconcile the peculiar contradiction.

“C’mon, don’t let me do all the work,” you muttered, quieter than you intended, the heat and the moment distracting you entirely.

You must have sounded a tad bit worried, because Rafayel didn’t react with his usual playful defiance or the melodramatic sulking he resorted to when things didn’t go his way. Instead, he fell silent, sinking more fully against your side as though he belonged there, and successfully narrowed the angle you were working with. His head tilted slightly, guiding your hand to the sharp line of his jaw with an unspoken invitation, eyelashes fluttering as he blinked, the haze of his voice turning soft and almost vulnerable. You couldn’t even see his face properly from looking at the top of the purple mop of hair blocking you.

"Do my neck too?"

Before you could decide, his hand encircled your wrist. Not tightly — not forcefully — but with a loose, guiding pressure that was maddeningly deliberate. He led your lotion-slicked hand to curve around his throat, the smooth, simmering heat of his skin pressing against your palm.

You hesitated, the instinct to pull away warring with the strange tension settling between you both, but his thumb found the delicate underside of your wrist and began tracing slow, thoughtful patterns that seemed designed to leave you paralyzed. You knew damn well how tenderly and skillfully he handled paintbrushes, and it was evident by the practiced precision of each touch that he was using the same sensibility on you, whether he was fully aware of it or not, which sent a warm burst of blood rising to your cheeks.

Seeming restless, Rafayel sat up straight and finally allowed you a clear view of him. His head tipped further back, exposing more of his neck to your hand, eyes darkened into to a shade of purple that seemed otherworldly in the harsh light of day. They glittered like faceted amethysts film-burned blue around the edges, soaking in every sunlit fleck of your features with a focus that made your chest tighten, like you were being studied with the assessment of the artist Rafayel before another’s painting, his focus unbroken save for the low hum he let slip, soft and unguarded.

You swallowed hard, aware of how exposed you were. The bustling world of Aridum hadn’t stopped turning just because the two of you had stumbled into whatever this was. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of your neck, but it wasn’t just the desert heat making you feel like you were suffocating.

This shouldn’t have been happening. Not here, not now.

Your breath shuddered as you finally regained enough sense to break the silence. "Do it yourself," you murmured, voice uneven as you pressed the bottle of sunscreen into his chest. You looked away, clumsily rubbing your hands on your arms to mask the way they trembled, pretending to rid yourself of excess lotion while wishing desperately to erase the heat radiating off your skin.

Rafayel sighed, a low sound of reluctant acceptance, as he pulled himself upright. His fingers glided over his neck, spreading the sunscreen where you hadn’t, his movements smooth and unaffected as he worked the lotion over his collarbones and along the nape of his neck. The sight was annoyingly graceful, as though he wasn’t feeling the same unbearable tension you were. If you’d have thought of bringing a small electric fan along today, it would have been inches from your face already.

"Maybe we should’ve gone out at night," you said abruptly, grasping for any lifeline to shift the moment’s focus. Your gaze darted to him as he worked, your cheeks burning hotter than the sunlight that baked the streets. "Now I feel bad."

"What for?"

"Making you come along. This must not be very inspiring.”

Rafayel let out an honest-to-goodness laugh. It rolled from his throat so easily and naturally that it seemed even he wasn’t aware of it until the sound tapered off into a quiet chuckle. Shaking his head, he leaned toward you until his temple rested lightly on your shoulder, his gaze unfocused as he stared absently at the fountain ahead. "I’m not giving up time with you just because the sun here wants me dead."

He completely bypassed the part about inspiration, but the sincerity in his words hit you like a splash of cool water on overheated skin. Your shoulders relaxed as you melted into a sigh, letting your head fall atop his, but the sticky warmth made the closeness unbearable almost instantly.

You promptly peeled yourself away with an, "Ugh.” He had already filled his making-you-feel-hot quota for the day, in every sense of the word.

Rafayel straightened just enough to meet your gaze, "That’s how you answer my heroic declaration?" he asked dryly, one brow arched in faux offense.

He didn’t budge, though, even though the heat seemed to bother him more than it did you. The stubborn set of his jaw spoke volumes, and it took a gentle nudge of your elbow to get him to finally sit upright. Even then, he let out a dramatic whine from deep in his chest as if being forced to separate was a personal betrayal.

"You’re lucky I’m rewarding it with mercy," you shot back, brushing a hand through your hair to vent your own rising frustration with the heat. "Come on, let’s head back. I need to get my fishie in the water before he dries up completely."

"But you wanted to see—"

"There’ll be plenty of opportunities in the future," you interrupted with a wave of your hand. "If anything, this was a good lesson about choosing the time we go out more carefully."

To your relief, Rafayel didn’t push back. He rose to his feet with you, though his sluggish movements and the slight downward pull of his lips suggested reluctance. As much as his leaning on you had been irritating in the heat, the sight of his faint frown made your chest tighten, and without thinking, you looped your arm through his and pulled him closer, even though the contact made your already overheated skin feel unbearable. His shoulders straightened slightly at the gesture, but the small crease between his brows didn’t disappear.

"I hear it’s seafood night at the hotel restaurant," you offered, attempting to lift his mood. He was obviously bummed out, but his stubbornness refused to show why outright. It was cute to a degree — childish almost, so endearing you couldn't find it in yourself to grow impatient with him. But you hated seeing him down. "If we head back now, we might snag a rooftop table.”

"Snag? Puh-lease. Worst case scenario, one glimpse of me and I could get us prime seating any time, anywhere," Rafayel scoffed. Still, the corner of his lip twitched upward as if tempted to smile, and you found yourself mirroring the reaction immediately. “And that whole thing would still be less bothersome than you assuming I haven’t secured us a reservation already.”

Later that evening, after dinner on the rooftop, the mix-up with the room service attendant delivering Rafayel’s envelope to your room turned out to be a convenient excuse to check on him. It had been hours since you insisted he take time to rest, and while he promised to settle in and let you know how he felt after freshening up, you hadn’t heard from him since.

You were greeted by the humidity hitting you in the face like a solid wall of rain when the door got opened though, instead of your boyfriend. Thick as fog like it had its own gravity.

Rafayel stood in the doorway, his hair dripping and clinging to his flushed skin in lazy dark purple rivulets, robe loose, the soft fabric blotched dark with water where droplets had slid from his neck and shoulders.

The room behind him radiated a different kind of heat — not the oppressive dryness of the desert, but the heavy, steamy warmth of someone trying to crawl their way back to comfort in the only way they knew how.

He looked better, at least.

The brittle edge that had been clinging to him seemed softened, as if he’d soaked away some of the tension in the beath he’d clearly stepped out of upon you knocking on his door.

Still, the sight of him — damp like a wet cat instead of a fish in his natural environment, robe-clad, the faint sheen of exhaustion still lingering in the way he leaned against the door frame left an odd twist in your chest.

He didn't look any worse for wear than he had earlier in the day when he’d claimed he wanted to spend the rest of his night marinating in ice cold water, and while seeing him not suffering was a relief, you clearly weren't expecting for him to actually mean what he said, even though the water obviously wasn’t ice cold.

The envelope, as it turned out, held a ticket to the memorial hall and an invitation to an art salon gathering hosted by one of his friends. Neither looked to be sparking any interest in Rafayel, however, despite him having come here for as much stimulation as possible for his inspiration.

You understood. It just wasn’t possible when he wasn’t feeling well.

The room itself was telling the entire story, in fact, chaotic in its stillness against the beauty of the floor-to ceiling windows framing the desert skyline in soft, shimmering lights of the city crowned by the full moon hanging proudly above. Papers were scattered across the floor in uneven piles, some curling slightly at the edges where they’d caught the artificial moisture in the air, blank and untouched, and some haphazardly sketched in a way you couldn't even begin to guess what they would become later. A few uncapped pens sat nearby, ink untouched, next to a can of soda that had long since gone warm. It wasn’t hard to guess what he’d been doing — or trying to do — in the hours since you’d left him.

So, you told him to stop forcing himself. Come enjoy the scenery with you.

It was your first instinct, but the words didn’t feel enough. You weren’t an artist, you didn’t know what would be good for the block he was going through. Even though your concern was genuine, you were clumsy at best at consolation.

But, he did lower himself onto the floor beside you anyway, his hands brushing against the scattered papers as he sat and leaned back on his palms. Like this, it was easy to imagine him search for his vision to come to him among the mess as he was attempting to draw, and end up with his gaze drifting out the window instead.

And then, as if he were a tide and the moonlight was pulling him inexorably to shore, he began to open up. Pushed by your mention of watching the view together, he spoke of sceneries. Of what traveling to discover secret corners of nature meant to him before everything changed — before he started creating. About how he used to just look at the world and feel it. Admire it. He didn’t need to do anything with it back then. A sunset was just a sunset, the sea was simply the sea, and neither asked anything of him but to exist alongside them.

Once he began to create, however...

Those discoveries done from a place of pure enjoyment became material, their beauty and pain turned into fuel. The act of looking became an act of taking. Of extracting. He started to see the world not as it was, but as something that could be stripped bare and transformed. A beautiful, bleeding wound. Every sunrise painted became a slice taken from the sun. Every ocean wave he put down on canvas was a handful of ocean lost. He couldn't experience sceneries for themselves anymore without having to to capture and translate them into a demand.

He didn’t look at you while he spoke, but the portrait of his honesty could be interpreted by even the most art-blind.

It was then that he dropped the bomb on you: “If one day, I become someone who only takes from you… If I were like that, would you leave me?”

That question dropped into the space between you like a stone in still water, sending ripples through everything you thought you understood about this moment.

But Rafayel was watching you in a way that made your pulse trip over itself, dissecting every flicker of your expression, like you were sitting in the middle of a high-stakes exam you hadn’t studied for. His fingers splayed on the ground besides yours were mere inches away, but even in that minimal distance, you sensed him drawing further back — a subconscious, reflexive reaction to fear, as if he needed to protect himself by retreating into some remote part of his mind, distant and closed off from the rest of him.

"Oh you silly fishie..." was your immediate response despite the whiplash he'd inflicted upon you, fondness rolling off your tongue easily, folding over itself into a dull ache for the struggle he was going through. "I won't leave you."

Your hand slid towards him, pinky finger crossing over until it brushed against his — gently, giving him ample chance to pull away before you covered his entire hand with your palm.

He was feverish again, despite all attempts made to soothe him, and the urge to smooth the pads of your fingers over his flushed skin, mapping each ridge and freckle that dotted his knuckles, surged forward within you. And you gave in, trying to make up for what you knew words would never be able to express, as you lightly rubbed lines onto the back of his hand.

It seemed to melt something in him, and he eased into your touch. It was an involuntary response to you reaching out for him — he tilted into you like he always did. It only lasted a second or two, however, before you felt him falter; like he noticed the instinctual motion midway, then consciously pushed down the reaction by gripping his thighs in an effort to sit back and avoid leaning in. Your heart dropped a little, confused, and you stole a peek at his face through the corner of your lashes to try to guess what he was thinking about.

What you saw only amplified how wrong everything felt. His features, which normally softened whenever you reached out for him, tightened, pensive. He frowned, holding back — hesitant about something, unreadable except for a subtle unease creeping in around the edges.

Even before he broke the silence, you had the awful premonition that his next words weren't going to be what you hoped to hear.

"Are you sure?" he asked, measured and quiet, and you knew you were right. This was trouble.

You squeezed his hand lightly despite wanting to do the very opposite, reassuringly, "Do you really think I’d stay even a second longer with someone I know is bad for me?"

He remained unresponsive.

“Rafayel?”

You made it about yourself, idiot, you realized.

Instead of acknowledging him and his cue for more reassurance and affirmation, you'd shifted the attention from him to trust in your decision making. You hadn't meant to, you hadn't done it deliberately — but...

Gosh, you were absolutely terrible at this.

So much so that Rafayel being the more emotionally in-tune of the two of you even in his vulnerable state was setting a humiliating new standard for how low you could go.

It was pathetic, really, how utterly you failed to pick up on what should have been an obvious cue. There wasn’t a shred of doubt in your mind that he’d taken your clumsy words as a glaring sign you found his struggles trivial, insignificant compared to your own convenience. All you’d managed to do was shove him deeper into the spiral of insecurities he was already battling.

This was supposed to help him clear his head. All it had achieved so far was adding onto his concerns.

Despite your determination to pour everything you had into assuaging the gnarled knot of his self-doubt, you were woefully unqualified for the task. Unmoored, you floundered blindly through half-finished thoughts, grasping for ways to communicate your feelings — gracelessly, imprecisely — all in hopes of soothing whatever ugly thoughts tangled around your boyfriend's brain like weeds choking the life from fertile soil.

Your stammering words stuck to the roof of your mouth like taffy, thick, unwilling to yield, and suddenly useless, coming out slow as you spoke. “What I mean by that is… My life has been consumed by you. In the best way possible. You made it ito a beautiful, chaotic mess bursting with life. I couldn’t possibly leave you.”

And he heard it — you felt it in the faint shuddering breath he drew as a silent response.

His thumb swiped over your pinky in absent response, stroking soothingly over the thin bones as he stared at your joined hands. His shoulders hadn't relaxed even marginally, but there was still an immeasurable kindness in the gesture.

“Besides, you’re not someone who takes. That’s not true at all. You’re just…”

He looked up then, turning his head to you, a doe-eyed, half-dazed blink breaking past the glassy stare he'd fixed on the empty space in front of him. His hand twitched underneath yours, flexing as he made a questioning noise, wordlessly urging you to elaborate as he invited comfort from your explanation. The way he tilted his head, the corners of his furrowed brows slightly angled upwards — the effect was childlike, innocent almost.

Receptive.

Breaking through your hesitation to touch him lest he shrink away again, you lifted both hands to cradle his cheeks gently, smoothing your thumbs across the high sweep of his cheekbones until his eyelids slid shut.

A soft sigh fell from his parted lips, his body pliant in your grasp as he melted under your fingertips, as if the gesture were more potent than any reassurance you might offer. The climbing tension within your ribcage dissolved with a single exhalation at the sight — helplessly endeared by his sheer willingless to submit to your awkward, inexpressive attempt at consoling. Subtle adoration burned quietly beneath each featherlight caress you placed along the slope of his nose or the soft patches underneath his eyes.

"You're just feeling a little anxious," you continued carefully, brushing a stray piece of damp hair away from his temple. It stuck stubbornly, refusing to let itself be tucked behind his ear before you tried again, gentler this time, hoping to soothe any lingering reservations you hadn't managed to wash away. “That’s probably why you’re overthinking things.”

