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3fingersofscotch · 4 months ago

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Blood and Ink

‧₊˚✩彡Summary: Scroll… Scroll… Double-tap… Scroll. Stuck in an endless doom scroll. Scroll… Stop. Dopamine in vivid colors delivered straight to your eyeballs makes you pause. Striking colors… Impressive linework… unique designs. His art is immaculate. You need it on your skin.

-A Rafayel Tattoo Artist AU-

‧₊˚✩彡Pairing: Rafayel x Female/AFAB reader

‧₊˚✩彡Warning: 18+ MDNI, Vaginal Sex, Tattoos, Tattooing, Dominate/Submissive themes, Reader is a Switch, Rafayel is a Switch, Power Fucking, Pussy Pounding, Nipple Piercings, Rough Sex, Protected Sex, Porn with Plot, Mating Press, Alternative Universe, literally the cutest ending.

Ao3

Scroll… Scroll… Double-tap… Scroll. Stuck in an endless doom scroll, you check the time and do the math.

If you fall asleep now and sleep in an extra 15 minutes tomorrow morning, you will get… 6 hours of sleep.

You tell yourself that you really will turn your phone off and go to sleep… after the next reel. Wait, no. 10 more reels, just in case the next one is an ad or trash.

Scroll… scroll… the algorithm is failing you tonight. Click on one inositol ad for ovarian health and for some strange reason, Instagram puts a hundred ads in front of you; supplements for a tasty pussy. You roll your eyes at another pussy gummy ad and scroll.

Scroll…

Stop.

Dopamine in vivid colors delivered straight to your eyeballs makes you pause. A tattoo needle pierces skin as Stray Kids blasts.

🎶Cookin’ like a chef I’m a 5 star Michelin

“미”의 정점을 찍고 눈에 보여 illusion🎶

The edit draws you in even as the line still makes you laugh internally. Restaurants can only get a max of 3 stars. Are they saying that they have 2 restaurants? One with 3 and another with 2?

The song still slaps.

You lose count of how many times you let the reel play. The “Birds of Prey” version of Harlequin is lined in vivacious neons. The piece was made for the female gaze and you simply have to look at the artist’s page.

It's… inspired? Chaotic?

It’s different.

You scroll and scroll and you fall in love. A nebula captured in a cat outlined in white, a black and white portrait of a toddler but with eyes full color that look so real it’s uncanny, a sky-scraper skyline you recognize because it’s your city and its in watercolors… you love every piece more than the last and scroll back up to find the artist’s link tree.

His studio is in the same city. His studio. You curse internally for many reasons.

Your first tattoo was done by a complete pig and the memory of him instantly makes you shudder. He kept making comments on the fullness and shape of your breasts as he tattooed your ribcage. And as a timid 18-year-old, you sat there and took it in extreme discomfort.

You sought out femme artists since then to make yourself feel more at ease. You didn’t usually find such inspired artists on your Instagram page that were in your city and you normally would just pin their art to your pinterest. Riffard is in France, Pablo Frias in New York, Pikkaman in LA. You didn’t have to struggle with the internal debate because all these artists were so far away. But TattedRafayel’s studio is literally within walking distance of your inner-city apartment and his work is stunning.

You practically salivate as you think about the larger pieces that you haven’t gotten done because you want them to be done by the best. In your city, you had yet to find an artist whose style seemed to match the type of art that you really wanted on your body.

at least, not until today…

‘Nope. Not going to do it,’ you tell yourself firmly and you feel your heart break a little. It’s hard to make peace with a man being so intimately close to your skin for that long. The mere thought of being held hostage under a tattoo needle with no possibility of escape was nerve-wracking.

Not worth it.

Finally locking your phone and rolling over to sleep, your mind replays images in your head. Striking colors… Impressive linework… unique designs.

His art is immaculate. You need it on your skin.

‘Sleep,’ you tell yourself. It is unwise to make a decision when you are this fatigued. But seconds turn into minutes, and minutes turn into an hour and you are still thinking about all the tattoos that you want.

He could pull them off.

You curse silently and grab your phone to open Instagram and request a consultation. That first tattoo with the shitty artist that was obsessed with your tits had faded pathetically and you needed it touched up. Perhaps a quick refresh with him would give you insight to his character and you’d feel more comfortable sitting down for a longer session with him later?

You feel the excitement begin to bubble. If this goes well, you can finally start your dream sleeve.

The nervous energy was practically rolling off your body in waves. You aren’t exactly a stranger to the process but still. A thorough shower, copious amounts of deodorant, perfume, and of course… skin prep. You’ve had such good results after applying hyaluronic acid and lidocaine to the area you would be getting tatted and today would be no different as you carefully rub product into your skin.

