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oddeyechrollo · 4 days ago

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Between Flames and Shadows

♱⋅── sylus x reader x rafayel

♱⋅── about: Rafayel agreed to smuggle you into the N109 Zone, unwittingly thrusting you into danger and the arms of an even more dangerous man, Sylus— who you promised your soul to long ago. Just as you had promised Rafayel your heart. And now they both want what you have so cruelly denied them.

♱⋅── word count: 10.6k

♱⋅── warnings: mdni, smut, threesome, pwp, enemies to lovers, jealousy, bondage, exhibisionism, voyeurism, size kink (sylus is big), mating bites/bond, double penetration, minor breeding kink, another horribly nasty duo

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

It’s been six days, fourteen hours, and three minutes since you’ve last contacted Rafayel.

Not that he’s been counting.

Again, he flips his phone around, scrolling through dozens of notifications, and not bothering to read a single one as he fails yet again to find your name among them. A scowl, and he tosses his phone across the couch. Insane doesn’t begin to describe the spiral Rafayel has descended into since you infiltrated the N109 Zone— since he reluctantly agreed to set you up as bait and watched you get taken away.

Since he made a deal with the devil on your behalf.

“The Nest, you actually got it? How?”

“You doubted me, cutie?”

“Doubt?” You snort, rolling your eyes as you yank Rafayel closer by the collar, gaze flickering from his lips, eyes, and back again. Leaning in closer, you wait until Rafayel’s eyes nearly flutter shut before pulling back, snatching the invitation from his hands with a smirk. “Never, fishie.”

Rafayel now wishes you had. Wishes he finally kissed you, wishes he never let you go. At least, not alone.

The memories and regrets tug at him so violently that he can’t stand it, every “what if” fear blending in with shattered memories of you dying before him in lives past, bloody and heart torn from your chest as he’s doomed to chase after you again and again and again.

Rafayel stands abruptly, chair falling back with a bang.

Fuck it, he’s going after you.

The damned N109 Zone never changes.

Different venues, different gang names, different “world-ending” weapons. But even after several millennia, the greed and stupidity of humankind remains forever stagnant and forever their greatest weakness. That, and the nauseating smell of gunpowder and whiskey.

It all makes Rafayel’s stomach roll, and he thumbs at his tie, slacking against his neck before he snatches a glass of champagne from a waiter. Unsurprisingly he does recognize a handful of faces, some from his own gallery exhibitions, others as past targets, or grandchildren of someone he used to know. Not that any of them mattered.

He walked down a hallway filled with Protocores leading up to the banquet hall, and yet strangely enough every last one was bought for an exorbitant amount, even the smallest fragment that barely emitted any kind of energy. What kind of idiot…

Rafayel’s frown deepens, and he shoots down yet another glass, moving from champagne to whiskey as he winces from the burn.

Then, Rafayel spots you.

You’re alive.

You’ve alive and you look absolutely fucking gorgeous, prowling across the auction in a cocktail dress, fabric dark enough that it only shimmers a deep red when you dance from spotlight to spotlight.

Before he even realizes it, he’s running. Trying and failing for it to look as natural as possible, slamming into a waiter and mumbling out an apology as he rushes to your side, nearly dashing onto the dance floor when the shadows seem to lunge– growing and shifting and laughing in an ancient language Rafayel can barely understand as something else steps out from them. And wraps a clawed hand around your waist.

Another man, infuriatingly tall and reeking of the sky and ashes, his hair bleached the same pale color, leans down to whisper something into your ear as you laugh. Laugh.

And gods new and old, Rafayel sees red.

Rafayel’s breath catches, chest tightening with a fury so raw it feels like it might crack him open. The din of laughter and clinking glasses becomes a dull roar in his ears, drowned out by the pounding of his heart. He barely registers the heat raging down his veins, a warning that his restraint is fraying faster than he can piece it together.

An uproar of murmuring steals your attention away from Sylus, and you finally allow your fake smile to drop.

Only for your jaw to fall entirely as you see Rafayel standing only a couple of meters away, violent white flames licking against his fingertips as other guests begin to gather.

What the fuck is he doing here.

“Rafayel.” Your voice cuts through him, hissing in warning. But the sound of it— alive, steady, and wholly unimpressed— does nothing to soothe him. If anything, it stokes the fire.

Sylus turns slowly, his lips curling into a lazy smile. When his eyes land on Rafayel, something flickers in the depths of his right pupil. “Oh?” he drawls, voice dripping with amusement, “Looks like you picked up a stray, kitten.”

The nickname grates against your nerves, but it’s nothing compared to the way Rafayel reacts. His flames flare brighter, casting eerie shadows across the room as his fists clench. “Take your hand off her.”

More patrons are beginning to notice.

Sylus’s grip on your waist doesn’t waver. Instead, he tilts his head, “Her? Oh, you must mean my companion for tonight.” He shifts slightly, leaning down as if to make a point, his hands brushing against the small of your back, right where the silk meets bare skin. “I think you have it mistaken though, she’s the one who practically dragged me here. Isn’t that right, sweetie?”

Your pulse spikes, a mix of anger and frustration coursing through you. You force yourself to step between them, planting a hand firmly against Rafayel’s chest before he can close the distance. Thankfully, it makes the flames sputter down to a dull glow in his palms.

“Stop,” you hiss. “What the hell are you doing here, Rafayel?”

His eyes lock onto yours, wild and burning with an intensity that makes it impossible to look away. “I came for you,” he snaps as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Well, congratulations,” you snort, “you found me.” Glancing over your shoulder, you catch the glint of recognition in the eyes of more than a few guests. “And so has everyone else I’ve been trying to avoid.”

Rafayel doesn’t flinch, his gaze darting briefly to Sylus before returning to you. “I don’t care about them,” he mutters, brows furrowing. “I care about you. I never should have left you, let you go. Come back with me.”

Before you can even respond a deep chuckle cuts through, Sylus stepping forward as he tucks you into his side and reaches around to place a hand on Rafayel’s shoulder. Pinning you between them. “Touching. But you should know better than to interrupt our business, artist.”

Rafayel’s flames reignite instantly, searing white-hot as he shoves Sylus’s hand off his shoulder. “I already told you to get your hands off her,” he growls, stepping forward, entire body radiating heat as he’s mere inches from Sylus’s face.

“Or what?” Sylus taunts smoothly, something in his eye flashing with amusement. “You’ll set this whole place on fire? Very subtle. I can see why you’re such a popular target.”

Target? You linger on it longer than you should've, pieces about Rafayel’s surprising knowledge about the N109 Zone and Sylus’s insistence on resonating as your partner begins to swirl around again. That is, until you physically feel the heat from Rafayel’s flames begin to char into the wooden floorboards.

“Stop it, both of you!”

Snapping, both of their heads whip down to you as you struggle to shove them apart. “You’re drawing attention. Do you want to blow this mission completely?”

“Mission?” Rafayel scoffs, his gaze snapping back to you. “If this was a mission, why would you agree to work with him?” He tilts his chin to Sylus, who simply shrugs, shadows flickering and rising at his back. Shit.

“Her choice, really,” Sylus says, voice dripping with false sincerity. “Not that I blame her. All bark and no bite, aren’t you, puppy?”

Rafayel goes deathly still.

So Sylus allows himself to step closer, chest now pressing up against your bare back, the gesture irritatingly casual. Intimate. “It must be exhausting,” he continues, “Running around, chasing after scraps of attention. Does she even notice? Or is this just another case of unrequited devotion?”

“Say that again,” Rafayel growls, flames licking up his palm.

Sylus grins wider, clearly enjoying every second. Enjoying his reactions. “Oh, I’m sorry, did that strike a nerve? You must be used to following orders by now, so tell me, does she ever let you off leash, or do you only bark when commanded?”

“Sylus,” you snap again, cutting off whatever retort Rafayel has ready. You glance around, realizing the murmuring crowd has turned into a full-fledged audience, their gazes sharp and curious. “You’re both acting like children. The target—”

The sound of shattering glass cuts you off.

You whip your head around, just in time to see a hooded figure perched atop an overturned table. A small, cylindrical case glints in their hand, and your blood turns cold as you feel the overwhelming pulse of an unleashed Aether Core.

“Run!”

The word barely leaves your mouth before the world explodes.

A deafening boom shatters through the venue, blast wave throwing you backward. The force knocks the air from your lungs, glass and debris raining down like jagged confetti. You hit the ground hard, pain shooting through your side as the heat of the explosion sears your skin.

Through the haze of smoke and ringing in your ears, you catch fragmented images: chandeliers crashing to the floor, tables splintered, and guests scrambling for cover and weapons as gunshots ring out.

Sylus is a blur of movement, his shadows coiling and slashing through the chaos. Rafayel is kneeling beside you, flames erupting instinctively to shield both of you, looking down with wide eyes.

“Get—” you try to shout, but another powerful wave of the protocore squeezes your heart, and your vision blurs as you heave for breath.

The last thing you see is Sylus stepping over Rafayel’s crumpled form, hauling him over one shoulder before beginning to carry you, too.

Then, nothing.

It’s cold.

The explosion. The Aether Core. Sylus. Rafayel.

A gasp tears from your lips as you jolt awake, your body reacting before your mind catches up. The world spins in protest as you try and sit up, chest heaving like it’s trying to claw back air that’s been ripped away. Spinning, the world is still spinning as control of your body returns to you—pain prickles along your limbs, your skin freezing against the stiff leather beneath you.

Blinking hard, you push up on trembling arms, the faint scent of dust and something metallic clogging your nose. The ache in your skull is relentless, pulse hammering against your temples. You’re not in the banquet hall anymore. There’s no fire, no rubble, no echoing gunshots.

Instead, shadows claw at the corners of a room you don’t recognize. Empty walls of an office greet you, dark and seemingly abandoned with an unlit fireplace, heavy drapes smothering the windows, and a lavish seating area you’re in the midst of with a couch, coffee table, and—

Someone’s there.

Slumped in a leather chair near the fireplace, head tilted at an unnatural angle, is… “Rafayel.”

You call out to him in a gasp, a raw mix of relief and dread. His head hangs low, chin brushing his chest, his arms seemingly tied behind his back. For one desperate, fleeting moment, you think he’s asleep. But the light catches on something wrong, something warping along his body.

Shadows.

They slither down his chest and around his legs, dark, writhing tendrils of unnatural energy that pulse and coil, anchoring him to the chair. They’re the only thing keeping his unconscious form upright, taut and unyielding, glowing faintly at the edges with an unmistakably familiar red glow.

“Relax, he’s not dead.”

The voice is a smooth drawl, and your head whips around to find a heavy desk in the center of the office, and of course, the origin of the voice seated at the head of the desk, arms crossed as he watches you with an amused smirk.

“What did you do, Sylus?”

Your hands instinctively go for your guns but only brush against empty holsters instead. Weaponless, you stumble off the couch, placing yourself between Rafayel and the still-seated man as you glare down at him.

Sylus doesn’t even flinch. If anything, your anger only seems to amuse him further.

“We had a chat while you were sleeping.” With a sigh, he rises from his chair, every movement exuding practiced ease as he encircles the desk, making his way to you. A crow circling a corpse. “Turns out you’ve been keeping more from me than I thought. That, and your memory truly is terrible.”

Sylus stops just short of you, tilting his head back as his eyes roam your face, his grin growing sharper, fang peaking out. “Not one but two immortals? You certainly are greedy, aren’t you, kitten?”

Your stomach twists.

Nothing he’s saying makes sense, but the words cut into your gut regardless. Like a broken promise, like an old wound. “Let him go, Sylus. Now.”

But Sylus doesn’t move. He stands there, tapping a hand to his chin, studying you with a look that makes your heart throb, his right eye beginning to glow a crimson red. Amusement flickers behind his eyes, but there’s something else, too. Something darker.

“Twice,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, his gaze slipping briefly to Rafayel’s bound form. “Twice, you’ve cursed those who thought themselves unstoppable. Twice, you’ve bound your heart and soul.” His eyes snap back to yours, glinting with a sharp, cruel edge. “Not that you’d remember.”

Almost like he’s in pain. You stiffen, breath catching in your throat.

“Humans,” Sylus continues, the word dripping with scorn. “So quick to lay claim to what they desire, so insatiably greedy.” He leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, heavy with mockery, hands ghosting down your side as you shiver despite yourself. “And you, sweetie, are no different.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

A chuckle, “Of course you don’t.”

Sylus fights the urge to laugh. No wonder the god of the ocean itself followed you around like a lovesick puppy— Sylus was hardly taking it any better, but at least he just had the self-control to hide his obsession.

A strained groan echoes through the room, low and guttural. Your head snaps toward Rafayel, the sight of his head lifting weakly making your heart lurch. His hair is matted with sweat, and when he looks up, his sunset eyes are furious blue, darker than the ocean itself, narrowing to slits as the shadows twist tighter around his body.

There’s a moment, just a heartbeat, where you see something raw in his gaze. Relief. Desperation. And then, it’s gone, replaced by a scowl that’s as sharp as any blade.

“Well, look who’s awake,” Sylus hums, and you nearly collapse in relief, turning to rush to Rafayel’s side when something stops you halfway.

Two simple threads of shadow chain you down, dragging you back to Sylus as the other binds your hands behind you, unaffected by your sudden thrashing. In faux comfort, Sylus curls an arm around your waist, pulling you into his embrace as the other rests against your ribs, drawing comforting circles against your tattered dress—the once pristine silk only just gifted to you destroyed with gashes and holes from the explosion and chaos that followed.

Rafayel’s lip curls, his voice a growl despite the rasp of exhaustion. “Should’ve known a snake would take a deal and twist it. This is your plan? This is what you call a friendly competition?”

Sylus tilts his head, his smirk turning predatory. “Careful, puppy. You’ll get your turn, I never specified who went first.”

Silence.

You feel like you’re playing catch-up, each word only adding to the confusion as the tension grows thick enough to choke on.

And then Rafayel laughs. His entire body shakes with it, head thrown back against the chair he’s still bound to, laughing and laughing until he’s all but spitting flames. They erupt from his palms, climbing down the marble floors, vibrant pinks and reds curling into empty air as shadows dance to put them out.

Sylus doesn’t release you, though his fingers twitch against your ribs as the flames light up the room. His smirk falters just slightly, replaced by something harder to read—a flicker of recognition, perhaps, or respect.

Rafayel’s laughter fades, his head rolling forward again as if it took everything in him to laugh at all. When his eyes meet Sylus’s, they’re cold and dark, an abyss in the ocean.

“You really think this will win her back?” Rafayel spits, tremors of barely-contained fury ripping through him as he struggles against the tendrils that hold him. The shadows only tighten in response. His glare cuts to you, begging. “Don’t listen to him. He’s a liar, a snake. All those ugly cold-blooded beasts do is lie.”

Sylus snorts, hugging you closer as the low scoop back of your dress causes your skin to brush against his chest. “Lie? Are you always this dramatic?” He tilts his head, mocking. “Perhaps you should’ve asked about the rules before we began. Backing out already?”

Flames spark from Rafayel’s body again, this time uncontrolled, swirling in frantic spirals like an inferno around him. His body trembling against the leather. “Release me then! Let me go first, let me show you she doesn’t need you. She’ll remember me.”

“You’re awfully bold for someone tied to a chair.”

Sylus leans down to graze your neck with his lips, tilting his head like he’s savoring the sight of Rafayel’s frustration as he whispers into your ear just loud enough for him to hear. “Your puppy never stops barking, does he.”

Rafayel takes the bait, fire searing through wood, flickering in and out. “She’s not yours to take,” he seethes, shadows and flames casting violent shadows across the room. “Not yours.”

This is beyond ridiculous.

You try and jerk away from Sylus, forgetting about the shadowy tendrils also holding you in place. Instead, you settle for pushing Sylus back with your bound arms, glaring at the both of them bickering like feral cats once again. “Both of you, stop! Whatever grudge you have with each other, leave me out of it!”

Sylus chuckles, the sound low and unnerving. “Leave you out of it? Oh, kitten, you’ve always been at the very center. You just don't remember yet.” His hand slips from your ribs to lift your chin, tilting your face toward his as he gazes down at you with something almost… reverent. “But don’t worry, we’ll help you remember everything.”

His words send a pang through you, a strange and unbidden ache that threatens to consume you from the inside out. You’re left suspended between them, chest heaving, mind a whirlwind of confusion and doubt. And yet, somewhere deep inside, you can feel it—an echo of something ancient and unshakable, something you don’t understand. Something they both seem to know.

That alone seems to calm Rafayel, at least, for long enough that Sylus can bind his hands together, unable to conjure any more flames before gagging him with a veil of shadows too. Something that immediately sends the man into a frenzy as he curses and squirms against the restraints.

“What are– Sylus, release him right now—”

“Relax.”

You’re also being hoisted higher up into the air, feet barely touching the floor as your arms strain above your head. “He’s simply upholding his part of the deal. Besides, he’s not the one who deserves to be punished tonight. That, sweetie, would be you.”

But before you can rebuke, a huff of hot breath caresses your neck, Sylus humming against your ear as you shiver involuntarily. “You can’t blame me. After all, you’re quite cruel to curse both of us and then go about forgetting entirely.”

Sylus drags his hand down your ribs, thumb catching a rip in your dress as he tears it all the way down until his fingers reach the bare plush of your thigh. His grip tightens, and your sudden moan startles you nearly as much as it does the other two, shaking and needy at barely a touch, your body pulled upwards by Sylus’s shadows as you’re now balanced precariously between his hold and the brush of your toes against the floor.

“Tell me, does it hurt? That part of you that used to belong to us?”

The sensation is so foreign, the warmth and gentleness of his touch such a contrast to the cruelty he's displayed, but your traitorous body welcomes the contrast, leaning into his palm. “What are you talking about?” Your voice is shaky, unconvincing even to yourself. “I don’t—”

“Oh, you don’t remember,” Sylus cuts in, mockery dripping from his words. “But your body does. That’s the funny thing about bonds, darling. They don’t care about your memories. They care about promises. The ones you made. The ones you broke.”

You can feel the heat of Rafayel's gaze on you, watching as Sylus slowly runs his hand up your leg, the heat of his touch deliciously contrasted by the cool iron of his rings, making you shudder as they circle the tender flesh of your inner thigh. You fall forward, pulling against the restraints, unable to resist the urge to push into his touch.

Behind you, Rafayel lets out a muffled roar, thrashing against his binds. His fury burns through the room, flames licking at the air around him, casting wild, flickering light that illuminates the shadows writhing against his skin. Even gagged, his expression a storm of conflict, boring into Sylus with a fire that refuses to be smothered.

“See how desperate he gets?” Sylus laughs, his breath hot against your ear. “Always so loud, so needy. So quick to burn himself, like that’ll make you notice him more.”

Rafayel’s muffled snarl grows louder, and the flames around him surge, threatening to overwhelm the shadows keeping him bound. He jerks forward, the chair groaning under his strength, his entire body trembling with the effort.

Sylus smirks, unbothered, even amused. “Careful, puppy. Else I might think you’re trying to cheat.”

You wrench yourself away from Sylus’s grip as much as the shadows will allow, suddenly aware of how exposed you are with your torn dress.

“Cheat at what?” Thrashing, you try to slip from the restraints, which only has Sylus’s Evol squeezing tighter, pulling your wrists from behind your back to up in the air. “Let us go, now.”

“Feisty,” Sylus purrs, hand moving from your thigh to your jaw. Squeezing your cheeks between his forefinger and thumb, he wrenches your gaze off Rafayel, forcing your neck to crane up to look him in the eye as he presses up against your back.

“That’s always been your problem, hasn’t it? Always resisting, even when you don’t know why.” His lips quirk into a wicked smile. “In that case, say no.”

And then Sylus’s lips are on yours, warm and insistent.

Your eyes widen, a muffled sound of surprise rising in your throat as the warmth of his kiss spreads across your lips. It’s instinct, the way your body immediately leans into his embrace, desire and confusion tearing at your chest.

The logical part of you wants to pull away, but oh, something deep inside you sings so sweetly at his touch, making your mind fuzzy and body hot as Sylus tilts your head to the side. The angle has your neck screaming in protest, trapped between Sylus’s possessive grip on your neck and his chest, yet you swear it’s the dichotomy between the pain of his grasp and the devotion of his lips that has you addicted.

This close, his scent is entirely intoxicating, a heady mix of spices and smoke, breath hot against your mouth, his lips surprisingly soft, gentle against yours. He doesn’t rush, a low, contented noise humming in his chest as you deepen the kiss, already licking against his bottom lip as you crane your neck for more, grinding back against him as best you can with your arms now bound above you.

You don’t even realize you’re doing it.

The bond with Sylus purrs in realization, and he has to summon up every ounce of strength and control left to break away, groaning into your skin as his lips trailing along your jaw, down to your neck, teeth grazing every spot that makes you shiver, and yet refusing to sink in. Refusing to mark you as his own. Not yet.

When Sylus finally pulls back, you're panting, flushed and breathless. An absolute mess.

"You're fussy, kitten," he murmurs, panting, his large frame practically surrounding you, heaving as you stumble forward under the weight. "But if you want more, you need to answer me."

"I don’t understand.” You’re panting, and fuck, it’s hard to breathe. ”What does this have to do with…"

The hand not busy laying claim to your throat travels down to meet the rip in your dress, brushing across your bare ribs. You feel Sylus smile into the nape of your neck as you moan at the icy burn of his rings caressing the flushed skin of your chest, his hand large enough to cup the entirety of the poor, sensitive flesh.

That is, until his touch retreats entirely, the searing heat of his presence replaced with an empty chill.

“Yes or no?” Sylus’s voice is low, rough, and commanding, but there’s a crack in his tone that gives him away. “I need to hear it, kitten. I need to hear you say you want this.”

You groan, head lolling forward, feeling the last shreds of your resolve crumble. It’s almost too much to bear, shadows coiled around you like velvet chains, holding you upright even as your strength falters.

Why were you even fighting in the first place? The thought slips from your grasp, fleeting as a wisp of smoke. You can barely recall why you’re mad at them, at Sylus, at Rafayel. The failed mission, the target slipping away…it all feels inconsequential now, eclipsed by the molten desire in your chest.

Did you not want them both? Did you not dream of this? Did you not die for this?

The flicker of Sylus’s red eye pierces through the dark, pulling you out of your own thoughts and anchoring you back to this reality as you feel the rumble of his laugh vibrate through your chest even though he’s no longer touching you. You wish he were.

“Then say it.” You hear him step closer, but still refusing to touch you. “Say you want this, or else it stops.”

And then it’s back.

A violent surge tears through your chest, flashes of color—of memories—fluttering by in a tempest, in an unintelligible inferno as the burning within your heart returns tenfold. Images flash too fast to comprehend, but the feelings linger: love so deep it swallowed you whole, betrayal like a knife twisting in your ribs, desire that turned your world to ash.

They ripple through you, each thread of memory, each red string of fate tying itself tighter to your soul.

You’re gasping, trying to grip your chest as it feels like your heart is going to burst from your chest, desperate for relief. But Sylus’s Evol makes it impossible to move, snaking down your body instead as it anchors you against the pain attempting to seize your entire being.

You want them.

You need them.

After all, they were always yours.

"Yes."

The word tumbles out, barely audible, a whispered confession that feels like release and surrender all at once.

Control returns to you in waves, your body trembling as if it’s been dragged from the brink of collapse. Your thighs quiver, and even the hold of Sylus’s Evol isn’t enough to stop the shuddering. Everything burns. Gods, everything burns.

Behind you, Sylus makes a low sound that only makes the shaking worse. It’s raw, guttural—a noise you feel rather than hear. His control is unraveling, and for the first time, you realize he’s as close to breaking as you are.

He’s trembling.

Even with his iron control, even with his Evol wrapping around you like armor, he can’t stop the way his fingers hover just shy of your skin, tracing the curve of your neck, your spine, your waist, like he’s memorizing you. And he’s close—too close.

His breath is hot against the nape of your neck, and you can feel the tension radiating from him, maintaining that invisible barrier as he replays your ‘yes’ in his mind again and again and again.

“What was that?” His voice is a rough whisper, but the challenge is clear. “I don’t think I heard you.”

“Yes!” You nearly yell it this time, humiliation burning across your cheeks, but it’s dwarfed by the heat of your desire. ”I said yes.”

Sylus lets out a broken sound, somewhere between a groan and a growl, and every reason he’s had to hold back shatters. His Evol ripples, shadows weaving around your body in a dark embrace. Hands fly to your hips, a palm squeezing your thigh as your left leg is lifted completely off the ground.