In the brief silence that followed, anxiety bubbled low in your stomach once more, especially when he seemed to be focusing somewhere on your neck and ignoring looking you in the eye directly. It came as yet another whiplash and a sinking feeling simultaneously when he covered one of your hands with his, tilting his chin to plant a kiss into the centre of your palm as if making up for the withdrawal from earlier.

"What, were you playing tricks on me?" you murmured.

Shaking his head, "A token of my gratitude," he clarified. A gentle huff of laughter slipped past his lips, so faintly that you would've missed it had you not been staring at him with rapt attention in your bewilderment. "For you. Who accepted someone like me."

You frowned, eyebrows immediately drawing close. “Rafayel—”

He leaned in all of a sudden, one of his arms slid behind your back, while the other stretched across in front of you, caging you in with an unnerving ease. Both his hands rested flat against the floor now, framing you on either side like a living barricade. Your own left arm shot down to slap a palm down so you wouldn't topple over on your side. The droplets falling from his damp hair onto your neck was a sharp, sudden cold in comparison to the alarming heat radiating from his body, making you jolt in place as he loomed close enough for his breath to fan across your face.

"You're burning up again," you said weakly, trying and failing spectacularly to disguise your nervousness with indignance as his lips brushed softly against the apple of your cheek before ghosting lower, pausing just beneath your ear, testing for a reaction.

Meanwhile, him taking your hand that was balled up in a fist on the ground to slowly bring it towards his mouth left you frozen and dizzy from the contradictory sensations prickling under your skin.

Rafayel hummed against your wrist in response, dropping light kisses along the ridge of bone connecting your thumb to the rest of your fingers in the interim. It was impossible to ignore how every one of his touches ignited something different within you — the sensation of him painting the length of each finger with tender brushes of his lips and heated exhales sent pulses of liquid warmth flowing through your bloodstream.

The abrupt shift had left you uncertain about many things, chief among which being whether your previous efforts actually sank in at all or not.

Apparently they had.

The combined assault was distracting, but even amidst the whirlwind of thoughts vying for attention, you struggled to fully comprehend just how drastically the moment had veered off course — how your own worry-stricken attempt at appeasing him ended here instead, with your pulse hammering in your ears as he pressed even closer, draping his arm around your waist to turn you sideways until you were nearly sitting on his lap, faces inches apart.

A glimpse hope of maintaining control over the situation arrived in the form of a can toppling over during his handling of you, clattering on the hardwood flooring and startling you enough to snap free of the strange trance Rafayel had ensnared you in during his momentary lapse in focus.

Being so close gave you a good look at the change in him that manifested suddenly; his features visibly hardened as he turned his head at the disturbance, seemingly irritated to have been interrupted midway — a dark glint shone through his lashes before shifting over to you, misty, hazy, indescribable in its raw complexity.

His bathrobe hung loose, the neckline slouched further down one shoulder from having moved so much earlier, displaying more skin than was appropriate, and you weren’t sure if you were imagining the faintest hint of familiar coloration mottling his chest.

Which was dry.

Not only had his skin absorbed all the moisture that clung to it like a sponge after stepping out of the bathroom, there was no hint of perspiration whatsoever — not a bead of sweat lining the ridges of his collarbone or dampening the strands of hair stuck to his forehead.

As if responding to your inner thoughts, he lamented, "As you said, I'm anxious... Well, more like... Restless," before leaning in further to bury his face in the crook of your shoulder. "Ever since I arrived here, I feel..."

His arms encircled your waist, pulling you flush against the expanse of his chest and filling your nose with the scent of bodywash. It was no less than holding a solid block of heat capable of radiating more than enough warmth to replace an actual human furnace. The sheer amount of radiated temperature seemed ridiculous in such conditions, but the way he tried the loosen the already disheveled robe covering his other shoulder despite coiling around you, which had to be the source of the biggest discomfort concerning heat, was even more ridiculous. Shouldn’t he have let go of you before complaining?

"The air feels like it's burning, like there's not enough moisture anywhere. My heart's racing and I feel so miserable," he admitted quietly, muffled in the material of your shirt.

Yeah, you were taking him to a hospital.

This wasn't normal by any means, especially since you were now a hundred percent sure Rafayel couldn't sweat in order to regulate his internal body heat.

How could you let this go on for so long? He had been suffering these symptoms for a whole day now, hiding it all under layers of petulant frustration and overdramatic complaining to escape having to ask for help.

He was always like this. So secretive and reserved about his struggles underneath all the goofiness, especially those directly related to him being a Lemurian.

You put a hand on his burning chest and pushed yourself away to put some distance between the two of you and this moment, ignoring his quiet gasp and the way he clutched your waist. "I'm taking you to a—”

Suddenly, the world spun off its axis, a dizzying blur of motion that ended with your back colliding against the floorboards.

The impact sent a ripple through the room — drawing pens clattering and rolling away, half-sketched papers crumpling beneath you, while others scattered into the air like startled birds, carried by the gust of displaced air.

As you blinked up, trying to shake the daze from your mind, the world sharpened into focus.

The light cascaded over Rafayel like liquid mercury, accentuating every sharp edge and soft curve of his form. His bare legs straddled your hips, knees pressed firmly into the ground on either side of you, pinning you in place with an effortless authority. His hands had found yours in the chaos, and now your wrists were restrained above your head, his long fingers encircling them with a grip that was firm yet somehow shaky.

The bathrobe he wore hung precariously, one shoulder already exposed to the moonlight’s caress while the other threatened to follow suit, the fabric dipping low to reveal a tantalizing V that stretched from his clavicle down to his navel. Tendrils of lilac hair curled lightly downwards with gravity, catching the light from outside, glittering like morning dew against a canvas of violet satin and plopping down onto your face, each impact making you blink. And his face, suffused with a flush so intense that it seemed to glow under the pale lighting, as if all the blood in his body had rushed to stain his fair skin with an undeniable rosy bloom.

The cool floorboards beneath your skin were contrasting harshly with the heat of his touch, and the helpless position left your pulse racing in a way you couldn’t entirely blame on adrenaline.

Rafayel lowered himself until his nose brushed lightly against yours, his breaths shallow and uneven, eyes caught halfway between hazy drowsiness and burning intensity — a vivid shade of sunless plum made darker not by the shadows cast across his features, but a deeply buried and masterfully concealed emotion on the verge of making itself known to you.

To call it desire wouldn't do it justice.

It was something far stronger than fleeting arousal or casual infatuation — you hadn’t been looked at this way before. Weren’t even sure if a man could look at someone like this. There was nothing superficial or mundane about this particular weight. It sought to consume you. To burn you alive, leaving you to crumble into ashes like incense offered up to a deity. And the worst part? You had no idea what exactly you were being consumed by, or why.

All of this, because you had merely wanted to—

“No. I’m not going anywhere,” he hissed as if sensing your plan, breath dragging along the edge of your ear. "I'm just... restless.”

But—

“In every sense of the word.”

Oh?

Your mind reeled, dizzy from the intoxicating cocktail flooding your senses — from his breaths washing over the side of your neck, to the overwhelming sensation of Rafayel on the verge of draping over you like a living brand, hot and firm, trapping you in place.

"Especially when you're by my side," he purred.

Oh.

He pulled back to stare you down, heavy-lidded and glinting like knives honed razor sharp, yet somehow tender in his approach. If anything, it served only to accentuate the danger of whatever it was simmering below the surface. This was different than his Ebb Day state, but similar enough in its intent to be instantly recognizable — especially since it bore all the marks of the manic rush he fell victim to when succumbing to the lure of his instincts.

It was something primal in you that scattered your thought process into oblivion and made you look away instinctively, averting your attention toward the window off to your left — but the sparkling view of night time in Aridum was soon curtained by a flash of Rafayel's hand as he cupped the side of your face in one smooth motion.

The slight roughness of the pad of his thumb brushed along your cheekbone until his fingers sank into your hair, fanned along the outer edge of your ear, and turned you back to face him. The gesture felt proprietary, like he wanted to make certain he'd captured every last scrap of your undivided attention, like it physically hurt to allow even the smallest opportunity for you to withdraw and escape his grasp.

“Rafayel,” you forced your common sense to come out of its hiding place. “I don’t think—”

"But even so, I can't let you go. I don't want to," he breathed against your lips, punctuating his command with an achingly slow drag of his nose tracing yours. The contact made something molten unfurl in your belly, warm and sticky-slick and pooling in the hollow space below your navel, curling its tendrils through your veins like sweet, syrupy nectar. "What should I do?"

It would be easier than breathing to surrender and give him whatever he was asking for, but... but...

It felt wrong when he was so distressingly hot to the touch, not to mention you couldn't shake off the feeling he was doing his best to distract you from your worry by acting more brazenly suggestive than you'd ever seen him be before.

"You should rest, I don't think you'll enjoy getting worked up in your current condition—"

Your efforts were derailed with the subtle scrape of chapped lips running up the slope of your neck and a bite into the fleshy part below your ear as punishment for daring to answer his plea with platitude.

A shudder shook your frame, nerves firing off confused messages in quick succession throughout your brain, half demanding the sudden pressure recede and half urging more from the tingling heat. Your hand flew to grip his bare shoulder, fingers digging in until the tight bunch of muscle strained beneath his fevered skin — not enough to stop his ministrations, but enough to serve as a weak deterrent.

"Such lovely lips, spinning such pretty excuses," Rafayel huffed, drawing back and sweeping his thumb across your chin with gentle disapproval. "When we both know you don't want me to let you go either."

The words trailed off into something softer, tender, almost wistful, and were followed by the pad of his finger slipping past your parted lips, stroking along the underside of your tongue before drawing back and skimming across the wet patch he'd left glistening upon your bottom lip. As if magnetized, his smoldering stare followed, entranced by the minute trembling of your mouth, darting occasionally upward to capture your own hooded eyes at the sudden boldness of his gesture. He licked his own lips slowly as if thirsty, mirroring the same lazy stroke he'd used against your mouth, allowing you to take your fill of the sight.

No.

Before you could fall into his enticing trap again, your palm pressed firmly against Rafayel's chest until he eased back obediently, giving you space to rise, every single sensation previously pink at the edges quickly melting into clarity about taking care of him properly.

"This isn't the right time," you insisted breathlessly once you managed to catch your breath and speak, steadfast with the strain of iron will alone — pushing forward when your mind threatened to wander where his moistened lips had been just seconds before.

The mood was quickly dispelling, much to Rafayel's clear irritation, judging by the petulant slouch of his shoulders. You emphasized your point by putting your hands on his forehead, cheeks, neck, every patch of skin you could reach, the clear intent of medical examination being communicated silently until he relented with a dramatic sigh, turning his face upwards to expose more of his throat as if giving permission.

"It's fine," he groused reluctantly, although his grumbling somewhat relenting in volume under your gentle inspection. "I'm not dying."

"That's the opposite of what you said earlier today. Are you sure you don't want—"

His hands closed firmly around your wrists, tugging you off gently before you could finish speaking. "It's really not that bad.”

You’d be more convinced if he'd just told you about how miserable he was feeling.

"Is it a Lemurian condition?" You frowned up at him, taking note of how carefully he cradled your hands in his palms, stroking the insides of your wrists. "If it's making you feel awful, shouldn't we see someone about it?"

Rafayel tilted his head at you with a peculiar sort of fondness written across his features. It was difficult to identify what precisely made his smile curve upward into something distinctly knowing, yet warm — something infinitely affectionate yet impossible to quantify.

"Already doing that," he answered cryptically, tilting forward until he met your forehead with his own, nuzzling into the creased spot directly between your brows, eyelashes fluttering shut.

Ugh, this man.

"Do you know for a fact if you'll be okay?" you asked as delicately as possible without sounding too overbearing. That would definitely push Rafayel closer to defensive territory again and have him brush off any attempt at assistance, or even conversation, so you needed to walk the tightrope of concern while still keeping it mild enough for him not to clam up. "This trip still has a few more days left. What if you don't get better?"

The corner of his mouth twitched faintly with a ghost of a smile, perhaps pleased by your attentiveness —— "I enjoy this kind of concern."

—— which was starting to irritate you a little. "Well, I don't. Seeing you suffer and not doing anything isn't enjoyable."

He had the audacity to grin at that, broad enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes as he ducked his head coyly before turning it sharply to brush the tip of his nose against the shell of your ear and murmuring, "Not enjoying seeing me suffering does imply some enjoyment in seeing me otherwise."

"Rafayel!" You snapped finally, jerking out of his embrace with exasperated incredulity, only to meet an unrepentant smile waiting for you beyond your escape. He wasn't deterred whatsoever, which was a little unnerving.

Or rather, the rapid shift to your own pent-up restlessness was about to become in the next two days.

The limbo between then and the memorial hall day unfolded in a whirlwind of contradictions, each more puzzling than the last — starting from the abrupt ending to your interlude in front of the window, where he suddenly pulled back without any warning at all, leaving you cold and stunned with the excuse that he wanted to go to sleep, subsequently kicking you out of his hotel room as if possessed by a demonic force capable of inducing selective amnesia.

Like he wasn’t asking to fold you in half like a laptop mere moments ago.

The result was you forcing mandatory house rest until the day of the memorial hall visit came, settling awkwardly between coddling and hovering — a weird blend of fussing over his health like a mother hen and trying desperately not to make him feel infantilized as a result of said fussing.

All of that only ended with him either clinging close or deliberately distancing himself in confusing waves that seemed to occur at random intervals with little rhyme or reason.

It was simultaneously bewildering and heartbreaking. You had no idea how to react when he gave you zero insight into his thoughts and behaviors unless coaxed open, and even then, his answers were cryptic.

(So much for enjoying your concern.)

Really, this was your fault.

Maybe you shouldn't have pushed. But you worried.

Especially when he was dismissive like that despite being openly going through something other than a fever and a creative block, made worse by his inability to leave the hotel due to the hostile environment. Both of which you could do nothing to help with.

He would sit at the edge of the bed, his sketchbook propped open but untouched, pencil hovering above the page as though waiting for some divine spark that refused to come. At times, he’d stand by the window, reminding you of a cat sitting by its food dish for its owner to fill it with dinner, paw swiping irritatingly at its empty confines. Then, just as abruptly, he’d abandon his spot to sprawl across your lap instead while you were busy with paperwork online, one arm draped loosely over his stomach as he stared blankly at the ceiling in defeat, and demanding you play with his hair.

Then, some time later, it was back to deciding being near you was unbearable, pulling away entirely whenever you reached out for reassurance, no matter how casual or friendly your intentions, retreating back into his personal bubble to focus on attempting to get something on paper mindlessly, pages fluttering with restless action, crumpling here and there under the rough treatment before being smoothed out hastily.

