chanteya - Tumblr blog

chanteya · 4 days ago

Text

Kiss Shot

♱⋅── zayne x fem!reader

♱⋅── about: Zayne has curated a perfectly polished reputation. He’s a renowned surgeon, the youngest of his graduating class, has a plethora of research papers in his name, and is well-liked and respected amongst his peers. And he would throw it all away to have you like this again, whining and desperate as he fucks you over a billiard table. It’s not fair, really, how easily you manage to get Zayne riled up. Especially when you call him sir.

♱⋅── word count: 8.2K

♱⋅── warnings: mdni, smut, light bondage, teasing, semi-public sex, praise kink, pwp, dom!zayne, sir kink, pool & billiards, oh he has pretty hands, exclusive tutorial card

Your negroni is fifty percent water by now.

The flock of past classmates, professors, and adorning fans has been relentless, swarming the bar where you and Zayne currently sit— or perhaps more accurately, swarming where the distinguished Dr. Zayne sits.

You sigh under your breath, fussing with the cocktail dress slit against your thigh before taking another sip of your drink, the melted ice dulling the burn of the gin. It has only been an hour since you arrived, and yet you can already feel your social battery reach its limits, tired of going through the same motions for every other person who bothers to acknowledge your presence: a smile, what’s your name, are you a surgeon as well, what’s your connection to Zayne, no we’re not together.

It’s not that you haven’t met fascinating individuals— your first round of drinks was shared with two sisters, old classmates of Zayne’s who were now Linkon’s top OB/GYN doctors and genuinely the sweetest women you’ve talked to today.

But everyone has limits. And with the relentless swarm sucking up to Zayne, it hardly gives you a moment of peace, let alone an opportunity to talk with your date for the evening.

Thinking about the stipulations of your relationship and what this night even means for the two of you sends your mind reeling further, and you finish the rest of your negroni in a shot, wincing.

As if sensing your frustration, the doctor in question looks up from his conversation with a classmate. Zayne gives a knowing, apologetic smile before returning to his conversation, the gesture leaving you with a fluttering in your chest.

Calling the bartender over, you place another drink on the tab before tuning in to the conversation next to you as you hear the echo of laughter.

“No, no, I’ve been lucky enough to have seen it myself!” An older man laughs again, his drink nearly sloshing over the rim as he smacks Zayne’s shoulder. You snort at the way he stiffens. “Our Dr. Zayne isn’t just a professional at work, you should see him play billiards. Let me tell you, he’s amazing at both the operating table and the pool table”

A deep sigh. “You drank too much…”

“Nonsense!” The man pats Zayne again before recounting a story from their residency days to the crowd of onlookers.

You yourself are rather engrossed too, more than happy to learn more about your elusive doctor, especially these hidden talents he seems set on keeping from you. Zayne, on the other hand, is far from impressed. Brows furrowed, he turns from where he sits against the bar counter to scan your face.

Leaning in closer, you inhale sharply at the feel of his cool breath against your ear. “Do you want to go somewhere else?”

His thoughtfulness would be sweet if it weren’t for the way Zayne had whispered it, lips brushing against your sensitive skin as you shudder at the slow, deep cadence of his voice.

Noticing your hesitation, Zayne’s hand comes up to rest on your knee, thumb slipping under your dress’ slit. He cocks his head, waiting for your response, drawing soothing circles against your bare skin, which is having quite the opposite effect.

Panicking, you shake your head. “I’m alright. Plus, I’d feel bad stealing you away from all your adoring fans so soon, Dr. Zayne.”

He scoffs under his breath, but you see the slight curl in the corner of his lips. Still, he has yet to let go of your thigh, and you decide to shift closer, turning in your seat so your knees brush against Zayne’s, his hand involuntarily sliding higher.

His fingers are calloused and worn, a testament to his many years spent in the medical field, and his grip is firm against your thigh. It feels familiar, and the memories of his hands on you in many different places sends heat rushing to your cheeks.

The thought doesn't seem to have left his mind either, judging by the way his eyes dart down to your parted lips.

Clearing his throat, Zayne looks away. He is about to say something when you decide to interrupt instead.

“Besides,” you hum, taking a sip of wine. “If the rumors are to be believed, then I’m missing quite a show. Is our Dr. Zayne really that skilled at pool?”

“Ah.” Zayne retracts his hand, clearing his throat as he straightens up in his seat. ”You’re trying to gang up on me.”

You know him well enough to recognize the hint of embarrassment in the way he avoids your gaze. But before you can tease him further, another cheery voice interrupts.

“We meet again, sir!” A young man practically bounces over to the bar, caught between a bow and a handshake as he stumbles into both, flashing a gummy smile at Zayne.

You raise a brow at his overwhelming enthusiasm, glancing at Zayne as you watch recognition flash across his face.

“Good evening. It’s Steven, yes? You don’t need to address me as “sir”.” Zayne nearly grimaces as he says the word, and you take a sip from your drink to hide your growing smile.

“Yes! I’m honored you remembered.” Steven nods vigorously. “But anything less would be inappropriate. After all, you taught me so much with your hands-on instruction, I owe my knowledge and successful residency so far to you, sir.”

Still, Zayne shuts him down. “I was only doing what I should have done. Any credit beyond that is your own.”

It’s almost like he’s allergic to praise.

“Humble and smart,” Steven laughs, winking all-too-obviously at you. “Regardless, I just wanted to thank you for everything formally, sir. You two have a wonderful rest of your night!”

“Yes.” Zayne frowns, leaning ever so slightly closer to you. ”To you as well.”

Quickly feigning ignorance, you pretend to be absorbed in the powerpoint some professor is giving on the opposite side of the venue, immediately lost in a diagram of a heart valve. You’re about to take another sip of your drink when something pinches your ear. Yelping at the sting, you jump in your seat, whirling around to face the culprit.

Zayne scoffs. “I could see you eavesdropping a mile away. Did you find anything interesting?”

“Oh, aside from learning that you are extremely humble, smart, handsome, and rather adept at hands-on instruction, nothing much,” you lean against the counter, blinking up at Zayne through your lashes as you sing the last word, “Sir.”

You watch his jaw clench, a rigid movement that makes your heart skip. Zayne laughs, a harsh, sharp sound. He shakes his head before his hand grips your jaw, tugging you gently but firmly towards him. His eyes narrow, and your heart stutters.

“Clever girl. What is it you want this time?”

This time. As if Zayne could refuse you anything, as if the mere sight of you isn't enough to make him go mad.

But you're not the only one who knows how to play. And he rather likes watching just how far you’ll go.

Smiling innocently, you rest a hand on Zayne’s shoulder. The warmth of his skin seeps through the silky material of his suit. You can't help but slide your hand further up, tracing the curve of his neck with your thumb. “Well…” You lick your lips, tasting the waxy remnants of your lipstick as you fight to keep your voice even under Zayne’s piercing gaze. ”You never did any hands-on training with me, and everyone says what an honor it’s been to be taught by you, sir. I wonder what I’ll have to do to experience it finally.”

Zayne sighs, and for a moment, he appears disappointed.

“It seems like you truly want to learn about surgeries.” A scoff, and Zayne’s face seems to fall back to its stoic facade. But he pulls you closer, tilting your head so his lips graze your earlobe once more. “Who knew my little hunter was so skilled at acting?”

You gasp, placing a hand on your chest in faux surprise. “What accusations, doctor. Besides, I was thinking about something with a… less steep learning curve.”

Zayne hums thoughtfully, thumb venturing from your jaw as it brushes across your lips. Once. Twice. Three times before he stands up, hand finally dropping from your face as he grabs your wrist instead.

“Then allow me to take our first lesson elsewhere.”

You don’t offer any sort of resistance as Zayne leads you through the crowd, opting to let go of your wrist and guide you away from prying eyes, hand instead lingering against the small of your back as he walks beside you. He opens the door for you, directing the two of you down one of the main venue halls, echoes of conversation muffled by the soft ding of an elevator. Zayne flashes his medical ID before clicking the top floor, the sensor buzzing green as it carries you up with the smooth flow of elevator jazz.

Zayne’s hand has yet to leave your waist. His thumb goes back to tracing soft circles against the divots in your back as though from habit, nearly touching bare skin due to the sweeping backless design of your dress. You fight the urge to lean further into him, already fidgeting in your heels at the thought of his touch, slow and careful and calculated, elsewhere.

Your thoughts are interrupted by the chime of the elevator.

Oh, god, snap out of it. You rush out of the elevator, hoping Zayne didn’t notice the furious heat you can feel rising from your cheeks to the tips of your ears.

Smoothing some loose hair back behind your ear, you close your eyes and focus on taking deep breaths, as if it’ll push all these obscene scenarios of Zayne’s large, perfect hands doing unspeakable things out of your mind.

It works for a moment, expelling all these potential scenarios and instead reminding you of every time Zayne has taken action. Memories of him after hours at the clinic, during movie nights when neither of you paid attention to the TV, and even the drive here where he decided to—

“Does the sight of a billiard table scare you that much?”

The heat from earlier is back in full force. Your eyes snap open, and you are greeted with Zayne’s signature eyebrow raise, feigning concern despite his amused smile that only grows more prominent when he notices the flush creeping across your skin.

“Hardly.” You force a smile, turning your head as you refuse to let him gloat. “I’m just so ecstatic that I’ll finally receive hands-on training from the Dr. Zayne.”

A low hum, “Yes, at least until you feel well enough to go back and socialize.”

He says this, yet you know Zayne is just as happy as you are to finally escape from the crowds below.

“Well,” you purr, “take care of me until then, sir.”

You giggle as he frowns at the title, waltzing past him to a corner pool table in the billiard hall. The floor is dedicated to different tabletop games, all lined up against numerous floor-to-ceiling windows aglow with a gorgeous view of Linkon City. The city lights bleed in since the entire room was rather dim, no doubt an artistic choice, adorned sensually with faux candlelight chandeliers and the low timber of jazz.

“Have you played before?”

“Once or twice– some call me a natural genius.” You brush imaginary hair from your shoulders as Zayne scoffs before handing you a cue stick. Lacing his hand into your own, you pull the stick and thus him closer. “Why? Are you going to be strict with me, sir?”

Seeing through your jab, Zayne responds without hesitation. “Strict teachers make outstanding students. Let’s start.”

You pout, about to walk to the other side of the pool table to observe his shot, when Zayne’s arm laces around your waist, holding you against him for a second longer.

“And no more distractions.”

Not trusting your voice, you nod, watching as he bends to aim the cue, muscles beneath his sleeves flexing with each calculated movement. You hear the sound of a cue stick colliding with its target, but your attention is too focused on his fingers to process any of the actual movements.

Another sharp click breaks the silence. You watch as the cue ball collides with a red striped one, sending the former skittering off the sides while the other sinks into the pocket with a dull thud.

“You’re unfairly good at this.”

Zayne raises a brow, “Maybe it’s because a surgeon requires steady hands.”

And the moment you glance down, any chance of salvation is lost.

You’re not a fool. You’ve noticed Zayne’s hands before, on more occasions than you’d care to admit. But it’s as he says and more.

Lining up for another shot, you watch him stretch forward, forearms exposed from his deliciously rolled-up sleeves and discarded blazer, your eyes tracing every prominent vein down to his hands, spread wide against the table, tense as the stick rests against his pointer finger and thumb. Even in the dim lighting you can see pale silver scars littering his forearms, and you swear you’ve never seen something so beautiful, like traces of frost against marble.

Again, it shouldn’t be a surprise that a surgeon must take good care of their hands, but it’s nearly unfair how gorgeous Zayne’s are. Not only that, but you remember how comforting his hands feel against your own, how they caressed your thigh earlier tonight, and just how attentive and precise they can be.

“You’re not focusing on my lesson.”

Shit.

With a single strike, Zayne tries to sink another ball, but the angle is just off, and the striped ball hits the corner of the pocket, ricocheting against the wood with a dull thud.

Zayne leans against the pool table, cue stick resting against his shoulder.

"Your turn."

Copying Zayne’s movements as best you can, you clumsily position your cue stick between your knuckles, aiming for what seemed to be a fairly easy shot. Only for the ball to ricochet far left as the white ball knocks into it. Even your cue stick wobbles after, as if shaking in laughter at your poor shot.

Frowning, you look up to see Zayne’s disapproving gaze locked onto the pool table.

“Is there not an easier way to do this? One more suitable for beginners?”

“There is.” Zayne leans in, his expression betraying nothing. “First, try adjusting your posture. You’ll see better results.”

Another sigh, and you halfheartedly drape yourself over the table again. “Like this? I’m not sure I fully understand, I think I need your help identifying my weak spots via more hands-on learning, sir.”

“Allow me to guide you, then.”

For a moment you think you’ll have to bait Zayne more, yet before you can figure out how to push the stubborn doctor any further, you feel the weight of his hands, heavy against your shoulder and hip.

Zayne shifts forward, and you can feel the fabric of his suit vest graze the bare skin of your back, his hands unnaturally cool against the dips in your waist as he nudges your back into an arch. You comply, Zayne’s body nearly folding atop yours as his chest brushes your back.

He takes the cue stick from your hand.

“You’re too tense,” Zayne pats your back two times. Your waist immediately bends, and you hear him laugh under his breath. “And now you’re too relaxed.”

With his hands still pressed against your waist, Zayne repositions himself and thus you as well, and you can feel the chill of each exhale against the crook of your neck.

He guides your aim, lining it up to the cue ball. The tip brushes ever so gently against the felt surface as it pushes, slowly and deliberately, practicing the gentle back-and-forth motion as you struggle to keep pace.

“Drop your left arm. Allow it to bend naturally.” He taps your elbow and waist. “Your head, dominant arm, and the cue stick should all form a straight line.”

You begin to shuffle according to Zayne’s instructions, hinging your hips backward before you realize what a wonderfully compromising position he’s placed you in. As discreetly as possible, you allow your right leg to step backward, movement forcing you further against Zayne as you press the curve of your ass into his hips. Immediately, you’re rewarded with a sharp inhale next to your ear.

But instead of pulling away or reprimanding you Zayne merely continues with the lesson, almost frustratingly unaffected if it wasn’t for the fact that you could feel his reaction grow between your thighs.

Still, he is nothing if not a professional as he whispers against your jaw, "Behave.”

"I am," you reply, and one of Zayne’s hands comes up to guide your cue stick. “...It just hurts a little.”

You don’t have to see his face to know that Zayne is giving you a smug smile.

“That means it’s correct.”

You take a deep breath. You practice the same back-and-forth motions, thrusting the stick forward on the third, watching as your cue stick strikes the white ball, sending a solid orange one rolling.

Another click and a thud, and you successfully land a pocket.

Just when you feel like you’re finally getting the hang of it, you make the fatal mistake of looking down to where Zayne's fingers guide yours against the cue stick, and your brain turns to scramble once more. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, a soft, fleeting sensation.

And you miss.

Zayne is quiet for a long moment, tilting his head, letting the warmth of his cheek press against your neck. “Snap out of it. Are you even paying attention?”

Bastard. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Of course,” you retort, skin feeling uncomfortably hot even when Zayne finally steps back from you, your body searing the memory of his touch into every nerve. “I’ll score the next one myself.”

He hums and cocks an eyebrow as if telling you to go on, prove him wrong.

“Remember, move the cue stick to gauge the shot two or three times, then stop at the position closest to the ball.”

You do, gauging the weight of the cue stick, bending down over the table so your chest nearly brushes with the felt, narrowing in on the solid green ball.

“Stop and pull back the cue stick in three, two, one.”

On Zayne’s command, you strike, a satisfying click followed by the thump of the ball falling into the corner pocket. You scored. All on your own.

“It went in!” You jolt up, spinning as you laugh.

“So it did. Seems like your pool skills are less about precision and more… passion.” Zayne’s lips twitch into a smile, and you’re not foolish enough to ignore his double meaning. “Granted, you might need a little more than passion to come back and win this round.”

You scoff, attempting to change the subject without drawing attention to how red your face has gotten. “Well then, perhaps if you’re not too committed to this doctor thing there’s still a chance for you in the professional billiard space.”

“No, thank you. Now, think you can make another shot by yourself?”

“Wait a moment. When a student does well, shouldn’t they get a reward?”

“Very well,” Zayne relents, tone even despite the searing gaze he practically strips down your body. “What do you want?”

“There are a few balls blocking my next shot. Help me?”

A beat, and he blinks at you incredulously. “That is all?”

“What’s wrong, Dr. Zayne? Scared that if you give me too much help, I’ll steal this victory from you?”

“Provocation doesn’t work on me.”

“Then come here.”

God, you don’t think you’ll ever get used to how pliant he is for you, obeying your command without so much as a moment of hesitation. His larger frame now towers above you, close enough that you have to crane your neck to maintain eye contact. And you can’t help but tease him a bit more. It’s not your fault his obedience gives you a rush.

“Closer,” you whisper, teasing your fingers against his vest buttons. “Or else I can’t reach it.”

Still, Zayne complies. Although this time his brows furrow, shuffling closer so his knee slips between yours and your chest presses against his. “What exactly are you…”

You yank his tie, pushing him down atop the felt tabletop before he can finish his sentence.

There’s a dull thud, Zayne’s vest ruffled as you pin him to the table. He still looks frustratingly composed, not a hair out of place, but you feel his chest rise and fall uncharacteristically fast under your palm.

Smiling in victory, your other hand brings up your cue stick, making a show of tapping it on his broad shoulders. “Ah, look, the ball is so far away. I think I’ll need a cue rest.”

“Using cue rests would be overkill,” Zayne retorts, propping himself onto his elbows as you pout. You’ve been teasing him all night; surely just one more push, and he’ll finally give in?

Before he can escape from your hold, you lift the cue stick off his shoulder, letting the tip slip under his tie. Zayne watches with a tight frown as you tug his tie loose. “And this is inappropriate.”

“But are you not enjoying it too?” Your leg slides out from the slit in your dress, allowing you to straddle Zayne’s thigh as your arms cage him further against the pool table. “Sir?”

His brows furrow, almost surprised at your brazenness before he looks down with a huff, and you see the smirk he’s fighting to keep at bay. “I shouldn’t have taught you so much.”

Getting revenge for before, it’s your turn to grip his jaw, brushing kisses against his beautifully hooked nose and down his jaw, leaving smears of cherry red in your wake as you purposefully neglect his waiting lips. “What can I say? I have a very attentive teacher.”

Zayne is about to say something sarcastic back, no doubt, so you roll your hips forward, cutting off his words as you’re rewarded with a groan instead. The angle allows you to grind atop the rough seams in his trousers, nearly catching against his zipper and the heavy bulge you can already feel straining underneath.

His hand shoots out, gripping your thigh as you gasp. There’s a warning look in his eyes, but he makes no move to stop you.

Encouraged, you repeat the motion, rocking forward against him as you give an exaggerated moan. Zayne quickly cuts it off with his other hand, thumb pressing against your bottom lip as he muffles your noises. You open your lips further, allowing the digit to slide against your lipstick and push against your tongue.

Zayne tsks, shaking his head.

You gently nip at his finger before beginning to suck the offending digit, flicking your tongue against the rough pad of his thumb. You watch his eyes narrow, the grip on your waist tightening. Zayne is holding himself back. Again.

You release his thumb with a pop. "Don't worry, sir, no one will hear." As if to prove your point, you stop grinding, instead bringing your hand up to cup at the bulge straining against his pants. “Besides, you’re too pretty like this. I'm the only one who gets to hear all the sounds you make.”

You smile so sweetly despite the way you torture him with every rough drag of your palm against his clothed cock. But it’s only when your smile breaks into something more genuine that Zayne feels himself flush, gazing up at you adoringly before he tries to play it off with a chuckle and a pinch at your hips.

"The things you say..." His expression changes to something unreadable, stone-cold and conflicted. The chances of losing you again are greater than he once thought. He doesn't deserve this, and he doesn't deserve you. Zayne is reminded of that every time he dares get too close.

But he can't help it. He’d eternally become a fool, a martyr, just for you.

Zayne’s jaw clenches, and a stuttered moan slips through his teeth as your hand squeezes his clothed cock. "Do you think I'm that weak to flattery?"

"No. I just think you deserve it sometimes." You smirk. "Plus, I'm not flattering you, I'm complimenting."

"And what's the difference?"

"The intent," you whisper, grinding your hips forward again.

This time, you catch him by surprise, and Zayne moans, the sound low and rough and so fucking addicting. Zayne grunts, head tilting back as he shuts his eyes, lips parting ever so slightly as more soft sighs and moans slip out, spurring you on.

You lean in, breath warm against his ear as you whisper, "What's wrong, sir? I thought you had a lesson to teach me."

Zayne’s grip tightens, and he yanks you down so your palms skid across the smooth felt of the pool table you’ve pinned him against, pulling your hips flush against his as his palm cups your ass.

“If you actually want to learn, there's another way I can teach you…” Zayne leans up on his forearms until his lips brush with yours, and right as his eyes begin to flutter closed, you shove him backward. Denying his kiss. Again.

“Sir, this seems to be highly unprofessional.”

And Zayne finally snaps.

“First you use your teacher as a cue rest, then you try to talk about professionalism?” He lets out a curt laugh, and you can practically feel his patience wearing thin. It’s terrifying, and your stomach flutters in anticipation.

“ Unprofessional ,” he spits, and your thighs clench at the growl undercutting his words. “Unprofessional, like that time you were screaming my name in the back of my car while we were still at the hospital parking lot? Or unprofessional, like that time you interrupted me during work hours, begging me to eat your cunt out in my office? Or perhaps it’s like when you decided to turn this lesson into an opportunity to tease me since you’re clearly so desperate?”

You can practically feel yourself drip at Zayne’s blunt words, each one harsh and true— your relationship with him had passed morally ethical the moment you pulled him in to kiss you instead of pushing him away months ago.

Using this moment of weakness, Zayne lifts you up, flipping the two of you around so you’re the one pinned against the pool table as he reaches for his abandoned cue stick. And he finally- finally - claims your lips with his.

Zayne always kisses like he operates, slow and methodical, as if he could spend hours learning every inch of your body, and it never fails to leave you breathless. But today, the urgency in the way he licks into your mouth is palpable, and it has you whining and clutching his suit, legs wrapping around his waist as you try to bring him closer, the oak rim of the table forcing your back into a deeper arch as you whine.

A firm hand against your hip stops your movement, pinning you down. You feel so small, caged in between his much longer legs, his superior height much too obvious. The difference in size is almost laughable as he bends down to lick deeper into your mouth. You gasp against Zayne’s lips as his other hand slides to the back of your neck, thumb rubbing circles against the column of your throat and your fluttering heartbeat underneath.

You whimper into his mouth, futilely attempting to push him away even though your hips grind insistently against his thigh. “Zayne,” his name tapers off into a moan as he kisses you again, addicted. “We can’t–” another kiss. “Anyone could walk in.” Another.

When he does give you space to breathe, a thin string of saliva connects his bottom lip to yours. He pants heavily, lips shaded a hue of cherry red from your lipstick and teeth as the corner of his mouth tugs into a frown. “Hm, I suppose that’s true. But that didn’t stop you before, did it? So I see no reason why it should stop me now.”

And you realize your fate has long since been sealed.

Zayne returns to peppering your neck with kisses, teeth nipping the soft skin at your collarbone, and you yelp as he leaves a particularly harsh bite. Your hands come up to fist into his hair, and Zayne groans against your chest.

"Do not think I have forgotten our lesson," He whispers.

"Who, me?" You bat your eyelashes. "I would never. Sir."

His gaze darkens. "Then watch closely, I’m only doing this once.”

Leaning over you, Zayne positions the cue stick against your shoulder, not unlike you did to him before. But unlike you, he forces your hips up against his thigh, watching your eyes roll back from the delicious friction of his expensive trousers. “There are two striped balls left. As punishment for your attitude during my lesson, I want you to come on my thigh before I pocket both of them.”

Dumbstruck, you can only stare up at him, stammering at his demand as you feel your pussy flutter. “I- I don’t think…”

Zayne scoffs, silencing you by roughly thumbing at your lips again. “Don’t act so shocked. You’ve been humping me like a desperate brat all evening, so go on and come like one. Come for me.”

His words are demeaning, each one cold and seemingly emotionless as he stares down at you. But you can see the truth in his eyes as he watches your every reaction, their gentle green filled with an adoration so tender it terrifies you. You feel the truth in his touch, only moving with your consent, already having memorized your body to learn the way you tick and acting upon your every whim, only pushing you just as far as you wish to be.

Zayne has never told you he loves you, but he has shown you that he does in a thousand countless ways.

And he’ll prove it to you in a thousand more.

”Unless, you want more punishment?” Zayne twists his head towards you with his next statement, and he feels the way it makes you flinch— it makes him throb at the same time. You shake your head.

You can barely form sentences when he’s deliberately tensing the muscles in his thigh, each movement in time with every needy twitch of your hips like it’s a means to emphasize his point.

“Use. Your. Words.”

“No.”

His grip tightens, fingers tensing against your neck, and you stammer back out the correction. “No, sir.”

“Good girl.”

Your heart flutters at the praise, a quiet whimper escaping you as you buck against him. Your lips are pouty from being bitten between your teeth, and you still hear muffled sobs and moans slip past your lips as you begin chasing the friction against his thigh, the upward angle punishing your clit.

Despite how much Zayne likes to front that he’s in complete control, something tells you he’s having a harder time holding back than he’ll ever admit. You think maybe the bulge in his slacks and his low moans against your ear is proof enough of that.

Zayne’s not sure which is more distracting, the sight of your pretty pussy grinding against him, only just covered by the thin silk of your dress, or the sounds falling from your mouth. The room is filled with the wet sounds of your cunt, your whimpers, and Zayne's own groans.

Pressing his forehead against yours, Zayne leans in for another kiss, the tips of your noses barely touching. But the proximity makes you slow, and he clicks his tongue, reaching above you to line up his cue stick for the next shot. But he pauses, instead fully tugging off the tie you had loosed.

"Since you were so insistent on taking my tie off earlier, here. Keep it for me." Zayne grabs both your wrists with one hand, looping his tie tightly against your skin, skillfully making a knot without ever releasing your wrists.

“Maybe this will help you behave properly,” Zayne whispers, voice low as he mouths your pulse point, a fresh surge of arousal rushing to your core as you feel his length pressing further into you.

With a broken whimper, you hook an ankle around Zayne’s back as you begin to grind harder against his thigh, moaning at the new angle. It hardly compared to the feeling of his fingers or cock fucking into you, but you barely cared, arousal and lust spurred on by Zayne’s voice.

You soon fall into a rhythm, painfully slow, the mere friction sending jolts of heat through you until you’re certain Zayne’s trousers must be stained. You nearly beg for something to hold onto, hands writhing helplessly against his tie as your sobs are muffled into your red-bitten lips.

But just as soon as the pleasure builds, you feel it plateau, hips beginning to stutter as the dull friction becomes too little, the coiling heat inside you desperate to be properly filled up by something, anything.

Zayne, on the other hand, is faring no better.

He’s thoroughly distracted with the pretty little thing desperately fucking herself against his thigh, caging you down to the table as his hands clench against the cue stick, nearly enough to make it snap.

You continue to push yourself in desperation to fulfill Zayne’s order for you to come, his continuous praises mingling with the lewd squelch of your cunt, and your eyes roll back with a cry. Zayne’s voice is intoxicating, his steady tone rough with lust sending tremors down your spine, infecting you like an aphrodisiac. You were building further and further, mounting pressure in your core dizzying, desperation for release seeping through you, mind lust-drunk as you willed yourself to fall off the peak.

But the familiar sound of the billiard balls clicks somewhere above you, followed by two distinct thuds.

A hum, and Zayne pries himself away as you whine at the loss, cold air rushing in.

You failed.

“How disappointing.” Zayne scolds as if he wasn’t the one who nearly came from your grinding instead. ”But you know what happens to students who fail to follow clear instructions, don’t you?”

Standing back, Zayne discards the cue stick entirely as one hand readjusts his trousers, and you whimper at the sight of him cupping his bulge, stroking and coaxing it against his thigh just so he can stand straight.

“Turn around and lift your dress.”

You obey, propping yourself up on shaking arms before you flip around so the rough edge of the billiard table now presses against your stomach, the felt hot beneath your bound wrists.

Zayne hums in approval, almost apathetically observing the way you squirm before he nods at you to continue. Lowering your eyes from his, you allow your leg to slip out from the slit in your dress, spreading your legs back and to the side as the silk falls off the curve of your ass, Zayne’s piercing gaze following every movement.

“Didn’t think a game of pool would turn you on this much,” he muses, leaning against the rim of the table as he crosses his arms.

Unable to meet his stare any longer, your head falls between your still tied-up hands, every inch of your body burning in shame and lust as Zayne continues to wordlessly observe you. You swear you’ll burn up with the way he fucks you with his eyes.

Still, Zayne doesn’t move.

You nearly scream against the table, eyes scrunched as you snap. “Fuck! Zayne, I swear to god, if you don’t finally fuck me I’ll do it myself or find someone else who will.”

The words barely leave your mouth when a hand fists into your hair, pulling you backward until you arch back, and you gasp, mouth falling open at the sensation. Zayne's breath is cold against the shell of your ear, the growl undercutting his words sending tremors down your spine.

"Needy little brat," his fingers curl into your hair, pulling until your jaw goes slack. Zayne's other hand finds its way back to your underwear, the material so damp that it almost feels sticky beneath his touch, and you moan at the sensation, unable to formulate a retort as your eyes flutter closed. “I think you’re forgetting this is meant to be your punishment.”

He snaps the band of your panties, and you choke, knees wobbling.

"Remember to count, or we start over.”

Placing the flat of his palm in the space between your shoulder blades, Zayne pushes you down against the billiard table, the side of your face pressed against the felt.

You hear the sharp crack of his hand meeting your ass before you feel it, the burn returning with a vengeance as you scream into the table. The sting of his palm leaves a searing heat across the curve of your ass, and you bite down on the tie binding your hands to muffle the cries that escape you.

Then you remember his order, lips quivering as you say, "One."

Another smack. This time harder. The strike is so precise it nearly sends you toppling over, the sting and ache following pushing you further against the wood. You let out a sob, eyes beginning to water as you clench around nothing, the throbbing of your cunt only worsened by Zayne's firm grip on the base of your neck.

"Two."

The third strike comes down even harder than the last, the resounding echo of his slap followed by a strangled scream from you, the heat and pain making your knees give out, forcing you to rest fully atop the pool table. “Three.”

You feel tears running down your face, undoubtedly ruining your makeup. But before you can process the fourth smack, you feel the familiar sting against your ass and the paradoxically gentle rub of Zayne's hand against the aching spot, soothing the pain as you count.

"F-Four." You shutter as you feel sheer cold bloom against your skin, his Evol numbing your ass as you whimper from the pleasure-pain.

Zayne’s thumb dips past the seam of your panties, gathering the slick that has been dripping out of you for the entire night. You feel the heat of his stare on you and the weight of his hand heavy on the small of your back, his other hand still gripping your neck with his thumb tracing soft circles against your pulse.

"So wet. Is this what you were hoping for, hm? Testing me until I finally snapped and ruined you?”

You don't dare look him in the eye. "Please, sir. I can't—"

"Can't what? Take anymore? Can't take any more punishment like the disobedient brat you are?" Zayne's voice is low, and you shiver at his words, unable to respond as the tears continue to flow, the mixture of pain and arousal leaving your vision blurred and cloudy. He spanks you again, this time hard enough to leave a mark, and you keen, legs spreading even wider in desperation.

"I can't— ah shit — please. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, sir, please, just fuck me already.” you plead, voice trembling as you beg, desperate to be filled by anything other than the emptiness.

“Language.” Zayne reprimands, and the sting of his strike follows shortly after. “And you forgot to count.”

“Five! It’s f-five.” Your knees buckle with a sob, and Zayne has to hold your waist so you don't slide onto the floor, his touch paradoxically gentle compared to everything else he’s done.

“Shh, you’re far too noisy. It’s almost as though you want someone walking in to find us like this.”

Your dress is only noticeably bunched up from the back and Zayne is still fully clothed. Anyone walking by the billiard hall would just see a couple talking by the tables, but if they were to enter the room it would hardly take a brain surgeon to figure out what was happening. The realization has your walls clench around nothing.

Zayne hoists your wrists up, forcing you into a deeper arch before untying your restraints. You then watch him fist the purple silk into a ball before pushing it into your mouth, gagging you with it. “Don’t worry, this will help.”

It doesn't.

You moan against his tie, saliva pooling against the silky fabric as Zayne pushes the soaked garment deeper into your throat, his chest pressed against your bare back. You look up at him through watery eyes, sniffling, the tingling sensation of being punished in such a way overwhelming you completely. Zayne uses this opportunity to soothe you like he always does— never failing to find the perfect balance between rough and gentle.

"It's alright, I know, my little darling can’t make up her mind. I’ll help you, I’ll show you what you want." Zayne soothes, stroking your cheek with his thumb, his gaze gentle despite his steady and strict voice. Then, he leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he whispers, “If anything hurts or becomes too much, tap the table twice."

You wouldn’t dare, not after finally getting what you wanted.

Zayne slips his hands under the backs of your thighs, easily lifting your weight against his chest as you whimper, the toes of your heels just barely grazing the tiled floor. The position is beyond embarrassing, ass up, face down, completely exposed and at his mercy.

He withdraws one hand, and you cry out, a garbled mess of pleas. The absence of his touch is torturous, the throbbing of your pussy and the soreness of your ass a painful reminder of the punishment you received.

The tent in his pants was tantalizingly obvious, even more pronounced once he pushed his pants down, taking out his length. He spits on his fingers, the slick sounds of him stroking himself making you whine in anticipation. It was oozing with precum, head red and flushed as he jerks himself off with sharp movements between your thighs. You grind your hips back, trying to tempt him, but all Zayne does is coo at your pitiful attempts.

"Look at you, so desperate. All that childish stubbornness just because you want my cock." He lines himself up, the head of his cock catching against your entrance as you shiver. The stretch burns, and you groan, eyes screwing shut at the feeling. "My beautiful, filthy girl."

Zayne whispers, curling an arm between your sweat-slickened bodies. You think he means to finally alleviate the needy throbbing against your clit, but instead his hand presses firmly against your lower stomach as he continues to fuck into you, torturously slow, allowing the blunt head of his cock to bully its way deeper and deeper still.

The sensation is overwhelming, the stretch of Zayne's cock combined with the sting of his earlier punishment leaves you a mess, fluttering around him as he finally bottoms out.

He lets out a long moan, a low rumble that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. You're so full, the head of his cock pressing insistently against the bundle of nerves inside you.

Some distant part of you is mortified of every lewd squelch and moan that echos over the jazz in the public hall, but feeling Zayne gently cup your ass while the other brutally pins you down, hearing him come apart against the back of your neck, knowing that your stoic lover was pushed to such extremes has you keening.

You want to feel every inch of him, so you clench down, and Zayne bites the back of your neck in retaliation, his hips stuttering.

"You’re perfect." Zayne praises, and his breathless voice sends shivers down your spine. "So good for me, taking me so well."

Zayne finally starts moving, letting the tip of his cock pull back until the head catches on the rim of your cunt, trying desperately to keep him inside, until he thrusts back into you in a single harsh motion, watching you fall apart just as he knew you would.

Your scream muffles into the gag, and Zayne reaches down to push the tie deeper into your mouth, the knot catching on the back of your tongue as he sets a steady pace.

The hand against your lower stomach shifts, still pressing hard enough so Zayne can feel his cock throb through you, and yet now positioned perfectly to thumb against your clit too. He needs to make you come, to feel it around him.

Zayne knows your body better than his own, knows exactly what angle he needs to hit, knows exactly where to touch to send your hips jerking back, and knows exactly where to tease to have you clenching down and sobbing into his tie.

It doesn't take long until you're coming, his fingers circling the bundle of nerves until you're screaming, thighs shaking, and he has to hold them open as you fall apart around him, cunt gushing as you squirt over his suit and trousers.

Your orgasm has your walls fluttering, clenching around his cock as it nearly begs for him to be buried deeper inside, and Zayne grunts, a broken moan ripped from his throat as his grip on your thigh tightens.

The pace of his thrusts grows sloppier, and you can tell he's close, the wet squelch of his cock inside your cunt driving you mad as his rhythm becomes inconsistent. You can feel his breath fan against your neck, labored and shaky, with the way he chases his high.

Your cunt aches with how full you feel, overstimulated and sensitive, but you push your hips back anyway, meeting Zayne halfway as you both chase the release that's been building up all night.

With one final thrust, Zayne finally comes inside you, a choked gasp followed by a low moan as his hips stutter, almost fucking his cum back into you as a sloppy mixture of your release drip down his cock and your thighs.

Your eyes roll back into your skull, and your second orgasm takes you by surprise, your body convulsing at the overstimulation and the warm soothing sensation of being filled to the brim.

"Fuck." Zayne whispers, his hands holding your hips as his thumbs trace circles against the dimples at the small of your back. The chill and comfort of his hands is almost enough to distract you from the ache, and you groan, legs finally giving out beneath you as you fall forward onto the pool table, the hard surface unforgiving as the wood rubs against your bruised knees.

Ever so gently, Zayne removes his tie from your mouth, turning you around so you’re pressed tight against his chest, burying his face into the crook of your shoulder. You can feel his rapid heartbeat and the way his hands tremble, and you smile, the familiar tenderness of his touch calming the both of you.

He slowly runs a hand down the curve of your back and you hum against the top of his head, your own hand coming up to gently stroke his hair. “I think I love you, Zayne.”

He doesn’t say a word, instead, you feel his other arm wrap around your waist, tucking you further into his embrace.

The two of you remain like this, tangled in each other until your breathing finally evens out and the fever that inflected you begins to cool. When Zayne finally speaks, his voice is muffled against your skin, and you shiver at the mere brush of his lips. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

“Hmm, not any more than I’d want to be.”

You mean it as a joke, but Zayne immediately stiffens in your hold, pulling back just enough to inspect your neck, then your wrists and hips as he kisses each bruise and remaining mark with hushed apologies.

"Did you mean it?"

You look down at him, his brows furrowed as you thumb at the stubborn crease that appears between them. You’re not sure why, but something in the way he stares up at you, waiting, longing, makes tears prick in the back of your eyes.

"Zayne," your voice is gentle, and you cup his cheek. "I do. I love you."

The tension in his jaw melts, his expression softening into something unnameable. His hand comes up to cup yours, scarred thumb tracing circles against your palm. " Say it again."

"I love you," you repeat, the corners of your mouth tugging upwards. "I love you. I love you."

"Again."

"I love you, Zayne–"

The last syllable of his name is cut off by his lips against yours, and you smile into the kiss, pulling him up until his forehead finally rests on your again.

"As do I," Zayne whispers, voice thick as he holds you close.

And you believe him.

4K notes · View notes

chanteya · 5 days ago

Text

The Best Dreams Come in Threes

♱⋅── rafayel x reader x xavier

♱⋅── about: Rafayel and Xavier have always been there for you. One is your fire, your passion, the twin flame to your temper. The other is your light, a guiding beacon, your twin star. So when you have a nightmare, they take it upon themselves to comfort and remind you of their unconditional devotion. Even if it does lead to competition every now and then.

♱⋅── word count: 7.5k (mf...)

♱⋅── warnings: mdni, smut, it's just nasty, threesome, jealousy, somnophilia, oral, pussydrunk boys, breeding kink, double penetration, slight spoilers

♱⋅── a/n: apologies to the two random strangers on the plane that I sat next to when the idea of this fic possessed me. I really, really hope you didn't read anything I was frantically writing down in the midst of me finishing my work report cause that shit was nasty.

art credit and inspiration due to the wonderful @/sakimenz

Lonely star, who do you shine for?

The weight of all your pasts- of all your futures- the guilt and pride you carry will only cause you to collapse, and all that will be left will be an all-consuming black hole.

Your desperation won’t bring your sun back.

Lonely king, don’t you know a kingdom devoid of life is a crown devoid of purpose?

You were the fire that left them, and all you have to show for the betrayal is a drowned memory and a heart wrenched from your chest, a broken promise and a forgotten story.

You’ve changed with each lifetime, but you’ll forever be at the mercy of fate.

And you? You’re the very curse that haunts them.