Sylus inhales you in greedy mouthfuls, lips dancing down your neck, your shoulder blade, nipping into the skin, reverent and desperate in equal measure. This new position was beyond vulnerable, Sylus forcing your quivering thigh higher and higher until it presses into your chest, the crude slice in your dress providing absolutely no resistance or chance for modesty, allowing everything to be exposed to the chill of the office’s midnight air.

And to the hungry gaze of the man seated before you.

"So needy, kitten. Are you finally remembering?” Sylus coos against your ear, but his smirk is fixed on Rafayel, looking directly at him as his free hand trails down between the slits of fabric, toying with the lace band of your panties, long, rough fingers slipping under them in teasing circles. “Beg.”

“What?” You hate the way your voice quivers as Sylus teases your cunt through the thin, already-drenched fabric. “You’re out of your—ah, fucking—mind, Sylus.”

“Quite the opposite. After all, we have an audience to impress.” A sudden slap against your clothed pussy has you moaning, jolting against your restraints, futile, and yet the disturbance is just enough for the left strap of your dress to slip off your shoulder, exposing the swell of your breast just shy of the nipple that was no doubt already hard enough to peek through the sheer silk all on its own.

“Go on, beg for me.”

You don’t even get a chance to argue, not when Sylus delivers another harsh slap on your clit, soothing it with a cruel swirl, just enough to have you chasing the friction, grinding down against his palm with a choked sob. His middle two fingers tease against your slit, teasing but never breaching as the soaked fabric is stretched around his digits. He’s breaking you, and it’s working.

"...Please." It comes out in a whine, and you bury your face in his chest as you feel yourself burn in embarrassment.

A hum and Sylus’s hand leaves your cunt, making you whine at the loss. That is, until it's replaced on your neck, pushing your head up. A squeeze. "I said beg."

The pressure of his hold and the sweet demand of his voice only makes you wetter despite yourself. "Please," you repeat, shaking, each breath cut off just slightly by his thumb. "Please, Sylus, need it."

At first you think the bastard is doing this for himself, but as soon as you finish gasping out the words, his hand moves from your neck to your hair, pulling your head back and forcing you to look across the room.

Forcing you to look right at Rafayel.

Still bound and gagged, desperate doesn’t begin to describe him. Straining against his bounds, Rafayel’s entire body is shaking, trembling from either need or fury, gripping the leather until his knuckles turn white. Sunset eyes are glassy, blown out with unshed tears as they struggle to focus on everywhere Sylus touches you, the bruises against your neck, the quiver in your leg, the slick dripping down your thighs up to your clothed cunt.

Fuck, he’s hard. Rafayel’s cock strains painfully against his pants, an obvious dark spot tented up against his trousers, rocking against empty air with a muffled sob.

He looks more wrecked than you, and he hasn’t even been touched yet.

And that realization does horrible, terrible things to you.

“Please. Need you, need it s’bad it hurts. Wanna cum so, so badly, please,” you whine, deliberately sweet, locking eyes with Rafayel as you drag out your moan. “Sylus.”

There’s a click of a belt buckle and you’re being lifted up into the air. Sylus holds you up by the backs of your knees, completely at his mercy as your hands flail against the restraints pulled taut above your head. Your legs are spread wide, hugged tight to his chest as you feel his length, hot and desperate, pressing into your ass.

"Hold her down."

The shadows pull taut, wrapping around your knees as they allow Sylus’s hands to wander elsewhere, suspending you against him. At the same time, his fingers are hooked against your panties, snapping them against your weeping cunt and giving Rafayel the perfect view as the two men lock eyes.

Rafayel’s reaction is almost immediate, falling forward in the chair, moans stifled against the shadows as he watches Sylus push your panties to the side and then, without warning, thrust two fingers in knuckle-deep.

"You're so sensitive, aren't you, sweetie? Or is it because he’s watching?" As you cry the man simply drags you flush against his chest, forcing your legs higher as he drives you closer and closer to the edge. And looks Rafayel dead in the eyes. “She’s taking me so well, isn’t she?”

Sylus follows Rafayel’s gaze, unfocused and starving as he watches the two of you, more specifically, where your cunt greedily sucks up Sylus’s fingers, meeting every grind and curl of him deep inside you as you writhe against his chest.

Rafayel hates it, he hates it, and he hates how turned on he is at the sight.

You’re so easy, walls clenching around his digits, obscene suck following each and every movement as clear evidence even as your words fail you. With another curl of his fingers, Sylus twists his wrist, admiring the glint of your slick dripping down his palm and forearm. So wet, even as he purposefully avoids giving you what you’re seeking, planning to drive you insane before fucking you in any way that matters.

A particularly deep thrust of Sylus’s fingers has him grazing that sweet spot, and your entire body convulses, your cries echoing across the empty room in time to the lewd, wet squelches of Sylus’s ministrations. You're sobbing, struggling to find respite from the sensations as your legs tremble and familiar heat coils in your core embarrassingly fast.

"Ah, ah," Sylus chides, and his touch disappears, leaving you empty and unsatisfied as your head lolls back against his shoulder. It takes all of your willpower not to beg him to keep going, but the look on his face makes it clear you're not allowed.

"I need—”

"You need," his grip is firm, "To learn patience. Aren’t you forgetting something? If you cum so quickly, do you really think you’ll be able to handle the both of us?"

Sylus says that, and yet he’s not exactly helping. Finally giving attention to your clit, his pace is merciless, the slick sounds of your pussy sucking his fingers in making his cock twitch in his pants.

"Yes. Yes, Sylus, I want ah– wait," you gasp, unable to move, squirming in the air as you look directly at Rafayel, almost in a plea. But that only makes the poor man almost cum at the eye contact. His entire body flushes an erotic pink at the sight of you, pathetic whimpers and unintelligible praises muffled into the shadows.

Sylus smirks, feeling you clench around his fingers, and grinds forward, your protests dissolving into static as you feel his cock grind between your thighs. Fuck, you’re close.

But Sylus isn’t looking down at you, not anymore. He’s rather focused on the poor man looking nearly hypnotized at the show you’re so generously putting on.

So why not take it further? Sylus directs his Evol down, ripping Rafayel’s shirt and squeezing his thighs as they tease and tighten against his trembling muscles, grinning at the man practically falling apart without so much as a touch.

"You want a taste, puppy?”

Sylus smirks, kissing down your neck, finally undoing his Evol gagging Rafayel’s mouth as a pathetic whine echoes across the room alongside every heaving breath. “Ask nicely, and maybe I'll let you. If she cums, she’s all yours."

Rafayel has never wanted to burn a building down so badly before.

He's a god for fuck's sake—he, the bringer of tempests, the master of tidal waves, and the keeper of fire, unable to even fucking breathe at the sight of you. This is not desire; this is sacrilege.

But then he hears it. His name. Shattered, trembling, falling from your lips like prayers ripped from a throat too broken to care—Rafayel, Rafayel, Rafayel—your thighs quivering in the air, your body offering to something you don’t fully understand, each syllable searing through him like molten iron, branding him, unmaking him.

Rafayel’s fingers twitch with the need to destroy—burn, drown, something. But when you scream his name once more, cumming around Sylus’s fingers, the god inside him shatters.

"Please," his throat is raw from cursing through the gag, each word tasting like ash and salt on his tongue. "Please, Sylus."

It’s not enough. Sylus tilts his head, amused. Rafayel sucks in a shuddering breath, nearly falling from the chair to his knees as the restraints loosen.

"You want a god to beg?" Rafayel laughs, fury crackling beneath his desperation. "I’ll beg. I’ll kneel. I’ll crawl to her. Please, just let me taste. Don’t make me wait anymore."

“Then crawl.”

You’re only just coming down from your orgasm, bits of Rafayel’s and Sylus’s nth argument flickering through your mind— before you’re suddenly gasping for breath.

A silent scream rips from your mouth as the restraints above you flicker with every tremor that seizes your body, knees buckling as a searing sensation against your leg bites again.

You didn’t even see Rafayel get off the chair, let alone process when he got on his knees beneath you.

“Rafayel!” Looking down through tear-lined lashes, you watch the man lick his lips, his only apology a wet, messy kiss to the violet bruise already blooming against your inner thigh. He’s whimpering apologies into your leg, tongue slipping out to meet your quivering skin, collecting your sweat and dripping slick, smearing it higher and higher along your inner thigh. You swear no human tongue is that long.

As if coordinated, the moment Sylus releases your leg from his hold, Rafayel drapes it over his shoulder, your body suspended between them. Your hands writhe helplessly above your head, desperate to lace themselves into the man's hair and pull— closer or further, you do not know.

Rafayel’s yanking you forward, moaning into your cunt as his lips meet your own swollen ones—too hasty, too depraved to even think of pulling aside your sticky panties. He’s eating through the fabric like a man starved, teeth grazing your clit as his tongue slips under, burying himself between your folds, tongue fucking up into you as his moans and whines are muffled only by your own and the wet squelches of your cunt.

"I— R-Rafayel—Sylus!"

Your head rolls back, falling onto Sylus’s chest as you feel Rafayel moan, the vibrations sending a shockwave up your spine. Your cum is dripping down his chin and chest, and he’s lost in the heat and taste of you, head spinning as he makes out with your pussy, sucking the drenched fabric of your panties, his poor neglected cock straining against his pants, begging for attention. In truth, Rafayel doesn’t think he’s ever been this hard in his life.

Rafayel presses closer, nose brushing against your clit in sync with the curling and twisting of his tongue as it reaches that spongy abused spot deep inside you, the hot friction enough to send your eyes rocking into the back of your skull.

Now you’re certain, the way it writhes inside you is most definitely far from human.

Sylus is more than content to just watch over your shoulder, transfixed. Watch as the god kneels beneath you, head moving in a frenzy, desperate for more, a slave to his own hunger. When you try to writhe away from Rafayel, overstimulated, Sylus merely wraps his burly forearms around your waist and neck to pin you in place, the squeeze of Sylus’s biceps and Rafayel’s kissing to your cunt making you gloriously light-headed.

Sylus watches your muscles begin to tremor, thighs locking around Rafayel’s head, and he brings his palm down to curl his fingers up into you alongside Rafayel’s tongue.

“My, just look at you.” Sylus chuckles against your forehead as you bury your face into the crook of his neck, stifling your moans as you bite—hard—down into his sweat-slicked skin. “So needy for the both of us. Do you remember now? Do you realize the only thing your body craves is us, that we will be the only ones ever able to satisfy you?”

"Sylus, oh god, please," you moan, already delirious as you beg.

Rafayel's head snaps up, panting between your legs, your wetness shining on his chin. He glares at the man above him, his eyes alight before pressing a rough kiss to your clit.

"I’m your god. Do not speak to him while I'm touching you.” Rafayel’s mouth is back on your cunt, sucking, biting, and he reaches a hand up to rip the remaining fabric of your dress, squeezing your breast. "You're mine, You’re mine too. You were mine first, don’t forget that again."

Rafayel feels the way you tense around his tongue and Sylus’s fingers and frowns, sucking harder, faster. You are a symphony in their ears, a drug in their veins, and gods, Rafayel has never felt so high.

"Say it. Say my name,” he whines, drooling against your folds, "you're mine. All mine."

You can barely breathe.

"Say it."

"Yours, Rafayel," you cry out, your entire body shaking, "I'm yours."

"Again," he’s pleading, a growl, and you can feel it inside you, the vibration and the desperation. Ignoring the ringing in his ears, the dizziness in his vision to kiss your clit—missing, placing wet, opened-mouth kisses against your thighs and cunt a few times instead. "Say it again."

"Yours, always, always," you can feel the tears running down your cheeks, a sob wrenching from your throat as the pressure grows, "yours, Rafayel, I'm yours—"

You’re babbling, so, so fucked out you don’t even recognize the familiar letters Rafayel presses into your clit with every swirl of his tongue—R-A-F-A-Y-E-L-R-A-F-A-Y-E-L—spelling his name as if in reminder. In possession. In worship.

The two of you are practically overstimulating yourselves, and Sylus can see the moment your eyes roll back, your lips parting with a moan, and moves his fingers to curl against your g-spot at the same time Rafayel goes back to licking up into your cunt. The god growls at the interruption and nips Sylus’s fingers almost on instinct, causing Sylus to hiss as you jerk in his hold.

Immediately, Sylus is reaching down, yanking on Rafayel’s hair, forcing his head out from beneath you. “Ah-ah, no biting.”

But, gods, does Rafayel fight it. Whining, Rafayel reluctantly slips his tongue out from your cunt, dazed and addicted, eyes half-lidded as he attempts to find his way back to you, finally forced back onto his heels.

"The fuck do you think you're doing? Sylus, I swear to the seas I’ll set everything on fire and let it all burn," Rafayel snarls, his body shaking with desire.

Sylus laughs. "Is that how a good boy asks?"

Neither of you misses the full shiver that races down Rafayel’s spine at the pet name. Sylus forces Rafayel’s head to the side with his grip on his hair and the god snaps out of it, smiling with the promise of blood as your cum drips from his canines.

"I have killed for less."

"I’ll make it worth the effort, puppy. I promise."

Sylus's eyes burn into him, a silent dare. A challenge. Rafayel's gaze shifts back and forth between Sylus and you, his teeth grinding together as his cock strains against his pants. There are only two choices left, and he knows it.

“Will both of you stop fighting and please—” you scream at their stupidity, “Please just fuck me!”

Their hands are on you in an instant.

Sylus drags Rafayel up by the hair, pushing the man back as he stumbles backward onto the couch, you falling on top of him as Sylus bends you over the leather arm. Immediately, you feel the hot press of Sylus against your ass, his body caging you between them as his arms rest on the back of the couch and right beside Rafayel’s head.

“Make him come, and I’ll fuck you,” Sylus whispers into your ear, guiding your back into a deeper arch until your breasts graze the cold leather.

He doesn’t even finish talking before you’re pawing at Rafayel’s pants.

You don’t need the extra motivation, not really, not when you’re already salivating at the sight of Rafayel’s pretty length, heavy and leaking as it snaps up to his abdomen as soon as you shove down his boxers.

Overly eager, you thumb at his slit, collecting the copious amounts of sticky pre-cum dripping onto his stomach as you drag your hand up and down, watching anger fade from Rafayel’s expression entirely as he writhes against the couch.

You’ve barely even touched him and he’s falling apart. The sheen of sweat makes his muscles stick to the leather as he bucks up into your touch, babbling pleas as he watches you lean down to kiss the tip. "Poor baby. You’re this hard from just watching?"

"Please," Rafayel begs, gasping as your hand squeezes against the base of his pretty cock. "Wanna fuck you. Wanna be inside you. Please."

You hesitate, almost looking over your shoulder at Sylus for permission when you’re lifted up into the air with a yelp. Sylus only needs one arm to hoist you over the arm of the couch, dropping you onto Rafayel’s lap as the both of you moan at the mere contact of skin on skin.

It should be embarrassing, the fact that you’re so wet that at the first few attempts, Rafayel’s cock merely slides between your thighs, grinding into your clit before trying again, Sylus cooing sweet nothings to the both of you as he purposely slows you down.

One of his large hands begins grinding you onto Rafayel’s length, letting you take him inch by inch, the other moving to stop the man beneath you from squirming, pinning him down.

"Mhm fuck, Raf, feels so good." Relishing the stretch you finally, finally, get. Greedily sinking faster as you chase the addictive feeling, down until your ass hits his pelvis with a lewd squelch.

"Ah," Rafayel tries to meet you halfway, tries to thrust up into you but can’t so much as move with Sylus’s hand and Evol holding him down yet again. “Sylus, please, let me. Need it, need it so bad.”

The sound of Rafayel moaning Sylus’s name really shouldn’t be that hot, and yet you feel your pussy flutter, Rafayel’s cock twitching violently in you as he groans from the sudden pressure, throbbing in time to your heartbeat. Rolling your hips, you chase the friction of his pelvis against your clit, grinding back and forth as your breathing reduces to small cries of their names.

"You can do better than that," Sylus scoffs, hand squeezing your hip, pressing down onto your lower abdomen before dragging you all the way off Rafayel’s length and slamming you back down. Again. And again.

Both of you lose your minds a little at that. Your moan is muffled as you collapse down onto Rafayel’s chest, panting, drooling at the pace Sylus is setting for you, still moving your hips as you try to distract yourself by placing messy, opened-mouth kisses up Rafayel’s heaving chest. Biting his nipple just to watch him arch into your mouth with a sob. Wanting, needing more.

Sylus rocks you forward just a bit more and you scream, the fat head of Rafayel’s cock now ramming into your g-spot, raw and sensitive.

"Please, fuck," Rafayel gasps out, shaking at the change in angle. His jaw hangs deliriously open as he looks down, greedy eyes locked on the way your cunt was swallowing him whole. “Don’t stop, m’close. Please, ah—shit, don’t squeeze me like that— don’t stop.”

Sylus’s low laugh makes your cunt throb, gushing around Rafayel’s cock as the sticky, creamy strands begin to pool where your thighs meet. Still guiding you up and down, Sylus moves to finger at your clit, smiling as the both of you tense up immediately, smacking up once, twice, onto your oversensitive nub.

“Very well then, make him cum. Poor thing deserves it, right?” Sylus whispers into your ear, spreading two fingers across the glossy mess between your bodies, watching your combined slick drip down his wrist. You watch him withdraw his glistening fingers with a smug, feral grin, immediately leaning down to press the digits into Rafayel’s open mouth.

Every sound is unrestrained now, Rafayel’s eyes rolling back at the taste of you coating Sylus’s fingers, sucking diligently as his pace speeds up into brutal, frantic thrusts. Rafayel’s hips freely jerk up as he plants his feet into the couch, new leverage letting him ram himself deeper, barely pulling out before rolling his hips back into yours. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, yes, fuuuck."

"Cum, puppy, I know you're close."

You swallow your cries just long enough to lick across Rafayel’s blushing red ear and whisper, "Be a good boy and cum for us, Raf. Come inside me, please?”

It hits him so hard it hurts.

Rafayel cries as he cums, loud, sweet moans garbled against Sylus’s fingers, drooling around him nearly as much as his cock is drooling in you, the sheer heat of his release filling you to the brim as it squirts down your thighs and up his abs in thick rivulets. But he’s still grinding up into you as he cums, fucking his release deeper, arching his muscled back into a gorgeous curve on the soaked leather, and you feel your own orgasm quickly approaching.

"Rafayel, Sylus, wait please, too much, I’m gonna—"

"You can take it, kitten.” Sylus cuts you off, retracting his fingers from Rafayel’s mouth before tapping them against his cheek, smearing the wetness of his digits down his jaw.

Rafayel gets the message, still thrusting, hands squeezing your breasts, waist, down to your ass, spreading your thighs until they shake, all as Sylus keeps moving your hips. The two of them working together as your body shudders, orgasm hitting you without any other warning.

Sylus hums sweet praises as your head floats in and out of reality, still deliciously stretched around Rafayel’s still-hard cock. The couch dips as Sylus settles in behind you, the heat of his bare skin caressing your back as his hands massage comforting little circles into yours and Rafayel’s hips.

“Good job, baby.”

Both of you shudder at the praise.

Sylus’s voice acts as little more than an aphrodisiac, all low and rough with a teasing chuckle, and the way you feel Rafayel twitch inside you makes you think he feels similarly.

“Hey,” Rafayel’s already embarrassingly close to coming again, your every movement tightening and rocking against his length. He pushes himself up onto his elbows with a whine, nuzzling into your touch with each slow, deep thrust. “You’re taking too long. Hurry up, a deal is a deal, so hurry up already and fuck her.”

You can’t see it, but the sight of you and Rafayel still subtly grinding against each other, panting and breathless, makes a dark flush spread across Sylus’s cheeks, his own body betraying him as he smiles. One thick arm anchors you to his chest as the other pulls Rafayel up. “So needy, aren’t you?”

You don’t know who he’s talking to— you don’t particularly care.

Not so long as both of them were inside you within the next five seconds.

“Shh,” Sylus kisses you quiet, silencing the whines you didn’t even realize you were letting out, "Don't worry, kitten. We're gonna take real good care of you, aren't we, Rafayel?"

Rafayel only nods, eyes half-lidded and teary as he looks down to where you and him are joined. He's still buried to the hilt, throbbing against your walls, and you both moan at the overstimulation from every movement, hissing at the cool air as Sylus slides his hands down to pull you apart, fingers pressing against his cock inside you.

"Just relax, alright? Deep breaths. This'll feel really good soon."

Slow. Torturously slow. Sylus retreats his fingers and replaces them with his weeping tip. And then he’s pushing in alongside Rafayel’s cock— careful, deep grinds of his hips that have you and Rafayel moaning, every heartbeat pulsing against your walls in violent thumps.

"Relax."

"I am relaxed."

"Breathe, Raf."

"I'll burn you alive."

Sylus laughs at Rafayel's pained whine, and he takes that moment to tighten his arm around your waist, forcing you steady before thrusting in one brutal push. The sheer size of them, the combined pressure, and the very fact that you can feel them both rocking and throbbing against each other is enough to have you losing your mind.

Dropping his head to kiss your shoulders, Sylus almost looks apologetic as he turns your head to the side, messily licking into your lips as he says, “M’sorry, just a bit more. Just a bit- hah fuck- a bit deeper—”

Oh fuck, he’s not even in all the way yet.

Rafayel is moaning nonstop now, his hands finding yours and squeezing, the two of you trembling. You're a drooling, overstimulated mess between them, but all you can do is nod, a garbled, “S’okay, keep- keep going.”

That's the last warning you get before Sylus pushes deeper, until you can feel him in your throat, pound after heavy pound that shakes the entire damn couch. Holy fuck, it might break.

They’re caging you in on either side, rhythmless, bouncing you like little more than a toy, pressing closer as the pressure grows against your walls and around your hips, reminding you of just how small you are to them in every conceivable way and how far they’re willing to go for you. How willing of worship they are. How desperate they are to prove it.

You can feel everything, so full you can barely breathe, can barely think. Shaky fingers claw down anything you can find, digging into hard planes of muscle, and Rafayel makes a sound against your mouth like it hurts. But he isn't holding back either, the grip on your thighs bruising as he fucks into you, every thrust a sharp shock of pleasure as he and Sylus rock against one another.

The room is filled with the lewd squelch of their cocks fucking into your wet cunt, taking turns in deep, uneven tempos, and the heavy, ragged sounds of your breathing.

Sylus suddenly moans, loud and unrestrained against your shoulder, and you look back to see Rafayel’s hand squeezing the pale column of his neck, the slow lick of flames leaving bright red marks against his skin in the shape of Rafayel’s palm.

But the pain only seems to set Sylus off further, a harsh thrust into your ass forcing you forward and deeper onto Rafayel as well, nearly delirious as you’re stuck between their silent competition yet again.

Rafayel’s mouth gasps open in a feverish puff of your name over and over when you already begin clenching, practically milking them back in, pace stuttering as his swollen tip takes turns colliding with Sylus’s own and your cervix. Half-delirious, his palm comes up, pressing right where he could feel both of their cocks making a mess of you inside.

“Ah! W-what-”

“Mhm, you deserve a reward don’t you cutie?” He’s panting against your mouth while Sylus bites the filthiest of words into the crook of your neck. The lovebites they’ve swathed across your skin will take days, if not weeks to disappear, but you’re far too gone to pay them any mind. “Take it, take our cum then. Right here.”

Rafayel’s palm digs into your lower stomach, hard.

His thrusts are short and frantic now, his face pressed into the crook of your neck as you tighten impossibly around him. The pressure builds until you can't breathe, your body shaking and toes curling as you scream out little ah’s of their names.

"Wanna-" Rafayel can barely finish his sentence, punctuating each word with a sharp thrust, the head of his cock knocking against your cervix. "Wanna fill you up, make sure you never forget. Never forget us again.”

Sylus on the other hand almost looks pained at the idea, and the sudden rush of possessiveness makes his thrusts harsher, rougher, and the sound of his hips colliding with yours fills the room.

“Yes yes yes- hah- want you to cum inside.” Arching between them, grappling pathetically for more. More. “Both of you inside, want it.”

"Careful." Sylus growls, forcing himself to breathe. To think.

Rafayel only grins, a wicked edge to his fucked-out smile. “It’d be our mark. All ours. Our love, all full of us, our cum. You'd look so good like that, our sweet darling.”