The cycle continued nonstop. Restlessness, fatigue, clinginess, building you up while you didn't let it show because time and place, solitude, then back again — you never knew what Rafayel's whimsies were going to bring, and the uncertainty of it wore you thin, fraying your already wan nerves.

The humidifier was a desperate, last-ditch effort, the kind born out of sheer frustration and the kind of exhaustion that makes rationality optional.

You’d bought it from a small local shop at the crack of dawn, spurred on by the memory of walking into Rafayel’s suite only hours before, where he’d bullied the hotel staff into delivering two oversized sacks of ice — each roughly the size of a small child — and ordered them to be dumped unceremoniously into his bathtub.

At 3 AM. In the dead of night.

By the time you returned and set it up, the machine had barely begun spitting out its first gentle stream of cool mist before Rafayel sat down beside it, legs folded beneath him like a solemn monk meditating in front of some sacred relic. His quiet intensity as he stared at the thing made you wonder if he was grateful, resentful, or some combination of both — because with Rafayel, it was never as simple as one emotion at a time.

Still, the day turned out to be noticeably easier on him, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, the worst had passed.

He still looked like death warmed over, often pink on the face and worn, but at least he wasn’t on the brink of staging another late-night ice-bag heist.

He even tolerated your awkward attempts to distract him, accepting your offerings of snacks, endless glasses of ice water, iced tea, whatever cold beverages you could scrounge up, and a marathon of that one TV show the two of you had been meaning to watch together.

And, of course, there was the doting.

So much doting.

Which was rare for you.

You were not, by any stretch of the imagination, the kind of person who showered people with attention. You weren’t the mom friend. You didn’t hover. But something about Rafayel in this state, rightfully whiny, subdued, far too fragile for your liking, made you want to roll him over in bubble wrap and shove him in your pocket to keep him safe from everything.

In some ways, you were more anxious than he was.

The helplessness swung at you like you were a tree and it was an axe, the inability to snap your fingers and fix him, to just make it better was torture. Worrying felt inevitable, but useless. And the not knowing what to do with yourself in between bouts of fretting? That was worse. Still, he wasn’t showing any signs of further deterioration, which felt like a victory you didn’t want to jinx.

You were so relieved you briefly considered leaving all your savings to the shop clerk who’d sold you the overpriced humidifier. She had probably thought you’d lost your mind, judging by the way you thanked her like she’d just handed you a ticket to salvation, practically singing her praises as she rang up your purchase. And honestly, if you could go back in time, you would’ve thanked her even more profusely.

Because it worked. Rafayel was better — well, better-ish. Better enough that you decided it was safe to move forward with the plan to visit the memorial hall.

Which, eventually, became a visit to the ocean.

An ocean.

In the middle of a desert.

The sheer impossibility of it left you breathless, like you were standing at the edge of a fever dream made real. The water stretched out endlessly, shimmering beneath the brutal sun, and you couldn’t stop marveling at the sheer absurdity of it — a body of water so vast, so alive, nestled in a place it had no right to be. It felt like a miracle.

It was a miracle.

And just when you thought the desert couldn’t surprise you further, the skies proved you wrong soon enough later, crowning the experience with snowfall at the end of the trip. Snow, delicate and silent, drifting from the sky like a benediction.

You couldn’t help but marvel at it all — at how the world had managed to gift you two impossibilities in the span of a single day. It felt like the desert itself was defying logic, bending over backward to offer something beautiful, something extraordinary, as though it wanted to prove it wasn’t all hardship and sunburnt misery.

But Rafayel stood by the edge of the ocean with a look that made your chest ache — a look that spoke not of wonder, but of mourning. To you, it was a miracle, but to him, it was a tragedy: a dying ocean trapped in a place it could no longer thrive, its very existence a reminder of something slipping away. An everlasting eulogy engraved into reality.

He didn’t look away from the canvas of pain he had set up and started painting for himself until you voiced all of what you thought out loud for him to see.

And this time, you truly felt like you had broken through — like you’d reached him in a way that mattered.

It was there, in that rare, fragile moment, that Rafayel dove straight through your hesitation, sidestepping the awkward pauses you were fumbling with, and pulled you into an embrace before you even had the courage to ask if you could. It was as though he had heard the unspoken thought aloud, plucking it out of the air with startling precision.

And then he’d confessed — softly, almost too softly — that at the time, he had wanted to come here before, with the most important person in his life.

Those words lodged themselves in your chest, a bittersweet ache blooming alongside the unmistakable joy bubbling up within you. You hugged him back as tightly as you could, pouring all the gratitude you didn’t know how to put into words into that one simple gesture. Gratitude for trusting you enough to share that. Gratitude for showing you yet another new side of himself, something unguarded and rare. A treat, indeed, one you hadn’t expected but cherished all the same.

Relief flooded through you, so potent it felt like a physical weight lifting from your shoulders. You hadn’t even realized how tense you’d been until that moment. Your body relaxed, and with that relaxation came fatigue, the kind that crept up on you and left no room for resistance. Before you knew it, you had fallen asleep during the entire way back, lulled into a rare sense of peace you hadn’t felt in days.

And yet.

Like clockwork, he withdrew the instant you arrived back at the hotel.

Rafayel never thought he’d truly understand what it meant to drown.

As a creature of the sea, he wasn't meant to in the first place.

Not until you.

The realization had hit him like a storm breaking over still waters — not all at once, but in slow, rumbling waves that built. He didn’t even feel himself breaking; it was more like a slow erosion, the kind that wears stone into sand. Quiet, but irreversible. Your optimism. Your touches. Your encouragement. Inching in and in and in one step at a time.

(It was snowing in the desert.)

He had been holding himself together in the driver's seat, hands knotted around the steering wheel and knuckles bloodless with how tightly he gripped. Every inch of him vibrated with anxiety, away from where you lay fast asleep beside him, breathing shallow and uneven like he was afraid of exhaling too loudly. But there you were, oblivious, asleep, your head leaning softly against the window as if his world hadn’t collapsed in on itself.

(It was snowing in the desert.)

It wasn’t the desert heat that was killing him, though it might as well have been. (Everything about this place grated against him — the air, the dry scrape of his skin, the silence of the fading ocean that was too vast to be comforting. Too big. Too empty. Fading. Fading. A warning from cities away that this land was no place for a creature like him.) He wasn’t meant for this — for the cracked earth and the relentless sun and the suffocating absence of water. His body ached for moisture, for the cool, familiar embrace of the sea, but it ached even more for you. (He didn’t even realize how long he had been watching you from the corner of his peripheral vision — how long he had been unraveling, thread by thread.)

You’d tilted his world off its axis, turned everything he thought he knew into something unrecognizable. Once, pain had been his anchor. It was always there—constant, unyielding, something he could hold on to when nothing else made sense. It had driven him, fueled him, given him purpose when nothing else could. He had sought it out like a man dying of thirst seeks a mirage, and it had never failed him. Pain was constant. Pain was reliable. Pain was everything. Inside. Outside. It was all he had ever known, and it had kept him alive — fed the anger that gnashed his insides with teeth and claws, soothed the beast that prowled just under his skin, tempered the instinct that drove him relentlessly onward. Toward destruction. Towards home.

He had used it as a shield, as armor, as the whip he wielded against those who dared to clip the tails of his people. A weapon. A tool. A brush.

And then there was you (who he'd willingly sought out, angry and grieving and resentful and hurt.)

You, who didn’t fit into his carefully crafted world of suffering and art and revenge. You, who had made him forget (as easily as you forgot him) what it felt like to hurt, to ache, to yearn for something greater than himself. To hate. To see others bleed while his fingers flew across canvas after canvas, leaving only beauty in their wake — only soaring wings, only gleaming scales, only flowing water, only living fire, only reaching skies, only rushing wind, only rising floods...

Only you.

(It was snowing in the desert.)

Except now, he did yearn. He yearned in a way that was foreign and unbearable, in a way that felt like drowning — not in water, but in light, in warmth, in the overwhelming weight of wanting something too much. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that he wanted you this much — needed you this much — when he didn’t even know who he was without all the hurt and hatred inside. It wasn’t fair that he felt something hot and ugly churning under his skin whenever you smiled up at him in admiration, filling his stomach with lead until he thought he might collapse beneath its heaviness. It wasn't fair that there were times when he thought it might actually be better not to have met you again at all.

(That thought filled him with dread so immense it threatened to crush the breath from his lungs; the possibility of having spent his entire life stumbling aimlessly through darkness towards a destination he was no longer sure even existed — )

He watched you sleep, the rhythm of your breathing steady and unbothered.

His gaze lingered on your hands, resting loosely in your lap, fingers twitching faintly as if even in sleep, you were reaching for something. (Reaching for him?) He wanted to take them in his own, to press them to his lips, to hold on so tightly he’d never have to let go. But he couldn’t. (He wouldn’t.)

Because the moment he did, he knew he’d lose whatever fragile standing he had left.

(“Isn’t it a surprise that there’s an ocean in the desert?”)

His thoughts spiraled, looping back on themselves in a tangle of contradictions that refused to resolve; questions without answers, fears without resolutions. What had he become, to need you like this? To depend on you like this? To depend on you so completely that even the idea of your absence felt like the loss of something vital — something essential — an emptiness he wasn't prepared to face.

(What must you think of him? Did you even know what you did to him? What would you think of him?)

He had told himself he could manage it, that he could stay close enough to feel your warmth but far enough not to burn. But that was a lie, wasn’t it? He was already burning. He had been burning since the moment he met you. An addictive pain — the kind that made him ache for more even as it seared him from the inside out.

And before he knew it, the car was parked beside the hotel entrance around the far corner of the garden, and Rafayel didn’t remember driving there at all.

He blinked, confused for a moment as to how exactly he had managed to pilot the vehicle, when you stirred quietly in the passenger seat, drawing his attention like a moth to flame.

You groaned softly, eyelids fluttering, but remained firmly locked within slumber's grip as he unbuckled your seatbelt for you, as gently as if he were handling fine china. Your head leaned sideways against the headrest and faced him, slack and soft with sleep. His fingers twitched around the plastic buckle, curling into a fist until he thought they might cramp under the strain.

He leaned forward, forehead coming to contact with the cool leather surface of the steering wheel, squeezing his eyes shut tight enough to blot out your presence entirely.

There was too much to process — too many feelings, thoughts, sensations threatening to overwhelm him if he looked directly at them, instead swirling through his head like debris caught in a vortex, invisible yet disorienting nonetheless.

But they all blipped out of existence the moment he turned his head around, following the impulse to look.

(“Isn’t it a surprise that there’s an ocean in the desert?”)

The urge struck Rafayel with all the force of a lightning bolt — bright, sudden, unavoidable — and suddenly the knuckles of his fingers were sliding across your cheek, feather-light in gentle arcs along the arch of your cheek, savoring every inch of satin flesh as it shifted beneath his caress.

The sensation of touch buzzed pleasantly underneath his skin previously starved, reveling in the sweetness of contact after so many days of withdrawal.

The artificial light coming from outside bathed your sleeping form in a glow that cascaded like a gentle waterfall, chiaroscuro shadows casting angles upon your features, emphasizing every line and curve, and for a long time, all he could do was stare. He could feel your breath against the tips of his nails, warm puffs of moist exhales against his calloused flesh, and found himself fixating on the gentle undulation of your chest as you breathed — unconsciously, mindlessly unaware of what such a simple act did to him.

The memory of your voice echoed in his mind, soft and certain, cutting through the chaos like a beam of light.

"Isn’t it a surprise that there’s an ocean in the desert?"

You had a way of reframing everything, of taking the pieces of his broken world and rearranging them into something that almost looked like hope. (He hated it. He loved it. He hated that he loved it.) It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair.

You hadn’t asked to become such an integral part of his existence — so intrinsic and fundamental and irreplaceable. Yet somehow, here you were. Here he was. The absence of water, the grief of it. The grief of what it meant to lose something so essential, so intrinsic, that one didn’t know how to live without it. And that grief had found a new home in you. You, who had become his ocean, his escape, the source of every ache in his chest and joy in his heart.

(Isn't it a surprise that there's an ocean in the desert? Isn't it a surprise you're the muse calling to him and not the muffled, fading cries of the dying ocean in pain, not the skeletal remains of an era he'd never get back?)

He gazed, and gazed, and gazed, drinking you in like a thirsty man lost in a sea of golden sands, watching the subtle play of lights over the curves of your face — the delicate angle of your chin, the arch of your nose, the graceful slope of your neck as it curved into collarbone and shoulder — memorizing every detail he could, without the pressure of having to wrench himself back before he drowned in your wake, without the need to pretend to your face he was anything less than desperate to be with you all day, every day, in every way possible. And that the sound of your voice in his ears was enough to get the paintbrush running across paper from the sheer momentum of his imagination.

But he couldn't keep going like this.

Somehow, somewhen, between the start of your journey and now, this thing had begun shifting irrevocably past his ability to contain it any longer. Had grown exponentially until it seemed to dwarf his capacity to handle it. All it would take was being away from you for a mere few hours to bring him to a level of misery that was honestly embarrassing.

And you had no idea.

No idea that orbiting around him in these past few days like a second moon had only served to exacerbate the foul joy of watching you fawn over him.

It made him sick to his stomach to admit it, but soaking in the knowledge (in his soul, through the bond) that you cared so deeply for him went straight to his head like some drug he hadn't realized he needed.

It felt so despairingly good that he would wrap himself around you like a vine climbing towards sunlight if he could for the rest of his days, absorbing your rays of affection like photosynthesis... or a parasite.

(Was he being punished by the sea that this love was eclipsing his fury and vengeance? Or rewarded that he held both equally in his grasp despite how terribly wrong it felt at times? Regardless, his inspiration was the punchline, once only capable of singing into the canvas elegies of lament and sorrow, now composed ballads and odes that poured out effortlessly.)

You would hate him if you ever found out just how perversely his emotions swung in every direction; so high one moment that the ecstasy of relief nearly shattered his reserve of control, and so low the next that he feared he'd choke to death from the guilt that clawed up the back of his throat like a strangled animal's cry for mercy.

This entire ordeal had flipped the script completely — instead of keeping you at arm's length as he normally did (regarding… everything), Rafayel now clung onto you desperately like Tantalus to a branch of fruit he’d finally gotten a grasp of, and what if he was exposed? The question rose like bile in his mouth whenever he began slipping.

“I won't leave you.”

Liar, his grudge wanted to answer.

It remembered. It never forgot. It told him you'd flee and never look back if he let a sliver of this dependency that bound him tighter to you with each passing day slip out from his fingertips — if he allowed you even the tiniest insight into the strange workings of his head and his heart.

