hppylaw

[hppylaw]

LAW BOYFRIEND SMAU TXTS!

—— requested!

gn!reader!

masterlist!

note;; law bf smau texts are here! for my law lovers 🖤 . hope you enjoy these, tried to be as accurate as possible hehe.

—- also, as always requests are open! 

cw ✿ suggestive – last few messages!

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✿

[hppylaw]

Uniform Trouble

trafalgar law x fem!reader

he gets turned on by you wearing the crew’s uniform…

a/n: another smut another fail but at least I made it funny lmao

tags: MDNI, nsfw, no graphic details of body parts, humor, teasing, established relationship, possessive law, crew dynamics, fluff-to-smut build-up

word count: 7.7k

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

You walk through the halls of the Polar Tang, hair messy and face still heavy with sleep. You’re cold. You’re annoyed. And you’re stuffed into Penguin’s uniform, which fits you like a badly wrapped sandwich.

It’s too tight across your chest. The sleeves are long, but the fabric hugs your curves in all the wrong ways. The pants sit awkwardly on your hips, the zipper strained and the waistband digging in. You didn’t exactly have a choice. Every single piece of clothing you owned was either burned, sliced, or left behind after the last mission.

So now you’re in a stretched-out black and yellow Heart Pirates uniform that clearly wasn’t made for your body. You try not to think about how ridiculous you look as you push open the door to the dining room.

The crew’s already there. Shachi, Penguin, and Clione are eating like animals. Law sits at the head of the table, sipping black coffee and pretending he doesn’t exist in the same reality as them. Standard morning chaos.

You drop into the empty seat next to Law with a heavy sigh and mutter, “Captain, I need new clothes. Can I have some money from that last treasure haul?”

Law doesn’t even glance at you “You had plenty of clothes. You just keep destroying them.”

You glare “That’s not my fault. You’re the one who keeps sending me into fights first.”

“No one’s forcing you to get blown up every mission.”

You scoff “You’re lucky I like you.”

He finally looks your way to snap back but then he freezes. Completely. His words die in his throat. You see his eyes drag over you, slow and sharp, from the tight jacket stretched across your chest to the pants clinging to your hips. He doesn’t even blink.

From across the table, Penguin suddenly snorts “Wait. Hold on. Is that my uniform?”

You glare at him “What was I supposed to do? Everything I own is in pieces!”

Shachi chokes on his toast “You look like someone stuffed a melon into a bottle.”

Clione’s already laughing “That jacket is fighting for its life.”

“Don’t act like you guys wear it better!” you shoot back “You look dumb all the time!”

Penguin grins “At least it fits us. You look like a bootleg Heart Pirates mascot.”

“You look like a groupie who snuck onboard.” Shachi adds, trying not to laugh with a mouth full of food.

You roll your eyes “Whatever. Captain’s the one who keeps sending me into fights. He owes me a shopping trip.”

Penguin snickers “Even he had to stop talking. Look at him! Captain’s laughing at you.”

You turn toward Law. He’s still staring at you, but his expression hasn’t changed. His eyes are dark. Serious. No smirk. No twitch. Just pure focus.

“Do I look like I’m laughing?” he says, voice low and sharp.

The whole room goes quiet. Even Shachi shuts up.

You blink “Wait… so you’re not—?”

You cross your arms over your chest and sink into your seat a little “I knew it. I look ridiculous.”

Law’s voice drops even lower, enough that only you can hear “You look like you’re trying to get me to throw the others out of the room.”

Your heart skips. You forget how to breathe for a second.

He straightens in his chair, goes back to sipping his coffee like he didn’t just say something that made your whole body heat up.

And the worst part is that he hasn’t stopped looking at you.

The crew is still chuckling, though not as loud as before. Law’s sharp voice “Do I look like I’m laughing?” killed most of their confidence.

You shift in your seat, heart pounding a little faster. He’s staring. Not annoyed, not amused, just… still. Focused. On you.

Your voice drops to a whisper as you lean toward him, confused, maybe a little too hopeful.

“Wait… this?” you ask, gesturing vaguely to the outfit. Your fingers point without thinking, straight at the your chest, where the stolen uniform stretches tight across your breasts “This turned you on?”

Law’s gaze drops, automatically following where you pointed. He sees your hand. Sees what you’re pointing at.

Then his ears turn red. Fast.

He jerks his head away like he touched something hot, suddenly avoiding your eyes completely. His hand grips his coffee cup tighter, jaw tensing as he pretends to study the table.

You blink. That’s all the answer you need.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You sit back slowly, cheeks warming as the realization sinks in.

Penguin starts rambling again about how maybe the jacket looks different because it’s been stretched out by “unauthorized boobs” and Shachi loses it all over again.

You don’t hear any of it.

Because Law won’t look at you and you know exactly why.

Your stomach flips. You cover your mouth to hide a small, involuntary smile. So much for looking stupid.

The crew can’t stop laughing, even as they’re finishing breakfast. The jokes keep flying, Shachi says you look like you lost a bet, Clione offers to “adjust” the uniform for you, and Penguin’s on his third impression of how you stomped into the room earlier, tugging at the too-tight pants like they were trying to eat you alive.

But you’re barely listening now.

Your eyes keep drifting to Law.

He hasn’t looked at anyone else since that moment you asked him the question. Since you whispered if this turned him on. Since you accidentally pointed to your chest like you were trying to prove a point and did. He hasn’t said a word. Hasn’t smiled. Hasn’t blinked much either.

You know that look. He’s trying to hold it together. Barely.

You cross your legs slowly, giving him a little innocent glance, just to watch his jaw clench again. It’s too easy.

Penguin finally leans back with a smirk and says, “Next time you wanna wear my uniform, at least ask first. Now you look like my girlfriend.”

The table howls with laughter.

You don’t laugh.

You hear the scrape of Law’s chair shift just slightly. He’s still quiet, but something in the air around him shifts. His shoulders go rigid. His fingers flex on the table like he’s trying to decide if throwing someone out of the submarine is worth the paperwork.

You can feel the jealousy coming off him like steam.

Your head snaps toward Penguin and you roll your eyes “Relax. As if I would ever be with you, dumb idiot.”

Shachi nearly chokes from laughing too hard.

But you don’t stop there. You lean in close to Law again, just loud enough for him to hear, your lips almost brushing the shell of his ear.

“First you get turned on,” you whisper, voice soft and sharp like a secret, “and then jealous? Pick a side… Captain.”

That does it.

Law’s body tenses completely. His hand moves quick, grabbing his long black coat from the back of his chair. He shrugs it on fast, pulling it across his lap with a subtle but telling shift. He adjusts it again. A second too long.

You glance down.

Oh.

That explains it.

You smirk, biting your bottom lip just a little. You don’t say anything else, don’t have to. His body is saying enough. It’s saying yes, he’s turned on. Yes, the thought of you being anyone else’s makes him furious. And yes, he’s barely holding it together in front of the crew.

You sit back casually and start eating your toast like nothing happened, while Law stares straight ahead, clearly trying to murder his thoughts with focus.

But his eyes flick back to you every few seconds. And every time, they look darker.

You don’t even remember what dumb joke Shachi made. Something about how if you bent over in Penguin’s uniform, half the ship would pass out. Something crude. Loud. Predictable.

But that’s when it happens.

Law pushes his chair back. Fast. Sharp.

Everyone flinches.

He stands, coat still draped over his lap like it’s glued there. One hand presses it down as he rises, obviously, painfully trying to keep his situation under control. His voice is clipped and hard, not even looking at anyone when he mutters, “I’m going to my studio.”

He walks out before anyone can respond, boots loud against the floor, coat still gripped tight in front of him.

Everyone at the table stares in confused silence.

You watch him go, pulse quickening.

And then you move.

You finish the last of your drink in one gulp, slam the cup down, and stand up so fast your chair skids. “I’m tired of all the teasing,” you say, loud and annoyed “I’m going to change and burn this stupid uniform.”

Penguin shoots up in panic “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Burn it?! That’s my uniform! I only have three!”

“Then maybe keep them out of arm’s reach next time!” you snap, already storming out of the room.

You don’t even hear his protests because you’re gone.

But you’re not going to your room. You’re not changing. You’re definitely not burning anything.

You take the sharp left turn down the hall, heart pounding, boots echoing off the steel walls. You know exactly where he went. And exactly why.

You reach the studio door. No one’s around. You don’t even bother knocking.

You slip inside and shut it quietly behind you.

Law’s standing by his desk, back turned, his coat already off and thrown over the chair. He hears the door click and stiffens slightly, but doesn’t turn.

You don’t speak.

You just walk forward, slow, step by step, until you’re close enough to see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand grips the desk edge like it’s the only thing holding him upright.

This uniform’s almost gotten you both killed, but it’s not staying on much longer.

The air in the room shifts. Heavy. Heated.

Law still hasn’t turned around. His hands rest on the desk behind him, grip tight, knuckles pale. You don’t rush. You just walk up slowly until you’re close enough to feel his body warmth, your fingers brushing his shoulders.

He breathes in, shallow. Controlled. Barely.

You slide your hands down over the curve of his arms and gently tug, making him turn around to face you. His back hits the edge of the desk behind him. His eyes finally meet yours—dark, wild, still trying to stay calm.

You smirk up at him, soft but bold.

“If I knew the uniform would get you this hard,” you say, voice low and teasing, “I would’ve worn it the first day and spared us both months of hidden glances.”

You don’t give him a chance to answer. You drop your hands to his waist, bending slightly, just enough to lower yourself.

“Now let me help you—”

But before your knees hit the floor, his hands come up fast, grabbing your wrists, not rough, but firm. He stops you, breath catching hard.

You blink, surprised “Law?”

His eyes narrow slightly, not in anger, just heat. Intensity. That quiet dominance he carries even when he’s silent.

“First,” he says, his voice like gravel, “I help you.”

His fingers trail down the tight zipper of the uniform jacket you’ve been suffering in all morning. He drags it down slowly, just halfway, just enough to open it under your collarbones, exposing the skin that’s been pressed tight for hours.

“Looked like you couldn’t breathe.”

You laugh once under your breath, sharp and breathless “Makes two of us.”

And then it’s your turn. Your fingers move to the front of his pants, slow, careful, dragging the zipper down just enough to reveal how hard he’s been since breakfast.

You don’t need to say anything else. You see the way he shudders under your touch, how his eyes snap shut for half a second like he’s losing that last thread of control.

You smirk harder.

Game on.

You’re kneeling between his legs, fingers teasing, when you look up at him through your lashes and smirk. His back’s still resting against the edge of the desk, but his hands are gripping it tighter now, as if the wood’s the only thing keeping him sane.

He looks completely undone.

His voice is tight when he says your name, almost like a warning, but he doesn’t stop you. Not yet.

His breath hitches as your fingers brush against him, slow, light. When you lean forward, lips barely ghosting over his skin, he mutters something under his breath that sounds dangerously close to a curse.

You’re not rushing. You take your time. You’re gentle, steady, mouth warm around him, careful but purposeful. You feel the way his thighs tense, the way his head drops back for a second, eyes squeezed shut, trying to keep his breathing even.

But just when you start finding a rhythm, when you think he might let himself fall apart, his hand comes down.

Firm. Not forceful. But stopping you.

You blink up at him, surprised. You pull back slowly, lips parted.

“Law?”

He doesn’t speak right away. He leans forward, reaching down to you, his hand brushing gently against your cheek. Then he takes both your hands in his and tugs you upward.

“Come here.” he murmurs.

You rise slowly, heart racing for a whole different reason now. He shifts just enough to pull you between his legs, hands sliding to your waist, then up trailing over your ribs, the other cradling your jaw as his eyes lock on yours.

“My turn...” he says quietly, voice low and certain.

You almost laugh, a breathy sound caught somewhere between amusement and arousal, but the smile melts off your lips when he tugs the zipper of the stolen uniform down again, but lower this time. It opens right below your chest, finally giving you room to breathe.

You feel the heat in his breath when you lean in again, teasing his mouth with a slow kiss, tasting him soft before dragging your lips to the edge of his jaw. His hand tightens on your waist.

And then, with a breathless laugh against his skin, you say, “All this over Penguin’s uniform.”

He freezes. Stares at you like you just offended his bloodline “Stop ruining the mood.”

You grin, satisfied, and he kisses you again to silence you, rougher now, hungrier, like he’s trying to wipe your words off your tongue. Your back bumps into the desk now, and he leans in, pressing against you fully.

You feel him again... hard, needy, pressing right against your thigh.

His lips trail down to your neck, teeth just grazing your skin before he pulls back just enough for you to catch your breath. You lean into him again, your voice playful now, teasing right at his ear.

“What happens if I wear your clothes?”

He laughs under his breath, low and dark.

“We’ll find out later.” he mutters, and then kisses you again, harder this time, like he already has a plan.

And judging by the way he’s gripping your hips like he’s trying not to lose it later is going to be worth the wait.

You feel his hand slip around your waist, drawing you in, like he’s settling into the moment, fully focused on you now.

The room’s quiet. That heavy kind of quiet, where you can hear his breath, your own heartbeat, the distant hum of the submarine. His lips move against yours, warm and controlled. Not asking. Taking.

His hand moves to the zipper of the uniform. His fingers brush your chest lightly, just above where the fabric starts to cling, and you feel the hesitation. Like he's checking if you’ll stop him.

You don’t.

You meet his eyes, and he watches you as he slowly pulls the zipper down. It’s not smooth. It’s deliberate. Like each click of the metal is another second of you unraveling beneath him.

He lowers the zip and he leans in. His mouth finds that newly revealed spot, and he kisses it... gentle, slow, leaving warmth behind like a mark.

You breathe in, shaky. His lips brush lower. The zipper slips another inch. Another kiss, right at the top of your chest.

“Law…”

He hums against your skin. Not in answer, just acknowledging you. Still moving at his own damn pace.

The zipper goes down another inch. And another.

Now it’s halfway down your chest, and the jacket is parting around your body. You’re not wearing a bra underneath it. The fabric had been tight enough to feel suffocating even without it.

He looks at you like you’re the answer to every locked door in his head.

His lips move lower, finding the center of your sternum. Another kiss. Warm. Open-mouthed this time.

His hands slide to your waist, holding you steady as he leans down further. You grip the desk behind you with one hand and his shoulder with the other. You don’t know if it’s to keep yourself upright or to keep him close.

He tugs the rest of the zipper all the way down. The jacket falls completely open now, hanging off your shoulders like it’s given up. You’re left standing there, half-covered, half-revealed, and completely owned by the way he’s looking at you.

His hands trace the edges of the fabric, fingers ghosting over your curves.

Law rises fully and slowly now. There’s something deliberate in the way he moves now, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, and he’s in no rush to let you off easy.

Your breath catches as he leans in again, the air between you warming. His eyes search yours for a brief, charged moment, and then his lips brush yours, soft, teasing, maddening. It’s a barely-there kiss, gone before you can fully taste it.

You chase the next one, and he lets you catch it, lets you sink into it, but he keeps it brief again. When he pulls back, there’s the faintest smugness in the way he breathes, controlled and steady, like he’s enjoying your growing impatience.

You blink up at him, heart thrumming in your chest, and murmur, “Why did you stop there?”

Your voice is soft but edged with need. Your hands slide up his chest, fingers curling in the loose front of his open jacket. You pull him just an inch closer.

“Kiss me lower,” you whisper “Will you?”

Law doesn’t answer at first. He studies you with dark eyes unreadable but clearly amused, like he’s weighing the tension he’s winding around your body. Then, that familiar, dangerous smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Calm down…” he says, voice a low drawl, rich and quiet “I’m getting there.”

His head tilts slightly as he leans back in but not for another kiss.

“Do you think I’m the type who stops like this?”

Before you can even reply, he presses in fully and that’s when you feel the hard press of him through the uniform he’s still got you trapped in. The heat of it, firm and undeniable, pushing right up against between your thighs.

You gasp, not meaning to, and his eyes flicker in reaction, pleased.

Your fingers tighten around the fabric of his jacket as your voice finds its edge again.

“Seems like I’m not the only one in a rush.”

Law doesn’t even pretend to deny it. His smirk deepens, and he moves in even closer, like he wants to leave no room between your bodies at all. You can feel the rise and fall of his breath now, slow and heavy against your collarbone, and the way his hands settle at your hips, fingers sliding just beneath the hem of the uniform shirt as if he's trying to remind you who it belongs to now.

“You’re right,” he murmurs against your throat “You started it.”

Then he kisses you again, harder this time. It’s not gentle anymore. It’s deep, insistent, like he’s claiming something he’s been patient with for too long. One hand stays firm on your waist, the other drifting up, brushing beneath the fabric until his fingers find the bare skin of your ribs.

He takes his time there, lips skimming your skin, tongue barely tasting you. You shudder under him, and that only makes him go slower.

He mutters something against your neck, something you can’t fully hear but you feel it. You feel every word in the way his voice rumbles against your skin.

His hands slide lower, around to your back, pulling you closer until there’s nothing between you but the maddening layers of that uniform. The friction between you sharpens everything, at every movement, every shift of your hips, every low sound he makes when your body rolls against his.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, lips grazing your ear now.

You can barely answer.

“I’m not going to stop until you’re shaking for me.”

Your breath stutters again, and your voice is barely audible when you speak “Then stop wasting time.”

He lets out a low, approving sound at that, half a laugh, half a growl.

“I'm not wasting it.”

Everything blurs except the sensation of his hands, the weight of him, the tension that’s been winding tighter with every second.

His mouth is on yours again. Deeper. Hotter. His tongue slides against yours and you moan into him, unguarded now, and he takes it like a challenge, pressing harder, kissing rougher, gripping you tighter like he needs more, always more.

He pulls back just enough to speak, his breath ragged now too, matching yours.

“I want to hear everything,” he murmurs “Don’t hold anything back.”

And then he’s lowering himself again. His lips following the trail as he’s silently drawing down.

And he doesn’t stop.

Not this time.

He drags it down slowly, knuckles brushing the fabric as it slips and he catches it with one hand just as it starts to slide to the floor.

He pauses and hold it up between two fingers like it’s evidence in a case, looks at it for a second, then glances at you with something wicked in his eyes.

“I think Penguin won’t want this back now” he says flatly and tosses it across the room.

You open your mouth to reply, something biting and smug, but the words vanish the second his hands grab your thighs.

He grips you firmly, dragging you just a little forward on the desk, and then sinks to his knees in front of you. His mouth finds the inside of your thigh, warm, open kisses that start slow but deepen with each one of them. You gasp, not just from the sensation, but from the pace. It’s like he’s making up for every morning in your life that you teased him and got away with it.

You shift automatically, spreading your knees without thinking, giving him more room, welcoming him in. Your body reacts before your mind does. You barely realize how far back you’re leaning until you hit some books and papers behind you.

And then things start falling from his desk.

First it’s a cup of pens. Then a few stray maps. One of the rolled charts smacks the floor with a hollow thud. Something heavy clatters off the far edge of the desk and crashes onto the floor, loud. You flinch slightly, blinking through the haze of heat and pleasure.

Outside, you can hear muffled voices in the hallway. Shachi shouting, “What the hell was that?” Clione yelling something about “incoming earthquakes”. Footsteps getting closer.

But Law doesn’t even blink.

He’s focused. His hands pin your thighs with that practiced precision only a surgeon could manage, and his mouth doesn’t stop for anything, not even the apocalypse. He’s methodical. Thorough. His mouth moves slow at first, drawing sounds from you he clearly enjoys hearing, then picks up rhythm when he feels your thighs twitch beneath his grip.

Your hand flies to the back of his head, fingers tangling in his dark hair, not guiding, just needing to hold onto something. Anything. You arch, letting the mess behind you fall, letting the tension inside you rise.

You whisper his name once, and it breaks something in him.

He growls and grabs your hips, pulling you flush to the edge of the desk now, fully exposed, fully under his control. You adjust, shifting to plant your feet up on the edge for better balance and you hear the scrape of more items falling off the desk as you do.

You barely notice.

Outside, someone knocks on the door... once, awkwardly “Uh… Captain? Everything okay in there?”

Law doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch. His mouth is relentless.

You’re the one who answers, your voice ragged and half-wrecked with breath “Go. Away.”

The footsteps retreat.

Law pulls back only enough to breathe, and when he looks up at you now, his mouth slick, his expression hungry, and you can barely breathe.

“You’re loud...” he murmurs.

“You told me to... and you’re good...” you shoot back, breathless.

He chuckles softly, licking his lips once like he’s debating how much further to push you. Spoiler: the answer is all the way.

He stands slowly, looming over you again, his hand brushing your inner thigh once more on the way up.

You look at him like you’re ready to ruin him in return.

He leans in, breath ghosting your lips, and whispers low “Your turn.”

As you turn, the shift in momentum has Law leaning against his desk now, his hands behind him. A loud clatter rings out as something metal hits the floor... maybe a compass, maybe something else. The sound cuts through the air like a crack of tension.

Then comes a knock... again.

“Captain? Is everything alright in there?”

You groan and turn toward the door, clearly annoyed “I said y’all go away!”

Then you walk towards the door with your naked figure, scaring Law as if you're about to take the handle of the door and open it. Instead you lock the door.

Law raises a brow, glancing at the door, then at you “It was unlocked all this time?”

You flash him a guilty smile “Oops.”

“Are you sure everything’s okay?” the voice outside insists.

You roll your eyes “Read the room!”

Law steps forward and calls, “We’re just... cleaning.”

Then, without another word, he sweeps the rest of the desk clear, scrolls, pens, maps, gear, everything clattering to the floor in one decisive motion.

Clatter. Clink. Thud.

You look shocked at him but with your smirk still on.

“Hear that?” he says dryly “Just cleaning. Now tell everyone to go work on the maps and find the nearest island for supplies. We’re low on food.”

A pause. Then a flustered, “Y-yes, Captain.”

Footsteps retreat quickly.

You turn to him with a smirk “Mmh… bossy. I like that.”

He doesn’t say anything right away, but his gaze darkens slightly, tracking your movements as you step in closer, hands reaching for the buttons of his coat. Your fingers working at his buttons with unhurried precision, brushing the fabric open as your lips find his again. He lets you take your time, watching with sharp, attentive eyes that grow darker with every breath. When the last piece of his shirt falls aside, you trail a kiss up to his jaw and murmur, “Can we skip the boring part?”

Without waiting for an answer, you tug him toward the chair behind his desk. He doesn’t resist, just raises an eyebrow with that quiet, unreadable look of his before sitting down and settling into the chair.

You take your place on his lap like it’s always belonged to you.

He rests his hands on your waist, tilting his head slightly “And I’m the bossy one?”

You smile down at him, brushing your nose against his cheek before kissing just beneath his ear.

“You still are,” you murmur, “but right now, you’re letting me take charge.”

He doesn’t deny it. He just leans back slightly, letting you hover over him, watching with an intensity that says he’s just as captivated by your boldness as you are by his restraint.

The chair creaks quietly as you shift your hips, the only sound in the room for a beat—and Law’s fingers twitch at your sides.

Your answer is a slow grind of your hips that wipes the smugness off his face for half a second. He closes his eyes with a sharp inhale through his nose. He’s not even inside you, you’re just purely teasing him.

You run your hands through his hair, tugging lightly, and he tilts his head back for you with a low, involuntary sigh. His grip on you tightens again.

“This still part of the ‘boring part’ you wanted to skip.” he asks, but his voice is lower, rougher. He obviously doesn’t find it boring.

You kiss his jaw slowly, not answering right away. Then, “Not quite. But we’re getting close.”

You shift again on his lap, just enough to make him grip your hips tighter, and that gets a small noise out of him—more breath than voice, but it’s enough.

“You’re not as patient as you look” you murmur.

He gives you that same half-lidded look, somewhere between warning and interest “And you’re not as innocent as you act.”

He slides a hand up the back of your neck and pulls you in for another kiss—firmer now, more certain. The kind of kiss that says you’ve pushed enough and now it’s his turn.

“You talk too much.” he murmurs against your mouth.

You hum “And yet you never stop listening.”

Law chuckles, low and brief. Then he stands up from the chair with you still in his arms, strong enough to lift you like you weigh nothing. You wrap your arms around his shoulders out of instinct, caught off guard but not surprised.

“Desk or chair again?” he asks.

“Mmh… surprised bed isn’t an option.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t. So?”

“You did all that space on the desk, so why not use it?” you say making him smirk and setting you down not just to sit but to press closer, legs tangled now, bodies flush.

There’s no space left between you now. Not physically. Not emotionally. A rhythm builds between you both without a word spoken. You arch into him as he leans closer until you can’t tell where you end and he begins.

Moving as one. Every motion smooth and purposeful, every moment drawn out and deepened by the way his eyes don’t leave yours—like he’s watching your reactions just as much as he’s feeling them.

He shifts to kiss your collarbone, slow and reverent. Then he reaches for your chest with his soft lips, leaving kissed and tongue plays, and making you arch at his touch.

A small muffed moan leaving your lips as you’re trying your best to stay silent.

The desk creaks beneath you both as your movements sync... slow, then urgent, then slow again, like a tide neither of you controls.

You still try to stay quiet, biting your lip, every soft sound swallowed before it can escape. But Law notices. Of course he does, he notices everything. He leans in closer, his mouth grazing your ear.

“I don’t care if they hear us,” he murmurs, voice low and rough “Let me hear you.”

You meet his eyes and you hesitate only a second before the next breath slips out at his movements, and he exhales as if he’s been waiting for it all along.

“Good,” he whispers, his forehead against yours, the edge of control in his voice thinning “Just like that.”

The rhythm between you deepens. He’s going faster as you lose yourself for a moment and let your voice slips free, louder than you meant.

“Law…”

Law stiffens slightly, eyes narrowing with a quick glance toward the door.

“Oi,” he mutters, but there’s no real bite in his voice, only a smirk tugging at his lips “Not this loud.”

You can’t help it, you laugh softly at his reaction. His eyes soften in an instant, and that smirk shifts into something gentler.

Before you can say anything, his hand leaves your hip, sliding up to cup the side of your face. He leans in and kisses you.

Your laughter melts into the kiss, and you reach up, your forehead brushing his as your fingers weave into his dark hair. He exhales against your mouth, his free hand now tangled with yours between your bodies.

The final wave crashes through both of you at once. Your bodies move in sync, like every breath and heartbeat has lined up perfectly.

When it’s over, the tension finally melts from his shoulders. You collapse against each other, slick with heat and breathless, the air around you still humming from what just happened. You rest your back fully in on the desk’s surface, trying to steady your breathing.

He leans down without a word and kisses your forehead... a quiet, grounding gesture. Then, without a sound, he slips away, leaving the desk suddenly colder without his presence. You hear the sound of running water from the bathroom.

When he returns, without asking, he sweeps you up into his arms, lifting you effortlessly from the desk.

You blink up at him, surprised by the sudden gesture, but then melt into a soft smile “Taking me somewhere, captain?”

He doesn’t look down at you, but you see the corner of his mouth twitch “Let’s take a bath.”

Your eyes narrow with mock suspicion “Already planning round two?”

That gets a short, amused exhale as he shakes his head “Idiot.”

You giggle into his chest, still letting yourself be carried “What? I wouldn’t mind. We’ve never done it in the bathtub…”

He pauses in the doorway, gives you a look, one of those tired, fond looks like you’ve just offered him chaos he’s going to pretend to say no to.

“We can try,” he mutters “Next time.”

You pout playfully as he steps into the steamy bathroom with you in his arms “So no round two today?”

“No,” he says, but this time he kisses the top of your head again as he lowers you into the warm bathwater “But you can talk as much as you want, if that helps.”

You laugh, making space for him to sit on the opposite side of the bathtub “You’ll regret that.”

He closes his eyes with a tired smile “I never do.”

The bathwater is warm, infused with something vaguely herbal he probably picked up in some small port town. You’re nestled between his legs now, your back against his chest, and his arms resting loosely around you on either side. For a while, neither of you says much.

But silence never lasts long between the two of you.

“Can’t believe you dropped everything on your desk trying to be dramatic.” you murmur with a lazy grin, eyes closed as you stretch your legs forward.

He huffs quietly through his nose “You were the one who knocked over books, a compass and half the map pile before I even touched the desk.”

“Details.” You splash water lightly at him, just enough to get his nose wet.

He opens one eye “Seriously?”

You splash him again, this time laughing “My body hurts, what do you expect me to do?”

He sighs, mock-dramatic now, “That’s what you wanted” he mutters, voice low and amused.

You lean your head back against his shoulder with a playful little groan “I didn’t know wanting you came with full-body consequences.”

He doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he picks up a soft towel that’s been resting nearby, already damp from steam and shifts slightly behind you. He taps your chin gently “Come here.”

You blink and turn to face him, curiosity quietly rising.

Then, with a patience that feels almost sacred, he starts wiping your face. Small circles, careful touches. Around your cheeks, along your jaw, even brushing your eyebrows clean with the gentlest sweep of the towel. It’s quiet again, but this time, it’s a different kind of quiet, soaked in something you can’t quite name.

He’s so focused on the act, so strangely tender, that something slips out of your mouth before you can catch it.

“I love you.”

It’s barely a whisper. Maybe you weren’t even planning to say it. But it falls from your lips anyway, naked, unpolished, real.

His hand pauses mid-motion, the towel still held just against your cheek.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just looks at you, wide-eyed, not with panic, not even with shock. Just… caught.

You feel heat rise in your face, instinctively looking down, almost ready to deflect it with some teasing quip. But before you can, his fingers cradle your jaw gently.

“Say it again” he says. Low. Almost a breath.

You try to play it off, suddenly anxious.

“I’m sorry...” you say, almost with a laugh, like it might cover the way your voice shakes.

He blinks, frowning slightly. “Why are you apologizing?” His tone isn’t sharp but it’s confused, like he genuinely doesn’t understand “Didn’t you mean it?”

That panics you more. “Of course I meant it, I just—” You falter. You don’t even know how to explain the way your chest feels like it’s collapsing from the weight of saying it first, from the silence that followed.

But he sees the way your breath hitches, the way your eyes avoid his. So he drops the towel into the water and reaches for your face, cupping your cheeks with both hands. He’s gentle. His thumbs stroke just under your eyes as he tilts your face up, making sure you look at him.

His voice is soft now “Hey… look at me.”

You do.

“I’m not teasing you.” He holds your gaze steady “I just didn’t expect it. But not because I don’t feel the same.”

His forehead leans lightly against yours “I love you too.”

Your breath catches, not from shock this time, but from the way he says it. Slow, like it’s sacred. Like it matters more to him than anything else in the world. His hands don’t leave your face, but one slips up into your hair as he smiles faintly. Not his usual sarcastic smirk, something gentler. Honest.

“I wanted to say it when I was looking right at you.”

He kisses your forehead, lingers there for a beat, and then rests his head beside yours. The water around you ripples softly as you melt into him, the warmth between you wrapping around everything that’s left unspoken. You don’t need to say another word, not right now. He already knows.

You’re still wrapped in the warmth of what just passed between you, your bodies washed clean, your hearts quietly tangled in new, deeper ways, when you finally stand up and step out of the tub, grabbing a towel. The silence is soft now, easy. But of course, you can’t leave it that way for long.

“And to think,” you murmur with a mischievous glint in your eye as you dry off, “this whole thing started because you got turned on by Penguin’s uniform.”

He groans audibly from behind you.

“Oi. It wasn’t about the uniform.”

He reaches for his own towel, drying his arms roughly like your words physically offended him.

“Don’t make it sound like I’m into Penguin.”

You burst into soft laughter, and he glare at you, but it’s half-hearted. He takes your towel from your hands and helps dry your back with practiced care, still muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “idiot…”

Once you’re both mostly dry, he moves toward a side cabinet, pulling open a drawer with familiar movements.

“Here,” he says, tossing something soft your way “I keep spare clothes in the studio for emergencies. Let’s find out how you look in mine now.”

You smirk immediately, already holding the shirt up to your chest.

“I know how I’ll look. Amazing.”

He sighs, but you catch the slight smirk he tries to hide.

“No matter how hot you might look,” he says, turning around so you can dress, “I meant what I said... no round two today.”

“Party pooper...” you mutter as you slide into his clothes.

They’re warm and smell like him. His shirt fits awkwardly tight across your chest, and the waistband of his pants clings a little more than it should around your hips. You glance at your reflection in the metal drawer for a second, then back to him.

He’s already half-dressed, grabbing pieces of his own outfit that are scattered across the studio. When he finally turns to check on you, his gaze falters.

He freezes. Blinks.

“…What?” you ask, pretending innocence as you tuck the shirt into the waistband, lifting your arms slowly just to stretch.

“Nothing.” His voice is tight. He looks back down and starts buttoning up his shirt too fast.

“Just… the fit. Didn’t think it’d… fit like that.”

You grin. He’s blushing.

You lean on the edge of the desk now freshly cleared, tilting your head.

“Tight around the curves, huh?”

He coughs. Looks anywhere but at you.

“Don’t start.”

“Oh? But I thought I looked hot in your clothes.”

He groans again and hides his face behind his hand for a second.

You’re absolutely glowing now, satisfied at how flustered he still gets, even after everything.

And he absolutely hates that he loves it.

You’re just about to tease him again when there’s a sudden knock at the door. You freeze mid-sentence. Law curses under his breath.

“Captain, sorry to interrupt but...”

Before Bepo can finish whatever he’s about to say, you stride to the door like you own the ship and swing it open. Law doesn’t even get the chance to stop you.

Bepo blinks at you, wide-eyed and just a little caught off guard by your… confident energy and your clothes.

“Uh… uhm…” He clears his throat politely “We’re about to land on this small island… Thought you wanted to know.”

Then his gaze drifts past you.

You follow it to where Law is still in the middle of the studio, shirt rumpled, hair a little too tousled, and a subtle flush lingering on his skin. The floor around him is an absolute mess... books, maps, clothing, and that damn Penguin uniform in a crumpled heap like it’s been through battle.

Bepo’s ears twitch.

“Uhm…” he says again, squinting slightly, clearly trying to process what his innocent brain thinks is going on “Did something happen with the cleaning?”

You don’t even get the chance to panic before Bepo sniffs the air lightly.

“It smells weirdly in here.”

Your eyes go wide. Fire rushes to your face, your body tensing like you just got struck by lightning.

“Okay! Thank you, Bepo!” you blurt, slamming the door so fast it nearly takes a chunk of your sleeve with it.

Your back hits the door as you press yourself against it, mortified, hands over your face as your entire soul screams in embarrassment.

Law doesn’t even try to hide the low laugh that escapes him this time.

“Really smooth,” he says dryly, arms crossed, “just opening the door like that.”

“I didn’t think he’d… sniff the room!” you groan, sliding down to a crouch on the floor as if that’ll erase the memory.

Law walks over and stands in front of you, tilting his head slightly down to look at your red face. His lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile too much, but he’s failing.

“You’re lucky Bepo’s too polite to ask questions,” he says, offering you a hand “And probably too naïve to connect any dots.”

You take it reluctantly, letting him pull you to your feet.

“We’re going to have to live with this shame forever.”

“You’re going to have to live with it,” he corrects, voice low and way too amused, “You weren’t that subtle when you kept telling at them to read the room go away during our… cleaning.”

You shoot him a look.

And he just smirks.

But the blush still lingers faintly across his cheeks and you both know it.

You’re adjusting the cuffs of Law’s shirt while scanning the new island coming into view from the nearest window.

“Hey,” you say, glancing over your shoulder at Law, who’s busy pretending like he’s not sneaking glances at how well his clothes fit you “You owe me, by the way.”

He raises an eyebrow “For what?”

You gesture around dramatically “For helping you clean your studio. If that wasn’t the most intense spring cleaning I’ve ever done, I don’t know what is.”

He scoffs, but you don’t give him time to argue.

“Pay me. I need money to buy actual clothes that aren’t…” you trail off as you tug at the hem of his shirt, “…yours or Penguin’s.”

Law’s eyes narrow like he wants to argue again, but then he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small pouch of beli, and tosses it to you. “You’re ridiculous.”

You grin. “And clothed. Barely. Thanks to you.”

Before he can answer, you spot Penguin’s crumpled uniform on the floor. With a wicked little smirk, you grab it, drape it over your arm like a trophy, and head toward the door. Law follows behind you, resigned.

The crew’s already gathered on the deck, prepping to disembark, when you step out and heads immediately turn.

You don’t waste time.

You spot Penguin among them, and toss the uniform right at his chest. It flops against him with a satisfying slap.

“Thanks for the loan,” you call with mock sweetness “When I need it again, I’ll come to you.”

Penguin stares at the uniform in confusion, then looks at you decked out in Law’s shirt, his jacket hanging off your shoulders, the unmistakable energy of something lingering between you and your captain.

Then he glances at Law, who stands beside you looking vaguely menacing and mildly annoyed.

Slowly, suspiciously, Penguin brings the uniform to his nose.

Sniffs.

Pauses.

Sniffs again.

“…Ew. Disgusting,” he mutters under his breath like he regrets everything, and promptly tosses the uniform back at you like it’s cursed “Take it. Gift. Yours now.”

You catch it, laughing, and sling it over your shoulder like a prize.

Law pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You make everything worse.” he says flatly, but there’s no real bite in it.

You glance at him with a smug smile.

“Yeah, but you love it.”

He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t deny it.

And as you both step onto the gangplank, heading toward the unknown island ahead, his hand brushes yours, casual, fleeting… but still enough.

[hppylaw]

hii there:)

sooo what if reader and sanji,established relationship,and they keep their relationship pretty hidden for a long while until one day one of their crew m mates found them making out/kiss(?) by accidentally but that crewmate keeps that secret hidden but slowly teasers them during dinner(which made the others confused) but soon after they kind of reveal their relationship and the crew goes shocked or something

It could be other characters too!

(I figured I could just smash these together because you know why not)

Hidden love

Sanji x f!reader

Words: 8,197

SLIGHT SMUT!!

Warnings: implied sexual content, mild language, argument/conflict, jealousy

Req open

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

The salty spray of the Grand Line was as familiar as the calloused grip of your own hands on the rigging. Years had passed since you first set sail with Luffy, a wide-eyed dreamer with an impossible ambition. You’d seen islands rise and fall, faced down pirates, marines, and creatures beyond imagination. Through it all, you'd been a constant, a steadfast presence among the ever-growing chaos that was the Straw Hat Pirates.

You remembered the day Sanji joined like it was yesterday. The sharp suit, the swirling eyebrow, and the instant, unyielding devotion to any woman who crossed his path. Nami and Robin were often the targets of his elaborate declarations, but with you, it was different. He'd still shower you with compliments, offer you the choicest morsels from his culinary masterpieces, and spin you around during impromptu dance sessions on the deck. Yet, there was an unspoken depth to his gaze, a sincerity in his touch that transcended mere flirtation. It was a warmth that settled deep in your bones, a silent understanding that blossomed between you two like a rare, resilient flower in the unpredictable currents of the New World.

You were each other's anchors in a sea of adventure. Whether you were lending a hand in the bustling galley, chopping vegetables to the rhythm of his humming, or he was patiently untangling a stubborn knot in your rigging, your proximity was a given. His presence was a comforting hum in the background of your life, a melody woven into the very fabric of your journey with the Straw Hats.

A comfortable silence often settled between you and Sanji, punctuated only by the rhythmic creak of the ship and the distant shouts of your eccentric crewmates. It was in these quiet moments, tucked away from prying eyes – perhaps late at night on the crow’s nest, or hidden behind the galley’s swinging door – that your shared secret truly blossomed. For seven months, you'd been navigating the treacherous waters of a hidden romance, a feat that, in hindsight, felt utterly impossible.

How had you managed to keep it under wraps? You often wondered. Maybe it was the sheer force of habit, the way you’d always gravitated towards each other, an unspoken understanding that predated any romantic entanglement. Or perhaps it was Sanji’s unwavering devotion to the fairer sex, a smokescreen so effective it blinded even your sharpest companions. He'd still fawn over Nami, still offer Robin a lingering gaze, and in doing so, he created the perfect diversion. Who would suspect that beneath the whirlwind of his flamboyant affections, his truest, most genuine devotion lay with you?

It was a delicate dance, a constant awareness of wandering eyes and curious minds. A brushed hand lingered a fraction too long, a whispered word held a depth only you could decipher, a stolen glance across a crowded deck conveyed volumes. Each small, clandestine act was a thrill, a testament to the quiet, powerful connection you both cherished. It was insane, truly, the audacity of your secret, and the sheer joy of living it.

Why keep it a secret? It was a question you and Sanji never quite vocalized, though it hung in the air between you, an unspoken agreement. Perhaps it was the sheer novelty of it, a private rebellion in a life lived so publicly. Or maybe, and this was closer to the truth for you, it was the fear of commitment. Not commitment to Sanji, never that. But commitment to the idea of a relationship within the chaotic, unscripted reality of the Straw Hats. You’d always been a steadfast force, a reliable constant. The thought of adding another layer, another dynamic to manage, felt daunting in a world where your next destination was always uncertain.

For Sanji, it might have been a similar reluctance, or perhaps the ingrained habit of his persona. After all, he was the Straw Hats' resident love-cook, his chivalry a cornerstone of his identity. To suddenly be taken would undoubtedly alter that. Yet, despite the secrecy, despite the unspoken anxieties, there was an undeniable truth that resonated deep within you: you’d loved each other since the moment your eyes met. It was a cliché, perhaps, but one you clung to – soulmates, if such a thing existed, navigating the tumultuous currents of the Grand Line.

Sanji had a knack for pushing your buttons. His unwavering, over-the-top flirtations with every woman who crossed his path were legendary. Usually, you found it endlessly amusing. Watching him practically dissolve into a puddle at Nami’s feet or offer Robin a meticulously crafted drink with a flourish that threatened to send him toppling – it never bothered you. You knew Nami and Robin saw through the theatrics, saw the genuine heart beneath the lecherous exterior. It was all part of the Sanji experience, a harmless quirk in the grand tapestry of your crew.

But today, something shifted. The familiar sight of his swirling eyebrow and heart-shaped eyes, usually a source of quiet amusement, grated on your nerves. The air felt thick, charged with an unfamiliar tension. It wasn't the flirting itself; you were immune to that. It was the intensity of it, the way his voice, usually a melodic purr for the ladies, seemed to resonate with an almost desperate plea towards a particular stranger. Your usual detached amusement evaporated, replaced by a slow, creeping heat that had nothing to do with the tropical sun beating down on the deck. Today was different. Today, for the first time, you felt a prickle of something akin to…jealousy.

You weren't typically one to entertain such petty emotions, especially not jealousy. It felt beneath you, a silly, inconvenient little spark that rarely ignited. But Sanji, bless his lovesick, chivalrous heart, was currently fanning that spark into a roaring inferno. The Straw Hats had dropped anchor at an island that seemed to have sprung straight from a romance novel – all sun-drenched beaches and women whose beauty could rival any sea goddess. And Sanji? He was like a bumblebee in a field of sunflowers, buzzing from one bloom to the next, his heart-eyes practically radiating across the bustling port.

Most of them, as you expected, blew him off. A dismissive wave, a sharp glare, sometimes even a bewildered laugh as he dramatically knelt before them, presenting an invisible rose. He'd simply sigh dramatically, then move on, his ego apparently as resilient as a rubber band. You watched, arms crossed, a familiar smirk playing on your lips. This was Sanji. This was normal.

Until she appeared.

She wasn't just beautiful; she was captivating. Her laughter, when Sanji launched into his usual repertoire, wasn't a mocking snort or an exasperated sigh. It was genuine, a lilting, musical sound that carried on the breeze. And then, she flirted back. Her eyes danced as he spun a flowery compliment, a sly smile playing on her lips as she leaned in, whispering something that made him blush a shade deeper than usual.

Your smirk faltered. You watched him, waiting for the familiar, chivalrous dismissal, the polite but firm "My heart belongs to the ladies of my crew." But it never came. Instead, as he turned to continue his exploration of the island, she simply followed. Not just for a moment, but she stayed, chatting, laughing, her hand occasionally brushing his arm. And Sanji? He didn't brush her off. He didn’t stop. He walked with her, a rare, almost bashful smile on his face, a smile that felt intensely personal. Right there. In front of you.

A cold, hard knot formed in your stomach, replacing the usual warmth you felt in his presence. The familiar amusement drained from you, leaving behind a sharp, unfamiliar anger. Your emotions, usually a calm sea, now roiled and crashed like a stormy tempest. You felt a chill creep over you, despite the warmth of the sun. For the first time in a long time, looking at Sanji, your feelings felt as stark and unforgiving as the symbol of death.

The entire day bled into a frustrating, agonizing loop. Everywhere you turned, there they were: Sanji, his usual exaggerated swoons replaced by something subtly softer, more genuine, and the stranger, her laughter a constant, infuriating echo. He’d fetch her drinks, open doors, and even offer her a small, perfectly peeled tangerine, a gesture he usually reserved for Nami or Robin when they were particularly fatigued. And she, in turn, accepted it all, her eyes sparkling, a hand often resting on his arm as they walked.

You felt a burning in your chest, a desperate need to lash out, to make some kind of scene, to demand an explanation. But the thought of Nami’s sharp, assessing gaze or Robin’s quiet, knowing smile stopped you dead. They were too smart, too observant. They saw everything. A flicker of raw emotion, a crack in your composure, and your carefully guarded secret would be out.

So you plastered on a smile, a brittle, fragile thing that felt like it might shatter at any moment. You laughed a little too loudly at Usopp’s latest tall tale, pretended to be engrossed in Chopper’s ramblings about local herbs, and nodded enthusiastically at Franky’s plans for a new ship modification. All the while, a part of you was screaming, a silent fury simmering beneath your forced cheer.

Finally, you couldn't take it anymore. The air felt suffocating, each breath a struggle against the rising tide of your anger. "Oh, my stomach," you groaned, clutching your midsection with an Oscar-worthy performance. "Must have been that questionable street food. I think I need to head back to the ship, just to lie down for a bit."

Nami looked at you, a flicker of concern in her eyes. "Are you sure? We were just about to check out that new market."

"Yeah, Y/N-chan!" Sanji called out, his voice a little too distant, a little too preoccupied with the woman beside him. "I can whip you up something soothing when we get back!"

You managed a weak smile, a silent "thanks" that died in your throat. "No, no, don't let me spoil your fun," you said, waving a dismissive hand. "I'll be fine. Just need a bit of peace and quiet."

Robin, ever perceptive, offered a gentle smile. "Rest well, Y/N-chan. We'll see you later." There was a subtle depth in her gaze, a hint of something unsaid, but you were too consumed by your own turmoil to decipher it. You turned, walking away from the laughter, the flirtation, and the infuriating sight of Sanji, leaving the vibrant, beautiful island behind for the familiar, comforting solitude of the Thousand Sunny.

Back on the Thousand Sunny, the gentle rocking of the ship offered no solace. The vibrant sounds of the island faded with each step you took towards its empty decks, replaced by a suffocating quiet. The anger, held so tightly in check, began to surge, a hot, bitter wave washing over you. You couldn’t scream, couldn't punch a wall – not without drawing attention, not without having to explain. So you sought refuge in the one activity that promised both distraction and an outlet for your volatile emotions: deep cleaning.

Normally, you considered anything beyond a quick tidying a futile effort. What was the point of meticulously scrubbing the deck when Luffy would inevitably track in mud, or Zoro would leave his weights scattered, or Usopp would explode glitter in his workshop? But today, the usual apathy was gone, replaced by a furious drive. Your hands, usually deft in handling ropes and navigating charts, now moved with a raw, almost violent precision.

You started in the galley, the very heart of Sanji’s domain. Memories, usually warm and comforting, now stung. You scrubbed the gleaming countertop where you’d often leaned against him, sharing quiet jokes as he prepared a meal. The burnished surface reflected your strained face, the tight line of your jaw. You attacked the oven, a faint scent of burnt pastry clinging to it, a ghost of a time Sanji had tried to teach you to bake a soufflé, his arm brushing yours as he guided your hand. “Just like this, Y/N-chan,” he’d whispered, his breath warm on your ear. Now, you scoured every inch, as if trying to erase the memory, the gentle touch, the shared laughter.

Next, you moved to the crew’s quarters. You flung open the heavy oak door, the scent of stale air and various personal effects hitting you. Luffy’s discarded hat lay on the floor, Zoro’s swords were propped haphazardly against a wall, and Usopp’s half-finished contraptions littered his bunk. You began to organize, to fold, to put away. As you picked up a stray apron – a spare, clean one Sanji sometimes wore when things got particularly messy – a flicker of last night's memory pierced through your anger. He’d been wearing this very apron, leaning against the railing with you, stargazing. His arm had been around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder, pointing out constellations as the gentle sea breeze ruffled your hair. “Beautiful, aren’t they, Y/N-chan?” he’d murmured, and you knew he wasn't just talking about the stars. You crumpled the apron, tossing it into a laundry basket with unnecessary force.

The ship creaked around you, a silent witness to your fury. Each scrub, each wipe, each forceful rearrangement was an attempt to expel the acidic burn of betrayal, the unfamiliar pang of jealousy that gnawed at your gut. You cleaned with a vengeance, the silence of the ship a stark contrast to the storm brewing within you. You were scrubbing away the dirt, but what you really wanted to scrub away was the image of Sanji, smiling that soft, genuine smile at someone who wasn't you.

The Thousand Sunny glittered under the late afternoon sun, so bright it almost hurt the eyes. When the Straw Hats returned, laden with souvenirs, strange snacks, and tales of their island adventures, they stopped dead at the gangplank. The usual scuffs and faint grime of a ship constantly sailing the Grand Line were gone, replaced by a blinding, almost unnatural gleam.

"Woah! What happened?" Luffy's jaw dropped, his eyes wide as saucers.

"Is this... our ship?" Usopp squinted, reaching out a hesitant hand to touch the impossibly polished railing. "It's like a brand new ship!"

Franky, the shipwright, ran a hand over the spotless deck, a look of bewildered awe on his face. "Super... shiny!" Even Zoro paused, his brow furrowed in confusion, momentarily forgetting his perpetually lost state. Nami, ever practical, was already mentally calculating the cost of such meticulous cleaning. Robin, a soft smile playing on her lips, simply observed, her gaze moving from the ship's pristine exterior to the figure standing rigidly at the galley door.

Sanji, however, felt a chill that had nothing to do with the sea breeze. His usual flamboyant swagger faltered. His heart, which moments ago had been filled with the lingering scent of that other woman's perfume, now plummeted to his polished shoes. He had a deep, sinking feeling, a premonition that coiled in his gut like a venomous snake.

He knew this shine. He knew this meticulous, almost violent cleanliness. They had had this discussion, he and you, countless times. You’d always told him, with a wry, knowing smirk, "When I'm pissed, Sanji, I clean. And I clean."

He could feel the cold dread creeping up his spine, a sense of impending doom. He glanced at the others, still marveling at the immaculate ship. They were oblivious, blissfully unaware of the storm that was about to break. But he saw you, standing framed in the galley doorway, your posture stiff, your smile a terrifyingly thin line. Your eyes, usually warm and inviting, held a cold, unwavering intensity that made his blood run cold.

Oh, hell.

Sanji felt his very soul begin to detach, to float upwards, preparing for its inevitable departure. He knew, with absolute certainty, that he was not going to survive this.

The silence that had fallen over the Straw Hats as they gazed at their impossibly clean ship was shattered by the creak of the galley door. You emerged, a figure of daunting domesticity, looking less like a pirate and more like a warrior preparing for a chemical attack. You were armed with yellow rubber gloves pulled up to your elbows, a pristine white apron tied snugly over your clothes, a surgical mask obscuring half your face, and a hairnet tucked neatly under your cap. In one hand, a spray bottle gleamed; in the other, a meticulously folded microfiber towel.

Your eyes, sharp and unwavering over the top of your mask, swept across the crew, lingering for a fraction too long on Sanji. Then, with a practiced ease that sent shivers down his spine, you flashed them a chillingly bright smile. "Welcome back, everyone!" your voice was muffled but surprisingly cheerful. "I figured since you were all out enjoying the island, I'd take the opportunity to... deep clean a bit." You paused, your gaze still fixed on Sanji, who felt his soul preparing for its final descent. "Especially your rooms. Hope you don't mind. I didn't think you'd object to a little... tidying up."

The reactions were immediate and varied:

Luffy, ever the simpleton, bounced on the balls of his feet. "Awesome, Y/N! My room smells so good now!" He took a deep sniff, grinning. "Did you find any meat in there?"

Zoro grunted, adjusting his haramaki. "As long as you didn't move my swords." He looked vaguely uncomfortable with the sheer cleanliness, as if it threatened his natural habitat of mild disarray.

Nami's eyes narrowed, a flicker of suspicion crossing her face. She knew your habits, and this level of cleaning was off. "Are you feeling alright, Y/N? You're usually not this... diligent."

Usopp gulped, his eyes darting nervously between you and the immaculate ship. "Uh, thanks, Y/N! My workshop probably needed it... a lot. Hope you didn't accidentally throw out any of my inventions!"

Chopper whimpered slightly, clutching his hat. "Your eyes look a little scary, Y/N! Are you sick?"

Franky ran a hand over his shiny pompadour. "Super clean! Thanks, sis! Now the Sunny's even more of a super ship!"

Robin simply smiled, a knowing glint in her eyes. "How thoughtful of you, Y/N-chan. It looks absolutely sparkling." Her gaze drifted from your oddly serene face to Sanji, whose face had gone pale beneath his tan. She understood.

Sanji, meanwhile, could only stammer, feeling the full weight of your chillingly polite demeanor. His jaw worked, but no sound came out. He swallowed hard, knowing that the real storm was yet to come. His fate was sealed.

The Straw Hats continued to marvel at the ship’s pristine state, their awe slowly giving way to a cautious appreciation. Luffy was bouncing around, enjoying the smooth deck, while Nami meticulously inspected her tangerine trees, looking for any signs of over-cleaning. The air, usually thick with the scent of sea salt and adventure, now carried a faint, almost sterile freshness.

About an hour and a half later, as the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, you finally shed your role as the ship’s furious cleaner. Still in your rubber gloves, apron, and hairnet, you caught Sanji’s eye from across the deck. His face was a mask of strained politeness, but his eyes, wide and apprehensive, pleaded for a moment alone. You gave a curt nod, turning on your heel and heading towards the secluded storage room near the stern, a place rarely visited by the rest of the crew.

Sanji followed, his steps unusually heavy. As he slipped inside, you slammed the door shut, the muffled thud echoing in the small space. The cheerful, almost manic energy you’d maintained all day snapped, replaced by a cold, simmering rage.

"Mind explaining yourself, Cook?" your voice was a low, dangerous whisper, barely audible above the gentle creak of the ship. Your hands, still encased in bright yellow rubber, clenched into fists at your sides.

Sanji flinched, running a hand through his hair. "Y-Y/N-chan! My darling, I didn't mean... she was just... a very appreciative lady!" He tried to sound nonchalant, but his voice cracked on the last word.

"Appreciative?" you hissed, stepping closer, the spray bottle still clutched in your hand like a weapon. "She was practically draped over you, Sanji! And you—" you gestured wildly with the spray bottle, a mist of cleaner wafting between you— "you didn't even try to brush her off! You just… let her! For the entire day!"

"I was just being polite!" he whispered back, his voice rising in exasperation before he quickly lowered it again. "You know how I am with ladies! It's my nature! She just seemed so lonely, Y/N-chan, a beautiful flower in need of a kind word!"

"Lonely?" you scoffed, your anger sharpening into a painful edge. "And what about me, Sanji? What about our secret? What about the fact that we've been together for seven months and you're out there acting like a single man on the prowl? In front of me!"

His shoulders slumped. "It was... a lapse in judgment, Y/N-chan. I swear, it meant nothing! You know I love you! She doesn't even compare!" He took a tentative step towards you, reaching out a hand, but you instinctively recoiled.

"Oh, you love me?" you sneered, your voice laced with venom. "Because that’s exactly how you show it, isn't it? By making me watch you flirt with some random woman all day while I'm stuck here, pretending it doesn't bother me! You think I don't see the difference, Sanji? The way you look at them versus the way you looked at her? She laughed with you, Sanji! Not at you, not ignoring you, but with you!"

He recoiled as if struck. "Y/N, please! Don't you think I'm suffering enough? My soul has been trying to escape my body all afternoon, seeing this incredible, unprecedented shine on our ship! I know when you clean like this, it's a sign of a dark, terrible storm!" He wrung his hands, his eyes pleading. "I messed up! I admit it! Just... not in the cleaning uniform, Y/N-chan. It's... intimidating."

You stared at him, your chest heaving. The absurdity of your "cleaning uniform" in the midst of this heated, whispered argument almost made you laugh, but the hurt was too fresh, too sharp. "Intimidating?" you whispered, your voice cracking. "Good. Maybe you should be intimidated, Sanji. Because I'm not sure how much more of this I can take."

The air in the cramped storage room was thick with unspoken words and raw emotion. Your whispered argument continued, a furious, desperate dance of hurt and defensiveness. You accused him of thoughtlessness, of disrespecting your shared secret, of making you feel foolish. He, in turn, pleaded for understanding, for forgiveness, promising endless devotion, even as his eyes darted nervously towards the closed door, ensuring no one outside could hear your hushed fury. Each sharp retort, each choked accusation, served only to deepen the tension, stretching the silence that eventually fell between you, taut and suffocating.

Sanji’s breath hitched. His eyes, usually dancing with playful flirtation, were now earnest, searching yours. He took a slow, deliberate step closer, his gaze sweeping over you from your hairnet-clad head to your rubber-gloved hands. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips, a flicker of his usual charming rogue breaking through his distress.

"You know," he murmured, his voice a low rumble, breaking the agonizing quiet. "I might actually be starting to like the cleaning uniform on you, Y/N-chan."

Before you could even process his outrageous, perfectly Sanji-esque comment, he charged. It wasn't a gentle approach, but a sudden, almost desperate lunge. He cupped your masked face in his gloved hands, pulling you forward. Your startled gasp was swallowed as his lips found yours, urgent and demanding. The taste of salt and something vaguely floral, from the cleaning spray, mingled with the familiar, intoxicating flavor of him.

It was a kiss born of tension and relief, of unspoken apologies and overwhelming desire. The rubber gloves, the apron, the hairnet – all faded into irrelevance as you melted into him, your own hands finding purchase on his suit jacket. The whispered argument was forgotten, replaced by the dizzying rush of the make-out session, a silent promise and a fervent plea in the dim light of the storage room.

The initial shock rippled through you, a fleeting jolt that quickly dissolved into something much deeper, much more primal. His lips, initially demanding, now moved with a familiar tenderness that stirred a fierce hunger within you. Your hands, still encased in the bright yellow rubber gloves, found purchase on his lapels, pulling him closer until there was no space left between your bodies. The cleaning uniform, once a symbol of your furious anger, now felt like an absurd second skin, a barrier you were eager to shed.

His hand, warm even through the fabric of your apron, traced the curve of your back before dipping lower, fumbling with the ties of your apron. You gasped into the kiss as the knot loosened, the apron falling away with a soft whisper of cotton against the floor. The mask, now forgotten, was pushed up by the angle of the kiss, catching in your hairnet, a comical detail lost in the escalating heat.

You broke the kiss for a moment, breathless, your eyes locking with his. The unspoken words of anger and frustration still hung in the air, but they were being swiftly suffocated by a more urgent need. His eyes, usually half-lidded in flirtation, were now dark with desire, reflecting your own unmasked longing.

"Sanji," you breathed, your voice husky, your fingers already working at the buttons of his vest. He groaned, a low, guttural sound as your touch ignited a fresh wave of intensity. He pulled away just enough to tear off his own suit jacket, tossing it haphazardly onto a stack of crates. His tie followed, a quick, practiced movement.

With renewed fervor, his lips descended again, hungrier this time. You tangled your gloved fingers in his golden hair, pulling him impossibly closer as his free hand found the hem of your shirt, his calloused fingertips brushing against your skin. The cool air of the storage room suddenly felt stifling, the space shrinking around you both as the last vestiges of anger burned away, replaced by the blazing fire of long-suppressed passion. The ship, once a witness to your rage, now creaked softly, a silent accomplice to the secret unfolding within its hidden depths.

The storage room, already stifling, grew even warmer with the escalating passion. His hands, no longer fumbling, were now confidently under your shirt, the cool metal of his rings a stark contrast against the sudden heat of your skin. A soft moan escaped your lips as his thumbs grazed your ribs, sending shivers through you. Your own hands were busy, tugging at the crisp fabric of his dress shirt, desperate to feel more of him. The anger that had fueled your cleaning frenzy was now a distant memory, completely eclipsed by the overwhelming desire that coursed through your veins.

You pressed closer, the sounds of the ship outside fading into an indistinct hum as your world narrowed to just the two of you, consumed by the frantic rhythm of your shared breathing. The air thickened, charged with the intoxicating scent of his cologne, of salt, and of something uniquely him. Your lips were bruised and swollen, your body alight, every touch igniting a deeper spark.

Just as the intensity reached an almost unbearable peak, a sudden, jarring sound shattered the moment. The door, previously a silent barrier, slammed open with a resounding thud.

The harsh light from the deck flooded the small, dark room, illuminating the scene in stark, unforgiving detail. Frozen in a desperate embrace, shirt undone, hairnet askew, you and Sanji whipped your heads towards the intrusion.

And there he stood.

Zoro.

His swords were still sheathed, but his hand rested on their hilt. His face, usually a mask of indifference or a scowl, was now a portrait of bewildered shock. His eyes, wide and unblinking, scanned from your disheveled form to Sanji's equally undone state, before finally landing on the rubber gloves still firmly gripping his own shirt. The air in the room, already heavy, became impossibly thick with unspoken words and the sudden, devastating realization that all secrets were out.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, punctuated only by the distant lapping of waves against the hull. Zoro's eyes, usually narrowed in perpetual annoyance or battle focus, were wide, scanning the incriminating scene. His gaze moved from your startled face, still wearing the slightly askew hairnet and rubber gloves, to Sanji, half-undressed, his perpetually lovestruck expression replaced by pure, unadulterated horror.

A slow, derisive smirk began to spread across Zoro's face, replacing the initial shock. He hooked a thumb into his belt, leaning casually against the doorframe, effectively blocking any escape.

"Well, well, well," he drawled, his voice a low, mocking rumble that cut through the tension like a dull blade. "Look what the current dragged in. Didn't realize the love-cook was finally aiming a little higher than his usual pathetic attempts." His eyes flickered to you, a glint of genuine surprise mixed with his usual antagonism. "Though, honestly, Y/N... I thought you had better taste than this curly-browed pervert. You're clearly out of his league."

He let the words hang in the air, a barb aimed squarely at Sanji's inflated ego, then pushed himself off the doorframe. Without another word, without waiting for a reply, he simply reached out and, with a soft thud, pulled the door shut, plunging the storage room back into dimness and leaving you and Sanji in the suffocating aftermath of his discovery.

The click of the latch echoed in the sudden quiet, a death knell for your secret. You stared at the closed door, heart pounding, adrenaline surging through your veins. The heat of the moment had evaporated, replaced by a cold wave of mortification. Your face, already flushed from the kiss, burned even hotter with embarrassment. You were utterly, completely busted.

Sanji, however, was already reacting, his initial panic quickly morphing into furious indignation. He hadn't even processed the full implication of being caught, not when Zoro's words were still ringing in his ears.

"OUT OF MY LEAGUE?!" he shrieked, his voice a furious whisper-yell, completely forgetting their precarious situation. He gestured wildly at the closed door, as if Zoro were still standing there. "That moss-headed brute! How dare he?! My Y/N-chan is the most beautiful, most exquisite lady on this entire Grand Line! He just doesn't understand true beauty when he sees it!" He puffed out his chest, completely missing your wide, panicked eyes. "And I am a gentleman of the highest caliber! To imply that I'm not worthy of my darling Y/N-chan is an insult to my very being, my honor, my entire culinary philosophy!"

You stared at him, torn between utter disbelief and a desperate need to bang your head against the nearest wall. Here you were, caught in a profoundly compromising position, your relationship exposed, and Sanji's primary concern was Zoro's insult to his perceived attractiveness and your supposed "league."

"Sanji!" you hissed, finally finding your voice, grabbing his arm. "Never mind your pride right now! Zoro just saw us! He knows! The whole crew is going to know by dinner!" The reality of the situation crashed down on you with a sickening lurch. There was no hiding it now. Your secret, so carefully guarded for seven months, had been blown wide open by the most unlikely of culprits.

"Sanji!" you hissed again, your voice rising in a panic, completely overriding his indignant squawks about Zoro. "Forget your stupid pride right now! Zoro just saw us! He knows! The whole crew is going to know by dinner!" You tore off the offending rubber gloves, flinging them across the room, then frantically pulled at your hairnet. "Oh my god, what are we going to do? Nami's going to demand to know everything! Robin will just give us that knowing look! Luffy's going to make some stupid comment about 'Sanji and Y/N's secret love nest' or something equally embarrassing! Franky's going to build a love sauna!" The scenarios flashed through your mind, each one more mortifying than the last. "This is a disaster, Sanji! A complete and utter disaster!"

Sanji, for his part, finally seemed to register the full weight of your words. The indignant flush drained from his face, replaced by a ghastly, ghost-white pallor. His eyes widened, and he swayed slightly, the image of Zoro's derisive smirk flashing before his eyes. He pictured Nami's calculating stare, Usopp's dramatic gasps, Chopper's innocent confusion, and even Franky's potential "love sauna" idea. For a terrifying second, the world seemed to tilt on its axis, and he felt a cold dread colder than any ocean current. His carefully constructed persona, his chivalrous mask, his secret world with you—all of it teetering on the brink of chaotic exposure.

Then, a surprising calmness settled over him. It was as if the shock had finally jolted him out of his self-pity and into a more protective, resolute state. He took a deep, steadying breath, his golden eyebrow furrowing with determination.

He reached out, taking your still-trembling hands in his, his grip firm and reassuring. "Hey. Hey, Y/N. Look at me." His voice, though still a whisper, was now steady, imbued with a newfound strength. "It's okay."

You stared at him, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. "How can you say that? It's not okay! Our secret is out! Our private thing, Sanji, it's—"

"I know," he interrupted softly, squeezing your hands. "And yes, Zoro's an idiot. And yes, the others might be a little… surprised." He even managed a faint, reassuring smile. "But listen to me, my beautiful Y/N. This is our relationship. Our love. What does it matter if that moss-headed moron saw us? Or if the others find out? If they laugh, we'll deal with it. If they question, we'll answer."

He pulled you closer, ignoring the slight crunch of your discarded apron under his feet. "We've faced down admirals, Yonko, literal gods! We can handle a few surprised crewmates. Besides," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, "now we don't have to hide anymore. Maybe... maybe this isn't a disaster, Y/N. Maybe this is a new adventure for us."

His words, delivered with such unexpected calm and conviction, slowly began to soothe the frantic beating of your heart. You leaned into him, still trembling, but a fragile sense of relief began to unfurl within you.

The hours leading up to dinner felt like an eternity. You spent them in a state of agitated anticipation, pacing the deck, replaying Zoro's stunned expression, and imagining every conceivable reaction from the crew. Sanji, ever the devoted partner, stayed by your side, a calming presence amidst your rising panic. He offered soft reassurances, brewed you calming herbal teas, and even tried to distract you with gentle touches and whispered compliments, but the knot of anxiety in your stomach refused to loosen.

Now, as the aroma of Sanji’s cooking filled the air, the moment of truth had arrived. Everyone was seated around the long dining table in the galley, their usual boisterous energy subdued by an unspoken tension. The clinking of cutlery, the soft lapping of the waves against the ship, and the gentle creaks of the Sunny filled the silence.

Your eyes, wide and darting, were fixed on Zoro, who sat across the table, seemingly engrossed in his sake. Every slight movement, every flicker of his eyes, sent a fresh wave of dread through you. Had he told them yet? Was this strained silence the calm before the storm? You barely touched the delicious food on your plate, your appetite completely gone.

Sanji, usually a whirlwind of graceful movement as he served, was unusually stiff. He moved around the table, meticulously placing plates, his back ramrod straight. His usual flamboyant "Nami-swaaan!" and "Robin-chwaaan!" were noticeably absent, replaced by quiet, almost mechanical movements. His head was turned slightly, his single visible eye constantly tracking Zoro, a silent, desperate plea for discretion in his gaze. He kept glancing at you too, a fleeting, worried look passing between you two each time. The air in the galley was so thick with unaddressed tension, you could practically cut it with a knife.

The silence at dinner was a heavy, suffocating blanket, but it was Zoro who decided to rip it off. He'd been quieter than usual all day, a rare occurrence for him, and you’d hoped he'd simply forgotten or, even better, decided to keep his mouth shut. You were wrong. His usual stoicism was replaced by a mischievous glint in his eye, a subtle, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. He took a deliberate sip of his sake, then leaned back in his chair, his voice cutting through the tension with a casual, almost bored tone.

"Funny," Zoro began, his gaze drifting lazily around the room before settling on Sanji, who was meticulously plating Nami's food. "I figured with all the... extra work being done on this ship today, someone would be a little more relaxed by now."

Sanji's hand, holding a serving spoon, visibly twitched. He kept his back to Zoro, feigning deep concentration on the perfect arrangement of vegetables. You, however, felt a cold dread trickle down your spine.

Luffy, oblivious, chimed in, "Extra work? What extra work, Zoro? The ship's just super clean!"

"Yeah, but why would that make someone 'relaxed'?" Usopp pondered, scratching his head.

Zoro ignored them, his eyes now finding yours across the table. You stiffened, forcing yourself to maintain a blank expression, though your heart hammered against your ribs. "Or maybe," he continued, a sharper edge to his voice, "some people just need a good, thorough scrubbing to get all the tension out." He paused, taking another long drink of sake, his gaze never leaving you. "Even if they need a little help with it."

Sanji nearly dropped the serving platter. He spun around, a vein throbbing in his temple, his glare a silent warning to Zoro. "What are you even talking about, Moss-Head?! Are you feeling alright?"

"He's probably just drunk already," Nami sighed, rolling her eyes. "Ignore him, Sanji-kun."

But Zoro wasn't done. He set his empty sake cup down with a deliberate clink. "Just saying," he drawled, pushing back from the table, a shark-like grin spreading across his face, "some people clean very thoroughly when they're angry. And some people apparently need a little... motivation to clean up their act." He rose, stretching languidly, his eyes locking with Sanji's. "Wouldn't you agree, Cook?"

Chopper looked up, bewildered. "Are you talking about cleaning, Zoro? But Y/N did all the cleaning!"

Robin simply took a sip of her tea, a faint, knowing smile playing on her lips, her gaze flitting between you and Sanji.

Sanji’s face had gone a shade of deep purple, a stark contrast to his earlier ghostly pallor. His lips were pressed into a thin, trembling line. You, meanwhile, could feel the blood draining from your own face. The thinly veiled hints, the pointed remarks – they were like daggers, each one confirming that Zoro knew, and was enjoying every agonizing moment of your collective discomfort. This wasn't just teasing. This was a deliberate, slow-motion exposure, and the silence that followed Zoro's final jab was deafening.

The air in the galley grew heavier, thicker than the deepest ocean trench. Your fork pushed a single pea around your plate, your appetite completely vanished. You, usually a lively presence at dinner, were now unnervingly quiet, your silence a stark contrast to the buzzing tension. Sanji, meanwhile, continued to hover, serving food with a forced politeness, his usual exuberant flirtations with Nami and Robin entirely absent. He wouldn't even meet their eyes, let alone offer a sweet remark.

Zoro, emboldened by your and Sanji's obvious discomfort, seemed to relish his role as the master of ceremonies for your impending doom. His earlier hints, subtle as a brick, now became outright suggestions, aimed with pinpoint accuracy.

"You know," Zoro mused, taking another loud slurp of his sake, his eyes fixed on you and Sanji. "It's funny. You two have always been so... close. Always in each other's space." He paused, a smirk playing on his lips. "Didn't realize how close that actually was, though. Seems like someone found a new way to get their daily dose of affection."

Sanji's head snapped up, his eye twitching. "What in the blue blazes are you implying, you miserable marimo?!" he seethed, his voice a low growl that barely contained his rage.

"Oh, no implication, Cook," Zoro drawled, shrugging nonchalantly. "Just an observation. Especially after seeing a certain cook and a certain cleaner getting a little... hands-on in the storage room today."

The words hung in the air like a guillotine.

A collective gasp rippled through the table.

Luffy's eyes, usually full of food, now widened to comedic proportions. "EH?! Sanji and Y/N?! In the storage room?! Doing what?!"

Usopp choked on his rice, sputtering, "No way! You mean... like, together together?!"

Nami's fork clattered loudly onto her plate. Her expression, usually composed, twisted into a mixture of disbelief and dawning realization. Her gaze snapped between you and Sanji, suddenly understanding the day's abnormal quietness, the frantic cleaning, Sanji's uncharacteristic lack of flirting. "Sanji-kun... Y/N..." she breathed, her voice barely a whisper.

Chopper looked completely lost, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Storage room? Were you helping Y/N clean, Sanji? Was it really messy?"

Franky stared, his mouth slightly agape, before a slow, knowing grin began to spread across his face. "SUUUUPER... intimate cleaning, huh?"

Robin simply placed a hand over her mouth, her eyes glinting with amusement and a quiet triumph, having seemingly pieced it all together long ago.

You, however, felt the blood drain from your face, then rush back in a furious blush. Your earlier fear was replaced by a wave of mortification so intense you wished the floor would swallow you whole. Sanji, meanwhile, had gone from purple to a deep, incandescent red. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, trying to formulate a denial, a defense, anything. But Zoro's final, damning statement had obliterated all pretense, laying your most carefully guarded secret bare for the entire, shocked crew.

Zoro, having clearly had enough of his own subtle artistry, scoffed, a look of triumphant exasperation on his face. He leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and delivered the final blow, his voice devoid of its earlier teasing, replaced by a blunt, almost bored declaration.

"Alright, fine, you morons," he grunted, looking pointedly at Luffy and Usopp. "I saw the Cook and Y/N making out in the storage room. Happy now?"

The silence that followed was absolute, heavier than a cannonball dropped into still water.

Luffy was the first to break it, his mouth agape, eyes wide as saucers. "WOAH! Sanji and Y/N are making out?!" His head snapped between you and Sanji, a slow, incredulous grin spreading across his face. "Does that mean you're... together?!"

Usopp pushed his goggles up onto his forehead, his jaw practically on the table. "You mean... the cleaning was just a cover?!" He looked utterly betrayed by the mundane nature of your secret.

Nami gasped, her eyes narrowed, a mixture of shock and a flicker of something akin to hurt. "Sanji-kun! Y/N! How long?!" She thumped a fist on the table, demanding answers. "And why didn't you tell us?!"

Chopper whimpered, pulling his hat over his eyes. "Does this mean they're going to... leave the crew to be together?!" The innocent fear of losing nakama was clear in his voice.

Franky let out a booming laugh, slapping the table. "SUUUUPER SECRET LOVE AFFAIR! I knew it! The romantic tension was off the charts! This calls for a celebration!"

Robin simply smiled, a serene, knowing expression on her face. "Indeed. It was quite obvious to those who observed closely."

Sanji, however, was a statue. Zoro's bluntness had finally broken him. His face, which had been bright red, now went a patchy, mottled white. He stared at Zoro, then at the gaping faces of his crewmates, then at you. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly, like a fish out of water. The shame of being exposed, coupled with the sheer audacity of Zoro's revelation, paralyzed him. His hands began to tremble, and a small, almost imperceptible plume of smoke started to curl from his perpetually lit cigarette. He looked utterly, completely devastated that his private world with you had been so crudely laid bare.

You, on the other hand, felt a strange mix of relief and lingering mortification. The cat was out of the bag, no turning back now. You met Zoro's gaze, a flicker of defiance in your eyes, then turned to face the rest of the crew. Your voice, though still a little shaky, held a newfound resolve.

"Yes," you said, taking a deep breath, looking from Luffy's goofy grin to Nami's stern expression, to Chopper's worried face. "Yes, we are. We've been together for about seven months." You shot a glare at Sanji, who was still in a state of shock. "And we didn't tell you because... well, because it's our business, and we weren't sure how to bring it up in the middle of fighting pirates and saving islands."

A flurry of questions erupted then, a cacophony of voices demanding answers:

"Seven months?!"

"Is that why Y/N was cleaning like a maniac today?!"

"Does this mean you're getting married?!"

"Are you going to be all mushy now?!"

"Were you really making out in the storage room?!"

The dam had broken.

The galley, usually a scene of boisterous camaraderie, had transformed into an interrogation room. A barrage of questions, fired from every corner of the table, assaulted you and Sanji.

"So, like, how long have you two been doing this?!" Luffy's voice, always loud, cut through the din.

"Seven months," you repeated, feeling your cheeks burn. "Since that island with the singing clams." You shot Sanji a look, a silent agreement to keep the details of your first kiss to yourselves.

"Seven months?!" Nami shrieked, slamming her hand on the table. "You mean you've been keeping this from us for seven months?!" Her eyes narrowed, suddenly sharper than any blade. "And what about that woman today, Sanji-kun?! The one you were practically drooling over all day?!"

Sanji, finally regaining a sliver of his composure, puffed out his chest, though a nervous sweat beaded on his forehead. "Nami-swaan! My affections for all ladies are pure and untainted! She was simply a damsel in need of—"

"A damsel in need of a good shove off the island, maybe!" you interjected, glaring at him. The memory of his prolonged flirtation, and her reciprocal interest, still stung. "That's why I went back to the ship, Nami. I was pissed."

Nami's eyes widened, then a slow, knowing smile spread across her face. Her gaze flickered between you and Sanji, then to the impeccably clean galley. "Aha!" she exclaimed, snapping her fingers. "So that's why the ship is sparkling! You weren't feeling sick, Y/N, you were just furious with Sanji-kun for being a love-struck idiot!"

Sanji flinched, shrinking slightly under Nami's accusatory gaze. "My dear Nami-swaan, I would never—"

"Oh, you would, Sanji!" you shot back, jabbing a finger in his direction. "You did! And then Zoro walked in on us making up!"

Zoro, who had been quietly enjoying the chaos he'd unleashed, snorted. "Making up, huh? Looked more like you were trying to strangle him with that hairnet."

"So you two are... dating?!" Usopp stammered, still processing the sheer magnitude of the revelation. "Like, proper boyfriend and girlfriend?"

"Is this going to change anything?" Chopper asked timidly, his big eyes filled with concern. "Are you still going to be our nakama?"

You reached across the table, taking Chopper's hoof in your hand. "Of course, Chopper! Nothing changes. We're still your nakama. This just means... well, it means we're a couple."

Sanji, regaining some of his chivalrous swagger, though still visibly nervous, cleared his throat. "Indeed! My heart, though overflowing with devotion for all you lovely ladies, now beats with an even deeper, profound love for my Y/N-chan!" He bowed theatrically, then risked a glance at you, a hopeful plea in his eyes.

The questions continued to fly, a whirlwind of curiosity and mild disbelief. You and Sanji, a united front in your new, exposed reality, did your best to answer, stumbling over details, occasionally bickering, but always, always facing the crew together. The awkwardness lingered, thick and palpable, but beneath it, a new layer was slowly being woven into the fabric of the Straw Hat Pirates – one of accepted, if surprising, romance.

[hppylaw]

Intertidal Zone

♱⋅── rafayel x reader

♱⋅── about: Nightly Rendezvous card, but now we finally understand why rafayel was so desperate when he came back to the hotel room.

♱⋅── word count: 6.7k

♱⋅── warnings: mdni, smut, porn with some plot, the belt scene, slight exhibisionism, fem! masterbation, sooo much kissing, slight oral fixation, Lemurian mating bond, needy raf

art credit to @/khouxy on instagram

You swear Rafayel is doing this on purpose. 

The first time it happens is right after your flight, the two of you only just managing to check into your hotel and change for dinner.

It's a fancy restaurant overlooking the vast desert, and the outdoor patio offered a clear view to gorgeous sunset. Furious spirals of orange and vermillion cast their light across the sand, making it appear to glow as winds kick up waves of golden dust along the horizon.

It’s beautiful, almost as much so as the man across you, who is still staring longingly into the distance as though committing every color to memory. As if repainting it entirely in his mind. 

Not hues of warmth, but those of the deep sea. Blues and purples and colors so dark they’d only come to life in the night. 

“How’s your drawing?” 

Rafayel sighs at your voice, tossing his pen across the dinner table with a huff before leaning back against the sofa. A stack of crumpled sketches litter your table among half-finished plates of food. He insisted on traveling here to relax, and yet he seems to be doing everything but. 

“If a few lines count as a drawing, then wonderfully.” Sassy as ever.

He sighs again, but this one sounds more pained, and you notice the red tinge highlighting his ears and neck as he leans against your shoulder. 

“You still don’t feel good?” You ask, voice hushed as you place a kiss against his temple, the skin burning beneath your lips. Raising a hand, Rafayel immediately nuzzles into your palm as you pull his chin up towards you, feeling the rising temperature along his cheek and forehead. “We can head back if you’d like. Take a bath, or shower?” 

You hoped the together was implicit by now.

But Rafayel only nods, placing a chaste kiss against your exposed shoulder. “What about the sunset? I saw you admiring it, and squandering a beautiful view is unacceptable for an artist. It’s one of the greatest offenses.”

Rafayel’s breath is minty and dry against your ear, and when you turn to look at him, his face is doused in the fiery hues of the sunset, each one casting deep purple shadows that only make his features all the sharper, half his face veiled in darkness. 

Some days you wish you were an artist as well, if only to capture moments like this—to show Rafayel just how gorgeous he was. 

Perhaps it’s only natural for a god. After all, no mortal could ever need beauty so violently arresting, so worthy of worship. 

You’re leaning in despite yourself. 

Rafayel meets you halfway, one hand on your waist as the other traces your jaw and bottom lip. But as soon as you feel the brush of his lips across yours, he pulls away. 

You open your eyes in confusion. Rafayel’s never denied you before. 

When you look at him in question, he only gives you a tired smile and pulls you to your feet with a chaste kiss on your cheek. “Sorry. I’ll feel better as long as I’m close to you like this.”

The second time it happens is when the hotel reception mixes up your and Rafayel’s rooms, leaving you to deliver some sort of formal invitation to him. 

But the letter is soon forgotten; you can’t be bothered thinking about it, not when Rafayel still looks so absent.

He’s right next to you, knees brushing yours as you sit side by side on the couch, and yet he seems to be miles away, gazing out the window as the dunes shift and rise like waves under the moonlight.  

"I used to really enjoy scenic spots before," Rafayel says, voice barely rising above the hum of the heater. "Catching sights of subtle things that might be easily overlooked used to feel like enough. More satisfying than finishing a painting, even."

A laugh. Dry, humorless. 

His fingers grazed the edge of his glass, tracing the condensation absentmindedly. A droplet trails down his wrist. "But now, sometimes, I forget why I even decided to travel in the first place.” 

You watch him, waiting. He doesn’t meet your gaze.

"I think," Rafayel continues, "somewhere along the way, I stopped just... noticing things. And I started needing them. Like the world wasn’t worth looking at unless I could turn it into something. Capture it, hold it in my hands, and call it mine." He shakes his head, a shadow of a smile crossing his lips. "It’s not a very generous way to live, is it?"

"You don’t need to be generous with everything," you say carefully. "Some things are just... for you to enjoy."

"Enjoy," he repeats, like the word doesn’t quite fit in his mouth. A pout. "It doesn’t feel like enjoyment anymore. It feels more like... hunger.” 

Like he’s always fucking starving.

Rafayel finally turns to look at you, eyes eclipsed in the dark. Nearly dilated black. 

“Sometimes I’m afraid that if I feed it, it’ll only grow worse.”

You turn to face him on the couch, sliding your leg between his thighs before perching yourself on Rafayel’s lap. It’s not lost on you how his heartbeat picks up, chest rising and falling rapidly as each shallow breath hits your lips. Perhaps it’s cruel, but you can’t help but touch him again, fingers tracing his full lips, up his jaw, fluttering against his eyelashes and into his hair.

“You think hunger gets worse when you feed it?" You finally ask, voice quiet, slow, daring to push back. "Doesn't it stop when you're full?"

Rafayel’s mouth quirks, a sharp, fleeting twist of a smile. "Not always. Sometimes it makes you realize just how much more you want. Or how much more you could take."

You frown. “You’re not demanding anything. Not from the world, not from me."

"Maybe not yet. But, if one day, I become someone who only takes… If I were like that, would you leave me?"

The confession hangs for a moment, the truth of it hidden. Something about the way his shoulders tense under your touch— like he's bracing for something, but it hasn’t yet arrived. A phantom pain from centuries ago, and a pain to come for a thousand years more. 

“Silly fishie, I’d never leave you.” 

Rafayel smiles in a way you know all too well, lopsided and teasing and empty.

“Thank you…” he hums, finally pulling you closer as his lips skim alongside the curve of your neck. “for accepting me the way I am.”

His breaths come out in desperate huffs against your skin, and he inhales sharply, freezing, before finally placing a kiss against the crook of your neck. And then another, and another. 

“You’re just anxious,” you whisper, sucking a mark into Rafayel’s neck as he moans so sweetly against your ear. “I can help you relax.”

You wiggle your hips to better balance yourself on his lap and Rafayel looks almost near tears, one hand forcing you still while the other grabs your wrist, trailing kisses from your fingertips back up to your neck.

More. You need more. Rushing, your hands fly up into his hair, about to tug Rafayel to lay down on the couch when a crack echoes behind you. 

The glass lays shattered against the floor. 

Panting, Rafayel stares at the spilled water for a long moment before pulling away. You feel his erection digging into your thigh, the warmth of his fever spiking yet again as his skin burns against yours, yet he still refuses. 

“As you said, I’m anxious…” Still panting, Rafayel picks you up, gently lifting you up as he stands from the couch. “Or, more like restless. In every sense of the word.” 

The need in his eyes almost makes your knees buckle. He looks at you like you’re the only thing he could ever crave, like a bite would both be salvation and leave him hungry forever. 

“But see, now I can’t stand the idea of letting you go again, and you don’t want me to either.” He sets you down just a little farther than necessary, but his hands don’t leave your waist, trembling, waiting. “What should we do?”

“Rafayel…” You want him. You want him so badly it hurts. 

“Fuck.” 

You nearly jump at that. Rafayel curses again, his head falling onto your shoulder as his breath hitches. “I can feel your concern. That and…” another convulsion, his body burning up. “Fuck. You have to leave.”

You don’t even have time to retort before you’re pushed out of his hotel room, and the door slams shut behind you. 

By the third time, you know something is wrong. 

It’s not that you and Rafayel haven’t kissed yet. Hell, you’ve had sex before. The last time was quite literally on the night before you were supposed to leave for this trip. Obviously, Rafayel suggested that you stay at his place for the night—insisting he was closer to the airport and getting an Uber would be quicker this way—and one thing led to another, as is what happens nearly every time Rafayel and you are left alone for too long. 

But now it’s been nearly a week and Rafayel has barely touched you, let alone picked up on your not-so-subtle clues. 

So yes, it's safe to say you’ve become rather pent up. 

You’ve fallen asleep in the off-roader the two of you rented out for the day, bobbing up and down the dunes like waves flecked white not with seafoam but snow. There’s a chill as you drift off, but your dreams are anything but, plagued with memories of Rafayel. 

His hands, deft and talented with a brush, are even more so when teasing your skin, knowing exactly how to trace delicate circles against your thighs before roughly curling into your cunt. His tongue, every smartass comment and teasing grin now silenced as he licks and sucks against your clit. His body, the warmth of it, bearing down on you with every thrust, or perhaps writhing beneath you as you take him again and again and again— 

It’s the cold that wakes you up. 

Your eyes flutter open, first noticing the dim light of the hotel parking lot, and second, the burning desire still aching between your legs. 

“Rafayel?”

A shuffle makes you turn, and you find said man still seated in the driver’s seat, unbuckled as he sits with his head resting on his hand. 

“Yes, cutie?” Rafayel’s tone is teasing, but the way he stares down at you feels like anything but. The hunger is back. 

Sitting up, you clear your throat. “How long have I been asleep? Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“You seemed like you were having such a nice dream, I didn’t want to disturb you.” 

You inhale sharply. Glaring, you try and see if he’s teasing again or being serious, but Rafayel doesn’t let you read him for long, already leaning over the middle console. 

He places his lips gently on your temple, brushing over the skin, and then moves down to your cheek, his breath warm against your neck. He whispers your name, so softly you almost think it was a trick of your imagination.

Your mind goes blank when he kisses your jaw, a small noise escaping the back of your throat as you feel his hair tickle your skin.

"Raf," you mumble under your breath, but you know he hears it because he exhales sharply against you.

Rafayel trails a series of kisses up your neck, "I know, I know. I'm sorry, cutie." His body temperature is rising again, and the air in the van feels dangerously thin as he sways in your grasp. "I'm trying."

The hunger is back, all-consuming and hot as you genuinely fear you might burn up. A wave of dizziness washes over you, and you finally cup Rafayel's jaw, leading him towards your lips.

Yet again, he stops you halfway.

“Do you want to go back to your room first?”

At first you think he’s suggesting moving there before continuing, but you know better at this point. 

“You’re not coming with me?” 

Rafayel pulls out the invitation from before, waving it between the two of you as if all this was the letter’s fault. “I still have to attend my friend’s salon thing.”

“But you’re still burning up! Forget this, I can’t let you go out to who knows where when you’re still acting strange. Maybe we can see a doctor—”

“Cutie…”

“—No, no. Or maybe I can come with you.”

Rafayel says your name this time. Firmer. Cutting off your rambling as he places his forehead against yours. 

“Do you want me to turn into a sea creature that’s beached on the sand after the ocean recedes? Leaving me to suffocate when I come out of the water?” 

You don’t quite know how to respond to that, feeling his desperation in every word even as you struggle to make sense of it.

Rafayel continues, pulling away from you again. “Don’t you trust me? How about we make a promise?”

“What kind of promise?”

A smile. “I promise… I’ll be okay without you tonight.”

There’s no joke, no hidden meaning, just Rafayel who so violently hopes that this promise will hold true. 

So you relent. “Okay, just take care of yourself.”

Finally, Rafayel opens the car door, letting the desert night winds sweep in with a biting chill as he leans back against the driver’s seat. He lets out an almost inaudible sigh. “You can head back. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Rafayel promised he’d be okay without you tonight, but you don’t think the opposite could hold true. 

Not when the dizziness Rafayel caused remained. Not when you still feel the phantom touch of his lips and hands all over your body, burning you up, leaving you cold and empty and aching. 

You’ve been burning for the better part of a week now.  

Something stuck between a laugh and a cry of pure frustration leaves you as you fall onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. “This is pathetic.”

Even the damned sheets smell like Rafayel, pillows deeply laced with his shampoo and the smell of his cologne—amber, yuzu, and something salty like the ocean—surrounding you as though this were his hotel room and not yours.

Desert nights were cold, but even the room's chill could do nothing to quell your desire, arms shaking with it as you quickly stripped yourself of your shirt and bra. The room spins as you stumble around, leaving your clothes on the floor, another delirious whimper seizing you as you sprawl against the silk sheets. 

You need him. 

Fuck, you need him, and you hate him for leaving you while the growing ache between your thighs threatens to swallow you whole.

The sheets are deliciously cool against your flushed skin, and you turn your head to rest your cheek in the cool embrace of the pillow. But it only needs a second to heat from your desire. 

And then the room is all too hot once again. 

Kicking off your pants, your hand snakes down your bare torso, leaving half-hearted squeezes to your breasts and hips, failing to replicate the touch Rafayel already has you addicted to. The memory only makes you more frustrated. 

A hand slips beneath your soaked underwear, and fuck, you’re dripping enough to ease your fingers in already. You force yourself to slow down, rubbing slow circles around your entrance, the mere friction enough to have your hips bucking up against nothing. 

Inhaling sharply, you slide a finger into your weeping cunt, a moan pushing from your lungs as you do. Not enough. It’s not enough.

You force yourself to draw each movement out, the curl of your wrist accompanied by your muffled cries and the slick, obscene sounds echoing alongside your ragged breath. Withdrawing your finger nearly to the fingertip, two plunge back in this time, and your back arches off the bed with violent tremors as you imagine it was Rafayel's hand instead.

How he’d tease you in the early mornings to wake you up, how he’d take special care of every sensitive spot on your body, how he’d draw his fingers along your clit just the way that will make you come undone.

And as your fingers find that sensitive bundle of nerves, the way you cry his name into the empty room is no different.

Your head is spinning, falling, your thighs shake, and it's not long before you're gasping out, "Rafayel, please.”

Still not enough. Every rough thrust of your fingers brings you higher and higher, but without the pressure of Rafayel's chest pressed to yours, or his hot breath ghosting across your ear, his voice, his lips, his touch—

Without him.

A sob rips from your throat, your hips bucking uselessly against the air as you fuck yourself harder, deeper. But your fingers are only so long, and your free hand, fisting the sheets, is unable to make up the difference. "No, no please," a whine, and your free hand rushes to circle your clit, the other picking up pace.

You're close, so close, sobbing his name when the dizziness from the car returns tenfold, overtaking your body in waves as your eyes roll back. "Please, ah! Rafayel, m’cumming-"

The world goes silent as pleasure surges through you, muscles convulsing, a choked, garbled sound escaping as you come. Collapsing back against the sheets, you struggle to catch your breath, the stickiness of both the heat and your orgasm coating your thighs. 

There’s another tug, a violent pull against your chest, but the dizziness remains. 

You know you should change the sheets or at least move them aside, but you can’t manage to do either as you rush to shower before Rafayel returns from his friend’s exhibition. 

It’s only when you stumble into the bathroom that you notice it. 

Shit. This is Rafayel’s room. 

You must be trying to kill him.

Surely, this is the gods' cruelest trial—a final test of his resolve—to see if he’d bow once more, forsaking divinity and succumbing to the temptation of you.

Because it’s been barely an hour, and Rafayel has already resigned himself from the party, passing blank smiles and empty compliments as he quietly counts down the minutes until he can return to the hotel, when suddenly he feels it.

The tug of your bond flashes through his body as his dick aches.

Rafayel freezes mid-sentence, the polite smile he'd been wearing slipping from his face. The conversation at the bar around him, something about chiaroscuro in the artist’s latest piece, become muffled static as the chains tighten, digging into his heart. 

It’s unmistakable now. The rhythm, the rising intensity, the waves of pleasure that don’t belong to him but still manage to spark delirious heat up his veins.

Rafayel’s breaths quicken, body temperature rising as his Evol flickers out of his control. He glances around the room, feigning interest in the conversation, the glittering glasses of champagne, the faint hum of the crowd. It doesn’t work. The only thing he can focus on is you.

He should leave. Go outside, breathe in the night air, and let the tether between you both loosen, just to regain control. Just to prove to himself it’s not too late.

But the bond tightens, as invasive as it is intoxicating, demanding Rafayel’s attention like a leash coiled around his neck. It’s not gentle. It’s not kind. It’s primal, every nerve in his body pulled taut like you’re screaming his name over and over into the depths of his soul. 

It’s not fair.

No god can deny the prayer of a worshipper.

Your pleasure becomes his, and when Rafayel closes his eyes, he swears he can feel your phantom hands on him, dick already heavy and throbbing, leaking through his expensive trousers.

Are you in bed, thighs trembling as you grind against your own palm? Or maybe the shower, steam curling around you as you chase release? Or worse—are you riding something of his? His shirt? His pillow? Is this vengeance a cruel punishment meant to shatter what little resolve he has left? 

Shit. He’s hard.

“Hey man, what’s wrong? You good?” 

The slam of a glass brings him back. Gods, he hates these rich socialites. 

The champagne glass Rafayel was holding is now covered in cracks, blood trickling down his ring finger. He’s unraveling, composure fracturing with every pulse of your pleasure surging in and out as violently as a full moon’s tide. 

Rafayel looks up, smiling. “Stress. And apparently a very needy pet.”

The man laughs at what he assumed was a joke, but Rafayel sees his hesitation, the type animals give when they pick up rustling in the bush. Fear. 

Rafayel’s grin only widens, all teeth. “I should probably go check on her. Wonderful party,” he adds, lifting his glass in a half-hearted toast before setting it down with a sharp clink.