You cry, burying your face in Rafayel's neck, his hair, the smell of him, of Sylus. "Wanna- want—ahh—want it, Sylus, please- want to feel it, want to be both of yours.”

“Don’t.” Sylus can't help but hiss, his cock swell violently inside of you, the telltale heat pooling in his stomach of a dragon marking his territory. He’s so close it’s embarrassing.

Instead, his mouth finds your throat, sucking more bruises into the side Rafayel hasn’t completely marred. "Do you really want this? Think about it, kitten."

Rafayel laughs, squeezing your face in his hand as a low trill sounds from the back of his throat. “You believe—mhm, fuck—she can think right now?”

Sylus chooses to ignore him. Gently taking your face from Rafayel, he covers your eyes, whispering into your ear, "One more time. Do you want this?”

“Yes.”

There's no response, but the sudden, painful press of Sylus's bite makes you gasp, the sharp sting a pleasant contrast to the sweet ache spreading throughout your body. A hand pulls against your waist, another flicking cruelly across your nipple, pain and pleasure bleeding into one as you nearly collapse, two sets of hands immediately steading you instead. Rafayel moves to the unoccupied side of your neck, matching Sylus’s marks, the vulgar sounds of their tongues and sucking of teeth between moans fills your ears, just above the slap of their rough thrusts.

Twin marks, the jaws of a Lemurian and the canines of a dragon, glowing a dull blue and red, claiming your body and soul in a way that their bonds sing.

Sylus immediately retracts, kissing away the few escaped droplets of blood in apology while Rafayel lets them run, licking up your collarbone as the blood smears across your heartbeat, frantic under his tongue.

Rafayel's tongue soothes the pain as he kisses the mark, sighing a soft, “ours,” into your neck.

The possessive edge in his voice sends a shockwave through your body, and you can't help but shudder, walls spasming around them as the pleasure nearly blinds you, every sense heightened by Sylus’s palm still covering your eyes.

Without sight, every touch, every shift of their bodies against yours, in yours, is overwhelming. And you’re crying out into the darkness as they tease and drag you up, forcing you closer and closer—

Fuck, you’re squirting everywhere. Each thrust now punctuated by wet slaps as your hands claw and slip against the drenched muscles of Rafayel’s abs and Sylus’s chest, unable to anchor yourself as you continue to cum. Shaking with it.

They barely notice, the sudden vice of your cunt sucking them inside as they fuck into you in shallow, desperate little grinds. Anything to get deeper and deeper still, one kissing you as you feel their tongue lick up into you and the other playing with your clit, all three of you quickly losing your minds.

It’s impossibly messy, desperate. Neither of them has any control left, both cumming inside you as you continue to convulse around them, Sylus's hips stuttering as you feel the full, hot press of his release. Rafayel isn't far behind, whining and twitching, filling you up as their combined release gushes around your thighs, staining the leather couch below with dripping pools of it.

The feeling of being so full is enough to prolong your orgasm to the point of pain, and you scream their names as best you can when you can’t feel your tongue anymore, body convulsing.

You're still dizzy when Rafayel finally pulls away, a soft whimper escaping his lips at the feeling.

“So good, so pretty for us cutie, our sweet darling, you did so well." Rafayel’s babbling to himself with a lopsided smile, guiding Sylus’s hand to your navel. "Look, look. She's so full."

Sylus pulls back, heaving, his eyes immediately falling to where Rafayel's hand rests. He can feel it, can feel both of their releases seeping out, but Rafayel is right, your lower stomach is swollen. Not quite enough to show, but definitely enough to make them both moan, and the sound draws your attention back down to earth.

“Again.”

It's the first demand you’ve given in a while, and it’s not what Sylus expected, not with the way you barely seem lucid, but there's a bright flush to your cheeks and an excited glint in your eyes, and it's so fucking hot he can barely breathe.

What Sylus also didn’t expect was for you to immediately lift yourself off his dick, busy watching your combined spend trickle down your thighs before both you and Rafayel knock Sylus onto his back, looking equal parts feral and furious as the two of you work together to pin him down.

“You really didn’t think I’d let you get away with everything you pulled in the beginning, did you?”

You nod, biting into Sylus’s neck as you whisper in faux anger. “This is entirely your fault.”

Sylus could barely manage to hide his smile.

Who knows if any of you will make it out of this alive. The only lasting truth you know now is that they’ve irreversibly claimed you. That you’ve claimed them.

Your dragon and your god.

This is all for @jayhyunglover who sparked this obsession while I was stuck in NYC's airport-- what a way to start 2025. Regardless, a month later this was born, so thank you, darling for feeding my delusions. This one's for you~

#crowfish #IM A WHORE !!!#rafayel mi tesoro #sylus

6K notes · View notes

oddeyechrollo · 6 days ago

Text

This is art.

Say it's me you want

Synopsis: You weren’t supposed to feel this way about her. It started with a look lingering too long, burning too deep. You told yourself it was nothing, that she was just captivating like that. You’ve only ever crushed on boys before, but Rafayel made you feel something different. Something sharp and soft all at once. When jealousy stung and curiosity pulled harder, you finally stopped running from what you felt. One kiss turned into something more, and suddenly you were touching, tasting, and learning what it meant to want her, and finally have her.

Content warnings: fem!raf, party girl raf, non-canon rafayel, explicit sexual content, oral sex (f!receiving), fingering, exploration of sexuality, first-time with a woman, internalized insecurity, light alcohol use, jealousy, possessiveness, emotionally vulnerable dialogue, light dominance/submission dynamics, soft praise kink, mutual pining, consensual intimacy between women, kissing, biting, multiple orgasms, emotional sex.

Pairings: fem!Rafayel x reader

Word count: 30k

A/n: in order to celebrate pride month, i posted a poll for you guys to pick one of the guys as fem and rafayel won, hehe. so here it is fem!raf for whoever enjoys this kind of content, and i hope you'll like it.

p.s. i don't condone any type of hateful, homophobic behavior. so if this is not for you, please scroll. i will not hesitate to delete these types of comments and block you :)

that being said, enjoy 🌈

A/n 2: there will be a part 2 to this;)

Rafayel was everything you weren’t.

Where you walked through campus trying not to draw attention, she moved like she deserved it—head high, laugh bright, hips swaying with an effortless kind of confidence that turned heads without trying. University, to her, wasn’t just about lectures or credits; it was a stage, and she was determined to steal every spotlight. If there was a party, she was already at the center of it. If there was music, she danced to it like it was written for her.

She didn’t just attract attention—she thrived on it. A flash of that disarming smile, a tilt of her head, and suddenly everyone was leaning in closer, caught in her orbit. Professors, classmates, strangers—no one was immune. Least of all you.

And honestly, you didn’t even want to be. Because Rafayel was beautiful in a way that felt unfair—like someone had sculpted her with soft gold light and left her to wander among mortals just to see what would happen. Breathtaking didn’t quite cover it. And yet, she wasn’t cold or untouchable, not some high-maintenance queen perched on a throne. No—she was warm. She was easy to talk to, easier to laugh with, and dangerously easy to like.

For her, being a social butterfly wasn’t a learned skill—it was instinct. She floated through every conversation like she’d been born knowing the right things to say, the perfect tone to strike, the exact smile to wear. And you, like the rest, were no exception.

You still remember how it started. Her smile, the way she said your name like it tasted sweet on her tongue. The casual way she draped herself over the arm of your chair during your first week, as if you’d already been friends for years. It hadn’t even taken a month before she’d wrapped herself around your routine, fluttering into every crevice of your day until you started wondering how it felt so natural.

And really, how could it have gone any other way? Because as fate would have it, you were also fortunate enough to be roommates.

Your life on campus had always revolved around rhythm—small comforts folded into familiar patterns. Mornings with coffee from the quiet corner café, afternoons tucked away in the campus studio with paint-stained fingers and half-dried palettes, evenings curled up in the dorm with soft music humming low from your speakers. You liked routine. You didn’t need chaos to feel alive. Spontaneity had its charm, sure—but only when you invited it in on your own terms.

So, on paper, living with someone like Rafayel should have been a disaster. She was color and noise where you preferred silence and softness. The kind of girl who thrived on attention, who found electricity in the pulse of nightlife. Her version of a slow evening was spent preening for a party, glass of wine in hand, eyeliner sharp enough to slice through the air. She was everything the roommate email warning had made you dread.

But strangely, it wasn’t a nightmare. You were different—drastically so—and yet your lifestyles didn’t clash the way you thought they might. Rafayel never tried to drag you into her world, not really. She offered the invitation often, a teasing grin curling at the edge of her glossed lips as she leaned against the doorframe, asking if you felt like crashing a party or sneaking into some underground rave with her latest crew. But there was no pressure behind the ask, and the both of you knew what the answer would be.

Still, she always asked. And you appreciated her for that—for never pushing, never mocking the quiet you clung to. You never complained about the noise she brought back, the soft thud of her heels at 2 a.m., the echo of laughter trailing behind her, mixed with her perfume. She never judged the nights you stayed in, wrapped in oversized sweaters, surrounded by half-finished sketches and barely touched tea.

Somehow, it worked.

There was one night, though—early in the semester, when the air still tasted like fall and possibilities—that you said yes. You’re not even sure why. Maybe it was the way she pleaded, her voice dripping with honeyed charm and half-laughs, telling you you deserved to be reckless for once. Maybe it was how her eyes sparkled when she talked about dancing under bad lighting and kissing strangers and chasing stupid stories. Or maybe it was just the way she looked at you that night—like you were a canvas she’d just been dying to paint.

Whatever it was, you caved. And the moment you said yes, she lit up like she'd won a prize.

She flitted around the room like a stylist on a mission, fretting over your outfit as if the fate of the night rested entirely on what you wore. Clothes flew across the bed, accessories jingled like windchimes in her hands, and she muttered to herself with the kind of focused intensity you usually only saw in her makeup mirror. You sat cross-legged on your mattress, watching her with a mixture of amusement and mild exasperation, your chin resting on your palm as you tried not to smile too much.

She had taste, that much you couldn’t deny. Everything she wore was a work of art—bold, unapologetic, striking. Her makeup was always something to behold: glitter-laced or smokey and sharp, sometimes delicate and otherworldly, like she’d stepped out of a dream. And no matter what she chose, it worked. She wore creativity like a second skin. Her clothes followed no rule but her own, and yet somehow, every look was flawless—raw and expressive, a visual melody that made people stop and stare.

That night, you let her take over your closet with a kind of quiet surrender. Maybe it was the way she moved—confident, radiant, alive—that made you feel like letting go for once wouldn’t be such a terrible thing. Maybe, just maybe, it would even be fun.

And it had been fun. More fun than you’d expected. More fun than you’d ever admit out loud. And really, why should you deny it? There was no shame in the way that night had bloomed around you like something soft and rare. You remembered the outfit she’d pulled together with surprising care—not overly flashy, not exaggerated or attention-grabbing, though you knew she could’ve made it so if she’d wanted. Instead, she’d chosen restraint. She’d paid attention.

She didn’t say as much, but you saw the thoughtfulness in every layer, in the colors she picked and the way the fabric skimmed your figure without shouting for a crowd. When you stood in front of the mirror, you didn’t see someone else staring back. You saw yourself—just a little more radiant, a little more daring. Accentuated, not reinvented.

And you felt beautiful. Not in the loud, dramatic way Rafayel so effortlessly embodied—but in your own skin, in a way that didn’t feel borrowed. You were grateful for that. Grateful that her excitement hadn’t swept her too far, grateful she hadn’t tried to mold you into some echo of herself. She only ever added, never replaced. That kind of care—subtle, unspoken—meant more to you than any outfit ever could.

Then, of course, being Rafayel, she’d gone and matched her outfit to yours. Not identically, but enough to feel like a pair—complementary, harmonious. It pulled a soft, involuntary smile from you. She caught it, grinning triumphantly as she grabbed your hand and tugged you out of your little safe corner of the dorm.

She didn’t let go once. That night, she stayed by your side—not hovering, not smothering, just there. You’d half expected her to disappear into a swirl of friends and admirers, some impossibly magnetic social circle you’d never quite seen up close. But if they were there, she didn’t seem to care. Not that night. That night, she was yours.

She smiled and laughed and leaned in with a conspiratorial wink as she led you toward the drink table, making some joke that had you giggling before the first shot even burned its way down your throat. The second one was worse, and you grimaced through it, earning a bright, delighted laugh from her that warmed you more than the liquor ever could.

And then the music pulled her attention—and she pulled you with it. But not into the chaotic heart of the dancefloor like you feared. No, Rafayel stopped at the edges, in that liminal space between wild abandon and quiet observation. She didn’t shove you into it. She didn’t force your hand. She just turned toward you, her fingers finding yours again, and coaxed you gently—come on, just feel it.

And you did. You let your eyes fall closed, let the beat sink into your chest, let the alcohol soften your bones. You felt the bass ripple through the soles of your feet, the dull thrum of energy in the air, the brush of her fingertips still lightly tangled in yours. And through it all, her perfume clung to you—warm, sweet, intoxicating. The kind of scent that wrapped around your thoughts long after it was gone.

You danced—awkwardly at first, but that didn’t last. Not with her swaying beside you, beaming like your joy was a secret she’d been waiting to unlock. Maybe she thought you’d been too stiff before. Maybe she was just happy you came. Either way, she looked at you like you’d done something right by being here.

And you laughed. God, you laughed. And later—when the night had melted into blurred laughter and flushed cheeks and aching feet—you found yourself lying in bed, replaying it all. The colors. The sound. The look on her face. And not once did you regret saying yes.

After that night, saying yes to her slowly became a rhythm. Not quite deliberate, not yet habitual—but with each passing week, the hesitation dulled. By the time second semester rolled around and the air began to soften with the first touch of spring, you found yourself agreeing to more and more of Rafayel’s spontaneous suggestions. A walk. A coffee. A bookstore detour. No longer did you weigh your silence before answering. Sometimes, your body moved before your mind even caught up.

One morning, unremarkable and quiet, she’d mentioned getting coffee—casually, half to herself as she slipped on her boots near the door. And before she could say another word, you were grabbing your bag.

She blinked at you, surprise flickering across her face like sunlight through leaves. But only for a moment. Then she beamed, bright and unfiltered, and with a delighted skip in her step, she matched her pace to yours as you strolled toward the campus café together.

Later that day, you lay side by side on the freshly mowed grass, coffee cups cooling in your hands, your skin warmed by spring’s gentle return. Rafayel turned her head, arched a brow in amusement, and teased you for leaving your cave, for daring to breathe air that hadn’t been recycled through your dorm room.

You rolled your eyes, naturally—but you were smiling, and she saw it. Because it was easy. Being with her was easy. Strangely, unexpectedly so. Her extravagance, her dramatics, her love of attention—it didn’t grate the way you might’ve once thought it would. In fact, you’d started to enjoy it. Or rather, you’d started to enjoy her. The full, messy, sparkling presence of her. You had your own kind of mischief, sure, but it wasn’t like hers. Hers was louder, brighter, like glitter in motion. And instead of repelling you, it pulled you closer.

It became a pattern—woven in quietly, like a new thread through familiar cloth. She took you to a museum next. An art exhibition she’d been gushing about for weeks, her eyes lighting up with every brushstroke and artpiece she described. And of course she asked you. Because you shared that passion. That hunger for texture and shadow and meaning hidden beneath layers of pigment.

You went. You studied together, sometimes. Pulled chaotic all-nighters with too much caffeine and not enough sleep when she wasn’t out partying. She even convinced you to come to two more parties with her, and each time, her excitement was more infectious than the last.

The first year of university slipped by like a dream—flickering with laughter and late-night talks, unexpected routines, and the kind of quiet companionship that made the days feel lighter. And when the time came to pack your things and head home for the summer, you felt it—that feeling. A dull ache under your ribs. The quiet disappointment that you wouldn’t see her every day anymore. That there would be an empty half of your room. That the beat of your daily rhythm would fall a little quieter without her in it.

But Rafayel? She was having none of it. Distance did nothing to dim her. Even in separate cities, in separate lives, she insisted on being close. She texted you constantly—unfiltered, chaotic, hilarious messages that popped up at all hours. She called, facetimed, sent voice notes that made you laugh in the middle of the night. She’d rant dramatically about things that barely mattered just to make you smile, exaggerate stories to the point of absurdity and then cackle when you finally caved and laughed along.

And you missed her. More than you expected to. There were nights when the house was too quiet, and you found yourself staring at your screen, waiting for her name to light it up. Nights where your playlist played too soft in the background, and you lay curled in bed, realizing you’d started looking forward to her calls like clockwork. Not just because she was loud or entertaining—but because she made you feel seen.

And one of those nights, with the window cracked open and the scent of rain in the air, you let the thought in. She had become part of your routine. A loud, beautiful, insistent part of it. You didn’t know when it happened, but now it was simply true. And you didn’t know if that was a good thing or a dangerous one.

————

You’d always been the organized one. The type who color-coded folders, packed two weeks before moving day, and somehow managed to balance study sessions with social obligations like clockwork. Your summer had been productive—filled with textbooks, late-night reading marathons, and a few familiar faces from your hometown that made the days pass a little quicker. Comfortable. Predictable.

And still, Rafayel lingered in your life like the scent of her perfume—soft but inescapable, present even when she wasn’t there. Always just a text, a call, a ping away. She’d kept you laughing, even from miles apart. And it was obvious—so obvious—that she’d had way more fun than you had. Her summer looked like a highlight reel: beach bonfires, neon nights, strangers turned friends, stories told with stars in her eyes.

You didn’t mind. Not at first. Not until she mentioned her. It started simply enough, folded into one of her sun-drenched ramblings—a story about a girl she’d met at the beach one morning. Apparently, they’d clicked instantly. Laughed too loud over iced drinks, talked like old souls, and then—of course—ended up challenging each other to a swim race.

And that was the moment something in your chest twisted. You remembered all too well how Rafayel talked about swimming—her element, her escape. You’d seen the glint in her eyes when she showed you old videos, when she talked about winning competitions like it was no big deal. You’d always laughed when she teasingly tried to drag you into the pool, dared you to race her. You always refused, knowing full well you’d lose, and she’d just grin at you, playful and smug and shining.

But this girl had said yes. Had raced her. Had done something you never dared to.

You didn’t understand why it bothered you. She had dozens of friends—dozens of stories about random, electric connections with people who came and went like seasons. You never flinched at those. Never cared, not really.

But this felt… different. Because it didn’t stop at that one story. No—throughout the rest of the summer, she kept coming up. A passing mention here, a laugh there. Something she said, something they did, some inside joke you weren’t part of. And with each mention, the feeling in your chest grew tighter, hotter—until frustration bloomed quietly beneath your skin, like a secret you didn’t know how to name.

You tried to rationalize it. Told yourself it was nothing. That you were tired. Sensitive. Maybe even a little jealous of how easily Rafayel connected with people. But those excuses fell flat the moment you realized how often you were thinking about her. How quickly her name pulled your attention. How your mind wandered back to her at night, again and again.

And then came the worst part—the part that made your stomach twist and your thoughts spiral into something messy and impossible. Because the truth started to echo in your mind. You’d felt this before. This ache. This want. This strange desire to be closer, to know what she was thinking, to be the one making her laugh, the one she mentioned in every story. You’d felt it before—just never about a girl. Or rather… never let yourself think you could feel it for one.

It wasn’t that it scared you because she was a girl. That wasn’t the part that rattled you. It was the realization that scared you. The sheer helplessness of it. Of knowing that whatever this was—this thing you didn’t have a name for yet—it had already taken root. It had already changed the way you saw her.

And now, you didn’t know what to do with it. You didn’t know how to act around her. Didn’t know if she could see it in your eyes. Didn’t know if it was something you should say aloud, or something you should bury before it bloomed into something more dangerous.

Because the truth, when you finally let it settle, felt like a wave crashing against your chest. You had a crush on Rafayel. And it terrified you, not because of who she was, but because you didn’t know what it meant for you. For your friendship. For the delicate, perfect rhythm you had already grown so used to.

The thing is, you had never really paid much attention to this particular subject before. Yes, you had crushes on guys before, and when it came to girls, you did think they were pretty. But honestly, neither of them really struck that cord in you. You never found yourself daydreaming about a certain person, and you weren't really the type to do that, if you were being honest. You were grounded, your head on your shoulders and not in the clouds more often than not. You’d always been grounded, feet on solid earth, your head never quite lost in the clouds like others your age. You didn’t write names in margins or imagine fairy-tale kisses behind closed eyes. Your heart never stuttered in your chest when one of your fleeting crushes smiled a certain way or brushed your arm in passing. They just… didn’t have that effect on you.

Your heart didn't really skip when one of your few crushes over the years did a certain gesture or spoke in a certain way that was sure to make you feel at least something. But there wasn't really anything like that. And there wasn't this unexpected and unwelcomed feeling of quiet jealousy stirring in your chest at the mere thought of the person getting close to someone else.

But now here you were, alone in your childhood room, sprawled across your bed in soft sheets, biting your lip and rolling around every few minutes, trying to make an understanding of this feeling. Rationalize it. Trying to convince yourself that this was ridiculous and you shouldn't even feel this way. Rafayel to you, was a friend. Your dramatic and energetic roommate. The one who always found herself orbitating around you in one way or another, trying to make you come out of your shell, slowly but surely. Never pressuring, never being too much to handle, even though she was intense. But she just clicked in the place beside you like it was hers to claim. And if you think about it, maybe Rafayel did see you as a good friend. A pleasant person to hang around, even if you weren’t that similar on the surface.

As time passed, as you grew closer, you did realize she wasn't all that different. She could also be quiet, and intense in a way that felt heavy. She was also often anxious about things, but she was sure to mask it well behind well-crafted smiles and teases.

Your phone was somewhere nearby, silent. And all you could think about was her. Rafayel. She was intense, yes, but never too much. Somehow, her chaos fit beside your stillness like a puzzle piece finding home. She didn’t demand anything from you—didn’t push when you hesitated, didn’t mock when you clung to comfort. She simply existed next to you, radiant and strange and herself, and you had grown used to her presence like breath. Like background noise you didn’t realize you’d miss until it was gone.

And now, she wasn’t here. She was in another city. Maybe laughing with someone new. Maybe texting someone else the way she used to text you every night. Maybe talking about that girl from the beach—the one brave enough to race her, bold enough to earn a place in one of Rafayel’s stories. You hated how often she came up. Hated how the mention made your chest ache with something unnameable. Something sharp.

Jealousy wasn’t an emotion you were well-acquainted with. But that’s what it felt like—quiet and persistent, crawling under your skin like an itch you couldn’t quite scratch. And no matter how many times you rolled your eyes or told yourself it was ridiculous, the truth was always waiting beneath the denial: this wasn’t just friendship anymore. At least, not on your side.

It confused you, unsettled you in ways you didn’t know how to voice. You weren’t scared because Rafayel was a girl. That wasn’t what made your heart race and your thoughts spiral. It was the vulnerability of it, the helpless newness of it. The part of you that didn’t know how to act now, how to look at her without wondering if she could see it inyour eyes.

And maybe it was the fact that you had no idea how she’d feel if she knew. Because you’d heard the rumors, the late-night whispers and drunken hallway drama. Stories about kisses at parties, flirtations that leaned both ways. Rafayel wasn’t known for relationships, but she wasn’t known for being closed off either. You’d pieced the truth together slowly, listening without asking, tucking away small details.

She might be bisexual. That was the quiet conclusion you reached. And the realization was a strange mix of comfort and terror—because suddenly, the possibility existed. And with it, came every question you’d been avoiding. Every fantasy you didn’t dare name. Every what-if that now had just enough oxygen to burn.

————

The campus was buzzing with life—students hauling duffel bags and suitcases across uneven walkways, laughter spilling from open car doors, voices calling out greetings that blurred together in the sun-soaked air. Some wore the wide-eyed wonder of freshmen stepping into a brand-new world. Others looked like they'd barely survived the last semester and were already dreading the one ahead.

You stood somewhere in the middle of that spectrum. There was a quiet thrill to being back, to returning to a space that had started to feel like your own. You looked forward to slipping back into the rhythm of campus life, to reclaiming the small routines you’d built in that shared dorm room. But layered over the comfort was a thread of unease, one that had tangled itself deeper with every step closer to your door.

Three months. That’s how long it had been since you last saw Rafayel in person. Sure, you’d seen her—her face on your screen, her voice crackling through video calls, her texts chiming in at ungodly hours with chaotic energy and blurry photos. And yet, the distance between you had felt real. Tangible. Like a pause button had been pressed on something you couldn’t quite name.