Did you smell pleasant enough to be around?

Your last tattoo artist was nice, but you could tell she skipped the shower the night before and she needed it. It was an unpleasant hour.

You wouldn’t dare to be late to an appointment out of respect for the artist’s time, so you gargle your mouthwash on the way out to your car.

The studio is so close, it only takes about 3 minutes for you to arrive and the nervous energy still radiates off you.

Blood and Ink- The name of the studio is etched into the glass door and you take a deep breath before entering to find an empty reception desk. 3 people pop up from their cubbies to study you and you realize you have no idea what Rafayel looks like.

“I… I am looking for Rafayel.”

A man with large gauges in his ears and filed teeth smiles slyly at you.

“Raf isn’t here today, but I’d be more than happy to help you, sweetheart.”

One of the other heads to pop up belongs to a very sweet looking girl who rolls her eyes and walks out of her cubby to approach you.

“Hi, I’m Pepper. Ignore Tony. He is a douche.” Tony whines in protest, but you get the feeling Pepper isn’t wrong about him. “Rafayel is in the back, sanitizing his station. Follow me.”

Rounding the corner, you spot horned headphones nestled in purple hair and pause.

Is that Rafayel?

You weren’t expecting him to be so striking. How can eyes be rosy and blue at the same time? You wonder silently, studying him carefully as he continues to diligently prep his work station

You never really knew what to expect when meeting the artists working on your body, but Rafayel was... elegant in his self-expression. A glint of gold catches your eye and you see the thin lip ring threaded through his lariat piercing. His ears are gauged with small plugs made of real and beautiful amethyst. The grace in his movement is enough to make time stop and you have to remind yourself to breathe.

The movement of his hands catch your attention and the tattoos on his fingers strike you. The fine line work was sophisticated and the subtle switch from solid lines to clustered dots in areas like knuckles where skin can crease shows you that he knows the way that tattoos heal and fade. And finally, he realizes you exist. He pauses before he glances up at you, pulling his headphones off his ears and standing up straight.

“Thank you, Pepper.” Pepper happily chirps that it was her pleasure before bouncing away adorably and Rafayel finally looks at you. “You must be my 1 PM appointment? Tattoo refresh? I’m Rafayel. Have a seat.”

Vibrant colors peek out from under his asymmetrical collar, but not nearly enough for you to be able to make out what hides underneath his dark blouse. His shaggy purple hair nearly covers the fish tatted behind his ears, one red, one blue, both simple and gorgeous.

“Where should I put my things,” You ask as you take a seat carefully.

“Hm?” Rafayel pulls his seat closer to get a good look at you and the aroma of his shampoo invades your nostrils. He smells like vanilla and sea minerals and you almost forget what question you were asked when he answers. “Oh, yes. Sorry. You can place your belonging on the side table behind you. And thank you for asking. I can’t tell you how many times someone comes here and throws their phone and keys on the sanitized work station with my needles and ink.”

“That would suck. Its not my first rodeo. I know the drill.” You reach back and set your bag down, grabbing your phone and earbuds, just in case you need something to help you occupy your mind.

“Alright. So the tattoo on your ribcage…” You wore a crop top to make it easier to be worked on and Rafayel leans in to look at the faded tattoo in question.

“Okay, to review your online consultation, you want the color refreshed, and to add a little extra flair. And from the mock ups, you wanted option B. Add more florals?”

“Yeah, the quick sketch you did was simple but lovely.” You were surprised by how quickly Rafayel took the picture of your tattoo and added more sophisticated detail.

“Alright. For the flowers that you have right now, what were their original colors?”

“Pink petals and a yellow pistil.” Your response makes Rafayel grimace.

“I can’t even tell, by looking at it. These colors have almost completely faded. Are those the colors you wanted to stick with?”

Your mind goes blank. Since you were just coming in for a refresh, you hadn’t considered making a color change.

“Oh, I… I’m not sure. Looking at you, it seems like you are good at putting together a cohesive look.” Rafayel perks in response. “I’m open to suggestions.”

He grabs his phone and pulls up a few images.

“Its called a burning ember lily,” he turn the phone and your jaw nearly drops. Dark purple petals are lined in vibrant oranges and yellows and the center practically glows with red and orange hues. “Your skin tone is kinda perfect for it.”

“Yes! I’m excited!”

Rafayel nods, a hint of a smile plays on his lips.