As he steps outside, the desert air does nothing to soothe him. If anything, the dryness makes it worse as the pull becomes sharper, like you’re reaching for him, your need coiling tighter around his chest.

A growl, almost feral, rumbles low in his throat as he staggers down the cobblestone streets. He doesn’t need directions. He doesn’t even need to think. His body moves instinctively, guided by the bond, by you. 

Rafayel swears he can feel you all across his body, your heartbeat picking up as you get closer, the smell of your skin and arousal, the cries of his name that only become more and more desperate as you fail to bring yourself over the edge without him. 

You’re begging for him in a way his bond mistakes for worship, because Rafayel’s body feels like it’s burning. Like blood spilled on his altar, an offering of yourself to your god, your husband.

The thought that you might be doing so unintentionally only drives him further into madness.

But, beneath the frustration, there’s something else. A glimmer of something Rafayel hates to name but knows all too well: relief.

Because as much as he might deny it, Rafayel could never leave you. And now that you’ve reciprocated, now that you’ve begged for him oh so sweetly, he would gladly submit to his bond and become chained to you once again, forever at your mercy, unable to escape the inevitability of his fate.

He doesn’t even knock when he reaches the hotel room door. It swings open under the force of his hand, and the sight of you standing there—wide-eyed, startled, only in a bath towel—hits him like a blow to the chest.

There's a soft click as Rafayel locks the door. A hurried shuffle of shoes as he all but stumbles toward you, closing the distance between you in one hurried, unstoppable motion. A startled gasp as he grabs your face in his hands.

It's the last breath you take.

An arm wraps around your waist, blocked by only a flimsy hotel towel as Rafayel violently spins you around. Your surprise is swallowed by his lips as you’re pinned against the window, the chill of the desert snow, frosted against the glass, a harsh contrast to the burn of his touch. His hand pins yours at the wrist as he stares down at your fingers.

“Rafayel? What are you doing here?” 

The question barely gets out, not before he rushes forward to claim you in a kiss, if it was even that. A desperate, consuming need overtakes him, Rafayel pushing you back so insistently that your head hits the window with a thud, pain immediately distracted as his clothed knee grinds up between your bare thighs. 

Holy fuck, just a towel. Right.

You try to push him back, one hand pressing against his chest as the other flies back to tighten the towel. “Wait–”

Rafayel kisses you again. And again. And again. 

You can feel the cloth slipping.

But Rafayel makes it very hard to care. His hand traces your throat, your heartbeat, then drags you closer by your hips as he thrusts forward in time, still caging you against the window. He’s relentless, every kiss only broken with a ragged breath or gasp as though he’s given up on breathing entirely, content to consume you instead, his tongue sweeping against your lip before it coaxes yours to meet it halfway, licking and sucking into your mouth.

It’s obscene, animalistic, and you swear that there has to be something wrong with you because the dizziness is back, and this time it’s enough to make your knees buckle, the two of you blindly stumbling across the hotel room.

So you bite him. 

“Why–” Breathe. Remember how to breathe. “Why are you here?”

Rafayel almost looks offended, thumbing his bitten lip before licking away the smudge of blood with a lopsided smile. 

Fuck, he’s hard. You feel the heat of his cock jolt against your thigh, pressing into you as he surges forward again, kissing you as his hands squeeze and cup your waist, lifting you up.

"Why?" Rafayel laughs, roughly grinding up against you, your legs wrapping instinctively around his hips. "This is my room, remember? You’re the one who decided to come in here." He growls the last part, licking, biting, sucking at your throat. 

“Or was that intentional?”

The look in his eyes is feral. 

There’s no hesitation left, no half-riddled questions, no sweet praises, no semblance of your devoted lover. Just hunger. He’s rushing, pushing forward even with nowhere to go, almost in revenge. In punishment. Your teeth click together, foreheads bumping, unable to talk because when you try to open your mouth his tongue only slides in deeper. 

The wet sounds echo against your ears alongside your racing heartbeat, only causing you to grind harder, rougher, before Rafayel ungracefully drops you onto the bed. 

Your body bounces on the mattress, but it gives you a moment, and you scramble to cover Rafayel’s lips with your palm before he can begin devouring you again. 

“What I meant was, shouldn’t you still be at that art salon?”

He all but collapses into your touch. Lips parted, he grabs your wrist, tongue darting out as he licks up your middle and ring fingers, moaning against your skin. 

“I tried. I tried going, leaving.” He's panting, breathing in your scent before biting your palm. “But you called me back, you cruel, selfish human. And now I’ll never leave again.”

Your words come out between moans, unable to look away. “I called? I didn’t do—” You’re cut off as Rafayel licks up your skin, sucking lightly at your fingertips as his eyes, half-lidded and blown out stare down into yours. 

Oh.

A hot flush of embarrassment seizes you and Rafayel must sense it because his eyes flutter closed. His hips snap forward, grinding his erection into the side of the bed, and he lets out a low whine.

Gods, the taste of your cum lingers in Rafayel’s mouth. Every dry swallow, every inhale, every damn breath tastes like you, and it makes him want to submit to every horrid urge and simply consume until—

“You don't think I know? Don't think I can’t tell?” Rafayel goes back to kissing your wrist, needing something more, something stronger. His hand ventures to the edge of your towel. ”Can feel everything you do, no matter how far away I go. Gods, I feel it, feel everything, and it drives me insane. Need you so bad, need to hear you, feel you, taste you..."

A shudder runs up Rafayel’s spine at the mere thought, and he can't stop himself anymore, leaning down to suck your fingers into his mouth, tongue curling around the digits, saliva coating your fingertips. He rips the towel from your body.

"Say you need me too," He’s begging, sinking down to your knees. "Say you need me just as badly. I–ah fuck—I can smell how much you want me."

Throwing the towel to the floor, Rafayel runs his hands down your chest, rougher, long fingers cupping and massaging your breasts as his mouth trails wet kisses down your stomach, his tongue dragging against the smooth skin, a clear goal in mind as he settles between your thighs, looking up at you as though you were a thing worthy of worship. His Goddess. 

He’d offer himself to your alter time and time again. So long as he was the only one who got to bleed for you. 

“Yes.” You’re already soaked, the sight of Rafayel panting between your thighs enough to have you babbling, ”Yes, Rafayel. I needed you so, so badly all week. Couldn’t help m’self, please.”

He freezes at that, pouting. “Right, you already came, didn’t you. So mean, cutie. Leaving me out.”

Before you can argue, Rafayel dips his head, dragging his tongue up your cunt before sucking roughly at your clit. 

Your legs thrash above his shoulders. “Ah– wait, not so!” It’s too much too soon. Still sensitive from your prior orgasm, your back arches violently off the mattress, but Rafayel pays it no heed, deaf to your cries as he sloppily makes out with your pussy, drool and slick connecting his lips to you in sticky strands even as he pulls away just far enough to talk. 

“She’s already so sensitive, s’not fair,” he pouts, mouthing against your thigh as he flicks your throbbing bundle of nerves. You jolt, gasping at the sharp jolt of pain. At the same time, Rafayel fucks his tongue into your cunt, just barely dipping in before he moves back to rub nonsensical patterns on your clit. “But this is mine. I don’t want you touching it without permission anymore.”

Fuck, if you had any semblance of a coherent thought you would have argued, maybe even laughed at the sheer audacity of the man.

Instead, all you can manage is a pathetic whine of his name, because the strange swirls and harsh lines he’s licking into your clit aren’t patterns at all but letters, spelling something over and over and over again. 

R-A-F-A-Y-E-L-R-A-F-A-Y-E-L-R-A-F-A-Y—

The ring of the hotel phone buzzes from the nightstand. It’s the artist whose party Rafayel left only minutes ago.

“Tch,” Rafayel scoffs in annoyance, whiping his chin as he goes to decline the call.

But this gives you a moment to breathe, and all you can think of is getting revenge. Especially on the bastard who tried to take Rafayel from you tonight. 

“Wait,” you grab his wrist. “You’re just going to hang up? What if it was something important?”

Rafayel turns to you with narrowed eyes, knowing there’s no good intent behind your wicked smile. It turns you on more than you can admit, the sight of his glare, mad at both the call and you interrupting his feast. But Rafayel can't deny you anything and does as he’s told, pressing accept. 

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

Instantly, you have Rafayel on his back. 

His neck looks far too bare, and you climb onto his lap, enjoying the way his pulse kicks up under your palm.

Ripping his shirt’s buttons off, you begin biting dark spots down the pale expanse of his chest and neck. You’re about to aim right for the glowing mark on his chest when the phone beeps again, playing a voice recording of a clearly very drunk man. 

“Why did you leave, bro? Come back here r’now. One more round of drinks a—” Incoherent laughter and sounds of clinking glasses. 

No. No, Rafayel’s not allowed to leave you, not again. 

You don’t know where the fear comes from, but you force yourself closer on top of him, breasts pressing into his abs as Rafayel shivers beneath you. Leaning down, you kiss the glowing mark atop his heart, admiring the way it flickers and glows when Rafayel bucks into your touch, moaning as you begin to nip and suck in earnest. 

And then you’re flipped onto the mattress once more. 

Rafayel’s heaving, arms trembling to keep himself up. Away. “...Are you sure?”

“If I don’t, then you might actually leave. What will you say if you’re asked why you didn’t go back?”

Rafayel smirks, and you catch a glimpse of fangs as he sits back on his knees. There’s a click, the rough sound of metal on metal as he undoes his belt, unzipping his trousers with one hand as the other cups the inside of your thigh, yanking it over his shoulder as he drags you down the bed. “I’m busy.”

And then he’s kissing you. 

You’re lost, so hopelessly lost in each other that you fail to notice the phone beep once again, the monotone voice of the machine saying, “Please leave a message at the tone,” before flashing twice, still running. 

Again, Rafayel seems to forget the concept of breathing, gasping into your lips as he ruts his hips into yours. “You’re not leaving me, right?” Fuck, he’s leaking all over his stomach, pre-cum splattering across your thighs.

“Never. I’ll never leave you, Rafayel.”

“Then tell me you’re mine. Tell me, please, please—hah—tell me and I’ll do anything, promise cutie, promise.” He’s all but gasping between kisses, cock trapped between his body and yours as he grinds forward, voice a pitch or so higher than it usually would be. “Say it, say you're mine, tell me, I need to hear it again."

He's talking in circles, rambling, the desperation in his voice palpable. Grasping the base of his cock, he sloppily fisting himself once, twice, before thumping against your entrance.

“I’m yours, Rafayel.” You writhe, grinding yourself up against him in hopes that he’s just hurry the fuck up.

“Again.”

“I’m yours, yours Rafayel.”

“Again, ah—again,” he’s nuzzling into your neck, lifting your leg higher and higher, pinning it to your head as he folds you into a matting press. Still, he refuses to press in, cock throbbing against your clit as he hugs you tight, every muscle in your body screaming in protest and pleasure. “Again, please, please.”

“I’m-” You’re either gasping or crying, words flooding out, ”Rafayel’s, I’m Rafayel’s.”

At that, Rafayel’s entire body convulses. He sobs, finally thrusting forward, bullying up into you bit by bit, forcing you to count every inch as the entirety of his weight bares down onto you. 

You can feel the way his muscles shift, the way his arms bulge and contract as he holds himself above you, hips flush against yours. The desert air must be infecting him, because Rafayel is dripping sweat, flushed from his ears to his chest as he begins to pull out and slowly grind himself back in. 

His voice is wrecked, breathless as he tries to kiss you, missing slightly as he sucks against your bottom lip, drooling. "I'm yours too, I'm yours." At the same time, his cock jerks in you, burying deeper with every filthy roll of his hips, throbbing against your sweet spots. 

Then something snaps, Rafayel’s lips sealed back on yours, and the rhythm he sets is brutal.

Rafayel's cock drags over your walls, molding you in ways you never thought possible. Each thrust is hard, deep, and leaves you gasping, eyes rolling back into your head as you arch off the mattress, nowhere to go as his body folds yours damn near in half, weight bearing down on you.

It's all you can do to wrap your arms around him, nails scratching into his back, drawing thin lines of blood across his shoulder blades as you try to stay grounded, keep your mind from being swept away as the dizziness returns.

But the pressure building up in the pit of your stomach makes it hard.

Harder still as Rafayel begins mumbling into your lips, the filth pouring from his mouth making you clench, cunt fluttering around his cock as he pounds into you.

He can see and feel everything like this. Unable to look away from your face only inches away, watching every expression with love-drunk eyes, hugging you closer, fucking you harder.

"Can feel you, can feel you getting tighter. You're close right? Say you're close, please, mhm fuck." he's panting, and if you focus hard enough you can hear the sloppy noises of him sliding in and out, wet and obscene, the harsh slap of his balls against the curve of your ass.

But then Rafayel’s pushing himself lower, your legs dangling uselessly in the air as his chest is pressed so tight against yours you can barely take a breath.

"You're mine, only I can touch you like this, feel this. My wife. Say it, say you're mine, wanna hear it, please. Please, ah, I’ll do anything, say it."

He's barely pulling out anymore, resigning to quick, deep grinds as though he can’t bear to part.

Too uncoordinated to kiss you, Rafayel's head falls to your neck, sobbing into your marked-up skin before messily kissing atop the bruises.

"Yours. Yours. I'm yours, your wife," the words spill from your lips before you can even think, and Rafayel nearly passes out trying to stop himself from cumming then and there. 

It’s like you’re trying to milk him, hugging him closer and ankles wrapped around his neck as he’s lifting your hips right off the bed. But now he needs to see it.

Needs to know the way you'll cry out his name, how your eyes will glaze over and roll back into your head, the way your chest will heave, the sweat that will pool at the valley between your breasts, the way the skin will flush from a soft pink to a burning red as you lose yourself in the feeling. To him.

It's the only thing he's able to concentrate on, the only thing he's able to think of. The feeling of your body beneath him, the sound of his name on your lips. 

And that alone is enough.

Rafayel’s orgasm is sudden, a jolt of pleasure that surges up his spine with enough intensity to have him collapse, pinning your body beneath him. You can feel it, the way his cum splatters against the walls of your womb, painting your insides, filling you up until the excess squirts out around his cock and your intertwined thighs. He can't stop his hips, can't stop the way he grinds his pelvis against yours, trying to get deeper and deeper still. 

"Mine, mine, mine," is all he can say, eyes wide and pupils blown out as he watches the way your body twitches, a mixture of sweat and cum painting your body as you nearly pass out in exhaustion. "Gonna- gonna fill you up, fuck, so pretty, my pretty girl, pretty wife, gonna make sure it sticks, so I’ll never leave. So you’ll never leave me again."

You're cumming.

He can feel the way your cunt spasms, the way your walls lure him back in, the way you tremble and shake as you throw your head back with tears. 

Rafayel can't stop himself from leaning down and biting, teeth sinking into the crook of your neck, his hands grabbing at any bit of flesh he can find. All the while he fucks you through your orgasm, the mess of fluids creating the most obscene noises as they squish and bubble out, pooling out from between your bodies. 

As you’re swaying in and out of reality, you think you see it. A field of red flame lilies, a poison so sweet that when you drink it, you lick your lips and thank the gods. 

God. Just one, the one of the sea and the flaming sun. 

The one who's still kneeling before you. 

The one who you love. 

"Maximum voicemail length reached, recording sent."

♱⋅── a/n: Uber now canonically exists in the lnds universe, thanks. Also, I would have included the absolutely gut-wrenching aftercare included in the card with MC asking Rafayel to sing for her, but honestly I would not change that scene in the slightest and am content to believe that is exactly what happened next.

Oh the things I’d give to hear Raf sing~

[hppylaw]

close to you | zayne li (m)

summary: it’s been a while since you’ve been back in linkon city - staying in one place is hard when you’re one of the most celebrated pediatricians of your time, after all. your constant movement is disrupted when an unexpected invitation to be an honorary professor at linkon university has you packing your bags and settling into a new apartment, excited to create new memories in the city you once called home.  there’s just one problem with your carefully laid-out plans, though: a well-known cardiac surgeon who’s going to be co-teaching some classes with you - the same cardiac surgeon who just so happens to be your ex-fiancé. info: cardiac surgeon!zayne x afab!pediatric surgeon!reader | exes to coworkers to lovers | angst, fluff, smut | 24k words warnings: angst, fluff, hurt with comfort, smut, mc has insecurities abt work abilities and worthiness, zayne says hurtful things he doesn’t mean, reader has an evol linked to body energy - specifically soothing/calming emotions, they go back and forth bc they don’t know how to talk and that’s a big plot point, mentions of yvonne and greyson (yvonne is mc’s best friend!), zayne is a yearner but doesn’t know how to properly show it, reader drinks alcohol, reconciliation before it’s broken, another warning for angst, vague description of surgery and car accident, a description of a panic attack including: [heavy breathing, lightness of head, near blacking out], the comfort part of hurt with comfort, reconciliation but it’s real this time, smut, the slightest whisper of dom!zayne x sub!afab!reader, office sex, desk sex, clothed sex, f!receiving!fingering, m!receiving!handjob, zayne’s a tease, unprotected sex, g-spot stimulation, biting but it’s literally once, shared orgasms, zayne cums inside, fluff, happy ending :D author's note: good lord it's done LOL (;-;) i cannot ever shut the fuck up when it comes to dr. zayne li so i hope you enjoy this :D if you liked it, leave smth in my ask box!! i rlly appreciate it <3 disclaimer: will edit soon for any mistakes!! if you are a minor and you're seeing this, i ask that you turn away and do not read. this is an 18+ story and minors are not welcome. if you are uncomfortable with any of the topics listed in the warning, please do not read this story! banner by my beloved miss l, @snowvee <3 playlist linked here! ˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

You don’t think you’ve ever been this excited over west-facing windows before in your entire life.

All throughout your life, you never had the chance to see golden hour and sunsets as much as you would like. Your life prior to this new apartment had been spent huddled over a lab counter and running back and forth in hospital corridors, ensuring your work was done with efficiency and care. Sunrises are your constant companion and you think they’re nice, but there’s just something about sunset.

The warmth it leaves on your skin as it dips below the horizon and the sun-kissed haze it leaves in your apartment…it fills you with a sense of accomplishment and peace.

You’ve done it, ____. You’ve successfully created a new space for yourself - free of some of the memories that plague you at night.

Your eyes trace the lines of marble on your kitchen countertops, giddy with thoughts about all of the meals you can cook and wines you can have on the counter during dinners with friends. The idea of reviving your social life after moving for so long and connecting with certain people has your heart fluttering, although your concentration is broken when your phone buzzes on the counter.

You slide your finger along your phone’s screen without another thought, your smile immediately growing when you see who it is.

“Hi, Yvonne!”

You watch as her signature bangs pop up on screen, followed by her sparkling eyes and sweet, dimpled smile. Yvonne is one of your closest friends from college: one of two people who were able to drag you away from your textbooks and into a mall or a karaoke room during the weekends. She was there with flowers and snacks after you defended your thesis perfectly to become a fully fledged pediatrician, and you were present with her favorite chocolates and a reservation to her favorite restaurant when she passed her nursing exams with flying colors.

Simply put, she’s your rock and you don’t think you’d be able to exist without her.

“My favorite pediatrician’s back!” She cheers, and you laugh when you see her spin in her office chair. “How do you like your new apartment?”

“The west facing windows are incredible.” You pick up your phone and flip the screen so that she can see the sunset through your wall-length windows, and she gasps at the magnificent view.

“It’s gorgeous!” She rolls her chair closer to her phone, and you giggle when she presses her nose up against the screen so she can really squint at the painting-like sky you’re currently showing her. “Wine and dine nights are about to be so good at your apartment.”

“I’m just excited about the kitchen island and the second bedroom,” you sigh in response, picking up your phone and walking around with it. You walk towards the front of your half built shoe rack, sliding on some shoes as you continue your chat with your friend. “How’s work been so far?”

“Same old,” she responds. You watch as she unties her hair from its slicked back bun, shaking her head vigorously and massaging her scalp so that she can release the tension. “I was the charge nurse today, but we thankfully didn’t have any new admits.”

“That’s good!” You grab your leather tote bag and sling it over your shoulder, making sure your keys are on your wrist before you shut the door to your new home behind you. “When are you off, by the way? I have to go to the university to pick up my materials and meet with Dr. Chung, but we need to meet up in person.”

“I’m free a week from now if that’s okay? It gives you time to set up your apartment and get the first couple of classes out of the way.”

You hum at her words, nodding and giving her a thumbs up. “That sounds good! Now go and don’t let the doctors get you down.”

Yvonne laughs at this, waving as she hangs up the call.

There’s a pep in your step as you walk to Linkon U - your new apartment in the university district of Linkon City. There’s a pleasant vibe as you listen to your favorite song, strides unhurried as you take in your new workplace.

When you’ve been far away from everything you used to know, you don’t realize just how small things were until you step back into your previous environment and really take it all in. That’s the case for you as you walk into the health department - smiling fondly at the trophy display case by the entrance of the grand hall. You let your eyes wander as your feet take you into the vague direction of the administration offices, until-

“Oh, I’m so sorry!”

You shake your head and smile sheepishly, breathing in deeply to calm your nerves at bumping into your new colleague. You find that it’s a big mistake, however, because it’s the smell you find yourself craving.

The crisp smell of pine body wash and jasmine detergent, mixed with something that makes you know that it’s him.

You feel yourself heat slightly as you dare to look up, embarrassment and something more heady roiling in your stomach as you stare directly into the golden flecked green of Zayne Li’s eyes. They’re carefully blank, his mouth pressed into a straight line and posture so rigid you would think he’s had a ruler permanently tucked into the waistband of his pants so he’s always straight-backed.

But you know that’s not the case.

No…you know that it’s because of how things ended between the two of you.

You wipe your mind of a kneeling man and salty tears streaking your cheeks as you carefully school your features into a pleasant, albeit lackluster smile. Your hands gently grasp at the shoulders you’ve dreamed of and you step to the side as you move past him, focusing on the small plaque with Dr. Alistair Chung: Head Director of the Linde School of Medicine engraved on it so you don’t lose your composure being in such close proximity to the man who’s never left your mind.

“It’s nice seeing you again, Dr. Li.”

And you mean it. He may not act like he cares, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have to.

With that, you nod your head once before walking towards Dr. Chung’s office.

To your surprise, however, Zayne begins to follow you.

To Dr. Chung’s office.

You barely have time to process what’s happening before walking into the office, Zayne closing the door behind the two of you softly. You watch as your old mentor lifts his eyes from the file he’s poring over before sitting up sharply, a warm smile gracing his face as he registers who stands in front of him.

“Ah, Zayne! You’ve found Dr. ____!”

“Hi, Dr. Chung.” You barely hesitate to walk over when he lifts his arms out to you, and he envelops you in a hug that has your heart softening and anxiety calming when you step away from him and back by Zayne’s side.

“Look at the two of you!” He laughs joyously, clapping his hands. “Why, it feels like just yesterday that the two of you were undergrads entering the graduate program!”

You force a laugh from your throat, though it dies awkwardly when you realize Zayne is stone-faced next to you. You clear your throat once again, grasping at something to try and make the atmosphere of the room feel somewhat normal.

“I sometimes look back on those days. Some days with fondness, other times with pain” you say. Zayne’s breath stutters next to you but you ignore him, giving Dr. Chung a real smile. “I get the same amount of sleep from back then but I still look back on those days fondly.”

“Likewise, my dear.” He winks at you quickly before clearing his throat and picking up the document he was previously reading. “We’re thankful and honored to have you serving as an honorary co-professor here at Linkon University - your intellectual prowess and care for knowledge will surely be beneficial to the classes you’ll be overseeing this spring semester.”

You pause at his words, heart stuttering slightly when you hear the prefix “co-” in front of “professor.” What does that mean, exactly? Aren’t you supposed to be leading this semester’s medical intro class by yourself?

“Dr. Chung, I don’t mean to intrude,” you begin softly, but with enough assertiveness that you efficiently cut off his ramblings. “What did you mean by co-professor?”

Beside you, Zayne’s breath sharpens and his previously frosty demeanor goes even more rigid if possible - making your anxiety come back with a vengeance.

No…no-

“Well, Dr. ____, it means you’ll be hosting this semester’s course with another doctor.” Your jaw clenches tightly when Dr. Chung’s tone takes on a teasing sort of lilt, his eyebrows wiggling jokingly at you. You force a fake laugh, trying to quell your rapidly beating heart before asking the question you know the answer to, even if your heart sinks straight to your ass.

“Who am I co-teaching with?”

Zayne exhales sharply, as if he’d been waiting for you to finally prod at the snoring bear in the corner of the room. Dr. Chung looks at you with mild surprise, eyes flickering between the two of your bodies before laughing once more.

“Why, ____, did Zayne not tell you? You two are going to be co-professors!”

Fuck…you’re going to be teaching with Zayne?!

You whip your head sharply over to the root of your surprise and growing issues, and you note with little satisfaction at the sheepish tilt of his eyes.

“Is this really necessary, Dr. Chung?” Your voice is tight and you clench your fists so that you can still your emotions, taking a deep breath and schooling your face into its usual pleasant one. “Does Zay- Dr. Li not have his own courses to teach here at Linkon University?”

“On the contrary, Dr. ____.” You can see the bewilderment on Dr. Chung’s face as he regards the tension between the two of you, and he has the grace to look slightly embarrassed as he continues on. “You’re the leading expert on pediatrics in this region - particularly the study of how Evols can affect a child’s many systems. The seminar this semester will be cardiac and pediatrics focused, and Dr. Li requested yo-”

“If it’s a big deal, we can split the lectures so that you teach the pediatrics part and I teach the cardiac unit.” Zayne’s quick to cut off Dr. Chung’s reasoning, and you don’t miss the wicked gleam in Dr. Chung’s eye and Zayne’s rapidly reddening cheeks as he regards you once again. There’s a depth to his eyes that draws you in - eyes that have been your constant companion in your dreams, eyes that you’ve wanted to look at you with soft tenderness.

You know you can’t have those eyes in your life, though.

You release a breath you didn’t know you were holding before smiling up at Zayne, a bland sort of grin with no teeth and emotion. “It’s all right, Dr. Li. We want to be efficient with this, and it’s easier to explain Evol’s effects on the heart within the realm of pediatrics if we’re both in the room.”

If you were a different person not fully accustomed with Zayne and his emotions, you wouldn’t have seen the invisible war he wages between the facts and his heart flickering on his face. But having known him and his emotions for years at this point, you can see it happening in real time: the way his eyes move back and forth as he scans your face before lifting to the ceiling slightly in thought, the way his hands twitch ever so slightly, and the way his tongue quickly darts out to wet his lower lip. It’s little things you’ve tried to rid yourself of in your time apart from him, but you’re forever cursed with the knowledge in your head.

After what seems like a millenia, Zayne sighs softly and shakes his head. “All right, if you’re okay with it we can do the joint lectures.”

His tone holds a gravelly undertone, and a small part of your stomach erupts in a frenzy of butterflies. You open your mouth to speak but you’re prematurely cut off with a loud ringing coming from his pocket.

Zayne breaks his eye contact with you to reach into his pockets, and he slides his thumb across the screen without even looking. You watch as he answers his phone, face going from curious to severe before settling into a calm that you recognize; the sort of calm you feel when something urgent happens at the hospital.

Zayne hangs up his phone, and he looks at Dr. Chung apologetically. “Called in for emergency  heart surgery, something related to a Metaflux fluctuation that triggered an underlying condition.”

Dr. Chung’s eyes sparkle and he nods his assent at Zayne. “Go on, Dr. Li.”

Zayne turns on his heel and begins to walk out. You force yourself to keep your head on Dr. Chung’s nameplate as you hear the door open, but before the door closes shut you hear him pause.

“It was nice seeing you, ____.”

A soft click signals his departure, and you shake yourself off internally.

What a meeting, and it isn’t even your first day lecturing yet.

How the fuck are you going to survive this?

“I think I need to take my leave as well, Dr. Chung.” Your eyes dart back to the man’s bemused smile, and you sigh internally to yourself. What does he know that you don’t?

You nod to him once more before turning on your heel to leave, but-

“You know, Dr. ____…we still have that permanent head of pediatrics position open.”

Dr. Chung’s voice stops you in your tracks, hand hovering above the door knob to his office. You turn your head back to look at him with a bewildered expression. “Sir?”

“It’s been empty for years,” he continues. He peers at you through his glasses, and you suddenly feel like you’re back in grad school - standing in front of him and a panel of your professors skillfully answering questions regarding your thesis. “I can’t think of anyone better than you to lead our pediatrics department.”

You shake your head at this, a bashful expression overtaking your face. “Respectfully, no thank you, Dr. Chung. I don’t think I’m fit for hospital politics - I’d rather be hands on with my care.”

“You, not fit for it?” The laugh that escapes his chest isn’t in a derogatory manner - in fact, it’s full of disbelief that you even think of yourself in that way. “Ms. ____, you fearlessly defended your thesis some years ago before going on to win heaps of awards and researching new scientific breakthroughs for diseases that plague young children. You’ve accomplished feats most of my colleagues barely even get to touch by the end of their career, and you’re still at the first couple of years in your glowing career. Why, you and Dr. Li are of the same caliber! Why are you so afraid of giving yourself time to rest?”

You flinch at the mention of his name as a comparison to your own, but you try to hide your sudden shock as you shake your head harshly. “No, I don’t think I’m quite right for it yet.”

Dr. Chung’s eyes soften at your sudden walls, and he sighs. “Seems I hit a nerve.”

You avert your eyes as he gets up from his chair, approaching you with gentle steps. He stands in front of you and holds out his hand, and after a bit of hesitation, you give him your own. He holds it gently as he regards you with a familial kindness - one that makes your heart ache ever so slightly.

“____, there’s no shame in stopping and resting.” He squeezes your hand and you fight back tears as you squeeze back. “Let me tell you, you’ll never be right for anything - but you can always let yourself grow in your new home and learn. That’s the beauty of our field.”

You bite your lip, willing yourself to get your emotions together before you look up at him and smile as brightly as you can manage. “The semester hasn’t even started yet! Let me get through the courses first - and let me navigate working with Dr. Li while also doing my dailies at Akso and balancing observations. If anything changes I’ll give my response by the end of the semester.”

Dr. Chung sighs, shaking his head. “All right. But just know that by the end of the semester, I will be sending you a couple of insistent emails.”

With that, he lets you go and you wander back down the hallway you came from. As you walk aimlessly, you catch sight of the office door the two of you were by. A shiny nameplate sparkles with the name Dr. Zayne Li, Head of Cardiology engraved on it, and you sigh at your past self’s lack of awareness.

You should have known.

You know it’s foolish of you to think, but is he thinking of you as he’s washing up and preparing for the sudden emergency surgery sprung up on it? Did you consume his thoughts as much as he did in your time apart?

Or have his feelings for you eroded into nothingness?

You shake your head once more, squashing down the disappointment that settles in your stomach before making your way out of the academic office wing.

You don’t have time to think about him. You have lectures to write.

You can’t fight the nervous butterflies that erupt in your stomach when you walk into your assigned lecture hall the following week.

You’ve done a lot of hard things through your career; you can practically do high risk surgeries and retake the Doctor’s Exam in your sleep if you needed to. Public speaking was never really your forte, though - which is hilarious considering you’ve had to speak at international conventions and teach lectures before this.

The more you analyze your feelings, though, you realize that they’re good butterflies.

You don’t know why it feels so different this time. You’re still the same you - maybe with more degrees and an even bigger lack of sleep when you were in undergrad but still, it’s you. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re in a familiar environment that feels so new. 

Maybe it’s the person you’re going to be teaching with.

You can’t allow yourself to falter, so you swallow your nerves and open the lecture hall’s computer - waiting for it to boot up so you can access the slides you’ve carefully put together.

You hear the tell-tale sign of the door creaking open, and you hum as you log into your work account. “Hi! Class isn’t in session yet-”

“I would hope not, I don’t want to be late.”

Your stomach drops slightly when you note the soft, slightly frosty tone of your co-lecturer. You clear your throat and steel yourself, looking up to see Zayne holding a stack of neatly stapled papers and his own bag. He sets his bag next to yours on the hook behind the desk before setting the syllabi down onto the desk in front of you.

The air around you suddenly feels too thin, and you reach for a packet so that you can distract yourself from the thin line his mouth is pressed into and how his white shirtsleeves are pushed up to his elbows and hug his biceps in the way you so love- loved. You ignore the way your hands shake as you flip the paper, noting the class schedule and when exams would be before nodding once.

“Glad we both agree on the content schedule.” You cringe internally at how your voice wavers, and you clear your throat once again before scanning the class recommendations once more.

“When would we do observations?” You lift your gaze from the paper and look at him pointedly, tapping at the dates listed. “There aren’t any concrete dates, and with exams and other classes we should let them know in advance so there isn’t any confusion.”

“We should schedule it around our personal timelines.” Zayne’s voice is clipped as he pulls out a pen pouch from his bag and sets it on the desk. “We need to make sure that no major procedures are impeded on when we bring med students around.”

“That’s practically impossible with how fast things change in the hospital and you know that to be true, Zay- Dr. Li.” You catch your near slip and you clear your throat, grabbing a pen and writing down five potential dates. “How do you feel about these?”

Zayne takes the paper from your hands, and you try to fight the shiver that threatens to race down your back when his hands lightly graze against the back of your hand. The tips of his fingers are as callused as you remember and though they barely brush across your knuckles, you fight the gasp that bubbles up against your lips and disguise it as a really shitty cough.

You watch as he purses his lips, scanning through his personal timeline in his head before nodding once in agreement. “All right.”

Your heart sinks at how quickly he agrees - his clipped, almost bored voice letting you know that he intends to spend the least amount of time with you so that he can be rid of you quickly. Did he really disregard you that much - does he really not care for the past couple of years you’ve spent together, even if the ending was horrible?

“I know you don’t want to work with me, especially with how things ended.” You mumble as you avert your eyes so you don’t have to see his expression. “We just have to last the semester and then…well, I’m not sure. But I’m sure you’ll be rid of me by then.”

“What makes you think that?”

His voice is quiet, severe, devoid of any and all emotion that endeared you to him - but he still moves a little closer so that he’s encroaching on your territory. Not enough where he’s all you can feel, but enough that it sends a shiver up your spine when you smell his signature pine and jasmine scent.

“I don’t know.” Your honesty is bare for him to take in, and you swallow thickly when you realize just how vulnerable you’re being with him. This isn’t something that should be happening right now - not with students on their way to the lecture hall right now.

And you definitely shouldn’t be sharing feelings with your fucking ex-fiancé.

“It doesn’t matter.” You swallow thickly before schooling your expression into the bland smile you always seem to have when you’re around him these days. The fire in his eyes gradually dims before frost takes over his expression again because he knows.

He knows that you’re not going to listen to him, not this time.

So you turn back and wave hello to the incoming medical students.

And if they sense the frost between the two of you, they don’t dare to say anything.

“...And that’s how I ended up in this situation.”

“Holy shit, ____.”

“Yeah.” You’re careful as you flop back onto your couch so that you don’t spill the wine you’re holding, rubbing your eyes as you process all that transpired in the past couple of days.

“This is the romance story of the ages.”

Your eyes snap open from shock at Yvonne’s half joke, and you toss a cat shaped couch pillow at her head. “Yvonne! He’s my co-lecturer!”

Yvonne laughs at your reaction as she holds her hands up, half in surrender and half so that she doesn’t spill wine all over your couch. You think she’ll stop the teasing, but…

“You know, most if not all of the health college’s heads set up betting pools on when you and Zayne would start dating.” You groan at her words, throwing another pillow at her laughing head.

“You’re making that shit up!” You slouch on your couch, folding your arms dramatically.

“Am not!” She gasps. “My nursing professors put a lot of gold in the pool for the month of March because of White Day.”

You feel a hot flash of embarrassment when you remember how he had bought you a box of chocolates and a bouquet of your favorite flowers, and you rub a hand at your temple when you recall the classmates and professors that had flocked around you and asked who it was from with a touch of too much intensity. “Oh gods…”

“Now that I think about it, I think Dr. Chung won the whole thing. No wonder he’s so insistent on you working at Akso and becoming the Head of Pediatrics.” Yvonne moves to sit down next to you, placing her wine glass on your coffee table before settling her head on your shoulder. You place your head on top of hers, letting her presence be a safe space for mulling over your thoughts.

“That damn Dr. Chung,” you grumble, much to her amusement.

“It could be worse, ____.” Yvonne’s voice takes on a tone of comfort, and you sigh as you close your eyes. “You’re just lecturing a couple of classes and doing a set of observations with Zay- Dr. Li. Make it through that, you can make it through anything.”

“You can call him Zayne,” you mumble back. “Hearing his name won’t kill me.”

“Well, it sounded like making a little bit of eye contact with him was going to set off cardiac arrest.” Her voice is back to teasing and you make a noise of frustration.

“It was charged and intense!”

“Just say you were eye-fucking him and go, ____!”

The absurdity of Yvonne’s statement makes the both of you burst out laughing, you clutching your stomach as high pitched squeaks escape the both of your lips. There’s something about the two of you absolutely giggling your heads off at something so preposterous that eases your nerves with your current situation at hand. 

Maybe it is that easy. All you need to do is survive this semester and then you can transfer to a different city and work in a different hospital and university. Maybe Dawnlight City or somewhere near the Arctic in a sleepy little town.

Somewhere far away enough where you don’t have to be reminded of all of your memories and history involving Zayne.

“All of this would be a lot easier if things weren’t the way they were.” It’s a quiet statement, tinged with a fraction of the sadness that lurks deep in your soul. You want to blame it on the wine, but you know that it’s something that’s been festering within your body ever since that night.

“It’s not on you, ____.” Yvonne’s voice is firm and she squeezes your hand tightly as she bumps you lightly with her shoulder. “It was a mutual agreement to keep the engagement private and you guys were so happy. Transferring to a different hospital was reasonable and you did it so you could move on - no one faults you for that, ____.”

You freeze slightly when you hear move on - a phrase loaded with implications and uncharted feelings.

Have you moved on? You reflect back on your life and you find that things have gotten easier for you. You have a new step stool that’s only allowed in the kitchen because you picked up his annoying habit of placing your dishes on the highest shelf even though you’re shorter than him. You have a car and are more comfortable driving, no longer as reliant on public transportation or your friends. You’ve grown to like eggplant parmesan, too.

But those are little things in your life that you’ve done to fill his absence. You still see and feel flashes of him when you least expect it: in cloyingly sweet lattes that remind you of late night study sessions, in lavender bouquets that surround you with the smell of your first kiss, and with the chibi snowman sitting on your nightstand - the same one you don’t have the heart to throw away because he made it for you when you were bedridden with the fever and he didn’t want to leave you alone, even though he had his own thesis defense rehearsal to prepare for that night.

As much as you’ve tried to move on, you know that you’re just plugging in the gaps for the spaces he used to live in. Deep down, you know that there’s no moving on from him - from the man who wrapped you with his own coat with laughter even though you were the one who insisted on leaving without a jacket, from the one who wiped your tears away and cried with you after you experienced your first loss as a doctor, from the one who tapped his finger three times against your nose before you went to sleep.

No, you can’t move on. Not when you’re still so deeply and irrevocably in love with Li Zayne.

“I haven’t moved on.”

The whisper hangs in the air above your heads and Yvonne stiffens ever so slightly, taking in your confession.

“You’re not over Zayne?”

Her response is a quiet gasp, and you sigh as you rub your hand over your face before shaking your head once, twice, three times - confirming the truth that’s been bubbling in your chest ever since you moved away all those years ago.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been over him.”

“Shit, ____.”

“Yeah,” you mumble.

You let yourself reflect back on that rainy night - the night where everything fell apart for the two of you. He had just been promoted to head of cardiology at Akso - draining his time and his affections from you. You had started seeing him less and less, dark circles forming under his eyes and his cheeks growing gaunter by the second. The two of you had gone back and forth on the subject until everything just…snapped.

“I never see you anymore, ____.” It was lethally quiet after you had said the unspoken truth, venom injected into your tone. “You’re working yourself to death, you’re going to bed when I’m waking up and it’s not good for you-”

“I’m working for us.” Zayne’s voice was icy and he had balled his hands into a fist so tightly you were afraid of him accidentally breaking his own skin. “Weddings are expensive and this is all for you-”

“I don’t want it to only be for me, Zayne! This is supposed to be for us!”

It had burst out of your chest, and in the heat of your anger you had marched up to him and pointed your finger in his chest. “You’re not eating. You’re not sleeping. You’ve distanced yourself from me. We don’t even sleep in the same fucking bed anymore, Zayne!”

Zayne’s anger had rolled over, clouding his judgement as he pushed you away from his body. Your hands had fallen to your side as he said the words that have since been engraved in the twisted, self-hating part of your brain with a coldness that had your entire body shaking. “Sometimes there are more important things than you, ___.”

The living room had gone eerily still, the words punching your gut before you had even processed what he said. There was a breathlessness that had consumed every fiber of your being, and the only thing you remember saying in response to his wide eyes and kneeling position as he clung to your legs and begged for forgiveness over and over again was a simple “We’re done.”

You had pulled off the diamond ring that was nestled on your finger and thrown it at him before walking out of his apartment into the rain, wandering aimlessly until you somehow made it onto Yvonne’s doorstep. She had answered in a mild panic and she held you as you sobbed.

And now you’re in the same position, holding hands while feeling empty.

“Have you talked to him since that day, ____?”

Yvonne’s soft musings break you out of your stupor, and you shake yourself of the past as you process her words. “What was that?”

“Have you talked to him at all?”

“No.” You pull away and rub your cheeks with your hands, hoping that the sensation pulls you away from the dark haze still threatening to consume you. “How would I even approach that conversation? Leaving was the best thing for the both of us.”

Yvonne hums and watches you as you pick up your wine glass and drains it of its remaining liquid. You sigh and wipe the back of your mouth, your thoughts flying out of your mouth as you pour yourself more wine and force yourself to smile. “It’s just a couple of months doing lectures and observations with my ex who I’m still in love with. All I need to do is keep trucking along and not look at him too long and I’ll be okay!”

“You’re deflecting again, ____.” Yvonne’s voice is deadpan, but you can see the glimmer of concern that flashes in her eyes as she reaches over and takes your wine glass and the bottle away from your hands. “And what makes you think he doesn’t feel the same about you?”

You shake your head rapidly at this, refusing to even entertain the idea with her as you try to reach for the bottle once more. “No, I think he was pretty clear when he said other things were more important than me.”

“That’s a big fat lie and you know it, ____.” You scowl and petulantly cross your arms when Yvonne shakes her head and places the bottle and glass on the side table next to her. “No more wine for you, you’re going to have the worst headache tomorrow if we don’t stop now.”

“It’s a good bottle,” you grumble, although you know she’s right.

She rolls her eyes and settles back down next to you, her tone measured as she starts on her train of thought. “You of all people know Zayne the best. He wouldn’t be teaching classes with you if that were the case - fuck, ___, he probably wouldn’t have even approved your guest professor spot if he wasn’t okay with you.”

“Maybe there was no one else available with the same type of expertise?” Your half-hearted joke dies on your throat at the glare Yvonne throws in your direction, and you shrink back as you prepare for her overprotective best friend mode.

“Of fucking course there’s no one else with your expertise, ____!” She heaves a breath, and you sigh heavily.

“Yvonne, no matter how much I want to be with him again, Zayne’s moved on from it. The best I can do now is bear it and try to move on too.”

“You just…just talk to him, ____.” You look at her in bewilderment and Yvonne throws her hands up, shaking her head in exasperation. “I’m not saying I’m defending him or that you need to get back together with him, just…talk to him. He’s changed to the point where even I can see it, and I was his number one hater.”

“You don’t think he’s moved on?” Your voice is tinged with nerves, and Yvonne shakes her head empathetically.

You sink back into your cushions as you mull over your new knowledge, and you feel dangerous feelings of hopes spark in your chest. If Yvonne, the nurse he’s closest to, thinks he hasn’t moved on, then…

“All right, I’ll talk to him.”

This is it.

This is the day you talk to Zayne and try to make things semi-normal with him again.

It’s also the first date of in-hospital observations, and you’re extra conscious of it in the way you triple check that you have your ID badge and stash multiple pens in your pockets for your students. Sure that you’re ready, you walk into Akso Hospital’s cardiac ward in your scrubs and most comfortable shoes, holding a box full of mini cakes labelled “for the ward with the most heart!”

Is it a little bit cheesy? Yes, but you need cheesy if you’re going to get back into a certain cardiac surgeon’s good graces.

For how long you’ve spent in Akso’s cardiac unit in the past, you still can’t remember the exact way you need to take to end up at the cardiac ward’s offices. You were always with Zayne, and he was the one who picked you up and led you to his office so you never really bothered to learn the directions you needed to take because he was always there with you.

You’re certainly cursing your past yourself out for not paying attention now.

You scan your surroundings, lighting up when you see a receptionist’s desk towards your left. You walk around the family waiting room and approach the desk, scanning for a familiar face. You’re a little disappointed, however, when you see a new receptionist.

A handsome looking new receptionist.

As you approach the desk, his head lifts and his eyes widen before giving you a friendly smile, waving hello to you. You give a cordial smile back, letting your feet stop in front of the table and plopping the box in front of you so that you can give your hands a break.

“Hi, I’m looking for the cardiac ward’s offices. I’m meeting a doctor and some students there for observations today?” You cringe when you hear the tilt of a question on your tone, but the receptionist beams at you and nods.

“Yes, of course! And what was your name again?”

“Dr. ____, pediatrics.” You hold out your hand, and he smiles as he grabs hold and shakes it firmly.

“Michael,” he replies easily, and you feel your stomach clench uncomfortably at the way he holds your hand for longer than necessary. You cough and pull yourself back, schooling yourself into a generally nice attitude as you regard him.

“Do you happen to know if anyone else is in the office right now?” You shift your weight around, trying to think of a reason to get going. “It’s fine if it’s the other doctor I’m following for observations today, but I want to get this to the other doctors of the ward before the day starts.”

“Hmm…” Michael’s voice tapers off as he scans his computer before shaking his head empathetically. “Nope, no one’s in right now. I can certainly take the desserts from you, though!”

His laughter fills the air, and you choke out a laugh just so you can try and feel less awkward. You grab at your box though, just to ensure that he doesn’t grab them from your grasp. “Ah, no, it’s okay. I’ll just get going, then-”

“Are you sure?” You feel yourself die a little bit when Michael stands from his desk, walking around and placing an unwanted hand on the small of your back. “I can walk you over-”

“That won’t be necessary, Matthew.”

The voice breaks the awkwardness, and you find yourself filling with cold relief as you turn around and find Zayne walking into the waiting room. He’s pulling on a white coat over his scrubs, and you try to suppress the dangerous thoughts that flare in your head when you see the slight way his fingers twitch at the sight of Michael’s hand on your back.

“Dr. Li!” Michael smiles, although you can see the tightness in his eyes as he registers Zayne using a wrong name. “I was just going to take Dr. ____ to the ward’s offices-”

“And I’m here now.” Zayne’s standing next to you before you know it, swatting his hand away and replacing it with his own. You relax slightly, unconsciously stepping closer to Zayne’s solid body as you give Michael a fake apologetic look.

“Thanks for your help!” Your tone has a soft sarcastic edge - one that has Zayne loosing a soft breath as he begins to push you away. Your movements are stopped though, when you feel a hand wrap around your wrist and tug you back.

“Wha-”

“I was going to help you!” Michael’s voice is tight as he throws a barely disguised look of annoyance at Zayne, who’s jaw ticks dangerously when he sees how Michael holds your wrist. “Zayne doesn’t need to take you-”

“On the contrary.” Zayne grabs Michael’s wrist and yanks him off of you, your eyes widening at the sudden display of calculated aggression from him. Zayne steps from your side and all but pushes Michael back to his seat, the latter’s cheeks burning bright red as he sits defeatedly back at his desk.

You watch carefully as Zayne steps back by your side, noting the way his jaw ticks dangerously when he regards Michael’s sweating face once more. Scoffing just loud enough for you to hear, he places his hand back on the small of your back and tilts his head back to Michael in a dismissive show of goodbye.

“It’s Dr. Li to you, Matthew. I suggest you remember respect.”

With that, the pressure on your back grows stronger as Zayne gently pushes you in the direction of the offices.

Once you’re out of earshot, you step away and regard him curiously. “You didn’t need to do that.”

“You were uncomfortable and Michael messed up some important appointments, I could have done worse.” Zayne’s tone is bored but you can hear the tightness in his voice as he swipes his keycard. He pushes the door open with his foot, and you’re greeted with the sight of a doctor you vaguely recognize and Yvonne, who looks like she’s about to fall asleep on her feet.

“Dr. ___, everybody.” You look at Zayne curiously, but he doesn’t give anything else away as he ushers you towards the two empty chairs at the head of the table. You shake your head at Yvonne’s small smirk, but the smirk only widens when Zayne pulls the chair out for you and gestures for you to sit.

“I’m Greyson!” The doctor with ruffled brown hair and thick glasses smiles at you sweetly as he shakes your hand, and you widen your eyes at Yvonne who’s face suddenly flushes once she sees you’ve come to your realization:

This is the doctor she has a crush on.

You’re never going to let her live this down.

“____,” your voice is warm as you shake his hand, and you give a small wave to Yvonne who’s suddenly avoiding your gaze sheepishly. Your smile grows even wider and you open your mouth to tease her subtly, but you’re interrupted with a cough.

You turn your head to look at Zayne, who’s looking at the box still in your hands with curiosity and something softer - a look he reserved only for you in the past. You watch as his eyes scan your penmanship on the box, and your heart stutters when you see the small upward tilt on his lips.

“‘For the ward with the most heart?’ There better not be a real heart in there, ____.”

“No, not at all.” You pull the lid of the box open, and you watch as Zayne’s face shifts from relaxed to something unreadable.

In the box are little tea cakes, reminiscent of the ones you and him would pick up for your coworkers. You had randomly picked out a variety when you picked them up this morning, but as you look at the innocent little cake jars you feel yourself freeze.

These were the same flavors you and him always gravitated towards when the two of you were still together.

You hold your breath as Greyson makes his way closer, picking up a small jar of earl grey cake piled high with a light whipped cream. Greyson looks towards Zayne with an inquisitive quirk on his brow. “Isn’t this your favorite flavor?”

“I-” Zayne begins, but you clear your throat and snatch the cake from Greyson’s hands.

“They’re meant to be shared!” Your voice wavers, and you shoot a pointed look at Yvonne who you can tell is trying not to die from embarrassment for you. Yvonne, getting the hint, moves to stand next to you and peers into the cake box.

“Chocolate raspberry!” She picks up the little jar and playfully elbows you, resulting in a little oof escaping from your mouth as she inspects the cake with glee in her eyes. “You’re the best, ____.”

“I like that flavor too!” Greyson moves towards Yvonne in an attempt to steal the little jar, but Yvonne moves away with ease and sticks her tongue out at him childishly.

“Get lost, Greyson! I claim this one!”

Their bickering fades when you feel another presence next to you, though you can tell it’s not as frosty. You turn your head towards Zayne, who’s looking at you with an undecipherable expression on your face.

“You didn’t have to get the cakes.” You feel your stomach drop at the tone of his voice - one that doesn’t give away his emotions. Why is he so hard to read now? Are all of your plans going to shit before you can even move them into motion?

“I wanted to.” You let your eyes dart away to compose yourself, and you find yourself scowling at the sight of the little cake jars. Maybe he didn’t want them at all? Why are you always second guessing yourself with him? “It’s okay, though. You don’t have to eat them if you don’t want to, I can take them-”

“Who said I wouldn’t eat them?”

A soft pressure encircles itself on your wrist, and your body stills as a comforting cold starts at your wrist and grounds yourself in your present. You look up to see Zayne’s softening gaze, clearly reading through your facade.

“I’m grateful you got them for me- us.” Zayne’s lips tilt up once more, and you feel yourself melting slightly at the sight. “The ward appreciates it, ____.”

“I’m glad,” you reply. “I wanted to get us off on the right foot, with observations and whatnot.”

You inject your voice with your hidden implications, and you watch Zayne debunk it in real time. You wait with bated breath to see if he’ll accept your tentative olive branch-

-and you exhale in relief when he nods slightly.

“After today’s observations.”

As if on cue, your first students knock on the office door and Yvonne and Greyson stop their bickering to open the door. You nod at him once before pulling away and putting on your best professor smile.

And this time, it’s not as forced as it used to be.

Observations are going well.

You and Zayne had been efficient with introducing Greyson and Yvonne to your class as the accompanying doctor and charge nurse for this set of rounds. You had been thorough with your students’ expectations: take diligent notes, let the four of you handle the brunt of the work, and respect the patient’s privacy.

The first couple of rooms had been peaceful, full of patients who were doing well and willing to chat with a select number of students. You watch with a soft smile as Zayne leads this demonstration with one of your students, an elderly patient giving your group a smile and a thumbs up as you herd them out of the room.

Soon enough, you reach the last room. You scan the patient’s file, frowning when you see the information written on the page. You take Zayne’s lax position as a chance to approach him, walking up to his height and tapping the paper in your hands.

“I don’t exactly know how this file came up in the approved files for observations, are you sure this is okay?” You ask as he scans the profile. His eyes widen and he looks at you, the concern you feel in your stomach mirrored in his eyes.

“Escalated emotions leading to spiked heart rate…” he muses softly, and he scans over the rest of the information before he nods to himself and looks back at you. “As long as we maintain a calm environment for her and direct our students to do the same, it should be okay. We have to be careful though.”

You can’t shake off your unease, but you nod with him. “It’s important for them to see different situations. I’ll take this one.”

With both of your approval, you and Zayne lay down the rules before opening the door to the patient’s room.

Your eyes soften when you see the patient on her bed - a girl no older than the age of ten. She has an apprehensive look on her face that she disguises with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and your heart aches when you note her slightly shaky hands.

You put on your own smile, one you hope that puts her at ease as you approach the bed. You feel Zayne’s eyes bore holes into the back of your head as you sit at the edge - breaking obvious protocol, but different scenarios call for different solutions.

“Hi, I’m Dr. ____! What’s your name?” You see her shoulders loosen ever so slightly at your soft tone, and you take it as a win as you hold out your hand for her to shake.

“Mine’s Grace,” she responds, and you melt when you feel the slight tremor stop as she shakes your hand.

“Well, Grace,” you begin, pulling out your files and selecting her file. You make a big show of flipping through the pages, and she giggles at your theatrics as you find her case details. “It says here you’re due for a heart transplant because of an Evol-related accident. Can you tell me some details and how you’re feeling right now?”

Grace clears her throat, a sudden seriousness taking over her face and making her older than she appears. “I’m 100th on the waitlist. I’ve been on the waitlist for two years, ever since a Wanderer attack created Metaflux waves so strong it affected the chemistry of my body. I feel…tired. Doctors keep telling me I’ll be okay but I don’t feel it.” She suddenly looks at Zayne, her eyes sharp as she regards him. “Am I going to die, Dr. Li?”

Your students pause their frantic notes, and you can feel the energy of the room go down at the sudden morbidness even though you and Zayne barely blink at her question. Maybe because the two of you are accustomed to situations turning all of a sudden, but you know that this won’t end well if you don’t redirect now.

“You’re not going to die.” Your voice is still soft but much more serious as you reach out and grasp Grace’s hand once more, letting her sink her nails into your hand so that she can grasp at her reality.

“I’m dying, Dr. ____.” You can hear the telltale sounds of tears welling up in the back of her throat, and you’re quick to wrap her in your arms as she begins to cry. You can tell that this is her breaking point and you’re cursing yourself out in your head for even bringing students into this room.

“I’m scared to die,” she sobs into your chest as you stroke her hair. Her heart rate begins to pick up on the monitor, and Zayne’s eyes flash as he hears the sound. You know immediately you need to try and get it under control - her heart spiking could lead to dangerous effects.

You will yourself into a calm place in your mind as your hands move up and down in soothing movements. The room grows quiet when your hands begin to emit a soft glow, and you whisper softly into Grace’s ear as you direct your Evol into her body.

“Dr. Li, what’s Dr. ____ doing to the patient?”

You ignore the student’s question and focus solely on Grace’s breathing, guiding her body’s energy into a tranquil place that allows for her heart rate to settle and for her tears to subside. All the while, you rub circles into her shoulder and whisper, “You’re not going to die, Grace. Dr. Li and I will make sure of it, sweetheart.”

Grace’s breathing evens out, and she pulls away with a soft sigh. Her eyes are slightly swollen, but her face looks serene, even a little bit sleepy as she gives you a small smile.

“Thank you, Dr. ____.” Her brow furrows when she looks at your face and you automatically reach up to make sure your smile isn’t slipping off your cheeks. “You look…different now.”

You know. You can feel it in the throbbing of your skull and how your cheeks probably lost some color but you shake your head, pushing away slightly and ignoring the way your hands shake.

“I’m okay, sweet girl.” You give her hand a soft pat before standing up, wobbling slightly on your feet. You brush off the concerned gasps and murmurs, instead electing to look at the bright EXIT sign above the door so you don’t accidentally make eye contact with the other doctor in the room.

“Dr. Li will finish up this round of observations.” Your voice trembles yet leaves no room for argument, and you ignore everyone’s worried glances at each other as you make your way to the door. “Reflections due midnight this Friday online.”

You’re dashing out of the door before you even hear a confirmation, briskly walking the halls of the ward so that you can try to find a quiet spot to collect yourself.

Your Evol isn’t a secret - in fact, it was quite well known in the medical world and the Hunter’s Association. You had been tested rigorously when you were younger because having the ability to control emotions could be dangerous in the wrong hands, but the results came back stating that you could only calm and soothe.

The results didn’t mention how it affected you, however. If done at too intense of a frequency when your energy’s low, it could cause damage to your own emotional being. Stop while administering the Evol and you risk permanently affecting the receiver’s psyche. Do it too many times with no adequate rest and you’re basically irreparable.

Hilarious that you can’t fix your own troubles with your Evol.

You somehow find your way back to the office you were in earlier and you swipe your key card against the sensor, feeling tears prick at the corners of your eyes when the sensor beeps red. You try to swipe again and almost kick the door in frustration when it beeps red at you once more, and you’re ready to fall asleep on the wall when a hand on your shoulder stops you.

You let the cool touch guide you away from the door, and you don’t speak as Zayne pushes the door open and gently ushers you inside. Somewhere in your tired mind you can feel the sour mood of the room, but you’re thankful that he doesn’t speak as he pulls out a chair and all but pushes you to sit on the hard plastic.

Your eyes slowly drift shut as you massage your temples, hoping the ache goes away soon so you can run off and take a nap. All the while, he’s a quiet yet agitated flurry of movement, filling a paper cup with water and pulling a chair closer to you so he can sit in front of you.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Zayne says as he settles down. There’s a dull clack as he sets the paper cup in front of you a little too harshly, and you barely crack your eyes open to find it before grabbing onto it and taking a small sip. You find that the water helps alleviate the ache, so you take a bigger gulp as you eye him with a bit of annoyance.

“It was a mistake bringing the students into her room so I found a solution to help ease her anxiety.” There’s no warmth in your tone and Zayne sighs in frustration because he knows you’re right - it was an oversight on both of your parts, you just happen to be the one who fixed it.

“We could have found a solution together,” he responds, and you fight back the bitterness that settles on your tongue at the worry that finds its way into his expression and voice.

“Why does it matter?” You don’t mean to sound angry, you really don’t, but being with the man you still hold incredibly complicated feelings for is clouding your judgement and manifesting itself in this way. “Who are you to care?”

The implications of your words hang heavy in the air, and Zayne’s mouth snaps shut as you avert your gaze.

Why is he still so worried about you?

Isn’t he the one who said that there were more important things than you?

Why is your heart aching right now?

“This is stupid,” you grumble, and you push yourself up from the seat even though you wobble slightly. “I’m going to go home and take a nap.”

You sidestep his chair and walk for the door, reaching for the doorknob and pretending not to hear the scrape of his chair against the floor-

-but he stops you, pushing you back down into your chair.

Zayne doesn’t speak, simply opening the box of cakes still on the table and pulling out the earl grey cup with whipped cream - the same cake he was eyeing earlier. With a newfound gentleness, he sets the cake down in front of you alongside a small fork before grabbing your paper cup and going back to the water dispenser to fill it up.

“You’re always drained after using your Evol so you need to get your blood sugar up.” His voice is still concise and clear, but there’s a softer look in his eyes as he hands you back your water cup and lets your hands muddle together. “Eat, ____.”

His fingertips linger on the back of your hand and you watch a war of emotions flash in Zayne’s eyes before he sighs heavily, allowing his hand to reach up and run along the underside of your jaw. The room goes too still and you’re suddenly overaware of him - of his jasmine and pine scent, of the calluses on his fingertips as his thumb barely ghosts over your lips, and the myriad of emotions that flash in his eyes.

Your hand reaches up before you can stop it, and you rest your palm against his own hand. Your breath trembles, but you still find it in yourself to tap your pointer finger three times: a signal only the two of you know.

His eyes widen, but his thumb taps against your bottom lip once…twice…

“-Zayne, there you are!”

He pulls away too soon, and you’re cursing Greyson in your head for walking in on the two of you all of a sudden. Greyson’s eyes widen at the scene but Zayne’s pulling away before you can even blink, quick to stand and move next to Greyson while his hand flexes ever so slightly.

“I want the cake jar empty and a text saying you’re home and asleep by the time I come back.”

And with that, he leaves the room - leaving you flustered and warm all over.

The next few weeks are…infuriatingly pleasant, to say the least.

There’s an unspoken agreement of peace between you and Zayne. While things obviously haven’t gone back to how they were when you were…together, there’s an air of familiarity that you both sink into with an alarming quickness - and to be honest, it has your head spinning.

It’s the lunches sent to each other’s offices without another word alongside neat stacks of assignments, sticky notes of “Do you agree with this grading?” written in penmanship only the two of you understand.

It’s coffee runs early in the morning at the times you always went: 7:00 am, and while you may not talk to each other the silence is comfortable with glances from your end when you think he isn’t looking.

He’s actually staring at you when you actually aren’t looking, with a yearning that would have made your heart stop if you had caught sight of it.

And it’s the subtle touches that catch the attention of students and faculty alike - creating a flurry of rumors that he somehow is oblivious to but you’re completely aware of.

“Did you see the way he moved her away with his hand on her back? That was so romantic!” You’re passing by a group of your students after class, and your head immediately whips to the girl who sighed that statement.

“What was that, Lisa?” You’re not trying to tease or put her on the spot, you just kind of want her perspective on the situation because you were hyper aware of it, too. You watch as both of her companions snicker and she flounders for an answer, cheeks turning pink and games cast to anywhere but your scrutiny.

“N-nothing, Dr. ____!” She bows hastily and all but runs away, her friends bowing at you as a farewell gesture before chasing after her. The laughter that leaves their lips makes you shake your head, and you can’t help but smile to yourself as you walk to your temporary office in the academic advisory wing.

Your office is barebones, but there’s a little blind box figurine on your desk that marks it as your own. You smile at the silly little figure checking its watch while carrying a briefcase, placing your own bag down and pulling out a thick stack of reflections and a red pen. You flip your office sign so that it says you’re in before settling into your chair and reaching for the first packet because you know in your heart that the chances of you receiving a visitor are slim to none.

The minutes pass in quick succession and you’ve gotten into a groove as you reach for another reflection. You’re so engrossed in the soft violin of the classical music you have going on in the background that you almost miss the knock on your door, but being alone for close to an hour has you attuned to any abnormal sounds.

“Come in!” Your voice cracks slightly from lack of use and you feel yourself heat from embarrassment, but your posture relaxes only slightly when you see that it’s Zayne walking through the door with a plastic bag in one hand and his work bag in the other.

“Have any of our students come in yet?” He asks as a greeting, and you shake your head while ignoring how your heart annoyingly speeds up when you hear him say “our.”

“I’ve gotten through about half of the reflections, I’ll be continuing with them so I can try to finish before the end of the night.” Zayne slightly grimaces when you say that, and you watch with a quirk in your brow as he pulls a chair so that it’s next to yours behind the desk.

“Come eat first.” His voice is soft as he pulls the plastic bag container towards him, untying the knot before pulling a takeout container and utensils from the bag. With his free hand he lightly sweeps the papers from the desk, ensuring that the space is clear before he sets the container in front of you.

You regard him curiously as you pry open the container, and you feel yourself soften when you see the thick soy garlic noodles with a side of broccoli and orange chicken. It’s been your go-to order for ages now, and your stomach grumbles happily as you turn to look at him.

Zayne’s settling into his chair with his own container, eyeing his classic platter of fried rice and char siu pork with an evident hunger. You pick up your platter and begin to pick up food with your utensil, laughing softly to yourself when you see that he’s even asked for extra garlic with the broccoli - just the way you like it.

“What is it?” He asks, but deflect by shaking your head as you place a piece of chicken in your mouth so that you can ignore how your stomach clenches in an odd way.

“I forgot how good this takeout is,” you reply. His eyes scan your face but you pretend that nothing’s brewing in your mind as you continue to eat through your food.

“It is, isn’t it.” His voice tapers out, and he settles for eating beside you. With the soft music in the background and the academic atmosphere, it almost feels like you’re back in grad school with him - taking a break in between the chaos of your schedules and finding solace in his presence. You swallow thickly around some noodles at the thought, fighting the breath that threatens to leave you by grabbing your water bottle and taking a deep swig.

“Remember when we were presenting the first drafts of our research projects to the academic board?” Zayne’s surprisingly the one to break the silence, and you tilt your head to look at him curiously as he places his now empty container back on your desk.

“And Carter was violently hungover but still tried to pass that presentation off as his work?” You scoff, placing your own container onto the desk. Zayne chuckles at your annoyance - you never liked Carter, and you’re thankful Zayne was able to switch his research project before the studies got too serious.

“Nice to know he still gets on your nerves.” There’s a teasing edge to his voice but you simply roll your eyes as you lift your arms up above your head so you can stretch out your back.

“He ruined your first semesters of grad school, of course I still hate his guts,” you reply, letting a soft moan slip through your lips unknowingly when you feel a crack along your spine. You feel yourself flush a little at the unwarranted sound, and you look over to Zayne to see if he caught it.

Judging by the slight tick of his jaw, he did.

You stand up too quickly, clearing your throat and beginning to reach your hands out so that you can clear your desk, but a hand on the small of your back stops you dead in your tracks.

“Zayne, wha-” you begin, but Zayne’s quick to settle you back into the plush cushion, turning you around in your office chair so that you’re facing the wall. You scowl petulantly, but his hand on the head of your office chair restricts your movement.

“Stay there,” he says, and though he tries to sound nonchalant you can hear a strained undertone that has your heart racing.

“I can clean my own desk,” you try to argue, but your mouth falls shut when you feel a whisper of ice forming on the back of your chair due to his fingers digging into the leather a little too tightly.

“I brought the food, I will clean up.”

You cross your arms, trying to remove the cross crease of your brow as you hear him place the containers into the plastic bag. Your toe taps against the floor as he ties the bag shut, sighing to himself deeply before letting go of your chair and allowing you to spin back around to face the desk.

You both fight to ignore each other’s glances, Zayne throwing the trash away in the garbage can outside of your office while you drink water to keep yourself alert and clear-minded. By the time he walks back into your office you’ve both composed yourselves and you’re reaching out to grab the next stack of reflections to be graded. You expect him to pick up his bag and leave, but to your surprise he’s settling back down in his seat and pushing his sweater sleeves up.

“Are you going to go home?” He asks as he unbuttons the top of the shirt underneath his sweater, and you shake your head in response while putting everything you can in ignoring the appearance of his arms.

“I want to finish these reflections.” You tap your pen against the opening page, eyes widening when you see whose paper you’re about to grade. “Lisa Zhao, huh…”

“What about her?” Zayne’s rolling his chair closer to your’s, hovering his head above your shoulder just enough so that he can also read her proposal.

“It’s nothing, really. She was just muttering something about romance and her friends were laughing at her.” You fight to focus your attention on the words printed on the paper, but Zayne’s presence has your head spinning in a way you can’t decide if you like or not.

“Odd,” he replies. You turn to look at him head on, but your heart stutters painfully at the sight that greets you.

His eyes are slightly unfocused behind his thin rimmed glasses, hair pushed up just enough where you can see the concentrated crease of his brow. Against your better judgement your eyes drift lower to his chest, and you gasp softly when you see his bare neck and a little bit of his chest because of the way he’s leaning beside you.

“-!” A soft noise escapes your lips when his nose slightly brushes against your’s, and you push your chair away from him so that you can try and catch your breath. There’s a sudden shift in the air and you need to gather your wits and tell him to leave because if you don’t you might do something you might regret like pull him in for…you don’t know but you don’t want to find out.

“Are you all right, ____?” There’s genuine concern in his voice, you know, but you suddenly feel so angry at him.

“What game are you playing?” You push yourself out of your chair, trying to fight the way your vision swims from the sudden movement as you glare at the way he stands from his chair.

“What do you mean?” He asks, although you can tell by the carefully neutral tone of his voice that he knows - of course he does, when he knows every little thing about you.

“The food,” you begin, lifting a finger for each reason you can come up with. “The soft touches on my back and across my knuckles, taking care of me after the first set of observations, coffee in the morning the way we like…Zayne, what’s happening?”

Your voice breaks off at the last word, and you reach up to rub at your face to quell the frustrated tears that begin to pool in the corners of your eyes.

You’ve admitted it to Yvonne and to a tiny part of yourself: you’re scared. Scared of how easy it is to fall back into this routine, at how you and Zayne are too quick to bury your past and return to almost-normal with a frightening comfort that has you believing you’re still his.

And therein lies the issue: you’re absolutely not Zayne Li’s and it’s going to ruin you and the feelings that have just blossomed tenfold since you first re-met him in Dr. Chung’s office.

“I…I want to take care of you.”

It’s a quiet confession that has your heart racing. You bury your face in your hands even tighter, but a gentle sweep of his thumb across your knuckles has you loosening your grip. When he sees that you won’t peek up to look at him, he sighs and taps his thumb against your knuckle once.

“The lines between us are blurred right now, and that’s my fault.” He admits. You lift your head up slightly, and he exhales in relief when your hands begin to lower. His own hands are there to replace them, and your fingers wrap around his wrists as he gently massages your cheeks with his thumbs.

“All I know is that when I saw your name on the potential list of candidates to co-teach, I wanted it to be you immediately.” He taps your cheek, and your eyes slowly drift shut at his comforting contact. “I knew things couldn’t go back to the way they were immediately but…but I know I want to try.”

“Everything has been so hot and cold with you.” Your voice has dropped to a whisper, and against your own wishes you feel a tear slide down your cheek. “I don’t know what to believe or expect. Will I get cold, avoidant Dr. Li? Or will I get Zayne?”

The room stills as he absorbs your words, music long done from how long it’s been. Even though you know it’s way past your office hours, you know that anyone could walk by and see this compromising position. That alone is enough to begin to untangle yourself from his embrace, but his hold on your face tightens just slightly enough for you to stop.

“I haven’t been the clearest with you, but I want you to know that I want to make amends with you.” His forehead comes to rest against yours, making your grip on his wrists tighten at the contact.

The two of you stand like that for just a moment, and you feel something in your chest ignite when his pointer finger taps your nose gently. You pull away to look at his flushed cheeks and slightly parted lips - a look you know is mirrored on your own face.

“Can we even get to that point?” Your voice bares all of your fears and emotions to him, and you can see the exact moment Zayne’s heart cracks slightly in his chest.

“I’ll spend the rest of this semester and whatever time you allow trying and making it up to you if you’ll let me,” he murmurs in response.

You look up at him, noting the sincerity in his face and the myriad of emotions that lie beneath the surface. They reflect and resonate with you because they’re exactly the ones you feel in your own body.

It feels a little different now, though. You feel a little bit lighter and ready to try.

And by the way Zayne’s face breaks out into a breathtaking smile when you nod in his grasp, you know he feels the same way, too.

As it turns out, his trying includes inviting you to a karaoke party with the rest of the cardiac unit.

“Don’t worry,” Yvonne reassures you as she helps you put on your favorite necklace. “Zayne made sure to not include Michael tonight! It's just the cardiac ward’s available doctors, nurses, and you.”

“You’re making that sound like it’s a bad thing,” you reply teasingly, and Yvonne laughs as she slides on her heels.

“It’s definitely not, especially when you look this hot!”

A burst of confidence makes itself known in your chest, a smile spreading across your face as you look at the floor length mirror by your bedroom door. Your navy blue dress is appropriate enough to wear to a work function but the low back and silky fabric makes you feel bold, even with the white cardigan you end up pulling on.

Yvonne pouts as you button the top closed, shaking out her loose hair and messing with her bangs so they look tastefully messy. “C’mon, ____! Let Dr. Zayne see his beautiful lady, take the cardigan off!”

“It’s cold!” You laugh in response. You wiggle your eyebrows teasingly and she groans because she knows what you’re about to say. “You’re all covered up though, no Greyson?”

Yvonne’s face flushes a light pink, and you can’t help but laugh at the way she scans her white off-the-shoulder long sleeved top and black flowy pants. “Do you think he’ll like it?”

“So he is coming.” Yvonne groans at your giggles, shaking her head and making her way to the front door of your apartment with an alarming quickness.

“We have a cab to catch, ____!” You follow after her, laughing all the way down the elevator ride and on your way to the karaoke bar.

The good mood continues when you enter the building, arms linked with Yvonne as you scan the rooms the cardiac ward rented out. Soon enough, you find a screen that says Akso Hospital’s Ward with the Most Heart, and your heart flutters as you enter the room because you know Zayne named it after your lame joke.

You say hi to the nurses and doctors that approach you and Yvonne, giving hugs and accepting compliments for your outfits. You put your cardigan and purse next to Yvonne’s on the designated table before being whisked away to the bar in the corner of the room, away from the karaoke screens and crowd of cardiac surgeons belting a ballad with increasing passion.

Yvonne waves the bartender over, ordering two cocktails while you surreptitiously scan the room for a certain raven-haired head of cardiology. Zayne was never one to spend too much time at work events, even if he’s the one helping plan and pay for said events. If you remember correctly, you and him would show up for an hour at most before doing…other activities.

Your skin heats very briefly, and Yvonne eyes you curiously as she hands you a pink cocktail. “What is it, ____?”

“Just remembering something,” you murmur before lifting the glass up to your lips. You wince at the slight alcoholic sting but you find it’s much easier to drink, making you look at Yvonne suspiciously as she rapidly downs her own drink.

“The tab’s on the hospital,” she answers as a reply to your curious stare, holding her hand up again for another drink. You shake your head and laugh, placing your mostly full glass on the counter before waving the bartender over to you as she pouts.

“Can we get two glasses of white?” You ask, and before Yvonne can protest you shake your head. “The goal is to feel good, not get fucked up. Your cocktails will fuck us up.”

“Okay, okay, ____,” she sighs, and you hand her a glass of white wine before making her promise she’ll go easy on herself.

You hear cheers and greetings on the microphone, and you turn around to see Zayne and Greyson entering the room. Your breath catches in your throat when you see Zayne - eyes wandering down his frame before you even realize what you’re doing. Your fingers tighten ever so slightly on the stem of your wine glass when you see the neat lines of his tan slacks and the way the embroidered birds on his sweater ripple across his chest when he turns his body to scan the room. 

His eyes catch yours and you’re rendered breathless as you scan his face. There’s a hint of weariness behind his thin rimmed glasses, hair slightly more mussed than how he usually has it done. But his eyes flash with something dangerous before his lips tilt up ever so slightly, making you squeak as you turn back to the bar.

“What is it?” Yvonne’s eyes widen as you down your wine in one gulp before reaching for the cocktail you had left untouched. She yelps as you try to down it too, but you’re only able to get a little sip before she successfully pries the glass from your palm.

“I need more if I’m going to make it out-” you say hastily, raising your hand but Yvonne stops you and orders two waters.

“Okay, so we’re going to drink water and gather ourselves because we should not be letting men dictate our feelings,” she declares steadily, and you sigh heavily before begrudgingly drinking the cold water. The coolness of the liquid clears your head, although it doesn’t stop the soft buzz that’s still coursing through your veins as you finish the glass. You and Yvonne place the empty glasses on the bar, eyeing the mounting energy in front of the karaoke screens as everyone jumps up and down to a classic party song.

“I think it’s a mistake for me to be here!” By now you’re having to shout for her to understand you through the din, and she shakes her head empathetically as she grabs your hand and begins to drag you to the floor.

“No it isn’t, ____!” She begins to dance, spinning in a circle and making you laugh as you begin to sway your body back and forth to the beat as well. “You’ve worked hard with observations and teaching, it’s time for you to relax!”

You’re quick to let loose, letting yourself open up a little and dance with Yvonne and the other nurses of the cardiac ward to a fun pop song. You go for a little spin during the height of the song, the girls cheering you on as your skirt billows slightly around your ankles and making you feel really, really good.

The dancing continues and you move from crowd to crowd, smiling and dancing with your coworkers. You lose Yvonne in the crowd but you don’t mind it, finding your way to the edge of the crowd and dancing with the first group you had been with. Soon enough, the next karaoke singer chooses a slower song - the crowd groaning but still finding partners to dance with. You take it as a chance to move back to the bar so that you can take a break and try to find your best friend. There’s a wide smile on your face as you order a glass of water, gulping it down greedily before placing it back on the counter and leaning against the solid wood.

“Having fun?”

You tilt your head to the side to find Zayne standing next to you with his elbows propped on the bar behind him, his sleeves pushed up past his forearms and hair even more mussed than when you first saw him. There’s a softness on his face as he regards you, and you feel your knees go slightly weak when you see him scanning your figure with a slow, calculated sweep of his eyes.

“Yes.” You don’t mean for it to sound so breathless, but you find yourself growing bolder when his jaw tightens ever so slightly. You gather your courage and slide yourself closer to him, your fingers reaching up to push his hair back from his face. His hand twitches on the bar, fingers tightening on the wood as the tips of your nails softly graze his forehead before you smile and pull your hand back to copy his stance. “Are you?”

“Somewhat,” he sighs, and you fight your shiver as he moves himself closer so that he can tilt his head towards you. The rational part of your brain is telling you that it’s just so that you can hear him better, but the majority of your brain is melting - especially when he lays his arm flat across the bar so you’re half in his embrace.

“Oh?” You fight to keep your breathing even as you tilt your head up to regard him. “I saw that you and Greyson came in late. Is everything all right in the cardiac ward?”

Zayne’s eyes light up at your words, and you watch with a soft feeling in your heart as he begins to speak once more. “We found a donor so we were organizing who would be doing the surgery and whatnot. It took longer than expected, I thought I wouldn’t be able to make it.”

“I’m glad you’re here now,” you reply. You playfully bump his shoulder, your smile widening when you see the corners of his lips tilt up. “Now you get to relax!”

“It’s hard for me to relax.” His head dips down lower so his lips are right by your ear, and you feel yourself shiver at the way his mouth barely brushes your skin. Eyes threatening to slip shut, you reach up and wrap your fingers around his bicep - earning yourself a low groan and another thrilling sensation racing up your spine.

“And why’s that?” You’re tilting your body so that you can place your palms on his shoulders, smoothing the barely creased fabric so that you can put some semblance of normalcy at this clear flirting going on between the two of you. Zayne gets the hint though, and with a bemused smile forming on his lips he places his hands on your waist to pull you closer.

“Too loud.” His right hand picks up your own absentmindedly, and he begins swaying you around in a circle. Your feet follow along without a second thought as you stare up at him - in tune with him from the times he led impromptu dances during late nights in the kitchen while you two were still together. There’s a pang in your chest when you come to that realization, but it’s quickly soothed away with a gentle squeeze on your waist that has you melting even closer to him.

“It certainly is,” you hum back as you allow him to give you a little spin. The skirt of your dress whooshes around your ankles and you giggle softly when he directs your spin back into his safe embrace. His hands are quick to settle on your hips, long fingertips brushing against the warm skin of your spine and making you gasp softly as he regards you with a sudden heat in his stare.

“There’s another reason why I can’t relax,” he confesses softly. His fingers trace up to the middle of your back, tapping three times slowly as he pulls you closer. The swaying slowly stops until it’s the two of you just…staring at each other, noses brushing and eyes unblinking as one of his hands reaches up to cup your face.

“What’s that?” It’s a breathless, rhetorical question that you both know the answer to. It’s a question that has equal parts desire and anxiety pooling in your stomach at how he may respond, your heart beating so loudly you wonder if he can hear it above the din of his coworkers singing horribly on the mic.

“A beautiful vision before me.” It has you gasping as his nose slides against yours, lips barely brushing. “She’s dressed in navy blue silk and she’s made it hard for me to think rationally since I saw her name on a list of potential candidates to teach with.”

“Zayne-” you begin to whisper, but his lips are quick to bend down and press against yours. Your eyes immediately flutter shut at the contact, arms tightening around his neck as you pull him closer to you. His hands are no better - pulling you as close as you can get as he angles your head up to deepen your kiss. His tongue darts out to swipe against your bottom lip and you whimper against his mouth, allowing for him to bite against your lip softly.

Your head spins as he slowly comes to a stop, pulling away ever so slightly. Your eyes open lazily, and you find that he has a hazy look in his own eyes, scanning up and down your face in a way that has you smiling up at him.

“Hi,” you begin softly. Your fingers trace soft circles at the base of his skull as you tilt your head up at him so you can watch his expression carefully. “How are you?”

It’s like his body temperature goes down in a millisecond, eyes widening rapidly as he all but pushes himself away from you. You watch as he runs his fingers through his hair, hands shaking and gaze avoidant as he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and clears his throat.

“That was a mistake.”

Your heart cracks.

It’s like you’re watching in the third person, powerless to stop what’s about to happen to you. Your hands itch to reach out to grab him by the shoulders, shake him, hold him close, something, anything - but you do nothing and watch as he takes one step back.

And then another, before he’s turning on his heel.

He barely spares you a glance as he briskly strides out of the room, taking the warmth from your body until you’re shivering by yourself, cold to your hollow core.

You don’t know how long you stand there, lips tingling and heart shattering in your chest as your hands flex by your side, trying to process it all. Being kissed by the man you’re in love with and then being brushed away without another explanation…what’s happening? Did you do something wrong?

You barely register Yvonne pulling on your wrist, guiding you out of the room before stuffing the two of you into a cab. Your head spins and yet you feel nothing at all, staring straight ahead blankly because if you open your feelings to her you’ll fall apart and you don’t know if you’ll be able to repair yourself.

You’re back in your apartment with Yvonne sitting you on your sofa when the first tear falls. No sounds escape your mouth but it’s enough for Yvonne to panic, placing the glass of water she filled for you on the table as she hastily sits in front of you to cups your face and brushes your hair back from your temples with her fingers.

“Are you okay, ____?”

That one sentence is enough.

You begin to sob, collapsing into her arms as your cries shake your entire body. She’s silent except for the occasional soothing sound, rubbing her hands against your back as she attempts to help you weather the storm of pain that’s thundering through your chest.

You know there’s no making it out of this one, though.

Not when the hands you crave are the same ones that took your heart and crushed it in between his skilled fists.

You assign your work through an online medium the following week.

Dr. Chung had been confused when you asked for a week to yourself, but he had been quick to put two and two together when he entered the room with a stack of material and you all but ran out of the office.

There had been an email a couple of hours later with a simple message: Talk to him, Dr. ____. Please.

You left it open on your desktop, simply electing to stare out of the windows at the beginnings of sunset.

Was it really a mistake? You don’t think so. You wanted- want him with every fiber of your being, so much that it feels like he’s robbed you of the air you so desperately crave when he walked away last Friday.

Yvonne had been furious once she found out the full story, seething and yelling on your behalf while you sat eerily still on your couch. She had prepared meals for you, sometimes even feeding you spoonfuls when she returned to find your food barely touched. You could sense a shift halfway through the week where she wasn’t as angry, though - more reflective and quiet.

“What is it?” You asked when you find her staring off in the sunset.

“Nothing, ____,” she murmured back, squeezing your hand reassuringly.

You find yourself reflecting back on that change and why Yvonne is suddenly too quiet. Is there something she doesn’t know?

Against your will you find yourself thinking back on that kiss. For a split second it felt like everything was going right - on the path of reconciliation and maybe even love. Just for a singular moment everything felt perfect, like your world was spinning properly and the crack in your chest felt whole.

But now? Now you even feel more broken.

It’s the last day of your leave and you’re desperately trying to pick yourself up. Despite being off from both work and teaching at Linkon you barely got any sleep, staring up at your ceiling at night because being asleep meant dreaming about the man who both haunts and comforts you.

You’re sorting through the last of your graded papers before putting them into a manila folder and packing them in your bag, rubbing your eyes as you do so. You’re trying as hard as you can to focus on your objectives at hand but you find your eyes wandering to your phone and reaching out to grab it. You scowl when you realize what you’re doing, shaking your head and returning to packing your work bags.

There’s a knock on your front door and you walk towards it without another thought, peeking your head out so that you can let Yvonne into your apartment. You freeze, however, when you see a bouquet of lavenders.

Your eyes wander up, and you feel them widening when you see his tired eyes and serious face, though it softens considerably when he sees your face from by the door.

“Can I come in?” Zayne asks quietly.

You let him in without another word, turning and settling your body onto a barstool by the kitchen. You will yourself to take deep, steady breaths as he places the lavenders on the counter and props himself directly across from you, focusing your vision on the tip of his chin so that you don’t completely crumble under his steady gaze.

“How are you?”

Your laugh is humorless at the question, fingers tapping on the counter as you spill the truth from your lips. “Shit.”

There’s a shallow intake of breath from him, but you don’t allow him to speak as you continue on with your thoughts.

“It’s hard feeling okay when you reconcile with your ex-fiancé over the course of a few months, learning how to live and breathe and work with someone who’s somehow still your everything.” Your vision wavers but you swallow your tears, finally pushing yourself up from the counter and walking around. “It felt like things were finally going right when you said you wanted things to work.”

Your eyes finally look up at him and you feel yourself rendered speechless when you see the expression on his face. He looks every bit vulnerable and hollow as you feel in your chest, eyes shining and lips pressed in a thin line.

And you don’t know why, but you feel hot rage consume your body at the sight. How dare he look broken when he’s the one shattering you.

“But then you kissed me and it was the best kiss of my life.” Your voice rises as you step closer to him, poking your finger at his chest as your anger begins to affect your reasoning. “You kissed me like you meant it and everything felt like it was back in place for a split second until you pushed yourself away and said it was a fucking mistake.”

“____-” he tries to begin, but your voice rises to a yell as you finally let everything spill from out of you and into the air, even if it means permanently ruining whatever foundation the two of you still had.

“You said we would try. You said you would make it up to me.” You can’t quite stop your tears now, but your voice is still steady even if your hands shake. “Do you not mean it?”

“I do.”

There’s a brokenness in Zayne’s voice as he reaches out to cup your face, and against your better judgement you press your palms against his. He tilts your face up to look at him and you’re rendered breathless from the vulnerability on his face - open for you to see his deepest feelings.

“It was a mistake because we were only just starting again,” he says, voice thick with pain and unshed tears. “That kiss was something I’ve dreamed about since you left all those years ago - something I’ve craved to do when I’m alone with you. But I know that it’s not right to kiss you - and it’s not fair to kiss you for my own greed.”

Your breath stutters in your throat, chest aching as you absorb his words. Taking your silence as permission, he continues. “I’ve hurt you far too many times and I…I don’t deserve you at all.” His breath is shallow, washing over your face as he leans his forehead against yours. His finger taps your cheek three times in quick succession, a featherlight touch that makes you think you conjured it up. “Please, ____…let me make it up to you. Let me earn your forgiveness.”

You freeze.

You want nothing more to make things right, to patch things over and go back to the way things were. But can you ever truly go back to how things were? With how much has been said and what’s been done in between your bodies, laying at your feet?

Can you even forgive yourself if he shatters the remaining parts of you? Fix what’s been broken for the third time if it happens again?

There’s no way that this is going to end well for the both of you, so you resign yourself to the sad ending that’s been written out for the both of you long ago. The fire of your anger is gone, replaced with your salty tears as you look into his eyes and say, “I’m still in love with you, Zayne.”

His breath hitches.

You step away, keeping eye contact as you curl your hands into fists to keep yourself steady. “I’m still in love with you, but I don’t think you realize the gravity of how much I do. I love you enough to come back to Linkon and teach, even if I was apprehensive at first. I love you to try and fill the gaps you left. I love you enough to try again over and over again, even if it costs me every single time.”

You shake your head, a sob escaping your chest as you hold your hand up so that he can’t step any closer to you.

“I love you enough to know that I’ll shatter myself over again, but I can’t keep breaking.” Your voice shakes as you register him moving to stand in front of you. Your breath hiccups when you see him slowly sink to his knees, wrapping his hands around your thighs while tilting his head up so he catches your eyes.

“Forgive me, ____,” he all but begs, and you’re transported back to that first time he broke your heart. To when he knelt and groveled for forgiveness, only for you to push your diamond ring into his hands and run out of your shared apartment.

There isn’t a ring now, but there’s still the desperation on his face and tears streaming down your cheeks as you reach out and place your hand on his cheek delicately. He pushes his face into your hand, breathing deeply and kissing your palm as if it’ll help - but you know it’s far too late.

You’re not going to let your heart break for a third time.

“Please leave.”

Your hands emit a soft glow, allowing for Zayne’s emotions to calm down enough for him to understand your words. His eyes widen as he registers the soothing emotion wash over his body, gaze flickering as you continue to soothe his emotions - a sort of parting gift.

A way to soothe him in the way you’ll never be able to be comforted.

He’s on his feet to pull your hands away but you take it as an opportunity to push him out of the door, him going with no resistance due to the shock of you using your Evol on him. You’re barely able to open the door and unceremoniously push him out before you collapse against the door, trying to stop your relentless flow of tears.

You cry for what feels like hours, mourning the loss of the person you love with your entire being. You try to tell yourself that it’s for the best - you can’t keep letting yourself get hurt, he can’t keep apologizing and trying to make it up to you.

But when you sink into sleep that night, you can only see gold flecked emerald and warm hands brushing your tears away, tapping three times before leaving you empty.

You feel like you’ve lived lifetimes ever since that night.

You had sent a curt email to him with Dr. Chung CC’ed, dividing the last of your classes and finals schedule evenly so that you wouldn’t have to cross paths with him again. Your students had been confused, but your steady voice and sharp gaze had put a stop to all prying.

You had effectively closed yourself off, simply going through the motions and giving non-committal hums whenever Yvonne asked a question or if you were with a group of friends. You spent most of your time on your desktop, rifling through open positions in Chansia City and refining your resume.

You don’t think you can stand to live here, not when your heart still aches for him. You need to just get out and force yourself to move on, even if it means moving oceans away.

You’re almost there, you tell yourself. You’re sitting in the pediatric ward’s offices, grading some final papers and eyeing your pager warily. You had come in early even though you were technically scheduled for the night shift, but you had shooed away the attending doctor scheduled for the morning and have since been using the empty hours to grade papers and try to distract yourself from the aching in your chest.

Your pager beeps the same time one of your charge nurses bursts through the door, breathless and shaky. You eye the code, feeling a sense of tired calm wash over you at the CODE BLUE flashing on the screen.

“Evol-related car accident,” your nurse gasps, and you’re up out of your seat and walking briskly towards the scrub down room before she even finishes giving the summary.

You enter the surgery with a clear understanding: your patient (female, age 6) has a punctured organ due to being in a car accident caused by a Wanderer attack. Her mother is currently in surgery as well, but her wounds are more severe. Nevertheless, you put all of your focus on your patient as you begin the operation.

The hours pass, your charge nurse noting the time as you extract shrapnel and tie sutures as gently as you can. Your fatigue begins to eat at your concentration, hands shaking as you call for a different pair of scissors but you force it down, honing your laser sharp focus so that you can save this little girl's life.

After twelve hours of work you tie the last stitch, making sure that it’s clean before nodding to the assisting surgeon. He nods at you once more before beginning the removal procedure, instructing the other nurses and anesthesiologist in the room on how to transport the patient to the ICU. All the while you bow to them in thanks, mustering a small yet genuine smile as you express your thanks for their help.

Your scrub down is slow and methodical, taking your time to clean yourself off so that you can look half-decent when you report the results to what family may be waiting in the waiting room. You briefly think of your patient’s mother - is she okay? Did she make it through? You desperately hope so. Losses are never easy to digest and share, so you hope with every bit of your being that she made it out okay, too.

You’re in the waiting room before you can even register you’re there, your tired mind guiding your body on autopilot. You clear your voice before announcing, “Is the family of Lilian Hsu here?”

Immediately, a harried looking man jumps to his feet and rushes to stand in front of you. His eyes are bloodshot as he reaches out to grip one of your hands in between his own shaking one’s, and you allow him to grip at you as he looks at you with primal eyes.

“Is Lili alive? Is my little girl okay?” Mr. Hsu blurts out, frame shaking as he stares at you with all the hope in the world. You nod slightly and his face crumples, tears beginning to race tracks down his cheeks as he begins to sob.

“There were some complications with the Evol-laden shrapnel so we had to make sure her body’s chemistry wasn’t too affected.” His breath hitches but you’re quick to placate him with a soft squeeze on his hand. “Her vitals are stable and nothing seems wrong so we were able to wrap up with no other complications. She’s in the Children’s ICU right now.”

“Oh, thank gods,” he breathes, squeezing your hands once more. “Thank you, Dr. ____, you saved my little girl’s life-”

“Is the family of Amy Hsu here?”

The voice is more somber, and you turn to see Greyson with a tired look on his face. He nods at you in greeting, but you feel something in you sink when you see the grim line of his mouth and the way his eyes shine with unshed tears.

Oh no.

Mr. Hsu senses it too, and his face crumples as he realizes what happened.

“I’m sorry,” Greyson says softly.

That’s all it takes. Mr. Hsu collapses onto the floor, hysterical sobs beginning to wrack his body as he processes the news that was just given to him. The earth-shattering news that his wife is gone but his daughter’s alive…

You bite your lip, tears welling in your own eyes - from sheer exhaustion or empathy for him, you don’t know. Your head spins and you know that you could easily just leave, find an empty hospital room, and go to sleep. It would be so easy to walk away for anyone else, so why can’t you?

Empathy and compassion. Service for others before yourself.

The Hippocratic Oath reverberates through your brain, and before you’re even processing your actions you’re kneeling in front of Mr. Hsu and wrapping him in your arms. Using the last bits of energy you can muster, you begin soothing him while wrapping him in your Evol.

“I’m sorry,” you susurrate quietly, hands stroking up and down his back. He clings onto you and sobs into your neck, and you fight the tears in your eyes and the fuzziness of your vision as you continue to target his energy - soothing the pain and bringing forth a semblance of peace for his turbulent mind. “I’m so, so sorry.”

The hallway is silent, charge nurses and patients watching with equal parts curiosity and horror as your hands begin to emit a stronger glow. You push down the feelings of regret and sadness that spiral in you as a result of expelling the man’s own sadness, although you can tell by the way your hands shake and your breath leaves in exhausted puffs that you might exert yourself past the point of no return.

In the back of your mind you hear frantic steps behind you, and you register an ice cold voice injected with…something, you’re not quite sure. “Stop her, now.”

“Dr. Li, once she starts she can’t stop.” Greyson’s voice is timid and tinged with concern, but you thank him in your brain - he knows better than to deter you from doing your job. “If she does, you know it risks permanently affecting the receiver’s emotions.”

“I don’t care-” the voice above you wavers in and out as you fight to maintain your concentration. You briefly note how the man’s breathing evens out and his sobs subsiding, though you notice your breath is leaving you in unsteady puffs as tears course down your cheeks.

Keep going, keep going. Even through the pain of it all. Endure.

“She’ll risk bleeding her own energy dry and it will affect her psyche permanently and I can’t live with having her go through that-”

The argument above you rages on, but you soldier on. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Your voice leaves in gasps as you continue to give your all. The man slumps onto your shoulder, his breath steady as he dozes off but you continue to inject your Evol onto him so that you can spare him of the pain of a splintering, broken heart. It’s the worst feeling in the world, one you don’t want anyone to live with because you’re living with one right now.

Spare the hurt. Take everyone’s pain and keep it to yourself. Rid the world of its sadness and strife, even if it means you’ll suffer for an eternity.

