rrrrinmaru

[rrrrinmaru]

scattered flower petals like scars on your skin (nsfw) (raf x mc)

wc: 5.3k rating: E warnings: NSFW content, hand jobs, dom!mc sub!raf, (very sub raf), body paint, also known as 'MC molests Rafayel for one night' the fic, MC explores Rafayel's body that's it, and then Rafayel cums and we cheered, dacryphilia (i.e. crying kink), some asphyxiation, teasing, orgasm denial, he's obsessed with you the way you are with him brief: without really knowing what he's agreeing to, Rafayel agrees to be your model for a night. you take advantage of it.

It dawns on you, slowly but surely, like the sunrise cresting over the horizon at a pace that you’re helpless to do anything with but watch. The sight before you is just as surprising as the first sunrise you ever saw, the golds and reds bleeding into one another, a mesmerizing sea of fire across the ocean.

Rafayel sits in a neutral position. His legs are crossed, palms flat on the ground behind him as he leans back. The pose forces his shoulders back, throwing the jut of his collarbones into stark clarity. The moonlight filtering in through the floor to ceiling windows falls on his pale skin. The patches of silver falling across his skin makes him look ethereal, like he’s a mythical sea creature you stumbled across on a bright, moonlit night, that you fished up and snuck back to your apartment.

Or his apartment, rather. In this messy room, paint cans strewn across the floor, each of vastly different sizes, surrounding you in all directions, brushes in such easy reach—it’s difficult to forget that this isn’t your room.

For his part, Rafayel just stays there, head tilted to the side as he watches you. Hands on the floor. Bare chest pushed out towards you. His ribcage expands lightly as he breathes, in and out through slightly parted lips,and you don’t know where to look.

You can’t quite place the feeling that unfurls in your chest. The closest description, perhaps, is that it feels like Rafayel in this moment is a very finely crafted, very fragile gem, resting in the palms of your hands. So fragile that you’re even afraid to properly hold it, to put pressure on it, for fear of you cracking the surface.

“Go on,” Rafayel says, raising an eyebrow at you. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

There’s this natural laziness to his movements as he shifts his weight around, but the heaviness in his voice betrays the anticipation he must feel. He clears his throat, seemingly insistent on keeping up the pretense of calmness.

Your hands curl into fists in your lap. You’re seated before him, also on the ground so you’re both at eye level. 

Quietly, so softly that you almost don’t even hear yourself, you whisper, “I don’t know where to start.”

From where he’s pretending to look at the waves crashing on the shoreline, Rafayel immediately turns to face you. He drops the unaffected air he was pretending to keep up, eyes raking over your face as he takes you in. He must see something in your gaze, or your posture, or something else entirely, but it makes his throat bob as he swallows.

“Start with the face.” His voice is hoarse. It might be the way the light catches on his face, but you think you can see the beginnings of a blush take root at his cheeks. “You should be more than familiar with that.”

It’s as good of a direction as any. There’s a sliver of uneasiness as you get on your knees, leaning forward into his space. Like this, you tower over him.

Rafayel uncrosses his legs. He spreads them, feet planted firmly on the ground as he brackets your hips with his knees. When he looks up at you, his eyes are dilated and there’s something expectant in his gaze. 

You lift your palms up, hand curved on instinct to fit the roundness of his cheek, but you don’t cup it fully. Your hand hovers there, not meeting his skin.

It’s… a little awkward, you think, face slightly flushed even though you’ve barely started. You’re starting to feel self-conscious. It’s easy to crook your fingers at him and demand Rafayel to come over and act cute by putting his chin in your palm—it’s another thing entirely to reach out and cup his cheek while he stares at you so intently.

He’s watching you. You know this, because you’re watching him just the same. 

When his tongue darts out to lick his lips, your eyes drop unconsciously to his mouth.

“You’re not touching me.” Rafayel’s throat sounds dry, you think distantly. “I’m getting impatient.”

This is the easiest part, you tell yourself. Rafayel may be teasing, but you asked him for this, in bits and pieces, and he squeezed the truth out of you until you felt like a hollowed out husk of your former self. 