Claws, so cold they burn, emerge from the darkness before piercing through flesh, tearing through muscle and bone as they dig into your ribcage, dragging you down into the shadows. Drowning, falling. You’re spiraling through lifetimes of failure, lifetimes of pain both your own and not, all while the claws dig closer and closer to your heart, clutching the muscle like a songbird in a cage.

It’s the price, the price you must pay for all this pain you’ve caused, for dooming a star and killing a god.

The clawed hand wraps around your heart, the piercing into the fluttering pulse faster and faster until—

You wake up crying.

A hot trail of tears slides into the pillows, and a sniffle rakes through your body, the sudden movement causing a subtle disturbance to the two forms still sound asleep on either side of you.

Funny, you can’t remember a thing, but there’s a painful throb in your chest. You’ll take another dose of your heart medicine in the morning.

But for now, your bedroom is still dulled by the pale blue moonlight filtering through the curtains, and you’re in no hurry to get out of the warm covers and their embrace.

The nightmares have become routine at this point. You never remember what they are, but you wake up with a sense of fear and dread, as though you can feel the pain all over again. It’s best not to think too much about it.

Taking a deep breath and closing your eyes, you inhale shakily one last time, trying to shake off the looming feeling when the arm around your waist shifts, tugging lightly at your loose sleep shirt before slipping under to massage the skin beneath. You let out a soft sigh, a light shudder going through your body as the gentle hands work away the tension.

“The same?” Rafayel’s words are slurred with sleep and concern, hot breath dancing along the crook of your neck as he props himself up on his elbow. You nod.

Rafayel makes a small, displeased noise before his other arm pulls you closer, his bare chest now flush against your back. The sudden movement forces Xavier, who was once tucked against your shoulder, further away, grumbling at the loss even in his sleep.

His face scrunches, brows furrowed together before the corners of his lips turn downward, and he blindly reaches for you. He eventually finds the curve of your waist, and his hand tightens on the fabric of your shirt as it slides in above Rafayel’s.

A huff, and Xavier buries his face back into your chest, his warm breath tickling you. And then, gentle snores— you should've known better than to think that would be enough to wake him.

Rafayel, still pressed firmly against your back, begins to move, propping his body up just enough to look you in the eyes as he wipes a stray tear from your cheek. "Wanna talk about it, cutie?"

“I… I think you were there, both of you. But it felt lonely, painful.”

Rafayel's face contorts into a worried expression, his hand moves down your cheek, cupping your jaw, and you lean into his warm caress with a sigh.

You place a kiss on his palm. "It's okay, just a scary dream. Nothing real. Nothing to worry about." You repeat it, more to yourself than Rafayel, but his arms wrap around you anyway.

And yet Rafayel looks at you with a deep furrow in his brow, a seriousness you’ve almost never seen on him.

You give him a questioning look, but his lips press to yours in a searing kiss, stealing the air from your lungs. He pulls away only for a second, whispering sweet nothings against your skin before returning his lips to yours, the hand cradling your face slipping down to rest on your hip.

He kisses you softly, gently. First pressing a trail of light, chaste kisses along your jaw, the corners of your mouth, and nose, then moving back to your lips. “We’ll never leave you. We’d tear through every universe, every destiny to get back to you.”

Strange, how Rafayel says it with all the reverence of a vow.

You want to tease him for the sudden declaration, for making all this fuss over a stupid dream, but you never have the opportunity, not when Rafayel's signature smirk settles back onto his lips.

His hand slides down to your thighs, fingers teasing around the band of your sleep shorts, toying, pressing, but never crossing the self-imposed boundary of your clothes. “Unless, you’d prefer it if I proved it to you?”

“Rafayel,” you warn, hoping your narrowed glare would dissuade him.

Of course the man only seems to take that as a challenge, smile widening as you flinch at the cold touch creeping under your shirt. One palm traces up your ribcage, long, nimble fingers rubbing circles against your skin until he brushes the underside of your breast.

You shudder, hissing out another string of curses before turning around so your back is to Rafayel.

Really, you should know better than to think that alone would be enough, and a hot trail of kisses now joins his wandering hands down your shoulder blade. They start innocent enough, sweet, lingering touches along the hem of your shirt, but that quickly changes when Rafayel’s arm under your shirt practically yanks it up, sucking wet, messy kisses into the bare curves of your chest.

Each nip against your sensitive flesh forces the possibility of sleep further and further away, and you resort to distracting yourself with the motionless silhouette of Xavier. Petting through his hair, your rhythm is jolted every time Rafayel decides to leave a mark, nails pulling through Xavier’s locks as you bite your lip on a moan.

You don't miss the curve of his smirk against your skin, and the next kiss is accompanied by a bite, hard enough to elicit a sharp gasp that stirs Xavier. Tense, you scan the blonde's face, but he's nothing if not a heavy sleeper, and he nuzzles further into your touch, still unconscious as his head tucks under yours.

You don't get to sigh in relief. Instead, a whine builds in your throat, the wet heat of Rafayel's teeth tugging on the strap of your underwear as he fists your sleep shorts down.

"Rafayel, stop it,” you hiss as his hot breath hits the already embarrassingly damp center of your underwear.

His smile grows, lips brushing against your clothed core as he tilts his head. “Hmm? But you don’t sound like you want me to stop. And she certainly doesn’t sound like it either.” Two fingers dip under the band, and he parts your cunt with a lewd click.

Your face flushes in embarrassment, refusing to acknowledge just how easily your body gives in to them. One hand leaves Xavier, roughly fisting into Rafayel’s curls as he groans from the sharp pressure. “That’s because you and Xavier refused to wear protection!”

The accusation earns a hushed laugh, his shoulders shaking against the insides of your thighs. It would have been innocent, the same contagious sort of smile gracing Rafayel’s face, if not the shadows cast across his face in the dark, teeth gleaming like fangs as he traces his tongue up the entire length of your clothed cunt.

"M’sorry, we thought you'd enjoy the mess," he says, words muffled over your thighs, nose practically buried in between. "How can I make it up to you, cutie?”

You don’t get a chance to respond, not when Rafayel’s tongue dives into your clothed cunt, moaning against the soaked fabric as you gasp and force him closer by his hair. To muffle his sounds, you tell yourself. A pathetic lie considering how much louder he gets now, nose grinding up against your clit as his tongue tries to press into your fluttering cunt even with the barrier of cloth in between.

God, he’s addicted, and it doesn’t take long until Rafayel’s spit and your slick soak through your underwear, the near-translucent fabric sticking to your lips as the bare minimum friction nearly drives you insane.

“Say it,” Rafayel whines, nuzzling his face against your inner thigh. “Please, just tell me how badly you want me. Tell me, and I’ll do anything you ask.”

Like he wouldn’t already.

But how could you ever deny him when he begs so sweetly?

Your palm cups his face, watching his near-wrecked expression and flushed skin tremble beneath your fingers. “I’m yours, Rafayel.”

And the fabric is ripped into pieces.

Refusing to even breathe, Rafayel places an opened-mouth kiss on your cunt, lapping up your slick with the most satisfied moan. He doesn't waste any time, not while your confession coated his mind with the sweetest type of intoxication, eating you out like he was depraved.

He might as well have been with how he moans, hips grinding desperately against the edge of the mattress, his not-entirely human tongue curling in and out of you as it writhes with terrifying accuracy against your walls.

It feels too good to be ashamed of the noises you make, gasping and crying out until you slam your palm over your mouth, biting down hard as the other claws into Rafayel’s hair. You can barely control yourself, half fighting to squirm away from the overwhelming pleasure, half rocking your hips up and down his face as you jerk him closer.

“Mhm, greedy.” Fucked-out, broken little grunts leave his throat before his words are muffled into your cunt, not baring to part for even a breath. “Pull on it, please. Harder.”

You tug Rafayel’s hair almost in vengeance when he purposefully kisses away from where you need him most, licking and sucking obscenely into your thighs just to hear your frustrated cries even over your hand.

He loved being used like this, so long as it was you.

So long as it was him that turned you into such a beautiful, pathetic mess.

It's not long until Rafayel pulls you close to the edge, nose pressing against your clit while thrusting his tongue into you, eyes rolling back from the taste and from the thought of your tight heat fluttering around his cock instead.

And then, he stops, pulling away and leaving you gasping into the tear-stained pillow.

You bite back a sob, releasing only a choked little noise that has Rafayel's eyes flicking up to your face, the soft, concerned look in his eyes melting into something far more dangerous.

With viciously dilated pupils and your slick dripping from his mouth, Rafayel stares you down as every inch the dangerous siren the legends claimed him to be. He smiles, tongue raking over his teeth as though he couldn’t get enough of your taste, and you swear you’d let him eat your heart and soul. Gods, you’d let him eat you whole.

You realize you must have made a sound, because Rafayel hushes you, pressing quick kisses to your knee. "Aw, what happened to being quiet? Aren't you afraid we'll wake the poor sleeping bunny?"

At the mention of your other partner, you turn to where Xavier’s nuzzling his face further into your side, each warm breath damp against your feverish skin, still lost to the realm of dreams.

Not that Rafayel allows your attention to turn away from himself for too long.

He leans over Xavier, the hand that wasn’t supporting his weight cupping your face, and his lips are crashing into yours with all the viciousness of a summer seastorm. Your lips part, and Rafeyel fucks his tongue into your mouth the same he did your pussy, wet and desperate, the taste of yourself enough to make you dizzy.

"Tell me,” Rafayel’s tone dips into something darker, kissing down your throat and stomach as he eyes Xavier. “Who’s the better lover?"

Xavier's fingers flex, the tips brushing against the curve of your breast as he sleeps, and Rafayel's smile is almost predatory.

"D-don't ask stupid questions you dumb fish," your voice cracks as Rafayel's mouth ghosts over your cunt, teeth bared to your thigh, threatening to bite. "I chose you both."

The confession, as expected, doesn't please him. If anything, he seems overly offended, pouting and huffing a cold breath of air right against your aching core. The chill makes you squirm, trying to force him back to your center with the grip you have on his hair.

"No. Nope. That's not an answer."

"Raf–"

His name breaks off in a moan, sound ripped from your throat as Rafayel's thumb starts rubbing firm circles around your neglected clit. He doesn't relent, the pressure too much, too quick, your body already trembling from the pleasure Rafayel knows how to torture you with.

Only, it seems that all your sudden noise and movement have finally begun to affect Xavier. Not enough to wake him, but enough that you can hear his breathing become heavier, following your every twitch and buck from Rafayel’s onslaught as his body begins to grind into yours.

Mumbling into your neck, Xavier’s hand tightens around your waist before slipping under your shirt to palm your breasts, squeezing and kneading until the touch has you keening.

Xavier's still fast asleep, nonsensical words slurred against your skin, and yet his body is now far from it. His erection is thick and heavy against your hips, grinding desperately into your warmth almost in time to Rafayel’s ministrations, whimpering under his breath with every forceful thrust.

Rafayel notices too, his gaze drifting up to the blond. You can't see his face, already busied between your legs once more, but a pleased hum vibrates through his entire body, fingers finally slipping into your cunt as he curls them just right, your back arching off the sheets with a silent scream.

Xavier whines at your sudden thrashing, tugging you closer and unknowingly forcing you immobile and at complete mercy to Rafayel’s unfairly skilled fingers. "Mhm, so warm. Please, m’want to..." Another needy, slow grind against you follows his sleepy request.

"Rafayel," you choke out a muffled plea, but his eyes only narrow, taking a breath as his free hand grabs at Xavier's ass, the touch just light enough to tease and make him rut harder against you.

"What is it, cutie? Don't pretend like you don't want more, not when your pretty pussy's drooling for his cock. She’s so needy, am I not enough?”

Rafayel rests his head on the inside of your thigh, fingers thrusting roughly into that sweet spongy spot inside you just as his other hand wraps around the base of Xavier's cock through his boxers, thumbing over the pre-cum staining the dark fabric.

You're forced to bite down on the pillow beneath your head to stop the desperate cry tearing itself out of your throat. "This isn’t- ah- isn’t right."

"Isn't it? You’re dripping and the little bunny’s still asleep, yet look how desperate he is, rutting against you." Rafayel's voice dips, a raspy edge from his throat still fucking into you making it even more sinful, slurping everything you give him around his fingers before it drips down his wrist and into a puddle below. A huff, “I should get rewarded with how much effort I’m putting in.”

You cry out, legs trembling as his thumb begins its relentless attack on your clit, tracing mindless circles just random enough to keep you on edge. You're close, and Rafayel can feel it.

Xavier isn’t faring much better, whimpering a string of incoherent pleas into the crook of your neck as his hips keep rocking into the fist around him. He doesn't take his mouth away from the skin of your shoulder, biting down on it as he cums, shuddering and whimpering as the mess splatters down Rafayel's knuckles and onto your thighs.

“You’re next. If you won’t be honest with me, I’ll make your body is.” Rafayel’s taunt is the last coherent thing you remember before you come. Hard. His words ring against your skull as his fingers pump into you faster, and the pressure against your clit becomes almost unbearable, and you're falling apart, crying and thrashing, the only thing keeping you grounded is the feeling of Rafayel's weight and the scent of Xavier's strawberry shampoo, and then—

Rafayel finally shuts up to let you ride his face through your high, letting you use him as your thighs lock around his head, grinding desperately as though he were no more than a toy. No chance of breathing, no chance of escape.

Not that he could care less, not as long as he could keep his lips around your gushing cunt, humming and sucking into your release as cum sprays over his tongue and down his chin. Gods, he could never get enough of this.

You're still shaking through your orgasm, pliant and stupid from the dizzying pleasure, that you don't notice the rustle of sheets until a second pair of hands slide down your thighs.

"You’re doing this without me?"

Xavier’s voice is a whisper, husky from sleep and his orgasm as he presses a kiss right below your ear, fingers squeezing rougher against your breasts.

"S-sorry. Didn't want to wake you," you try, biting back a gasp when his thumb flicks over a nipple. Rough. Mean.

Rafayel snorts. "I think it's a bit too late for that.” A glare at Xavier over your leg, showing off your cum still dripping from his lips and fingers. ”Besides, I didn't need you."

You want to argue, really, but then Xavier is grabbing a fistful of your hair, tugging just hard enough to push your head back, coaxing a moan from your throat as he marks down your neck with kisses intending to bruise. He’s pouting, grabbing your jaw as he forces your gaze away from Rafayel, nipping your bottom lip until you surrender to his drowsy advances.

“Why…” Another kiss before Xavier's licking desperately into your mouth, “Why didn't you wake me?"

The question comes out a little breathless, almost petulant, eyes hooded and dark as he looks over the mess Rafayel has made of you. He can't tear his eyes away, watching Rafayel even as he kisses you. His fingers flick over your nipple again, twisting and pinching until you're shaking, your thighs squeezing Rafayel's face, all while Xavier watches.

Said man only smiles, all smug arrogance. "Didn't you hear her, Xav? She said she didn't want to wake you, so don't blame me."

Rafayel drags a wet, open-mouthed kiss over your cunt, the overstimulation making you break the kiss with a gasp.

"Liar." Xavier's voice trembles, and you can't tell if he's referring to Rafayel's words, or the way he's staring longingly at Rafayel's lips now, still slick with your release. "You just wanted her all to yourself."

He doesn't bother giving Rafayel a chance to retort, taking the punishment out on you as he dips his head underneath your folded-up shirt, groaning as his hot tongue rolls over your nipple, sucking at the stiff peak as his hand continues to assault the other. The onslaught has you whimpering, pushing and clawing against Xavier’s shoulder to try and fight him off as he refuses to let go for even a moment.

Rafayel's not one to be ignored, not when he has the advantage, and his tongue is back to fucking into your cunt with no reprieve, a cruel smirk on his face as you writhe and beg for their mercy.

Your hips roll, torn between pleasure and oversensitivity, unable to escape either of the men. It's overwhelming. Too much, too quickly, you only just came and you're already getting dragged back.

"Ah! Stop, I'm already mhm—"

You're interrupted by Xavier's tongue slipping into your mouth, a filthy, lazy slide that makes you grind up into Rafayel's tongue. It's like he doesn't even need to breathe, the wet, sloppy sounds of him eating you out drowned out only by the sound of Xavier kissing you senseless, pausing just to nip and suck at your breasts as though he'll get rewarded if he just tries hard enough.

"You want him to stop? Is the mermaid not enough to satisfy you, princess?" Xavier taunts, lips brushing against your ear as his hips push up, grinding his cock against your thigh. "If that's the case, perhaps we should switch. I can give you exactly what you want, remember?"

“Shut up, I’m the one making her cum.”

“Only cause I wasn’t awake yet.”

“You snooze, you lose. Whose fault is that? Oh ya, yours.”

They're at each other's throats yet again, practically clawing and snapping at each other, and you're helpless to try and intervene when they take their faux anger out on your poor abused body.

You can't think, can't focus, can't do anything but shake and pant and sob into the pillow, their combined weight on top of you, forcing your pleasure higher and higher.

“Xav—" He cuts you off with a kiss.

“Shh, just take it."

You can't even tell who’s sloppier anymore- Xavier fucking your mouth with his tongue or Rafayel still eating you through your second orgasm, the sudden hit of it thundering down your body.

“You look so pretty when you come," Xavier moans into your lips, his eyes half-lidded and glazed, hand coming up to stroke your cheek as he watches you, a sharp contrast to the other still rolling against your swollen nipple, loving the way you jerk into his touch. Then a glare to the man below. "My turn.”

Your body is still trembling, Rafayel's merciless fingers not allowing you to come down from your high, aftershocks of hypersensitivity crashing down your spine as every muscle spasms. No more. No more, please. You can’t possibly come again.

You don't realize you’re begging out loud, not until Xavier shushes you with another bruising kiss.

But it doesn't seem like Rafayel has any plans on stopping, not until Xavier’s hand skims down your thighs and yanks him up by the chain of his necklace.

Rafayel growls as he's practically forced off your weeping cunt, eyes bleary and unfocused as he fights the blond's grip. And god, he looks absolutely wrecked, spit and cum dripping from his mouth and chin, connecting his lips to your pussy in sticky wet strands before they break, and you feel the unmistakable bulge of his cock straining against his soaked boxers.

Xavier yanks him forward, pulling the necklace chain until he crashes his lips onto Rafayel's, all teeth and tongue, desperate to get a taste of your cum from his mouth. It's filthy, and Rafayel is the first to give in, still drunk off your taste and now Xavier's too.

"Mhm, you taste like her," Xavier whispers, pulling him closer until their bodies are pressed together, his mouth still moving against Rafayel's swollen, parted lips.

"Ya?" Rafayel’s grin is predatory, all fang and sin. "You wanna try too, don’t you? Give in then, bunny, lie down for us.”

"I don't take orders from you."

Xavier scowls against Rafayel's lips, but you can feel his resolve breaking, his arm trembling where it rests against your thigh.

"No, you take them from her, and she asked us so, so nicely to make her come. You wouldn't dare deny her that, would you?”

The Lemurian is nothing if not dangerously persistent, one hand coaxing Xavier backward so gently you don’t think he realizes how easily he’s falling, the other clawing down his abs as Rafayel bites against the erratic thud of Xavier’s pulse. Sharp and bruising, a silent promise for what to come. "Or do you wanna eat her out like I did? Have her ride your face while I fuck into her poor, desperate cunt? I can't decide, there are so many options."

“No.” It’s more a plea than a demand. Xavier's voice shakes with need, and you watch, dizzy and panting, as Rafayel's fingers slip underneath the waistband of Xavier's boxers. His fingers, still dripping with your cum, brush down the length of his cock, thumb circling the sensitive head and smearing the copious amount of pre-cum leaking from it. “You had y-your turn.”

He can hardly finish his objection, not when Rafayel’s thumb comes up to abuse his leaking slit, Xavier’s words slurring into a desperate whine as he practically collapses back onto his elbows. Immediately, Rafayel is atop him.

"A competition, then." Rafayel leans down to whisper into Xavier's ear, but the words are purposefully teased out loud enough for you to hear, “But you lose if you cum first, and I get to fuck her.”

It's a low blow, a challenge he knows Xavier can't turn down.

A challenge that somehow has you poised once again as the torment and the reward.

And it's true, because the second the words register, the blond's eyes shoot open, and his cock jerks violently against Rafeyel’s palm, a broken sound leaving his lips as his eyes lock back onto yours with all the promise of a starving hunter.

"Deal.”

Xavier doesn't allow the agreement to go without a price. Something snaps, the bedroom flickering with a sudden darkness as all the light vanishes.

One moment, you’re lying against the bed, and the next Xavier manhandles you to your knees, one hand forcing your arms behind your back as he tugs you against him, the other pinning Rafayel to the mattress.

Rafayel’s the very picture of smug sin, the feral expression far more genuine, less threatening and much more amused as he nestles further into the pillows, one arm tucked lazily behind his head.

Cold fingers dance up your hips, and Rafayel drags your bare cunt over his thighs and onto his lap, a pleased sigh escaping his lips as you're pinned deliciously between his cock and Xavier's sculpted back.

"So needy, little bunny."

"Shut up. I'm not the one who's leaking."

Rafayel snorts, and before the two can start fighting again, you're leaning forward, a hand resting against Rafayel's abs as you cup his erection through his boxers. And when he moans you believe every myth, every fairytale singing the doom of sailors to a siren song, because every sound he gives you is addictive and sweet enough that you’d drown to hear it again.

Pulling Rafayel's cock out from his boxers, you’re stunned yet again by the slightly non-human beauty of it, heavy and thick in your palm, the flushed, ruddy tip already drooling precum as you thumb at it in vengeance. You know Xavier's watching from the way his own cock twitches against your back, hands digging bruises into your hips. Then, the warmth at your back disappears.

Instead, a pair of hands drag your ass up, forcing you into a deep arch as you scramble for purchase against Rafayel’s thigh and the bed below.

“Closer.” Xavier’s hand laces into your hair as he pushes your head down, forcing your mouth to nuzzle against the base of Rafayel's cock.

The movement pulls a gasp from both of you, your hot breath teasing the sensitive skin of Rafayel's shaft and forcing a shudder from his entire body.

Seeing the two of you completely at his mercy does terrible, horrible things to Xavier, and his fingers dig bruises into your hips as it takes him everything not to forgo the competition and fuck you right there.

"Good girl,” he hums, voice trembling as his grip tightens against your hair, giving you a harsh glare when you whine and squirm in his hold. "Now open."

You can't bring yourself to say no, not when the sight of Rafayel's eyes rolling back the second you do makes your stomach clench. His cock twitches against you as you lick at the copious amounts of cum leaking from his tip, then obediently wrap your lips around him.

With a smile that would have you shaking, Xavier leans down, barely able to continue guiding your head as he’s entranced with the mess between your legs, licking up the slick dripping down your thighs as he sucks against the delicate flesh, marking right over the sensitive bruises Rafayel had only just left behind.

“This- hah-” Rafayel curses under his breath, the single word breaking off into a moan, the sound muffled by his palm as his chest heaves. “This is hardly fair.”

But his complaints feel half-hearted, not with the way he’s already rutting into your mouth, Xavier’s iron grip keeping you in place as Rafayel thrusts himself into your mouth in one breath. You yield pathetically quick, flattening your tongue against the slick underside of his cock, another stream of pre-cum flooding your mouth as you nearly choke on it all, unable to pull off to even take a breath as Xavier guides your head up and down in a steady rhythm that has Rafayel falling apart.

It’s cruel, but you can't help each pathetic moan that gets muffed onto Rafayel’s cock, the vibrations forcing his back to arch off the bed, head rolling back as it thuds against the pillows, Adam's apple bobbing as he gulps in shallow breaths.

You almost wish he would let you see his eyes, but then you'd miss the view of his chest, every muscle tight and twitching under his skin, the mesmerizing sight now blurry from the tears forming in your eyes. You can't resist reaching up, dragging your nails down his abs, watching his body jerk against every new line of red.

"Please,” you're not sure if the broken whimper belonged to Rafayel or yourself. “Please, I can't wait anymore, wanna feel you— fuck— wanna fill you up again, please let me cum." It's like just the very thought has Rafayel keening, his hips jerking up into your hot mouth with reckless abandon as Xavier forces your spine up into a deeper arch.

You're nearly bent in half, the new angle leaving no part of you hidden from Xavier's hungry gaze as he watches you practically drool over Rafayel’s cock, lips meeting his pelvis as he breaches your throat.

Xavier’s going to win. He needs to win.

The thought makes him frantic, tongue fucking past the tight resistance of your cunt, his hand sliding up to tease at your clit. He won't be the one to finish first, not this time. Not when he's wanted nothing more than to feel your cunt gushing around him ever since Rafayel woke him up, ever since the two of you had the audacity to start this without him.

Rafayel can’t last much longer, especially not when you bring one shaking hand down to massage his swollen balls, hardly in control of your own movements as you feel dizzy on the addictive combination from the lack of oxygen and pleasure as Xavier begins to eat you out like a man starved.

The room’s filled with the sounds of each slick, messy movement, whimpers from the man beneath you and breathless pleas from the one behind, bed rattling with every thrust.

And yet you’re still so painfully empty. So, so, empty as your cunt flutters around Xavier’s tongue before he relents to kiss your clit once more, dragging a dissatisfied whine from you as you fight yourself off Rafayel’s cock.

"F-fuck me. Please," A sob, and you feel both Rafayel and Xavier shudder. "It’s not enough. Want your cocks inside me, wanna cum on it. Need it, please-"

Oh, and when you beg like that, they should have known they never would have stood a chance.

"Shit."

"Ah, please-"

It's a blur. A rush of hands, of pleasure and pain, all of it colliding and dragging you to the edge. The room spins, the ceiling above you falling until the familiar, comforting feeling of slick muscle embraces you, grounding you as you focus on the erratic heartbeat between each ragged exhale.

You're still sandwiched between them, lying on Rafayel as Xavier's weight drapes across your back, head propped up on the former's chest as you stare blearily at his silver pendant, unable to move. You're not even sure if you can, not with the way Xavier's still gripping the backs of your thighs, spreading you open as he forces one leg higher up.

Then, the blunt head of his cock grinds between your folds.

Xavier’s pressing his forehead against your back, wrapping his arms around you before biting into the crook of your neck. "You mean it? You’ll let us come inside again?"

Rafayel laughs, a raspy sound still raw from his orgasm. "Well, we both lost. Now what, bunny? We can't just leave her like this, poor thing is trembling."

"Mhm,” Xavier forces you up, “We both fuck her then."

His words only make you whimper, body jerking uselessly against Xavier's grip. His hands lift you as Rafayel flips you around so you're now facing the blond, flinching violently as his cock brushes your swollen clit, any semblance of protest quelled as Xavier pulls you into another messy kiss.

It’s demanding, Xavier mumbling achingly sweet praises into your open mouth as he begins to press you down, faster, harsher, forcing you onto Rafayel’s lap in a reverse cowgirl as you slide down slowly, taking inch by inch of Rafayel’s throbbing cock. There’s hardly any blue left in Xavier’s blow-out pupils, too mesmerized by the slick mess you’re gushing down their thighs. And just when you begin to squirm, impatient and desperate, Xavier slows their pace even more.

"Shhh, we need to make sure you'll be able to take both of us."

Rafayel's hand is wrapped around your waist, thumb rubbing small circles into your stomach, and if it weren't for Xavier's arms locked around you, holding you upright, you would have collapsed the second Rafayel pressed into the spot his fingers had found.

"Look at you," he purrs, a low sound that has you gasping. "So pretty when you’re needy. Can you feel me?"

It's hard not to. Everywhere feels warm, and every slow thrust, no matter how gentle, has a small burst of ecstasy building in your stomach, a wave crashing higher and higher as the two of them slowly fuck you full. Just as you’re nearly seated all the way onto Rafayel’s length, Xavier’s palms come up to the back of your knees, folding them up and forcing you backward until you’re practically lying prone atop of Rafayel.

Your head lolls uselessly against Rafayel's neck, gasping at the force of the new position, and you're not sure if it's the tears in your eyes or the overwhelming pressure against your walls as they stretch around his cock that's making the world so blurry. Xavier soon follows you down, pressing you closer into Rafayel’s chest as his lips trail your jaw, your neck, your sucking against every sensitive spot behind your ears until you're distracted from the pain.

"You're doing so good, princess. Just a little more."

The sudden onslaught of pressure of both of you atop him has Rafayel flinching, and he hisses out a pained moan, hips jerking up into the slick heat of your pussy, and it's only Xavier's grip that keeps the two of you from slipping off.

"Hah- hurry up-" Rafayel's eyes are glassy, his head tipped back and face twisted in pleasure.

Strings of incoherent pleas are whispered against your ear, Rafayel marking up the left side of your neck while Xavier’s still busy with the right, that is, until Xavier switches sides, biting right over Rafayel’s marks until he’s pulled up into a desperate kiss.

The wet sounds of their lips are filthy and obscene, each hot breath and moan brushing past your ear as you writhe, pressed between them. Rafayel's cock is already swelling, twitching against the fluttering walls of your pussy, unwilling to fully pull out, settling to just grinding up in slow, cruel thrusts before something in him snaps and he switches to pounding against your abused walls.

Every time you think you’ll finally come Rafayel switches pace, the obscene slap of skin on skin muffled only by your sobs and their kissing.

You’re close, so so fucking close you feel your muscles begin to shake. Xavier only pushes you down further, every angle a new cruelty, smothering you between them, rendering you unable to do anything but take it.

Again, Rafayel slows, and you slur curses down at him as your thighs tremble from overstimulation, shaking violently until you feel something grab your calf. Xavier massages the quivering muscle, gentle until he’s suddenly pressing your knee higher and higher, going until it’s pinned to the mattress up against your head.

And now Rafayel is hitting impossibly deeper, abusing your poor g-spot with each thrust.

Xavier kisses your ankle, then calf, making his way up your leg until he can nip at your inner thighs now folded over his shoulder. And then you feel the pressure of his cock at your already full entrance. Xavier’s hand dips down between your bodies, trying to bully himself in alongside Rafayel, but his cock slides past your navel, slick and covered in your combined cum.

"No, no no, not gonna fit- ah- Xavier!"

Your words break off into a wail as he tries again, grinding closer so you’re tightly cradled between the two, Xavier leaning fully atop you both. A snarl grits through his jaw when his cock slips past again, readjusting you so your legs fall apart wider, the burn in your thighs turning delicious and overwhelming, pussy weeping around Rafayel’s cock as Xavier’s swollen, leaking head bumps against your clit.

Xavier watches the mess, every thrust and messy squirt of cum, brows furrowed and flushed a deep red, as he whines into your shoulder, "Please- can't stop- please let me fuck you too, you'll look so pretty with both of us filling you up, taking us so good- don’t make me stop."

He’s reduced to babbling against your neck, biting down hard enough to bleed when your cunt finally yields to him too, cockhead bumping into Rafayel’s as he slowly pushes in inch and inch, trembling from the combined pleasure of your walls and the violent throbbing of every vein now grinding together.

It's too much, it’s not enough, the stretch and the friction and the pressure leaving you fucked stupid, hands scrambling for purchase. Rafayel grunts when your nails drag across his thighs, his own hands coming to latch onto your wrists, pinning them above his head, forcing you motionless between them.

You can do nothing but sob, tears streaming down your face as your entire body convulses. And when they finally, finally bottom out together, the world goes white.

"Shh, you're alright," Rafayel soothes, although his voice is trembling, the sound broken as he tries to catch his breath. "Doing so well for us, cutie, so perfect."

Xavier growls, his hands grabbing the headboard. He's barely holding on, not with the way Rafayel's cock twitches against his own, your hot walls clenched tightly around the two of them as you beg.

"Please, can't- too much, more, I need-"

There's a broken sob, and then Xavier’s slamming his hips forward, fucking into you with a brutality he usually saves for Rafayel, the force sending the three of you rocking against the mattress, headboard splintering under the strength of his grip. The other leaves to thumb at your nipples, lips following suit as he rambles, drunk off your pussy, "These would look s'pretty filled, even more sensitive. Bet you'd let us milk you, fill you up even more."

"And here, you'll feel us here too, won't you?" A hand moves lower- whose you no longer are coherent enough to care- brushing over the swell of your abdomen, the slight bulge appearing and disappearing where both of them are thrusting violently into you. "Be a waste not to. Imagine it, a painted mess filled with us.”

And you are. You can't think about anything else, not with the way they're stuffing you full— every time Rafayel's cock would settle near your g-spot Xavier’s would ram back in, forcing the former up against your cervix before pulling out entirely, repeating the vicious rhythm as the pain bled into pleasure.

Tears stream down the side of your face, room spinning into dizziness until all that remains are the burning trails of their touch, the only things keeping you grounded.

Rafayel's sucking into your shoulder, biting the sweat-slicked flesh, and you can feel his hips begin to stutter underneath you, already reaching his high despite Xavier still pounding into you with the same intensity, desperate to catch up.

The moment Xavier feels Rafayel's release, it's over. Your back arches up against him, convulsing against their hold, your abused walls clenching down so tightly that you’re practically begging for them to come inside, sucking them in deeper and deeper until it’s impossible for them not to follow.

It's a violent orgasm, hot squirt of your cum drenching Xavier’s abs, the intensity of it causing Rafayel’s vision to white out too, unable to hear the desperate sounds of your moans, not when his blood is rushing past his ears.

Then, the world comes crashing back.

Rafayel’s panting, still thrusting weakly into the slick, tight heat as he emptied himself inside you, the sheer overload of it gushing down your legs and onto the sheets.

"Ah- Xavier," you whine, the sound muffled into his chest as Xavier continues to chase after his high, too lost in his late orgasm to pull out.

The overstimulation is torture, your body twitching and trembling with every sloppy thrust. The moment he finally pulls out, the mess follows, thick, white rivets leaking down your thighs, the sheer volume near damn concerning had you the capacity to focus on it.

Rafayel laughs, fingers swirling through the cum as though painting your thighs, "That's not going to be easy to clean up."

"S'gonna look pretty. Messy. Full." Xavier murmurs, still pinning the both of you beneath him as he collapses in exhaustion, fingers dancing over the small swell in your stomach. Pressing lightly, he watches in fascination as their mixed cum gushes out faster, and you whimper, gripping his wrists to stop before they get any more ideas.

You're not sure what's worse, the fact that they're both still hard and the way they're looking at you, or the fact that their words have your exhausted body already trying to recover, a shiver running through your sore muscles as the room's cool air brushes over the slick, sticky mess between your thighs.

"You're both so disgusting," you groan, the words coming out slurred and barely audible.

"You love it."

"Yeah," Xavier's agreement is soft and almost hesitant. "You love us."

"Yes, I love both of you. Now get the fuck off of me." A shove, your shaking arm barely affecting Xavier as he finally relents, a small smile on his lips as he rolls the three of you down into the bed, resting on your sides.

The muscles in your thighs scream in relief as they’re finally placed down, every inch of your body sore and marked up in one way or another, every visible bruise and bite getting pampered in faux apologies by the two men snuggling up next to you.

It’s a tangle of limbs, Xavier already claiming your chest again as he nuzzles into your breasts while Rafayel simply curls himself around your back. A hand there, an arm there, and a little more muffled bickering. Yet you all fit together, and sleep comes easy now.

And the nightmares never return.

7K notes · View notes

chanteya · 5 days ago

Note

Omg all the overstim in your sylus and raf works 😫🤤 makes me wonder if you have headcannons about how the other boys would be 🫣

can I make you lose your mind? (caleb, rafayel, sylus, xavier, zayne)

♱⋅── nearly 7k of the lads boys just losing their minds (and their control) when it comes to you. art by @/osk_purinnumee on x

♱⋅── WARNINGS: mdni, overstimulation, oral, pussy drunk boys, daddy kink (caleb), bicep choking (caleb), "just the tip" (sylus), size kink (sylus), cunnilingus (xavier), Lemurian heat (rafayel), orgasm denial (rafayel), breeding kink (rafayel), slight exhibisionism (zayne)

Caleb ♱⋅ ── the bully

How could Caleb deny you?

How could he when you come to him crying big crocodile tears, sobbing how no matter what you do you can’t seem to cum, how you think you must be broken, how no one would ever want such a hard-to-please woman in their bed.

As if he hasn’t spent years watching you, waiting for you, knowing damn well that the problem isn’t you.

So of course Caleb, being such a kind and thoughtful gege, has to prove you wrong, right?

He does. Over. And over. And over again. That is, until you’re crying in overstimulation, writhing away from his punishing thrusts, clawing against the sheets as you try to run from the pleasure-turned-pain.

Or, tried to.

“Nuh-uh, sweetheart. Where do you think you’re going?”

You’re running? No, no you can’t run away, not when he’s already spent his entire fucking life chasing you.

Caleb’s voice is teasing, raspy and sweet, but there’s nothing playful about the way his Evol surges to life with a mere crook of his finger, dragging you back along the mattress and pinning you down as he takes his sweet time crawling back to you.

Trapped, your breath hitches as you feel the weight of him settle over you, his intimidating frame caging you in, tracing featherlight kisses along your spine in such a stark contrast to how ruthlessly he was fucking you earlier. His hands roam, slow and deliberate, kneading your ass as he repositions himself behind you.

"If I let you go," he murmurs, "you promise not to run?"

Run? Why did you even want to run? You can’t remember now, not as you viciously nodding your head as much as is allowed under the control of his Evol, already arching your back into his touch as Caleb nips and marks your sticky inner thighs.

“Good girl.” The pressure disappears.

Immediately, Caleb replaces it, his entire body pressing you down before you can so much as take a proper breath. His arm snakes around your throat, flexing just enough to remind you who’s in control, the bulging, thick mass of his bicep choking you deliciously when you attempt to squirm or beg.

He’s got you in a headlock, the rest of his corded body pressing down atop you until your chest is squished to the mattress, ass pressed against Caleb’s pelvis, the combined pressure enough for you to be seeing stars. A drooling, overstimulated mess.

It doesn’t help that he’s practically panting like a dog in your ear, whining as he already begins thrusting himself back into your cunt, delirious moans of your name and filthy praises cooed right into your ear, words barely distinguishable with how hard he’s breathing.

“Aww p-poor thing.” Caleb pants, voice wrecked, whiny with need as he grinds himself against you. His pace is already brutal, his thrusts sharp and unforgiving, every desperate snap of his hips forcing a cry from your throat as his grip tightens, choking you deliciously every time you so much as try to squirm.“Can you be good for me? Be my sweet little girl and cum for daddy.”

It shouldn’t be hot, Caleb, your gege, calling himself daddy, it shouldn’t have you sobbing out an unintelligible plea as another orgasm builds, seizing up your body in tight, aching waves. And yet here you are, loosing your fucking mind at it.

“Please,” you gasp, voice muffled as you sink your teeth into his bicep, embarrassed by the desperate sound of your own voice. “Please, daddy.”

For the first time in thirty minutes, you feel Caleb stop.

He’s frozen entirely, dick hot and throbbing with need within you, each shaky breath hitting your ear as he pressed down closer, flattening, suffocating you into the mattress as you feel the growl come from his throat. You can hear the way his lips curl into a grin.

“You wanna say that again, princess?”

Whining, you try and arch your back further, wiggling your hips up as you try and bait Caleb into continuing, into giving you that release that was only just out of reach. But he wasn’t having any of that bratty attitude tonight.

“Behave.” Caleb’s arm tightens, and your vision swims. ”I asked you a question. You need daddy to—ah shit you tightened, dirty girl— fuck you nice and full, hmm? Fuck you stupid?”

A fresh wave of humiliation burns down your spine, but it doesn't matter. You’ll say whatever he wants if it means he moves, if it means he chokes you more, if it means he finally gives you what you need one more time.

“Yes, m’close, please daddy! Please—ah—let me cum one more time.”

Caleb just snaps.

His grip tightens instinctively. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make you feel it, enough to make your breath stutter, your body jolt like the sweet little thing you are under his grasp. His entire frame tenses above you, muscles coiling so tightly it’s like he’s holding himself together with sheer willpower alone. But it’s already slipping.

"Fucking," His voice breaks, dissolving into a strangled groan as he buries his face against your neck, breathing you in like a man starved. "Fuck that shouldn’t be so hot, it really shouldn’t—"

Like you haven't already wrecked him beyond repair.