“Alright. Have you applied anything to your skin recently?” He examines your tattoo a little bit closer.

“Hyaluronic acid and 4% Lidocaine.” Rafayel’s nose scrunches in concern.

“Some skin type become too soft and difficult to get precise linework when lidocaine is applied. Is it okay if I touch your skin around the tattoo area for a moment? I need to see if your texture was affected.”

You nod and Rafayel carefully feels and stretches the skin on your ribs, looking closer to see how you are affected. “Hm. I don’t see anything of notable concern. However, if I do notice that it is an issue moving forward, we may have to stop and try again later.”

“I totally get it. But the lidocaine didn’t impact the quality of my last two tattoos, so I think we will be okay.”

You point at 2 other small tattoos. 1 on your collar and one on your shoulder and he breathes a small sigh of relief.

“That makes me feel better.” He rises to apply the stencil and when you give him your approval he washes his hands and pulls on gloves.

“Alright. Just wanted to let you know, I will be recoloring the tattoo in full, which means that it will be like getting the full thing all over again, just like the first time. Otherwise, the faded ink will be obvious.”

You nod. “Yeah. That makes sense.”

“Alright, you ready?” Rafayel checks in one more time and you give him permission. The needle comes into contact with your skin, and although its uncomfortable, its not unbearable like the first time.

“You good?” he asks, politely checking in and you nod, popping your ear buds in and selecting a playlist to help you vibe for the next 2 hours.

Rafayel works mostly in silence, occasionally checking in to make sure you are okay. And honestly you are. Ribs are supposed to be extremely painful to tattoo and your first experience hurt quite a bit. A nagging feeling in the back of your head screams that the tattoo may come out poorly because he is too light handed. But you remind yourself that you applied lidocaine and your first artist fell very short of professional and was likely very heavy handed.

You hear him speak, just barely through the music and you take one earbud out. “I’m sorry. What was that?” you ask, having not been able to hear him over your music.

“Oh, nothing. Just a comment. Your skin absorbs ink well. Makes a nice canvas. Doesn’t make sense how faded this tattoo is.”

Oh.

“Yeah. I get that from every artist.” Rafayel simply nods and continues his work.

Your earbuds go back into your ears for almost the whole appointment. Despite the slight discomfort of the needle, you find yourself drifting off.

The buzz of the needle stops and you see a hand wave in front of your face.

“Yeah?” You pull your earbud out again and blink the sleep out of your eyes.

“We are about an hour in. You good? Don’t have the shakes or anything?”

“Nah, I’m good. Honestly just sleepy.” You rub your eyes and yawn, causing Rafayel to yawn in response.

“Oh, God. Don’t do that.” He can’t help but yawn again, his eyes watering and with gloves still on, he can’t wipe the tear forming in his eye.

Without thinking you grab a tissue and blot the moisture away and he chuckles softly.

“That was very helpful. Thank you. You sure you don’t need juice or a bathroom break?”

You shake your head and lean back.

Rafayel nods his head and looks back at your ribs. “This looks like may 40 more minutes of work left. You let me know if you need to take a break, okay?”

The needle buzzes back to life and you find that the vibration against your skin makes it easier for you to drift back to near slumber even if it stings a bit. The songs you enjoy playing one right after the other until a gentle pat on the shoulder make you jolt awake.

You really did fall asleep.

“Its not often people fall asleep in the chair. You are all done. Want to take a look in the mirror?”

Rafayel flashes you a polite smile and carefully walks you to the mirror. It wasn’t uncommon for people to pass out after a tattoo and you could tell that he was weary, stance ready to catch you if you fell.

The world comes to a halt, however as you stand in the mirror, a half dozen flowers surrounding the Kanji for “Love” on your ribs and it looks like they are made of fire on the cusp of dying out and being swallowed by the darkness.

“So… Kanji for love? Let me guess. You were crazy about Gaara?”

You laugh a bit, still admiring the tattoo in the mirror. “That obvious, huh?”

He nods, smiling a bit sheepishly. “Can’t say I blame you though.” He lifts his blouse a bit, revealing the same kanji on his hip albeit, a lot smaller than yours. “Gaara is pretty cool after all.”

He leans in to apply saniderm to your skin. “Do you like it? The new look, I mean.”

“Love it!” You say with enthusiasm and you mean it. The experience was comfortable and the tattoo was stunning.

“Too bad it was a small tattoo. Your skin is like the perfect canvas for ink.”

“Oh, I’d like to get some larger ones. I’m thinking about a ½ or ¾ sleeve.” You pull your pinterest board up with the inspiration photos of all the artists you admire.