You lean forward a little more, and you feel the heat of Rafayel’s skin against your palm. The moment your hand gently frames the curve of his cheek, Rafayel sighs, chest heaving like a load’s been lifted off his shoulders. His entire body sways, leaning into your touch like a creature seeking warmth. His eyes flutter shut, tension seeping from his muscles as he just… falls into your hand. 

You can feel heat creep up your cheeks. You must be bright red, like a glowing ball of fire in this dark room, and you’re almost relieved his eyes are closed. 

Your hand lingers for a moment. Your thumb strokes across the apple of his cheek, right next to the fragile skin under his eyes. Your other hand hesitantly touches his forehead, fingertips skating down his smooth skin to the bridge of his nose. 

Rafayel hums, eyes still closed. You’re not even sure if he knows he’s making that noise. Those small, pleased sounds, almost like a purr, radiating straight from the center of his chest. Rafayel would scowl and slap your hand away if you even insinuated that he resembled a cat, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt his pride. 

The hand at his eye moves up. You brace your thumb against his forehead, pushing back slightly—the other hand travels down to his jawline, the long, sharp cut of bone. You take his chin between your thumb and index finger and you pull up.

As if strung along by marionette strings attached to your fingers, Rafayel lets you tilt his head up. He’s so malleable like this, like fire hot metal being annealed, sparks flying along his glowing, red surface as you pull his chin up and expose his throat.

Like a prey animal caught in the jaws of a predator. Rafayel’s no pushover, but he lets you manhandle him like he is. He lies limp in the teeth of your grip, loose and pliant and at your mercy. 

Eyes still closed, he swallows. Like this, chin up, shoulders put back, the inverse T of his throat and collarbones exposed to such a degree—some part of you wants to lean in and take a bite. To leave a stinging bruise there, right at his Adam’s Apple, right at his jugular vein, so everyone knows who he belongs to. 

But the saner, more mature side of you resists it. The urge is tamped down, not as prominent as before, but you know it’s still there, bubbling under your skin.

So you settle for taking your hand off his forehead. That hand falls down right to the curve of Rafayel’s left shoulder. The hard muscle beneath, skin barely giving way as you press insistently on it.

“Mmph,” Rafayel grunts, the sound muffled at the back of his throat, like he was attempting to swallow it. His reaction makes you press even harder, wanting to elicit something stronger. 

You’re rewarded with a strangled sigh, his throat working furiously as he attempts to get his lungs back in working order, or that’s what you envision is going on in his mind. Maybe he’s distracted by your other thumb, stroking gently at the sensitive underside of his jaw, right above his throat. You can feel the way his breath hitches—the stutter in his breathing, the constriction in his throat. 

A sound rumbles in your chest. As if on instinct, you hush him, the hand on his shoulder sliding down to the curve of his clavicle to pause at the space between his collarbones. Above his sternum, right below his throat. That little divot of space that makes him gasp when you press at it, throat working in a way that makes you think this might be uncomfortable. 

But uncomfortable or not, Rafayel doesn’t say a word. His eyes do not open. There’s a moment where his lips part and they tremble, half-moon lips quivering as he steadies the heaviness in his breathing, and then the moment is over, as quickly as it came, like dust blown away by the wind.

His skin is fully flushed now. It’s hot to the touch, like there’s fire instead of blood flowing through his veins, scalding your fingertips from beneath the surface.

The hand at his chest splays out. You drag your palm down, feeling the bumps and grooves of the planes of his muscles. The way his heart kicks in his chest when you linger over it. The flurried beat it taps out, like a secret written in morse code. 

The skin over his chest is tight. You know this means he’s tensed up. Muscles are soft when relaxed, like sinking one’s fingers into freshly risen dough, pliable and bouncy. But the stretch of flesh beneath your fingers is hard and unforgivable like a brick wall. 

The hand you have on his neck tightens ever so slightly, Your thumb digs gently into his throat.

“Easy,” you hush when he makes a sudden sound, like you’re soothing a startled wild animal. The same way hunters soothe a rabbit in a trap, clicking their tongue and making gentle sounds until they can get a good angle at the rabbit’s neck. 

You don’t know if that sound triggers something in Rafayel, or if it was the word, or the tone of your voice, or the all-encompassing pressure from your hand folded around his neck—whatever the reason, Rafayel’s body bends, doubling over as he practically folds in two. His abdomen tenses sharply, exhaling quickly as if he’d been punched in the gut.