You barely register the man being lifted off of you through the heaving, shuddering sobs that shake your entire body. With nothing else to support your weight you fall to the floor, curling into a ball and digging your nails into your palms as you scream from the sheer anguish coursing through your veins.

“Everybody move out of my way!”

It’s agonizing, the hollow feeling in your chest spreading through your entire body and the tiny voice in your brain telling you that you’ll never amount to more, be able to do more - that no one will ever be able to help you with what plagues you. Your breathing stutters and your head spins as your vision fades in and out, and you thank the universe that it's finally sparing you of the pain of your broken heart and the knowledge that you'll never get to fully repair yourself - and that you’ve pushed away the one person you want.

No, need. You had the best thing in the palm of your hands, but you pushed him away - thinking it was for the best. He slipped in between your fingers and you’ll forever live with that regret. You vow to run again, if your energy isn’t forever ruined. Spare you and him of the pain that somehow always emerges when the two of you are together.

You find comfort in that fact. Your vision begins to darken and your eyes slowly shut.

Finally, some rest.

Your ears ring and you’re about to slip into the abyss-

-but ice wraps around your hands, pulling you through a pine forest and into the warmth of a hearth with jasmine flowers in a vase.

“-hear me?” A familiar voice swims above you, and against your better judgement you fight your impending black out. “-breath out your mouth, my love.”

The tone is gentle, full of an emotion that you’ve craved during many of your sleepless nights. You begin to follow the voice’s commands, taking an unsteady and short breath in through your nose and out through your mouth.

“-my chest, ____. The rhythm will help-”

Right. You put everything you can into the rhythm of the hearth’s beat, allowing for the steady presence to guide you back to your senses. The ringing of your ears slowly subsides, although exhaustion settles deeply into your bones as your breath hiccups.

“You’re doing well, ____. Keep breathing, my love.” The feeling of hands rubbing up and down your back has you melting against a solid chest, and you feel deft fingers pull at the clip on top of your head. Your hair falls down and the fingers rub against the back of your skull, making your eyes slowly flutter shut at the soothing contact.

“Zayne…” It leaves you in a breathless gasp, and you half curse your stupidity in your exhausted brain because how do you even know it’s him? But you’re placated with a finger tapping three times against your nose, a sure-fire sign that it’s him.

“Are you with me, ____?” His voice is soft, although it’s colored with something heavy. Still, he rubs his thumbs against your temples as he ponders something. “Can you tell me the major chambers of the heart in clockwise order?”

It’s an easy question, yes, but you know it’s his way of checking if you’re back with him. You scramble through your tired mind, trying to piece the answer together and you finally whisper: “Left atrium, left ventricle, right ventricle, right atrium. Aorta on top.”

“Good.” There’s a tired undertone in his voice that has you leaning against his chest, fingers blindly gripping at his scrubs. All of a sudden, you’re being lifted into the air, and you gasp and wrap your fingers tighter against his coat as you fight the fatigue that addles your brain.

“-in my office,” Zayne begins, and you register that you’re going in and out of consciousness. You continue to fight your brain so that you can listen in, but the strong scent of pine and jasmine coupled with the steady rhythm of his heart engulfs your senses and you feel yourself begin to shut down. “-not disturb, I’ll be the one to make sure Dr. ____ is okay. No pagers, no questions-”

You don’t register anything else, the steady steps carrying you to an unknown location lulling you into a trance-like state. Maybe he’ll dump you on a hospital room bed and leave you there.

“No I won’t.” Zayne’s voice is severe, and you feel hot embarrassment in the fact that you’re mindlessly babbling out your thoughts. “You’re staying with me, ____.”

You don’t say anything else, simply curling up against his chest and holding onto his shirt tightly. His grip on your remains steadfast, and he continues to walk until he comes to a stop. You vaguely hear the beeping of a keycard paired with his foot kicking something, and before you know it you’re in a pleasantly cool room.

You feel yourself being gently laid down on a plush sofa and you sigh as you sink against the soft pillows. You feel him begin to untangle himself from you, but you grip onto his shirt as a feeble whimper escapes your lips.

“Stay.”

It’s a helpless plea, a hopeless request, and your one greatest desire in this entire world. You want Zayne to stay with you, in this moment and for the rest of your lives. You don’t know if this will be fleeting or forever, but you’ll take the fleeting touch if it means you can have it in your brain forever.

The moment feels like a lifetime, but not even a minute later Zayne slides onto the couch with you. He arranges himself so that he’s laying on his back and you’re wrapped in his arms on top of him - the both of your favorite cuddling positions, one that has tears welling in your eyes once again.

One of his hands reaches up to massage the back of your head and you sigh against his neck, your fingers gently stroking the skin of his jaw. His chest rumbles in response to your contact and you nuzzle yourself further into his neck, breathing in the scent that’s brought you back from over the edge time and time again.

Your eyes begin to drift shut when his chest moves up, a soft humming in his chest as he whispers something. You strain your ears and you hear it: “I don’t deserve you, ____.”

“Mmm?” you mumble sleepily.

“I don’t deserve you,” Zayne says again. His fingers never stop in your hair and on your back, but you feel something new. A wetness on your forehead, sliding down to meet the previous tear tracks that still lay on your cheeks.

“Zayne?”

“I’m sorry, ____.” A shuddering gasp lifts your body, and your arms tighten around his neck as he tries to swallow his tears so he can hear you clearly. “I don’t deserve you, but I will make it up to you forever if you’ll let me. Please let me.”

“What if we aren't meant to be?”

It’s a soft whisper, but your fears are laid bare for the both of you to analyze. You want so desperately to make this work, but you don’t know if it’s meant to be after what’s happened.

His arms squeeze you tighter, his voice thick with tears yet steady with conviction. “We are, ____. I will work and beg and apologize and kneel at your feet until you forgive me and we build something new. We don’t have to force it - we'll go at your own pace and I will follow until you’re ready because you’re the most important thing in my life.”

His words sink into your skull, and for the first time you find tranquility instead of turbulence. Your lips brush against his pulsepoint once again before you whisper the single word that dictates your future with him:

“Okay.”

You barely feel his breath of relief and the tender kiss he brushes against your forehead as a peace that you haven’t felt in a while envelopes your bones. You snuggle further into his chest and allow yourself to finally succumb to sleep - lulled into a kind part of your brain by Zayne’s fingers in your hair.

Before you finally surrender, though, you hear it:

“You will always be my heart, my love. I hope I can earn yours again.”

It’s finals week, and your body feels lighter than it’s felt in a while.

There’s a soft smile ever-present on your lips, and it’s something that’s aided your students somewhat. When faced with a gentle smile, they relax and do better on their tests.

You tell yourself it’s to make them feel at ease, but you know it’s for another reason entirely.

Zayne’s back in your life, finding ways to show his fondness and apologies in your everyday life. It’s subtle but for you it makes a world of difference - texts asking about your day, your favorite food delivered at your apartment and the pediatric office, and flowers addressed to you and Yvonne because he knows that earning your forgiveness means earning hers tenfold.

She had scoffed the first time he had sent her a bouquet of peonies, even though her eyes sparkled when she saw her favorite flower. “Why’s he sending me some?”

You had sniffed your own bouquet of jasmines and lavender, pointing to the card that was attached to her bouquet. “Read it and tell me what it says!”

She had grabbed the card and you carefully watched her reaction, her eyes widening before filling with tears. You had been filled with alarm, reaching out to hug her but she had shaken her head and held the card tightly.

“What a jerk, making me cry…” She had mumbled, but the smile on her face let you know that his apologies were working on her, too.

There were also the talks after lectures and in between check ups - any time you could find each other, really. They were serious, filled with tears but also with a comfort that you two were finally talking - not skirting around the issues that made your foundations crack in the first place. While things are still a little soft, you find that the cracks are filled with gold - making the foundation of your relationship stable with new meaning.

Your thoughts stop with a knock on the lecture hall door, and you lift your head to see Dr. Chung waving his hand at you with a friendly smile. You scan your students in the crowd; most of them have their heads down, teeth gnawing at their lips and brows furrowed in concentration at the test you and Zayne had put together. Sure that they won’t need you immediately, you nod at Dr. Chung and make your way out of the lecture hall.

Once outside, you regard him curiously as he produces a manila envelope from his side and presents it to you with a flourish. There’s a gleam in his eyes that has your heart pounding as you open the envelope shakily, pulling out the neat packet of papers and reading “OFFER OF PERMANENT POSITION WITH THE LINDE SCHOOL OF MEDICINE AND AKSO HOSPITAL.”

“I told you I would pester you about it during finals week,” he teases with a smile as you look at him with wide eyes.

“I-” you try to begin, but he’s quick to cut you off with a reassuring squeeze on your shoulders.

“You are leagues above the medical world and it would be an honor to have you with us, Dr. ____.” His voice is full of warm conviction, giving you a wide smile as you flounder for words. “I’d also like to be happily retired when you and Dr. Li have children.”

“Alistair!” You ignore formality for a scandalized whisper of his name, but he only laughs as he pats your arms reassuringly.

“I did put a lot of money on a betting pool back when the two of you were in undergrad and won it back tenfold,” he replies cheekily. Dr. Chung gestures to the packet once more, eyes full of hope as he scans your face. “So? Are you ready to step into the shoes that have always fit you perfectly and send me into an early and reassuringly calm retirement?”

Your hands shake, but your smile is steady as you look at him.

You’ve always known the answer, you think.

There’s a knock on your door as you finish inputting final grades for the semester later on in the week.

You quirk your eyebrow when you eye the door, not expecting any visitors or students. It’s Friday, and by the time the sun sets below the horizon students and faculty alike are off to hot pot restaurants and karaoke bars to celebrate the end of the semester and the beginning of summer break. You know you’re supposed to be alone - you saw each of your coworker’s lamps flicker off one by one, their laughter echoing through the empty hall as they waved goodbye to you or tried to goad you into a night out.

You’re definitely supposed to be alone.

Still, you clear your throat and answer. “Come in!”

Your eyes widen when you see Zayne, an unusual ruffledness to him as he shuts the door and flicks the lock closed behind him. He’s wearing blue scrubs, white coat draped over his arm and hair mussed as he looks at you with an intense stare that has your body beginning to melt from the inside out.

“Alistair said you accepted the offer.”

It spills out of his mouth almost unwittingly, and your lips tilt up at the corners when you see how his cheeks flush. Still, his eyes never waver from yours as you stand up from your desk and smooth the thin blue cotton of the long summer dress you had pulled on earlier in the morning.

“Yes,” you confirm as you walk around your desk to stand in front of him. His posture relaxes at your simple word, jaw releasing its tension as his gaze softens.

“Do you know what that means?” He asks. It’s gentler, full of unanswered questions he wants to know the answers to because you know that he needs to know your thoughts.

You reflect back to your analysis of the document, immediately noting that Zayne was signing on as one of the two directors of the Linde School of Medicine.

The reason why you know that is because your name was slotted next to his as the permanent head of pediatrics and a potential candidate for the position of interim director.

“Yes,” you say again. You’re standing in front of him now, head tilted up as you regard his gaze curiously. “I read all of that in the packet. I even gave it to my personal lawyer to ensure that there was nothing problematic in the agreement-”

“I’m sorry, ____, but you know that’s not what I mean right now.”

Zayne’s voice trembles as he steps forward to meet your body, dropping his white coat onto the floor. He cups your face in his hands and tilts your head up so that he can look directly into your gaze. You melt into his touch, reaching up to hold his hands in place with a gentle pressure.

“I need to know if you’re okay working with…me,” his voice is gravelly and filled with anxiety, something that makes your heart clench at the vulnerability of his words. “I need to know that you’re okay working with me and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable when we just started mending things between us-”

“Zayne.”

It’s your turn to interrupt him and he shuts his mouth immediately, leaning down to press a kiss against the palm of your hand. You smile at the contact, letting him kiss your hand to alleviate his anxiety before clearing your throat and starting.

“I’m more than okay with it.” Your pointer finger taps against his cheek once, making his eyes widen as you step closer so that your chests are barely brushing. “I wouldn’t have accepted the position and scheduled the seemingly endless meetings and interviews for the interim director position if I wasn’t okay with it.”

He breathes a deep sigh of relief at that, sinking his face further into your hand while you tap your thumb against his chin.

“You’re comfortable with me?” He asks, eyes full of yearning as he moves his hands to settle on your hips. He pulls your body flush against his, making you lose your breath as you stare into your favorite shade of emerald. “Are things…”

“I’m more than comfortable.” Your finger drags a line past his Adam’s apple up to his jaw, eliciting a shaky breath from his lips when you run the tips of your fingers up to his hair to play with the inky strands. “In fact, things are going pretty swimmingly from my vantage point.”

Your pointer finger traces a dangerous line from his jaw to the edge of his mouth, and your eyes hood ever so slightly when you tap his bottom lip once.

“My question is,” you whisper as you tiptoe up to meet his face. “Does the doctor who hasn’t left my mind since I moved back feel the same way?”

A beat passes - a singular moment when you feel his heart beating in tandem with yours. His eyes widen at the implication of your words, registering your hidden meaning before a true smile spreads across his lips.

That one smile solidifies everything for the both of you. He leans down and presses his lips against yours, stealing your breath and the last bits of all rationality away from your mind.

You’re quick to respond to the movements of his lips, running your hands up the back of his head and gripping the inky strands of his hair in between your fingers. A deep rumble reverberates through his chest when your nails scratch his head slightly, making him step back and press you against your desk.

You gasp when you feel the smooth wood against the small of your back, the pressure making your eyes roll back into your head and grip his hair tighter. He pulls away though, eyes flying open at the little sound. He immediately moves to cradle your face in his hands, tilting your head in his touch as he scans you for any sort of hesitation or sign of hurt. “Are you okay, my love?”

“I am,” you reply, melting at the slip of his pet name. He doesn’t notice, simply peppering your face with soft kisses until you’re giggling in his hold and wrapping your arms around his neck tighter.

“Good,” he says with a soft twinkle in his eye. His hands reach behind your back, and your eyes widen at the sound of papers and your little plastic cup of pens clattering to the floor before you squeal, your arms around his neck tightening when he lifts you by one arm up onto your desk.

“Zayne, what-” you try to begin, but he simply leans back down and kisses you deeply, stealing your breath away and eliciting a soft moan from between your lips. He groans in response, spreading your legs apart on the table and bracing his left hand on the wood behind your back while pulling your leg up with his right hand up around his waist. He steps in between the newly formed space, allowing his hips to roll slightly against yours in a way that has you whining from the contact.

Your hands move, tilting his head to the side so that you can kiss him deeper. A stroke of your tongue against his bottom lip has his mouth falling open, allowing for your tongue to push in slightly to brush against his. Simultaneous gasps escape your mouths at the same time, and he pushes himself deeper into your mouth so that he can get a taste of you directly from the source.

Soon enough though, the need for air has you pulling away, leaning your forehead against his as you both catch your breath. You giggle breathlessly when you see the marks your skin left on his glasses, the cloudiness making it difficult to see the real emotion on his face. Your hands begin to lift to pull at them but he beats you to it, simply grabbing at the thin frame before tossing them somewhere to the side.

“Your glasses!” You try to yelp, but he leans down to nip at your bottom lip, making your mouth fall open once more.

“They were getting in the way,” he grumbles, and you laugh as you allow him to recapture your mouth with his once more.

The kiss this time is slower but just as needy on your end, the brush of his lips soothing the worried part in your mind. He discards any lingering doubt in your head, cementing him as yours - and the giddy feeling swallows you whole.

His lips make a path from the corner of your mouth to your jawline, soft presses of his lips making your skin heat from his touch. The stimulation has you whining, tugging on the collar of his scrubs to try to get them off of his body. Your needy movements make him chuckle darkly and he pulls away just enough so he can pull the top and his undershirt off of his body, giving you access to his glorious body.

“Zayne,” you murmur softly, drinking in the sight of his body once more. It’s a sight you’re intimately familiar with but it still has molten desire pooling in your stomach, and you let your eyes wander past the planes of his chest and the chiseled softness of his abs before biting your lip at the sight of the thin, dark hairs that lead below the waistband of his scrubs.

“What are you thinking about, pretty lady?” His breath catches when your hand presses on the skin above his heart. He shuffles closer to your body which allows you to press a kiss directly on his heart, and you smile to yourself when you hear a soft gasp above your head.

“You,” you say back, grabbing his hand and letting your fingers trace the fading scars on his forearm. His breath hitches in his chest when you bring his arm to your lips, gently ghosting your lips along the skin reverently. 

“Is that so?” He gently pulls his arm away from you, instead placing his palms on your thighs and giving them a gentle squeeze.

“Yes,” you breathe, wrapping one arm around his neck to pull him closer. Your other hand trails down his chest and past his abs, fingers toying dangerously with the elastic waistband of his thin scrubs. You smile sweetly up at him as his eyes flash dangerously, playing innocent while your hand slips underneath his scrubs to cup his bulge above his boxer briefs.

“You’re still a little minx,” he groans. You laugh as you begin to massage the tent in his pants, but you gasp when he pulls your thighs up to his waist, making your back fall against your desk.

“Zayne, what-” you try to begin, but your words die in your mouth when he slides your skirt up past your thighs so that it pools at your waist. He gently pulls your hand from his pants so that he can spread your legs even more, folding them so that they’re up in the air and he has a clear view of your dainty white panties clinging against the silken folds of your core.

“Pretty,” he says softly, running a single finger up against your slit. Your mouth is too dry all of the sudden, falling open at the muted stimulation of his finger rubbing your clit above your panties. Your wetness drenches the thin fabric even more, and it has you grinding your hips against his single finger while mewling in a bid to feel even more.

“Still impatient and needy for me, my love?” He places one of your legs on his shoulder, letting you wrap the other one around his waist as you grind against his hand - desperate for his bare skin against the place you need him the most.

“Yes,” you breathe. You pout up at him and he laughs, leaning down to capture your lips in a kiss as you continue to grind yourself against his hand. The pleasure builds in the pit of your stomach and continues to rise, but you huff in frustration when you feel it plateau instead of bringing you closer to the edge of your end.

“Zayne,” you gasp, looking up at him imploringly. His eyes flash at your need and without another word he moves his hand, pulling your panties to the side and finally allowing you to grind your bare pussy against the warm skin of his hand. A small cry leaves your mouth, head tilting back as you rock your hips against the palm of his hand.

Zayne looks down at the goddess that is you, writhing on your desk as you chase your high. The ruffled straps of your sundress fall down your shoulders, accentuating the way your breasts heave as your chest rises and falls with the onslaught of pleasure wreaking havoc on your body. If the two of you weren’t in the academic offices and he had more time on his hands, he would have torn your dress off a long time ago, pinching your nipples with his skilled fingers until your eyes went cross-eyed and all that left your mouth were moans and babbles of his name.

Another time, he thinks to himself when he sees the scrunch of your nose. There are plenty of other times to shower your body with love.

Your eyes snap open when he pulls his hand away from your core, a noise of protest beginning on your lips as to why he moved away. It quickly dies, however, when you see him pull his straining cock out of his scrubs. He pushes you down onto your desk once more, jacking himself with your wetness rapidly so that he’s ready too. All the while, he looks down at you with a heady glance, leaning down to kiss you once more.

“Are you still on the pill?” He asks breathlessly. He slides his cockhead against your pussy, and you both moan when he slaps his tip against your clit.

“Yes,” you confirm, eyes going hazy when he drags his cock down to your sopping hole. The tip catches slightly and you whine, tightening the hold your leg has on his waist. “Z-zayne!”

“I got you, my love,” he groans back, and you cry out softly when he begins to push himself into your pussy.

Your head lolls back, eyes rolling back into your skull with each thick inch he gives you. Even with how slick you are, the pleasurable stretch still burns - enough to make you pant when he rolls his hips.

“W-wait-” you gasp, and he’s quick to stop his pace, leaning down to press his nose against your neck. He leaves soft kisses against your pulse point and across your collarbones as you breathe deeply, trying to get used to the feeling of him pulsing inside of you after so long. 

Soon enough, though, the burn gives way to nothing but heady pleasure, and you roll your hips against his to sink him further into your cunt. His hand tightens on the leg he has propped on his shoulder, eyes looking down at you with worry as he checks to make sure that you mean it.

“Are you sure?”

You nod once, and while he knows that you do mean it his eyes darken mischievously. He rolls his hips slowly, leaving you moaning as you attempt to roll your hips back to meet his - even with his sturdy grip on your hips.

“Use your words, Dr. ____.” His authoritative voice and use of your title has you clenching down on him, making you whimper and him grip your calf even tighter so that he doesn’t lose his mind. He groans as he thrusts shallowly once more, drinking in your moans that fill the air. “Use your words to tell me what you need.”

“You!” You all but cry out. “P-please Zayne, I need you fully in m-me-”

“Good,” he huffs. He kisses your ankle before sinking his cock all the way into your soaking pussy, making your back arch as you moan. He pulls out slowly, letting your walls pulse sporadically around his cock until only his cockhead remains in your cunt, making you whine at the emptiness. There’s only a whisper of respite from the fullness, though, before he pushes himself back in and elicits a cry from your swollen lips.

“Shh,” he murmurs, moving down to kiss you deeply. His hips never stop their pace, pistoning in and out of you at a relentless speed that has you seeing stars. “You don’t want anyone to catch us, right?”

“I-it’s late night though-” you try to begin, but your mouth falls open when he presses himself all of the way and nudges against your g-spot.

“There she is,” he says with a grunt, thrusting once again so that he can continue to press against that spot. “I was wondering when I would meet her again.”

“-ah!” You cry out in response. Your head falls back as the pleasure continues to wash over your body, bringing you closer and closer to the precipice of your orgasm. Zayne, seeing you begin to near your end, maintains his pace, reaching down to rub and pinch your clit in tandem with his thrusts.

The added stimulation makes your nose scrunch, moans and whimpers the only thing you can manage as your pussy spasms rhythmically around him. Your stomach tightens, and you’re barely able to gasp out his name before he leans down to kiss you once more, stealing your breath away.

“Cum with me, ____,” he breathes, and he swallows your cries with his lips when you finally fall over the edge.

The pleasure is overwhelming, crashing onto you as you dig your nails into his shoulders and making him groan. It leaves you seeing stars in your eyes, your head spinning as you try to control your breathing. You vaguely register your cries of his name and moans falling from your lips, but you can’t find it in yourself to care at how loud you're being - not when it feels this good.

Zayne, all the while, ruts his hips against yours - the pulsing of your slick walls driving him mad and prolonging your pleasure. A whine of his name has his moaning, cumming into your wet heat as he sinks his teeth in the skin between your shoulder and neck to try and keep a hold of himself. You gasp at the bit of pain, letting it mix with the heady pleasure of your orgasm until everything fades away, leaving just you and him in the afterglow.

“Mmm,” you moan softly as he kisses the bite he left on your neck, shivering slightly when he licks the tender skin.

“We’re going to need to make this our office,” he says softly against your neck. The statement makes you throw your head back to laugh, and he chuckles softly alongside you as he gently lowers your leg from his chest to wrap around his waist.

“You’re right,” you tease in response. “Can’t let anyone else have this office after what we did here.”

“Mhm,” he mumbles, moving his head up to kiss you once more. You let him press the sweet kiss against your mouth, a stark juxtaposition to the way your shaky legs are still wrapped around his waist.

He pulls away softly, and you push his slightly sweaty hair up above his brow so that it isn’t plastered onto his forehead. You tap your finger three times against his nose, and you feel yourself soften at the breathtaking smile that overtakes his entire face.

“Me too, my love,” he murmurs back, tapping your nose three times - like the two of you have always done. He leans over you to kiss you once more, filling you with that pure feeling of love that has you smiling against his mouth.

And by the way he smiles against your mouth, you know he feels that same love for you too.

August means the start of a new academic year at Linkon University.

You hear the nervous chatter of the fresh-faced medical students currently seated in the lecture hall outside of your shared office and you turn to look at your handsome co-lecturer with a half serious expression on your face while you watch him struggle with his tie. You step closer and help him fix it, straightening out the crooked fabric before smoothing the nonexistent wrinkles on his perfectly pressed white button down.

“Don’t grill them too hard, Dr. Li.” You say softly, amusement coloring your voice as Zayne lets out a scoff. “You want them to want to continue med school.”

“No promises, my love.” He swoops down and kisses you - the kind that steals your breath away and makes you weak in the knees. You kiss him back, smiles forming on your mouths as you relish in the quick contact before pulling away.

“Ready?” He asks, and he offers his arm out to you as you gather your stack of syllabi and notes. You beam at him and place your hand in the crook of his arm, nodding once.

“With you? Always.”

And the two of you walk out of your office and into the lecture room - taking your first steps toward your shared future together as the head lecturers and directors of the Linde School of Medicine.

a/n #2: i'm going to take a nap LOL but i hope you enjoy!! <3

[hppylaw]

runway

pairing: rafayel x reader

summary: when your top model meets with an accident that keeps him off his feet for a while, you have no choice but to take on the arrogant Qi Rafayel in his absence. dealing with a creative rut and a temperamental model who has endless amounts of audacity when you have fashion week to worry about is no easy task, and he certainly doesn't make it any better.....does he?

themes: strangers to lovers, co-workers to lovers, mild enemies/annoyances to lovers, celebrity! au, model! rafayel, fashion designer! mc, fluff, angst, slowburn, sexual tension, profanity, alcohol consumption, abadonment issues, petnames, lots of banter, explicit sexual content (fingering, nipple sucking, praise, cowgirl, protected sex), plot with porn, mc is a girlboss with a temper, rafayel is a brat and an asshole, they're both flawed and emotionally constipated lmao

word count: 35.7k

playlist: vogue by madonna, fashion killa by a$ap rocky, xs by rina sawayama, glamorous by fergie & ludacris, fashion! by lady gaga, disturbia by rihanna, louboutins by nesra, city of blinding lights by u2, empire state of mind (part ii) by alicia keys.

lyns notes: i rewatched 'the devil wears prada' (one of my fav movies fr) and this was born 🫡 I am a self proclaimed fashion girlie so this was a total blast to write and celebrity aus are my fav!! unfortunately I have not made it as an intern during fashion week yet, so please excuse the inevitable inaccuracies. model raf you will always be famous to me. enjoy <3

Your coffee was cold. 

Simone stared at you nervously, her years of working as your assistant telling her all she needed to know in that moment. She watched as your fingers drummed against the dark wood of your desk, picking up on all the signs of your distress. Your lips pulled into a grimace, the slight tick in your jaw, and how you looked at the cup of coffee before you. All your employees knew that you were strictly a hot coffee drinker. 

“How is he?”

She scrambled to answer. “Xavier is….recovering.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, exhaling slowly. “Elaborate.”

“His leg is broken in two places. Some scratches, but thats the extent of his injuries. He was lucky.”

Your frustration with the situation at hand knew no bounds, and your mood soured even further with the new information. Clicking your tongue, you pressed your index finger and thumb against your temple, already feeling one of your headaches coming on. “Send a bouquet with a card to his hospital room.”

“Of course.” Simone pulled out her phone and began making the arrangements. “Anything else?”

“Coffee that isn’t frigid.” 

Nodding quickly, she walked over and plucked up the cup from your table, giving you a final nod and stepping out of your office. Out of the dozens of assistants you had had, Simone had turned out to be the most competent and tolerable of all, and unlike her predecessors, had withstood your sky-high expectations and sharp tongue.

One word people would use to describe you is difficult. Others included delightful descriptions such as ‘unreasonable’ and ‘overbearing’, or perhaps the synonyms so many journalists had used in their pieces about you, including but not limited to: uptight, stubborn and ill-tempered. It was to the point where you had to applaud them for their creativity and commitment to the bit, never failing to find a new word to describe you in a bad light, even if you were the fashion world's current darling. 

But this world you were so blessed to be a part of was cutthroat and unforgiving. Smiles and pretty manners would have never gotten you out of the tiny apartments you lived in after graduating from fashion school. Even sheer talent wasn’t enough, so you steeled yourself over those arduous years, using your ambition like the sharp tool it was to overcome the hurdles that had blocked your way to the top.

You had built your brand from the bottom up, and it had been worth it. Every tear, every candle you burned late at night, and every nick on your now-perfectly manicured fingers had gotten you to where you were. Some would say you had your success handed to you, but you knew better. You remembered all the times you nearly gave up, all the years you spent running around and interning for brands that treated you like trash. One couldn’t just forget their roots, even if everyone around them insisted on pretending they didn’t exist.

And so here you were, at twenty-seven years old: Y/n L/n, one of the youngest successful fashion designers in the world, and the founder and CEO of luxury fashion label, Lumiere. 

For a brand that was merely five years old, it had quickly turned into a status symbol. Owning a single piece of clothing from any one of Lumiere’s high-end collections set one apart instantly. Your designs were exquisite, and your ability to take any fabric and turn it into a work of art was truly extraordinary. Every collection you breathed life into stunned critics and fellow designers alike, cementing your position as one of the most respected creatives in the industry today. 

Respected or not, being a woman in power was a tough act to keep up. Sitting on the throne meant you had to rule with an iron fist. You weren’t allowed to slip up or make mistakes.

Especially not with Paris Fashion Week coming up. 

The spring and summer collections would be revealed to the world at the most important fashion week. Everything had been going smoothly under your careful watch. 

Until, of course, right now.

Yesterday, your top model met with an accident. Xavier Shen had been with you since the very start of Lumiere and was practically synonymous with its branding. Together, the two of you had taken the world's hottest runways by storm with his award-winning walk and your impeccable designs. In terms of real friendships, he might have been the only one you had.

And now, when you needed him, he was out of commission. There was no way he’d be walking for anyone any time soon.

Your black Louboutins pressed into the carpet beneath your feet as you fought off the wave of annoyance that cut through your concern for Xavier. It wasn’t really aimed at him, no, it was because you couldn’t have possibly predicted such a thing happening. 

Money– you had lots of it. More than you could count, and enough to never worry about making a dent in your bank balance ever again. What was most important to you now was control. 

Simone rushed back in, placing a steaming cup of coffee on your desk with a polite smile. “Anything else?”

Picking up the cup and taking a sip, you savoured the hot, bitter flavour that coated your taste buds. “A closer for the show would be nice. And someone to model the new line.”

Xavier had always been the one to fill in those shoes, sometimes quite literally. Now, you were left to figure out how to replace him temporarily while retaining the integrity of your brand. You couldn’t just take on anybody.

She didn’t flinch at your cold tone. “Sylus Qin?”

You shook your head, resting your elbows against the mahogany of your desk and cupping the mug of coffee, letting its warmth seep into your skin. “He’s walking for the Dior show, which is only an hour before ours. And he doesn’t particularly fit our image.” Sylus was, no doubt, an excellent model and a current favourite, but wasn’t what you wanted representing your brand. “And don’t even think of recommending Zayne Li. He’s been Miu Miu’s poster boy for the last year, and I have no intention of riding on their coattails.”

Simone began listing models, but none seemed fitting. Yes, this was a problem that you had to solve as quickly as possible, but you refused to settle for anything but the best. As she rattled off names, you turned your attention to the floor-to-ceiling window panes that adorned the back of your office, which revealed a stunning view of the city below. The sun was setting, spilling its orange-red rays all over the buildings and buzzing streets of New York. 

It didn’t matter how many times you had been met with this view, it would never grow tiresome. New York would forever be your second love after fashion. It was unforgiving as it was generous, a contradictory quality you liked to think you shared with it.

“What about Qi Rafayel?”

You turned back to her at the unfamiliar name, raising a singular eyebrow. “Who?”

“Rafayel,” she repeated his name, tapping the screen of her tablet and approaching you, holding it out for you to see. On it was the cover of the most recent Vogue issue, and on it was a man covered in colour, the white shirt he wore a victim of this photoshoot's concept. Hues of blue and fuchsia painted his cheekbones and neck, and his dark eyes seemed to stare right into your soul, his features somehow striking a balance between sharp and gentle all at once. 

“Tell me more.”

“He’s probably the most talked about in modelling right now. GQ named him Model of the Year.” She droned on about everything she knew, and you were once again reminded of her competency. “He’s under the Lemuria Modelling Agency and has achieved supermodel status with how sensational his walk is.” 

You hummed, intrigued now. “How come I’ve never heard of him?”

“From what I’ve heard, he’s very selective about who he walks for, which makes everyone want him even more, of course. Word is that he isn’t walking for any fashion week shows yet. He’s refused all offers.” 

Oh? Most models jumped at any chance they got to walk for fashion week. It was the pinnacle of the modelling world as much as it was for the fashion world, with every model competing for the coveted few spots on the runway. 

Leaning forward, you studied the magazine cover for a few more seconds. He did seem to give off the same regal air that Xavier did, at least from the shoot you were looking at, which meant it was at least worth considering taking him on. Potential was something you’d have to bet on.

“This might do,” you muttered, waving your hand in her direction. “Arrange a meeting with him and his manager and add it to my schedule.”

Rafayel adored a good party. 

Sprawled out on the length of his couch with one arm hanging off of it, he lifted his glass with a satisfied half-smile, cocking his head as he observed the chaos that unfolded around him. The mess currently being made would undoubtedly be a problem, but it was one that a future version of himself would have to deal with. Right now, he was content with being the facilitator. 

The bass reverberated through his body, the music so obnoxiously loud that it somehow managed to drown out the raucous laughter and chatter that travelled around the large room. He tipped back the glass, savouring the burn of the alcohol that kissed his throat so soothingly. It provided a pleasant buzz, one that he had been carefully maintaining all evening and the night so far. 

People were dancing on his coffee table. Corners of the large room were occupied by pairs that were a little too close, but the darkness provided them with privacy. Beautiful women sauntered around, a couple hovering around him like moths to a flame. One even sat on the velvet armrest of the couch, right behind where his head lay and reached out to touch his hair, which would have annoyed him if he wasn’t halfway to drunk already. The attention didn’t faze him in the slightest, he was used to being at the centre of it. 

He was the life of every party, the drug that kept it going, and everyone wanted a piece of that sweet high. His parties were all the rage, and anyone with so much as a speck of fame wanted to be in attendance at them, singers, actors and fellow models alike. 

Sighing blissfully, he downed the rest of his drink. The delightful thing about alcohol was that once you had had enough of it, you hardly noticed the taste. He looked up at the woman who so boldly played with his hair, watching how she batted her eyelashes and flashed a coy smile at him. A smirk teased at his lips as he entertained the idea of taking his fun a little further.

Nothing could possibly ruin such a perfect night.

“RAFAYEL!”

Oh dear. 

He didn’t have to look to know who had yelled his name. There was only one person in the world who could say his name with such astronomical levels of exasperation. His manager spotted him and stormed over, setting one foot furiously in front of the other until he was right beside the couch. Rafayel lazily opened an eye, peering up at the intruder.

“Lovely to see you, Thomas. Here to join in the fun?”

Thomas scowled. “I suggest throwing that expensive phone of yours out if it doesn’t work.”

“It works just fine.”

“Then why haven’t you bothered to answer any of my calls?”

The model sighed and sat up, giving the women at his side an apologetic look. “Excuse me, ladies,” he said, charm oozing out of every syllable that spilled from him. “I need to talk to my friend here, and I’ll be right back.” 

With practised grace, he got to his feet and beckoned for Thomas to follow him into the kitchen, which was miraculously deserted. Leaning against the marble counter, he picked up a bottle of gin and poured it into a clean glass before offering it to the frazzled man. When all he received in return was a glare, he shrugged and tipped it back. 

“I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day,” Thomas said through gritted teeth, tapping his foot against the floor and folding his arms over his chest. Rafayel barely flinched at his agitation, used to it by this point.

“I’ve been busy.”

His manager scoffed, throwing his hands up in the air. “Busy? You call this being busy?” He gestured to the doorway that led back to the party, making Rafayel wish he was still there, instead of here, facing the wrath of his uptight manager when he wasn’t as drunk as he wished he was for it. Rolling his eyes, he prepared to give his usual excuses and get it over with so that he could go back to his fun.

“Look–”

“No, you look,” Thomas took a step forward. “Your shoot for Vogue was three weeks ago. Since then, you’ve had numerous offers to walk in fashion week. More than any model I’ve previously managed.” The way he phrased it was incredulous, as if he couldn’t fathom how he had managed such a thing. “So I’m gonna need you to tell me why you’ve turned all of them down.”

Ugh. If Rafayel had been just a little faster, he could have been in his bedroom with that woman and avoided this interaction altogether. He placed the glass back down, running a finger along the rim of it as he hummed. 

“None of the brands spoke to me.”

Thomas looked like he was about to implode. He shut his eyes, letting out a long-suffering sigh. “You just have to walk. Pose a little. There's no speaking involved. You should know what your job entails by now.”

Rafayel placed a hand over his heart, feeling rather attacked at the moment. “Don’t patronise me.”

To that, he was met with a mirthless laugh. “Patronise you? You’re too smart for me to even try, and yet you still insist on acting like a child.” It was always entertaining when his manager lost his patience like this, and he always turned it into a game of sorts, testing to see just how far he could push back.

“You wound me, my friend.” 

“Your aunt expects you to walk for fashion week.” 

Of course, she did. Immediately, his easy-going persona vanished, and he clicked his tongue in an attempt to push down his irritation. “Talia wants me to do so much, doesn’t she?” 

He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice, but it didn’t matter. His opinion rarely ever did when it was up against his aunts, but he supposed it was his fault. He was the one who had decided working under her would be a good idea, thinking that the familial connection would help further his career. It turned out, however, that while it had certainly given him a headstart, he had become her favourite project.

Back in her prime, Talia had been an extremely successful supermodel herself. After getting married, she didn’t return to the runway, but instead started her own modelling agency: Lemuria Modelling Agency. Since she knew the ins and outs of the business so intimately, she had experienced what felt like overnight success with it.

When Rafayel came along, it was as if she wanted to live vicariously through him, pushing him into shoots and brand deals for fashion houses that she had once worked for herself. It was only recently that he put his foot down and insisted on choosing his projects for himself, refusing to be a puppet for any longer. Surprisingly, she had agreed, and it had somehow worked out even better than before, with his career taking off like never before.

He had no intention of turning out to be another version of her, even if he had technically followed in her footsteps. He was well aware of his worth and he’d be damned if he allowed himself to settle for anything less than perfect.

“You have another offer for fashion week and a contract for a couple of months.” 

“I’m not interested.” His answer was immediate. He disliked speaking of work during his downtime, but since he had been ignoring all of his calls, he didn’t have the right to complain about that right now.

“You haven’t even heard who it's for yet.” Thomas groaned. “Lumiere is a highly respected brand. It’s short notice, but you’re lucky you’re being offered the position at all.”

“I don’t care how great they are,” he muttered dryly, reaching for the bottle once again. He despised being told what to do, regarding himself as a free spirit despite his perfectionist tendencies. 

For a moment, he thought he had won this argument, taking the other man's silence as acceptance. His presumptuous joy was short-lived.

“Get your head in the fucking game, Rafayel. This whole stuck-up artist thing you have going on might have worked out in your favour so far, but it won’t cut it in the long run.” Thomas snapped, sufficiently vexed. “You will take on Lumiere, and you will walk for them. I don’t care if I have to drag you to Paris kicking and screaming, you're coming.” 

Rafayel bit back his surprise at the outburst, feeling his pride take a hit at Thomas’s words. Stuck-up artist? If life had gone the way he had intended it to, then perhaps he would have been exactly that. Not that he was complaining about the life he had now, he enjoyed every second of it thoroughly, for he was nothing if not a patron of indulgence. Still, the accusation stung just a tad. 

He was caught so off-guard that he couldn’t respond with his normal unbothered quips. The man in front of him didn’t let up on his glare, but finally moved out of Rafayel’s personal space, clicking his tongue in triumph like a disappointed father would at his child. 

“We have a meeting scheduled with them for next week. Don’t be late. And for god’s sake, check your phone. I’ll send over the details.” 

With that final statement, Thomas walked out, as eager to leave the party as Rafayel had been to rejoin it just a few minutes ago. With nothing left to do but nurse his bruised ego, he poured himself another drink to keep him company while he sulked over how that conversation had gone so terribly.

You stepped out of the car, immediately holding a hand over your face at a distance that let you see what was in front of you while simultaneously shielding yourself from the onslaught of camera flashes and paparazzi yelling at you to spare them a glance. Forcing a neutral expression, you let your feet carry you to the entrance of the restaurant as quickly as possible, wanting nothing more than to escape the unwanted attention. 

Frankly, you should have been used to the paparazzi by now after having dealt with it for five years and counting, but there was something so jarring about having cameras shoved in your face or following you while you tried to go about your daily life. When you started out, all you had wanted to do was create your clothing, but fame had come along with your accomplishments, launching you into a spotlight that was meant for your designs. You had media training and publicists working to keep your image squeaky-clean.

The ambience on the inside provided you with respite from the press, and the tension in your shoulders instantly dissipated. Warm, dim lighting and the pleasant clinking of glasses and cutlery travelled all around you, combining with the smooth jazz that played, creating a melody of its own. This was one of your favourite places to dine, which was precisely why you had chosen it for today. 

Walking further into the restaurant, you spotted the person you were here to meet and made your way over. The woman sitting at the reserved table scanned the menu. 

“Gabriette,” You smiled pleasantly, making your presence known. She looked up at you, eyes lighting up.

“Y/n!”

Gabriette got to her feet and embraced you politely, giving you a customary kiss on each cheek in greeting. You returned the gesture before removing your coat, draping it on the empty seat across from hers and sitting down. 

“I hope I didn’t make you wait too long.” You picked up your menu as a server filled your glass with some water, flipping through the pages. 

“Not at all! I’m so glad we could make time to meet.” 

Gabriette Dubois was a celebrity fashion designer, much like yourself, whom you had met years ago while in Paris for your first ever fashion week. She was a little older than you but somehow managed to not look a day over twenty-five, petite in every sense of the word. Her own fashion house, Dubois Designs, was all the rage just as yours was. This meant that while you were friendly with her, she was less of a friend and more of an acquaintance.

Competitor would have been the right word. 

“How have you been?” She was in New York for a few weeks and insisted on having lunch with you. She was far from your favourite person, but you knew the importance of nurturing and maintaining connections. If not for that pesky reason, you would have cut all contact with her a long time ago. Your temper made it so that you lacked patience when it came to people like her, but thankfully, she lived in Paris, which meant you only had to bite your tongue and force a smile on occasion.

“I’ve been fantastic,” she beamed, her French accent curling the ends of her words. “I’ve been busy the whole time I have been in this city, but you know how it is. The busier you are, the better business is, yes?” The subtle brag was not lost on you.

You suspected she was the one who had called the press. They loved tailing you around anyway, but catching two high-profile fashion designers together? That was the same thing as finding gold to them.

“I know what you mean.” You ordered a glass of red wine after agreeing with her. She opted for some rosé. “Finding time to rest is rare.” 

“I bet you miss the days when Lumiere was still a small little thing,” she said with the same smile on her face, but you weren’t naive enough to miss the slight condescending lilt of her voice. While she treated you perfectly well, you knew that she didn’t quite see you as an equal, purposely choosing to turn a blind eye to your achievements. She thought of you as beneath her, even though your success outshone even hers at times. 

You didn’t need her approval. All this was a formality anyways. 

“Sometimes,” you admitted good-naturedly, choosing not to take the bait. The drinks arrived, and you took a nice, long sip of yours, reminding yourself of why you even agreed to meet her in the first place. “Sorry, I just remembered, I have something I’d like to ask you.”

Gabriette might have had a superiority complex, but this also meant she loved to shove all her accomplishments in other people's faces. Bragging was something she viewed as her birthright, and you had mastered the art of using it to your advantage. 

The server returned, and the two of you placed your orders before resuming conversation. “Ask away.”

“It’s about a model,” you started carefully. “My top model is out of commission right now, and I need a replacement for a little while.” 

She leaned back in her seat and sipped her rosé. “Oh yes, I heard about Xavier. Go on.”

No doubt she assumed you were about to ask her to help you find someone to take his place. You had no intention of doing such a thing since you were going to meet your potential temporary replacement in three days, thanks to Simone. What you wanted was a little information from someone who had directly had contact with him. 

“You’ve worked with Rafayel before, haven’t you?” 

You phrased it as if you didn’t know this already, when in reality, you had done your research. It wasn’t your job to do so– you could have easily gotten any of your employees to do it– but this was a big deal. You refused to have just anyone take Xavier’s place, even if it was only for a short while. Simone had already run a background check on him, and you had to admit that from all the surface-level knowledge that you had that he did fit with your brand's image quite well.

Gabriette peered at you from over her glass, raising an eyebrow as she nodded slowly. “Yeah, a couple of years ago. Why?”

“I hadn’t really heard of him until recently.” You placed your glass down, and at that moment, the server returned with your food. She didn’t bother to hide her scoff as she picked up her fork, digging into her salad immediately. 

“That’s on you. Rafayel has been around for a while.” She took a bite of lettuce and croutons, taking her time with the morsel before she pounced once more, taking a concealed jab at you. “But I guess it’s expected when you live under a rock. If you weren’t so caught up with insisting on only working with Xavier for even a minute, you would have seen him around.” 

You refused to let her get under your skin. So what if you were picky about who you took on? Consistency was something you valued, and you had your reasons, ones that you didn’t have to divulge to her and waste your breath. 

A tired exhale left your lips. “I’m thinking of taking him on.”

“Good luck with that.” 

Huh. You sat up straighter. “What do you mean?”

“Rafayel is a talented model, no one can say anything about that, but I doubt you’d be able to handle him.”

Handle him? Oddly enough, this statement of hers sounded less like a concealed insult and more genuine. Feigning indifference, you nibbled at your own food. “Why so?”

She laughed curtly, toying with her fork. “He’s a great way to make headlines, that's for sure. The world loves him right now, even with his scandalous behaviour, but when it comes down to it…” You made a mental note to look into what she meant by scandalous behaviour later when she trailed off, silently prompting her to continue. 

Gabriette pressed her lips together, a flash of irritation taking over her eyes for a brief moment, but it wasn’t aimed at you.

“He’s a total nightmare to work with.”

Rafayel waltzed into the meeting room ten minutes late, his head held up high like he owned the place. 

This did not amuse you, the actual owner.

A man who you could only assume was his manager entered behind him, looking so defeated that you almost felt sorry for him. Almost, because you had no sympathy for people who wasted your time like they had. Simone had gotten you a second cup of coffee to pass the time, and you had just about finished it, ignoring the last few dregs in the cup in favour of narrowing your eyes at the two men. 

“I’m so sorry about the delay,” he said quickly, taking a seat at the table after Rafeyel did. “There was– er– unavoidable traffic. I’m Thomas, Rafayel’s manager. Your assistant spoke with me last week.” The excuse was pathetic, and you didn’t miss the brief scathing look he sent the model when he stumbled over the words. The latter looked utterly unbothered, his elbow on the armrest of the chair, his chin resting on his palm. 

If you weren’t in such a terrible situation, you would have probably asked them to leave, but not only were you running on a tight schedule, but you were also fresh out of options. 

“Don’t worry about it. It’s a pleasure to meet you both.” 

You looked at Rafayel to finally asses him in person, mild surprise running through you when you realised he was already staring right at you. Most people avoided eye contact with you because of how intense you could be, but he seemed to be having no such trouble; his eyes locked onto yours, a bored look lingering in them. 

Now that you were looking at him in person, you had to admit that he was quite breathtaking. You had watched a couple of his most famous runway moments, but the way he looked through a screen did not compare to the real thing. He was positively gorgeous, which wasn’t something you thought all that often, considering you were surrounded by beautiful people all the time. Rafayel, however, was in a league of his own, with soft, dark hair that fell over his forehead and into his mesmerising eyes. Smooth skin that surely had skincare companies begging him to be in their advertisements, lips that were the perfect pinkish hue, and elegant, high cheekbones; he was a work of art. 

A work of art whose impudence was currently pissing you off. 

“Rafayel,” You finally directly addressed him. “I take it that you’ve agreed to model for Lumiere for the next four months.” 

His lips twitched. “It seems that I have.”

“We’re thrilled to have you on board.”  You gestured to Simone. “My assistant here has drawn up the contract, which you can take to look over before signing it.” Dutifully, she placed a file before them, which he picked up, flipping through and scanning over the details and terms.

This is where the meeting would usually end. He’d smile, nod and leave, and you’d go back to your office and hopefully review some of the recent sketches you had done. They needed some reworking as soon as possible, especially if you wanted to stay on schedule. 

Except it didn’t. 

He tossed the contract back on the table. “Thats all well and good, but I have a condition of my own.��

His manager glanced at him apprehensively. Your look on your face must have betrayed how bewildered you felt, because the edge of his mouth quirked upwards in amusement ever so slightly at your reaction. 

“A….condition?” You echoed his words incredulously, fingers curling around the Montblanc pen you were just about to hand to him. His smile widened, and he nodded, leaning forward with his elbows resting on the edge of the table like he was about to divulge to you a secret you should have been dying to know.

“Whatever you make me wear, I have to approve of it. I have to like it, or I don’t wear it.”

You weren’t quite sure you had heard him right at first, blinking twice as you registered what he had just said. Honestly, even the idea was so ridiculous that you were sure you had misinterpreted, because this wasn’t a condition. It was a demand, one that he expected you to meet, as if it wasn’t completely audacious of him to do so. 

“I’m sorry?”

“You heard me. This is a dealbreaker.” 

Thomas looked so alarmed that it would have been funny in any other context. Clearly, he had no hand in this and was just as caught off guard as you were, but nowhere near as outraged. 

Simone realised the meeting was going awry, and swiftly swooped in, clearing her throat before you exploded right then and there in the conference room. She was surprised that the pen you were holding hadn't snapped in two yet with how tight your grip on it was. 

“I’m sure we can work something out,” she said smoothly, taking over for you as you glowered. “We’re delighted to have you working with us, Mr. Qi.”

No part of you was delighted. Sure, he ticked off all the boxes: attractive, seasoned and acclaimed, but there was something about how he carried himself that didn’t sit quite right with you. This had nothing to do with any of the scandals that he had found himself in, though you had looked into them to make sure it wouldn’t impact your brand. Dating scandals and rumours of him being a womaniser– stuff like that never held any weight for too long, especially not for a man. You didn’t care about his personal life, no, your annoyance stemmed from his haughty attitude. 

Rafayel grinned, not bothering to even look at her, winking at you instead for good measure. “Pleasure doing business with you.” 

The fucking audacity.

Once they had left, you stormed into your office, your stilettos carrying the heavy weight of the pure, unadulterated rage you felt at that instant. Simone followed, bracing herself for the inevitable downpour of your wrath and clutching her tablet in the hopes it would help her calm you down. Of course, she knew there was no shot in hell of that happening; when you were like this, it would take nothing short of a miracle to placate you. 

To say you were a proud person would be an understatement. There were not very many instances where you willingly let someone else have control in a situation, and you were well aware of what your work was worth. There was a reason you were at the top of the game. 

It made his condition all the more absurd.

“He has to approve of it?” You seethed, spinning around to glare at the only person around to take the brunt of your fury. “Who the hell does he think he is?” 

Simone winced, “It’s certainly….an odd request.”

“A request? A request would be if he asked us for tea, Simone. This is an insult.” He had to have known that, too, unless he was a total idiot. You were starting to believe that because models didn’t choose what they wore. The implication was that you didn’t know how to dress your models, as if all the skills you had honed were worth nothing. “Who the hell does he think he is?”

Despite having just met him, the smug look he had given you was already burned into your memory. You couldn’t remember the last time you had outright disliked someone this quickly.

“Rafayel is eccentric, yes,” Simone said tentatively. He had sounded so confident, like it was a given that you would agree. “But maybe he didn’t mean to offend you?”

“Xavier would never do this,” You groaned, mourning the absence of your darling top model. “Tell me, is there a chance we can get someone else on board instead?”

Unfortunately, you knew the answer without her giving it to you. Keeping your brand's image intact was of utmost importance to you, and you were nothing if not meticulous. Xavier’s sudden unavailability had thrown a real wrench in all your careful planning, and though it wasn’t his fault, it still left you extremely frustrated. Replacing him was nearly impossible, and you were lucky to have chanced upon Rafayel.

Undoubtedly, he would fit in with your curation seamlessly. He’d look fantastic modelling your clothing, and he’d be perfect for the PFW show. The hype that currently existed around him would also help tremendously. Your publicist was about to have an absolute field day with this collaboration. 

“He’s our only viable option at the moment. The chances of him disapproving of your clothes are slim to none, anyway.” Your assistant said comfortingly. “It’ll be fine.”

God, you hoped so.

QI RAFAYEL SIGNED WITH LUMIERE?

Word is that the most elusive model of the decade has put down roots with the hottest brand, and boy, does the partnership seem fitting! It’s a wonder, especially with Rafayel's sudden disappearance from the modelling scene right at the height of his career. Known for his fearlessness when it comes to experimental designs and his ability to embody any look, the model is truly at the top of his game, so it makes perfect sense for him to work with a brand that shares that very status.

We can’t wait to witness his comeback with Lumiere very soon!

The fitting room was in chaos when you arrived.

You grimaced at the disarray you were met with; stylists rushing around and shouting various instructions at each other. There were different types of fabric all around, clothing items you could recognise at a single glance, falling off their hangers and display mannequins. Amidst it all stood Rafayel, who looked utterly uninterested, his arms over his chest, wrinkling the deep purple Ralph Lauren shirt he was wearing. The colour suited him.

But why was he still in his personal clothes? In two hours, he was to be at a shoot for the brand's website and social media pages, but here he was, just standing around. At least his makeup was done, you supposed.

“Miss Y/n!” One of the stylists paused her movements and greeted you. “We are right on track!”

Were they? You glanced around at the confusion, stepping over the shoes that were right in front of the doorway and walked up closer to one of the mannequins. Wordlessly, you held your hand out, and immediately they all knew what to do, scrambling to hand you a pin. Placing it between your teeth, you folded over a part of the waist of the pants to readjust the pleating and secured it in place. 

“It doesn’t seem like it.” Your eyes sliced back to the model, who was now looking right at you. “He’s not ready.”

Typically, you would never visit a fitting like this, trusting your employees to get the job done. You were too busy to make the time to show up for things like these, simply giving the orders and checking in once the job was done. Even Xavier didn’t get any surprise pop-ins from you, and he was someone you actually cared for. 

But no part of you inherently trusted Rafayel to cooperate. The stylist who handed you the pin dropped her voice and signalled towards him. “He’s a little difficult.” 

Of course. 

Leaving the mannequin, you walked up to Rafayel and levelled him with a stare. “Would you care to enlighten me as to why you’re giving my stylists a hard time?”

He looked around and pointed to the clothing that another stylist held up with a helpless expression. It was a lovely white silk shirt with an asymmetrical cut, the buttons starting at the right shoulder and ending at the left side of the waist. This was paired with trousers to complete the look, but it wasn’t supposed to take away from the shirt, which was the main event. 

“I’m not wearing this.”

Irritation was a feeling you were well-versed in. The way it flared up inside of you so quickly when he spoke was still shocking. 

“And why not?” You briefly wondered why everyone around you seemed to take pleasure in wasting your time as of late. This was only one of the outfits he had to be photographed in, the others lined up neatly on a clothing rack. 

“It’s boring,” Rafayel said casually, as if he were remarking on the weather. “Where's the colour? The life? I look at it and feel nothing.” 

Oh, he felt nothing, did he? Briefly, you wondered if he’d feel the slap you were so tempted to give him. All he had done since stepping into your building was insult you and parade around like he was better than everyone, and you didn’t take either of those things lightly. “It’s the highest quality silk and stitching.” 

“Everything you’re having me wear is in black and white.”

“I’m so glad you can tell colour.” 

Your stylists flinched a little at your apathetic tone, despite being all too used to your snippy remarks. You were hard on everyone who worked for you, but that was only because you held your employees to the same high standards that you did yourself when it came to the work they were supposed to do. Their paychecks certainly made up for it, as did your generosity when it came to granting them leave. 

“Black and white is plain.” He sighed dramatically, like the lack of colour was personally offending him. “Chanel already has that rodeo down to the ‘t’. 

His audacity left you astounded once more, and you were even more pissed off when you unwittingly realised that he had a point. Still, even if Chanel did have a thing for black and white styling, you liked to think that you had put your unique spin on the clothes that distinguished them from competing brands. You didn’t just think it; you knew your designs were amazing. The man in front of you didn’t allow you to tell him this, since he had already started speaking again. 

“If I wanted to wear Chanel, I would have accepted their offer.”

“Why didn’t you?”

You knew damn well that it was a good thing he had agreed to work for you, but that didn’t mean he had to. Rafayel’s lips tipped upwards, as if your annoyance entertained him. “I already told you. I find black and white boring, and even though it’s all I see right now,” he gestured around the room and at the clothing rack, “I don’t think it’s all you’re capable of.”

Was that a compliment? If it was, he was shit at giving them out. Not that you were any better, but that hardly mattered in the grand scheme of things. It wasn’t your job to be nice, it was your job to make sure things got done the way you wanted them. 

So, against all your severely miffed instincts, you sucked in a deep breath to calm yourself down. “This collection is already public. We just need the pictures for social media.”

He looked disappointed. “Fine. I’ll make an exception just this once.”

How positively saintly of him. You wondered if he expected you to drop and kiss his feet for making such a compromise. 

Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t going to get any of that. You pressed your lips together, deciding you had wasted enough of your time already and that it was time to get back to those sketches of yours you had been putting off. Nodding curtly, you moved to leave, but he opened his mouth again.

“A word of advice?”

Well, wasn’t he chatty today? You sighed, pressing two fingers against your temple and rubbing in the hopes it would soothe you. “You’re going to give it to me even if I say no, aren’t you?”

He proved you right. “If your Paris Fashion Week collection is going to be as uninspired as this, then I suggest you start rethinking it.”

The stylist closest to the two of you gasped.

Uninspired? This was a collection you had revealed recently at a show a couple of weeks ago, and critics had been all over it, practically kissing your feet with the amount of praise they had dished out. Uninspired definitely wasn’t one of the words they had used to describe it.

You didn’t miss the smirk on his lips as he watched you react to his harsh words. He had gotten under your skin, and he knew it. It had been so long since someone had managed to do so that you forgot how it felt, and you despised the feeling. Your eyebrows raised in fury that was plain as day, leaning away from him like his presence stung just as much as his words did.

Rafayel didn’t want to admit it, but he was having way too much fun with this. The day he first showed up at the Lumiere building, he was pretty much dragged there against his will by Thomas. He had heard of it in passing and was expecting yet another high-fashion brand that had lost all its integrity in favour of stagnating and staying relevant through its namesake. When he had looked into its previous seasons, however, he began to begrudgingly appreciate the creativity of their clothing, as well as its authenticity.

Finding out that Lumiere was only five years old came as a surprise, as did the news of the meeting with the founder and head of the company herself. To say that was unconventional would be an understatement. Typically, these types of meetings consisted of him only meeting an assistant or two, but never the designers themselves. Sure, eventually he’d speak to them at a show or afterparty he was obligated to be at, but never had he met them upfront like this.

Moreover, he certainly hadn’t expected the designer to be a beautiful young woman. Rafayel had always had an eye for pretty things, so one look at you was enough for him to see that you were just that. Beautiful didn’t even cut it, actually, so much so that you could probably walk in your own fashion shows.

So you were pretty. Rafayel was aware enough of it, and although he tended to gravitate towards that, you weren’t exactly his type. He typically went for women who were generous with the smiles they gave him and found pleasure in his reputation, the type who giggled at everything he said and touched his arm to make sure their intentions were clear. As far as he was concerned, a type meant there was a pattern involved, and that would be the best way to describe the women he had gotten involved with in the past. 

You were too intense for his taste, with your calculating gaze and perfectly pinned-up hair without a single strand out of place. Breathtaking in the most intimidating way. He was all for dancing through life while having a good time and breaking a few rules if he had to. You, on the other hand, looked like you had written the rules and expected everyone else to abide by them.

It was probably a good thing that he didn’t want to get with someone who was technically his boss.

But you were oh-so easy to rile up. 

“Uninspired?” You hissed, and if looks could kill, the one you were giving him right now would have probably landed him six feet under. “Excuse me?”

Feisty. My, my, he was going to have a blast with this. Shrugging, he started unbuttoning the front of his shirt, and the stylists, who had been standing frozen while the two of you had a stare-off, jumped back into action. They seemed relieved that he was finally cooperating, one of them assisting him with his shirt and the other holding the one you designed open and ready to slip onto his body.

Your eyes dropped to his now exposed torso as the shirt was peeled off of him for just a second before you sliced them back up to his. That infuriating smirk remained on his face throughout. 

“Need some clarification?”

So this is what Gabriette meant when she said he was a nightmare to work with. 

“There is nothing uninspired about my clothing,” you snapped, unable to keep your temper from flaring up anymore. “From now on, keep any advice you have to yourself.”

Everything that had come out of his mouth so far had been unwanted, and you were starting to think he was doing it on purpose, especially with how he was watching your every reaction like a hawk. Refusing to dignify him with one, you turned and walked out of the room, emerging into the hallways of the Lumiere building. The familiarity of the decor and soothing warm lighting should have helped with your agitation, but nothing of the sort happened.

Now, you understood why Gabriette said all that stuff about not being able to handle him. 

Four months of this madness before everything would go back to normal. In comparison to other things you’ve dealt with in the past, this was trivial. You were a professional, considered a damn genius for your work and the sheer levels of success you were graced with at such a young age. There was nothing you couldn’t do, even if it was dealing with a self-important model that seemingly took pleasure in irking you.

In any case, you could refrain from pushing him out of a window. 

“Oh, these are great. I’m gonna have to hide them from Jeremiah.”

Xavier placed the box of chocolates you had gotten him on the coffee table in front of where he sat on the couch. You joined him there, eyes lingering on the cast on his leg that spanned from his ankle up to just below his knee. He caught you staring at it in contempt and grinned.

“Wanna sign it?”

You scoffed and leaned against the throw pillows. “You know I don’t.” 

Despite your hectic schedule, you had made sure to set aside some time to visit the injured man now that he had returned from the hospital. His roommate had let you in when you arrived, since Xavier was strictly instructed to stay off his feet as much as possible. The irony of that wasn’t lost to either of you. 

“Worth a shot.”

He was pretty much homebound and stuck in that cast for twelve weeks, and after that would have to go through physical therapy for a bit before he was back on his feet. It was certainly a blow to his career’s momentum, especially since it quite literally depended on his ability to walk. Eventually, he’d get back onto the runway, you knew, but you couldn’t help but feel bad. 

Considering all this, he seemed to be in a good mood, smiling gently at you. Xavier, unlike you, had endless amounts of patience and had a temperament that was as angelic as he looked. He was plenty successful, and Lumiere was by no means the only fashion house he modelled for, even if it was the one he worked with the most. He had seen the ambitious girl who powered through all the doubts thrown in her face when you had taken the leap and started your brand, and had stuck by you ever since. 

This was why he was your only true friend. He had seen something in you when you hadn’t quite figured yourself out just yet. For the past five years, he had stayed by your side without wavering even once, and as a result of this, he could read you like you were an open book. 

“You’re upset with me.” He noted. You sighed, shaking your head. 

“No, I’m upset with the circumstance.” You gestured towards his leg. “The timing is terrible.” 

Xavier quirked an eyebrow in amusement. “Apologies. The next time I plan on breaking my bones, I’ll let you know in advance.” 

“Please let there never be another time,” You let out a tired sigh. “Replacing you is a hassle. Get better. I need you back at work.”

“And here I thought you missed me for me.” He lightly teased.

“You know I do.” You looked at him meaningfully. “You know what I mean.” 

He did. You had never been the best at being vulnerable or expressing yourself, but he had long since learnt how to read between the lines. 

“I’ve heard that you managed to find someone to fill in.” He circled back to your point about replacing him and looked at you expectantly, waiting for you to fill him in on all the happenings he had missed. Things were progressing slower than you would have liked, but smoothly, nonetheless. 

Except for one little thing. One person, more accurately. 

If you were being honest, you didn’t particularly want to talk about the cause of all your recent headaches. Instead, you eyed his cast again, trying your best to keep the bitterness out of your voice. “Does it hurt?”

“It’s just a dull ache now,” he reached down and scratched over the plaster. “And it’s uncomfortable, but it doesn’t hurt.” Then, he gave you a pointed look. “Do you think I can’t tell when you’re changing the subject?”

Damn. You pulled your hair free from its tight ponytail, letting it cascade over your shoulders and letting your scalp breathe. It wasn’t often you let your guard down like this, but you knew you were safe with Xavier. You also knew that you needed to be as relaxed as possible if you were going to talk about your latest problem. 

“I did find someone to fill in.” Your lips twisted in displeasure. “But I’m counting down the days till you return.” 

“That bad?”

“Rafayel is impossible.” 

Xavier cocked his head to the side. “Thats new. You generally comment on someone's incompetence.”

“Oh, he’s plenty competent.” It was the truth. You almost wished he were terrible at his job, but that wasn’t the case. The pictures for your social media had turned out amazing, and you had spent quite a lot of time looking over them, trying to find a reason to be unsatisfied, but to no avail. 

A great model. An exasperating person. 

Over the past two weeks, you had seen too much of him. He was constantly complaining about something, showing up late, or making snide comments and going out of his way to make everyone’s jobs harder. You had heard of models that thought they were untouchable, but Rafayel was a whole other level, a bona-fide diva.

If you weren’t so desperate, you would have already fired him. Desperation was not a feeling you enjoyed, but you didn’t want to go through the hassle of having to select someone else to fill in the void Xavier had left in his absence. 

“So, what do you mean by impossible?” He propped an arm on the couch's backrest, rubbing the back of his neck. 

You indulged Xavier with the details, telling him all about Rafayel’s complaints about your clothing and all the ways he had managed to drive you up the wall. You were frustrated with his behaviour, but also with yourself for being so caught up about it when you had more important things to worry about. 

A charity gala you were supposed to attend next week. Prepping for Paris Fashion Week. 

“Oh, Y/n. He does sound like a handful.” Xavier muttered sympathetically after you had aired out all your grievances. His admission made you feel a lot better about the situation. 

“He’s more than a handful.”

“But I’ve never seen you back down from any challenge.” He remarked. “And thats basically what he’s doing. Challenging you.”

He was right, you weren’t someone who backed down easily. Your conversation drifted to other things: his time at the hospital, the terrible food they made him eat, and other such tragedies. You realised how much you truly missed having Xavier around, being able to talk to someone like this wasn’t something you were able to do often. 

You made a mental note to visit him as much as possible.

“It’s a challenge,” Xavier reminded before you left, popping one of the chocolates you had gotten him in his mouth as he gave you one last piece of advice about your Rafayel problem. “Don’t let him win.”

Behind a camera, Qi Rafayel was more than tolerable.

So much about the man pissed you off. From his slow manner of speaking that tested your patience, to the lazy half-grin he seemed to perpetually have plastered on his face, you could probably list out all the things about him you disliked. He made it so easy with his incessant attempts at driving you up the wall.

Still, it was evident that even with all his antics, he was a professional.

Now, he was in archival Lumiere, one of the collections from the start of your career. There were only a few pieces of the structured jacket he wore in circulation since they were handmade. In fact, he was wearing the very piece that had appeared on the runway all those years ago. It hung from his shoulders as he posed, staring into the camera as it shuttered. 

You had personally chosen this piece for this shoot, asking your stylists to work with it because you knew he wouldn’t be able to complain. It was a stunning jacket, and apparently, he agreed. 

Every few seconds, he’d change the pose, each more dramatic than the last. A hand raised in a flourish near his face, back facing the camera, with him looking back at it, legs spread with his arms behind his head as he stared straight ahead through a half-lidded gaze. Watching him go through the motions like it was second nature was mesmerising. 

You were starting to understand his appeal. There was a certain playfulness to his sensuality, and he knew exactly how to use it to his advantage. Something about him felt dangerous, unpredictable in an exciting way, and that quality of his was his greatest selling point. 

The makeup on him was bolder this time, accentuating his siren-esque features. His hair was artfully slicked back, different from his normal look and showing off his forehead. 

He was going to be on the cover of Elle, styled with Lumiere, of course. In this particular issue, they were going to include a one-on-one interview with you as well, which was why you were present at the shoot. After they were done with him, they’d be taking a couple of shots of you to include with your interview. 

And it seemed they had just wrapped up. 

The intense expression on his face immediately dropped, giving way to a relaxed one, his eyes travelling around the room until they met yours. The photographer thanked him for his time, but he was already moving towards you. As he approached, a staff member popped up at your side.

“Would you like some coffee, miss?” 

You turned to the woman who asked you the question. “Hot, without any sugar.”

She nodded and looked at Rafayel, who had stopped by your side. “And for you, sir?”

“Cold coffee. As much whipped cream and sugar as you can manage.” He dropped a wink in with his order for good measure, and the staff faltered ever so slightly, trying to hide how charmed she was as she left to get the drinks. Once she was gone, he looked at you, his perfect pink lips twitching. 

It was obvious that he wanted to say something, and it would no doubt be something that ticked you off. Still, you relented and finally asked.

“What is it?”

He studied you for a moment. “Nothing. It’s just so predictable that you take your coffee plain.”

You bristled. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“I never said there was,” He drawled, and then dropped the subject. “Seems like it's your turn to get behind the camera, Miss Designer. Ready?”

“It’s not my first time,” You said as the staff returned with your coffees. Grabbing yours, you took a slow sip and continued. “We had to model quite a bit in fashion school for various projects and assignments.”

It wasn’t as if you were claiming to be better than him, but you did have some experience. He hummed an idle tune, bringing the straw of his drink to his mouth and sipping it in delight.

You had to bite back a frown at the monstrosity he received, the swirls of whipped cream over milky coffee. There were even sprinkles on the damn thing. You understood his comment about your order being predictable because that being his somehow made a lot of sense. Globs of the whipped cream spilt over the side of the glass and slipped down its length, the entire thing was over the top and messy.

A lot like him, you supposed. 

“Want some?” He asked cheekily, tilting the glass in your direction. He knew you were going to refuse, but the way you scrunched your nose and did such a terrible job at hiding your aversion was too entertaining to pass up on. 

“I’m good.” 

“Suit yourself.” 

You shot Rafayel a displeased look, scanning him from top to bottom. The jacket you had so carefully handstitched was unbuttoned and open so that his abs could peak through in the pictures. You didn’t let your eyes linger there, snapping them back up to his. 

“Don’t stain the jacket.” You muttered sternly, adjusting the collar of your top and centring your jewellery with one hand, the other gripping the handle of your cup. He was holding his coffee too close to himself for your liking, especially with the way the top of the whipped cream was leaning to the side, as if it was about to tip over any second now. 

“Yes, we wouldn’t want that.”

The patronising lilt of his voice told you that he was trying to get a rise out of you, but you knew he liked the jacket. When he had been made to put it on, he had looked at it appreciatively and hadn’t complained even once, which felt like nothing short of a miracle. You purposely looked anywhere but him, instead opting to watch the photographer set up for your turn. 

But Rafayel wasn’t someone you could just ignore. His presence was magnetic and all-consuming, and even when he was silent, he was distracting. The effect he had was strange and inexplicable, cutting through your general dislike towards him. 

Thankfully, the photographer turned to you and nodded. “Whenever you’re ready, miss.”

Without sparing Rafayel another glance, you handed your coffee to the staff member closest to you and strutted over, taking your place behind the camera. You took a seat on the stool they had put out for you as a makeup artist came over to give you a touch-up and fix your hair. Focusing on the camera lens, you reminded yourself what you were here for in the first place. 

But when your traitorous gaze flickered back to Rafayel, he was already looking at you.

Pages filled with sketches lay strewn out over the desk of your home office, with you hunched over them in concentration. You ran your fingers through your hair and tugged at the ends, your other hand gripping your mechanical pencil.

You may have looked like the picture of productivity, but right now, you were feeling the complete opposite. It was nearly one in the morning, and you had skipped out on dinner in favour of trying to get the conceptual designs for the spring collection done. You had been procrastinating working on them for a while now, but with only three months left before the show, the pressure was starting to set in. You usually never left things to the last minute like this – last year you had the clothes ready by this time – but for reason reason, you were having trouble with it.

All you had added to the sketches were a couple of idle lines that changed absolutely nothing. The ideas were good, very reminiscent of the typical silhouettes you tended to go for, but it felt like something was missing. 

It felt uninspired.

Not that you’d ever admit that out loud. It was bad enough that you were struggling with what you were supposed to be a genius at, but to use the very words Rafayel did to explain your predicament? That was just humiliating. 

Groaning, you ran a hand over your face and leaned back in your chair, your back sore from the horrible posture you had been maintaining for the past two-ish hours. You were distracted, but you couldn’t figure out why, because the only sounds around were the ticking of your clock and the drumming of your foot against the floor.

Finally, you gave up, emerging from your office and into the living room of your penthouse. All the lights were off, but the large ceiling-to-floor windows you had lit up the place just enough, casting shadows around in the moonlight. You had bought the place when Lumiere had just taken off, and you had more money than you ever had in your life. As a result, you ended up with an apartment on the top floor that the elevator opened directly into, that only you had access to and too much space for your good. 

The muffled sounds of New York City in the distance kept you company as you padded to your kitchen. Your appetite was non-existent – a result of your hyper-focused state – but you knew you had to eat something. 

You had been feeling unsatisfied with your sketches for a while now, and Rafayel’s comments about ensuring nothing was uninspired had hit too close to home. The last thing you wanted to do was release something you were unhappy with or considered subpar. 

God knows you hated to admit that insolent man had a point, but he did.

And you had to figure out a way around it fast.

The thing you loved more about New York was how alive it felt.

You walked down the streets, sunglasses perched on your nose. It was a Saturday, and you had decided to take a day off for yourself in the hopes that the reset would grant you some motivation for the spring collection. 

So far, you had had no run-ins with the paparazzi. Maybe this was one of those days when they had decided to be more subtle with their approach to getting content, but whatever it was, you were grateful for the sense of privacy it gave you. Realistically, even if it wasn’t the paparazzi, you knew someone would get a picture of you walking in and out of stores and post it online. That was fine, simply part and parcel of the life you had made for yourself. 

You were enjoying the peace, the cacophony of the city melting into a song so uniquely New York. You were someone who knew how to enjoy your own company, but perhaps that stemmed from the fact that you had no one else to share it with. Sure, Xavier was there, but you knew the moment the two of you hung out for extensive periods anywhere but his or your place, or the Lumiere building itself, there would be dating rumours springing about everywhere. 

Neither of you had the time nor the energy to deal with that nonsense. At least like this, you had control of the narrative, and that peace you loved so much.

Ah, yes, peace. The very thing that shattered immediately as a man ran into you. 

Okay, so you hadn’t exactly been paying attention, lost in your thoughts as you walked, but words laced with annoyance immediately tumbled out of your mouth. “Hey! Watch where you’re going!”

“Jeez, lady, I’m sorry, okay– wait, Y/n?”

Oh no. You knew that voice. 

You peered up at the offender, taking in the butter yellow cap that sat over his smushed hair, long lashes framing those beguiling eyes that were currently wide in shock. His hands flew to your arms, gripping them as he steadied both of you at the same time. You had about two seconds to acknowledge the way he was up in your personal space, pushing your sunglasses up to see if you were seeing things correctly.

“Rafayel?”

He swore under his breath, releasing your forearms as he jerked away, glaring. “Could you not yell it out for the entire street to hear?”

Why the hell was he annoyed? He was the one who had walked into you. If anyone had the right to glare like that, it was you. You blinked up at him in exasperation, wondering for the umpteenth time where he got the gall.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” You bit sarcastically, “My bad for being the unsuspecting soul you run into. Next time, I hope it's a pole.” 

He cast you a droll look that you were sure was meant to last longer, but he seemed skittish today. This was the most casually dressed you had ever seen him, a simple sweatshirt over jeans and….were those sneakers? All you had seen him in up until this moment were shirts and clothing you designed. 

Then, without warning, he grabbed your hand and pulled you along with him.

Right into a dark, dingy alley.

“What the fuck?” You blurted, more puzzled than anything else, as you yanked your hand out of his touch, holding it close to your body. “Are you high? Why on earth have you–”

“Sorry,” he breathed, holding his palm out in a manner that told you he needed a second. Not that you cared in the slightest, narrowing your eyes at him and propping a hand on your hip. 

“You have two minutes to explain why you’ve dragged me with you here.” 

A vibrant blush spread across the apples of his cheeks and ears. Well, at least he had the decency to look embarrassed. He interlaced his fingers behind his neck and glanced up a the sky, before looking back at you. 

“I was trying to outrun the paps.”

“By running into me?”

“I didn’t plan that!” He snapped, and you had to admit that it was nice to see him be the irritated one for a change. His eyebrows knitted together, an indignant pout taking over his usual, nonchalant countenance. All things considered, it was kind of cute.

“I’m not hearing any explanations.” You reminded him impatiently, raising an eyebrow. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose for two whole seconds like he was contemplating whether you were worth explaining it to. You were tempted to tell him that his two minutes were swiftly passing by.

“I ran into an ex of mine.” He confessed finally. “Cassandra Corin. Cassie.”

The name was vaguely familiar– an actress, if you remembered correctly. Blonde, blue-eyed, gorgeous. You were sure you had seen some of her work in passing, and so you nodded, prompting him to continue. “I’ve heard of her.”

“Yeah. Well, we were together for like a month, but she’s a very, uh…..dramatic person, if you will. I happened to walk out of a store, and she was right outside with the press, who she had obviously called.” There wasn’t an ounce of fondness in his voice as he spoke about the woman.

“Did she plan for you to be there?” You asked, bewildered.

“I don’t think so, but she’s the type of celebrity that subscribes to the ‘all publicity is good publicity’ agenda. A pic of us together would certainly help with that.” He explained with a surprising amount of patience. “I’ve kind of been lying low as of late, so they’re hungrier than usual to get a couple of shots. I had to run out of there, and I don’t like running.” 

Ah, there it was. You should have known he couldn’t go more than five minutes without complaining. Still, you could sympathise with his predicament, having had your fair share of experiences with trying to avoid the paparazzi.

“Right,” you raised an eyebrow. “I still don’t get why you’ve forced me into hiding with you.”

Rafayel mirrored the unimpressed look you were currently giving him. “It would be ten times worse if they saw us together. I was trying to be inconspicuous and you–” He paused, gesturing towards you from top to bottom, “–look anything but.”

Glancing down at your outfit, you let out an offended sound. “Excuse me? I can be inconspicuous.”

You were a vision, dressed in what only someone with too much money would consider casual: a light pink Chanel cardigan over a t-shirt and Prada loafers on your feet. You carried a Hermes Mini Kelly bag on your arm, Miu Miu shades pushed up on your head like a headband as you stared at him, poorly hiding your displeasure. 

“No.” Rafayel had to fight back a smile, shaking his head. “You really can’t.”

It wasn’t a bad thing, per se. He knew a thing or two about having a commanding presence, having used his own to his advantage his entire life. Unfortunately, that meant that the two of you in one place at the same time was a recipe for disaster, especially when he was trying his damnedest to avoid it.

Your scowl deepened. “You’re insufferable, I hope you know that.” 

“I’ve been told it brings out my eyes.”

Unbelievable. His ego had to be sky-high, taller than the Empire State Building. Never before had you wanted to knock someone down a couple of pegs so badly. His tone was light and airy, as if he now found the ordeal funny, and while that infuriated you, there was something melodic about his voice that you couldn’t ignore. 

“You love wasting my time, don’t you?” You grumbled under your breath, wondering how on earth you managed to get yourself into such a position and, more importantly, why you were still in it. You could have easily walked out of this stupid alley already. His eyes sparkled, but before he could say anything aggravating, another sound cut through.

MROW!

You startled at the high-pitched yowl, dropping your gaze to find an orange cat sitting by your shoes. It looked fat and happy, like too many restaurants had taken pity on it and fed the little thing leftovers. Its black eyes stared up at you, as if waiting for you to give it something to eat as well, before letting out another pitiful meow.

And how did the man standing in front of you react to this?

Rafayel yelped.

Loudly. Embarrassingly, even. He practically jumped away from you and the cat, hands in front of him in a protective stance. You blinked rapidly, unsure of how to react to that.

“Are you…okay?”

“Do I look okay?” He hissed, the action seeming very catlike. “Where the hell did that thing come from?”

That thing? You looked down at the cat that had busied itself with rubbing against your ankles, weaving in between your legs before settling back down into a seated position. 

“Rafayel,” you did your best to keep your voice level, speaking slowly, as if you were talking to a skittish animal. “Are you afraid of cats?”

“Nonsense. Why would I be afraid of them?” He eyed the cat with such disdain that one would think it had personally murdered one of his family members, or something along those lines. Regardless of what he had said, he looked terrified, his body language stiff and unnatural. You had never seen him like this, so used to his cavalier attitude and manner of carrying himself. He sniffed, still maintaining a safe distance. “They’re vile creatures. I just don’t want them anywhere near me.” 

His mouth was twisted downward in horror, and his eyebrows were raised so high they looked like they disappeared underneath the cap he had on. It resulted in an expression so comical that you had to bite the inside of your cheek in a genuine attempt to keep a straight face, but failed miserably.

You burst into laughter.

It was so sudden that it stunned Rafayel, his lips parting in shock as the sound washed over him. It felt like someone had dumped cold water on him because your laughter was intoxicating, so much brighter than he had anticipated, not that he had. It made you look younger, so much more carefree than you did with the tight-lipped facade you typically donned. Your lips stretched upwards, the edges of your eyes crinkling as you giggled at his expense.

A rare crack in your carefully crafted exterior. Intrigued, the urge to know more about you rose out of nowhere, but he clamped it down immediately.

“You’re laughing at me.” He accused, trying to keep the indignation in his voice. 

“I’m sorry!” You managed in between puffs of laughter, and now he knew something had to be very wrong with him, because he nearly told you not to apologise for it. “It’s just–it’s so adorable!” You bent down and scooped up the cat into your arms, forgetting yourself for a moment as you watched the animal snuggle against you. “How can you be scared of this?”

He thought this was ridiculous. A woman like you, dressed head to toe in designer clothing, letting a stray cat all over her. It was completely unexpected and strangely alluring.

“Put that thing down.” He narrowed his eyes at the cat as you scratched under his chin. Just as quickly as it had slipped off, he could see you compose yourself once again. You straightened out your posture, your smile fading and turning less genuine and more polite, practised. He couldn’t help but immediately miss the unfiltered version of you he had just gotten the briefest of glimpses of. 

“It’s not a thing, Rafayel, it’s a cat.” You sounded amused. “Look at how harmless it is.”

You held out the cat, and he recoiled away from you, glaring at the feline. He took his cap off, shaking his head and huffing. “It’s a viscous beast. If it scratches or bites you, don’t expect me to help you.”

The quick reply he expected from your end never came, because when he met your gaze again, you were staring at him – at his head, specifically. For all he knew, you were taking note of how terrible he looked now that he had lost the cap. Those things always made his scalp sweat, but they were his best bet at hiding his face without coming off looking too suspicious. 

“Your hair is curly.”

Your cadence was back to being clipped, short, but there was something different there as well. Softer. 

“Wow. Ladies and gentlemen, we have with us the real-life Sherlock Holmes.” He snorted, running his fingers through his tangled locks, before offering up the explanation you were clearly expecting. “Stylists usually end up straightening it. Something about it fitting my image better.”

“I see.” You studied him for a moment longer before looking back down at the cat. You quite liked his natural hair, but then again, he could probably pull off a trash bag and somehow make it look stylish. Not that he’d ever agree to that, but the thought almost made you laugh again.

Speaking of trash bags, you looked distastefully at your surroundings. “Can we get out of here now? I’m sure the press would have moved on by now.” 

“Only if you lose the cat.”

You sat behind your desk, going over some paperwork. It was the less exciting part of your job, and you always ended up letting it pile up until you had an unreasonable amount to get through all at once. Most of your employees had gone home already, and you had sent Simone on her way as well. 

The bright light of your office made your eyes hurt after the long day you had had, and you pressed your palms against them, sighing deeply. 

“Wow. Do you just live here?”

The hell? You glanced up to see Rafayel standing by the door, leaning against the doorway with his arms folded, looking right at you. The sight of him made something in the pit of your stomach turn. 

Ever since the incident with the cat from a week ago, being around him no longer boiled your blood as much as it once did. He had been going out of his way to interact with you a lot more, and you hadn’t done anything to discourage it. Make no mistake, he still got on your nerves, but you tolerated him for some reason, even when he got too casual with you.

Perhaps you had been a little too lenient.

“What are you doing here?” You demanded, pushing the paperwork to the side and narrowing your eyes at him. He pushed off the wall and walked over to your desk, plopping down in the seat across from you without any invitation to do so. 

“I could ask you the same question. I had a meeting with Andrew about rehearsals for fashion week, but I left my jacket behind, so I came back for it. Your office is the only one with the light still on, and my curiosity won. Your turn to tell me why you’re still here since it's–” he glanced down at the Rolex on his wrist. “ –Nine p.m.”

You waved your hand over the papers in front of you. “Work.”

“But you’re the only one here. Do you do this often?” He frowned, and if you paid close attention, his voice had a note of disapproval. That made sense, he seemed like the type of person to abhor working even a second overtime. Unfortunately, you were well-versed in it.

“Most days, yes.” 

He blinked. “Okay, no. Get your things. We’re leaving.”

Definitely too lenient. “We are?”

“Yep, come on. You can do….whatever you’re doing now tomorrow.” He got to his feet and stared at you expectantly, evidently waiting for you to follow suit. “I don’t think you know what a break is, but you’re going to take one right now.”

Wow. Truly, the man had unprecedented levels of entitlement to try and boss you around when technically, you were his boss.  Scoffing under your breath, your defiant gaze met his stubborn one. 

“I’m busy.” 

“You’ll be just as busy tomorrow.” 

This was ridiculous. No one dared to speak to you so brazenly, and yet there he was, doing just that if there wouldn’t be a single consequence. What you should have done was tell him to piss off and leave you alone so you finish your work like you had set out to do.

So why on earth did you grab your coat and follow him out of your office instead?

“Is this another instance of you wasting my time, Rafayel?” You asked as you approached his car in the parking lot. You still weren’t sure what possessed you to actually follow him, but it was too late to back out of it now. A smirk teased his lips.

“Maybe.” His response resulted in you grumbling under your breath, and he laughed, fishing his keys out of his pocket and pressing a button to unlock his sleek, black Mercedes. He slid into the drivers seat and cocked his head in your direction. “Get in.”

God help you, because for some reason, you complied. “Are you going to tell me where you’re taking me?” You settled in the passenger seat, taking in the interior, because, of course, the seats were covered in bright red leather. It was as unashamedly flashy as he was in every sense of the word.

“It’s a surprise.” 

“I don’t like surprises.”

Rafayel started the car, smoothly pulling out of the parking lot and onto the road. With one hand on the gear stick and the other on the steering wheel, the scene of him driving was ridiculously attractive for something so normal. You told yourself it was just because he was a conventionally attractive person. “Of course, you don’t. Relax, Miss Designer, don’t you ever loosen up?” 

“Not if I can help it.”

“I figured. You look like the type to not know the meaning of fun” And clearly, he was a stranger to the concept of holding his tongue. One glance at the offended look on your face only made him want to tease you even more. Not too long ago, he was convinced the only expressions you were capable of were scowls and glares, but he had recently learned that you had an entire arsenal of them. Your nose would scrunch when you were disgusted, your lips would part when you were caught off guard, and if something happened to amuse you, you wouldn’t smile immediately. Instead, the smile would start in your eyes, and oftentimes stay there. 

It felt like he was slowly but surely unlocking new sides to you, and he wanted nothing more than to unravel all of them. Most of all, he wanted to figure out how to get that pretty laugh out of you once more. 

For no reason in particular. He was just a naturally curious person. 

“Look,” he reasoned with you. “You’re gonna have to trust me on this one, alright? It’s not far off and it's worth it.” 

“...Fine.” You finally relented, relaxing just a little as you leaned back in the passenger seat and busied yourself by looking out of the window as he drove. Minutes later, he pulled up by a modern-looking structure that consisted of only a ground floor. Once he parked, he cleared his throat.

“Ready?”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to be ready for,” you said dryly, undoing your seatbelt and getting out of the car. He grinned like he had won the lottery. 

“That’s what makes it even better.” Faulty logic and all, he led you to the entrance of the building and opened the door, sauntering inside like he owned the place. You lingered outside, noting how all the lights were off, and it clearly looked like it was closed. 

You couldn’t not be suspicious. “Are we trespassing?” 

“Nah. Trespassing would mean we’re here without permission.” Rafayel gestured for you to follow him into the darkness, the moonlight filtering in through the door and letting you see just enough of him to not lose your bearings. He reached out and felt around the wall before humming triumphantly and flipping a switch. “There we go. Stop thinking so much and trust me, yeah?” 

Squinting to readjust your eyesight to the now-bright lighting, you were left even more dumbfounded than before. “We’re in an….art gallery?”

White walls with frames hanging on them surrounded you, each with little plaques under the art pieces with the artist's information. Some of the walls were constructed in the centre of the room for people to walk around as they inspected the art. There didn’t seem to be any sort of theme with the current display, from what you could tell. 

“Again, with those deduction skills,” he teased, and strangely enough, you didn’t want to slap him for it. “I’ll have you know that art can be very therapeutic. Great for taking a break from working”

It wasn’t every day you found yourself spontaneously being dragged to an art gallery, and having company was something even rarer. You had long since made peace with your lifestyle and its lonesome nature, but you were admittedly enjoying his presence, even if it was a little too chaotic for your liking. 

“I’m pretty sure thats to do with creating it.” You almost smiled when he glared at you for your rebuttal. Huffing, he turned and walked further into the gallery, leaving you with no choice but to follow along. You were well aware that you were encouraging his crazy behaviour, but it wasn’t like you could stop now. 

So you picked up your pace, pulling your coat around yourself tighter as you took in the different art pieces. Portraits, landscapes and some abstract pieces, the different art styles captivated you. You had always had an affinity for art, since fashion was so intrinsically intertwined with it. 

Lost in your thoughts, you almost walked right into his back. Fortunately, he turned around at the perfect moment and reached out, hand on your shoulder. The contact snapped you out of it, and you looked up at him only to find an apprehensive look in his eyes. That didn’t make much sense though, considering how cocky and self-assured he was. 

Raising your eyebrows in silent question, he sighed and moved out of your line of sight, revealing a wall.

Your eyes widened, all the air in your lungs leaving you at once.

The wall was covered in artwork of the sea. Every single piece was extremely detailed, some moody with their depictions of storms and deadly waves and others painting a picture of the sea at its calmest. 

It was stunning, and even that word felt like an understatement. It simply did not do what you were currently looking at justice. The artist had captured the terrifying beauty of the sea so perfectly that looking at it stirred something akin to inspiration inside of you.

To you, the seafom resembled lace. The wheels in your head began to turn as more comparisons burst forth – the sand could be chiffon, and the waves themselves draped like silk. It had been so long since you had felt creativity like this that all you could do was stare, letting your skills take over and work through all the ideas that rushed forth, feeling overwhelmed and delighted all at once.

A singular plaque on the wall sat low and hidden away, tucked under all the art. You crouched down slightly, eager to know the person who had inspired you once more.

Anonymous.

You blinked, rising to your full height as you looked back at the art, dazed. “It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

You spun around, unable to stop yourself from gaping at him. His stance was relaxed, hands in his pockets, and his eyes trained on the artwork. At first, you had thought you had misheard him, but the tone of his voice and the way he was looking at the paintings with what could only be described as pride told you otherwise.

“You made these?” 

Your disbelief was unmistakable, and it stung a little. He chuckled at the incredulity in your voice as you asked the question, nodding slowly.  “Surprised?”

“Very, yes.” You glanced between the art and him. “Why have you shown me this, Rafayel?”

“You don’t think very much of me,” It was a statement, rather than a question. He said it with a small simper, but it was unlike the one he usually wore. It was genuine, if not a little sad, no traces of that signature smirk of his as he met your eyes now. 

“You’ve never given me a reason to.” 

“Well, there you go. Here’s your reason.” His voice was oddly quiet. “To think of me better, that is.”

You truly didn’t know what to make of that. Only one question remained in your mind as you eyed the artist's plaque that held no information about the man beside you. “Why have you chosen to be anonymous? Your work is wonderful.”

Pride flickered to life in his eyes once more, like your compliment meant something. “Because this way, people will appreciate my art for what it is, without my affiliation. I’m not an idiot, Y/n, I know the entire world knows who I am. The moment they find out I’m the one who painted these, it won’t just be about the art anymore. It’ll be about me. Sure, it would get a lot more attention than it does here, sitting in the back of a barely known art gallery, but at least whatever attention it does get is real.”

Oh.

Rafayel was shallow, with a silver tongue he didn’t know how to control. He infuriated you to no end and thought much too highly of himself for his own good. He was vain, arrogant, and about a dozen other things that you thought of as faults. 

But he was so much more. As of late, you were beginning to see who he was past all of that. You saw the man who was irrationally afraid of cats and, for some reason, went out of his way to talk to you. You saw the artist behind the model, curls and all. The softer smiles and perceptiveness that you would have never attributed to him before. 

“I won’t say this often, so don’t get used to it.” You said slowly, glancing back at him. “But you were right, I did need a break. Thank you for this.”

He and you weren’t so different. Both of you were artists in your own right, seeking control over the art you created. The only difference was that he held that control by distancing himself from his work, whereas you were the very essence of yourself. Both of you had pride that clashed and egos that didn’t take kindly to bruising.

You no longer knew what to make of Qi Rafayel. That should have scared you. 

But when he flashed you a boyish grin at your admittance to him being right, you realised that it didn’t.

It was past ten when Rafayel dropped you back home.

You made a beeline for your home office, forgetting to take off your shoes in your frenzied state. Within minutes, you were hunched over new, fresh pieces of paper, your old sketches discarded in a trash can and forgotten about. Your pencil flew over the pages as you frantically began to draw out new designs, eager to capture the ideas that had been swirling around in your head the moment you saw those paintings. 

Inspiration was powerful, but fleeting. For the next two hours, you poured everything out onto those pages, and it felt like you were submerged underwater, unable to come up for air until you were finished. Your newest collection came to fruition that night, born from an unexpected muse. 

When you were done and the sound of waves in your mind receded, you were left with the sounds of the city and a sense of tired satisfaction. 

Jimmy Choo's were meant to be savoured. They were the type of shoes that people glided in, they made the simple act of walking an experience to remember. 

They were not meant for the furious strides of one very livid fashion designer.

“Andrew!” Your model's manager flinched at the sharpness in your voice as you addressed him. “Why on earth are they not walking yet?”

“There’s just been a small delay–”

“I am in no mood for excuses.” You snapped, sweeping your gaze over the lineup of models standing ready but doing absolutely nothing. “Honestly, I’m starting to think I’m surrounded by imbeciles. First, I find out that the hems of an entire rack of shirts have been messed up and have to spend my entire morning explaining how to fix that problem to people who apparently don’t know how to do their jobs. Then I come here to check on how rehearsal is going, only to see that it hasn’t even begun.” 

Andrew scrambled to appease you. “We’re starting right away!”

With that strangled declaration, he jumped into action, snapping his fingers in the direction of the models. “All of you! Behind the curtain, stat! In order, I want all of you walking out like you will for the show, understood? Chop Chop!”

Rafayel watched you from the end of the line, moving along with it until he was positioned correctly. This was the first rehearsal for the Paris Fashion Week show that was rapidly approaching, with only about two months left before the final day. Today, all that was taking place were run-throughs of the walks and setting the order of the models walking. His position was confirmed since the start, he would be the last one to walk, the much-anticipated closer of the show. 

He noticed your tense shoulders, the way your lips were pressed together in a thin, displeased line. The first model walked out, and you studied her like a hawk, no doubt mentally filing away all your criticisms. Imposing as ever, your bad mood was evident.

For some crazy reason, he wanted to help alleviate it. He had seen past this untouchable facade you put up and had peeked through the cracks in your walls a couple of times now, when your pink lips curled upward just slightly, and your eyes glimmered a little brighter than usual. When you were just yourself, instead of the persona you played to stay at the top. 