Rafayel scrolls through, becoming completely engrossed in your phone.

“No black lining?” He observes with peaked interest.

“I want my lining in vivid colors.”

For the first time he really looks at you, making direct eye contact. His nostrils flare and pupils dilate.

“Please,” he pleads quietly, voice a touch huskier. “Please let me.”

You got him. Hook, line a sinker.

Your last tattoo appointment was 4 weeks ago. Rafayel gave you his cell phone number and requested that you send him your pinterest board so that he could study the art you were interested in. At first, the texts were only about the potential work for your sleeve.

Rafayel asked clarifying questions. What about each artist signature style did you like so much? What did you want incorporated into your tattoo? What did you dislike about the tattoos you pinned?

You took a moment to gush about what you liked about Rafayel’s work and what you would really like to combine from everything you pinned and that’s when the conversation really started to change.

“That’s sweet… but really, these artists are inspired. This Pikkaman account? The patterns in their color blocks? This is the kinda linework that will take hours and hours. Multiple sessions. I’ve never even thought to do something like this. I’m excited to incorporate this into your tattoo somewhere.” You read his text over and over. It was the first thing he sent you with extra enthusiasm.

Texts went from every couple of days to discuss the piece to every day. He'd send updates on possible design ideas and when you’d gush, short conversations drew out to longer ones and before you knew it, joking around with each other just became a regular part of your conversations.

“There is so much detail going into this piece, we are probably look at a minimum of 14 hours. Maybe even as much as 16,” he warns, but somehow that makes you feel good.

Then about a week before your appointment, he finalized your design. You thought maybe that was the end of the daily back and forth and the following day, you got nothing. It was genuinely a bit disappointing and you hadn’t realized that you’d become accustomed to his humor.

One day of silence became two, and your fingers itched to send him something. Anything to get the conversation going again.

‘He is just your tattoo artist… not your friend,’ you remind yourself, gritting your teeth as you try to force yourself to focus on something else.

Day 3 of silence. You remind yourself this relationship is strictly transactional when your phone dings.

“How is your tattoo? Healing well? Colors still vivid?”

You read and reread the text preview, carefully avoiding sending the read receipt. You don’t want to seem too eager.

‘He is only asking out of professional interest. He isn’t just trying to talk to you,’ you tell yourself even as that itch in your brain reminds you that you’ve been under the needle 5 other times and none of those artists ever texted or called for a follow up to check on your healing process.

“Tattoo is healing very nicely!” you text back 15 minutes later, hoping you waited long enough to not seem obsessed.

Rafayel is beautiful. You don’t want to fangirl like the rest of the people in his life probably do.

The day of your appointment come and Rafayel looks different. Eager and with a smile on his face. He greets you at the door, walking you over to his cubby.

His work station is already ready, and you open your bag and put it on the the little side table meant for you.

“I see you are getting prepped too?” There is obvious amusement in his voice as you line up battery packs for your devices, snacks, and pull out a giant water bottle to keep yourself hydrate. “We kinda have a rule. Person getting the longest tattoo has the right to pick the soundtrack. You can connect your Bluetooth to the speakers. Everyone can jam with you.”

“In that case, I apologize ahead of time for all the kpop and complete unconnected themes and genres.” You smile sheepishly as you connect to Bluetooth and TROT music immediately starts playing.

“Seriously? Trot?” Rafayel pauses and chuckles a bit. “I’ll try not to judge.”

“Sorry, this is what I was playing for my mom last night.”

“Ah, that makes more sense.” Rafayel happily hums as he applied the stencil to your skin.

“You seem different today,” you blurt out without thinking. “I mean, last time I saw you, you were reserved and more focused.”

You study him more. Today his arms are exposed in a tank top, and you can see more of his tattoos. Only one arm has a half sleeve of flaming sharks in brilliant pinks and purples and you can tell he hits the gym, despite his slender frame.

“You’re right. It’s the medication.” Your eyes shift from the stencil back to him. “I have mad ADHD. On days where I am doing smaller, simpler tattoos, I need help locking in for the day so I take my Adderall. On days like today, these big projects are enough dopamine to fuel me.”

He whistles cheerfully after being given the green light, the tattoo gun buzzing against your arm. And when you finally switch to a better playlist, he smiles.

“God, that’s better. Gangsta’s Paradise. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Strong start, I admit. But expect disappointment from here.” You honestly are quite self-conscious about your playlist, but Harry Styles starts to play a few minutes later and someone on the other side of the studio starts crooning along with “A Sign of the Times” and you start to feel more at ease.