Her smile still made you grin, even from afar—soft and involuntary, sometimes even exasperated, especially when she went on some dramatic rant or gave you a tour of whatever weird café she had found that week. But none of it had prepared you for seeing her again in person.

You had just started unpacking, hands methodically placing books on the shelf, clothing folded into neat drawers, when the door slammed open behind you with all the grace of a thunderclap.

“Roomie!” she announced, sing-song and smug.

You jolted, nearly dropping the sweater in your hands as you turned—only to find her already stepping inside like she owned the air around her. Which, of course, she kind of did.

Rafayel stood in the doorway, her purple hair pulled up in a messy, glitter-dusted bun, sunglasses perched on her head, and that ever-familiar backpack sliding off her shoulder like it had no weight at all. Her eyes—those sharp, gleaming amethysts—scanned the room and landed on you with a satisfied grin.

“Already at it, huh?” she teased, eyeing your half-organized side of the dorm. “I was gone three seconds and you’re already nesting.”

You didn’t even have time to reply before she was crossing the room with that effortless stride of hers and throwing her arm around your shoulders, pulling you flush against her side.

The hug caught you off guard. Not because it was unfamiliar—but because of how familiar it was.

You scoffed a quiet laugh, returning the hug almost without thinking, your body reacting before your brain had time to catch up. You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed this. Missed her.

Despite the way your heart kicked once—just once, sharp and fast—you didn’t pull away. You leaned into it. The scent of her—something floral, something wild—hit you instantly, dizzying in its closeness.

“Well, aren’t you clingy as usual?” you murmured, a small smile tugging at your lips as she finally let you go, stepping back with a dramatic gasp.

“Excuse you,” she said, hand on her hip. “I’m being warm. Affectionate. Which, might I add, is very on-brand for someone who was sorely missed.”

“Uh-huh,” you said dryly, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t act like you didn’t miss me.” she tilted her head, eyes glittering, voice lilting just slightly toward the edge of flirtation. “You totally did. Bet you cried into your pillow every night.”

You laughed, but something about the way she said it—the way her voice curled around the words, soft and teasing—landed differently. It tugged at your chest in a way you weren’t prepared for. And your cheeks… well, you hoped to God they weren’t warming, though they absolutely were.

You cleared your throat and smirked, reaching for the safety of banter.

“Please. The only thing I missed was sleeping without your nightly concert of Instagram reels at full volume.”

“Ouch.” she clutched her chest. “Wounded. Betrayed. And here I was, thinking of getting you a welcome-back cupcake.”

“You can still get me the cupcake,” you said, folding your arms. “As an apology for that entrance. My heart’s still recovering.”

“Oh, c’mon,” she drawled with a wink. “That was nothing.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. And inside, quietly, you were buzzing. Because being with her again felt like flipping a light switch—everything was suddenly louder, brighter, more real. The room hadn’t felt full until she walked into it. And now that she was here, throwing her backpack onto the bed and talking a mile a minute about the girl on her train who wouldn’t stop sneezing—you were starting to realize just how long you’d been holding your breath. And now, you didn’t quite know how to let it out.

Falling back into the rhythm of campus life came naturally—like slipping on an old, well-worn sweater that still smelled faintly of summer. The dorm room was exactly how you’d left it, with its too-thin walls and soft hum of traffic from the street below. And Rafayel… well, she fit back into your life like she’d never left at all.

She was sprawled out across her bed, limbs languid and unapologetically relaxed, the ends of her purple hair spilling across her pillow like ink. A half-empty iced coffee sat sweating on the nightstand next to her speaker, which hummed with a song you didn’t recognize—something dreamy and full of bass. She hummed along absently, scrolling through her phone with one hand while animatedly recounting the chaos of her summer with the other.

“So we get to these cliffs, right?” she began, eyes bright as she shifted to prop herself on one elbow. “And my friend Riley’s like, ‘No one’s actually gonna jump, we’re just pretending,’ and of course I’m already kicking off my shoes before she even finishes her sentence.”

You blinked at her. “You jumped first?”

Rafayel gave you a look like you’d just asked if the sky was blue. “Head first into freezing water. I may or may not have screamed the whole way down, but it was iconic, okay?”

You laughed, the sound spilling out of you before you could stop it—genuine, warm, a little disbelieving. “You’re insane.”

“Thank you,” she said, flashing a grin, clearly taking it as a compliment. “Honestly, I think I peaked. It’s all downhill from here.”

She launched into another story—something about a bonfire that turned into a karaoke contest and ended with her getting a makeshift crown made of glow sticks. You listened, smiling as she spoke, her words tumbling over each other in their rush to be heard. It was so her—spontaneous, magnetic, a little chaotic. But charming, always. Effortlessly charming.

And when she turned to you, eyes expectant and voice lilting, it caught you off guard.

“Okay, your turn,” she said, rolling onto her stomach and kicking her feet in the air. “Tell me everything. And don’t you dare say nothing happened, or I’ll cry. Real tears.”

You chuckled softly. “You won’t cry.”

“Try me,” she challenged, narrowing her eyes playfully.

You hesitated, not because you didn’t want to share, but because everything you could think to say felt so small next to her stories. But still, you told her about your summer—the quiet moments that felt like home. Lazy mornings with your childhood friends, stargazing on the roof of your cousin’s house, falling asleep in hammocks with a book balanced on your chest. You skipped over the more complicated parts, the restless nights spent thinking of her.

She listened, chin propped on her hand, expression soft and focused. And when you finished, her face lit up.

“That sounds perfect,” she said, almost dreamily. “Like the kind of summer they write songs about. Way better than mine. No cliff-diving-induced near-death experiences. Just vibes.”

You snorted. “You jumped off a cliff. I organized my bookshelves.”

“And I’d still trade,” she said, bumping her shoulder into yours as she passed by, heading to the closet for her slippers.

You watched her move, more out of instinct than intent—and that was the problem. Your eyes followed the sweep of her hair, the delicate arch of her back, the curve of bare shoulders peeking through the strange, flowy tank top only she could pull off. Her shorts were patterned and a little too intricate to be casual, but somehow they worked. Of course they worked.

And your heart did that thing again—that stupid skip that had no right making itself known.

You blinked, forcing your gaze away, pretending to dig through your backpack for something that didn’t exist. You reminded yourself of what you’d decided this summer. You weren’t going to say anything. Not yet. Maybe not ever. It wasn’t fear of how she might react—Rafayel wasn’t cruel. She’d never laugh at your feelings. She’d never belittle something like that.

No, it wasn’t her you didn’t trust. It was yourself. Your certainty. Or lack thereof. Because what if this was a fluke? What if this wasn’t real? What if this whole mess of emotions was just one long, slow unraveling you’d regret later?

So you didn’t say anything. You told yourself there was too much at stake. And if keeping her in your life meant swallowing this new, shaky truth, then so be it.

You moved through the weeks as if nothing had changed. Classes began. Deadlines crept in. Simone and Tara became your weekday constants, swapping notes and coffee orders with you as you pieced together projects in cluttered libraries and overfull group chats. You fell into the rhythm again, predictable and safe.

But Rafayel was the storm you always returned to. She still swept into your life like she was born to exist in motion—bursting into the dorm with your favorite takeout after a bad day, shoving iced coffee into your hand with a breathless “I’m so late, drink this while I change,” as if it were nothing. She still danced in the center of every party, effortlessly lit from within. People were drawn to her, pulled into her gravity.

And somehow, through all of it, she kept showing up just for you.

————

It came out of nowhere. Or maybe, if you were being honest, it had been coming all along—drifting quietly beneath the surface, waiting for a moment like this to finally break through.

It was a Wednesday afternoon, middle of November, the kind where the air had a bite but the sun still clung stubbornly to the sky. You were in that odd lull between classes, walking across campus with Rafayel, who had declared—loudly and dramatically—that she was suffering from "emotional starvation" and needed coffee and sugar immediately, otherwise she would simply perish.

You had rolled your eyes, of course. “You act like we haven’t been living in the same room for the past two months.”

“Exactly,” she’d said, linking your arm with hers like it was the most natural thing in the world. “We’ve been cohabiting, not living. There’s a difference, cutie.”

Her words were exaggerated, but her pout was real, and eventually, with a sigh and a reluctant smile tugging at your lips, you let her drag you out toward the campus café. There was something oddly grounding about walking beside her in the thinning autumn light, your fingers cold from holding your drink, her voice animated and full of unfinished thoughts. She talked about deadlines and professors and the disaster of her last group project—and you listened, letting her energy warm the space between you.

And then it happened. You were walking past the long path that cut through the edge of campus, nearly bare trees standing like skeletons on either side, when Rafayel suddenly gasped.

It was a soft sound at first, surprised and bright, followed by a burst of movement as she darted forward without a word, arms flinging out as she threw herself at a girl walking in the opposite direction.

The girl staggered back with a half-laugh, caught off guard but not unhappy about it. And that’s when you knew—they knew each other. Not casually. Not vaguely. The kind of knowing that came with late-night memories and shared secrets. That easy rhythm of familiarity between them, the way they smiled, the way their bodies leaned toward each other without thinking—it told you more than words ever could.

Your footsteps slowed. Rafayel was beaming, her arms still loosely looped around the girl’s shoulders, both of them laughing over something you couldn’t hear. And then she turned, eyes catching yours like a spark across a wire.

“Oh! This is her,” Rafayel said, voice laced with sudden excitement. “This is the girl I told you about—the girl from the summer camp, one of the cliff jumpers.”

Your breath caught in your throat, though you somehow managed to smile.

“Nice to meet you,” you said, holding out your hand like it didn’t cost you anything.

The girl shook it, friendly enough, but her focus was elsewhere. Her attention hung on Rafayel with a kind of quiet possessiveness, stepping a little too close, touching her arm just a little too long. And Rafayel didn’t move away.

You hated the way it made your chest tighten. Jealousy, you realized, wasn’t as loud as people made it seem. It wasn’t rage or confrontation. It was the quiet panic behind your ribs. The sharp, stupid ache in your throat when someone else stood in a space you thought you’d somehow earned without ever saying so.

You stood there for another moment or two, exchanged pleasantries, let the conversation roll over you like static. And then, thankfully, Rafayel’s hand found your wrist.

“C’mon,” she said, tugging you gently back onto the path. “We’ve got pastries with our names on them.”

You walked beside her in silence at first, sipping your coffee and pretending you weren’t still picturing the girl’s hands on her arms. Her laugh echoing against someone else’s skin. And the memory stayed with you long after.

And what you hadn’t expected—what truly caught you off guard—was the realization that Rafayel had noticed something too.

At first, she didn’t say anything. Just watched you with that tilted head and narrowed gaze she used when she was trying to figure out a painting that didn’t quite make sense. You’d smile, just a little too tightly, every time the girl’s name came up. You’d deflect with a joke, change the subject, or busy yourself with something trivial. You thought you were being subtle. You weren’t.

And Rafayel, for all her flair and theatricality, was exceptionally good at reading people. Especially you. She didn’t bring it up. She knew you. Knew that if she asked directly, you’d laugh it off or dodge the question entirely. Maybe you’d even get annoyed. No—she knew better than that.

Instead, she started noticing the little things. The way your brows furrowed when she mentioned the girl’s name. The way your voice dipped a fraction when you asked how her day went and she casually added, “Oh, I ran into her again.”

At first, she brushed it off. Maybe she was overthinking. Maybe it was just your usual resting frown face. But she kept noticing. Again and again.

And what bothered her more than your reactions was how familiar it felt—this kind of quiet retreat. This kind of guardedness. It reminded her of herself.

Because for all the ways you were different—structured, grounded, quieter—you shared one thing in common: you both hid your real feelings behind carefully constructed façades. You pretended nothing was wrong until it burned.

So Rafayel didn’t press. She just kept watching. And wondered when, if ever, you’d tell her what you were really feeling.

————

One thing about Rafayel—she was stunning even with no makeup on. Unfairly so. The kind of beautiful that didn’t ask for attention but caught it anyway, like sunlight filtering through curtains on a slow morning.

Right now, she was sprawled across her bed in nothing but a towel, legs bare, damp strands of lavender hair sticking to her shoulders as she leaned toward her small mirror. She applied her makeup with lazy precision, flicking her eyeliner with practiced ease, humming something under her breath to the rhythm of the music playing softly from her phone.

You were supposed to be focused. The project open on your laptop demanded it—pages of research waiting for your attention—but your eyes had other plans. They drifted. Again and again. To the curve of her shoulder. The way the towel clung to the tops of her thighs. The delicate motion of her hand as she swept highlighter across her cheekbone.

She looked softer like this, glowing in the quiet light, but you knew that softness would soon be layered over with something bolder. She was clearly preparing for another party—tonight’s look already shaping into something vibrant, dramatic, Rafayel.

And lately, she hadn’t been going alone. That girl—the girl—had started appearing more and more in Rafayel’s stories. Her name, her laugh, some inside joke you weren’t a part of. It had become a pattern. A presence.

And every time she was mentioned, something unpleasant curled in your chest. Jealousy, maybe. Resentment, even. And while you knew you had no right to feel that way, knowing didn’t make it stop. You’d tried to push it down, to smother it with reason, but feelings didn’t care about logic. They simply existed, rising quietly until they drowned you.

You hadn’t said much all night. Too quiet, too still. And Rafayel being Rafayel, noticed. She flicked a glance your way, eyes narrowing just slightly. Then she leaned back on her elbows and tilted her head toward you.

“You’re being suspiciously boring tonight,” she said, the corners of her mouth twitching upward. “Like… emotionally constipated levels of boring. Do I need to check your pulse?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

She smirked. “I’ve been talking to myself for the last ten minutes, and I know you’re not working because your screen hasn’t scrolled once. Either you’re dead inside, or you’re mad at me.”

You exhaled a soft laugh, forcing your shoulders to relax. “I’m not mad.”

“Hmm,” she said, clearly not believing you. “Then you’re brooding. Which is worse.”

You tried to muster something light in return, something to deflect, but your words came out a little too flat. A little too practiced. “I’m just tired.”

Rafayel gave you a look—one of those long, assessing ones that made you feel like she was seeing through the spaces between your words. But she didn’t press. Not directly. Instead, she brightened with her usual flair, flipping her brush dramatically between her fingers.

“Perfect,” she announced. “You need to unwind. Come with me tonight.”

You blinked. “To the party?”

She nodded. “Obviously. You’ve been acting like a ghost lately, and I miss your adorable semi-social presence.”

“I—” You hesitated, and she caught it immediately.

Her smile turned sly. “What, you’re too tired and too antisocial now? Damn. The bar is in hell.”

You snorted, and something about the way she grinned at that made the tension in your chest ease, just a little.

“Fine,” you muttered. “I’ll come. But don’t expect me to dance or socialize.”

Rafayel gasped. “You wound me. You come to a party with me and expect to sit in a corner? You know that’s illegal, right?”

You shook your head, but you were smiling now—genuinely. And she knew it.

Normally, you wouldn’t have hesitated. These invitations were familiar by now—spontaneous, chaotic, and very her. You would have sighed, maybe rolled your eyes, and followed her out into the night with a quiet kind of surrender. But tonight, your voice had stilled at the edges. It came out flatter than usual, your smile a shade too polished, like something gently rehearsed. A pause lingered where certainty used to be.

Rafayel noticed, because nothing seemed to get past her lately. But she didn’t ask. She just turned up the volume on her usual charm, laughing brighter, teasing louder, as though she could press her warmth into the quiet spaces and coax you back out again. And eventually, you gave in. You always did.

But this time, you moved differently. You’d slipped away to get ready before she could pick through your closet the way she usually did, before she could spin your reluctance into another dress-up game. When you returned, dressed and composed, something in the room shifted.

Rafayel had always thought you were beautiful. Not the loud, attention-stealing kind of beauty—the kind that people turned around for without knowing why. It was quieter. Something that lived in the curve of your smile when you were amused but trying not to show it, or in the way you concentrated when you were focused, oblivious to the world. It had always been there, just beneath the surface, and Rafayel had noticed. Again and again.

But tonight—tonight was different. When you stepped into view, something stilled in her. You weren’t trying to make a statement, not like she did. And yet, you made one anyway. Not through glitter or shine or bold color, but through the quiet confidence in the way the fabric clung to you. It wasn’t something she’d picked for you, but it suited you—more than she wanted to admit.

She let her eyes linger, just for a moment. Longer than she probably should have.

You looked... stunning. Hot, if she had to put a word to it. But she’d already known that. It just hit different tonight—undeniable in the dim dorm light, like seeing a painting she thought she knew in an entirely new frame.

Her mind flickered briefly, curiously, to the question that had circled her thoughts more than once before. Was it a choice?The way you’d never spoken about anyone, never hinted at crushes or weekend flings. It wasn’t possible that no one had been interested. You were too striking, too sharp, too you for that. Which left only one possibility—that you had kept yourself untouched on purpose.

The thought stirred something in her—part fascination, part something else. Still, she was quick to compose herself, smoothing her features into something more familiar. A smirk curled at her lips, practiced and easy, as she finally turned fully to face you.

“Look who’s finally catching up,” she said, her voice dipped in that usual flirtation—light, effortless, never serious enough to demand a response. Her tone dripped with suggestion without naming the thing at all.

You were distracted, though. Lost in your own mess of thoughts. You hadn’t noticed the way her gaze had softened for half a second before it sharpened again. You didn’t catch the pause in her breath.

Because your focus had shifted too—and now it was your turn to forget yourself.

You looked at her in the mirror. You told yourself you were used to this by now. The way she dressed, the way she owned her space. But something about the way her shirt clung tonight—low at the neckline, deliberate in its looseness—paired with those jeans that sat low on her hips, framing her body like a sculptor had designed it all by hand—it caught you off guard.

Her waist curved into something unfair. The silver glint of her belly piercing shimmered when she shifted, and your eyes followed the arc of movement before you could stop them. It was a second too long. Just enough to feel it.

You blinked hard and looked away, heart suddenly a little louder than before, as if your body realized something your mind wasn’t ready to name.

To save yourself, you cleared your throat and reached for levity. “Are you planning on causing a scene tonight?”

Rafayel’s smirk sharpened like a blade sliding into silk.

“Sweetheart,” she purred, turning to grab her bag with slow, purposeful grace, “I am the scene.”

She didn’t glance back, but you caught the smile she wore as she said it—knowing, wicked, and just this side of affectionate.

You swallowed a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, barely able to stop your own smile from curling behind your lips. And somewhere beneath all that teasing and laughter, something delicate and dangerous shifted in the space between you.

————

Parties had never been your thing—and Rafayel knew that. But she still looped her fingers through yours with the same breezy confidence she always wore like perfume, and you still followed her into the pulsing noise and swirling crowd of the off-campus frat house like gravity itself had lured you in.

It was packed. Music thrummed through the floors and bodies pressed far too close, but tonight, none of that mattered. You didn’t even flinch at the noise or the spill of light bouncing off cheap decorations. You welcomed it. Needed it. Something—anything—to drown out the thoughts that had taken up residence in your head lately.

Or more accurately, the person.

You’d been trying to ignore it. That persistent hum in your veins whenever she touched you. The way your gaze drifted and lingered—on her bare legs in shorts that never seemed to be long enough, on the soft curve of her lips when she pouted for dramatic effect, on the subtle sway of her hips when she walked like the world owed her applause.

It had crossed into dangerous territory weeks ago. It wasn’t just admiration anymore. It wasn’t even the innocent kind of crush you could laugh off.

Your thoughts were getting bold—the kind that made you flush in the middle of the night when you remembered how it felt to wake up to her warm body sprawled beside yours in bed, her hair tickling your arm, her breath soft and slow. The kind that made your heart race when she stood a little too close. When she leaned in to whisper some biting, flirty remark into your ear just to watch you flinch.

So when her hand found yours again, weaving through the heat and crowd, your breath caught—sharp and sudden in your throat. Her fingers were long and cool against your palm. Elegant. She always held you like she knew you'd follow. And you did.

But as you walked behind her, winding through the music and the laughter and the haze of cheap beer and perfume, your thoughts spiraled again. Why wasn’t she meeting anyone tonight?

That question was meant to stay in your head. But your lips moved before your mind could stop them, casting it out like a careless net.

Rafayel tilted her head as you spoke, her eyes drifting toward the makeshift bar where someone had arranged bottles with questionable labels and an assortment of glowing mixers. She seemed distracted at first, scanning the options like she was choosing artwork for a gallery wall.

Her answer came with the same nonchalance she wore like a second skin, voice lilting, playful. Not even looking at you. But her words hit like icewater in your chest. Because she mentioned her. That girl. The one who lingered too close in every memory you didn’t want to keep replaying. The one with smiles that felt rehearsed and touches that screamed intention. The one Rafayel was supposed to meet tonight. The one she’d chosen before.

You knew it. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you already knew. But hearing it aloud stirred something sharp. Bitter. Not even jealousy anymore—something quieter and just a bit tad too dangerous. Disappointment.

She turned back to you a moment later with a drink in her hand and that familiar smirk blooming on her lips—rosy, effortless, infuriatingly beautiful. She pressed the cup into your palm without comment, like always. Like nothing had shifted between you. But it had.

Your fingers wrapped around the plastic, but your mind was somewhere else—tugging at the edges of your self-control like an unraveling thread. The words came before you could stop them.

“I mean, you don’t have to babysit me,” you said lightly, but your voice came out flatter than intended. “You could still go meet up with them.”

You didn’t look at her when you said it. You took a sip of the drink instead, trying to ignore how your hand trembled faintly at the rim.

Rafayel blinked once. The smirk faltered—not fully gone, but fractured just enough to show the hairline crack beneath it. Her expression didn’t shift into something dramatic or angry. That wasn’t her. But there was something behind her eyes now—a small furrow between her brows, a flicker of confusion, maybe even something close to hurt.

“…Is that what you think I’m doing?” she asked, voice still light, but noticeably slower.

You shrugged, forcing a laugh that didn’t quite make it past your lips. “Just saying. You don't have to stay with me the whole night out of pity.”

Silence. Not awkward, but heavy. The kind that settles in your ribs and makes it harder to breathe.

She stared at you for a beat longer than necessary. And then, as if on cue, her mask slid back into place—smirk tilting upward, lashes low, gaze unreadable.

“You know, cutie,” she murmured, leaning just a little closer, “if I wanted to be somewhere else, I wouldn’t be here.”

You weren’t sure what stung more—her not saying the girl’s name again, or how much you wanted to believe her.

Rafayel turned slightly, the glitter of her top catching the pulse of the party lights as she faced the mess of bodies on the makeshift dancefloor. From where you stood by the counter, you saw the smirk tug at her lips as she sipped her drink, head tilting as she watched a guy nearly drool all over himself while attempting a body shot off a girl too busy laughing to care.

She rolled her eyes with a soft huff of amusement, the curve of her mouth curling higher as if she were watching a poorly written scene unfold in real time.

You followed her gaze, grateful for the distraction, trying to steer your mind anywhere but where it kept circling. The alcohol she’d handed you was sticky-sweet with something sharp buried underneath, burning down your throat like it was punishing you for every thought you weren’t supposed to have.

You leaned back against the counter, letting the low thump of bass vibrate through the room, through your bones. Rafayel looked relaxed again, or at least she wore it well—shoulders easy, one hip cocked as she rested her elbow beside you, the edge of her cup balanced lazily in her other hand. Still, you couldn’t help but wonder if your earlier comment had thrown her off more than she let on.

But before you could spiral further, she turned toward you with that unmistakable glint in her eye—the one that always came before trouble.

“Should I be bold enough to propose something?” she asked, head tilting, her voice syrupy with mischief.

You met her gaze, raising a brow with slow defiance. You’d learned by now not to flinch first—she liked it when you gave her resistance, liked pressing until you bent, just a little.

“That depends,” you murmured, angling closer without meaning to, your voice lower, laced with challenge. “Should I be concerned?”

Her laugh was low and honeyed, a dramatic little whine threading through it as she brought her drink back to her lips. “Ouch. No faith in me at all. How disappointing.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth curved despite yourself. It was always like this with her—this push and pull, teasing and toeing the line of something you didn’t know if it should be crossed.

She tipped the rest of her drink back in one motion, throat working in a way that drew your eyes before you could catch yourself. You looked away too late. If she noticed, she said nothing. Instead, she leaned in, eyes flicking toward the chaos of the living room before turning back to you, voice smooth as silk. “Tell me, sweet thing… ever done a body shot before?”