He holds himself there, a sharp, throbbing livewire of tension, his back curved like a strung bow. Rafayel breathes heavily, his throat fluttering in your grip. 

You look down, almost absentmindedly. His legs have fallen apart, the inside of his knees and thighs facing up to the tall ceiling. He looks debauched. The flush in his cheekbones, the way it travels all the way down to his chest, the way his eyes are still closed.

And nestled at the center of his legs is his length, the bulge already swelling and straining at the front of his pants.

The light gray of his pants makes his hard on look more prominent than you suspect it actually is. You can see it, the outline as it curves to the right. 

When you push against his Adam’s Apple, Rafayel flinches. His abdomen tenses again, shoulders shivering as his hips jerk. The full body reaction extends all the way down to his length, and you can see it twitch below the fabric.

Almost as if you’re a puppeteer, teasing out the involuntary reactions of his body with strings attached to a crossbrace. 

The hand on his chest drags lower. Your fingernails skate lightly over his taut muscles—it draws out this weak, needy keen at the back of Rafayel’s throat. He pulls his shoulders back further, as if offering his exposed chest to you.

You take him up on his offer. You over the lines you fingers traced, digging your fingernails in until they leave thin red streaks across Rafayel’s pale skin. They look like thin lashes in the moonlight, faint enough that you know they won’t last. But they must sting, here and now, and you wonder how Rafayel feels. If he feels the same way you do, like you’re about to vibrate out of your skin, like you’re a devout worshipper tracing the features of your god embalmed in marble, like you’re a huntsman running your fingers over the shaky ribcage of your game as you figure out the best way to peel its skin back.

His nipples are stiff. You push the pad of your thumb against one bud, pressing it gently to see how Rafayel reacts. He jerks, lips pressed together in this harsh, stiff line as he grunts. It’s clear he’s trying to hold himself back.

As if possessed, you press harder. Rafayel’s mouth falls open, hips rocking up into thin air as you scrape your fingernails lightly over the sensitive skin. When you take it between your fingers and tug, Rafayel moans lowly through gritted teeth. His abdomen flexes over and over, muscles rolling visibly beneath his skin. 

All that strength and he’s keeping it under wraps because you asked him to, you marvel. Rafayel could easily surge up and tackle you. He could push you off and call it quits. He could lock his legs around your waist and flip your positions, until he’s long and lean over you, purple eyes bearing into yours as he stares you down.

But he doesn’t. He sits there, shoulders tight with tension as his hands are on the floor, fingers twitching urgently against the tiles like he’s desperate to grip something but he can’t decide what. He just makes these frustrated, impatient noises, like he wants more, and yet he doesn’t do anything else. 

The ball is in your court, like he promised. 

You go lower. Your fingernails continue to leave thin, spindly lines as you mark up his skin. His muscles clench when you pass over his abdomen, at his navel, and Rafayel audibly hisses out a breath at your touch. 

Still, he doesn’t lean away. He doesn’t shy away from your touch. His eyelashes are trembling like a leaf caught in the current of the waves. His mouth is open like he’s a drowning man at sea, breathless and gasping for air.

It’s almost like petting a wild tiger. Rolling, sinewy muscle beneath your fingertips as you pet his abdomen. These little noises fall out of his throat, bitten-off noises like Rafayel only remembers right at the end to twist his lips shut.

You press into his waist, fingernails digging in as if you could claw under his skin if you were determined enough. Rafayel’s breath catches—an audible sound that lingers in the room like starlight, but you can feel the reverb in his throat, under your fingers. 

His breathing is laboured. He heaves, each breath shakier than the last. It makes his shoulders shake, the tremble following his muscles all the way down his torso, his sides, his abdomen.

Throughout it all, his eyes remain closed. Like an invisible blindfold you draped over him, shutting out one of his main senses. 

“Don’t look,” you’d told him, voice quiet as you both walked to his atelier. His footsteps were as sure as ever, so calm that you would’ve thought he was completely unaffected by your request, if not for the tension caught in his shoulders. The shoulders that were pulled back a little too far, his hands that were tucked a little too firmly into his pant pockets, head held a little too straight. The feigned casualness rolled off him in waves.