Because you didn’t understand. You couldn’t. You had no idea what you were talking about when you told him you wouldn’t leave. How could you, when you didn’t know the depths of what you were promising to stay for? You didn’t know the true nature of Lemurian love, its ferocity, its weight, its cost. The all-consuming, all-encompassing reality of it — how they loved as if it was the only thing tethering them to existence itself. How they lived for it, how they died for it. How he had been dying for it.

If you saw it — if you saw him — you would run. He knew you would. Because if he laid bare just how much he depended on you, how much of his breath, his will, his very being hinged on you, you’d be overwhelmed. You’d leave.

Why else would he be tearing himself apart like this? Miserably trying to wean himself off you, forcing himself to let go only to grasp harder each time he felt you’d finally come to hate him and slip away?

He didn't know how long he sat there in silence.

Just a bit longer, he would keep watching you with these feelings out in the open. Just a little bit longer. He couldn’t bear to wake you up.

By the time you stirred, groggy and disoriented but blissfully unsuspecting, it felt as though several eternities had passed in the span of minutes, and he had to struggle with all the strength of a raging current to force himself back into this skin of his that felt too tight and suffocating around him.

But, still resting his temple against the steering wheel with an arm slung on top of it and another hanging lazily at his side, feigning ease, nothing betrayed his inner turmoil.

He watched quietly as you slowly regained your bearings, resisting the temptation to reach out and brush aside that one piece of hair out of place on your head, letting you find the words first.

(So adorable. So endearing.)

(It was not only snowing in his desert. There was also an ocean in there.)

"Rafayel..?"

"Yeah?"

"How long was I asleep?" You blinked at him blearily, one hand lifting to rub the lingering tiredness from your eyelids as you peer into the darkness of night beyond his silhouette. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

Everything he'd been thinking about vaporized and left behind nothing but softness, so tender it scared him; it seeped into the spaces in his heart left vacant and curled inside them, filling every corner, until it made the next smile he offered you come free of burden. "You were sleeping so well, cutie. I didn't want to disturb you."

The unconscious put of your lips and the way that strand of hair bounced around when you slid down your seat a little had him leaning in before he knew what he was doing, smoothing the unruly thing, fingertips betraying him by skating across the outer edge of your ear while he watched you tilt your cheek instinctively.

His body warmed immediately, gravitating towards you in a half-hug that kept you cradled close to the side of his frame as he nuzzled into your hair above your temple with a hum, dipping his nose deeper into the crown of your head near where your neck curved gracefully upwards before inhaling deep — greedy, thirsty, like he’d die if he couldn’t seep up all the scent of you.

Your breathing hitched a bit, and that’s what halted him right at the corner of your mouth with a sharp exhale — he couldn’t be doing this, he was just thinking about how he needed to pull back and —

Art salon.

Yeah, the art salon gathering.

He was supposed to be on his way to there like yesterday.

If only his body didn’t move like a most willing pupped tethered by strings to yours and refused to walk away whenever he tried.

“…Rafayel?”

It suddenly hotter in this car like a tide pool at noon. So stiflingly hot he was breathing fire even with the snowy weather outside. So unbearable the deepest V-cut known to mankind that had his whole chest out for the world to ogle did nothing to help.

He could… He could skip.

Yeah, he needed this. It had been literal days of non-stop withdrawal and a push-and-pull of his frustration that you wouldn’t touch him (because oh noo, he was sick — which, he wasn’t!) and stubbornness to not let you touch him. He’d gotten to a point that he was drunk off your scent alone and he couldn’t keep doing this forever, and why should he? Why did it matter about this event at all? Who cared — who cared about some stupid gathering? He wasn’t functioning anyways until he—

Stop. He had to stop. He was already so late.

He imagined catching himself by the scruff of his neck and yanking himself back to the driver's seat, within safe borders. Far away from your mesmerizing lips and wandering eyes and cute squirming in your seat under the thin cover of innocence.

And pulling away and practically fusing with the car door was exactly what he did.

He needed to prove to himself, just this once, that he could function without the constant reassurance of your presence — that he wasn’t helplessly anchored to you, no matter how much the pull of your moon whispered otherwise.

He had to dilute himself. This — and his inspiration problem, involving you or not, was his to figure out. And he had to figure it out if he wanted you to stay by his side.

"...Do you wanna go back to your room first?" he heard himself ask you quietly.

"You're not coming with me?" The tiny furrow of worry between your brows spoke volumes about your confusion, and despite wanting to reach out and smooth it away, to wipe every ounce of uncertainty from your face with a tender kiss, Rafayel clenched his fingers around the door handle of the vehicle until they cramped, his heart aching strangely inside his chest as you stared quizzically at him.

He brought out the invitation that came with the memorial hall ticket, waving it a little with little to no enthusiasm, "I still have to attend my friend's art salon thing."

The way your shoulders deflated and face dropped at the mention made him waver in — not enough to follow through with ditching the whole thing, but certainly making his resolve weak enough to crack like glass under pressure. "But you don't look well. You need to rest."

How could someone manage to resist getting spoiled like this, he thought miserably as he closed his eyes while you continued fussing, peering worriedly up into his face with the cutest scrunch to your forehead, palms searching along his cheeks heat before trailing down the length of his arms, and he wanted nothing more than to give in to that impulse of being coddled to bits by your hands alone.

He was a weak man.

You nearly lifted off the passenger seat and fell into his lap the way he embraced you, his arms coiling around you like kelp around a rock, holding fast as though you might slip away with the wind. His face buried into the crook of your neck, breath warm and uneven against your skin, his grip snug yet teetering on the edge of too much — like he didn’t trust himself to let go. There was a desperation in the way his hands trembled slightly, his fingers pressing into your sides, not hard enough to hurt but enough to leave the faintest impression of how badly he needed this. When your pained whine broke through, it was like snapping a thread, he instantly loosened his hold, guilt washing over his features as he pulled back just enough to make room for you to breathe. But he stayed close, his forehead dipping to rest against your shoulder as a heavy sigh rumbled deep from his chest, raw and apologetic. You leaned heavily into him, your fingers threading into his hair in a gesture that should have comforted him, but instead left him drowning deeper in the tangled sea of his emotions.

"See? You're burning up again," you mumbled as your cool lips grazed his temple in a comforting kiss. He was no better than a child. He knew it. And he hated how much he basked in your coddling, reveled in the unspoken message behind your words: Don't hide it. Tell me when you hurt. I care. "Maybe we can go together? Will you feel okay if I'm there?"

He would. He would feel more than okay, because that's what made him function.

But he couldn't keep being like this.

"Do you wanna turn me into a sea creature beached on the sand after the ocean recedes," he whispered, mostly kidding except not really, hiding in the dip of your neck just below your ear, hand tracing absent shapes into the small of your back above your tailbone. "Unable to breathe on my own, waiting helplessly for your tide's return?"

Your fingers stroking through his hair slowed, then stilled entirely at the edge of his nape. You pulled back only far enough to meet his lowered stare, confusion dancing within your own, bright and clear and genuine. You had no inkling of what was going on with him, and he didn’t want you to find out either. He would be fine. He was going to handle it.

"Don't you trust me?" Rafayel said. "How about we make a promise? I promise... I'll be okay without you tonight."

It hurt to lie to you so directly, but seeing your doubt dissolve to appease him helped soothe that sting considerably. (Even if it felt a little too convenient to rely on such flimsy methods.) You nodded, seeming convinced in spite of yourself, and his stance firmed — strengthened with your faith and affirmation alike, like he'd just taken a double shot of espresso. He would be okay. He wasn't going to keep imposing his feelings upon you even if a part of him desperately yearned to, no matter how difficult the prospect seemed.

(Say no, a small part of him whispered traitorously, selfishly, insistently. Ask me to stay. You know I can't say no to you, he wanted to plead. Needed to be affirmed once more, reassured that he was welcome to indulge, to remain, to lean into the comfort you offered freely.)

"Okay..." you echoed uncertainly, but gave him another soft smile — tentative yet warm, gentle encouragement. He watched quietly as your expressions shifted in quick succession, cycling through shades of hesitation and worry before settling on resignation. You nodded again, firmer this time, seemingly steeling yourself against whatever doubts you harbored. He wanted to kiss it all away.

But instead, he gently pushed you back, sinking further into his seat, looking out the view beyond the windshield to gather his wits against the force that was your presence beside him.

"You can head back," he repeated, not turning to meet your searching stare. "I can handle it."

The art salon had an air of cultivated elegance, grandiosity reflecting into soaring ceilings and walls adorned with curated artworks, with conversations floating in fragmented pieces, the occasional laughter punctuating the steady hum of "cultured" discourse — all the while Rafayel stood at the periphery, his posture consciously maintained with the kind of deliberate nonchalance that masked a profound discomfort, one hand buried in his pant pockets and the other holding a flute glass of champagne, ghosting the suffocating room with an expression of aloof disdain, attention drifting from painting to painting without ever settling. Humans circled him like murmuring specters, their faces a study in muted curiosity and empty civility. He loathed their presence. (Yet, here he was.)

The room's overwhelming sensory overload grated against his composure — cloying mingling of varnish and wine, sharply polished sheen of curated lighting, artifice of smiles that never reached their eyes...

He should leave. (No, he had to stay.)

The dichotomy was a pendulum swinging between contempt and an unspoken compulsion to endure. He’d insisted he didn’t need you here, insisted on proving — to himself as much as to you — that he could function without your constant presence. But the more he replayed his own words in his mind, the more it was obvious the joke was on him.

He rolled his eyes as an overly enthusiastic laugh erupted nearby, a sound sharp enough to pinprick through his already thinning out patience. His hand twitched in his pocket, the movement a reflexive manifestation of his barely-contained frustration.

(Focus.)

The art, exquisite as it was, did little to distract him as the chatter blurred into a meaningless drone, the edges of the room constricting him under the weight of pretense.

And then. The tug.

At first, it was delicate — an unsuspecting tremor sifting through his awareness, like the faintest ripple across an otherwise still surface that he thought he was imagining and hoping this was you. But it swelled rapidly, a deluge of sensations sweeping him off his feet towards your pull with a force that left his breath stuttering and the floor wavering beneath, erupting into vivid, agonizing clarity.

His lips tingled, a ghostly imprint of a kiss not yet given.

Heat bloomed under his skin, first at the base of his throat, spreading like a slow, insidious current. The faintest pressure, then, at his collarbone, radiating outward, like silk dragging over sensitive skin, a tingling warmth that prickled and spread, until it seemed to rewrite the very contours of his form, leaving him trembling with phantom caresses that lingered far too long to ignore.

He could feel the press of your palms against his chest, the drag of your nails over the planes of his stomach, each sensation so precise it made his breath catch, and the ache in his hands mirrored the way you gripped at yourself. Every brush of your hand — every hurried, seeking stroke — burned through him like smoldering embers, and he swore he could hear the faintest hitch of your breath, feel the tremor in your thighs.

A siren song of need that echoed his own, calling him under, drowning him in you.

Come to me, come to me, stay with me.

His breath hitched with the oxygen turning into lava-hot needle prickling in his lungs, his legs going limp as noodles and giving way. He collapsed into the nearest chair with a jarring lack of control, the motion abrupt, almost violent.

One hand clamped onto the edge of the table as he hastily discarded the champagne glass to cover where the bond was glowing, fingers digging into the wood as if it were the only thing keeping him from being swept away.

A single candle at the table’s center responded instead of Rafayel, its once languid, uninterested flame quivering violently, and then erupting into an erratic flare, a burst of light so sharp and sudden it cut through the room like a gasp. The activity drew murmurs from those nearby, heads turning, eyes widening as the flame seemed to writhe with a life of its own as wax spilled over the edges of its holder, dripping down in frantic rivulets, glistening like molten gold beneath the trembling glow.

"Hey, Rafayel, man, you good?"

A hand on his shoulder made him flinch violently and slap it away, the contact snapping him partway out of his spiraling thoughts. "Don't."

He was already rising, the chair scraping noisily against the floor as he pushed himself upright with a force that bordered on frenetic. The friend stood as well, confusion clear, but Rafayel didn’t wait to explain — with a curt shake of his head, he turned on his heel and strode toward the exit, leaving the other man standing there with his hand half-raised, a bewildered, "Hey, where are you going, come back!" hanging unanswered in the air.

The murmurs of those left behind — curious stares, the faint scrape of chairs and clothes ruffling — faded into irrelevance, they barely even registered. The bond burned like a tether, yanking him back to you, and he had neither the strength nor the desire to disobey.

By the time he reached the cool air of the night outside, he was seething. He had heard you loud and clear.

You merciless, cruel, horrible witch of a woman, punishing him with your sweet truth in an act so loving yet selfish, selfless yet entirely possessive, driving him completely to his wit's end until the only remaining thought was yours — to worship you wholly, thoroughly, obsessively, as deeply as he wanted.

He was in love.

You were in Rafayel’s room.

Because for his sanity to be tested like you intended it would be, of course you had to be in there of all places.

He was able to crash in the way he wanted like a dam bursting without knocking holding him back. In fact, he didn’t even bother calling out at all.

And honestly, he wasn’t even lucid enough for coherent thoughts such as those the moment his vision tunneled on your frame in the middle of his space, your back turned to him, an unaware and unintentional siren in a fluffy white robe loosely tied at your hips.

His robe.

Rafayel was moving before he registered the full picture — prowling the distance between you within seconds, hand snatching up yours and spinning you around. Just being this close and touching you uninhibited got the synapses firing faster than bullets in his head. He pushed forward into your space with no preamble, crowding you against the floor-to-ceiling window. He spared another two or three precious seconds taking in your startled expression with vindication (“Rafayel, what are you doing here?” before putting a stop to all the unnecessary talking with a kiss.

How could he expected himself to stay away from this?

One knee pushed between your thighs, a subtle but undeniable acknowledgment of what he’d felt, and you faltered, clutching the sides of his shirt so abruptly the lily decorations peppered through out clinked. A quiet noise escaped past your lips, muffled by his own and intensifying the building pressure simmering in his gut as he played with the collar of your robe — his robe — and drank greedily from you.

He felt a push at his chest.

The separation between you that couldn’t be more than a tight space to breathe each other’s air brought the world rushing back into focus — Aridum’s quiet, serene snowfall materialized behind your head like a mockery of their frenzied tangle of limbs, the ambient sounds of the city bustling in the distance dampened.

Your eyes searched his, glazed and hazy with steadily-building arousal, yet waiting nonetheless for an answer, shiny lips parted in wordless wonder.