Caleb’s Evol comes back full force, pushing you prone against the mattress so you can’t feel anything but him, the arm around your throat dropping so his hand can press against your belly instead, pinning you down as he fucks into you so deep, so hard, you swear you can feel him in your lungs. His other hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back just enough for his lips to smash onto yours, sloppy, desperate, sucking at your bottom lip as the two of you jolt with each thrust.

"You have no fucking idea," Caleb laughs against your lips, the words a feverish, choked-out confession, "how long I've wanted to do this to you."

It’s almost like he’s hammering that truth into you, each thrust hitting deeper, harder, the sound of skin on skin nearly drowned out by your own sobs of pleasure.

"Caleb—"

"Say it again," he demands, not even trying to keep his composure anymore. "Say it for me, princess. Say it like you mean it."

"Daddy—"

"Fuck."

Caleb really didn't need another kink, he really didn't need to imagine you calling him all these filthy things on top of every other sinful thing he's already imagined you doing. It must be divine punishment, because god was he into it.

Practically collapsing on top of you, Caleb's barely pulling out before grinding right back in as deep as he can get, like he can barely think to part from you even for a moment, like he needs to feel every twitch, every squeeze, every shudder of your overstimulated body. His hands roam wildly, equally greedy, kneading and groping every tender curve like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you, like he’s claiming you in ways he’s never let himself before. And fuck, you’re close.

Caleb notices, of course he notices, nibbling the shell of your ear as the arm around your throat tightens, the other going right back to abusing your clit as you squirt all over him with a scream.

“Aw that’s it, keep cumming sweet thing.” Caleb’s voice is the only thing grounding you, your entire body, your vision trembling as you begin to lose consciousness. The only thing you can think of is Caleb. Caleb, Caleb, Caleb!

You don’t even realize you’re screaming his name over and over again as you squirt down both of your thighs, making a mess against the already ruined sweat-slicked sheets beneath the two of you. You’re so damn messy. He loves it.

Convulsing, walls fluttering around him like you’re made for him, a sweet temptation Caleb is so laughably weak against as he follows, humping against you like a mad dog as his breath shatters into desperate, shaky moans of your name, spilling inside you with a force that has you sobbing with pleasure.

“Oh, princess,” he rasped, his tongue tracing over the tear-streaked path down your cheek before pressing a soft, almost mocking kiss to your jaw. “Shh, it’s alright, don’t cry. Your gege is here, your daddy will take good care of you, promise.”

Rafayel ♱⋅ ── the desperate

You’re going to have to call in sick for the week.

Every year with the return of the tide, with the return of ebb-and-flow day, Rafayel becomes insatiable. You’ve barely been able to be able to escape Rafayel’s grasp for long enough to go to the bathroom, let alone escape enough from his insatiable fucking to walk well enough to fight.

It’s never been this bad. And it’s all your fault. Being back in your arms after eight hundred years, finally remembering the way your voice sounds when it says his name and the way you fit oh so perfectly in his arms. It’s borderline painful to spend even a minute in your absence. His very body violently rejects the notion of it as spasms of violent heat and need drives him right back into your arms again and again and again.

“Please, please let me fuck you. I can’t come like this, you know that.”

Rafayel’s voice is muffled against your thigh, breath hot as he presses a messy, open-mouthed kiss to your skin. His hands are clenched into the sheets beside him, trembling with the effort of keeping them off you, as you ordered. It’s the only rule you’ve given him tonight, and yet it’s breaking him.

"Rafayel," you warn, fingers buried between your thighs, working yourself open as his desperate, pleading gaze follows your every movement.

He whimpers, nodding frantically, his cock throbbing angrily where it rests against the mattress, one hand coming back to violently fist the swollen head as it leaks all over his palm and sheets. "I know, I know," his voice cracks as he drags his hand around its base, rutting into his own palm like it’s not enough, like it hasn’t been enough for hours now. "But please I—fuck—I can’t."

“You can.” You spread your legs wider, letting him see, letting him watch your fingers disappear into your fluttering cunt with a slick, wet sound that has his jaw going slack, his own hips grind into the bed helplessly. “I told you what would happen if you forgot to use a condom, again.”

Rafayel’s eyes plead up into yours, big fat tears slipping down his cheeks, his head shaking against your leg as he kisses the trembling flesh. "You don't understand," he sobs, nuzzling into the crook of your knee like he can smell the orgasm building inside you, like he can taste it on his tongue already. “I need- I need—”

"You need to learn control, Rafayel."

Your voice is less strict than you’d like it to be, already embarrassingly close considering all the times you’ve come earlier today. And the way Rafayel’s looking up at you, begging, pleading, is really not helping.

Tilting your hips slightly, you circle your clit in a way that makes your eyes roll back, making sure he sees the way your poor cunt flutters all empty, the way your body clenches, desperate for something more, something bigger.

Rafayel groans, his grip on himself tightening. Still, it’s useless, his Lemurian biology physically won’t let him cum unless it’s inside his pretty little mate, his cock swollen and weeping with how much he’s holding back, the pleasure that spikes through him now nothing but a cruel, agonizing echo of the real thing.

"My love," he chokes, head falling back against the mattress, his throat bobbing as he tries to breathe past the desperate hunger clawing at his insides. "My muse, my sweet darling, please. Taste you, touch you, anything, please!”

You hum, considering, rolling your hips against your own fingers as he moans, watching with wild, fevered eyes. "You wanna clean me up?"

"Yes."

The word is instant, sharp, like Rafayel’s been waiting for you to say it since the moment he first laid his hands on you tonight. Before you can even think of teasing or denying him any further, his grip snaps—both arms wrapping around your thighs, dragging you down the mattress in one swift, fluid motion.

"Rafayel—"

Too late.

His mouth is on you before you can protest, his tongue filthy as he sucks at your clit, licking up everything you’ve given yourself, drinking in the mess between your thighs like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. Slapping your own hands away, Rafayel pauses briefly to suck them clean before diving right back into the source, moaning into your cunt, making your body seize with another orgasm before you can even process the first.

"Fuck, fuck," Your hands fly to his hair, gripping hard, but it only makes him groan, rutting against the mattress, his own pleasure reigniting just from the taste of you.

You try to pull away, squirming and kicking at Rafayel’s sides, his shoulders, but he doesn't even budge. His arms lock tight around your hips, keeping you there, keeping you spread for him as he eats you out like a man possessed.

And then he's begging again, voice wrecked, slurred with delirious pleasure, licking at your clit between words as though he really can’t get enough. “Please, please let me fuck you. I promise, mhm, promise I won’t cum inside you again.”

Rafayel is still begging for permission even as he manhandles you beneath him, hesitantly parting with your cunt as he kisses up your stomach, sucking at one of your breasts as you feel the nudge of his cock against your entrance before you can even think. “Promise I’ll be good. I’ll be such a good boy.”

Fuck, you really are weak against him.

Using the last of your strength, you flip the both of you around, grinding down against his cock as you feel it throb, violently jumping between your thighs, the sloppy, wet sound of each movement sending shivers down both your spines. Poor thing is already ruined, body extra sensitive due to his heat, cock swollen and leaking as it begs to be inside you.

"You promise?" Your voice is a whisper, teasing, as you drag your soaked folds along the length of him, feeling him tremble beneath you.

Rafayel nods frantically, breath hitching, hands twitching at his sides like he wants to grab you, wants to force you down onto him, but he knows better. Knows he wouldn’t survive the punishment. His lips are red, glossy with your slick, parted around little choked-off whimpers as he fights against the desperate urge to rut up into you.

"I promise," he gasps, "Please, I’ll be good, I swear, I’ll be so good for you.”

You hum, dragging your fingertips down his chest, nails scraping lightly over sweat-slicked skin, enjoying the way his breath shudders at the contact. The pain. "You say that, but you've already come inside me, what, three times now?"

You rock your hips again, coating his cock in your arousal, watching the way his abs twitch with the effort of keeping still. Gods, he’s so pretty like this, neglected and crying underneath you, muscles strained and glistening with sweat and cum, watercolor eyes bleary as his tears collect on the mattress as dusky pink pearls. The same rosy shade of blush that burns across his cheeks, ears, and throbbing tip of his swollen cock.

“That warrants punishment, don’t you think?”

Rafayel all but whines at that, head tilting back against the pillow, his throat bobbing as he tries to breathe, tries to hold on to the last fragile thread of control he has left. "I—I won't this time, I swear, I’ll be good, I just need you."

"You need me?" You lean down, pressing your lips just below his ear, letting your voice drop to a sinful whisper. "Or do you just need to fuck something, sweetheart?"

"You." Rafayel’s answer is immediate, desperate, his hands finally snapping up to grip your hips, fingertips digging into your flesh. "It’s always you. Only you, my mate."

The admission makes your stomach tighten, heat pooling low as you let yourself sink down, just enough for the swollen head of his cock to catch at your entrance. Rafayel jerks, eyes wide, mouth dropping open around a silent moan, his grip on you tightening like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

"Oh, fuck."

"You need me, you need your mate?" You tease, rolling your hips, letting him feel the wet heat of you without giving him what he really needs.

"Yes, please, please, please—"

And then, because you’re cruel, because you love seeing him like this, you lift yourself off him entirely.

Rafayel practically cries at that, and you let him plead, let him beg, until his whole body is shaking with the need to be inside you, until his voice is raw and wrecked from crying out your name. Then, finally, finally, you sink down, dropping the entirety of your weight onto him as you both moan at the sudden pressure as your ass smacks his pelvis with a lewd slap.

Rafayel’s body aches up off the mattress, a wrecked, strangled moan tearing from his throat as his fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise. His head tilts back, chest heaving, eyes glassy and unfocused, dilated almost like a cat’s, as if the feeling of being inside you after so long is too much for his mind to comprehend.

"Fucking finally."

You barely have a moment to adjust before Rafayel thrusts.

Whatever fragile restraint he had is gone, obliterated the second your walls squeeze around him. His hips jerk up in a desperate, instinctual rut, shoving himself deeper, harder, until the thick length of him is buried to the hilt inside you, and then pulled all the way out before ramming back in again. You choke on a gasp, nails digging into his chest, but he doesn’t even seem to register the pain.

"More." Some inhumane warble distorts Rafayel’s voice, nails turning clawed and sharp as he thrusts up into you with more strength than any human should possess. “Perfect, perfect mate.”

Your head spins, the force of each snap of his hips making your whole body jolt. His desperation is relentless, dragging you closer to the edge far too fast, too intense, gripping onto his shoulders just to keep you from falling over as your thighs begin trembling once again.

"Rafayel—Raf, slow down!"

"No," he whimpers, shaking his head wildly, hands tightening on your waist as if letting go isn’t an option. "No, please, sorry, need this." Rafayel’s voice breaks into a sort of trill, something like whalesong, eyes fluttering shut as he drives himself up into you, starved for more, cock throbbing desperately inside you. "Don’t leave me again, please.”

Your heart clenches. "I’m here," you whisper, leaning down, pressing your forehead to his as your body moves with his, rolling your hips as you try to stay in time with his brutal pace. "I’m right here, Rafayel."

He moans, high and broken, clutching you so tightly against him, feeling every inch of you pressed into his skin. His pace turns frantic, sloppy, body shaking beneath you as pleasure racks through him in violent waves. He’s close, but he won’t let himself fall over the edge alone.

"Come with me," he begs, his lips brushing over yours as he pleads for it. "Please.”

And you do.

The orgasm slams through you like a tidal wave, stealing every breath from your lungs as your entire body clenches around him. Rafayel keens, hips jerking wildly as he follows, his cock pulsing inside you as he fucks his cum deep inside you yet again, stuffing you full until you’re both shaking with overstimulation.

But it still doesn’t stop.

Rafayel can’t stop.

Even as his body trembles beneath you, even as his whimpers turn into sobs, he keeps moving, his hips rolling into you in slow, messy grinds. His cock twitches inside your still-clenching walls, sending violent aftershocks through you both.

"Mhh sorry," he moans, lips dragging down your throat, sucking bruises into your skin as if marking you will somehow keep you tethered to him. "Did it again, can’t help it. Pussy feels so nice, wants me too, always so desperate for me. Made to worship me."

You let out a wrecked, exhausted laugh, trying to lift yourself off of him, but his arms snap tight around your waist, keeping you anchored to him.

"No," he pleads, voice cracking, nuzzling into your neck as he breathes in your scent. "No, please, just—just a little more. You owe it to me for being so mean before."

Your head falls into the crook of his neck as yet another orgasm crashes through you, ripping a moan from your throat. Rafayel shudders, gasping against your skin, completely gone, his hips jerking helplessly, overstimulated beyond the point of caring. His body is moving on instinct now, neither of you fully conscious as he keeps moving on his own, chasing another high even as it breaks him.

"Fuck, Raf...”

"One more," he’s licking into your mouth, sucking your bottom lip, too tired and uncoordinated to properly kiss you. "One more, one more."

You don’t even know how many times you’ve both come. The world is a haze of heat and pleasure, of wet, messy grinds and deep, instinctual thrusts, of Rafayel’s loud, unashamed moans directly in your ear between kisses, of the desperate way he clings to you, unable to bear even a second, an inch of separation.

You ride him through another, and another, until your body finally gives out, completely limp against his chest, your limbs trembling too hard to keep yourself upright any longer. Rafayel follows soon after, his movements slowing, stuttering, until he’s finally, finally still beneath you, panting raggedly, body wracked with aftershocks.

The room is finally silent except for your heavy breathing, the two of you floating between sleep and reality for what seems like an eternity.

"I think I might die," Rafayel croaks, voice hoarse.

You huff a weak, breathless laugh as you grumble into his shoulder. "Good, you stupid horny fish."

Sylus ♱⋅ ── the sweetheart (liar)

You’re going insane.

Sylus promised he would finally fuck you, promised he’d finally give you what you’ve practically been begging him for all week. “Just the tip,” you’d beg, whining into his neck or suckling gently against his fingers in attempts to bait him, “Please, Sy, just the tip and I’ll stop asking.”

Technically speaking, he’s held up his end of the deal. After all, you’ve already cum four times. Not that it’s ever stopped you from wanting more.

“What’s this? Are you even listening to me, sweetie?” Something jerks your head up, and you’re snapped out of your thoughts at the same time as Sylus grinds forward, humming as he pulls you closer on his lap, your thighs spread wide atop of his. “Tch, first all that whining and now you’re not even paying attention to me. I’m hurt, kitten.”

You shake your head as best you can with his thumb and forefinger still squishing your cheeks, tears from the sheer overstimulation blurring your vision as you bury your face into Sylus’s chest, chasing the mere friction.

The fat head of his cock slips right back out of your cunt, tapping once, twice, on your swollen clit before grinding back in with a lewd pop. One inch, two, just enough for you to feel the delicious stretch of the tip of his cock, before Sylus lifts you up higher on his lap, pulling out as the torture begins all over again.

You swear you can take more. It doesn’t matter than everytime Sylus lines up his cock it hits your bellybutton from the outside, it doesn’t matter that your hands can barely wrap around his base, it doesn’t matter that even when you suck him off your jaw throbs and he can barely thrust it in halfway without you gagging.

“Sylus, please, please just—” you whine, rutting your hips down to no avail as his firm hands render you immobile. Watching you squirm with thinly veiled amusement. “Just fuck me already!”

Your breath comes out in short, stuttered gasps, frustration bubbling over into pitiful little sobs against Sylus’s skin. He shushes you, rubbing slow, teasing circles into your hips as if he’s offering you comfort. But you know better. The bastard lives for this, the way your body trembles, how your cunt clenches down hard every time he pulls out, desperate for more than what he’s giving.

“Please.” A broken cry rips from your throat as he nudges forward again, pushing the tip back inside like he hasn’t already driven you half-mad. “I can take it. Ah, I swear, I can take it.”

And yet, he’s still so fucking mean.

“Hmm,” Sylus’s voice drips with amusement, low and tinged with laughter as his lips graze the shell of your ear as though lost in thought. “No.”

You whine, digging your nails into Sylus’s back with more force than necessary as you hiss out curses, “Cruel, stubborn, self-assured asshole. I told you I can take it Syl—ah!”

Sylus pushes himself upward, roughly fucking his swollen tip against you, ramming that delicious spot within you as your curses dissolve into mindless babbles of his name, another orgasm ripping through you as you try and match Sylus’s rhythm by grinding yourself on the rest of his cock.

“That’s it,” He hums, dragging his tongue along your pulse, relishing the way it hammers beneath his mouth. He can feel how fast it beats, erratic and needy, the way your breath catches in your throat. “You’re gonna be good and take what I give you. Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re already fucked stupid. And I’ve barely even given you anything, kitten.”

It’s humiliating how right he is.

Your thighs tremble violently on either side of his, the ache in your muscles a dull, distant thing compared to the unbearable need twisting in your core. Desperate, you try to grind down, to force him deeper, to make him give you what you need. But Sylus just clicks his tongue, unimpressed, fingers digging into your hips as he holds you still, keeping you right where he wants you.

Sylus shifts back on the couch, pulling you down, controlling your movements with an infuriating ease, guiding you along the few inches he’s deemed fit to give you. It’s barely anything, nowhere near enough, but even that—just that slow, teasing roll of his hips—and the unbearable pressure of the thick, insistent tip of his cock is enough to make your back arch violently against him.

“There we go,” he murmurs, cooing as he watches you, helpless and pliant in his lap. “No more complaining.”

A desperate nod. Another broken whine.

You can feel it building again, the pressure coiling deep inside you, sharp and unbearable. Sobbing, you drop your head into Sylus’s shoulder, biting into the curve of his neck to muffle your cries, nails digging into his shoulders, chest, clawing violent red marks as Sylus shudders, eyes rolling back at the pain. Your legs are shaking too hard to do much of anything anymore, giving out as Sylus is the only thing left guiding you, dragging you toward yet another orgasm.

Or rather, he would have.

But you feel Sylus chuckle, the sound deep and sinful as it rumbles down his chest and into yours, and fear prickles along your spine. Then, with excruciating patience, he pulls out, leaving you empty all over again before tapping his throbbing cock against your clit—slow, deliberate, taunting.

“You wanted just the tip, sweetheart.” He grins, voice a low, cruel purr as he kisses your forehead. “So don’t start crying now that it’s all you’re getting.”

Xavier ♱⋅ ── the munch

“Then sit on my face.”

You stare, dumbfounded, as Xavier already begins leaning back against the cushions of your bed, those big, blue eyes begging up at you in ways that make it hard to breathe.

Xavier’s hands tighten around your waist, fingers flexing like he’s barely restraining himself from yanking you down then and there. The heat of his breath ghosts over the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, making your pulse stammer, making every inch of you ache with want.

“Xavier, I didn’t actually mean…”

“You want me to prove it, right? Then I’ll do what I can to serve you well.” He’s dead serious, you realize, still staring down at him in shock as Xavier frowns, sitting up just long enough to wrap his arms around your waist and haul you toward him, seating you on his chest as protests die in your throat. “Sit.”

Biting your lip, you still find yourself hesitating. What if you’re too heavy? Or if he doesn’t actually like it? You still have your underwear on, shouldn’t you take it off, or does he plan on eating you through it? What if—

"You're thinking too much again." His voice is firm, but gentle, cutting straight through your spiraling thoughts. Before you can get another word in, he lifts you up from the backs of your thighs, guiding you forward until your knees are bracketing his head and you're hovering just above his waiting mouth.

Xavier groans, this is already better than his dreams—just having you above him, so close, so warm—is enough to make him lose his damn mind. His hands are keeping you steady, and when he tilts his head back to look at you again, you almost drown in the sheer hunger in his gaze.

"Please," he murmurs, breathless, sucking and kissing into your thighs like he can't believe you're making him wait so long for something he so, so desperately needs. "I really don’t think I can wait much longer."

A shudder racks through you, thighs trembling as the heat between your legs grows unbearable. Xavier’s so serious, so patient, despite the raw hunger in his voice, despite the way his chest rises and falls in uneven pants beneath you. You’d have to be cruel to deny him.

Slowly, you lower yourself the rest of the way, bracing your hands against the headboard as Xavier immediately pulls you the last few inches down, shoving his face up into you like he’s starving.

He might as well be because the first swipe of his tongue is so hot, so eager, that you nearly jerk away from the sudden pleasure. Not that Xavier would let you. His fingers dig into the marked-up plush of your thighs, keeping you right there as he groans into your pussy like you’re the best fucking thing he’s ever tasted.

“Wait—” Your voice is already breaking, a gasp caught in your throat as he licks into you again, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every second of it. He doesn’t even bother pulling your underwear aside, just mouths at the fabric, dampening it further, teasing you through the barrier until it sticks to your folds and you’re a whimpering mess, gripping the headboard so tightly your knuckles ache.

Then he shifts, hooking a single finger under the waistband, dragging it aside just enough to give himself proper access.

The first real flick of Xavier’s tongue against your clit is devastating.

A high, broken moan rips from your throat as pleasure jolts up your spine, your thighs snapping shut around his head, suffocating him as Xavier feels like the happiest man in the world. Moaning into your cunt, Xavier pulls you down harder against his mouth like he wouldn’t mind drowning in your pleasure if it meant he got to taste you for just a few seconds longer.

You’re already cumming. Head falling backward, your lips part in a silent scream as Xavier’s tongue continues circling around your clit in that same, devastating rhythm, only letting go once you’ve come all over his face. But he doesn’t stop for long.

His tongue flicks and curls and fucks into you with the kind of dedication that makes your vision blur, that makes your whole body burn as you become more and more sensitive. And when you grind down against his mouth, desperate and trembling, he just groans in approval, encouraging you to ride his face like you need this just as much as he does.

"That's it," Xavier mumbles between licks, inaudible between your wet, sinful noises. "Don't hold back. Use me."

It’s too much. It’s not enough.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling hard, but it only makes him grin against you, only makes him suck harder, making you gasp and sob as your thighs start to shake once more around his head. Still, he devours you, no teasing, no hesitation. Just raw, ravenous hunger.

"Xavier—"

He hums in response, the vibrations sending another sharp wave of pleasure through you. Then he finally fucks his tongue deep into your cunt, curling against your walls as you clench around the hot muscle, Xavier’s nose grinding deliciously into your clit as his hands begin guiding you back and forth once your rhythm falls apart.

You come hard, a choked cry ripping from your throat as your body locks up, pleasure searing through every nerve. Xavier doesn’t stop—doesn’t let you escape—licking and sucking you through your orgasm like he needs every drop, like he won’t be satisfied until you’re a writhing, overstimulated mess above him.

“Ah, Xavier, seriously,” you whine, every suck against your clit now tender and overstimulated as you try and squirm away to no avail. “Can’t, Xavier, can’t come again!”

Crying, you finally manage to wrestle his head out from underneath you—body still shaking, pleasure crackling under your skin like a live wire—realizing something that makes your stomach flip.

Xavier is panting, eyes half-lidded and hazy with bliss, hair fisted in your hands as the rest sticks to his forehead and pillow with sweat, letting you inch off of him as he finally breathes, heaving in deep breaths through swollen, wet lips. His whole body shudders beneath you, and when you shift, you feel it—the sticky warmth against his stomach, the evidence of his release.

He came. Just from eating you out.

And the worst part?

He’s still hard.

“One more time, please?”

Zayne ♱⋅ ── the addicted

Uh oh.

This was bad.

Zayne has always considered himself a beacon of self-control, having grown up under the concept of restraint and caution when it came to everything from his Evol to his life’s work as a surgeon.

But even he could get addicted to having you spread out underneath him like this.

It had started innocently. Zayne had forgotten his lunch today, probably due to his consecutive sleepless nights, thanks to being on call for not two or three but four surgeries this week. So when you delivered his lunch to his private office like any sweet girlfriend would do, it was only natural that you’d want to see if you could help him feel more relaxed and maybe help relieve the stress that was so clearly fogging up his mind.

This, however, was not what you had in mind.

"Zayne, someone is going to hear us," you hiss, voice trembling, but make no move to stop him.

Zayne only hums, two fingers rubbing right up against your clit with expert precision even with your jeans still unzipped around your waist. His other hand shucks them just barely down your thigh, pressing his fingers right back in, curling against that spot that has your legs jerking against the polished wood of his desk before dragging his fingers out of you agonizingly slow.

"You should’ve locked the door when you came in, then." He says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, leaning down, his breath hot against your ear. His free hand presses against your stomach, keeping you pinned as he fucks you open with his fingers, movements slow, deliberate. "You know I don’t like being interrupted."

Your head tilts back against the desk as your cries are muffles into your palm. "Zayne!"

"You were the one who wanted to help relieve my stress, weren’t you?" His voice is calm, collected, like he isn’t knuckle-deep inside you with his fingers glistening from how wet he’s made you already. "So be a good girl and take it."

Your breath stutters, thighs twitching as you clench around his fingers, already embarrassingly close with how well he knows your body, how pent up you’ve been after not having Zayne in over a week. Meanwhile, Zayne watches you come undone with sharp, almost clinical eyes, the hunger in them barely restrained, a predator biding his time.

"Mhm, close, I can’t—"

"Yes, you can," he cuts you off smoothly, pressing his fingers deeper, rubbing firm, steady circles over your clit. His expression doesn’t change, but his voice dips lower, smiling ever so slightly as he watches you. "Come for me."

You shudder violently, hands gripping the edges of the desk as another orgasm threatens to crash over you, your body far too weak to resist the relentless pleasure.

"Zayne," you cry out, hips jerking.

He clicks his tongue, allowing you to ride out your orgasm, but not before ripping his tie off, deft, scarred hands looping through the expensive silk before balling it up and pushing it into your open mouth.

“What did I say about staying quiet?”

Your response is stifled around his tie, and Zayne feels his traitorous cock throb at the sound of your fucked out, inaudible voice, the very picture of debauchery with the slight drool smearing your lipstick, your eyes hazy with post-orgasm glow, your office button-down skewed across your breasts just enough so be can squeeze your breast right under your lacy bra.

He wants to ruin you even more.

Zayne has barely even zipped down his pants, holding up his own shirt as he bites it to keep his leaking cock from smearing pre-cum all over the cotton, before he’s desperately fucking his own fist with one hand, the other still circling your clit.

When the sound of voices echo from right outside his office door.

Your body jerks under him at the sudden noise, but Zayne doesn’t stop. If anything, he doubles down, pressing his slick fingers harder against your clit, wrenching another broken sob from your throat, muffled by the tie still shoved between your lips.

“Don’t you dare,” he whispers, voice low, dangerous. His free hand tightens around his cock, stroking faster, more desperate, more sloppy than you’ve ever seen him. The sight alone has your walls clenching down around nothing, a fresh wave of arousal making a mess of his desk and the scattered papers on top.

The voices outside the door grow louder, and Zayne’s entire body tenses. Not with fear. Not with hesitation. But something that he thinks might ruin him forever.

“I should stop,” he murmurs, though his fingers never leave you, still rubbing circles into your overstimulated clit, dragging you higher, forcing you to ride that unbearable edge of pleasure. His teeth clench, brows furrowed as his pace on his own cock stutters, his restraint cracking with every second that passes. “I really should stop.”

You whimper, body trembling beneath him, a plea barely audible around the silk in your mouth.

“But you love this, don’t you?” His voice drops, rasping, guttural. “You love making me a mess, love knowing that the only thing keeping us from getting caught is how good you are for me.”

Zayne never talks like this, but god, now you wish he’d never stop. His mere voice is enough to send you over the edge once again. Your moan is strangled, raw, hips lifting weakly into his touch despite the overstimulation.

The door handle rattles.

Zayne snaps, one arm shooting out as ice surrounds the handle, spears of it crawling over the wooden frame of the door, across the tiled floor as he loses control.

He barely spares it a glance. Pulling the tie from your mouth, Zayne immediately replaces it with his lips, swallowing your gasp as he shoves two fingers back inside you, curling them deep, his strokes ruthless, relentless. His other hand leaves his cock only long enough to drag you forward, forcing your legs around his waist, the head of his cock nudging against your entrance as he moans into your mouth.

"Zayne, your Evol—"

"Don’t worry about me," he hums, kissing you one more time before his gaze drops, watching where the two of you meet. “You’ve done more than enough for me. You’ve always been enough for me.” And he pushes in inch by inch, stretching you open around his thick length, your body still pulsing and greedy from your last orgasm.

Zayne exhales sharply, his forehead pressing against yours as he stills, buried inside you. His fingers flex against your waist, grounding himself, keeping himself from completely unraveling.

“That’s it, breathe,” he murmurs, voice back to the soft, low tone you know so well, the urgency melting into something reverent. He presses a kiss to your cheek, then another to your jaw, as if to soothe you through the stretch. “You’re perfect.”

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging gently as you grind upward, coaxing him into going faster, into actually fucking you.

Zayne groans, his control fraying as he clutches you tighter, nose brushing against yours. “You're going to be the death of me,” he whispers, lips ghosting yours in a kiss, the intimacy making your heart clench.

You can still hear muffled voices beyond the door, a stark reminder of the risk, of how dangerously close you are to being caught. But it only makes you cling to him tighter, burying your face in the crook of his neck as you whisper, “Then let me take care of you, Doctor.”

16K notes · View notes

chanteya · 6 days ago

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art credit to @Qianbenshan on X ! all credit to the artist!

divider credit to @cafekitsune ! all credit to the original creator of the divider!

the ocean’s call / rafayel (m.)

rafayel just thought it would be funny to lead the fisher’s daughter astray by crowning her in water and blood - he’s killed so many of rafayel’s brethren, after all. if only he had known how hard it is to resist the desire of something you cannot have. (14.7k words)

content/content warnings: reader as the daughter of a fisher who hunts mermaids for their caviar (yum), reader and father’s relationship is not physically abusive but perhaps emotionally idk how to properly describe but i don’t want to leave it untagged, reader probably has some daddy issues (and i don’t mean that in the mocking way but in a the-author-has-daddy-issues-and-this-shit-is-not-funny-or-sexy kind of way), some body-horror detailing caviar harvesting, stealing star wars names for my background characters because i just finished andor and i’m not good at naming stuff, oral sex (male receiving), body worship (fem. receiving), switch!rafayel who seems submissive at first but in reality is just a crybaby dom, animalistic behavior (rafayel’s shark ass bites reader), some flesh-eating thoughts on rafayel’s behalf because you give him cuteness aggression, no actual cannibalism (wouldn’t that be funny) (i love yellowjackets), some overstimulation (both receiving) if you squint, idk . Idk i just kinda went crazy over this . who even wrote this

You were nine when your father took the joy out of the sea for you.

Perhaps you should start this off differently. You should remember the way it was a perfect summer’s day, and you had just finished your very first day of tutelage under the shrine maiden in Whalefall City. Your mother, whose rejection of that idea had been whittled down like a wooden arrow for the entire spring, had finally relented and allowed you to pursue a shrine maiden’s education. One day, it would be her daughter calling her to prayer and not the sneer-faced woman who currently held the title of ‘seasinger’. It wasn’t because your household was necessarily non-religious, or averse to the faith practiced in the city.

It’s just that your father spits on the holy city’s faith by partaking in the hunt of mermaids, just for sport, just for fun, just because he can.

Before that magical summer, you had never once been able to affix a picture to that. You knew your father was a talented fisher who was able to draw out even the most difficult of oceanic bounties, and he always made sure your family was fed. But you were a daughter, you see, a fact your father always had secretly mourned no matter how much it hurt your mother (“How I have groveled and suffered to deliver you to this earth!”), and thus you had never been taken with on the boat to hunt the mermaids littering the shores of Whalefall City.

You’ve seen them. It’s impossible not to. They dive in elegant curves, as whorling as the waves, a star-speckled shadow across the water before they disappear in its depth. The colors of the rainbow, the shimmer of the night-sky in their tails. More myth than real life. More dream than reality. Yet still here, sharing these waters with the citizens of the city. Lurking. Hiding. Surviving.

As per your own tradition, you bend down at the curve of the cliffpath you always took towards the sea and scoop up the wild-growing oceanvales. This was something you never once had told anyone about, and it was a daily routine you never neglected, feeling as though the day would remain incomplete if you didn't. This was not part of the religious teachings one received in the halls of the Dolphin's Hall, but it was a part of you, just as the ocean was. In the end, everything returns to salt. You throw the oceansvale into the waves and watch as the petals dissolve above the water's surface, as if sending a paper lantern off to carry your wishes.

In that moment, on the edge of you casting one last look at the horizon and in the turn of your heel to begin the climb back home, a blue-haired, child-like head bobs above the waves. You almost miss it, absentminded as you are, but you do see it: the small hand, barely differing to your own human one, furling around the petals and taking them with it as both hand and mermaid disappear. It makes you smile, almost making it worth it; as if this routine had finally been acknowledged for what it was. You wondered if mermaids and humans could be friends.

You couldn't have known how decisively crushing your father's answer would be.

The door is already open when you come home. An ominous sign, a warning for yet to come. The door was never left open, especially not on days where your father is supposed to take to the sea so he can partake in his favorite illegal dealing. There's no specific law condemning the prizing of roe out of a mermaid's womb, but it isn't looked upon with favor, either. The scriptures had always foretold of a deep unity between earth and sea, between moving plates and shaking waves, between mineral and salt. To turn your back on the ocean's creatures was to turn your back on the seasinger's preachings. That does not erase the hunger for their caviar, though, and the black market flourishes. And as long as the black market for caviar flourishes, your father refuses to cut into his own pockets, especially now, when the taxes in the city become more unforgiving and unforgiving with the preparations for the festival that is to be celebrated in just a moon's turn.

Your father is standing just beyond the door, in the dimly-lit hallway leading to the comfort of your mother's kitchen. His face is suffused with blood, red with anger, a fact that makes you duck your head in alarm, but is in vain. As soon as he sees you, your father's hand grips your frail shoulder and turns you toward him, his face the shadowed grimace of a man annoyed. "Did I not tell you to not go near that cliff time and time again?" he chastizes. For the moment, he holds himself back; your mother has drawn herself up in preparation of your defense, and her face mirrors the storm clouds you perceived in your father's grimace. But you can feel the need for him to shout rise steadily, like a tsunami beginning to swallow you whole. You lower your gaze to the ground, not knowing what to say. When you don't answer, your father finally shakes you and barks out, "Speak, girl! If it hadn't been for old Luthen pointing you out to me, I would have never found out about this, and then we'd be fishing out your bones out of that damned cove instead of a good piece of salmon for dinner!"

"Oh, leave it!" Your mother's hands shake off your father's threatening grip, and you allow yourself to breathe again. At your mother's chest, the world is safe. There are no scary men or scary bed-time stories about the unruly ocean. Instead, the scent of cinnamon and warm wood wraps you in its’ embrace, and you hide your face in the crook of your mother’s arm as she glares at your father. “She’s gonna be a seasinger, this girl is, and I won’t have you interfering with it. We all agreed to listen to her wishes. She’s not gonna be a fisher like you, Galen!”

“Well, I sure hope she won’t, because she does not heed a single warning I’ve ever taught her about it! Those mermaids don’t exactly gallop into my nets of their own free will, they’re dangerous!”

“You’ve made your point, now shove off.” Your mother glides her hand over the curve of your head. Protective, caring. Her presence is the calming lighthouse in the stormy seas, guiding you home, and although your father is still enraged, you believe the worst to be over. You are wrapped up in a childhood kingdom that is still entranced with the unknown, the beckoning of the deep, the ocean’s call. No one has taught you how to drown yet.

Not yet. But someone will, now.

Your father, your only father. You remember him tying knots in all ur robes, the way he made you laugh when swinging you up into the skies, up, up, and beyond. His fingers digging into the sides of your tummy to tickle the giggles out of you, claiming the sound was so joyous that all on earth and in the sea should rejoice in it. But you also remember the way his fingers dug into the soft of your flesh, yelling at your fingers bitten down to the quick, belittling you for your fear. The sneer on his face when he couldn’t fathom where your stupidity came from. The stormy eyes. This was the man who had never been taught better on how to love his family, and he won’t change for you, not for your mother or anyone else.

So when he encircles your wrist with his manacle-like fingers, you already know you’d been hoping for a reprieve and now the guillotine came swinging down to behead you. Your mother’s startled voice speaks up, but you cannot even begin to decipher the words, because your father is already shouting, “I don’t want to hear it, not from you, not when it’s your fault she’s turned out this soft and naive! If she wants to be a seasinger so badly, I’ll teach her what it means to sing into the sea!”

Her panicked voice is swallowed by the wind as your father begins to tug you down the pebbled path winding down from your house into the city, but you quickly turn off-path as your father begins to steer you towards the ocean. The salt is in your eyes and in your mouth, and you cannot be sure if the sharpness on your tongue is the rain, your tears or the taste of pure fear. As you angle up your head to look at the house one last time, your mother stands in the door, looking incredibly forlorn. You understand that look very well: that although your father is an incredibly hotheaded, temperamental man, the fact still remains that his little sport paints a target on the fishers’ backs.

It is time to stop romanticizing the mermaids now.

It’s the only thing you can think of as they claw the mermaid to ship. The words repeat over and over in your head, like the sharp stones thrown against the waves as the soft water makes them yield. They become round and pliant, your thoughts, running together in a string as you stare at the sight and try not to look. You don’t want to see. You don’t want to see. But they make you: Old Luthen (you’d spit on the name if you could) has his hands settled on your shoulders, keeping you turned towards the sight of your father and his shipmates heaving the gods’ dearest creation on deck. You try to see through the face, make yourself not acknowledge it, as if it could help if you pretend not to take note of her face. But she looks back at you, straight on. Her pearlescent eyes zero in on the way old Luthen has his fingers carved into your shoulders, the way he could crush and grind you down like brittle bones if you resist. And she understands: you are as trapped as she is. It is a terrible thing, this understanding that passes between the two of you, and you wish it hadn’t happened, wish she would have growled and screamed at you as she did at her captors.

The understanding flees her eyes pretty quickly when they begin to carve her out like a pig on a spit.

It’s terrible. The fear on your tongue turns into bile, and then you find yourself swallowing back vomit, not trusting yourself to throw up when your father was still intent on punishing you. The knife glides into the soft-scaled tail way too easily, giving way to a glittering, human-like nightmare. You’ve seen the way clams guard their precious pearls, the almost pretty membrane surrounding them to keep them safe. The translucency of it made it a beautiful wonder to behold, but there’s nothing beautiful about this, not when they’re clawing at the mermaid’s insides as if they were the bothersome strings of a spider’s web. The mermaid thrashes and screams, and then the bloodcurdling noise coming out of her mouth is unrecognizable, because they begin to serrate at the edges of her wound to drive into the hard scales surrounding her womb. To get everything, y’know, there’s people paying a pretty penny for their organs. S’pposed to have miracle healing properties. You swallow and swallow and swallow, but when they begin to tear at the flesh that was supposed to keep her roe safe, and the guts begin to speckle your feet, you find your way out of Luthen’s prison-hold and throw up right over the side of the ship. You can still hear her sobs, despite the sound of Luthen’s laughter - can’t stomach the fisher’s life, can she, your daughter? - and more deafeningly so, you can hear how loud the silence is in your ears when she finally quietens down, when she returns to the sea, the only burial the men give her. One last time, you’re looking at her as she bobs in the waves, her helpless arms streaked with wounds she suffered as she strained against the nets and knives. You think of those arms, and her ocean eyes, the way they had looked like a nightmare come true and yet the gaze they contained had been softer than any look your father had ever given you. Maternal, almost.

You close your eyes and think of your own mother. You guard that image of her, imprint it on the back of your eyes as your father settles his hand on the top of your head. Wanting to slip back into the role of the nurturing, caring father. Your fists clench and unclench at your sides. “It’s not a pretty thing, girl,” he says, and it’s supposed to sound soothing. Instead, it feels like he’s stabbing your ears with the same knife he used to gut her womb with. “They know what we’re capable of. They like us just as little as we like them. Your songs will help you nothing. It changes nothing.”

But something had changed. Irrevocably, unrepairingly, it had changed. As they paddle you back to the shore, all you can think about is the fact that this mermaid, this stranger, had viewed you more kindly than your own father had. And you carry that look with you as you grow into a woman, as unacknowledged and resented as the young daughter you had been.