It seemed to him that you didn’t let anyone see that side of you. Instead, you did everything in your power to avoid letting it show.

What a lonely existence that must have been. 

He walked out onto the practice runway when it was his turn, one foot in front of the other as he glided smoothly, focusing on a spot on the wall directly in front of him. It was the same old routine he had practised and perfected for years now.

When he reached the end, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other before turning around. His view shifted to you, and he let it linger, savouring the way you stared at him. For a split second, he was sure your expression softened, but just as quickly, that softness vanished. He continued his walk until he disappeared behind the curtain once more.

Another run-through with Andrew yelling out the changes he wanted each model to make, and then they were all afforded a generous ten-minute break. Rafeyel did not know why he found himself gravitating towards where you stood. 

“Shouldn’t you be with the rest of the models?” You raised an eyebrow as he approached you, trying your best to sound as indifferent as possible. That wasn’t something you typically had trouble with, but now it felt a little harder to do when faced with the intensity of his attention. 

“When have I ever done anything I was supposed to?” 

You exhaled, shaking your head bemusedly. “Don’t sound so proud of it.”

“You look stressed.” Rafayel's voice was low and thoughtful, almost as if he actually cared. You snuffed out that thought. He had been on your mind a dangerous amount as of late, but there was a perfectly rational explanation for that: he had inspired you. 

“I’m always stressed. I’ve been on my feet all day.” You rubbed the spot between your eyebrows with your index and middle finger, smoothening out the frown that had formed. 

“Have you learnt nothing from being around me? What happened to taking breaks?�� He groaned, but it was more theatrical than genuinely perturbed. “Or do you need me around to make sure you take them?”

Absolutely not. Having Rafayel around was proving to be detrimental to your sanity for reasons entirely different to those expected. You tilted your head towards the other models and waved your hand in their general direction. “What I need you to do is your job, not loiter around here.” 

 He laughed like you had told the world's funniest joke, pinning you in place with a knowing look. “Oh, just admit it already. I’m the most entertainment you’ve had in a while. You love being around me, even if you don’t want to admit it. 

You pursed your lips. “The jury’s still out on that one.”

“Is it, though?” His habit of incessantly questioning you was getting old, but that addictive drawl of his voice pulled you right back in. “You’re smiling.”

To your mild dismay, you realised he was right. Now that he pointed it out, you could feel how the apples of your cheeks were raised with the upward curve of the sides of your mouth. Scoffing, you tried your best to erase any evidence of the sort as you turned away, but to no avail. 

“Your break is over, you can stop pestering me now.” But your tone was lighter than it had been all day. He rolled his eyes good-naturedly and walked off, joining the group of models who were gearing up to practice their walks once more. As the distance between the two of you increased, you realised with a start that you unfortunately did quite like being around him. 

But there wasn’t a rule that said you had to admit to such a thing. Rafayel was like a breath of fresh air after almost drowning, or a lagoon in the middle of a desert. Unpredictable and against everything you knew to be true about life, and yet…

There was something undeniably charged between the two of you, from the way he sought you out and how you let him linger. Neither of you dared to acknowledge this, however, keeping your distance literally and figuratively. 

As he paraded down the runway once again with the elegance of a swan but the flamboyance of a peacock, you couldn’t help but wonder if it was that predictability and control you so desperately clung to that held you back. The second you let yourself go for just a little while, you found the inspiration you had been so desperately waiting for.

The past week had you being more productive than you had in months, your designs for fashion week already in production. With how everything was going, the collection for the runway would be ready by next week, which would finally put everything back on track. You had to constantly check in to ensure things were going exactly how you wanted them to, but for the first time in a long time, it felt like you could let go of your tight hold and just breathe.

And if a certain pretty boy was plaguing your thoughts, well, that was no one else's business. 

Maybe he was rubbing off on you.

“This way.” You turned the corner into yet another hallway, causing Rafayel to wonder just how big the Lumiere building was. You had summoned him there out of the blue, giving him no explanation as to why you wanted him there and only reminding him to be on time. The request was definitely unlike your usual self, more aligned with his impulsive nature, but he couldn’t bring himself to refuse.

And so there he was, following you through the endless corridors. When he had asked why he was there, all he received was an uncharacteristically mischievous look in your eyes and nothing more. When he probed for answers, you only said one thing: “I thought you liked surprises.”

Never in a million years had he expected you, of all people, to throw his words back in his face. You had successfully piqued his curiosity, and he trailed behind you now, eager to see what you had in store.

Finally, you stopped in front of a door and brought out a pair of keys. “Currently, only select individuals have access to this room,” you informed him as you unlocked it, before pausing and looking at him. “You’ll be the first and only person who isn’t from Lumiere itself to witness what I’m about to show you. It goes without saying that it’s a secret for now.”

“I feel like the Sherlock joke has gone a little too far,” he muttered dryly. “You have a thing for suspense now.”

Your lips twitched, and you pushed the door open, letting him enter first. When he did, he froze in place, jaw falling open as he made sense of what he was looking at.

Mannequins filled the room, the same number as the number of models there were for the fashion week show. Each form had complete outfits on, and each one was exquisite in ways he couldn’t properly describe the way it deserved. Navy blue satin gowns with hand-stitched embroidery and ivory-coloured lace hems, intricate golden beading on cream corset tops, deep turquoise shirts made of the finest silk, and skirts that looked like waterfalls, layered with intent, short in the front and long in the back. Netted tops and coats with the most gorgeous pearl detailing he had ever seen, flowy chiffon shirts that were artfully tucked into white pants – every piece was thoughtfully designed and lovingly put together. 

Rafayel was rendered completely speechless. 

“Introducing Lumiere’s 20[XX]  Spring Collection.” You announced, stepping beside him and regarding your work with pride. Your hands were tucked behind your back, your stance bashful, but he could tell you were anything but. You knew what your work was worth, and you weren’t shy about it. 

He wasn’t the type of person who was used to having nothing to say – quite the opposite – but there he was, rooted to the spot in awe as you walked over to one of the mannequins and slightly adjusted the skirt on it. The simple action told him just how much each piece meant to you, how well you knew them. He intimately understood the familiarity an artist had with their work, but seeing that mirrored in you was something else entirely.

“Y/n,” he breathed out, “This is…”

“I’m hoping you’re going to say ‘impressive.’ It might be a little too late to walk for Chanel now.” There you were again, throwing his own words back in his face, and he couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out why he liked it so much. It was so completely unlike you. 

“It’s more than impressive, you’ve outdone yourself.” He said, finally managing to break out of the reverie he had found himself in. 

“Is that so?” You looked over your shoulder back at him, the slightest of smiles teasing your lips. “You haven’t even seen what you’re going to wear yet.” 

Without so much as another glance in his direction, you gracefully weaved through the mannequins to the back of the room. It was all he could do to follow along, doing his utmost best not to knock anything over as he gaped. As he passed each outfit up close, details he hadn't seen before revealed themselves, and he had to resist reaching out to touch.

And in the back, on the final mannequin, was the garment that took his breath away. 

A shirt made from blood red organza silk that had an iridescent quality to it, shifting colours when the light hit it from different angles. From red to blue to violet, Rafayel found himself entranced by its ever-changing nature, eyeing the pale blue pearl details on the collar with deep appreciation. It was completely sheer, with subtle winding patterns stitched into the delicate fabric that resembled coral. 

“I hand-stitched this one myself, and in three weeks, you’ll be the one wearing it to close my show.” You said softly, trailing your fingers over the sleeve with care. You toyed with the end of it, watching how his eyes went wide and lips parted in something close to reverence. 

“It’s phenomenal. All of it is.” He couldn’t tear his eyes away from it, taking a step closer to you and the mannequin. “It’s so different from anything I’ve seen, especially from you.”

“Yeah, well, I realised that I didn’t just want to put out a collection that meant nothing.” It was true, the very thing that had driven you as you had put the collection around you together. “Fashion is more than just clothing. It’s an art form. It’s supposed to evoke a feeling, to be able to tell a story and have its own identity.” 

The devotion you possessed towards your work was admirable, it was so plainly obvious that this was exactly what you were meant to do. Utterly enamoured, he spoke, “It’s gonna be one hell of a show.”

The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. You had been around him long enough to know he wasn’t someone who took anything too seriously, but the earnest look he was giving you that he definitely took this – and by extension, you – very seriously. 

“Good, but I don’t want to just want to put on any show. I want it to be a performance.” You aimed to leave an impact, for people to leave the show and think about the experience for weeks, maybe even months, after. Rafayel realised that you were trusting him with enabling that by divulging your vision to him.

“Then it’s an honour to be one of your performers.”

That earned him a proper smile, not just the hint of one. It was small but mighty, starting in your eyes like your smiles always did, but this one was the rare type that reached your mouth and lit up your features. He found himself feeling winded for the second time in the past ten minutes, but this time it was because of you and not the clothing. At least he could explain the latter option.

“In that case, what do you think about a more permanent position at Lumiere?”

It wasn’t like this was the first time he had been offered this, but shock infiltrated his system anyway. “Like Xavier Shen?”

You nodded. “Like Xavier. A brand ambassador.” Waving a hand around, you continued, “You fit with Lumiere’s image and the vision I have for my brand, so I believe you won’t disappoint. I don’t say that lightly, or to every model. Of course, I’m not forcing anything on you, and you can take your time to think about it.” 

Such plainly stated praise from the impossible-to-please Y/n L/n was practically unheard of, but there you were, staring at him with finality in your eyes. Arms folded over your chest, hair pinned up in that perfect bun as always and stiletto-clad feet, you were the same as always and yet he couldn’t seem to perceive you as he had in the past. 

Thomas would be overjoyed at him finally taking something seriously. His aunt would certainly approve of the collaboration, and he’d be walking for a fashion house he actually cared about. It seemed perfect.

“I don’t need time.” Rafayel looked at the shirt that he would soon be wearing. “You’ve got yourself a new brand ambassador.”

The airhostess led you to your seat in first class, dragging your carry-on suitcase behind her. Once your bag was in the overhead cabin and you were settled in your seat, she returned a couple of minutes later with the drinks menu and a cart, patiently waiting for your order. You leaned back in the plush seat and scanned over the available options. 

“A glass of Dom Pérignon, please.”

God knows, you’d need the drink. Alcohol now acquired, you took a leisurely sip and tried your best to relax, but that was easier said than done. Boarding was still going on, and in about half an hour, you’d be airborne. The thought caused your stomach to churn. 

To say you weren’t a fan of flying would be an understatement. Sure, you had to do it a lot for work and should’ve probably been used to it by now, but that wasn’t the case at all. Oftentimes, you found yourself clutching at the armrests for dear life during take-off, which, in your opinion, was the worst bit, and remained on edge throughout the flight. Even the comfort of first class didn’t help very much. 

When you landed in Paris, there would be exactly ten days before the start of Fashion Week. You would be at your busiest since NYFW, and the added stress of anticipating that only added to your jittery state. Sighing deeply, you closed your eyes for a moment to ground yourself, index and middle finger rubbing against your temple. 

“Well, hello there, neighbour. Fancy seeing you here.”

Your eyes flew open, settling on the culprit of the voice. 

Rafayel stood in the booth right next to yours, looking the opposite of how you felt, completely at ease in this setting. 

“Why are you here?”

He raised an eyebrow. “The same as you, I presume, to get to Paris. Did you expect me to take a boat or something?” And then, as if he owned the place (which was his usual way of carrying himself), he rested his arms over the walls of your small enclosure, chin propped in his palm. “I guess Thomas booked the same flight as yours.”

“It certainly seems that way. Are you going to bother me the entire flight?” You felt mildly embarrassed at how you had blurted out the question so disgracefully. 

“As much as I possibly can, yes.” He beamed like he had delivered the best news of your life. “Isn't it lucky our seats are so close?”

“Such a blessing,” You deadpanned, needing another drink despite your current one not being anywhere close to finished. The rest of the first class was completely empty, which meant you were stuck with his relentless pestering, whether you liked it or not, confined to the same space as him for the next seven and a half hours. 

Brilliant. 

Rafayel snorted. “I’m going to pretend that you meant that.” The airhostess appeared once again with her cart, and he opted for whiskey, neat and on the rocks. Once he had obtained his drink, he turned to you and held his glass out. “Cheers.” 

You were too busy giving him an unimpressed look to remember your flying anxiety, until one of the airhostesses stepped into the first class section and announced that the takeoff would be soon. Immediately, you put your drink in its holder and frantically gripped the armrest as she went through the motions of the safety debrief. Rafayel sat down in his own seat, but looked over at you in amusement. 

“You seriously pay attention to these things?”

“What does it look like?”

“I mean, haven’t you been on enough flights to know the basics by now?” He fastened his seatbelt as the safety instructions were done, and the lights dimmed, the plane getting ready for take-off. 

“It doesn’t hurt to be reminded.” You muttered under your breath, but the cadence of your voice had taken a shaky turn, which was a far cry from its usual firm, clipped nature. Rafayel shot you an inquisitive look before noticing the death grip you had on the armrest and the tense set of your shoulders. 

Whatever teasing comment that lay on the tip of his tongue dissolved as he dropped his voice. “Hey. Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine.”

“That was the most unconvincing ‘I’m fine’ I’ve ever heard.” He tilted his head and studied you for a moment. “You’re pale.” 

The plane began to pick up speed, causing you to dig your manicured nails into the leather of the armrest and stare straight ahead at the blank screen in front of you. Usually, you always started a movie by now to distract yourself from your fear, but this time, you had paid so much attention to Rafayel that you had forgotten your routine when it came to flying.

But your silence told Rafayel everything he needed to know. “Hey. Look at me.”

“Rafayel, I am in no mood for your–”

“Tell me about the Spring Collection.”

You whipped your head to him, considerably confused by the sudden change of topic. “What? Why? You’ve seen the entire thing upfront.”

He sighed theatrically and gave you a pointed look. “Just do it, will you?”

This bizarre man. You didn’t think you’d ever be able to understand how his brain worked. Still, if there was one thing you allowed yourself to brag about, it was your work. Crossing your legs, you tried your best to relax in your seat. 

“It’s inspired by the sea, which actually, you have yourself to thank for,” you said, getting straight to the point without beating around the bush. 

Rafayel’s lips parted. “I do?” 

“Your art.” You clarified, giving him a meaningful look. “It really struck a chord in me. One look at it and I knew exactly what I wanted to do for the collection, which was surprising considering I had been going through a bit of a creative rut.” You recalled how your creativity had come rushing back to you all at once, the moment you set your eyes on his paintings. 

He told himself he’d dissect the warm feeling in his gut later, a smug look taking over his features. “I am nothing if not inspiring.”

You scoffed under your breath, shaking your head in disbelief at his conceitedness and wondering why-oh-why you found it somewhat endearing now. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Too late.” A slow, languid smirk stretched out on his lips as he took a sip of his whiskey, the amber liquid swirling around in his glass. Your eyes betrayed you, dropping to his mouth and watching as his tongue darted out to lick his lips. “I’m gonna brag about this forever. Where is the show going to be held?”

“In a cathedral.” You averted your gaze, feeling heat creep up your neck and onto the apples of your cheeks. Clearing your throat, you sipped your champagne in an attempt to soothe your ruffled feathers, hoping it would cool you down and keep your face from flushing. 

What the fuck was wrong with you? 

“A cathedral, huh? You’re really going all out.” He rubbed his chin in thought. “It’s gonna have a very operatic feel to it.” 

“That’s exactly what I’m going for,” you admitted, pleasantly surprised that he had grasped exactly what you wanted to put across without you going in depth at all. It was as if he had reached into your mind and taken the words out of your mouth. Even Xavier wasn’t this perceptive.

Now, why on earth were you comparing him to Xavier? This was madness. Something was obviously very wrong with you since your train of thought had never been this outlandish before. You couldn’t make sense of it at all, simply because you had never been subjected to feeling this way before. Why was there a fluttery sensation in the pits of your stomach? What was this warmth that seemed to simmer underneath the expanse of your skin every time he looked at you? 

Oh my god. Were you flustered by Qi Rafayel?

As that absolutely insane possibility made itself known, the lights in the cabin flickered back on, pulling you out of your thoughts and back to reality. Rafayel was already watching you, amused, taking another leisurely sip of his drink and blissfully unaware of your inner turmoil. Blinking rapidly, you realised that you were already airborne and had made it through take-off without a hitch.

And that was when it hit you: all this talk about the collection and the show had been for your benefit. The model had been distracting you on purpose, somehow picking up on your fear. His presence, one that you had previously considered as bothersome, had been the very thing to calm you down. 

You didn’t know what to say. 

“Now then,” he picked up the bowlful of salted nuts one of the airhostesses had gotten upon his request, eyes twinkling as he popped a handful into his mouth. “Tell me more.”

Day one of Paris Fashion Week was a whirlwind.

You had been invited to watch two shows that day, the first of which was a Marc Jacobs runway show. The second show was for Dubois Designs, after which Gabriette had made sure to personally meet you and insist that you attend the afterparty as well. The new addition to your schedule gave you less than an hour to get ready for the aforementioned party, since right before it, you had a talk and presentation with Anna Wintour. 

Between the glitz and glamour and one too many coffees, it was only the first day, and you had been thrust right back into the chaos you so loved and thrived in. 

Dubois Designs was huge in Paris, being the home city of the brand and the founder. Even with your conditional friendship with Gabriette, you could admit that her show had been incredible. The exaggerated silhouettes had been eye-catching, and the craftsmanship was truly remarkable. 

You descended the stairs and found yourself in a large, crowded basement. The party itself was in full swing, moody red lighting bathing the entire room while simultaneously keeping it dark. It fit the edgier aesthetic that Dubois Designs tended to lean towards, despite being a luxury fashion house. A DJ was tucked into a corner, mixing the electronic music as the backdrop for people to drink and dance to their heart's content. 

Familiar faces stopped and greeted you as you made your way to the bar, knowing you’d definitely need a drink to enjoy all this. The darkness made it a little harder to recognise people, but most of them were well-known faces in the industry, from models to actors and even some well-known influencers. Having to be social at almost midnight was not something you particularly enjoyed, but it was the start of fashion week, and your adrenaline was at an all-time high, making all of this much more tolerable than usual. 

Getting yourself a gin and tonic, you began consuming it at a pace that would ensure you had a pleasant buzz in about twenty minutes. The energy around you was palpable, the ebb and flow of it was surprisingly infectious, forcing you to subconsciously loosen up. 

“Y/n! You made it!”

The French accent gave her away before she even stepped into your line of sight. Gabriette appeared seemingly out of nowhere, throwing her arms around you and giving you air kisses on both cheeks. You returned the gesture, tentatively returning her hug before pulling away.

“Of course I did. How could I ever refuse a personal invite from you?” You smiled the commercial smile you practised for events such as these. “After a show like that, I knew the afterparty would be just as spectacular.”

It was obvious that she was still riding off the high that the success of her show had brought, but you couldn’t blame her. She laughed, the sound a tad bit too shrill, “You are too kind. I have people to meet, but please, enjoy yourself.”

And with another exaggerated air kiss, she left you to your own devices, continuing on her mission of making rounds through the party. Events like these always tended to be impersonal, interactions were short and fleeting, and the more connections you managed to make in one night, the better. The industry was filled with young people looking to connect, and this was the best way to do so.

You finished your drink while chatting with the creative director of Louis Vuitton, who expressed their excitement for your upcoming show. As you engaged in conversation, you observed the scenes going on all around you, a sense of wistfulness taking over you. There was a point in your life when you thought you’d never belong in this world, back then when it felt too out of reach for a young aspirant such as yourself. 

As your eyes swept across the room, they snagged on a familiar pair staring right back at you. 

Rafayel cocked his head to the side when he caught your eye, immediately excusing himself from the conversation he had been having and making his way over. Unsure of what compelled you to do the same, you slipped through the crowd until you met him halfway.

“I did not think you would be here,” you admitted once within earshot. You hadn’t seen him for the past two days, with him being busy with photoshoots and other such events, his manager had added to his itinerary at the last minute (to his dismay). 

Now that he was before you, his gaze dropped, slowly dragging over your figure from bottom to top like he was committing it to memory. The act sent inexplicable shivers up your spine, and you gripped your glass to show yourself from physically reacting, but that was harder said than done. 

He wore a dark red shirt that had shimmery lilies embroidered across it, mostly unbuttoned to expose the smooth skin of his chest and torso. With his hair slightly dishevelled in a way that made him seem effortlessly attractive and the dark lighting casting sharp shadows over his face that brought out the intensity in his typically soft visage, he was truly something to behold. 

Devilishly handsome, temptation incarnate.

“Gabriette invited me.” He waved his hand dismissively as he explained, like he didn’t really care. “Something about nurturing goodwill.”

“She’s all about that, isn’t she?” You muttered dryly. The loud music almost made your quip inaudible, but he caught on anyway, delighted at the hint of the sassy nature you possessed under all that seriousness. 

“I didn’t think this was your scene.” 

You wore a blue drop waist Lumiere mini dress and Isabel Marant fringe boots on your feet. Signature Vivienne Westwood earrings dangled from your ears, glinting through your styled hair whenever the light caught them. The entire outfit was in stark contrast to what he was used to seeing you in, devoid of any formality and primness. 

“It’s not, but you know.” A playful smirk adorned your lips as you swayed to the music, looking so much more relaxed than normal.  “Goodwill and all.”

God, he could get addicted to that. “Shame, you secretly being a party girl would have made you even more interesting.”

“Am I not interesting enough for you?” Your voice teetered on the edge of mockery with the question, shifting your weight from one foot to the other and staring up at him defiantly. 

“Trust me, Y/n, you have no idea just how interesting I think you are.” He said smoothly, plucking your drink out of your hand and placing it off to the side, but before you could reprimand him for doing so, his hand cupped your elbow gently and pulled you along with him. 

“Dance with me.”

It wasn’t a request, but rather a statement he was annoyingly sure you would comply with. You supposed you didn’t have much of a say in the matter with how he was basically dragging you with him, but it had been a while since you found yourself able to be properly irritated with him. 

Even in the dim lighting, you were acutely aware of how people watched the two of you, eyes following your every movement, but you knew who they were actually looking at. You might have been Y/n L/n, the fashion industry's darling, but he was Qi Rafayel. You didn’t live under a rock; you knew of his reputation as the life of the party, but now you could see that play out in real time. A party wasn’t a good one without him. In all honesty, that was probably the reason Gabriette invited him in the first place.

Rafayel was made for the spotlight. Wickedly charming with levels of confidence that some would spend their entire life chasing, he basked in the attention being thrown his way like it was a form of currency. Perhaps it was, in a sense, what they exchanged to be able to admire such an alluring soul in his element.

The entire room watched him, but Rafayel? His eyes were locked on you. 

You felt your mouth go dry, and a hammering began within the confines of your ribcage, slow at first but building up to a crescendo. His hands slipped from your elbows down to your waist, holding you gingerly. Everyone begged for even a speck of his attention, but all of his was on you, and the effect was downright dizzying. 

“You look beautiful.”

“Thank you.” 

How proper of you. Mirth danced about in his expression as he pulled you just a tad closer, knowing fully well he was pushing your limits. “Aren’t you going to pay the compliment back?”

“You’re a world-famous model, Rafayel. I harshly think you need me telling you how good you look.” You looked over his shoulder, unable to hold any eye contact with him. 

“No,” he mused, dipping his head until his mouth was just by your ear. “But you could tell me how hot I am.” 

Every syllable dripped with that delicious, insufferable cockiness you desperately wished you still loathed. You could feel the warmth of his breath tickle the skin of your neck, and you turned your head until you were face to face with each other, so painfully close it felt illegal. 

One thing was becoming quickly apparent to you, and that was that whatever you felt towards Rafayel wasn’t the plain old, run-of-the-mill attraction. That was just one aspect of it, especially in this moment, running through the charged air between the two of you like an electric current. The tension was almost tangible, like a live wire you were tempted to wrap your fingers around and tug.

But there was so much more. His willingness to share his art with you, even though he kept it a secret from the rest of the world. Distracting you on the plane. Challenging you to be better, even when you hated how he went about it. You, turning him into your muse, letting him inspire both you and your work. 

You had disliked him because he was out of your realm of control. He wasn’t someone you could put a leash on and expect to follow every order; no, he did things his way and forced you to see the good in it. Now, however, you realised that you didn’t want to try and control him. You liked the unpredictability.

“I’d never do that.” You whispered, hating how breathless you must have sounded. Still, you made no effort to reclaim your personal space, addicted to the close proximity from the second you had been exposed to it. You finally understood why everyone wanted this. Wanted him. 

A knowing smile stretched across his face, and in spite of your best efforts, you found yourself utterly enraptured by it. 

“Oh, I know.”

Rafayel was tipsy, just about aware of the bass-boosted music, with a lazy smile on his face as he ordered two drinks at the bar. You were somewhere out there waiting for him to return with them, no doubt ready with a scathing remark about how long he was taking. 

He didn’t know what he was doing. He couldn’t recall the last time he felt so bewitched by someone, solely because he never let anyone get close enough. Keeping people at arm's length was something he was well-versed in, but for some reason, he had only pulled you closer.  His attempts at breaking down your walls had resulted in him letting you through his.

You, and your scrutinising gaze and sharp tongue. Beautiful. Unforgiving. 

“Mr. Qi?”

He turned to the source of the voice, finding a man standing there with a determined look on his face. Rafayel raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Lovely to make your acquaintance, sir, I’m Gabriette Dubois’ assistant.” He adjusted his glasses and continued. “Miss Dubois is overjoyed that you made it, and she would be here herself if something hadn’t come up. She wanted me to pass on a message.”

The drinks arrived. Rafayel tugged them closer to where he leaned against the bar, nodding. “Go on.”

“Miss Dubois is interested in working with you once again.” The assistant held out a business card, evidently not picking up on the man's surprise. As far as he remembered, the collaboration between Dubois Designs and him had been a couple of years ago and a roaring success, but there had never been any talk of extending it. He had expected that, since he had been his usual difficult self, Gabriette hadn’t appreciated it very much. Moreover, this was before he had catapulted into being considered one of the world's hottest models, so she had had no reason to keep him on for any longer.

“I see.”

“She awaits good news from your end. Take the time to think about it.” 

And with that, the man left Rafayel alone once more. He toyed with the business card for a couple of moments before slipping it into his pocket. Then, he picked up the drinks and made his way back to you.

“How many times have you been to Paris?”

You stitched your eyebrows together in thought. “Four times, maybe?”

Rafayel looked scandalised, eyes widening and mouth falling open like you had personally offended him. “And this is your first time exploring?”

“I come here very briefly and only for work, Rafayel,” You spooned a heap of thick cream into your hot chocolate. “I should be working right now, but someone insisted I accompany him to the middle of nowhere.”

“I insisted you take a break, since you clearly don’t know how to take one yourself.” 

That much was true. After a gruelling rehearsal (one that ended in you talking sternly to your employees about not ensuring the practice runway was to scale), he had caught up to you and demanded you drop everything and follow him. Maybe all the stress had been getting to you because you let him convince you, but not without complaint. You made your annoyance with the situation quite obvious, even if it wasn’t genuine at all. 

He had suggested taking a walk, which is what this insane outing had started as, but when you admitted to never having actually explored the city, he acted like you had personally offended him. He decided to take matters into his own hands, which was how you ended up in a small boulangerie that was hidden away in one of the Parisian streets. 

The hot chocolate was rich, and the croissant you had ordered was perfectly buttery and flaky. By no means did the bakery look like a place a celebrity would frequent, with its old-timey decor and peeling paint job, but it had a certain charm to it, run by a lovely old lady who immediately began fussing over Rafayel the moment the two of you arrived. Later, he told you that it was a secret gem and one of his favourite places to frequent whenever he was in Paris. 

It turned out that was quite often, so much so that he even had an apartment here. He absolutely loved the city of love, which was why he was so flabbergasted at you not knowing much about it despite having been there several times. 

“Fashion week is a very important time for me. I can rest after it's over.” 

“Workaholic.” He jibed at you, stealing a piece of your croissant. “I’m going to take you around.”

You tried to protest, “That’s unnecessary-”

“Trust me, it’s necessary. Besides, I already asked Thomas to bring my car.”

“Your car?” 

He gave you a too-innocent smile. “Did I not mention I have a car here? Don’t worry, it's very nice. A convertible, too.”

“You’re ridiculous.” You looked off to the side to conceal the grin that was threatening to break out on your face. There were about a million other things you could think of that you should have been doing, and yet here you were, going along with his shenanigans.

Once you were done eating and emerged from the bakery, his sports car was indeed waiting out for both of you with the roof pulled back. He ushered you into the passenger seat, going so far as to open the door for you before taking his place behind the steering wheel and pulling out of park. 

Rafayel had no destination in mind, simply wanting to spend more time with you and keep you away from your precious work. Due to the late hour, they were mostly empty, which made the drive pleasantly smooth. He switched the radio on, the latest and greatest pop music filling the comfortable silence that had settled between the two of you. 

The lamps cast a dim yellow light over the Parisian streets, and you took it all in, watching intently from the car as they passed you by. By no means was this the greatest tour in the world – far from it. He didn’t tell you what you were looking at, too busy humming along to a Taylor Swift song, but it stirred up a feeling deep within you that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. 

The sounds of late-night Paris mixed with his voice, turning into a melody you would have never thought was worth listening to before. It wrapped around your senses, and little by little, you let yourself go. Your posture relaxed, your jaw softened from its perpetually clenched state, and you let out a breath you didn’t even know you had been holding in. 

And for the first time in a long time, you realised that the loneliness you were so used to carrying around was nowhere to be found. 

The only other person who managed to lessen the sense of isolation you harboured was Xavier, and even he couldn’t do it all the time, and yet, the headstrong man driving you around had somehow managed to break down all your walls and let you out of the prison you had built for yourself. While others expected you to break from the pressure that came with your position, he made sure you didn’t, even when you refused his help. 

You sat forward in your seat, shutting your eyes as the cool night air blew against your face. Perhaps it defeated the point of the ride if you weren’t looking around anymore, but you couldn’t help it. It had been so long since you had been able to completely let go around someone else that you wanted to savour every second of the moment. 

Rafayel glanced over and found it almost impossible to look away from you. Eyes fluttering open with shadows cast from your eyelashes and dancing on your face. Wind in your hair, hair that was finally let out of its perfect updo and allowed to freely fall over your shoulders. The way your head was tilted up just slightly as you stared at the starless sky, focused on the crescent moon overhead. 

God, you were a painting he could never do justice to, but desperately wished he was able to. 

Forcing himself to look away, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and focused his attention back on the roads he cruised down. “I should take you back to your hotel." 

“Yeah,” you mumbled, leaning back against the seat. “I have a lot to do tomorrow.” 

“When do you not?”

“Just drive!” You forced exasperation into your voice as you put in the address of the hotel into his GPS. This moment was one you never wanted to end, but your feet were firmly rooted in reality even when your head was in the clouds. You clamped down on that wish and settled back in the seat, watching the streets pass you by. 

But it festered anyway, latching onto you like wishes so great tended to. You had everything you could have ever wanted: money, fame, and you had achieved all your dreams, but now here you were, with a new dream blooming from the remnants of old ones, a dream you never thought would see the light of day. 

If not for him, would you have let another trip to Paris pass you by with your head stuck in your schedule until it was time to board that flight back to New York? The notion of that had made him go out of his way to remedy it, even when you put up a fuss and tried to talk him out of it. 

Unfortunately for you, you were rather easy to convince when it came to him.

When he pulled up to the hotel, he ignored all your protests and accompanied you to your room door. With every step you took towards the elevator, you did your utmost to keep a safe distance between your body and his, reminding yourself that this wasn’t something you could get used to. You hated the giddy feeling in your chest and the way it seemed to consume you when he was around. The back of his hand brushed against yours as you stood side by side, and even though the contact was minuscule, you could feel it everywhere. 

The doors of the elevator opened, and you walked out with purpose, desperate to put as much space as you could between the two of you. He sauntered behind you, hands casually shoved in his pockets, completely and blissfully unaware of the storm waging in your head. You stopped outside your room and turned to face him. 

“Don’t expect me to invite you in.” You warned, crossing your arms over your chest as you regarded him warily, expecting him to push back once more. “You’ve already taken enough of my time today.”

Your tone was reprimanding, but he could tell it was all just for show. There was a glint in your eyes that told him you more than enjoyed yourself today, even if you’d never admit it. He knew you well enough by now to know that you said one thing but meant something else entirely, and that solidified you as one, if not the most confusing person he had ever met. 

And yet there he was, trying to decode you. “I wouldn’t dare ask for even a second more.”

Taking a step forward, he looked down at the floor for a second before lifting his gaze back to your face, staring at you intently. The silence stretched on for a beat too long, and in that fleeting moment, those mesmerising amethyst eyes of his dropped down to your lips. Briefly, he wondered what it would be like if he just leaned forward and–

He would have dismissed that deranged thought entirely if he hadn’t caught your breath hitching. “Actually, I might need a couple.” 

Rafayel’s eyes flickered back to yours, realising you hadn’t moved away. You swallowed, too proud to be the one who looked away first, and instantly, you knew what this was: weeks of flirtation disguised as tolerance and arguments coming to a head. A silent question hung in the little space between him and you, weighted and with far too many strings attached for you to even consider. He was waiting for permission, you realised, or any sort of answer.

It was a bad, terrible, no good idea. A desire that was nothing more than a moment of weakness, one you would surely regret somewhere down the line. 

But around him, succumbing to moments of weakness was so easy.

“Then you better make it worth it.”

His hands found your waist, tugging you closer and pressing his lips to yours without another word. He stole your breath with his, leaving you to gasp against his mouth as it moved against yours oh-so gently, like you were made of glass he refused to let shatter. You could taste the subtle sweetness the hot chocolate had left, and smell the scent of his expensive cologne, struggling to process all of it as he kissed you. 

And fuck, how he kissed you. The world around you went silent as Rafayel’s lips fit perfectly against yours, like two pieces of a puzzle finally coming together. They were soft and a little chapped from the night air, but intoxicating nonetheless.

When the two of you broke apart, he made no motion to move, keeping his hands on your hips. Your eyes fluttered open, your noses brushing against each other, and the warmth of his breath fanning over your lips. You hadn’t quite returned to reality just yet, still existing in the few seconds prior. 

Rafayel let go after a minute or so and took a step away from you. You could see it now – the way he looked at you like you were the sun and moon and stars, a type of fondness you were wholly unused to. It had been there for the past couple of weeks, but you had mistaken it for mirth. 

“Times up,” he muttered with an impossibly soft smile adorning his face, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Goodnight, Y/n.”

You watched him walk away from you, down the hallway and back to the elevator. As the doors shut, he gave you a cheeky little wave, causing you to stand there flabbergasted and more confused than you had ever been in your life before. You lifted your fingers to your lips that tingled from the ghost of his kiss.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like it. 

You quickly became addicted to the drug that was Rafayel.

Secret touches. Lingering glances. It had been two days since he first kissed you, and you had made no efforts to get him to stop. In between interviews and rehearsals, he somehow managed to grab hold of you and steal you away from the world, even if it was just for a couple of minutes.

His apartment in Paris was on the fourth floor, in a building with older elevators. You walked out of it and to the numbered apartment that he told you was his, knocking and waiting for him to answer. He had texted you just after you finished filming a video with Vogue, insisting that you absolutely had to come over as soon as possible. 

When he opened the door, looking completely at ease, you suspected your mild concern had been for no reason. 

“There you are,” he hummed, holding a glass of wine precariously in between his fingers, sloshing it around before taking a sip. “I was wondering when you’d show up. Come inside.” 

You stepped over the threshold and into his apartment, following him to his living room. For someone as over-the-top as himself, it was quite the quaint place, with wooden furniture and the original paint job still intact. If you asked him about it, you figured he’d just say something pretentious about preserving the Parisian integrity of the apartment. 

Pulling off your gloves, you tossed them on his coffee table and shrugged off your coat. He leaned against the island that separated the kitchen from his living room, watching your every move like it was a dance sequence he was trying to memorise. Once you were done, you turned to face him with an expectant look.

“From the urgency of your messages, I assumed there was an emergency.”

He smiled coyly, pressing the edge of his glass to his lips. “Is wanting to see you not emergency enough?”

You wanted to scream, to push him out of a window and kiss him senseless at the same damn time. That conflict inside of you bubbled over, leaving a confused bout of need in its wake because no one had ever driven you this crazy before. Narrowing your eyes at him, you walked over until you were standing right in front of him. 

“You know very well that I’m busy.”

“And yet, here you are.” He reached out to you, taking your hand in his and pulling you closer. His hair fell into his eyes, the deep purple ends of it kissing the high of his cheekbones like wisteria hanging down from tree branches. Unable to resist, you cupped his face, brushing your thumb over the mole on his cheek with tenderness that surprised even yourself. 

“I think you’re distracting me on purpose.”

“There she is,’ he murmured fondly, turning his face into your palm and pressing his lips against it in a soft kiss. “The queen of cynicism.”

He gripped your wrist and slowly began peppering kisses from the centre of your palm down to your wrist, his eyes sweeping to yours. Something about the action felt strikingly intimate, sparking a fire inside of you that you hadn’t known could ever exist. Your fingers curled around the back of his neck, drawing him into you for once and meeting his lips with your own. 

You were hooked. Every brush of his mouth against yours was electrifying, precise and addictive in ways that left you wanting more every time. Wine entirely forgotten, his hands lifted to your face and held it, turning you around and pressing you against the edge of the island as he took the lead. 

When Rafayel kissed you again, you blossomed under his touch like a flower exposed to the sun for the first time in days. His fingers entangled in your hair and cradled the back of your head delicately, his nails scratching against your scalp and sending delighted shivers down your spine. He tilted your head back so that you could meet him better, the nature of the kiss dissolving into something much more intense as his tongue swiped over your lower lip, eliciting a soft sound from the back of your throat. 

“Jesus,” he mumbled against you, pained and breathless, pulling away for a singular moment that somehow felt too long despite probably being not more than a second. When he leaned back in, his lips found the side of your mouth, trailing down to your jaw and finding the spot below your ear that made you sigh and tip your head back. He made good use of the access you had so willingly given him, leisurely leaving hot open open-mouthed kisses over the expanse of your neck, knowing exactly what to do to have you fall apart while simultaneously doing barely anything at all. 

Your hands gripped the collar of his shirt at first, then slid down the silky fabric until they met the cool metal of his belt buckle. Emboldened by the situation, you hooked your fingers in his belt loops and tugged him even closer, until his hips were flush against yours. Your eagerness induced a dry chuckle from him, soft and barely there, puffs of his breath tickling against your pulse point. His thigh slotted between your legs before he paused, letting the gravity of what was happening hit either one of you.

It never did.

“Don’t you dare stop.” You almost snapped, but it lacked that authority your voice usually possessed when delegating tasks at work, instead laced with avid desperation for something only he could give you – a thrill only he could provide. Your permission was all he required, gripping your hips and lifting you onto the kitchen island and stepping in between your legs.

“So bossy,” you could feel him grinning against your neck. “You can’t resist ordering people around, can you?”

Before you could even think about refuting, his mouth was back on yours with a renewed sense of want, demanding and dizzying all at once. The beginnings of a retort died on your tongue when his meets yours and his hands slip under the hem of your skirt, sliding up your thighs maddeningly slow. All you could do was whine impatiently, leaning into him and giving in to that magnetic pull of his. He lifted his head, peering down at you with darkened eyes, so close that you could still taste him. 

“Tell me what you want,” he asked, squeezing your thighs in a manner that told you knew knew exactly what you wanted. “You can do that for me, can’t you?”

You glared, though it was weak. “Don’t play dumb.” 

“Fine. When was the last time someone made you come, Y/n?”

You exhaled sharply at his question, one he phrased so innocently, although it was nothing of the sort. “Rafayel.”

“I thought you liked it when people were straightforward with you.” He smirked down at you, running his thumb over your lower lip and applying a little pressure, enough to have your mouth part. His other hand slipped further up your inner thigh, fingers languidly tracing the edge of your panties. He could feel you stiffen, anticipation running rampant through your veins as a wave of arousal crashed over you, rendering you pliant and wanting. 

Dipping his head to your ear, he whispered, “You’re always so wound up, baby. Let me help you relax.”

With that, the spark he had lit inside of you roared to life, the flames burning your blood, making you feel hot all over your body. You were wet, embarrassingly so, soaked through your underwear as a haze of lust enveloped your mind. His knuckles brushed against your clothed core, and the minimal contact made you whimper needily, flattening your palms against the flat of his chest. 

“Please, Rafayel.” Never, in a million years, did he ever think he’d have you begging for anything, but there you were, with your legs spread. “Touch me.”

Rafayel didn’t think he’d ever been this turned on in his life.

Manoeuvring your panties to the side, his fingers dipped in between your folds, a hungry gleam blazing to life in his eyes as he watched you jerk into his touch, drinking in the way your cheeks flushed and eyebrows furrowed. Your slick coated his fingers, and he groaned, the sound low and deep as he brought them up to your clit and circled it, tantalisingly slow. 

“You’re so wet for me.” Shame filtered through you at his words, but it came secondary to the want that coursed through you. It wasn’t like you could deny the claim anyway; you could feel it firsthand. “Gonna make you feel so good.”

“You better,” you breathed out, clutching at the ends of his shirt in a futile attempt to keep your sanity somewhat intact, but he was doing an excellent job of chipping away at it, with how expertly he rubbed your clit, increasing the pressure of the circles he rubbed against the bundle of nerves. 

“Oh, I will.” He flashed you a cocky grin, hooking his finger in the center of your panties and tugging them down your legs. “Don’t you worry your pretty head about it.”

His other hand travelled underneath your top and pushed the material up your body, and you raised your arms, helping him pull it off and leaving you in a simple black bra. Still, he looked at you like you had a matching lingerie set on, humming in appreciation as he pulled your panties down your legs. They caught against one of your heels, which fell to his floor with a soft thud, but neither of you cared enough to even comprehend that. Immediately, he was back on you, middle finger pressing against your entrance as he nipped at your throat, soothing the sting his teeth left behind with licks of his tongue and wet kisses. 

Finally, finally, he pushed one lithe finger into you and provided you with some relief, revelling in the moan you gasped out. His lips made their way down your neck and to your collarbone, kissing the swell of your breasts unhurriedly, as if he had all the time in the world to do with you as he pleased. He set a lazy pace with his finger, introducing a second one to your cunt with ease on account of how wet you were, gushing all over his hand. 

Impatient, you reached behind and unhooked your bra, letting it fall off your shoulders and took in the appreciative look on his face when you tossed it to the side. 

“Fuck,” he looked like you had positively wrecked, like you were a witch that had put him under a spell. “You’re killing me here.” 

Rafayel attacked your chest again, this time with a little less precision. His pretty pink lips dragged across your breasts, tongue flicking out and swirling around one of your your pebbled nipples, taking it into his mouth and sucking. You arched into him with a whimper, your hands finding purchase in his soft hair, holding his head close to your body. His fingers moved in and out of your cunt fast, the palm of his hand rutting against your clit rhythmically, having your toes curl out of pleasure. 

“Raf- oh, fuck.” 

He looked up at you through his eyelashes, biting down on your nipple just hard enough for sparks of pain to shoot through you, mingling with the pleasure until you were left with a heady mix of both swirling inside you. You cried out, your hips bucking up against his fingers on their own accord. 

For someone usually so well put together, it was hypnotic to watch you fall apart for him – and because of him. His mouth slipped from your nipple for a moment in favour of staring at you in wonder. “God, you’re so…”

You never found out what he meant to say, eyes rolling to the back of your head when his fingers curled inside of you, the tips of them stroking against the spot that made it hard for you to hold back your moans and whimpers. The sounds tumbled out of you like a waterfall, combined with the wet ones from your pussy, and filled the silence of his apartment, spurring him on even further as he fingered you so diligently. He went right back to lapping at your breast, his free hand kneading your other one, rolling that nipple under his thumb and pinching it. 

“Oh my god,” you whined as you helplessly ground against his palm, the heel of it digging into your clit and applying delicious pressure on it that had you losing your damn mind. You could tell you were close from the coiling sensation in your gut, and from the way your legs were trembling, he had picked up on it as well. 

“That’s it,” he cooed. “Come for me.”

Seconds later, your orgasm hit you hard, a choked moan of his name leaving you as you clung onto him, overwhelmed at how good it felt. He held you against him, his ministrations never letting up for even a moment as he helped you ride out your high to the fullest. Once he was satisfied, he pulled his fingers away, staring at the mess you left on them in awe. 

And then he looked at you, and he realised that the mess of you was far prettier. Lips swollen and kiss-bitten, hair all messed up just like how he’d imagined far too many times for him to willingly admit to, and eyes blown wide with desire. The sight of you like this – so perfectly wrecked – almost made him moan aloud, but he stopped himself by kissing you once more, messily now, all teeth and tongue and heat.

“Y/n,” Rafayel rasped out your name against your lips, “Fuck, I need you.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer until you were flush against his chest, locking your legs around his hips. “Then take me.”

Bossy as ever, it only made him want you more. Gripping the underside of your thighs, he picked you up and carried you to his bedroom, lips locked with yours. He didn’t know how he made it to his room, but once there, he set you on the mattress and climbed over you, taking a moment to admire you in all your glory. 

He was a total goner. 

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” you huffed in between kisses, tugging impatiently at his collar and fumbling with his buttons. Rafayel laughed, finding your indignation so fucking adorable that he almost forgot what the two of you were doing, so consumed with the fact that he had you like this. When you managed to undo most of his buttons, he leaned back and pulled the shirt off, discarding it to some corner of the room and unzipped his pants. 

His cock sprung to life as he kicked off his pants, and you were awestruck at the sight of him. The tempting lines of his abs you had forced yourself to look away from several times, now on display for only your eyes, and the flushed tip of his hard cock claiming all your attention because not only was it pretty, it was big. You bit your lower lip in anticipation, propping yourself up on your elbows to get a better look. 

“Like what you see?” He drawled out the question with a lazy grin as he slipped on a condom, his smugness riling you up even more. Licking your lips, you pushed him away until he landed on his backside, expression morphing into one of confusion.

Aha, so it was possible to wipe that look off his face after all. 

“Sit up against the headboard,” you instructed, getting to your knees and slipping the skirt that you still had on off your body, both of you completely naked now. 

Although surprised, he complied fairly quickly, the smirk returning with full force. “Yes, ma’am.” 

To Rafayel, this made sense. You always had to have a modicum of control over any situation, and this was how you established that here. You threw a leg over him, straddling his lap. His breath hitched when his cock came into contact with your bare cunt, unable to hold back a groan when you began to grind. The sound fired off every synapse in your brain, your body working on its own as you rolled your hips harder against him. 

“God, fuck,” his honeyed voice was strained with the effort it took to not just hold you still and fuck up into you.  “I’m going to lose my mind if I’m not inside you soon, pretty girl.” 

The nickname did something to you, going straight to your head like a strong shot of tequila. You lifted your hips, reaching between your bodies and aligning his cock with your entrance, wetness coating the tip. Circling your hips, you savoured the way he sucked in a breath between his teeth. 

But you were a woman who had virtually no patience. Teasing him, while fun, only succeeded in making you more desperate than you already were. 

So you steadied yourself by placing your hands on his shoulders, slowly sinking onto his length. You hissed in pleasure at the burn of the stretch, nails sinking into the skin of his shoulders and most definitely leaving marks. The near drunken sound that left him when you took all of him was the most gratifying one you had ever heard. He gripped your hips, tipping his head back against the headboard and breathing heavily. 

“You– fuck– you feel so perfect,” Rafayel stuttered in wonder, but you were still adjusting to his size to comprehend the praise properly. He was buried to the hilt, and you felt delirious, clawing at him as you tried and failed to keep yourself together. You needed him so bad it scared you, somehow growing even wetter with him inside of you because of how fucking good it felt.

Lifting your hips once again, you came down on him, mouth falling open at how he filled you up so easily. He groaned, dropping his head to the crook of your neck and ravishing it once more, both of you far too gone to even think about the consequences of leaving marks. 

“Raf,” you whined, rocking your hips into him as you chased your high, in turn pulling his along. “Shit, it feels so good.”

“I know, cutie, I know,” His mouth was on your nipple again, wrapping his lips around it and sucking harshly, sending shocks of pleasure right down to your core. Instinctively, you clenched around him, and his grip on you tightened imperceptibly, a silent warning. Naturally, as you did with most things, you took it as a challenge, this time clenching on purpose.

“You little-” In retaliation, his thumb found your engorged clit and flicked it, causing you to screw your eyes shut and squeal with the extra stimulation.

“I can’t– god, it's too much,” you whimpered, feeling that familiar tug in your core build rapidly. Still sensitive from your first climax, it was no wonder that you were close already. Wanting to come again, you bounced faster, earning you a pleased groan from him. 

“You’re incredible,” he crooned against your skin, hands running up your sides reverently as he stared at you through a half-lidded gaze. The sight of you on top of him, bare, looking so gorgeous, was enough to have him come undone, and he wanted it imprinted in his brain forever. He wanted to paint you like this, to turn you into art for his eyes alone.

You came hard, crying out his name in between the many of sounds that fell from your lips in ecstasy, gasps and moans alike. All you could think of was Rafayel, Rafayel, Rafayel as your high crashed over you like a wave crashing onto the shore. 

Immediately, he took over, flipping your positions so that you were pressed into the mattress, his hips snapping to yours with a renewed sense of urgency. You mewled at the instant overstimulation, pawing at his torso in a weak attempt to get him to slow down, knowing damn well you didn’t want him to. He grabbed at your wrists and pinned them above your head, thrilled at the gasp-moan it elicited.

“You sound so fucking pretty,” Rafayel mumbled, sheathing himself inside of you with one final thrust, unravelling with a low moan. The two of you stayed like that for a couple of seconds, still connected, recovering from your mutual high. 

Carefully, he pulled out, discarding the used condom and climbing right back into bed with you. His arms wrapped around your body, gathering you against his chest with all the tenderness in the world, limbs so entwined with yours that you didn’t know where you started and he ended anymore. 

“Hey.”

You glanced up, finding him staring down at you with a soft, satiated smile, tracing soothing circles on your back. Like this, Rafayel was at his most irresistible to you, with his hair all mussed because of you, cheeks flushed, and every ounce of his attention on you. Try as you did, you couldn’t fight hints of your own smile from showing, so you nuzzled into his neck to hide your face. “Hi.”

“There isn’t a single reason for you to be shy,” he whispered playfully, propping his fingers under your chin and lifting your head so you were looking at him once more. “That was– you were amazing.” 

“I don’t get shy.” Nonetheless, your cheeks flushed at his praise. 

He chuckled quietly. “Of course you don’t.” And he kissed you again, like all the times he had just done so weren’t and would never be enough for him. Cupping your jaw sweetly, it was the most innocent press of his lips to yours, not needing any more from you. You certainly didn’t.

“Rafayel?” You breathed his name, pulling back and looking into those captivated eyes, hues of dark fuchsia and sapphire twinkling back at you. Entranced, you realised that your heart was no longer yours to control, free from the clutches of your mind, belonging to the man who held you.  It was terrifying and freeing all at once, falling without knowing when and if you’d land at all.

“Hmm?”

“I think you might be my favourite muse.”

The words were honest, tinged with a vulnerability that hit home for Rafayel. He knew you didn’t open up like this to anyone, but you were staring at him now with that same look you gave him after asking him to stay on at Lumiere as a brand ambassador. Something in the confines of his ribs constricted as he brushed your hair out of your face.

“What an honour that is.”

It was early morning when Rafayel padded to his living room. The sun hadn’t risen yet. You were still in his bed, curled up under the sheets, looking so peaceful amidst your slumber. When he slipped away, he made sure not to disturb you.

For as long as he remembered, he had thrived on attention. It was something he had been handed even before his breakout into the mainstream as a top model. People constantly told him how he was meant for the limelight, standing proud at the centre of attention.

He settled on his couch, elbows on his knees and palms pressed into his eyes as he tried to think. His mind was racing, running at a mile a minute, and he was struggling to catch up. 

You said he was your muse. 

He had been a muse his entire life. For his aunt, for other designers and brands, he was used to it. The prospect of being a muse had never scared him before, but now he was yours, and he wasn’t sure how to navigate that role anymore. You, who said his art had inspired you to create your clothing, clothing he would soon wear and show off to the world. It should have thrilled him because he rarely resonated with a brand like he did yours, and even less with people. 

Up until you, of course. You were a force of nature, obstinate and stubborn and spectacular too, like a storm that crashed into his town and swept him away. He meant it when he said it was an honour to be your muse. 

But he knew that after a while, people got bored of their muses. Periodically, they moved on and found a new one to devote all their time and effort to. He was used to being wanted, and he often used that to his advantage, but being the one who wanted your attention was not a role he knew how to fill. The script had been flipped on him, and he felt like an actor with zero experience, wading in waters that were much too deep for him.

Walking away had always been easy. He wasn’t the type to be tied down to anything, all about living in the moment and having a good time. Now, he found himself wanting to stay, and that endlessly frightened him. What happened when he finished serving his purpose as your muse and you pushed him to the side? 

He didn’t want to stick around and find out. He couldn’t bear to.

A business card lay on his coffee table. Lifting his head from his hands, he reached out and picked it up, turning the thin cardboard over in his fingers and reading the number on the back. The Dubois Designs logo glared up at him, as if taunting him with what would come to pass if he went through with this.

He picked up his phone. 

You didn’t see Rafayel after that. 

There were many things you could attribute this to. Your swamped schedule, the dinners, afterparties, showcases and fittings that you’d never hear the end of, his own endeavours – it made sense. 

What didn’t make sense was the radio silence. He had gotten very comfortable with messaging you, even though you never entertained his overzealous texting style and only graced him with the driest of responses. Now, your phone was filled with communication from everyone except the man you were admittedly waiting to hear from. 

Nothing. 

Smack dab in the middle of one of the busiest weeks of your year, you didn’t have the time to dwell on it. The Lumiere show drew closer, and you were heavily involved in every aspect of the preparations to make sure everything was exactly how you wanted it to be. 

You called him once, but he hadn’t picked up. It made you frown, but it wasn’t like you had the right to his time. Hadn’t you told him how precious yours was time and time again? Satisfied with that reasoning, you continued, pushing all thoughts of the charming man away for as long as you could. 

“He isn’t here.” 

The observation slipped out of you flatly, a little too loud and emphatic even for your own ears. It was the night before the show, and the final rehearsal was underway, held right in the cathedral that would serve as the set. Typically, these run-throughs were held a couple of hours before the actual show, but that would have disturbed the normal proceedings of the church, and you had no intentions of undermining the sanctity of it. 

You turned to your assistant and models' manager. “Where is Rafayel?”

Simone jumped in quickly, knowing well how you hated being left hanging. “Andrew didn’t see him come in, and I contacted Thomas, but he hasn’t been able to get hold of him either.” 

“What on earth…?” You muttered mostly to yourself as something in the pit of your stomach twisted, tight and unpleasant. His absence lately stung, but up until this moment, you had graciously let it go, figuring that there was a reason for it. Now, however, it was impossible to let it slide because he wasn’t just ignoring you, he was skipping out on rehearsal, and that was a professional commitment. 

“I heard he was difficult to work with,” Andrew commented, rubbing his chin. “But I didn’t think he’d be irresponsible.”

You wouldn’t stand for it. Nodding stiffly, you spoke. “I’m leaving the rest of the rehearsal in both of your hands. I have something to check on.” 

Neither of them questioned you, absorbing your instructions and carrying them out efficiently. You grabbed your coat and left the cathedral, your shoes clicking against the cobbled footpaths as you hailed a cab. Your best bet on where he was would be his apartment, and that was exactly where you’d go to get your answers. 

When you reached, the scene you were met with wasn’t what you expected at all. The door to his apartment swung wide open, loud music reaching your ears from where you stood as the elevator doors opened. Swallowing down your bafflement, you slowly approached the entrance, an uncomfortable feeling settling in the middle of your chest the closer you got. 

Once you were inside, it only got worse. The music made it hard for you to think, your eyes sweeping across the room and taking in the sight: people laughing, mingling and dancing, some of them you even recognised. 

And in the eye of the storm was Rafayel, lounging about at the centre of the chaos around him. 

What the fuck?

He looked so at ease, lounging on his couch with his head tipped back on the back of it, eyes closed like he was unaware of what was going on. His serene expression only stirred up your frustration, and it mixed with your confusion and the crumbs of dread that swirled around your gut. Brushing aside your discomfort, you stormed over, knocking your leg into his to alert him of your presence. 

Rafayel’s eyes fluttered open, dazed and unfocused. At the sight of you, something flickered in them, but it disappeared just as quickly. “Y/n,” he slurred your name, barely audible over the volume of the music. “What are you doing here?”

God, he was drunk. Clenching your jaw at that fact, you narrowed your eyes and set him with a glare, taking in his inebriated state.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” 

Déjà vu was what Rafayel felt at that moment, but instead of it being Thomas coming to scold him, it was you who stood before him, looking so furious and beautiful at the same time. There was nothing gentle about the way you phrased the question, your tone harsh and accusatory, like you had already decided he was in the wrong without giving him the chance to explain. 

Clever woman. 

He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to pull his scattered thoughts together through the haze of his tipsiness. His lack of answer seemed to piss you off even more, and while that might have once amused him, all it did now was make his heart sink. Grabbing his wrist, you pulled him through his apartment and back out into the hallway, not caring if you were making a scene or about who was staring. 

“I’m going to ask this once, and only once. What the hell is all this?” You let go of his wrist, spinning on your heel to face him once it was just the two of you. The music was softer out here, making the clipped tone of your voice all the more apparent. 

“It’s a party, sweetheart. I’m sure you know what that is.”

“Don’t call me that,” you snapped, furious at how cavalier he was being. It felt like you were back at the beginning, when you first met him, with his audacity and you struggling to keep your temper in check, except so much worse. Now, you were personally involved with him, which caused all of your emotions to lash out all at once. “Don’t you know what day it is?”

“You’re asking such odd questions, but if you must know, it's Thursday.” He looked completely uninterested in the conversation you were trying so hard to have. You grit your teeth, taking a step forward. 

“First, you ignore me,” you seethed, your perfect facade crumbling bit by bit in his presence. “Then you don’t show up for the show rehearsal, that is going on right now, mind you, and throw a party instead? What the fuck is wrong with you?” Your disbelief was palpable, and it grew exponentially when he scoffed, like your questioning right then was a major inconvenience.

“Oh, please, you and I both know I’ll be fantastic on the runway whether I’m at the rehearsal or not.” He leaned against the wall to hide how unsteady he felt on his feet right then, the paradox almost making him laugh. Almost. 

“Thats not the point!” You took a step toward him. “You know it's not.”

“Isn’t it?” 

You exhaled shakily. “No. It’s about–” Us, but was there an ‘us’ for you to even refer to? From the way he was looking at you right now, so cold and aloof, you doubted it. “You’ve been avoiding me.” You let the statement hang between him and you, not bother to tack on the question that sat on the tip of your tongue, letting the rhetorical nature of it take over and do the work for you. 

Rafayel was aware of how it looked because he was the one who had made it so. He had kissed you, held you, slept with you and then disappeared. He hated the look on your face right now, the way you were staring at him so pleadingly, waiting for him to explain why, too proud to outright ask for it. He averted his gaze, staring at his shoes. 

“Are you really that surprised?” 

Something in you cracked wide open. “What?”

“Come on, Y/n, you’re smart. I’m sure you’re aware of my reputation.” He knew he was being an asshole, but what was one of instance of that to him? That was what the world perceived him as anyway– a playboy with a penchant for partying and a pretty face – so why not live up to it? If it were going to protect him from getting hurt, then by all means, it would be worth it. 

With how your face swiftly collapsed at his insinuation, it certainly didn’t feel worth it. He wanted to take it back immediately, to take you by the shoulders and tell you the truth and hold you like he had just days ago. 

He couldn’t. Everything about wanting you terrified him because of the intensity of that desire. He had never felt like this before, and the thought of you someday not wanting him back was unbearable. He knew how he was: selfish, self-serving to a fault, difficult and exhausting at times, so very skilled at pushing people away. Eventually, you’d get tired of him and leave.

The idea of you walking away scared him so much that he opted to run away first to save himself from that pain.

“Did–Did everything that happened between us mean nothing to you?” You despised the way you stuttered, the stilted rhythm of your speech that betrayed the emotion behind it, because it made you feel weak. Out of control.

Perhaps if he were a better man, a stronger one, he’d tell you the truth. He’d tell you that it had meant the most to him, and how nothing had ever mattered as much as you did. 

But he wasn’t.

“Was it supposed to?”

You couldn’t conceal the sharp gasp that left you at his cruel words, staggering away from him like you had been shot. The man in front of you was one you didn’t recognise, a mere phantom of the one you thought you knew. He had Rafayel’s eyes and hair and stature, but it wasn’t the same Rafayel that had torn through your walls and coaxed the real you out into the light, the part of you that you kept hidden away from the rest of the world. Instead, it was a man who held those secrets and threw them back in your face like they had meant nothing.

You had let your guard down and let him in, forgetting how easy that made it for you to get hurt. Those walls that once towered so high around had come crashing down, and you didn’t know how to rebuild. Hot tears burned your eyes, heartbreak mingling in with your rage toward him, but you refused to cry. You wouldn’t give him any more of yourself than you already had.

All you had left was your dignity, and you’d be damned if you let that go. 

He was right; he had a reputation for a reason, and you should never have expected anything more. You pulled yourself together, momentarily wondering how you ever let yourself be so stupid.

“You will walk in the show tomorrow.” You forced yourself to sound steady, fingers curled into fists at how enraged you felt. “And then you will never walk for Lumiere again. Do you understand?”

The cold fury in your cadence wasn’t lost on him, and neither was the way you were shutting him out and shutting down. You had gotten used to expressing yourself freely when around him, and even now, it was like all your feelings were plastered across your face for him to see. It was awful to watch you blink away your tears so rapidly, knowing that they were because of him, how your lips twisted downward at the sorrow you felt but refused to give in to.

Rafayel hated that he was the one who had caused you this pain, but he couldn’t backtrack now. He had come this far, he might as well finish the job. Maybe it would be easier if you hated him.

“That won’t be a problem. I’ll be signed with Dubois Designs.” 

You felt the betrayal before you processed it.

It started as a dull ache in the centre of your chest, gradually worsening until it felt like someone was standing on top of it, making it hard for you to breathe. When it– what he had done– finally hit you, you could no longer think straight, unstable on your feet despite being the sober one. You had spent your entire life keeping your cards close to your chest, only for the one person you had let peek at them to burn the whole deck. 

There was a lump in your throat and a knife in your back.

When you spoke again, your voice was dangerously quiet. “After tomorrow, I never want to see you again.” 

With your head held high and heart sinking low, you turned on your heel and left, stepping into the old elevator without sparing him another glance. Part of you wanted nothing more than you shake him and make him feel the way you did right then, but that would require casting your pride aside, and frankly, you didn’t have it in you. You wouldn’t let him take that away from you. 

Rafayel watched you leave, frozen in place. The irony wasn’t lost on him; he had run away from the future possibility of you walking away from him, only to have you do exactly that right now. The party continued in the background, but all he could think of were the tears in your eyes and how fucking hurt you looked because of what he had just done to you. To himself. 

You emerged back into the Parisian streets, the cold air nipping at the exposed skin of your neck. Pulling your coat tighter around yourself, you looked up at the sky and then at your surroundings, those tears you had so valiantly fought against finally trickling down your face.

The city of love had never looked so dull. 

The models were lined up and in place. Every seat was filled, celebrities and critics alike taking the front row. Photographers had their equipment in place, ready to capture the results of your hard work. You stood backstage, and despite having done this so many times, you felt a little nervous. 

Everyone looked fabulous in your clothing, the stylists carefully draping them in the delicate fabrics and complicated pieces. Both the women and men models had little Swarovski crystals embedded in their hair that would shimmer when the light hit them, with the women’s hair being done in beach waves. Last-minute touch-ups to the makeup, some models having to be quite literally stitched into their outfits– it was that unique brand of madness that only existed behind the veiled curtains of a fashion show. 

This was it. The end of a season for Lumiere. Months of fretting over details and extensive planning, hours upon hours of work and stress and obstacles would culminate in the twelve minutes that your models took the stage for. 

“On in ten,” Simone announced, taking her spot beside you. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” you mumbled, both your hands over your stomach in an attempt to calm its churning. The lights came on all of a sudden, signalling that the show was about to begin. The music began playing, and the first model rolled her shoulders, straightened her posture, and lifted her head just slightly, a look of concentration dawning on her face.

And down the runway she went.

She glided down the runway with grace, and a hush fell over the audience at the magnificent sight, fabrics shimmering as the dramatic lighting hit them. Once she reached the end, she twirled gracefully and turned to return as the next model emerged into the spotlight. They passed each other on their respective paths, hums of appreciation arising from the onlookers. Haunting organ music accompanied the models as they walked one by one, dramatic and exquisite. 

Operatic.

It was funny how only one person had ever been able to capture the essence of what you had envisioned so perfectly and put it into words. It was fitting, you supposed, the muse would understand what he inspired. He now stood at the back of the line, waiting his turn to take the runway and blow everyone away with the final piece of the collection. 

Rafayel’s eyes met yours across the backstage area one final time, so brief that you would have missed it if you weren’t already looking at him. For his look, you had instructed the stylists to leave his hair in its natural curly state, and with the crystals in it, he truly looked like a character from a fairytale. When you looked at him now, though, his beauty wasn’t what you were transfixed on.

It was the look in his eyes. Forlorn, longing and….defeated? The combination resulted in something inexplicable, but it chipped away at a suspicion you had been harbouring ever since the night before, one that you had buried deep to save yourself from the pain that would come with trying to understand it. For how well he could read you, it seemed that you could do the same for him, and now, that split second of eye contact told you everything you needed to know.

Everything that had happened between the two of you had meant something to him, and for some reason, he lied to you and said it didn’t. 

You didn’t want to know why.

Rafayel stepped out and onto the runway, his expression morphing into one you had seen in magazines and on your website. The dark red organza silk of his shirt shimmered in the light like light upon ocean waves, hints of blue and purple making a show as he walked. Captivating as ever, he brought your clothing to life with every step he took. 

The perfect closer for a sensational show.

When it was time for you to walk out, you plastered on a smile and waved, placing one foot in front of the other like your life depended on it. Cameras flashed, and thunderous applause was heard throughout the cathedral, especially when you took your place in the middle of your models as they lined up for a final bow. You joined then, a weight rolling off your shoulders as the show came to a spectacular close, undoubtedly a resounding success. 

You had done it. This show was unlike any other you had put on, and no doubt everyone would be talking about it. You had stepped out of your comfort zone when it came to designing and achieved your goal of putting on a spectacle that made the audience feel.

So why did you feel so hollow?

After surviving a swarm of paparazzi shouting questions at you, desperate for even a sliver of your attention and a glance at their lenses and shaking the hands of impressed critics, you found yourself at the Lumiere afterparty. People you called loosely called friends for appearances' sake, celebrities, influencers, and fellow designers were all in attendance, showering you in congratulations and complimenting your work. They said the show would go down in fashion history as iconic and asked how you managed to do it once again. You smiled and drank and tried your best to bask in your well-deserved glory at a party you didn’t want to be at, in a city that was tainted.

And at this party, Qi Rafayel was nowhere to be found.

New York was as unforgiving as ever.

Your life resumed its regular course when you returned; fittings, photoshoots, interviews, and so much paperwork. You threw yourself into your work, filling every spare moment of your day with something to do, fix, or delegate, an arguably pathetic attempt at keeping yourself from thinking of him. 

The cacophony of the city accompanied your every solitary step, and you took comfort in it. The incessant honking while stuck in traffic and the chatter of pedestrians filled your senses, whether you were sitting in the back of a cab or running errands. It served as background music to your loneliness, and while you might have once been satisfied with it, you found it hard to go back to that blissfully ignorant state. 

Because now you had a taste of what it felt like to not be quite so lonely. Rafayel had waltzed into your life like the tempest of allure and insolence he was and drenched your world in colour. He had taken you out of your box and painted you a new perspective, one you had so foolishly assumed he’d view by your side.

Early mornings and late nights – your days began to blur together until you weren’t sure when they started and ended. Your voice lacked the bite it usually had when reprimanding your employees for any stupid mistakes. If your coffee was cold, you drank it anyway, perplexing Simone. You walked through the hallways of the Lumeire building during those long work days and returned to your penthouse in the dead of night, moving under the heavy silence that completely claimed the large space. 

You loathed him for making the life you had so carefully built for yourself feel so miserable. More than anything, you hated how you wished he were still in it. 

Rafayel threw a party.

He didn’t even want to be there anymore. Everything about it felt wrong. His drink wasn’t strong enough, the music was too loud, and there were too many fucking people around. He didn’t even like any of them; it was the usual crowd that showed up whenever he hosted one of these things, and while he could usually get along with them, right now all their presence did was remind him that the one person he truly wanted beside him wanted nothing to do with him. 

A pitiful try at filling a void he had created himself. He didn’t want anything to do with himself either. 

God, he missed you. He missed that rare smile you seldom let show, the ridiculous updo you always had your hair done in, and the passion in your eyes when you spoke about your work. He missed your voice, your crimson painted lips and scrutinising glare that made everyone it was directed at shrink. The way you’d scowl when he teased you, and the softness with which you told him he was your favourite muse.

As he glanced at the doorway of his apartment, he almost willed you to walk through it like you had in Paris, on that fateful night when he ruined everything. He imagined you appearing there, huffing in displeasure at the pandemonium of this stupid party and wanting to see him. Idiotically, he braced himself for exactly that, waiting and watching like it was something that would actually happen. 

But he knew it wouldn’t. Instead of waiting around for it to happen, he realised that for the first time in his life, he’d have to work for what he wanted. 

He would have to go to you. 

Walking into the Lumiere building after two months away was a strange experience. 

It seemed like nothing had changed, not that he expected it to. He had almost become an ambassador for the brand, and now there he was, walking down its hallways as nothing more than an exiled stranger. 

His feet carried him to your office, knowing that was where you’d be, always holed up in there with a thousand things to get done. Passing the conference room where he first met you four months ago, he wondered how things had gotten to this point. Back then, he had been reluctant to get involved with Lumiere. 

Funny. 

When he reached your office, you seemed to be in conversation with someone. One glance at the silvery blond hair on the man, and he recognised him as Xavier Shen, the model he had replaced. Now, the man seemed perfectly healthy, standing on his feet as the two of you conversed. The sight reminded Rafayel that he truly might not be needed by you anymore, in every sense of the word. 

Still, he steeled himself and pushed the glass door open, not bothering to knock. He never did in the past, so why start now?

“Huh. You really do live here.” 

Both Xavier and you turned to him, and the first thing he noticed was how tired you looked. Your shoulders looked like the weight of the world rested upon them, slumped just a little bit, and prominent dark circles under your eyes. It seemed he was right in assuming you were running yourself ragged; he knew your habits well enough. Still, even with all that, to him, you looked positively radiant. 

At the sight of him standing there with his hands in his pockets, your heart stuttered before it twisted in pain. He was the same as ever, his presence commanding the entirety of your office like no one else but you could, still a sight for sore eyes. That ever-present playful tone to his voice, however, was weaker than you remembered, just barely hiding the thick layer of vulnerability just below the surface.

“I thought I said I never wanted to see you again.” 

 Xavier glanced between you and Rafayel before clearing his throat. “I’m gonna take my leave. See you tomorrow.” He gave you a sharp nod and slipped out. Rafayel barely comprehended the other man leaving, so focused on being in the same room as you again. 

“I know.” Those words were fresh in his mind even after all these weeks, eating away at him. They were the reason it took him so long to come here, so afraid you’d turn him away the second he showed his face, but he knew he’d regret it for the rest of his life if he didn’t try. “I know, I just…” He trailed off, not quite sure what to say now that he was face to face with you. 

“What do you want, Rafayel?” You took a seat behind your desk and defensively folded your arms over your chest, keeping your guard up. “To waste more of my time? To remind me how little I meant to you? Take your pick, and do it quickly because I don’t have all day.” 

He looked pained. “I want to talk. Please.”

A bitter laugh escaped you. “And why should I listen to anything you have to say?”

“You shouldn’t,” he admitted, walking to your desk. “But I’m asking you to, anyway.”

You scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief as you looked off to the side. He somehow had the gall to walk into your building and ask to talk to you when he had no right to do so. It was just so like him, selfish with total disregard for your feelings, and as much as you wanted to tell him to get out, a small, hopeless part of you wanted to hear what he had to say. 

You supposed that was what you got for falling for someone like him. “Fine. Talk.”

Relief flooded his system. He sat down on one of the cushioned chairs in front of your desk and tried to gather his thoughts. There was so much he wanted to say, but he hadn’t the faintest idea of where to start. “I’m sorry.”

That had seemed like a pretty good place to begin, but with the way your eyes narrowed, he wondered if he had already made a mistake. Lord knows it wouldn’t be his first or last one. “That could have been an email.”

“Would you have read it?”

You clenched your jaw at his rash question, opting to stay silent. Rafayel wanted to slap himself, knowing he was being an asshole even now, the one time he was actively trying to avoid doing so. He didn’t deserve even a second of your time; he should have walked out of your life and stayed away to avoid causing you any more pain.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and forged on. “I fucked up, I know that. I’ve never– I lied and said that none of it mattered, but– fuck, this is coming out all wrong.” He rubbed a hand over his face, frustrated at his inability to say what he wanted in a manner that made even a sliver of sense. “I was scared.” 

All that self-assuredness you were so used to was nowhere to be seen now as he stumbled over his words. It was jarring to see Rafayel admit to being scared when you had only ever associated him with unshakable confidence. 

“Scared of what? Me?”  

There was something fractured in the way you asked that, fragile even. He immediately refuted the claim, feeling awful that you would even consider it a possibility. “No, god no, not you. Never you.” His eyes snapped to yours, full of earnestness that made you instantly believe him. “You called me your muse.” 

You let out a slow breath. “I remember.” 

Rafayel gripped the armrests on either side of him, looking off to the side, his throat bobbing with uncertainty as he contemplated whether this was a good idea anymore. “But muses are temporary. They can’t inspire forever, and god knows I’m not someone who thinks about forever.” A huff of forced laughter. “But with you, I did. I wanted to be the one that inspired you forever and that scared the shit out of me.”

Here they were, answers to questions you had been too proud to ask. He ran his fingers through his straightened hair, pushing it back and out of his face. Regardless of how restless he felt, he continued, knowing that the truth was the least of what you deserved. “For the first, fuck, maybe the only time in my life, I wanted to stay. I was so afraid that you’d wake up one day and realise I’m not worth being your muse and you’d walk away. Pick someone else.” 

“Do you really think so little of me?” You asked quietly, unable to look anywhere but him. 

“I didn’t know what to think,” He said honestly. “I’ve never cared so much, and the thought of you leaving because you didn’t find me inspiring enough for your creations–” He cut himself off and dropped his head, as if suddenly realising how fucking awful his assumption sounded out loud. “I thought the only way to avoid that would be to leave first, and I know that that makes no sense, but I….I’m so sorry.”

You had been called a lot of things in your life: difficult, stubborn, unreasonable, and yet somehow, this stung the worst. He had made the decision for you, leaving you to deal with the repercussions of an outcome you didn’t have a hand in choosing. 

“You thought I saw you as a means to an end.” Your voice was devoid of emotion, hollow, anguished eyes never once finding his. “When I only ever thought of you as a beginning.”

For something that was a concept, it was funny how his regret manifested itself as a physical ache, ripping through his chest and causing his throat to close up on itself. Your words cut through him, reminding him of how he was the one to rush to an end that you hadn’t even considered. 

Maybe this wasn’t salvageable. Maybe all he was destined for was to live with the knowledge that he had finally loved someone other than himself, and ruined it. 

“I know what it feels like to be loved.” It took everything in him to keep looking at you when it seemed like you couldn’t bear to even glance at him. His tongue felt like it was made of lead, heavy and uncooperative as he tried to say what he had known for so long. “Adoration, infatuation, whatever. I know when someone is in love with me, but I’ve never felt the same way. I don’t know how to, but I think whatever I feel for you has to be pretty damn close, and–” 

“Don’t you dare.”

“–I’m in love with you, Y/n.”

A shattered breath left you, your composure faltering completely at the confession. Nothing about this was fair. Your heart was bruised and battered, but it fluttered to life completely against your will when he said it, and you detested it. You wanted to hate him so badly, even when it was so clear that you loved him. Why else would all this hurt so bad? 

They said pride came before fall, but in your case, you fell first, and now it was your pride that stopped you from letting him back in. You knew he didn’t deserve a shred of forgiveness, and you also knew that if you looked at him right now, you’d let go of the anger you were so desperately holding onto. It was the only thing keeping you from being totally vulnerable, so you kept your gaze on your mahogany desk, trying your hardest to stay strong.

“I think you should leave.”

Quiet enough to conceal how choked up you truly felt, you knew you didn’t mean it. You needed the time and space to think about everything that had happened. You couldn’t just forgive him even if you wanted to, so skilled at holding a grudge as you were, the bitter realisation that you were perhaps as scared as he was right then making itself known. 

Rafayel had never been good at doing what he was told, but there was no place for his sense of entitlement here. He had done enough damage, and if you wanted him to leave, then that was exactly what he’d do. Getting to his feet, he stared at you one last time, waiting, wishing and hoping you’d look up.

But you didn’t.

So he left your office, complying with your wishes without argument. It should have pleased you, considering how you hated rebuttals when it came to people following your orders. 

But as you watched him walk through those doors, you had never wanted someone to defy you more than in that moment.

When a storm comes to an end, it does so in parts.

First, the wind stops howling. As it does, the heavy showers relent and turn back into the light drizzle it started as, gentle and harmless. The darkened clouds clear up, giving way to clear blue skies and the warm, golden rays of the sun. 

Resentment worked differently when it came to someone you loved. It turned out that both those feelings– resentment and love– could exist simultaneously, even when it seemed nearly impossible, but when the latter was real, it made it exhausting to hold on to all that anger. Love itself was confusing, contradictory, and so difficult to navigate, especially when it was good.

And when had anything good been easy?

The art gallery was pretty much empty, seeing that it was almost eight p.m., which was when it closed. You swept through the different hallways, procrastinating, approaching the showcase you were truly there for. 

And why the hell were you there?

Because, despite everything, Rafayel was still everything you wanted, and you were so tired of pretending he wasn’t. You had spent night after night going over everything that had happened over the past six months and trying to convince yourself of the opposite, but when it came down to it, one thing was abundantly clear: he made you happy like no one else could. He could accomplish the opposite as well, but one extreme would not exist if the other didn’t. 

He was flawed, but so were you. Your pride made it impossible for you to see that at first, making you punish yourself and stay miserable, even though the one thing you wanted was within reach. You turned it away, thinking that refusal would help you forget him and the way he made you feel, but it didn’t. Maybe it didn’t make any sense, but maybe it wasn’t supposed to. You had spent so much of your life making sure everything went exactly how you wanted, caging yourself within your own expectations. 

Stepping into the back, you were in front of the very wall he had shown you all those months ago when he had dragged you out of your office. Even when you weren’t sure of him, he was the only person in your life who had ever forced you to live. 

Your breath hitched.

The paintings had been rearranged with a new one in the centre. The colours stood out against the others, this one bathed in warm oranges and yellows, a faceless woman leaning out of the roof of a car with the wind in her hair. There was something distinctively wistful about it, like she was being viewed from the lens of another. 

It was you.

You took a hesitant step forward, instinctively looking at the artist plaque despite knowing that it would read ‘anonymous’. Not that it mattered, of course, because you knew exactly who had made it. 

“Y/n?”

You turned, and there Rafayel was. It had been a while since you had seen him, and during that time, he had stayed out of the limelight completely—no articles in tabloids, no rumours, nothing. Your pulse picked up at the sight of him, and you felt like a child being caught doing something they weren’t supposed to. 

“What are you doing here?” The ridiculous question left you before you could stop it. His lips twitched slightly, a hint of amusement bleeding into those all-consuming eyes. 

“Forgot already? I’m a little insulted.” He spoke gently, cocking his head towards his artwork. He studied you for a moment. “Why are you here?”

When it came to him, you always found yourself wanting to do opposite things at the same time. You wanted to run away, but more than anything, you wanted to run right back into his arms. If that made you an idiot, well, wasn’t everyone allowed to be one every once in a while?

“I don’t know.”

A soft smile, so much like the one he gave you that night when he first kissed you. “No, you do. You of all people don’t do things without a reason.”

There he went again, reading you like a book without your permission. You looked back at the painting of you, skillfully evading his question with one of your own. “When did you make that?”

“Recently.” Hesitantly, he made his way to your side, like he wasn’t sure if he had a spot there anymore, but in typical Rafayel fashion, he took it anyway. “I’ve had time on my hands.”

“How?”

“I haven’t been modelling that much lately. Thomas is just about fed up with me.” His attempt at levity wasn’t lost on you. You were quite aware of his absence from the spotlight as of late, but something nagged at the back of your mind, telling you that you had a piece of the puzzle missing. 

Then it hit you as your eyes swept to him, once again succumbing to the gravitational pull he possessed. “But what about Dubois Designs?"

He slipped his hands into his pockets, not meeting your eyes. “They sent over a contract.” He admitted, clearing his throat. “But I may have thrown it out.”

“Why?” It felt like all you were doing was asking questions you already knew the answers to. Rafayel clicked his tongue in a mixture of mild annoyance and something else, something you couldn’t quite pinpoint, giving you a knowing look.

“You know why.”

Fuck. Both of you, stubborn, impossibly prideful people, holding each other back because of each other. It was almost laughable. Swallowing thickly, you shifted closer to him, your gaze darting back to his depiction of you. “It’s a beautiful painting.”

“Yeah, well, you can thank my muse for that.”

You were breathless. “I’m your muse?” Another question lay under this one: Do you still love me?

“If that’s okay with you,” His eyes never strayed from you, watching you like you were the very essence of the sun itself, or the most perfect pearl in the ocean. “I wouldn’t blame you if you don’t want to be. I may have given it a bad rep.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, facing him properly now that you had finally worked up the nerve. “You’ve made me a fool, Qi Rafayel.” 

Fondness sweeter than the ripest of peaches spread over his face. “No one could ever make you a fool, Y/n. Especially not me.” He took a tentative step forward into your personal space, and you never wanted him to leave again. “So I’ll ask you again, why are you here?” 

There were a few things in this shallow, pretentious world you were certain of. Your faith in your abilities as a designer was the first, knowing that no matter what, your skills and talent would always speak for themselves more than your words ever could. The second was your preference for coffee that was piping hot, without sugar, so that the bitterness would shock your system into functioning. 

And the third, in a sick, unfortunately fortunate twist of fate, was Qi Rafayel, the model who had traipsed into your life without so much as a warning and had turned it upside down. 

“Because you’re still my muse.” You whispered. “And as it so happens, I love you too.”

When your lips met, you knew right then and there that you’d never let him go again. Your palm cupped his face as you pulled him closer, reaquainting yourself with the feel of him against you, how the two of you fit together so perfectly as if you were made for each other. One of his hands slipped around your waist, the other coming to rest over your own over his face, keeping it trapped there as he leaned into your touch, whispering I love you’s back. 

“I’m going to fuck up,” Rafayel mumbled against your mouth, resting his forehead against yours like he couldn’t bear to be any further from you. “I’m going to piss you off and I’m never going to be easy.”

You squeezed his forearm. “I know. Those are your most endearing qualities.”

“Will you love me even then?” He held you close, but you could feel the slight tremble in his touch. You saw him for what he was under all that indifference and chutzpah: a man who desperately loved you through his fear. Lucky for him, you were a woman who loved him through his mistakes and all the madness he brought into your life. 

“Rafayel.” With a tender whisper of his name, you pressed your lips to his reassuringly. “I love you because of it.”

Love was messy and imperfect, but so were the two of you. Neither he nor you were easy people, but when had you ever taken the easy way out of something? You wouldn’t mind never getting out of this, content to stay with him for as long as he’d have you.  The colours rushed back into your life, starting with the pinks and blues of his eyes as they crinkled with a smile. He’d break every one of your rules with a smile, and you’d let him.

“God, you’re going to regret that.”

But he was laughing, and so were you, giddy with the thought of a future with him. The sound of his laughter was so enchanting that you wanted to memorise it, and perhaps now you could, with him by your side for what you hoped would be a beginning without an end. 

You were wholly and irrevocably in love with Qi Rafayel, infuriating quirks and all. Everyone in the industry that the two of you ruled might have thought of him as a total nightmare. 

But to you? To you, Rafayel was a dream.

fin.

[hppylaw]

Out of control - part 3

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

trafalgar law x reader

contents: this is the long awaited smut part! law and reader have sex, it starts off rough, but turns really soft and sweet, everything that happens is consensual

warnings: smut, so mdni, light bondage, sex is rough at first, slight size kink?, reader feels a little bit of pain at the start, a little overstimulation, some dirty talk, law teases reader - reader is g/n, but has a vagina (boobs are not mentioned). lmk if i missed anything

a/n: this was actually kind of tough to write even though i knew exactly what i wanted to happen. I think it's mainly bc i haven't written what i think law would be like in bed usually, so that made it difficult to write something that contrasts with that. if that makes sense? Oh well, i'll just have to write more smut to give you a general idea of what i mean. Anyway, i really like how it turned out, and hope that you will too! Dividers made by me. Please enjoy :D

word count: 3.319

The steady hum of the Polar Tang’s engine doesn’t reach your ears through the hammering of your heart. Seated firmly over Law’s hips, you carefully sink down on his hard cock, using your hand to guide him inside you little by little.

You have never really been on top of him before, as it’s always Law who takes the lead, and the stretch is brutal. You’re starting to realize that him fooling around with you before sex isn’t just because he likes to tease you, he’s intentionally prepping you, clearly knowing you’d have a hard time taking him if he didn’t.

Not wanting to prove him right, you push the thoughts from your mind and force your hips to descend a bit lower. It’s not that it’s difficult, as you’re completely sopping wet, but the intense burn makes your legs stutter a bit.

“Y/n, what are you doing?” Law watches your scrunched up face. “Slow down, you’re hurting yourself.”

“No, it feels good.” You’re only half lying. Despite his size, the feeling of Law’s hard member pushing past that tight ring of muscles is downright addicting, and you’re glad he doesn’t make any serious attempts to stop you.

“Just be careful.” He growls. Even though he finds it incredibly arousing to watch you struggle this much without him in control, the idea that it’s from pain and not pleasure sours it.

You must be almost at the base now, feeling like you couldn’t possibly take him any further. Your hips still for a moment, both hands on his chest now, waiting for the sting to dissipate a little and for your body to stop trembling.

Law is trying not to let it show how amazing the tightness feels, but the way your small hole is gripping him in an effort to accommodate his size has him going a little wild. “Done already?” he teases.

“No, I’m just making sure you can take it. Wouldn’t want to go too fast for you.” It’s a weak attempt to hit back, but you’re sort of focused on other things at the moment.  

“Look, if you need my help getting it in…”

“Shut up.” You force yourself to move a little, slowly lifting your hips and pushing them down again. You’re so completely soaked that he glides in and out easily despite the size difference between you.

The tightness of the fit makes you feel every vein, and the ridge of his tip drags against you in a way that spreads a delicious heat through your body. The sting is purely enjoyable now, quickly turning into a throbbing pleasure in your abdomen. You’re moving a little faster now, loving the way his fat member pushes against your walls in all the right places.

Law waits a little until he’s sure you’re no longer in discomfort before speaking. “Not to ruin it for you, but I’m only about two thirds of the way in.” He deadpans, and before you even get a chance to process what he said, he shoves his hips up to slide even further into you.

You make a sound between a gasp and a whine. He’s already far enough inside to roughly press into your g-spot, and another thrust has him buried to the hilt. You can feel him nestled into that place deep inside of you that has your entire body tingling with pure bliss. Try as you might, you can never reach that spot by yourself, and your brain shuts off a little from how good it feels.

“Theeere we go. You did that almost by yourself.” He coos, and it sounds almost soft for his standards, mocking you over how you’ve begun to quiver again.

Words fail you, and so do your hips. Leaning forward, you try to shift more of your weight to your arms in an attempt to help your legs find their strength, but another well-timed thrust from Law has you collapsing fully into his chest.

He’s crammed so deep inside you that you feel lightheaded. “Shut up, Law.” Is all the response you can manage, desperate to hide the fact that you’re close already. Fuck, you can’t let him gain control this quickly, especially not when he’s literally tied up underneath you.

But Law is having too much fun to humour you any longer. Clearly done pretending you were ever in control, he doesn’t give you a moment to collect yourself, knowing you’d just try to get back up again. So, he simply starts thrusting into you like this, quickly building up an intense pace.

The feeling is heavenly, and you don’t even bother to move anymore. Why would you, with his chest so warm and comfortable beneath you, his heavy breathing and beating heart the only sounds you can register, and the dragging of his cock inside you the only thing you can feel?

Your mind is empty save for the powerful force of his movements, and it’s like the only thing you can feel is him and the way he’s splitting you open. A small part of you is still torn between wanting to resist the tension steadily forming in your abdomen, and wanting to simply give in to the increasing pleasure. But deep down, you know this is a struggle you’re doomed to lose, and you couldn’t be more delighted about it.

Unbeknownst to you, Law saw right through you the moment you asked to be on top. He knows how he is in bed, loving to disarm you before having his fun. And he knows you’re trying to do the same to him. Granted, he didn’t expect you to pull out a pair of handcuffs, but that only makes the prospect of ruining you all the more exciting. He revels in your moans as he keeps pounding your insides, forcing them to accept the entirety of his length.

“Aah- L- Law. C- close.” It’s no wonder, since he’s been ramming repeatedly into your g-spot for the past couple minutes. You’re gripping his shoulders, but the powerful rush you’re bracing for never comes, as his movements grind to a halt.

“I know you are.” It’s unfair how steady his voice sounds again, you think. “But I thought you wanted to take over this time, no?” You have to hold back on the sudden urge to slap him, maybe another time.

“Yeah, but-”

“Unless you need me to do it after all?” His eyes are piercing yours, and you can tell where he is going with this. “You know what I want.”

Fuck it. It feels too good. Your dignity would wait for another day. “Law, please, I need you. Please make me cum. I can’t take it anymore. Please.”

He smirks at how easy it was to get you to beg and picks up the pace again. You’re barely prepared for the speed at which he’s shoving into you, and you’re all but wailing at the pleasure threatening to overcome you for the second time that night.

“Couldn’t even take my cock without help, huh? Had to tie me up like that would do anything.” Law’s voice is a little strained from how fast his hips are ramming into you, but he still lets out a short raspy laugh at how far gone you are.

The pressure finally flows over. Your entire body is on fire, the orgasm he’s giving you making you shake and convulse, and the way your mouth is ripped open does nothing to stop the incoherent sounds from leaving your lips. All you can do is lie on Law’s chest and accept the pleasure he’s giving you, feeling the tingling rush in every nerve in your body.

You’re slowly coming down, utterly spent and beginning to feel very sensitive. The same cannot be said for Law, who is still going at the same pace as before and shows no sign of wanting to stop.

“Law…” You say weakly. “’s too much.” But you don’t make any big attempts at stopping him, the drag of his cock against your insides too delicious to pass up even if it means getting a little overstimulated. You manage to push yourself up now, having regained some strength in your arms, and your gaze falls on his face.

God, he’s beautiful like this.

Law’s hair is even messier than before, and the way his arms are held above his head shows off his heaving torso. You move his tank top further up his chest, fingers gliding over his tattoo. He opens his eyes at your touch, having closed them in an effort not to cum at the feeling of your orgasm pulsating around him.

When Law notices you looking, his eyes narrow again, the mischievous expression back. “Trying to act all tough and in charge when you can’t even fuck yourself on my cock for more than a minute?” But you notice a softness in his gaze that wasn’t there before, and the way he’s a little breathless shows you how much he is also losing himself in the pleasure, despite his best efforts to remain in control. Fuck, you could cum again just from the sight of his heavy, dark eyes and the way he bites into his lip.

You look down to hide the blush creeping up your face at the sight of your hot boyfriend, and you gaze falls on his stomach. The muscles in his abdomen flex every time he raises his hips, and the sight is not helping at all to clear your head. You’re the one biting your lip now, and you slide your hands up to his wrists, where the manacles are grazing his skin. You really need to feel his hands on you. “Law, you can take them off, you’ve proven your point.”

To your utter surprise, he shakes his head. “No, I don’t think I have, actually. I need you to remember how I can still wreck you even with my arms tied.” But his words don’t have the same bite to them as before. He must be close, too. Despite how he is always fully in charge when you start to have sex, Law’s self-control tends to crack a little when he loses himself in the heat of the moment, and he becomes eager in a way you could almost describe as passionate.

You know you have a chance at getting him under your thumb a little if you play your cards right, and it’s not a tough hand to play when he’s under you like this. All you need to do is to feed his craving for affection, and he will be in no condition to push back, forced to let himself indulge in the feeling of being loved.

Your hands caress the skin of his arms as they slide down to his shoulders. You bend down do kiss the lowest part of his chest that you can reach in your current position, and work your way up to his collarbones, slowly, like you have all the time in the world. Law shudders under your touch, the unusual feeling of surrendering to this kind of tenderness is giving him goosebumps.

When your mouth reaches the lower part of his neck, he lets out a raspy breath that barely conceals a moan, and you slide your hands under his shirt again, tenderly tracing where you know tattoos are etched into his skin.

“Fuck.” You mutter.

Seriously, how is he this beautiful?

He’s panting, teeth clenched, mouth twitching ever so slightly. His eyes are fluttering a little from the effort of keeping them open, but all it’s doing is showing off the long, black eyelashes framing them. You can’t stop you hand from wandering up to his tousled hair, lightly tracing over the ridge forming between his black eyebrows on the way up.

Law groans when your hand finds its way to his scalp, alternating between massaging it and lightly tugging his hair. You tentatively use your grip to tilt his head back, wanting better access to his neck, and to your surprise, he doesn’t resist.

You can practically feel how close he is, his thrusts getting more desperate although he’s fighting to keep his pace consistent. You feel him in every part of you, and that, coupled with the sight in front of you, has you rushing to the edge as well.

But you need to hear him before letting yourself fall. Just once is enough. You need to make him moan, make him prove you right in your suspicion that he’s just as hopelessly in love with you as you are with him. That he’s just as much at his partner’s mercy as he always pretends only you are.

So, you give his hair a particularly firm tug, practically pinning his head back on the pillow. The reaction is immediate. Law lets out a breathy moan, and when you start being rougher on his neck, sucking hickeys, nipping at his skin, he can’t hold back anymore.

“Ahh- ah… y/n…”

Your orgasm hits you like a truck, and before you know it, you’re cumming again. You barely register it at first, so focused on pushing Law over the edge that you hadn’t noticed how close you were. The raw force of your orgasm makes you let out a high-pitched whine, but the intensity keeps building instead of decreasing, and you swear every single muscle in your body is shaking.

Law follows you only a second later, releasing himself inside of you with a stuttering groan, an expression of unmasked pleasure on his face. You’ve never seen him this lost in the moment before, this open. So expressive you can clearly trace every new surge of his orgasm from his face alone. And it’s mesmerizing.

There’s something so intimate about seeing your boyfriend, usually in full control of every situation he’s in, be so desperately out of control for once. So helpless. All because of you. All because you can make him experience a pleasure so overwhelming he doesn’t know what to do with himself. With no hope of regaining any semblance of composure as long as you’re making him feel good.

You could spend hours watching him like this, hypnotized by the agonizing bliss written all over his face, listening to every sound he makes from rough groans to breathless whines. But eventually, his movements become weaker before dying out completely, which is lucky as you really couldn’t have taken more after the second round.

You’re both coming down from your respective highs now, motionless except for the occasional twitching of your sore hips and law’s cock releasing the last of his intense orgasm inside you. He’s still breathing heavily under you, and you watch the bobbing of his adam’s apple in awe as he swallows dryly.

The silence between you is a comfortable one, and you make no move to untie him as you let yourself enjoy the moment a bit longer. You keep kissing around his neck and collarbones, savouring the minutes you still have, knowing you have a limited number of them before Law’s mind is back to normal.