Rafayel could say nothing. The words were there, soda fizz under the surface threatening to erupt into something incomprehensible at best if he opened his mouth.

His palm engulfed your cheek and drew you right back in, continuing the kiss with more urgency to prevent you from tumbling out from his grasp again — let the action speak for him.

The need that thrummed deep beneath rendered him mute, save for strained sighs and grunts of effort louder than the rustle of fabric and the thuds of feet shuffling around on the floor as he plundered your mouth, tongue chasing yours. It tasted like toothpaste and chapstick, like fresh mint leaves, like nurturing warmth cooling his into something calmer.

Rafayel’s hand left your face and slid down your back to seize your waist, dragging you closer, flushing your hips against his firmer and pushing his thigh more brashly. Not even a second later, his other hand bracing your wrist against the window pulled your arm into him to spin you around like in a dance, switching positions without breaking away.

And you bit him.

He recoiled with an “Ah,” that was more surprised than pained, drawing away just enough to swipe his thumb over the curve of his bottom lip where your teeth had punctured him.

“Why are you here?”

Something rotten and vicious was about to bare his fangs at you through a smile he barely stopped from telling on himself by holding back, ‘You called,’ from slipping.

The other, more acceptable answer came in a quick and effortless sweep of your legs off the floor, draping them over either side of his waist, one palm supporting you underneath like the cradle of a hammock as he pivoted towards the bed. “This is my room,” he said — low, simple, keeping eye contact to witness your frustration. “You’re the one who walked in here.”

He saw in the curl of your mouth that you would’ve continued arguing semantics if not for Rafayel bending to deposit you gently atop the bed for you to settle safely beneath him. The mattress creaked under his shifting as he eased further and started descending to resume getting lost in your kisses until a finger landed upon his lips.

“What I meant was,” you started, and Rafayel exhaled against your touch and nuzzled into it like an obedient pet coming to heel with a lowered tail before his master. “Shouldn’t you be at that art salon?”

He stared, blood about to keel over the boiling point.

His beloved was pouting. So adorable that he wanted to bite down.

You’d been so patient with him, hadn’t you? The little divot between your brows called out to Rafayel, begging to be kissed.

“I regret going in the first place,” he said, getting closer to breathe those words directly against the curve of your ear, savoring its delicate shell and the heat emanating from it against his lower lip — basking in the short tremble he could pull out of you that told him all he needed to know. “Stay here with me—”

His arm dipped around your waist and tugged you insistently closer, shakily eager, while your hands scrambled at his biceps, the side of your neck stretching upward to meet his halfway and melting further into him like candle wax molding against Rafayel and pooling liquid sweetness inside him like a basin filled.

Ring — ring — ring — ring — ring — ring — ring!

What the hell? Now?

A surge of irrational anger flared inside Rafayel, sharp and sudden, as if the hotel room phone had personally wronged him so bone-deep that his ancestors themselves had been insulted by its shrill, untimely ring. He clicked his tongue sharply against the roof of his mouth, a frustrated noise brimming with disdain as he reached out with the intention of silencing the nuisance immediately.

But before his hand could reach the red button, your fingers curled gently around his wrist, halting him mid-motion. The touch was soft, warm, and unassuming, yet it cut through his irritation more effectively than words ever could. His breath hitched as he glanced down at your hand, stilling under the quiet weight of what you were going to say next.

“Wait,” your dulcet murmur came. “What if it’s something important?”

More than this?

The irritation got you a side eye for that — but he quickly caught onto where this was heading from the way you gave him a pointed, sultry glance under your lashes and the faintest devilish curl at the corners at your lips. The grip around his wrist turned into your fingers interlacing with his as you guided him to accept the call, holding his gaze so intensely throughout that the beginning of the reception’s announcement went unheard in his ears.

“The guest of this room is unable to answer. Please leave a message."

Rafayel hadn’t even found a chance to breathe, let alone process what was even happening when you pushed him off and knocked him flat onto his back, straddling his hips with surprising speed which elicited an involuntary jolt from him.

He froze, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and the thick, burning, moistureless air that was overheating him. A thousand words tumbled in a rush into his mouth at once, all died under his breath in a sigh as his senses swam and short-circuited in response to your boldness, the sheer power radiating off your figure captivating him. For a single, stretched heartbeat, all he could do was look up — look at you.

The light from the ceiling framed your form in a way that bordered on divine, spilling past the loose strands of hair that fell around your face and catching on the curves of your silhouette like a lover's caress. Shadows slithered around you, dipping into the soft folds and valleys of the bathrobe that clung to you in all the places his gaze couldn’t help but follow.

And then the vision struck, slicing through his mind like a blade dragged cleanly through water.

No, you brought it to him, conjuring it as surely as though you had whispered it directly into his mind.

The blues wouldn’t just be blues — shadowy cobalt would bleed into the depths below, heavy and still, fading into fractured glacier blue as the water grew lighter near the surface, where the sun struggled to break through. The greens would soften into glassy jade, shimmering faintly, caught in the shifting light as if the water itself pulsed with life. Shadows would stretch in drenched charcoal, not oppressive but endless, framing the brightness above almost like curtains opening.

And there, close to the surface, you would hover like the sun underwater, light spilling from you in ripples and shards. Your form would glow with submerged gold, warm and radiant, a halo of sunlit pearl surrounding you where the sunlight hit the water and scattered around your silhouette. You wouldn’t simply stand still — you would drift, your movements impossibly fluid, arms outstretched in a gesture that could be comfort or inevitability, a quiet invitation to a homecoming. Shadows would gather around your curves in bruised honey, soft and subtle, fading into the glow that surrounded you, the kind of light that looked almost too warm to belong in the cold ocean.

The person who the painting was drawn from the perspective of would see you not as a person, but as something greater. His arms would float above him, slack and surrendered, the only movement from his fingers angled upwards, glowing faintly with washed ash gold, the last vestiges of warmth clinging to his skin, while the rest of his form darkened in the embrace of storm-drift gray. Faraway air bubbles would be glacier silver-blue catching the warm light as they ascended toward the unreachable surface, reflections flickering like distant stars against the background of salt-shadow teal.

This was a homecoming.

The bursting of colors landing on his imaginary canvas came to a head when the branding heat of your mouth found his ear, screeching into stuttered motion and scattering like seagulls afterwards. His head lolled sideways under the zapping pressure, inviting more of the world-halting caress that left him all limp.

Then it was gone — only a cool tingling remained where yout moist breaths once ghosted him —

"Hey bro, why'dya leave? Get back here—"

Shocked as if he had short time memory about it being a voice message, he squirmed for a beat, eyes flitting in panic between the call display and you with the mortification of every single drop of blood in his body rushing southwards.

His friend’s voice fractured into static buzzing under the pounding of his ears when you bowed forward once more, towards the red mark on top of his mark that was practically vibrating under his skin, trailing kisses across its glow. Every skin contact point with you burned even with the layers of clothing in-between, melting into an acute throb as you reached the base of his throat and dipped into the hollow between his collarbones — fingers dancing along the strip of his neckpiece before delving underneath, dragging down and delicately, deliciously tugging.

That was all it took for Rafayel to flip your positing and roll you beneath his body, propping himself up with one forarm and holding your wrist to just — stop you for a minute, expression tight as he asked, “Are you sure?”

Your intentions were crystal clear, but it was necessary to check in before continuing any further even though he needed this like air right now, and the prospect of hearing it straight from your lips that he was wanted —

Looking somewhere off to the side, you replied, “Otherwise you’ll actually go back,” thoughtfully, but there was something resentful in there, the statement almost bitter sounding in its delivery.

The overjoyed press of his lips to hide the smile he just knew would annoy you betrayed what he was thinking on the spot.

“So cute,” breached containment however, full of affection as he moved aside your hair behind your ear tenderly, fore and middle fingers taking your love’s sensitive edge between them and caressing, causing you to turn your face further away from him. “You must have missed me quite a lot.”

That sentence was accompanied by the press of his knee into the junction between your inner thighs, innocent enough unless you factored in that one certain revelation of earlier that entirely changed the context in intent. Especially when your pupils dilated visibly before him as you choked out a tiny gasp of surprise, revealing your guilt in glaring clarity.

“What, not pleased you got caught?”

A wicked impulse seized him — one daring him to keep playing this card to unlock so many possibilities as to how he could have you tonight.

He could have you show him what you’d done while he watched until you begged to be touched — on your back with legs wide open for his viewing pleasure, or hovering right above his face in 4K Ultra HD quality that he could just lay down and enjoy and perhaps contribute with his breath if he felt generous enough. You were having fun all on your own, yeah? He just wanted in on it. Not knowing wasn’t a sin, but not learning was.

If you didn’t think you were ready to bear the consequences of this decision of yours, you should have rethought before choosing the room he frequented, shouldn’t have turned him into a fish out of water in public by calling out to him like that, should have known better that Rafayel could be the vilest when he was provoked.

“Or, are you?”

His words were a double-edged knife. Pick the surface-level meaning and you ended up with him teasing you about missing him quite literally, nothing more, nothing less. Take him for what lay beneath, however...

Unfortunately, or, fortunately, you were one slippery fish.

"Why should I be ashamed?" The confidence that dripped from your reply rang genuine. You were so unbothered by his instigation that he realized this was going to be harder than expected, perhaps more rewarding as well. A delightful prospect. "Do you wish I wouldn't miss you?"

Oh, your pride, your grudge was truly an impressive sight —

gleaming razor-sharp even under scrutiny, glittering steel reflecting his image in fragments, and yet tempered by enough warmth to invite him closer instead of warding him off.

"Not at all." His heart sang. "But it couldn't compare to how much I missed you."

"And you still left," came a mumble, sounding more dejected than anything, carrying the weight of his deeds for the past two days.

It was that easy to change his mood.

Rafayel cooed instinctively, rubbing soothing circles into the skin above your knuckles as he pressed a string of quick kisses into the curve of your wrist — lips brushing tender apologies along its path until he reached the palm of your hand cupping his face, where he lingered to feel you stroke delicately over his lower lashes.

"I'm here now," was his gentle promise, one spoken nuzzled against the backs of your fingers. "I'm not going anywhere."

"What are you going to say to your friend? You didn't even pick up his call," you admonished softly, drawing his attention towards where the voicemail was still being displayed on the hologram screen hovering from the nightstand, accepting a prompt about how to proceed.

Rafayel made a show of leaning back to sit back on his heels, staring down at you as he slipped his fingers underneath the tightly-belted thick, sash-like band to pop the clasp to the side apart, the metal closure disengaging with a small clack as the ends slid free and exposed the zipper underneath.

He drank in your every reaction — every detail of you sprawled out before him: your robe coming undone ever so gradually, tantalizing glimpses of skin peeking between its parted folds, a little bit of collarbone here, the curve of your breast there, teasingly hinting at the shape of a nipple underneath the white fabric, then another flash of thigh, an exposed inch of inner leg from your feet shifting restlessly alongside his shins.

He pulled the whole belt free in one smooth yank — the sudden momentum making it snap with a harsh crack. It curled like a ribbon in his palm as he surveyed you, gauging your reaction; watching your widened stare catch onto cloth held loosely in his fist as he flung it haphazardly to the side.

Then, he started tugging at your ankle to raise it higher — dragging his knuckles along your heel, the sole of your foot, caressing into the arch of your instep, traveling along the softness of your calf all the way down to your knee, a single fingertip trailing underneath, slinking gradually but surely toward the inner side, tracing hypnotic spirals into the silky flesh that made your breathing hitch unevenly.

The ends of your robe were riding further up past your thigh along with the slow march, your naked skin revealed in gradual increments the higher his palm slid — revealing more and more until his hand stopped at the underside of your thigh, entirely disappeared from view because of the bunched up cloth, and pulled your leg up gently to drape it over the curve of waist.

Falling right back in on instinct, he leaned down, propped above your splayed form on his forearm beside your shoulder and bent to drag his nose upwards along the line of your cheekbone, saying, "I'm busy."

Your answering snicker was endearing and familiar, drawing forth a swell of warmth inside him like the sun rising over a tranquil ocean's horizon. "Still trying to run away?"

“Just returning to the original plan.”

There would be no running away now — not anymore, not ever, at least not from you and what you made him feel. He'd tried; failed, obviously, as evident in his return here, where the answer awaited him with open arms.

"Who says I'm going to agree? I still haven't forgiven you.”

Rafayel adored that one pout of yours, the one that curved at its edges like the swoop of a bird's wing, delicate and lovingly rounded in its downturned shape. It drew his mouth upward to meet its match, slotting perfectly against its twin seamlessly in the union of a kiss, lingering as if they belonged together like puzzle pieces. You melted sweetly under the fondness contained within the gesture, sighing quietly in surrender; every angle of his mouth was drawn to yours inexorably, it was gravity pulling falling stars back to their courses.

"Not yet," he amended dutifully once he could manage words again, and felt your smile widen before sealing his mouth over it. "Let me."

"If you beg," you shot right back, the curve of your mouth pronounced against his chin, smug satisfaction dripped from every word and its delivery as you pulled away again just enough to meet his half-hooded stare evenly — daring him to refuse you. "Properly."

You kissed the little groan that was about to spill past his lips, but it wasn’t enough to satisfy him. Neither was it intended to.

"How would you like me to repent?" He dragged the question into an offer, a honey trap ripe for plundering. "On my knees? On my back?"

He let his arousal to show on his fact at those mental images, conjured by practiced ease, crafted to seduce. The soft puff of your exhale danced across his chin, sending his nerves tingling. A sign he was on the right track? Or did it merely betray surprise at whatyou had in mind? Either possibility stirred his blood.

"You know what someone in your position shouldn’t do?" you whispered, low and hushed, conspiratorial yet laced with a dangerous authority that quickened his pulse. His brows rose involuntarily, the shift in your tone sending anticipation skittering down his spine. Your lashes swept low, casting faint shadows on your cheeks as your pointed stare locked onto him, sharp enough to pierce. "Ask me what to do when you’re supposed to be coming up with ideas on your own. That’s weaponized incompetence."

His head snapped back so fast that something audibly clicked in his neck.

Mouth wide open.

"Weaponized in—" The sensual, submissive haze he’d been wrapped in evaporated like morning dew under the brutal heat of the desert sun, vanishing so quickly it left him sputtering. The words faltered on his tongue as insult overtook every carefully cultivated mood, his composure fracturing into clumsy indignation. Propped up on his elbows above you, his face twisted into a comically muddied mix of offense and disbelief, his tone taking on an incredulous sharpness as he glared down at you.

"Say that again and I’ll spit bubbles at you!" he snapped, his threat hanging in the air like a gauntlet thrown by a petulant prince.