The needle continues to stamp your skin in vivid colors and you want so badly to watch the beautiful man next to you do his job, but you also don’t want to stare, so your eyes close. He changed shampoos, and he smells clean with a hint of citrus.

“So I have something to confess.” Rafayel dips the tattoo needle back into the ink. “I snooped the rest of your pinterest so I could learn a bit about you. Hope that doesn’t across as creepy.”

Huh?

“Oh… well I guess I did give you the link for it. What did you learn?” You stomp down the small part of you that is pleased he had a desire to learn more about you.

“I won’t reveal all my cards at once. Just figured you are going to be in the chair for a long time today. Maybe a few discussion points might help the time go by for both of us.”

You open one eye just a bit and peek over at him. “You still haven’t told me any of what you learned.”

He smiles at you mischievously. “I learned you are a giant nerd.”

“Gee… Thanks?” You deadpan, raising a brow.

Rafayel barely looks up from his work, but you don’t miss the way the corners of his mouth twitch. “Oh god, don’t pout at me like that.”

Your breath stalls. Pouting?

Heat prickles at the back of your neck as you scramble to smooth your expression, but it’s too late. His smirk is already there, teasing.

“Don’t take it the wrong way. I like it. I’m not going to feed that you that cheesy, ‘you are not like other girls’ line. But I will say, I was happy to learn we’d have something to talk about.”

Is he trying to hit on you?

“Alright then. Topic number one?”

“Hold still for me.” Rafayel carefully focuses on his linework. “Doctor Who?”

“Oh god. You did a deep dive?”

Rafayel smirks. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No, I guess not. But I kinda tapped out mid-Peter Capaldi. His arc was a bit too intense for me.”

You look over, but Raf’s eyes are hidden by purple hair as he concentrates on his line work.

“I gotta admit, I watched a little bit. But that’s because a couple people came in asking for Galifreyan tattoos and when I looked them up, they looked really cool.”

What did you think?” The tattoo needle is now going over a sensitive and it doesn’t feel great, so you try to lose yourself in the conversation.

“Intense… but David Tennant is really hot.”

It makes you laugh hard enough that Rafayel has to stop and pull the needle back.

“Yes… he is indeed.”

Unmedicated Rafayel was shockingly easy to talk to. You were already 2 hours into your 10-hour session when Rafayel forces you to take your first break. A snack, some juice and a potty break later, and you were back in the chair for round.

“Alright. Time for conversation starter number 2.” He was already calming your nerves, eyes once again focused on your tattoo and you watch his beautiful rosy and blue eyes dart around your skin to check his work. “You are into local travel…”

“Oh yeah! I love taking road trips. I’m practically out of town every time I get 2 or more days off in a row.”

“Yeah, I noticed you pinned a whole bunch of places that were 4-hour drive or less. Which destination was your favorite?”

You take a second to ponder. “Honestly, that really depends on the mood I’m in. But I just went to Dripping Pool. You go spelunking through a cave until you find an opening that drips beautiful blue water into a freshwater pool.”

Rafayel’s eye flash briefly with interest before he looks back down at his work. “I’ve always wanted to go, but I can’t seem to stop working… But I think I will go to hill country and try out one of those wineries you pinned first. Which one was your favorite?”

“Oh… those are really more… romantic weekends. I guess I was saving that for when romance actually happens for me.”

You see Rafayel freeze and look up at you. “Oh. I thought you were engaged or married.”

Huh?

“You’ve got a wedding board. Cute shit, I’m not gonna lie,” he explains, and attempts to casually switch back to his work.

Ah. The wedding that never happened. The engagement ring that ended up in the trash.

“Yeah. Long story. Short version? We weren’t right for each other.”

You can see him nod from your peripherals. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“Don’t be,” you answer quickly. “If it went through, I’d be miserable.”

“Eyyy! Positive spin. I like that. How long ago was that? If you don’t mind me asking.”

You groan internally. “It’s been 5 years.”

“5 years?” You can feel his breath on your skin and you don’t like what it makes you feel even as the conversation gets awkward. “Any movement in the past 5 years?”

“Nothing worth talking about.”

“Tch. A cutie like you with interesting hobbies? That’s a shame. I’m sorry men universally suck.” He earns a rich chuckle from you, but internally you panic.

“I mean, I guess I could take that as a compliment.”

His eyes flick up to yours, glinting with mischief. “You should.”

You gulp quietly, breath hitching and you pray he doesn’t notice. God, you are in trouble and you know it.

Rafayel continues focusing on his work. Despite him making it very clear that he found you interesting, the rest of the conversation lulls you into a sense of familiarity and comfort.