From his hidden viewpoint, Rafayel can only glimpse the edges of your skirt. It’s a silver, diaphanous material, hugging the back of your legs like a seastar clings to the rocks. Expensive. Noteworthy. The garb the students of the shrine’s faith don as they perform their traditions, as if they don’t smile at the sea’s creations with one corner of their mouth and spit with the other. Disrespectful, your faith is, as disrespectful as your father’s nets and his arrogance as he takes to the sea. Rafayel’s sea. “Father, you forgot to take your hooks with you again,” your voice then rings out, freeing him from his hateful looks. It sounds too melodious. It should be as scratchy, as bothersome, as vile as humanity’s existence. But he is Lemurian at heart, and he cannot help himself from appreciating your lovely voice. A true seasinger, he begrudgingly thinks, but then he hastily corrects himself. A seasinger with the talent for it, but a liar nonetheless. Humanity can only deceive. “You should at least maintain the illusion that you’re hunting for something … legal. They’ve been cracking down on the black market’s dealings for a while now.”

“Only makes my prizes more precious, girl,” comes your father’s dry retort. He’s never once called you by your name in the entire time that Rafayel has begun to trail you, following your traces around town. He hears the gentle splash of your feet hitting the water, feels his senses prickle as he becomes aware of the way your body braves the spitting sea. “Just means I’ll get a better fetch for this stuff because of how rare it is. Alright, hand it over, before you catch a cold. Stupid attire you’ve got on there barely even protects you from the wind.”

“The sea warms me, father.”

“Pah!” The mockery comes easy to your father, he, whose entire business relies on his mockery of the Lemurian species. He can’t tell whether you’ve handed the bucket to your father, but he can tell when you retreat, the way your toes send up sandstorms all along the beach as you wade back to shore. “Spare me. If I wanted a sermon, I’d be sitting next to your mother in that overstuffed hall of yours. And I’ve told you countless times to avoid this cove!”

You ignore the latter part of his sentence. “The Dolphin’s Hall would have to be hit with a meteorite to ever move you to its sanctuary, father.”

“Ha! Haha!” His laughter seems biting, then becomes less striking as your father begins to paddle away. It creaks, heavy with his gear; the little rowing boat is just a distraction from the heavy vessel way out in the ocean his friends are waiting for him on. “It hasn’t taken your humor, at least. Alright, get back now. Go on!” He has to shout as the distance grows. “Gonna catch a cold, you will! And kiss your mother from me!”

The murmured answer you give him is lost on both your father and Rafayel, but it doesn’t sound very assenting. What isn’t lost on Rafayel is the realization that your father is the worst person in the world, but you are his favorite daughter, and that knowledge drags you down like an anchor rapidly descending. Keeping you in one places, weighing you down. Your footsteps become heavy as you walk up the beach, not as graceful as the way you had carried yourself in the sea. As he begins to follow you upstream, following the ocean’s arms deeper into the woods which border your village, he can still hear you angrily muttering to yourself.

He doesn’t know what to make of that. When he had suggested to his court that he’d revenge himself on the fisher and his entourage, his advisors had only given him a pained smile. Most of the elders still cling to the memory where their devotees on land would outstretch their hands in a blessed union, where their friendship made the moon wax and wane with happiness. They shake their heads in sadness with every murdered mermaid, as if that would fix anything. And yet, there are also those with a mind as murderous as his, still cautioning him, she’s not her father. If we take what is precious to them just because we can, what makes us better than them?

Morality. Rafayel scoffs to himself, sounding as resigned as you did in your trudge upward. As if that could help with anything. Had your father thought of morality when he had killed sweet Lyra right before her wedding night? Had he thought of morality when he desecrated her corpse for a handful of eggs, which could have been Rafayel’s nieces and nephews to dote on?

The ocean merges into a river he refuses to swim in, so Rafayel halts at the edge of the water to watch your slight frame disappear into the city. He doesn’t like to leave behind his tail in favor of awkward, human legs, but if he wants to keep an eye on you, he will need to. He’s getting pretty good at this, actually: Looking at you. Memorizing the way your lips curve into a smile, the shark teeth glint inside the grin you sport for when something makes you laugh. The way your light and deft fingers can tie the most powerful of sailor knots. The way your gentle hands hold a knife in the most reverent manner, as if this was an honor entrusted to you, not in the uncouth way your father points it at precious life.

You are not like him, uncomfortably so. It rankles Rafayel to see how much you are trying to escape your father’s taint.

The more he watches, the more he sees that taint poisoning you. You are a river current, slowing, slowing under the poison the human world dumps into you. It eats away at you, the way the rust claims the metal it swallows before it destroys the metal whole. The way you lower your head like a supplicant, shameful of the tales your fellow shrine maidens carry when your father sports another ‘treasure’ on the market. The way you paint on a smile when necessary, because you do not have the strength to face the naked truth. Your careful fingers, always touching in devotion. Moving to prayer. Guiding along to the sea’s chants. Hands of peace, not of war.

Of course, that only makes you an even more delicious offering. Even the gods know an innocent life is more precious than the forced sacrifice of a man already doomed for punishment.

As the sun sets on Whalefall City, people begin to flood the Dolphin’s Hall with eager chatter. Rafayel melts back into the shadows of the impressive dome, becomes one with the many murals depicting the ocean’s history. The hall itself is decorated in such an ornate manner that it makes Rafayel question whose devotion had turned into flesh here, bearing fruit to a worship so true that even Rafayel doesn’t dare think of blasphemy. Perhaps there was a time where humanity hadn’t been an accursed thing for him to ponder over. A long time ago, when words and actions still had meaning.

But then is not now. And now, everything has changed.

He watches as that change warps you, the shadow that passes over your face taking on the shape of his long lost Lyra. When you look up again to lead the group into prayer, your eyes have steeled over - as if through the entire room full of people, his thoughts have reached you. They hang above you like the clouds gathering before a storm as you begin the sermon, your voice crystal-clear, never wavering. Whatever doubts your father has stirred in your heart, they do not find their way here.

The last bell of prayer rings out at the same time as you bow to the masses. In acknowledgement, they murmur back their only line in the script - may the moon guide you through the storm - and then turn, flooding the exit like over-eager sardines squirming inside a can. Rafayel joins the stream of people, casting one last look back at you, but you’ve already risen again and turned your back on him. Your connection is broken now, a fact that Rafayel is secretly relieved, then aggrieved about.

Why does that matter to him, anyways?

On a full-moon night, Rafayel decides to cut you loose before you can confuse him further.

He’s been anticipating this for days now, anxiously looking up into the sky every time his head broke through the waves. As a seasinger, you are required to take part in monthly ablutions under the light of the full moon, returning to her domain of power before the wax and wane pulls at the seas. You’re supposed to take the maiden in training with you, but over the past few months, you’ve rejected her every time, gently but sternly relegating her to other tasks to be completed inside the Dolphin’s Hall. You want to be alone with your shame, alone with the fact that you seem to speak to the moon like she’s your only friend.

You’re not aware of the fact that Rafayel has been quietly listening on, every full moon night. As a Lemurian, he does not partake in a faith that revels in the worship of the sea. And yet, here he sat come every full moon, hiding himself in the rivers converging into the shallow pool in which you submerge yourself. He cannot keep hanging on to your every word. If he wants to revenge himself on the old fisherman, he has to do it now, before his too-humanoid-heart foils his plans and spares you. He thinks of Lyra and her kindly face, knowing she’d disapprove, but he makes himself go through the motions anyways.

He hadn’t been prepared for your reaction.

You don’t divest yourself of your clothes when you enter the pool, but Rafayel doesn’t have to imagine much to paint a picture of what is beneath, anyways. The satin hugs the shape of your body like a fervent lover, beginning to pool around you as you accept the water’s embrace. Lower and lower you sink, before you dive into the water to be fully submerged and rise again. He comes to a halt just a few feet away from you, on the periphery of your gaze. You do not see him yet. But he sees you. He sees the way the water falls in rivulets from your luminous lashes as they frame your clear eyes, sees the way the moonlight drinks in your irises. There’s a jealousy he cannot pinpoint inside his chest as the water begins to tear down your cheeks, framing your face so gently. You shudder slightly when the cold begins to settle in your bones, and your hands come to cover your exposed arms. As Rafayel realizes that he should not feel so enticed by the sight of a mere mortal being and his heart begins to tighten, you finally turn your face and realize that you aren’t alone here.

For a very long, heart-stoppingly awkward moment, no one says anything.

Rafayel stiffens up, waiting for your scream. He has planned this carefully, and he knows there is no way any help will reach you here, not when you’re in his domain. The moon may peer her gaze over these waters, but the water is his dominion, his kingdom. You are trapped inside the palm of his hand, and he is readying himself to swallow you whole.

But you don’t scream.

Your breath comes more shallowly, speeding as your lungs rush to fill air. He idly wonders how that feels like, the way the lungs balloon inside that easily broken chest. Despite all this, despite the circumstances, despite the fact that you are quite aware what the sight of a mermaid might mean to you, your eyes do not fill with fear. So Rafayel doesn’t move, either. He watches you and the way your chest constricts, listens how your breath stutters. And then you finally speak. “Is it you?” you whisper. “Did you hear my prayers?”

The magic of the moment is broken then, and Rafayel audibly breathes out. He almost breaks out into mocking laughter, - me, fulfilling your prayers? - but he stops himself short, not intending to waste the opportunity. If you would come willingly to meet your fate, then that would be even better. “Your prayers?” he repeats, and then, although he couldn’t make his disbelief clearer, he says, “Do you really think a being like me would bother to listen to any of your prayers? After all your kind has done to us?”

You take in his words with an austere expression. “No, I suppose not,” you murmur out, biting down on that full lower lip. No, don’t think about biting that lip for her. Don’t think about it. He chases away his own thoughts and instead begins to wonder why you’re not scared yet. Are you aware that there is nothing you can do to change this fate? “But one can hope. I couldn’t ever call myself a seasinger if I didn’t still have faith that the earth and the salt could reconcile again.”

“And whose fault is it that a reconciliation seems to be so impossible?”

You blink at him, fresh rivulets of water carding through those lashes like tears. You look like you’re crying, even though Rafayel knows you are not. “Do not take me for a hypocrite,” you tell him, sounding entirely too earnest. “I am quite aware of whose fault it is. We humans bear the sins of our fathers, after all.”

You sound bitter.

She’s not her father. If we take what is precious to them just because we can, what makes us better than them?

Rafayel hums at that. It doesn’t matter; it doesn’t change anything. He’ll kill you swiftly if he has to, give you a kind death. It’s better than anything your father’s crewmates have ever given to any mermaid they’ve stumbled upon. You won’t suffer, that he promises you, but he’s not going back on his word, not for anything. So he makes himself move closer. You still don’t scream for help as he approaches you, just muster him warily, like you’ve encountered a familiar face on the street yet cannot remember where that familiarity comes from. “And if I was your friend?” he asks, challenging your logic. “Then what? Would all be forgiven, and we’d dance in a circle throwing flowers?”

“Why don’t you find out?”

You stretch out a hand.

He should spit on it. If anything, he should claw at that hand like a man drowning and pull you into the depths. Your father does not deserve to cradle your corpse and reminisce about the day he’s held you for the first time. He deserves to suffer beyond all measure, and Rafayel intends to see to that. He schools his features into polite neutrality before he readies himself for the killing strike.

Rafayel draws in a shuddering breath. And then, like the liar he is, he takes your hand.

It is as soft as he had imagined. Too human, too weak, too frail. Every bone and sinew feels like it will give with just a squeeze, broken beyond repair. It feels like a betrayal.

He can barely make himself think a proper thought when you use the opportunity to step closer to him. He can smell you now, that distinct scent of myrrh and burnt offerings that clings to your skin. This is the scent he’s been using to track you for months. Below the too-thin garb of your seasinger attire, he can see the way your precious collarbones lift and sink in quick succession, your breath coming entirely too fast now. You’re panicking. You are deathly afraid of him. And yet you ignore that fear to squeeze his hand, as if this was just another interaction in the Dolphin’s Hall to you. In your eyes, he finds that steady faith that holds your spine rigidly straight, the look you can never give your father because of how you defer to him. “You’re much taller than I thought,” you tell him, your voice shaky. Then you give him a tentative smile. The light of your hope is reflected in that expression, and it hurts to realize that he will be responsible for diminishing that forever.

It’s okay, he tells himself. I’ll just grow closer to her so she’ll trust me, and then, when I’ve got her wrapped around my finger, I’ll kill her in front of her father’s eyes. “You look too small for a human, so I’m not certain you’re equipped to be delivering these kinds of judgements on appearances,” is all he says in response.

“Well, that is a valid observation.” You haven’t let go of his hand yet. Rafayel makes no move to free himself, either. You are locked into this situation, moved by something neither of you can understand. You let your gaze roam over the entirety of his face, the way it lingers on the sharp edges of his ears, the scales rippling down his throat. He certainly hopes you don’t see the way he squirms beneath that gaze. “But you’re my friend now, so you’ll forgive me for my deadly honesty. I fear that is just part of who I am, so you’re going to have to live with it.”

“Is that how one becomes a friend? This quickly?”

“Oh, certainly. You’ve been holding my hand for quite some time now. No,” you rush to say as he attempts to disentangle himself, fingers flashing to grip his arm. His first instinct is to strike out, to defend himself from humanity’s danger. He wrestles that instinct down until it becomes nil. He is bending at the edges, unraveling like threat inside your skilled hands. You guide him back towards you and intertwine your fingers. Your seasinger voice lulls him into a sense of security that is going to get him killed someday. She’s already bewitching you far too much for this plan to work, his inner voice cautions. The sound is growing increasingly frantic, every thought stumbling after the other until it turns into a senseless avalanche. Kill her now, before she undoes us all. Kill her now. “Will you let me prove that our friendship can work?”

No, his inner voice shouts. She’s your enemy’s daughter. SHE is your enemy. KILL HER NOW.

The warmth of your hand melts into his every bone. Sinking in like poison. “I suppose I have no choice,” he tells you, sealing his fate.

Rafayel begins to realize how fucked he is.

He was already quite aware of his awful disposition before he ever approached you, the way your mortal face charmed him the way a snake ensnares its victims. Too pretty for a human, a trap laid bare. He feels that very trap biting into his skin every time you smile at him. It draws blood every time your touch brushes him. As ridiculous as it sounded, he feels himself exploding from a second puberty, your every notion setting fire to his blood.

He struggles to maintain his murder fantasies. It’s a little bit difficult to focus on when all his dreams plague him with the image of you.

Today, you’ve asked him to accompany him to the hidden cove that he’s watched you frequent when he was still trailing you. It’s a beautiful location, the sandbank curving to accommodate the ocean’s kisses as it laps at the earth. Almost absentmindedly, your bare feet come to a halt every few meters to gather up a bundle of oceansvale, a flower you’re particularly fond of and have been ridiculed with by him. Idiot human, he had said, as if your obsession with the ocean wasn’t big enough already. You’re a seasinger, for crying out loud. Aren’t you religious enough without an obsession with the only flower that blooms near these waters?

You’d only looked at him with a steady, self-satisfied look. Are you jealous, per chance?

Yes. As if. Like he’d care what you’re obsessed with and what not. Anyways, mermaids don’t fall in love with humans. They kill them. By luring them to the sea, to be exact, so you’re halfway to the gallows already, so who’s the idiot now?

“What’s all this, then?” Rafayel wildly gesticulates around him - at the sweeping cliffs, the sand-carrying wind, the beautiful beach. The atmosphere is way more serene than he is, a calm and quiet getaway. The perfect hiding location for a forlorn daughter. “I hate using my human legs. If you were going to take me to the ocean anyways, why torture me before you do it?”

“I very much appreciate you using your human legs, Rafayel. But I am afraid the hike up to the mountain and down to this place is the point of the trip.” You give him a lopsided smile, the kind that makes him dizzy with emotions. Sickening. He clenches a hand inside the pocket of the jacket you lent him. “You know, I’m a little disappointed you don’t recognize the place. This is where I first met you. I remembered you straight away, yet you were ignorant.”

He waves away the words. “I’m a Lemurian, after all. Time passes much more differently for us than it does for your kind. What does an encounter like this mean in the grand scheme of things? ‘Tis a single star in the universe we traverse.”

The words make you frown. In fact, the frown disfigures your face entirely, your nose scrunching and your lips twitching together in an expression of dejectedness. He almost eats his words, almost hurries to tell you that of course he remembers, that he couldn’t forget the tiny human who bothered to throw the ocean flowers, even though its inhabitants were humanity’s enemies, but then you speak up again and the matter becomes irrelevant. “Then I ought to be thankful this star turned out to be brighter than it was. I’m quite thankful we got to meet again. I’ve always wanted a chance to meet a mermaid, to fight back against this enmity between our species.”

“Quite the conciliator, you are.” Rafayel follows you down unto the beach. Your feet trace a path into the sand which he follows dutifully, making sure to cover your tracks in case your father still admonishes you for coming here. “Is that what you meant when you saw me for the first time? ‘Did you hear my prayers’?”

“Yes. My mother’s always mocked me for that too, you know. She’s the only one who listens to me about this stuff, and even though she loves me a lot, she’s not above teasing me. I guess it’s kind of an inside joke in my family.”

Rafayel takes note of the way your eyes steel over. He knows you long enough now to recognize that stance. If you were a soldier, this would be the position you’d move into if you had to defend yourself against the thoughts about your father. Even when he is not present, he haunts your wellbeing. Even when it’s your mother you think about, his phantom always lurks right behind. “Your father isn’t too fond of the ocean?” he asks. The lie on his tongue tastes vile.

Like the rotting corpse of a gutted mermaid.

You shake your head. “No, he’s fond of the ocean, alright,” you correct. When you sink into the water, clothes and all, Rafayel joins you immediately. Before your eyes, his legs merge back into his trusted tail. It makes you shake with laughter. “You know, I wanted to make a joke about you being like a fish in water, but um. You are one. A fish, I mean. In water.”

“You’re too funny,” Rafayel deadpans. “Truly, I am beside myself with laughter.”

You turn away your face and laugh into the palm of your hand, as if that could hide your mirth. Not like he’s feeling every single vibration in the water that your quiet giggles send out. The sound settles in his chest, taking root there. “Note taken,” you chortle still. “I’ll work on my jokes.”

“Don’t bother. You’ll never be as funny as I am.”

“Oh yeah?” You swivel your head around to him. Whatever smart response Rafayel was cooking up dies inside his mouth, turning dry in the face of your beauty. The dimples in your cheeks make you look younger than you are, your face luminous with real happiness. This is what had been lacking from your expression inside the Dolphin’s Hall. You were living for your faith, for your duty, leaving yourself much too neglected. But you were finally growing comfortable inside your skin. Opening up to him.

Kill her, the voice still whispers. He smothers the spark of that thought before it sets his brain on fire. Rafayel swallows. “Is that all you brought me here for, then?” he sighs. “To bore me with your unfunny jokes and reminisce about the past?”

“You sure do know how to kill the moment.” The sentiment makes you snort. You finally turn your face to the horizon, and Rafayel can breathe comfortably again. Looking at you for too long makes him want to dig into you. With knifes, of course. Not with kisses. Or his fingers. Of course not. Nothing of the sort. None. “I just wanted to free my mind for a little bit. It gets incredibly loud in there, sometimes.” You tap your temples, the guardians of your thoughts. He wants to climb into that brain and see for himself how loud it is. He’d risk turning deaf to hear. “Everyone always looks to me, because I’m a seasinger, but they aren’t looking at me, not really. So I make myself entirely into that role I’ve been given. And I lose sight of who I really am. When I’m here, I don’t have to do that. I can just listen to the ocean. And she listens to me.”

You sound wishful.

In his own silent moments, when Rafayel discards his own roles, he is able to admit to himself that he wants to read your every wish from your lips and make them come true. If possible, he’d crown you in oceansvale and pearls, to show you the beauties of the watery underworld and all it has to offer. But that is something he can never allow himself to desire. So, like you, he makes himself steel over, and then asks instead: “Aren’t I listening to you?”

“Sure, but you’re just required to, aren’t you? You’re my friend.” You nudge him with your shoulder, the touch a brand of fire on his skin. You’re so, so warm. Rafayel chases that sensation as you lean away, and you let him drape himself over you, already used to his clingy behavior. You’re my friend. You’re my enemy. “The ocean doesn’t have to listen, but she does. She’s been a better parent to me than my father has. He’s always thought I wasn’t worth raising because I was of the cursed sex, anyways.”

“Does that matter? Your mother loves you.”

“But he’s my father.” And your voice breaks. As he angles another look at you, he realizes that you’ve been gazing at the sea with tears in your eyes. If you were Lemurian, you wouldn’t need him to crown you: your own pearl-teary eyes are already beginning to fill with treasure. Like tidepools, they spill over, painting your face in salt-burned tear tracks he wants to kiss until his mouth runs dry. Rafayel curls an arm around you, all thoughts of murder forgotten, and all he can think of is how to comfort you properly so you’ll never have to mourn your father again. “He’s my father,” you repeat with a muffled voice against his shoulder, as if he didn’t hear you the first time, “He should have loved me anyways. I would have become the son he wanted if he gave me the chance. But he didn’t want me. He didn’t want me.”

Rafayel doesn’t know if it’s the ocean or his blood he hears rushing in his ears. His mind has already become clouded with rage, swirling into a hurricane that tears your father apart. He rocks you back and forth, and he hopes it feels like the ocean is cradling you, carrying you far away from your sorrow.

It’s already been two full moons since Rafayel has become your ‘friend’.

Your birthday has come and gone, and you’ve scared Rafayel out of his own skin when you burst into tears as you accepted his gift. It’s just a necklace made of a shell, idiot, he had clarified, flustered. It’s not like I spent money on it or anything. It was just something I had laying around and wanted to get rid of.

Rafayel, you had said, voice shaky with teary joy. It’s everything to me.

It’s getting harder and harder to convince himself into doing what he set out to do.

Particularly today he finds himself reaching back for the memory of his bloodlust, watching you guide new devotees to the sea to be baptized, like turtles taking to water for the first time. He’s seen his fair share of baby turtles scrambling to the sea, muddling up the waves as their tiny legs fought to master them. These children are not dissimilar to the freshly born turtles. Traitors, the lot of them, he thinks to himself, but the threat feels hollow. Cursed species, they are. Liars and deceivers all. He tries to ignore the irony of that prejudice considering the nature of your relationship.

When you finally send the kids off and join him in the water, he schools his features into a childish pout he hopes will mask his hatred. “You’ve made me wait all evening,” he complains, the annoyance in his voice real. It has been quite some time since you got to unwind with him. The thought of Rafayel looking forward to seeing you again had made him panic, and he had scrambled to avoid you for a few days before his own longing drew him back to you. “I was freezing to death here.”

“As if!” Your laughter rings as jubilously as the bells inside Dolphin’s Hall call to prayer. There’s a myth as old as humanity which decrees that when the bells ring twelve times, the gates of heaven will open to flood the world entire. Only the true believers will become one with the sea, the earth finally reunited with its one true love. The planet will become a single ocean again, and it will be as if land and sea never had separated, all creatures under the moon united under one banner. “I know exactly well that wherever you live is way colder than whatever temperature these waters are. This must feel like a hot bath for you in contrast.”

Rafayel sniffles, caught in the lie. “It’s the principle that counts.”

Your smile gentles. “Rafayel,” you say. The way that name rolls of your tongue makes him want to roll his eyes back into his head: if all sermons sounded like this, he’d be the most devoted follower of the sea’s faith alive. Your voice is the single most exultant sound any living creature could create. Perhaps you were a siren in your past life. “Don’t tell me you missed me.”

I miss you all the time, he thinks. I miss you even when I fantasize about killing you. I miss you even when I should be grieving all the mermaids my brothers and sisters have lost. I miss you even more when I watch them take brides and grooms and make the kingdom of the depths a happier place in the face of adversity. You would like us, the way we cling to hope like you do. “I bet you’d like that,” he drawls out, feigning normalcy. “Any living being would want to be missed by me. I’m very beautiful, after all, and very desired.”

“Truly? Are they all vying for your attention down there?” You flick his shoulder, intending to be teasing. Even the pain is welcome. He tries to ignore the way his stomach flips. “And yet you’re here for me. What an honor, oh desirable bachelor.”

“You should be honored,” he tells you. It sounds arrogant, but why shouldn’t he be? He is beautiful after all. For once, he’s not lying. Rafayel takes pride in his appearance, and he preens at the chance of receiving a compliment from you.

You cock your head at him. It’s supposed to look threatening, but you hold all the danger of a sweet otter. “Don’t make me laugh,” you tell him, still joking, but your voice is breathy.

Maybe his looks don’t leave you as untouched as you pretend to be. Maybe he’s not the only one feigning.

Rafayel brushes his fingers over the hollow of your arms, following the veins as they reach upward. It makes you shudder. He delights in it. “I adore hearing you laugh, sweetling, but it’s not the intention I have here,” he says. He is in and out of his body at the same time. Most times, he smothers these thoughts before they reach his mouth, yet he continues to speak as if this were just another dream of you. “Go on. Say it. Tell me I’m beautiful.”

Your lips part, speechless. Behind you, the human world goes on, tickering away like a fluid mechanism. With or without you. You look like as if you realize that the ocean is beckoning. He is beckoning. If you’re not careful, he’ll drown you, bones and all. “You’re beautiful,” you whisper then, the sound of it caught up in the rushing of the waves. They cling to the sand, dragging it with the pull of the tide. He yearns to do the same.

His hand comes up to cradle your face. You fit perfectly into it, as if you were made for him. As if he was made to compliment you. Rafayel’s heart stutters in his chest, threatening to burst. “Again,” he says, his voice steady. (He doesn’t know how he does it. He feels like he’s about to explode.) “You can do better than that.”

You draw in another sharp breath, your lungs fluttering. The human body was so very fascinating. He wants to reach inside you and look at everything, feel it all. “You’re truly beautiful, Rafayel,” you try again, and this time, you pitch up your voice. Every word is clearly enunciated. You look at him straight on. “All the wonders in this world pale in comparison to you.”

Oh. Oh.

“You,” Rafayel breathes out. His fingers are shaking on your face, but they hold on. Latching on to you. If he strengthened his grip, will he be able to crush your skull? Will he be able to reach inside? His body feels heavy with desire; as he bends towards you, he finds that you’re already meeting him halfway, and this time, the soaked material of your clothes exposes the sight of your stiff nipples. He yearns to warm them up for you, to take them in his mouth and kiss you until you’re burning from the inside out. He’s always wondered what you would taste like.

You are both torn out of the fantasy at the sound of your voice in a human mouth, carried by the wind from the shore. You draw apart hastily, as if a spell had been broken, and you fumble to rearrange your clothes and fix your hair although nothing had happened. Rafayel tucks his traitorous hands behind his back.

“I,” you manage to say, your voice drowsy with the lingering desire, “I have to get back. I’ll see you?” You phrase the order like a plea, as if Rafayel wouldn’t bend over backwards for you. You miss his assenting, fervent nods as you whirl around and wade back to shore, your own hands drowning in the material of your dress as you lift it up and wring it out. The water trails behind you in his stead, leaving him behind.

He’ll totally be able to carry out his revenge, alright.

It’s getting increasingly difficult to resist you.

The more time passes, the more it feels like the sun rises and sets just for you. Your happiness is his own, your sadness his bitter grief. Every emotion you ever display resonates so deeply in his soul that he grows hazy with responsibility, wants to reshape the world in your image. Every tear you shed is carefully collected like his own well-cared for treasure, every laughter bottled in the memory palace of his mind. His mind traces each and every one in your absence, creating melodies which cannot compare to your voice. He is becoming enraptured. He is coming undone.

Even the distance is beginning to choke him. You feel so close and so far. He wishes to lap at your body like the ocean does when you perform your prayers, wants to smother you in a hug that threatens the ocean’s might when you dive down with him. In the few times where you were able to swim with him - your timetable strict, your parents suspicious - he’s allowed you to trace your hands over the scales of his tail. To you, it’s the satisfaction of a curiosity. To him, it is a so startling intimacy that he wants to weep. There is no room for justice as his heart expands to encompass you, and it grows inside his chest, breaking apart his ribcage so it can guard you from the world. There are no words. You’re in every breath, every steady push of his blood.

Although the active threat of your father’s suspicions has come between the two of you, every meeting rarer, but becoming more precious over time, it cannot erase the wish for his soul to reach for you. You doze away in your place on the stony slopes surrounding the pool you perform your ablutions in, and Rafayel is content to guard your slumber, dipping in and out of the water. He never strays away for too long. He makes sure to count every strand of those stunning lashes that had already enticed him when he first met you here, follows every vein inside your face to see where it branches into. What was hated has become dear to him now, your humanity as endearing as your very existence. He wonders what you dream about. Wonders if you dream about him, as often as he dreams about you. His brain has become very enamored with you, every fold of the thing having been etched over with memories of you.

Your father is already hounding you. Your newfound happiness hasn’t gone unnoticed. It should please Rafayel, how your friendship has changed your life for the better. You are standing up straight, opening up to the world. When you laugh, it finally sounds like your vocal cords are singing in true harmony, never again pushing for the falsity you used to employ to wave away concerns.

If anyone were to discover you were sneaking away with a mermaid, they’d be dumbfounded. Perhaps they’d mock you for it. But if your father were to discover you two, then it wouldn’t take much until Rafayel would find himself face to face with the same knife he used to kill Lyra.

I’ll have to tell her the truth, Rafayel thinks then, stricken. If I really love her, then I have to let her go. He closes his eyes, losing himself to the sharp sting of grief inside his chest. That’s what Lyra would have said, anyways. She was always so enthusiastic about fairy tales and happy endings and true love. He mourns for the way his childhood had been shaped with the loss of her, and the loss of all the mermaids that had ever died an unjust death. But it has taken on a new meaning. He looks into your face and cannot find it himself to justify the means to the end he had intended for you. There was nothing vengeful or freeing about this. If anything, he’d push himself off to his own metaphoric end, because Rafayel has reached the ends of his wits and he’s finally accepted that there is no you without me. He stretches out a hand to card his fingers through your dry hair before it can fall into the water. What a blessing it is to do at least this, to be cherished by you.

He begins to ask himself how he is supposed to leave you.

As Rafayel’s thoughts take a turn for the worse, you open your sleep-drowsy eyes. They are still blurred over with the dreams you’ve been chasing, just slowly becoming clear and taking in your surroundings. “Raf?” you whisper, and he tries not to melt at the nickname. No one’s ever thought up a nickname for him. So many things you’ve given him that he will never be able to repay you with. So much light you’ve brought into his dark, dark life. The bottom of the ocean, despite all its magic, had never been as bright as this. “I’m here,” he tells you, the sentence literal, but he means it with every ounce of his soul.

You blink away the last traces of unconsciousness, your pretty lips stretching open to release a yawn. “I was afraid you’d left,” you tell him. Also so literal. But in the way you look at him and your tone turns up with hope, he finds himself recognizing the underlying meaning, just as you had discerned his.

He’s told you so many lies already. What’s one more? “I’d never leave you,” he tells you, and he tries to mean it. In another universe, he would be able to mean it. Rafayel swims closer so he can throw an arm over your frame as you lie back down, and he angles himself up so he can cage you in-between his hands. As he arranges himself, he abandons the scales and tail in favor of his awkward human legs, caging your delicate waist inbetween his knees. He’s balancing himself on top of you now, not caring if the drops of water pearling off his skin splash on you.

You don’t look like you care, either. You stare at him as if there’s nothing else in the world, just the two of you for all eternity. The thought fills him with happiness.

Slowly, very slowly, as if asking for permission, you lay your hands on his naked chest. The tips of your fingers are even softer than the palms of your hands, a testament to your nature. Not a toiler, not a warmonger. Something more peaceful and calmful, that brings his own soul rest. “I dreamt about you,” you tell him, honest as a Lemurian. He smiles at the inadvertent way you had answered the question he’d been thinking of while you were sleeping. “What was your dream about?” he asks, anchoring his weight on one hand so he can use the other to curl around the side of your throat. He can feel the pocket inside it traveling as you swallow to gather your bravery.

“A little bit like this situation right now.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to elaborate, friend.” Rafayel’s fingers dig into the supple flesh of your shoulder as they move, then gently claw at your skin as he follows the curve of your arm. He’s always been fascinated with your human skin, the way it seems entirely different from Lemurians although they look so similar. The smallest of things could break it. Bruises bloom like flowers with the lightest force. It makes him want to cage you inside his chest, where he can keep you safe from harm and make sure no one will ever hurt you again. It’s irrational, and unnecessary. But he just can’t help himself.

You narrow your eyes at him playfully, blissfully unaware of his thoughts. “Are you enjoying this?”

Now Rafayel begins to smile as well. It is entirely genuine, and only reserved for you. He is yours, heart and soul. “Of course I am,” he confesses, feeling as exposed as a newborn babe. “You always act so unbothered by me, you know. I was beginning to worry whether I was the only one caring about this … friendship.”

Your own hands have begun to wander. You place them directly on his cheeks, directing his gaze at you, as if you weren’t already the single fixed point around which his entire existence was centered around “Rafayel,” you say. “I don’t want to be just your friend.”

His breath catches. He searches your eyes for a joke, for the mockery, but you are serious. And for once, his own mind blanks at the possibility that his feelings might be reciprocated. “Do you… mean it?” he whispers, afraid. Vulnerable. She’s human, she’s a liar, she’ll lie to you, watch. This isn’t possible. This is a trick.

“Shall I prove it to you?”

Rafayel’s heart stops.

(God, he always knew you’d be responsible for his death.)

The answering smile you give at the sight of his eagerness makes his insides melt into the same constitution as a jellyfish. There is a fire at the core of his existence, and you have come to kindle it. He feels the blood rush; in his cheeks, in his body, down his abdomen. He is alight with emotion, bursting at the seams. As you flatten your palm and curve it around the shape of his chest, he chokes out a, “Yes. Please.”

Your touch is hesitant, but your eyes are determined. “I love you, Rafayel,” you finally tell him, the magical words that crack open his chest like a volcanic crater exploding into the water. He collapses against you, crushing his lips against yours, and then he can’t tell where you start and he ends because of how you meld against him. Every inch of his body comes alive with the sensation of you against him, and you fit into every curve inside his body. Your lips carefully trace the shape of his own, moving against his tenderly, carefully. He can’t bring himself to entertain the same restraint as you do: as he digs his hand into the curls of your hair, he angles your head appropriately and then delves inside to finally taste that sinful mouth he’s been dreaming about for so long.

Your answering whimper is smothered almost immediately by his beckoning tongue. Greedily, selfishly, Rafayel kisses you as if his life depends on it; like he might die without ever getting lost on your tongue, dissolving like sugar. He groans into your mouth when you carefully tangle your tongue with his own, not used to this kind of kiss. When he tries to pull back to grant you a reprieve, your heavenly lips wrap around the tip of his tongue, sucking on it in the mock-fashion of a blowjob.

He almost comes then and there, that’s how embarrassingly obsessed he is with you. Only you.

You chase him as he disentangles himself, but Rafayel quickly busies himself with your throat, littering those veins he’d been staring at like a vampire starved with kisses. “You have no idea,” he whimpers into the skin there, speaking directly into your soul, “how you make me feel. No idea. You’re dangerous.”

You don’t mock him for once. Instead, Rafayel is gently pushed to the side. Before he can worry about being rejected, you straddle his lap and sit down like a queen crowned on her throne, and the sight makes him so breathless that Rafayel finds himself falling back against the wet ground without complaint. Your lips are kiss-swollen and smiling, a sight he mentally declares to be his favorite sight in the world. “I’ll find out soon, enough,” you promise, the words as delicious as your kisses. “For example, how does this feel?”

And you grind down, your clothed core sliding over his exposed cock in a perfect glide.

Rafayel throws his head back, cussing in Lemurian. He doesn’t even realize the crack of pain as his head hits the ground, his entire nervous system too caught up with the sensation of you rubbing against the most sensitive spot of his body. There’s a sound he doesn’t immediately recognize, a quiet giggle that shakes your entire body, and then the feeling of the weight on top of him shifting as you bend down to kiss your way down this body. “My Rafayel,” you murmur against his abdomen, lips shaping the words against his hipbones. He almost trills in happiness at the sound of that. Yours. “You’re so, so, so beautiful.”

If it was possible to dissolve in extreme happiness, Rafayel would be seafoam on the water surface right now.

He digs his fingers into the hard stone, unyielding as it is, as your lips seem to vanish off his skin right before reaching his already erect dick. He catches the look of your eyes, the slight surprise at his size - he can’t lie, it makes him want to puff up in pride - but then you begin to sport a scary smile, the kind that makes Rafayel realize that you’re going to suck the life out of him, and he’s already on the brink of death from the possibility of this happening alone. “My love…” he begins to caution, but then he chokes off as each and every one of your fingers wraps itself around the shaft of his cock, and there is no consciousness to form thoughts, no thoughts at all.

You kiss the tip of the head, tongue peaking out to catch the first beads of pre-cum. “Gonna make you feel good, I promise, Raf.”

He wants to answer, he swears he does. There is just no way he can. Rafayel’s entire body arches off the ground as you take him in your mouth, and he’s barely aware of the way you slightly choke on the size of it - his hands go to your head, are you alright, are you okay, love? - yet that doesn’t stop you; the slide of his cock on your tongue continues and continues and continues, and then he feels himself hit the back of your throat and he cries out in pleasure, feeling like a star that’s exploded.

“Fuuuuuuuck.”

You sound like you want to laugh; your mouth shakes and shudders around him, and that makes him tug at your hair, unwillingly, instinctively. He’s about to apologize, but your own tugged out moan makes him hold himself back. He hates hurting you, but you seem to enjoy it, so he tangles his fingers into your hair and gently begins to guide you up and down, up and down. He hisses at the sensation, of the clenching around his dick, the gentle swipes your tongue makes when you get to. “You’re so good to me,” he tells you, watches the way your eyes light up with the praise. He’s never even thought about how lovely and romantic sex could be. Love-making. “So good.”

You hum, and Rafayel hisses; it’s a delicious kind of vibration, both torturous and pleasing. “Please,” he pleads with you, his fingers shaking. Not aware of what he’s asking. But you seem to understand, you speak the language of his soul; you hollow your checks and suck, and then his eyes do roll back so far into his own head that he thinks he can finally see his brain and all the images of you he imprinted on it. As your fingers begin to stroke in time with your tongue, he begins to feel like he’s shaking out of existence, both here and not. Both bound and untied. The coil in his abdomen begins to tighten, his toes curling at the way you drag your tongue around the tip, suckling, teasing. Your lips pop as you remove your mouth, pumping him quicker and quicker, watching him. A predator devouring its prey. “Beautiful,” you say again. “The prettiest, my Rafayel. Look at you taking it so well.”

He keens at that, hands sliding down to claw at your arms, not sure if he wants you to stop or keep going. He’a never experienced an orgasm building up like this, a literal supernova beginning to build at the edges of his perception. “I,” he gasps out, looking for words, finding none, but you help him out of his predicament by kissing him messily, the taste of his own pre-cum lacing his tongue. Your hand, every caress growing in pressure, continues to pump his cock even when he cries out against your mouth, even as his teeth find your shoulder and latch onto it to bite it. You don’t push him away, not even when he explodes into your hand, his release beginning to pearl over your hand as you continue to fuck him through the orgasm. When he begins to sob against your collarbone, pushing at your dangerous hands, he finally understands how deadly a single human being can be.

You’ve ruined him, and he couldn’t be happier about it.

The second you remove your hand, Rafayel flips you onto your back and begins to lick your fingers clean, pleased at the way your mouth drops into that cute little shocked ‘o’. Intertwining your fingers, he drags his tongue over every inch of your palm, taking note of the way your eyes zero in on the length of it. His chest rumbles, pleased; he wants to be as desirable, as perfect to you as you are to him. You are an absolute miracle, a wonder to behold. “Your turn,” he tells you, and your eyes darken.

But you shake your head. “Raf,” you say. Your voice is deadly serious. “If you don’t fuck me right now, I’m going to explode into a thousand pieces and you’ll never see me again.”

Despite the sensuality of the situation, Rafayel finds himself bursting into laughter. Your own obscene, reddened lips curl into a matching grin, and for the moment, you are both innocent again, youthfully in love. Love-making, he thinks again. I want to make love to you for the rest of my life, for all eternity. “I love you,” he says out loud. “And I don’t want you to explode. But I want to show you how much I love you, as well. I want to worship you from head to toe.”