"Pffft!"

The insolent brat you were being in that moment, daring to laugh straight in his face, was both impossibly cute and maddeningly infuriating. He stared down at you, eyes narrowing with mock offense, the knowledge that your laughter was entirely at his expense gnawing at his frayed patience. He was torn between kissing you senseless or flipping you over and finding some other way to wipe that smug, adorable smirk off your face.

"What do you mean weaponized incompetence?" Rafayel shot back, the words almost trembling with disbelief. "You think I can't please you properly without you guiding me through it step-by-step? Is that what you're saying?!" His irritation swelled, a balloon of indignation puffing up and threatening to burst as he fought, tooth and nail, to keep the whine rising in his throat from escaping. "I like you telling me what to do because I enjoy indulging in your desires! Not because I’m incapable of being creative in bed!"

A frustrated huff crowned his ranting, "Stop laughing!" he barked, though his rising pitch only seemed to add fuel to your uncontrollable amusement.

You shook your head firmly, slapping your hands over your face to muffle the sounds of your laughter, but it was no use. Your entire body curled inward instinctively, knees drawing up as you rolled to your side, burying yourself deeper into the cocoon of your mirth. It only made it worse for his pride — your stifled giggles shaking through you like tremors, every failed attempt to contain yourself sending them bubbling up again.

Rafayel let out a growl of frustration, throwing his body off yours with an exaggerated thud, landing face-first into the pillow beside you in utter defeat. The mattress jolted slightly from the force, but the muffled yell he buried into the pillow caused a chain reaction that only made your laughter harder to suppress. The giggles came fast and bright, and he swore they sounded far too gratifying for his current temperament, his scowl deepening with every shake of your shoulders and every wheezing gasp for air that he felt in the bed, he didn’t even need to look.

The fact that you were utterly immune to his wrath, impervious to every “Stop,” he threw your way, made it all the more maddening. How was he supposed to maintain the upper hand, to reestablish even a shred of dignity, when he couldn’t even intimidate you?

"I'm sorry," you gasped finally, though the apology was weakened by the cracks of laughter still slipping through. You managed to sit upright, though it took visible effort, your hands brushing away tears from the corners of your crinkled, joy-stricken eyes. A few lingering giggles escaped as you cleared your throat, attempting to sound sincere but failing miserably. "I didn’t think you’d have such strong feelings about this topic."

Rafayel lifted his head from the pillow, his hair disheveled, his glare shooting daggers your way, though the deep flush blooming across his cheeks betrayed his struggle to keep his composure. He opened his mouth to retort, to say something, but instead all that escaped was a muffled, irritated groan as he flopped back down into the pillow.

“Rafayel.”

He rolled onto his back with dramatic flair, hands folded primly over his stomach and ankles crossed, the picture of theatrical innocence. The pout he wore, however, was pure spite, lips pushed forward just enough to make his point. “If you think I’m sooo weaponizing my incompetence, maybe I should actually start doing that. Let you handle everything yourself. Clearly, you’ve got it all figured out.”

“Rafayel…”

“No, no, go ahead,” he cut in, stubbornly resolute, almost belligerent in its exaggerated persistence. “I’m useless, right? I don’t know what I’m doing. Teach me. I won’t even lay a single finger on you.” He puffed his cheeks, a childish act of defiance paired with the way he turned his head away, sulking with the finesse of spoiled royalty.

The exaggerated display drew a sigh from you, long and exasperated, but tinged with a quiet amusement that he didn’t miss. He wasn’t fooling you — not for a second—but he relished the moment all the same.

“Well,” you began, feigning hesitation, with false reluctance. “Since you’re already laid out, I guess…” You trailed off as you shifted to straddle him, slow enough to test the limits of his so-called resolution, the soft white robe you wore parting ever so slightly as you moved, revealing tantalizing glimpses of skin before your knees closed firmly around his hips, framing him like twin prison bars.

His eyes darkened as he watched you, taking in the sight hungrily, every detail sinking into him like a drug he couldn’t resist. His hands betrayed him almost immediately, fingertips skimming the hem of the robe where it hung loosely, their touch feather-light as they ghosted over the tops of your thighs. It was instinctive, reflexive — completely unrepentant.

“I thought you weren’t touching me,” you teased with a playful lilt that interrupted the heat thickening the air between you like an unwanted knock on the door.

His hum was deliberately innocent, his head tilting as though to feign ignorance. But the dark gleam in his eyes and the smirk curling at the corners of his lips told a different story entirely. “I really like this robe,” he murmured with a calculated drawl. “What, I can’t touch my own clothes now?”

The claim was absurd — blatantly so — but it made you pause, his fingers grazing the fabric in question as though testing its texture, when in reality, it was clear he was savoring the warmth of your skin beneath it.

(Truthfully, it was also you who looked lovely draped in what was his — but that went without saying.)

Your mouth opened, the gleam of a retort on the tip of your tongue, but the words dissolved into nothingness as his hands shifted, palms hot against your sides, skirting along your ribs in an intentional, testing motion. He knew the heat of his touch stole the breath from your lungs, burning through the fabric like a spark setting fire to paper.

“You go on,” he said, infuriatingly smug as he leaned back into the pillows, his hands never straying far from your sides. “Help yourself. Take as long as you need. I’ll just… be appreciating this fabric in the meantime.”

His fingers traced the lines of your ribs, the motion slow, languid, before sliding downward to hover just above the curve of your stomach. They lingered there, resting near the knot of the belt holding your robe together. The edge of his thumb dipped just slightly beneath the fabric, brushing over its folded loops, a movement so subtle it was barely there, as though he wanted to test how much he could push you. He toyed with the fabric, rolling it between his fingers like he was unraveling a puzzle.

The pause in his pent-up desire — the break that had proven to be a blessing — was wearing thin. The front he was putting on, all casual indifference and smug bravado, was crumbling, betrayed by the way his gaze kept flickering back to you, and, of course, the growing press of his impatience beneath you, hard and neglected, made it abundantly clear that he was more than ready to pick up where you’d last left off.

You broke first.

With nary a warning, your hand shot out, snatching the ends of the thin, ribbon-like scarf draped loosely around his neck. You wound the fabric around your fist once, twice, tightening it just enough to make your intentions clear…

Then you yanked.

The pull wasn’t violent — no, it was far too calculated for that. Enough pressure to catch him off guard, to tip him forward slightly, but not enough to hurt. It was a demand, plain and simple, one he found himself surrendering to before he even had the chance to consider resistance. His wide-eyed surprise melted almost instantly like cotton candy in water into something darker, something sharper, as his lips curled into a grin that spoke volumes about just how much he was enjoying this game.

"First, you ask to beg for my forgiveness," you continued, pulling him a little closer, and his chest tightened as though the leash around his neck extended all the way to his lungs.

Your gaze pinned him down like a blade, your lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, wasn’t quite a smile — something far more addictive.

"And then," you murmured, sweet but laced with unmistakable bite, "you start ordering me around like a brat."

A jolt of concentrated heat shot through him, not from embarrassment but from the sharp edge of thrill that ran through his veins. He let the tension in his body slacken just slightly, a calculated move that allowed him to lift from the bed a little, meeting your challenge with his own. The faint tug of the scarf against his neck only heightened the electric energy between you, and he found himself biting back a grin.

“Well," he said at last, letting his weight sink into the bed with a noncommittal shrug, the barest shift of his shoulders enough to convey his defiance. "I’m just playing my part." He tilted his head just enough to make the scarf strain, wanted to see what you’d do with the provocation. “The sleazy husband.”

“You want a reward for that?”

“Acknowledgment of how committed to the role I am would be nice.”

“Oh yes, the most infuriating actor—”

“Aaand you goofed it—”

“—impossibly—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah—”

“—handsome," you went on, and his smirk faltered ever so slightly. “Disarmingly clever, annoyingly witty," you added, the sharp edge softening with each word, though the grip you kept on the scarf didn’t loosen. If anything, you pulled him closer, closing the space between you inch by inch. "—and worst of all," you finished, dropping into something softer, something so intimate, "Completely, devastatingly, undeniably competent."

“Well, aren’t you good at apologizing…” he said into himself, embarrassingly beet-red at having fallen for your trick.

“I’m still waiting for yours, you know,” you pointed out distractedly, playing with the crystal flame lilies scattered on his wine berry shirt, tracing the petals of a bloom while seemingly entranced, following the silvery droplets dangling in a chain. “But I’ll be graceful this time and keep going with mine...”

Before he had a chance to blink or register the motion — your free palm slipped underneath the thin fabric covering his heart, caressing right alongside the pulsing red mark — and squeezed with a vengeance (such a fierce boob grab!), applying enough pressure that the pads of your fingers sunk into flesh, then widened the buttonless V-cut of his shirt by yanking, no, downright ripping it open by the lapels with both hands, and Rafayel damn near felt like a virgin at how scandalous that single action was that he almost covered himself up.

But then again, he could hardly claim innocence right now, could he? He was practically a champagne bottle about to pop down there. Just from that. Who was he, the main female character getting her corset ripped in a bodice-ripper novel?

“Ohmyg—hi? What happened to hello? How are y—”

“Shut up or no head.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Kisses were rained along his collarbone, the length of his neck, and nipping gently at the spot behind his ear that got the hairs on his nape rise to attention. It would’ve been funny what a child’s play it was to tease him until his ears matched the scarlet blossoms on his shirt, except nothing about this particular situation bore humor — least of all, his response to it.

Which was practically none at all. Because he simply lay there, stiff as a plank from how turned on he was, and you worked him diligently as if he was an instrument and you were the virtuoso.

It was also because he was zeroed in on the cleavage peeking out from the gap in your robe as you made your way further downwards, tongue flickering along the dips and bumps of his upper abdomen — surely able to feel more than hear each inhale and exhale getting closer to moaning territory the longer you kept teasing. He even caught a nip slip here and there, getting impossibly harder in response, culminating in him twitching and tightening beneath you whenever you — purposefully! — brushed against his erection.

“Rafayel,” you sighed dreamily, and he moaned for real this time at how his name fell softly past your parted lips, pouring into a pleased hum against his navel where a trail of wetness gleamed — followed by fingertips curling gently around the hem of his pants’ band. “You’re so quiet. Not leaving it up to chance, huh?”

And the only response he gave was an impatient roll of his hips toward your head, granting you permission — eager acquiescence, even — while a loud, unabashed gasp slipped into his lungs as your hands found the zipper of his pants. With a practiced tug, you freed it from its track, and his pants slid low on his hips, just enough to reveal the waistband of his underwear. Your fingers followed immediately, hooking under both fabric barriers to ease them down until they rested tautly just below his hips. The motion tugged on his shirt as well, once secured by the overlap tucked into his waistband, and with nothing anchoring it anymore, the luxurious fabric parted effortlessly, exposing the sculpted expanse of his chest and abs in one sweeping reveal. His stiffening length, freed from its confines, ached visibly — leaping subtly toward contact, as though craving the touch it had been denied for far too long.

"See? You're being so good... why do you keep wanting to provoke me?" came your lilting reproach, spoken against the soft skin of his pelvis, lips fluttering teasingly across its planes in playful grazes of their silky plush. "

“Permission to talk?”

A sharp, in-drawn breath escaped him the moment a single finger traced along the underside of his shaft, lingering over a wildly pulsing vein — evidence of the frenetic race of his heart currently pumping pure liquid lightning straight through his veins — but he recovered quickly, allowing it to dissolve into an exhale long and drawn-out instead.

“Go ahead, handsome.”

His hips lurched instinctively in search of something tangible, of a sensation besides the torturous tickle of warm breaths dancing lightly along his arousal, "Give me my reward, then. I've waited so long for this, it's been torture."

“Doesn’t sound like you minded the wait. You left me, didn’t you?”

Ah, yes. The grudge. You were becoming like Rafayel the longer you stayed by his side.

"You know I hate waiting. Let alone like this," he said, all whiny and punctuated with a shudder — one that was met with an accompanying jolt that surged straight from the base of his erection when your lips brushed teasingly alongside it. "I didn't think you'd be this cruel..."

"Are you really asking?"

"Can you give it to me instead of wasting time talking?" came his blunt retort, brows drawn together in an impatient furrow that radiated ‘I’m being wronged,’ energy.

"Not wasting time at all, just wanted to spend more time with you. Feels nice, right? You deserve this,” you murmured comfortingly against the swell of his abs rising and falling with each heavy breath — and oh, he almost melted into a puddle at that, visibly deflating with his chest cavity just filling up all warm and fuzzy with love.

It did feel nice but — just — just — fuck — he needed to be touched or he actually was going to disintegrate into sea foam. Not joking.

A brief kiss landed on on the left side of his Apollo belt in consolation before a drag of your tongue along its path followed, transitioning into you breathing more warmth directly into his base, then placing a loving peck to his tip — eyes twinking at the tremble that surged through him. “I really love seeing you so reactive. Does it feel that good? Just breathing on you like this?”

His hips pushed upward in tiny nudges, bumping insistently against your cheek, practically begging to be held properly inside your mouth. "It doesn't feel good at all — just, come on, hurry... I keep my lube in the top drawer on the left... It's edible, you know..."

Thankfully, you didn't smirk at him. Didn't stop to tease him about his eagerness, either, wordlessly going about reaching over to rummage for a bottle in his nightstand — an act that forced you to draw away from his straining member completely, your warmth vanishing suddenly in one agonizing instant, causing him to nearly whine from the loss.

You popped open the lid to squirt some lubrication into your palm and recapped it while staring down at him with a curious gleam. "You had something like this with you the whole time—"

Your words got cut off upon him grabbing your dripping hand and directing it straight where his impatience stood angry at the delay, shuddering out a moan at how incredibly silky the glide was.

"Finally... yesss," he hissed, thrusting upwards to feel more friction — the delicious slickness spreading across your enclosed grip driving him absolutely wild. "Ahh—kkhfff... Keep going, you have to keep going, don't let go... Please. Please?”

Something in your face twisted weirdly at his breathy begging, making his heart flip at the unflinching lust in your widened gaze trained firmly onto his jerking hips.

He had your fist trapped around his swollen cock, urging you into pumping it once you settled into a steady rhythm stroking its turgid crown, twisting and curling into each new swipe upwards along his pulsing flesh; encouraging you by squeezing tighter every few strokes until you took over completely. Then, he threw his arm over his forehead haphazardly, basking in the blissful waves flowing through his veins at long last, watching you watch yourself pleasure him through fluttering lashes, breathing hard through half-parted lips.