But you’re surprised that he lets you treat him so tenderly for as long as he does, and your curiosity makes you look up. After all, you need to make sure he hasn’t died, either from the intensity of his orgasm, or from the shame of it happening while being tied up. But Law is simply looking back at you, a slightly amused expression on his face.

“You really enjoyed that, didn’t you?” He asks with the slightest smirk tugging at his lips.

“Seems I’m not the only one.” You tease back. You’re half joking, half trying to get him to accept the fact that giving over to pleasure can be quite nice sometimes. You need this more often, and start playing with the idea of actually acquiring a pair of seastone cuffs. Just in case he refuses to let you be on top again.

“Hm. Yeah I guess I did.” He looks like he’s pondering some deep philosophical question, and you can’t help but giggle a bit at the sight.

“Don’t you want to remove those? You’ve definitely proven your point now.”

“Oh, right.” With the help of his room, Law removes the shackles and lets his arms rest on your lower back, wincing slightly at the soreness. “My shoulders are killing me, though.”

You start rubbing them, letting your fingers work their way up and down his neck as well, anything for an excuse to let your hands roam his body a little longer.

“You know, I did quite enjoy that, actually.” He says, and he has the nerve to sound surprised. As though having his partner sit on his dick for the better portion of an hour while kissing every part of him isn’t something generally considered enjoyable. “I’d be ok doing that again at some point.”

“Really?” You perk up. “So, like, next time?”

“No.”

“The time after that then!”

“Hm. No.” He sounds like he’s trying to deliver some bad news to a sick patient in a gentle but straightforward manner.

“Ok, so when?”

“Maybe like every 10th time or so would be ok.”

“Law, we are not doing one of those ‘buy 10 get 1 free’ deals they have at coffee shops. Not for sex.” You really have to refrain from throwing in his face that this was by far the most intense orgasm he has had since you two have been together. Maybe in his life, from how befuddled he still looks. That last thought makes your chest swell a bit.

“You’re saying this should be a spur of the moment thing?” Law looks at you as though you’re the one being unreasonable here, making you fight back an eye roll.

“Yes.” You explain, unable to really be mad at him, with his innocently curious expression and tousled bed-hair making him look incredibly cute. There’s something very wholesome about him when his eyes aren’t carrying their usual steely expression. “Can you imagine how much less fun this would have been if you had known about the handcuffs the entire time?”

“Hm. Maybe…”

Though you would love to keep discussing with him like this, your hips are very sore and starting to cramp up from the position. You shift a little in an attempt to allow more blood flow to reach your legs, but Law notices and takes this as his cue to move as well. He helps you lift yourself off of him and gets up from the bed.

“Can you stand?”

“Are you offering to carry me? Because then, no.” You joke, and you know his sigh is theatrical as he bends down to pick you up.

Law, being a doctor, is always very particular about aftercare, and you’ve always loved that aspect about him. It’s one of those things that shows you how much he cares for you and your wellbeing, a welcome contrast to his usually stern exterior. He walks to the bathroom and sets you down on the toilet to pee while he cleans himself up in the sink.

When you’re done, he cleans you up as well with a damp towel, and as he bends down to reach between your legs, you notice the dark red marks littering his neck. You don’t know how you hadn’t noticed them before, but now that your mind is clear again, they’re impossible to miss. Law notices your touch on his neck and inspects himself in the bathroom mirror after rinsing the used cloth.

His eyes lock on yours through the reflection with a dark, teasing expression, almost as if trying to scold you lightly. “Every 10th time is ok.” Law only smirks at your whines of protest, carrying you back to bed.

All right, seastone cuffs it is. That’s your last thought before drifting off into a deep, comfortable sleep.

Thanks for reading! This is the 3rd and final part of this mini series. I hope you liked it ;) (This is my fic, don't repost! Reblogs are always appreciated <3)

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

[hppylaw]

Sanji Vinsmoke X Reader

Gimme Some Advice

masterlist

Synopsis: Me when I yearn. Me and I yearn but have a healthy relationship with my friends and knows not to be jealous but still allow myself to feel things

⟡𓌉◯𓇋₊˚⊹♡ You were sprawled out on a sun chair, kicking your legs back and forth and humming a random tune to yourself, still feeling giddy from the delicious meal Sanji had served earlier. Your hair fluttered in the wind, and your bright eyes scanned the open sea until

BAM. “[Y/N]!”

Sanji came flying across the deck like a torpedo, arms flailing for balance as he skidded to a halt in front of you. His shirt was untucked, cigarette barely hanging on his lip, and a wild, borderline panicked look in his eyes. You blinked. “…You okay there, Romeo?”

Sanji bent over, hands on his knees, catching his breath. “I I need your help.”

Your brows lifted with curiosity and amusement. “What, did Luffy eat the last cookie again and you’re plotting revenge?”

“No, this is serious!”

You sat up straighter, suppressing a grin. “Okay, okay. What is it?”

Sanji straightened, brushed back his hair dramatically, and looked at you with those swirly, golden eyes as if he were about to confess some great truth.

“I need you to tell me… how to pull a woman.”

You stared at him.

Then burst into laughter. “I’m sorry what?”

Sanji flushed, his hands flying up. “I know! I know it sounds ridiculous coming from me, but I swear I’m being serious. Dead serious.”

You giggled, slapping a hand over your mouth. “Sanji, my darling, you throw yourself at women like it’s a sport. If flirting were a martial art, you’d be a black belt.”

“That’s exactly the problem!” Sanji groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “It doesn’t work. I mean, not really. They just giggle or wave me off like I’m some harmless breeze. None of them take me seriously. And I I want to be taken seriously. Just once.”

You quieted at that, your expression softening. “Oh, Sanji…”

He sighed, leaning back against the rail, his face turned to the sea. “There’s this girl. Not someone on this ship,” he added quickly, glancing at you. “She’s kind and funny and strong. But when I talk to her, I get so nervous I just default to… you know.”

“the pathetic lover boy routine not enough for you?” you said innocently, batting your lashes.

Sanji shot you a look, lips twitching despite himself. “Yes, that.”

You hopped off the chair and padded toward him, poking his chest lightly. “Okay, lover boy. Let’s get one thing straight: You’re not failing because you flirt. You’re failing because you flirt like a cartoon heart attack. There’s nothing authentic about it..”

He blinked at you. “…Huh?”

You grinned. “There's nothing I'm complaining about, though. I think it's really cute. The best kind of complement is the one that sounds like you didn’t rehearse it a hundred times in the mirror.”

Sanji looked thoughtful. “But what if I mess up? Say something stupid?”

You rolled your eyes fondly. “Sanji, you do say something stupid every single time you meet a woman and they still smile at you. Imagine what would happen if you were just… you. The sweet, reliable, passionate, incredible cook who makes the best damn meals on the sea and puts his heart into everything he does.” Sanji’s ears turned pink. You leaned in, voice teasing. “That Sanji? That guy’s dreamy.”

He sputtered, waving smoke away from his cigarette. “S Stop saying things like that. I’m trying to focus!”

You giggled, twirling a lock of your hair. “Fine, fine. You want real advice?”

“Please.”

“Okay.” You folded your arms and nodded. “Step one: Calm down. You don’t need to win someone’s heart in ten seconds. Stop making it a performance and start making it a conversation.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay…”

“Step two: Ask her questions. Not just compliments. Be curious about who she is, not just how she looks.”

“Right…”

“And step three,” you said, tapping his forehead, “don’t chase. Just be. If she likes you, she’ll come closer. And if she doesn’t… you don’t need to change who you are to impress her.”

Sanji looked down at you genuinely, for a moment no exaggerated grin, no dramatic swoon. “You really think that’ll work?”

You smiled warmly. “I know it will. You’ve already got everything you need. You just need to believe someone could fall for you”

He stared at you in silence for a moment. “You’d make a hell of a love doctor, [Y/N].”

“I take payment in dessert,” you winked.

Sanji chuckled softly, then took a final drag of his cigarette and tossed it overboard. “Right away madamoiselle”

You shrugged playfully. “Good boy now go do your thing” As he turned to head back to the kitchen, you called after him, “Sanji?” He glanced back, his usual grin starting to sneak back into place. You smiled. “The right girl? She’ll see you. Just give her the chance.”

He gave you a mock salute. “Then I’ll make sure I’m someone worth seeing.” with that, he vanished into the galley.

⟡𓌉◯𓇋₊˚⊹♡The world was quiet tonight. The sea whispered gently against the hull of the Thousand Sunny, and the breeze that swept through the ship’s open deck was crisp, carrying the smell of salt and the faintest trace of spices from the galley below. The crew had all gone off to their own little corners of the ship some reading, some napping, and others chattering softly out of earshot.

You lay in the middle of the main deck, arms stretched out to your sides, eyes wide open to the tapestry of stars overhead. The wind moved through your hair, playing with strands like it was trying to keep you company. But the real comfort came from just a few feet away Brook sat atop a crate, bathed in the soft, swaying light of the lanterns above, his long bony fingers gliding across the strings of his violin.

It wasn’t his usual upbeat, silly melody the ones he played to make Chopper dance or to accompany some skull joke. No, this was something else. Something soft. Thoughtful. The kind of song that didn’t need lyrics to speak. It trickled into your chest like warm tea in cold hands. It held something gentle and aching in every note. You stared at the stars, your lashes still and unmoving. Your chest rose and fell in time with the music. And somewhere between the quiet and the chords, your mind drifted to him.

Sanji.

You let the name echo in your thoughts. You didn’t try to chase it away. You smiled faintly. He had fallen for someone. You didn’t know her. You didn’t need to. You could tell by the way he spoke, by the way he looked different lately. Softer, more grounded. Less dramatic for show, and more… sincere. Like there was someone he genuinely wanted to be better for. And gods, it was so like him. That hopeless romantic heart of his. That constant need to give everything to someone who made his heart flutter.

And you? You had always laughed with him. Teased him when he did his little twirls or dropped to one knee in front of any woman in a ten mile radius. You’d rolled your eyes, called him ridiculous, joked that his flirtations were more extra than Zoro’s vendetta against stairs.

But you’d never said the truth. Not once. That sometimes, when he smiled at you not as a flirt, but just you your heart would skip. That there were moments when you thought maybe… maybe you were the one he’d fall for if he ever took a real chance. But he hadn’t. he was chasing someone else. Someone who made him nervous. You let out a soft breath, eyes still on the stars, a weight pressing gently against your ribs.

It wasn’t a jealous hurt. You were happy for him. Truly. It was just the kind of ache that came from wondering what if. Brook’s melody shifted slightly higher, like a question being asked in the dark. As if he knew.

You didn’t move. You didn’t cry. You just felt. Because it was okay to feel it. To mourn something that was never yours. To lie under the stars and let the music carry the weight of your silence.

you thought of him. Of the way his voice softened when he wasn’t being loud. Of how he always made your plate first when he knew you were having a bad day. Of how, sometimes, you imagined what it would be like if those small gestures were something more. Your fingers curled slightly against the wood. Another breeze passed over you, lifting your hair gently, and you blinked slowly, your gaze still locked on the sky.

The music swelled one last time before fading into the hush of the ocean, Just one song. One quiet night. One unspoken heartache. And then the world was still again. You lay there, unmoving, letting the silence settle. though the ache was still there, something inside you softened too like maybe, even if the story you wanted wasn’t yours, the chapter was still worth feeling.

“Did you know,” Brook began, his voice soft in the night air, “that the stars you see are sometimes already dead?”

You blinked slowly, then smiled, lips barely curving. “That’s… kind of depressing, Brook.”

“Yohoho, perhaps,” he chuckled lightly, “but it’s also strangely beautiful, don’t you think? That something can shine even after it’s gone.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “Yeah. I guess I like that.”

There was a beat of silence, “Do you think Luffy’s ever tried to eat a star?”

You snorted. “Absolutely. ”

Brook let out a full laugh, his ribs gently rattling with the motion. “I should write that down for a new lyric. ‘I reached for a star and bit down on a dream delicious!’”

You groaned, laughing despite yourself. “That is so cheesy.”

Another comfortable pause settled between you. You listened to the creak of the ship, the soft splash of water against the hull, and the distant thrum of something in the engine room probably Franky still working on some little project with his usual midnight energy.

Brook tilted his skull back. “Do you think fish sleep?”

“I think they have to. Maybe with one eye open. Like Zoro.”

Brook nodded solemnly. “Scary.”

You giggled and rolled over onto your stomach, resting your chin on your forearms. “What about skeletons? Do they sleep?”

Brook tapped his chin. “Hmm… difficult to say. I don’t have eyelids, so I’ve never actually seen myself do it.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“Not as exhausting as trying to take a bath when you don’t have skin.”

“Brook, what ”

“And on the subject of things I can’t do… may I see your panties?”

You stopped. Deadpan. Emotionless. You slowly pushed yourself up from the deck, brushing some hair from your face as you gave him the flattest look in the history of facial expressions.

Brook clasped his hands politely. “it would be such a lovely gesture.”

You pointed toward the hallway with a single, resigned finger. “You’re done.”

He blinked. “Oh?”

“You’re done,” you repeated, standing up and brushing off your clothes. “That’s it. Conversation’s over. Pack it up, skeleton.”

“Wait, my dear! I merely !”

You walked off toward the girls’ quarters without another word, your hand raised in a lazy wave behind you.

“Goodnight, Brook.”

He sighed behind you. “Ah, the pain of rejection. It cuts deeper than the Grand Line’s fog!”

You kept walking, hiding your smile. from behind you, drifting in the sea kissed night, came a final, cheerful:

“Sweet dreams! Yohohohoho!”

You shook your head as the door closed behind you, smiling to yourself. Even heartbreak couldn’t compete with this crew’s ridiculousness.

The soft creak of the ship accompanied your entrance as you returned to the girls’ quarters, your steps light but tired from the long, quiet moment you’d had with Brook on the deck. You rubbed your arms absentmindedly as you passed the threshold, the warm lamplight casting a cozy glow across the room.

Nami was sprawled comfortably on the couch with a drink in hand, her legs tucked under her, a mischievous glint already dancing in her eyes. Robin sat nearby in an armchair, book in hand, but she looked up as you entered.

“There she is,” Nami announced, smirking knowingly as she took another sip. “Have fun with our resident skeleton?”

You plopped down beside her with a hum, grabbing a pillow to hug against your chest. “It was nice. He played something soft. Kinda hit me in the heart a little.”

Robin’s smile deepened slightly. “Brook’s music often does.”

Nami raised a brow. “I have a love hate relationship with that man”

“Well…I couldnt blame you” You grinned. “It got weird eventually. I left before he could ask about my underwear.”

“EW LETS BURN HIM” Nami choked, laughing.

“shhhhh bed time now,” you confirmed, deadpan.

Nami snorted, shaking her head before she shifted back to her earlier topic with Robin, eyes alight with playful mischief. “I’m just saying,” she said, raising her glass again, “whoever this woman is… poor, poor soul. She has no idea what she’s walking into.”

You wheezed, pressing the pillow to your face. “Nami!”

“I mean it!” she cackled. “Can you imagine Sanji not spinning around like a lovesick ballerina the second she smiles at him? He’d probably burst into a heart shaped firework just from holding her hand.”

Robin chuckled behind her book, one elegant brow lifting. “He does tend to be… passionate.”

“Oh my God,” you laughed, eyes watering,

“Don’t forget the nosebleed,” Nami added, clinking her glass in the air.

The room burst into another round of giggles, warm and breathless, echoing softly around the cabin. It felt like home. But then your smile softened. You clutched the pillow a little tighter and leaned back against the cushions, your laughter quieting as your thoughts drifted slightly. “…I think it’s kind of cute, though,” you murmured.

Nami blinked and looked over. “What, that he’s basically a walking romance novel?”

You shook your head, smiling more to yourself than to them. “No. That he’s finally trying to take something seriously.”

Robin gently set her book down, her eyes curious and warm. Nami tilted her head, her teasing expression melting into one of genuine interest. You took a breath and let your voice settle. “I mean, sure, Sanji flirts like he’s getting paid for it. But this time? It’s different. He actually cares. You can see it in how he talks, how he moves. Like… he wants to be better. Not just charming genuine. That’s kind of huge for him.”

Nami leaned her elbow against the armrest, watching you closely. Her smirk faded into something quieter.

“He asked me for advice,” you added, fingers fiddling with the edge of the pillow. “that's so lame and cute”

Robin offered a soft, thoughtful smile. “It sounds like he’s growing.”

You nodded. “Yeah. And I know we all tease him believe me, I’ll never stop but part of me is proud of him, you know? He’s not trying to win over a dozen hearts. Just one.”

There was a quiet moment. The kind that wrapped around you like a soft blanket. Even the waves outside seemed to hush themselves. Nami exhaled loudly and flopped back. “Ugh. I hate that you made that sound sweet.”

You burst out laughing, sinking deeper into the cushions. “Because it is! He’s ridiculous, but he’s sincere when it counts.”

Nami pointed at you with a lazy glare. “If this ends with him writing sonnets and reciting them at dinner, I will throw myself overboard.”

“Good,” you grinned, “I’ll write your eulogy.”

Robin’s smile turned amused again. “Maybe the sea really will turn to wine next.”

You stretched out with a yawn, heart just a little lighter than before. “Or maybe our little chef’s finally found someone worth changing for.”

The room quieted again, the gentle rhythm of the ship rocking beneath you. Somewhere in the galley, a chair scraped faintly, a sign that Sanji was still awake, maybe cleaning, maybe daydreaming.

The kitchen was clean. Spotless, even. Every dish dried and put away, the counters gleaming, the scent of lemon and herbs still lingering faintly in the air.

Sanji stood alone at the center island, one hand gripping the edge of the counter, the other loosely holding a bottle of wine he hadn’t poured yet. The glass in front of him remained empty, catching the golden glow from the overhead lanterns.

His jacket was off, sleeves rolled up, collar a little undone. His tie hung around his neck, loose and forgotten. His hair fell in front of his eyes in soft curls as he hunched over the counter and let out a long, slow breath.

“…Idiot,” he muttered, running a hand over his face. “Stupid, stupid idiot.”

The cork creaked as he pulled it out of the wine bottle, then set it aside. He didn’t pour it yet just stared at the glass like it had personally offended him.

“Of course you asked her for advice,” he mumbled sarcastically, voice full of self mockery. “Genius move, really. Go ask the woman you’re in love with how to win someone else over. Brilliant. Next level romance tactics.”

He sighed, dropping into one of the stools, elbows on the counter, bottle still in hand.

“She probably thinks I’m pathetic. No worse. She probably pities me.” He leaned his head forward until it thudded lightly against the counter. “And then she said I was cute.”

His face flushed immediately.

His voice dropped to a quieter murmur, warm with memory. “She said I was cute just the way I am.”

He let the thought hang in the silence, echoing a little louder in the privacy of the kitchen than it had in the moment it happened. His chest tightened, and he swallowed hard.

She’d said it so casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like it was obvious.

Sanji rubbed the back of his neck, fingers twitching. “So what do you do, huh?” he asked no one. “You take that… softness, that little bit of warmth, and you turn around and act like your heart belongs to someone else? You let her believe that?”

He sat back up and finally poured the wine. The liquid splashed neatly into the glass, dark and rich. He stared at it, jaw tight.

“She probably thinks I’m in love with this new pretend woman. And I let her think that.”

He took a sip. He winced.

“Idiot.”

The word came out smaller this time. Not angry. Just… tired. He swirled the glass slowly, watching the way the wine clung to the sides. What was he even doing?

It wasn’t that he meant to lie. He just… panicked. He didn’t know how to say, “Hey, it’s you. It’s been you.” Not without ruining everything. Not without seeing her look at him with pity or worse, discomfort.

So instead, he twisted the truth into something safe. Something that would let her stay close, even if it meant she’d never know the real reason his heart pounded every time she smiled. And now here he was. With wine. And a thousand regrets. Sanji leaned back in his stool and stared at the ceiling.

“…That Sanji? That guy’s dreamy..”

He smiled faintly. Just for a second.

Then he took another drink and muttered again, quietly: “Yeah. Still an idiot.”

⟡𓌉◯𓇋₊˚⊹♡The sun rose bright and golden, casting warm beams across the deck of the Thousand Sunny. The sea was calm today blue skies, soft waves, and the smell of salt on the breeze. It was the kind of morning that promised a good day, or at the very least, a good breakfast.

You stepped out from the girls’ quarters with a sleepy yawn, your hair a little messy and your shirt slightly rumpled from tossing in bed. The moment your feet touched the deck, you felt it a strong pair of hands grabbed yours and spun you into the air.

“FOOOOOOD!!” Luffy shouted, laughing with wild energy.

“Luffy!” you squealed, dizzy but giggling as he twirled you around in a circle like a child with a new toy.

“I can smell it! Sanji’s cooking something amazing!” he cried, holding your hands as he danced with you in a crooked circle. “It’s meat day, I know it!”

You laughed breathlessly as he practically bounced on his heels, his enthusiasm contagious. “You say that every day!”

“Yeah, because I want it every day!” Luffy grinned, his wide, carefree smile beaming down at you. “Sanji’s meat is the best meat ever!”

“Phrasing, Luffy,” Nami said dryly from behind, stepping up onto the deck with a stretch and a mug of coffee.

Robin followed her, calm as ever, a book already tucked under one arm. “Morning,” she greeted softly.

“Morning!” you chirped, finally freed from Luffy’s grasp and straightening your shirt with a grin. “Someone’s fired up today.”

“Sanji’s breakfast are always special,” Luffy said seriously, his head already swiveling toward the galley. “He’s gonna make the eggs all fancy again, I can feel it in my soul.”

“You don’t have a soul,” Zoro muttered from where he was leaning against the railing, clearly only half awake.

“YOU don’t have a soul!” Luffy snapped back without hesitation.

You laughed as Chopper popped up beside you, sniffing the air excitedly. “Is that cinnamon? I think he’s making pancakes too!”

“Cinnamon and meat?!” Luffy gasped, dramatically grabbing you again by the shoulders and shaking you gently. “WE’RE GOING TO HAVE THE BEST FOOD EVER!”

You snorted. “Luffy, please. I haven’t even had water yet.”

From inside the galley, the sound of pots clanging and something sizzling filled the air, along with the unmistakable scent of breakfast being prepared with far too much care for people who would inhale it in under ten minutes. Sanji’s silhouette passed by the window briefly, towel over his shoulder, cigarette hanging from his mouth, sleeves already rolled up. He was in his element.

“C’mon, let’s set the table!” Chopper called, already hurrying to grab the cutlery.

Luffy started dragging you with him, eyes sparkling. “Come on come on come on come ooooon!”

You stumbled along after him with a laugh, glancing once toward the galley door as you passed. You caught the faintest glimpse of Sanji inside, wiping his hands and adjusting a tray of fruit focused, meticulous, and humming under his breath. He didn’t look up. Still, the sight made your chest warm for a second.

“FOOD!” Luffy yelled again.

And just like that, your feet left the deck once more as the world spun in circles and laughter echoed in the salt sweet air.

The dining table was already packed with plates steaming stacks of cinnamon pancakes, golden and fluffy, with fresh berries glistening like jewels. Plates of sliced fruit and scrambled eggs surrounded platters of sizzling meat, toast with butter that melted on contact, and glasses of fresh juice so vibrant they looked like sunlight in a cup. Everyone was in their place, Luffy practically vibrating with excitement as he bounced in his seat, holding himself back with visible restraint. Chopper was wide eyed, murmuring a small, “Wow,” under his breath. Brook had already begun singing softly to himself in the background, adding a calm rhythm to the buzz of morning chatter.

And then came Sanji.

He emerged from the galley with the final tray a dish of roasted vegetables and sweet sausages, perfectly arranged. His sleeves were still rolled up, his apron dusted lightly with flour, and his hair slightly tousled from the heat of the kitchen.

“Ladies,” he announced with a low, charming bow, “your breakfast has arrived.”

He moved first to Nami, as always, placing her plate in front of her with graceful precision. “For you, my lovely Nami swan, with extra honey on your pancakes just the way you like.”

She smirked behind her mug of coffee. “Charming as always, Sanji.”

“And for you, divine Robin chwan,” he said next, setting her dish down with a delicate touch. “Light seasoning, a side of papaya, and just a pinch of powdered sugar.”

Robin gave him a small, pleased smile. “Thank you. You’re quite attentive.”

And then he turned to you.

You were mid sip of juice when he knelt beside you instead of merely leaning over. The tray he carried was smaller, more focused. A beautiful arrangement of all your favorites crispy hash browns, folded omelet with cheese and herbs, pancakes with caramel drizzle and sliced bananas, and a perfectly cut piece of grilled sausage shaped like a little heart.

“Mon trésor,” he said softly, offering the tray like it was a gift more than a plate. “Everything you love. And I made the syrup myself.”

Your breath caught slightly, caught off guard by the subtle, extra sparkle in his eyes. He looked… softer, not just playful. Like this breakfast wasn’t just breakfast. Like he’d memorized your taste for reasons he hadn’t admitted yet.

You blinked, then gave him a slow, teasing smile. “You didn’t carve a heart sausage for the others, did you?”

“No,” he replied smoothly. “Only for the one who deserves it.”

You felt Nami’s stare from the other side of the table and heard Luffy inhale sharply next to you like he’d just discovered something juicy.

“Sanji…” you said, eyes narrowing playfully, “what are you up to?”

“Nothing at all,” he lied, setting the plate down with a flourish. “Only offering the best to the woman who brightens this ship more than the sunrise.”

Robin chuckled quietly. Nami straight up snorted into her coffee.

You stared at him, suspicious and amused. “Is this still about mystery lady you like?”

Sanji didn’t answer right away. His smile twitched just slightly, eyes flickering across your face like he wanted to say something more but instead, he straightened with that classic, smooth grin.

“Only a fool wouldn’t treat someone as radiant as you like royalty,” he said simply, giving a little bow before turning away to serve the others. You glanced down at the heart shaped sausage. Something fluttered in your chest.

⟡𓌉◯𓇋₊˚⊹♡You were mid bite into your syrup drenched pancakes when Nami slapped your shoulder with the back of her hand.

“OW !” you yelped, nearly dropping your fork. “What?!”

“Did you see that?!” she hissed, leaning in, her eyes wide with scandalized amusement.

“Mf what ?” you mumbled through a mouthful of food, blinking.

Nami grabbed a napkin and pretended to casually wipe her mouth, voice low and fast. “Girl, that wasn’t just flirting..”

She stared at you like you’d grown a second head. You choked slightly.

Robin, still reading her book nearby, turned a page without looking up. “I think it was quite romantic.”

You turned to Nami, whispering hotly, “Okay, okay, I know, I’m sitting right here !”

Nami snickered, eyes sparkling like she was witnessing a live soap opera. “Don’t ‘I know’ me. I’ve never seen him look like that before. And he’s Sanji. His flirting is practically a weather system.”

You felt your face heat up, the kind of warmth that crept from your cheeks to the tips of your ears. You reached for your juice, mostly for something to do with your hands. “Maybe he was just being… nice.”

“Oh yeah,” Nami drawled. “Super nice…. because he’s reaaaaaal nice”

You groaned into your hands. “Nami, please. He likes someone else, remember?”

That sobered her slightly. She leaned back, eyes narrowing with a more thoughtful glint. “Right. The ‘mystery woman.’” Then she gave you a side glance. “are you sure he said someone not on this ship?”

You bit your lip, still smiling on the outside, but there was a tug behind your ribs. A quiet little twist. Your eyes drifted back to the galley doors where he’d disappeared, probably humming while he finished up dishes or prepared Luffy’s inevitable third round. He’d looked so proud when he’d set your plate down. So sure of what he was doing. So… hopeful.

Nami tilted her head. “So… he’s head over heels and trying to grow a pair finally”

“Yeah.” You toyed with your juice glass, swirling the contents. “I think he actually wants it to mean something. For once.”

Nami let out a low whistle, then narrowed her eyes at you. “And how do you feel about that?”

You hesitated. “I mean… proud. I guess. I know we joke about how ridiculous he is, but… I think it’s really sweet he’s trying.”

She watched you for a beat too long. “But?”

Your smile faltered a little. You looked down at your plate.

“…But I feel kind of stupid,” you admitted softly.

Nami frowned. “Why?”

“Because the whole time I was helping him figure out how to win her over, I kept thinking…” You trailed off, then huffed a quiet laugh. “Never mind.”

Nami leaned closer. “Hey. Come on.”

You finally looked at her, cheeks warm. “I kept thinking how nice it would be if it was… me.”

There was a pause. Nami’s eyes softened. “Damn,” she whispered.

You elbowed her, laughing despite the ache in your chest. “Shut up.”

Robin closed her book with a soft snap. “Well… whoever she is, she must be someone very special.”

You smiled, a little more bittersweet this time, and took another bite of pancake. “Yeah,” you murmured. “She must be.”

Your fingers gently pushed a piece of banana around your plate.

He doesn’t love you. Not really. Even if part of him wants to. Even if you wish you’d said something before he asked for advice on how to love someone else.

Still blushing, you turned back to Nami, managing a weak grin. “I think I need more juice.”

as you stood, your eyes lingered one last time toward the galley. Just in time to see Sanji peek out just briefly like he was checking if you were enjoying your meal. Your heart squeezed, and you looked away before your smile gave too much away. He was trying so hard. Too bad it wasn’t for you.

The kitchen was warm with the scent of baked bread and spices when you wandered in, the early morning hush broken only by the soft clink of utensils and the faint sound of Sanji humming to himself. He stood at the counter with his sleeves rolled up, focused on arranging plates like he was crafting art instead of breakfast.

You leaned against the doorway with a small grin.

“Morning, loverboy.”

He jolted ever so slightly, a spoon slipping from his fingers and bouncing on the counter with a quiet clatter. “Tch must you sneak up on me like that?”

“I announced myself,” you said, walking in. “You’re just easy to rattle before coffee.”

He glanced over his shoulder, giving you a crooked smile. “If I’m rattled, it’s only because an angel wandered into my kitchen.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile didn’t waver as you made your way toward the pitcher of juice near the sink.

“I’m just here for this,” you said, reaching for a glass.

But before you could pour it, Sanji stepped beside you, brushing past with effortless grace. His hand slipped gently around your waist not holding, not lingering, just enough to move you an inch to the side so he could reach the pitcher.

“Allow me,” he said smoothly, as if he did this every morning. As if his hand hadn’t just sent a ripple of heat straight up your spine.

He poured the juice calmly, setting the glass down in front of you with a soft “Here you go.”

You took it, blinking, and looked down for a second to ground yourself before flashing him a smile.

“Thanks.”

Sanji leaned against the counter casually, watching you with that faint smile of his, the one that held just enough softness to make your chest feel tight. You took a sip, pretending not to notice the way your skin still buzzed faintly where he’d touched you. “Breakfast smells good.”

“Only the best for my favorite ladies,” he said smoothly

You looked down into your juice. “The food was delicious”

He chuckled, low and warm. “Im happy that I could be of service”

You glanced at him from over the rim of your glass. “You do that everyday amazingly”

He tilted his head, just the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Maybe I just like the smile it puts on your face.”

You nearly choked. You lifted your glass. “Careful, chef. Keep that up and the mysterious girl you’re into might get jealous.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. You meant it as a joke. A tease. A shield. Sanji’s smile faltered just for a second. His gaze flicked to yours, something unreadable there.

Then he laughed, but it was quieter this time. “I'm sure she wouldn’t mind.”

You turned slightly, sipping your juice to hide your expression. Your heart did something unhelpful and fluttery. The touch of his hand still lingered like a phantom against your waist. “Well,” you said, eyes on the glass, “if she’s smart, she’ll hold on tight.”

You didn’t look back as you walked out, but you felt his gaze trail after you all the way to the door.

⟡𓌉◯𓇋₊˚⊹♡ cobblestone streets winding between open stalls, music playing faintly in the distance, and the smell of fresh pastries wafting through the air. With no mission scheduled, the Straw Hats had the rare gift of a free day on land. Naturally, you and Usopp took full advantage of it. You’d only been out for five minutes and had already stopped at three shops none of which you bought anything from. “Okay,” you said, holding up a ridiculous, oversized feathered hat from a vendor’s stall. “If I wear this, you think people will start treating me like royalty?”

Usopp struck a dramatic pose beside you. “You're so ratchet but it might work if I’m your royal advisor slash bodyguard slash legendary sniper.”

“So, your usual job?”

“Exactly,” he said proudly. “But Id be more likea knight and shining armour”

You snorted, putting the hat on Usopp’s head instead. “There. Now you look like a circus magician with tax fraud.”

He gasped in mock betrayal. “You take that back! This hat is limited edition!”

“Limited to what? Crimes against fashion?”

The vendor, who’d been quietly observing your antics, stifled a laugh while pretending to dust off some trinkets. Usopp adjusted the hat “You laugh now, but when I unveil my next great invention Usopp’s Amazing Weather Manipulation Cloak everyone will be begging to buy this look.”

“Oh yeah?” you asked, starting to walk down the street with him. “And what does this miracle cloak do?”

He puffed out his chest. “Simple. It changes the weather according to your mood. Sunny when you’re happy, storms when you’re mad ”

“So basically, you want to create a walking hazard to public safety? we will be taking away Nami’s job”

“Exactly!”

You cackled, nearly tripping over a barrel. “God, it’s a good thing Chopper’s the doctor and not you.”

“Hey! My inventions have some scientific basis!”

You gave him a look. “Like when you tried to glue mirrors to your boots so you could ‘sneak around corners’?”

Usopp immediately turned red. “That was strategic! I was testing the laws of physics!”

“You blinded yourself.”

“shall we not dwell on the past you fiend”

You were both doubled over laughing by now, dodging around carts and weaving between market stalls. A group of kids ran past you squealing, and you barely missed getting smacked in the face with a balloon on a string. You eventually slowed near a little fountain in the town square, both of you catching your breath.

Usopp leaned on the edge of the fountain dramatically. “Man… why cant all days we stay like this.”

You took a sip from your water bottle and collapsed beside him on the ledge. “That isnt great warrior of the sea of you.”

The breeze picked up, brushing through your hair, and you sat in a comfortable silence for a moment just long enough for Usopp to break it. “Do you think Sanji would survive if we came back wearing matching ‘I ❤️ Zoro’ shirts?”

You didn’t even hesitate. “No. He’d implode.”

“immediate death then we’d get kicked off the ship.”

The sun glinted off the surface of the fountain water as you sat side by side with Usopp, still catching your breath from all the laughter. A light breeze picked up, rustling the colorful banners strung between rooftops and carrying the smell of sea salt and warm bread.

You were about to comment on how this was the first day in a while that felt truly peaceful when Usopp suddenly elbowed your arm.

“Hey, hey,” he said, nodding toward a stall across the square, “look who’s working his magic.”

You followed his gaze and immediately spotted Sanji. He was standing by a small fruit stall, all smiles and flowing compliments. The woman behind it a pretty local vendor was blushing furiously as Sanji offered to help carry something for her. His hand brushed hers lightly, and he flashed that dazzling, practiced grin you’d seen him give a thousand times before.

You swallowed, your smile fading just slightly. You tried to hide it, keeping your tone light.

“Guess that’s her, huh?” you murmured, glancing down at your hands in your lap.

Usopp blinked. “Her?”

You nodded faintly. “The one he asked me advice about. Makes sense, doesn’t it? We’ve been on this island for a week. He probably met her on one of those early grocery runs or something.”

Usopp looked back at the scene Sanji carefully adjusting the strap on the woman’s basket, saying something low that made her giggle and then back at you.

You gave a small sigh, more to yourself than anything. “She’s really pretty.”

Usopp’s face scrunched up, seeing the drop in your expression. “Hey, hey don’t go all mopey on me. You don’t even know if that’s the girl. He flirts with everything that moves.”

You laughed, despite yourself, but it was a little quieter than usual. Usopp, sensing he needed to go full Usopp mode, jumped to his feet. “Alright,” he said dramatically, striking a pose. “There’s only one thing to do in moments of emotional distress.”

You looked up, suspicious. “Usopp, what are you ”

“ Distraction via comedy!” he yelled, grabbing your hand with a flourish. “Come on, I’ll perform the Dance of a Thousand Legends!”

“What?!”

Before you could brace yourself, he spun you in an overly exaggerated twirl your legs tangled, your foot caught on the edge of the fountain

And with a splash, you were completely submerged in the cool, shallow water.

Usopp’s eyes went wide. “NO NO WAIT THAT WASN’T ”

You popped up, soaked from head to toe, blinking water out of your lashes, hair plastered to your cheeks.

“…Usopp,” you said slowly, voice eerily calm.

He held up both hands. “In my defense, that was the wind.”

You arched a brow, lips twitching despite yourself. “The wind spun me into the fountain?”

“It was a team effort.”

A beat of silence passed. Then you both cracked up. Laughter echoed around the fountain again, loud and genuine and ridiculous. A few people turned to look, but you didn’t care. Usopp offered you his hand with a grin, and this time, you took it just to yank him in with you. Another splash. Another shriek. Now you were both drenched, flailing in the fountain like overgrown children. You forgot about Sanji. You forgot about the girl. For the moment, there was just laughter, water, and one very amazing best friend who knew exactly how to pull you back to the surface.

⟡𓌉◯𓇋₊˚⊹♡The dock came into view, and you and Usopp were practically wheezing from laughter as you stumbled down the path toward the ship, clothes still slightly damp from your earlier fountain mishap. Your makeshift T shirts handwritten in bold, messy letters with black marker proudly declared:

“I ❤️ ZORO”

Usopp kept pausing every few steps to bend over, hands on his knees, cackling like he hadn’t laughed in years.

“Oh my God,” you gasped, holding your side. “The look on his face is going to kill me.”

“I’m not ready,” Usopp panted, straightening up. “We need to be serious. Completely serious. No laughing.”

You immediately broke into another fit of laughter. “I already can’t breathe, how do you expect me to be serious?”

When the ship came fully into view, you shared a silent nod.

You both climbed up the ramp with as much drama as two theater kids about to win an award. The sun glinted off your ridiculous shirts as you stormed aboard like you were coming back from war. Zoro was on the deck, leaning against the mast with a toothpick in his mouth, sword at his hip, arms crossed like he definitely hadn’t been napping two minutes ago. His eyes flicked up in your direction and immediately narrowed.

You and Usopp struck matching poses. Team Rocket who?

“Zoro~!” you cooed, spinning in a slow circle to show off your shirt. “Look what we got made just for you~!”

Usopp threw both arms out. “We’re your number one fans!”

Zoro stared for a full second. “What the hell is wrong with you two.”

“Love does strange things to a person,” you said seriously, clutching your chest like you were about to faint.

“Speak for yourself,” Usopp added, holding his hand out to Zoro. “Your number one admirer. Autograph, please?”

Zoro’s face didn’t change. “You’re both idiots.”

“And proud,” you shot back with a wink.

Zoro turned, started walking away.

Usopp gasped. “Wait! Are you running from your feelings?”

“I swear, I will cut those shirts off you.”

“I’d love for you to try,” you said, chasing after him like a lovesick fangirl. “Zorooo~ come back~!”

Zoro grunted, picking up the pace, muttering something about needing to train which was definitely just code for escape. You and Usopp high fived triumphantly behind him, nearly doubled over with laughter.

“I’m giving us full credit,” you wheezed.

“As you should,” Usopp grinned. “This is peak comedy.”

The rest of the crew could only stare in confusion, amusement, or deep concern as the two of you continued your dramatic pursuit across the deck, yelling declarations of love at a very, very done swordsman. Somewhere near the helm, Franky raised an eyebrow, watching you dart after Zoro with your wet hair still dripping and marker all over your shirt. He blinked.

“…so like I need that shirt” he muttered.

Nami, passing by with a drink, didn’t look up. “No. No, you don’t.”

⟡𓌉◯𓇋₊˚⊹♡The sun was low in the sky, casting a golden shimmer across the waves lapping gently against the docked ship. You stood near the edge of the deck, your still soaked hair dripping quietly onto the wood below as you twisted it in your hands, trying to wring out as much water as you could. The sea breeze lifted the ends of your hair and shirt, still clinging damply to your frame. Your laughter from earlier with Usopp had faded into a peaceful calm now, the kind that settles in after the hecticness dies down and your chest is sore from joy.

Unbeknownst to you, Sanji stood just a few feet away frozen.

His cigarette hung lazily from his lips, forgotten.

The way the setting sun hit you glistening droplets trailing down your neck, the soft curve of your smile even in silence it was like something out of one of his daydreams. His heart gave a strange little flutter, and for a moment, everything else faded into the background. Sparkles. Literal sparkles.

He sighed, eyes softening like he didn’t even realize he was staring. then… he saw it. The shirt. “I ❤️ ZORO.”

His jaw clenched. The sparkles popped like a bubble. His eye twitched. “Zoro?” He looked around as if to yell “WHY ZORO?!” to the gods themselves.

Muttering something under his breath that might’ve included “blasphemous,” Sanji snuffed out his cigarette and made his way toward you, trying his best to look composed like his heart hadn’t just been broken by marker ink.

You heard soft footsteps behind you before you felt the gentle weight of a towel placed across your shoulders.

“Dry off properly,” Sanji said, voice low but kind. “You’ll catch a cold standing around like that.”

You blinked, looking over your shoulder at him in surprise.

“Oh thank you,” you said, taking the towel and patting your face first, then moving to your hair. “Sorry, didn’t mean to leave a puddle. Again.”

He gave a small shake of his head, kneeling down slightly to help towel off the ends of your hair. “Don’t apologize. You looked like a drowned cat earlier. Now you look like a damp angel.”

You rolled your eyes with a small smile. “You were doing so well. So close to normal.”

“Can’t help it,” he murmured, fingers brushing your shoulder briefly before pulling back. “You’re lucky I care whether you freeze to death.”

You looked at him then, soft towel still pressed to your hair, and his gaze met yours for a second too long.

“…Thanks, Sanji,” you said again, a little more sincerely this time.

His hand hovered like he wanted to reach for you again, but then his eyes flicked back to your shirt. The grimace returned instantly.

“He doesnt deserve that,” he muttered, standing up straight.

You laughed as he turned away. “HEY! hes so babygirl I cant help it” you called after him.

“he is absolutely not” he shouted back. “You want breakfast tomorrow? Say goodbye to that shirt!” You grinned to yourself, towel wrapped around your shoulders, and turned back toward the waves, a little warmer than you’d been before.

Sanji had only made it a few steps before turning on his heel with a fresh spark of dramatics and indignation blazing in his eyes. “Actually,” he said, pointing directly at your chest well, your shirt, but it didn’t help his case “take that off.”

You blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

“That shirt!” he sputtered, already flailing slightly. “That insult to fashion and common decency take it off!”

Your grin curled like a mischievous wave. “Oh? So you do want me to take my clothes off.”

He froze Eyes wide. Face immediately red. “No I mean yes wait, NO!”

You burst into laughter, doubling over slightly with the towel still wrapped around your shoulders. “Wow, Sanji. I didn’t think you’d be so bold! Here? Out in the open?”

“That’s not ! That’s not what I meant, don’t twist my words like that!” he wailed, fanning himself with one hand, his other flailing like he was fighting off a swarm of bees. “I just I meant the shirt! Not ! Not you being ! Naked ! I mean, not that I’d mind NO, WAIT !”

You were fully wheezing now, nearly stumbling over the dock as you clutched the towel and your ribs.

“I can’t believe this is the hill you chose to die on,” you giggled.

He groaned into his hands. “This is not what I meant! Mosshead doesn’t deserve to be worshipped like that, not even ironically! What does he have that I don’t, huh?!”

You tilted your head with an evil sparkle in your eye. “You mean besides incredible muscle mass, a mysterious bad boy attitude, and oh my god hes just so handsome”

Sanji looked like you’d kicked him in the soul.

“I I have !” He pointed to himself, eyes wide, desperate. “I can cook! I’m chivalrous! I’d rather die than let you even get a scratch, i bet he wouldn’t even–”

You raised a brow, still smirking. “So… you’re saying you want me to wear your name on my shirt?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Blushed so hard he practically glowed.

Then muttered, “if it’s written in chocolate on you everything would change.”

You blinked. You weren’t sure if he meant on a shirt or on your skin, but judging by how red his ears were now, he wasn’t sure either.

“…You’re unbelievable,” you snorted, shaking your head and heading toward the ramp.

“You started it!” he called after you, still flustered and pointing. “I’m redeeming fashion! I’m doing the Lord’s work!”

You turned just slightly, giving him a wink.

“Sure, loverboy. Let me know when your merch line drops.” You disappeared up the ship, leaving a very red, very confused Sanji behind with his towel and shattered pride.

⟡𓌉◯𓇋₊˚⊹♡Everyone had long since gone to bed, their laughter fading into soft snores behind closed doors.

Except you.

Sleep just… wasn’t happening. No matter how many times you rolled over or how tightly you hugged your pillow, your mind wouldn’t stop spinning. So you gave up, slipped into a loose sweater and shorts, and padded softly down the hall barefoot toward the kitchen. you padded softly into the kitchen, hoping some warm tea or leftover fruit might help settle your restless thoughts.

What you didn’t expect was the dim glow of the kitchen lamp already on… or the disheveled blond figure hunched over on the bench beneath the window.

“Sanji?”

His head lifted slowly. His tie was loose and crooked, shirt half buttoned, and his hair messier than usual like he’d run his fingers through it too many times. His cheeks were flushed a faint rose, and his eyes were just the wrong kind of glossy.

He blinked, then smiled like he was watching the sun rise for the first time.

“Angel,” he breathed. “You really do walk on clouds, don’t you?”

You blinked, caught a little off guard by how fast he perked up.

“Hey, hey easy there, loverboy,” you said with a chuckle, walking over and gently placing your hands on his shoulders to ease him back down. “Calm down, big boy.” You couldn’t help a snort. “Okay, Casanova, how many glasses in are you?”

He held up two fingers… then thought about it and added a third. “10.”

“Right.”

You walked past him to the counter and grabbed a clean cup, filling it with water. “You’re lucky it’s me and not Zoro. He’d have tied you to the mast for being this loud.”

“He’s just jealous of me,” Sanji mumbled dramatically, gaze following you the entire way.

You walked back to him, holding out the glass. “Drink this. You’re gonna regret whatever this is in the morning.”

He stared at the water. “But you’re the only thing I’m thirsty for ”

“Sanji,” you warned with a half laugh, plopping into the chair beside him and crossing your arms.

“Right. Water.” He took the glass and chugged it like it might turn into wine. “That was for you.”

“Thanks,” you snorted. “I feel incredibly hydrated by proxy.”

He swayed slightly and rested his cheek against his fist, still looking at you like you held the moon in your palms. “You’re really beautiful, you know that?”

You tilted your head. “You tell every girl that.”

“But I mean it more when it’s you,” he slurred softly.

Your lips parted, but the words didn’t come. There was something raw about how he said it. Like he wasn’t trying to charm you. Just… saying what he felt.

You swallowed and looked away for a second, staring at the quiet kitchen. “Why’re you drinking alone?”

He shrugged, shoulders loose and hazy. “Just thinking. About stupid things. About smart things that feel stupid. About shirts and swords and ” he hiccuped, “ how I’ll never be cool like Zoro.”

You rolled your eyes with a smile. “Zoro wouldn’t even know how to turn on a stove.”

“I know!” Sanji whined. “I know. But he doesn’t need to. People just like him anyway. And you ” he paused, his voice dropping a little “you wore his name.”

That made you blink. You looked at him fully now. “Sanji…”

He let out a breathy laugh and shook his head, burying his face in his arms against the table.

“I’m being dumb again, huh?” he mumbled. “I always get like this when you’re near. It’s like my brain turns into scrambled eggs.”

You watched him for a moment, your chest tight with something unspoken.

“…You’re not dumb,” you said finally, your voice quiet. “You’re just bad at pretending you don’t feel things.”

He peeked up at you, eyes soft.

You smiled gently. “It’s kinda… what I like about you.”

You sat down next to him on the bench, a comfortable space between you until Sanji, with absolutely zero hesitation, leaned into you and snuggled his head against your shoulder.

“Mmm.” His voice was muffled in your sweater. “You’re so warm. You smell like the sea and something sweet… like honey. Or cake. Or maybe youre just as sweet.”

You blinked, looking down at the mess of blond hair now nestled into you. You let him rest there, too tired to push him off and maybe not really wanting to. The kitchen was quiet aside from the ticking of the wall clock and the hum of the ship gently rocking with the waves. His body was warm against yours, heavy and content.

After a moment, you murmured, “You okay, Sanji?”

He let out a sigh, his breath hitting your collarbone. “Nope.”

You smiled faintly, resting your head lightly against his. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Nope.”

“…Want more water?”

“Only if you hold it for me like a baby bird.”

You snorted. “Yeah, you’re done.”

Sanji shifted slightly against you, cheek still pressed to your shoulder, but now his fingers were fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve tugging, releasing, tugging again. There was a quiet stillness in the kitchen, broken only by the ticking clock and the gentle sway of the ship. “…Hey,” he mumbled, voice thick and unsteady. “Can I ask you something?”

You glanced down at him, smile soft. “Sure.”

He hesitated, then pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. They were a little glassy from the wine, sure, but behind that, you saw something so cute and honest peeking through. He looked almost… scared.

“Do you…” He swallowed. “Do you actually like me? Like this?”

You blinked. “What do you mean ‘like this’?”

He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck, face now red as a tomato. “I mean I know I’m kind of a disaster. I flirt too much, I say dumb stuff, I fall too fast, I… twirl around like an idiot half the time. But when I asked you for advice… I wasn’t ”

He cut himself off with a shaky breath, then turned back to you, expression completely open now, like he was laying his heart on the table next to the crumbs and the empty wine bottle.

“…I was trying to ask how to get you to like me.”

Time stopped. Literally, it felt like the kitchen froze. The air thickened, your heart skipped so hard it hurt, and your brain went completely blank except for one long, internal scream.

“W What?” you breathed.

He winced slightly, clearly mistaking your shock for horror. “I know I’m an idiot. I thought maybe if I asked like it was about someone else, it wouldn’t be so embarrassing. You’re just so amazing. You laugh at my jokes, you call me out when I’m being over the top, and you look at me like I’m… a person. Not a character.”

Your mouth opened and closed uselessly. “Wait. Wait.”

He kept going, barely able to meet your eyes now, fingers nervously twisting the fabric of your sweater. “I thought if I could just be better, maybe you’d see me differently. Maybe you’d want to give me a shot. I didn’t want to mess it up by saying the wrong thing so I thought… maybe you could tell me how to win over a girl like you. B But that’s stupid, right?”

It hit you like a ton of bricks. A ton of bricks wrapped in love letters and wine stained confessions. The girl he’d been talking about… the one he wanted to be better for, the one he asked about so earnestly… it wasn’t some island stranger.

It had been you.

Your breath hitched as your brain scrambled for a coherent thought. Your face burned so hot it might’ve glowed in the dark.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, barely audible. “Sanji.”

He was still looking down, shoulders tense, voice quiet and fragile. “Yeah?”

You swallowed hard. “You… you’re in love with me?”

His face practically exploded in red as he jerked his head back up to look at you, horrified. “I Wh What?! I mean yes?! No I mean dammit oui?! I didn’t mean to say it like that! I meant like not like, love love but maybe like a crush or oh god I’m drunk, ignore me ”

You pressed your hands to your cheeks, laughing way too high pitched, flustered beyond saving.

“Sanji,” you squeaked.

“I was so smooth in my head,” he groaned, burying his face into your shoulder again. “I had speeches and everything. Why did I drink five glasses?!”

You laughed again, covering your face. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Is that a yes idiot or a no idiot?”

You bit your lip, cheeks hot, heart racing as you looked down at the ridiculous, flustered man holding onto your arm like he might float away otherwise.

“…Maybe it’s a yes idiot,” you whispered.

His head whipped up. “What?!”

You smiled shyly. “Maybe I like you too. Just the way you are.”

He blinked. Then blinked again. And then

He passed out in your lap.

“…Unbelievable,” you muttered, flustered and smiling helplessly as you smoothed back his hair. “You really are the dumbest romantic I’ve ever met.”

Sanji: I just wanna eat you up… starting with a little nibble here and maybe a lick there

[hppylaw]

play pretend

summary: It's the end of the week, and your last task is a routine checkup with Dr. Zayne. You're childhood friend, the only stability in your life. You wouldn't trade him for anything, and if that means keeping your feelings in check, then so be it. But when the topic of an unwanted suitor comes into question, your check-up is lost to a game of pretend. Do you have the strength to let him pose as your boyfriend for a quick fix, or will you forget where the line between real and fake is drawn? Spoiler: you forget.

tl;dr: plot with porn?? going yearn for yearn with Zayne 😼

zayne x fem reader

authors note: this is purely self-indulgent LMAO I was so hurt by the new main story update that I had to write a cutesy first fuck. And yes there IS a build up to the smut people lock in I’m here to fix your attention spans. Alsoooooo there's nothing else on this account cause I got too embarrassed to post a fic on the main. Can’t have friends and fam stumbling upon smut written by my own hands. Haven’t posted a fic of any kind in years so please be kind 😘 also cross-posted this on AO3

one-shot; smut (p in v, unprotected, fingering); 9.8K words

Hands subconsciously smoothing out your still-pristine uniform, you smile at the familiar nurses who breeze by. It’s an exchange that, no matter how frequent, still strikes you as, well… funny. Never would you have pictured yourself on a first-name basis with half of Akso Hospital. Not without help, at least. You suppose such a privilege comes with the package deal that is Dr. Zayne.

Zayne, whose office is two more turns to the left. Your fingers absentmindedly fix your hair for the nth time. 

Thanks to your hasty stride, you’re a tad out of breath. And late. In hallways where staff and patients vanish from view, you shamefully jog, only to awkwardly press the brakes when those familiar faces attempt to greet you. Of course, they let you go quickly, for this is not an unusual occurrence. While you’re punctual in any other professional setting, your unique situation with your primary care physician seems to influence some tardiness. Maybe it’s because you know that, behind all the mockery and lethal side-eyes, he doesn’t really care. Not anymore; months of buttering him up and trying to coax a long-lost bond from him have undoubtedly paid off. 

But this time, it wasn’t your fault. You physically cringe at the fresh memory moments before you throw the door to Zayne’s office wide open, uncaring of what you might be interrupting. Most of the time, you had some decency to knock during your lateness. Naturally, manners were the least you could offer as an apology. Today, however, your head was a foggy mess.

“Sorry—“ You blurt out. “Sorry, I’m late.”

Zayne sits comfortably at his pristinely organised desk, and—as dramatic as ever—he does not look your way. The soft clicks of his slender fingers typing on the keyboard are the first to greet you. The reflection of the computer screen on his glasses is especially harsh at this hour as the last remnants of sunlight slip away. Beyond the wall of windows, the vibrant Friday night life of Linkon begins to stir, its pulsating energy a stark contrast to the air of serene focus in this room.

“Again.” He hums absentmindedly as you sheepishly enter and shut the door. Those tired feline eyes remain on the computer screen. “What’s the excuse this time?”

The thought of why coaxes an awkward laugh out of you. “Nothing interesting.”

Zayne’s brows ever so slightly pinch at the sound, and he finally throws a glance your way. No doubt he registers your exhausted, flustered look as you settle into a chair. “Even children are more creative when lying. You look…dishevelled.”

“No, I don’t.” You definitely do.

“Overworking yourself again?”

“What? No.”

You brace yourself for the onslaught of questions his words threaten. Whenever the topic of your work’s physical demands comes up, the conversation becomes a never-ending back-and-forth. He insists you need to take a step back. You insist he’s overreacting. Despite your best efforts, neither of you can sway the other. 

“Then what?” He presses. “Something interesting?”

You frown as the picture of your desk back at work comes to fruition, decorated with a flamboyant yet stereotypically boring gift, one that you could not bring with you. Following it is the unfavourable closeness of the gift-giver’s desk to your own. 

“I was just about to leave work—on time, mind you—when I got given a gift, so I got held up in conversation.”

“A gift?”

“Some flowers.”

“Flowers?”

There’s an inexplicable flutter in your stomach as you hint at the event to Zayne, a cringe pressing in on your shoulders, though you can’t quite justify why. Perhaps it’s the invisible, warning whisper of unspoken boundaries years in the making, as if flirtation and romance were forbidden topics in his presence. Like standing barefoot in the cold. Like a puritan child burdened with silent shame, hesitant to speak on the prospects of young love before a disapproving parent. 

The very idea of acknowledging your own desirability feels taboo. And yet, beneath that suffocating truth, a sinister and smitten urge blooms. It is a fragment of your heart eager to dangle those delicate ideas in front of him. Could you coax even an inkling of jealousy from those otherwise unreadable eyes?

Zayne busies himself for a brief, silent moment, arranging papers that are presumably yours into a neat pile and grabbing simple equipment from the drawers. You’re following gaze is spurred by the conflicting apprehension and interest. The dull scratch of a pen on paper, a breath, your heartbeat. Finally, he rests his chin on one hand and taps the pen against his desk. 

“Who gave them to you?” 

“One of the guys I work with. We happen to be stationed together often.”

“A co-worker, huh?” A moment ago, you could have sworn the usual indifference in Zayne’s face had softened. But what you’re looking at now isn’t exactly a soft look. “I presume he didn’t just want to give you flowers for the sake of it?”

“He also asked me to dinner.” You pretend to find interest in the distant view of neon lights outside the window. “Tonight.”

“What did you tell him?” 

Are the taps of his pen on the desk becoming more aggressive?

You shrug as if your answer is painfully obvious. “That I was busy. Maybe another time.”

“Why not tell him no?”

“Well…I don’t know.” You shrink in on yourself slightly, as if confined by the physical manifestation of social pressure. The man you were talking about, while friendly enough, was oftentimes difficult to deal with. Not outrightly so, but it was the little things: the subtle knack of being argumentative, an ego as inflated as a balloon ready to burst. All while you had to see him every day? …You had really drawn the short end of the stick here. “I felt bad.”

Something about your answer makes Zayne sigh. He drops the pen and reaches for the blood pressure monitor. As he speaks, his tone is both exasperated and annoyed. “Don’t worry about being polite with those things. You’re just giving him hope by saying ‘another time’.”

You shrug off the thick, leather-like jacket of your Hunter uniform reserved for office work and present your arm. Beneath it is a tight, white button-up. You try not to be aware of the few unfastened top buttons.

“What if he’s one of those ‘pay for everything’ types and takes me somewhere fancy?” You tease as Zayne wraps the band around your forearm. “One date might not hurt.”

Zayne’s grip on the arm band shifts subtly, slender fingers tugging the band unexpectedly tight. The coarse fabric presses against your pulse. His brow furrows — an indication of focus, but on what, you wonder? Zayne’s medical prowess is above the mechanics of velcro or the calibration of blood pressure machines. The clinically harsh overhead lights cast a white halo behind him that cuts sharp lines across his jaw.

“What happens when he expects more than one date?”

“You never know. I might be swayed in his favour.”

The weight of Zayne’s stare is noticeable only when he looks away, turning his focus to the machine’s screen. “You can have fun without going on pointless dates. Especially with someone you work with.”

You sigh dramatically. “I know. I’m mostly joking, but a girl can dream.”

Zayne raises a brow. “Dreaming about your coworkers? How professional of you.”

“You’re one to talk about ‘professionalism’,” you retort with a hmpf. “You’re my doctor, after all. I thought there were strict rules about interpersonal relationships with patients.”

“Rules, yes.” Scarred fingers reaching blindly for his stethoscope. As he speaks, there isn’t much authority in his voice. Instead, it’s almost quiet, far away as he sinks into thought. “But we’re friends first.”

“It still surprises me, though.”

“I’d be more surprised if you went to someone else.” 

Now it’s your turn to raise a brow. “How so?”

“Well, I know your medical history like the back of my hand, you’re comfortable with me, your condition is compatible with my specialisations…” A hint of mischief burns in the few bright specks of his otherwise dark eyes. “And I highly doubt anyone else would want to put up with you.”

Your face contorts as if his words attack your senses like a bitter lemon slice. “Ouch, Dr. Zayne. Am I that much of a pain?”

“More like a constant headache.”

Zayne reaches forward, and instinctively, you straighten up, welcoming the further tests. But the chest piece of the stethoscope isn’t in his hand. Instead, he leans down, one hand wrapping around your chair legs. The low groan of wood against wood cuts through the room as you slide towards him. He does so with ease. Incredible ease and attractive ease. 

Though his uniform usually leaves little to the imagination, the white coat pulls taut, offering a delicious view of firm muscle. You swallow hard, almost ashamed at how easily the casual display of strength weakens your knees. The man opposite you is otherwise unbothered, straightening to fix the stethoscope in his ears. 

Considering he’s about to listen to your racing heart, you look away, searching for a quick fix. Any sight except him will do. Your eyes fall to the floor…and to the very usable wheels on his own chair.

“In that case, maybe I should switch to someone else.” The cold metal presses in the open V of your button-up, right below your collarbone. “You’re so busy. I’d hate to overwork you.”

Zayne looks up at you through his lashes as he draws close. “Now you’re being dramatic. You wouldn’t last a week.”

“And what makes you so confident?”

He chuckles. Clearly, he’s enjoying the back-and-forth. “Because I know you. You’re stubborn, never listen, never follow any of my advice. Besides, you’d miss me too much.”

Your heart flutters right beneath the stethoscope.

“I do listen.” You choose not to acknowledge the latter half of his answer.

“Prove it then.”

You tilt your head, confused. He makes a zipper gesture over his lips. Oh.

For the duration of his observations, you keep quiet, allowing him to focus on the task at hand. Just as he sets the metal against your chest for the last time, your phone dings. The double chime is unmistakable: the secure messaging platform used for Hunters. You often exchange words with your colleagues through it, but at this time, those who didn’t have your personal number wouldn’t bother you. 

Your heart flutters again—this time for the wrong reason. Spurred by morbid curiosity, you fish your phone from your pocket without disturbing Zayne. Through the notification centre you scroll until the dreaded name pops up. Great.

“What’s with that look?” Zayne questions.

There’s not much more to say than the message itself. You flip your phone around to show it.

Sooo… how busy on a scale of 1 to 10 are you really tonight?

Zayne adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose. A subtle squint creases the corners of his sharp, cat-like eyes, the faint glint of curiosity quickly giving way to something sterner. The amused tilt of his mouth from moments before fades, replaced by a slight frown.

“This is the flower culprit?” His tone is painfully dry as he pushes back to grab a pen and paper, jotting down something probably related to your heart rate. 

You hum in thought. “Time to come up with a good excuse, since I have nothing to do after this.”

“Or, and hear me out on this…” Zayne turns to face you, pen still in hand, as he leans back and spreads his legs. The sarcasm in his voice cuts rather than teases. “You just say no.”

Exhausted with even the thought of it, you sigh. “You don’t get it. He’s just a little…much. He tried something with Tara a while back, as if he shares a single similarity with her type, and he’s only just moved past the aftermath.” You huff a laugh. “My guess is that the only thing that will deter him is making myself incredibly uninteresting or pretending I have a boyfriend.”

“What awful options.”

Though you wouldn’t agree, you don’t argue, instead continuing to wonder aloud. “The second option would be the most effective. Two birds with one stone, even.”

Knowing him, a rumour will start at work that you have a boyfriend. A perfect excuse for the earlier gesture just being friendly, considering the flowers were presented with a considerable audience. The rumour wouldn’t be bad if there was an inkling of truth to it. Opposite you, Zayne folds his arms and taps the pen against his arm in a slow but forceful rhythm. 

…Could you use him as a scapegoat? 

The idea creeps in, sly and tempting, an offer as distracting as the taps of his pen. But no — you snuff that worrisome flame the second it sparks. The guilt it brings is akin to admitting aloud the things that cross your mind in his absence. Pretending would be more than a harmless lie, should he agree; it would cheapen your priceless bond. At least to you. The idea leaves a bitter aftertaste.

“What happens when he asks for proof?” 

“Maybe I’ll get one of my friends to play along,” you respond matter-of-factly, although the finer details are nothing more than an afterthought to you. In all honesty, you’ll probably ignore the message, but for some reason, you have yet to drop the conversation.

“And who exactly are you going to rope into this?” 

God, it’s like he’s determined to highlight every flaw in your plan. You grin. “Depends on who can be most convincing. Maybe I’ll hold an audition.”

Zayne taps the pen a few beats faster as you become stuck in a standoff-ish staring contest. Why, you’re not so sure. There should be nothing left of value in this conversation.

“I have an idea.”

“I’m listening.” You lean forward, anxious for his answer.

He tosses the pen onto his desk. “What if…I helped you out?”

You couldn’t be more thankful that the stethoscope is no longer in his hands. There’s a beat of silence as you look back at him with eyes wide in astonishment. Just moments ago, you had disregarded the idea with a sound resolve, considering it distasteful and disastrous for yourself. Now, with the offer coming from him, your stance has shifted. 

He could convince you to get away with murder. You stifle a laugh.

“You? Could you be convincing?”

“So you doubt my acting skills, huh?” He seems to relax at your light laughter, even flashing you a grin of his own. Your routine checkup has been abandoned entirely. “I’ll have you know I’d do perfectly well.”

“Prove it then. Time for your audition.” You clap your hands together twice before leaning against his desk, arm on the surface and chin in hand. “Question one: Imagine we’re going out for dinner. Where will you take me?”

Zayne looks out the large expanse of window as he considers your question with genuine depth. As he does so, he leans against his desk, vaguely mirroring your own position. “Somewhere we can have privacy, but not so secluded that it feels forced. Good food and candlelit tables. Cozy. If I really wanted to impress you, which I probably do, we could go somewhere exclusive.”

When the answer comes to its conclusion, his eyes slowly drift back to meet yours. Still unreadable. Typical. The carefully crafted response renders you speechless for a moment. You remind yourself not to let it show, pursing your previously parted lips. 

“We’ll split the bill fifty/fifty,” you add after a moment.

He scoffs. “Silly of you to think I’d let you spent even a cent.”

Don’t smile. 

“…Okay, question two: Where do we go after?”

“After…we could walk around the city if it’s a nice night and stop at some of the food stalls for something sweet—like the one I took you to after work the other week. Then I’ll drive you home. A little aimlessly, though, so I can waste time and spend more with you.”

Like the one I took you to. You raise a brow. “Nothing extravagant?”

“What, is this supposed to be a first date?”

“What if it was?”

He flashes a look of mock offence, as if the answer could not be clearer. “Realistically, how extravagant do I need to be to win you over? We’re not strangers.”

“But just like you said, we’ve done those things before. What makes this special?”

A tsk. “If you weren’t seeing the situation in a different light in accordance with our different relationship, I’d be a little worried.” 

You bite back a smile. “Fine then. Question three: I get that text while we’re out and show you. What do you say?”

“Tell you to text him something straight forward so that there’s no wiggle room. ‘I’m busy with my boyfriend, can’t talk’ should do it. Simple. If he questions the legitimacy, send him a picture where he can’t deny what we are.”

Reality suddenly draws you from the conversation’s alarming immersion. How did you get here? When did the conversation take this turn? Did the offer leave his lips on a whim, or was it brewing the second you mentioned receiving flowers? …Why? Somehow, you can’t bring yourself to even consider a version of the answer where there’s real jealousy in Zayne. This was a conversation between two friends, where one is in an awkward predicament and the other is offering a clear escape. 

Except it wasn’t clear. 

You could lie or swallow your pride and reject your colleague, but instead, you were hanging on Zayne’s every word in a daze. Though his descriptions were simple, it was almost as if you could taste the remnants of a shared dinner on your tongue, feel the chilly evening air on your cheeks and the warmth of his hand in yours as you strolled aimlessly through the streets. Imagining it isn’t an impossible task, either. Most of the outings you shared were the taunting shell of a date.

Zayne watches with an immeasurable intensity as silent seconds tick by, waiting for an answer. Should you agree? The date was only theoretical—no harm, no foul. Just a story to tell your colleagues. At most, a picture was all you needed. You match his gaze for a moment longer. Then…

“Alright. Fine.” You drum your thighs as you announce: “You’re hired.”

Zayne leans back in his chair at the news, grinning as if he’s just won a childish game of tug-of-war. “Before we start, I have one condition.”

“And that is?”

“As your employee, things will remain strictly professional, right?”

Those simple, serious words douse out the little spark in your chest—something you’re grateful for, and yet stubbornly wounded by. You snort. “I’d be worried if that wasn’t the general consensus already.”

With a hum, Zayne is the first to look away, eyes drifting behind you to the expanse of Linkon City. For once in this strange interaction, you recognise the look on this face: thoughtfulness. Oh, how you wished to pick apart his brain. Should the universe allow it, you would dive into his mind and make a nest of those fleeting thoughts otherwise destined to be unheard. In this moment, you can’t help but admire him from afar. You could swear a merciless ocean stands in the way, or a glass wall thicker than bullets could pierce. Then he stands with an outstretched hand, and suddenly, you’re back in his office, acutely aware of your physical closeness.

You place your hand in his with underlying hesitance. Before he shakes your hand, he pulls you to your feet. Warm fingers delicately apply his strength.

“Deal.”

“Deal,” you echo. You can’t help but feel surprise at his formal, dedicated approach. “Should we take a photo now, or should I just text him first and see if he believes—?”

“Photo first.” He’s quick to cut you off, shrugging off his pristine white coat in the process and haphazardly throwing it over a chair. “Who knows how long it might take for him to reply? We don’t have all night. By the time he does, I might be long gone.”

While that could be true, you knew your colleague would be waiting with bated breath for a reply. But you don’t bother to challenge Zayne in that regard and instead reach for your phone. “As you wish, Doc-tor. …How should we stand?”

Wordlessly, he takes you by the elbow and gently shuffles you to stand before him, your back to his chest. Over your shoulder you watch, quiet and nervous. There’s a pathetically large gap between the two of you. When you don’t step back to close it, he chuckles. 

“You can come closer,” he says. Then, in a more sheepish tone, he adds, “If you’re okay with that.”

You’re affirmation is nothing more than a hum, too cautious to give voice to nerves that may betray you. You’re step back is carefully calculated; not too far so that every inch of you is flush with him, not too quick to suggest eagerness. Zayne leans against his desk in an attempt to adjust his towering height according to yours. As a result, you find yourself standing between a pair of large, spread thighs that faintly brush your own.

Zayne’s movements mirror your deliberate caution, slow and measured. His hands first guide you by the shoulders, then shimmy you by your sides. Then, at a pace so gruelling it was like he wished not to disturb you, his arms slowly snaked around your waist. Each movement is made in such silence that you wonder if he’s even breathing. Were you? His arms hover an awkward inch away, giving you the opportunity to smack his wrists and lecture him on the professionalism he just swore to. You don’t. Of course you don’t. So he comfortably settles them, and you wonder if that opportunity was wasted.

Maybe if you leave your camera facing the ceiling, you won’t have to face the situation you’ve found yourself in. But unfortunately, time was moving at a very real pace, and standing around doing nothing would be just as bad. Stealing yourself, you raise your phone, nervous to make eye contact with your own self. Zayne cranes his neck to fit in the frame. Warm breath fans across your neck and ear as he does so. You shiver.

“Smiling is a must,” he murmurs. 

All you can do is nod, swallow, and smile as he instructs. Though it’s a nervous, timid smile, it is one nonetheless. Satisfied, your finger ghosts over the shutter button, only to forget all about it as he leans in a little closer, voice little more than a whisper in your ear.

“Smile wider.”

You can’t help but giggle at the feeling of his breath on your neck. It transcends the physical barrier of your skin, travelling down your spine tauntingly, leaving behind an overwhelming desire to chase the high. At least you don’t need to force a bigger smile—you take the photo the second he elicits the vulnerable reaction, capturing the fleeting appearance of a genuine smile and crinkled eyes. Though beneath it all, the ache of this hollow pretence remains.

“That tickles,” you say in a tone that is borderline accusing. 

“Sorry.” His voice remains quiet and breathy against the shell of your ear, this time with a hint of playful remorse. “It was intentional.”

“Mm-hm.” Focus. “I’m going to take one more.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Kiss me on the cheek.”

You’re not sure what possesses you to make the request. Sure, from an outside perspective, it is reasonable enough considering the act you’re mutually playing. But such a simple approach disregards human complexity. If he accepts, is that a reflection of blind obedience, or does it stir something deeper, enticing him beyond the agreement? If he refuses, does that mean he respects those boundaries out of disinterest or fear?

“…Okay.” 

That’s all he says. You’re as clueless as you were ten seconds ago. Shooing away the silly internal debate, you turn your head more his way. 

You are entirely unprepared for how he complies.

Nimble fingers trace a path beneath your jaw before finding purchase on your chin, tilting it with a subtle insistence. Fingers splayed, his grasp is all-consuming and possessive—perfect for a photo and detrimental to your moral compass. His free hand finds purchase on your hip, consistently firm despite being nowhere in frame. Were you always this close? 

The final graze of his lips against your cheek is devoid of his hand’s inescapable demand. Instead, the kiss is gentle. Cheeks red and heart racing, you have half the mind to take the photo. Then another. He lingers long enough for you to take three, your face in different stages of submission.

When you lower the phone, his touch disappears with it. What he doesn’t do is usher you away. Curious.

“Got enough photos?” He asks after a moment. The casual nature of his question is almost laughable.

“More than enough. Now to see if it was worth it…”

Zayne peers over your shoulder as you navigate to the message that caused this all. The quickly crafted response reads with little room for argument. 

Look, I think you’re great and I appreciate the flowers, but I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I have a boyfriend, and he thinks I should convey that I’m taken to spare both you and me, which I agree with. I am not and will not be free to spend time with you outside of work. 

It’s read immediately. The first message follows soon after.

Come on, y/n.

He continues to type. Then comes the second message.

What boyfriend? I’ve never heard of or seen any boyfriend. You don’t have to lie to me. Just give me a chance, sweetheart.

Sweetheart? You scoff aloud in offence. The gall he has to not only doubt you, but throw in a pet name is beyond you. Nevertheless, you couldn’t ask for a better opening. You don’t miss a beat before attaching the photo of Zayne kissing your smiling face with a simple: this one. You can’t deny the satisfaction it gives you to prove him wrong, regardless of the real truth. A soft laugh sounds behind you.

“A photo was worth it after all.”

“I see what you mean, now,” he muses. Though there’s a slight smile on his face, there’s a line between his brows that can’t be missed. “He’s got some nerve, calling you ‘sweetheart’ and all.”

“Sounds like someone is still in character,” you tease, nudging him with an elbow.

“Hey, I’m just making sure the message is clear,” he retorts in mock defence. “Can’t have anyone calling my girl ‘sweetheart’.”

Your breath barely has time to steady before a familiar chime sounds, drawing your attention to the unlocked screen in your hand. A shocked gasp escapes you at the few bold words staring back defiantly. What, it reads. Can he not share? Any words of indignation are snuffed by Zayne’s hand closing firmly around your wrist, angling the screen his way. The shift from subtle indifference to something far more intense is evident in that now-familiar frown.

“Ignore it.” The playfulness is gone.

“Someone really wants to get in my pants.” You sigh. “Well…work is going to be a little awkward. Thanks for your help, though.”

He huffs a laugh, though there's nothing humorous about it. “You’re welcome. Just let me know if he tries to bother you again.”

You half-turn in your spot between his legs and poke him in the chest. “What would you do then, hm?”

“I don’t know…” He trails off as he grabs your wandering hand and settles it back at your side without letting go. He continues, eyes watching where his fingers toy with your bracelets. “Maybe I’d come to the Association myself.”

“Too bad Tara knows you.” It’s a miracle your voice doesn’t waver. The pictures have already been taken; there’s nothing more to fake. “She’d see right through the act. Or should I swear her into secrecy?”

You’re unsure of how long the two of you have been absentmindedly inching closer. The room has shrunk entirely, walls dissolving as tunnel vision settles in. No longer can you pick up the sterile scent of antiseptic that clings to every surface of the hospital, nor do the fluorescent lights bother you. Now, the only tangible thread tethering you to this moment is him. Zayne. Your breath catches in your throat. A dead giveaway. His eyes flicker back to yours. Is it possible that the featherlight drag of his fingertips over your wrist has caught your pulse?

At this distance, you could count each gold fleck in his heavy-lidded eyes. Now, that look is a characteristic you’re less confident in labelling as fatigue. Seemingly satisfied with whatever he’s found in your eyes, his gaze trickles downwards. Over the imperfections of your skin to the curve of your lips, down your neck, skirting the scandalously low neckline of your button-up.

“I can be plenty convincing.” There’s a soft sensuality in the way each word leaves his lips, foreign and addictive. “No one would have to know it’s an act.”

His index finger teases your inner arm before finally making the jump to your waist. Suddenly, you can’t find the line between real and fake, hypnotised by a hazy want. You lay your hand over the one on your hip and speak with hesitance.

“You’re…doing a good job of convincing now…”

Now there’s a hand on either hip, angling you to face him entirely. His words are little more than a breath in your ear. “You think so?”

A moment of clarity draws your anxious attention to the unlocked door. Though it was late in the evening and Zayne should be leaving by now, you were also no expert in the inner workings of Akso Hospital. How often do people walk in unannounced? Would he get in trouble if someone saw him like this? In you’re peripheral, Zayne tilts his head to follow your gaze, curious. Then he laughs, the sound soft and deep, and boldly caresses your hips upon the understanding of your anxiety.

“Don’t worry.” Without lifting a finger, a subtle frost blossoms over the handle. Soft cracks echo as mounds of ice creep along the locking mechanism. The surrounding wooden frame glitters. “No one can open the door.”

You lift your chin in an attempt to tease. “Why would I be worried?”

“No reason.” His fingers continue to deftly draw circles on your hips, slow and intentional. When he leans in again, his lips almost graze the skin of your jaw. “Sweetheart.”

Not only were the lines blurred, they were gone entirely. That fact is enough to feed your confidence. Timid fingers skim over forearms exposed by rolled-up sleeves. Jagged scars rise to meet your fingertips. They whisper stories you’ve been too wary to pursue. Zayne’s biceps are pronounced beneath the black fabric of his dress shirt, his shoulders broad and inviting. Your travels come to a shy halt just short of his collar.

“You’re a tease.”

“Don’t make it so easy.”

“You’re not making this easy, either.” His grip tightens with those words.

“What do you mean?”

“Playing this game with you…” His voice wavers then, torn between sanity and delusion. “I don’t know where to stop.”

You’re unsure of what to say or do. A chill is emerging from the tips of his fingers, so cold that it seeps through the fabric of your skirt. Zayne is naturally the embodiment of his Evol; cold and unforgiving to those who don’t know him. There’s a subtle, physical aspect to the manifestation, too, from the sharpness in his features to an arresting chill that follows him. But this is different. The temperature in his hands is dropping rapidly, so much so that the shocking cold almost has a bite to it. Is he…aware that his Evol is activating? You shiver.

“You’re hands are cold,” you whisper.

Those few words connect with him like a punch—a harsh reality check. It’s evident in the way that his entire frame goes rigid, the clouded look in his eyes overshadowed by a minor horror. The daze is gone. So is the cold. Zayne withdraws his hands entirely, sinking further against his desk.

“Sorry,” he mutters, voice thick with tangible guilt.

Without missing a beat, you lean forward to match his slight escape, grabbing his hands and bringing them back before he can protest. The act is not a sensual show but instead an admittance of trust.

“I’m not afraid of it, you know,” you try with a small smile. “I don’t mind if your hands are a little cold.”

“You…don’t?” he asks, earnest in his perplexity.

You nod. He swallows.

“Why?”

Once you recognise that his hands won’t move, you slowly drape your arms over his shoulders. The expression on his face is akin to that of a wounded puppy. You’re both surprised at how quickly his hard exterior has melted and saddened by his martyrdom. Instincts rooted deep in your flawed heart pull you in, resting your cheek in the crook of his neck—a place equally as cold. Your fingers, which trace alone his nape, make contact with what you can only guess is a fine film of frost.

You sigh. “Well, you know my Evol can help ease it. If it hurts you, I can help. Besides…I’m not as delicate as you think I am.”

As you speak, the physical apprehension in his body eases. With it is the release of a shuddered breath as his arms tentatively encase you.

“You trust me too much,” he says with a light scoff.

“Sometimes you can be so dramatic.”

“I’m not being dramatic.”

You lift your head to squint at him. “Hm… Agree to disagree.”

You’re faces are incredibly close. The question of how close or why is entirely out the window. This wasn’t some pretend play anymore. You find nothing artificial in the position of his hands, in the way his gaze dances between your expectant eyes and parted lips. Not in his voice, not in the subtle red hue on his cheeks, not in the complaisant confessions of his ragged breaths. Nowhere. The substance that supported an illusion is suddenly weightless, dissolving alongside the frost beneath your fingertips.

“You truly are the most stubborn woman I know,” he mutters. His own stubbornness is endearing, but you’re tired of this game of cat and mouse. 

“So you don’t want to kiss me?”

Eyes less guarded than ever before stare back at you as if you’ve spoken another language.

You withdraw your hands and tilt your head away, half-joking, half-nervous by the lack of response. “No answer? Fine. I was offering, you know—“

Blinded by his previous dumbfoundedness, you don’t anticipate the speed of his reaction. Cold hands force you’re face back towards his. His head is slightly bowed, reverent eyes staring up through thick lashes. It’s as if he’s cradling an object of worship, like you’re a deity to whom he must repent. For he has sinned, disgraced by an ailing infatuation that has festered over the years, devolving into a mind-numbing greed.

Instead of the gentle tone that his words have melted into, a low, husky voice rings in your ears.

“I never said I didn’t want to kiss you.”

His thumb slides towards your lower lip, gently tracing the dip below to substantiate his claim. Air seems to escape you at the feeling of his breath, of his hands, at the way his gaze triangulates between your eyes and lips.

“I think about kissing you all the time.” 

His nose brushes against your cheek as he cranes his neck, breath fanning across your neck. All you can muster is a whispered, “Oh?”

“When I’m at home.” A warmth against your collarbone cuts through the overarching cold as his lips finally press down. Your heart stutters violently. “When I’m at work.” He kisses the expanse of skin between your neck and shoulder. One hand angles your head from the nape of your neck, fingers fervently tangled in your hair, the other cradling your waist. “When I’m with you.”

Another at the curve of your jaw. While his lips are warm, his breath comes out cold between each peck, each word. The conflicting temperatures are both shocking and enticing. 

“I’m tired…” He kisses your cheek for the second time today before pulling back to catch your eyes in earnest. “Of fantasising about it.”

Your faint smile flickers, a fragile torch that illuminates the path he no longer resists. Restraints shed, your breath mingles, and his lips come crashing against your own. It is unlike the nurturing kisses against your skin. In fact, it is anything but gentle; desperately crushing, a confession condensed into a press of mouths. Slender fingers explore the landscape of your lower abdomen, insatiable cartographers drawing maps of mystical lands. Here, he stakes his claim. A low groan echoes deep in his bones and resounds against your equally curious hands.

You suppress a groan of your own as you melt into putty kneaded by Zayne’s precise hands. Lower they go, pulling you closer by the hips, tracing the waistband of your skirt, testing how close to your ass he can get.

The results are in: he can get very close.

His grin doesn’t go unnoticed as his hands dip down with purpose, massaging the plump flesh. You’re hum of content is an addictive contingency. His grip becomes brusquely firm. You kiss him harder. Suddenly, they drop down to your thighs, and the floor disappears beneath you. A sharp gasp of surprise escapes your lips at the loss of support. Instinctively, your hold around his neck tightens, fingers grasping at the fabric of his black button-up.

Zayne’s grip on you is unwavering as he spins you both. Muscle flexes beneath your touch. One arm hooks beneath your knees and supports you effortlessly. The other reaches behind your back, pushing half of his desk’s contents onto the floor in one fluid swipe. Loose paper flutters towards the floor like fragile autumn leaves, settling soundlessly as pens clatter everywhere. The book on dream analysis that you had teased him about reading just last week lands face down with an accusing thud. It faces the ceiling with open pages, displaying the annotation of an electroencephalography. 

When Zayne sets you down on his desk, the action is gentle. The hand that helped to support you pushes apart your knees, allowing him to settle between and press a quick kiss to your lips.

“Sorry,” he says between peppered kisses. “Should I have asked before I did that?”

You chuckle against his mouth. “It’s fine. I’m giving you consent entirely. …Unless it’s something outrageous.” The latter part you add with a teasing tone.

“Is this too outrageous?”

Forehead rested against yours, he looks down to where his hand settles on your thigh. Your legs are spread wide to accommodate him. As a result, your skirt rides up dangerously high. Any higher and nothing would be left to the imagination. Slowly, his hand slides forward, aiming directly for the improper scene. You both watch in silence for a moment as he traces the raised hem, massages your thigh, then retreats slightly, only to repeat himself again and again. He meets a higher milestone each time. The urge to beg for more is debilitating, yet all you can do is shake your head, pathetic in your submission to desire.

When his lips meet yours again, his pace is slow, vaguely cautious, echoing that of his hand. Each kiss grows deeper and deeper, pushing you further back each time. The wooden surface of Zayne’s desk presses into your back before you know it. 

Angling one of your thighs against his hip, he settles over you with a new closeness. You’re skirt is as good as gone. The fabric bunches around your waist as he pushes your thigh up further. Neither of you pays verbal mind to the physical manifestation of his desire that presses against your aching core.

…Were the two of you really about to fuck in his office?

Zayne was always prim and proper. In the way he dresses, in his sophisticated speech, in his profession and borderline-OCD cleanliness. You would never peg him as the type to yield to sinful wants in scandalous places. And yet here you are, arching your back off his desk and accepting the hungry sweep of his tongue. The only thing protecting him from disciplinary action is the ice embedded in the door. You pray that all the times he insisted on his Evol’s temporal durability were not lies.

When his mouth is drawn back to your neck, your eyes flutter open. They adjust strangely to the overhead lights as little spots glitter in your vision. Confused, you squint. Instead of the specks disappearing, their forms refine into tiny snowflakes drifting through the air. They’re too faint to survive long; as soon as they settle in Zayne’s hair and on the desk, they melt into nothingness.

A question is brewing on the tip of your tongue at the sight. Though it’s quickly lost to the uninhabited corners of your mind when his fingers glide over the edges of your panties and directly across your clothed cunt. Your cheeks flare. There’s no hiding the desire that pools between your legs.

“Is this all it takes to get you so wet?” His voice is a purr against your skin.

You pout. As if you couldn’t feel his erection a second ago. “That’s not fair.” 

“What’s not fair is how long it’s taken to get you like this.” A shameful whimper builds in your throat as he circles his fingers with added weight. His free hand creeps over your mouth. “Shhh. You can stay quiet for me, can’t you?”

With wide, begging eyes, you nod with a muffled mm-hmm. Before retracting his hand, he circles above your clit a second time, then a third, testing your obedience. 

The ecstasy that burns beneath your skin from the slightest of touches is obscene. You would think that you’d been trapped in hours of foreplay, denied even the thought of release. But still, it is not enough. The feeling was akin to wearing layers on a cold day, yet still shivering. Like biting into a promising fruit that hasn’t hung from the vine long enough. It just wasn’t right, wasn’t enough. You roll your hips in an attempt to convey as much.

“Impatient?”

Through a sigh, you answer, “Just a little.”

His teeth graze your ear. “Then use your words. What do you want?”

What an unfair question to ask now, with your mind clouded in drunken lust. Articulation was difficult. So was trying to pinpoint exactly what you wanted. There were too many things you could want and not enough words in the dictionary to do them justice. So instead, all you can offer is, “You. I just want you.”

Thankfully, he seems to understand. His fingers hook around the waistband of your panties. Lifting your hips with one hand, he uses the other to shimmy them down to your ankles. A single beat isn’t missed before the adept fingers of a surgeon slide between your folds. His mouth is back on every exposed inch of skin he can find, needy and hot. You hide quiet pants behind a bitten lip. You almost pierce the swollen skin when his fingers finally find entry. 

“Keep quiet,” he reminds you in a soft voice as his index and middle fingers curl. “Only I get to hear you like this, right?”

You nod, eyes fluttering close. But your agreement doesn’t seem to be enough. He catches your rolling head and forces a moment of sobriety. Acknowledgement from every legible medium, including that of your eyes and mouth, is what he truly wants.

“Right, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you breathe out. “Yes, Zayne. Just you…just…”

You’re words die out into a sharp inhale as he presses down on your clit.  He pumps in and out in tandem with the exterior pressure, stimulating screaming nerves that turn your knees to jelly and your jaw slack. The room is filled with the lewd sounds of your arousal around his fingers, your bitten-back moans, and the wet kisses trailing from your chest to your jaw, then to your mouth and back. 

A small part of you wishes for him to bite down. To leave a mark that was unmistakably his. But, although you were little more than a stranger to Zayne’s sexual nature, you could almost hear him calling hickies childish.

The steady rhythm he’s set calls for release. Like the sliver of morning light on the horizon, you can feel it approaching, an all-consuming warmth that flutters deep in your stomach and creeps up your legs. Your inner walls flutter around his fingers in an announcement of his skilled work’s reward.

“Right there,” you pant, head rolling, and fingers tugging at his hair. “Don’t stop—“

Except, he does exactly that.

You whine as he retracts his fingers, looking at him with indignation, silently demanding an explanation. Only smugness stares right back. Euphoria sinks back into the confines of your bones at the absence of stimulation. You can barely get out the question of why before he cuts you off.

“Believe me when I say I could please you for hours without question,” he says with a quick kiss before withdrawing to tower before you. “But I don’t know how long we have. I can’t let you have all the fun.”

You’re about to roll your eyes when he raises two glistening fingers to his mouth. His eyes remain trained on you as he glides his tongue over the remnants of your arousal before sucking them clean. Nothing could have prepared you for the sight.

“Sweet,” is all he says, as if he’s describing one of the new desserts sold at the cafe across the street. Your cheeks turn bright red.

Satisfied with the taunt, he reaches for his belt, and suddenly you’re reeled right back in. Your unashamed gaze tracks every movement with hunger as he undoes the buckle, then the button below. When he reaches for the zipper, he averts his eyes. Now it’s his turn to feel shy. The top of his boxers comes into view, followed by a mouth-watering outline of the exact thing you crave.

One hand hovering at the waistband, he settles back over you. A palpable shift in the air has taken place. Gone is the initial display of hunger and desire finally brought to light. In this moment, as he looks down with eyes full of affection, there’s a sense of pure, shared intimacy. Not the exhiliration of stupid decisions or a quick fuck. No. Zayne was not one to hook up with someone on a whim. Nor were you.

“You’re sure about…this?” He asks. The previous displays of confidence are nowhere to be found. You don’t think he can even bring himself to say the word, as if an explicit understanding would chase you away.

“What, having sex with you?” You kiss the tip of his nose with a smile. “I couldn’t be more sure.”

You catch an amused yet curious look on his face before he presses a slow kiss to your lips. Your heart races at the sound of shuffling fabric. Then you feel it. You can’t fight the urge to look.

Zayne holds the entirety of his impressive length in one hand. With ragged breaths, he teasingly drags the red, weeping tip across your folds. At the sight of it in his hold, of the tip circling your clit…You can only hope that he fits. 

“I’ll go slow,” he says quietly. You’re almost unsure if he’s talking to you or himself. “You’ll tell me if it’s too much? If you want to stop at all—“

You try to give him a smile as sincere as possible instead of the giggles that threaten to arise. Nerves are obviously kicking in on his end. Not that you aren’t nervous. God knows you are. But suddenly, he can’t meet your gaze for more than a few seconds, and it’s the most endearing thing he’s ever done.

You quickly cut him off before he can ramble. “I’ll tell you. I promise.”

Zayne nods, presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, and sinks into you.

If your senses weren’t already overwhelmed by him, they were now. The stretch aches at first, his sheer size foreign and unforgiving. Your jaw falls slack at the feeling, and a stuttered gasp leaves your lips. Zayne echoes the sound. Slowly, he pushes further with each roll of his hips, acutely aware of the initial shock. He sweeps away stray hairs plastered to your skin.

“You’re doing good,” he encourages, though he quickly begins to lose his coherence. “So good… You feel so…”

He cuts himself off with a low groan, and his head falls to the crook of your neck. Another careful thrust, then another. Finally, he bottoms out...and his teeth sink into your skin.

It takes everything in you not to cry out his name at the overwhelming sensations. Just moments ago, you wrote off the idea of leaving this room with physical reminders. Now, Zayne’s tongue was gliding over the fresh indents of his teeth to soothe the sting. Today was a day for many firsts.

Resisting the urge to sing your praise is becoming more and more of a punishment. You can only hope that the soft whimpers and incoherent strings of ‘yes’s and ‘keep going’s are enough. Zayne muffles his own voice with the press of his mouth to your skin, desperate and low. Where his throat leans against your chest, the reverberation of ecstasy echoes. What neither of you addresses, however, is the lewd, wet slap of skin on skin and each scraping groan of the desk legs in tandem.

When your fingers tug his hair, his tempo becomes sloppy. Heedless and disorganised, like he’s barely holding on. You’re own high is re-emerging from its previous denial. Nothing seems to register anymore, not beyond the connection of your bodies, not beyond this room, not before this moment. Every sense is reduced to your simple need for him. Sensibility no longer exists, like ink bleeding on damp paper, words blurring beyond recognition. What were the ethics of fucking your doctor? Ecstacy. That’s what.

You squirm in his partial hold, hips aching with the gruelling pace. When your eyes flutter and roll, he hums in content, suddenly slowing down.

His face contorts into something reminiscent of sympathy, brows pinched and eyes pooling with an inescapable intensity. “Right there?” 

Each syllable sounds with a deep roll of his hips. When you whimper out a drawled mmh-hmm, he suddenly picks back up. He’s so close, reaching so deep that his pelvis grinds against your clit. You’re an overstimulated mess of tangled limbs and ragged breaths.

“Zayne—“ You’re legs begin to tremble, inner walls fluttering with that telltale sign. “Fuck—I’m going to—“

When you can’t finish the sentence, he captures your slack lips in a messy kiss. 

“I know.” He trails a hand down to draw slow circles into your clit. “I’ll pull out—“

While it was the most sensible course of action, not an ounce of you wanted that. Spurred by a fraction of sobriety, you look up at him and speak solid yet shaky words.

“You can cum inside me.”

Glazed eyes look back, attention caught entirely. Parted lips attempt to form words that are lost to open-mouthed groans. He shudders. “Fuck. Are—are you sure?”

“You know I’m on birth control.” Hiding a devilish grin, you clench around his length. He sinks further into your embrace with muttered curses. Had you ever heard him say such obscene things before? “Please.”

“How could I say no to you, gorgeous?” 

His words are barely more than a whisper, lost to the scrape of the table and slap of skin. You’re shared sobriety is spent in the short exchange. Your head rolls back, nails digging into a clothed back; his teeth graze against the inches of flesh that spill out of your bra, an indicator of delirium. Everything dissapears behind eyes screwed shut. 

The song of sex is threatening to reach its crescendo, each melodic note vibrating through your entire being. Like a tide pulled by unseen moons, a shared pulse that races beyond the confines of mortal flesh. You hold him close in the moment it engulfs you, and despite Zayne’s intoxicating effect, you are suddenly very sure that this is right. The explosion of pressure in your hips that shakes your legs is right. The perfect alignment of your bodies is right. The stuttered moans as he paints your walls white are right.

For a moment, you two bask in a comfortable silence, arms slung around his shoulder and his head in the crook of your neck. When he lifts himself to hover at eye-level, you can’t help the girlish giggle at the sight of his pretty face and that pretty blush. He smiles back, albeit confused.

“What?” He asks as he absentmindedly fixes your hair.

“You’re cute,” you whisper back. 

“Cute?” He laughs. “Wouldn’t be my first pick of words, but I’ll take it—“

Zayne, who leans in to kiss your forehead, stops just a hairs breadth away when a jarring knock sounds. It cuts through the moment like a distasteful dose of medicine. Both your heads whip towards the door as the handle jiggles. Every function in your body stops. But, for the nth time today, your lucky stars seem to align; the embedded network of ice keeps the door firmly shut. 