Your eyes widen in the most adorable way. As someone who’s always lowered herself as a supplicant, you find yourself entranced by the idea of being an object of worship. “You do?” you ask, unsure.

Rafayel raises your still sticky hand to his face, not caring about the mess. He wants to be messy with you. He wants to be part of you. “There’s nothing else in this world,” he begins, kissing the inside of your wrist, nuzzling the skin there. “I adore as much as you. I already worship you. Your hands, your face, your waist, your entire body. All of it is holy to me, holier than any faith I’ve ever believed in my entire life. And if that is a sin, then I will die the happiest sinner to have ever graced this earth.”

The way you blush at his words make him want to eat you whole. He’s never once considered partaking in human flesh, and although he isn’t too fond of what could possibly be considered cannibalism, his desire borders on the urge of devouring you entire. You are just too sweet.

“I’m going to eat you,” he actually tells you. Your answering laughter only makes his chest constrict in pure, unbridled joy.

He backs the words up with another gentle nip to your fingers, his sharp teeth only stopping short of breaking the skin; he finds himself back at your throat, lapping up the thin stream of blood and listening in to the way your laughter turns into a strangled moan. “Oh,” you yelp. “I thought that was a joke.” That makes Rafayel grin; with the taste of your salt on his tongue, he begins to kiss the space inbetween your chest, his fingers gently rolling your nipples through the thin dress you’re wearing. You sigh in please, your back arching just so slightly at the feeling of his fingers on you. “Adore this chest,” he tells you, trying to stay true to his word, but he’s already getting lost in the delicious sight of you surrendering to your pleasure. Following an urge that’s been haunting him ever since that almost-kiss on the beach, he wraps his lips around the rose-bud like nub and suckles it into his mouth, the sound of your sharp outcry like music in his ears. He groans against your chest and hopes you can hear the sound inside your heart; he wants to crawl inside and live there, reside under your skin. As he kisses the nipple with the same fervor he did your mouth, his other hand gently fondles the neglected nipple until you begin to whine for him to stop, the gentle torture not enough for you.

He abandons your chest in favor of your soft, soft stomach - he smushes his cheek against it like a cat, reveling in the way it feels. “God, I love you,” he says, hands cupping your waist. You don’t answer him, too lost in the sensation of his knees beginning to grind against your exposed core for some friction: your dress has ridden up, revealing the lack of underwear. His mouth runs dry, sparing only a moment of pondering where he asks himself whether the seasinger’s attire just doesn’t include underwear; you don’t leave him any more time to think as your fingers claw their way down his back, the pain as erotic as your lewd moans. “Please,” you beg him, grinding up your hips against his. He’s rock-hard again, straining to be inside you. “Please, I need you so bad. Fuck me, Raf.”

“You’ve got a filthy mouth,” he grits out. It’s not a reprimand, more an articulation of how crazy you drive him. Rafayel’s hands glide to the small of your back, lifting you up to receive him, readying you. You’re staring straight into his eyes, panting heavily, and he wonders whether you’re actually seeing him or staring into his soul. “I love you,” you say in response, clinging to the words like a lifeline. His heart jumps and jumps and jumps in chest, struggling to break out of its cage to join hands with yours. The head of his cock nudges against your labia, opening you up, and you fold open like a pond lily, more beautiful than even the oceansvale you adore. “I love you so much.”

“But I,” he tells you, voice strained, “love you more.”

And he pushes inside.

For a second, it feels like all kingdom come. It’s blasphemous and religious all at once; Rafayel feels whole, feels like you’ve become one person as he stretches you open. You feel so perfect around him, so, so perfect. “Oh, gods,” you whisper, the only time you take the name of your articles of faith in vain, a fact that he’s arrogantly proud of, and then Rafayel draws back and curls back inside again, the head of his dick nuzzling against something spongy that makes you wail like a woman stabbed. He almost pulls out, if not for the way you kiss him like this is the last time you ever will, your tongue inside his mouth before he can register, and then the hunger you illicit in him is too much to tolerate and Rafayel begins to fuck into you.

“Full,” you whimper, the words drawling together on your tongue as if you don’t even have the peace of mind to formulate the thoughts properly. Rafayel drags his cock back, pulling out almost entirely before he snaps it back inside; you bare your teeth at him in the same manner as he had done before he had bitten you, which would have made him smile at the way his behavior’s rubbing off on you. But there’s no space to do anything, no controls inside his mind. He’s become prisoner to your gummy walls, the way your warmth swallows his whole, every clench of your pussy around him like a shooting star frying his nervous system alive. “So perfect,” he whines, letting his instincts take over, and your fingers shakily hold on to his shoulder as he begins to piston in out of you. The slapping of flesh meeting skin is so loud it makes you screw your eyes shut in embarrassment, yet you offer up your body all the same. Your legs interlock behind his back as he continues to grind into you, in and out, in and out, in and out. “God, you take me like you were made for me. You’re a dream come true. You are. You are.”

“Rafayel,” comes your pitiful answer, but he’s not paying attention to you right now, not when his body is so hyperfixated on the way you make him feel and the way your own pleasure becomes the forefront of his mind. “S’too much. Slow down.” Your pussy flutters around him, dragging him back in every time he tries to pull out, and his solution is to pump into you quicker, harder, deeper. There is no sound, none that could be described when his cockhead begins to kiss your cervix, and now Rafayel’s chasing after your climax, desperate to get you there before he comes again. There are tears pooling at the edges of your eyes, tears which he licks up with the same delicacy he would use to gorge on you, lose himself in the taste of your cunt. His own tears blur his sight, dripping onto your face, searing into the skin there. “I can’t,” he bawls, sounding entirely too heartbroken for the way he fucks you, the way he folds your body into position to take him better, take him deeper. The bloody trails your nails leave on him don’t even make an impression on him anymore. He sobs into the curve of your throat, chasing, chasing. He ruts into you like a man possessed.

Even in your fucked out state, your shaky hands brush away the tears from his face. He hisses into the palm of your hand, swallowing his sobs, ignoring the hiccups. His own hand finds its way down your body until he’s sure he’s found your clitoris, finding the confirmation in your stuttered out “Fu-u-uck,”, and the hasty circles he draws have your thighs shaking in time with the constant snapping of his own hips, meeting him halfway as he chases your climax, pounding you into the ground. “Gonna come, gonna come, gonnacomegonnacomecomeRaf.” The last of your sentence becomes unintelligible as your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, and he holds you close to his chest and continues to fuck you through it as his own begins to spill inside you, no stop to it seemingly in sight, up until the heartbreaking sob that falls out of your mouth breaks him out his trance and snaps him awake. His hips come to a stuttering halt, the picture of a stumbling drunk, then stop completely, and Rafayel slumps, still inside you. He can feel his semen dripping outside, running down his thighs, pooling on the ground. He’s dimly fascinated by the fact that he even has this much cum, but the majority of his consciousness focusses on the way you kiss his forehead, his head, everything you can reach.

“Don’t expect me to move anytime soon,” he mumbles from where his face is smushed against your boobs, and your laughter makes his head shake like the oceanvale bobs in the wind. “Well, darling. You’ve certainly showed me how much you love me.”

“Oh, I haven’t even gotten started, Raf.”

This time, it’s he who laughs. He hides his face in your chest and laughs, loud and free, in a way that he’s never been able to ever since he’s been a child. He feels your fingers comb through his blue-pink hair and feels like he’s finally home.

When you wake up from another nightmare in the night, crying for Rafayel like he’s abandoned you, he kisses every tear away until he’s positively certain you’ll never remember the way that dream felt again. You are safe in his arms, joined to his hip, bonded to his soul.

Caught up in so much luck, Rafayel forgot the looming threat.

He forgot how perfectly capable your father was of stealing away Rafayel’s happiness

The memory of Lyra drifted away from him as steadily as his craving for revenge did. She had raised him like her own in his dead mother’s stead: they’d been best friends once, and she became his only connection the mother that had labored and labored to give birth to him. Lyra had always warned him to take good care of his long hair, as it looked exactly the same as his mother’s, and she’d spent all her free time brushing the tangles out. It wasn’t Rafayel she was seeing, not really. But if she was chasing the after-image of her best friend in her son, then there really wasn’t anything he was going to do about it, not when he looked into her face and could only see his mother. They had been united in their loss, and then loss had divided them again.

It’s mother’s long hair, and Lyra’s plea for him to maintain it, that ends up being weaponized against him. Someone is tearing at his hair like a leash, pulling him from the safety of the pool. “Father, no!” You shout. You’ve never raised your voice in anger, not once. “Let go of him!”

“I’ve told you countless times!” Your father’s voice overpowers your own easily, as loud as the thunder before the lightning, as loud as the bells inside Dolphin’s Hall. Rafayel had always guessed you’d been trying to drown out the sound of your father’s shouting, the way he’d done your entire life. “They’re not to be trusted! Ask him! Ask the bastard why he’s entertaining you in the first place!”

You draw back from the accusation, the word ‘entertaining’ like a slap to the face. “He loves me,” you defend him, but your voice has become meek, small. As Rafayel thrashes in your father’s and a second man’s hold, he catches sight of your pale face, the way it’s stained with fear. For his life? Or because of an anticipated betrayal?

“Bullshit.” The unknown man spits at the ground.

“I love her,” Rafayel manages to stay. There’s a punch thrown at him that bites the taste of blood back into his mouth, foreign, not as welcome the way your blood had been. His teeth have cut into the insides of his cheek. “Which I can say with more certainty than you can, you bastard. Yes, I’ve entered her life under a guise. You murdered the woman who raised me. You’ve killed countless of my siblings. But I saw the way you starved your daughter of love and affection, and I vowed I’d never do that to her.”

“Do not play hero with me,” your father says, the hatred in his voice like the lash of a whip. Your own small hand spins out, and for a moment, Rafayel scared he’s lost you, that it’s him you’re going to strike. But your fingers wrap around your father’s wrist, as i you can do anything, as if this wasn’t the hand controlling your entire life. “Let him go, or I swear I’ll tell everyone,” you vow. The threat inside your voice is as venomous as the enmity your father’s had contained. “I’ll tell them where that caviar you so adore comes from, I swear it. Let him go or kill us both. Or maybe I’ll kill you.”

Your father halts in his shock. Rafayel can’t tell what is happening, his head still lowered to the ground by the hand pinning him there, tearing at his hair. It loosens then, and he’s kicked aside, like some stray dog that was a bother and is then forgotten. When he looks up, he sees you locked in a stare-off with your father - your father, whose looking at you as if he’s never once seen you in his entire life.

Perhaps he hasn’t.

“Walk,” is the only thing your father says then. “Walk before I forget myself.”

Rafayel struggles to sit up, to defend you as you had defended him, but you shake your head at him, the dismissal clear enough.

He watches as you leave him behind. How ironic, for you to have feared abandonment, when here he sits being abandoned now. Lost and alone.

In the following days, you don’t turn up. When Rafayel comes to search your human house, despite the fact that your father had threatened to kill him, the building is empty, stripped of all its belongings. None of the vendors in the city know about what has happened, giving only absentminded shrugs and I-do-not-cares. You’ve turned into an actual dream, a fantasy conjured by his love-sick brain, a haunting nightmare. He finds himself clenching his chest as if the heart contained inside was going to give out, broken apart like an empty shell by a mere mortal’s love.

He fears he’s going to die like this.

Alone, and unmourned, and forgotten.

When his desperation mounts in impulsiveness, he either decides to flee Whalefall City or look for you one last time. He can’t remain here, not when he looks everywhere for you, in the strange faces of this place or the gentle tosses of the waves in the harbor, in the sound of a melodious seasinger calling to prayer. It’s driving him insane. He turns up on the steps of Dolphin’s Hall, half-crazed from the loss of you.

It’s there where he witnesses the miracle of the Gods.

It’s not you, sadly; but your shrine maiden, freshly appointed as the new seasinger, hurries thorugh the throng of hall-going attendees. “It’s you!” she exclaims, a haunting echo of the very first words you addressed at him.

That makes him wary. “How do you know who I am?”

She blinks as if Rafayel was the one acting suspicious. “Well, because she’s told me, of course. And your description doesn’t really fit to any of the people here. In a city like this, it’s easy to recognize a new face.” The girl - no, woman - unfolds a letter, revealing a penmanship that he’s never seen, but which he recognizes with his heart.

Rafayel, the very first word on the paper shapes, in elegant loops, written in the soft scribbles of love.

He’s gone to meet you before the letter can hit the ground. Your successor, shaking her head, watches him go.

You’re right where you said where you would be, sitting in the surf like a mermaid would, your human legs anchored in the sand as the ocean drinks the earth. Your arms are crossed over your chest, over clothing he’s never seen before: garment from below the sea. His heart pounds inside his chest.

When you turn your head to face him, the smile on your face is entirely real.

Rafayel hurries to meet you, and then you are embracing each other like one soul being knit together; there was a physical pain in being separated from you that had strangled him for every second that you had been gone, drowning on land like a beached fish. He swipes your windswept hair out of your face, behind your ears, holding your head in his hands. You fit there, as always, like a missing puzzle piece. “I thought … you wouldn’t want to see me again,” he chokes out, the words a struggle. His tongue is heavy with sorrow, weighed down by his betrayal. “I mean, I wanted to tell you the truth. Long before I ever wanted to confess my feelings. I was going to do this properly. But I didn’t expect you.”

You snort, as if amused. “I could see that.”

His thumb strokes your cheekbone, as gentle as a clam reaches to embrace its pearl. “No, you don’t understand,” he tells you, and his chest unlocks in the same way it had when he had allowed himself to be vulnerable with you. “From the very beginning, I hadn’t expected you. I came to you with a heart heavy with hatred, blind with pain. I was so sure of myself, so sure of what was going to happen. But you reached inside me and changed everything. I’ve never even realized how painful it was to be me. Not until you administered the cure.” Rafayel leans his forehead against yours, tasting his tears. Crying, for the first time in so long. Only you. Only you. “Say something. Please.”

“Rafayel.” Your voice is wondrous. When Rafayel looks into your eyes, he only sees pure and unadulterated love, the kind of love that had drawn him off the edge of self-destruction and right into your safe arms. “Don’t you realize you’ve done the exact same thing with me? You’ve come into my life and filled it to the brim with a kind of joy I’ve never thought would be possible for me. I had resigned myself to my fate, to always be under the thumb of my father, and then you came, with all your unbridled anger and pompousness and unconditional love. If it hadn’t been for you, I might never have been able to shake off my parents’ expectations and build a life for myself with you.”

“With me?” Rafayel speaks the world gingerly. As if he can’t let himself believe it. As if he can’t let himself believe that the kinds of happy endings Lyra had always lectured him about were possible, after all.

If you witness true love, hold on to it.

Your fingers are reverent on his face, your smile so all-encompassingly loving. “How else are we going to heal this deep rift between mermaids and humans? I promised to show you, after all.”

Rafayel bursts into laughter. It’s an unexpected reaction, as unexpected as the miracle in his life that had been you, love of his life you. “That doesn’t sound too bad,” he admits, and instead of taking your hand as he had done so long ago under the secretive gaze of the moon, Rafayel finally gets to kiss you in the light of day, claiming you in front of the whole world.

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chanteya · 6 days ago

Text

you're quiet during it

lads li's (except for raf; separate) x fem!reader

contains: nsfw, smut, unprotected sex, p-in-v, oral sex (f!receiving)

⭑.ᐟ caleb

at first, it would throw caleb off guard, being the louder one when y'all are devil's tangoing. but it's no issue.

he learns your audial cues: when your breath hitches as you're about to cum, the little mewls that tell him he's doing a good job, and your sweet "more, caleb!" whimpers.

he's also attentive to your physical cues: your back arching as he messily eats you out, so close to an orgasm it's almost painful; your hands tugging on his silky locks when his tongue is lapping your folds; and how your thighs tense up and shake when you're finally swept away by a riptide of pleasure.

and caleb takes pride in hearing how loud he can make you. of course, it's only after an hour or so of overstimulation that you're more talkative and noisy.

he's fucking obsessed with how you cry out, "please, caleb! i can't. n-no more." chuckling against your slick cunt, the lower half of his face drenched in your release, he'll gaze up at you with hazy sunset eyes.

"c'mon, honey. just one more?" he coos so sweetly, rubbing your thigh and all. and when you do give him that one more, you're absolutely silent, lower lip trapped between your teeth as you writhe beneath him. the ecstasy is far too overwhelming for a sound to be made.

when he sucks on your clit harshly, that's when you nearly scream; exactly what he's been waiting so patiently for.

⭑.ᐟ sylus

sylus finds your hushed moans endearing.

i think he definitely teases you when he's eating you out, something akin to, "you're so quiet, kitten. doesn't this feel good?" but he knows you're in actual heaven right now.

when he's on top, thrusting into you so tenderly, i know sylus is groaning and panting in your ear the sweetest things. "you're biting your lip so hard, sweetie. careful—" he pulls your lip out from your chompers with his thumb, "or you'll draw blood."

especially when you're cockwarming him and whimpering softly in his ear, it makes him all the more harder. he'll throb inside of your snug walls, pre-cum leaking everywhere as he rubs your back and murmurs, "don't runaway, kitten, when you're taking me so well."

like caleb, he's got your sounds memorised. but unlike caleb, i don't think sylus pushes you to the edge. i think he'll stop as soon as you yawn, god forbid you do so as he's still rutting into you.

your bf will pull you into a warm cuddle and let you rest for as long as you need. he praises you half-lovingly, half-mockingly, until it's time to get cleaned up.

⭑.ᐟ zayne

i'm imagining this princess and the pauper "you're just like me, i'm just like you" moment between you and zayne the first time you had sex (whether that be oral, penetrative, mutual touching, etc).

because he's... somewhat controlled in the sound domain, he understands that your lack of loud sounds isn't because his performance is lacking (though he needed reassurance initially), but because that's how you are. he's never commented on it or teased you for it. zayne simply relies on consistent communication to ensure you're enjoying what he's doing.

let's say you two have a rare day off and spend the morning in bed. waking up, you're exchanging gentle kisses, which quickly become heated. but since you're both sleepy, it's this lazy kind of lust.

he's in between your thighs, taking you to the far reaches of the universe when he pulls off your swollen clit and asks breathily, "does this feel good?" releasing a low whimper, you nod and push his face back into your pussy.

you can feel his micro-smirk as he eats you out till you're trembling and softly mewling, your thighs clamped around his head.

and when you're spooning, it's tender and slow, zayne sliding every inch in before drawing back. you're wrapped in his warm embrace, panting a little. your bf let's out this cracked whimper as you squeeze around him, close to his end already.

he rasps out, "it's been so long since we've done this." you hum in response, your grip on his scarred forearms tightening before you see the stars together.

⭑.ᐟ xavier

like sylus, xavier finds it cute. with how tough you try to act all the time, it inflates his ego when you're a quiet, shaking mess beneath him.

he likes how your body does the talking. no words are necessary when you're rolling your hips up to his, hands pawing at his trousers in an attempt to take them off.

he'll tease you, "you really did miss me, huh?" but he delivers it in his soft voice.

and you, too needy to register that he's having a go at you, will just nod and whimper a small, "please."

i can't help but think of this p-link.

xav definitely mocks you during sex, asking you in his low commanding voice to be louder and to tell him how good he's making you feel, how much you need him, to tell him anything because he wants to hear your voice. specifically, he wants to hear it break as you try to speak.

and he only grows more demanding as his climax approaches. his sweet pants and moans tangle with yours as you grip his shoulders. holding onto them for dear life, a stuttered cry escapes your lips as he buries himself so deep and cums inside.

masterlist

star girl's final words: sorry if this is rats ass. just something that's been on my mind, which i wanted to get out.

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chanteya · 6 days ago

Text

Say it's me you want

Synopsis: You weren’t supposed to feel this way about her. It started with a look lingering too long, burning too deep. You told yourself it was nothing, that she was just captivating like that. You’ve only ever crushed on boys before, but Rafayel made you feel something different. Something sharp and soft all at once. When jealousy stung and curiosity pulled harder, you finally stopped running from what you felt. One kiss turned into something more, and suddenly you were touching, tasting, and learning what it meant to want her, and finally have her.

Content warnings: fem!raf, party girl raf, non-canon rafayel, explicit sexual content, oral sex (f!receiving), fingering, exploration of sexuality, first-time with a woman, internalized insecurity, light alcohol use, jealousy, possessiveness, emotionally vulnerable dialogue, light dominance/submission dynamics, soft praise kink, mutual pining, consensual intimacy between women, kissing, biting, multiple orgasms, emotional sex.

Pairings: fem!Rafayel x reader

Word count: 30k

A/n: in order to celebrate pride month, i posted a poll for you guys to pick one of the guys as fem and rafayel won, hehe. so here it is fem!raf for whoever enjoys this kind of content, and i hope you'll like it.

p.s. i don't condone any type of hateful, homophobic behavior. so if this is not for you, please scroll. i will not hesitate to delete these types of comments and block you :)

that being said, enjoy 🌈

A/n 2: there will be a part 2 to this;)

Rafayel was everything you weren’t.

Where you walked through campus trying not to draw attention, she moved like she deserved it—head high, laugh bright, hips swaying with an effortless kind of confidence that turned heads without trying. University, to her, wasn’t just about lectures or credits; it was a stage, and she was determined to steal every spotlight. If there was a party, she was already at the center of it. If there was music, she danced to it like it was written for her.

She didn’t just attract attention—she thrived on it. A flash of that disarming smile, a tilt of her head, and suddenly everyone was leaning in closer, caught in her orbit. Professors, classmates, strangers—no one was immune. Least of all you.

And honestly, you didn’t even want to be. Because Rafayel was beautiful in a way that felt unfair—like someone had sculpted her with soft gold light and left her to wander among mortals just to see what would happen. Breathtaking didn’t quite cover it. And yet, she wasn’t cold or untouchable, not some high-maintenance queen perched on a throne. No—she was warm. She was easy to talk to, easier to laugh with, and dangerously easy to like.

For her, being a social butterfly wasn’t a learned skill—it was instinct. She floated through every conversation like she’d been born knowing the right things to say, the perfect tone to strike, the exact smile to wear. And you, like the rest, were no exception.

You still remember how it started. Her smile, the way she said your name like it tasted sweet on her tongue. The casual way she draped herself over the arm of your chair during your first week, as if you’d already been friends for years. It hadn’t even taken a month before she’d wrapped herself around your routine, fluttering into every crevice of your day until you started wondering how it felt so natural.

And really, how could it have gone any other way? Because as fate would have it, you were also fortunate enough to be roommates.

Your life on campus had always revolved around rhythm—small comforts folded into familiar patterns. Mornings with coffee from the quiet corner café, afternoons tucked away in the campus studio with paint-stained fingers and half-dried palettes, evenings curled up in the dorm with soft music humming low from your speakers. You liked routine. You didn’t need chaos to feel alive. Spontaneity had its charm, sure—but only when you invited it in on your own terms.

So, on paper, living with someone like Rafayel should have been a disaster. She was color and noise where you preferred silence and softness. The kind of girl who thrived on attention, who found electricity in the pulse of nightlife. Her version of a slow evening was spent preening for a party, glass of wine in hand, eyeliner sharp enough to slice through the air. She was everything the roommate email warning had made you dread.

But strangely, it wasn’t a nightmare. You were different—drastically so—and yet your lifestyles didn’t clash the way you thought they might. Rafayel never tried to drag you into her world, not really. She offered the invitation often, a teasing grin curling at the edge of her glossed lips as she leaned against the doorframe, asking if you felt like crashing a party or sneaking into some underground rave with her latest crew. But there was no pressure behind the ask, and the both of you knew what the answer would be.

Still, she always asked. And you appreciated her for that—for never pushing, never mocking the quiet you clung to. You never complained about the noise she brought back, the soft thud of her heels at 2 a.m., the echo of laughter trailing behind her, mixed with her perfume. She never judged the nights you stayed in, wrapped in oversized sweaters, surrounded by half-finished sketches and barely touched tea.

Somehow, it worked.

There was one night, though—early in the semester, when the air still tasted like fall and possibilities—that you said yes. You’re not even sure why. Maybe it was the way she pleaded, her voice dripping with honeyed charm and half-laughs, telling you you deserved to be reckless for once. Maybe it was how her eyes sparkled when she talked about dancing under bad lighting and kissing strangers and chasing stupid stories. Or maybe it was just the way she looked at you that night—like you were a canvas she’d just been dying to paint.

Whatever it was, you caved. And the moment you said yes, she lit up like she'd won a prize.

She flitted around the room like a stylist on a mission, fretting over your outfit as if the fate of the night rested entirely on what you wore. Clothes flew across the bed, accessories jingled like windchimes in her hands, and she muttered to herself with the kind of focused intensity you usually only saw in her makeup mirror. You sat cross-legged on your mattress, watching her with a mixture of amusement and mild exasperation, your chin resting on your palm as you tried not to smile too much.

She had taste, that much you couldn’t deny. Everything she wore was a work of art—bold, unapologetic, striking. Her makeup was always something to behold: glitter-laced or smokey and sharp, sometimes delicate and otherworldly, like she’d stepped out of a dream. And no matter what she chose, it worked. She wore creativity like a second skin. Her clothes followed no rule but her own, and yet somehow, every look was flawless—raw and expressive, a visual melody that made people stop and stare.

That night, you let her take over your closet with a kind of quiet surrender. Maybe it was the way she moved—confident, radiant, alive—that made you feel like letting go for once wouldn’t be such a terrible thing. Maybe, just maybe, it would even be fun.

And it had been fun. More fun than you’d expected. More fun than you’d ever admit out loud. And really, why should you deny it? There was no shame in the way that night had bloomed around you like something soft and rare. You remembered the outfit she’d pulled together with surprising care—not overly flashy, not exaggerated or attention-grabbing, though you knew she could’ve made it so if she’d wanted. Instead, she’d chosen restraint. She’d paid attention.

She didn’t say as much, but you saw the thoughtfulness in every layer, in the colors she picked and the way the fabric skimmed your figure without shouting for a crowd. When you stood in front of the mirror, you didn’t see someone else staring back. You saw yourself—just a little more radiant, a little more daring. Accentuated, not reinvented.

And you felt beautiful. Not in the loud, dramatic way Rafayel so effortlessly embodied—but in your own skin, in a way that didn’t feel borrowed. You were grateful for that. Grateful that her excitement hadn’t swept her too far, grateful she hadn’t tried to mold you into some echo of herself. She only ever added, never replaced. That kind of care—subtle, unspoken—meant more to you than any outfit ever could.

Then, of course, being Rafayel, she’d gone and matched her outfit to yours. Not identically, but enough to feel like a pair—complementary, harmonious. It pulled a soft, involuntary smile from you. She caught it, grinning triumphantly as she grabbed your hand and tugged you out of your little safe corner of the dorm.

She didn’t let go once. That night, she stayed by your side—not hovering, not smothering, just there. You’d half expected her to disappear into a swirl of friends and admirers, some impossibly magnetic social circle you’d never quite seen up close. But if they were there, she didn’t seem to care. Not that night. That night, she was yours.

She smiled and laughed and leaned in with a conspiratorial wink as she led you toward the drink table, making some joke that had you giggling before the first shot even burned its way down your throat. The second one was worse, and you grimaced through it, earning a bright, delighted laugh from her that warmed you more than the liquor ever could.

And then the music pulled her attention—and she pulled you with it. But not into the chaotic heart of the dancefloor like you feared. No, Rafayel stopped at the edges, in that liminal space between wild abandon and quiet observation. She didn’t shove you into it. She didn’t force your hand. She just turned toward you, her fingers finding yours again, and coaxed you gently—come on, just feel it.

And you did. You let your eyes fall closed, let the beat sink into your chest, let the alcohol soften your bones. You felt the bass ripple through the soles of your feet, the dull thrum of energy in the air, the brush of her fingertips still lightly tangled in yours. And through it all, her perfume clung to you—warm, sweet, intoxicating. The kind of scent that wrapped around your thoughts long after it was gone.

You danced—awkwardly at first, but that didn’t last. Not with her swaying beside you, beaming like your joy was a secret she’d been waiting to unlock. Maybe she thought you’d been too stiff before. Maybe she was just happy you came. Either way, she looked at you like you’d done something right by being here.

And you laughed. God, you laughed. And later—when the night had melted into blurred laughter and flushed cheeks and aching feet—you found yourself lying in bed, replaying it all. The colors. The sound. The look on her face. And not once did you regret saying yes.

After that night, saying yes to her slowly became a rhythm. Not quite deliberate, not yet habitual—but with each passing week, the hesitation dulled. By the time second semester rolled around and the air began to soften with the first touch of spring, you found yourself agreeing to more and more of Rafayel’s spontaneous suggestions. A walk. A coffee. A bookstore detour. No longer did you weigh your silence before answering. Sometimes, your body moved before your mind even caught up.

One morning, unremarkable and quiet, she’d mentioned getting coffee—casually, half to herself as she slipped on her boots near the door. And before she could say another word, you were grabbing your bag.

She blinked at you, surprise flickering across her face like sunlight through leaves. But only for a moment. Then she beamed, bright and unfiltered, and with a delighted skip in her step, she matched her pace to yours as you strolled toward the campus café together.

Later that day, you lay side by side on the freshly mowed grass, coffee cups cooling in your hands, your skin warmed by spring’s gentle return. Rafayel turned her head, arched a brow in amusement, and teased you for leaving your cave, for daring to breathe air that hadn’t been recycled through your dorm room.

You rolled your eyes, naturally—but you were smiling, and she saw it. Because it was easy. Being with her was easy. Strangely, unexpectedly so. Her extravagance, her dramatics, her love of attention—it didn’t grate the way you might’ve once thought it would. In fact, you’d started to enjoy it. Or rather, you’d started to enjoy her. The full, messy, sparkling presence of her. You had your own kind of mischief, sure, but it wasn’t like hers. Hers was louder, brighter, like glitter in motion. And instead of repelling you, it pulled you closer.

It became a pattern—woven in quietly, like a new thread through familiar cloth. She took you to a museum next. An art exhibition she’d been gushing about for weeks, her eyes lighting up with every brushstroke and artpiece she described. And of course she asked you. Because you shared that passion. That hunger for texture and shadow and meaning hidden beneath layers of pigment.

You went. You studied together, sometimes. Pulled chaotic all-nighters with too much caffeine and not enough sleep when she wasn’t out partying. She even convinced you to come to two more parties with her, and each time, her excitement was more infectious than the last.

The first year of university slipped by like a dream—flickering with laughter and late-night talks, unexpected routines, and the kind of quiet companionship that made the days feel lighter. And when the time came to pack your things and head home for the summer, you felt it—that feeling. A dull ache under your ribs. The quiet disappointment that you wouldn’t see her every day anymore. That there would be an empty half of your room. That the beat of your daily rhythm would fall a little quieter without her in it.

But Rafayel? She was having none of it. Distance did nothing to dim her. Even in separate cities, in separate lives, she insisted on being close. She texted you constantly—unfiltered, chaotic, hilarious messages that popped up at all hours. She called, facetimed, sent voice notes that made you laugh in the middle of the night. She’d rant dramatically about things that barely mattered just to make you smile, exaggerate stories to the point of absurdity and then cackle when you finally caved and laughed along.

And you missed her. More than you expected to. There were nights when the house was too quiet, and you found yourself staring at your screen, waiting for her name to light it up. Nights where your playlist played too soft in the background, and you lay curled in bed, realizing you’d started looking forward to her calls like clockwork. Not just because she was loud or entertaining—but because she made you feel seen.

And one of those nights, with the window cracked open and the scent of rain in the air, you let the thought in. She had become part of your routine. A loud, beautiful, insistent part of it. You didn’t know when it happened, but now it was simply true. And you didn’t know if that was a good thing or a dangerous one.

————

You’d always been the organized one. The type who color-coded folders, packed two weeks before moving day, and somehow managed to balance study sessions with social obligations like clockwork. Your summer had been productive—filled with textbooks, late-night reading marathons, and a few familiar faces from your hometown that made the days pass a little quicker. Comfortable. Predictable.

And still, Rafayel lingered in your life like the scent of her perfume—soft but inescapable, present even when she wasn’t there. Always just a text, a call, a ping away. She’d kept you laughing, even from miles apart. And it was obvious—so obvious—that she’d had way more fun than you had. Her summer looked like a highlight reel: beach bonfires, neon nights, strangers turned friends, stories told with stars in her eyes.

You didn’t mind. Not at first. Not until she mentioned her. It started simply enough, folded into one of her sun-drenched ramblings—a story about a girl she’d met at the beach one morning. Apparently, they’d clicked instantly. Laughed too loud over iced drinks, talked like old souls, and then—of course—ended up challenging each other to a swim race.

And that was the moment something in your chest twisted. You remembered all too well how Rafayel talked about swimming—her element, her escape. You’d seen the glint in her eyes when she showed you old videos, when she talked about winning competitions like it was no big deal. You’d always laughed when she teasingly tried to drag you into the pool, dared you to race her. You always refused, knowing full well you’d lose, and she’d just grin at you, playful and smug and shining.

But this girl had said yes. Had raced her. Had done something you never dared to.

You didn’t understand why it bothered you. She had dozens of friends—dozens of stories about random, electric connections with people who came and went like seasons. You never flinched at those. Never cared, not really.

But this felt… different. Because it didn’t stop at that one story. No—throughout the rest of the summer, she kept coming up. A passing mention here, a laugh there. Something she said, something they did, some inside joke you weren’t part of. And with each mention, the feeling in your chest grew tighter, hotter—until frustration bloomed quietly beneath your skin, like a secret you didn’t know how to name.

You tried to rationalize it. Told yourself it was nothing. That you were tired. Sensitive. Maybe even a little jealous of how easily Rafayel connected with people. But those excuses fell flat the moment you realized how often you were thinking about her. How quickly her name pulled your attention. How your mind wandered back to her at night, again and again.

And then came the worst part—the part that made your stomach twist and your thoughts spiral into something messy and impossible. Because the truth started to echo in your mind. You’d felt this before. This ache. This want. This strange desire to be closer, to know what she was thinking, to be the one making her laugh, the one she mentioned in every story. You’d felt it before—just never about a girl. Or rather… never let yourself think you could feel it for one.

It wasn’t that it scared you because she was a girl. That wasn’t the part that rattled you. It was the realization that scared you. The sheer helplessness of it. Of knowing that whatever this was—this thing you didn’t have a name for yet—it had already taken root. It had already changed the way you saw her.

And now, you didn’t know what to do with it. You didn’t know how to act around her. Didn’t know if she could see it in your eyes. Didn’t know if it was something you should say aloud, or something you should bury before it bloomed into something more dangerous.

Because the truth, when you finally let it settle, felt like a wave crashing against your chest. You had a crush on Rafayel. And it terrified you, not because of who she was, but because you didn’t know what it meant for you. For your friendship. For the delicate, perfect rhythm you had already grown so used to.

The thing is, you had never really paid much attention to this particular subject before. Yes, you had crushes on guys before, and when it came to girls, you did think they were pretty. But honestly, neither of them really struck that cord in you. You never found yourself daydreaming about a certain person, and you weren't really the type to do that, if you were being honest. You were grounded, your head on your shoulders and not in the clouds more often than not. You’d always been grounded, feet on solid earth, your head never quite lost in the clouds like others your age. You didn’t write names in margins or imagine fairy-tale kisses behind closed eyes. Your heart never stuttered in your chest when one of your fleeting crushes smiled a certain way or brushed your arm in passing. They just… didn’t have that effect on you.

Your heart didn't really skip when one of your few crushes over the years did a certain gesture or spoke in a certain way that was sure to make you feel at least something. But there wasn't really anything like that. And there wasn't this unexpected and unwelcomed feeling of quiet jealousy stirring in your chest at the mere thought of the person getting close to someone else.

But now here you were, alone in your childhood room, sprawled across your bed in soft sheets, biting your lip and rolling around every few minutes, trying to make an understanding of this feeling. Rationalize it. Trying to convince yourself that this was ridiculous and you shouldn't even feel this way. Rafayel to you, was a friend. Your dramatic and energetic roommate. The one who always found herself orbitating around you in one way or another, trying to make you come out of your shell, slowly but surely. Never pressuring, never being too much to handle, even though she was intense. But she just clicked in the place beside you like it was hers to claim. And if you think about it, maybe Rafayel did see you as a good friend. A pleasant person to hang around, even if you weren’t that similar on the surface.

As time passed, as you grew closer, you did realize she wasn't all that different. She could also be quiet, and intense in a way that felt heavy. She was also often anxious about things, but she was sure to mask it well behind well-crafted smiles and teases.

Your phone was somewhere nearby, silent. And all you could think about was her. Rafayel. She was intense, yes, but never too much. Somehow, her chaos fit beside your stillness like a puzzle piece finding home. She didn’t demand anything from you—didn’t push when you hesitated, didn’t mock when you clung to comfort. She simply existed next to you, radiant and strange and herself, and you had grown used to her presence like breath. Like background noise you didn’t realize you’d miss until it was gone.

And now, she wasn’t here. She was in another city. Maybe laughing with someone new. Maybe texting someone else the way she used to text you every night. Maybe talking about that girl from the beach—the one brave enough to race her, bold enough to earn a place in one of Rafayel’s stories. You hated how often she came up. Hated how the mention made your chest ache with something unnameable. Something sharp.

Jealousy wasn’t an emotion you were well-acquainted with. But that’s what it felt like—quiet and persistent, crawling under your skin like an itch you couldn’t quite scratch. And no matter how many times you rolled your eyes or told yourself it was ridiculous, the truth was always waiting beneath the denial: this wasn’t just friendship anymore. At least, not on your side.

It confused you, unsettled you in ways you didn’t know how to voice. You weren’t scared because Rafayel was a girl. That wasn’t what made your heart race and your thoughts spiral. It was the vulnerability of it, the helpless newness of it. The part of you that didn’t know how to act now, how to look at her without wondering if she could see it inyour eyes.

And maybe it was the fact that you had no idea how she’d feel if she knew. Because you’d heard the rumors, the late-night whispers and drunken hallway drama. Stories about kisses at parties, flirtations that leaned both ways. Rafayel wasn’t known for relationships, but she wasn’t known for being closed off either. You’d pieced the truth together slowly, listening without asking, tucking away small details.

She might be bisexual. That was the quiet conclusion you reached. And the realization was a strange mix of comfort and terror—because suddenly, the possibility existed. And with it, came every question you’d been avoiding. Every fantasy you didn’t dare name. Every what-if that now had just enough oxygen to burn.

————

The campus was buzzing with life—students hauling duffel bags and suitcases across uneven walkways, laughter spilling from open car doors, voices calling out greetings that blurred together in the sun-soaked air. Some wore the wide-eyed wonder of freshmen stepping into a brand-new world. Others looked like they'd barely survived the last semester and were already dreading the one ahead.

You stood somewhere in the middle of that spectrum. There was a quiet thrill to being back, to returning to a space that had started to feel like your own. You looked forward to slipping back into the rhythm of campus life, to reclaiming the small routines you’d built in that shared dorm room. But layered over the comfort was a thread of unease, one that had tangled itself deeper with every step closer to your door.

Three months. That’s how long it had been since you last saw Rafayel in person. Sure, you’d seen her—her face on your screen, her voice crackling through video calls, her texts chiming in at ungodly hours with chaotic energy and blurry photos. And yet, the distance between you had felt real. Tangible. Like a pause button had been pressed on something you couldn’t quite name.

Her smile still made you grin, even from afar—soft and involuntary, sometimes even exasperated, especially when she went on some dramatic rant or gave you a tour of whatever weird café she had found that week. But none of it had prepared you for seeing her again in person.

You had just started unpacking, hands methodically placing books on the shelf, clothing folded into neat drawers, when the door slammed open behind you with all the grace of a thunderclap.

“Roomie!” she announced, sing-song and smug.

You jolted, nearly dropping the sweater in your hands as you turned—only to find her already stepping inside like she owned the air around her. Which, of course, she kind of did.

Rafayel stood in the doorway, her purple hair pulled up in a messy, glitter-dusted bun, sunglasses perched on her head, and that ever-familiar backpack sliding off her shoulder like it had no weight at all. Her eyes—those sharp, gleaming amethysts—scanned the room and landed on you with a satisfied grin.

“Already at it, huh?” she teased, eyeing your half-organized side of the dorm. “I was gone three seconds and you’re already nesting.”