The words slipped from her lips like a secret. Her tone was light—too light. Playful on the surface, but there was something beneath it, something languid and dangerous, something that made your stomach tighten and your skin prickle.

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. Not with the image crashing through your mind like a match to gasoline.

Because of course she had. Rafayel was the kind of girl who turned any room into her playground, who was always five steps ahead, daring others to keep up. You’d always been content trailing behind—until lately. Until the way she touched your wrist lingered too long. Until her laughter started to feel like a private invitation. Until her gaze began to feel like it was peeling you open.

So you didn’t respond with a yes or no. You just scoffed softly and let her take your hand again, your skin burning where she gripped you, tugging you through the crowd. The music got louder, the lights blurrier, voices sharper with alcohol and laughter.

Someone whistled nearby. A cheer went up as a guy—half-naked and smug—took a shot off a girl’s stomach with unnecessary flourish. You recognized them vaguely: the usual suspects, the self-declared kings and queens of campus. Always loud. Always extra.

Rafayel barely spared them a glance before securing your spot in the next round like she’d done this a hundred times before—and you suspected she had. She turned to you then, one hand perched on her hip, the other resting on the edge of the table, her smirk curling with amusement. It wasn’t quite cocky. But it was close.

“So,” she purred, leaning in just a touch, “wanna take it off me… or should I go first and show you how it’s done, newbie?”

Her voice danced around the words, casual, playful—but the drop in her tone was unmistakable. Velvet and heat. It wasn't intended to be seductive. Probably. But your body didn't know the difference.

Your mouth went dry. Your brain short-circuited. And your imagination—traitorous thing that it was—offered up an entirely different version of what those words could mean. The tension coiled low, dangerously low. Your stomach twisted with something that felt embarrassingly close to butterflies. Lower still, heat flickered at the base of your spine.

You caught yourself just before you could visibly blush. Tilting your head, you leaned closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume—something floral, warm, her—and offered a smile of your own. One that barely masked how flustered you were.

“How about you just surprise me instead?” you said, tone soft, almost lazy, letting the words hang there. “Or are you too much of a tease to commit?”

Rafayel’s smirk twitched, just slightly—like she hadn’t expected you to throw it back that smooth. Her eyes narrowed in amusement.

“Oh?” she drawled, fingers drifting over the edge of the table as she chose her shot. “Someone’s getting brave tonight.”

You were. But only because the alcohol had blurred your hesitation, and the way she looked at you made it so easy to forget every reason why you shouldn’t be. And you had a feeling this night was only getting started.

Rafayel turned toward the shot table with the same ease she moved through every space—like the world always made room for her. The glass caught a glint of light as she poured tequila, the golden liquid sloshing slightly before settling, and she hummed in approval, lips curving with amusement.

Then, without looking, her hand landed on your shoulder, firm and warm, and gently nudged you backward. Not forceful, but guiding. Protective, even—though she’d never admit it that way.

You let her steer you, stepping away from the rowdy cluster gathering near the drinks, noting how her gaze flicked toward the louder group with a hint of disdain. You suspected she didn’t want an audience—especially not that one. You couldn’t agree more. These moments always felt a little like they belonged to just you and her anyway, whether you wanted them to or not.

You still lingered close to the table, eyes darting to the tequila glass in her hand, then lower—drawn to the wedges of lime nestled in a plastic dish, glistening under the low kitchen lights.

“Go on,” Rafayel said, voice lilting with mischief, “Pick one.”

You shot her a look, already reaching for the lime. “You know I’ve had tequila before, right? I’m not that clueless.”

She laughed at that—sweet and unbothered, the sound warm enough to wrap around you and pull you in. There was no mockery in it, just that syrupy delight she always took when you pushed back a little.

“I know,” she replied, her tone light but edged with something softer, almost approving. “But you’re cute when you act like you’ve got it all figured out.”

You rolled your eyes, but the heat rising in your chest was impossible to ignore. There was something in the way she looked at you tonight. Something different. Not intense, not heavy—but curious. Attentive. Like she was seeing a version of you she hadn’t seen before, and didn’t want to look away.

You turned toward her, lime in hand, one brow raised. “So? How does this work?”

You didn’t expect the way her smile curved smaller, more dangerous. Nor the way she leaned in, her breath brushing against your neck—just barely—and igniting something sharp and involuntary inside your chest. Your pulse skipped instantly. Froze. Raced.

“Just follow my lead,” she murmured.

It was barely audible over the music—but she was close enough that you felt the shape of her words against your skin. And before you could respond, before your brain could even form a coherent thought, her tongue swept slowly over the side of your neck.

Your body jolted, breath caught halfway between a gasp and a prayer. A shiver rippled up your spine, subtle but uncontrollable. You didn’t even realize you’d gone rigid until she pulled back and you exhaled all at once, trying to ignore how warm your cheeks had gotten.

Rafayel said nothing. But the glint in her eyes spoke volumes. She saw everything.

“Head up for me,” she said next, gentle but commanding, and you obeyed without argument. The moment felt suspended in time. Detached from the chaos around you.

She poured a trail of salt over the exact spot she’d just licked, her fingers lingering a second too long on your jaw as she straightened. Then her gaze caught yours again—and something had shifted. The lights played tricks with her features, casting shadows across the edge of her jaw, but her amethyst eyes were unmistakably darker now. Focused. Almost predatory.

“Now,” she said, her lips curling as she licked them absentmindedly, “Put the lime between your lips.”

Her voice was casual, but your body didn’t register it as such. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. Still, you complied—tucking the lime between your teeth, grimacing slightly at the sharp, bitter tang that met your tongue.

Rafayel chuckled lowly, clearly amused by your expression, but didn’t give you the chance to overthink. She stepped closer. One step. Two. Close enough now that her chest nearly brushed yours.

Her gaze never left yours. Not when she leaned in again. Not when her tongue dragged slowly across the salted skin of your neck with deliberate, maddening pressure. The sensation left your knees feeling a little less certain beneath you, left your lungs tight and shallow.

Then she straightened and threw back the shot in one clean motion, head tipped, the line of her throat exposed as she swallowed.

You weren’t sure where to look—her lips, the curve of her neck, or the floor. Anything but the wild thudding in your chest and the heat that had pooled embarrassingly low in your stomach.

But you didn’t have time to process. Because she turned to you again—and now her face was inches away, her breath warm, her mouth hovering. And without breaking eye contact, Rafayel leaned in and took the other side of the lime between her lips, her mouth brushing yours in a way that wasn’t quite a kiss. But wasn’t not one, either.

She sucked on the lime slowly, letting the motion linger. The space between you was charged, electric, and your entire body buzzed from it—frozen, strung tight, painfully aware of every single inch where you didn’t touch but could.

Your lips were so close it was maddening. And your mind, stupid and helpless, started spinning. What if there wasn’t this stupid lime between you? What would her mouth taste like? And why did your body ache to find out?

Then, mercifully—or not—she pulled back, tongue darting across her lips to chase the last of the bitterness. You swallowed hard and removed the lime, tossing it onto the table, your fingers trembling more than you cared to admit.

Rafayel was smirking again—but the look in her eyes wasn’t just teasing anymore. It was sharper now, reading you, cataloguing every twitch of your expression, every breath you hadn’t fully taken.

You didn’t know what to do with that. So you smirked back, because pretending was easier, safer. You leaned casually on the edge of the counter, tilting your head. “So that’s the famous body shot, huh?”

Rafayel braced her hand beside you on the table, trapping you in place without touching you, her breath still laced with tequila and citrus.

“Hope I didn’t disappoint,” she replied with a mock-innocent shrug, eyes dancing with heat and something almost smug.

Your pulse thudded stubbornly in your throat, loud enough that it almost drowned out the music around you. The burn from the body shot still lingered on your skin, but it was nothing compared to the way your heart raced, thundering ahead of your thoughts. A thousand of them, chaotic and conflicting, tripped over each other in your head.

Don’t read too much into it. That’s what you told yourself. That’s what you had to tell yourself. Because Rafayel was like that—flirty, playful, always dancing on the edge of meaning and meaninglessness. Her words were sugar-laced, her touches light, designed more to amuse herself than seduce anyone. You’d seen it before. She flirted with friends, strangers, bartenders, sometimes just to see how red their cheeks would go. And tonight? You were probably just the latest subject of her attention.

The way she’d smirked when your breath caught, how she’d laughed—warm, sweet, and unapologetic—when you tried to play it cool. It was her. It was just her. That carefree, teasing rhythm she carried everywhere she went.

But still, you couldn’t help wondering if there’d been something else in the way she looked at you. A flicker too long. A shift too subtle. Her hand on your jaw hadn’t felt indifferent. Her breath on your neck hadn't been meaningless.

Or maybe you were just losing it. Because the truth—the ugly, inconvenient truth—was that your heart wanted it to mean something. And that was the entire problem. You were smart enough to know better. Smart enough to protect yourself. Or at least you should have been.

But instead, you reached for the bottle. The tequila sloshed slightly as you poured yourself a shot, pretending you didn’t feel her eyes on you. You licked a dash of salt from the back of your hand, welcomed the burn of the alcohol as it scraped its way down your throat, and winced at the sharp tang of lime.

A soft chuckle cut through the bass-heavy music. You didn’t have to look to know it was her. Rafayel leaned in, her breath warm against your cheek, still tinged with tequila. “Wanted a taste for yourself too, hm?”

You didn’t answer, not right away. Then she added, voice lower, almost murmured, “Not brave enough to try what I taught you just now?”

There was a curl of a smile in her tone. Flirty, yes. But deliberately light. As if the moment from before hadn’t registered as anything worth lingering on. As if you were already supposed to have let it go.

You turned to face her, lips parting on a dry response—something sarcastic, something safe—but you never got the chance to say it. Because someone else appeared, cutting through the crowd like she owned the night.

She practically launched herself toward Rafayel, one arm flinging around her shoulders with a practiced ease that made your stomach twist. Rafayel straightened in surprise, blinking once, caught off guard—but not pulling away. And you went still immediately.

Your lips pressed into a tight, polite line, one you couldn’t mask fast enough. Of course it had to be her. That girl. The one who always seemed to orbit Rafayel a little too closely. She’d never done anything directly to you—no insults, no blatant disrespect—but she didn’t have to. The way she smiled at you like she knew something you didn’t, the way she lingered around Rafayel with a sense of ownership, was enough to twist the knife.

And now she leaned into Rafayel’s side like it was routine, like her body fit naturally there, like she belonged. Your insides tensed. Alcohol made everything feel warmer, louder. Emotions you could normally swallow down rose a little too fast, too raw. Still, you forced a smile. Stiff. Fragile.

She returned it with one that didn’t even try to pretend. Her hand, previously looped around Rafayel’s shoulder, casually slid lower, fingers finding her waist like it was second nature.

“Ayel,” she purred, gaze focused only on Rafayel. A small, calculated pout formed on her lips. “Didn’t think you’d actually show up. Why didn’t you look for me?”

Me, not us. The way she said it was intentional—whether she realized it or not. And that nickname… Ayel... it fell from her tongue with too much sweetness, too much history. Like it was hers. Like she was hers.

You swallowed hard, smile frozen in place. It was a mess of feelings. Jealousy? Definitely. Insecurity? That too. But more than anything, it was the sinking realization that, for all the ways tonight had felt different—for all the ways Rafayel had looked at you—you were still probably just another moment in her never-ending string of playful flirtations.

And maybe you hated how much you cared about that.

You turned to her with a practiced ease, meeting Rafayel’s gaze with something light, something that pretended not to sting, but your next words weren’t addressed to Rafayel, but to the girl.

“Sorry for keeping her away from you,” you said smoothly, almost breezily. “Told her she didn’t have to stay with me tonight. She could’ve joined you.”

Then, before Rafayel could say anyting, you turned back to the table and downed another shot. It hit harder than the last. Or maybe that was just your chest tightening.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Rafayel frown, something unreadable flashing in her expression. But you didn’t linger. You focused on the shot glass, the lime rind, the burning trail of alcohol that numbed things just enough.

The girl laughed softly—one of those feigned, sweet sounds laced with something sharp. She shifted closer to Rafayel again, fingers still teasing at her waist, trying too hard to pull attention back toward her.

“I didn’t think you’d bring your roomie,” she said, voice dripping with a false kind of niceness. “But hey—surprise of the night, right? I missed you. Had no one to keep me company. The guys were unbearable. Drunk and loud and doing the usual dumb shit.”

You could imagine the pout on her face without even looking. And you didn’t want to look. You didn’t want to see any more of her hands on Rafayel. Didn’t want to hear another syrupy word from her mouth. Didn’t want to feel the way Rafayel’s silence stirred something inside you—something that hurt more than you could rationalize.

You just wanted the night to end. Or maybe just for her to go.

But the worst part was that you still weren’t sure what Rafayel was thinking. Not really. Not now, not ever. And that—more than anything—made your chest ache.

Despite catching the flicker in your expression—the way your posture closed in on itself, the way your voice lost just a shade of warmth—Rafayel still turned to the girl with her usual ease. Not flirtatious this time, but playful enough to remain perfectly, frustratingly ambiguous. She didn’t push the girl away, but she did shift, just slightly, her weight leaning toward neutrality. Not quite enough to reassure you. Not nearly enough.

You didn’t wait to analyze it. You poured another shot like it might wash the jealousy from your bloodstream, like the bitterness of lime and the burn of tequila might numb the ache tightening in your chest. It didn’t. But the glass was cold, the salt sharp, and the moment gave you something to do besides watch Rafayel stand there with someone else’s hands on her body.

You turned toward them with a smile so practiced it could’ve passed for real, your lips still tinged with citrus. “No worries,” you said, voice airy, light, sweet enough to crack your own teeth. “I’ll just see you later. Have fun.”

You didn’t wait for her reply. You spun on your heel, disappearing into the press of bodies before her voice could reach you, before her eyes could hold you still.

The music was loud, pulsing deep in your chest like a second heartbeat. Sweat clung to the back of your neck, bodies moved in chaotic sync, and for once, you welcomed the noise, the distraction, the thrum of everything around you. You let your body sway, loose and light, like your heart wasn’t sinking further with every beat of the song.

Still, behind your closed eyes, all you could see was that girl’s hand on Rafayel’s waist. The syrupy voice. That nickname. The unshakable way it all felt intimate. Like you weren’t even there. Like you never were.

You knew better than to take it personally. Knew that Rafayel was always like this—open, magnetic, untouchable. Her flirtation wasn’t a promise, it was a performance. And tonight, you were just another audience member who’d clapped a little too hard.

You didn’t even flinch when a stranger’s hands landed on your hips from behind. He was warm, unsteady, and swaying with the music like he didn’t quite know where his limbs ended and yours began. You let him. You didn’t care. Or you were trying not to. One song bled into the next, and you kept moving, his chest brushing your back, his hands sliding against your waist like he belonged there.

You didn’t stop him when his mouth ghosted along the side of your neck, breath warm, lips grazing the exact spot where Rafayel’s tongue had lingered just minutes before. Your chest constricted at the memory, and maybe that’s why you let him press a kiss there. Maybe that’s why your body didn’t protest when he turned you around and looked at you like he wanted more.

You kissed him. You kissed him because you could. Because his mouth was there and open and asking, and your skin was too hot and your thoughts too loud. His lips were soft, eager, and tasted vaguely of rum. His tongue slid against yours with practiced ease, and your hands curled loosely around his shoulders, grounding yourself in the motion, not the man. But it wasn’t enough.

At one point you made the huge mistake of opening your eyes, half lidded and dazed, lips still entangled with his. And your eyes, as if by a curse, found Rafayel in the crowd of people. She stood just beyond the crowd, unmistakable even in the haze of pulsing lights and moving shadows. Her lavender hair shimmered faintly beneath the lights, her posture as regal and relaxed as ever. And draped across her, with all the subtlety of a stake through the heart, was the girl.

Your heart twisted painfully when you saw that the girl had her arms around Rafayel’s neck and was peppering kisses on her neck while swaying to the music. But what twisted the knife was the fact that Rafayel was watching you, and had been for a while, you supposed. Her eyes locked on yours the second you saw her in the crowd. Her gaze didn’t waver, didn’t flinch when you met it. Those amethyst eyes were darker now, something simmering just beneath the surface. You couldn’t name it, didn’t dare to hope. But it held you still—eyes locked even as her hands rested on the other girl’s waist.

You wanted nothing more than to close your eyes and disappear. Run away from this horrible jealousy, this horrible ache. But something in you twisted painfully, so your eyes stayed locked on her unreadable ones as you kept kissing the guy. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the fractured lighting casting shadows across the curve of her jaw. Or maybe it was just the cruel, glittering lie you’d been whispering to yourself for weeks now: that maybe, just maybe, Rafayel saw you as something more than her occasional companion in chaos. That maybe those looks, those touches, that soft curl of her voice when she used your name—maybe they meant something more.

But then, she moved—slowly, deliberately. Her fingers slid into the girl’s hair, tilting her chin up with all the grace of a puppeteer. The girl leaned into it, willing, eager, and a moment later, Rafayel’s lips were on hers—soft, slow, sensual. But her eyes never left yours.

That was what shattered you. She kissed another woman like she meant it, like it was art, but she looked at you while doing it. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Your thoughts dissolved into static, drowned in heat and confusion and something feral curling in your belly.

You should’ve looked away. Should’ve torn your gaze from hers and buried yourself in the anonymity of this boy’s mouth, his hands, his hunger. Instead, you kept kissing him—because what else was there to do? You let his tongue slide against yours, let his fingers tighten at your waist, let your own nails press into his shoulders. A distraction. A punishment. A plea.

And still, Rafayel watched you. Still, her mouth moved against that girl's like she wasn’t tasting her, but you.

A moan slipped from your throat when the boy bit your lower lip, and you hated it. Hated how your body betrayed you, how your skin prickled with heat, how your thighs pressed tighter together as your imagination twisted everything. His hands on your waist became hers. His mouth on your neck—hers. His lips at your ear became the phantom echo of Rafayel’s voice, velvet-smooth and maddeningly sweet.

The ache inside you unfurled into something darker and heavier. Your body burned, aroused and aching and furious all at once. And still—still—you didn’t look away. Because you couldn’t. Because her gaze had you caged and collared and she didn’t even need to say a word.

And somewhere in that unbearable tension, in the exchange of heat and power and silence, a truth cracked open between you. This wasn’t an accident. Rafayel knew exactly what she was doing.

You couldn’t blame her for kissing someone else. Hell, you were also kissing this random guy. That should’ve evened the scale—made it fair, made it easy. But it didn’t feel fair. And nothing about this was easy.

The difference was that you were overthinking everything, trying to stitch meaning into the silence between glances, while Rafayel…she was impossible to read. Her gaze had never left you, even as her mouth moved against someone else's, and that alone unraveled something fragile inside your chest.

It was stupid, truly, how your body responded not to the hands currently on your waist, not to the lips trailing lazy paths against your throat, but to the quiet weight of her attention. Even now. Especially now.

The guy shifted behind you, encouraged by the soft sound that had escaped your lips—one born of everything except him. He pulled you in tighter, mouth brushing the shell of your ear as his voice dipped low. “Wanna get out of here?”

The question wasn’t a surprise. His voice was warm, his touch bolder now, and the meaning behind his words as transparent as it could be. But you didn’t want him. You never did.

He was nothing but a failed distraction, a bad idea wrapped in cologne and sweat, and not even remotely enough to erase the image of Rafayel’s lips on someone else—or worse, the way she watched you while doing it.

You hesitated just long enough to regret the whole thing. Your gaze flicked up to meet his, and you summoned the ghost of a smile, slurred but soft. Too soft, maybe. “I—uh, don’t think we should.”

The music drowned most of your voice, but he leaned in again anyway, lips grazing your skin, persistence tightening into something more arrogant.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he murmured, breath warm against your neck. “Let me make you feel good, yeah?”

That made your spine go rigid. Not because of the words, but because they weren’t hers. Because they didn’t land the way they were meant to—didn’t stir anything but discomfort and the overwhelming desire to peel yourself out of your own skin.

You shoved him back, not harshly, but firmly enough to draw the line.

“Sorry,” you said, voice tipping toward hoarse, “you should find someone else for that.”

He scoffed, muttered something under his breath that you didn’t quite catch, and then you turned away without asking him to repeat it. You didn’t care. Not about him. Not about his bruised ego. All you wanted was distance—space, air, another drink, maybe something strong enough to wipe Rafayel kissing that girl from behind your eyes.

You shoved your way through the crowd, a little less steady than before, the music pounding in your skull, colors strobing too fast to track. You weren’t drunk, not fully. But the alcohol had settled into your limbs, sweet and stupid, blurring everything at the edges.

And maybe that’s why—when you reached the table again, breathless and half-numb—you reached for another shot without thinking. Or maybe you did think. Maybe you just didn’t care anymore. Not when the taste of jealousy still burned hotter than the liquor ever could.

Your cheeks burned, flushed with heat that had little to do with the thick, suffocating air of the room and everything to do with the scene that kept looping behind your eyes. Over and over. A relentless replay of her mouth on someone else’s skin, her gaze fixed on yours while it happened.

The bass thudded through the walls, vibrating in your ribs, but it was the pulse between your thighs that demanded the most attention now—persistent, aching, humiliatingly real. Your skin was damp with sweat, your throat dry, your body flushed and restless in a way that had nothing to do with dancing or alcohol.

You pressed your legs together tightly, trying to suppress the needy throb, biting down on the inside of your cheek. It didn’t help. Not really.

God, what the hell was happening to you?

You dragged in a shaky breath and closed your eyes, hoping—stupidly—that the darkness would bring some kind of clarity. But it only intensified the heat curling low in your stomach, only made you more aware of how soaked you were beneath your jeans, how your heart was still racing for all the wrong reasons.

Your thoughts weren’t coherent anymore. They were a fever dream of tongue and teeth and glances that felt like possession. You didn’t know what any of it meant—if it even did mean something—or if the alcohol was just dragging you deeper into your own fantasy, making you read into things you shouldn’t. Things that weren’t yours to want.

Still trembling slightly, you reached for a half-empty bottle on the table. You weren’t even sure if it was still tequila, but it didn’t matter. You tipped your head back and downed another shot, the liquor cutting down your throat like fire. You winced, coughing softly into your shoulder as you exhaled, the burn settling into your chest.

Bad idea. You knew it. You knew you should stop. But your thoughts were a mess and the party around you was louder than ever—music pounding like a heartbeat, people brushing too close, bodies moving in waves—and it was all too much. The heat. The air. The ache. The need to get out of your own head.

With a soft, frustrated huff, you reached for your cardigan, fingers fumbling a little as you peeled it from your arms and draped it somewhere near the edge of the table. Your bare shoulders prickled in the overheated air, skin slick with sweat, chest rising and falling a little too quickly.

You leaned forward, palms braced against the edge of the table, trying to ground yourself, trying to just breathe. But even that felt like a losing battle. Your head was spinning from the alcohol and the crowd and the weight of her eyes still branded into your memory.

You didn’t look toward the dance floor. You couldn’t do it. You weren’t sure what you’d do if you saw her still there—if she was still kissing that girl, still pretending like none of this meant anything. You weren’t sure which part would hurt more—that it didn’t mean anything to her or that you’d let it mean too much to you.

The alcohol was warm in your blood now, humming through your veins like static. The music pulsed all around you, relentless, a rhythmic throb that seemed to echo the chaos in your chest. Your thoughts kept circling back—never stopping, never giving you peace—and it was getting harder to tell if the dizziness came from the shots or from the spiraling ache Rafayel had unknowingly carved into you.

You needed air. You needed silence. You needed to be anywhere but here. Eyes half-lidded, your lashes heavy with haze, you turned around—unsteady, your steps slow and uncertain—as you pushed through the crowd, making your best guess toward the bathroom. Your balance wavered with each step, shoulders brushing past others, sweat and perfume clinging thick in the air like static.

When you finally reached the bathroom and slipped inside, the door clicked shut behind you like a mercy. The noise dulled instantly. The world outside fell away.

It was cooler in here. The air kissed your flushed skin like a balm, and you let out a shaky breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. For a moment, you just stood there, breathing in that blessed quiet, your hands trembling at your sides.

Then you moved toward the sink, your heels clicking softly against the tile. You braced yourself on the porcelain edge and lifted your gaze to the mirror, and the sight that greeted you made your stomach flutter for entirely different reasons.