"That's it," he sighed huskily, rocking his body into the hand rubbing and grinding against his dick's ridge with expert motions; thumb circling its glistening head and caressing alongside its slit where precome beaded out generously, smoothing over the entirety of its surface and working into the underside, swirling tantalizingly over the bulging vein there until all his thoughts melted into a haze of pure sensation, mind wiped clean of everything except the singular, simple fact that he desperately needed to come. "Like that — nnhhh, yes! That feels amazing — feels perfect — love those sweet little fingers... So close already, I can't, I can't—"

At his muttered groans, your pace stuttered noticeably before resuming its previous speed, which wasn't fast enough according to the stretching throb inside his core, his blood rushing loudly through his ears like boiling rapids. "No, faster..." he urged you, rutting into your palm even harder in a frantic effort to increase the pressure and bring him to the precipice quicker. "I can't hold on much longer — need more, I need more. Tighter. Tighter."

The corners of his vision pulsed white and Rafayel whimpered as he jumped inside your curled fist when the unexpected sensation of having your forefinger slide through his sticky fluids gathered at its tip, swirling clockwise before ascending back up in an unhurried stroke that carried a slippery coating alongside it to smooth out the glide to put pressure right into the slit — a sensation that lingered for seconds afterward with ghostly echoes, drawing a sudden choked gasp from his lips at how intensely good that single touch felt.

“Thaaaaat’s it, yeah, I love that, you have such a beautiful voice.” Your free palm swept up alongside his ribs to rub gently against their curve as though to soothe the ragged sounds ripping past his throat; traveling upward to cradle his head against yours where your cheek brushed alongside his temple, holding him still with tender care and easing some of the tremble wracking through him. "Can you feel how much I'm enjoying us being together like this — how badly I've missed you? Please let me hear those pretty sounds, I wanna hear them loud and clear. Will you be generous for me and share it all?"

His reply died in his throat in favor of a low keening sound — something raw and broken — when you squeezed tighter.

The way your nails dug ever so delicately into the sides of his cock, applying pressure just shy of pain was truly exquisite torture, making his head swim and rise up from the bed so he could crush his lips against yours, biting hungrily into your plush mouth and delving deep into its depths until oxygen became nothing but an afterthought. Every neuron of him burned alive in chain reaction as your tongue wound and slid alongside his, curling along the underside before retreating for him to suckle on your lower lip eagerly until it swelled red.

"Mmnghhfuck! Hhhaaa—keep—" Words spilled past his slackened lips like ribbons unfurling, senseless as he struggled to convey how excruciating it was to contain his euphoria within, desperate for any sort of outlet to relieve the pressure rising inside him rapidly —

— and then broke off suddenly on a low moan when he caught a flash of your unoccupied hand that was just cradling his neck having found its way between your thighs, the view out of sight because of the robe —

Then, Rafayel saw the pearly gates.

His orgasm slammed straight into him, so unexpected and yet wholly expected all the same that he gasped around it like he was in a headlock, utterly disoriented by the sudden assault on his senses, soaring impossibly higher with each jerk of his hips into your fingers' grasp and shooting thick white streaks across his stomach; leaving behind faint smears wherever it hit its mark — warm, sticky ropes landing atop his defined abs and even reaching as far as his sternum.

He knew something was wrong when it didn't stop.

Far from it, really: each pulsing contraction seemed to force more of its fluid past his cock's narrow slit, painting your pumping digits liberally with his release — even staining the lapels of your robe in messy spots. It lasted so long that Rafayel started seeing stars sparkling around the edges of his blurring vision; making everything appear fuzzy like static. "Nggh—too much—ah! Aaa—hhh! Nnhhfff... Khhffffcking hell... Can't believe—still going—"

"Don't hold back now, just ride it out, nothing wrong with it," you murmured fervently, brushing some hair back from his sweat-soaked temple and — then — kisses, so many kisses. "I know you wanted this so badly, it's okay... You deserve this. Let go for me, yeah? Can't you let go for me? All this stress will go away. Isn't that nice?"

What came out instead was an embarrassingly high moan, hoarse with overuse, entirely at odds with the self-assuredness he'd wanted to project with each thrust of his hips, spurred onwards by instinct alone in a mad dash for euphoria.

Just how pent-up was he?

He couldn't recall the last time he'd felt pleasure this acute, sharp as shrapnel beneath the layers of desire, making him so out of it that he wasn't even aware of the embarrassing mess he made like he’d just wet himself being cleaned up with a tissue by you.

And it still wasn't nearly enough.

He surged forward, wound his arm around your waist and tossed you to the side gently so your back lay flush against the sheets before following suit in a tangle of limbs that ended with you under him — where he belonged: cradled between your thighs, seated fully inside their heated clasp as he hovered above you — one elbow propped beside your shoulder while the other wandered aimlessly downwards and undid the trusty knot holding your robe together in one go.

"Rafa—"

“Sorry, I'm sorry, I can't, I'm so thirsty," he said, as he raised the lube-and-come-sodden hand of yours up to his mouth to lap at the trails trickling over your wrist; sucking on your fingertips in apology — no trace of shame coloring his cheeks as he did, far too focused on the task of cleaning them thoroughly to be distracted by something as trivial as embarrassment. He didn’t even taste himself. Just the blueberry.

So engrossed in it that he didn’t even notice you burning holes with your gaze at his lips sealing around your thumb while he ran his tongue underneath it in short, quick flicks until it was glistening once more, except this time with spit instead of lubricant.

All the while, he traced the clean strip of skin revealed by the parted folds of your robe with a searing hand, starting from the valley of your cleavage between your breasts all the way down the slight convex curve of your torso leading towards the V that marked the point where your thighs began, drawing delicate circles into your navel, slipping downward inch by tantalizing inch in search for hidden oasis.

Taking notice of how wrecked you looked through the curtains of your fingers splayed over his eyes and forehead, Rafayel rewarded you an equally debauched looked as his lips curled into a smirk against your palm.

A loud, viscous pop of your wetness echoed in the room when his fingers tenderly made contact — positively dripping for him. Your mouth flew open upon feeling him draw his forefinger's pad gently against your entrance, lingering teasingly at the seams in an excruciating crawl, tracing lightly around it as you pulsed hungrily against his fingertip.

"So thirsty," he mumbled absentmindedly to himself — mouth watering.

Rafayel pushed open your legs by the backs of your thighs to allow his head better access. If he was on a normal day, he would plant feverish kisses on the insides of your quaking knees and thighs and mark you everywhere, made it more sensual, more teasing, but he was borderline parched — not to mention more impatient than a driver stuck behind a cyclist in a one -lane road.

You yelped at his mouth diving between your legs in reckless abandon. His tongue lapped up your slick in deep, obscene flicks, then plunged inside into the warm haven awaiting him inside, devouring your sweet nectar in loud slurps, uncaring of how sloppy and unrestrained he was currently acting; far too hungry to concern himself over anything save for indulging greedily in your flavor.

"Rafayel, shit, that feels—oh my god..." He had to push your hips down by splaying his hand along the plane of your stomach as you arched helplessly, otherwise you would have simply lifted right off from his greed ravaging you without mercy or restraint. "That's so—you're so—fuck! What—what’s gotten into you? Ahh...!"

Any hope of responding to that died the second your hand tangled itself tightly into his hair and tugged to bring him impossibly closer against you, his head blanking. It felt so good when your heel planted itself onto his shoulder blade and pressed insistently there in a silent plea for more, sending ripples of heat fanning out across his nerve endings in their wake.

Without hesitation, he latched his lips around the swollen bud peaking proudly from beneath a layer of velveteen flesh and flicked upwards, suckling hard before closing around it fully — then rolled his tongue in circles around its rim with the intent to render your world spinning madly with each passing stroke. The fingers locked around your trembling thighs kneaded deeply into their skin, coaxing the delicious, involuntary spasms coursing throughout you until the only thing you knew was the blissful torment his hot mouth wrought.

"You're so delectable on my tongue, did you know? The prettiest moans come pouring out from your lovely lips when I'm between your legs like this," he said, the sentences pieced together like beads on a pearl necklace fragment by fragment between licks and sucks, sounding just short of reverence. "Your taste drives me wild, I swear it's addictive... Am I making it up to you yet? Please say yes. Tell me it's working."

"Yesyesyesyesss—" A sharp inhale cut off anything else you tried to babble further as Rafayel rewarded you with another generous helping of his enthusiasm by diving back in and running his tongue in earnest up through your center. "You feel amazing, you — feel — so — g-good—"

"—don't think that's enough, though. Didn't you call me incompetent earlier?"

"What," you choked out angrily when a puff of warm breaths skated dangerously close to where you were most sensitive. "Oh my god—"

"I hold grudges, cutie. You taught me that," he said in a sing-song reply, lighthearted in tone, nearly drowned out by the thready groans bleeding through.

"I apologized already — what more do you want? Stop teasing, Rafayel!"

A pregnant pause followed as he stared up at you from between your legs, and saw your eyes widen with realization at just what you'd requested.

"As you wish," he relented, a dark edge to his mischievous grin when he rose back up and braced his knees against the mattress better, pulling your hips tight into the cradle of his thighs until one of your legs was thrown over his shoulder. "Have it your way — and don't forget you asked for this."

The slow sink inside your wet heat was traitorously misleading: a gentle, sweet meeting at first that masked what was brewing underneath.

A dragged out whine fanned his flames as you threw your head back. “You asshole—”

"I could have made you come once, twice..." he said, in a smooth purr that dripped sinfully past his lips.

Your mouth fell open on a silent gasp; the first wave of pleasure rolling through you upon being filled suddenly in one deep plunge. Your torso twisted to allow you to hide your face into the curve of his forearm draped next to your shoulder.

"You know I love taking my time with you," he continued, pausing to bury his face into your hair to breathe you in deeply, adjusting your leg to fall from his shoulder straight onto his hip. You took advantage of Rafayel getting close, grabbing onto his back so quickly that you missed the first time and yanked his shirt down to bunch halfway down his midsection and get stuck at his elbows. "And you just had to take that from me. I don't know which one of us is greedier... "

An apology was voiced, muffled by the crook of his elbow, almost incoherent by your gasps.

He cupped your chin and made you look at him. “Are you comfortable? Not hurting you, am I?”

Your throat clicked audibly. Then you shook your head rapidly in answer to both inquiries: yes — no — everything was okay — and Rafayel breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

And then, out of nowhere your fingers started moving around the expanse of his upper back, and before he could question the non-sexual way it came across when he was literally inside you, you said, "You're sweating."

"Yeah...?" Confusion muddled his hazy mind clouded with dull pleasure begging for him to start moving again, but you looked at him with wide, eager expectation dancing behind your expectant eyes — as if you couldn't quite believe what you'd seen.

"No — your temperature. It's still high but you're sweating now," you told him excitedly. "Rafayel — that's huge! This means your body is cooling itself down!"

He huffed.

"Of course it is, I've got the hottest woman in the world under me," he said with a roll of his hips, earning an enthusiastic moan from you in the process. Your arms snaked themselves around the back of his neck tighter until both forearms crossed at their crease, palms moving upwards in an intoxicating drag through the back of his skull. "You the cure to all of this..."

His forehead dropped unceremoniously yours where it stayed, and he sucked in an uneven, shaky groan that tapered into something resembling a whine as he started rutting steadily against you, driving into that spot where you liked it the best with growing desperation with the occasional staccato grunt at the fluttering squeeze and murmured encouragement.

At some point, his mouth wandered towards your pulse, scraped his teeth against it gingerly before latching on it in an open-mouthed kiss that was hard enough to bruise.

You tilted your chin skywards with a sigh to give him better access and tangled your fingers encouragingly deeper into his hair, and something inside him sparked awake in response, a fiery need demanding him to paint every inch of your skin violet, rose and mauve so that it may glow evermore brightly for everyone to see —

"Way too beautiful for your own good... Driving me crazy... Every single day... Couldn't keep my hands off you the moment I got in here..." he hissed furiously as though he were possessed, snapping his hips harder upon finding the angle he desired, searching relentlessly for something within you both to satisfy the frenzied race to the peak taking control of him completely; searing kisses littering everywhere he could reach along the underside of your chin and neck whilst spewing senseless litanies into your skin in between them. "Can't believe I could have this forever... Right? Say I can have this forever. It'll drive me insane if you don't, I swear—"

"Forever," you echoed hoarsely, your nails digging tightly into his scalp as his pace increased once more. "Y-you can have me forever—anytime, wherever—"

Your assurances came with a startled cry of ecstasy as he sank his teeth into the juncture connecting your shoulder and collarbone in a bite that bordered on a savage instinct to ensure he was there, he'd been there, and would always be there. "You're not leaving, are you? Aren't gonna leave me anytime soon, right?

Every syllable was marked with a measured grind into you as if determined to force every word inside your head by burying it deep in your core — imprint it permanently into your brain; until the only thing filling your thoughts was him and him alone. "Not letting you — I'm not letting you. I can’t let you go, it’s too late — too late. Say it. Say it.”

"As — many times as I ne-ed to," you panted underneath him, arching upwards so beautifully for him as his grip loosened marginally to let you find that perfect angle that caused your back to bow like a perfectly tuned instrument in his hands; singing nothing but divine music. "'S not changing, ever. Won't change... Agh!"

His hips bucked in answer to your nails sinking deep into the skin of his shoulders as though clawing for dear life. "Yeah? Yeah? Promise—?"

All you could do was sob into his mouth hungrily swallowing yours — a mess of moans falling endlessly past your lips swallowed whole, accompanied with plaps and slaps of wet thrusting. There'd never be a time when he wasn't craving the taste of your flesh burning scorching white hot against his own, craving more and more until everything blurred into a haze of delirium.

"Tell me... Tell me—hah, tell me, princess. Let me hear it..." His chest rumbled deep within where yours rubbed deliciously against his bare flesh with each fervent roll of his body. Even then, it wasn't nearly enough; couldn't possibly be, not with how ravenously thirsty he was for anything and everything having to do with you: your sounds, your expressions, those intoxicating stares filled with nothing but need for him and only him. Not while his stomach twisted itself in knots tight enough to tie sails and yet remained impossibly empty at the same time, yearning for the sweet relief of gratification flowing freely and quenching his deepest thirst. "Wanna hear you, gotta hear you say it—"

"I'm right here, m'here, not going anywhere, not leaving... I'myours, just don't let go, don't let go of me—"

He heard it as though you were underwater; faint, muffled underneath the thick fog clouding his senses, so indistinct yet simultaneously loud enough to drown out anything else within reach.