The hours stretch on, filled with a mix of banter, musical debate, and comfortable silence. At some point, you lose track of time, lulled by the rhythmic buzz of the tattoo gun and the occasional brush of his fingers against your skin as he works. The shop assistant, Pepper, adorable butterfly that she is, keeps popping in to take pictures and videos and gush over the progress made.

Perhaps the lack of warmth through clinical gloves brought you back down to earth, but you’ve convinced yourself that this isn’t going anywhere.

“Almost done,” Rafayel murmurs, his voice lower, rougher from hours of focus. He swipes one final stroke, then leans back, appraising his work.

You let out a slow breath, relief and exhaustion settling into your bones. “That was—”

“Brutal?” he guesses, smirking as he grabs a clean cloth.

“Something like that,” you admit, stretching your limbs to shake off the stiffness.

He wipes your arm down, a satisfied smile on his face and he looks at with a hint of excitement. “I know we’ve got another 6-hour session to go before its complete, but it looks pretty fantastic already.”

He pulls away, stripping off the gloves with a snap. “Alright, moment of truth,” he says, nodding toward the mirror.

Really, it is the moment you’ve been dying for. And when you stand in front of the mirror, you audibly gasp.

Dopamine in vivid colors delivered straight to your eyeballs makes you pause.

An Elephant lined in neons with long, hot pink eyelashes, its legs covered in geometrical patterns stares at you. The blank spaces will be filled later, but you already know you will love it.

“I…”

“Love it?” Rafayel sits behind you with a tired, yet satisfied smile. “Hate it? Don’t know how to feel about it?”

You look at yourself in the mirror again. The smile on your face makes you feel stupid but you can’t help it. You can’t school your features and make it go away.

“I respect you. You are incredibly talented.”

Rosy and blue eyes go blank for a second before Rafayel covers his face.

“Fuuuuuck. I wasn’t- Why does it feel like I’m blushing?”

You wish you were the girl that could smile tauntingly as you reduce a man to whatever state Rafayel was in now. But instead, you blush with him, covering your mouth as Rafayel hangs his head. You were alone now. The studio had emptied a while ago and this was becoming dangerously intimate.

“Alright, cutie. Let me get the saniderm and get you out of here.”

Cutie. God, the way it rolls off his tongue so naturally and makes your heart flutter is not good for your health.

He takes his time applying the saniderm with care and when he is done, he admires his handiwork.

“I seriously can’t wait until your tat is done. I’m going to post it on all my platforms the moment we get you cleaned up next session.”

And there he goes making you blush again as he traces the lining of the tattoo over the saniderm gently with his thumb.

He mutters something about walking you to your car because it’s dark as you pack your things, but when you stand, your body betrays you.

A wave of lightheadedness washes over you, and your vision tilts at the edges. You barely manage to step back before the floor shifts under your feet.

“Whoa—hey.” Rafayel’s hands are on you before you can even blink, steadying you by the waist. His grip is firm but careful.

He guides you back to a seated position and looks you in the eyes. “Your eyes are glazed over. You need some sugar.”

He jogs off to the refrigerator and comes back with an orange juice that you sip through your embarrassment before you start to feel better.

“I think it goes without saying that I can’t let you drive home without worrying.” Those pretty rosy and blue eyes hold genuine concern and the strong, independent woman you are forced to be melts under his gaze. “I’ll drive you home.”

Your stomach flips. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t have to,” he counters easily, reaching for his keys. “I want to.”

Something about the way he says it—no hesitation, no teasing—leaves you momentarily speechless. So… you let him.

For once, letting someone take care of you doesn’t feel like a mistake.

It’s all the little things that add up to more. His arm remains around you for support as he walks you to the car and helps you sit down carefully in the passenger seat before handing you the car key and telling you to keep the door locked as he locks the studio. It’s the fact that he kept the lights on as he walked you to safety and ran back to turn them off before locking up. It’s the fact that he shone a light into your car windows and made sure nothing valuable was visible before he hopped in the car to drive you home.

It’s the smile on his face as he looks in to check on you before turning the ignition and asking if you are feeling better. He is doing a lot of things right and you resolve to go for it when you have the chance.

He hands you his phone to plug in your address.

“Wow. A whole 3-minute drive. How inconvenient.”

You huff in amusement. “Just say you want to spend more time with me and take the scenic way home.”

He playfully checks the gps. “The scenic way is 5 minutes long.”

The play feels so easy and you push his arm.