“I won’t look,” he promised, looking straight ahead. He hadn’t made fun of your request, or the little details you added on whenever they popped into your mind—his face had changed, slightly, as if confused, but he just agreed easily, without asking more. 

You’re grateful for that. You didn’t know how much you were holding your breath until Rafayel drew it out of you, like a pinprick in an oxygen tank, draining you bit by bit. 

And now, here you both are, your fingers inching further down until the nail of your middle finger catches on the button of his pants. Rafayel immediately stiffens, his entire body going still. 

Your hand hovers over the prominent bulge in his pants. You can see the way the fabric stretches, pulled to its limits to accommodate his arousal. It’s a heady thing, seeing the physical proof of how affected you make him. 

Your fingers curve, picking loosely at the button on Rafayel’s pants. You’re not looking to undo it just yet, but this simple movement is enough to make his muscles jump, abs clenching as he tries to roll his hips into your hand, chasing the ghost of your warmth. 

It’s enough, you realise. You’re enough, just like this. He’s not even looking at you—all he has are your hands on his body, the heat of your palms branding handprints into every square inch of his body. You’ve barely spoken, and he’s already this far gone. 

The flush is high on his cheeks. He looks drunk, on affection or arousal or the moonlight pooling in his collarbones; the gorgeous crimson staining his cheeks bleeds all the way to the tips of his ears and the back of his neck. You know this. His eyelashes flutter like a butterfly’s wings in the wind, eyes squeezed shut. 

He’s not even looking at you, and your touch has brought him to his figurative knees. 

As if he hasn’t had enough of surprising you, Rafayel huffs. The sound is low and full of irritation. He tilts his hips up, pushing his bulge impatiently into your palm. 

When he says your name, it’s like scratching an itch in the most sensitive part of your body. 

“Not yet,” you murmur, voice quiet in the back of your throat as you marvel at the sight before you. Your index finger drops down to hook around the zipper of his pants, letting the metal dig underneath your nail—you tug up, a brief pressure, and Rafayel’s hips immediately follow your hand, arching up like he’d chase you to the ends of the world just to get your hand on his cock. 

Rafayel makes a petulant sound, the muscles in his body straining from his neck to his abs as he trembles before you. “When?” He demands, hips still rolling up to try and chase the curve of your palm. 

Soon. You’re not sure you can wait much longer either, not when he’s all spread out and flushed and desperate for you. The hand on his bulge stays there, a featherlight touch ghosting over the hardness in his pants while your other hand reaches for the can you’d went to great pains to hide from Rafayel. 

The paint is sticky. It’s cold and wet, the texture starkly different from the pulsing heat of Rafayel’s arousal. You dip the surface of your palm into the mouth of the can, holding it there until you’re certain your palm is coated in the viscous liquid.

“Stay still,” you say, and Rafayel stiffens under your hand. His lips part, mouth dropping open wider than it already was, and you can almost feel the hot breath from his lungs when you lift your stained palm up and position it over his clavicle. 

You hesitate. “Chin up.”

Rafayel doesn’t even hesitate. He lifts his chin immediately, exhaling sharply when you inch closer, and the sound he makes when you press your palm against the base of his throat goes straight to your gut. 

“Wet,” he pants weakly. His eyelashes flutter as he struggles to keep his eyes closed. “What’re you d’ing?”

“Shh.” You close your palm slightly, fingers reaching around to the side of his neck. You hold your palm there for a second, long enough to feel his breath stutter in his throat, and you watch the way he bites his lower lip when you lift your hand from his neck.

A pale purple handprint cups his throat, like a collar in the shape of your palm. Your thumb is imprinted on one side of the long column of his neck while your fingers decorate the other side.

You stare at his neck, the purple staining the skin right below the bulge of his Adam’s Apple, and you lean forward without thinking—Rafayel grunts, lips pressing tightly together to muffle the sound when you press against his length. 

Your eyes are blown wide. Your breath is caught in your throat, barely conscious as you reach out for the can of paint by your side, palm dipping back in to refresh the coat sticking to your skin. You’re not as careful this time, soaking your hand briefly before pulling it back out to press it against Rafayel’s chest, right over his heart.

With your outstretched palm, fingers pulled apart so far that it starts to hurt; you press firmly against the jumping muscle, feeling the skip in his chest under your palm. 