You looked unrecognizable. Your cheeks were flushed a soft, petal pink, lips slightly parted as you panted for breath. Your makeup had begun to smudge just barely—just enough to make your lashes look heavier, your eyeliner a little smokier. A lock of hair had slipped from behind your ear and curled against your damp neck, and your eyes—glassy and blown from the alcohol—held a dazed, longing kind of sheen.

You looked like someone trying not to fall apart. Or maybe someone already halfway there.

You swallowed hard and gripped the edge of the sink tighter, as if grounding yourself might keep the rest of you from slipping. But your thoughts weren’t finished with you yet. The image was still there, dancing behind your eyes—the press of that girl’s hands on Rafayel’s waist, her lips trailing along that slender neck you’d thought about too many damn times, and Rafayel’s gaze, fixed squarely on you while it happened.

It was maddening. Cruel. Beautiful. And it made your core throb all over again.

You exhaled another shaky breath, fingertips fumbling to turn the tap. The cold water stung your skin, sharp enough to jolt your nerves—but not enough to silence the thoughts running feral through your mind. You washed your hands slowly, more ritual than need, the chill biting at your wrists as if punishment for thinking too much, wanting too much.

You didn’t dare splash your face, not when your mascara was already hanging by a thread. Instead, you braced yourself against the sink, eyes slipping closed as you inhaled deeply through your nose, trying—and failing—to will away the burn between your thighs, the slick discomfort of your ruined underwear clinging to you like a secret. You hated how turned on you still were. Hated that no amount of cold water or deep breathing was enough to shake her out of your bloodstream.

You didn’t even hear the door open. Didn’t hear the click behind you, or the soft shuffle of footsteps drawing near. The bass from the party throbbed against the walls like a heartbeat, dull and ever-present. So when you felt someone behind you—close enough to taste the heat radiating from their body—your entire frame stiffened.

Your eyes snapped open. And there she was. Rafayel. Reflected in the mirror like a vision conjured from your own delirium, her gaze unreadable and dark, pupils blown wide, lips slightly parted like she might say something—but didn’t.

“Shit,” you breathed, voice unsteady as your heart stuttered violently in your chest. “You scared me.”

She didn’t flinch or smirk. She just watched you through the mirror, the line of her mouth pulled taut, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she stepped closer—close enough that her presence wrapped around you like gravity, the warmth of her body brushing your back, her perfume subtle but unmistakable.

Your throat tightened.

“Where’s your friend?” you asked, each word sliding off your tongue too smooth, too casual, your tone rehearsed, meant to sound careless. It didn’t.

Rafayel scoffed lightly, a breath through her nose, her voice low. “Left,” she said, like it didn’t matter. “Don’t care, really.”

Something in your chest pinched. It shouldn’t have meant anything—it didn’t mean anything, right? But the relief that bloomed low in your belly was a betrayal.

“Then why are you here?” you asked, forcing your voice light, even though you could already feel the answer in the way her eyes hadn’t left yours since she entered. You turned casually, facing her now.

Her expression shifted—something subtle, something tight. “Where else should I be?” she replied, too casually. “With her?”

The words stung more than they should have. The way she said her, as if to see if it would make you flinch.

“Well,” you said, breath catching, “you seemed to have fun.”

You didn’t say kissing her. You didn’t have to. The implication hung there like smoke.

And maybe she was tipsier than she looked, or maybe just tired of pretending—because her patience snapped like a thread. In one slow, deliberate motion, she moved. Her hands planted on the sink behind you, bracketing your hips, trapping you in place. The cool porcelain kissed your lower back, but her warmth was all you could feel.

Your breath hitched. You didn’t move, frozen in place.

“Is that so?” she murmured, her voice still that maddening blend of amusement and bite, her tone dipped in velvet sarcasm. “Should I turn around and go after her, then?”

You blinked up at her, mouth dry, pulse slamming under your skin.

“If that’s what you want,” you replied, trying to match her tone, to stay calm. Detached. You failed miserably.

Her jaw ticked. You saw it—barely—but it was there. The tension. The shift. “We both know it isn’t.”

Her voice was soft now. Dangerous. Something hot unfurled in your stomach. And maybe you were too far gone to stop yourself. Maybe you were sick of pretending, of folding your feelings into polite silence. Your gaze didn’t waver as you pushed forward—just a little, just enough to press your body into the edge of hers.

“Isn’t it?” you murmured, your voice breathy, drawn out. “Then what do you want?”

The air tightened between you like a wire stretched too thin. Her eyes flicked to your lips, and stayed there.

Your mind stuttered—stalled, really—as your tongue swept instinctively across your lower lip. It was dry, parched from too much heat and tequila, but none of that mattered. Because Rafayel’s eyes followed the motion like a predator watches prey—slow, deliberate, hypnotic.

Amethyst gaze pinned you, and for a moment, she didn’t speak. Just studied you with that cool, unreadable focus, like she was cataloguing your every reaction. And then her eyes flicked back to yours. Still calm. Still controlled. But something deeper swam beneath the surface now—something sharper and searching.

You weren’t sure what she was trying to find. But you were sure she was getting close.

“You’re mad at me,” she said, voice low but steady. It wasn’t a question.

The words caught you off guard. You exhaled sharply, a breath shaped more by instinct than thought. “What?”

Her head tilted slightly, the edge of her lip quirking—not a smile, not quite. “You are. Or at something I did.” her tone held that casual lilt she used so well, but there was an unmistakable note beneath it. Curious. Careful.

Her eyes didn’t waver. And suddenly, it was you who couldn’t look away.

Rafayel was always easy to read if you only skimmed the surface—if you mistook the easy laughter and silky quips for simplicity. Most people did. That was the point. She wore her charm like armor, let it sit between her and the world like a polished mirror—reflecting just enough to keep everyone guessing, never enough to be truly known.

But you had seen the cracks. Little ones. Fleeting moments where the stillness behind her eyes slipped through—the hush between sentences, the breath caught too long, the joke delivered just a beat too late. There was more beneath the act. You knew that. You’d been paying attention.

And right now? Right now, something about her was off-kilter. Just a little. Just enough to make you wonder.

She was trying to sound amused, like this was all beneath her, like your tension and her kissing the girl and the entire night didn’t press down on her like it did on you—but her voice was clipped. Barely. Her posture just a touch too stiff, as if bracing for something she didn’t want to admit.

You swallowed hard.

“I—I’m not mad, really. It’s all good. I’m fine.” The words tumbled from your mouth too quickly, wrapped in a laugh that didn't quite land. It sounded hollow, even to your own ears.

Rafayel didn’t move, didn’t even blink. She only frowned—subtle, but unmistakable. The kind of expression she wore when a painting wasn’t coming together, when something in the lines didn’t sit right. She stayed close, hands braced on either side of the sink, body angled just enough to trap you between cool porcelain and her heat. The bass-heavy music outside was muffled to a distant throb, and so were your racing thoughts—blurred, drowned, fading beneath the pull of her.

She was too close. Too warm. And gods, she smelled good—some soft, citrus-sweet perfume laced with the bite of her cologne, heady enough that it made your knees feel like they were about to buckle. And it didn’t help—didn’t help at all—that your underwear clung uncomfortably between your thighs, soaked from all the tension you’d been pretending didn’t exist.

“Don’t lie.” her voice cut through you, a soft slash of breath, close enough to taste. There was a low burn beneath her tone—frustration maybe, or something messier.

You couldn't even answer. Your eyes fluttered shut, lashes trembling. The scent of her, the alcohol in your veins, the slow, heavy ache coiled low in your stomach—it all blurred together, leaving you suspended in a moment that was too sharp and too soft at once.

She exhaled. You felt it before you heard it, warm breath ghosting over your neck, and then her head dipped.

Your breath caught. Rafayel nuzzled against the side of your throat, her hair brushing your cheek, her mouth maddeningly close to your pulse. You froze like your body forgot how to function, fingers curling around the edge of the sink to stop yourself from melting into her. She was so close. And you didn’t move. You couldn’t and didn’t want to. Not even a little.

She breathed you in, slow and deliberate, as though she had every right to, as if this—you—belonged to her in this moment. Her voice came next, low and cool against your skin, tinged with something sharp at the edges. “You smell like him.”

Your teeth sank into your lower lip hard. Anything to stop the sound—small and aching��that crawled up your throat at the sensation of her breath and the implication behind her words.

She dipped lower. Her lips brushed just beneath your jaw—not quite a kiss, not quite not.

“I hate it,” she murmured, each syllable curling against your skin like heat seeping through silk.

You exhaled, ragged and trembling, and hated how much your body liked hearing that.

She pulled back just enough to look at you, the space between you barely more than a breath. Her eyes searched your face like she was reading the strokes of an unfinished painting—and maybe she was. Your cheeks were flushed, lips parted, pupils wide and glassy with something far stronger than alcohol. You weren’t sure what she saw, but whatever it was, it made her breath hitch.

You opened your mouth to speak—to say something, anything that might anchor the moment—but your voice caught in your throat. It didn’t matter. Rafayel was already ahead of you, like she always was.

“Tell me I’m reading too much into this.”

Her voice was soft, low, carried on a breath that smelled faintly of tequila and lime. But that wasn’t what made your heart stutter. It was the way her voice trembled just slightly, like she already knew you couldn’t say it. Like she needed to hear the lie just to stop herself from doing something reckless.

You didn’t lie. You couldn’t. And gods, you wished you could.

You wished you could laugh it off and lean away, say she was being dramatic, ridiculous even. That none of this meant anything. That you hadn’t imagined kissing her before sleep, or catching yourself looking at her lips when she smiled too long, or secretly wondering what her hands would feel like somewhere other than your shoulders.

Your gaze dipped, unthinking, landing on her lips for the first time that night—soft, flushed, parted just enough to let out a shaky exhale that you felt more than heard. And then she kissed you.

Her lips found yours in a kiss that didn’t ask for permission and didn’t offer an apology. It was slow and sensual, but anything but careful. It tasted like tequila and tension and the weeks of aching silence that led to this moment. And when she groaned—deep and low, like something inside her finally snapped—it ripped straight through you.

You didn’t even think. You just kissed her back. Desperately. Hungrily. Your mouth moved against hers like it had been waiting for this, lips parting in sync, like some forgotten rhythm between you had always existed, just waiting to be played.

Your hands braced harder against the sink, just to keep from falling into her.

She groaned again—low and throaty—and her hands left the sink, moving up—fingertips ghosting along your jaw until they cupped your cheeks with startling gentleness. She pulled you closer, her thumbs brushing your skin like she couldn’t believe you were real. Like she needed proof you wouldn’t vanish the second she blinked.

And you—tangled in the press of her mouth, in the heady, breathless sound of her groaning again against your lips—you forgot to breathe. Forgot what had come before. Forgot everything except the heat and the taste and the terrifying, impossible truth that you had never kissed anyone like this before.

Her tongue brushed yours in a slow, deliberate sweep, and you let her in—mouth parting wider, surrendering with a need that had nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with her. The taste of tequila lingered faintly on her breath, but it was drowned out by something far headier. Her.

She moaned low against your mouth, the sound shameless and unfiltered, vibrating down your spine like a fever you couldn’t sweat out. One hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, fingers weaving through your hair with startling tenderness, anchoring you to her like she was afraid you might vanish. The other found your waist—barely a touch at first, her fingertips grazing your skin as if testing a boundary.

And then she felt your response—how your body arched into hers, how the quiet moan slipped from your throat unbidden—and her grip tightened. Her fingers slipped beneath the hem of your top, pressing more firmly now, claiming a small patch of skin at your hip and drawing slow, lazy circles. Teasing. Cruel.

You whimpered softly into her mouth, your knees wobbling under the weight of sensation. Your body was on fire—alive and trembling with the kind of ache that only grew sharper with every restrained touch.

She broke the kiss without warning, just far enough to drink you in—eyes half-lidded and impossibly dark, lips slick and parted, her breathing uneven.

And then she leaned back in. But this time, she didn’t go for your lips. Instead, she pressed languid, wet kisses to your jaw, down the delicate slope of your neck, pausing to taste you there—each kiss slower than the last, as though savoring something forbidden. Your fingers finally moved, one curling over the slope of her shoulder, the other slipping into the silky strands at the back of her head. She groaned the moment you tugged gently, her breath stuttering against your throat.

“Should I stop?”

The question slipped out like a whisper into your skin—soft, genuine, but thick with the kind of anticipation that made your whole body tense. Her voice was low, edged in something too raw to name, though her mouth never stilled against your neck.

You swallowed hard, a shallow breath trembling past your lips as you whispered back, “No.”

Your voice barely carried in the thick air of the bathroom, which no longer felt cold. Heat clung to your skin now, to every press of her mouth and drag of her hands. When she bit softly at your neck—just enough to leave the faintest sting—you couldn’t help the broken sound that escaped you.

She cursed against your skin. “Fuck.”

Her hands shifted, gripping your hips with firmer intent now, and in the next moment, you found yourself on top of the sink, her body between your thighs like it had always belonged there. Your legs parted automatically, mindlessly, aching for her. For more.

Her mouth stayed busy at your throat, leaving a trail of heat behind each kiss. Your chest rose and fell against hers, both of you breathing too fast now, too uneven. And then—slowly, deliberately—her hand began to move. From your waist, up, under your top, her fingers grazing the soft skin of your stomach before gliding higher, stopping just beneath the swell of your breast.

But she didn’t touch you fully. Her lips hovered near your ear, her voice a breathy tease, barely there. “Still okay with this?”

The smirk was in her tone, not her words, the way it always was with her. Playful. Dangerous. And gods, it made your head spin.

You’d had enough of standing still—of letting her overwhelm you with every brush of her mouth, every slow, torturous touch that left you trembling but never quite satisfied.

So you moved. Your hands gripped her sides, fingers digging in just enough to earn a startled gasp, and then you pushed her back—not far, just enough to free your mouth from her neck—and kissed her. Hard. Messy. Desperate.

Rafayel made a surprised sound in the back of her throat, but she didn’t hesitate. Her lips crushed back against yours with even more heat, more hunger. A moan vibrated against your mouth as your hands slid up to find her waist, pulling her closer like your body had given up trying to pretend it didn’t need her.

She tasted like tequila and temptation, like something you shouldn’t crave but did anyway. Her thumb slipped beneath the edge of your bra, a gentle graze beneath the soft fabric, and you let out a louder moan—unable to bite it back. Your back arched just slightly, your body leaning into her like it had always belonged there.

She broke the kiss again, just enough to look at you, and the sight of her knocked the breath from your lungs. Lips slick and dark with your kiss, eyes glassy with something that looked far too much like want. She was staring at you like she wanted to devour you and say something all at once—but couldn't quite choose which came first.

You stood there, panting, waiting.

“How about we leave?” she asked, breath rough around the edges, her voice low but tight with tension. Her eyes stayed fixed on yours, searching, like she wasn’t sure if she’d crossed some invisible line.

The words barely registered. Leave? Did she mean stop? Did she regret this? The high from her touch crashed for a moment, and something cold crept into your chest. You blinked at her, uncertain, the confusion—and flicker of hurt—no doubt plain on your face.

She saw it. Because she swore under her breath, quietly, like cursing herself, and pulled you into another kiss—not as desperate this time, but slow and full, like she was trying to erase the doubt from your mind one brush of her lips at a time.

Her mouth hovered against yours when she finally spoke again, breath ghosting over your lips. “I meant,” she said with a soft exhale, her thumb still dragging tender circles beneath your bra, “do you want to leave the party?”

The knot in your chest unraveled just enough for your breath to come again. She wasn’t running from this. If anything, she wanted more.

Your head tipped back slightly, eyes fluttering closed for a beat as the heat between you pulsed. She wanted to go—but with you. And that meant something.

You nodded. Rafayel stepped back, but only enough for you to slip down from the sink. Her gaze never left you, her expression unreadable except for the storm still smoldering behind her eyes.

Then, without a word, her hand reached out. Fingers brushed yours. And when you didn’t flinch, didn’t question it, she laced them together—slowly, deliberately, as if it meant something she couldn’t say aloud.

You blinked at her, startled by the tenderness of it. But she only squeezed your hand once and then tugged you toward the door, her grip firm and warm, pulling you with her into whatever came next.

You slipped through the crowd like a shadow half-formed, the bass thudding through your bones while laughter and glass and bodies collided around you in drunken rhythm. But the party had already faded into something distant, something irrelevant. Your body moved, but your mind was caught somewhere else—still trapped in the heat of that bathroom, in the way her mouth had claimed yours without hesitation, the brush of her hands beneath your clothes, the moan she pulled from you like it belonged to her.

You could still feel it—her breath on your neck, the ghost of her lips on your jaw. It had set something off in you, something deeper than just want. Now every heartbeat was a slow, deliberate ache. Every step you took was soaked in memory.

And maybe it was the alcohol—or maybe it was just you—but now your mind wouldn’t shut up. What if she regretted it? What if she laughed it off in the morning? What if she chalked it up to tequila and impulse and said it was all just fun?

Your stomach twisted as the cab pulled away from the curb, the world outside rushing past in streaks of color and noise. You barely remembered getting in. You didn’t remember climbing out. All you really remembered was the weight of Rafayel’s hand wrapped around yours the whole time—loose, like a secret.

The next thing you knew, the door to your dorm swung shut behind you with a soft click, and you were suddenly, startlingly, alone with her.

Your back hit the door gently, not rough but sure. Her hands found your waist like they belonged there, and her mouth was on yours before you could say a word.

You moaned into the kiss, reflexively, helplessly, as your hands scrambled for purchase on her shoulders. She tasted like everything you remembered—mint, liquor, and something darker, something sweet and a little dangerous. Her lips moved with an ease that made it feel like she’d kissed you a hundred times before. Like she’d always meant to.

The music was gone now. The noise. The lights. It was just her.

Her fingers slipped beneath your top again—more confident this time, more deliberate—and your breath caught in your throat. Your cardigan was long gone, abandoned somewhere at the party, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the heat of her hands on your bare skin and the way she kissed you like she’d been starving for it all night.

Rafayel pulled back just enough to look at you—your chest rising and falling with shallow, trembling breaths, lips parted, eyes glazed with heat and hesitation. The soft lamplight caught the sheen of sweat along your neck, the flushed curve of your cheek. You could feel her gaze as much as see it, dragging over you like silk and fire.

“You’re overthinking,” she murmured, low and taut, as if the words strained something in her to say them aloud.

There was no mockery in her tone. No teasing, no sharp smirk tugging at her mouth. If anything, she sounded… disappointed. No, not at you—at the fact that you were still doubting any of this. That you were still somewhere else when she was right here, touching you like she meant it.

Your eyes met hers in the dim, flickering light, and your voice escaped before your mind could catch it. “Do you really want this?” The question came out softer than you meant, like it had been buried too long under your skin.

The second it left your mouth, you saw something flicker across her expression. Her mouth parted, her brows twitched. And then she kissed you hard.

No hesitation this time. Just heat and teeth and hands gripping tighter at your waist like she couldn’t stand the distance for even a breath longer. You moaned, unable to help it, your thighs clenching at the sheer intensity of it. Her lips left yours only to trail down, hungry and wet, over your jaw, your neck, drawing breathy, helpless sounds from you with every flick of her tongue and every scrape of her teeth.

“Fuck, you don’t get it.” The words broke from her between kisses, between open-mouthed groans against your throat. Then her teeth sank into your skin in a sharp bite that made your gasp twist into something closer to a whimper. “You really don’t get how much—”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Maybe she couldn’t.

Instead, she sucked hard on the sensitive skin just below your ear, her breath hot and shaking against your pulse. Your back was pressed harder to the door now, the chill of it clashing with the fever crawling up your spine, and when her thigh pressed between yours—just the barest graze of her knee through your jeans—you shudderedloudly, unapologetically. And Rafayel noticed.

“Oh?” Her voice dropped, amused and hoarse, and she rocked her leg forward just a little, testing. The friction hit you perfectly, and your moan escaped before you could swallow it down.

“Yeah,” she breathed into your skin, dragging her hands slowly up your ribs, fingertips brushing the curve of your bra. “I’ve wanted you for so fucking long… Should I spell it out for you?”

You gasped as her hands wandered beneath your top, sliding heat across your stomach, your ribs. Her knee pressed upward again, slow and rhythmic now, making your breath catch every time. Her lips brushed your ear, voice like velvet frayed at the edges.

“I didn’t think you were into girls,” she murmured, not accusing—just raw. “So I never assumed. Never pushed.”

Her honesty made something twist and unravel inside you. You whimpered, your hips involuntarily rocking into the press of her leg, desperate for more. “Fuck, Raf…”

At the sound of her name falling from your lips like that—high, breathy, desperate—she groaned low in her throat, almost feral, and buried her face against your shoulder.

“God. Don’t say my name like that.” She sounded ruined, hungry. “Fuck, you sound so pretty when you moan.”

She pulled back just far enough to look at you, and her eyes were dark now, wide with heat, pupils blown open so much you could barely see the violet. And yet still, she held back. Still, she waited.

You reached for her with shaking fingers, dragging her mouth back to yours, and when you kissed her this time, it wasn’t messy—it was needy.

“Touch me more,” you whispered into her lips, the words trembling but no longer shy. “Please.”

And Rafayel smiled against your mouth—slow and wicked and almost reverent. Like she’d been waiting to hear that forever.

Her fingers ghosted up your sides with the hem of your top, a silent question written in the brush of her knuckles. You answered without a word, arms lifting, spine arching just enough to let her pull it over your head and toss it aside. The cool air kissed your skin, goosebumps rising—but it was nothing compared to the way she looked at you.

You barely had time to register her expression before her hands found the clasp of your bra, undoing it in one smooth, practiced motion, as if she’d been waiting for this—planning for this.

The garment slid off your shoulders, and the sharp inhale she took was almost a reverent sound. Her gaze raked over you slowly, hunger simmering beneath the surface, but her face stayed calm—composed in that way only Rafayel could manage, even when her eyes were dark with want.

Then her tongue swept out across her lips, and that composure cracked just a little.

One hand slid to your lower back, splaying wide as she coaxed you into a gentle arch beneath her. The moment your spine lifted from the door, she leaned in—slow and deliberate—her mouth closing around one of your nipples with a sigh that sent shivers down your legs.

Your cry wasn’t gentle. It ripped out of you, half-moan, half-shock, because God, she was good at this. Her tongue swirled with maddening precision, the suction just enough to send your head spinning, and all the while—all the while—her knee was still pressing between your legs, a rhythmic pressure you were beginning to lose your mind to.

She didn’t say anything as your hips bucked, as you instinctively arched further into her mouth, chasing more friction, more heat. But she could feel it. She could feel the desperation coiled tight in your body, the way you trembled against her, the wet heat pulsing against her thigh.

And then she smiled. “Let me take care of you, cutie.”

The pet name sounded devastatingly different now—lower, huskier, laced with something far more dangerous than teasing. You whimpered at the sound of it, and that was all she needed.

She pulled back, lips slick, eyes half-lidded as she took your hand and led you to the bed without letting go. The sheets felt impossibly soft against your back, though you barely registered the texture. All you could feel was her—her body following yours, her presence crawling into every heated breath, every flutter in your chest.

She climbed over you, slow and deliberate, straddling your hips like she owned them. And maybe, in that moment, she did. Your hands reached for her on instinct, dragging her down into a kiss that stole what little breath you had left. She moaned softly into it—low and approving—and let her weight settle just enough between your legs to draw another shaky gasp from you.

One arm braced beside your head while the other moved with aching care—from your jaw, down the line of your throat, pausing at your breast where her fingers cupped and lifted it again. Her thumb brushed teasingly over the sensitive peak, eyes locked on yours with a gaze that felt like it could split you open.

She looked so beautiful above you—hair mussed, cheeks flushed, lips slick from your skin—and it finally hit you. This was really happening. She was really here, and the way her fingers pinched your nipple made your back arch with a soft, broken mewl.

Her breath stuttered. She cursed under it, lips dragging featherlight over your ear. “If you want to stop, just tell me.”

The words were quiet, serious in a way most things from Rafayel weren’t. Not a challenge. Not a tease. Just a line drawn for you to cross—or not.

But you didn’t even think. You turned your head, brushed your lips against hers in the barest whisper of a kiss, and exhaled the only answer she needed.

“Don’t stop.” And she didn’t.

Her mouth drifted from your lips to your neck with a slow, languid hunger, her tongue tracing heat into the skin before her lips sealed over your pulse. She sucked gently, just enough to make you squirm beneath her, and her fingers—still twisting and teasing your nipple—coaxed another arch from your body.