The relief isn’t long-lived, though. Underwear God knows where, half of Zayne’s desktop scattered on the floor, hair a mess and skin splotched in shades of purple… You cringe at the disgraceful scene. Zayne sighs, fixes his clothes, and momentarily drops down to fish for your underwear—the first step to regaining modesty. When he slips it over your ankles and up thighs glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, he offers an apologetic look.

“That’s my karma for ignoring the time,” he grumbles.

You slide off the desk and into your underwear, aided by his fingers at the waistband. As he sits them on your waist and pulls down your skirt, you reach up to fix his hair. 

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly, as if it truly was your fault. Well…half of the accountability was yours to claim.

“Don’t apologise.” Stealing a quick kiss, he adds, “Trouble.”

He slips from your grasp before you can retort.

From the view of the door, the criminalising array of pens and paper on the floor is mainly hidden, save for maybe an item or two. But even a single paper was evidence enough. Anyone witness to Zayne’s perfectionism would know as much. But by the time you recline in the chair, he’s already reaching for the thawing door handle. His tall frame blocks the view of the hallway as he pulls the door half open.

He nods. “Yvonne.”

Yvonne. Her presence teeters on the precipice of a blessing and a curse. A blessing, given your growing companionship with the kind nurse from Zayne’s division, yet a curse for precisely the same reason. She had the confidence in your connection to claw something juicy out of you in private, no doubt. Considering how often she brings up the gossip between nurses regarding Zayne and your relationship, this was information right up her alley.

Yvonne shifts her weight to the side to peer in the room—an act of curiosity you read clearly. When your eyes lock, the spark you were picturing stares right back. Interesting, her lively eyes seem to say. After wiggling her fingers in a small hello, she turns back to Zayne with a raised brow.

“Everything okay, Dr Zayne?” she asks plainly. The question is anything but plain. “This door was locked.”

Zayne’s grip on the door turns white knuckled. He clears his throat. “Everything is fine. I must have locked it by accident.”

It takes everything in you not to lose yourself to laughter. Zayne’s quick wit would one day be the death of you, but now his lack of sensibility would be the death of him. Yvonne scoffs at his jarringly poor excuse.

“Accident, huh?” Her amused gaze dances between the two of you, painfully knowing behind the war of words. “I see. Maybe be more…aware next time.”

“I will.”

She hums, posture straightening to indicate seriousness. “Well, I brought those files you requested. Sorry for not bringing them earlier—they slipped under my radar.”

“…Right. Yes. Thank you, Yvonne.”

She purses her lips for a moment and regards him with a scrutinising look. Seemingly satisfied, she says, “That’s all. It’s about time you head home, Dr Zayne. You two have fun now.”

With a wink your way, she disappears down the hallway. Zayne is quick to shut the door. You snicker.

“What’s so funny?”

“You ‘accidentally’ locked the door? Good one.”

“…Shut up.”

His words are accusing and gruff, but there’s no bite to them. He crosses the room in a few strides, taking in your features with a new softness. The two of you simply stare for a moment. Almost subconsciously, his fingers reach forward and skim the curve of your neck, following the path of fresh bruises peaking from your shirt collar. 

“Sorry for those…” he murmurs absentmindedly, lost in thought. “I don’t know why I did that.”

You chuckle. “You don’t?”

He hums. “Heat of the moment. Hickies are childish, but I…I just couldn’t help myself.”

“You may think it’s childish,” you challenge, “but I quite like them.”

A huff resembling something between a sigh and a laugh tumbles from his lips as his fingers graze the curve of your cheek. Delicate and loving, he handles you with a softness you could only read about in tragic odes. You meet his eyes with a look you can only hope shows a sliver of your own overwhelming affection. Although, regardless of the ache between your legs and skin flushed with sex, you can’t shake the disbelief. 

When did the quiet boy you shared stolen sweets with on your grandmother’s porch turn into this accomplished man who dictated your every thought? When was the first time you stole a tentative glance at your childhood crush? On the playground, perhaps. Or maybe outside the store that sold popsicles in the ruthless heat of summer. Those were memories you often basked in. Now, you begin to wonder when he first mirrored your shy gaze. 

“So,” he starts quietly, pulling you from the memories of shared smiles with a very current, very real kiss on the forehead. “About that fake date…”

[hppylaw]

Dearest writer, I would like to submit an order into your respected bakery! 🍞🥯🥖🥐

May I kindly get a NSFW A to Z Headcannon for Rafayel or Caleb? (or both if you don’t mind :3) I’m a huge fan of your writing and given that you are open for orders I figured I could try my luck in ordering something special 🙂‍↕️🥹

But ofc if this is too much of a hassle you may kindly ignore my order and move on 🤭🥹🥺 I shall kindly await for your response and I look forward to your masterpiece (even if it’s not my request) 💖

nsfw alphabet ⊹ ࣪ ˖ rafayel and caleb

cw.: nsfw. real porn links!! must be logged in twt to watch.

note: oh anon you'll make my heart melt:( thank you for your sweet words, my luv. i'm so sorry for the wait, i wish i had finished this much sooner >< hope this is good enough tho bc i lwk feel like i did a terrible job <//3

rafayel

a = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex): Really good! Rafayel can’t stand being dirty after sex and won’t really rest until you and him are cleaned up so you two always end up snuggling in his bathtub while he massages your scalp and scrubs your body lovingly. If you're not too tired, talk to him. He wants to hear your voice. How was it? Did you enjoy it? Tell him everything, he'll listen. Rafayel holds you so close you think he’s actually trying to get under your skin, literally.

b = body part (their favorite of theirs and their partner): If you asked, he’d say he loves every part of you and he absolutely cannot choose. If he really had to answer… your boobs. They’re the perfect size, feel good on his palms, your nipples don’t have a single moment of peace. You have to physically pull him away before they’re sore and puffy. ❤︎...¹ ❤︎...² ❤︎...³

on his body though… his hands, of course! It is with them that he creates his beautiful pieces and makes you come undone as his slender fingers press down on that spongy spot inside you.

c = cum (anything to do with cum): Will come anywhere you want if you ask him to but he really likes to see his cum dripping on your skin. Be it your stomach, your tits, doesn’t matter, he’ll go feral. As for the taste, it barely tastes like anything. It’s a bit salty and very watery but that’s it. ❤︎...

d = dirty secret (a dirty secret of theirs): Really wants to photograph you. Be it during sex, just you touching yourself, anything. Definitely has a secret journal about you and wants to decorate it with your beautiful body and face. 100% has a polaroid of your tits on his wallet and has no shame at all.

e = experience (how experienced are they): Barely any. Listen, he has read erotica, studied human anatomy a thousand times and knows the human body like no one else but he never had sex with anyone but you so please guide him the first few times. Be vocal, he’s a quick learner, he’ll learn his way around your body in a second.

f = favorite position: Rafayel likes a position based on how easy he can 1. kiss you and 2. look at your face. Missionary lover, basic but nothing with Rafayel is boring. Sex with Rafayel tends to be SO romantic, he’s THE lover boy. He kisses you so sweetly, sucking hickies on your neck while his cock drags inside you slowly. Also looooves when you ride him! it’s a combo of everything he likes, you frowning in pleasure, your boobs bouncing AND you on top of him!! ❤︎...¹ ❤︎...² ❤︎...³

g = goofy (are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc): Oh sex with Rafayel is never serious! He’s always trying to get a reaction out of you, be it trying to make you laugh by pressing a kiss to that ticklish spot on your neck or by making the stupidest joke ever. Your laughter gets him going more than he’d like to admit.

h = hair (how well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.): First of all,  yes, it is purple and second, he shaves very frequently. As a lemurian, he never had any issues with body hair since he didn’t have any. Nowadays, he’s grown used to shaving since his pubes sensory bother him.

i = intimacy (how are they during the moment, romantic aspect…): Puh-lease, we are talking about Rafayel. The artist, the lemurian that lives and breathes for love, your one and only soulmate. Rafayel is obsessed with you, always has been, always will be. To have skin to skin contact with you, letting him see you bare and vulnerable and yet still trust him, it’s everything he’d ever wish for. Rafayel lives for romance, love and pure intimacy and he will show it to you in every touch, kiss and praise.

j = jack off (masturbation headcanon): Before getting together with you, if he was ever really pent up and stressed, maybe once or twice a week. After you two got together officially, he doesn’t see the point in masturbating when he’s always glued to your side. If you’re away for whatever reason though? I believe he can get pretty needy and maybe, just maybe, rub one off.

k = kink (one or more of their kinks): Does body worship even count as a kink? Well, doesn’t matter. How many times do I have to say that Rafayel is OBSESSED with you??? There’s nothing that makes him hornier than being allowed to kiss your body. Praising you in every single language he knows is not enough, he needs your soul to be tied with his so you can read his mind and deepest thoughts about how lovely you are. Also, voyeurism, Rafayel is a closeted perv. He likes to watch, to take his time eyeing his food before actually diving in. Seeing you touch yourself without his intervention makes the knot in his lower stomach grow tighter and his skin hotter.

l = location (favorite places to do the do): Rafayel is too possessive to have actual sex in public so that’s a no. Anywhere in his studio is fine if you’re comfortable! Buuut if you trust him enough, please let him drag you to the ocean. There are no interruptions, no important phone calls, no Thomas to accidentally walk in, it’s just you and him where he’s most comfortable. It doesn’t tire him to be in his human form but giving his body a break and finally being in his real, lemurian form, feels like a relief from time to time. 

m = motivation (what turns them on, gets them going): When you’re more petty than him and talk back. FUCK he could bust a nut right there. Or the fact that as a hunter, you can manhandle him just as easy as he can manhandle you. OR the fact that you’re not scared of him in the slightest. He would never hurt you, but if he wanted, a single song would be enough to make you go crazy and drown in the ocean. You’re aware of that, you just don’t care. That’s what makes him go insane.

n = no (something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs): Share you with someone. Although he doesn’t show it, Rafayel is extremely protective and can be very possessive depending on the situation. Letting someone else touch you turns him off completely.

o = oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc): #01 pussy eater. Rafayel loves your pussy ok, leave him alone… Can totally cum untouched from just eating you out and is not embarrassed in the slightest. Actually really good at it too, like, 100% a muncher. Def tries to make you squirt on his tongue. As for receiving? Sure! It’s never unwelcomed. Just know that he will return the favor 10x better. ❤︎...¹ ❤︎...² ❤︎...³

p = pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.): Rafayel can be both. There is no red and blue with him, there’s purple. Rafayel can’t stick to a single thing forever. During his heat, he’s rougher, manhandling you around and bending you in whatever position he judges comfortable in the moment. When he’s feeling needy and clingy, he’s gentle. Rolls his hips against yours slowly, kissing your neck sensually while praising you in lemurian.

q = quickie (their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.): Not a big fan but he isn’t totally opposed to them. For Rafayel, sex is something intimate and he wants to take his time with you. He wants both of you to enjoy the moment with no rush. 

r = risk (are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.): That depends on how far you two are going. Fingering you under the table at a banquet? Sure, why not. Getting a bit handsy and making out? Lovely. Actual sex? No. Not happening at all. Rafayel, even if he hides it, is a possessive creature. Your sounds and body are for his ears and eyes only. You’re his and he’s not up for sharing.

s = stamina (how many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…): Normally, he can go for two rounds before falling on top of you tiredly. In heat though? He is not stopping. His mind breaks but his body still wants and needs more. Doesn’t matter how many times he’s come already, his hips do not stop against yours until he thinks you’re full of his eggs.

t = toy (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?): Doesn’t own any but is not opposed to them. If you’re interested in trying it out and using them during sex, sure! He can work with that. Extra stimulation on your clit while his fingers are shoved on your cunt isn’t unwanted.

u = unfair (how much they like to tease): Now, is it really Rafayel if there’s no teasing? He is insufferable. He likes to see you work for it even though he knows damn well it’s him that will fold first in the end.

v = volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make): Sorry, he’s not holding back. He needs you to know how good you make him feel. His range is insane, he’d be grunting in your ear and suddenly his moans turn high pitched and beautiful. Rafayel can get whiny, he complains, he’s petty, he mewls and in the next second he groans and curses in his mother language in pleasure.

w = wild card (get a random headcanon for the character of your choice): I need to spread the virgin Rafayel agenda… He is a lemurian, he’s bound to you in a level that no human would ever understand. There are no “friends with benefits”, “situationship”, “hookup”, Rafayel has been waiting for you and only you. He doesn’t need it to be magical or perfect, he just needs it to be you.

x = x-ray (let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words): The prettiest cock you’ll see in your short human life. It’s genuinely nice to look at. Rafayel’s cock is pale, with the prettiest pink tip and cutest mole on the length that if you kiss, his knees buckle weakly and his head spins. It isn’t thick but it’s curved up and it drags deliciously inside you. I’d say #c7b2ab for the length and #d9a3a3 for the tip. In his human form, solid 6,7 inches (17 cm).

y = yearning (how high is their sex drive?): Lemurians are creatures with many cycles. Rafayel has a high libido naturally, but during ebb day and his heat? He is trying to crawl under your skin. Ebb day makes him needy, sensitive and whiny, he just wants an effective way of cooling off. His heat quite literally makes him feral, he wants you and if you consent, you’re not leaving the water at all. At least not until it is over.

z = zzz (… how quickly they fall asleep afterward): Pretty quick. After he’s sure you two are clean, comfortable and satisfied, he’s hugging you close and burying his face in your neck sleepily. If you feel like it, you two can chat. Rafayel loves pillow talk. If you’re tired and wish to be quiet, then it’s time to nap.

caleb

a = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex): THE BEST. King of aftercare. Knows everything you want and attends to every one of your needs. You want water? There’s already a glass on your bedside table. You’re hungry? You want him to cook or do you want to order takeout? He’ll do it. You feel dirty? Let him run a bath for you- you get the idea.

b = body part (their favorite of theirs and their partner): In your body, definitely your ass. Always has been. Doesn’t matter what you are wearing, be it those old pj’s from your childhood, a new pair of undies, nothing at all, it all makes him feel like he’s gonna bust a nut on his pants.

He really likes his arms. Caleb has always worked out a lot since highschool and he’s really proud of how far he’s come. He likes how big they’re compared to yours, how he can manhandle you during sex and roughhousing, and how comfortable you look in his arms when you two hug.

c = cum (anything to do with cum): If you allow him to cum inside you, that’s all he’ll ever want to do. Caleb has a huge breeding kink, and the fact that you trust him enough to let him fill you up drives him mad. If you go down on him, he never lets you swallow it, he feels too bad to do so. Makes you spit on his hand and honestly thank god. It’s thick and slightly bitter but he cums so much you WILL choke. ❤︎...

d = dirty secret (a dirty secret of theirs): Sigh, is it really a dirty secret if you already caught him at least twice? Caleb’s interest in your underwear is pathetic. At this point he’s not even trying to hide it anymore, he’s just shamelessly going through your drawers to find that old and stained pair you forgot to throw away. Bonus point if you catch him sniffing them and complain about it. Secretly likes when you scream at him and say “Gross, Caleb!”. Also wishes you let him keep your undies on during sex, it really turns him on.

e = experience (how experienced are they): None. Caleb has never felt any attraction to anyone but you his whole life. For years he has been waiting for the right moment for both of you so, you’re his first and last.

f = favorite position: Backshots. He loves your ass. There’s nothing better than taking you from behind, a hand wrapped around your waist while the other smooths the skin of your back. Also really enjoys being inhumanely close to you, doesn’t matter the position. As long as you two are close, you, safely in his arms, he’s happy. ❤︎...¹  ❤︎...² ❤︎...³ ❤︎...⁴

g = goofy (are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc): Caleb wishes that you only see his outgoing and playful persona, created just for you and the sexual aspect is not different. He likes to make you laugh at any and every moment. If you whine in pain because his cock is too big, he’ll blow a raspberry on your neck to distract you and make you giggle. He’ll tickle your waist if you talk back. Anything to make you smile.

h = hair (how well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.): It’s trimmed. Not all shaved and smooth but it isn’t unruly. Has the sliiiiightest happy trail peeking up his boxers. If it bothers you though, he’ll shave it in a minute.

i = intimacy (how are they during the moment, romantic aspect…): Very romantic. At least he tries. Caleb wanted to be your prince charming, your knight in shining armor his whole life. Sex is one of the many ways he wants to prove he’s the best for you, that around him, you’re safe and can be yourself with no fear. He kisses you gently, whispering the sweetest words ever in your ear, massaging every sore spot in your body while wishing he’s worthy of your praise too.

j = jack off (masturbation headcanon): Yeah… During his teenage years, he jerked off a lot. Caleb had a high libido but could not have the only person he wanted so all he had was his fist. Nowadays, before and after you two got together, i still believe he jerks off alot since you two are still very far apart, you living in Linkon and him in Skyhaven, though he prefers coming to you rather than fucking his fist by himself.

k = kink (one or more of their kinks): As I mentioned previously, Caleb has a huge breeding kink. Part of it is because he genuinely wishes to start a family with you in the future but also because he feels so close to you this way. Loves to keep his cock plugged inside you for a while before actually pulling out. ❤︎...¹ ❤︎...²

His praise kink goes both ways. He’s always praising you for all of your achievements, not only sexually. Please praise him back, he’s trying his best for you, always. Tell him he is making you feel good, tell him you love him, that what he’s doing feels right. He might come on the spot.

Do I even have to mention his size kink… He is bigger than you. Caleb goes weak at the thought of being able to manhandle you into whatever position he wants you to be. And if he can press down on your tummy and feel his cock abusing your cunt? Ohhh yeah, yes he came. Don’t judge him. ❤︎...

l = location (favorite places to do the do): Caleb can only actually relax when he’s alone with you at your apartment or his. Preferably yours back in Linkon. He feels tense in Skyhaven and is always on alert. In Linkon though, he can let himself relax better knowing that you’re safer. Not a fan of kitchen sex specifically. That aside, anywhere is fine.

m = motivation (what turns them on, gets them going): You’re horny? So is he! Caleb has been waiting for you for years, saying he’s pent up is an understatement. Just say the words and he’s already looking at you with puppy dog eyes, waiting for an order.

n = no (something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs): Anything related to impact play. No. He hates the thought of hurting you and finds no pleasure in such things.

o = oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc): Zero skill, no experience, but he has a dream. Show him how you like it, ride his face, pull his hair, order him around, hell, sit on his face. He’s a quick learner once he sets his mind onto something. 100% a giver and doesn’t want you to go down on him because it’s too “degrading” and he feels bad. Please go down on him. He’ll complain and try to pull away but he comes SO quickly, cock twitching, grunting, knees buckling and all. ❤︎...

p = pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.): … Rough. Listen, he doesn’t mean to be rough but he can’t help it. Your cunt makes Caleb malfunction, overheat and shut down. He’s dumbed down at the slightest clench around his cock and his hips have a mind of their own, snapping against yours harshly as he drools and kisses your shoulder in apology. 

q = quickie (their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.): Actually likes them! You two are always very busy with your jobs and being distant from each other most of the time isn’t easy. To him, quickies are more about you than him. He wants to get you off so you feel at peace. He can rub one off later and you don’t have to concern your pretty head over it.

r = risk (are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.): No. Caleb hates, hates, hates the thought of taking risks with you. He’d rather die than having you be seen in such an intimate way. As for experimenting, yes of course! Be open with him, tell him what you’re into, what you want to try… Your wish is his command.

s = stamina (how many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…): From the lack of experience, Caleb can last two rounds max before you tire him out. That does not mean he’ll leave you unsatisfied though. He still has his mouth and fingers ready to satiate you. ❤︎...¹ ❤︎...²

t = toy (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?): Absolutely not. Are you trying to get him killed? Caleb is jealous of anything that breathes the same air as you and you want him to accept the idea of having something else making you cum? Just shoot him already.

u = unfair (how much they like to tease): If anyone is being teased, it’s him. Although you two play fight a lot, Caleb isn’t one to be a tease during sex. He has been waiting, planning for this moment for years. Everything needs to be perfect. He can wait to get under your skin later.

v = volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make): He tries so hard to be quiet… he wants to focus on your moans, your moans are the pretty ones, not his. Caleb holds back, bites his lip, hides his face on your nape but nothing can make him shut up. The moment he enters you, he’s moaning, huffing and grunting like an animal.

w = wild card (get a random headcanon for the character of your choice): Caleb really enjoys all the attention you give him when he’s looking all scary and dominant in his colonel uniform. He knows you eye him hungrily when gets home, he won’t take the uniform off on purpose, he just waits to see how long it’ll take for you to fold and come sit on his lap, grinding your cunt on his clothed thigh. Won’t admit it but likes when you call him colonel, sir, mr. xia, etc.

x = x-ray (let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words): Alright mr. fat cock pack it up. It’s thick alright. I can totally picture him saying “biiiig stretch, pips” while shushing your whines. Thick base, thick and veiny length, fat tip. That’s what he's hiding in his boxers. 6,6 inches (~16,5cm) that stretch you out SO good, the veins drag inside you soooo nicely it feels like heaven. #a88479 for the length and #a66d5b for the tip.

y = yearning (how high is their sex drive?): Oh boy, do I even need to say this? We are talking about THE yearner. Caleb’s super pent up and dare I say he has a pretty high libido. He is always stressed because of work and he has been waiting for you for years. The moment you consent, he’s fumbling with both his and your clothes. 

z = zzz (… how quickly they fall asleep afterward): He usually doesn't sleep after you two have sex. He’s too busy watching you sleep to do so. Caleb is only at peace if he is sure you’re safe and comfortable. Poor boy barely has time to catch his breath as he’s running around the apartment getting everything you might need and want so you don’t have to leave the bed. Tell him to relax, ask him to lie down with you, bury your face on his beefy chest and make sure he doesn’t leave the bed, he needs it.

⊹ ࣪reblogs are very much appreciated. thank you for reading!(*´▽`*)

[hppylaw]

Kiwi

Ship: Zayne x MC/fem!reader

Summary: Zayne knows life has treated him well—very well, when he has you by his side and a baby on the way. But even with all your reassurance and years spent together, Zayne finds himself questioning if he really deserves everything he has...

Word Count: 2,440 words

Warnings: angsty, very domestic, fluff, drabble, reader is pregnant, Zayne's in his head a lot, reader is depicted to like crime shows, use of nicknames "honey" (by Zayne, for reader) and "darling" (by reader, for Zayne), head nuzzles

Notes: Getting through more of Forseer's myth inspired this, so there's the angst element for ya! Written (mostly) before the main story update... The lyrics of the song in this fic belong to Sara by Fleetwood Mac!

☟ Continue below the fold ☟

Spring was coming to Linkon. Zayne could see it everywhere as he got out of his car and walked to the front door of his house. The snow had all but melted, leaving front yards a mushy, muddy mess. The icicles that had been camped out over the front stoop for at least a month had dripped away into nothing. And the sun was out, golden and warm, making Zayne's winter coat that had been necessary this morning a useless, heavy scrap of fabric draped over his arm now.

Perhaps I'll make her tea, he thought, inserting his key into the lock, and convince her to sit outside while we read today.

You weren't on the sofa as he had expected, though it looked like you had been recently. The TV was on a crime show, its volume low, but music was coming from somewhere inside the house.

"Honey?" he called, sliding his shoes off.

"Kitchen, darling!"

The sound of your voice was a soothing balm to Zayne's tired body. Tension drained from him as he hung up his coat. He padded toward the kitchen. As he rounded the corner, the sound of the music grew a little louder.

Zayne paused where he stood once you came into view in the open floor plan. You stood at the counter, humming to the song on the radio, your hips swaying in time with the music. You were a distance away from the counter, your baby bump in the way.

You hadn't realized he'd neared the kitchen, so Zayne leaned on the wall as he admired you.

There was a glass bowl next to you, cubed green fruit inside of it. You had a peeler in one hand and another kiwi, half-peeled, in the other. You'd broken out one of the spring maternity dresses you'd bought, a soft pink and green in color, flowing around your legs as you swayed in place.

Zayne had always thought you were beautiful—the most beautiful girl in the world, really, which was utterly cliché and perhaps childish, but he didn't care. But, staring at you now, he found himself realizing you had reached a new height of beauty, just standing in your kitchen.

You finished peeling the kiwi, still without noticing him in the doorway. You placed it on the cutting board and cut it. Each and every flick of the knife was precise and somehow gentle, like you were afraid of hurting the cutting board beneath if you pressed too hard.

Ooh, the laces... Undoing the laces.

You swayed as you scooped up the kiwi and put it into a small bowl. You were singing along softly now as you reached for the container of sugar.

Said Sara, you're the poet in my heart—never change, never stop.

Fingers pinched together, you sprinkled a light dusting of sugar onto the kiwi. You dusted off your hands over the cutting board, then moved to the sink with your peeler and knife in hand to wash.

But now it's gone. It doesn't matter what for, but when you build your house, oh, then call me home!

Zayne stepped into the kitchen, heading toward you. You certainly had been calling him home—for years. You'd been an intrinsic part of his life since you were kids, always interested in what he was doing, always there for him when he needed you, even if he didn't know it. More often than not, Zayne thought you knew him better than he knew himself.

Without you noticing, Zayne came up behind you. He put his hands on your hips, kissing your cheek softly. You hummed happily, a smile stretching across your face. You leaned back into him.

"You're home earlier than I expected," you murmured.

Zayne's hands slipped beneath your belly, cradling both you and baby. "I was ahead of schedule today," he said. "And I had no other appointments this afternoon, so I decided to come home rather than be in my office for another two hours." He lifted your bump gently, relieving some of the pressure on your body. You sighed softly, leaning even further back onto his chest.

He settled his chin on your shoulder. You rested your head against his, closing your eyes.

Zayne breathed you in. You smelled of your usual perfume, the beginnings of spring, and the laundry detergent the two of you used. Comfort swept over him, easing its way into his tired muscles. Tension slowly siphoned out of him, his shoulders relaxing.

How had he gotten this lucky? How had he become a man lucky enough to have the woman he loved relaxed in his arms, her very smell easing his body and mind when nothing else could?

He didn't deserve you. He knew he didn't, even if he couldn't really put his fingers on why. Elusive as the feeling was, it was overwhelming at times—enough that Zayne often found himself restless at night, tossing and turning until you woke up and coaxed him back to sleep in your embrace. And while he didn't deserve you, Zayne was a selfish man, keeping you to himself as he was.

You turned your head toward him, kissing his cheek. "I do so love when you come home early," you murmured. Zayne nuzzled into you, burying his head in your neck. You reached up and gently began massaging his scalp with your nails. Zayne let out a sound that was nearly a whimper. "How was work?"

"Good," he whispered. "Two back to back surgeries."

You hummed. "Tiring, then," you said. You had a marvelous way of picking up what he was putting down, knowing what he wanted to say behind what he did say.

That was probably how you'd gotten here in the first place. Years of Zayne biting his tongue when all he wanted to do was beg you to be his. And you'd known. All along, you'd known exactly how he felt about you, how it killed him to stay silent but felt like a fate worse than death to tell you.

Zayne mimicked your hum in answer. He whispered a soft warning before gently releasing his grip on your belly. You exhaled as you took the weight of the baby on your own again.

"Kiwi?" you offered, pushing the bowl toward Zayne. He'd discovered over the past few months that you liked to share your craving snacks almost as much as you liked eating them. And that the pout you gave him if he refused was a death sentence to his heart.

He pushed a few pieces of the kiwi onto a fork.

The smile you gave him as he chewed was enough to melt away the day's stress and tension from his shoulders.

"Sweet enough?" you asked. Zayne nodded. He leaned in, lips brushing against your soft skin—idle for a moment, before he truly kissed your cheek.

"How was your day?" he asked.

"Mmm, good," you said. He released you, but kept one hand on your lower back as you picked up your bowl and started for the living room. "Lots of kicking." You patted your belly softly. "I got some cleaning done in our bedroom and I finished putting up the wall decorations in the nursery." You glanced at your husband, already sensing his raised eyebrow. "And I rested. Don't worry, honey."

The two of you settled onto the couch, Zayne reaching over to adjust your pillows and blankets, fussing over you as devotedly as he had since you'd found out you were pregnant.

You rubbed your bump. "They know Daddy's home," you said, wincing through a smile. "Kicking up a storm again."

Zayne's fingers twitched at his side. "May I?" he asked.

You wordlessly grabbed his hand and placed it on your belly. The two of you waited and, a moment later, the kicking began anew. A smile twitched at Zayne's lips.

There it was. The life the two of you had created together. His love for you, his need for you—kicking in your belly, demanding to be brought into the world so that it may cry endlessly about how you'd loved each other enough to make something living and real out of it.

"I don't know why you still ask," you murmured as Zayne's hand moved over your bump, following the baby's kicks. "They're your baby just as much."

"It's your body they've made a home in," he reminded you.

You smiled at him, reaching out to pull him closer. You kissed him, soft but not chaste, and Zayne cherished the way you invited him in.

She's mine, Zayne thought as your fingers traced over his jaw. All mine and only mine.

Sometimes he hated it. How possessive he was over you. Had it not been for his need for you, had he not been so obsessed with you, had not pined for you so hard that you saw it and loved him anyway...maybe you'd have a very different life. Maybe you wouldn't be carrying his baby, but another man's, loving someone else.

A dark, disgusted feeling curled through Zayne's heart, icy and dangerous. He hated that thought even more than he hated his possessiveness.

You broke the kiss and rested your head on Zayne's chest, humming contentedly. The serpent curling around his heart loosened its grip.

You were happy with him. You liked your life as it was, here and now. You'd told him time and time again that you were overjoyed to be entering this next chapter together, inviting a little one with open arms.

Zayne wrapped his arm around your shoulders and turned the volume up on the television. You hummed, settling in against him, and resumed snacking on your sugared kiwi. He watched you eat, taking the piece you offered straight from your fingertips. You met his eyes as his lips and tongue brushed against your fingers, heat in your gaze.

"Careful," he murmured, his hand moving to your belly. "That look is how we got here in the first place."

"Can't say that I mind," you said, a smile twitching on your lips.

Zayne kissed you again, adjusting to move as close to you as possible on the couch. You giggled into his mouth, then hummed when you realized he intended to linger.

Each kiss was much less reserved than the last, and, for a moment, Zayne wondered why he had ever kept such rigid restraint around you.

A loud bang made both of you jump. You realized first it had come from the television—rapid gunshots at the detectives by their fleeing suspect!—and the two of you laughed softly, pressing your foreheads together.

You rubbed your thumb over Zayne's cheek. "Someone's very affectionate today," you murmured, searching his face. "Everything okay?"

He nodded, nuzzling into your hand. "Let's just say I'm feeling particularly grateful to have you by my side today," he said quietly.

Your face broke into a smile that made Zayne feel a thousand pounds lighter. You cupped his face in both hands and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. "I love you," you whispered into his skin.

Zayne's throat felt tight. It never felt any less wonderful to hear those words, even though you'd said them countless times. Each and every instance was perfect. "I love you, too," he murmured.

Even if you deserved so much more, you loved him. You wanted him. You'd chosen him, time and time again, and he knew you always would. Even after all the times he'd thought himself unworthy and had tried to take a step back—you stepped with him.

The episode ended with the show's theme song. The credits began to roll.

"Shall we go read on the porch?" Zayne suggested as you turned off the television. He took your now-empty bowl of kiwi and placed it on the coffee table.

"Mmm, that does sound nice," you said. "I might fall asleep, though."

He chuckled. "That's alright," he assured you. He kissed your temple. "I'll be content as long as I'm with you."

Zayne grabbed both your book and his while you gathered up the blanket. The air was still pleasantly warm out on the porch, but the chill would arrive quickly as the sun began to set.

He steadied the porch swing for you, then sat beside you. You got comfortable against him, covering your lower halves with the blanket. He handed you your book and within minutes, you were both deeply engrossed in your novels.

Peace settled over Zayne, the small voice in his head finally quiet, banished by the comfort and familiarity of this routine. If told to pick, this was Zayne's favorite part of the day—coming home to you and existing together, taking personal time but being close should the other need it.

A few chapters went by before you closed your book with a yawn. You settled against Zayne's shoulder, your eyes fluttering closed.

"Tired?" he asked.

"No," you lied. "'m fine." You nuzzled against him. "Read to me?"

"Alright," he said, amused, flipping back a page to get to the beginning of the chapter.

Barely ten minutes later, Zayne felt your weight settle more distinctly onto him. Another minute, and your head was slipping a little on his shoulder. You were fast asleep, lulled by the sound of his voice as you had been so many times before.

Zayne adjusted your head and kept reading aloud to you, certain that you would wake with a jolt if he stopped. Just a little more. Just until dinner, and then I'll wake you.

With you asleep on his shoulder, Zayne felt like a teenage boy again, his heart racing with you so close and so vulnerable. He felt, oddly enough, like he had when you'd chosen him for the first time—giddy and boyish and overwhelmingly happy.

He turned and pressed a long, lingering kiss to your temple.

Yes, Zayne was a selfish, selfish man. But he found he didn't care. Not when being selfish meant providing you with a life that kept you happy. Not when he'd fall asleep with you in his arms, baby wiggling around inside you, just about ready to meet the world.

And the voice would come back, likely with the dawn as it often did, telling him he did not deserve you. But it didn't matter now and it would not matter then. It would never matter, with your warmth in his arms, and your love in his heart.

He kissed your temple again. "I love you."

Zayne closed his book and waited for you to stir awake at the loss of his voice, his eyes fixed on the sky, glowing pink with the setting sun.

☞ ❊ ☜

[Image Caption: I do not give permission to repost, translate, or publish my work on any other site or app by anyone except myself. I do not give permission for my work to be fed into AI (for audio, art, or writing).]

Love and Deepspace // Zayne

Taglist: {comment and let me know if you'd like to be added to the L&DS taglist!}

[hppylaw]

That Damned Perfume Part 1

One of the first 5* cards I got was Rafayel's Your Fragrance and it's lived in my head, rent-free, ever since. Then it's implied that he gifts you the same perfume in the 4* Card Fragrant Dream. The fact that Your Fragrance ended with "Gotcha" has plagued me. WHAT HAPPENED AFTER THAT? So, this is going to explore that, what I hoped happened afterwards, and how my brat-ass MC would use the perfume after to her advantage. Part 1 of 2

Warnings for all parts: MDNI. Smut! Porn with Feelings. Biting, scent-marking, breeding kink with no consequences, two dicked Rafayel, brat!MC brat!Rafayel but everyone is a switch here, primal urges/dynamics, f reader, MC has hazy memories of a life before with Rafayel. Might be a little ooc because ya girl is still getting back into fanfic. Unedited. You get this raw (just like our fishie!)

You were bent over the sink, trying to rinse off the perfume. Rafayel either despised or adored it, you couldn’t tell. Your palm burned with lingering heat from his not-so-soft bite. It added to the heat coiling low in your belly from the weight of his lusty, almost drunk expression that danced over your skin like a physical thing.

Rafayel seemed drunk of the scent of this new perfume. The kind of drunk that came with too many glasses of wine that always ended up with clothes thrown across the floor. You considered deepening your relationship with the sassy Lemurian more times than you could count, but crossing that line now?

You thought about kissing Rafayel so many times, but you never gathered the courage to close the distance. He didn’t do anything halfway, and you knew the kiss would lead to so much more. You didn’t have time for that, not now. The exhibition started in forty-five minutes. You also didn’t want to take advantage of Rafayel if he was inebriated somehow by the perfume. You wanted him in his right mind when you took that step. Resigned to the task at hand, you splashed cool water on your neck to rinse off the perfume.

"Gotcha," Rafayel purred, his large hand splayed out on the mirror. He appeared out of nowhere, silent as a shadow until it was too late for you to escape. His left arm stretched out above you, the other clutched your waist. His hips rolled into the soft flesh of your ass and you felt him - hot, hard, and throbbing. "Silly girl, you shouldn’t have run away from me."

The sound of his voice ghosted over your ears in a deeper, huskier tone than usual. Something raw and hotter than his flames dripped into his words. Your knees trembled as you slowly turned off the water. Heat gathered low in your belly, but you didn’t dare move. "I wanted to wash the perfume off. It seems affect you, and you can't act like this at the exhibition."

"You're right. I can't go out like this." Rafayel rolled his hips, harder this time. You imagined his cock would be a good size and as pretty as the rest of him. What ground into your ass was huge, both in length and girth. Too long. It hit you once again that Rafayel, your sassy artist, was not human.

You made the mistake of looking into the mirror. His eyes met yours in the glass, but instead of their typical amethyst and pink hue, they gleamed a bright, vivid blue. Scales peppered his cheeks, his neck, and danced down his exposed chest. You had brief glimpses of this form of his, somewhat shifted, the human mask half-fallen.

Rafayel would never hurt you, but the sight of him like this made every nerve in your body pulse with the urge to run. He moaned into your hair, the sound breathless. His grip tightened as he curled his larger body over yours, completely encasing you in nothing but him. "I need you. Please."

The heat of his body burned into your back through your clothes. He hovered a breath away from your spine, and somehow that made your awareness of him so much sharper. You focused on everywhere you would’ve touched, had he not held himself back.

"What do you need me to do?” you asked. You had countless ideas on how to help him through whatever this was, but all of your ideas would make you both very, very late to the exhibition. You didn't want to assume that’s what he wanted, though. Not when he was vulnerable like this.

"I need you," he panted, his words strained. "I need you to touch me. I’ll take anything you’ll give me. I'll beg if you want. Call you master if that's what it takes. I just need you, and everything you’re willing to let me take."

Rafayel’s hot breath fanned over your neck, and goosebumps rose across your body. The tension in him became a tangible thing between you as his fingers trembled against your skin. His expression in the mirror was one of a man who was consumed by visceral need. His beautiful, glowing blue eyes were wide dark with long-repressed want. There was no bravado or sassy remarks here. Just pure, burning desire.

Your throat dried, and the heat burning in your stomach slowly overruled all your other senses. When he looked at you like that you'd give him the fucking moon if he asked for it. "There isn't anything I wouldn't give you if you needed it, Rafayel."

He made a broken, desperate sound as he rocked his hips into you again, almost as if he couldn’t help himself. As if it was instinctual for him to seek you out when he was like this. His left hand remained on the mirror, and his right slipped under the hem of your top. Long, delicate fingers splayed over your side. Almost cool to the touch. You both hissed as if it burned. His fingers shook against your stomach as he traced up your ribs to your breasts. He squeezed them through the fabric of your bra with a pitiful whimper.

Hot, open-mouthed kisses traced down your back, from your shoulders to the dip of your spine. He continued to knead your breast as his left hand abandoned the mirror to unbutton your pants. He huffed a soft laugh into your skin as he slowly pulled you into a stand. He leaned down, watching your expression in the mirror as his hot breath fanned over your ears. “What I truly need would take all night. Most of tomorrow, too. We don’t have time. I wanted this to be better. More romantic, but I can barely hold myself together because of that damned perfume.”

“Do you want me to leave? I can go home and change.”

“No!” Power laced through Rafayel’s voice, the blue in his eyes gleaming brightly for a moment before settling back down. “You aren’t leaving me. I’ll make it up to you later, give you what you deserve, but I can’t let you go right now. Can I take these off? Please, cutie?”

"Yes."

The word was halfway out of your mouth when he moved. Your pants were down around your ankles before you could blink, and the cool night air tingled against your now bare skin. Rafayel met your gaze in the mirror once again, that starving, devastating look clear in his eyes as he hovered his hand over your panties. "Are you attached to these?"

"No."

"Good." Rafayel ripped them off with one powerful tug of his hand. They ripped like they were made of paper, and your head spun at the show of strength. He clutched you against his hard chest to steady you.

Pressed firmly against his body and bare from the waist down, there was little hiding his hot, throbbing cock from you. It pulsed against your back, the size seeming impossible. With one hand pressing you into his body, his other slipped your torn panties into his back pocket.

His hand hovered over your mound, not quite touching you, as if giving you a final chance to stop him. You rocked your hips back into his. Whatever haze held his hand broke, and breathlessly, he dipped one finger between your lower lips. He shuddered behind you, his voice soft in your ear. "You're so wet."

You wouldn’t deny the truth. He barely touched you, but your desire dripped down your thighs, slick and hot from his proximity alone. Every soft noise and restrained touch only made your blood run hotter. Your legs spread open instinctively, and your head fell back against his strong chest. "Rafayel."

“You have no idea what you do to me, do you?” Rafayel’s voice cracked, the mask he wore cracking under your proximity. “Do you have any idea how long I waited for you? How long I searched for you? I’ve been without you longer than I’ve ever had you.”

“I’m here right now.” Your voice was soft. He was often dramatic, but something about this pulled at your heartstrings, like the memory of a distant dream.

He pressed a firm kiss into the side of your neck. “I should make you wait. Drive you crazy with want, and need. Leave you aching. I want to punish you, but if I did, I would be the one who suffered the most.”

Your knees went weak at the slight growl in his voice, something almost feral seeping into his tone. You met his dark, ravenous gaze in the mirror and thought back to the promise you made him months ago. “I swore I’d never make you wait again, didn’t I?”

“You did. I won’t let you forget your promise this time.” Rafayel slipped two fingers deep inside you in one smooth, slow motion. You both moaned. His fingers were so much longer than yours, and twice as precise.

He worked his skilled digits in and out of you slowly. His fingers curled as he made deep strokes, hitting the spot your fingers never quite managed to reach. Rafayel’s thumb strummed over your clit in slow, firm circles, and your breath hitched. You clutched to his arms for support and he hummed into your neck."That's right. Cling to me, cutie. I've got you."

Your head lulled back against his chest as he worked his fingers in and out of you. The wet noises of your pussy squeezing his fingers became the only sound in the dim bathroom aside from your heavy breathing. The coil of pleasure low in your belly curled tighter with each expert twirl of his fingers. It was as if he’d done this to you before, as if he memorized long ago exactly how you liked to be touched. Your breaths turned into gasps as you raced towards the peak of release.

His fingers slipped out of you the moment before you reached your peak. You cried out, a sharp, frustrated sound. Rafayel shushed you, the ghost of his smile brushed against your neck. With effortless grace, he lifted you onto the counter and sank to his knees in front of you. Large, slightly cool hands traced down your thigh to your knees. He rested his chin there and focused his wide, hungry gaze on yours. "Touching you isn't enough. I need to taste you, to have your scent drown me. May I?"

You spread your thighs and his breath stuttered. He kissed the inside of your knees in something that felt like worship. Your fingers speared through his silken amethyst hair and you pulled him to your dripping pussy. Your thighs settled over his shoulders, pulling him closer still. "Eat your fill."

Your voice came out seductive, rich, and far more confident than you felt. You dreamed of this, of his hands, his mouth, his cock. You had countless fantasies of this moment, but nothing compared to the real thing. The heat of his body between your spread thighs, the reverent, yet sure grip he had on you, the weight of his stare. This was real, and you burned with pent up need.

Rafayel's eyes flared at your words, and he nipped your innermost thigh with his sharp, slightly pointed teeth. His tongue soothed the sting of the bite, then he made another. Each nip lasted a little longer, pulled more on the skin, and left a deeper mark. You whimpered, and whatever game he was playing stopped. His tongue delved between your folds, and he pulled you closer to get the best angle.

He ate your pussy like he was starved. Messy and needy, he devoured you. He whimpered into your cunt. His tongue reached into your depths as his nose rubbed against your clit. Rafayel kept a steady rhythm, never pulling back to breathe. He chased your pleasure, somehow attuned to every subtle tell of your body, your sharp breaths, and the tremble of your thighs.

Your fingers clutched his hair as he pushed loud, breathy moans out of you with every swipe of his skilled tongue. He licked up, circled your clit with his tongue, and sank two long fingers inside you. He applied the perfect amount of pressure, starting slow, then increasing the speed with every cry you made for him.

"Rafayel," you moaned. He set a brutal, consuming pace at the desperation lingering in your voice. His licks over your clit became firm sucks. He thrust his fingers in time with the pulse of his sucks. The curl of pleasure in your lower stomach grew taught for the second time, humming just below the surface. "I'm going to--"

He sucked harder, a choked whine echoed in the space between you, and you couldn't hold back. You came with a cry of his name. Your thighs clenched around his head as you rode the wave of pleasure out on his face. Rafayel never let go of your pulsing clit. He continued sucking, licking, and working you through your orgasm. Still refusing to let go, he continued his brutal pace and sent you spiraling into another release.

Your choked cries and the wet sounds Rafayel pulled from your soaked cunt filled the room. He devoured you, desperate, starved. You were a mess, wet and sticky between your thighs from your release and his tongue, but he didn't let you escape. He wasn't done with you. Pleasure coiled in your lower stomach again, faster this time, the tension so tight it ached. You pulled his hair hard, but Rafayel didn't react, too lost in your pussy to care.

Your second orgasm hit you like a tidal wave. It knocked every thought out of your mind and every ounce of air from your lungs. You screamed something that sounded like his name, but also like a curse, maybe even a prayer. You gushed over his fingers, the release hitting you so hard you were undone. A breathless mess. He worked you through it, slower this time, and when the wave waned, Rafayel pulled back with a soft sigh.

He looked up at you from between your thighs, licking his fingers clean of your come. His eyes and skin were back to normal, but the hunger in his sunset eyes lingered. He pressed a soft kiss into your thigh, then nuzzled into your skin. All the tension eased out of his shoulders, as if pleasing you soothed him.

"Do we have to go to the exhibition?" Rafayel asked.

"Yes," you said, breathless. "This is important to you, isn't it?"

He licked his lips. "It's work, and you know how I feel about that."

You giggled and ran your hand through his hair. "I promised to bring you."

"We won't make it if I keep you here much longer." The playful, soft glint in his eyes signaled the last little bit of hope he had that you'd let him stay right where he was.

You leaned down and captured his lips in a soft kiss. "If you're a good boy, maybe we can leave early."

Rafayel shuddered, and slumped forward. He wrapped his arms around your stomach and pulled you close. "Fine. I'll survive as long as your scent is on me. I want a worthwhile reward, too."

"I'm sure I'll think of something," you said.

--

This got away from me, so I'll cut it here. Idk where the next part will start, so we'll find out together. I love this sassy fishie sm, and I thirst for him SO BAD. So, there will be more, soon.

[hppylaw]

The LADS men and your jealousy

Word count: 4.2K

A/N: This is a whole bunch of word vomit that I have compiled in about five hours, so I haven’t properly looked through it. Just needed to post something, make sure I keep writing so I don’t get all lazy.

TW: Slight NSWF themes – very subtle. Rafayel being engrossed in his work, he neglects you a little bit, but he makes up for it, he loves you to the ends of the earth.

****************************************************

Green isn’t your best colour

Whilst jealousy isn’t something completely unknown to you, the situation in front of you seemed to stir an unbridled fury deep within your gut.

🐡 Rafayel 🐡

To say that you and Rafayel never fought would be a big fat lie.

You argued about who spent the most time getting ready in the morning, it was definitely him and his perfectly ‘messy’ locks by the way, or who spent more money on who… which was also probably him. The man drove a Mercedes Benz Gran turismo, he wasn’t letting you spend a single damn penny no matter how much you protested. You had to admit, it did make your heart flutter and legs quiver when he whipped out his gold card like it was something mundane. The top few buttons of his shirt unbuttoned, lazy smirk and arm resting over the back of his seat.

‘My wife is my life” He would say whilst staring into your eyes like you had hung the stars in the sky, until you eventually gave in and he’d kiss the tip of your nose as if to seal the deal.

All this to say, you argued, but not about things that deeply lingered or at the expense of the sanctity of your relationship. You both made sure that problems were aired the moment they began to grow, nip them in the bud cleanly and swiftly.

But this damn upcoming exhibition had grown into something monstrous, the roots clawing at your ankles with long spindly tendrils, grounding you in the most exasperated uncertainty you had ever experienced. And you fought wanderers for a living.

The show was all he thought about.

Rafayel being all-consumed by his art wasn’t anything new or surprising, sometimes when he was truly inspired, normally by you, he’d spend hours relentlessly hunched over a canvas watching the weight of his brush strokes until they were ‘perfect.’ But that was when it was personal, the art was for his pleasure, seeing beauty translated into colours and soft hues. Multiple portraits, every single one in a different medium, context or style, depicted you. Some were just of your eyes and the depth of your adoration for him, some of you posing or modelling, some of you in the mundanity of life.

You drove his paintbrush, he said as much when night tipped the scales and you both laid in a tangled mess, bedsheets cocooning you from the harshness that reality brought with it. He whispered love and adoration into the crown of your head, kissing your temples with keen devotion.

He normally never gave much thought to gallery shows if it didn’t involve you, because you were his muse. Who wanted to portray art without feeling.

When he was forced to put on shows to appease rich donors and clients he actively went out of his way to cause as much shit as he could within reason. It’s the reason why Thomas was going prematurely bald.

However, there was another reason why this exhibition felt different, arguably the reason that was weighing heavily on your mind the most.

Rafayel was an ardent fan of one of the other artists collaborating. She was a beautiful, older woman who moved like calm ripples on normally still water. She was the embodiment of depth, grace, and elegance. Her works centred on fluidity and liquid, made only with water colours. Rafayel even had a piece of her art in his studio, the only one permitted which he hadn’t painted, it was an incredible compliment to her skill.

When you had first laid eyes upon her, walking through the communal art space for the exhibition, you experienced a cold flush. It’s like when you make a mistake, and a chilly realisation flushes through your veins to the tips of your fingers. Something felt wrong.

Jealously wasn’t something new to either of you, mostly it was just empty banter though, you know the type - ‘cutie he was trying for your number,’ or ‘Rafayel she wasn’t after just an autograph you know.’

Rafayel had lots of women who he was friends or acquaintances with, after all he did have a life before you, filled to the brim of the unknown. But it never bothered you before, in fact it was actually lovely to see that your husband was a genuinely accepting and open person who people were drawn to. But this artist itched at your skin, unease crawling up your spine whenever she was near.

She was so kind and warm, which made you feel ten times worse.

The exhibition wasn’t forever; you could endure you told yourself.

But as month three rolled round, the preparation was nowhere near over and your patience was beginning to crumble like bitter ash.

You knocked softly on the door to Rafayel’s private studio, ears straining to hear a response or if there was any movement inside. You couldn’t hear his light teasing tone or the soft padding of feet running to the door, so you assumed he was at the exhibition space again.

You could count on one hand the number of times your husband had been home before 9pm for the whole month. He was fast to respond to your texts and phone calls, his jovial voice telling you all about what he was doing and how he was discussing more subliminal art theory with Rachel.

You appreciated art, you knew how beautiful it was and what messages a piece was trying to convey. But you didn’t understand it in the same way that an artist might. A fact that you weren’t wary of before now.

The TV hummed in the background, a show about the upcoming exhibition sounding like nothing but static in your ears. The house that usually smelled like a weird mixture of your scented candles and paint, laughter and low-fi playing as you both chattered away, was instead empty.

You glanced down at your phone, finger hovering above his name, you could call him and ask him to come home. You could sit him down, tell him how you feel, how this was starting to take a toll on you, how you felt a cold snap whenever Rachel ruffled his hair.

An urge to see him in person stopped you, it wasn’t often you bothered him at night because that’s when his productivity was best, but the anxiety was eating away at you tonight.

Thoughts flitted through your mind like a fast-paced movie reel, gathering your keys, you packed a few snacks and the meal that had gone cold before hopping into your car and making the short journey to the gallery. It wasn’t long before you were calling his name into the empty space, still bare, the floor covered in positioning tape to map out the art pieces and theming.

The art space was hidden upstairs away from prying eyes, people went meandering off into restricted zones too often at these events, so the artists had a dedicated space for relaxing and touch ups for their work.

You called again as your jogged up the steps, the bag holding his pick-me ups jostling against your legs. At the end of the day, above all of this jealousy and bitterness, you were more concerned for Rafayel’s health. He was overworking himself, despite how happy he sounded, the puffiness and dark circles to his eyes only seemed to get worse with each passing day.

“Rafayel! You there?” You called out again, heading towards the door where you could faintly hear muffled music.

“In here baby!” Your heart melted at just the sound of his voice; you missed him dearly. When was the last time the two of you just laid on the couch watching a shitty movie, his beautiful light tenor critiquing every ridiculous discrepancy or loophole, you loved it, watching him get so animated. No one made you laugh like him.

The feelings of love and hope shattered when you entered the art room, holding the bag high, smile on your face as you were about announce how amazing you were for bringing him food like a personal chef. Instead, your smile immediately dropped, bag of food loosely hanging by your side.

He didn’t even turn around to greet you, back to you as you watched Rachel rest her head on his shoulder. They were looking at the gargantuan painting pinned to the back wall, the canvas taking up the whole height and width of the space.

It was a masterpiece.

It depicted a luscious underwater scene, vibrant colours and corals encompassing old derelict architecture, creatures of all kinds flourishing in the absence of humans. The intricacies were breathtaking even to your untrained eye, multiple mediums and techniques rendering the painting almost 3D, the textured surface appearing like moving water.

Something so harmonious, so genius, should have struck at your heart, made you feel emotion and intrigue about the painting. However, all you could feel is the guttural sadness as Rachel lifted her head from your husbands toned shoulder. She was only getting a better feel for the art, trying to see it from a different angle, but it was intimate. The contact was crossing an invisible boundary, one that was obvious to you. But obviously wasn’t to Rafayel. And. Rachel.

Fuck, Rafayel and Rachel. Their names even sounded cute together. What sort of shit is that.

Thomas was in the adjoining office, you heard him talking loudly, so they hadn’t been all alone. Your fingernails dug deep into the skin of your palm, the pain bringing back a sliver of reality.

Rafayel looked over his shoulder finally, nodding to himself in pride. He looked so happy, eyes crinkling when he looked at you, gaze meeting yours.

But you just couldn’t do it. You should be so proud of him, look at the masterpiece he had created, his time and dedication spawning something so ethereal it looked as though you could reach in and feel the cold depths of the ocean.

Feelings swarmed your thoughts, no doubt translating to your face, because Rafayel was soon stood in front of you, a worried scrunch to his cute brows. His hands, still covered in dried paint, a mish mash of blues and whites, cupped your cheeks. His thumbs smoothed over your skin comfortingly; it made bile rise at the back of your throat.

“Baby?” He asked again, and you could see Rachel turn to look too, Rafayel’s worried tone catching her attention.

No no no. You didn’t want her, exquisite, charming Rachel to see you like this, a bitter wife. You began questioning how you looked, still in comfy sweats and hair tousled from lounging in bed. Hanging your head low, as if that would make you disappear from her view, you pushed the bag of food to his chest. He looked down at it flabbergasted, hands suddenly scrambling at the handle, so it didn’t fall.

“Here’s dinner, five hours late and cold, thanks for telling me”

In retrospect, without adoration clouding your judgment, it wasn’t really okay that Rafayel was allowing another woman to lay her head on his shoulder, no matter how close they were, without discussing it with you first. You supposed you’d never had a conversation about lines and boundaries in your relationship, this situation was new to you.

Rafayel looked between you and the bag bewildered, his mind trying to process what was happening, what had he missed. Rising panic swelled in his chest as he watched you turn on your heel and slam the door behind you, your footsteps fading quickly as though you were rushing.

“Is everything okay?” Rachel asked as a tender hand came to rest on his shoulder, but he didn’t hear or even notice it.

He looked inside the bag, his favourite bottles of pop and cute candies bundled together, and a container filled with some sort of veggie filled stew. You had brought him a care package, something so loving would usually make him feel so blessed, but your pained expression was stuck in his mind on loop.

He glanced at the clock on the wall, the hand way past 11pm.

“Oh fuck fuck fuck”

He pictured you sat at home, food in front of you, fingers tapping at the table and eyes shifting to the wall clock.

He pulled his phone out, messages with your name popping up, time stamps showing how long you’d been waiting.

17:05

‘Sweetheart I’m making stew! It’s cold and you’re going to make yourself sick by not eating anything proper’

18:17

‘You are coming home tonight??????’

19:42

‘I’m assuming you’ll still be at the gallery. I’ll package this up for you to eat later’

19:55

‘Love you lots and lots!!!!! Xx’

“I’ve… I need to go” He murmured, feet hitting the floor loudly as he chased after you, jumping down the last two steps.

You slammed the car door shut, not caring if it rattled the expensive vintage frame, his aftershave thick and heavy was embedded in the leather seats. If you closed your eyes, you could picture him next to you, surrounded by his warmth.

Sitting there, in the dark, staring at nothing in particular, you began to cry.

It wasn’t silent or pretty; it was a guttural moan and fat salty tears streamed down your reddening face. Your hands came to wipe at tears, but it was like trying to mop up a burst dam, fruitless.

Why did this hurt so much? You know your husband probably didn’t even realise Rachel had her head on his shoulder, in the past you’d managed to stack plastic cups on top of his head as he stared at the same sculpture for thirty minutes straight. The memory made a small chuckle interrupt your sobs, allowing you to breathe and compose yourself. He looked so goofy when he caught on, the cups collapsing around him as he chased you round the kitchen counter, laughter bouncing off the walls.

It was a culmination of things.

The late nights, forgotten dinners, your art inability, your husband's slight obliviousness… Drop dead gorgeous, amiable Rachel.

In his defence you hadn’t told him ANY of this, too scared of ruining the exhibition which he was excited about for once. And you know how he was when he was completely enraptured in a project.

Resting against the back of the seat, you exhaled a long-withered sigh.

He looked so confused, his brain whirring away like an old shitty laptop, if you imagined hard enough you could even hear the fans blowing off steam. He didn’t follow you out, the door to the building devoid of any Rafayel figure bursting through it.

The thought that he stayed behind even despite you obviously being angry at him drove a pin further into your heart. Your fingers grasped the wheel tight, pulling out of the car park with the expertise of a Linkon One Racer, the trees and city illuminations blurring together into a sporadic light show.

A sigh of relief escaped your lips when you finally crossed the threshold of your home, haphazardly throwing your stuff onto the coffee table, you collapsed face first into the velvety pillows of the couch. A subtle throb singed your temples, no doubt a dull headache looming.

You let your body sag deeper into the cushions, contemplating what you were going to do and how to properly have a conversation with your husband without it descending into something more devastating like escaping to the beach house for a few days. The last serious argument had ended in Rafayel sulking for a week straight, essentially barricading himself, in the rarely used holiday get away. But that was years ago, when things were still fresh and the relationship was full of love, but equal amounts of trepidation.

You shot up straight, knees unsteady, as the front door clattered open. Sounds of shoes being flung off and harsh breathing permeating the silence, your husband appeared from round the corner seconds later, his chest heaving with exertion and beads of sweat dotting his brows.

He looked panicked.

“Sweetheart” Rafayel hunched over slightly to regain his breath.

He was usually so suave and composed that seeing him like this, sweaty with hair plastered to his forehead and the collar of his normally crisp shirt stuck up, was weirdly therapeutic. You didn’t say anything, watching and waiting.

“I’m sorry, I just...” Deep inhale. “Lost track of time, my phone was on silent” He trailed off softly, as though he realised how lame his excuses sounded. You glared at him, letting the cold silence stifle the air.

“Yeah, I can tell you and Rachel were in your own little world” It came out harsher than intended, her name foul on your tongue, though regret pricked at your conscience at being so mean spirited about her.

“What? Well, she was helping me with the composition” You hummed absentmindedly. It was a strange way of helping somebody. If you didn’t know Rafayel better than you knew yourself, it would be hard to not jump to conclusions. You thumbed at the fabric of a throw pillow, the velvet fabric giving your antsy fingers something to do.

The room was awash with the white glow of the moon, the floor to ceiling windows opening up to the wide expanse of the sky and the calm inky sea. You couldn’t tell where the sea ended and where the sky began, if not for the distorted moon reflection on the water, it would just look like an endless abyss. Ready to swallow you up whole.

“You’ve ran all this way after me Rafayel” he flinched at the mention of his name, like a punch to the gut. It wasn’t baby or sweetheart or darling, the distance between you stretched on. “You know you’ve fucked up on some level”

“I know, it's not an excuse, it's just I turned round, and hours had gone by” he sat down next to you, knocking your knees together, he craved that contact no matter how small.

“It’s not just the time thing ugh” You pinched the bridge of your nose, that dull ache from earlier intensifying with each passing second. “Look it wasn’t okay Rafayel, no matter how entranced you are, I expect the decency of a reply to my texts. You’re usually so good with it”

You got up to grab some water from the kitchen, ignoring the forlorn look as you moved away from him.

“I bet you didn’t even notice Rachel had her head leant on your shoulder” you spoke clearly, slamming the glass a bit too harshly against the marble countertops. His mouth open and closed like a goldfish, expression befuddled. He was thinking back, trying to pinpoint what the fuck you were talking about.

“What? When did she have her head on my shoulder?!” He sat up straighter, suddenly the sweat very uncomfortable and itchy as it cooled on his skin. A big question on your mind was whether Rachel was just extremely friendly and touchy feely, or whether there was something a bit more personal to her lingering touches. You had seen her interact with other artists in a same manner so you’re guessing the former, but it didn’t sting any less. Even though the intentions behind it were pure, you couldn’t help the bubbling anxiety in the pit of your tummy, especially when Rafayel was NOT a touchy feel person. It felt like he was allowing something that was reserved for you, and you only. If she was a close friend, someone that Rafayel trusted, the situation would be different because there wasn’t an element of the unknown. But she was effectively a stranger who you had spoken to a handful of times.

“When I first walked in. Her head was leant on your shoulder.” You can replay the scene in your head even now “That was a boundary Rafayel. It makes me question how many times has she done that? How many times has she touched you?” Each word was dripping with insecurity and jealousy, a possessive bite that might as well scream ‘MINE.’

“Just… what am I supposed to do or think? Am I being selfish? But leaving me alone, days on end, I feel so alone.”

At the root of everything, you just missed him.

You didn’t even realise you were crying until you felt little droplets landing on your hands, still tightly clasped around your drink. And once one tear fell, an avalanche of tears followed soon after, accompanied by the trembling lip and frown that usually happened when you were trying to keep your emotions in check.

Rafayel was by your side in seconds, strong hands pulling you into a tight embrace with your head nestled securely against his collarbone. The beautiful scent of his floral aftershave washed over you, like the worlds most soothing blanket.

You couldn’t see his face, but there was a watery timbre as he spoke.

“I’m really sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise… how can I make it up to you? I’m sorry” He rambled on, words tumbling out faster and faster, nuzzling his face into the crown of your head, he just needed to be as close to you as physically possible. You pulled back just enough to look up into his eyes, face blotched with tears, beautiful eyes clouded with terror. Taking his face in your gentle hands, he leant into the touch like a starved animal.

Anger evaporated in seconds, the fear in his tense body made you pause the argument, instead only to wanting to comfort your husband. You were a sucker for his pearlescent tears.

“Sh sh darling” You wiped his tears away, tracing his nose and cheekbones with delicate fingers. He was beautiful, inside and out. This man would never ever intentionally hurt you.

“I know, you would never do anything like that. I know what you’re like, off in your own world” You laughed, which earned a timid smile in return. The swirling tornado of jealousy dwindled, in its wake a sense of calm, with the backing of the ocean waves crashing against rock, it lulled you into peace. Time slowly ticked on, but neither spoke, just contemplative silence.

“I think we need to talk about what happened, what we expect from one another, boundaries” You listed each point off. Perhaps if you had voiced concerns earlier, this build up of anxiety could have been avoided, communication was such an important factor of any relationship. Not to say that Rafayel was completely blameless, because he definitely wasn’t. “But why don’t we save that for tomorrow?” You were tired, it was late, and whilst the issue still subtly lingered, you needed a clear head.

Rafayel sniffled, his grip on you tightening, not yet ready to let you move. You raised an eyebrow, as he cleared his throat.

“I just want to… properly apologise. Without blubbering” He murmered quietly. “This exhibition is no excuse to how I’ve been acting, all the late nights and not even messaging you properly.” When he’d seen your messages about dinner, happy and caring, he felt like the biggest fucking asshole to exist. And he was an asshole, he knew that, and Thomas called him that on the daily. But not to you, his reason for breathing, the holder of his heart.

“Rachel is someone I look up to, but nothing more than that, I won’t let anything like that happen again.” If he was honest with himself, imagining you with someone else’s head resting in the crook of your neck… he could feel the pangs of hurt at just the hypothetical. But he truly did not even realise she was talking to him, never mind in his personal space.

“I accept your apology, and on my part. I won’t let things build up till I pop. Your poor Ferrari door…” you did slam it pretty hard… Rafayel didn’t seem to be listening though, mind wandering. Another problem for tomorrow.

You laid your head against his chest again, seeking out his warmth and the beat of his heart. A comfortable silence settled over the house; the cold nipped at your bare feet.

“I won’t do the exhibition” he spoke into the quiet, it felt like he was talking more to himself than you. He kissed your forehead, you know full well he’d quit on Thomas and burn the painting in the gallery if you asked him to, his pure devotion to you was unquestioned even with this little blip. But not only did you not want that, it wasn’t fair of you to ask him to pull out of something he had worked so hard for.

“My love, the other half of my soul” his eyes gleamed with adoration. “I want you to do this exhibition, show the world how fucking incredible you are. Not that they don’t know that already” You kissed his damp cheek. “We’re in this together. Forever”

“And beyond” He added, the statement ringing true and final. He’d wait for you in every timeline, every universe, every reincarnation.

“Just make sure you talk to me, let me know what’s going on, so I feel less alone” His hands rested on your hips, his head nodding like an enthusiastic puppy. “Also. I like Rachel, but please no more romantic head holding thank you”

He spluttered as you laughed, rocking into his body, the two of you spinning around, weightless on euphoria. He pushed you back, your knees folding against the arm of the couch as your back hit soft cushions. You looked up at him with fluttering lashes, his toned arms resting on either side of your head, caged in his protective bubble. A triumphant little smile graced his lips as you giggled, happiness radiating from you like a beacon, fuelled by relief.

“I know this goes without saying” he kissed your forehead, lips soft as your heart flip flopped in your chest, the intensity of his gaze pinned you in place.

“I love you” Kisses peppered your face soft and delicate; you were the most exquisite work of art he had the privilege of gazing upon. You gasped as he trailed from your cheek to your jaw, slowly moving down the sensitive flesh of your neck, teeth grazing against your collarbone. Fast fingers moved further down, skirting under your loose shirt featherlight. He caressed your body as though you were the most precious canvas, gliding over soft curves and bare skin, goosebumps following his delicate fingertips. He thrived on the little shudders and pants, heat and excitement building as he became more desperate, more fervent.

You gripped his hair, nails scratching at his scalp, pulling his head up to face you. His cheeks were flushed pink, eyes unfocused.

“I love you too, more than you can ever know” he grinned, surging up to capture your lips, still smiling into the kiss.

🐡

I don’t think I did Rafayel justice in this fic, sometimes my writing carries me away from the character. Not to mention I don’t like how this one is written, it feels disjointed, like it doesn’t flow. But I need to practise practise practise!!!!! Practise makes perfect.

I’m thinking of posting the professional motorbike racer Caleb fic next whilst I work on the other jealousy shorts.

[hppylaw]

Sex and Bedtime Stories

-Zayne x Reader

What starts as a cozy stormy movie night between you and Zayne quickly turns into something much steamier. Instead of watching the movie, your arcade plushies get front-row seats to an entirely different show—a slow-burning, passionate reunion of bodies and hearts. As thunder crashes and memories resurface, love and lust take center stage.

word count: 22k

genre/warnings: 18+ explicit content--no minors!--fluff, smut, domestic, childhood flashbacks, Dawnbreaker foreshadowing, multiple orgasms, 69, Zayne likes getting scratched as punishment for hurting you

🩵A03 Link

Rain poured in heavy sheets outside the floor to ceiling windows of Zayne’s livingroom, turning the world beyond the glass into a blurred watercolor of motion and light. The space around you was dark, lit only by the cool, flickering glow of the flatscreen across the room. Its shifting light danced over the glossy surface of the marble coffee table, where a bowl of popcorn sat surrounded by scattered sweets—soft caramel chews, chocolate wrappers, and the last of the sour candies.

The storm’s voice was constant, a steady patter overhead as it drummed against the chimney cap and flowed in thick rivulets across the tiled rooftop. You could hear it everywhere—in the air vents, along the gutters, slipping like silver fingers over every edge of the house. Rain streamed behind the half-slit blinds, streaking like tears. Beyond the blinds, Zayne’s backyard fence lights glowed faintly, their warm hue distorted through the relentless onslaught of water, casting a hazy amber blur that pulsed with each gust of wind.

Then, there was a sudden flash of white. You froze. Your breath caught in your throat as your whole body went still, every muscle locking down in instinctive preparation. You didn’t even realize you’d reached for him until your fingers were clutching at Zayne’s arm, holding on tight beneath the thick sherpa blanket you shared on the couch. The warmth of him met your grip without hesitation.

He didn’t speak—just curled his hand over the inside of your knee, his palm steady and broad as he gave you a slow, comforting squeeze. The pressure was grounding, his thumb brushing softly along the curve of your leg as he gently pulled you closer into his side, tucking you into the safety of his body like it was second nature.

“Let me go get you my earplugs,” he said, glancing over at you as he picked up the PlayStation controller and paused the movie, barely started, the screen freezing on a frame bathed in cold blues and silvers.

“It’s okay,” you murmured, looking up at him. His face was painted in soft indigo light from the television, every line and angle of him carved in quiet tenderness, “it’s just the anticipation…Makes me a little jumpy, you know?”

KABROOM!!

The thunder ripped through the sky with a deafening boom, sharp and immediate—a sound that didn’t roll so much as crack, like the air itself had split open. You flinched violently, your whole body reacting before your mind could catch up. In a heartbeat, you pressed yourself against Zayne’s arm, burying your face into the warm strength of his shoulder. Your knees squeezed around the outside of his thigh as if you could anchor yourself there, as if you could hide inside the curve of his body until the sky calmed down again.

“Just the anticipation?” He asked knowingly, his voice low and warm with that signature gentleness that always bordered on mischief. He shifted closer, reaching over you with the smooth confidence of someone who knew your every tell. His large hand slid behind you, cradling the space between your shoulder blades, fingers spreading across your spine in a gesture that was part care, part command as he pulled you in.

“If you say so, Miss Hunter,” he whispered warmly into your hair, “now, let the doctor do his job and take care of his favorite patient, please.”

“But I’m fine!” You insisted, squirming a little as he gently coaxed you upright, his touch never forceful, just insistent—unshakably steady.

That knowing curve at the corner of his mouth never faltered. It was affectionate. Endearing. Infuriating. He petted your head with love, brushing your hair back in soft strokes that made your protest feel instantly foolish.

“Says the bravest frightened rabbit to gaslight herself in front of me,” he teased, voice dropping into something softer as he pressed a kiss to your forehead—featherlight, warm. Then he slid the blanket off your shoulders, the fabric whispering down your arms, and began to rise.

Zayne stood with a fluid ruffle of motion, tall and effortlessly graceful even barefoot on the rug. Before you could reach for him again, he tucked the sherpa blanket around you with exaggerated care, hooding it up over your head and wrapping you tightly like some overprotected nesting doll. The warmth enveloped you instantly, his scent still clinging to the thick fabric.

He loomed above you for a moment, his silhouette eclipsing the flickering glow of the paused television, emerald eyes crinkling in fond amusement as he murmured, “stay put, bunny.”

You didn’t argue. You simply watched. He padded across the room toward the gaming corner with quiet ease, his figure fluid in the low light. Then he retrieved something sitting besids the consoles and neatly tubked cords—Mr. Fleecy. The white plush sheep. You recognized him instantly, even from the couch. A gift from the past—won at that neon-lit arcade three years ago, back when you were still stumbling into the rhythm of being Zayne’s. It had taken him four tries and an unreasonable amount of concentration to snag it from the claw machine. You remembered the sound he made when he won—half triumph, half disbelief—and how he’d placed the soft little thing in your hands like it was a medal of honor.

He brought over the stuffed animal to you with a surprising degree of care, as though it were something fragile or precious. There was no trace of irony in his movements—only earnestness as he tucked it next to you, where he once sat.

“Mr. Fleecy will keep you company while I go get you my earplugs,” he said softly, the corners of his mouth lifting with that unshakable gentleness that always made you feel like the safest thing in the room, “okay?”

You looked up at him—his eyes, his lips, the low gleam of the paused TV softening his silhouette—and couldn’t help the smile that curled across your face, “okay…Thanks, Doctor Zayne.”

Without a word, Zayne turned, reaching toward the marble coffee table. His fingers found one of the foiled chocolates nestled inside the small porcelain bowl beside the popcorn—dark brown and blue, a familiar favorite. He turned back to you, unwrapping it in a smooth, practiced motion, and then leaned down and popped it gently into your mouth. Just like that. No warning. No hesitation. A casual act of sweetness, like muscle memory. The way someone might hand a child a reward after a doctor’s visit. The way he used to press peppermints into your palm when you were rushing out the door and had skipped breakfast.

You let out a small laugh, muffled around the chocolate, and chewed down into it as he walked off toward the bedroom. It was funny, really. The memory it stirred. Something about the gesture reminded you of when you were little and doctor visits ended with a lollipop. It brought with it a soft pang of nostalgia you hadn’t expected, paired with the sweetness coating your tongue. Despite the storm crackling outside—despite the way the unpredictable lightning strikes had left your nerves humming—you felt…Comforted. No, more than that. You felt held. There was something oddly intimate about the whole moment—an unspoken closeness that wrapped tighter around you with every subtle kindness Zayne gave. As if the storm had given you permission to lean deeper into him; to seek out the safety he always offered in the quiet, unshakable ways.

When he returned, it was with slow, padded steps and a familiar softness in his hand. The earplugs. Small and blue, you used them before—mostly for concerts, and mostly because of his quiet, insistent concern. You could still hear him, months ago, chiding you at the door before a late-night show with Tara: “At least take these. Please.”

He stood over you now, smiling faintly as he reached for the edge of the sherpa blanket still hooded over your head. He peeled it back with care, fingertips combing through your hair as he swept it behind your ears. His touch lingered longer than it needed to—soft, rhythmic strokes that settled your breath without effort.

You let out a small laugh, heart warm with quiet disbelief. A cardiac surgeon—brilliant, stoic, complex—tucking you in with a plush sheep and a pair of earplugs. And yet somehow, nothing had ever made more sense. Nothing had ever felt more right. Maybe it was silly. But the truth was even sillier: you loved it. You loved being cared for by Zayne. Loved the way he made room for your fragility. Loved how seamlessly he stepped in to soothe it without judgment, only gentleness. It touched something deep inside you—something soft and small and long-buried. Something childlike. It made you feel safe in the kind of way that echoed.

“You make me feel like a little girl sometimes,” you chuckled, your voice hushed beneath the sound of rain against the windows, eyes catching his just as he lifted one of the soft earplugs toward your ear.

His smile deepened at that, soft and amused, as he gently twisted the foam into place with the care of someone who’d done it a hundred times—never rushed, never rough. His fingers brushed your cheek in the process, and he tilted his head with faux offense, “why, was Mr. Fleecy too childish of a choice for a protector while I was gone?”

You grinned and leaned in just a little, dropping your voice to a whisper like it was a secret meant only for him, “between you and I,” you said, eyes gleaming, “I think Mr. Fleecy was more scared than I was…I think we need a real adult, here.”

“Oh, how silly of me,” he said with a mock sigh, matching your tone as he delicately wiggled the second earplug into place. Then, without warning, his hand ruffled through your hair, playful and affectionate, tugging a small laugh from your throat, “my apologies, sweetheart.”

Zayne straightened up and turned toward the far corner of the living room, where the soft glow of the flatscreen lights stretched shadows over your collection of plush toys—an endearing hoard of claw machine victories. You watched him with curious amusement, tucked beneath the sherpa blanket like a wrapped gift, your chin peeking over the edge as your eyes followed his every movement.

“Hm…” Zayne stood there in thought, one hand on his hip, the other pinching at the smooth edge of his freshly shaved chin in exaggerated thoughtfulness. His expression was the perfect blend of faux-serious and internally entertained, “ah.”

You saw him bend slightly at the waist, plucking a plush from the collection. But before you could glimpse what it was, he turned his back to you, hiding it swiftly behind his long frame. You caught only the amused twitch at the corner of his mouth as he peeked over his shoulder and saw the look on your face—narrow-eyed and smiling, utterly suspicious. He then turned fully, finally revealing his choice, and you practically choked.

“Wobbly Eggplant?!” You burst out, collapsing back into the couch as laughter overtook you, your body curling into the cushions as Mr. Fleecy tumbled off your lap in the chaos, “Zayne! What the hell! Are you kidding me?!”

“What?” He said, half-laughing, fully pleased with himself as he returned to the couch, settling beside you with the most exaggerated innocence, “you said I make you feel like a little girl, did you not?” He added, one brow arching as he placed the offending plush onto your lap, “implying, you’d prefer for me to make you feel like a grown woman.”

“No, I know!” You laughed, more flustered now than ever as your voice bubbled out in a breathless stammer, your stomach fluttering with butterflies. You grabbed the ridiculous plushie and smacked it lightly against his thigh, barely able to contain your grin, “I meant—why not Tippy Banana or something?! Wobbly Eggplant?! Seriously?!”

“It was the first one I saw,” he admitted with a soft chuckle, his voice low with amusement. His arm slipped smoothly behind your waist, drawing you in until your body rested snugly against his. With his free hand, he pulled the sherpa blanket over his lap, tucking it around the both of you in a familiar, easy motion, “fitting, though, isn’t it?”

You froze. Oh my god. For a full second, you stared at him, ready to kill him for a pun that dry—but the look on his face made you hesitate. Zayne didn’t seem aware of what he’d just said. His expression was neutral, completely innocent. He was still watching you like he was waiting for a response, and then…Slowly…You watched it dawn on him.

His brows knit slightly. His eyes shifted. He blinked once. And then he realized. The moment it clicked, you burst out laughing at the exact instant his expression turned sheepish.

“…That wasn’t intentional and you know it,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked away, flustered in a way that was rare for Zayne. The tips of his ears were pink as he sighed. Maybe even red, “you’re not going to let me live it down, are you?”

“Mmm…” You hummed, pretending to think as your fingers tiptoed teasingly up his lap, “depends…I could have mercy on you, this time.”

“Name your price,” he said, the playfulness in his voice dipping into something lower, something slower, as he guided you closer still. His fingers found the bare edge of your skin beneath the hem of your shirt, warm and sure as they traced over your waist.

Amazing how quickly things could shift between you and Zayne—how banter could dissolve into heat in the space of a breath. It always happened like this. Effortless. Unspoken. Inevitable. A slow smile crept across your lips as your palm flattened over his thigh, your thumb inching upward—just enough to be dangerous.

“Zayne Li,” you murmured, voice laced with amusement, “all six foot one of him.”

He faltered—just for a second. You’d caught him off guard. A candid laugh slipped from his lips, soft and genuine, before he gently took your wrist under the blanket and rubbed his thumb along the inside, grounding you both. A quiet redirection—affectionate, but clear. He was close to letting go. Close to being unraveled by the woman who knew exactly how to touch that switch in him. God, how he loved being craved by you. His gaze lifted slowly from your mouth to your eyes, and the warmth there softened him completely. His eyes shimmered in the low light—tender, steady—banked heat held back only by will and love.

“Behave yourself,” he chided with a smile, voice quiet and sweet, “it’s movie night. I’m all yours afterwards, you know that.”

“I know,” you laughed, quiet and light, as you tucked yourself deeper into the warmth of his side. His arm tightened instantly around you, pulling you in with the firm ease of someone who knew how to hold you just right. The other arm followed, sliding around your frame and locking you in against the clean, masculine scent of his shirt and the fresh trace of his shower.

Your hand curled lightly into the fabric at his chest. It was warm. Steady. Comforting in a way few things ever were, “I just like getting you all flustered—”

KABROOM!!

The thunder struck hard and sudden—louder than the last. Your body jolted reflexively, breath catching in your throat before you could stop it. Zayne moved immediately. He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, reassurance before you could even fully exhale.

“It’s okay,” he whispered against your hair, “you’re alright…It’s just your natural startle response.”

“Yeah,” you nodded, your breath shaky as you let it out. His hands moved in tender, rhythmic rubs across your arms and back, soothing every tense muscle without even trying, “I just hate the damn jumps I get.”

“I know,” he said softly, his tone full of the kind of confidence you could anchor to, “they’ll subside a little more each time. That, I can assure you of.”

You let out a nervous little laugh, half-joking, half-hopeful as you snuggled even closer—less out of fear, now, and more because it just felt so good to be close, “what, is that like, a medical fact or something?”

“Actually, yes,” Zayne replied, his voice colored with that quiet pride he always wore when he got to explain something to you. He lifted the blanket a little higher around your shoulders with one hand, while the other fished out the controller, “it’s called parasympathetic activation.”

“Para…” You began, squinting a little in concentration.

“…Sympathetic activation,” he finished for you gently, the correction smooth, never condescending, “when you hear a sudden loud sound like thunder, your body reacts immediately by going into fight-or-flight mode. Your heart races, your muscles tense, your breathing quickens. All of that is controlled by your sympathetic nervous system. It’s the part of your body that prepares you for danger.”

Hou listened, your eyes on him, half of your attention fixed on the way his mouth moved, the way his eyes softened as he watched you take in his words.

“But once your brain realizes that the thunder isn’t actually a threat, just noise, no real danger, the opposite system takes over; the parasympathetic nervous system. It’s your body’s built-in calming mechanism. It slows your heart rate, relaxes your muscles, and tells your body it’s safe again.”

“Hmm…” You smiled up at him, a little quirk to your lips, your chest blooming with quiet affection. The way he explained things—it wasn’t just informative. It was grounding. Warm. Safe, “kind of like you.”

“Hm?” He murmured, voice dipping lower as his head tilted toward yours.

“You calm me down like that,” you said softly, pushing yourself up from his side.

With smooth, unhurried motion, you brought one leg over his lap, straddling him with easy confidence, your limbs tucking in close until you were seated fully atop him. The move caught him just a little off guard—just enough to make him still and attuned. You snuggled into him, your arms winding around his neck, fingers brushing against the soft ends of his hair. The warmth of his body was instant, his presence wrapping around you like a second heartbeat.

“And you make me feel safe…” You whispered into his ear.

“Is that so?” He asked quietly, the words brushing against your hair as his arms slid around your waist and rested gently at your hips. His palms curved against your sides, pulling you into him with a low, instinctive squeeze.

Then he lowered his face into your hair, breathing you in. A kiss—soft, reverent—pressed into your scalp. He didn’t rush it. He just stayed there, nestled in your scent, letting himself exhale into you like he was letting go of everything else in the world.

“Mhmm…” You sighed, your body relaxing completely as you settled into his lap, your full weight melting against his, “you’re my own personal calming system, baby…”

“Do I do a better job than Mr. Fleecy and Wobbly Eggplant?” Zayne murmured against your hair, smiling into the softness.

You let out a breathy laugh, tilting your head back to look at him. Your hands rose to cup his face—warm, beloved, impossibly handsome. His skin was smooth beneath your palms, freshly shaven, and he instantly leaned into your touch like it was instinct. His eyes fluttered half-lidded, his whole body melting into your affection like a sun-drowsy cat, content to bask in the quiet reverence of being touched by you.

“I don’t think any of our plushies can compete with my dear doctor,” you teased, your voice honeyed and slow as your thumb traced the edge of his lower lip.

That single touch made Zayne visibly falter. His breath hitched. His lashes flickered. For the briefest moment, he leaned in closer, his lips parting just slightly—just enough to graze the tip of your thumb with the barest suggestion of a bite. Then he caught himself. He swallowed the urge, exhaling slowly as he reached up and wrapped his hand around yours. His thumb stroked the back of your fingers once before lifting them delicately to his mouth. He kissed your knuckles—tender, devoted, controlled.

“Not even Tippy Banana?” He asked, arching a playful brow as he flicked a glance toward the absurd plushie nestled amongst the collection.

You tilted your head, “hmmmm…”

A pause. A grin.

“Between you and I,” you whispered, as if confessing something scandalous, “I like said doctor’s banana more…”

The effect was instantaneous. His eyes met yours—and you saw it. The faintest crack in his composure. You stroked your fingertips down the line of his jaw, soft as breath, then leaned in, your hips tilting with deliberate slowness. A roll of your pelvis. Just enough to grind down over the heat of his groin, your core pressing into him through the layers between you. Oh, you felt it. That telltale pulse beneath you—deep, full, hungry.

Zayne’s breath caught, and a shaky little sigh escaped him, grazing your knuckles where they lingered. His pupils dilated just enough to darken the green, his brows twitching upward in a fleeting, visible surrender before he fought to regain control. But you felt it in the way his fingers dug into your hip. One part of him begged for more. The other begged you to be kind. And you sat there, perfectly still in your straddle, the storm outside nothing compared to the electricity threading between your bodies.

“This is a bit more than just getting me flustered,” he chided, his voice a low, velvety murmur that threaded straight through your spine. He caught your mischievous hands before they could slide down the plane of his toned chest, fingers curling around your wrists with effortless precision. Then—oh, oh God—he brought them behind your back. His hand enveloped them easily, the warmth of his palm spanning both your wrists as he gently restrained them in place. The restraint wasn’t rough. It didn’t need to be. The control in it was total.

“Don’t you think?” He finished.

That did something to you—deep, low, immediate. The moment Zayne restrained you, something electric snapped to life beneath your skin. It wasn’t the pressure of his grip; it was the authority behind it. That calm dominance wrapped in silk, the kind that didn’t ask—it simply was. Your thighs tingled, pulsed, awakened by the unmistakable sensation of him thickening beneath you—long before you even consciously registered it. His arousal met you through the thin fabric separating your bodies, pressing into the heat of your core like a promise. And still, he looked up at you—eyes half-lidded, calm, unshaken, in control. Even while you were the one on top of him, he made you feel like you were at his mercy.

Fuck. The eye contact alone sent your heart rate climbing, your breath quickening. And from the way his thumb pressed against your wrist—measured and steady—you knew he felt it too. He knew the effect he had on you. He was savoring it.

“Is it?” You breathed, testing the waters, tilting your head in that soft, innocent way that always got to him.

You gave him that pleading look—the one you knew unraveled Zayne every single time. And then you moved. A slow, indulgent roll of your hips, grinding down just enough to feel the friction where you wanted it most. It drew a quiet sigh from him—rough at the edges, strained with restraint. His grip around your wrists tightened slightly, and his free hand found your thigh, fingers digging in like he needed something to hold onto to keep from snapping.

And still, you pushed, “you’re the one restraining me here…On top of you, nonetheless.”

That was when he moved. A sudden thrust of his hips—sharp, controlled, possessive—snapped through your core and sent you sitting upright with a soft gasp, your spine straightening instinctively at the command in the motion. It was decisive. Enough to remind you exactly who you were teasing. Zayne’s heat rippled through your body like a current.

“You’re being quite unruly,” he said, voice low with control, “I’m simply correcting your behavior. And you’re the one who put yourself in this position. Literally.”

“I can’t really help it, now can I?” You murmured with a breathy laugh, your voice gentled with warmth and something deeper—fondness, longing, “you’re hard for me to resist when we get all snuggly together…I start wanting to be all over you. Especially with this stupid storm outside, it’s even harder to resist you.”

Zayne sighed—a long, quiet exhale that melted into a little smile as his grip around your wrists loosened. He let you go with the ease of a man who wasn’t surrendering control, just offering you trust.

“The feeling’s mutual,” he murmured, voice honeyed as he tugged you in again.

His arms wrapped around you, long and warm and unshakably steady, pulling you flush to his chest. You let out a pleased little groan, muffled into the fabric of his shirt as he squeezed you tighter—like he wanted to anchor you to him, keep you there forever. God, his chest. Firm. Toned. Solid against you in a way that felt more protective than possessive—but still undeniably arousing.

“As much as you keep my nervous system calm…” He breathed into your hair, his voice dipping into a whisper, “you tend to…Arouse, certain parts of my body.”

You giggled, quiet and mischievous, like a secret being passed through the darkness between you. Then you turned your face up, brushing your nose to his, and kissed him. Featherlight. Fleeting. A tease of a touch that tasted like affection and implication all at once.

“I know,” you whispered between your smile, “I can feel it…And it’s not helping me very much, either.”

His lips curved as he kissed you back, once, then again—amusement flickering in the shadowed green of his eyes. He looked at you like you were the most precious, most maddening thing he’d ever had the privilege to hold. With a soft exhale, he reached up, brushing a few strands of hair away from your cheek, tucking them behind your ear with a gentleness that made your heart clench.

“Are you saying your personal calming system is failing to do his job right now?” He teased, his voice barely above a murmur.

“I’m saying he desperately needs to switch modes right now,” you murmured against his lips, your voice tinged with mischief and wrapped in heat, “otherwise we’re never gonna get back to watching the movie…”

You giggled—low, warm, helpless—then kissed him. Once. Then again. And again. Each kiss was slow, lingering, unrushed. Like tasting something too good to swallow, like memorizing Zayne through your mouth. Your lips moved over his with affectionate ease, but there was nothing casual about it. Every brush, every breath, every soft parting was soaked in craving and comfort. Your arms around his neck held him close; his hands on your body kept you there, needful even in their gentleness.

Zayne held you like he couldn’t bear the thought of you pulling away. His grip tightened, slowly but deliberately, like he wasn’t sure whether to keep you tenderly in place or pull you closer until there was no space left at all. He kissed you back with restrained hunger—lips soft, but deepening—his body responding faster than his mind was willing to admit. And you felt it. Even this tender affection—this calm, this closeness—was undoing both of you. The thrum between your legs swelled with the weight of wanting, and you could feel the way Zayne’s control faltered just beneath the surface. His kisses might’ve started sweet, but his body betrayed him—the heat blooming under your thighs, the tension rising under your hands, the telltale hardness pressing insistently between you.

Dear God, he was coming undone. And you were too. There was nothing calming about being this close anymore. His presence wasn’t stilling your nerves—it was setting them alight. You kissed him again, slower this time, letting it linger, melt, until your lungs ached for air and you pulled back only enough to breathe. Your hand moved, sliding down the curve of his chest. The warmth of him radiated through the soft cotton of his shirt, the rhythmic rise and fall of his breath growing heavier under your touch. You found his heart, thumping—steady, but elevated—and flattened your palm over it, your thumb stroking lightly as if you could soothe him through skin alone.

He felt you. He felt the subtle arch of your lower back pressing into his touch, the way your spine bowed like instinct, your body tilting up in invitation. One of his hands splayed wide over your back, tracing its shape like he was relearning it by heart. The other…The other slid beneath the sherpa blanket, dipping low along your thigh. The warmth of his hand met your bare skin ubder the hem of your loose shorts, igniting a wave of goosebumps in his wake. You gasped softly into the next kiss as his fingertips grazed the sensitive dip of your leg, his palm spreading, anchoring, as if your thigh belonged beneath his hand.

“You must be so cold,” Zayne breathed against your lips, his voice little more than a whisper—low and laced with knowing.

His hand rose to your face, brushing a few strands of hair gently behind your ear. His touch lingered, fingertips skimming along your cheek like a caress made of silk and intention. Then he moved again, reaching for the blanket behind your waist. With one smooth pull, he tucked it tighter around you, anchoring you against him until there was no space left at all—just warmth, just breath, just him.

“You have goosebumps…” His voice was soft, but the subtext burned.

Zayne wasn’t stupid—and neither were you. That comment, the look in his eyes, the way his hand curved possessively around the shape of your thighs where they spilled across his lap…It wasn’t about the cold. It was his way of acknowledging the heat gathering between you. The tension coiled beneath your skin. The quiet, beautiful fact that both of you were flushed, hungry, aching—and trying so sweetly to pretend otherwise.

“Come closer,” he whispered, voice a slow seduction wrapped in velvet, his lips brushing yours in a kiss so soft it barely landed.

His fingertips ghosted upward beneath the hem of your lounging shorts—high, delicate, exploratory. His touch barely skimmed the skin of your inner thigh, but it was enough to leave a trail of sparks in its wake. You could feel your breath catch, your muscles tighten.

“The night is still young,” he murmured against your mouth, his words a slow stroke against your skin, “we have plenty of time to watch the movie later…If you want to keep warm with me beforehand.”

You gasped softly at the press of his lips again—tender, coaxing—while his hand continued its slow journey over the curve of your thigh.

“We can share body heat together…”

“I thought you said—”

“—Never mind what I said,” he interrupted, cutting your protest short with a firmer kiss. His mouth closed over yours with more intent this time—more weight, more want. His hands slid out of your shorts, molding to the curves of your hips, climbing the slope of your back beneath your shirt until his fingers spread between your shoulder blades, warm skin against warm skin. He caged you against him with exquisite tenderness, holding you like a man determined to keep every inch of you close. He let you breathe. His eyes flicked up to yours, sharp even in the dark, glowing with a look that left your pulse stuttering.

“If watching the movie right now means you’ll be cold and wanting,” he murmured, voice molten, “I won’t enjoy it.”

A breath. A pause. His fingers tightened ever so slightly where they gripped you.

“I’ll be thinking about you the entire time…” He mapped large, reverent palms over the arch of your spine, “and then I’ll be cold and wanting, too…”

KABROOM!!

You flinched—but not as badly this time. Not with Zayne wrapped around you. His arms tightened instinctively, drawing you flush to him in one protective, seamless motion. The storm might’ve roared outside, but inside his embrace, it felt a world away. You laughed softly at yourself—at your body’s automatic response, at the faint adrenaline buzz still warming your skin. And at his words earlier, about how it would get easier. How eventually, your nervous system would settle. He’d been right. Though in your heart, you knew it wasn’t biology doing the work—it was Zayne.

Together, you both turned toward the tall windows. Rain traced intricate paths down the glass, moving in glistening rivers that caught the golden glow of the fence lights outside. The world beyond the pane was all blur and motion—an impressionist painting of water and light. You watched in quiet reverence, the hush between you soft as snowfall. But Zayne wasn’t watching the rain anymore. He was watching you. The graceful line of your jaw. The gentle slope of your neck, bare and soft and so close. The delicate pulse there, just under your skin. The faint scent of your shampoo, sweet and warm and feminine, wrapping around him with each inhale. The heat of your body, so close, so unaware of how much he adored every inch of you.

God. You. His beautiful, frightened little rabbit. He could still see it in you, that flicker of vulnerability hiding beneath your strength. It made him want to protect you with everything he had. Without a word, he reached for the edge of the blanket again and pulled it high around your shoulders, tucking you in against him. Enclosing you in warmth. Wrapping you in him. You smiled—soft and content, lips curving unconsciously—as you leaned a little deeper into his hold.

Then you turned. Your gaze drifted to him, and your smile shifted—playful, nostalgic, familiar. The kind of look only you could give him.

“Zaynie,” you whispered, using the nostalgic name that belonged to childhood, to memory, to a version of him only you had ever truly known.

Your fingers found the edge of his collar, toying with it absently, like you had a hundred times before. His breath caught, just slightly, at the sight of your hand on him, and the gentle, reverent way you said his name. God, the effect you had. You saw it—the subtle shift in his eyes, that crack of softness in his emerald gaze. That beautiful, quiet weakness that only surfaced when you touched him like this. When you remembered him like this.

“…You remember that one time when we were kids when we had just become friends,” you murmured, voice low and secretive, “there was that nasty storm at Akso Hospital that kept us all in for a whole week?”

Zayne remembered immediately. The memory didn’t just resurface—it rose, whole and intact, as if no time had passed at all. You were seven. He was twelve. The storm that week had been relentless, flooding the roads and turning the city into a network of isolated islands. The hospital—where you’d been left orphaned not long before—had transformed overnight into a shelter. Stranded patients, staff, and lost children tucked away in spare rooms and waiting areas, while the sky thundered for days on end.

Visitors were asked to stay put. Travel was discouraged. No one came in or out unless it was urgent. Zayne’s parents—two exhausted, overextended surgeons—had made the quiet decision to keep him close. They couldn’t bear the thought of their son alone in an empty house while they worked nonstop shifts. So he was given a cot in the pediatrics wing. A borrowed bed. A corner with a pillow and a blanket, and a world that suddenly felt heavier than it should have for a twelve-year-old boy.

And then there was you. A frightened little girl with trembling hands and tear-glossed eyes. Small, shell-shocked, tucked into a borrowed bed just across the hall. You and Zayne—both young, both displaced, both adrift in the chaos of something no child should have had to understand. It started then. The bond. The gravity. The friendship. You were drawn to him after you got over the initial fear—the quiet, tall boy with a book always in hand, who didn’t say much but always noticed. Who knew where the cafeteria kept the sweets and which nurses gave the lollipops. He became your first real friend.