Every coherent thought vanished from his mind, melting into thin ribbons streaming across an ocean of red flames, then bursting forth anew into embers scattering throughout his vision in a dizzying display, igniting behind his eyelids with blinding light every time he blinked them closed. When he opened them, new constellations blossomed instantaneously; bright orange ones with maroon tinges shining bright among the black canvas.

"M'not gonna—! Can't let go—couldn't even if I tried. They wouldn't even be able to pry you away from my cold, dead hands."

More vivid blotches appeared before him at random intervals, painting his desert landscape in abstract patterns shifting so erratically they threatened to form fractals at any moment, jagged shapes overlapping and warping themselves until they resembled colorful stains splattered across walls in chaotic messes; or perhaps simply the shadows of clouds skirting the edges of his sight drifting past without a care — all blending together and merging seamlessly as though water droplets bleeding into fine lines until none could tell where one ended and the others began.

"Gonna be... gonna be stuck with me for life," Rafayel said, sounding entirely half out of his mind with the way he was babbling endearments (something about a bride) in-between little laps that trailed upwards along your quivering sternum toward your heaving chest; kissing you so fervently as though possessed, driven wholly by base instincts demanding he give in to whatever compulsion overtook him. "Always been mine. Always. Always—can't ever leave, yeah? I won't forgive you—won't forgive you this time—"

"Rafayel, I'm gonna come, please..." you whispered hoarsely against the crown of his head nestled between your breasts, your hands grasping onto his shoulders helplessly in an attempt at anchoring yourself. "I can't keep going, I'll fall apart. Please, don’t stop, don’t stop—"

One of his fingers slid down to repeatedly flick through your swollen folds, teasing and circling around your clit while his tongue swirled around a nipple; pulling and sucking hungrily with fervent desire, giving a pointed twist once he'd latched on.

"Come for me, then, do it, c'mon, cream all around me, let me have it, let me have this — you can do it, I’ll help you along.” His lower body lifted suddenly, pulling back until only his cockhead remained caught inside; followed by a quiet pop indicating his lips breaking contact from where they were buried in your chest. "I need you so bad I can hardly stand it anymore... Wanna feel you — feel all of you — need all of you..."

All it took was one sudden shift after a steady build-up of rhythm of shallow, quick thrusts: the smallest rotation of his pelvis and thrust straightwards, hips knocking against yours in a violent shove of flesh meeting slick flesh for you to fly apart spectacularly when he buried himself into that specific area right below your cervix.

With a shuddering breath that dissolved instantly into a shrill cry tearing through your throat, your thighs locked tight around his waist — holding him prisoner while your nails sank fiercely into his scratched back as your entire body trembled uncontrollably through the aftermath.

“Yeah, there you go, cutie.” A comforting, grounding caress landed on your forehead, tracing the arc of its curve towards the back of your ear; then repeating itself multiple times in slow, unhurried strokes — to remind you he wasn't going anywhere, anytime soon. “There you are, that was beautiful. You got me seeing stars.”

"It's... It's snowing outside... In the desert," you said faintly, eyelids slow in their blinking, and Rafayel thought how utterly gorgeous you looked, all worn down and exhausted and so drunk in your post-orgasmic euphoria to talk nonsensically about what was happening outside.

"Yeah," he agreed, equally hushed as he peppered a trail of soft kisses across the bridge of your nose. You closed your teary lashes instinctively against the ticklish sensation. "It's so soft... and beautiful..."

You were the snow in his desert. Though, too blissed out to pick up on what he was implying.

Too busy stiffening up when you felt his cock jump inside you.

"You... you're still hard?"

“I didn’t come in the first place, whoops. Busy being too competent, I guess,” he said breezily, tilting his hips so that he pressed deep inside, directly into the tender spot inside you where pleasure flared to life unbidden.

"Let me... Let me rest, fuck, give me a minute..." Your hands scrambled for purchase against his scarred back; anchoring yourself by clawing surface level trenches down along its expanse and dragging red tracks as he continued his grinding in torturously slow and shallow rolls. "Need — I need to catch my breath, you're gonna make me pass out, shit, hold on — !"

Rafayel had you for three more times after that.

The first was the short prologue to what was coming, picked up from where he’d left off in the same position — head buried in your neck, making you tightly embrace him like he’d fly off the earth if he wasn’t held. No sooner did his hips start bucking roughly against yours before he spent himself inside in long pulses that coated you inside in heated spurts, sending sparks rippling out into your limbs from where you clenched weakly around him through your own release that hadn’t yet run its full course.

The prettiest sounds in the whole entire world spilled from him as he pulled out with a schlick, dripping his neglect-thickened seed onto the sheets, and you were naive as to think this was it. You both had indulged yourselves enough for the night, fucked through the absence-abstaining makes the heart fonder phenomenon, it had been fantastic to witness him get so serious. Surely now would be a good time to cool off and step into the bath together now that you’d been able to make him sweat and the sex-heavy humidity clinging thickly to your body was getting more comfortable the more you became aware of it. The room was absolutely boiling, stuffier than a sauna like he’d projected all the heat trapped inside his body everywhere. Perhaps opening up a window wouldn’t hurt…

“That was one,” he said then, staring down at his flushed erection straining proudly between his legs like a compass needle pointed north — the faint strand of semen connecting his tip and stomach swaying and snapping apart. “This isn’t anywhere near enough.”

To your shock, Rafayel got off the bed, hauled you in by your legs until your bottom half was dangling from the bed, and folded you completely in half with no warning. Your legs were pushed against your chest and were hooked over his shoulders, and the speed of with which all of it happened punched out a wheeze from you.

"Can I? Are you okay?" he asked urgently, patting your thigh rapidly twice, pausing — then adding another firm slap there before you nodded hurriedly in confirmation rather than a verbal response, because fuck, his weight holding you down felt absolutely incredible like this.

Your ankles started bobbing in sync with his hip thrusts as he drove deep inside your heat, the sink easy, smooth and soft and the mess you both made between your legs pouring out and splattering everywhere as he kept mumbling, “I can’t stop, I’m sorry, I can’t stop, can’t stop—”

This round lasted longer, though it was the worst frenzy you’d seen Rafayel in. Nothing was slow about it, he was mercilessly pistoning himself into you and unpredictably switching between shallow and deep that had your clit being scraped against and A-spot drilled into. You couldn’t even keep your eyes open from how intense pleasure was kneading you violently like a dough. If it wasn’t for his mouth gluing itself onto yours, the entire floor and the poor downstairs guests probably would have heard what was happening with how loud his moaning became — because he was downright voluntarily overstimulating himself.

With one particularly desperate sob, Rafayel finally buried himself to the hilt within you — throbbing — in harsh jets of liquid fire with jerking, abrupt twitches of his hips, milking himself into your body as he found yet another release that was as intense and concentrated as the previous. You cried brokenly, shuddering as that final thrust abused your clit over the edge of orgasm number two, involuntarily flinching and trying to get away when he pushed all the accumulated, positively flowing stringy mess right back into your puffy cunt with a strange, entranced look on his face. You had to slap his hand away and kick his weight off you, powerless and exhausted and fully feeling like your vagina was gaping and would never close back up.

A soft kiss on your cheek brought you back to earth.

“Still alive?” he croaked, gently maneuvering you higher up the bed and laying you back comfortably. You had to avoid the giant, wet and shining spot that had to be dripping down on the floor at the edge of the bed, face burning as Rafayel’s sweat-drenched forehead leaned against yours. “I’m not going easy on you… I have to say I’m impressed how good you’re taking it.”

You realized, once more with feeling, that he was rock-hard against your hip despite having already come three separate times — two of which had filled you to the point of pouring out of you — and had no sign of calming down any time soon.

He was beyond insatiable.

Though the third and final time was far sweeter, the pace much slower and drawn out as though he’d suddenly regained some sense and clarity. By that time, you were growing deliriously tired, the earlier carnal fucking accommodated itself to you by morphing into tender lovemaking. Rafayel had you on your side, comfortably able to hug pillows and anchor yourself, while straddling your thigh and hooking your other calf over his waist and held it there firmly, out from your space to let you breathe with his back straight. Just looking down at you with obvious, sensual longing to lean down for kisses the entire time and looking so fucked out had been enough to rekindle your desire.

He was driving himself languidly into you, either eyes closed and head thrown back, or focused dead-on at the spot between where he was slipping in and out of you — watching your cunt eagerly swallow his white-coated cock and attempt to suck him right back in each time he pulled out until only his tip remained buried. Over and over.

And eventually, his shaky breaths and sweet sighs started turning into fast-paced, restrained moans. You saw him hanging on the precipice of wanting to go fast again, the tension his body pulled taut like a bowstring about to snap.

At one point, your robe and his shirt had found themselves slingshotted into the far, opposite corners of the room at some point but he still had his pants and was positively drenched in sweat like he’d just taken a bath and shining under the dim lighting.

"Drained all of my stamina, I'm empty, completely dry... I’m gonna need an IV drip. I can’t believe it. This is crazy, you know... I could die happy like this... But I wanna come. I wan—nnah come inside you so bad again, wanna fill you up—make you full with me—"

He went completely motionless and stayed burrowed in you when your palms cupped his face gently, forcing him to look down at you with his shiny eyes. "You've got to calm down first."

“I don’t think I can,” he murmured, panting, “I really can’t. You feel so—”

Your thumbs stroked the outer corners of his eyes with aching tenderness. “We’ll stop and try to calm you down a bit continuing then, okay? Try for me. No need to rush when we have time to ourselves. No one’s going anywhere.”

He stumbled and nearly fell to his elbows on top of you. “Tell me to,” he said, in a begging voice. “You can just tell me to calm down. Anything you want, anything. You know I’ll listen.”

All these months of living with the revelation about the bond and it still came as a shock to you, but you figured if it was for his own good...

So you ordered him: "Calm down and relax, Rafayel. Everything’s fine, you’re okay."

And god, did he listen well.

You were shocked, as you always were each time, to see just how willingly compliant he was. Seeing his body literally change its chemistry to conform itself to your desires and let go of all tension was unbelievable. You immediately felt bad that you’d forced it on him somehow like some admitted, invasive tranquilizer, because you could have made him relax naturally, with your own labor, a glass of water and massage, maybe, gradually work him through it—

“There’s nothing to worry about. Don’t think about it too much. Just focus on me, yeah?” A quiet command that lacked any real intent to order accompanied an equally soft kiss planted softly against the corner of your mouth, and all thoughts went flying out of the window when you saw how mellowly at peace he was, gazing dreamily at you without the slightest care in the world.

After that, everything became a blur once again. But a pleasant one. Slow, like molasses trickling lazily throughout your bloodstream at room temperature — soothing all aches into pleasure-flavored coziness at being joined, no rampant race towards a climax involved. There was no concept of time whatsoever: just the two of you together.

After your pillow talk about what he believed inspired him — what he wanted would, you internally filled in the blanks — and how he was running out of reserves exclusively saved up for the purposes of his art, you had to make it clear to him that there would be no pain involved in your relationship.

You didn’t know if he expected to be hurt by you in the future or implied he had no problem with that happening, but you couldn’t even tolerate him saying those things for the sake of love, or whatever it was. Him being intimately familiar and nonchalant with the concept bothered you down to the bones.

Not only were you trying to work around the huge rock he’d just dropped on top of your heart with the revelation that Aridum had to represent pure suffering to him as a Lemurian, you were also slightly upset he’d wanted to subject himself to it because he was lost more beautiful things in life had made their way into his life to inspire him as well. His paintings, all of them, had taken a new context and an additional layer of tragedy with that revelation, despite the fact that he’d basically said you made him draw from a different fountain and clogged up the other one.

It was a bittersweet happiness to hear Rafayel wanting to explore brighter, happier sides of life together when the sketch he showed you he was working on while you were sleeping depicted a man drowning in the sea and a figure beckoning him from above, close to the surface. Something still very painful.

“That’s one bleak drawing.”

“Depends on what you see.”

“I see a dying man hallucinating. Maybe that’s someone close to him and his brain is comforting him with a vision. I don’t know.”

“Interesting take. Maybe it’s not just a man at all. Maybe it’s a reunion. It looks peaceful, doesn’t it?”

Now you looked again, it did look peaceful. Just like Rafayel was right now, next to you on the bed with his forehead almost touching yours.

"I'd like to think he isn't drowning, then."

Rafayel just smiled.

hi, so u’re taking requests i see (~˘▾˘)~ could u pls do dating L hcs? have a great day pls. tia :D

— (can i be the 💤 anon?)

yesss i'll gladly do that! and you most definitely can be the 💤 anon :)) i hope you like these! <3

l is naturally a very awkward and introverted kind of guy, but now that he has you in his life, he's more comfortable coming out his shell

a lot of times he's very distant during the day, devoting most of his attention to solving cases left and right

but that doesn't mean he ignores you!

l always feels incredibly guilty when he has to devote his time to work rather than spending it with you :(

he loves to shower you in affection whenever he gets the chance, hugging you tightly and pecking your cheeks

he also REALLY loves cuddles! his favorite part of the day is being able to climb in bed with you at night and just hold you close

he naturally has cold skin, so he absolutely adores snuggling with you and feeling your body warmth radiate against him

whenever he's stressed, he takes your hand in his and starts playing with your fingers to calm himself

his love language is gift giving, so whenever he goes out, he'll always pick up little trinkets he sees in shops that he thinks you'll like

l is incredibly stingy with his sweets, but he'll gladly share his treats with you if you ask!

(just don't take more than what he says you can, otherwise he'll have a tantrum and be all pouty LMAO)

(but don't worry, he's never truly angry with you)

most of the time he keeps his work life and his love life separate, but on occasion, he'll ask you for your thoughts on clues and evidence he's collected

however, things start to shift a bit once he's tasked with the kira case

l becomes way more work-oriented and stressed out, constantly turning to you for comfort

he involves you more in helping out with the case, as even along with light and the task force helping him out, it's still not enough

you help him calm down after long days by running your fingers through his thick raven hair while you two cuddle in the evenings

l doesn't explicitly say "i love you" all the time; instead he expresses his love for you indirectly

he's extra sincere with the things he says about you, because he truly means it

"i'm so incredibly lucky to have someone like you in my life, (y/n)."

"what have i done to deserve such a wonderful partner by my side?"

"i could never get tired of you."

he's just too sweet <33

you're one of the only people that l truly feels comfortable enough opening up to

and he especially cherishes you since he's incredibly insecure about himself, but you're able to make him feel happy with who he is

take care of him :(( you really struck a goldmine with this one <3

here's a song that i think perfectly encapsulates a relationship with l! i got you by maddie jay :D (the text is a link to the song on youtube, but i'll also be including a spotify link if you'd rather use that!)