The reaction pulled a low, amused chuckle from her throat. It wasn’t mocking—no, it was rich and indulgent, laced with satisfaction, like the sound of someone savoring something rare and sweet. That soft laugh alone sent a shiver down your spine.

Her kisses trailed lower, dipping to your clavicle, then further down to the curve of your breast. She drew a slow mark there, a small bruise blooming under the press of her mouth, and all the while her eyes were locked on yours—watching your face the way an artist watches canvas for the first flicker of color. Like she was memorizing your reactions with every brush of her lips.

You gasped sharply when her mouth wrapped around your other nipple, tongue circling with slow, unrelenting attention. The stimulation was too much, too good—you moaned helplessly, hips twitching beneath her. And then she bit, just enough to sting, just enough to make your whole body jolt. Her lips came off with a soft, wet pop.

“You’re so responsive,” she murmured, voice breathy and low, slipping through her smirk like silk.

The words shouldn’t have made you clench your thighs tighter around her hips, but they did. God, they did. And her expression told you she felt it too—the little twitch of pressure, the way your body answered hers without hesitation.

Her hand released your breast and glided up, fingertips brushing the side of your neck before curling around the back of it, pulling you up into her again. You met her halfway, mouths colliding in a kiss that was nothing short of messy—wet, open, tongues tangled and gasps shared between breaths. Your hand buried itself in her lavender hair, pulling gently, and the sound she made—somewhere between a moan and a sigh—told you exactly how much she liked that.

It gave you the confidence to push further. Your other hand crept under the hem of her shirt, finally tracing the warmth of her skin. Her stomach tensed at your touch, a soft intake of breath breaking between your lips. So you bit down gently on her bottom lip, teasing her, and the groan that rumbled in her chest made your skin burn.

You flipped the script, trailing kisses down the elegant column of her neck, finally tasting her skin for yourself. She tilted her head for you almost instinctively, one hand sliding up into your hair as your mouth placed open, wet kisses along her pulse.

“Mm… you’re learning fast,” she whispered near your cheek, her voice a little breathless now, a little ragged. “Playing now, aren't we, cutie?”

The pet name dripped like wine from her lips—warm, familiar, possessive. And the way she moaned again when you sucked softly at the base of her throat told you she wasn’t in control anymore—not entirely. Not when your lips were on her. Not when your fingers were drawing slow paths over her stomach, your body pressed so close she could feel every throb of heat between your legs.

You smiled against her skin, feeling bold, tasting the edges of power between the pleasure.

“Then stop me,” you murmured.

“Oh, god…” The words slipped from her lips as you sucked at her throat, and she tilted her head back, baring more skin to you like an offering.

You didn’t hesitate. Your mouth grew bolder, lips and tongue trailing the delicate line of her neck. When you found the tender spot just beneath her ear—where her pulse fluttered wildly—she mewled softly above you, hips stuttering against yours.

That sound alone made something coil tight in your stomach.

And yet, the jealousy still lingered, bitter and stubborn, crawling up your throat despite how close she was—despite how she moaned for you.

You murmured against her skin, barely louder than your breath. “You still smell like that girl.”

The words were petty, broken by the way you were panting, but they slipped out anyway—half-buried beneath heat and insecurity. Your lips didn’t stop moving, even as you said it.

You felt her stiffen slightly, just enough to notice, but before she could speak—before she could twist the moment with one of her glib, too-clever remarks—you pushed her back. Not hard, but enough to make her shift off you, her expression flickering between confusion and hurt.

She probably thought you were done. But then you moved, closing the distance in one heartbeat—both of you now on your knees on the bed, facing each other in the low light. Your hands reached for the hem of her shirt, fingers curling around it in silent question. You didn’t look at her face—you couldn’t—but you waited all the same.

A beat passed. Then another. And then she chuckled, soft and breathless. She caught your hands in hers, her smirk lazy, eyes dark and gleaming. There was hunger in her gaze now—no mask, no teasing deflection. Just want.

She guided your hands upward, slow and steady, raising her shirt inch by inch until it caught beneath her arms and revealed the smooth line of her torso, the swell of her breasts rising in the cradle of her black bra.

“You can touch me as much as you want,” she said, her voice husky with desire.

It wanted to be playful, light—but she was breathless now, too, cheeks flushed deep rose, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven waves. Her bravado was starting to crack under the weight of what was building between you. Still, she held your gaze like a dare.

And god, you wanted to rise to it. Your fingers trembled slightly as you touched her again, this time more boldly—fingertips trailing up her sides, mapping the heat of her skin like it might vanish if you didn’t memorize it. Her muscles tensed under your touch, but she didn’t stop you. She only leaned in closer, her lips brushing your ear in a whisper that sent shivers crawling down your spine.

“But if you're going to be jealous,” she murmured, her voice like honey and smoke, “you’ll have to make it up to me.”

Your eyes locked with hers again, breath catching at the flush coloring her cheeks, the way her lips were slightly parted like she couldn’t quite catch her breath. And gods, you didn’t think you’d ever see her like this—eyes blown wide with want, shoulders heaving, trembling slightly under your touch.

Not unless it was in one of your daydreams.

But this wasn’t a dream, and the smirk that tugged at your lips said as much. You exhaled slowly, pushing her shirt higher, watching her shift to help you pull it over her head. She stripped it off in one smooth, sinuous motion—and the second it was gone, her hands cupped the sides of your face and dragged you into a kiss like she couldn’t stand another second of not having you.

There was no room for hesitation anymore. Your arms slid around her waist, drawing her in, your fingers fumbling slightly with the strap of her bra until she groaned softly against your mouth. The sound made your stomach flip, heat blooming in every nerve. You undid the clasp, finally, and she shrugged out of it without fanfare, tossing it somewhere behind her as if it didn’t matter in the slightest.

And then she pulled you close, fully. Her bare chest pressed against yours, breasts soft and warm, and the sudden friction of your nipples brushing made you gasp into her mouth. You moaned, loud and sharp, the sensation too much and yet not enough. You kept moving, chasing it, rubbing instinctively against her with every shift of your hips.

Rafayel swallowed every sound you gave her like they belonged to her. Her hands slid lower—waist, hips, then finally settling at the curve of your ass, fingers splaying with intent. She didn’t squeeze yet. Just held you there. Let you move.

“Oh, God… this is—” you couldn’t finish. The words fell apart on your tongue, dissolved into breathless moans and whimpers that clung to her mouth like a prayer.

But Rafayel understood anyway. She pressed a kiss just beneath your jaw, her voice a murmur against your skin, rough with restrained want. “Feels good, yeah?”

You barely managed a nod before she shifted again, lowering herself into the pillows and pulling you over her, guiding you until your thighs framed her waist. You followed without thought, lips finding hers once more as your body molded into hers.

Your bare chests slid together with every kiss, every stolen breath, nipples brushing with every movement, and you swore you could drown in it.

Rafayel’s hands moved again, one braced at your hip while the other guided you gently, deliberately, rocking you forward against her. The friction of denim against the soaked fabric of your panties made you whine, hips moving before you could think.

“God, just like that…” she whispered, her tone soft but frayed with heat. Her eyes were half-lidded, hooded with dark want, watching the way your body moved atop hers.

The rhythm was slow, torturous, your body begging for more even as you clung to the delicious tension. And Rafayel—of course—was content to take her time.

“Don’t rush, cutie…” she breathed, her hands tightening just slightly on your hips as you rolled against her. “I want to feel you come apart right here.”

And the way she said it—low, sultry, like she already knew she had you—you moaned again, desperate, undone, pressing yourself closer like you could melt into her.

You couldn't stop the tremble that rippled through your body—couldn't bite back the moan that spilled from your lips, raw and unfiltered, as your hips rocked instinctively against her. The friction, maddening and just shy of enough, made your breath catch in your throat. You were moving without thought now, lost to the slow rhythm, chasing the edge she kept you dancing along.

Rafayel watched you like you were a painting coming to life. Her eyes were wide and heavy-lidded, fixed to your every movement like she didn’t dare blink. Her gaze trailed from the flush on your cheeks to the way your parted lips trembled with each breath, and when your eyes met hers—hazy and hungry—it was like something in her unraveled entirely.

“You are so gorgeous like this,” she murmured, her voice a breathless rasp, reverent and frayed. “I’ve imagined you on top of me so many times… trembling in my arms, taking whatever you wanted from me.”

There was no flippant edge to her tone—no teasing remark to soften the blow. Just pure, unfiltered desire, spoken like a confession pulled from the deepest part of her.

Your lips parted in surprise, teeth catching your bottom lip as your hips rolled again, slower this time. The words lingered in your mind like a spark catching fire, and your body answered for you—a low whimper escaping you as your head dropped to her shoulder.

“Fuck,” she hissed, her breath shuddering as you moved just right, her fingers digging into the curve of your ass like she was trying not to lose herself completely. “Just like that…”

You lifted your head, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “What else did you imagine?” you whispered, your voice low and velvet-soft as you pressed a kiss beneath her jaw, then another just beneath her ear.

She shivered beneath you. Your teeth found a patch of skin there, nipping lightly. She cursed under her breath and pulled you tighter against her, her nails scraping lightly over the back of your thigh.

“I imagined a lot,” she said finally, her voice barely above a breath—hushed and almost pained from how much she wanted you. “But most of all… I wanted to make you feel good. So good you’d forget anything that wasn’t me.”

Her hands guided your hips once more, the drag of your clothed core against her thigh making you moan again, your forehead resting against hers.

“I want to taste you so badly,” she whispered, lips brushing yours, voice shaking with restraint. “You have no idea how long I’ve been thinking about it.”

And the way she said it—like it was both a sin and a promise—you knew you'd never forget it.

You kept grinding down on her thigh, caught in a rhythm that made it hard to breathe, let alone think. Every roll of your hips drew a sound from her that echoed your own—low, drawn-out moans that vibrated between your bodies like shared heat. You didn’t know what to do with your hands, not really, but that didn’t stop you. The haze was thick in your head, and you were bold with it—your fingers drifting upward, cupping one of her breasts before gently pinching her nipple between them.

She groaned at that—deep and wrecked—and bit down against your neck, just enough to make you gasp. Her voice came like a breath dragged through smoke, rasped and dripping with need. “Fuck, cutie…”

The pet name, usually tossed out like a lazy tease, sounded ruined now—like it barely held together under how much she wanted you.

Her grip on your hips tightened, possessive and unyielding, guiding your rhythm until your movements faltered—until you trembled in her arms, thighs quivering from the edge you were so close to spilling over.

Then she stilled you. You whimpered, lips parted in confusion and want, but she was already watching you—eyes dark and greedy, lips wet and slightly swollen from the way you'd kissed her. Her tongue darted out to wet them again as she leaned closer, her voice lower now, almost reverent.

“Let me taste you,” she murmured, like it was both a plea and a promise.

The words landed like a spark to dry kindling, and you cursed without thinking—your hips jerking slightly as a soft, involuntary mewl slipped from you. You hated how easy she made you fall apart. But Rafayel—oh, she lived for it. She heard that sound and smiled like someone who’d just won something expensive and rare.

She didn’t wait for a clearer answer. She didn’t need to. That sound had said everything.

In one smooth movement, she eased you off her lap, laying you back against the mattress, your legs trembling beneath her. She kissed you once—slow and deep, like a promise sealed—and then began her descent.

Her lips traced a path down your body, unhurried, leaving a burning trail behind. When she reached your stomach, she paused to mouth at the skin there, teasing you with just her breath, her fingers already working open the button of your jeans. You squirmed beneath her, more plea than protest, your hands fisting in the sheets when her touch ghosted just above your waistband.

“God, you're so eager,” she murmured with a soft laugh—half groan, half worship.

You couldn't help the soft, desperate mewl that slipped from your lips as her mouth pressed warm and slow against your stomach.

“Please…” your voice was trembling, cracked open with need. “I need to come so badly.”

That made her groan—low and deep in her throat, like she felt it everywhere. Her eyes found yours, sharp and dark and glittering with heat. Your jeans were already undone, her fingers slipping under the waistband with a confidence that made your breath hitch.

She leaned back just enough to give herself space, voice dipping into something rough and coaxing. “Can you lift your hips for me, cutie?”

You didn’t even wait for the end of her sentence. Your hips were in the air before she could finish, shameless in your need. She chuckled, clearly pleased with the response, and eased your jeans down your legs, slow and deliberate, like she wanted to savor the sight of you. When they were gone, she sat back on her heels for a moment, her gaze sweeping down your body until it landed on the soaked fabric clinging to you.

“Fuck…” she breathed, more to herself than to you. And then, with a sinful sort of reverence, she lowered herself between your thighs, settling there like she was made to live in that exact place.

Her fingers brushed softly along your inner thighs, featherlight, until she pressed her lips to the skin there in a kiss that burned. You trembled beneath her.

“Good girl,” she murmured against your thigh, her voice all velvet and heat. “You’re so wet for me. Look at you.”

You gasped, the compliment hitting somewhere deeper than it should’ve. Your eyes fluttered open, and you looked down to find her already staring up at you—absolutely breathtaking in that moment, all lavender hair and flushed cheeks, a little smug, a little reverent, and still entirely her. That knowing look in her eyes, like she already had your body memorized.

“Don’t tease,” you whispered, voice cracking as your hips shifted, desperate. “Fuck, Raf…”

She didn’t answer right away, just leaned in and pressed her mouth to the inside of your thigh, her lips parting slightly against it in a kiss that was all promise and no relief. You arched into it, chasing the pressure, needing more—but she didn’t give in just yet.

Another kiss, this one slower. Her breath just barely fanned out, teasing the wet fabric like she could draw pleasure from just that alone.

Instead of diving in, she lingered—her lips barely brushing your thigh, her voice murmuring against your skin like a secret she didn’t mean to say out loud.

“I suppose,” she said softly, breath ghosting over the damp heat of your panties, “you’ve never done this before?”

The question made your breath catch, heart pounding against your ribs. But it wasn’t the question itself—it was the way she asked it. Casual, almost curious. But the flick of her tongue on her teeth and the quiet tension in her grip gave her away.

You swallowed down your nerves and found your voice, trying for nonchalance despite the way your hips were already twitching beneath her. “I—I mean, I’ve been eaten out by guys before.”

And then it happened. Her teeth grazed your inner thigh before she bit—just hard enough to make you jolt, your back arching in startled pleasure. A shocked moan ripped from your throat, the sting of it sharp and gone too quickly, replaced by the soft kiss she pressed to the mark.

She didn’t say anything for a beat. But when she finally spoke, her voice dropped—low, rough, and undeniably tinged with something else. Not quite irritation. Something darker, hotter.

“Yeah?” she muttered, mouth brushing the edge of your underwear, warm breath curling over you. “Did they make you come?” a pause. “Or did you fake it and let them believe they were gods?”

You didn’t have the breath to respond. Not when she kissed you there again, firmer this time, lips pressing right where you were wettest through the fabric. A desperate whine slipped from you, hips buckling up, chasing her mouth. Her fingers flexed against your thighs, holding you down.

She noticed. Of course she did. Rafayel always noticed everything. A low chuckle vibrated from her throat, rich and pleased. “Mm. Thought so.”

You tried to wriggle against her again, but she just hummed, amused and maddeningly patient.

There was something possessive about her now—the way she held you open, the way she stared at you like you were hers already, like the thought of someone else touching you had no business existing in the same universe.

And god, that shouldn’t have made you wetter. But it did. Her tongue licked a slow, deliberate stripe up the center of your panties, and your entire body jolted with it.

“Let me show you how it’s done, hm?” her voice was honeyed and edged with heat, like she was already drunk on the thought of making you unravel.

“F-fuck—please,” you gasped, your fingers fisting the sheets. “I can’t take this anymore…”

She smiled against you. You didn’t see it, but you felt it. The smirk in the press of her lips. The delight in your desperation.

“You’ll take it,” she whispered. “You’ll take all of it, cutie.”

Her tongue only flicked against the soaked fabric a few times—lazy, exploratory laps that made your hips twitch and your breath stutter—before she drew back with a sound of quiet approval. Then her fingers slipped in, graceful and deliberate, hooking into the waistband of your panties. She tugged them down in one smooth pull, dragging the damp material down your thighs with a casual ease that made your face burn.

You barely had time to register the chill of air against your soaked heat before she was back between your legs—settling like she belonged there, like she had all the time in the world to ruin you.

And then she licked. Not gently. Not teasing anymore. Her tongue found your clit with startling precision, a firm lap that tore a cry straight from your throat. Your whole body jolted from the shock of it, your thighs trembling around her shoulders before you could even catch your breath.

Rafayel hummed against you, and you felt her smirk before you saw it—low, smug, utterly pleased with herself. The sound vibrated against your core, and your hands flew to her hair, fingers tangling in those soft lavender strands without thinking. She let out a low, satisfied moan at the sensation, the noise sinking straight into your spine.

Her eyes flicked up at you as her tongue dragged slowly through your folds—watching you unravel, cataloging every twitch, every gasp. You were utterly at her mercy, and she knew it.

Your hips jerked again, chasing more, desperate now. Needy.

“God, please—” you gasped, barely aware you were even speaking. “Raf…”

She didn’t answer with words. She just wrapped her lips around your clit and sucked. Sharp. Gentle. Then again. Alternating between soft licks and firmer suction, her rhythm unhurried but devastating. Every movement was maddening in how precise it felt, like she had mapped you already, like she knew exactly how to make you fall apart.

Your thighs tried to clamp around her again, body trembling under the weight of pleasure, but her hands slid up to pin your hips down with a firm, almost lazy pressure.

“Oh,” she murmured against you, breaking only long enough to flick her tongue again, “don’t rush me.”

And then she went back to it—lips hot and wet and relentless.

You choked on a moan, the pressure building so fast it was dizzying. She was too good. Too controlled. And you were already starting to lose that control entirely.

Your eyes rolled back as a moan tore loose from your throat, raw and helpless. Your spine arched sharply off the bed, every nerve lit up with pure, unfiltered need. Your hands fisted tighter in Rafayel’s hair, tugging with desperate abandon—and the low, wrecked moan she let out in response vibrated straight into you, reverberating deep where you were already aching.

That sound alone made your legs tremble.

Her mouth didn’t falter—if anything, she seemed to thrive on it. On the way you bucked under her. On the way you gasped her name like a curse, like a prayer.

“Ohhh, fuck—I'm gonna…fuck, I’m close—” The words tumbled out of you, breathless and broken, your chest rising and falling in frantic rhythm.

She heard you, and the glint in her eyes was nothing short of devilish. Without warning, her tongue slid down again, past your clit, sinking into you with aching precision. The wet, sinful press of it made your hips jerk violently. The cry that left you was strangled and high, your thighs clenching helplessly around her.

It was everything. The alcohol. The hours of want. The month of unbearable tension. All of it unraveled in that moment, snapping loose inside you like a breaking tide.

You shattered. Your body convulsed against her mouth, trembling hard with every aftershock as your orgasm crested and crashed through you in violent waves. You cried out again, her name caught somewhere between a sob and a moan, the pleasure dizzying and all-consuming.

Your fingers curled in her hair, pulling hard enough that it should’ve hurt—but Rafayel didn’t even flinch. If anything, she moaned into you again, low and satisfied, drawing the last of your climax from your body with slow, languid strokes of her tongue.

Her eyes found yours as she coaxed you through it—hazy, heat-drunk, dark with something unspoken. Possessive. Worshipful.

You were panting hard, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven heaves, your head tipped back against the pillow, eyes fluttering with the aftershocks that hadn’t yet let you go. Your whole body trembled in the aftermath, legs still parted and twitching from oversensitivity, when Rafayel finally pulled away with a low, throaty groan.

She dragged her mouth up the center of your body in slow, reverent motion, every kiss damp and lingering. By the time she reached your lips again, she was breathing just as hard—flushed, wrecked, utterly drunk on you.

And when her mouth met yours, it was desperate. You could taste yourself on her tongue, unmistakable and intoxicating, and the sound you made was high and helpless, a soft, mewling whimper that only spurred her further. Her hand slid low, fingers trailing with purpose as she kissed you again—wet, open, claiming. Then lower still.

She found you again—sensitive, pulsing—and her fingers dipped between your slick folds. You whimpered into her kiss, jerking slightly as she teased, barely brushing before slipping one finger inside you with practiced ease.

“Fuck, yes,” she whispered against your mouth, voice completely wrecked, a low rasp that made your core tighten again. “You were so good, cutie… tasted so sweet…”

The endearment curled something in your chest. You barely had time to react before she slid in deeper and pressed another kiss to your jaw, her hips shifting against yours with aching restraint.

“God, you're so tight,” she groaned, her voice almost delirious now. “Perfect. Just… taking everything I give you like you were made for it.”

You moaned, arching into her, your hands rising to curl around the back of her neck, pulling her close. Your breasts pressed together again, soft friction that made you gasp. You bit at her jaw, trembling when she added another finger, and your thighs clenched instinctively around her hips.

“R-Raf…I don’t—” your voice broke as her fingers curled deep, finding a spot inside you that made your entire body jolt. Your back arched off the bed, your mouth falling open with a soft cry. Her eyes lit up, wild and hungry, pleased with the raw honesty of your reaction.

“Mhmm… right there, huh?” she breathed, and then she bent to your throat, sucking at the skin until you knew you’d wear the mark tomorrow. Her voice was smug, but beneath it, there was something gentler—wrecked and tender at once.

“You don’t… what, baby?” she murmured, her tongue flicking against your pulse as her fingers pumped into you, steady and unrelenting.

You fought for breath, the build rising again too quickly, and the words came out ragged, half-whimpered between gasps. “I’ve never… done this before. With a woman. So I… I don’t know…”

You didn’t need to finish. Her rhythm slowed slightly, and for the first time since her mouth had touched you, she paused—just enough to lean back and meet your eyes.

Even through the haze, her expression shifted. Something warm and sincere flickered across her face, quieting the rougher edge of her desire. Her voice softened, low and careful, like she didn’t want to break you open any more than she already had.

“Hey,” she murmured, brushing her nose along your cheek. “You don’t have to know. I’m not here for that.”

You blinked up at her, lips parted, your walls clenching around her fingers at the intimacy of her words—at the way she held you, not just with her body but in the space between each breath.

“I just want to make you feel good, yeah?” she whispered. “We don’t have to go any further. Don’t worry your pretty head.”

The tenderness gutted you more than anything else had tonight. Not the pleasure, not the kisses—this. The way she looked at you like you were fragile and beautiful and deserving of being held right there, in that ache.

You didn’t have to answer aloud. You kissed her instead. And Rafayel kissed you like she’d wait as long as you needed.

You wanted more—more of her, more of this—but somewhere between the rise of your hips and the way your chest heaved for breath, a flicker of doubt stole in. It slipped uninvited into your bloodstream, quiet but sharp, and your brows knit slightly without meaning to.

What if she didn’t enjoy this? What if the idea of you—new, unsure, trembling beneath her—wasn’t enough?

That frown tugged at your lips, not quite erasing the lust in your eyes, but softening it with something fragile, something you couldn’t quite hide.

Rafayel saw it immediately. Her fingers were still moving inside you—slow, curling, coaxing moans from your throat without effort—but her attention locked on your face, and her expression shifted. Not annoyed. Not even impatient. Just—pained. A little wrecked.

“Fuck,” she breathed, eyes dark as she leaned in closer, her forehead falling gently against yours. Her voice was ragged, husky at the edges, full of tension that vibrated just under her skin. “Don’t look like that, cutie. Please.”

Her lashes fluttered, brushing against her cheeks as she exhaled—long and shaky. “I want you. So fucking badly I can barely hold back. But you’ve never done this before and I—” she faltered, voice dipping, “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to overwhelm you. So don’t… don’t think I’m hesitating because I don’t want this.”

She opened her eyes again, and they were raw with restraint, amethyst depths burning with barely leashed desire. “The problem is I want this too much.”

The vulnerability in her voice pierced something inside you. You leaned up instinctively, closing the space between your lips, catching her mouth in a kiss that was soft but certain—an answer. A promise.

When you pulled back, your breath was warm against her cheek. “I’ve wanted you for months,” you murmured, the words falling out like truth finally unshackled. “Please… take me, Rafayel. I need you.”

You looked up at her then, a little hesitant, the edge of uncertainty still there. “But if my inexperience is going to be a problem, we can stop. I don’t want to ruin this for you.”

Her reaction was immediate. A groan, almost guttural, tore from her throat, and then her mouth was on yours again—hard, hungry, desperate in a way that made your toes curl and your fingers cling to her back.