You didn’t even have time to reply before she was crossing the room with that effortless stride of hers and throwing her arm around your shoulders, pulling you flush against her side.

The hug caught you off guard. Not because it was unfamiliar—but because of how familiar it was.

You scoffed a quiet laugh, returning the hug almost without thinking, your body reacting before your brain had time to catch up. You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed this. Missed her.

Despite the way your heart kicked once—just once, sharp and fast—you didn’t pull away. You leaned into it. The scent of her—something floral, something wild—hit you instantly, dizzying in its closeness.

“Well, aren’t you clingy as usual?” you murmured, a small smile tugging at your lips as she finally let you go, stepping back with a dramatic gasp.

“Excuse you,” she said, hand on her hip. “I’m being warm. Affectionate. Which, might I add, is very on-brand for someone who was sorely missed.”

“Uh-huh,” you said dryly, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t act like you didn’t miss me.” she tilted her head, eyes glittering, voice lilting just slightly toward the edge of flirtation. “You totally did. Bet you cried into your pillow every night.”

You laughed, but something about the way she said it—the way her voice curled around the words, soft and teasing—landed differently. It tugged at your chest in a way you weren’t prepared for. And your cheeks… well, you hoped to God they weren’t warming, though they absolutely were.

You cleared your throat and smirked, reaching for the safety of banter.

“Please. The only thing I missed was sleeping without your nightly concert of Instagram reels at full volume.”

“Ouch.” she clutched her chest. “Wounded. Betrayed. And here I was, thinking of getting you a welcome-back cupcake.”

“You can still get me the cupcake,” you said, folding your arms. “As an apology for that entrance. My heart’s still recovering.”

“Oh, c’mon,” she drawled with a wink. “That was nothing.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. And inside, quietly, you were buzzing. Because being with her again felt like flipping a light switch—everything was suddenly louder, brighter, more real. The room hadn’t felt full until she walked into it. And now that she was here, throwing her backpack onto the bed and talking a mile a minute about the girl on her train who wouldn’t stop sneezing—you were starting to realize just how long you’d been holding your breath. And now, you didn’t quite know how to let it out.

Falling back into the rhythm of campus life came naturally—like slipping on an old, well-worn sweater that still smelled faintly of summer. The dorm room was exactly how you’d left it, with its too-thin walls and soft hum of traffic from the street below. And Rafayel… well, she fit back into your life like she’d never left at all.

She was sprawled out across her bed, limbs languid and unapologetically relaxed, the ends of her purple hair spilling across her pillow like ink. A half-empty iced coffee sat sweating on the nightstand next to her speaker, which hummed with a song you didn’t recognize—something dreamy and full of bass. She hummed along absently, scrolling through her phone with one hand while animatedly recounting the chaos of her summer with the other.

“So we get to these cliffs, right?” she began, eyes bright as she shifted to prop herself on one elbow. “And my friend Riley’s like, ‘No one’s actually gonna jump, we’re just pretending,’ and of course I’m already kicking off my shoes before she even finishes her sentence.”

You blinked at her. “You jumped first?”

Rafayel gave you a look like you’d just asked if the sky was blue. “Head first into freezing water. I may or may not have screamed the whole way down, but it was iconic, okay?”

You laughed, the sound spilling out of you before you could stop it—genuine, warm, a little disbelieving. “You’re insane.”

“Thank you,” she said, flashing a grin, clearly taking it as a compliment. “Honestly, I think I peaked. It’s all downhill from here.”

She launched into another story—something about a bonfire that turned into a karaoke contest and ended with her getting a makeshift crown made of glow sticks. You listened, smiling as she spoke, her words tumbling over each other in their rush to be heard. It was so her—spontaneous, magnetic, a little chaotic. But charming, always. Effortlessly charming.

And when she turned to you, eyes expectant and voice lilting, it caught you off guard.

“Okay, your turn,” she said, rolling onto her stomach and kicking her feet in the air. “Tell me everything. And don’t you dare say nothing happened, or I’ll cry. Real tears.”

You chuckled softly. “You won’t cry.”

“Try me,” she challenged, narrowing her eyes playfully.

You hesitated, not because you didn’t want to share, but because everything you could think to say felt so small next to her stories. But still, you told her about your summer—the quiet moments that felt like home. Lazy mornings with your childhood friends, stargazing on the roof of your cousin’s house, falling asleep in hammocks with a book balanced on your chest. You skipped over the more complicated parts, the restless nights spent thinking of her.

She listened, chin propped on her hand, expression soft and focused. And when you finished, her face lit up.

“That sounds perfect,” she said, almost dreamily. “Like the kind of summer they write songs about. Way better than mine. No cliff-diving-induced near-death experiences. Just vibes.”

You snorted. “You jumped off a cliff. I organized my bookshelves.”

“And I’d still trade,” she said, bumping her shoulder into yours as she passed by, heading to the closet for her slippers.

You watched her move, more out of instinct than intent—and that was the problem. Your eyes followed the sweep of her hair, the delicate arch of her back, the curve of bare shoulders peeking through the strange, flowy tank top only she could pull off. Her shorts were patterned and a little too intricate to be casual, but somehow they worked. Of course they worked.

And your heart did that thing again—that stupid skip that had no right making itself known.

You blinked, forcing your gaze away, pretending to dig through your backpack for something that didn’t exist. You reminded yourself of what you’d decided this summer. You weren’t going to say anything. Not yet. Maybe not ever. It wasn’t fear of how she might react—Rafayel wasn’t cruel. She’d never laugh at your feelings. She’d never belittle something like that.

No, it wasn’t her you didn’t trust. It was yourself. Your certainty. Or lack thereof. Because what if this was a fluke? What if this wasn’t real? What if this whole mess of emotions was just one long, slow unraveling you’d regret later?

So you didn’t say anything. You told yourself there was too much at stake. And if keeping her in your life meant swallowing this new, shaky truth, then so be it.

You moved through the weeks as if nothing had changed. Classes began. Deadlines crept in. Simone and Tara became your weekday constants, swapping notes and coffee orders with you as you pieced together projects in cluttered libraries and overfull group chats. You fell into the rhythm again, predictable and safe.

But Rafayel was the storm you always returned to. She still swept into your life like she was born to exist in motion—bursting into the dorm with your favorite takeout after a bad day, shoving iced coffee into your hand with a breathless “I’m so late, drink this while I change,” as if it were nothing. She still danced in the center of every party, effortlessly lit from within. People were drawn to her, pulled into her gravity.

And somehow, through all of it, she kept showing up just for you.

————

It came out of nowhere. Or maybe, if you were being honest, it had been coming all along—drifting quietly beneath the surface, waiting for a moment like this to finally break through.

It was a Wednesday afternoon, middle of November, the kind where the air had a bite but the sun still clung stubbornly to the sky. You were in that odd lull between classes, walking across campus with Rafayel, who had declared—loudly and dramatically—that she was suffering from "emotional starvation" and needed coffee and sugar immediately, otherwise she would simply perish.

You had rolled your eyes, of course. “You act like we haven’t been living in the same room for the past two months.”

“Exactly,” she’d said, linking your arm with hers like it was the most natural thing in the world. “We’ve been cohabiting, not living. There’s a difference, cutie.”

Her words were exaggerated, but her pout was real, and eventually, with a sigh and a reluctant smile tugging at your lips, you let her drag you out toward the campus café. There was something oddly grounding about walking beside her in the thinning autumn light, your fingers cold from holding your drink, her voice animated and full of unfinished thoughts. She talked about deadlines and professors and the disaster of her last group project—and you listened, letting her energy warm the space between you.

And then it happened. You were walking past the long path that cut through the edge of campus, nearly bare trees standing like skeletons on either side, when Rafayel suddenly gasped.

It was a soft sound at first, surprised and bright, followed by a burst of movement as she darted forward without a word, arms flinging out as she threw herself at a girl walking in the opposite direction.

The girl staggered back with a half-laugh, caught off guard but not unhappy about it. And that’s when you knew—they knew each other. Not casually. Not vaguely. The kind of knowing that came with late-night memories and shared secrets. That easy rhythm of familiarity between them, the way they smiled, the way their bodies leaned toward each other without thinking—it told you more than words ever could.

Your footsteps slowed. Rafayel was beaming, her arms still loosely looped around the girl’s shoulders, both of them laughing over something you couldn’t hear. And then she turned, eyes catching yours like a spark across a wire.

“Oh! This is her,” Rafayel said, voice laced with sudden excitement. “This is the girl I told you about—the girl from the summer camp, one of the cliff jumpers.”

Your breath caught in your throat, though you somehow managed to smile.

“Nice to meet you,” you said, holding out your hand like it didn’t cost you anything.

The girl shook it, friendly enough, but her focus was elsewhere. Her attention hung on Rafayel with a kind of quiet possessiveness, stepping a little too close, touching her arm just a little too long. And Rafayel didn’t move away.

You hated the way it made your chest tighten. Jealousy, you realized, wasn’t as loud as people made it seem. It wasn’t rage or confrontation. It was the quiet panic behind your ribs. The sharp, stupid ache in your throat when someone else stood in a space you thought you’d somehow earned without ever saying so.

You stood there for another moment or two, exchanged pleasantries, let the conversation roll over you like static. And then, thankfully, Rafayel’s hand found your wrist.

“C’mon,” she said, tugging you gently back onto the path. “We’ve got pastries with our names on them.”

You walked beside her in silence at first, sipping your coffee and pretending you weren’t still picturing the girl’s hands on her arms. Her laugh echoing against someone else’s skin. And the memory stayed with you long after.

And what you hadn’t expected—what truly caught you off guard—was the realization that Rafayel had noticed something too.

At first, she didn’t say anything. Just watched you with that tilted head and narrowed gaze she used when she was trying to figure out a painting that didn’t quite make sense. You’d smile, just a little too tightly, every time the girl’s name came up. You’d deflect with a joke, change the subject, or busy yourself with something trivial. You thought you were being subtle. You weren’t.

And Rafayel, for all her flair and theatricality, was exceptionally good at reading people. Especially you. She didn’t bring it up. She knew you. Knew that if she asked directly, you’d laugh it off or dodge the question entirely. Maybe you’d even get annoyed. No—she knew better than that.

Instead, she started noticing the little things. The way your brows furrowed when she mentioned the girl’s name. The way your voice dipped a fraction when you asked how her day went and she casually added, “Oh, I ran into her again.”

At first, she brushed it off. Maybe she was overthinking. Maybe it was just your usual resting frown face. But she kept noticing. Again and again.

And what bothered her more than your reactions was how familiar it felt—this kind of quiet retreat. This kind of guardedness. It reminded her of herself.

Because for all the ways you were different—structured, grounded, quieter—you shared one thing in common: you both hid your real feelings behind carefully constructed façades. You pretended nothing was wrong until it burned.

So Rafayel didn’t press. She just kept watching. And wondered when, if ever, you’d tell her what you were really feeling.

————

One thing about Rafayel—she was stunning even with no makeup on. Unfairly so. The kind of beautiful that didn’t ask for attention but caught it anyway, like sunlight filtering through curtains on a slow morning.

Right now, she was sprawled across her bed in nothing but a towel, legs bare, damp strands of lavender hair sticking to her shoulders as she leaned toward her small mirror. She applied her makeup with lazy precision, flicking her eyeliner with practiced ease, humming something under her breath to the rhythm of the music playing softly from her phone.

You were supposed to be focused. The project open on your laptop demanded it—pages of research waiting for your attention—but your eyes had other plans. They drifted. Again and again. To the curve of her shoulder. The way the towel clung to the tops of her thighs. The delicate motion of her hand as she swept highlighter across her cheekbone.

She looked softer like this, glowing in the quiet light, but you knew that softness would soon be layered over with something bolder. She was clearly preparing for another party—tonight’s look already shaping into something vibrant, dramatic, Rafayel.

And lately, she hadn’t been going alone. That girl—the girl—had started appearing more and more in Rafayel’s stories. Her name, her laugh, some inside joke you weren’t a part of. It had become a pattern. A presence.

And every time she was mentioned, something unpleasant curled in your chest. Jealousy, maybe. Resentment, even. And while you knew you had no right to feel that way, knowing didn’t make it stop. You’d tried to push it down, to smother it with reason, but feelings didn’t care about logic. They simply existed, rising quietly until they drowned you.

You hadn’t said much all night. Too quiet, too still. And Rafayel being Rafayel, noticed. She flicked a glance your way, eyes narrowing just slightly. Then she leaned back on her elbows and tilted her head toward you.

“You’re being suspiciously boring tonight,” she said, the corners of her mouth twitching upward. “Like… emotionally constipated levels of boring. Do I need to check your pulse?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

She smirked. “I’ve been talking to myself for the last ten minutes, and I know you’re not working because your screen hasn’t scrolled once. Either you’re dead inside, or you’re mad at me.”

You exhaled a soft laugh, forcing your shoulders to relax. “I’m not mad.”

“Hmm,” she said, clearly not believing you. “Then you’re brooding. Which is worse.”

You tried to muster something light in return, something to deflect, but your words came out a little too flat. A little too practiced. “I’m just tired.”

Rafayel gave you a look—one of those long, assessing ones that made you feel like she was seeing through the spaces between your words. But she didn’t press. Not directly. Instead, she brightened with her usual flair, flipping her brush dramatically between her fingers.

“Perfect,” she announced. “You need to unwind. Come with me tonight.”

You blinked. “To the party?”

She nodded. “Obviously. You’ve been acting like a ghost lately, and I miss your adorable semi-social presence.”

“I—” You hesitated, and she caught it immediately.

Her smile turned sly. “What, you’re too tired and too antisocial now? Damn. The bar is in hell.”

You snorted, and something about the way she grinned at that made the tension in your chest ease, just a little.

“Fine,” you muttered. “I’ll come. But don’t expect me to dance or socialize.”

Rafayel gasped. “You wound me. You come to a party with me and expect to sit in a corner? You know that’s illegal, right?”

You shook your head, but you were smiling now—genuinely. And she knew it.

Normally, you wouldn’t have hesitated. These invitations were familiar by now—spontaneous, chaotic, and very her. You would have sighed, maybe rolled your eyes, and followed her out into the night with a quiet kind of surrender. But tonight, your voice had stilled at the edges. It came out flatter than usual, your smile a shade too polished, like something gently rehearsed. A pause lingered where certainty used to be.

Rafayel noticed, because nothing seemed to get past her lately. But she didn’t ask. She just turned up the volume on her usual charm, laughing brighter, teasing louder, as though she could press her warmth into the quiet spaces and coax you back out again. And eventually, you gave in. You always did.

But this time, you moved differently. You’d slipped away to get ready before she could pick through your closet the way she usually did, before she could spin your reluctance into another dress-up game. When you returned, dressed and composed, something in the room shifted.

Rafayel had always thought you were beautiful. Not the loud, attention-stealing kind of beauty—the kind that people turned around for without knowing why. It was quieter. Something that lived in the curve of your smile when you were amused but trying not to show it, or in the way you concentrated when you were focused, oblivious to the world. It had always been there, just beneath the surface, and Rafayel had noticed. Again and again.

But tonight—tonight was different. When you stepped into view, something stilled in her. You weren’t trying to make a statement, not like she did. And yet, you made one anyway. Not through glitter or shine or bold color, but through the quiet confidence in the way the fabric clung to you. It wasn’t something she’d picked for you, but it suited you—more than she wanted to admit.

She let her eyes linger, just for a moment. Longer than she probably should have.

You looked... stunning. Hot, if she had to put a word to it. But she’d already known that. It just hit different tonight—undeniable in the dim dorm light, like seeing a painting she thought she knew in an entirely new frame.

Her mind flickered briefly, curiously, to the question that had circled her thoughts more than once before. Was it a choice?The way you’d never spoken about anyone, never hinted at crushes or weekend flings. It wasn’t possible that no one had been interested. You were too striking, too sharp, too you for that. Which left only one possibility—that you had kept yourself untouched on purpose.

The thought stirred something in her—part fascination, part something else. Still, she was quick to compose herself, smoothing her features into something more familiar. A smirk curled at her lips, practiced and easy, as she finally turned fully to face you.

“Look who’s finally catching up,” she said, her voice dipped in that usual flirtation—light, effortless, never serious enough to demand a response. Her tone dripped with suggestion without naming the thing at all.

You were distracted, though. Lost in your own mess of thoughts. You hadn’t noticed the way her gaze had softened for half a second before it sharpened again. You didn’t catch the pause in her breath.

Because your focus had shifted too—and now it was your turn to forget yourself.

You looked at her in the mirror. You told yourself you were used to this by now. The way she dressed, the way she owned her space. But something about the way her shirt clung tonight—low at the neckline, deliberate in its looseness—paired with those jeans that sat low on her hips, framing her body like a sculptor had designed it all by hand—it caught you off guard.

Her waist curved into something unfair. The silver glint of her belly piercing shimmered when she shifted, and your eyes followed the arc of movement before you could stop them. It was a second too long. Just enough to feel it.

You blinked hard and looked away, heart suddenly a little louder than before, as if your body realized something your mind wasn’t ready to name.

To save yourself, you cleared your throat and reached for levity. “Are you planning on causing a scene tonight?”

Rafayel’s smirk sharpened like a blade sliding into silk.

“Sweetheart,” she purred, turning to grab her bag with slow, purposeful grace, “I am the scene.”

She didn’t glance back, but you caught the smile she wore as she said it—knowing, wicked, and just this side of affectionate.

You swallowed a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, barely able to stop your own smile from curling behind your lips. And somewhere beneath all that teasing and laughter, something delicate and dangerous shifted in the space between you.

————

Parties had never been your thing—and Rafayel knew that. But she still looped her fingers through yours with the same breezy confidence she always wore like perfume, and you still followed her into the pulsing noise and swirling crowd of the off-campus frat house like gravity itself had lured you in.

It was packed. Music thrummed through the floors and bodies pressed far too close, but tonight, none of that mattered. You didn’t even flinch at the noise or the spill of light bouncing off cheap decorations. You welcomed it. Needed it. Something—anything—to drown out the thoughts that had taken up residence in your head lately.

Or more accurately, the person.

You’d been trying to ignore it. That persistent hum in your veins whenever she touched you. The way your gaze drifted and lingered—on her bare legs in shorts that never seemed to be long enough, on the soft curve of her lips when she pouted for dramatic effect, on the subtle sway of her hips when she walked like the world owed her applause.

It had crossed into dangerous territory weeks ago. It wasn’t just admiration anymore. It wasn’t even the innocent kind of crush you could laugh off.

Your thoughts were getting bold—the kind that made you flush in the middle of the night when you remembered how it felt to wake up to her warm body sprawled beside yours in bed, her hair tickling your arm, her breath soft and slow. The kind that made your heart race when she stood a little too close. When she leaned in to whisper some biting, flirty remark into your ear just to watch you flinch.

So when her hand found yours again, weaving through the heat and crowd, your breath caught—sharp and sudden in your throat. Her fingers were long and cool against your palm. Elegant. She always held you like she knew you'd follow. And you did.

But as you walked behind her, winding through the music and the laughter and the haze of cheap beer and perfume, your thoughts spiraled again. Why wasn’t she meeting anyone tonight?

That question was meant to stay in your head. But your lips moved before your mind could stop them, casting it out like a careless net.

Rafayel tilted her head as you spoke, her eyes drifting toward the makeshift bar where someone had arranged bottles with questionable labels and an assortment of glowing mixers. She seemed distracted at first, scanning the options like she was choosing artwork for a gallery wall.

Her answer came with the same nonchalance she wore like a second skin, voice lilting, playful. Not even looking at you. But her words hit like icewater in your chest. Because she mentioned her. That girl. The one who lingered too close in every memory you didn’t want to keep replaying. The one with smiles that felt rehearsed and touches that screamed intention. The one Rafayel was supposed to meet tonight. The one she’d chosen before.

You knew it. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you already knew. But hearing it aloud stirred something sharp. Bitter. Not even jealousy anymore—something quieter and just a bit tad too dangerous. Disappointment.

She turned back to you a moment later with a drink in her hand and that familiar smirk blooming on her lips—rosy, effortless, infuriatingly beautiful. She pressed the cup into your palm without comment, like always. Like nothing had shifted between you. But it had.

Your fingers wrapped around the plastic, but your mind was somewhere else—tugging at the edges of your self-control like an unraveling thread. The words came before you could stop them.

“I mean, you don’t have to babysit me,” you said lightly, but your voice came out flatter than intended. “You could still go meet up with them.”

You didn’t look at her when you said it. You took a sip of the drink instead, trying to ignore how your hand trembled faintly at the rim.

Rafayel blinked once. The smirk faltered—not fully gone, but fractured just enough to show the hairline crack beneath it. Her expression didn’t shift into something dramatic or angry. That wasn’t her. But there was something behind her eyes now—a small furrow between her brows, a flicker of confusion, maybe even something close to hurt.

“…Is that what you think I’m doing?” she asked, voice still light, but noticeably slower.

You shrugged, forcing a laugh that didn’t quite make it past your lips. “Just saying. You don't have to stay with me the whole night out of pity.”

Silence. Not awkward, but heavy. The kind that settles in your ribs and makes it harder to breathe.

She stared at you for a beat longer than necessary. And then, as if on cue, her mask slid back into place—smirk tilting upward, lashes low, gaze unreadable.

“You know, cutie,” she murmured, leaning just a little closer, “if I wanted to be somewhere else, I wouldn’t be here.”

You weren’t sure what stung more—her not saying the girl’s name again, or how much you wanted to believe her.

Rafayel turned slightly, the glitter of her top catching the pulse of the party lights as she faced the mess of bodies on the makeshift dancefloor. From where you stood by the counter, you saw the smirk tug at her lips as she sipped her drink, head tilting as she watched a guy nearly drool all over himself while attempting a body shot off a girl too busy laughing to care.

She rolled her eyes with a soft huff of amusement, the curve of her mouth curling higher as if she were watching a poorly written scene unfold in real time.

You followed her gaze, grateful for the distraction, trying to steer your mind anywhere but where it kept circling. The alcohol she’d handed you was sticky-sweet with something sharp buried underneath, burning down your throat like it was punishing you for every thought you weren’t supposed to have.

You leaned back against the counter, letting the low thump of bass vibrate through the room, through your bones. Rafayel looked relaxed again, or at least she wore it well—shoulders easy, one hip cocked as she rested her elbow beside you, the edge of her cup balanced lazily in her other hand. Still, you couldn’t help but wonder if your earlier comment had thrown her off more than she let on.

But before you could spiral further, she turned toward you with that unmistakable glint in her eye—the one that always came before trouble.

“Should I be bold enough to propose something?” she asked, head tilting, her voice syrupy with mischief.

You met her gaze, raising a brow with slow defiance. You’d learned by now not to flinch first—she liked it when you gave her resistance, liked pressing until you bent, just a little.

“That depends,” you murmured, angling closer without meaning to, your voice lower, laced with challenge. “Should I be concerned?”

Her laugh was low and honeyed, a dramatic little whine threading through it as she brought her drink back to her lips. “Ouch. No faith in me at all. How disappointing.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth curved despite yourself. It was always like this with her—this push and pull, teasing and toeing the line of something you didn’t know if it should be crossed.

She tipped the rest of her drink back in one motion, throat working in a way that drew your eyes before you could catch yourself. You looked away too late. If she noticed, she said nothing. Instead, she leaned in, eyes flicking toward the chaos of the living room before turning back to you, voice smooth as silk. “Tell me, sweet thing… ever done a body shot before?”

The words slipped from her lips like a secret. Her tone was light—too light. Playful on the surface, but there was something beneath it, something languid and dangerous, something that made your stomach tighten and your skin prickle.

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. Not with the image crashing through your mind like a match to gasoline.

Because of course she had. Rafayel was the kind of girl who turned any room into her playground, who was always five steps ahead, daring others to keep up. You’d always been content trailing behind—until lately. Until the way she touched your wrist lingered too long. Until her laughter started to feel like a private invitation. Until her gaze began to feel like it was peeling you open.

So you didn’t respond with a yes or no. You just scoffed softly and let her take your hand again, your skin burning where she gripped you, tugging you through the crowd. The music got louder, the lights blurrier, voices sharper with alcohol and laughter.

Someone whistled nearby. A cheer went up as a guy—half-naked and smug—took a shot off a girl’s stomach with unnecessary flourish. You recognized them vaguely: the usual suspects, the self-declared kings and queens of campus. Always loud. Always extra.

Rafayel barely spared them a glance before securing your spot in the next round like she’d done this a hundred times before—and you suspected she had. She turned to you then, one hand perched on her hip, the other resting on the edge of the table, her smirk curling with amusement. It wasn’t quite cocky. But it was close.

“So,” she purred, leaning in just a touch, “wanna take it off me… or should I go first and show you how it’s done, newbie?”

Her voice danced around the words, casual, playful—but the drop in her tone was unmistakable. Velvet and heat. It wasn't intended to be seductive. Probably. But your body didn't know the difference.

Your mouth went dry. Your brain short-circuited. And your imagination—traitorous thing that it was—offered up an entirely different version of what those words could mean. The tension coiled low, dangerously low. Your stomach twisted with something that felt embarrassingly close to butterflies. Lower still, heat flickered at the base of your spine.

You caught yourself just before you could visibly blush. Tilting your head, you leaned closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume—something floral, warm, her—and offered a smile of your own. One that barely masked how flustered you were.

“How about you just surprise me instead?” you said, tone soft, almost lazy, letting the words hang there. “Or are you too much of a tease to commit?”

Rafayel’s smirk twitched, just slightly—like she hadn’t expected you to throw it back that smooth. Her eyes narrowed in amusement.

“Oh?” she drawled, fingers drifting over the edge of the table as she chose her shot. “Someone’s getting brave tonight.”

You were. But only because the alcohol had blurred your hesitation, and the way she looked at you made it so easy to forget every reason why you shouldn’t be. And you had a feeling this night was only getting started.

Rafayel turned toward the shot table with the same ease she moved through every space—like the world always made room for her. The glass caught a glint of light as she poured tequila, the golden liquid sloshing slightly before settling, and she hummed in approval, lips curving with amusement.

Then, without looking, her hand landed on your shoulder, firm and warm, and gently nudged you backward. Not forceful, but guiding. Protective, even—though she’d never admit it that way.

You let her steer you, stepping away from the rowdy cluster gathering near the drinks, noting how her gaze flicked toward the louder group with a hint of disdain. You suspected she didn’t want an audience—especially not that one. You couldn’t agree more. These moments always felt a little like they belonged to just you and her anyway, whether you wanted them to or not.

You still lingered close to the table, eyes darting to the tequila glass in her hand, then lower—drawn to the wedges of lime nestled in a plastic dish, glistening under the low kitchen lights.

“Go on,” Rafayel said, voice lilting with mischief, “Pick one.”

You shot her a look, already reaching for the lime. “You know I’ve had tequila before, right? I’m not that clueless.”

She laughed at that—sweet and unbothered, the sound warm enough to wrap around you and pull you in. There was no mockery in it, just that syrupy delight she always took when you pushed back a little.

“I know,” she replied, her tone light but edged with something softer, almost approving. “But you’re cute when you act like you’ve got it all figured out.”

You rolled your eyes, but the heat rising in your chest was impossible to ignore. There was something in the way she looked at you tonight. Something different. Not intense, not heavy—but curious. Attentive. Like she was seeing a version of you she hadn’t seen before, and didn’t want to look away.

You turned toward her, lime in hand, one brow raised. “So? How does this work?”

You didn’t expect the way her smile curved smaller, more dangerous. Nor the way she leaned in, her breath brushing against your neck—just barely—and igniting something sharp and involuntary inside your chest. Your pulse skipped instantly. Froze. Raced.

“Just follow my lead,” she murmured.

It was barely audible over the music—but she was close enough that you felt the shape of her words against your skin. And before you could respond, before your brain could even form a coherent thought, her tongue swept slowly over the side of your neck.

Your body jolted, breath caught halfway between a gasp and a prayer. A shiver rippled up your spine, subtle but uncontrollable. You didn’t even realize you’d gone rigid until she pulled back and you exhaled all at once, trying to ignore how warm your cheeks had gotten.

Rafayel said nothing. But the glint in her eyes spoke volumes. She saw everything.

“Head up for me,” she said next, gentle but commanding, and you obeyed without argument. The moment felt suspended in time. Detached from the chaos around you.

She poured a trail of salt over the exact spot she’d just licked, her fingers lingering a second too long on your jaw as she straightened. Then her gaze caught yours again—and something had shifted. The lights played tricks with her features, casting shadows across the edge of her jaw, but her amethyst eyes were unmistakably darker now. Focused. Almost predatory.

“Now,” she said, her lips curling as she licked them absentmindedly, “Put the lime between your lips.”

Her voice was casual, but your body didn’t register it as such. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. Still, you complied—tucking the lime between your teeth, grimacing slightly at the sharp, bitter tang that met your tongue.

Rafayel chuckled lowly, clearly amused by your expression, but didn’t give you the chance to overthink. She stepped closer. One step. Two. Close enough now that her chest nearly brushed yours.

Her gaze never left yours. Not when she leaned in again. Not when her tongue dragged slowly across the salted skin of your neck with deliberate, maddening pressure. The sensation left your knees feeling a little less certain beneath you, left your lungs tight and shallow.

Then she straightened and threw back the shot in one clean motion, head tipped, the line of her throat exposed as she swallowed.

You weren’t sure where to look—her lips, the curve of her neck, or the floor. Anything but the wild thudding in your chest and the heat that had pooled embarrassingly low in your stomach.

But you didn’t have time to process. Because she turned to you again—and now her face was inches away, her breath warm, her mouth hovering. And without breaking eye contact, Rafayel leaned in and took the other side of the lime between her lips, her mouth brushing yours in a way that wasn’t quite a kiss. But wasn’t not one, either.

She sucked on the lime slowly, letting the motion linger. The space between you was charged, electric, and your entire body buzzed from it—frozen, strung tight, painfully aware of every single inch where you didn’t touch but could.

Your lips were so close it was maddening. And your mind, stupid and helpless, started spinning. What if there wasn’t this stupid lime between you? What would her mouth taste like? And why did your body ache to find out?

Then, mercifully—or not—she pulled back, tongue darting across her lips to chase the last of the bitterness. You swallowed hard and removed the lime, tossing it onto the table, your fingers trembling more than you cared to admit.

Rafayel was smirking again—but the look in her eyes wasn’t just teasing anymore. It was sharper now, reading you, cataloguing every twitch of your expression, every breath you hadn’t fully taken.

You didn’t know what to do with that. So you smirked back, because pretending was easier, safer. You leaned casually on the edge of the counter, tilting your head. “So that’s the famous body shot, huh?”

Rafayel braced her hand beside you on the table, trapping you in place without touching you, her breath still laced with tequila and citrus.

“Hope I didn’t disappoint,” she replied with a mock-innocent shrug, eyes dancing with heat and something almost smug.

Your pulse thudded stubbornly in your throat, loud enough that it almost drowned out the music around you. The burn from the body shot still lingered on your skin, but it was nothing compared to the way your heart raced, thundering ahead of your thoughts. A thousand of them, chaotic and conflicting, tripped over each other in your head.

Don’t read too much into it. That’s what you told yourself. That’s what you had to tell yourself. Because Rafayel was like that—flirty, playful, always dancing on the edge of meaning and meaninglessness. Her words were sugar-laced, her touches light, designed more to amuse herself than seduce anyone. You’d seen it before. She flirted with friends, strangers, bartenders, sometimes just to see how red their cheeks would go. And tonight? You were probably just the latest subject of her attention.

The way she’d smirked when your breath caught, how she’d laughed—warm, sweet, and unapologetic—when you tried to play it cool. It was her. It was just her. That carefree, teasing rhythm she carried everywhere she went.

But still, you couldn’t help wondering if there’d been something else in the way she looked at you. A flicker too long. A shift too subtle. Her hand on your jaw hadn’t felt indifferent. Her breath on your neck hadn't been meaningless.

Or maybe you were just losing it. Because the truth—the ugly, inconvenient truth—was that your heart wanted it to mean something. And that was the entire problem. You were smart enough to know better. Smart enough to protect yourself. Or at least you should have been.

But instead, you reached for the bottle. The tequila sloshed slightly as you poured yourself a shot, pretending you didn’t feel her eyes on you. You licked a dash of salt from the back of your hand, welcomed the burn of the alcohol as it scraped its way down your throat, and winced at the sharp tang of lime.

A soft chuckle cut through the bass-heavy music. You didn’t have to look to know it was her. Rafayel leaned in, her breath warm against your cheek, still tinged with tequila. “Wanted a taste for yourself too, hm?”

You didn’t answer, not right away. Then she added, voice lower, almost murmured, “Not brave enough to try what I taught you just now?”

There was a curl of a smile in her tone. Flirty, yes. But deliberately light. As if the moment from before hadn’t registered as anything worth lingering on. As if you were already supposed to have let it go.

You turned to face her, lips parting on a dry response—something sarcastic, something safe—but you never got the chance to say it. Because someone else appeared, cutting through the crowd like she owned the night.

She practically launched herself toward Rafayel, one arm flinging around her shoulders with a practiced ease that made your stomach twist. Rafayel straightened in surprise, blinking once, caught off guard—but not pulling away. And you went still immediately.

Your lips pressed into a tight, polite line, one you couldn’t mask fast enough. Of course it had to be her. That girl. The one who always seemed to orbit Rafayel a little too closely. She’d never done anything directly to you—no insults, no blatant disrespect—but she didn’t have to. The way she smiled at you like she knew something you didn’t, the way she lingered around Rafayel with a sense of ownership, was enough to twist the knife.

And now she leaned into Rafayel’s side like it was routine, like her body fit naturally there, like she belonged. Your insides tensed. Alcohol made everything feel warmer, louder. Emotions you could normally swallow down rose a little too fast, too raw. Still, you forced a smile. Stiff. Fragile.

She returned it with one that didn’t even try to pretend. Her hand, previously looped around Rafayel’s shoulder, casually slid lower, fingers finding her waist like it was second nature.

“Ayel,” she purred, gaze focused only on Rafayel. A small, calculated pout formed on her lips. “Didn’t think you’d actually show up. Why didn’t you look for me?”

Me, not us. The way she said it was intentional—whether she realized it or not. And that nickname… Ayel... it fell from her tongue with too much sweetness, too much history. Like it was hers. Like she was hers.

You swallowed hard, smile frozen in place. It was a mess of feelings. Jealousy? Definitely. Insecurity? That too. But more than anything, it was the sinking realization that, for all the ways tonight had felt different—for all the ways Rafayel had looked at you—you were still probably just another moment in her never-ending string of playful flirtations.

And maybe you hated how much you cared about that.

You turned to her with a practiced ease, meeting Rafayel’s gaze with something light, something that pretended not to sting, but your next words weren’t addressed to Rafayel, but to the girl.

“Sorry for keeping her away from you,” you said smoothly, almost breezily. “Told her she didn’t have to stay with me tonight. She could’ve joined you.”

Then, before Rafayel could say anyting, you turned back to the table and downed another shot. It hit harder than the last. Or maybe that was just your chest tightening.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Rafayel frown, something unreadable flashing in her expression. But you didn’t linger. You focused on the shot glass, the lime rind, the burning trail of alcohol that numbed things just enough.

The girl laughed softly—one of those feigned, sweet sounds laced with something sharp. She shifted closer to Rafayel again, fingers still teasing at her waist, trying too hard to pull attention back toward her.

“I didn’t think you’d bring your roomie,” she said, voice dripping with a false kind of niceness. “But hey—surprise of the night, right? I missed you. Had no one to keep me company. The guys were unbearable. Drunk and loud and doing the usual dumb shit.”

You could imagine the pout on her face without even looking. And you didn’t want to look. You didn’t want to see any more of her hands on Rafayel. Didn’t want to hear another syrupy word from her mouth. Didn’t want to feel the way Rafayel’s silence stirred something inside you—something that hurt more than you could rationalize.

You just wanted the night to end. Or maybe just for her to go.

But the worst part was that you still weren’t sure what Rafayel was thinking. Not really. Not now, not ever. And that—more than anything—made your chest ache.

Despite catching the flicker in your expression—the way your posture closed in on itself, the way your voice lost just a shade of warmth—Rafayel still turned to the girl with her usual ease. Not flirtatious this time, but playful enough to remain perfectly, frustratingly ambiguous. She didn’t push the girl away, but she did shift, just slightly, her weight leaning toward neutrality. Not quite enough to reassure you. Not nearly enough.

You didn’t wait to analyze it. You poured another shot like it might wash the jealousy from your bloodstream, like the bitterness of lime and the burn of tequila might numb the ache tightening in your chest. It didn’t. But the glass was cold, the salt sharp, and the moment gave you something to do besides watch Rafayel stand there with someone else’s hands on her body.

You turned toward them with a smile so practiced it could’ve passed for real, your lips still tinged with citrus. “No worries,” you said, voice airy, light, sweet enough to crack your own teeth. “I’ll just see you later. Have fun.”

You didn’t wait for her reply. You spun on your heel, disappearing into the press of bodies before her voice could reach you, before her eyes could hold you still.

The music was loud, pulsing deep in your chest like a second heartbeat. Sweat clung to the back of your neck, bodies moved in chaotic sync, and for once, you welcomed the noise, the distraction, the thrum of everything around you. You let your body sway, loose and light, like your heart wasn’t sinking further with every beat of the song.

Still, behind your closed eyes, all you could see was that girl’s hand on Rafayel’s waist. The syrupy voice. That nickname. The unshakable way it all felt intimate. Like you weren’t even there. Like you never were.

You knew better than to take it personally. Knew that Rafayel was always like this—open, magnetic, untouchable. Her flirtation wasn’t a promise, it was a performance. And tonight, you were just another audience member who’d clapped a little too hard.

You didn’t even flinch when a stranger’s hands landed on your hips from behind. He was warm, unsteady, and swaying with the music like he didn’t quite know where his limbs ended and yours began. You let him. You didn’t care. Or you were trying not to. One song bled into the next, and you kept moving, his chest brushing your back, his hands sliding against your waist like he belonged there.

You didn’t stop him when his mouth ghosted along the side of your neck, breath warm, lips grazing the exact spot where Rafayel’s tongue had lingered just minutes before. Your chest constricted at the memory, and maybe that’s why you let him press a kiss there. Maybe that’s why your body didn’t protest when he turned you around and looked at you like he wanted more.

You kissed him. You kissed him because you could. Because his mouth was there and open and asking, and your skin was too hot and your thoughts too loud. His lips were soft, eager, and tasted vaguely of rum. His tongue slid against yours with practiced ease, and your hands curled loosely around his shoulders, grounding yourself in the motion, not the man. But it wasn’t enough.

At one point you made the huge mistake of opening your eyes, half lidded and dazed, lips still entangled with his. And your eyes, as if by a curse, found Rafayel in the crowd of people. She stood just beyond the crowd, unmistakable even in the haze of pulsing lights and moving shadows. Her lavender hair shimmered faintly beneath the lights, her posture as regal and relaxed as ever. And draped across her, with all the subtlety of a stake through the heart, was the girl.

Your heart twisted painfully when you saw that the girl had her arms around Rafayel’s neck and was peppering kisses on her neck while swaying to the music. But what twisted the knife was the fact that Rafayel was watching you, and had been for a while, you supposed. Her eyes locked on yours the second you saw her in the crowd. Her gaze didn’t waver, didn’t flinch when you met it. Those amethyst eyes were darker now, something simmering just beneath the surface. You couldn’t name it, didn’t dare to hope. But it held you still—eyes locked even as her hands rested on the other girl’s waist.

You wanted nothing more than to close your eyes and disappear. Run away from this horrible jealousy, this horrible ache. But something in you twisted painfully, so your eyes stayed locked on her unreadable ones as you kept kissing the guy. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the fractured lighting casting shadows across the curve of her jaw. Or maybe it was just the cruel, glittering lie you’d been whispering to yourself for weeks now: that maybe, just maybe, Rafayel saw you as something more than her occasional companion in chaos. That maybe those looks, those touches, that soft curl of her voice when she used your name—maybe they meant something more.

But then, she moved—slowly, deliberately. Her fingers slid into the girl’s hair, tilting her chin up with all the grace of a puppeteer. The girl leaned into it, willing, eager, and a moment later, Rafayel’s lips were on hers—soft, slow, sensual. But her eyes never left yours.