“No, but really, I was hoping I could make an excuse to get something in your stomach. Lunch was 7 hours ago.”

Oh?

“Planning to feed me? Do you do that for all your clients?”

Rafayel looks at you seriously. “No. But I think you and I are both leaning towards this becoming bigger than artist and client.”

Your fingers tighten around your phone. That fluttery, dangerous warmth in your chest spreads, and it won’t go away.

You are in trouble.

But something about Rafayel is different than all the other men in your life. The guarded back and forth and coy banter doesn’t feel necessary when he communicates directly and makes you feel safe.

So, you reach out, fingers threading into his. He stills, eyes flicking to where your hand rests before meeting your gaze again.

“Take me to get food,” you say, voice softer now, steady. “Then take me home.”

Rafayel watches you for a beat longer, as if committing this moment to memory, before he shifts into drive.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, the corners of his mouth twitching into something almost boyish. “I can do that.”

At 10 PM there aren’t a lot of options, but there is a Columbian food truck that definitely caters to the drunks and munchies. Rafayel has never been. So, when your hot dogs come out covered in 3 different types of sauce, coleslaw, bacon and potato chips, he makes you laugh as he playfully shouts, “Oh, shit! There are potato chips on my hot dog?!”

One bite and his eyes widen, the sheer reverence in his expression, has you dissolving into laughter before he even swallows.

“Ohhh, okay,” he says, pointing at the hot dog like it just changed his life. “I get it now. This is genius.”

For someone who looks so elegantly put together, he rips into his late-night snack with enthusiasm. “Potato Chips! On my hot dog?!”

It makes him seem less perfect and more real. And for a moment, you are floating on a cloud, unable to shake the feeling that maybe this could be the beginning of something special.

Even better, the extra still in the details continues as he loops an arm around you and guides you back to his car, just in case you stumble.

Rafayel jokes once more that the commute is unbearably long, but the food truck is only 4 minutes from your front door and he grins as he helps you out of the car and walks you to your door.

“I guess this is goodnight, cutie. Is it okay if I call you tomorrow morning?” He takes a couple steps back as you punch your door code in.

A gentleman.

He doesn’t have to be one tonight.

Before he can retreat too far, you reach out and grab his wrist, pulling him back to you, erasing the distance he created to make you feel safe. His eyes darken, intensity flickering in those rose and blue hues as realization dawns.

“Rafayel… it’d be weird calling me from the same bed.”

He throws his head back in disbelief, cursing under his breath before biting his lip.

“You are bolder than I thought.” He exhales slowly, voice deeper with a hint of something almost dangerous. Strong hands grip your waist tightly and he pulls you flush against him.

“Maybe I should be bold, too?”

Yes!

His lips descend, crashing into yours, the cold press of his lip ring making you want wild things and you bite around it. He exhales sharply, groaning, tilting your chin so that he can kiss you deeper before his hands roam your body.

Hands everywhere. Lips wherever they find skin. He presses you into your door and the door swings open behind you.

You pull him through your threshold, lips still attached to his when he stops you.

You won’t let him stop you.

“Cutie…” He gasps, breath ragged as you kiss a trail down his neck. You hum in acknowledgement as your fingers grip his hairs and just slightly pull his head back to expose more of him under your lips.

He groans as he grips the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“God I don’t want to stop you, but…” You nibble firmly at the base of his throat.

“Fuck…” he curses and his hands abandon the door frame to clutch you against him once more.

“I’m listening,” you murmur as your lips travel to the other side of his neck, your hand firmly cupping him through, pants causing him to buck.

“Protection,” he rasps through his excitement. “My condoms are in the car.

You groan heatedly against his skin. “Hurry.”

You don’t have to say it twice. He bolts, grabbing an unopened 12 pack from his glove compartment and in seconds he slams and locks the door shut behind him, and kicks off his shoes before carrying you to the couch.

His lips are all over you, urgently kissing every expanse of bare skin he can find, his lip ring adding contrast and making you quiver.

“Glad it’s a 12 pack,” you groan as he covers your body with his. “We will be going through most of them tonight.”

“God, cutie. The things you say.” He tears the box, grabbing a condom and unzipping his pants. “I hope you make good on your promises, because I can, and I will.”

“Need… need to take my pants off,” you huff.

Rafayel leans back, settling onto the couch, watching as you stand and strip—quick, unceremonious, kicking your clothes aside.

“God, you are hot…” He whispers reverently, a blush burning across his skin as his gaze darkens intensely, kicking his own pants off. You stare as he rolls the condom on, eye contact intense and exuding confidence.

He knows he is packing.