“Don’t say that,” she whispered between kisses, every word landing like a vow. “Don’t you ever say that again.”

Another kiss. Fierce. Dizzying.

“I don’t care in the slightest,” she breathed, and this time her voice was shaking with how much she meant it. “Fuck, I want you. All of you.”

And the way she looked at you, like she’d been starving for you and had only now been allowed to taste. There was nothing performative about it. No pretending. No pressure. Just Rafayel wanting you exactly as you were.

She slipped her fingers from inside you, slow and wet, and the sudden absence made you gasp—a soft, startled whimper catching in your throat as your hips instinctively chased after the sensation. The cool air kissed your heat in her wake, and you blinked up at her, dazed.

Rafayel moved away only slightly, enough to lean back on her knees and begin tugging at the waistband of her pants. The room filled with the quiet rustle of fabric and breath, the sound of your heartbeat pounding loud in your ears. Her gaze never once left you—dilated pupils, dark lashes, lust simmering low and thick behind her amethyst eyes. But there was something else layered beneath it too. Something that made your breath catch.

Need. Reverence. Want wrapped in affection so intense it felt like gravity pulling you closer.

You reached out for her—an instinct, not a thought—and it earned you a low, amused chuckle as she crawled back toward you. Her mouth found yours again, this time slower, deeper. She kissed you like she knew you were nervous. Like she could feel the tremble in your breath, the rise and fall of your chest trying to find rhythm.

Her voice brushed against your lips, warm and hushed, edged with heat but anchored in something more tender. “Do you trust me?”

Your nod came without hesitation—your body moved before your voice could.

That seemed to be all she needed. She coaxed you back onto your spine, hands guiding without pressure, until you were sprawled beneath her again, open and waiting. The bed shifted slightly as she rose to her knees, and then her fingers curled around your right leg, dragging it slow, deliberate, over her shoulder. You watched the movement—your breath caught somewhere between awe and anticipation.

Her palm slid along your calf, squeezing gently, and her lips pulled into a grin that was equal parts wicked and reassuring.

“Relax,” she murmured, nuzzling the inside of your knee with her cheek before she shifted again.

This time, it was her turn to curl a leg around you. Her right thigh looped around your waist as she settled in close—closer than you thought possible—and the moment your eyes flicked down between your bodies, your entire breath seized.

She was glistening, dripping onto the sheets. Want slick between her thighs, glistening in the low light. And it was so close to your pussy, so ready to touch, to slide against yours, that you couldn’t stop the moan that slipped from you—raw, needy, involuntary. Your hips jerked upward, trying to close the space.

You heard her inhale at the sound. Heard her smile. Felt her hand stroke your outer thigh again as she murmured, playful but low with need, “Mmm, you're eager, aren’t you?”

You couldn’t answer with words. Not when your whole body was burning, already aching for the press of her against you. You could only nod, biting your lip, eyes glazed as she moved just slightly.

She groaned low in her throat, the sound curling around your ribs like smoke. Her hands found your waist with an aching sort of reverence, fingers pressing into your skin as she inched closer—agonizingly slow, deliberately restrained. Her body hovered just shy of yours, a breath away, the tension between you almost unbearable.

Her eyes, half-lidded and dark with lust, swept over the flushed rise of your chest, drinking in every tremble, every inch of your need. And when her fingers ghosted down, grazing your soaked folds with featherlight curiosity, your breath caught in your throat, a soft mewl slipping out before you could stop it.

“Relax for me, pretty,” she murmured, her voice a breathless rasp, as if she were already halfway undone. Her thumb traced soothing patterns into your thigh, and her lips curved—playful, fond, heat-drunk. “Follow my lead. I’ll make us both feel good.”

The words slid down your spine like warm honey, and then her fingers dipped between your legs—just one slipping inside, shallow at first, then withdrawing, teasing, coaxing your walls to flutter and tighten with every pass. You whimpered, hips shifting instinctively, chasing more.

Then Rafayel shifted again, planting one arm behind her for balance as her other hand remained possessive on your thigh. And just as you tried to inhale, to steady yourself, her eyes met yours.

That look—like the whole galaxy had narrowed to this one moment between your thighs—hit you harder than her touch.

And then she moved, her hips rolled forward, slow and deliberate, her pussy sliding over yours in one seamless, molten grind.

The sensation made your back arch off the bed with a startled, broken moan—so loud and raw it barely sounded like you. Her own groan met yours, deep and shaking, pulled from somewhere far below the surface. She did it again, slower this time, letting the slick friction of your bodies melt together—wet, warm, aching.

It only took a few more rolls of her hips before your body understood, matching her rhythm instinctively. Her thigh flexed against yours, her fingers digging tighter into your leg as your clits caught on each other with every motion, drawing moan after moan from both of you.

You couldn’t think, couldn’t form words—your thoughts scattered and fevered, drowned beneath how good she felt, how real it was, how impossibly right.

Rafayel was flushed—gorgeous and flushed—her lavender hair falling across her face, strands sticking to her cheeks as her mouth parted on a quiet gasp. Her eyes were locked on yours, hungry, reverent, mouth twitching up at the corners like she couldn't believe it either. Like she’d wanted this just as long.

Her hips rocked forward again, and you cried out, voice catching on a moan that tangled with hers, the rhythm between you growing more frantic, more desperate.

You didn’t even have room in your mind to wonder if you were doing it right—because the look in her eyes answered everything.

She was wrecked. She was beautiful. And she was falling apart on top of you, just as much as you were for her.

“You’re doing so well,” Rafayel gasped, her voice tight and wrecked with pleasure, and the sound of it alone sent your eyes rolling back. Her grip on your leg tightened, fingers digging in like she needed the anchor, needed you. Her breath shuddered across your skin as she rasped against your leg, barely able to hold the words together. “Perfect—just like this. Fuck, cutie… you feel so good. I’m—damn, I’m close.”

Her hips dragged against yours again, slow at first, then faster, grinding down with increasing desperation. Every slick roll of her body sent pleasure shooting straight through your core, making you gasp and cry out and clench helplessly around nothing.

“I’m close too,” you breathed, eyes fluttering shut as you arched into her, trying to match her pace. “God, Raf—I wanna come with you.”

The words tumbled out in broken gasps, your body trembling, every muscle drawn tight with the edge of it. You tried to move faster, to chase the release pooling in your belly, but it was too much, too good—especially when her hips pressed down again, harder this time, slick and perfect.

“Please,” you whimpered, “I’m so close, I need—”

“Oh, fuck, cutie—” she groaned, her voice cracking, “don’t beg like that.” She was unraveling above you, her whole body trembling with restraint.

“You’re so wet,” she muttered, almost to herself, looking down between your bodies with a dark gleam in her eyes, “Look at that… how good we fit… how easy it is to slide against you…”

You moaned brokenly, biting down on your lip as heat surged through you like wildfire. The tension was unbearable—right there, teetering on the edge—and Rafayel wasn’t helping, her own voice thick with need as she pushed you closer and closer.

“C’mon, angel,” she breathed, hips stuttering against yours as she breathed out, voice rough with heat and coaxing. “Let go for me, yeah? Come apart. Let me feel it.”

That did it. Just a few more slick, desperate rolls of her hips and the dam inside you broke. Your body convulsed, a high-pitched cry tearing from your throat as you came hard, clinging to her like your life depended on it. Her name caught on your tongue, broken and trembling.

Rafayel didn’t last a second longer. She chased the sound of her name from your lips and followed you over the edge, her own moan low and syrupy as she came with you, her body jerking in rhythm with yours as your slicks mixed and made a mess of everything between you.

You were both gasping for air, trembling, wrecked and glistening—but she didn’t pull away.

Instead, she slumped forward, mouth catching yours in a heated, messy kiss, tongue dragging over your lips like she couldn’t stand even a second of distance. You moaned into her, still so sensitive, but you kissed her back just as desperately—hungry and languid, lips sliding together in the haze of afterglow.

“You did so well,” she murmured against your mouth between kisses, voice a breathless hum of praise. “Fuck, you were perfect.”

You couldn’t even speak. Your breath was still trying to come back to you, your skin still tingling, your body still wrapped in hers—and her mouth was on you again, claiming you with slow, reverent kisses. Like she needed to memorize you. Like she didn’t want to let you go.

The air between you was thick with warmth and want, the kind that lingers long after the pleasure has passed. And from the way Rafayel held you, lips dragging slow and lazy down your jaw, it was clear the heat between you wasn’t over just yet.

You stayed like that for a while—tangled in each other, skin to skin, your bodies still humming with aftershocks neither of you dared to name yet. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and sex, softened only by the slow rise and fall of your breaths syncing, like waves finally retreating from the shore. You were dizzy—buzzed from the alcohol, sure, but mostly from her. From the weight of her draped over you, from the way her lips still lazily explored your neck as if she couldn’t quite stop.

“I think the hangover is creeping up on me,” she murmured into your skin, voice low and petulant, like she was mourning the end of your high already. A tiny whine slipped through her lips, so unlike the composed, maddeningly theatrical girl the world knew. It made you chuckle, even though your head throbbed too.

You didn’t talk about what had just happened yet. The words hadn’t caught up to the moment. So you let yourselves fall into quiet comfort instead. She clung to you shamelessly, splayed out across your body like a lazy cat, her limbs tangled with yours, and no apparent intention of moving.

She heard your soft laugh and lifted her head with a mock pout, strands of damp hair clinging to her flushed face. “Don’t laugh,” she grumbled. “You’ll be suffering right alongside me soon enough.”

Her makeup was ruined—smudged by heat and sweat and the brush of your bodies—but you thought she’d never looked more beautiful. Her cheeks still glowed with afterglow, her lips swollen, her violet eyes a little dazed. There was something almost unreal about her like this, half-drunk on lust and barely holding onto her usual theatrical armor.

She caught you staring. And naturally, she couldn’t help herself. “Someone can’t take their eyes off me, huh,” she cooed, her smile slow and feline. “Cutie, if you keep looking at me like that, I might melt right here before the hangover even hits.”

You flushed, scoffing under your breath and glancing away, but she wasn’t having that. She gently turned your chin back toward her with two fingers, eyes locked on yours with something softer now—less teasing, more real.

“Don’t get shy on me now, hm?” her thumb brushed your jaw. “Look at me.”

So you did. And for a second, it all caught up with you. What you’d done. What you’d said. The taste of her still on your tongue. You didn’t even know if it had really happened, or if it was just a beautiful illusion crafted by alcohol and desperation and months of buried want.

Rafayel saw the spiral in your eyes before you could voice it. Her lips pressed to yours in a slow, grounding kiss, coaxing you gently back into the present. Her hand settled on your jaw, steadying you, thumb stroking your cheek with the kind of reverence you hadn’t expected from her.

“You should get out of that pretty little head of yours,” she whispered against your lips, voice quieter now, velvet-soft. “I meant everything I did tonight. Everything I said.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. Her smile grew, warm and unguarded, and she kissed the tip of your nose.

You winced slightly, the gesture catching you off guard—and of course she noticed.

“Oh, so now you’re bullying me?” she huffed dramatically. “I see how it is.” her voice dropped into a playful murmur as she trailed kisses down your neck. “You didn’t seem so mouthy when I was between your legs, cutie. You were moaning so sweetly. Being so nice to me. And now you’re bullying me?”

Your cheeks burned, and you gave her a light smack to the side. “Can you not say things like that? Jesus, Rafayel.”

She just laughed, unbothered, and nuzzled into your throat like she owned the space there. Then she shifted, squirming her way up until she hovered above you, her violet eyes catching yours—bright, watchful. The smirk faded just enough for you to recognize the shift in her. She was about to ask something real.

“How long?” her voice was soft, almost curious. But not quite.

You blinked. “How long what?”

Rafayel tilted her head, her expression unreadable for once. No sly grin. No sharp quip. Just raw amethyst eyes, rimmed in smudged liner and open in a way you rarely saw.

“How long have you wanted this?” she asked, then hesitated just for a beat, as if she decided if she was really gonna go for it and say it. “Wanted… me.”

The question didn’t carry the weight of accusation, but something in it still made your breath catch. She was trying to sound nonchalant, casual even, but you could hear it. The crack in her voice. The part of her that needed to know.

You looked away for a moment, then forced yourself to meet her gaze. You couldn’t lie to her. Not now.

“Since before tonight,” you said, voice quiet but sure. “Since before the party. Before… her.”

You saw the flicker of amusement tug at her lips, soft and a little smug.

“So you were jealous.” she grinned wider when you rolled your eyes. “I knew it. You always frowned when I brought her up.”

You smacked her arm again, and she just beamed, undeterred. She kissed you again—quick, playful, a little breathless—and then murmured against your lips, “So… is that why you kissed me tonight? Because you saw me with her?”

You frowned, chest tightening. “No. I didn’t have any right to be jealous.”

“No,” she agreed. “But you still were, weren’t you?”

You looked away, cheeks burning. Her voice had dropped to something slower now, more thoughtful, as she traced idle patterns across your bare hip.

“And you still didn’t answer me, cutie,” she added softly. “Is that why you let this happen?”

You knew what she meant. She wasn’t asking if you’d done it to hurt her. She was asking if it had been real.

So you reached for her hand, fingers threading between hers. She glanced down at the movement, then back up to your face, her expression unreadable—but no longer guarded.

“I think you know me better than that, Raf,” you whispered. “I’m not that petty. I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time. I just… didn’t know if I should.”

Rafayel stared at you for a moment longer—then leaned down and kissed you again. This time, she didn’t rush. She just lingered there, warm and steady, her thumb brushing over your knuckles like she could memorize every piece of you by touch alone.

And in that quiet, with her body wrapped around yours and her kiss still warm on your lips, you knew she believed you.

Your kisses deepened, no longer tentative, no longer testing—just hungry, lazy, unhurried. You melted into the warmth of her body, the press of bare skin against bare skin. Rafayel lay draped over you, her thigh slung possessively over your waist, her limbs loose and content like a cat in a sunbeam. The room was still—thick with the scent of sweat and skin and the faint remnants of perfume—and somewhere beyond it all, the dull weight of the oncoming hangover loomed like a storm cloud waiting to break.

But you didn’t care. You were tired. A little dazed. A little tipsy still. But there was something else—something low and curling, gathering again in your stomach with an ache that had nothing to do with thirst or headache.

She shifted slightly, brushing against you in that unconscious, intimate way she had. And you felt it again. Desire. Heat, slick and growing. And the curiosity that had been haunting the back of your mind for months crept forward like a secret you’d tried to ignore. You'd never gone down on a girl before. You’d been with boys who expected you to lie back and be quiet, who never asked what you wanted, let alone what you wanted to give. But Rafayel was different. And for all your nervousness, the idea of tasting her made your pulse stutter.

You wanted to. You wanted her. But how the hell were you supposed to say that?

You stayed quiet, letting your hands speak instead—sliding through the silky strands of her purple hair, tugging gently until she let out a pleased, indulgent little moan.

“Mmm… you’ve really got a thing for pulling my hair, don’tcha?” she hummed, lips brushing yours as she smiled lazily.

“You talk too much,” you murmured against her mouth, trying to sound teasing, not shaky.

She laughed—light and amused, like velvet against your chest—and you kissed her again before you could lose your nerve. This one was hungrier, bolder. She opened for you easily, tongue meeting yours like she'd been waiting for it, like she knew this was coming.

You rolled her beneath you in a tangle of limbs and covers, your bodies sliding together as you shifted. She let you, delight flashing in her half-lidded eyes even as she blinked up at you in surprise.

Your lips found her neck again, the space just beneath her jaw, and she moaned as her fingers curled into the sheets. Your hand trailed downward, fingertips skimming the slope of her ribs before closing around her breast, soft and warm and yielding. You kneaded gently, listened to the way she gasped, the way her thighs flexed around your waist in a wordless plea.

Then her hips moved—subtle, almost shy. But it was there. A quiet lift. A silent please.

You bit her neck, just hard enough to mark, and she shivered beneath you.

“O-oh… do that again,” she breathed, head tipping back to bare more of her throat for you. Her voice was high, near-whimpering now—so unlike the smug, self-possessed girl she’d been before. This Rafayel was different. This Rafayel was undone. Yours.

So you did. You bit her again, a little lower this time, and her back arched with a soft cry, her hands fluttering helplessly against your arms. Her nipples peaked under your fingers, and when you brushed one with the barest graze, she gasped—louder now, almost desperate.

Underneath you, Rafayel wasn’t teasing or taunting. She wasn’t in control. She was open. Responsive. Beautifully unraveled. And she had no idea what you were planning next.

But still, your hands didn’t drift. Your lips stayed fixed to her neck, marking her in slow, possessive kisses, as your mind whirled, trying to work up the nerve to go lower. To tell her what you wanted without falling into silence or embarrassment. Her thighs shifted again, restless against you. Her breaths came faster, broken and hot, her fingers twitching against your shoulder.

“Cutie,” she breathed, a little impatient now, hips shifting again under yours. “You trying to drive me insane on purpose?”

She noticed you didn’t really respond, or that you were not 100% present. Rafayel’s fingers curled beneath your jaw, gentle but firm as she guided your face away from the crook of her throat, just enough to see you properly. Her brows were faintly drawn, eyes wide and dark with heat, but behind that was something softer. A thread of concern, even in the middle of all that breathless pleasure.

“Hey…” Her voice was hushed, velvet-soft. “What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

You shook your head quickly—too quickly, maybe. Her touch lingered on your cheek, and she didn’t press, but the question remained, written across her features in unspoken script. You didn’t want to explain. So you kissed her instead, harder this time. Not rushed, but urgent—an attempt to swallow the nerves crawling up your throat.

Rafayel gasped softly into your mouth, surprised, her lips parting beneath yours, but she responded instantly, always eager to meet you in your madness. When you pulled back, your cheeks were flushed, your breath shaky, and you didn’t need to look at her to know she was studying you.

“I want to try something,” you said, your voice roughened by restraint, trying too hard to sound nonchalant.

Her expression flickered. You could feel her curiosity sharpen, her gaze searching yours like she was trying to solve a riddle before you gave the answer. But when she tilted her head, when she didn’t press you with words, you took it as a cue. You dropped your gaze and let your lips return to her skin—this time lower. A kiss to her jaw. A slow drag down her throat. Her breath hitched.

Then lower. Your tongue circled a nipple, experimentally slow, and Rafayel let out a moan, sweet and sharp and trembling. Her head fell back into the pillows, lashes fluttering, hair spilling wild around her like a storm.

“Oh, fuck… cutie,” she breathed, laughing a little breathlessly even through the pleasure. “What exactly are you trying to tell me right now?”

You didn’t answer. You just kept going, trailing kisses down the line of her ribs, over the soft curve of her stomach. Your hands were gentle, bracing her hips, and as you lowered yourself between her legs, you looked up.

You could feel your own hesitation in the tightness of your shoulders. Not because you didn’t want to—god, you did—but because this was uncharted territory. Because you wanted it to be good for her. Because you didn’t know what the hell you were doing.

Rafayel’s breath caught when she met your gaze. You saw it in her face—the realization dawning, a bloom of pink spreading across her cheeks like rising heat.

Still, she didn’t say anything right away. She just smiled softly, a little crooked. Then she tilted her head, amusement and fondness flickering in her gaze. “…Go ahead.”

You swallowed, heart hammering, but something still made you pause, even if just for a second.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admitted, voice quiet, barely more than a breath.

Her expression didn’t shift. If anything, it deepened into something more tender—warmth, ease, maybe even pride. Her hand found your cheek again, thumb stroking the skin there in soothing circles.

“Then don’t think so hard,” she murmured. “Do whatever you think’ll feel good. You’ll figure it out.”

And with that, she reclined slowly, giving herself to the moment, to you. Her body relaxed under your hands, and she smiled again—open, ready, trusting.

For a girl who always had a witty comeback, always had control of the room, she had never looked more beautiful than she did now—laid out for you, gaze soft, lips parted, breathing just a little faster than before.

You took your cue, inhaling softly as you lowered yourself between her thighs, letting your courage take the lead before hesitation could anchor it down. Rafayel gasped when she felt the first brush of your breath against her—so soft, so tentative it made her twitch. Her hips lifted slightly, as though coaxing you closer without words.

The sight of her was enough to make your mouth water. She was already slick again, flushed and pliant from the heat winding between you. You swallowed, steadied yourself, and turned your head instead—not yet brave enough to taste her, not yet. You started with the softest kisses to her inner thigh, reverent and lingering, as though mapping your way forward with your mouth alone.

A breathy, approving moan slipped from her lips.

“Don’t get shy on me now, cutie,” she murmured, voice warm and low, like silk pulled over bare skin. “You’ll ruin the anticipation.”

But she didn’t rush you. Didn’t push. Just let herself sink back into the mattress, limbs loose and gaze half-lidded as she watched you explore.

And when you finally looked up, she was already looking down at you. Eyes hazy, lips parted, her chest rising and falling with slow, measured breath that stuttered as your gaze locked. She didn’t say a word—but she didn’t need to. The invitation was in every inch of her expression, in the quiet flex of her thighs, the gentle rock of her hips.

So you took it. You leaned in and let your tongue part her folds, just once, slow and unpracticed—but the sound she made in response ignited something in you. A soft, broken moan, her back arching as if her body wanted to chase the warmth of your mouth.

So you did it again. Long, languid strokes of your tongue that dragged along the soft slickness of her, tasting her. Learning her. With every pass, her breathing grew more ragged, more erratic—until you circled your tongue around her clit, experimentally light, and her hips jerked.

“God—fuck.” her voice rasped through the air, threaded with disbelief. “Right there… just like that.”

The praise made your cheeks burn, but you didn’t stop. If anything, you doubled down, watching the way her body reacted to every shift in pressure, every flick of your tongue. Her fingers curled into the sheets, white-knuckled, and the other hand tangled into your hair, guiding you gently, keeping your face close like she never wanted you to leave.

You moaned into her from the sheer intimacy of it, from the way her thighs bracketed your head so trustingly, so needily—and she answered that sound with a deeper one of her own, almost guttural.

Whatever you were doing, you were doing it right. She wasn’t the type to fake her pleasure, and she certainly wasn’t doing that now—not with the way her body trembled, with how her voice cracked around half-sobs of your name.

So you kept going. You changed the rhythm, played with pace—lapping and sucking until you could map her reactions, know what each twitch or gasp meant. And when she moaned your name again, voice shaking, you slid one finger inside her, curling it carefully.

That did it. Her whole body jolted under your touch, a strangled moan tearing from her throat. “Oh my god—fuck, there. Cutie… please—”

The way she begged, breathless and undone, made something bloom deep in your chest. You did it again, curling just right, tongue never ceasing, and she bucked into your mouth with a cry, loud and raw. The desperation in her voice undid you completely.

“Shit—don’t stop. I’m gonna—fuck, I’ll come if you—” Another moan swallowed the rest of her sentence, and you pushed a second finger in, feeling the tight clench of her walls and the heat threatening to spill over.

You pulled back just enough to whisper against her soaked core, voice hoarse with want. “Wanna make you come.”

And then you dove back in, lips slick, tongue greedy, fingers stroking her just right—just like she needed.

You didn’t think you’d ever see Rafayel like this. So flustered. So flushed and gasping. So thoroughly ruined by your mouth. She moaned your name again and again, high and broken, while her hips rocked instinctively against your face, chasing the release building under your touch.

And then, suddenly, she froze—every muscle tense, her thighs trembling as her voice cracked. “Mhmm—fuck, I’m… oh, I’m coming. Shit—cutie—”

You felt it. The shudder that rippled through her, the sweet rush of wet heat on your tongue as she came with a choked cry, head thrown back and fingers gripping your hair like it grounded her.

You coaxed her through it, slow and steady, the way she had done for you not so long ago. Every flick, every swirl of your tongue softened, easing her down from the high, and when she finally collapsed back against the bed, breathless and glowing, your heart nearly burst from how beautiful she looked.

Rafayel—undone and utterly yours in that moment—exhaled a shaky laugh, eyes glazed and lips pink from biting back more moans. “…You’ve been holding out on me, haven’t you?”

Her voice was hoarse, teasing, laced with the remnants of her pleasure. You looked up at her, flushed and trembling, lips slick and heart thudding.

“Guess I’m a fast learner,” you managed.

She grinned, lazy and satisfied, eyes twinkling as she tugged you up by your hair. And when she kissed you, she moaned again into your mouth, tasting herself on your lips with zero shame.

“Mm,” she whispered, nose brushing yours, “we’re definitely doing that again.”

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