That was what shattered you. She kissed another woman like she meant it, like it was art, but she looked at you while doing it. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Your thoughts dissolved into static, drowned in heat and confusion and something feral curling in your belly.

You should’ve looked away. Should’ve torn your gaze from hers and buried yourself in the anonymity of this boy’s mouth, his hands, his hunger. Instead, you kept kissing him—because what else was there to do? You let his tongue slide against yours, let his fingers tighten at your waist, let your own nails press into his shoulders. A distraction. A punishment. A plea.

And still, Rafayel watched you. Still, her mouth moved against that girl's like she wasn’t tasting her, but you.

A moan slipped from your throat when the boy bit your lower lip, and you hated it. Hated how your body betrayed you, how your skin prickled with heat, how your thighs pressed tighter together as your imagination twisted everything. His hands on your waist became hers. His mouth on your neck—hers. His lips at your ear became the phantom echo of Rafayel’s voice, velvet-smooth and maddeningly sweet.

The ache inside you unfurled into something darker and heavier. Your body burned, aroused and aching and furious all at once. And still—still—you didn’t look away. Because you couldn’t. Because her gaze had you caged and collared and she didn’t even need to say a word.

And somewhere in that unbearable tension, in the exchange of heat and power and silence, a truth cracked open between you. This wasn’t an accident. Rafayel knew exactly what she was doing.

You couldn’t blame her for kissing someone else. Hell, you were also kissing this random guy. That should’ve evened the scale—made it fair, made it easy. But it didn’t feel fair. And nothing about this was easy.

The difference was that you were overthinking everything, trying to stitch meaning into the silence between glances, while Rafayel…she was impossible to read. Her gaze had never left you, even as her mouth moved against someone else's, and that alone unraveled something fragile inside your chest.

It was stupid, truly, how your body responded not to the hands currently on your waist, not to the lips trailing lazy paths against your throat, but to the quiet weight of her attention. Even now. Especially now.

The guy shifted behind you, encouraged by the soft sound that had escaped your lips—one born of everything except him. He pulled you in tighter, mouth brushing the shell of your ear as his voice dipped low. “Wanna get out of here?”

The question wasn’t a surprise. His voice was warm, his touch bolder now, and the meaning behind his words as transparent as it could be. But you didn’t want him. You never did.

He was nothing but a failed distraction, a bad idea wrapped in cologne and sweat, and not even remotely enough to erase the image of Rafayel’s lips on someone else—or worse, the way she watched you while doing it.

You hesitated just long enough to regret the whole thing. Your gaze flicked up to meet his, and you summoned the ghost of a smile, slurred but soft. Too soft, maybe. “I—uh, don’t think we should.”

The music drowned most of your voice, but he leaned in again anyway, lips grazing your skin, persistence tightening into something more arrogant.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he murmured, breath warm against your neck. “Let me make you feel good, yeah?”

That made your spine go rigid. Not because of the words, but because they weren’t hers. Because they didn’t land the way they were meant to—didn’t stir anything but discomfort and the overwhelming desire to peel yourself out of your own skin.

You shoved him back, not harshly, but firmly enough to draw the line.

“Sorry,” you said, voice tipping toward hoarse, “you should find someone else for that.”

He scoffed, muttered something under his breath that you didn’t quite catch, and then you turned away without asking him to repeat it. You didn’t care. Not about him. Not about his bruised ego. All you wanted was distance—space, air, another drink, maybe something strong enough to wipe Rafayel kissing that girl from behind your eyes.

You shoved your way through the crowd, a little less steady than before, the music pounding in your skull, colors strobing too fast to track. You weren’t drunk, not fully. But the alcohol had settled into your limbs, sweet and stupid, blurring everything at the edges.

And maybe that’s why—when you reached the table again, breathless and half-numb—you reached for another shot without thinking. Or maybe you did think. Maybe you just didn’t care anymore. Not when the taste of jealousy still burned hotter than the liquor ever could.

Your cheeks burned, flushed with heat that had little to do with the thick, suffocating air of the room and everything to do with the scene that kept looping behind your eyes. Over and over. A relentless replay of her mouth on someone else’s skin, her gaze fixed on yours while it happened.

The bass thudded through the walls, vibrating in your ribs, but it was the pulse between your thighs that demanded the most attention now—persistent, aching, humiliatingly real. Your skin was damp with sweat, your throat dry, your body flushed and restless in a way that had nothing to do with dancing or alcohol.

You pressed your legs together tightly, trying to suppress the needy throb, biting down on the inside of your cheek. It didn’t help. Not really.

God, what the hell was happening to you?

You dragged in a shaky breath and closed your eyes, hoping—stupidly—that the darkness would bring some kind of clarity. But it only intensified the heat curling low in your stomach, only made you more aware of how soaked you were beneath your jeans, how your heart was still racing for all the wrong reasons.

Your thoughts weren’t coherent anymore. They were a fever dream of tongue and teeth and glances that felt like possession. You didn’t know what any of it meant—if it even did mean something—or if the alcohol was just dragging you deeper into your own fantasy, making you read into things you shouldn’t. Things that weren’t yours to want.

Still trembling slightly, you reached for a half-empty bottle on the table. You weren’t even sure if it was still tequila, but it didn’t matter. You tipped your head back and downed another shot, the liquor cutting down your throat like fire. You winced, coughing softly into your shoulder as you exhaled, the burn settling into your chest.

Bad idea. You knew it. You knew you should stop. But your thoughts were a mess and the party around you was louder than ever—music pounding like a heartbeat, people brushing too close, bodies moving in waves—and it was all too much. The heat. The air. The ache. The need to get out of your own head.

With a soft, frustrated huff, you reached for your cardigan, fingers fumbling a little as you peeled it from your arms and draped it somewhere near the edge of the table. Your bare shoulders prickled in the overheated air, skin slick with sweat, chest rising and falling a little too quickly.

You leaned forward, palms braced against the edge of the table, trying to ground yourself, trying to just breathe. But even that felt like a losing battle. Your head was spinning from the alcohol and the crowd and the weight of her eyes still branded into your memory.

You didn’t look toward the dance floor. You couldn’t do it. You weren’t sure what you’d do if you saw her still there—if she was still kissing that girl, still pretending like none of this meant anything. You weren’t sure which part would hurt more—that it didn’t mean anything to her or that you’d let it mean too much to you.

The alcohol was warm in your blood now, humming through your veins like static. The music pulsed all around you, relentless, a rhythmic throb that seemed to echo the chaos in your chest. Your thoughts kept circling back—never stopping, never giving you peace—and it was getting harder to tell if the dizziness came from the shots or from the spiraling ache Rafayel had unknowingly carved into you.

You needed air. You needed silence. You needed to be anywhere but here. Eyes half-lidded, your lashes heavy with haze, you turned around—unsteady, your steps slow and uncertain—as you pushed through the crowd, making your best guess toward the bathroom. Your balance wavered with each step, shoulders brushing past others, sweat and perfume clinging thick in the air like static.

When you finally reached the bathroom and slipped inside, the door clicked shut behind you like a mercy. The noise dulled instantly. The world outside fell away.

It was cooler in here. The air kissed your flushed skin like a balm, and you let out a shaky breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. For a moment, you just stood there, breathing in that blessed quiet, your hands trembling at your sides.

Then you moved toward the sink, your heels clicking softly against the tile. You braced yourself on the porcelain edge and lifted your gaze to the mirror, and the sight that greeted you made your stomach flutter for entirely different reasons.

You looked unrecognizable. Your cheeks were flushed a soft, petal pink, lips slightly parted as you panted for breath. Your makeup had begun to smudge just barely—just enough to make your lashes look heavier, your eyeliner a little smokier. A lock of hair had slipped from behind your ear and curled against your damp neck, and your eyes—glassy and blown from the alcohol—held a dazed, longing kind of sheen.

You looked like someone trying not to fall apart. Or maybe someone already halfway there.

You swallowed hard and gripped the edge of the sink tighter, as if grounding yourself might keep the rest of you from slipping. But your thoughts weren’t finished with you yet. The image was still there, dancing behind your eyes—the press of that girl’s hands on Rafayel’s waist, her lips trailing along that slender neck you’d thought about too many damn times, and Rafayel’s gaze, fixed squarely on you while it happened.

It was maddening. Cruel. Beautiful. And it made your core throb all over again.

You exhaled another shaky breath, fingertips fumbling to turn the tap. The cold water stung your skin, sharp enough to jolt your nerves—but not enough to silence the thoughts running feral through your mind. You washed your hands slowly, more ritual than need, the chill biting at your wrists as if punishment for thinking too much, wanting too much.

You didn’t dare splash your face, not when your mascara was already hanging by a thread. Instead, you braced yourself against the sink, eyes slipping closed as you inhaled deeply through your nose, trying—and failing—to will away the burn between your thighs, the slick discomfort of your ruined underwear clinging to you like a secret. You hated how turned on you still were. Hated that no amount of cold water or deep breathing was enough to shake her out of your bloodstream.

You didn’t even hear the door open. Didn’t hear the click behind you, or the soft shuffle of footsteps drawing near. The bass from the party throbbed against the walls like a heartbeat, dull and ever-present. So when you felt someone behind you—close enough to taste the heat radiating from their body—your entire frame stiffened.

Your eyes snapped open. And there she was. Rafayel. Reflected in the mirror like a vision conjured from your own delirium, her gaze unreadable and dark, pupils blown wide, lips slightly parted like she might say something—but didn’t.

“Shit,” you breathed, voice unsteady as your heart stuttered violently in your chest. “You scared me.”

She didn’t flinch or smirk. She just watched you through the mirror, the line of her mouth pulled taut, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she stepped closer—close enough that her presence wrapped around you like gravity, the warmth of her body brushing your back, her perfume subtle but unmistakable.

Your throat tightened.

“Where’s your friend?” you asked, each word sliding off your tongue too smooth, too casual, your tone rehearsed, meant to sound careless. It didn’t.

Rafayel scoffed lightly, a breath through her nose, her voice low. “Left,” she said, like it didn’t matter. “Don’t care, really.”

Something in your chest pinched. It shouldn’t have meant anything—it didn’t mean anything, right? But the relief that bloomed low in your belly was a betrayal.

“Then why are you here?” you asked, forcing your voice light, even though you could already feel the answer in the way her eyes hadn’t left yours since she entered. You turned casually, facing her now.

Her expression shifted—something subtle, something tight. “Where else should I be?” she replied, too casually. “With her?”

The words stung more than they should have. The way she said her, as if to see if it would make you flinch.

“Well,” you said, breath catching, “you seemed to have fun.”

You didn’t say kissing her. You didn’t have to. The implication hung there like smoke.

And maybe she was tipsier than she looked, or maybe just tired of pretending—because her patience snapped like a thread. In one slow, deliberate motion, she moved. Her hands planted on the sink behind you, bracketing your hips, trapping you in place. The cool porcelain kissed your lower back, but her warmth was all you could feel.

Your breath hitched. You didn’t move, frozen in place.

“Is that so?” she murmured, her voice still that maddening blend of amusement and bite, her tone dipped in velvet sarcasm. “Should I turn around and go after her, then?”

You blinked up at her, mouth dry, pulse slamming under your skin.

“If that’s what you want,” you replied, trying to match her tone, to stay calm. Detached. You failed miserably.

Her jaw ticked. You saw it—barely—but it was there. The tension. The shift. “We both know it isn’t.”

Her voice was soft now. Dangerous. Something hot unfurled in your stomach. And maybe you were too far gone to stop yourself. Maybe you were sick of pretending, of folding your feelings into polite silence. Your gaze didn’t waver as you pushed forward—just a little, just enough to press your body into the edge of hers.

“Isn’t it?” you murmured, your voice breathy, drawn out. “Then what do you want?”

The air tightened between you like a wire stretched too thin. Her eyes flicked to your lips, and stayed there.

Your mind stuttered—stalled, really—as your tongue swept instinctively across your lower lip. It was dry, parched from too much heat and tequila, but none of that mattered. Because Rafayel’s eyes followed the motion like a predator watches prey—slow, deliberate, hypnotic.

Amethyst gaze pinned you, and for a moment, she didn’t speak. Just studied you with that cool, unreadable focus, like she was cataloguing your every reaction. And then her eyes flicked back to yours. Still calm. Still controlled. But something deeper swam beneath the surface now—something sharper and searching.

You weren’t sure what she was trying to find. But you were sure she was getting close.

“You’re mad at me,” she said, voice low but steady. It wasn’t a question.

The words caught you off guard. You exhaled sharply, a breath shaped more by instinct than thought. “What?”

Her head tilted slightly, the edge of her lip quirking—not a smile, not quite. “You are. Or at something I did.” her tone held that casual lilt she used so well, but there was an unmistakable note beneath it. Curious. Careful.

Her eyes didn’t waver. And suddenly, it was you who couldn’t look away.

Rafayel was always easy to read if you only skimmed the surface—if you mistook the easy laughter and silky quips for simplicity. Most people did. That was the point. She wore her charm like armor, let it sit between her and the world like a polished mirror—reflecting just enough to keep everyone guessing, never enough to be truly known.

But you had seen the cracks. Little ones. Fleeting moments where the stillness behind her eyes slipped through—the hush between sentences, the breath caught too long, the joke delivered just a beat too late. There was more beneath the act. You knew that. You’d been paying attention.

And right now? Right now, something about her was off-kilter. Just a little. Just enough to make you wonder.

She was trying to sound amused, like this was all beneath her, like your tension and her kissing the girl and the entire night didn’t press down on her like it did on you—but her voice was clipped. Barely. Her posture just a touch too stiff, as if bracing for something she didn’t want to admit.

You swallowed hard.

“I—I’m not mad, really. It’s all good. I’m fine.” The words tumbled from your mouth too quickly, wrapped in a laugh that didn't quite land. It sounded hollow, even to your own ears.

Rafayel didn’t move, didn’t even blink. She only frowned—subtle, but unmistakable. The kind of expression she wore when a painting wasn’t coming together, when something in the lines didn’t sit right. She stayed close, hands braced on either side of the sink, body angled just enough to trap you between cool porcelain and her heat. The bass-heavy music outside was muffled to a distant throb, and so were your racing thoughts—blurred, drowned, fading beneath the pull of her.

She was too close. Too warm. And gods, she smelled good—some soft, citrus-sweet perfume laced with the bite of her cologne, heady enough that it made your knees feel like they were about to buckle. And it didn’t help—didn’t help at all—that your underwear clung uncomfortably between your thighs, soaked from all the tension you’d been pretending didn’t exist.

“Don’t lie.” her voice cut through you, a soft slash of breath, close enough to taste. There was a low burn beneath her tone—frustration maybe, or something messier.

You couldn't even answer. Your eyes fluttered shut, lashes trembling. The scent of her, the alcohol in your veins, the slow, heavy ache coiled low in your stomach—it all blurred together, leaving you suspended in a moment that was too sharp and too soft at once.

She exhaled. You felt it before you heard it, warm breath ghosting over your neck, and then her head dipped.

Your breath caught. Rafayel nuzzled against the side of your throat, her hair brushing your cheek, her mouth maddeningly close to your pulse. You froze like your body forgot how to function, fingers curling around the edge of the sink to stop yourself from melting into her. She was so close. And you didn’t move. You couldn’t and didn’t want to. Not even a little.

She breathed you in, slow and deliberate, as though she had every right to, as if this—you—belonged to her in this moment. Her voice came next, low and cool against your skin, tinged with something sharp at the edges. “You smell like him.”

Your teeth sank into your lower lip hard. Anything to stop the sound—small and aching—that crawled up your throat at the sensation of her breath and the implication behind her words.

She dipped lower. Her lips brushed just beneath your jaw—not quite a kiss, not quite not.

“I hate it,” she murmured, each syllable curling against your skin like heat seeping through silk.

You exhaled, ragged and trembling, and hated how much your body liked hearing that.

She pulled back just enough to look at you, the space between you barely more than a breath. Her eyes searched your face like she was reading the strokes of an unfinished painting—and maybe she was. Your cheeks were flushed, lips parted, pupils wide and glassy with something far stronger than alcohol. You weren’t sure what she saw, but whatever it was, it made her breath hitch.

You opened your mouth to speak—to say something, anything that might anchor the moment—but your voice caught in your throat. It didn’t matter. Rafayel was already ahead of you, like she always was.

“Tell me I’m reading too much into this.”

Her voice was soft, low, carried on a breath that smelled faintly of tequila and lime. But that wasn’t what made your heart stutter. It was the way her voice trembled just slightly, like she already knew you couldn’t say it. Like she needed to hear the lie just to stop herself from doing something reckless.

You didn’t lie. You couldn’t. And gods, you wished you could.

You wished you could laugh it off and lean away, say she was being dramatic, ridiculous even. That none of this meant anything. That you hadn’t imagined kissing her before sleep, or catching yourself looking at her lips when she smiled too long, or secretly wondering what her hands would feel like somewhere other than your shoulders.

Your gaze dipped, unthinking, landing on her lips for the first time that night—soft, flushed, parted just enough to let out a shaky exhale that you felt more than heard. And then she kissed you.

Her lips found yours in a kiss that didn’t ask for permission and didn’t offer an apology. It was slow and sensual, but anything but careful. It tasted like tequila and tension and the weeks of aching silence that led to this moment. And when she groaned—deep and low, like something inside her finally snapped—it ripped straight through you.

You didn’t even think. You just kissed her back. Desperately. Hungrily. Your mouth moved against hers like it had been waiting for this, lips parting in sync, like some forgotten rhythm between you had always existed, just waiting to be played.

Your hands braced harder against the sink, just to keep from falling into her.

She groaned again—low and throaty—and her hands left the sink, moving up—fingertips ghosting along your jaw until they cupped your cheeks with startling gentleness. She pulled you closer, her thumbs brushing your skin like she couldn’t believe you were real. Like she needed proof you wouldn’t vanish the second she blinked.

And you—tangled in the press of her mouth, in the heady, breathless sound of her groaning again against your lips—you forgot to breathe. Forgot what had come before. Forgot everything except the heat and the taste and the terrifying, impossible truth that you had never kissed anyone like this before.

Her tongue brushed yours in a slow, deliberate sweep, and you let her in—mouth parting wider, surrendering with a need that had nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with her. The taste of tequila lingered faintly on her breath, but it was drowned out by something far headier. Her.

She moaned low against your mouth, the sound shameless and unfiltered, vibrating down your spine like a fever you couldn’t sweat out. One hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, fingers weaving through your hair with startling tenderness, anchoring you to her like she was afraid you might vanish. The other found your waist—barely a touch at first, her fingertips grazing your skin as if testing a boundary.

And then she felt your response—how your body arched into hers, how the quiet moan slipped from your throat unbidden—and her grip tightened. Her fingers slipped beneath the hem of your top, pressing more firmly now, claiming a small patch of skin at your hip and drawing slow, lazy circles. Teasing. Cruel.

You whimpered softly into her mouth, your knees wobbling under the weight of sensation. Your body was on fire—alive and trembling with the kind of ache that only grew sharper with every restrained touch.

She broke the kiss without warning, just far enough to drink you in—eyes half-lidded and impossibly dark, lips slick and parted, her breathing uneven.

And then she leaned back in. But this time, she didn’t go for your lips. Instead, she pressed languid, wet kisses to your jaw, down the delicate slope of your neck, pausing to taste you there—each kiss slower than the last, as though savoring something forbidden. Your fingers finally moved, one curling over the slope of her shoulder, the other slipping into the silky strands at the back of her head. She groaned the moment you tugged gently, her breath stuttering against your throat.

“Should I stop?”

The question slipped out like a whisper into your skin—soft, genuine, but thick with the kind of anticipation that made your whole body tense. Her voice was low, edged in something too raw to name, though her mouth never stilled against your neck.

You swallowed hard, a shallow breath trembling past your lips as you whispered back, “No.”

Your voice barely carried in the thick air of the bathroom, which no longer felt cold. Heat clung to your skin now, to every press of her mouth and drag of her hands. When she bit softly at your neck—just enough to leave the faintest sting—you couldn’t help the broken sound that escaped you.

She cursed against your skin. “Fuck.”

Her hands shifted, gripping your hips with firmer intent now, and in the next moment, you found yourself on top of the sink, her body between your thighs like it had always belonged there. Your legs parted automatically, mindlessly, aching for her. For more.

Her mouth stayed busy at your throat, leaving a trail of heat behind each kiss. Your chest rose and fell against hers, both of you breathing too fast now, too uneven. And then—slowly, deliberately—her hand began to move. From your waist, up, under your top, her fingers grazing the soft skin of your stomach before gliding higher, stopping just beneath the swell of your breast.

But she didn’t touch you fully. Her lips hovered near your ear, her voice a breathy tease, barely there. “Still okay with this?”

The smirk was in her tone, not her words, the way it always was with her. Playful. Dangerous. And gods, it made your head spin.

You’d had enough of standing still—of letting her overwhelm you with every brush of her mouth, every slow, torturous touch that left you trembling but never quite satisfied.

So you moved. Your hands gripped her sides, fingers digging in just enough to earn a startled gasp, and then you pushed her back—not far, just enough to free your mouth from her neck—and kissed her. Hard. Messy. Desperate.

Rafayel made a surprised sound in the back of her throat, but she didn’t hesitate. Her lips crushed back against yours with even more heat, more hunger. A moan vibrated against your mouth as your hands slid up to find her waist, pulling her closer like your body had given up trying to pretend it didn’t need her.

She tasted like tequila and temptation, like something you shouldn’t crave but did anyway. Her thumb slipped beneath the edge of your bra, a gentle graze beneath the soft fabric, and you let out a louder moan—unable to bite it back. Your back arched just slightly, your body leaning into her like it had always belonged there.

She broke the kiss again, just enough to look at you, and the sight of her knocked the breath from your lungs. Lips slick and dark with your kiss, eyes glassy with something that looked far too much like want. She was staring at you like she wanted to devour you and say something all at once—but couldn't quite choose which came first.

You stood there, panting, waiting.

“How about we leave?” she asked, breath rough around the edges, her voice low but tight with tension. Her eyes stayed fixed on yours, searching, like she wasn’t sure if she’d crossed some invisible line.

The words barely registered. Leave? Did she mean stop? Did she regret this? The high from her touch crashed for a moment, and something cold crept into your chest. You blinked at her, uncertain, the confusion—and flicker of hurt—no doubt plain on your face.

She saw it. Because she swore under her breath, quietly, like cursing herself, and pulled you into another kiss—not as desperate this time, but slow and full, like she was trying to erase the doubt from your mind one brush of her lips at a time.

Her mouth hovered against yours when she finally spoke again, breath ghosting over your lips. “I meant,” she said with a soft exhale, her thumb still dragging tender circles beneath your bra, “do you want to leave the party?”

The knot in your chest unraveled just enough for your breath to come again. She wasn’t running from this. If anything, she wanted more.

Your head tipped back slightly, eyes fluttering closed for a beat as the heat between you pulsed. She wanted to go—but with you. And that meant something.

You nodded. Rafayel stepped back, but only enough for you to slip down from the sink. Her gaze never left you, her expression unreadable except for the storm still smoldering behind her eyes.

Then, without a word, her hand reached out. Fingers brushed yours. And when you didn’t flinch, didn’t question it, she laced them together—slowly, deliberately, as if it meant something she couldn’t say aloud.

You blinked at her, startled by the tenderness of it. But she only squeezed your hand once and then tugged you toward the door, her grip firm and warm, pulling you with her into whatever came next.

You slipped through the crowd like a shadow half-formed, the bass thudding through your bones while laughter and glass and bodies collided around you in drunken rhythm. But the party had already faded into something distant, something irrelevant. Your body moved, but your mind was caught somewhere else—still trapped in the heat of that bathroom, in the way her mouth had claimed yours without hesitation, the brush of her hands beneath your clothes, the moan she pulled from you like it belonged to her.

You could still feel it—her breath on your neck, the ghost of her lips on your jaw. It had set something off in you, something deeper than just want. Now every heartbeat was a slow, deliberate ache. Every step you took was soaked in memory.

And maybe it was the alcohol—or maybe it was just you—but now your mind wouldn’t shut up. What if she regretted it? What if she laughed it off in the morning? What if she chalked it up to tequila and impulse and said it was all just fun?

Your stomach twisted as the cab pulled away from the curb, the world outside rushing past in streaks of color and noise. You barely remembered getting in. You didn’t remember climbing out. All you really remembered was the weight of Rafayel’s hand wrapped around yours the whole time—loose, like a secret.

The next thing you knew, the door to your dorm swung shut behind you with a soft click, and you were suddenly, startlingly, alone with her.

Your back hit the door gently, not rough but sure. Her hands found your waist like they belonged there, and her mouth was on yours before you could say a word.

You moaned into the kiss, reflexively, helplessly, as your hands scrambled for purchase on her shoulders. She tasted like everything you remembered—mint, liquor, and something darker, something sweet and a little dangerous. Her lips moved with an ease that made it feel like she’d kissed you a hundred times before. Like she’d always meant to.

The music was gone now. The noise. The lights. It was just her.

Her fingers slipped beneath your top again—more confident this time, more deliberate—and your breath caught in your throat. Your cardigan was long gone, abandoned somewhere at the party, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the heat of her hands on your bare skin and the way she kissed you like she’d been starving for it all night.

Rafayel pulled back just enough to look at you—your chest rising and falling with shallow, trembling breaths, lips parted, eyes glazed with heat and hesitation. The soft lamplight caught the sheen of sweat along your neck, the flushed curve of your cheek. You could feel her gaze as much as see it, dragging over you like silk and fire.

“You’re overthinking,” she murmured, low and taut, as if the words strained something in her to say them aloud.

There was no mockery in her tone. No teasing, no sharp smirk tugging at her mouth. If anything, she sounded… disappointed. No, not at you—at the fact that you were still doubting any of this. That you were still somewhere else when she was right here, touching you like she meant it.

Your eyes met hers in the dim, flickering light, and your voice escaped before your mind could catch it. “Do you really want this?” The question came out softer than you meant, like it had been buried too long under your skin.

The second it left your mouth, you saw something flicker across her expression. Her mouth parted, her brows twitched. And then she kissed you hard.

No hesitation this time. Just heat and teeth and hands gripping tighter at your waist like she couldn’t stand the distance for even a breath longer. You moaned, unable to help it, your thighs clenching at the sheer intensity of it. Her lips left yours only to trail down, hungry and wet, over your jaw, your neck, drawing breathy, helpless sounds from you with every flick of her tongue and every scrape of her teeth.

“Fuck, you don’t get it.” The words broke from her between kisses, between open-mouthed groans against your throat. Then her teeth sank into your skin in a sharp bite that made your gasp twist into something closer to a whimper. “You really don’t get how much—”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Maybe she couldn’t.

Instead, she sucked hard on the sensitive skin just below your ear, her breath hot and shaking against your pulse. Your back was pressed harder to the door now, the chill of it clashing with the fever crawling up your spine, and when her thigh pressed between yours—just the barest graze of her knee through your jeans—you shudderedloudly, unapologetically. And Rafayel noticed.

“Oh?” Her voice dropped, amused and hoarse, and she rocked her leg forward just a little, testing. The friction hit you perfectly, and your moan escaped before you could swallow it down.

“Yeah,” she breathed into your skin, dragging her hands slowly up your ribs, fingertips brushing the curve of your bra. “I’ve wanted you for so fucking long… Should I spell it out for you?”

You gasped as her hands wandered beneath your top, sliding heat across your stomach, your ribs. Her knee pressed upward again, slow and rhythmic now, making your breath catch every time. Her lips brushed your ear, voice like velvet frayed at the edges.

“I didn’t think you were into girls,” she murmured, not accusing—just raw. “So I never assumed. Never pushed.”

Her honesty made something twist and unravel inside you. You whimpered, your hips involuntarily rocking into the press of her leg, desperate for more. “Fuck, Raf…”

At the sound of her name falling from your lips like that—high, breathy, desperate—she groaned low in her throat, almost feral, and buried her face against your shoulder.

“God. Don’t say my name like that.” She sounded ruined, hungry. “Fuck, you sound so pretty when you moan.”

She pulled back just far enough to look at you, and her eyes were dark now, wide with heat, pupils blown open so much you could barely see the violet. And yet still, she held back. Still, she waited.

You reached for her with shaking fingers, dragging her mouth back to yours, and when you kissed her this time, it wasn’t messy—it was needy.

“Touch me more,” you whispered into her lips, the words trembling but no longer shy. “Please.”

And Rafayel smiled against your mouth—slow and wicked and almost reverent. Like she’d been waiting to hear that forever.

Her fingers ghosted up your sides with the hem of your top, a silent question written in the brush of her knuckles. You answered without a word, arms lifting, spine arching just enough to let her pull it over your head and toss it aside. The cool air kissed your skin, goosebumps rising—but it was nothing compared to the way she looked at you.

You barely had time to register her expression before her hands found the clasp of your bra, undoing it in one smooth, practiced motion, as if she’d been waiting for this—planning for this.

The garment slid off your shoulders, and the sharp inhale she took was almost a reverent sound. Her gaze raked over you slowly, hunger simmering beneath the surface, but her face stayed calm—composed in that way only Rafayel could manage, even when her eyes were dark with want.

Then her tongue swept out across her lips, and that composure cracked just a little.

One hand slid to your lower back, splaying wide as she coaxed you into a gentle arch beneath her. The moment your spine lifted from the door, she leaned in—slow and deliberate—her mouth closing around one of your nipples with a sigh that sent shivers down your legs.

Your cry wasn’t gentle. It ripped out of you, half-moan, half-shock, because God, she was good at this. Her tongue swirled with maddening precision, the suction just enough to send your head spinning, and all the while—all the while—her knee was still pressing between your legs, a rhythmic pressure you were beginning to lose your mind to.

She didn’t say anything as your hips bucked, as you instinctively arched further into her mouth, chasing more friction, more heat. But she could feel it. She could feel the desperation coiled tight in your body, the way you trembled against her, the wet heat pulsing against her thigh.

And then she smiled. “Let me take care of you, cutie.”

The pet name sounded devastatingly different now—lower, huskier, laced with something far more dangerous than teasing. You whimpered at the sound of it, and that was all she needed.

She pulled back, lips slick, eyes half-lidded as she took your hand and led you to the bed without letting go. The sheets felt impossibly soft against your back, though you barely registered the texture. All you could feel was her—her body following yours, her presence crawling into every heated breath, every flutter in your chest.

She climbed over you, slow and deliberate, straddling your hips like she owned them. And maybe, in that moment, she did. Your hands reached for her on instinct, dragging her down into a kiss that stole what little breath you had left. She moaned softly into it—low and approving—and let her weight settle just enough between your legs to draw another shaky gasp from you.

One arm braced beside your head while the other moved with aching care—from your jaw, down the line of your throat, pausing at your breast where her fingers cupped and lifted it again. Her thumb brushed teasingly over the sensitive peak, eyes locked on yours with a gaze that felt like it could split you open.

She looked so beautiful above you—hair mussed, cheeks flushed, lips slick from your skin—and it finally hit you. This was really happening. She was really here, and the way her fingers pinched your nipple made your back arch with a soft, broken mewl.

Her breath stuttered. She cursed under it, lips dragging featherlight over your ear. “If you want to stop, just tell me.”

The words were quiet, serious in a way most things from Rafayel weren’t. Not a challenge. Not a tease. Just a line drawn for you to cross—or not.

But you didn’t even think. You turned your head, brushed your lips against hers in the barest whisper of a kiss, and exhaled the only answer she needed.

“Don’t stop.” And she didn’t.

Her mouth drifted from your lips to your neck with a slow, languid hunger, her tongue tracing heat into the skin before her lips sealed over your pulse. She sucked gently, just enough to make you squirm beneath her, and her fingers—still twisting and teasing your nipple—coaxed another arch from your body.

The reaction pulled a low, amused chuckle from her throat. It wasn’t mocking—no, it was rich and indulgent, laced with satisfaction, like the sound of someone savoring something rare and sweet. That soft laugh alone sent a shiver down your spine.

Her kisses trailed lower, dipping to your clavicle, then further down to the curve of your breast. She drew a slow mark there, a small bruise blooming under the press of her mouth, and all the while her eyes were locked on yours—watching your face the way an artist watches canvas for the first flicker of color. Like she was memorizing your reactions with every brush of her lips.

You gasped sharply when her mouth wrapped around your other nipple, tongue circling with slow, unrelenting attention. The stimulation was too much, too good—you moaned helplessly, hips twitching beneath her. And then she bit, just enough to sting, just enough to make your whole body jolt. Her lips came off with a soft, wet pop.

“You’re so responsive,” she murmured, voice breathy and low, slipping through her smirk like silk.

The words shouldn’t have made you clench your thighs tighter around her hips, but they did. God, they did. And her expression told you she felt it too—the little twitch of pressure, the way your body answered hers without hesitation.

Her hand released your breast and glided up, fingertips brushing the side of your neck before curling around the back of it, pulling you up into her again. You met her halfway, mouths colliding in a kiss that was nothing short of messy—wet, open, tongues tangled and gasps shared between breaths. Your hand buried itself in her lavender hair, pulling gently, and the sound she made—somewhere between a moan and a sigh—told you exactly how much she liked that.

It gave you the confidence to push further. Your other hand crept under the hem of her shirt, finally tracing the warmth of her skin. Her stomach tensed at your touch, a soft intake of breath breaking between your lips. So you bit down gently on her bottom lip, teasing her, and the groan that rumbled in her chest made your skin burn.

You flipped the script, trailing kisses down the elegant column of her neck, finally tasting her skin for yourself. She tilted her head for you almost instinctively, one hand sliding up into your hair as your mouth placed open, wet kisses along her pulse.

“Mm… you’re learning fast,” she whispered near your cheek, her voice a little breathless now, a little ragged. “Playing now, aren't we, cutie?”

The pet name dripped like wine from her lips—warm, familiar, possessive. And the way she moaned again when you sucked softly at the base of her throat told you she wasn’t in control anymore—not entirely. Not when your lips were on her. Not when your fingers were drawing slow paths over her stomach, your body pressed so close she could feel every throb of heat between your legs.

You smiled against her skin, feeling bold, tasting the edges of power between the pleasure.

“Then stop me,” you murmured.

“Oh, god…” The words slipped from her lips as you sucked at her throat, and she tilted her head back, baring more skin to you like an offering.

You didn’t hesitate. Your mouth grew bolder, lips and tongue trailing the delicate line of her neck. When you found the tender spot just beneath her ear—where her pulse fluttered wildly—she mewled softly above you, hips stuttering against yours.

That sound alone made something coil tight in your stomach.

And yet, the jealousy still lingered, bitter and stubborn, crawling up your throat despite how close she was—despite how she moaned for you.

You murmured against her skin, barely louder than your breath. “You still smell like that girl.”

The words were petty, broken by the way you were panting, but they slipped out anyway—half-buried beneath heat and insecurity. Your lips didn’t stop moving, even as you said it.

You felt her stiffen slightly, just enough to notice, but before she could speak—before she could twist the moment with one of her glib, too-clever remarks—you pushed her back. Not hard, but enough to make her shift off you, her expression flickering between confusion and hurt.

She probably thought you were done. But then you moved, closing the distance in one heartbeat—both of you now on your knees on the bed, facing each other in the low light. Your hands reached for the hem of her shirt, fingers curling around it in silent question. You didn’t look at her face—you couldn’t—but you waited all the same.

A beat passed. Then another. And then she chuckled, soft and breathless. She caught your hands in hers, her smirk lazy, eyes dark and gleaming. There was hunger in her gaze now—no mask, no teasing deflection. Just want.

She guided your hands upward, slow and steady, raising her shirt inch by inch until it caught beneath her arms and revealed the smooth line of her torso, the swell of her breasts rising in the cradle of her black bra.

“You can touch me as much as you want,” she said, her voice husky with desire.

It wanted to be playful, light—but she was breathless now, too, cheeks flushed deep rose, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven waves. Her bravado was starting to crack under the weight of what was building between you. Still, she held your gaze like a dare.

And god, you wanted to rise to it. Your fingers trembled slightly as you touched her again, this time more boldly—fingertips trailing up her sides, mapping the heat of her skin like it might vanish if you didn’t memorize it. Her muscles tensed under your touch, but she didn’t stop you. She only leaned in closer, her lips brushing your ear in a whisper that sent shivers crawling down your spine.

“But if you're going to be jealous,” she murmured, her voice like honey and smoke, “you’ll have to make it up to me.”

Your eyes locked with hers again, breath catching at the flush coloring her cheeks, the way her lips were slightly parted like she couldn’t quite catch her breath. And gods, you didn’t think you’d ever see her like this—eyes blown wide with want, shoulders heaving, trembling slightly under your touch.

Not unless it was in one of your daydreams.

But this wasn’t a dream, and the smirk that tugged at your lips said as much. You exhaled slowly, pushing her shirt higher, watching her shift to help you pull it over her head. She stripped it off in one smooth, sinuous motion—and the second it was gone, her hands cupped the sides of your face and dragged you into a kiss like she couldn’t stand another second of not having you.

There was no room for hesitation anymore. Your arms slid around her waist, drawing her in, your fingers fumbling slightly with the strap of her bra until she groaned softly against your mouth. The sound made your stomach flip, heat blooming in every nerve. You undid the clasp, finally, and she shrugged out of it without fanfare, tossing it somewhere behind her as if it didn’t matter in the slightest.

And then she pulled you close, fully. Her bare chest pressed against yours, breasts soft and warm, and the sudden friction of your nipples brushing made you gasp into her mouth. You moaned, loud and sharp, the sensation too much and yet not enough. You kept moving, chasing it, rubbing instinctively against her with every shift of your hips.

Rafayel swallowed every sound you gave her like they belonged to her. Her hands slid lower—waist, hips, then finally settling at the curve of your ass, fingers splaying with intent. She didn’t squeeze yet. Just held you there. Let you move.

“Oh, God… this is—” you couldn’t finish. The words fell apart on your tongue, dissolved into breathless moans and whimpers that clung to her mouth like a prayer.

But Rafayel understood anyway. She pressed a kiss just beneath your jaw, her voice a murmur against your skin, rough with restrained want. “Feels good, yeah?”

You barely managed a nod before she shifted again, lowering herself into the pillows and pulling you over her, guiding you until your thighs framed her waist. You followed without thought, lips finding hers once more as your body molded into hers.

Your bare chests slid together with every kiss, every stolen breath, nipples brushing with every movement, and you swore you could drown in it.

Rafayel’s hands moved again, one braced at your hip while the other guided you gently, deliberately, rocking you forward against her. The friction of denim against the soaked fabric of your panties made you whine, hips moving before you could think.

“God, just like that…” she whispered, her tone soft but frayed with heat. Her eyes were half-lidded, hooded with dark want, watching the way your body moved atop hers.

The rhythm was slow, torturous, your body begging for more even as you clung to the delicious tension. And Rafayel—of course—was content to take her time.

“Don’t rush, cutie…” she breathed, her hands tightening just slightly on your hips as you rolled against her. “I want to feel you come apart right here.”

And the way she said it—low, sultry, like she already knew she had you—you moaned again, desperate, undone, pressing yourself closer like you could melt into her.

You couldn't stop the tremble that rippled through your body—couldn't bite back the moan that spilled from your lips, raw and unfiltered, as your hips rocked instinctively against her. The friction, maddening and just shy of enough, made your breath catch in your throat. You were moving without thought now, lost to the slow rhythm, chasing the edge she kept you dancing along.

Rafayel watched you like you were a painting coming to life. Her eyes were wide and heavy-lidded, fixed to your every movement like she didn’t dare blink. Her gaze trailed from the flush on your cheeks to the way your parted lips trembled with each breath, and when your eyes met hers—hazy and hungry—it was like something in her unraveled entirely.

“You are so gorgeous like this,” she murmured, her voice a breathless rasp, reverent and frayed. “I’ve imagined you on top of me so many times… trembling in my arms, taking whatever you wanted from me.”

There was no flippant edge to her tone—no teasing remark to soften the blow. Just pure, unfiltered desire, spoken like a confession pulled from the deepest part of her.

Your lips parted in surprise, teeth catching your bottom lip as your hips rolled again, slower this time. The words lingered in your mind like a spark catching fire, and your body answered for you—a low whimper escaping you as your head dropped to her shoulder.