“Like it was just yesterday,” Zayne said now, his voice low and warm, coated in memory. He reached up and gently pulled the blanket over your head like a hood, the gesture tender, familiar, playful.

You giggled at the motion, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you pressed your palm to his chest. You could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your hand—calm, grounding.

“You were so frightened that first night,” he murmured, eyes soft as they held yours, “you started sobbing in the middle of the night. It was so loud I came to check on you,” his voice dipped even quieter, like it was a secret he still held close, “all of the doctors and nurses were busy… and the room my parents had me stay at in the pediatrics ward was right across from yours. I got there right away…”

FLASHBACK…

Another thunderclap split the night.

KABROOM!!

The sound tore through the silence like the sky had cracked in two. You shrieked—high-pitched and raw, your voice breaking under the weight of fear. The pounding in your chest was deafening. Every pulse felt like an earthquake in your ribs. Your body curled tighter into itself, a shaking knot of limbs beneath a scratchy hospital blanket. Your small fingers clutched the corners of the thin pillow like it was the only thing tethering you to earth. You pulled it over your head in desperation, trying to shut out the world. But it didn’t help. The storm was too loud. The fluorescent ceiling lights too harsh. The world felt too big.

You couldn’t breathe right. Your lungs took in air in shallow, panicked gasps. The sound of machines—heart monitors, IV drips, distant intercoms—blurred into a static hum in your ears. Footsteps echoed in the hallway just beyond the cracked door. Rushed. Purposeful. Unbothered by the way your world had ended. You were seven years old. No family. No home to return to. Just cold white walls, a wristband with someone else’s handwriting, and the knowledge that nothing would ever be the same again.

Across the hallway, Zayne blinked awake. For a moment, he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined the sound—another thunderclap, or something else. He had just started to drift off again when he heard it. The crying. Muffled, but persistent. Real. His body stirred on instinct, the haze of sleep slow to lift. He groaned softly as he sat up, rubbing his eyes until the dark smudges behind his lids cleared. His fingers reached across the pillow, brushing over the worn edges of the book he’d fallen asleep reading—An Illustrated Guide to the Human Body. Something he’d borrowed from one of the nurses who found his interest in medicine endearing. Perched beside it, his wire-rimmed glasses nearly dangling off the blanket. He slipped them on.

The hallway light under his door was bright—too bright for how exhausted he felt. He squinted as he swung his legs over the edge of the cot, his socked feet sliding into hospital-issued slippers. The movement was awkward, slow, groggy. He was only twelve, and the thin pediatric mattress had barely given him any real rest. But something in the sound—your sound—drew him up and out of bed. It wasn’t just crying. It was sobbing. A sound no kid should be making alone.

The hallway outside his room was mostly empty—just pale linoleum and white tile glowing under flickering fluorescent lights. The storm outside made the windows tremble in their panes, casting strange shadows that warped along the corridor floor. He winced at the brightness as he stepped out, his movements clumsy, legs not fully awake.

Zayne didn’t have to go far. Your room was just across from his. And even with the door barely cracked, he could hear you—your tiny voice breaking apart inside the quiet, the sound of your breath hitching as you tried to smother your fear in a borrowed blanket. He stood there for a moment, hand on the doorframe, blinking at the sight of you. Alone. Fragile. Terrified. A little girl swallowed by too much fear, too soon. Something twisted in his chest. He took a breath, then padded inside.

“…Y/n?” Zayne’s voice was tentative—soft, unsure, the sound of a boy who was barely awake and even less certain of what to do, “it’s me. It’s Zayne.”

No answer. You didn’t hear him. You couldn’t. You were buried deep beneath the blankets, wrapped in a trembling cocoon of hospital linen and panic. Your small body was curled into a ball, your arms locked tight around a pillow crushed over your ears, your knees pulled to your chest like you could make yourself disappear if you just folded tightly enough. All you could hear were your own sobs—loud, desperate, relentless—echoing in your ears louder than the storm, louder than the hospital, louder than anything else in the world.

Outside the room, the hospital continued its chaos. Zayne glanced down the corridor one last time—eyes scanning for a nurse, a doctor, someone. But there was no one. Just shadows darting past distant doors, the squeak of shoes on tile, the drone of distant voices echoing from unseen hallways. Monitors beeped behind closed doors. Clipboards shuffled. People moved.

But not for you. You were alone, and the world was too busy to notice. Zayne hesitated for a breath. Then another. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. He wasn’t a doctor. He didn’t have the right words. He didn’t know the rules. But he imagined—if he were a doctor, like his mom or dad—what would they do? What would they say?

And then he stepped inside. Quietly. Carefully. Like entering someone else’s dream. The door creaked softly behind him, partially sealing the dark room off from the too-bright hallway. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Everything was washed in grayscale—pale walls, gray-blue bedding, the silhouette of machines blinking softly near your bedside.

“Y/n,” he tried again, a little firmer this time, but still gentle. His voice bounced off the walls and disappeared into the whimpering sobs coming from under the mound of blankets.

He took a slow step closer.

“Hellooo?” he said, pitching his voice with playful curiosity, trying to sound a little lighter, a little less nervous himself, “Y/n? Anyone home in there?”

Still nothing. Just the shaking form of a child curled tight in pain no one else could see. A shape made of sorrow and silence and thunder. Zayne exhaled a quiet, tired sigh. His slippers whispered against the linoleum as he moved slowly toward the bed. He hovered there for a moment, uncertain again, then cautiously knelt at the edge, trying to get a glimpse beneath the heavy layers of pillows and blankets, his hand bracing against the cool metal of the bedframe. You didn’t see him. You didn’t hear him. But he was there. And he wasn’t going anywhere.

“You left your front door open,” he said gently, his voice light with playfulness as he stepped further into the room. He gestured vaguely toward the hospital door he left cracked, “so, I welcomed myself in…”

The way he said it made it sound like this was just another visit between neighbors, like this sterile white hospital room was your own cozy apartment and not the space you’d been living in for the past few weeks under the hum of medical machines and the quiet shuffle of nurses’ shoes. Technically…It was your home, for now.

“I was falling asleep,” he continued, crossing the room with a slow, meandering kind of grace, “and then I heard you crying…So, like a good neighbor, I came to check up on you…”

His voice trailed off a little, half-murmured as he glanced around your darkened room. The only light came from the faint sliver behond the door, outlining his shape in the gloom. His eyes adjusted slowly, taking in the subtle touches of you scattered throughout the otherwise impersonal space. There was a small jasmine plant on the table near the heater. He smiled faintly when he saw it. He’d brought it for you just a few days ago, a “bravery reward” after you were cleared from the last of your stitches. You had held it like treasure, your little fingers tracing the leaves like you were afraid it might disappear.

Beside it, a familiar foil glint caught his eye—a chocolate wrapper, crinkled and empty. His smile deepened. That had been earlier today. A bribe, technically. If you promised not to run away from the nurse giving you your shot, you’d get a surprise. You’d held out until the very last second, but you didn’t bolt—and so he’d delivered.

Then, there was the book. The one with a stitched spine and painted cover—The Boy and the Library—resting gently beside a pad of scratch paper and a small pile of worn-down crayons. A gift from one of the older nurses, if Zayne remembered right. You’d spent half the afternoon with your tongue poked between your lips as you colored something in deep concentration.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” he said, his voice dipping into something dry and fond as he made his way to your bedside table.

He adjusted his glasses with one hand and leaned closer, squinting at the drawings you’d made earlier. Wobbly shapes in shades of blue and white crowded the page—none of them quite even, but all of them clearly intentional.

His brow furrowed, amused and genuinely curious, “are those…Supposed to be snowballs?”

Zayne picked up the paper carefully, holding it at arm’s length like he was handling something delicate, something important. His brows pinched as he studied the chaotic doodles of blue and white crayon loops, scratching absently at his chin.

“Oh…” He muttered, a quiet little smiles spreading across his face, “they’re seals. I think…”

A chuckle escaped him—soft and uncertain—but there was no mockery in it, only affection. He turned the drawing gently in his hands, trying to orient the squiggly blobs into something like meaning.

“Maybe I can ask my parents to take us to the aquarium when you get discharged,” he added, half to himself, half to you, “they have passes. And kids under ten get in free for their first visit.” He placed the drawing carefully down on the table, “then you can see real seals.”

Something in you noticed a presence. A weight in the room. A shift in the air. You weren’t even sure when it had begun, only that somewhere in the endless noise of your sobs and the ringing pressure in your ears, you could feel something had changed. Someone was there. You didn’t lift your head. You didn’t move. You just stayed curled beneath the blanket, cocooned in heat and tears and damp cotton and hospital antiseptic. Your skin was raw—irritated from rubbing, itchy beneath the healing gauze. Every sniffle scraped your throat. Your breath hiccupped in gasps as you tried to stop crying, tried to pull yourself together the way adults always told you to. But your lungs were tired. Your face was a mess. And you didn’t know how to stop. Your mind assumed it was another nurse, an adult tasked with quieting you down. Someone older. Someone who spoke in soothing tones and pressed the call button when you couldn’t breathe.

“Did you know seals can slow down their heart rate on command?” Zayne asked softly, almost like he was talking to himself. His voice was gentle, but unafraid of your sadness. He didn’t tiptoe around it. He just filled the space beside it.

He pulled the chair beside your little table and sat, not bothering to turn on the overhead light. The soft hallway glow spilled in from the crack of the door, casting gentle outlines of just enough light as he reached for a clean sheet of paper. Your crayons were scattered everywhere, left in a chaotic trail like lightning had struck and you’d dropped everything in a rush to escape. He picked them up one by one, placing each back into the small cardboard box with quiet focus, occasionally examining a few of the more worn-down ones.

“It’s called bradycardia,” he added, his voice threading through the dark like a loft lullaby, “their heartbeat drops so low when they dive, it’s almost like they’re in hibernation. Some of them stay underwater for as much as two hours. Their blood only flows to the most important organs, like the brain and heart.”

You eased the pillow and blanket, just barely. The fabric peeled back in trembling inches, sticking a little to your damp cheeks. The air against your face felt cold after so long buried beneath the heat of your own crying, but it also felt…Clearer. Like your first real breath in hours had finally broken through. Your fingers clenched around the edge of the blanket as you waited—listening, tensing for the next crack of lightning, for another clap of thunder to shake your bones. But it didn’t come. Not yet. The room remained quiet. Dim. The storm still grumbled beyond the windows, but for now, it had pulled back just enough for you to lift your head from the sea of grief you’d been drowning in.

And then, you heard a faint, familiar sound beyond the muffle.

“Everything else just…Slows down,” Zayne’s voice floated gently in the dark, soft enough that it almost faded into the background hum of machines.

He was still seated at the small table, cradled in the spill of light coming from beyond the door. His glasses caught a faint glint as he tilted his head, his voice distant—thoughtful, almost like he was talking to himself more than to you. He stared at the crayons again, the colors now rearranged in their box with quiet precision. After a long pause, he reached for the black one. It wasn’t dramatic or striking. It was dull from use. But something about it seemed to call to him.

“They evolved for it,” he murmured, turning the crayon slowly between his fingers, “collapsible lungs, too. So their ribcages don’t break under the pressure.”

His words soothed like water on overheated skin. They weren’t pointed. They weren’t even meant to fix you. They just were—offered without expectation, drifting through the silence like a lifeline for your trembling thoughts to cling to. Somewhere in the distance, you thought you heard another voice. A soft muffle. It might’ve been out in the hallway. Or on the intercom. Or maybe just another ghost noise in your overstimulated, overtired head. You were exhausted. From crying. From healing. From the invisible weight of what had been taken from you. Ever since the catastrophe, your life had been a loop of medication, monitoring, needles, and long, sterile days marked by careful voices and busy hands. You hadn’t even begun the adoption process yet. Not officially. Not while your records still listed your status as ‘under observation’. But Zayne kept talking.

“And their blood has more hemoglobin than ours does,” he said quietly, lowering his head as he began dragging the black crayon across a fresh piece of paper. His motions were slow, idle—he wasn’t drawing anything in particular. Just lines. Marks. Movements to fill the air, “so, they can hold more oxygen. They’re kind of like…Natural surgeons. Efficient. Focused. And quiet.”

The word surgeon echoed in the air between you, and your mind latched onto it like a lifeline. Zayne. Of course you thought of Zayne. Was that him talking? The boy in glasses who always wore a watch—serious, quiet, unusually graceful for his age. The one who never raised his voice, never interrupted, who moved like he was always thinking about something just a little too big for the room he was in.

And whose parents operated on you. You remembered the woman first. Pretty, with deep green eyes like her son’s and hair drawn into a perfect jet-black bun. She had spoken softly to you after surgery, tucking the blanket beneath your chin as you blinked against the brightness of recovery. Her husband had stood at her side—a strikingly tall, stoic man with a steady voice and the same sharp jawline you sometimes saw mirrored in Zayne’s young profile.

You blinked through the haze still clinging to your face and slowly, cautiously, pushed your head out from the shelter of your blanket cocoon. The pillow slipped back with you as you peeked over it, your breath still catching in soft, uneven drags. There he was. Zayne sat at your little bedside table, hunched slightly in his pajamas, the curve of his back soft in the low light. He wore his glasses, and they slid just slightly down his nose as he bent over the page. In his hand, the black crayon moved with surprising elegance—his grip light but focused, as if he wasn’t just scribbling, but conducting something silent and important.

His hands caught your attention—milk-pale and unmarked, not a scratch or bruise in sight. No scraped knuckles. No ink stains. No playground roughness. Just careful, clean skin. You could tell—this was a boy who followed rules. Who never got in trouble. Who lived inside books more than outside them. It made sense. Everyone whispered that Zayne Li had already skipped two grades.

You swallowed softly.

“Is…” Your voice cracked a little, hoarse from crying, “that what you wanna be when you grow up, Zaynie?”

His hand stilled. Zayne looked up at you slowly, almost like surfacing from deep underwater. For a moment, surprise flitted across his face—then something warmer. His eyes smiled before his mouth did, and the light in them softened as he adjusted his glasses with his fingertips.

“…It is,” he said, the answer falling easily from his lips.

He looked away for a second, almost shy, then back down at the black crayon he absentmindedly toyed with.

“But I’m not sure what kind of surgeon,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a quiet murmur, “I haven’t figured that part out yet. My parents said it’ll come with time.”

Your eyes followed his. The crayon in his hand had stopped moving, but the damage was done. His paper was crowded with harsh, jagged black lines—irregular strokes crisscrossing like cracked ice or shattered obsidian. There was no shape to it, no playfulness. Just something…Stark. Chaotic. The more you stared, the colder it looked.

Zayne blinked down at it like he was seeing it for the first time. His brows drew together slightly, and he frowned—not with anger, but with quiet confusion. Bother. The storm must’ve gotten into his hand. With a low exhale, he quickly swept up the paper and crumpled it in one fluid motion. The sound was loud in the quiet room—sharp and final. He tossed the ball of blackened paper toward the trash bin at his feet. A near miss.

“Um, please ignore that,” he said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. His voice was back to soft again—gentle, almost apologetic, “I’m sleepy…These beds aren’t exactly very comfortable, so I guess I haven’t been getting the best sleep.”

“Did I…” You sniffled, your voice wobbling like your breath might give out again, “d-did I wake you up…Just now, Zaynie? I’m…I-I’m sorry…”

Your words came out in fragments, caught between guilt and exhaustion. You watched him move—his silhouette a soft blur in the dim room—as he crossed to the bedside table where a box of tissues sat untouched. He didn’t rush. He didn’t scold.

“It’s alright,” he said with sleepy patience as he plucked the box and brought it over.

He sat down beside you on the edge of the bed, leaving a polite space between your bodies—close enough to reach, but not too close to startle. He yawned into the back of his hand, his eyelids still heavy behind his glasses, and offered you the tissue box without hesitation.

“I don’t have to go back to school until the roads are clear,” he added, a little yawn tugging at his voice, “which means…I can sleep in tomorrow.”

You reached for the tissues with your small, trembling fingers, taking a clumsy wad into your hand. You didn’t think. You just brought it to your face like you always did—forgetting the bandages, the tenderness of healing skin, the ache still raw along your cheek. The sting hit instantly. You gasped. Sharp pain bloomed under your touch, and for a moment it threatened to undo you completely—but before the tears could rise again, Zayne moved. Fast. Instinctive.

He leaned in and gently took the tissues from your hands, blotting your face with the kind of caution only a child built for caregiving could manage. His touch was light—barely pressure at all—just enough to dry the tears, clear the worst of the mess, all without jostling the wounded skin beneath. You sat still for him. He didn’t ask you to. He just…Knew. You were so small in that moment, so heartbreakingly delicate—bandaged and blotchy and trying so hard to be brave. And Zayne felt it. The aching desire to take care of you anchored deep in his chest. A quiet, stubborn kind of protectiveness that settled into his bones like something permanent.

“…Do you want me to read you another bedtime story?” He suggested softly, nodding toward the book still sitting on your table.

You glanced at it—then to the curtains, where lightning flickered behind the pale window fabric. Then up at him. You didn’t say the book was boring and confusing, probably made for kids his age, not yours. That the pictures weren’t very good, or the plot made no sense—something about a boy trapped in a tower that had an endless library. You didn’t want him to stop. You would’ve listened to him talk about anything—surgery, seals, his dislike for his mother’s homemade carrot cake—as long as he stayed right there. As long as he didn’t leave.

“…Y-yeah,” you whispered, a shy, fragile smile touching your lips.

Zayne smiled back, then stood gently, careful not to jostle the bed as he pulled the blanket back over your shoulders with the care of someone three times his age. He tucked it under your arms, smoothing the edge just so, and watched as your eyes fluttered shut before he ever turned a page.

END OF FLASHBACK…

In the present, laughter danced between you. Soft and low at first, then building into a full-bodied warmth that filled the quiet space. You both leaned into it—into the memory, the familiarity, the gentle awe of having known one another so long. That stormy week in childhood had folded into your shared history like a worn page in a well-loved book, and now you were reading it again together, aloud in the hush of Zayne’s dim living room. You took your ear plugs out, no longer feeling a need for them.

Zayne had always been your protector. Even after the chaos. Even after his Evol fractured out of his young control, mere months after the day you met at Akso Hospital. Even when life became messier—more dangerous, more uncertain—he never stopped shielding you. Whether as the quiet boy who chased away your cries, the young cardiac surgeon who now knew your body better than anyone else, or the man whose arms were once again wrapped around you, holding you steady beneath the weight of a storm. He had always been this. Yours.

“You poor thing,” you murmured against his skin, fingers slipping beneath the collar of his shirt, stroking along the strong lines of his chest and up the curve of his neck. You leaned in, nestling closer, voice full of playful guilt and deep affection, “I kept you up so many nights that week…”

Zayne chuckled—low and affectionate, the kind of sound that always made your stomach flutter.  His body was warm beneath you—lean muscle and crisp cotton, his scent threading between you like the most familiar comfort in the world. Then his hand found your chin, and with a slow, practiced tenderness, he tilted your face to his. His fingers barely grazed your skin as he pinched gently—more a caress than anything—as if drawing your mouth toward his was something sacred, something slow and deliberate. His lips brushed against yours before the words even made it out, voice quiet, playful, wanting.

“That hasn’t changed,” he murmured against you, his breath warm and teasing as it curled over your lips, “you still keep me up most nights…”

A pause. His eyes searched yours—smoldering with affection, mischief, heat.

“…Albeit, for a different reason, now.”

The movie was long forgotten. Abandoned somewhere between the flicker of a screensaver and the molten glide of Zayne’s lips on yours. Forgotten before his teasing words had melted into breathless promises. Before he pulled you close—closer—and kissed you like he needed to devour every inch of the space that had dared exist between you.

His hand tangled into the back of your scalp, fingers threading through your hair with practiced ease as he drew you into him, mouth parting over yours with reverence and ache. You arched into the pull, your body reacting instinctively to the intensity he suddenly gave you—to the inhalation of your breath, the soft sigh of need he released as he pressed his mouth harder to yours. He always kissed like that when he was full—when his heart overflowed with more than words could hold. When love took root in his chest and twisted into hunger.

Zayne didn’t just kiss you. He claimed you. He poured every ounce of devotion, of yearning, of worship, into the heat of your lips, tasting you like a man who’d been starving for days and had finally come home to something he could never get enough of. God, he was hard beneath you all over again. The thick press of him strained up under the cradle of your weight, pulsing with growing urgency. His hands gripped you—one sliding low to the curve of your waist, the other spreading possessively across your back. He held you like he never wanted to let go. Like his body was imprinting you deeper with every second you didn’t pull away. And you didn’t want to. You couldn’t.

He moaned low into your mouth—just a breath, but it vibrated through your chest and curled down your spine, where it bloomed into a hot flush between your legs. Your body pulsed at the sound, at the feeling of him, at the way his tongue slid against yours with slow, aching precision. You were his drug. His kryptonite. The only thing on earth powerful enough to shatter his control—his carefully built restraint. And he let it happen. He wanted it to happen.

You gasped softly into the next kiss, overwhelmed by the sensation of his need pouring into you like liquid heat. Your skin tingled, goosebumps rising across your arms and thighs, your nipples hardening beneath the fabric of your shirt. You could feel his energy in your bones—like static, like electricity, like a current running from his fingers into your blood.

Your hand fisted his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you upright. The other slid to his arm, clutching at the strength in his bicep, feeling the way it tensed and flexed under your palm. Every sigh, every wet, desperate kiss, every slick drag of his lips over yours made you feel alive. Made you feel his.Your breasts pressed fully to his chest, the hard peaks of arousal unmistakable through the fabric—hot, aching proof of just how much you wanted him.

You arched instinctively, body following need, and ground your hips back in a slow, deliberate roll over the hard line of his groin. It wasn’t shy. It was self-indulgent. Intimate. You both moaned—quiet, unfiltered—mouths barely parted as the friction bloomed like a fire between your legs, pulsing with the promise of more. The kiss broke, but only just. You pulled back for air, for balance, for sanity—but even the small space between your lips felt unbearable. Dizzy with heat, you hovered near his mouth, your breath mixing with his as your eyes met.

And God—those eyes. Heavy-lidded. Dark with desire. They burned into you, green and molten, hooded and wrecked. His pupils were wide, his lashes low, and the tips of his ears and the high planes of his cheekbones were flushed pink with heat. He looked drunk. Not on wine or exhaustion—but on you. On your kiss. Your breath. Your body. Zayne always looked like that when you had him like this. Like he was already ruined. And he’d let himself be ruined again and again if it meant keeping you pressed to him like this—panting, pulsing, yours. There was no way in hell he’d let you go now in the name of a movie. And would you have? No. You were just as wrecked, just as needy, just as undone by the feel of him.

“You know,” you whispered breathlessly, a sly smile tugging at your lips as your fingertips dragged up the plane of his body, tracing the unsteady rhythm of his heart, “I think I’m suddenly cold and wanting, now…”

His lips quirked, barely, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. Still blown. Still hot.

“Oh no,” he murmured, the tease in his voice laced with velvet, “I’m afraid we simply can’t have that, now can we?”

He grabbed your hips with decisive ease. And your body answered like it always did. Your hands shot instinctively to his shoulders—not from surprise, but from muscle memory, like a reflex carved by nights and mornings and countless times where Zayne had held you like this before. It was a dance your body had learned long ago, and each time you followed its rhythm, it felt like home.

Gravity shifted beneath you. In one graceful, fluid motion, he lifted you and turned you beneath him, lowering you onto the couch with the practiced strength of someone who knew exactly how to make you fall apart. Your back hit the blanket-soft cushions, hair spilling in waves over the fabric like silk, your chest rising just as he climbed over you, caging you in. That warmth. That weight. The sheer nearness of him. No matter how many times it happened—no matter how many times he pinned you like this—your breath still stuttered. Your tummy still flipped.

Your wrists were already over your head, caught in the gentle prison of his long, elegant fingers, like he knew exactly where to find them without looking. As if he could read the mischief in your bones before you could even act on it. He always knew. And there was nothing rough about the way he held you down. Nothing forceful. But it was dominance, unmistakably. That quiet, commanding authority that only Zayne could carry in the gentlest of gestures. The kind that said, you started it, but he was finishing it. And every time he did…It thrilled you.

You looked up at him—eyes wide, lips parted, surrender written into every inch of your expression—and watched the way he stared back, heavy-lidded and unwavering. You lived for that moment. That quiet shift when control passed from your hands to his. That delicious second when playfulness turned to heat.

“No, we can’t,” you whispered breathlessly, playing along with a grin tugging at your mouth, though your heart was racing.

He leaned down, his face hovering over yours, his body firm and hot above you. You felt his free hand move blindly, reaching for the familiar strap beneath the couch—the one that transformed the cushions into a makeshift bed. He barely looked, his focus still locked on you. And you? You weren’t done teasing. You threw a leg around his waist, hooking him in and shifting your hips with just enough force to knock him off balance. Zayne let out a grunt of surprised laughter as he stumbled forward, catching himself just in time—but not before his face landed right above your chest, his nose brushing the softness of your breasts through the fabric of your shirt. You cackled, triumphant.

“Doctor Zayne,” you gasped through laughter, your fingers already threading into his hair, “that’s inappropriate!”

You glanced toward the edge of the couch with wide, mock-scandalized eyes.

“What’ll the plushies think of us?” You whispered, voice high with fake innocence, “they’re watching!”

Zayne pushed himself up on his palms, the crease of his brows slowly smoothing as his eyes drifted past you, past the curve of your flushed cheeks, and back to the quiet room around you both. He took it in.

The TV still glowed across the room with the icy blue shimmer of the floating screensaver—an endless arctic landscape cast in digital silence, the movie that never stood a chance playing now only in theory. The coffee table sat untouched. The bowl of popcorn remained nearly full. A few chocolate wrappers glinted in the soft flicker of the TV light. Everything was still—like the room had been patiently waiting for you both to return to it. Like the snacks, the screen, the space…Had become a witness to something far more intimate.

His gaze slid downward. Mister Fleecy. Wobbly Eggplant. Both were strewn across the rug and the couch like abandoned witnesses to a crime of passion, their cartoon faces frozen in innocent, lopsided smiles. The light from the TV cast a shifting glow over their little plush bodies, making them look almost alive in the soft dark.

And behind them—the windows. Rain still sheeted down the tall glass, pouring in relentless streaks, streaking over the slats of half-open blinds. Beyond that: the faint blur of outdoor string lights, glowing hazy gold beneath the storm. They swayed ever so slightly in the breeze, illuminating the rain like falling glitter.

Zayne etched it all into memory. Every detail. The quiet rhythm of a moment shared. The laughter. The soft weight of your body beneath his. The way your presence had woven itself into this house like sunlight in winter—warming everything it touched. This wasn’t just his place anymore. It was yours. It was home.

God, how he loved you. How he adored every trace of you left behind in his life. The smiley mugs you rearranged. The faint scent of your shampoo on his pillow. The warmth in the corners of each room where once there had only been sterile quiet. You changed him. You made him full. You made the cold man warm.

Zayne lowered himself to your lips, his expression softening into reverence as he pressed one kiss—sweet and slow. Then another. And on the third—deeper now—you arched, your breasts pressing into the solid weight of his chest, the heat of you seeking more. His hand wrapped firmly over your wrists above your head again, pinning you with the ease of someone who knew just how much you liked surrendering to his strength.

“We promised them a movie,” he breathed, lips brushing yours as he spoke, his voice low and full of affectionate mirth. His other hand trailed up your cheek, cupping the heat there with gentle fingers, stroking softly as his eyes twinkled, “…Didn’t we?”

You barely had time to answer before he pinched your chin with practiced familiarity, guiding your lips back to his in a firmer kiss—deeper now, more claiming. The kind that left you breathless, hanging off the edge of your own heartbeat. He let go, only to press his mouth to the angle of your jaw, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“What will the plushies think of us…” He murmured between kisses, “…If they don’t get what they were promised?”

You sighed beneath him. A long, shaky release of breath as his lips found the tender curve under your jaw, and the warmth of his mouth melted over your skin like slow honey. The sound of it—the soft, indulgent smooch he pressed there—was enough to unravel you. That sound alone made your spine arch and your thighs twitch with want. It wasn’t fair, the way Zayne could make you ache like this. So easily. So thoroughly.

“They’ll think we’re liars,” he murmured with affection as his hands slid beneath your forearms, palms warm and slow as they stroked up along your goosebumped skin. His touch was reverent, tracing the rise of each shiver like he was reading Braille—like your body’s response to him was scripture, “and we simply can’t have that either, my love…”

Your toes curled into the couch cushions, into the tangled sherpa blanket beneath you. The heat of him, the weight of him above you—it was like being blanketed in fire and silk at once. You tilted your head back, surrendering completely, neck exposed in that wordless plea he always pulled from you. And oh—the moment the tip of his tongue greeted the side of your throat, right where your vocal cords trembled beneath the skin—You whimpered. He smiled into your pulse, feeling the flutter of it under his lips.

“We have to keep the guests entertained,” he went on, deepening the tease, continuing the fantasy with that low, velvety edge in his voice—the kind that made your chest tighten and your legs shift restlessly beneath him. His fingers drifted slowly down your arms, trailing over your elbows as he sank further over you. His lips descended with him, kissing down the gentle slope of your neck, trailing heat with every breath. You could hear it now—need in his exhale, in the tension coiled in his body, the way each kiss lingered a second longer than the last, “don’t you want to be a good hostess?”

You didn’t know why—how—it worked so easily on you. It was ridiculous. Plushies. Imagined guests. His teasing stories. But somehow, Zayne could turn anything—anything—into seduction. And you couldn’t resist it. You were utterly powerless to the way his imagination wove into his touch, the way his voice threaded through your mind like velvet, like sin. Your cheeks were hot. Your body flushed. Your heart stammered.

“Y-yeah…” you whispered, the sound trembling from your throat, lost in the warmth of his mouth as it trailed lower, as his hands lowered and gripped the cushion around your body like he needed to anchor himself or risk losing control.

“Are you going to be a good hostess for them, Y/n?”

The way he said your name…God. It was sugar on his tongue. Silk. Worship. He kissed you like your skin was his only source of air. Like he couldn’t not taste you. Then he rolled his hips—slow, grinding up into the cradle of your heat with desperate precision—and the shock of pleasure knocked another breathless sound out of you, your eyes fluttering toward the ceiling like a prayer.

“Y-yes,” you gasped, nodding like you couldn’t think of anything else, like there was nothing else.

You pressed back against him, grinding in answer, your spine stretching in a sinuous line of tension. One leg rose high, curling around the strong plane of his back, drawing him in with everything you had.

He reached back with one strong hand and caught your calf behind him—his palm closing around the curve of your leg with quiet authority—and pressed it down into the cushions, pinning it open, wide, stretched over the length of the couch’s extended frame. The movement was slow. Unapologetic. He didn’t ask permission. He just claimed space. Claimed you.

And God—you couldn’t look away from him. Face to face now. So close your noses almost brushed. So close you could feel the heat of his breath against your cheek, taste the edge of him still on your lips. His body caged you in completely, one arm braced beside your head, the other curling around the back of your skull, cradling it like you were the most precious thing he’d ever laid hands on.

You looked up at him—and the sight of your own expression reflected in his eyes stole the breath from your lungs. You were undone. That look on your face—the one Zayne knew too well—wide-eyed, lips parted, flushed and trembling, helpless in the thick haze of need. It was the way you always looked when you were too far gone to play anymore. Too far gone to tease. Pleading without a word. Needing him in your bones. Submissive, his little snow bunny ready to be lovingly devoured by your arctic wolf.

And Zayne? He looked wrecked. His gaze indeed devoured you—clouded and dark, flickering between your lips and your eyes like he couldn’t decide where to lose himself first. He stared at you like he was trying to memorize you. Like he could see all the way through your skin, past your pulse, into your soul. And he didn’t just see it. He possessed it.

Then his lips hovered over yours—barely there—as he exhaled, breath hot and feather-light, and whispered the words that broke your mind open, “and are you going to be a good girl for me?”

That. Did. It. The words settled into you like a spell, like something sacred and sinful all at once. You didn’t even hesitate. You nodded—eager, small, trembling. Every inch of defiance melted from your spine. You were completely, blissfully submissive. Captured. Caught. Held in the warmth of his body and the fire of his gaze. You were burning up beneath him. You were his.

“I’m gonna be a good girl for you…” You whispered, breath shaky, voice so soft it nearly caught in your throat. It left your lips before you even realized you’d spoken—pure instinct, pure surrender, heat prickling up your neck like the words themselves had flayed you open.

And then he kissed you. Harder now. Needier. His mouth crushed against yours like you were the air he needed to breathe, and God, you gave it to him. You kissed him back like you couldn’t get enough—fingers clinging to his back, balling his shirt up in desperate handfuls, needing more, needing him. And Zayne…He was breathing like that again. That sound he made when he was holding himself back by a thread. That sound he made when he was dying for you.

His chest pressed flush to yours, rising and falling fast, lips trailing over yours, over your cheek, over your jaw, like he was trying to consume every piece of you all at once. His hands squeezed—your wrist, your side, the back of your neck—holding you there, grounding himself with the shape of you beneath him. Like love that had nowhere else to go but through you.

“Are you still cold?” He asked softly, his lips hovering just above yours, his breath shared between you in the shadow of your kiss.

He didn’t wait for your answer. His hands moved to the hem of his shirt, lifting the fabric in one smooth pull over his head, revealing the pale, sculpted lines of his chest, the rise and fall of his breath already heavy with desire. As the shirt hit the couch, he caught a glimpse of your eyes—and God, the look you gave him.

That needy, ravenous gaze. Like you wanted to taste his soul. Your hands were on him in an instant. Palming over the firm muscle of his chest, the strong column of his throat. You could feel his pulse jumping under your touch, the way your fingers alone made him tremble. You watched it—watched the way he flushed deeper, the way his lips parted around the sigh you drew from him.

“I’m freezing,” you whispered, breathless, and dragged his mouth back to yours like a crash of waves.

He groaned into you. Zayne kissed you hard—so hard it stole your breath. His hand dove beneath the hem of your shirt, spreading wide across your ribs, heat radiating from his palm as he pushed the fabric up, up, up. Your back arched into his touch, offering yourself to him, body pliant beneath the fire he stoked in you.

Then his lips found the soft under-curve your breast. No bra. Just skin. Just you. And he kissed you there like it was sacred—slow, open-mouthed devotion pressed into the tender dip beneath your breast before he peeled the shirt over your head entirely. You helped him, pulling your arms free and tossing the fabric away, all without taking your eyes off him.

“Keep me warm,” you begged softly, arms winding around his shoulders, one hand sliding into the midnight dark of his hair. You melted into his skin, into the heat of him, touching anything you could reach—his neck, his shoulders, his back.

“Warmer, baby, I’m—ohh—” You gasped as his lips closed around your nipple.

Zayne moaned into you, the sound low and rich, rumbling deep in his chest as he sucked you in—slow, thorough, almost painfully gentle in how he savored you. His tongue flicked over your stiff peak, teasing with rhythmic circles, every motion designed to undo you.

You arched into his mouth with a soft cry, your heels digging helplessly into the cushions, seeking purchase, grounding yourself in the growing heat that pulsed between your legs. He sucked again—deeper this time. Slower. His lips pulled off you with a soft, wet pop that made your stomach flip, made your thighs twitch. The sounds—God, the sounds alone. His lips. His breath. The hungry smacks and hums of satisfaction as he tasted you.

“Is this warm enough for you?” He breathed, his mouth hovering over your slick nipple, his breath scalding against your damp skin.

The ripple it sent through your nerves was instant. You could barely speak. You didn’t need to. Your body answered for you, trembling with want as you pulled him closer still, utterly undone. You trembled as his mouth drew tighter around your nipple, lips wet and hot and hungry. Your skin puckered beneath the pull of him—so sensitive it ached. You gasped, hips twitching, thighs clenching, your breath a stuttered prayer.

“N-no…” You whimpered, voice breaking on the need, a hand sliding up his hair, threading into the soft black at his crown. You clutched him tighter into you, holding his face to your chest like you needed his mouth there to survive, “I want more…”

Zayne’s response was a low, reverent sigh—half-possessive, half-adoring.

“Needy girl…” he murmured, the words brushing against your damp skin like silk and fire. His hand moved with purpose, gripping your other breast in a firm squeeze before giving a single, hungry pop that made you jolt against him, “my needy, greedy girl…”

God, greedy didn’t even scratch the surface. But between the two of you—it wasn’t really you who was insatiable. It was him. Zayne could never quite get enough of you. He didn’t just kiss you. He devoured you. He didn’t just touch you. He worshipped you. His hands roamed your body like a man mapping the lines of his own soul—every caress slow, sure, unrelenting. He held you like you were his air. Kissed you like he could live off your breath alone.

And you? You ached for it. You thrived on it. You wanted to be consumed by his love, crushed into his chest, reduced to nothing but trembles and sighs beneath the weight of his reverence. You wanted to submit to it, to feed the raw hunger in his eyes until you were boneless and undone, a fragile little thing cradled in the iron steadiness of Zayne’s hold.

Your body couldn’t wait anymore. While he lavished one breast, then the other—tongue swirling, lips smacking with slow indulgence until both were flushed and aching—you slid a hand down between your bodies, skin shivering as your fingers moved with growing urgency. You slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts. Then lower—past the heat-swollen press of your panties—until your fingertips found it. The slick. You were soaked.

Your breath caught in your throat as you pressed your fingers to your swollen clit, rubbing slow circles for even a second of relief, the pleasure blooming up your spine like lightning. You gasped softly—and Zayne heard it. He caught the sound, lips pressing around your tortured nipple with a muffled kiss just as he reached down and grabbed your wrist. Firm. Wordless. He pulled your hand up from between your legs. And then, slowly, he raised it before his eyes.

The dim, cool light from the TV flickered over your skin—just enough to reveal the glisten coating your fingers. Wet. Shining. Proof of your desire laid bare between you. Your lips parted, caught in breathless anticipation. Zayne looked at your hand…Then at you. And God, the look in his eyes. That sharp, scolding heat. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. The slow shake of his head. The flash of control in his gaze. The way his hand still wrapped tight around your wrist, lifting your slick fingers like he was about to punish you with pleasure…It was enough to make your core clench with anticipation.

“Your impatience is insulting,” he whispered, pushing your finger past his lips.

Oh God. Your heart just about stopped. You gasped—silent, stunned—your body frozen beneath him as your wide eyes locked onto the vision before you: Zayne sucking your arousal from your own fingers. His mouth wrapped around them with unhurried precision, his tongue licking slow and deliberate, like he wanted you to feel every humid flick, every stroke of heat, every bit of his mouth claiming the taste of you.

You damn near fainted. Your skin flushed in waves. Hot. Throbbing. Mortified. Horny. Your breath caught in your throat, and your thighs instinctively clenched inward—knees digging into his hips like your body was trying to trap itself from combusting entirely. He felt it.

“Then stop torturing me,” you whined softly, desperate, fingers shaking as you reached down with your free hand.

You slid it between your bodies, down the hard ridges of his abs. Down his long, muscled torso until you found it—the hot, heavy weight beneath his sweats. You cupped him. Wrapped your fingers around the thick girth of him. God, the way he twitched at your touch. The way he pulsed above your palm, swollen and rock-hard, straining for more. And that look he gave you—Brows pinching. Lips parting. Like you’d just snatched the breath from his lungs.

His eyes fluttered half-lidded in surrender as his forehead dropped to your collarbone. You felt it—the full-body tremor that rippled through him. That one second of sheer, unguarded vulnerability Zayne would never dream of giving to anyone else. But he gave it to you. You kissed his temple, lips brushing his hair as you cradled the back of his head with gentleness, even as your grip on his cock grew needier. You stroked him slowly, deliberately, your fingers sliding with reverence and hunger as you breathed into the softness of his raven strands. He whimpered. Quiet. Helpless. Each squeeze of your hand was a plea, a promise, a prayer. You could feel the heat of his breath pouring down your neck, feel the rise and fall of his chest hitching in time with yours.

You whispered into the soft strands of his hair, the scent of his shampoo—clean, familiar, his—folding around your senses, “I want you so fucking bad, Zayne—”

That was all it took. It snapped the last thread of restraint in him. Zayne moved without hesitation. No warning. No pause. Just a rush of pure, unleashed want. He shoved your hand aside, seized your mouth in a kiss so hot and immediate it made you gasp into him. His lips were demanding—wet, forceful, hungry—as his hands tore at the waistband of his sweats and briefs, shoving them down with an urgency that made your heart leap.

You fumbled just as frantically with your own clothes. Shorts. Panties. Fabric tugged down your legs, kicked aside, forgotten. Your kiss turned clumsy in the scramble—teeth clashing, lips dragging, breaths stuttering. But neither of you cared. You only wanted skin. And then you found it. Bare. Hot. Your hands were everywhere—his back, his ribs, his chest—touching with reverence and greed as he rose onto his knees and maneuvered lower. He was searching—reaching—for the place between your thighs. Needing to see you. Taste you. Open you. But before he could lower himself to worship, you surged forward.

You caught his broad shoulders in your hands and flipped him with a force that startled even him. His eyes flared, breath caught—but God, the look of thrilled surprise on his face. He didn’t resist. He just fell. You turned and straddled him in an instant, crawling over him on all fours, your knee lifting to mount the couch where his body sprawled in heat. His hand was already there—gripping your shin, guiding you into place with that silent strength, his touch reverent but insistent. The couch dipped under your shared weight, and he fumbled quickly for a decorative pillow, shoving it under his head, still watching you, still ready.

Then Zayne moved. He slid down just enough to wedge his shoulders beneath your thighs, his arms hooking under you in a way that pinned you above his chest. His large palms gripped your ass without hesitation, spreading you open like he’d been waiting for this moment for hours, not seconds. The moan that left your throat when his lips smacked a kiss to your slick heat—firm, wet, perfect—was nothing short of primal. Your spine arched, body twitching from the pleasure that rolled through you on contact, your fingers flying to his thighs h to steady yourself.

“Come here,” he sighed, voice husky against your dripping skin.

Then he pulled. His arms locked around your thighs and yanked you back—anchored you directly over his mouth like he couldn’t bear another second of you not being there. His grip was unrelenting, his mouth already moving, already open and wet and consuming.

“Don’t be coy now…” He murmured against your core, voice low, electric, edged with dark delight.

Your jaw dropped with a gasp—a soundless, broken thing—as that feeling returned. That overwhelming sensation that never failed to strike you like lightning, even now, even after all the times Zayne had worshipped you like this. It never dulled. It never normalized. It was always like the first time. The first time your body melted on his tongue. The first time his mouth baptized you in bliss.

You shuddered as his tongue dragged a long, aching swipe from the swollen bud of your clit to the fluttering edge of your entrance—slow, unrelenting, as though savoring every glossy inch. Your thighs trembled around the firm breadth of his shoulders, your breath leaving you in one long, stuttering exhale over the solid wall of his abs below you. God. It was divine. The way he craved you. The way he consumed you like your body was sacred scripture.

And all the while—his cock lay hard and flushed against his stomach, heavy and proud, nestled in the taut ridges of his lower abdomen, framed by the sharp lines of his pelvis. So beautiful. So obscene in its longing. It pulsed visibly, every throb a silent plea for you. You reached for it with trembling fingers, wrapping your hand around the thick shaft like it was second nature, like this was where your hand belonged. A hot flush bloomed in your cheeks as you leaned forward, sweeping all your hair over one shoulder to bare your neck, your spine, the full bow of your want.

You were drooling. Mouth wet. Tongue aching to taste. Body desperate to give him the same pleasure he was pouring into you with every worshipful flick of his tongue. You flattened your tongue to the base and licked—slow, long, savoring—dragging it up his length in one indulgent stroke. You palmed his cock to your mouth, and oh—the twitch you felt, the shudder that rippled up through him like you’d lit him on fire from the inside.

Zayne whimpered. It cracked loose from his throat before he muffled it against your clit, sealing his mouth over you again in a firmer, wetter kiss—like he needed the taste of your reaction to survive his own. And just like that, you were a mess. Your hips rolled instinctively, searching for friction against his mouth. Your lashes fluttered. His abs clenched. Your moan was met with the soft slap of your lips enveloping the head of his cock in a slow, silken kiss. The chain reaction between your bodies was hypnotic. Each of you tuning to the other’s pleasure with the precision of instinct. Every breath was mirrored. Every tremor shared.

Then—You opened your eyes. And you remembered. The plushies. Mister Fleecy. Wobbly Eggplant. They sat exactly where you’d left them—strewn along the rug, the couch. Their stitched-on smiles and beady, cartoony eyes beaming straight at you. Witnessing you. Live. Mouth full of Zayne’s  cock. Body shivering under the relentless indulgence of his tongue.

The shock that hit you was electric—hot, shameful, thrilling. Like being watched. Exposed. And somehow, impossibly, more turned on than you were seconds ago. You couldn’t explain it. And you didn’t care. Because you were already gone—already pushing the velvety head of his cock deeper into your mouth, lips plush and wet as they closed around him in an indulgent pop.

Zayne let out another sound—low, aching, drenched in need—muffled entirely between your soaked, swollen lips as his tongue moved with precision. He bent his knee and pushed his hips up slightly, chasing the pressure of your mouth, but his focus—his obsession—was still between your legs.

He squeezed his fingertips into the plush curve of your folds, prying you open with reverent force, holding you apart as if to witness you properly. The cool air touched your exposed clit—bare now, out from under its little hood—and just as the tremble hit your thighs—Slap. His tongue met you with a sudden, deliberate lash. You moaned—loud—your pleasure flooding back down to him, vibrating straight into the throbbing head of his cock still wet between your lips.

He felt it. All of it. And he loved it. You sealed your mouth around him again, cheeks hollowing as you sucked him deeper, drawing a hot, tight groan from the base of his gut. Your hand worked his length in tandem, stroking down the thick shaft, smearing your spit until his cock glistened—slick and flushed and twitching. You were greedy for him. Not just with hunger—but with need. With this ache to please him. To match his devotion lick for lick, moan for moan.

Your ass arched instinctively in his hands, chasing the drag of his tongue as he moved against you with absolute focus. Zayne was eating you out like a man starved, like his salvation lived in your taste and he had no intention of coming up for air. Every suck, every wet flick of his tongue against your clit was deliberate. He moved with the slow, sinfully patient rhythm of a man who worshipped your pleasure. Who lived to feel you fall apart in his mouth.

“You’re divine,” he exhaled huskily, hotly, lips trailing from your folds, “you’re absolutely divine…”

He lapped at your clit with thick, indulgent strokes; faster, then he buried his mouth against you with a hungry groan, tongue moving in tight, messy circles that made your entire body jump. You bounced in his grip, your hips fluttering in his hands as he pulled you down tighter onto his mouth. God, the heat, the dampness, the plush smother of his lips—he was making a meal of you, groaning into your cunt like he wanted to drown in it.

Your mouth responded with urgency. You sucked him harder, faster, the taste of him dizzying as your hand pumped his shaft with needy rhythm. Then you popped off, gasping for air as you twisted your grip noisily over the smear of his flushed head.

“I feel the same about you and this pretty cock,” your lips curled as you sucked him into your mouth again with hunger.

Your jaw ached with how much you wanted to please him—how good it felt to take him deep, to make him moan for you. Saliva slicked your lips, coated his cock, dripped messily between you. Until—Too much. You’d almost forgotten how well-endowed he was. You gagged suddenly, the depth catching you off guard. Your stomach clenched with the reflex, and you tore your mouth off him with a gasp, a thin string of spit connecting your lips to the flushed, twitching head of his cock still angled toward your face. You panted for breath, lips swollen and shining.

“Easy, darling,” Zayne murmured against your core, voice low and tender and wrecked with love.

Between each word, he kissed you—soft, wet smooches to your clit like he was calming it. Like he could kiss you through the overstimulation.

“Thumb in fist,” he whispered, voice soothing and dark with knowing, “don’t try taking it all…”

Right. You almost forgot. You breathed deep, centering yourself, and slipped your fingers around your thumb—curling them into a tight fist, just like Zayne had taught you. A pressure point trick, he’d said. A distraction for the vagus nerve. It helped quiet the gag reflex. You took another breath. Then you sank back down. Slowly, deliberately, swallowing him deeper, while your other hand twisted along the parts of him your throat couldn’t claim. The slick weight of him filled your mouth, heavy and hot and perfect, your lips stretching around the velvet girth of him as you sucked.

“Pace yourself,” Zayne uttered hoarsely from below, voice cracked and rich with barely-contained need. His hips jerked upward, twitching beneath you despite himself. His restraint was unraveling, thread by trembling thread, even as his mouth pressed another smooch into your soaked folds—wet, greedy, worshipful, “good girl…Such a good girl, my love…”

God. The way he praised you. Your moan vibrated around his cock, a muffled whimper that echoed back through him, and it destroyed him. His tongue stuttered at first, and then deepened—sliding slick between your folds with a pace that grew fast, uncoordinated, desperate. Zayne was lost in it now. In you. Every lap of his tongue was soaked in the kind of hunger that made your thighs shake. You felt his hands on your hips, guiding your grinding against his mouth—pulling you down onto his tongue, his nose, his breath, his heat. His mouth was relentless now, not gentle, not patient. Passionate. Shameless. He wasn’t teasing you. He was devouring you. And he was panting.

Oh God—he was breathing hard, each exhale fanning over your slick skin like heat lightning. You could feel how close he was to coming undone. He was panting into your cunt like he was on the verge of climax just from the taste of you, just from the feel of your pleasure trembling through his tongue. It made your mind spin. It was so hot. So unbearably good. Every time you moved against him, every time your clit grazed his tongue in friction with your grinding, the coil inside you wound tighter. Deeper. Harder. His tongue moved opposite to your rhythm, creating a perfect storm of stimulation. One stroke. One drag. One inhale. You were going to explode.

“I’m gonna cum, Zayne!” The words tumbled out in a gasp as your mouth slipped wetly off his cock, lips glistening, chest heaving. You didn’t stop your hand—couldn’t—your slick grip continued stroking him, faster, noisier, desperate to keep pleasuring him through the chaos building inside you, “I’m gonna cum! Yes! God, yes!”

You tried to take him back fully into your mouth, tried to suck him through your own breaking point, but the pleasure ripped through you too fast. Too big. Too much.

You popped off him again with a sharp cry of his name, your voice trembling with the sharp edge of bliss as your body pitched forward and then slammed back against his mouth. And oh, God. The orgasm hit you like an explosion. A full-body detonation—hot, electric, dizzying—rolling through your limbs in crashing waves. Your clit throbbed wildly against the slapping drag of his tongue, so sensitive, so impossibly stimulated you could hardly breathe. You gasped, moaned, whined his name like it was all you knew. Your free hand scrabbled for purchase on his thigh, your knees threatening to collapse, hips twitching with each tremor of pleasure ripping through you.

Zayne held you there. His arms locked around your hips like iron, anchoring your body down against the fervent press of his face. He smothered himself in you—moaning low, like your orgasm was the most sacred thing he’d ever tasted. He licked you through it, every pulse, every flutter, every shudder that tightened and rolled over his tongue. He loved it. He breathed it. He kissed your pleasure like prayer.

Only when your body started twitching—sensitive now, trembling from overstimulation—did he relent. His lips left your clit with a slow, reverent drag and traveled to your inner thighs, laying soft, open-mouthed kisses against the flushed skin as you tried to catch your breath. You were a mess. Hot. Trembling. Still pulsing with aftershocks as you came down in a haze of bliss. But it wasn’t over for you. Not even close.

You reached down with shaking hands and took him back into your mouth, still wild, still hungry. Your breath came hot and broken as you sucked him deep—your tongue lapping at his shaft like he was your only source of oxygen. You wanted him to feel what he gave you. You wanted him to lose it in your mouth. You were greedy now. Mindless. But Zayne was hanging on by a thread. He panted, hips jerking against your mouth as your tongue swept over the sensitive head again. His thighs flexed, his abs clenched, and you could hear the way his composure frayed with every stroke of your lips.

“No more,” he breathed, voice tight, wrecked, his hands sliding to your hips in warning. He tapped once. Twice. Desperate, “you’ll make me finish…!”

You ignored him. Completely. Instead, you took a deep, slow suck of him—your mouth hot and velvety as it sealed around his length, dragging back with a wet slurp that pulled a strangled, broken sound from Zayne’s throat. His fingers gripped tighter into your skin, sinking into the swell of your hips with a desperate squeeze.

“Stop being so greedy…!” He huffed, breath hitching, the edge of control fraying in his voice.

He leaned forward just enough to nip at your ass, his teeth grazing the soft flesh in a desperate warning. You jumped with a giggle that vibrated over his cock, making him twitch so hard it nearly made you laugh again.

“Otherwise you’ll have to wait for me to recover,” he muttered, trying to sound stern, failing miserably with the flush of arousal coloring his cheeks, “and we both know how impatient you—”

“—Fine!” you cut him off, laughing breathlessly as you finally let him slip from your lips with a wet pop, his cock falling against his abdomen—shiny, flushed, and twitching with every beat of his heart.

You reached for your discarded shirt, swiping it across your mouth and fingers with a rough wipe. But instead of dismounting like a so-called good girl, you straddled him with that familiar glint in your eyes and wiggled your hips down over the perfect seat of his face. A slow, bratty grind.

“Then you can keep eating my pussy,” you purred, your hands finding his chest—palming the warm muscle there before giving one of his nipples a playful little pinch, watching the twitch of pleasurable surprise that jolted through him beneath you, “I’ll just be greedy in another way.”

You knew what that did to him. Of course Zayne was more than okay with that. He was made for that. If satisfying you meant he had to hold back his own climax, if he had to lie there and let you use his mouth until your body melted into bliss—he welcomed it. No—he thrived on it. He took it as a privilege. A sacred offering. A kind of worship that filled him fuller than orgasm ever could. And sure enough…

“Mhmm…” He hummed beneath you, the sound low and approving, “with pleasure…”

His hands wrapped around your thighs, his grip firm as he guided your weight down, shifting you until your slick heat was spread perfectly over his mouth. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t tease. He dove in. Your jaw fell open as the first lap of his tongue swept across your soaked folds—slow, dragging, reverent. He licked you like a man granted the first taste of heaven. His mouth sealed over you like he wanted to get drunk on your afterglow, your slick, your sensitivity.

You gasped, body jerking in response. Too much. Too good. You were still trembling from your last orgasm, your thighs slick, skin flushed, sensitive—and now his tongue was coaxing you all over again, lighting your nerves back on fire with every tender swirl, every purposeful flick. You gripped his scarred forearms for anchor, melting into the strength of him, the unshakable steadiness that held you together while he unraveled you again.

You rocked—slow, instinctive, chasing his rhythm as your hips moved against his mouth. His hands tightened, guiding your motion, his tongue leading your body like a dance. You followed. You let yourself melt into it, your back arching, nipples hardening, breath catching in your throat.

“Zayne…” You sighed his name like a breathless benediction, your voice laced with awe and arousal as you looked down through your lashes, “oh, God!”

The sight of him between your thighs made your stomach twist with heat—his mouth buried beneath you, tongue stretching up from behind to sweep in long, flattened strokes over your clit. Each lick made your core jolt. Made your thighs twitch. Made your breath hitch. You could feel the devotion in every lap of his tongue, in every hum of satisfaction that purred from deep in his throat as he tasted you like you were ambrosia. His hands roamed your thighs—broad palms sliding over flushed, trembling skin—while his nose nuzzled deeper, his mouth moving in steady, sultry rhythm. His cock sat heavy and neglected against his abdomen, still thick, still hard as stone, flushed a dark pink and glistening at the tip. He hadn’t touched himself once. And yet…He was panting. Starving. Not for his own release—but for yours.

“I-I think you’re the greedy one, baby…” You breathed, watching the sheer zeal in his every movement, the unrestrained hunger that pulsed through the way he breathed you in, “God, eat me up, just like that…!”

You reached for his hands. Pulled them up your body, guiding them to your chest, where your nipples ached for touch. You placed his palms over your breasts, and Zayne let out a groan—low, unrestrained—as his fingers curled instinctively around the soft weight of you. He squeezed. You gasped. Zayne was unlike any man. His lust didn’t live in your appearance—it lived in your need. It lived in the way your body responded to his touch, the way your mouth fell open for him, the way your voice trembled when you begged. He didn’t worship the shell of you. He worshipped the soul of you. The emotion. The pleasure. The way you wanted him. The way you melted for him.

“Honey, don’t stop…” You whimpered, your breath catching on the crest of a moan as his tongue pressed deeper, firmer. The strokes were unrelenting now—wide drags that left your clit buzzing, your core clenching, your limbs trembling under the growing pressure.

He pinched your nipples—just enough. Just the right amount of sting to crack your composure. You gasped, the sound spilling from your lips raw and broken as your body jolted from the shock of pleasure that blossomed through your limbs, tingling and hot and addictive.

“P-please,” you stuttered, your hips beginning to buck in tiny, frantic thrusts, your body chasing every motion of his tongue, desperate for more.

You looked down again—looked past the flushed peaks of your breasts, past your stomach still fluttering with each breath—and there he was. His chin entirely slicked. Face buried. Mouth worshipping. Tongue lapping over your clit with rhythmic purpose, so devoted, so maddeningly focused, that you felt the next climax begin to build—the sparks already flickering behind your eyelids.

“Zayne!” You cried out, your fingers flying to his scarred hands, clutching tight as you arched into him.

You were unraveling. Panting. Moaning. Clutching his fingers tighter into your breasts like they were your only tether to earth. Your head tipped back as your breath shuddered out of you, mouth parted, lashes fluttering against flushed cheeks. Your eyes rolled to the ceiling in helpless surrender, unable to look anywhere but up—up, as if the pleasure was lifting you out of your body entirely.

Each breath you took stoked the fire higher. Each flick of his tongue wound your core tighter. You were climbing. Climbing. Tension snapped through every muscle, inch by aching inch, your entire body curling inward as your insides cinched tighter and tighter toward breaking. One twitch. Two. Three. Then—snap.

“Damn it, Zayne!” you cried out, his name pouring from your throat like a psalm, bursting past your lips in a rush of gasping, shaking, feeling, “I’m cumming again!”

Your thighs clamped around his ears, but it didn’t matter. The sounds that followed were unstoppable. A symphony of your unraveling. A squeal. A moan. A choked gasp. A series of soft, whimpering cries, each one a different note of the same song—your ecstasy, played out like an aria right there in his living room. And Zayne—God, Zayne—drank in every note. He didn’t stop until he had everything. Until your thighs were quaking, your breaths reduced to hiccuping sobs of pleasure, your entire body limp and pulsing and done. Only then did he relent. Only then, at the edge of his own restraint, did he release you from his tongue’s final kiss.

Your limbs were useless—your knees jelly, your chest rising in uneven breaths—as he eased you back, gently guiding your trembling body down with reverent hands. He took your hands in his. Lifted you. Moved with you. And carefully, lovingly, flipped you onto your back, lowering you onto the couch like you were something sacred. Something holy. A gift too fragile to be mishandled even now.

Zayne’s face was flushed, drenched with your slick, glowing with satisfaction as he reached for a discarded shirt and wiped himself clean—slow, breath shaky, heart pounding just as hard as yours. Then he climbed over you. Eager. Unsteady with need. He nestled himself between your thighs, his body slotting into yours like a perfect, natural fit—like your trembling limbs had always been meant to cradle him. And then he kissed you. Messy. Deep. Hungry. And you tasted yourself on his tongue, felt your own saltiness between your lips as he devoured you slowly. Your scent was on him. Your heat was in him. He smelled like you. He tasted like you.

“I want to be inside of you,” he whispered against your lips—his voice husky, urgent, thick with emotion. The heat of it spilled into your mouth, tangled in the kiss you couldn’t stop chasing.

His fingers buried into your hair like he couldn’t let go. Like he wouldn’t. You pulled him down harder. Fistfuls of his hair, of his jaw, his shoulder—you didn’t care. Anything you could hold. Anything to drag him deeper into you. To fuse his body to yours. To disappear into him until you didn’t know where your skin ended and his began.

“Just…” He exhaled, shifting his hips with slow precision, aligning himself with a tremble, “…Be one with you.”

And then, your breath caught. So did his. Your nails curled into the meat of his shoulder as he pushed forward. Slowly. Deliberately. Stretching you open with a slick, gliding pressure that left you gasping into his kiss. His cock slipped deeper, deeper, parting your insides with aching tenderness until your walls wrapped tight around the thick, pulsing heat of him. You both whimpered at once. Mouths still clinging to each other. Breaths stuttering. Bodies curling inward.

You clutched at him. Clung. Your thighs trembled before they locked around his waist—pulling him in until there was no space left. No air. No separation. Until his cock was buried to the hilt, thick and throbbing and perfect, your legs wrapped tight, your core stretching to accommodate every inch. And then—Stillness.

You both froze, locked together, nothing moving but the pulse between your bodies where you were joined. His chest pressed to yours, hearts pounding against one another, thumping in desperate harmony. You exhaled together. The same breath. The same ache. You didn’t even register the crack of lightning as it split the sky behind the glass. Didn’t hear the downpour on the windows. The storm was nothing—gone—not when Zayne was inside you like this. Not when he overtook every sense, every cell, every thought in your body. You didn’t feel the room. The blanket. The couch.

You only felt him. The heat of his skin. The rhythm of his breath. The sacred weight of him, filling you, fusing with you like you were never meant to be two separate beings at all. Just one. No end. No beginning. Just love. He pulled back from your kiss just enough to look at you—really look at you—his lips flushed, his breath warm across your face. And then you saw it. His eyes. Endless green. Unfathomable depth. And pure, unshielded emotion. That was your universe. Your world. Your everything—right there in your hands, on top of you, inside of you. His gaze poured into yours, like he wanted to memorize the shape of your soul.

“I love you,” he whispered, the words shaped against your lips, warm and trembling, as his thumb swept gently over the flushed heat of your cheek. His gaze was so deeply fixed into yours, pupils blown wide and glassy with emotion, as if he’d completely lost himself in you and had no desire to find the way back, “more than life itself…”

And then he kissed you again—slow and consuming, the kind of kiss that didn’t just press mouths together but pulled souls into collision. His hips moved with it, drawing back until only the aching tip of him stretched you, just to slide back in with devastating depth. The plunge made you gasp into his mouth, your spine arching to meet him with a soft cry, your legs cinching tighter around his waist, locking him in, as if your body feared he’d leave before your heart could catch up. Your hands found the breadth of his back, fingers digging in with instinct, clinging to the solid muscle of him like he was your anchor and you were already adrift.

“I love you,” you breathed, the words shaking into his kiss, trembling with everything you couldn’t say fast enough, “s-so damn much—”

He thrust again, cutting your words short with a kiss that stole your breath, and everything else—your thoughts, your sense of time, the storm outside, even your name. All of it vanished in the heat between you, in the sweet stretch of him inside you, in the wet slick of skin against skin and the pressure building unbearably in your chest. There was no room for anything but him. Just Zayne—above you, inside you, around you—his breath tangled with yours, his rhythm deep and sure, each movement rocking you to your core like he was remapping your body with his. You couldn’t think. You couldn’t do anything but feel, the haze of arousal thick in your chest, blinding in your mind, drowning you both in waves of pleasure and unbearable tenderness.

Your breath started to shake. Your moans blurred into whimpers. You blinked against the sting behind your eyes, but it was no use. The weight of it—the emotion, the connection, the need—spilled out of you in hot, quiet tears before you could stop them. A sob cracked from your throat, soft and sudden, and Zayne felt it the second it left you. He didn’t stop moving. He didn’t speak. He just held you tighter, his lips brushing your temple, his rhythm a steady, grounding heartbeat, like he was trying to love you through every fracture in your soul and rebuild you with his body.

You felt it before you saw it—the faintest upward curve of his lips as he pressed a kiss into the damp trail of tears rolling toward your hairline. A smile not of amusement, but of something quieter, deeper—tenderness. Worship.

“Don’t hold back,” he whispered, the words kissed into your skin like a blessing.

You nodded, trembling, your breath catching as your lungs finally surrendered the air you’d been holding. As if that single exhale gave your body permission to fall completely apart for him. Zayne moved with you, through you, into you—his kisses slow and unhurried as they grazed along your temple, your cheek, the curve of your jaw. He rocked into you with purpose, every thrust a deep, sinfully slow plunge, the smothering weight of his pelvis rolling down against yours as you met him halfway with a hungry grind. You squeezed around him—God, you clutched him—with every slow press of his cock inside, the walls of your body rippling with the unbearable fullness he gave you.

But it wasn’t just your body he filled. It was everything. Your heart, your soul, every empty place in you that had ever longed to be seen was now bursting, overflowing with the heat of him, the love of him, the steady, breath-stealing rhythm of him making you feel like you were the only person that had ever existed in his universe.

A moan escaped your lips—raw, airy, helpless—when he ground harder, the thick slide of skin on skin igniting a rush of heat through your limbs. You reached for him instinctively, your hands finding the tight, sculpted muscle of his back, your nails pressing into his shoulder blades as if you needed something to anchor yourself in the rising tide of pleasure. You didn’t just hold him. You dug in.

Zayne shuddered above you, a sharp breath escaping him as he felt the rake of your nails dragging down his back in a trail of heat and sting. His rhythm faltered—just for a breath—before he responded with a harder thrust, his body answering yours with a sudden urgency. Faster. Deeper. Needier. His eyes found yours—clouded, hooded with heat, pupils dark and drowning. He looked wrecked, lost again in the folds of you, his brow twitching with each tight clench of your body around him. You were coming undone beneath him, your lips parted in silent cries, your lashes fluttering, your brows knitted in exquisite tension as your nails marked him with slow, burning precision.

Zayne let you. He wanted you to. He always let you. There was something in it that quieted the guilt that never fully left him. Something in the sting of your nails that he welcomed—invited—for the two times his Evol had failed him, the two times his power had slipped, the two times you bore the aftermath of what he couldn’t control. But this? This was control. This was love and ache and healing all knotted together in the friction of your bodies. It was you taking back your power with your hands on his skin. It was him surrendering, giving it all over, taking every plea, every scratch, every moan like penance. And it broke something loose in him.

With a sudden, sharp inhale, Zayne’s hips snapped forward, his thrusts picking up with raw fervor, chasing something deeper now—not just your pleasure, but his need to give it, to prove it. That you were safe. That you were cherished. That he would love you through the pain he once caused until the only thing you remembered was this. You. Him. Together. Sacred. And burning.

“God, you’re so good!” Your voice tore from your throat like a cry of surrender, high and breathless, as your neck arched back against the cushion, jaw slack, spine lifting. Your nails gripped desperately into the slick, shifting muscles of his back—his body rolling above you in fierce rhythm, sweat-slicked and searing, “Zayne, it feels so good! More! That feels—! O-oh, baby!”

He winced at your volume, his jaw tightening, but his hips never faltered. If anything, he moved harder. Faster. His thrusts snapped forward with brutal rhythm, each one driving deeper, heavier, more possessive. His pelvis smacked into yours with wet slaps, growing louder and louder in the humid air between your tangled bodies, echoing through the storm-muted room. Your skin clung to his. Sweat glistened between your breasts. Every breath he exhaled came ragged and hot by your ear.

“Show me how good it feels,” he rasped between thrusts, voice barely coherent through the heat clouding his mind, “let me feel it…”

You pried your eyes open, lashes fluttering through the haze, your gaze finding him—God, finding him there, above you, inside of you, wrecked for you. His brows were furrowed, his teeth clenched, the bridge of his nose wrinkled in exquisite tension as his whole body bucked into yours. He looked like a man in freefall, chasing the very essence of you, and you gave it to him willingly—every breath, every moan, every trembling inch.

You brought your hands to his back. And slowly, deliberately, you dragged your nails down his dripping skin. Inch by inch. Scratch by slow, deep, shaking scratch. You felt the way his muscles twitched beneath your touch, felt the long lines welt beneath your fingertips, each one painting a streak of heat across his sweat-drenched back. He shuddered above you, hard, his hips snapping into you with a savage grind that made your mouth fall open around a strangled moan.

“Yes!” He encouraged you, pain and pleasure laced in his breathless voice, “make me hurt, make me feel—Shit!”

You watched him through it—watched the pain flicker behind his clenched eyes, watched how he welcomed it, how he ached for it. He wanted to take it from you. Take everything. Your pain, your pleasure, your grief and desire. All of it. All of you. And you gave it. Every line you carved. Every sound you made. You clutched him like your body had forgotten how to exist without his—wrapped your arms around his shoulders, your legs tight around his waist, as if to keep him in your very core. As if to lock him inside your soul. Because that’s what it felt like. Like he was reaching so deep inside of you, you could feel him in your chest. Your lungs. Your mind.

Every time his cock slammed into you, it wasn’t just pleasure—it was a wildfire. A consuming, mind-erasing, reality-shattering euphoria that left you speechless, trembling, undone. And Zayne felt it too. His expression was unguarded, open, devoted, the way he looked down at you through his own haze of heat and emotion—like you were the center of the earth and he was willing to fall through the crust to reach you.

He pounded into you with a rhythm that was no longer controlled, voice low, husky, desperate, “you look so beautiful taking me…!”

It was hungry. Needy. Each thrust lifted your hips off the cushions, your body bouncing beneath him, your lips parted in a cry you couldn’t finish because the next one was already forming. You were melting beneath him, soaked, swollen, possessed by him. Your brain was hot. Your skin was on fire. Your breath ragged. And all you could do—all—was cling to Zayne and ride the wave until it destroyed you both.

“I’m gonna cum,” you whined tightly as heat boiled up your throat. Your fingers clawed at the expanse of his back, desperate for something to anchor you as your body bowed like a drawn bowstring, trembling and taut. Every muscle in you was pulled tight with unbearable tension, until it snapped—shattering you into convulsions of molten heat and quivering release, “oh my God, Zayne!”

He held you through it, arms a cage around your writhing form, his hands sinking possessively into your backside as you came undone. The storm of your climax soaked him in waves—slick heat spilling across his groin, his thighs, the ridges of his stomach, until his entire lower half was dripping in the proof of your euphoria. He groaned—low, guttural, reverent—not in protest, but in awe, as though he could drown in the sensation of your pleasure and gladly lose himself there.

“Cum with me,” he rasped against your ear, voice hoarse with urgency, his breath stuttering like he was falling, no—plummeting—with you.

And then he did. Your name escaped him like a sacred thing, a broken moan cast into the dark as his body surrendered. He buried himself in you with a desperate final thrust, hips trembling as he spilled into the trembling clutch of your walls, the silken suction milking every drop from him. His release came in thick, searing pulses, rope after rope of molten heat that painted you deep, until the only thing between you was the sound of wetness and breathlessness and the fragile tremble of limbs.

His forehead dropped to yours, a soft, shuddering moan leaking from his lips and into yours, raw with pleasure, with devotion. His entire body quaked, caught in the aftershocks of bliss as your essence still clung to his skin, his thighs, his cock, slick and decadent. Zayne collapsed atop you like a felled star—spent, trembling, and gloriously undone. His weight pressed you into the couch, a delicious kind of smothering you welcomed with open arms, wrapping yourself around him like he was the very air you breathed. His heart thundered against your chest, a wild, erratic rhythm you could feel through every inch of skin that still pulsed with afterglow. And yet, after a lingering moment of heavy silence and shared breath, he rolled gently to the side, just enough to let you inhale fully again, though his arms never left you. He pulled you close instead, cradling you to the bare heat of his chest like you were precious and breakable.

Both of you panted softly into the stillness, the sound of your mingled breaths the only thing in the quiet dark. Your hand, still unsteady, slid over his slick chest—warm and damp with the heat you’d made together. His skin fluttered under your touch, his heart galloping beneath your palm, and your lips found his shoulder, pressing a soft, reverent kiss into the flushed dampness there. Zayne responded in kind, bowing his head to kiss the crown of your hair. Again. And again. As if the act grounded him, as if he needed to taste your nearness to know this was real.

“Are you okay?” He asked, voice a low whisper frayed at the edges with exhaustion and tenderness. His fingers found your chin, tilting your face up into his. His gaze searched you—drowsy, concerned, warm, like sunlight through sleep-heavy lashes.

You gave him a tired smile and a nod, your arm curling around his back as your fingers ghosted over a welt you’d left behind. He winced—just slightly—and you grimaced.

“Sorry,” you murmured, “sorry, sweetie…Are you okay?”

He caught your hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your bruised knuckles.

“I’m excellent,” he whispered, and it wasn’t just a reassurance. It was truth, spoken with the kind of adoration that made your chest ache.

A soft laugh trembled from your throat—soundless, breathy—as you leaned in to kiss him gently. It wasn’t urgent now. Just grateful. Sacred. You lingered there in the hush between heartbeats, tasting the echo of his sigh as your lips met again and again. Time seemed to slow around you, the silence becoming a cocoon.

Eventually, he helped you sit, moving with that same care he always did when you were fragile and spent. You winced as the shift reminded your body what had just passed between you, and without a word, he tucked a soft shirt beneath your core to catch the warmth still leaking from you. His touch was steady, despite the shake in his limbs. Zayne wrapped you in the dry side of the blanket, dabbing your flushed face with the edge of the fabric like he was tending to something precious.

He got up, only briefly, his naked and glistening silhouette framed in the dim light of the television. From your abandoned movie-night table, he returned with a piece of candy and unwrapped it carefully before pressing it to your lips. You let it melt on your tongue, sweetness blooming over the taste of him still lingering. He took one for himself, then reached for your water, lifting it to your lips like a ritual before drinking from his own.

Without needing to be asked, he busied himself gathering the scattered plushies that had been flung in the throes of your passion. He bent to pick them up, his back painted with countless red traces of your nails—marks carved with devotion, not violence. They caught the flicker of the screen like rose-colored signatures. You watched him with a strange fullness in your chest, your heart aching in the most exquisite way. There was no language for this kind of love. It wasn’t tidy or simple. It was messy and unspoken, scrawled in scratch marks and flushed cheeks and the soft sound of plastic crinkling as he straightened a plush and set it just right.

“Zaynie,” you called softly, your voice laced with a sleepy smile.

He turned, eyes already warm as they found yours.

“Will you read me a bedtime story tonight?”

There was a pause—only a breath’s worth—before the corner of his mouth curved and he crossed the room in easy steps, settling beside you again with the kind of smile that only ever belonged to you.

“Of course,” he murmured, brushing a stray hair from your temple before he kissed you.

[hppylaw]

Hello!!! i hope you're doing well! if you have a lot of requests in your inbox you can ignore this!! no pressure to write it!! can i request a Law fic? i know you don't write smut but can it be a little bit spicy? Nothing detailed obviously!! just Law trying to act calm and collected but is obvious he's acting more shy and like a nervous mess when kissing gets more heated with reader. it's fine if you don't want to write it don't worry!! have a nice dayy!! :)

Under the Surface

trafalgar law x gn!reader

a/n: I love a challenge (to try write smut and fail), hope you like it lmao

tags: spicy, teasing, flustered law, tension, crew banter, light NSFW, suggestive, no graphic body part descriptions

word count: 3.6k

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The crew is loud tonight. Everyone’s packed around the long dining table on the Polar Tang, plates full, drinks flowing, and stories getting more ridiculous by the minute.

You’re sitting beside Law, who is trying to act like he’s above it all, sipping quietly from his cup, gaze half-lidded like he’s bored. He’s not laughing. Not even smirking.

But you are. Because you know exactly what your hand is doing under the table.

He flinched the first time your fingers brushed along his thigh. Now he’s breathing slow and controlled, jaw locked, pretending like he’s listening to Shachi’s story about how Bepo fell off a crate trying to do a handstand.

You lean closer to Law, voice light “You okay?”

“I’m fine…” he says, through gritted teeth.

Your fingers trail higher, slow circles through the fabric of his pants. His leg twitches.

“You look a little tense, Captain” you whisper, eyes still on your plate.

“Y/N…” he warns low, barely audible.

But you ignore him and laugh at Penguin’s joke like nothing’s happening, even grabbing your drink and joining in the toast. Your hand keeps working slow, barely touching now, more suggestion than pressure. Just enough to drive him insane.

Law’s back is straight as a sword, fingers digging into his knee under the table. His other hand is still on his cup, but he hasn’t taken a sip in minutes.

Then comes the first comment.

“Captain,” Bepo says with a concerned look “Are you okay? You’re, um… kind of red.”

“I’m fine” Law mutters.

“You sure?” Shachi leans in “You’re sweating. Kinda a lot.”

“I said I’m—”

“Do you have a fever?” Penguin asks, already reaching for Law’s wrist “We should check your pulse.”

“Don’t!” Law snaps, jerking back so fast his chair scrapes the floor.

Everyone freezes. The whole table goes silent.

You slowly take a bite of your food, hiding your grin behind your fork.

“Damn,” Shachi blinks “Touchy much?”

Law’s face is flushed. He stands stiff, like he’s about to either scream or teleport away with Room. He glares at you from the side, eyes narrow.

You tilt your head innocently “Something wrong, Captain?”

His fists are clenched. You can see he’s this close to snapping. But he’s trying so hard to hold it together.

He mutters something under his breath and storms out of the dining room, black coat covering his body and swishing behind him.

The crew stares.

“…What the hell was that about?” Penguin asks.

You shrug, biting back a laugh “No idea. Maybe he really is sick.”

Bepo frowns “I’ll go check on him.”

You reach out and stop him, gently “Give him a minute. He probably needs to cool down.”

You don’t miss the way your fingers are still tingling. And you definitely don’t miss the way Law looked at you before he left.

He’s going to snap.

You hope he does.

You give it two minutes. Maybe three. Long enough for the crew to stop talking about Law’s dramatic exit and start arguing about who gets the last piece of meat.

Then you grab his untouched plate, lift it like it’s the most innocent excuse in the world, and say, “I’ll take this to the Captain. If he is sick, someone should make sure he eats.”

Bepo nods “Good idea. He doesn’t take care of himself.”

You’re already out the door.

It’s quiet in the hall. The ship hums faintly under your feet. You take your time walking to his quarters, balancing the plate in one hand, other hand in your pocket, still feeling the thrill of earlier buzzing under your skin.

You knock.

No answer.

You open the door slowly. His room is dim, the desk light on, a few papers scattered. But no sign of him.

You hear the faint sound of running water.

Bathroom door: closed.

You smirk and walk up to it, knuckles tapping twice.

“Brought your dinner. Thought I’d check on your pulse myself.”

Silence.

You lean against the door casually “You okay in there, Captain?”

More silence. Then, barely audible over the sink, a frustrated growl.

You grin “Need a hand?”

That’s when it happens.

The door slams open so fast you nearly drop the plate.

Law stands there, hoodie half off, hair a mess, eyes wild. His breathing is heavy, and he looks like he’s been pacing or… well. You’re not sure. But he is definitely not calm.

“You think this is funny?” he hisses, voice low and dangerous.

You blink “A little.”

He steps forward. You step back, the plate pressed between you like a ridiculous shield.

“Don’t play cute” he says, crowding you until your back hits the wall beside the door. His hand comes up, not touching, just near your head, trapping you.

“I’ve been trying,” he grits out, “trying to stay in control.”

Your eyes flick down to his mouth “Not doing a great job, to be honest.”

His breath stutters.

You reach up, brushing your fingers lightly against the bare skin at his waist, where his hoodie’s ridden up.

“Want me to stop?” you ask softly.

His jaw clenches. His whole body is tense, like one more word will shatter him.

But he doesn’t say no.

You lean in just enough to whisper against his ear, “Or do you want me to really mess with you now that we’re alone?”

That’s when he snaps.

He shoves the plate out of your hands onto the nearest dresser (not gently), grabs your face with both hands, and crashes his lips onto yours like he’s been starved.

It’s rough, messy, needy. His fingers dig into your jaw, your hair, like he can’t decide where to hold you. He kisses like he’s furious about wanting you this much.

And you love every second of it.

When you finally pull back for air, he’s still breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours.

“Happy now?” he mutters.

You smile, wicked and breathless “Getting there.”

After the kiss, Law pulls away like he just remembered who he is.

Like kissing you was a lapse in judgment and now he’s got to put the walls back up again.

He takes a breath, straightens his hoodie, walks past you like nothing happened, and picks up a book from his desk. Calm. Composed. Like he didn’t just kiss you like he was going to lose his mind.

He sinks into the couch beside the bed and flips the book open, one leg crossed over the other. Eyes on the page. Completely still.

“Seriously?” you ask, staring at him.

He doesn’t look up “I have work to do.”

You blink “You kissed me like you were starving and now you’re pretending a book is more interesting?”

“I didn’t pretend anything” he mutters. Still not looking at you.

That’s when you walk over, slow.

You stand in front of him, reach down, and snap the book shut, sliding it clean out of his hands before he can react.

“Hey—”

You drop the book on the table, then climb onto his lap like you belong there. His hands lift instinctively but hover near your hips like he’s not sure where to touch.

You straddle him, close enough to feel the way his breath catches in his throat.

“Still trying to act calm?” you murmur, voice low.

His hands land on your waist finally, warm and tense “Y/N…”

You lean in and kiss him harder this time. Deep. Like you’re calling him out with every second your lips stay on his. And just like before, he starts out trying to stay in control. Soft pressure. Careful lips.

But he slips.

Again.

His hands grip tighter. He kisses you back with that same hungry tension, but there’s something different this time, he’s not quite in control of it anymore. His breath is ragged, his movements uneven, and when your tongue brushes his, he actually lets out the softest sound, almost a whimper, and freezes like he didn’t mean for it to happen.

You pull back just enough to speak.

“You always this quiet when you’re hard?”

His eyes widen slightly. You feel it… solid and pressing against you now, through the fabric between you. No hiding it.

He tries to speak, but nothing comes out right away.

You roll your hips once, slow. Deliberate.

“Ah, dammit” he exhales, barely above a whisper, eyes fluttering shut for half a second.

You grin “Still fine, Captain?”

“I swear to god—” he mutters, voice cracking halfway through it.

You lean down, lips brushing his neck now, right by his ear “You’re shaking.”

His grip on your waist tightens. But his body’s betraying him as his hips are twitching like he wants more, even as he tries to stay still.

You kiss him again, slower now, but deeper. And when you grind against him just right, you feel him gasp against your mouth, tiny, quiet, desperate.

He’s trying so hard not to lose it.

You’re not going to let him win.

You slow the kiss, soften it just a little.

Less teasing now. Less push, more pull. Your hands move up his chest, under the fabric of his hoodie, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. He’s still tense, still trembling slightly under your touch, but he lets you guide him.

Your fingers trail up, and you reach for the hat.

“Wait—” he mutters, voice tight, hands twitching like he might stop you.

But you already have it in your hand.

You pull his hat off gently and set it aside, only to freeze the moment your eyes meet him.

His black hair is a mess. Fluffy in a way it should never be allowed to look. Slight curls at the ends from being under the hat too long, with a few messy strands of white near his temples that make your chest ache.

He looks younger like this. Softer. More human. But somehow, hotter too, like the sharp edges of Law are finally undone and all that’s left is a man trying too hard to keep his control.

And failing.

You blink hard “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“What?” he says, confused.

You run a hand through his hair, slow and almost dazed “You’re not allowed to look like this. Not after everything.”

His brow furrows “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I just remembered you’re too hot without the hat,” you mutter, almost annoyed “Now I’m the one losing focus.”

Law’s breath hitches. His eyes lock on yours like you just handed him a weapon.

Then he moves.

His hands come up, not rough, not rushed. Just decided. He touches the hem of your shirt and looks at you for permission.

You nod once, and he slowly pulls it up and off, letting it fall somewhere on the floor.

His eyes roam across your chest, hungry, quiet, intense.

The calm breaks again but differently this time.

He touches your waist first, then up your back, like he’s memorizing you with his hands. Then he kisses you again, softer than before, but deeper. Like he’s trying to thank you. Like he’s finally giving in, really giving in.

You feel his lips part against yours, his hands sliding up your sides, his breath ragged but quieter now with no more pretending. No more distance.

You’re not the only one losing focus anymore.

You don’t notice when the pace changes.

One moment it’s heavy breathing and hunger and heat between your bodies, and the next it’s different. Not cooler. Not less. Just… softer.

Law kisses your neck, slow and warm, like he has all the time in the world now. His fingers trail across your sides, not grabbing, not greedy anymore, just feeling you. Mapping you out gently, as if you might disappear.

His lips move up along your jaw, brushing your skin in the most delicate way, and you feel your breath catch but not because it’s hot, but because it’s him. All of him. Here.

“You always kiss like this?” you whisper, voice quieter now.

“No,” he murmurs, his lips pressing just under your ear “Only with you.”

You blink hard, your throat tightening at that. He keeps going. Your shoulders, your collarbone, your chest… each kiss slower than the last, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you with his mouth.

You tilt your head back and close your eyes.

Your hands move too, soft now, touching the hem of his hoodie again. You lift it carefully, and he lets you pull it over his head without a word.

His bare skin is warm under your palms, and when your fingers trace his tattoos, he shudders slightly, leaning into your touch.

“You act like this is the first time” you whisper.

“It feels like it,” he says, eyes meeting yours “Every time it’s with you.”

You swallow hard.

You reach for his pants. He stops you, just for a second, but not to push you away, but to undo the button himself. Then he leans forward, brushing a kiss across your stomach, your ribs, your chest again. It’s so soft it almost hurts.

You slide off his lap just enough to push your own pants down, and he follows your lead, hands trailing after yours like he doesn’t want to lose contact for a second.

You laugh softly, breathless “What happened to you being in control?”

His lips twitch into a ghost of a smile “You happened.”

Then he pulls you back in, chest to chest now, nothing between you but heat and skin and the kind of quiet tension that no longer needs teasing.

You run your fingers through his hair again, tugging gently. He groans against your throat, and your lips find his shoulder, biting just enough to make him hiss.

Soft, but still testing.

Still challenging.

His hands slide down your back, fingers curling around your hips “You keep doing that and I’m not staying soft for long.”

“Good…” you whisper into his skin.

The way he kisses you suddenly has more weight. Less caution, more need.

His hand slides up your back, slow and firm, guiding you closer. His breath is shaky, but not unsure. Not anymore.

You grind against him, gently at first. Testing.

He gasps against your lips, his hands gripping your hips tighter.

You lean back just enough to look at him. His eyes are half-lidded, mouth parted, flushed in the cheeks. Hair wild, jaw tight. He looks… wrecked. And you haven’t even really started yet.

“I’m not gonna last if you keep doing that” he mutters, voice low, rough.

You kiss him again, harder now, lips colliding with a heat that’s no longer slow or soft. Your bodies move with purpose, hips rolling together, bare skin brushing bare skin in a way that makes the air feel thick.

You can feel him hard and aching against you. There’s no hiding it, not with the way your hips press flush together, not with the way his hands keep trying to ground himself on you.

You rock forward again, and he groans into your mouth. His hands grip harder, trying to stay in control but you know he’s not. Not really.

“Y/N,” he breathes “If we… if you… are you sure?”

You nod without hesitation “I’ve never been more sure.”

He swallows, looking at you like you’re something holy. Then he kisses you again, deep and slow and full of everything he’s been holding back.

And then, finally, he moves.

Bodies shifting. Skin gliding.

The heat between you doesn’t explode, it builds. It rises like a wave, drawn out and aching. His body moves against yours with slow, careful rhythm at first, testing the pace, then faster when your moans start to slip past your lips, when your nails dig into his back, when his name leaves your mouth in a whisper that breaks him.

“Say that again.” he gasps.

“Law…” you breathe, over and over.

He buries his face in your neck, his rhythm faltering as the pleasure overwhelms him, and you both feel getting closer, faster, hotter.

There’s nothing but the sound of skin and breath, the warmth of the sheets beneath you, and the quiet gasps and soft moans you both try and fail to hold back.

When both of you reach that edge and fall over, it’s not loud or wild. It’s intimate. Raw.

It’s the kind of release that leaves your body trembling and your heart pounding, tangled together with nothing but skin, breath, and the way his forehead rests against yours after like he’s still trying to catch up to what just happened.

You stay like that for a long time.

No words. Just warmth.

Just him.

Just you.

The next morning Law is back to being Law.

Or at least, he’s trying to be. Hoodie back on. Hat in place. Expression neutral. Calm, cold, distant.

Except for the fact that he’s in the kitchen. Holding two plates of breakfast.

And everyone is staring at him.

Penguin squints “Wait. Since when do you eat two breakfasts?”

“I’m not” Law replies, turning to leave.

Shachi tilts his head “But you have two plates.”

“I know” Law snaps, not even turning around.

“So why are you—hold on. Aren’t you the one who stormed off yesterday?” Shachi says, poking his arm “You were red. And sweaty.”

“And kind of scary” Bepo adds helpfully.

“I wasn’t sick,” Law mutters through gritted teeth “I’m fine.”

Shachi eyes the second plate again “Then who’s that for?”

Law pauses. His grip on the tray tightens.

“Y/N.”

The room goes quiet.

Penguin blinks “Y/N’s not here?”

“They’re in my room.”

Another pause.

Shachi frowns “Wait, why’re they in your room?”

Law’s eye twitches “I’m taking care of it.”

Bepo tilts his head “So they’re sick now?”

“No... I mean... yes... kind of.” Law growls under his breath “I’m the doctor, okay?”

He storms out with the tray before anyone can ask anything else.

The silence lingers for half a beat.

“…Wait,” Shachi says slowly, turning to the others “Why’d he bring Y/N to his room?”

“Yeah,” Penguin nods “When I’m sick, he makes me stay in the infirmary.”

Bepo blinks “He brings me medicine and tells me to hydrate.”

There’s a beat.

Then, from across the kitchen, Ikkaku slaps a hand to her face “Oh my god.”

Shachi turns “What?”

She smacks him on the head.

“Idiot. They’re not sick-sick. They just... read the room, idiots!”

Realization hits like a brick.

Penguin gasps “Wait. Are you saying Law and—?”

Shachi’s jaw drops “That’s why he was all weird yesterday!”

Bepo covers his mouth, ears turning pink “O-Oh. I didn’t realize—should we pretend we don’t know?”

Ikkaku groans “Yes. If you value your life, yes.”

Back in Law’s room, you’re still curled up under the blanket, smug and sore in all the right ways.

The door opens.

He walks in without a word, sets down the tray, and starts fussing like you’re actually sick. Water. Tea. Pillow adjustments. Avoiding eye contact.

You raise an eyebrow “You good, Captain?”

His ears are red.

“I’m fine,” he mutters “Eat your food.”

You bite back a grin “Did they say anything?”

“No,” he says too fast “Shut up and eat.”

You stretch slowly under the blanket, smirking “Should I pretend I’m sick?”

He shoots you a warning glare.

You just laugh “You’re really bad at this whole ‘calm and collected’ thing, y’know.”

He glares harder.

But when you reach for the tea and brush your fingers against his, he doesn’t pull away.

You smile softly at him as he sits next to you to eat together.

[hppylaw]

ARTSY BLOBBU I MISS U SO MUCH ALREADY

[hppylaw]

Creative block

Synopsis: When a famous artist with a bratty streak offers to help you overcome your creative block, lessons in art quickly spiral into lessons in ruin...and neither of you is really ready to handle the masterpiece you make of each other.

Content warnings: Explicit sexual content, bratty dynamics, praise kink, dominance/submission themes, rough sex, sexual overstimulation, body worship, unprotected sex, filthy language, professor/teacher-student (not really) vibes, professor rafayel, desperate whiny begging, bratty professor energy, messy oral (receiving and giving), hair pulling, neck biting, rough handling (consensual), biting and marking.

Pairings: Rafayel x reader

Word count: 20k

A/n: saw some very sinful art of professor rafayel...and it sent me spiraling immediately. one glance at that art and my last braincell packed its bags and left the chat. I blacked out and this fic happened because apparently I need him biblically. no thoughts behind my pretty eyes, really...

You never meant for it to turn into this aching sort of warfare between your heart and your hands. The dream had always been there, a seedling of hope pressed somewhere behind your ribs, whispering that you were meant to create. But lately, that dream had begun to rot. No matter how tightly you clutched a brush, no matter how long you sat before a canvas, nothing would come. 

Your skills were roguish at best, shaky lines and uneven shadows, a half-hearted mockery of the things you had once envisioned so vividly inside your mind. Inspiration evaded you like a cruel mirage, shimmering and mocking just beyond reach.

It was Tara who first mentioned him. "You need something brutal," she'd said, swirling her coffee like she was conjuring a spell. "Someone who’ll either tear you apart or drag that brilliance out of you, kicking and screaming."

And so you found yourself here, at the back of a lecture hall that didn't look anything like the cold, sterile classrooms you’d grown used to. No, Rafayel's domain was different. All soft lighting, worn wooden floors stained with the ghosts of old projects, and canvases perched haphazardly against the walls like abandoned love letters.

Rafayel himself refused to call it a class. "I’m not a professor," he'd scoffed on the first day, smirking in a way that made your stomach lurch. "I’m your last bad decision before you figure out what the hell you’re actually made of."

He was cocky. God, he was insufferable. But it wasn’t the empty arrogance you’d come to despise in others. No, he had every reason to be. His work was… divine. Every painting he unveiled felt less like pigment on canvas and more like some raw, staggering emotion ripped from his chest and made visible. A deity among mortals, Tara had joked once, and you hated how true it felt when you looked at him. And you did look. More often than you should. 

Most days, you spent half the lecture gnawing on the inside of your cheek, staring at your blank canvas while anxiety wrapped greedy fingers around your throat. A month had passed like that. Thirty days of sitting in the back, pretending you were invisible while he prowled the room, trailing sharp critiques and maddening bits of advice like a storm cloud.

You told yourself you were there for your art. You were already fighting your own losing war against a creative block. You didn’t need a new problem, much less one shaped like him. But Rafayel, it seemed, had a way of finding cracks in even the most fortified walls. And somehow… you had the sinking feeling he’d already started looking.

He hadn’t paid you special attention. Not in the way your nervous, treacherous heart feared. Rafayel moved through the room like he owned it, like he was barely even aware of the bodies orbiting him. He gave sharp, cutting critiques to the ones who needed it, lazy praise to the ones who didn’t, and never spared more than a passing glance in your direction.

But still, some part of you had noticed. On occasion, when your brush hovered an inch above the canvas and your eyes lost their focus, you could feel it. The weight of a glance. Not piercing, not curious but a little more… assessing. Like he could see the struggle gnawing at your insides even when you tried to bury it under casual indifference. Like he knew.

And maybe he did. Because after another two weeks of languishing in the back, another two weeks of clenched fists and tight throats and a canvas that looked more like a battlefield than a painting—he called you out. The words came casually, almost lazily, just as class was ending.

"Stay after," he said, barely glancing at you, like it was a throwaway comment. Like it didn't mean your pulse jumped violently against your ribs.

You blinked, stunned, uncertain you’d even heard him right. But there was no mistaking the way his gaze flicked to you—sharp and undeniable—before he turned away to start packing up his things.

You stayed. Anxiety twisted in your gut as the others trickled out, chattering and laughing as they disappeared into the afternoon sun. Soon, it was just you and him, and the silence that filled the space was almost too heavy to breathe through.

Rafayel leaned lazily against one of the scratched tables, arms crossed, regarding you with a look that wasn’t exactly kind, but wasn’t cruel either. Just… intrigued. Like you were some half-finished sculpture he couldn’t decide if he wanted to destroy or reshape.

"You always sit in the back," he said finally, voice low and infuriatingly amused. "Hiding, is it? Or just pretending you're invisible?"

You stiffened under the scrutiny, unsure whether to bristle or laugh. "I’m not hiding," you said, defensively, immediately hating how small your voice sounded.

"Sure you're not," he mused, pushing off the table with an effortless sort of grace that made your stomach knot. He moved closer, just a step, enough to make the air between you feel charged. "You stare at a blank canvas for an hour straight and then glare at it like it personally wronged you. I'm starting to feel bad for the poor thing."

You opened your mouth, some biting retort struggling to surface, but he cut you off with a crooked smirk.

"You’re blocked," he said, simple and unflinching. Like it wasn’t the single most frustrating truth you’d been trying to outrun for months. "But that's not all of it, is it?"