He leans back with a smirk before finally pulling his tank top off and now you understand why it’s the last thing he kept on.

Dopamine in vivid colors delivered straight to your eyeballs makes you pause.

His chest is covered in a sea scape of corals and clown fish. Vibrant cobalts, radiant beams of light. Your eyes dart around, drinking the details of his skin. His muscled physique you must touch.

Nipple piercings that you have to taste.

He tries to pull you back under him, but you push him back down into his seated position, tongue tracing each piercing as he moans, encouraging you to be bolder. Licking turns into sucking, sucking turns into biting. And the more it escalates, the more wanton Rafayel’s moans become as his hips buck into air, his head thrown back in ecstasy.

He looks so pretty and fuckable underneath you as he gasps, somehow even pinker than he was a minute ago.

“Cutie, please,” he begs underneath you. You never knew you’d love hearing a man beg, but Rafayel looks so pretty when he is desperate. You straddle him, guiding him to your entrance with one hand and grasping the long hair at the base of his neck with the other.

“Say please again,” you order, and he bucks, cock slipping in just barely as you pull your hips up to deny him.

His hands grip your hips tightly and he whimpers.

“Please.”

Good Boy.He gasps, throwing his head back into the couch cushions as your hips sink down and you stretch wide open to accommodate him.

He is so expressive.

So pretty.

You can’t. God, you wanted to power-fuck yourself on his cock, but FUCK! He’s big. A whimper escapes you as you bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing through the intensity.

“Fuck. Oh fuck, cutie. You feel so good.” His hands caress the small of your back as you adjust to his size and whimper pathetically.

“Raf… oh… ohh!” Even the slightest hint of movement is enough to make you tremble. He fills you so perfectly its almost too much, and you take several deep breaths to calm as he kisses your temple.

You weren’t going to last.

But you sure as hell were going to try.

Your hips begin to move and instantly his hands tighten clamping your waist and you hear him whimper.

Good. He won’t last either.

“I have no fucking clue how you were single when you walked through my door,” He whispers reverently. “But I will thank every God created by man that you are on my cock right now.”

And reverence is how he earns the power ride of his life. You plant your feet beneath his thighs, gripping the couch frame behind his head for leverage.

Your hips fly.

“Holy shit!” His voice cracks as your pussy slams down onto him, the impact pulling an obscene moan from his throat. For a moment, he forgets what to do with his hands, palms abandoning your waist to cup your breasts, then sliding up to tangle in your hair as he crushes your lips against his.

Then one hand wraps around your throat. You gasp, and it only makes him groan, the other hand back on your waist as he matches your pace, thrusting up into you, reckless, desperate.

You aren’t faring much better, his size making the stroke against your clit feel red hot. And when he starts to match your pace, thrusting upwards, a continous, high pitched, pathetic whimper escaping you.

Your ceaseless whimpering nearly drowns him out, but you hear it, sexy and desperate in a lower register.

This man will break you.

This man will ruin you.

“So close,” he cries when his thumb finds and circles your clit, pressing down firmly to draw sure, relentless circles.

You can’t control the visceral shriek that erupts from you as he forces your climax to a head, pussy throbbing and legs weak. You feel the rapid fire pulsing between your legs, blood pounding in your veins, pleasure making you twitch.

“FUCK! RAFAYEL! OH, FUCK!”

He sits up, face buried in your chest as he holds you as tight as possible and a handful of powerful thrusts upwards leads to his demise. He shudders, moaning your name as he comes.

A moment ago, your home was so loud, but now, he holds you quietly, kissing across your chest in an act of thankfulness as you pant. Sweat soaking your forehead makes your hair cling to your face and your mind whirls in disbelief.

“Is this real life?”

Rafayel chuckles against your skin between kisses and nibbles on your collar bone that make you shiver.

“I hope so.”

He arms circle to hold you tightly, the same way he did when he came and he begins to thrust upwards slowly, cock stirring back to life.

"You have got to be kidding," you gasp as he flips you onto your back.

“When I said I can and I will, I meant it, cutie.” His eyes go dark as he stares down at you. “I can go all night.”

His smile is devilish, giving you chills as he hooks your legs over his arms folding you into a mating press.

“One day, I’m going to breed you.”

Oh, fuck.

“But for now, I’m going to practice.”

He wants to wreck you the same way you destroyed him. It makes you whimper in anticipation before his hips begin to piston into you like a well-oiled machine. He rips scream after scream from your throat and you are certain you’ve never been louder.

“Yeah, cutie,” he grunts with a look of satisfaction. “Make those noises for me.”