“Fuck,” she hissed, her breath shuddering as you moved just right, her fingers digging into the curve of your ass like she was trying not to lose herself completely. “Just like that…”

You lifted your head, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “What else did you imagine?” you whispered, your voice low and velvet-soft as you pressed a kiss beneath her jaw, then another just beneath her ear.

She shivered beneath you. Your teeth found a patch of skin there, nipping lightly. She cursed under her breath and pulled you tighter against her, her nails scraping lightly over the back of your thigh.

“I imagined a lot,” she said finally, her voice barely above a breath—hushed and almost pained from how much she wanted you. “But most of all… I wanted to make you feel good. So good you’d forget anything that wasn’t me.”

Her hands guided your hips once more, the drag of your clothed core against her thigh making you moan again, your forehead resting against hers.

“I want to taste you so badly,” she whispered, lips brushing yours, voice shaking with restraint. “You have no idea how long I’ve been thinking about it.”

And the way she said it—like it was both a sin and a promise—you knew you'd never forget it.

You kept grinding down on her thigh, caught in a rhythm that made it hard to breathe, let alone think. Every roll of your hips drew a sound from her that echoed your own—low, drawn-out moans that vibrated between your bodies like shared heat. You didn’t know what to do with your hands, not really, but that didn’t stop you. The haze was thick in your head, and you were bold with it—your fingers drifting upward, cupping one of her breasts before gently pinching her nipple between them.

She groaned at that—deep and wrecked—and bit down against your neck, just enough to make you gasp. Her voice came like a breath dragged through smoke, rasped and dripping with need. “Fuck, cutie…”

The pet name, usually tossed out like a lazy tease, sounded ruined now—like it barely held together under how much she wanted you.

Her grip on your hips tightened, possessive and unyielding, guiding your rhythm until your movements faltered—until you trembled in her arms, thighs quivering from the edge you were so close to spilling over.

Then she stilled you. You whimpered, lips parted in confusion and want, but she was already watching you—eyes dark and greedy, lips wet and slightly swollen from the way you'd kissed her. Her tongue darted out to wet them again as she leaned closer, her voice lower now, almost reverent.

“Let me taste you,” she murmured, like it was both a plea and a promise.

The words landed like a spark to dry kindling, and you cursed without thinking—your hips jerking slightly as a soft, involuntary mewl slipped from you. You hated how easy she made you fall apart. But Rafayel—oh, she lived for it. She heard that sound and smiled like someone who’d just won something expensive and rare.

She didn’t wait for a clearer answer. She didn’t need to. That sound had said everything.

In one smooth movement, she eased you off her lap, laying you back against the mattress, your legs trembling beneath her. She kissed you once—slow and deep, like a promise sealed—and then began her descent.

Her lips traced a path down your body, unhurried, leaving a burning trail behind. When she reached your stomach, she paused to mouth at the skin there, teasing you with just her breath, her fingers already working open the button of your jeans. You squirmed beneath her, more plea than protest, your hands fisting in the sheets when her touch ghosted just above your waistband.

“God, you're so eager,” she murmured with a soft laugh—half groan, half worship.

You couldn't help the soft, desperate mewl that slipped from your lips as her mouth pressed warm and slow against your stomach.

“Please…” your voice was trembling, cracked open with need. “I need to come so badly.”

That made her groan—low and deep in her throat, like she felt it everywhere. Her eyes found yours, sharp and dark and glittering with heat. Your jeans were already undone, her fingers slipping under the waistband with a confidence that made your breath hitch.

She leaned back just enough to give herself space, voice dipping into something rough and coaxing. “Can you lift your hips for me, cutie?”

You didn’t even wait for the end of her sentence. Your hips were in the air before she could finish, shameless in your need. She chuckled, clearly pleased with the response, and eased your jeans down your legs, slow and deliberate, like she wanted to savor the sight of you. When they were gone, she sat back on her heels for a moment, her gaze sweeping down your body until it landed on the soaked fabric clinging to you.

“Fuck…” she breathed, more to herself than to you. And then, with a sinful sort of reverence, she lowered herself between your thighs, settling there like she was made to live in that exact place.

Her fingers brushed softly along your inner thighs, featherlight, until she pressed her lips to the skin there in a kiss that burned. You trembled beneath her.

“Good girl,” she murmured against your thigh, her voice all velvet and heat. “You’re so wet for me. Look at you.”

You gasped, the compliment hitting somewhere deeper than it should’ve. Your eyes fluttered open, and you looked down to find her already staring up at you—absolutely breathtaking in that moment, all lavender hair and flushed cheeks, a little smug, a little reverent, and still entirely her. That knowing look in her eyes, like she already had your body memorized.

“Don’t tease,” you whispered, voice cracking as your hips shifted, desperate. “Fuck, Raf…”

She didn’t answer right away, just leaned in and pressed her mouth to the inside of your thigh, her lips parting slightly against it in a kiss that was all promise and no relief. You arched into it, chasing the pressure, needing more—but she didn’t give in just yet.

Another kiss, this one slower. Her breath just barely fanned out, teasing the wet fabric like she could draw pleasure from just that alone.

Instead of diving in, she lingered—her lips barely brushing your thigh, her voice murmuring against your skin like a secret she didn’t mean to say out loud.

“I suppose,” she said softly, breath ghosting over the damp heat of your panties, “you’ve never done this before?”

The question made your breath catch, heart pounding against your ribs. But it wasn’t the question itself—it was the way she asked it. Casual, almost curious. But the flick of her tongue on her teeth and the quiet tension in her grip gave her away.

You swallowed down your nerves and found your voice, trying for nonchalance despite the way your hips were already twitching beneath her. “I—I mean, I’ve been eaten out by guys before.”

And then it happened. Her teeth grazed your inner thigh before she bit—just hard enough to make you jolt, your back arching in startled pleasure. A shocked moan ripped from your throat, the sting of it sharp and gone too quickly, replaced by the soft kiss she pressed to the mark.

She didn’t say anything for a beat. But when she finally spoke, her voice dropped—low, rough, and undeniably tinged with something else. Not quite irritation. Something darker, hotter.

“Yeah?” she muttered, mouth brushing the edge of your underwear, warm breath curling over you. “Did they make you come?” a pause. “Or did you fake it and let them believe they were gods?”

You didn’t have the breath to respond. Not when she kissed you there again, firmer this time, lips pressing right where you were wettest through the fabric. A desperate whine slipped from you, hips buckling up, chasing her mouth. Her fingers flexed against your thighs, holding you down.

She noticed. Of course she did. Rafayel always noticed everything. A low chuckle vibrated from her throat, rich and pleased. “Mm. Thought so.”

You tried to wriggle against her again, but she just hummed, amused and maddeningly patient.

There was something possessive about her now—the way she held you open, the way she stared at you like you were hers already, like the thought of someone else touching you had no business existing in the same universe.

And god, that shouldn’t have made you wetter. But it did. Her tongue licked a slow, deliberate stripe up the center of your panties, and your entire body jolted with it.

“Let me show you how it’s done, hm?” her voice was honeyed and edged with heat, like she was already drunk on the thought of making you unravel.

“F-fuck—please,” you gasped, your fingers fisting the sheets. “I can’t take this anymore…”

She smiled against you. You didn’t see it, but you felt it. The smirk in the press of her lips. The delight in your desperation.

“You’ll take it,” she whispered. “You’ll take all of it, cutie.”

Her tongue only flicked against the soaked fabric a few times—lazy, exploratory laps that made your hips twitch and your breath stutter—before she drew back with a sound of quiet approval. Then her fingers slipped in, graceful and deliberate, hooking into the waistband of your panties. She tugged them down in one smooth pull, dragging the damp material down your thighs with a casual ease that made your face burn.

You barely had time to register the chill of air against your soaked heat before she was back between your legs—settling like she belonged there, like she had all the time in the world to ruin you.

And then she licked. Not gently. Not teasing anymore. Her tongue found your clit with startling precision, a firm lap that tore a cry straight from your throat. Your whole body jolted from the shock of it, your thighs trembling around her shoulders before you could even catch your breath.

Rafayel hummed against you, and you felt her smirk before you saw it—low, smug, utterly pleased with herself. The sound vibrated against your core, and your hands flew to her hair, fingers tangling in those soft lavender strands without thinking. She let out a low, satisfied moan at the sensation, the noise sinking straight into your spine.

Her eyes flicked up at you as her tongue dragged slowly through your folds—watching you unravel, cataloging every twitch, every gasp. You were utterly at her mercy, and she knew it.

Your hips jerked again, chasing more, desperate now. Needy.

“God, please—” you gasped, barely aware you were even speaking. “Raf…”

She didn’t answer with words. She just wrapped her lips around your clit and sucked. Sharp. Gentle. Then again. Alternating between soft licks and firmer suction, her rhythm unhurried but devastating. Every movement was maddening in how precise it felt, like she had mapped you already, like she knew exactly how to make you fall apart.

Your thighs tried to clamp around her again, body trembling under the weight of pleasure, but her hands slid up to pin your hips down with a firm, almost lazy pressure.

“Oh,” she murmured against you, breaking only long enough to flick her tongue again, “don’t rush me.”

And then she went back to it—lips hot and wet and relentless.

You choked on a moan, the pressure building so fast it was dizzying. She was too good. Too controlled. And you were already starting to lose that control entirely.

Your eyes rolled back as a moan tore loose from your throat, raw and helpless. Your spine arched sharply off the bed, every nerve lit up with pure, unfiltered need. Your hands fisted tighter in Rafayel’s hair, tugging with desperate abandon—and the low, wrecked moan she let out in response vibrated straight into you, reverberating deep where you were already aching.

That sound alone made your legs tremble.

Her mouth didn’t falter—if anything, she seemed to thrive on it. On the way you bucked under her. On the way you gasped her name like a curse, like a prayer.

“Ohhh, fuck—I'm gonna…fuck, I’m close—” The words tumbled out of you, breathless and broken, your chest rising and falling in frantic rhythm.

She heard you, and the glint in her eyes was nothing short of devilish. Without warning, her tongue slid down again, past your clit, sinking into you with aching precision. The wet, sinful press of it made your hips jerk violently. The cry that left you was strangled and high, your thighs clenching helplessly around her.

It was everything. The alcohol. The hours of want. The month of unbearable tension. All of it unraveled in that moment, snapping loose inside you like a breaking tide.

You shattered. Your body convulsed against her mouth, trembling hard with every aftershock as your orgasm crested and crashed through you in violent waves. You cried out again, her name caught somewhere between a sob and a moan, the pleasure dizzying and all-consuming.

Your fingers curled in her hair, pulling hard enough that it should’ve hurt—but Rafayel didn’t even flinch. If anything, she moaned into you again, low and satisfied, drawing the last of your climax from your body with slow, languid strokes of her tongue.

Her eyes found yours as she coaxed you through it—hazy, heat-drunk, dark with something unspoken. Possessive. Worshipful.

You were panting hard, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven heaves, your head tipped back against the pillow, eyes fluttering with the aftershocks that hadn’t yet let you go. Your whole body trembled in the aftermath, legs still parted and twitching from oversensitivity, when Rafayel finally pulled away with a low, throaty groan.

She dragged her mouth up the center of your body in slow, reverent motion, every kiss damp and lingering. By the time she reached your lips again, she was breathing just as hard—flushed, wrecked, utterly drunk on you.

And when her mouth met yours, it was desperate. You could taste yourself on her tongue, unmistakable and intoxicating, and the sound you made was high and helpless, a soft, mewling whimper that only spurred her further. Her hand slid low, fingers trailing with purpose as she kissed you again—wet, open, claiming. Then lower still.

She found you again—sensitive, pulsing—and her fingers dipped between your slick folds. You whimpered into her kiss, jerking slightly as she teased, barely brushing before slipping one finger inside you with practiced ease.

“Fuck, yes,” she whispered against your mouth, voice completely wrecked, a low rasp that made your core tighten again. “You were so good, cutie… tasted so sweet…”

The endearment curled something in your chest. You barely had time to react before she slid in deeper and pressed another kiss to your jaw, her hips shifting against yours with aching restraint.

“God, you're so tight,” she groaned, her voice almost delirious now. “Perfect. Just… taking everything I give you like you were made for it.”

You moaned, arching into her, your hands rising to curl around the back of her neck, pulling her close. Your breasts pressed together again, soft friction that made you gasp. You bit at her jaw, trembling when she added another finger, and your thighs clenched instinctively around her hips.

“R-Raf…I don’t—” your voice broke as her fingers curled deep, finding a spot inside you that made your entire body jolt. Your back arched off the bed, your mouth falling open with a soft cry. Her eyes lit up, wild and hungry, pleased with the raw honesty of your reaction.

“Mhmm… right there, huh?” she breathed, and then she bent to your throat, sucking at the skin until you knew you’d wear the mark tomorrow. Her voice was smug, but beneath it, there was something gentler—wrecked and tender at once.

“You don’t… what, baby?” she murmured, her tongue flicking against your pulse as her fingers pumped into you, steady and unrelenting.

You fought for breath, the build rising again too quickly, and the words came out ragged, half-whimpered between gasps. “I’ve never… done this before. With a woman. So I… I don’t know…”

You didn’t need to finish. Her rhythm slowed slightly, and for the first time since her mouth had touched you, she paused—just enough to lean back and meet your eyes.

Even through the haze, her expression shifted. Something warm and sincere flickered across her face, quieting the rougher edge of her desire. Her voice softened, low and careful, like she didn’t want to break you open any more than she already had.

“Hey,” she murmured, brushing her nose along your cheek. “You don’t have to know. I’m not here for that.”

You blinked up at her, lips parted, your walls clenching around her fingers at the intimacy of her words—at the way she held you, not just with her body but in the space between each breath.

“I just want to make you feel good, yeah?” she whispered. “We don’t have to go any further. Don’t worry your pretty head.”

The tenderness gutted you more than anything else had tonight. Not the pleasure, not the kisses—this. The way she looked at you like you were fragile and beautiful and deserving of being held right there, in that ache.

You didn’t have to answer aloud. You kissed her instead. And Rafayel kissed you like she’d wait as long as you needed.

You wanted more—more of her, more of this—but somewhere between the rise of your hips and the way your chest heaved for breath, a flicker of doubt stole in. It slipped uninvited into your bloodstream, quiet but sharp, and your brows knit slightly without meaning to.

What if she didn’t enjoy this? What if the idea of you—new, unsure, trembling beneath her—wasn’t enough?

That frown tugged at your lips, not quite erasing the lust in your eyes, but softening it with something fragile, something you couldn’t quite hide.

Rafayel saw it immediately. Her fingers were still moving inside you—slow, curling, coaxing moans from your throat without effort—but her attention locked on your face, and her expression shifted. Not annoyed. Not even impatient. Just—pained. A little wrecked.

“Fuck,” she breathed, eyes dark as she leaned in closer, her forehead falling gently against yours. Her voice was ragged, husky at the edges, full of tension that vibrated just under her skin. “Don’t look like that, cutie. Please.”

Her lashes fluttered, brushing against her cheeks as she exhaled—long and shaky. “I want you. So fucking badly I can barely hold back. But you’ve never done this before and I—” she faltered, voice dipping, “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to overwhelm you. So don’t… don’t think I’m hesitating because I don’t want this.”

She opened her eyes again, and they were raw with restraint, amethyst depths burning with barely leashed desire. “The problem is I want this too much.”

The vulnerability in her voice pierced something inside you. You leaned up instinctively, closing the space between your lips, catching her mouth in a kiss that was soft but certain—an answer. A promise.

When you pulled back, your breath was warm against her cheek. “I’ve wanted you for months,” you murmured, the words falling out like truth finally unshackled. “Please… take me, Rafayel. I need you.”

You looked up at her then, a little hesitant, the edge of uncertainty still there. “But if my inexperience is going to be a problem, we can stop. I don’t want to ruin this for you.”

Her reaction was immediate. A groan, almost guttural, tore from her throat, and then her mouth was on yours again—hard, hungry, desperate in a way that made your toes curl and your fingers cling to her back.

“Don’t say that,” she whispered between kisses, every word landing like a vow. “Don’t you ever say that again.”

Another kiss. Fierce. Dizzying.

“I don’t care in the slightest,” she breathed, and this time her voice was shaking with how much she meant it. “Fuck, I want you. All of you.”

And the way she looked at you, like she’d been starving for you and had only now been allowed to taste. There was nothing performative about it. No pretending. No pressure. Just Rafayel wanting you exactly as you were.

She slipped her fingers from inside you, slow and wet, and the sudden absence made you gasp—a soft, startled whimper catching in your throat as your hips instinctively chased after the sensation. The cool air kissed your heat in her wake, and you blinked up at her, dazed.

Rafayel moved away only slightly, enough to lean back on her knees and begin tugging at the waistband of her pants. The room filled with the quiet rustle of fabric and breath, the sound of your heartbeat pounding loud in your ears. Her gaze never once left you—dilated pupils, dark lashes, lust simmering low and thick behind her amethyst eyes. But there was something else layered beneath it too. Something that made your breath catch.

Need. Reverence. Want wrapped in affection so intense it felt like gravity pulling you closer.

You reached out for her—an instinct, not a thought—and it earned you a low, amused chuckle as she crawled back toward you. Her mouth found yours again, this time slower, deeper. She kissed you like she knew you were nervous. Like she could feel the tremble in your breath, the rise and fall of your chest trying to find rhythm.

Her voice brushed against your lips, warm and hushed, edged with heat but anchored in something more tender. “Do you trust me?”

Your nod came without hesitation—your body moved before your voice could.

That seemed to be all she needed. She coaxed you back onto your spine, hands guiding without pressure, until you were sprawled beneath her again, open and waiting. The bed shifted slightly as she rose to her knees, and then her fingers curled around your right leg, dragging it slow, deliberate, over her shoulder. You watched the movement—your breath caught somewhere between awe and anticipation.

Her palm slid along your calf, squeezing gently, and her lips pulled into a grin that was equal parts wicked and reassuring.

“Relax,” she murmured, nuzzling the inside of your knee with her cheek before she shifted again.

This time, it was her turn to curl a leg around you. Her right thigh looped around your waist as she settled in close—closer than you thought possible—and the moment your eyes flicked down between your bodies, your entire breath seized.

She was glistening, dripping onto the sheets. Want slick between her thighs, glistening in the low light. And it was so close to your pussy, so ready to touch, to slide against yours, that you couldn’t stop the moan that slipped from you—raw, needy, involuntary. Your hips jerked upward, trying to close the space.

You heard her inhale at the sound. Heard her smile. Felt her hand stroke your outer thigh again as she murmured, playful but low with need, “Mmm, you're eager, aren’t you?”

You couldn’t answer with words. Not when your whole body was burning, already aching for the press of her against you. You could only nod, biting your lip, eyes glazed as she moved just slightly.

She groaned low in her throat, the sound curling around your ribs like smoke. Her hands found your waist with an aching sort of reverence, fingers pressing into your skin as she inched closer—agonizingly slow, deliberately restrained. Her body hovered just shy of yours, a breath away, the tension between you almost unbearable.

Her eyes, half-lidded and dark with lust, swept over the flushed rise of your chest, drinking in every tremble, every inch of your need. And when her fingers ghosted down, grazing your soaked folds with featherlight curiosity, your breath caught in your throat, a soft mewl slipping out before you could stop it.

“Relax for me, pretty,” she murmured, her voice a breathless rasp, as if she were already halfway undone. Her thumb traced soothing patterns into your thigh, and her lips curved—playful, fond, heat-drunk. “Follow my lead. I’ll make us both feel good.”

The words slid down your spine like warm honey, and then her fingers dipped between your legs—just one slipping inside, shallow at first, then withdrawing, teasing, coaxing your walls to flutter and tighten with every pass. You whimpered, hips shifting instinctively, chasing more.

Then Rafayel shifted again, planting one arm behind her for balance as her other hand remained possessive on your thigh. And just as you tried to inhale, to steady yourself, her eyes met yours.

That look—like the whole galaxy had narrowed to this one moment between your thighs—hit you harder than her touch.

And then she moved, her hips rolled forward, slow and deliberate, her pussy sliding over yours in one seamless, molten grind.

The sensation made your back arch off the bed with a startled, broken moan—so loud and raw it barely sounded like you. Her own groan met yours, deep and shaking, pulled from somewhere far below the surface. She did it again, slower this time, letting the slick friction of your bodies melt together—wet, warm, aching.

It only took a few more rolls of her hips before your body understood, matching her rhythm instinctively. Her thigh flexed against yours, her fingers digging tighter into your leg as your clits caught on each other with every motion, drawing moan after moan from both of you.

You couldn’t think, couldn’t form words—your thoughts scattered and fevered, drowned beneath how good she felt, how real it was, how impossibly right.

Rafayel was flushed—gorgeous and flushed—her lavender hair falling across her face, strands sticking to her cheeks as her mouth parted on a quiet gasp. Her eyes were locked on yours, hungry, reverent, mouth twitching up at the corners like she couldn't believe it either. Like she’d wanted this just as long.

Her hips rocked forward again, and you cried out, voice catching on a moan that tangled with hers, the rhythm between you growing more frantic, more desperate.

You didn’t even have room in your mind to wonder if you were doing it right—because the look in her eyes answered everything.

She was wrecked. She was beautiful. And she was falling apart on top of you, just as much as you were for her.

“You’re doing so well,” Rafayel gasped, her voice tight and wrecked with pleasure, and the sound of it alone sent your eyes rolling back. Her grip on your leg tightened, fingers digging in like she needed the anchor, needed you. Her breath shuddered across your skin as she rasped against your leg, barely able to hold the words together. “Perfect—just like this. Fuck, cutie… you feel so good. I’m—damn, I’m close.”

Her hips dragged against yours again, slow at first, then faster, grinding down with increasing desperation. Every slick roll of her body sent pleasure shooting straight through your core, making you gasp and cry out and clench helplessly around nothing.

“I’m close too,” you breathed, eyes fluttering shut as you arched into her, trying to match her pace. “God, Raf—I wanna come with you.”

The words tumbled out in broken gasps, your body trembling, every muscle drawn tight with the edge of it. You tried to move faster, to chase the release pooling in your belly, but it was too much, too good—especially when her hips pressed down again, harder this time, slick and perfect.

“Please,” you whimpered, “I’m so close, I need—”

“Oh, fuck, cutie—” she groaned, her voice cracking, “don’t beg like that.” She was unraveling above you, her whole body trembling with restraint.

“You’re so wet,” she muttered, almost to herself, looking down between your bodies with a dark gleam in her eyes, “Look at that… how good we fit… how easy it is to slide against you…”

You moaned brokenly, biting down on your lip as heat surged through you like wildfire. The tension was unbearable—right there, teetering on the edge—and Rafayel wasn’t helping, her own voice thick with need as she pushed you closer and closer.

“C’mon, angel,” she breathed, hips stuttering against yours as she breathed out, voice rough with heat and coaxing. “Let go for me, yeah? Come apart. Let me feel it.”

That did it. Just a few more slick, desperate rolls of her hips and the dam inside you broke. Your body convulsed, a high-pitched cry tearing from your throat as you came hard, clinging to her like your life depended on it. Her name caught on your tongue, broken and trembling.

Rafayel didn’t last a second longer. She chased the sound of her name from your lips and followed you over the edge, her own moan low and syrupy as she came with you, her body jerking in rhythm with yours as your slicks mixed and made a mess of everything between you.

You were both gasping for air, trembling, wrecked and glistening—but she didn’t pull away.

Instead, she slumped forward, mouth catching yours in a heated, messy kiss, tongue dragging over your lips like she couldn’t stand even a second of distance. You moaned into her, still so sensitive, but you kissed her back just as desperately—hungry and languid, lips sliding together in the haze of afterglow.

“You did so well,” she murmured against your mouth between kisses, voice a breathless hum of praise. “Fuck, you were perfect.”

You couldn’t even speak. Your breath was still trying to come back to you, your skin still tingling, your body still wrapped in hers—and her mouth was on you again, claiming you with slow, reverent kisses. Like she needed to memorize you. Like she didn’t want to let you go.

The air between you was thick with warmth and want, the kind that lingers long after the pleasure has passed. And from the way Rafayel held you, lips dragging slow and lazy down your jaw, it was clear the heat between you wasn’t over just yet.

You stayed like that for a while—tangled in each other, skin to skin, your bodies still humming with aftershocks neither of you dared to name yet. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and sex, softened only by the slow rise and fall of your breaths syncing, like waves finally retreating from the shore. You were dizzy—buzzed from the alcohol, sure, but mostly from her. From the weight of her draped over you, from the way her lips still lazily explored your neck as if she couldn’t quite stop.

“I think the hangover is creeping up on me,” she murmured into your skin, voice low and petulant, like she was mourning the end of your high already. A tiny whine slipped through her lips, so unlike the composed, maddeningly theatrical girl the world knew. It made you chuckle, even though your head throbbed too.

You didn’t talk about what had just happened yet. The words hadn’t caught up to the moment. So you let yourselves fall into quiet comfort instead. She clung to you shamelessly, splayed out across your body like a lazy cat, her limbs tangled with yours, and no apparent intention of moving.

She heard your soft laugh and lifted her head with a mock pout, strands of damp hair clinging to her flushed face. “Don’t laugh,” she grumbled. “You’ll be suffering right alongside me soon enough.”

Her makeup was ruined—smudged by heat and sweat and the brush of your bodies—but you thought she’d never looked more beautiful. Her cheeks still glowed with afterglow, her lips swollen, her violet eyes a little dazed. There was something almost unreal about her like this, half-drunk on lust and barely holding onto her usual theatrical armor.

She caught you staring. And naturally, she couldn’t help herself. “Someone can’t take their eyes off me, huh,” she cooed, her smile slow and feline. “Cutie, if you keep looking at me like that, I might melt right here before the hangover even hits.”

You flushed, scoffing under your breath and glancing away, but she wasn’t having that. She gently turned your chin back toward her with two fingers, eyes locked on yours with something softer now—less teasing, more real.

“Don’t get shy on me now, hm?” her thumb brushed your jaw. “Look at me.”

So you did. And for a second, it all caught up with you. What you’d done. What you’d said. The taste of her still on your tongue. You didn’t even know if it had really happened, or if it was just a beautiful illusion crafted by alcohol and desperation and months of buried want.

Rafayel saw the spiral in your eyes before you could voice it. Her lips pressed to yours in a slow, grounding kiss, coaxing you gently back into the present. Her hand settled on your jaw, steadying you, thumb stroking your cheek with the kind of reverence you hadn’t expected from her.

“You should get out of that pretty little head of yours,” she whispered against your lips, voice quieter now, velvet-soft. “I meant everything I did tonight. Everything I said.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. Her smile grew, warm and unguarded, and she kissed the tip of your nose.

You winced slightly, the gesture catching you off guard—and of course she noticed.

“Oh, so now you’re bullying me?” she huffed dramatically. “I see how it is.” her voice dropped into a playful murmur as she trailed kisses down your neck. “You didn’t seem so mouthy when I was between your legs, cutie. You were moaning so sweetly. Being so nice to me. And now you’re bullying me?”

Your cheeks burned, and you gave her a light smack to the side. “Can you not say things like that? Jesus, Rafayel.”

She just laughed, unbothered, and nuzzled into your throat like she owned the space there. Then she shifted, squirming her way up until she hovered above you, her violet eyes catching yours—bright, watchful. The smirk faded just enough for you to recognize the shift in her. She was about to ask something real.

“How long?” her voice was soft, almost curious. But not quite.

You blinked. “How long what?”

Rafayel tilted her head, her expression unreadable for once. No sly grin. No sharp quip. Just raw amethyst eyes, rimmed in smudged liner and open in a way you rarely saw.

“How long have you wanted this?” she asked, then hesitated just for a beat, as if she decided if she was really gonna go for it and say it. “Wanted… me.”

The question didn’t carry the weight of accusation, but something in it still made your breath catch. She was trying to sound nonchalant, casual even, but you could hear it. The crack in her voice. The part of her that needed to know.

You looked away for a moment, then forced yourself to meet her gaze. You couldn’t lie to her. Not now.

“Since before tonight,” you said, voice quiet but sure. “Since before the party. Before… her.”

You saw the flicker of amusement tug at her lips, soft and a little smug.

“So you were jealous.” she grinned wider when you rolled your eyes. “I knew it. You always frowned when I brought her up.”

You smacked her arm again, and she just beamed, undeterred. She kissed you again—quick, playful, a little breathless—and then murmured against your lips, “So… is that why you kissed me tonight? Because you saw me with her?”

You frowned, chest tightening. “No. I didn’t have any right to be jealous.”

“No,” she agreed. “But you still were, weren’t you?”

You looked away, cheeks burning. Her voice had dropped to something slower now, more thoughtful, as she traced idle patterns across your bare hip.

“And you still didn’t answer me, cutie,” she added softly. “Is that why you let this happen?”

You knew what she meant. She wasn’t asking if you’d done it to hurt her. She was asking if it had been real.

So you reached for her hand, fingers threading between hers. She glanced down at the movement, then back up to your face, her expression unreadable—but no longer guarded.

“I think you know me better than that, Raf,” you whispered. “I’m not that petty. I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time. I just… didn’t know if I should.”

Rafayel stared at you for a moment longer—then leaned down and kissed you again. This time, she didn’t rush. She just lingered there, warm and steady, her thumb brushing over your knuckles like she could memorize every piece of you by touch alone.

And in that quiet, with her body wrapped around yours and her kiss still warm on your lips, you knew she believed you.

Your kisses deepened, no longer tentative, no longer testing—just hungry, lazy, unhurried. You melted into the warmth of her body, the press of bare skin against bare skin. Rafayel lay draped over you, her thigh slung possessively over your waist, her limbs loose and content like a cat in a sunbeam. The room was still—thick with the scent of sweat and skin and the faint remnants of perfume—and somewhere beyond it all, the dull weight of the oncoming hangover loomed like a storm cloud waiting to break.

But you didn’t care. You were tired. A little dazed. A little tipsy still. But there was something else—something low and curling, gathering again in your stomach with an ache that had nothing to do with thirst or headache.

She shifted slightly, brushing against you in that unconscious, intimate way she had. And you felt it again. Desire. Heat, slick and growing. And the curiosity that had been haunting the back of your mind for months crept forward like a secret you’d tried to ignore. You'd never gone down on a girl before. You’d been with boys who expected you to lie back and be quiet, who never asked what you wanted, let alone what you wanted to give. But Rafayel was different. And for all your nervousness, the idea of tasting her made your pulse stutter.

You wanted to. You wanted her. But how the hell were you supposed to say that?

You stayed quiet, letting your hands speak instead—sliding through the silky strands of her purple hair, tugging gently until she let out a pleased, indulgent little moan.

“Mmm… you’ve really got a thing for pulling my hair, don’tcha?” she hummed, lips brushing yours as she smiled lazily.

“You talk too much,” you murmured against her mouth, trying to sound teasing, not shaky.

She laughed—light and amused, like velvet against your chest—and you kissed her again before you could lose your nerve. This one was hungrier, bolder. She opened for you easily, tongue meeting yours like she'd been waiting for it, like she knew this was coming.

You rolled her beneath you in a tangle of limbs and covers, your bodies sliding together as you shifted. She let you, delight flashing in her half-lidded eyes even as she blinked up at you in surprise.

Your lips found her neck again, the space just beneath her jaw, and she moaned as her fingers curled into the sheets. Your hand trailed downward, fingertips skimming the slope of her ribs before closing around her breast, soft and warm and yielding. You kneaded gently, listened to the way she gasped, the way her thighs flexed around your waist in a wordless plea.

Then her hips moved—subtle, almost shy. But it was there. A quiet lift. A silent please.

You bit her neck, just hard enough to mark, and she shivered beneath you.

“O-oh… do that again,” she breathed, head tipping back to bare more of her throat for you. Her voice was high, near-whimpering now—so unlike the smug, self-possessed girl she’d been before. This Rafayel was different. This Rafayel was undone. Yours.

So you did. You bit her again, a little lower this time, and her back arched with a soft cry, her hands fluttering helplessly against your arms. Her nipples peaked under your fingers, and when you brushed one with the barest graze, she gasped—louder now, almost desperate.

Underneath you, Rafayel wasn’t teasing or taunting. She wasn’t in control. She was open. Responsive. Beautifully unraveled. And she had no idea what you were planning next.

But still, your hands didn’t drift. Your lips stayed fixed to her neck, marking her in slow, possessive kisses, as your mind whirled, trying to work up the nerve to go lower. To tell her what you wanted without falling into silence or embarrassment. Her thighs shifted again, restless against you. Her breaths came faster, broken and hot, her fingers twitching against your shoulder.

“Cutie,” she breathed, a little impatient now, hips shifting again under yours. “You trying to drive me insane on purpose?”

She noticed you didn’t really respond, or that you were not 100% present. Rafayel’s fingers curled beneath your jaw, gentle but firm as she guided your face away from the crook of her throat, just enough to see you properly. Her brows were faintly drawn, eyes wide and dark with heat, but behind that was something softer. A thread of concern, even in the middle of all that breathless pleasure.

“Hey…” Her voice was hushed, velvet-soft. “What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

You shook your head quickly—too quickly, maybe. Her touch lingered on your cheek, and she didn’t press, but the question remained, written across her features in unspoken script. You didn’t want to explain. So you kissed her instead, harder this time. Not rushed, but urgent—an attempt to swallow the nerves crawling up your throat.

Rafayel gasped softly into your mouth, surprised, her lips parting beneath yours, but she responded instantly, always eager to meet you in your madness. When you pulled back, your cheeks were flushed, your breath shaky, and you didn’t need to look at her to know she was studying you.

“I want to try something,” you said, your voice roughened by restraint, trying too hard to sound nonchalant.

Her expression flickered. You could feel her curiosity sharpen, her gaze searching yours like she was trying to solve a riddle before you gave the answer. But when she tilted her head, when she didn’t press you with words, you took it as a cue. You dropped your gaze and let your lips return to her skin—this time lower. A kiss to her jaw. A slow drag down her throat. Her breath hitched.

Then lower. Your tongue circled a nipple, experimentally slow, and Rafayel let out a moan, sweet and sharp and trembling. Her head fell back into the pillows, lashes fluttering, hair spilling wild around her like a storm.

“Oh, fuck… cutie,” she breathed, laughing a little breathlessly even through the pleasure. “What exactly are you trying to tell me right now?”

You didn’t answer. You just kept going, trailing kisses down the line of her ribs, over the soft curve of her stomach. Your hands were gentle, bracing her hips, and as you lowered yourself between her legs, you looked up.

You could feel your own hesitation in the tightness of your shoulders. Not because you didn’t want to—god, you did—but because this was uncharted territory. Because you wanted it to be good for her. Because you didn’t know what the hell you were doing.

Rafayel’s breath caught when she met your gaze. You saw it in her face—the realization dawning, a bloom of pink spreading across her cheeks like rising heat.

Still, she didn’t say anything right away. She just smiled softly, a little crooked. Then she tilted her head, amusement and fondness flickering in her gaze. “…Go ahead.”

You swallowed, heart hammering, but something still made you pause, even if just for a second.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admitted, voice quiet, barely more than a breath.

Her expression didn’t shift. If anything, it deepened into something more tender—warmth, ease, maybe even pride. Her hand found your cheek again, thumb stroking the skin there in soothing circles.

“Then don’t think so hard,” she murmured. “Do whatever you think’ll feel good. You’ll figure it out.”

And with that, she reclined slowly, giving herself to the moment, to you. Her body relaxed under your hands, and she smiled again—open, ready, trusting.

For a girl who always had a witty comeback, always had control of the room, she had never looked more beautiful than she did now—laid out for you, gaze soft, lips parted, breathing just a little faster than before.

You took your cue, inhaling softly as you lowered yourself between her thighs, letting your courage take the lead before hesitation could anchor it down. Rafayel gasped when she felt the first brush of your breath against her—so soft, so tentative it made her twitch. Her hips lifted slightly, as though coaxing you closer without words.

The sight of her was enough to make your mouth water. She was already slick again, flushed and pliant from the heat winding between you. You swallowed, steadied yourself, and turned your head instead—not yet brave enough to taste her, not yet. You started with the softest kisses to her inner thigh, reverent and lingering, as though mapping your way forward with your mouth alone.

A breathy, approving moan slipped from her lips.

“Don’t get shy on me now, cutie,” she murmured, voice warm and low, like silk pulled over bare skin. “You’ll ruin the anticipation.”

But she didn’t rush you. Didn’t push. Just let herself sink back into the mattress, limbs loose and gaze half-lidded as she watched you explore.

And when you finally looked up, she was already looking down at you. Eyes hazy, lips parted, her chest rising and falling with slow, measured breath that stuttered as your gaze locked. She didn’t say a word—but she didn’t need to. The invitation was in every inch of her expression, in the quiet flex of her thighs, the gentle rock of her hips.

So you took it. You leaned in and let your tongue part her folds, just once, slow and unpracticed—but the sound she made in response ignited something in you. A soft, broken moan, her back arching as if her body wanted to chase the warmth of your mouth.

So you did it again. Long, languid strokes of your tongue that dragged along the soft slickness of her, tasting her. Learning her. With every pass, her breathing grew more ragged, more erratic—until you circled your tongue around her clit, experimentally light, and her hips jerked.

“God—fuck.” her voice rasped through the air, threaded with disbelief. “Right there… just like that.”

The praise made your cheeks burn, but you didn’t stop. If anything, you doubled down, watching the way her body reacted to every shift in pressure, every flick of your tongue. Her fingers curled into the sheets, white-knuckled, and the other hand tangled into your hair, guiding you gently, keeping your face close like she never wanted you to leave.

You moaned into her from the sheer intimacy of it, from the way her thighs bracketed your head so trustingly, so needily—and she answered that sound with a deeper one of her own, almost guttural.

Whatever you were doing, you were doing it right. She wasn’t the type to fake her pleasure, and she certainly wasn’t doing that now—not with the way her body trembled, with how her voice cracked around half-sobs of your name.

So you kept going. You changed the rhythm, played with pace—lapping and sucking until you could map her reactions, know what each twitch or gasp meant. And when she moaned your name again, voice shaking, you slid one finger inside her, curling it carefully.

That did it. Her whole body jolted under your touch, a strangled moan tearing from her throat. “Oh my god—fuck, there. Cutie… please—”

The way she begged, breathless and undone, made something bloom deep in your chest. You did it again, curling just right, tongue never ceasing, and she bucked into your mouth with a cry, loud and raw. The desperation in her voice undid you completely.

“Shit—don’t stop. I’m gonna—fuck, I’ll come if you—” Another moan swallowed the rest of her sentence, and you pushed a second finger in, feeling the tight clench of her walls and the heat threatening to spill over.

You pulled back just enough to whisper against her soaked core, voice hoarse with want. “Wanna make you come.”

And then you dove back in, lips slick, tongue greedy, fingers stroking her just right—just like she needed.

You didn’t think you’d ever see Rafayel like this. So flustered. So flushed and gasping. So thoroughly ruined by your mouth. She moaned your name again and again, high and broken, while her hips rocked instinctively against your face, chasing the release building under your touch.

And then, suddenly, she froze—every muscle tense, her thighs trembling as her voice cracked. “Mhmm—fuck, I’m… oh, I’m coming. Shit—cutie—”

You felt it. The shudder that rippled through her, the sweet rush of wet heat on your tongue as she came with a choked cry, head thrown back and fingers gripping your hair like it grounded her.

You coaxed her through it, slow and steady, the way she had done for you not so long ago. Every flick, every swirl of your tongue softened, easing her down from the high, and when she finally collapsed back against the bed, breathless and glowing, your heart nearly burst from how beautiful she looked.

Rafayel—undone and utterly yours in that moment—exhaled a shaky laugh, eyes glazed and lips pink from biting back more moans. “…You’ve been holding out on me, haven’t you?”

Her voice was hoarse, teasing, laced with the remnants of her pleasure. You looked up at her, flushed and trembling, lips slick and heart thudding.

“Guess I’m a fast learner,” you managed.

She grinned, lazy and satisfied, eyes twinkling as she tugged you up by your hair. And when she kissed you, she moaned again into your mouth, tasting herself on your lips with zero shame.

“Mm,” she whispered, nose brushing yours, “we’re definitely doing that again.”

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