His gaze sharpened then, not cruel, not mocking, but dangerously observant. Picking you apart without ever laying a hand on you. "You’re not just blocked. You’re scared."

The words hit harder than they should have, like a punch under the ribs. You hated—hated—how accurate it was. And Rafayel, infuriatingly, just smiled like he already knew he was right.

You did what you always did when someone scraped too close to the truth. You deflected. You shrugged, rolling your shoulders in a way you hoped looked casual instead of brittle.

 "Maybe I just like staring into the void," you said dryly, managing a half-smirk. "Very avant-garde, don't you think?"

But Rafayel didn’t laugh. He didn’t so much as blink. He just tilted his head slightly, like he was watching a moth try to wriggle free from a spider’s web, and for a terrifying second, you felt seen in a way that made your skin crawl.

"You’re scared," he said again, voice maddeningly soft. "Of fucking up. Of not being good enough."

You gritted your teeth, something hot and shameful prickling at the back of your throat. God, he was annoying. Arrogant, smirking, too goddamn perceptive for his own good.

"Fine," you bit out, crossing your arms. "I’m scared. Happy now?"

The corner of his mouth lifted, lazy and infuriating. Not cruel, just... amused. Like he’d been waiting for you to admit it and was already six moves ahead.

You hated how much it made you burn. Especially because Rafayel wasn’t some jaded old professor with years of tenure and dusty accolades. You were pretty sure he was close to your age. Maybe two, three years older at most. Yet he stood there, brilliance dripping from his fingertips like it cost him nothing, while you wrestled every day just to put a half-decent line on paper. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. And the worst part was…he didn’t even pity you.

"You’re not broken," he said simply, shoving his hands into his pockets. "You’re just stuck. Happens to everyone. Some people quit when it does. Some people claw their way through it."

You stared at him, breathing harder than you should have been. Waiting for the inevitable—some smug dismissal, a patronizing pat on the head. But instead, Rafayel just shrugged, casual and almost—almost—kind.

"I can help you," he said. No grandeur, no arrogance. Just a fact. Like he was offering you a light in a room you didn't realize was pitch black.

You blinked, caught off guard by how simple it was. How easy he made it sound. You should have said no. You should have said fuck you, and walked away, and clung to whatever pride you still had left.

But instead, you found yourself nodding—small and almost imperceptible—before you could even stop yourself. And Rafayel, predictably, smirked again. But this time, it wasn’t mocking.

The next week, Rafayel said nothing about it. No special glances. No reminders. No smug comments dangling the promise of help. Just the same lazy, chaotic lectures, the same command of the room that made you feel like an afterthought orbiting a collapsing star.

You tried not to feel thrown. You tried to convince yourself it was for the best. That maybe he'd forgotten, or changed his mind, or maybe you had just imagined the whole thing in your pathetic, desperate need for guidance.

But then, one day, after another lecture filled with quicksilver words and half-formed critiques, he called you out again.

"Stay," he said simply, slinging his bag over his shoulder. His voice was low and casual, but there was no room for argument in it.

You lingered again, heart pacing a stupid, clumsy rhythm, as the last of the students disappeared. The familiar weight of being alone with him settled heavy on your chest. This time, Rafayel didn’t move toward you. Instead, he talked.

He spoke about everything and nothing—about color theory and light, about the way a scent could drag you back into a forgotten memory, about how the best art sometimes started with anger or sorrow or things you didn't even understand yourself.

It had nothing to do with painting. At least, that’s what you told yourself. Because his words—his voice, slow and effortless—started stirring something messy and uncomfortable inside you. Like he was reaching into your chest and stirring up dust.

You shifted uncomfortably, arms crossed over your chest, but he didn’t even glance at you. He just pointed to the canvas.

"Sit," he said, not unkindly, but with a command threaded into the word.

Annoyance prickled under your skin. You weren’t a damn puppy to be ordered around, but you sat anyway, jaw tight with resentment you didn’t quite understand.

Rafayel stayed standing a few feet away, hands shoved into his pockets, still talking about subjects that spun in your mind like loose wires—music and the color of regret and the texture of dreams—and you tried to paint. Tried. Tried until your hand cramped around the brush and your mind screamed with frustration.

Nothing came out right. It was all wrong. The canvas stayed stubbornly dead beneath your fingers, and no matter how hard you tried to follow the vague, chaotic thread of his words, you couldn’t catch it.

You bit the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted blood. And then, without a sound, Rafayel moved. You didn’t even hear him cross the room, but suddenly he was there, right beside you, the heat of his body brushing too close without ever quite touching.

He said nothing. No mocking. No scolding. Just silent, oppressive presence, standing close enough that the scent of him—something dark, something clean and sharp like fresh ink and rain—curled into your lungs.

You froze, the brush trembling slightly in your grip. Your heart thundered so loudly you were half-certain he could hear it. Still, he didn’t speak. He just watched. And somehow, that was worse than any critique he could have thrown at you.

It made you want to scream. It made you want to do something reckless, just to break the silence pressing down on you like a storm.

You cleared your throat, desperate to anchor yourself in something—anything—other than the way his presence seemed to crawl under your skin. The brush felt wrong in your hand now, heavier, clumsy. Your mind, already brittle with frustration, teetered on the edge of something worse.

"Could you—" you started, the words sharper than intended, "—not hover like that?" It was supposed to sound annoyed. Dismissive. Strong. Instead, it came out breathless. Weak.

Rafayel didn’t answer with words.  Instead, he moved closer. You stiffened instinctively, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. Without warning, his hand wrapped lightly around yours, long fingers curling over your knuckles, steadying the brush in your grip like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Your head jerked toward him on reflex, stunned, your heart flipping itself inside out. But he wasn’t looking at you. Not even a glance. His gaze stayed fixed on the canvas, lazy and unbothered, as if guiding your trembling hand was just another mundane task to him.

"Too tight," he murmured, voice low and careless. "You’re strangling it. Let it move."

You swallowed hard, but your throat was dry, useless. The heat of him pressed into your side, a steady thrum that made your skin prickle, and you hated—hated—how your body reacted. How your pulse beat faster. How your face burned hotter.

You should have pulled away. You should have snapped at him again, said something, anything, to reclaim even a shred of your dignity. But you didn’t. You just stared at his hand covering yours, steady and deliberate. At the way his fingers curved so easily, so confidently, around the brush and your skin. 

You didn’t even realize how long you’d been staring until the brush in your hand shifted, coaxed by the subtle strength of his fingers.

"Focus," Rafayel said, voice low, absent. Not sharp. Not amused. Just a simple command, spoken like he barely even noticed you were floundering.

You jerked your gaze back to the canvas, heat burning up your neck to your ears, embarrassed at how easily he'd caught you slipping. He didn’t seem to care. He didn’t pull away, didn’t even look at you.

His attention stayed fixed on the painting, on the hesitant strokes you laid down under his guidance. Like you were just another project to him, an unfinished thing he could steer back on course with a few well-placed nudges.

You swallowed hard, the weight of his closeness sinking deeper under your skin. It was stupid, you told yourself. It was nothing. He didn’t even see you, not really. Not the way you feared.

Still, your hand trembled slightly beneath his, and you cursed yourself viciously, willing the feeling away. But Rafayel remained steady, unmoving. Carefully, mercilessly patient. It made you feel small. And worse, it made you want to try harder.

————

The next two weeks unfolded like some kind of slow, exquisite torture. After every class, you stayed. And every time, Rafayel stayed with you. No grand declarations, no special treatment, just the same steady presence, the same maddening patience as he tried to coax something out of you that you weren’t even sure existed anymore.

He never touched you unless absolutely necessary, just the occasional brush of fingers correcting your grip, or a nudge of the canvas when he wanted you to shift your perspective. But somehow... he kept getting closer.

Not obviously. Maybe not even intentionally. A step here. A lean there. A graze of his shoulder as he adjusted the lighting. The low rumble of his voice curling too close to your ear when he spoke.

And you noticed. God, you noticed everything. Every shift of fabric. Every breath against your skin. Every moment where he hovered just a little too long and your body lit up like a live wire, stupid and aching.

It was unbearable. And today, after two goddamn hours of trying to paint something, anything, that didn’t look like absolute shit, you were ready to explode.

The brush in your hand trembled violently. The canvas stared back at you, mocking, cruel. Your chest felt tight, hot with humiliation and fury and the raw, ugly frustration of knowing you weren’t good enough. Not for this. Not for him.

You gritted your teeth so hard your jaw ached, resisting the primal urge to snap the canvas clean in half.

"Hey," Rafayel said softly, a rare thread of concern weaving into his otherwise lazy tone. "Hey, breathe."

Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one drowning in his own failure. You tried to pull away, tried to shut down the whole mess building in your chest. But then his hand came down lightly over yours, stilling your trembling grip.

You froze. And before you could react, he stepped closer, so close you could feel the heat of him at your back, his chest brushing the space between your shoulder blades, his body a solid, steady weight anchoring you to the spot.

His hand remained firm over yours, grounding, the strength of his fingers a silent promise that you weren’t going to fall apart, not if he could help it.

You stopped breathing altogether. The world shrank down to the feeling of his hand, his body, the quiet, steady pulse of his presence pressing against every nerve ending you had.

"You're trying too hard," he murmured, voice low and steady right against your ear. "You're strangling it before it can even breathe."

You squeezed your eyes shut, swallowing a whimper of frustration, or something worse, burning at the back of your throat. Because his should not have felt good. This shouldn’t have made your knees go weak or your heart hammer against your ribs like it wanted out. This wasn’t helpful. It was a goddamn problem. And you didn’t know if you wanted to punch him or drag him even closer.

You found your voice again, but it was brittle, shaking loose from somewhere deep in your chest.

"I’m fine," you rasped out, the lie clumsy on your tongue. "I can’t—" you swallowed, trying to loosen the tight coil in your throat, "I can’t do this."

For the first time, Rafayel stirred against you. Not pulling away. Not letting go. Instead, his grip over your hand tightened, just enough to keep you rooted. Just enough to make it clear you weren’t running from this.

"You can," he murmured, voice low and steady against your ear. "You just don’t believe it."

You opened your mouth to argue, but the words disintegrated when he moved your hand, slow, patient strokes across the canvas, each movement deliberate. And he kept talking. Soft, coaxing words spilling from his lips, guiding you through every line, every brushstroke, as if he could will you into finding your rhythm again.

You squeezed your eyes shut, breathing ragged. Because it wasn’t just the painting anymore. It was him. It was the heat of his chest pressing against your back, the rumble of his voice sliding under your skin, the way every brush of his hand against yours lit your nerves up like wildfire.

Desire coiled low in your stomach, slow and molten, and no amount of desperate denial could smother it. What the fuck are you doing, you screamed at yourself internally. This is not supposed to happen. You’re supposed to be focusing.

But your body betrayed you. You stiffened under his touch, tension slicing through you like a taut wire ready to snap. And Rafayel noticed. Without pausing his words, without so much as a flicker of hesitation, his other hand moved, sliding low, resting firm and steady against your waist.

You shuddered, only slightly, a tremor you might have been able to pass off as exhaustion. But his hand stayed. Warm, solid and certain. He said nothing about it. He didn’t tease and didn’t push. He just kept speaking, that low, even murmur against your ear anchoring you to the moment. Steadying you even as you came apart inside your own skin.

And still, you painted. Blindly. Breathlessly. Every brushstroke guided by the weight of his body against yours, by the hum of his voice threading through your fraying composure.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to run. You wanted to stay exactly where you were and never move again. And Rafayel—calm, maddening, untouchable Rafayel—just kept going. As if he hadn’t already set your entire world on fire without lifting a finger.

You tried. God, you tried to keep still under his hands. Tried to ignore the pounding of your heart, the trembling in your legs, the heat pulsing low and furious in your body. You felt it again, that unbearable tension snapping through your body like a live wire. And this time, he noticed immediately.

"Relax," Rafayel said, low and soft, his mouth so close to your ear that you felt the warmth of his breath ghost across your skin. The command, gentle but unyielding, sent a sharp, electric jolt through you.

Your thighs pressed together instinctively, heat pooling low in your belly so fast and fierce it made your head spin. You tried to steady your breathing, tried to focus on the canvas in front of you, but it was impossible, because he didn’t pull away.

Instead, the hand on your waist shifted. The faintest movement. Fingers grazing under the hem of your shirt, calloused and feather-light against your bare skin, tracing idle patterns that set your nerves ablaze.

At the same time, his other hand remained wrapped around yours, guiding the brush with deceptive patience, as if nothing about this was wrong, as if your body wasn’t betraying you at every turn.

"Rafayel," you choked out before you could stop yourself, his name falling from your lips in a desperate, fractured whisper.

For a heartbeat, he didn’t answer. Then a low hum rumbled from his throat, vibrating against the air between you—acknowledgment without a single word. His breath brushed your neck again, and you swore your knees nearly gave out.

Your hand tightened around the brush, your knuckles whitening under his steady grip. Every nerve ending in your body was screaming, spiraling under the heat of him pressed so close, so solid, so there.

Still, Rafayel kept speaking. Calm and unrushed, as if he wasn’t breaking you apart inch by inch.

"The brush is an extension of you," he murmured, voice slipping down your spine like velvet and smoke. "Don’t force it. Let it move the way you feel."

He spoke like nothing had changed. Like his fingers weren’t dancing just under your shirt, grazing the sensitive skin of your waist. Like you weren’t trembling against him, heat radiating off you in waves.

He never retracted. Never pulled away. Just stayed there, anchoring you, burning you alive from the inside out. You could feel everything, the solid press of his chest against your back, the slow slide of his fingertips at your waist, the way his breath caught lightly against the shell of your ear every time he spoke.

It was maddening. It was exquisite. It was ruinous. And still, somehow, you kept painting.

You couldn’t breathe. Or maybe you’d just forgotten how. Every drag of the brush across the canvas felt detached from you, like your hand didn’t belong to you anymore, because it didn’t. It was wrapped inside his. Firm. Calm. Guiding. Rafayel sat behind you, the steady rhythm of his chest brushing your back, your bodies separated only by the flimsiest thread of restraint.

“Relax,” he murmured near your ear, voice so low it made your skin prickle. “You’re holding it too tight again.”

You swallowed hard, knuckles white where they clutched the brush. His hand adjusted yours gently, his fingers molding over your own with casual, devastating confidence.

“Let it flow,” he said. “Don’t control it. Just let it happen.”

Easy for him to say. He wasn’t coming apart from the inside out. The hand on your waist moved. It wasn’t a conscious thing, not obviously.  His breath curled against the curve of your neck as he leaned in closer, not even pretending to give you space anymore.

“Keep going,” he said, speaking into your skin like a secret. “Don’t stop now.”

You shuddered. The brush trembled in your hand, the paint smearing across the canvas without intention.

“This isn’t working,” you choked out. “I can’t—”

“You can,” he interrupted gently, his voice sinking into your bones. “You already are.”

His fingers pressed a little higher under your shirt, sliding up along your ribs, light and maddening. You gasped, quiet, involuntary, but it echoed in the stillness between you like thunder.

“You’re too in your head,” he continued, ignoring the way you stiffened under him. Or pretending to. “You think too much. Feel more.”

You turned your head just enough to catch a glimpse of him, those glasses perched low on his nose, the rolled sleeves, the cool composure that made you want to scream. He hadn’t looked at you once. Not since this started. His eyes stayed on the canvas like you weren’t falling apart against him.

“This is…” you swallowed, voice ragged. “This is inappropriate.”

His hand didn’t move. His body didn’t shift. But you felt the faintest pull of a smile in his voice when he spoke next.

“Is it?” a single question, soft and infuriatingly calm. It settled in your chest like a stone, heavy and inescapable.

You tried, truly tried to keep your eyes on the canvas. You forced yourself to focus on the movement of your hand, on the soft drag of bristles across the painted surface, on the gentle pressure of his fingers guiding yours. But it was useless.

Because his body shifted behind you, and the solid warmth of his chest pressed closer, hips brushing against the curve of your lower back, deliberate now. Grounding. Intimate.

You sucked in a breath, your spine tensing, back arching ever so slightly without meaning to. Just a reflex, just the smallest surrender to the burn low in your stomach. Behind you, Rafayel hummed, Low and pleased. Like he’d been waiting for that exact reaction.

And then his mouth was on you. Soft. Hot. Slow. His lips pressed a kiss to the base of your neck, barely there, and you gasped—quiet, breathy, the sound catching in your throat before you could swallow it back.

“Keep painting,” he murmured against your skin, the words like silk and smoke as his hand over yours urged the brush forward.

You obeyed. Or tried to. But then his lips returned, this time not soft, not tentative. He kissed your neck again, lower now, mouth open, tongue tracing a slow, maddening path along your skin. He sucked, gently, just enough to pull another gasp from your lips as his breath washed over the sensitive spot he'd found.

Your hand stuttered on the canvas. Still, he didn’t stop. His mouth kept moving, trailing kisses up the slope of your neck, then down again, drawing soft, possessive marks that made your whole body tremble.

His hand moved. Sliding up your side, deliberate and slow, until his palm curved over your chest, fingers splaying gently beneath your shirt. He cupped your breast lightly at first, just the weight of his hand, the heat of him through thin fabric, and then he moved. A subtle roll of his thumb, a delicate squeeze, and your body arched without permission.

A sound slipped from you. Soft. Breathless. Wanting. You moaned quietly and shamelessly. And he felt it. All of it. The way you melted under him, the way your breath hitched and your thighs pressed together and your body gave in despite your mind’s frantic protests.

Behind you, he exhaled—slow and low, like he was just as wrecked as you. But his voice remained steady when it came again, ghosting hot against your ear.

"You want my help?" Rafayel’s voice was rough now, low against your neck, vibrating against your skin. You nodded, barely able to breathe, the brush trembling in your hand.

"Then keep painting," he said, a sharp thread of command weaving through the softness. "Or I stop."

The threat coiled around you tighter than any touch. You dragged the brush forward with a shaky hand, the canvas a blur, your focus shattered into a million useless pieces.

But it didn’t matter. Because he kept his promise. His fingers, still cupping your breast, moved with slow precision—circling, teasing, rolling your nipple between his fingertips until your body strained toward him without thinking.

A gasp shuddered out of you as his mouth returned to your neck—kissing, sucking harder now, dragging his teeth lightly against the delicate skin until your knees nearly buckled.

Your back arched instinctively, pressing you harder into him, desperate for more, and for a moment he allowed it, let you writhe against him, let you feel the evidence of his own unraveling.

Then, slowly, his hand over yours, the one guiding your brush, pulled away. You whimpered at the loss. But it wasn’t long. Not even a heartbeat. Because a moment later, that same hand slid down, tracing a path over your hip, slow and deliberate, and slipped under the hem of your skirt.

You almost dropped the brush. Almost gave in to the way your whole body shook with the need clawing at you. But just before you could falter, he paused. His hand, warm and heavy, rested just beneath your thigh, fingers brushing against bare skin, but stopping there. Not where you needed him.

And God, you were soaked and dripping. The simple proximity of him made your thighs clench, made your whole body scream for something more, something deeper. Still, he didn’t move and didn’t give you what you were aching for.

"You stop," he murmured darkly against your ear, "I stop."

Your fingers clenched tighter around the brush. You forced yourself to paint. Forced yourself to focus, to move, to give him what he asked, because the thought of him pulling away now, leaving you like this, was unbearable.

Satisfied, Rafayel moved again. Slowly, achingly slowly, his hand crept higher under your skirt, pushing the fabric upward, exposing more of your trembling thighs to the heavy, heated air. You could feel the reverence in every movement, the way he took his time, as if savoring every inch of you revealed to him. As if he had all the time in the world to ruin you.

And you would let him. You would let him do anything. As long as he didn’t stop.

The brush moved in your hand, dragging lazy, aimless strokes across the canvas, but you weren’t even pretending to focus anymore. Every ounce of your attention was locked on him, on his mouth at your throat, on his hand under your shirt, on the slow, unbearable pressure building at the apex of your thighs.

You could feel the wet fabric of your underwear clinging desperately to your skin, slick and soaked through, the evidence of your need shameful and aching. Rafayel's hand toyed with the hem of your underwear now, his fingers grazing so close to where you needed him most, but never fully touching. Not yet. Never before you earned it.

“Fuck…” you gasped, the word slipping out as his thumb brushed the thin elastic at your hip, featherlight and maddening. He chuckled low in your ear, not cruel, but devastating in the calm certainty of his voice.

“So wet already,” he murmured, voice dark and rough with want. “You’re dripping for me, cutie.”

The words shattered something inside you. You moaned—soft, helpless—your head falling back against his shoulder as another shudder wracked your body. Still, he didn’t rush. Still, he moved like he had all the time in the world to break you down.

His mouth found your neck again, kissing along the sensitive skin with unhurried precision, nipping, sucking, leaving soft, blossoming marks you would wear like a brand. At the same time, his hand kept playing with your breast, fingers teasing and rolling your nipple between practiced fingertips until you were squirming against him, desperate for something more.

You couldn't take it anymore. You couldn’t hold it back.

"Please," you breathed out, the word trembling on your tongue. "I want you to touch me."

Rafayel’s breath hitched ever so slightly against your skin, the first real crack in his composure, and it sent a fresh wave of heat surging through you.

He didn’t speak right away. Just pressed his body harder against yours, dragging you back into him so that you could feel every inch of him. The thick, hard line of his cock was unmistakable, grinding against the bare curve of your ass where your skirt had been pushed up to your waist.

You whimpered at the feeling, at the thick weight of him pressed against you, the proof of how badly he wanted you just as much. Still, when he spoke, his voice was steady.

"I will," he promised, the words scraping low across your ear. "But you have to keep painting for me."

You whimpered again, weak and wrecked, but your hand kept moving, your body trembling as you dragged the brush across the canvas, blind to whatever you were creating.

Your eyes fluttered half-closed, every breath a broken, desperate thing as Rafayel's fingers finally slipped deeper beneath the hem of your underwear, slow and deliberate. He didn't touch you yet. Just brushed over the soaked fabric, feeling every quiver, every pulse of need inside you.

"You’re doing so good," he murmured, voice a wicked purr against your skin. "Almost there, cutie. Don’t stop now."

And you didn’t. You couldn’t. Because the only thing worse than falling apart for him was the thought of him stopping.

Your hand moved, trembling and desperate, dragging the brush across the canvas in a haze of color and heat. You weren’t even aware of what you were creating anymore, only that you had to keep going. Because every second you obeyed, he rewarded you.

Rafayel’s fingers finally pushed your soaked underwear aside, dragging the thin fabric out of his way with a low, satisfied hum against your skin. And then finally, he touched you.

A slow, deliberate stroke between your folds, back and forth, gathering the slickness there, teasing the swollen ache of your clit with maddening patience.

You gasped, a soft, broken sound, and arched into him, helpless to the way your body betrayed you. Helpless to how badly you wanted more.

"That’s it, cutie," Rafayel murmured against your ear, his breath sending another shiver down your spine. His voice was molten, heavy, wrapping around you tighter than his arms ever could. "Feel it. Don't think…just feel."

His hand on your breast moved with the same slow, cruel precision, fingers toying with your nipple, rolling and tugging just hard enough to make your knees tremble.

"You think too much when you paint," he continued, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke. "Art isn’t supposed to be perfect. It’s supposed to be messy. Wild. It’s supposed to make you lose control."

You whimpered as he circled your clit harder now, relentless and smooth, drawing tight, desperate spirals that made your stomach knot and your thighs clench. Still, your hand never stopped moving. You gripped the brush tighter, painting blindly, breath ragged, eyes half-lidded in a haze of pleasure and need.

"Good girl," he whispered, and the praise shattered something deep inside you, a raw cry building in your throat.

"Such a good girl for me," he breathed again, almost reverent this time. "Keeping those pretty hands working… even while I ruin you."

You moaned helplessly, feeling the coil inside you tighten, higher and higher. Without warning, he slid two fingers inside you. Deep. Curling them expertly against the spot that made your hips jolt, made your breath stutter into something wild and desperate.

You choked on a gasp, nearly dropping the brush—but somehow, you clung to it, painting in uneven, shivering strokes as he fucked you slow and deep with his fingers, dragging you closer to the edge with every thrust, every filthy word in your ear.

"You feel that, cutie?" he murmured, voice thick, filled with something rougher now, something needy. "That’s you. That’s all you."

And you could only nod, could only breathe, could only feel as he pushed you further into madness, his mouth never leaving your neck, his body holding you steady while he unraveled you from the inside out.

Rafayel worked you slowly. Excruciatingly, beautifully slowly. His fingers curled inside you with devastating precision, over and over again, dragging against that aching, tender spot deep inside, coaxing wave after wave of pleasure until you were nothing but trembling nerves and ragged breath.

His mouth never left your skin. He kissed along the side of your neck, slow, open-mouthed, teeth grazing sensitive flesh, before drawing your earlobe between his lips and sucking gently.

You moaned, a desperate, helpless sound, and the brush trembled violently in your hand, the strokes on the canvas becoming wild, senseless scratches of color. Still, you kept painting. You had to.

"You feel that, cutie?" Rafayel murmured against your ear, voice thick, rough, sinful. "The way your body’s responding? The way you can’t even think anymore?"

You gasped, hips jerking helplessly as he quickened the pace of his fingers, fucking you harder now, thrusting deep and curling on every stroke.

"That’s what art’s supposed to be," he continued, voice sinking into you like velvet and smoke. "Not perfect. Not careful. Just raw."

Your thighs quivered, your toes curling in your shoes, everything inside you winding tighter and tighter as the pleasure built maddeningly slow, every stroke of his fingers, every squeeze of your nipple, every filthy word dragging you closer to the edge.

"Let it happen," he whispered. "Don’t fight it, cutie."

You whimpered, your head falling back against his shoulder, baring your throat to him in surrender. Rafayel growled low against your skin, a sound you felt more than heard, and fastened his mouth to your neck, sucking another dark, aching mark into your skin as his fingers plunged harder, faster.

It was too much. It wasn’t enough. You sobbed a breath, hips rocking against his hand, chasing the brutal, beautiful climax he was dragging out of you inch by maddening inch. You came with a cry—soft, broken—your whole body convulsing against him, hand dropping the brush at last, forgotten, as waves of pleasure ripped through you.

You felt yourself clench around his fingers, wetness gushing, slicking his hand, soaking your thighs. You came all over him, helpless and undone. But Rafayel didn’t stop. He kept moving his fingers inside you, slower now, deeper, drawing out every last aftershock, every trembling gasp, every ragged, broken moan you couldn’t hold back.

"That’s it, cutie," he purred, nuzzling into your neck as you panted, as your head lolled back against him. "Messy. Raw. Fucking beautiful."

You whimpered as the overstimulation hit, his fingers relentless, his mouth still hot against your throat, his body pressed tight against your back, anchoring you to him.

"You’re so good for me," he breathed, almost reverent, curling his fingers deeper once more just to feel the way you twitched, the way your breath hitched and your body melted helplessly into him.

"You feel it, don’t you?" he kissed just below your ear, wicked and soft. "You feel how alive you are when you stop pretending."

You moaned again, shaky, broken, your whole body limp and trembling against him, utterly, breathtakingly wrecked. And still, Rafayel held you there. Still, he worked you through every aftershock, every breathless whimper, savoring every second of your collapse like it was his own personal masterpiece.

The moment you caught your breath, barely, you turned. Your hand wrapped around his wrist, urging his fingers to retreat from inside you, and he allowed it with a low, startled gasp, his breath hitching as you crashed your mouth onto his. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It was desperate, hungry, the kiss stealing what little composure either of you had left.

His lips crushed against yours, hot and demanding, as you tasted the salt of your skin on his tongue, the ache of everything he had just done to you burning between you like wildfire. He growled low against your mouth, pulling you backward with him, hands slipping up under your shirt without hesitation, dragging across your bare skin as if he couldn’t get enough.

You fumbled at his belt with trembling fingers, the metal clinking wildly between you as you fought it open, urgency crackling in every ragged breath you shared. Rafayel’s breath was trembling now, for the first time. Uneven, wrecked, but still, still, he found the strength to tease you.

"Cutie," he rasped against your lips, a shaky, wrecked smirk pulling at his mouth, "getting a little impatient, aren’t you?"

You just smiled, wicked and breathless. Your hand slipped down, tugging his pants loose, the fabric falling low on his hips as you pushed him backward into the chair he’d been using before, forcing him to sit.

He looked at you then, glasses slipping low on his nose, hair mussed, his chest rising and falling fast, and there was something almost dangerous in the way he watched you sink slowly to your knees in front of him.

Your palms slid up his thighs, deliberate and slow, feeling the hard, trembling strength beneath your touch. You could feel him, heavy and straining against the confines of his underwear, and it sent another flush of heat pooling deep inside you.

You glanced up at him, your mouth wicked with new confidence.

"You like playing teacher that much," you whispered, voice low and dripping with sin, "then you can teach me this."

Before he could respond, you leaned forward and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the hard, clothed line of him. Rafayel’s whole body jolted, his breath tearing free from his chest in a raw, wrecked sound. His hands gripped the arms of the chair hard enough to whiten his knuckles.

"Fuck—" he choked, low and breathless, his cock twitching beneath the fabric as you kissed him again, slower this time, dragging your mouth along his length with infuriating patience.

Above you, Rafayel’s jaw clenched, his eyes half-lidded behind his slipping glasses as he fought to hold onto what little composure he had left.

"Fuck,” he gritted out, voice cracking deliciously. "If you keep that up…I’m not gonna be able to be gentle with you."

And you smiled, sweet, deadly, because you wanted that. You wanted all of him. And for once, Rafayel looked like he was the one about to come undone.

You licked your lips slowly, tasting the electric charge lingering between you as you steadied yourself with your hands on his bare thighs, fingers digging lightly into his skin, feeling the solid heat of him trembling under your touch.

Rafayel’s eyes darkened instantly, the last shreds of his composure slipping as he watched you with a look so wrecked, so starved, it made your whole body thrum with satisfaction.

Without breaking eye contact, you leaned in closer, grinning wickedly as you caught the waistband of his underwear between your teeth. You dragged it down, inch by slow, agonizing inch, your breath ghosting over the hard, twitching length of him, and the sound he made, half curse, half broken moan, burned itself into your skin.

"Fuck, cutie…" he rasped, voice strained and shaking as the last barrier between you dropped away.

You sat back on your heels for a moment, taking him in. Long, hard, flushed with need, throbbing for you, because of you. You tilted your head, feigning a wide-eyed sweetness that didn’t match the fire in your movements.

"So," you said, your voice honeyed, taunting. "Are you gonna give me instructions for this too, professor?"

His hands clenched hard around the arms of the chair, the muscles in his thighs tensing beneath your palms. You could see the war in his eyes, the desperate need to tease, to stay in control, shattering under the weight of how much he wanted you.

"You—" He choked on a breath as you leaned forward, the tip of your tongue flicking out to deliver a slow, soft lick up the underside of his cock, light and playful, like a kitten sampling cream. "—you’re... doing just fine, cutie."

His voice cracked at the end, strained beyond reason. You smiled against him, wicked and triumphant, and licked him again, another slow, lazy stroke from base to tip.

His breath shuddered out of him, harsh and broken, his head falling back against the chair, glasses slipping low on his nose as his fingers spasmed in your hair, threading through the strands without even thinking. He clutched at you—at something—trying to ground himself against the steady, slow torture you were delivering.

"Maybe you..." he rasped out, struggling even to find words as you pressed a soft, teasing kiss just beneath the head of his cock, "maybe you do... need some help, cutie."

You hummed, deliberate, vibrating against him, and his hips jerked subtly, barely restrained. And still, you weren’t being innocent. There was nothing hesitant about the way you licked at him again, slow, open-mouthed, savoring him like he was something you owned.

And Rafayel—brilliant, cocky, untouchable Rafayel—was absolutely fucking wrecked for you. Grip too tight. Breath too ragged. Voice too desperate.

"You’re..." he hissed as you licked the tip, your tongue flicking in a playful circle, "...gonna drive me fucking insane, cutie."

Rafayel gasped, his fingers tightening slightly in your hair as you licked another slow, devastating stripe along the underside of his cock.

"Use..." he choked out, struggling to keep his voice steady, "your hand, cutie."

You almost laughed—low, breathless—because his desperation was so tangible now. So thick it tasted sweet on your tongue. But you complied, at least partly. You wrapped your hand around the base of him, fingers curling firmly, steadying him as you leaned in again.

"One stroke," Rafayel rasped out, his voice dipping dangerously low, rough with restraint. "All the way down."

You smiled against him, wicked and silent, and instead of stroking with your hand, you slid your mouth down—slow, sinful, swallowing him deeper until he hit the back of your throat.

The sound he made was wrecked, a hoarse, broken curse torn straight from his chest. His hips bucked up sharply, desperate, uncontrollable. You immediately pulled back, releasing him with a soft, obscene pop, and looked up at him through your lashes, eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Nuh-uh," you said sweetly, breathlessly. "You move again and I stop."

Rafayel’s eyes were wild now behind his glasses, pupils blown wide, hair falling over his forehead in messy strands. He nodded, jaw clenching, hands gripping the chair so hard the veins in his arms stood out in sharp relief.

"Good," you whispered, stroking him once with your hand, slow and deliberate, before leaning in again.

You licked up the length of him first, long, slow, teasing, then took him into your mouth again, hollowing your cheeks around him as you set a slow, maddening pace. Above you, Rafayel tried to stay still—he tried—but his thighs trembled under your touch, his breath a series of broken gasps and bitten-off curses. Still, he couldn’t help himself.

"Good girl," he gritted out through his teeth, voice tight and shaking. "Take it slow—"

You hummed in response, sending a shockwave through him that made his hips twitch despite himself.

"Stroke...with your hand at the same time," he gasped, trying so hard to stay in his role, to keep giving instructions even as you unmade him with every glide of your mouth.

You complied, slow, steady strokes of your hand twisting in time with the wet, sinful pull of your lips, and Rafayel nearly sobbed.

"Yeah, just like that," he panted. "God, cutie...just like that."

His voice, usually so composed, so lazy and amused, was wrecked now, a low, desperate thing tangled in need. You could feel him trembling under you. Feel him falling. And still, you didn’t stop.

You followed every broken command he gave you, playing the role he'd once held over you—obedient, teasing, devastating in your submission—while knowing full well you were the one in control now. And Rafayel, for all his brilliance, for all his cocky arrogance…was losing his mind for you.

You sucked harder, hollowing your cheeks around him, fastening your pace until the wet, obscene sounds of it filled the room, until every part of Rafayel above you was trembling, wrecked.

You glanced up at him through your lashes, and the sight you found nearly made you moan. His glasses were fogged, slipping low on his nose. His purple hair was a beautiful, chaotic mess, strands falling over his forehead and brushing his flushed cheeks. And his eyes…God, his eyes…were dark, burning, almost black with hunger and desperate restraint.

He stared down at you like you were something he couldn’t survive without. Something he couldn’t control anymore. His fingers twitched against the arms of the chair, his body tense as a live wire, hips bucking slightly despite his best efforts.

You felt it. The way he hardened even more in your mouth, swelling, pulsing against your tongue as the inevitable approached. You hummed then, a low, deliberate vibration that shot straight through him. And Rafayel shuddered above you, a full-body tremor that he couldn’t hide, couldn’t fight.

“Fuck, cutie—” he gasped, voice cracking, helpless. “I’m—shit—”

He tried—tried—to give you another broken instruction, to cling to that last fraying thread of control. "Stroke—fuck—gentle, now—"

But you didn’t let him finish. You reached up with your free hand, bold and wicked, and cupped his balls, rolling them gently in your palm with a featherlight touch. The effect was immediate. Rafayel broke. He choked on a moan, a raw, desperate, shattered sound, and came hard, hips jerking up into your mouth as he spilled across your tongue.

You took it all without flinching, swallowing him down, holding steady as he writhed above you, falling apart completely. You milked him through it with soft, slow strokes of your mouth, drawing every last trembling pulse from him, every broken gasp, every ragged curse that tore from his lips.

And when he was too sensitive, too spent, you pulled back slightly, giving him slow, kitten-soft licks along the underside of his cock, gentle, worshipful, sweet in a way that made him shudder all over again. Above you, Rafayel sagged into the chair, head thrown back, chest heaving, hair a wild halo around his face. He looked utterly ruined.

You rose slowly from your knees, legs shaky, breath unsteady. Before you could even fully straighten, Rafayel’s hand shot out, catching your wrist in his and tugging you toward him.

You stumbled forward, hovering over him, your hands braced against the arms of his chair. His eyes were molten, burning, wild, and yet somehow still controlled. Before either of you spoke, he pulled you into a kiss. Hot. Open. Desperate.

He tasted himself on your tongue and swore into your mouth, low and filthy, gripping your waist as if he couldn’t bear another inch of space between you. You whimpered against his lips, body pressing flush to his half-dressed frame, feeling every frantic beat of his heart, every shaky exhale.

Without breaking the kiss, Rafayel shoved his pants down the rest of the way, freeing himself completely. Then his hands fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, impatient but precise, stripping away the final layers until he stood naked in front of you, bare and utterly devastating.

You barely had time to drink him in, the planes of his chest, the fine lines of muscle, the way his skin flushed under the low light, before he was moving again. He stood up, looming over you in a wave of heat and purpose, pushing you backward with careful, commanding hands. Not harsh. Not cruel. Just enough to make you move.

"Undress," he said, his voice a velvet whip crackling in the thick air.

Your stomach flipped, excitement and arousal crashing together inside you, setting your nerves alight. You smirked at him, a little breathless, a little defiant, but obeyed. Piece by piece, you stripped for him. Your shirt. Your skirt. Your soaked-through underwear. Until you stood there bare before him, your skin flushed, your chest heaving, your whole body thrumming with anticipation.

Rafayel’s mouth curved into something dark and reverent.

"Perfect," he murmured. "Absolutely fucking perfect."

Before you could answer, he turned you, positioning you against a large blank canvas propped against the wall. The cool air brushed your overheated skin, and you shivered under the weight of his gaze.

"Don’t move," he said, voice softer now, but no less absolute. "I’m going to teach you…how to paint without restraint."

You swallowed, nodding, your body tense with need, your heart hammering in your chest. Rafayel dipped a brush into a nearby tray of paint, a deep, rich color you couldn't focus on, and then turned back to you.

The first touch was featherlight. The brush dragged over your collarbone, slow, deliberate, leaving a cool, wet trail that made you shiver. You gasped softly, your nipples hardening instantly under the chilly kiss of the paint, and the heated look in his eyes.

Rafayel hummed approvingly, his gaze locked on yours, never straying.

"Good girl," he murmured, dragging the brush lower. "Just like that. Don’t run from it. Feel everything."

You whimpered as he painted your breasts next, circling your sensitive peaks, flicking the tip of the brush across them until you were panting, aching. He watched every reaction—every tremble, every sharp intake of breath—with rapt attention, as if you were the canvas he’d been waiting his whole life to complete.

"You’re beautiful like this, cutie," he said, his voice low and rough. "Open. Bare. Honest."

The brush dipped lower. Over your belly, your trembling waist, your hips. Each stroke slow and devastating, dragging slick color across your burning skin, leaving you dripping and desperate. You moaned softly, your thighs clenching instinctively, but you didn't move. Too lost in him, too desperate for what he would do next.

Rafayel licked his lips slowly, dark eyes eating you alive, as he brought the brush lower still, hovering just above the place you needed him most, just above where you were soaking, aching, overstimulated and ready.

"You want me to paint you here too, cutie?" he murmured, voice dripping with wicked affection.

You could barely breathe. Barely think. And you would let him. You would let him paint you anywhere. Anywhere he wanted. Your body trembled against the canvas, every nerve ending raw and straining toward him. Still, you obeyed. Still, you answered him…your voice wrecked but sure.

"Teach me," you breathed. "Teach me hands-on. Teach me everything about painting…about letting loose... about feeling."

Rafayel’s mouth twisted into something dark and reverent, almost a smile. "As you wish, cutie."

The brush dipped lower then, with agonizing slowness. You gasped as the bristles dragged between your folds—soaked, swollen, aching—and when they flicked over your clit, a helpless moan tore from your lips.

The sensation was maddening. Too soft, too delicate, too deliberate. You whimpered, hips rolling instinctively toward him, desperate for more friction, more pressure. But Rafayel didn’t relent. He watched you, drank you in, dark eyes gleaming behind his glasses as he slid the fingers of his free hand up to your mouth.

Without hesitation, you opened for him. You sucked two of his fingers between your lips, moaning around them as he pressed deeper, tasting the paint still lingering faintly on his skin, tasting him. Above you, Rafayel cursed low and broken.

"Fuck, cutie…" he gasped, his hips jerking forward unconsciously, his cock leaking freely now, so heavy and hard it brushed against his stomach.

Still, he kept circling your clit with the brush, slow, merciless strokes that had your thighs trembling, your whole body spiraling toward that perfect, devastating edge again. You moaned against his fingers, your tongue swirling around them, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked harder, and another filthy curse ripped from his throat.

His control was shattering. Piece by piece. Still, he held the brush steady, working you, circling you, teasing you toward the inevitable. You were so close. So close you could barely stand. And then he pulled away.

You gasped, the sudden loss a brutal shock to your body. Before you could protest, Rafayel dropped the brush and grabbed your hips—firm but not harsh—turning you around to face the canvas. Your palms caught against the stretched fabric, smearing paint across it, your bare skin slick and hot.

"Stay," he said, his voice low and commanding at your ear.

And you obeyed. You stood there, trembling, chest heaving, heart hammering against your ribs as Rafayel pressed against you from behind. Chest to back. Breath to breath.

You could feel the solid wall of him, his bare skin searing into yours, the heavy, leaking tip of his cock sliding against the cleft of your ass, leaving slick, hot trails as he rutted slowly against you.

You moaned at the contact, your hips pressing back instinctively, seeking him, needing him. Rafayel’s hand slid around your waist, anchoring you to him, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. His mouth found your ear, his breath a ragged, hungry thing.

"Tell me, cutie," he rasped, voice cracking with the weight of how badly he wanted you. "Should I teach you... all the way?"

The thick head of his cock nudged between your thighs then, not entering you yet, just waiting, just asking, just demanding without forcing. Waiting for your answer. Waiting for your surrender. Waiting to make you his masterpiece.

You could feel every trembling breath of his against your back. The heat of him. The need of him. Rafayel's hand slid up your stomach with slow, deliberate intent, his palm finding your breast, his fingers pinching and teasing your nipple again until you whined, helpless and shivering under his touch. You rocked your hips back into him, pressing closer, inviting him, daring him.

"I want more," you whispered, voice wrecked but clear. "Fill the role properly, professor."

You could feel him shudder against you, the raw, broken sound he made punched into your ear, and he cursed low and filthy under his breath."Fuck, cutie...oh my God."

He grabbed your hips tighter, positioning himself at your entrance—hot, thick, throbbing—and the heavy head of his cock brushed against your soaked folds, teasing you with maddening precision. One hand tangled in your hair, tugging your head back against his shoulder. His mouth found your throat, kissing, biting, marking as he slowly, inexorably sank into you.

You moaned loudly, shamelessly, as he filled you to the hilt, stretching you, owning you. You clenched around him deliberately—tight, greedy—and Rafayel gasped, nearly losing his footing against the canvas.

"Don't—" he choked out, his voice cracked and wrecked, "fuck, cutie—don't do that—feels too good—"

But you did it again. You squeezed him tighter, harder, laughing breathlessly as you ground your hips back against him. You wanted him to lose it. You wanted him to break. And he did. With a low, feral curse, Rafayel’s hand tightened in your hair, tugging your head further back, exposing your neck to him as his other hand came up, wrapping loosely but firmly around your throat. Not choking. Just claiming. Just holding.

He thrust into you then—slow, deep, devastating—filling you over and over again until you were gasping, until you were arching against him, until you couldn't think anymore. His mouth was hot against your ear, his voice ragged, frayed, breaking apart with every word.

"Take it," he growled, thrusting harder, slower, deeper. "Take it like a good girl."

You whimpered, helpless and ruined, and he squeezed your throat just enough to make your walls flutter around him.

"You want to feel, cutie?" he panted against your skin, voice a low, desperate thing. "You want to lose control? Then take me. All of me."

His hand at your breast pinched your nipple hard and sharp again, and the sharp sting mixed with the deep drag of his cock inside you until you were writhing, sobbing, pushing back against him for more.

You could feel it, the coil inside you winding tighter. The pleasure building into something sharp, devastating, inevitable. And Rafayel… Rafayel was barely holding on. Because you were his masterpiece now. And he was going to make you fall apart beautifully.

He shifted his grip, his hand still tangled in your hair as he tilted your head toward him, catching your mouth in a brutal, searing kiss. You gasped against him, barely able to breathe as he swallowed your cries, his tongue claiming you the same way his body was.

At the same time, his hips picked up pace, thrusting into you faster, harder, and for a moment you thought he'd finally give you what you needed.

But then he slowed again. A maddening, deliberate retreat. A teasing roll of his hips that made you sob into his mouth, your body shivering with how badly you needed more. You arched your back instinctively, desperate to change the angle, desperate to make him hit that place deep inside you where stars burst behind your eyes.

"Please," you whispered against his lips, almost without meaning to, your body betraying your pride.

You felt him smile against your mouth, slow, wicked, amused, but there was a dark hunger in it too.

"Desperate little girl," he murmured, voice low and ragged. "You want it that bad?"

You whimpered, nodding helplessly, your thighs trembling as you squeezed around him again. Rafayel cursed under his breath, barely holding on, his chest shuddering against your back.

Without warning, he drew back slightly, and then thrust hard, deep—exactly where you needed him most. You cried out, your voice breaking, your whole body jolting against the canvas as pleasure exploded through your core.

"Fuck—" you gasped, nails scraping at the canvas frame for purchase, "Rafayel—"

He moaned behind you, a raw, brutal sound ripped from his throat as you clenched around him again, tighter, hotter, wetter than before. "You’re gonna fucking kill me, cutie," he growled.

You squeezed again—defiant, needy—and his teeth sank into your shoulder in retaliation, a sharp sting that made you arch harder into him, gasping. And then he pounded into you. Hard, deep, relentless. The slow, teasing control was gone now, replaced by raw need, by brutal, beautiful ruin.

You whimpered and moaned, struggling to stay upright, feeling yourself spiral closer and closer to the edge. You bit your lip hard, trying to hold back the words clawing up your throat, trying to cling to some last shred of pride. But Rafayel wasn’t having it. His hand slid from your throat up  to your chin, gripping it firmly, forcing your head to turn back slightly toward him.

"Say it," he rasped into your ear, voice broken and commanding all at once. "Tell me how fucking good it feels."

You whimpered again, helpless under the weight of him.

"Tell me, cutie," he urged, another sharp, deep thrust that knocked the breath from your lungs. "Tell me or I stop."

You couldn't take it. You needed him too much.

"It feels so good," you moaned raggedly, the confession spilling from you in a desperate, trembling gasp. "Fuck, Rafayel—it feels so good—"

He cursed again, his whole body shuddering against you.

"Good girl," he growled, driving into you deeper, harder, the sound of skin against skin filling the air, filthy and beautiful.

"That’s it," he breathed, mouth dragging across your throat. "That’s it, cutie. Let it all out."

You could feel it, that coil inside you tightening, burning, ready to snap. Rafayel could feel it too. You knew it from the way he changed, from the way his thrusts grew desperate, relentless, slamming into you with fast, punishing strokes that made you sob against the canvas.

He wasn’t teasing anymore. He was chasing it. Chasing you.And you could barely hold on.

The pressure built so fast it felt violent, sharp, all-consuming. You whimpered brokenly, feeling him grow rougher, his teeth sinking into the side of your neck, leaving marks he didn’t even try to soothe this time. His hands bruised your hips, your breasts, desperate to keep you in place as he drove into you with wild, brutal need.

One strong arm curled around your thigh, hiking it up, forcing you onto your tiptoes, opening you wider to him. You cried out, helpless, as he drove even deeper now, hitting that devastating spot over and over until your eyes rolled back, your mouth falling open in a soundless gasp.

"Fuck—" you sobbed, barely able to breathe. "Rafayel—"

You spasmed around him, body convulsing violently as your orgasm tore through you, sharp, devastating, ripping you apart at the seams. You moaned his name loudly, shamelessly, your nails clawing at the canvas as wave after brutal wave of pleasure crashed over you.

You were breathless, trembling, wrecked. But Rafayel didn’t stop. Not for a second. He thrusted harder, faster, grinding into you with ragged, desperate sounds torn straight from his chest, chasing his own release now, breaking against you.

You whimpered and whined, your whole body shaking uncontrollably, your overstimulated nerves screaming, but he couldn’t stop, not with the way you pulsed and fluttered around him, milking him, driving him insane.

"Fuck, cutie," he panted, voice wrecked, broken, desperate, "so good—you're so fucking good—can't—can't—"

It was all nonsense now, half praise, half pleading, as he pounded into you, holding you upright against the canvas like a man possessed. Your hand reached back blindly, tangling into his hair, gripping tight, grounding yourself as you sobbed into the frame.

"Please," you gasped between kisses against his arm, your voice trembling with everything you couldn't hold back, "please—please, Rafayel—"

You didn’t know if you were begging him to stop or begging him to let go. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Your body was trembling so violently you could barely stay upright, barely keep breathing, barely keep from falling apart again. Painfully close to another orgasm, even though you were already so wrung out you could barely think.

And Rafayel was right there with you. His whole body shuddered against yours, his cock thick and throbbing inside you, every muscle in his body straining with the need to finish.

You couldn’t hold it back anymore. Even through the overstimulation, even through the trembling wreckage of your body against the canvas, you found your voice.

"You’re so good," you gasped, barely coherent. "So good—please—please, Rafayel—come for me."

Your praise, breathless and broken, wrecked him completely. You felt it in the way he faltered mid-thrust, just barely, but still didn’t stop, hips hammering into you relentlessly even as his own body spasmed against yours. You heard it in the way he cursed—low, desperate, unstrung.

"Fuck, cutie—" he gasped, breath hitching raggedly, "fuck—ah—you feel…so—perfect—"

It wasn’t begging. Not really. Because even with his voice wrecked, even with his body trembling, he still didn’t stop. He drove into you harder, deeper, chasing the brutal, inevitable high, chasing you. And you could feel it. Feel how close he was. Feel the way his cock throbbed violently inside you, feel the tight, reckless desperation coiling through both your bodies.

You could even feel the evidence of your own previous release sliding down your thighs, slick, hot, messy between you. And when Rafayel hit that perfect, devastating spot inside you again, you screamed. Overstimulation twisted into something sharp, breathtaking.

Your whole body seized, shuddered, your hands slipping on the canvas, your vision going white around the edges as another orgasm ripped through you, violent and overwhelming. You sobbed his name, wrecked and helpless, your walls clenching brutally tight around him.

And that was what finally broke him. Rafayel gasped a hoarse, broken sound as he pulled out at the very last second, his hand wrapping around himself in a rush. Hot, thick release spilled across your lower back, your thighs, painting your skin in long, messy streaks as he cried out against your shoulder, his whole body shuddering uncontrollably.

You nearly collapsed, but he caught you instantly. Strong arms wrapped around you, holding you upright as you both panted against each other, trembling and breathless and utterly wrecked.

Without thinking, Rafayel kissed you.  Hard, desperate. All teeth and gasping mouths and whispered curses. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t perfect. It was raw. Messy. Real. He kissed you like he needed you to breathe.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead dropped against your shoulder, his body still shivering with the aftermath. And then he chuckled, low and rough. Not cocky, just utterly, hopelessly undone.

"Shit, cutie," he rasped, still catching his breath. "See? I just painted a fucking masterpiece on your body."

You laughed, breathless, broken, beautiful. And it wasn’t just from what he said. It was from everything you had just created together. The masterpiece wasn’t just on your skin. It was in the way he held you. The way you trembled in his arms. The way you both felt.

You felt alive, messy, uncontrolled. Perfect. Exactly the way art and love was always meant to be.

————

You didn’t go back the next week. Not because you regretted it. Not even close. If anything, the memory of that night haunted you in the best possible way, etched into your mind in strokes of desperate kisses, whispered praises, and the overwhelming way Rafayel had made you feel like you were alive again.

No. You didn’t regret it at all. You just… didn’t know where you stood now. You didn’t know if you could walk back into that room, sit there pretending that nothing had shifted irrevocably between you, that he hadn’t touched you, wrecked you, made you into a living, breathing canvas of pleasure and release.

And strangest of all? Your creative block, he heavy, invisible wall that had held you frozen for months…had started to crumble. Your brush moved now with a fluidity you didn’t recognize, didn’t question. Every color felt sharper. Every line more daring. Every piece more yours.

It was infuriating. And thrilling. And absurdly, breathtakingly amusing. Because somehow, impossibly, that had been the missing piece. Not more studying. Not more lectures. Not more theory. Feeling. Letting go. Giving in. Living.

Sometimes, while you painted, your thoughts drifted inevitably back to him. The way his glasses had fogged. The way his voice had broken saying your name. The way he had praised you even as he lost himself inside you. It twisted something sweet and aching low in your stomach every time.

You hadn’t exchanged numbers that night.  Hadn’t even thought about it in the aftermath of the slow, desperate kisses, the wrecked laughter, the quiet way he had held you afterward like he wasn’t ready to let go.

And now you wondered if he thought you regretted it. If he thought he had gone too far. Even though everything about that night had been mutual, hungry, helpless, inevitable. You wondered if he was thinking about you, too. Sitting in that lecture room, wondering where you had gone. Cursing himself quietly beneath all that cocky arrogance because for once, he didn’t know how to fix it.

————

The café was warm and quiet, sunlight slanting through the wide windows, painting lazy patterns across the worn wood floors. You sat alone at a table near the window, your coffee cooling between your hands, your mind a thousand miles away. Lost in thought. Lost in art. Lost in him. You didn’t notice the footsteps approaching until a voice cut through your reverie.

“Well, well," Rafayel drawled, and you startled so hard you nearly choked on your coffee.

You coughed, wide-eyed, glaring up at him as he grinned down at you, smug and amused, a paper coffee cup in his hand.

"Easy, cutie," he teased, sliding into the seat across from you without waiting for an invitation. "Wouldn’t want you to die of shock before you finish your masterpiece."

You rolled your eyes, heart hammering for reasons that had nothing to do with the caffeine.

"Maybe warn a girl next time you sneak up like a damn cat," you muttered, recovering quickly, playing it cool.

He chuckled lowly, taking a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes never leaving you. "You’ve always struck me as quick on your feet," he said, smirking. "Was I wrong?"

You snorted. "Maybe I just didn’t expect to be ambushed by my... extracurricular activities guide."

His mouth twitched at that, half a laugh, half something else. But he let it slide, leaning back casually, the sunlight catching the sharp angles of his face, the messy fall of his purple hair, the glint of something darker in his eyes.

You stared at him longer than you meant to. And he noticed. Of course he noticed.

"So," he drawled, tapping a lazy rhythm against his cup, "how’s the art coming along?"

You shrugged, feigning casual, but you couldn’t quite hide the small, secret smile tugging at your lips. "Better," you admitted. "A lot better, actually."

Rafayel’s smile softened, less smirk, more something real, and he tilted his head, studying you in that way that always made your skin feel too tight.

"Funny," he said. "You stop coming to my lecture... and your art starts thriving."

You lifted a brow. "Are you suggesting you were the problem?"

He laughed, quiet, warm, almost self-deprecating, and shook his head.

"Hardly," he said. Then, after a pause, added, "Just wondering if you figured out you didn’t need me anymore."

There was something serious under the teasing now. Something that made your heart twist a little in your chest. You met his gaze, steady, unflinching, and for a moment, the world outside the café faded away.

"I figured out I needed less thinking," you said softly. "And more... feeling."

His eyes darkened slightly, the playful edge sharpening into something hotter, heavier.

"Good," he murmured, voice low. "That’s where the real art lives."

You smiled, small but real, the warmth of it spreading through your chest.

"And maybe," you added lightly, teasing again to ease the weight between you, "I just needed a different kind of instructor."

He leaned in slightly, resting his forearms on the table, his smirk curving slow and wicked.

"Saying that…" he said. "you’re gonna make me think you want private lessons."

Your cheeks burned, but you held his gaze, refusing to back down.

"Maybe I do," you said, matching his tone perfectly. "Think you’re up for it?"

Rafayel’s smile was slow and dangerous, and the way he looked at you, like you were already halfway undressed in his mind… it made your stomach flip.

"Oh," he said, voice dropping. "I’m very hands-on."

You choked a little, actually choked, grabbing your coffee quickly to cover it. You sipped, clearing your throat, pretending to be very interested in the latte art swirling lazily in your cup.

Because you knew. You knew exactly how hands-on Rafayel could be. You knew it in the way your body still ached sometimes with the memory. Knew it in the way heat flushed up your neck, traitorous and impossible to hide.

You tried. God, you tried not to blush. But one glance at him and you knew he was right there with you. It was in the flicker of his smile. The darker shade of violet seeping into his gaze. The heavy silence that stretched for just a moment too long. You both remembered. You both felt it.

You forced a small, casual cough, setting your coffee down a little too forcefully. "Anyway."

Rafayel’s lips twitched, but he let you have the out, settling back into his chair as if he hadn’t just unraveled you with a few words.

"So," he said, dragging the word out playfully, "your art."

You sighed, smiling despite yourself. "Yeah," you admitted, tracing the rim of your cup with your finger. "The block’s... finally starting to lift."

When you glanced up, you weren’t prepared for the look on his face. It wasn’t smug. It wasn’t teasing. It was just…genuine. A real, warm smile that softened every sharp edge of him, lit him up from the inside out.

"Good," he said simply, like he meant it. Like it mattered.

It caught you off guard, punched a little too hard into your chest, and you found yourself smiling back before you could stop it. Of course, Rafayel, being Rafayel, couldn’t let the moment sit too long.

"Guess I was a pretty damn good teacher after all," he said, cocking a brow, smirking lazily.

You snorted, rolling your eyes as you drained the last of your coffee. "Yeah, sure. The world’s most obnoxious teacher."

He placed a hand on his heart dramatically. "Wounded."

You laughed, shaking your head as you gathered your things, ready to slip away before this could spiral into something you weren’t sure you were ready for yet.

But Rafayel was faster. Before you could even blink, he snatched your unlocked phone from the table, lightning-quick and shameless, and started tapping away.

"Hey—!" you protested, half laughing, half indignant.

He just grinned at you, smug and unbothered, before his own phone buzzed in his pocket.

"There," he said, handing your phone back with a satisfied little flourish. "Now you can't ghost me, cutie."

You stared at your screen, seeing his name already logged in, already called, already saved. You laughed, huffed out a breath, amused and a little charmed against your will.

"You’re unbelievable," you said, shaking your head.

He shrugged, standing up with an easy, devastating grace. "Artists have to be bold."

You bit your lip to hide your smile as you followed him out, both of you drifting toward the door together, sunlight catching in his hair and turning it into a wild, brilliant halo.

"See you around, cutie," he said, that wicked little grin curving at the corner of his mouth.

And just like that, he was gone. Leaving you with your coffee cup, your racing heart, and a phone buzzing quietly with possibilities.

————

The past few weeks had been…something else. Your phone vibrated constantly now, each buzz a new text from Rafayel. A new drama, a new complaint, a new ridiculous musing about life, art, or the crisis of creativity he swore was going to kill him any minute now.

Rafayel: cutie i’m literally going to burn my entire studio down and start a blueberry farm in the mountains

Rafayel: do you think goats like oil paintings

Rafayel: why is art so hard. why are feelings so complicated. why is my coffee cold.

Some messages were whiny. Some were outrageously flirty, to which you pretended to be scandalized by, even as you secretly blushed. Some were just obnoxious, spiraling into dramatic cursing fits that always somehow ended in self-deprecating jokes.

You could never predict what you were going to open.You could only guarantee you’d be smiling by the end of it.

He was different like this. Softer. Freer. More… real. Not the composed, untouchable "professor" from the lectures. This Rafayel was messy, chaotic, hilarious. And yet, there was still a sharp brilliance to everything he said, woven into every line, every joke, every flirty jab.

You found yourself giggling quietly in public more times than you cared to admit. Rolling your eyes so much it was practically a workout. Feeling so damn warm whenever you saw his name pop up on your screen.

And maybe, sometimes late at night when the world was still, you thought about that night. About his mouth on your skin. About the way he whispered praise against your throat like he needed you to breathe. You thought about it way too much. But you never said it.

————

You were just pulling your jacket on, about to head out for errands, when your phone buzzed again. And again. And again. You snorted, pulling it up, seeing a rapid-fire stream of texts from Rafayel.

Rafayel: cutieee, I swear to God I’m gonna stab this canvas.

Rafayel: i need a muse. a better one. my dog is judging me and he’s imaginary.

Rafayel: come to the studio or I’ll cry and it’ll be your fault.

You barked a breathless laugh, nearly dropping your keys. You hadn’t even gotten a word in yet before another one popped up.

Rafayel: please. i’m desperate. i’m pathetic. help.

You stared at the screen, heart thudding a little harder than necessary. He was inviting you. Begging, really. Or, well—whining for you to come save him.

His studio. A thousand unholy images crashed through your brain all at once. Memories of that night. His body against yours. The way he said your name when he came hard, painting your sweaty back.

You swallowed hard, shoving the thoughts down with a sharp breath. This wasn’t like that. Probably. Maybe. God, you were doomed. You tapped out a quick, teasing reply before you could think too hard:

You: You better have coffee ready.

A second later, he replied.

Rafayel: i have coffee. i have wine. i have paint. i have emotional crises. pick your poison.

You laughed, locking your door behind you, your pulse racing in a way that had nothing to do with caffeine and everything to do with the man waiting for you on the other side of the city.

Maybe you were walking into another disaster. Maybe you were walking into another masterpiece. Either way, you couldn’t stay away.

When you finally arrived at the address Rafayel had sent you, you half-expected to find chaos. You just hadn't expected to be dragged straight into it. The heavy door swung open before you even knocked properly, and there he was. A gorgeous, absolute mess.

His purple hair was wild, sticking out at odd angles like he'd been yanking at it for hours. His glasses slid low on the bridge of his nose, precariously hanging on like they, too, were struggling to survive. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing paint-smeared forearms and sharp, taut lines of muscle you tried—tried so hard—not to stare at.

And then there was the paint…everywhere. Smeared across his hands, splattered up his neck, even dusting his cheekbone in a careless stroke of deep cobalt blue. He looked like a living, breathing work of art. Messy. Chaotic. Devastatingly beautiful. And so, so unaware of the effect he had on you.

"You're late," he announced dramatically, grabbing your wrist and pulling you inside before you could even respond. "I’ve already died twice. Maybe three times. Hard to tell. Time’s a flat circle."

You choked on a laugh, stumbling after him into the studio. The space was massive, airy. Skylights casting soft golden light across sprawling canvases, tangled supplies, and what looked suspiciously like an abandoned, half-eaten sandwich on the corner of a desk. And Rafayel was still rambling, still tugging you along as if you were a lifeline he desperately needed.

"Everything is shit," he declared grandly, throwing an arm wide. "My art is shit. My ideas are shit. My coffee is probably shit too but that’s all I’ve got left so—"

He spun around, making you stop short just inches from him.

"What do you want?" he demanded, eyes wide, frazzled, frantic. "Name it. Coffee? Wine? My soul?"

You smirked, barely biting back laughter. "Coffee," you said, slow and deliberate, pretending to consider. "Wine sounds... dangerous."

He narrowed his eyes at you suspiciously. "You sure? Wine comes with bonus emotional breakdowns."

"Tempting," you teased. "But I’ll stick with caffeine."

He huffed, a dramatic, put-upon sound, and turned toward the tiny kitchenette in the corner, muttering darkly under his breath as he rummaged through the mess for clean mugs.

You stayed frozen for a moment, heart pounding way too fast for a casual afternoon visit. Because watching him move, watching the way his messy hair caught the light, the way his paint-smeared hands gripped everything like it might fall apart if he let go…was dangerous.

He didn’t even notice you staring. Too busy cursing under his breath about the state of the coffee, the state of the world, the state of his artistic soul. He poured you a cup, shoved it into your hands without ceremony.

"There. Your poison," he grumbled.

You took it with a soft laugh, the ceramic warm against your palms. "Thanks, sunshine," you teased.

He shot you a look over the rim of his own cup, glasses sliding even lower, mouth twitching at the corner. And God, he looked…wrecked. Beautiful. Utterly wrecking you without even trying.

You sipped your coffee carefully, hiding your face behind the cup, trying not to let it show. But it was already too late. Because being near him again, like this…was going to destroy you in all the best ways.

Rafayel flopped dramatically onto the old leather couch tucked against the side wall of his studio, still grumbling, still caught in his own chaotic orbit. You followed, coffee in hand, settling into the opposite side of the couch. Not too close, not too obvious. Casual. Safe.

You kept your staring to a minimum…mostly. It was hard not to, with the way he sprawled there, loose-limbed and golden in the light, a beautiful, exasperated mess of paint and chaos.

He raked a hand through his hair, making it somehow even worse, and huffed dramatically.

"I didn’t whine like this when you were struggling," he complained, sounding genuinely wounded. "I was cool. Mysterious. Wise. A paragon of artistic wisdom."

You choked on your coffee, laughing hard.

"Yeah," you snorted. "Sure. You were practically a walking Greek statue of emotional stability."

He pointed at you accusingly. "Exactly."

You shook your head, grinning as you set your coffee cup down on the low table nearby.

"You’re forgetting something important, professor," you teased, leaning back lazily against the worn leather. "You were the teacher. I was the student. Different methods."

Rafayel pouted, actually pouted, and slumped lower into the couch, looking absurdly betrayed.

"But I want your method," he whined, almost petulant, and you laughed again, throwing a teasing look his way.

"You mean relentless bullying?" you said sweetly. "Sarcasm? Unhelpful commentary?"

"Yes," he said instantly, nodding. "All of it. Bring it on."

You smirked, preparing another jab…but then you caught it. The sudden, heavy weight of his stare. His playful pout faded, mouth still quirked in the ghost of a grin. But his eyes, God, his eyes, they were all over you. Slow. Intent. Devouring.

You felt it like a physical touch. The way his gaze dragged lazily up the length of your body, over your bare thighs, peeking out from the hem of your mini skirt. Over the line of your knee-high socks and the scuffed edges of your high boots. Over the cozy slouch of your oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder. Over the wild tendrils of hair that had escaped your bun, dancing messily around your flushed cheeks.

His coffee cup dangled loosely from his fingers now, forgotten, his whole body stilling as he took you in. And for a moment, neither of you said another word. The playful air tightened into something heavier. Something sharper. Something that crackled silently in the space between you.

You shifted slightly, pretending not to notice the way his gaze caught at the curve of your exposed skin, the way it burned hotter the longer it lingered. But inside? You were already on fire. Already unraveling. Already wondering what would happen if you closed that casual little distance between you. If you stopped pretending. If you gave in.

Just as fast as the air had shifted, just as fast as that hungry, breathtaking look had burned into you…Rafayel flopped his head back against the couch with a groan, dragging a hand through his hair like he was personally offended by the existence of gravity.

"I need a break," he announced dramatically to the ceiling. "A real break. Sabbatical. Reinvention arc. Maybe I’ll become a pirate."

You burst out laughing, unable to help it. The whiplash between the Rafayel who had just devoured you with his eyes and the Rafayel who was now pouting at the ceiling like an overworked drama student was absurd. And somehow, incredibly dangerous.

"You’re such a brat," you said, still grinning as you shook your head. "What happened to the cocky, harsh artist-professor who acted like he knew all the secrets of the universe?"

He lifted his head just enough to glare at you, half-hearted, pouty.

"Retired," he said dramatically. "Burnt out. Overthrown by the younger, hotter, whinier model."

You laughed harder, covering your mouth with your hand. His mouth twisted, half grin, half genuine pout. And he looked at you, a glint of something softer, something sharper still lingering at the edges of his expression.

"So," he said, voice slipping into that half-whiny, half-teasing tone again, "which version of me do you like better?"

You rolled your eyes, reaching for your coffee like you could hide behind it.

"Please," you scoffed. "Don’t make me answer that."

But Rafayel, relentless as ever, leaned forward. Smooth. Lazy. Dangerously close. He plucked your coffee right out of your hand, setting it down beside his on the table with a soft clink.

The air shifted again. You barely had time to react before he closed the small distance between you, leaning in until you could feel the heat radiating off his paint-smeared skin, until his scent wrapped around you, warm and intoxicating.

He smiled, small, wicked, a little breathless.

"Come on, cutie," he said, voice low, teasing but edged with something real now. "I need specifics. For my artistic growth."

His eyes dragged over your face, your mouth, your eyes, your cheeks flushed and heated, and he didn’t even try to hide it now.

"Do you like me better," he mused, voice dipping low, "cocky and cruel?"

He leaned closer, his knuckles brushing casually against your thigh, leaving a trail of heat behind. "Or whiny and dramatic?"

His mouth was so close to your ear now you could feel his breath against your skin. You swallowed hard, heart hammering against your ribs, your mind spiraling into dangerous, uncharted territory. Because you didn’t know anymore where the teasing ended and the want began. And judging by the look in his eyes, neither did he.

You huffed a soft laugh, leaning just a little closer to him without brushing his hand away from your thigh.

"Honestly," you teased, voice light but breathless around the edges, "I like both versions."

His mouth twitched into a slow, lazy smirk, but his eyes…God, his eyes were serious. Sharp. Searching. Silent questions flickering there, asking if this was okay, if you wanted this. And you didn’t pull away. You didn’t even blink.

"So far," you added, almost coy, "I didn’t have enough time to make a proper judgment."

His smirk deepened, teetering on the edge of cocky and something a little more dangerous as his hand started to move. Slow, deliberate, trailing higher along your thigh, fingertips brushing just under the hem of your skirt like he wasn’t even fully aware of what he was doing. But he was. You both knew he was.

And even now, even as his hand stayed there, his eyes kept flicking to your face, scanning for any sign you didn’t want this. He found none.

You tilted your head, pretending to think, pretending not to feel the way your heart was hammering against your ribs so loud you were sure he could hear it.

"So," you said casually, biting down a smirk, "how exactly am I supposed to help you through your little... artistic mid-life crisis?"

He whined again, ridiculous and dramatic, dropping his head onto the back of the couch with a pathetic sigh.

"I dunno," he mumbled, still in that bratty, exaggerated voice. "Be inspirational. Say something profound. Bake cookies. Fix my entire existence."

As he spoke, his hand kept moving, slow strokes up and down your thigh, dragging lightly over your skin, each pass a little bolder, a little more possessive. You bit your lip, trying to keep your expression neutral, but the small movement didn’t escape him.

You saw the way his eyes darkened just a little, but he pretended not to notice. Pretended to stay casual. And so you played along too. You uncrossed your legs slowly, deliberately, your bare thigh brushing against his pants, just barely. A little more seductive than you intended. A little more permission than you maybe should have given.

You caught the flicker in his gaze, the slight catch in his breath as he registered it. As he realized.  And yet he didn’t move higher. His hand stayed resting against your thigh, heavy, burning. His body still loose against the couch, pretending to be casual, pretending to be in control.

But you could feel it. The way his fingers flexed slightly against your skin. The way his breathing grew slower, deeper. The way the air between you tightened until it buzzed like a live wire.

You took the mug from the table and sipped your coffee carefully, hiding behind the motion, pretending you weren’t on the verge of combusting just from the barely there touch of his hand.

Because Rafayel might have been whiny. He might have been dramatic. He might have been pretending this was still just casual teasing. But you could feel it. The hunger simmering under his skin. The way he was waiting. Waiting for you to break first. Or for himself to lose the last frayed thread of his self-control.

You decided to play dumb. Or maybe you just wanted to see how long you could last before you shattered into pieces.

"So, tell me," you said, voice light and lazy as you leaned back against the couch, casual as sin. "How does the great, perfect artist Rafayel let out steam?"

He huffed dramatically, still staring at the ceiling like it had personally wronged him.

"Lots of ways," he said, pouting. "Brooding. Swearing. Threatening to set my own paintings on fire. Classic healthy coping mechanisms."

You laughed, warm and easy, but the sound caught in your throat almost immediately. Because his hand, paint-smeared and deceptively lazy on your thigh trailed higher. Slipping under the hem of your skirt with featherlight touches, so faint you could almost pretend you imagined it. Almost.

You bit your lip hard, fighting the gasp that nearly escaped when his fingers brushed against the soft cotton of your underwear, barely touching, barely pressing. And Rafayel, the menace, pretended not to notice.

He stayed slouched back against the couch, his face the picture of casual misery, pouting and sighing up at the ceiling like he wasn’t slowly, methodically setting your entire body on fire. His fingers moved again, small, slow strokes, almost maddening in how little pressure he applied.

You shifted slightly, parting your legs just enough to invite him, to show him you weren’t going anywhere. He hummed at that, a low, almost distracted sound, deep in his chest.

You didn’t know if it was approval or just another one of his endless, exaggerated sighs. But it didn’t matter. Because his fingers didn’t stop. They stayed there, teasing, ghosting, barely touching where you needed him most.

You cleared your throat, trying desperately to keep your voice even, your pulse hammering wildly in your ears.

"And," you managed, teasing, playing your part, "how does the world’s most tortured artist regain inspiration?"

Rafayel finally turned his head toward you, slowly, lazily. But his eyes burned into yours with a heat that made you clench the coffee cup tighter in your hands.

"Mmm," he whined, dragging the sound out pitifully, his fingers still trailing slow, excruciating patterns over your underwear.

"I don’t know, cutie," he said, voice thick and breathy. "Maybe by suffering. Maybe by collapsing dramatically onto the floor."

You laughed, breathless, almost hysterical from the tension coiled so tight inside you. He shifted closer, hand still idly stroking under your skirt, eyes locked onto yours now, no more ceiling to save you.

"I’m so miserable right now," he pouted, exaggerated, teasing, but there was a low rumble under it now. Something dark and needy.

You opened your mouth to fire back another sarcastic jab, but then his fingers slipped lower, firmer now, brushing against the soaked center of your underwear. You gasped, your body jolting instinctively against his hand.

And Rafayel, that beautiful, chaotic menace just smirked. Still lazy. Still cocky. Still pretending this was casual. But you could see it now. In his eyes. In the way his pupils were blown wide behind those crooked glasses. In the way his breathing hitched ever so slightly as he felt how wet you were for him.

You barely had time to process it when Rafayel casually, so casually, reached over and plucked the coffee cup from your hands again, setting it down with a soft clink. And then without a word, he slid off the couch, settling onto the floor at your feet like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His head dropped lazily onto your thigh, his whole body sprawling dramatically as he sighed loudly, the exaggerated sound vibrating against your skin. His hand, though, the one still under your skirt, never stopped moving. Still teasing. Still stroking. Still burning you alive with slow, featherlight touches.

You gasped softly, your hand instinctively shooting out to steady yourself against the couch.

"What—" you started, voice shaky, trying to gather your wits. "What the hell are you doing?"

He looked up at you, his glasses sliding even lower down his nose, violet eyes shining with wicked amusement.

"Collapsing dramatically onto the floor," he said, dead serious, before breaking into a lazy, boyish grin that nearly knocked the breath from your lungs.

You barked a laugh despite yourself, your head tipping back for a second.

"This," you said, breathless, "this is your version of collapsing?"

He hummed, snuggling his head more securely against your thigh, shifting slightly until his breath was fanning hot against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Meanwhile his fingers danced slow, lazy circles over the damp fabric of your underwear, completely unbothered, completely devastating.

He kept rambling, whining, teasing, but now his words were shifting. Lower, rougher, more dangerous.

"Maybe," he mused, half pouting, half flirting, his fingers brushing just a little firmer now, making your thighs tremble against him. "Maybe I just need a little help letting off steam."

You swallowed hard, heart hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it.

"And what," you said, somehow managing to tease even as your breath hitched, "exactly does that involve, Rafayel?"

He smirked, lazy, wicked, and kissed the inside of your thigh. Slow. Hot. Possessive.

"You know," he murmured against your skin, voice dropping into something so low and rough it made your head spin. "You know exactly what it involves, cutie."

You bit your lip, fighting a moan as he kissed higher, so close, so dangerously close now, his hand pushing your skirt up further as he settled between your legs like he belonged there. Like he had no intention of leaving until he wrecked you.

He looked up at you again, head tilted against your thigh, glasses crooked, hair wild, mouth sinful.

"So," he whispered, fingers curling lightly against your soaked underwear, "are you gonna help me or not?"

You barely managed to find your voice through the haze clouding your brain.

"Well," you said, your tone dripping false innocence, "I couldn't possibly let you down in your time of need."

Your words barely left your lips before Rafayel moved. Like he’d been waiting for you to say it. Without a single ounce of hesitation, he dipped his head lower, catching the edge of your underwear between his teeth.

You gasped as he dragged the damp fabric down your thighs, slow and deliberate, the scrape of his teeth ghosting over your skin, his breath hot and devastating against your bare flesh.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away. Not even when your underwear slipped down to your knees, forgotten. Not even when Rafayel, still grinning like the brat he was, settled between your thighs, his violet eyes never leaving yours.

He kept the roleplay alive, whining lightly, dramatically as he licked a slow, sinful stripe right up your soaked folds. Not shy, not gentle. But so damn teasing.

"Mmm," he sighed, almost like he was complaining about it, his tongue flicking over you again. "So much work," he drawled lazily, voice thick against you. "So exhausting, helping poor, desperate little artists in crisis."

You moaned, your hips bucking helplessly against his mouth, but he was faster. His arms wrapped around your thighs, firm but gentle, keeping you pinned exactly where he wanted you.

"Stay," he murmured, voice dipping into something darker, something that made your breath catch in your throat. The shift in tone almost gave you whiplash, from dramatic, teasing brat to low, commanding ruin in a heartbeat.

You cursed under your breath, your hands gripping the edge of the couch for dear life as he dipped his head again, tongue dragging slow, devastating strokes over your swollen, aching folds.

But even as he wrecked you, even as he worshiped you with his mouth like he was starving, he didn’t let go of the teasing

"Poor me," he whined between licks, voice muffled and sinful. "Doing all the hard work."

You whimpered, your thighs trembling against the hold of his arms. He pressed a soft, almost mocking kiss to your clit, looking up at you with wide, innocent eyes, like he wasn’t currently wrecking your entire existence with his mouth.

"Hope you're grateful, cutie," he said, voice dripping with fake woundedness.

And then without warning, he flattened his tongue against you and dragged a slow, filthy stripe right over your clit, making your entire body jolt. You gasped, your hips trying to buck again, but his grip on you tightened, keeping you right where he wanted you.

His tongue flicked again, faster now, wetter, rougher, working you with slow, maddening precision even as he kept whining dramatically between strokes, deliberately dragging you right to the edge.

You didn't know if you wanted to laugh or sob or beg for mercy. Maybe all three. But one thing was certain. You weren’t leaving that couch until Rafayel had completely, gloriously ruined you.

He didn’t stop. Even as your thighs trembled violently against his grip, even as your body jolted and spasmed with every devastating, wet stroke of his tongue. Rafayel kept going. And he kept up the act too. That chaotic, dramatic performance that was somehow both completely bratty and shatteringly hot.

"Mmph," he whined against you, voice muffled by your soaked folds as his tongue licked another slow, sinful stripe up your slit. "So exhausting," he complained, breathless, desperate, half-laughing against your skin. "All this hard work and not even a thank you—"

You tried. God, you tried to respond, to sass him back, to say something witty. But all you could manage was a broken moan, your hips rolling helplessly against his mouth, your breath hitching, eyes wide and wrecked as you looked down at him.

His hands, rough, calloused, covered in faint smears of paint, tightened around your thighs, keeping you spread open for him even as your body instinctively tried to close up, to hide from how overwhelming he was.

And Rafayel was so pleased by it. You could see it. In the smug, wicked curve of his lips. In the way he kept his violet eyes locked onto yours, unblinking, devouring.

"You taste so fucking good, cutie," he whispered, half praise, half broken confession, the words brushing against your wet, swollen skin.

Then he shifted slightly, tongue darting lower, pushing into you, slow and thick and devastating. His nose pressed against your clit, sending a violent shockwave of pleasure rocketing through your body. You choked on a sob, your head tipping back against the couch, hands flying to the leather as you arched off the seat.

"R-Rafayel—" you gasped, the name torn from your throat like a prayer.

That was all he needed. His hands flexed tighter, his tongue moving faster, rougher, relentless as he fucked you with his mouth, sucking and licking and groaning low in his throat like he was starving for you.

And you couldn’t hold it. Your orgasm slammed into you, brutal, violent, overwhelming. You spasmed under him, your entire body trembling, legs trying to close around his head but held wide by his iron grip.

You moaned his name again, loud and desperate, your back arching off the couch as pleasure drowned you. He didn’t stop. He worked his tongue through every devastating wave, dragging every last tremor out of you until you were gasping, sobbing, begging.

"Stop—" you cried out, breathless, half-laughing, half-sobbing from overstimulation.

Your hand fumbled for him, grabbing at his hair, dragging him upward, needing him close, needing him to stop wrecking you from a distance. He came willingly, breathless, flushed, glasses askew, mouth glistening with you.

You didn’t even give him a second to react. You rolled him with all the strength you had left, pushing him back until he collapsed into the couch with a startled laugh. And then you were in his lap. Straddling him, breathing hard, flushed, shaking.

He blinked up at you, dazed and wide-eyed and so fucking wrecked by you.

"Oh," he rasped, voice rough, a stupid, gorgeous grin tugging at his lips.

And God, you could feel him, hard and straining beneath you, pressed against your soaked, trembling center. Still fully clothed. Still starving.

You couldn’t help yourself. Even through the aftershocks still trembling in your thighs, even through the oversensitivity making every movement dizzying, you rolled your hips against him.

Slow, deliberate, taunting. The friction made you moan, a soft broken sound slipping between your teasing words.

"So," you breathed against his ear, dragging another sinful roll of your hips along his aching cock through his pants, "is that how you recharge?"

Rafayel grunted, an incoherent, desperate sound, and lifted his hips in response, chasing the heat of you. He kept the act alive, letting out a dramatically wounded sigh.

"Apparently," he whined, his voice pitched so absurdly you had to bite back a laugh, "not fully. Might need… additional services."

You smirked, dragging your nails lightly down his chest over his shirt, feeling him shudder beneath you. The way his violet eyes raked over you, hot, blown wide, starving, was enough to make your body clench in anticipation.

Your sweater had already slipped off one shoulder in the chaos, and Rafayel took full advantage, leaning in and pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the exposed skin there. You whimpered, grinding a little harder down onto him without meaning to.

"Don't worry," you murmured, voice low, sultry, heady, "I’ve got a few ideas about how to help you recharge... completely."

"Mmph," he hummed against your skin, his mouth moving from your shoulder to your neck, sucking soft marks there. "Is that so?"

You laughed breathlessly, and then you pushed yourself up, sliding off his lap to stand just in front of him. His hands twitched as if to grab you back immediately, but you shook your head, slow and teasing, your eyes half-lidded as you held his gaze.

Then, without rushing, without a hint of shame, you started to undress. First the oversized sweater, pulled off in one slow, lazy movement, revealing your lace bra, your peaked nipples pressing shamelessly against the delicate fabric.

Rafayel cursed under his breath, shifting where he sat, his legs spreading wider on instinct. You smiled sweetly, wickedly. Then came the skirt. You shimmied out of it slow, deliberate, letting it pool at your feet, leaving you bare save for your lace bra and your knee-high socks.

You heard the guttural sound that tore out of him, half whine, half growl. His hands fisted the couch cushions, his knuckles going white.

"Cutie," he rasped, voice breaking slightly, "you’re gonna literally kill me."

You took a single, taunting step closer, hands trailing up your own body in featherlight touches, your fingers dancing over your breasts, your throat, your ribs, never breaking eye contact.

You watched him come apart just from the sight of you, watched his cock strain painfully against his pants, already leaking, already so desperate for you. And when you were sure he was hanging on by a thread, you tilted your head, smiling like the devil.

"Undress," you ordered softly, the command slipping from your lips like silk.

He didn’t even hesitate. With a low curse, he shoved his shirt off first, his chest bare and beautiful, faint traces of paint still smeared over his skin like warpaint. Then his pants, undone with frantic fingers, pushed down his thighs with desperate impatience until he was naked, hard, leaking for you. Still seated back against the couch. Still not breaking eye contact.

You stood there, bare, gleaming, thighs trembling slightly with leftover pleasure, drinking him in. And he stared up at you like you were the sun, the stars, and the end of the fucking world all at once. He reached for you the second you gave him the slightest hint, hands desperate, greedy, big palms curling around your waist, tugging you gently but insistently closer.

And you let him. You let him pull you down, guide you back above him, hovering over his flushed, aching body, but you didn’t let him have you. Not yet. You stayed just out of reach, your slick heat teasing, your skin grazing him without letting him in.

Rafayel cursed low under his breath, his hips thrusting forward instinctively, trying to chase your heat, your weight, your body. You clicked your tongue softly, dragging your mouth down to his neck, biting lightly at the sensitive skin there.

"Uh-uh," you murmured against his throat, your voice a low purr. "Be a good boy."

He whimpered, the sound wrecked and desperate in his chest.

"You’ll need the energy," you whispered, licking a sweet, taunting line just under his ear. "I’m gonna help you recharge properly... no need to rush."

He let out another broken curse, his head tipping back against the couch, baring more of his throat to you, giving in without even realizing it. His hands, not as disciplined, roamed your body hungrily. One cupping your ass, squeezing rough and desperate, the other finding your breast through the lace, fingers pinching lightly over the fabric.

You bit down harder on his neck, dragging a raw, needy groan from him, then licked the mark sweetly, soothing it, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. And just when you thought he might stay patient…he broke.

"Cutie," he whined, voice wrecked, shuddering with need. "Ride me…please—"

You only smiled wickedly against his skin, and sucked his earlobe into your mouth, biting gently, making him jolt under you. He grunted, his control snapping, pulling you back just enough to look you straight in the eye.

"Fuck—" he rasped, voice low, sharp, almost commanding now, though the desperate edge stayed thick. "Ride me. Now."

You kissed him before he could say anything else, a desperate, brutal collision of mouths, all teeth and tongue and gasping breath. You could feel him throbbing against you, leaking, so hot it almost hurt. And this time, you didn’t make him wait.

You sank down, skin to skin, dragging your soaking pussy over the flushed, aching head of his cock, grinding slow and deep along his length without taking him in fully yet. You both cursed into the kiss, breathless, shattered, helpless. His hands gripped your ass tightly, guiding you, rough and desperate, grinding you down against him with shaking need.

"Fuck—" he hissed against your mouth. "You're killing me—cutie. You're…fucking killing me—"

You smiled against his lips, drunk on the way he trembled under you, drunk on the way he was already falling apart and you hadn't even given him everything yet. And neither of you were going to last much longer.

You stayed pressed against his mouth, hips grinding slow and maddening against his aching cock, teasing yourself as much as you teased him. Between breathless kisses, you whispered against his lips, voice broken and sultry, "Is this what you want?"

Rafayel growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating between your bodies, half desperate, half wrecked.

"Fuck yes," he cursed, his hands sliding from your ass to your hips, gripping tight enough to bruise. "I need to be inside you…" his voice cracked, so needy, so raw. "need to feel you stretch around me, feel you come all over me again and again—"

You moaned, overwhelmed, the words shooting straight through your core like lightning. He didn't waste another second. One hand found the front of your lace bra, grabbing it roughly, the other guiding himself to your entrance, the blunt, flushed head of his cock nudging against your soaked folds.

His head fell back, chest heaving, fogged glasses slipping further down his nose, completely ruined from your earlier release. With a grunt of frustration, he ripped them off in one swift, clumsy motion, tossing them somewhere onto the couch, and immediately pulled you down onto him by the front of your bra. Hard. Deep.

You gasped. Both of you gasped as he buried himself inside you in one long, devastating stretch, seating himself fully, your bodies locking together like two live wires.

He filled you perfectly, completely, almost painfully. Stretching you wide open until your toes curled and a broken, desperate moan ripped from your throat.

"F-fuck," Rafayel hissed, his head slamming back against the couch, his hands gripping your ass so tight it burned. "You feel—" he choked on a groan. "So good, cutie—fuck—gonna lose my mind—"

You dug your nails into his shoulders, anchoring yourself as you started to move, slow and torturous. Dragging yourself up almost all the way off him before sinking back down, grinding deep with a roll of your hips.

Rafayel howled low in his chest, his whole body bucking beneath you, instinct trying to take over. He tried. God, he tried to guide you faster, rougher, his hands forcing your hips to move.

But you smirked down at him, wrecked and breathless, and whispered against his ear, "No."

He froze, whimpering a little from the effort it took to obey.

"You let me do the work," you murmured, your voice almost cruel in its sweetness.

Rafayel cursed violently, head slamming back again, thighs trembling under you as you started riding him in slow, punishing rolls.

"You're gonna kill me," he gasped, wrecked, his voice breaking into a whiny, helpless groan. "Please—cutie—please—"

You kept your pace, grinding deeper, harder, your nails raking down his chest, feeling him throb inside you, so hot, so close already. And Rafayel, that cocky, chaotic, brilliant man, could only cling to you and take it, whimpering and cursing and begging like you owned every shattered, trembling piece of him.

You smirked wickedly down at him, hips grinding slow and devastating.

"Maybe," you breathed, voice thick with teasing and breathlessness, "I like you better when you're compliant and whiny like this."

Rafayel cursed viciously, his hands flexing on your hips, his body shuddering under you like he could barely take it. You picked up the pace, rolling your hips with every up and down, dragging him deeper, harder, the sweet friction making your mind fog, your body tighten.

He was unraveling. You could feel it. Fighting not to snap, fighting not to flip you over and pound into you the way he clearly achingly wanted. You could feel every tense, trembling effort he made to stay good for you. And it wrecked you.

You smirked even harder, lowering your mouth to his ear, sucking on the sensitive skin there until he jolted, a broken, desperate moan ripping from his throat. Your hand tangled into his messy purple hair, tugging harshly, making him groan helplessly, hips bucking up into you hard.

You clenched around him deliberately, tight, wet, hot, and Rafayel lost it. His hands shot to your waist, grabbing rough, commanding.

"Turn around," he growled, voice wrecked and dark and cracking apart.

Before you could even react, he pulled you off him, manhandling you easily, turning you so your back faced him, straddling him with your legs on either side of his hips.

He didn't hesitate, he grabbed your hips, lined himself up, and slammed you back down onto him with a brutal thrust. You cried out, your hands scrambling for purchase against his thighs as he filled you to the hilt, deeper than before, grinding up into you with desperate hunger.

He yanked your hair back, harsh, rough, possessive, exposing your throat as he leaned in, biting hard into the side of your neck, sucking a mark deep into your skin before licking and kissing over it.

You moaned raggedly, your body rolling against him, riding him faster, chasing the way he hit so deep inside you now. Every thrust of your hips sent shocks of pleasure up your spine, every slap of skin against skin louder, filthier, raw. You let your head fall back against his shoulder, gasping, your voice rough and teasing even as you moaned.

"Tell me," you panted, grinding down harder on him, squeezing around his cock. "Tell me if I’m good—if I take you good…"

Rafayel growled into your skin, his hands bruising your hips as he fucked up into you harder, more desperate.

"You're perfect," he groaned against your neck, biting again, his voice low and broken. "Fucking perfect, cutie—fuck—take me so good—"

You whimpered, the rough praise making your thighs shake, making your body tighten around him even more.

"You gonna come for me?" you whispered, voice wrecked, taunting, grinding harder against him.

"Fuck—yes.." He almost sobbed it into your ear, voice cracking apart, hips slamming up into you harder, faster, sloppier.

And you could feel the way he was right on the edge. The way he needed you just as much as you needed him. And neither of you were going to last much longer. You could feel the way your orgasm started to build violently inside you, coil after tight, trembling coil pulling tighter, hotter, closer. You rode him faster, hips rolling frantic and desperate, your whole body starting to tremble.

Your pace faltered, a broken whine escaping your throat, but Rafayel was there instantly.

"I got you," he rasped against your neck, voice low and wrecked, hands steadying your hips.

He started to guide you, dragging you down onto him, his hips bucking up to meet you halfway, deep, punishing thrusts that made you sob into the air. You were both panting now, harsh and raw, every breath a broken sound. Every curse and praise slipping out without a filter.

"Fuck, you're so perfect," Rafayel moaned into your skin, biting your neck again, not soft, not sweet, but raw need.

One of his hands slipped between your legs, two fingers finding your swollen clit and circling it, rough and relentless. You screamed as your whole body jolted, your muscles locking up as pleasure roared through you. Your hands dug into his thighs, your nails scraping his skin as you mumbled, sobbed, gasped.

"So close—I'm so close—"

"I know, cutie," he groaned, his thrusts slamming up harder into you now, faster, brutal. "Come for me—fuck—please—"

You didn't need more than that. He slammed you down harder, his cock hitting that spot inside you just right, over and over and over until your thighs locked up, trembling violently, and you shattered.

Your orgasm tore through you, brutal and vicious, your whole body spasming in his arms. Your mouth fell open in a silent scream, your head thrown back onto his shoulder, your walls squeezing him so hard he almost sobbed from the sensation.

"Fuck—fuck—cutie—" Rafayel cursed into your throat, his own body shaking, his cock twitching deep inside you.

He tried to pull out, to keep control. But you clung to him, refusing to let him go, and the second he felt you clamp down even tighter around him, his control shattered. With a deep, wrecked growl, Rafayel buried himself as deep as he could go, his whole body convulsing against you.

You could feel it, hot and thick, filling you completely, mixing with your own release as you both trembled, locked together, panting and cursing into each other’s skin. He pulled you into his chest, one hand splayed against your stomach, the other tangled in your hair, breathing ragged against your throat.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you could. You were a mess of trembling thighs, shaking limbs, sweat-slicked skin, tangled hair, and gasping breaths, but you had never felt more whole, more wrecked, more alive.

Rafayel pressed a broken kiss against your shoulder and you laughed, breathless and wrecked, your body trembling faintly against his.

"You feeling fully recharged now?" you teased, voice low and ragged.

Rafayel huffed out a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh, still wrecked, still breathless, still so fucking beautiful you could barely look at him without melting.

"Maybe," he whined dramatically, nuzzling against your jaw, his mouth dragging lazy, messy kisses along your skin. "Still feel kinda drained. Might need another session later. For safety."

You laughed harder, the sound bubbling up helplessly even as your thighs still trembled from your release. He shifted beneath you slowly, carefully, and pulled out of you with a soft, broken groan, both of you wincing at the overstimulated drag of sensation.

But before you could move away, he caught you. He turned you around in his lap with surprising gentleness, tugging you until you were facing him again, your legs straddling his hips, your bare skin flush against his. And then he kissed you. Messy, sweet and slow. His mouth soft and clumsy, his hands holding you close like he couldn’t stand even a breath of distance between you.

The kiss wasn’t about hunger now. It was about clinging. About wanting. About everything neither of you had dared say until now. He pulled back first, barely, just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours, his violet eyes still dark, still wild, but softer now.

"I want this," he whispered, voice rough and raw and real. "And more."

The words hit you harder than anything he could’ve done physically. You blinked at him, stunned, feeling your face heat, actually blushing, like some lovesick idiot. You scrambled for something to say, anything, and latched onto the first thing your wrecked brain offered.

"Inappropriate," you said, mock-scandalized, raising your eyebrows. "A professor with his student?"

Rafayel let out a wheezy, exhausted laugh, head tipping back, eyes squeezing shut like he couldn't believe you.

"For the last time," he groaned, dragging his hands dramatically up your bare back, "I’m not a fucking professor." he tugged you closer by the waist, burying his face in your neck with a whiny groan. "And you know it, cutie."

You laughed again, breathless and giddy and warm all over, your hands threading through his messy purple hair, holding him there against you.

"I guess," you murmured, teasing, your voice softening into something dangerous, "I’ll allow it."

He lifted his head just enough to catch your mouth again, another slow, messy kiss that said everything neither of you could put into words yet. And somewhere deep inside, where your bodies still trembled against each other, where the taste of each other lingered, where the chaos had finally settled into something real…you knew.

This between you…didn’t need any more words.

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