You’re close enough that your breath brushes across Rafayel’s face. His eyelashes tremble when you exhale and he tilts his head up, lips spreading open as if trying to blindly find your mouth. 

“Wha’s this?” He slurs, voice slow as he reaches up to you, following the air slipping from your lips. “Mmph—’s sticky.”

“I won’t tell.” The words come out shaky. You feel strangely lightheaded. When you pull your hand back, you can’t drag your eyes away from the stark handprint marking his chest. Like you’ve branded him with your claim, so bold that you take even yourself by surprise. 

Rafayel swipes his tongue across his lips. He looks parched, and his fingers twitch against the ground, scrabbling for purchase that he can’t find. 

“You look good like this,” you say without much thought. “You look—”

He laughs, breathy and high. “Good enough to eat?”

You know he meant it as a joke, but it’s not entirely incorrect. The long line of his body, the curve of your palm pressed into his skin like an indelible mark, the persistent, leaking heat below you that begs for your attention; it’s a mouthwatering look. 

“Yes,” you breathe, and his length jumps under your palm. You reach back for the paint again, fingers trembling slightly when you dip your hand in. With each pass, you’re messier, more careless about the way you flick the excess paint from the space in between your fingers. You press your palm to his abdomen, to the shaking, tense muscles there, and something hot rushes down your spine at the sudden sharp intake of breath from him. 

You can feel it. His stomach, contracting as he inhales. The muscles quiver under your touch. 

The fingers of your other hand suddenly tug at his zipper. Not to pull the metal up, but to yank it down. The button is quickly undone as well, dancing between the pads of your fingers as you force it out. 

With the way he’s seated, there isn’t much room for you to pull his pants down. But undoing the zipper and the button is enough to expose his stiff length, the growing wet patch on the front of his briefs, dark and desperate. 

He gasps, your name falling from his lips like a litany. 

“Please”, he begs, hips tilting up to feed his clothed cock into your palm. “Please, please, please—”

You take your hand off him for a brief second and Rafayel immediately keens, rocking his hips up to chase the ghost of your touch. 

“No, no, no—come back,” Rafayel pleads, eyelashes trembling like he’s this close to wrenching his eyes open, unable to hold himself back any further. 

“Breathe.” You lick a stripe up your palm, making sure it’s wet with saliva before you bring it back down. It’s a bit of a weird angle, trying to pull his briefs down far enough to get your hand around his cock, but the whine Rafayel lets out the moment the heat of your palm cups his cock is incredible.

He sags, as if all the fight leaves his body. His abdomen undulates, twitching furiously with every shaky inhale he pulls into his chest, and you’re just as breathless. 

The flush on his cheeks. The handprint around his neck, a choker marking him as yours. The handprint across his heart, a brand you want to tattoo into his skin. His stomach, slippery with wet paint, pulsing beneath your hand. 

His cock, wet with precum and your spit, hard and throbbing in your grip. He moans, throwing his head back to expose his throat (handprint, you think wildly, eyes fixated on the purple marks around his neck, yours) when you twist your hand on the downstroke. 

“Nngh—fuck. ‘m close,” he gasps, cock jerking in your hand. Precum drips from the tip, sticky and translucent, dripping all over your hand and his briefs and his pants. He’s making a mess. 

You work him harder, pressing your thumb into the fat vein trailing the underside of his cock. It’s like you hold the secret to the world in your hand, a finger on his pulse point. Rafayel is so weak like this, so vulnerable, so obedient. You could ask him to heel and he would. You could ask him to crawl on his knees to feast between your legs and he would. All to get your hand on his cock like this. 

The corner of his eyes are wet. Your breath hitches at the sight—if you had a free hand to wipe the salty tracks from his face, you could. But both hands are occupied, and so you lean in, mind blissfully empty except for the sight of Rafayel’s trembling body before you, and you lick at the corner of his eyes. 

Salty. Exactly as you imagined. 

Rafayel says your name on his next exhale, and it sounds like a sob. It sounds fragile. Like you have him dangling on a precipice and he’s about to topple off at the gentlest breath of air from you. 

“Good boy,” you murmur, so soft that you’re not even sure if he hears. “Cum for me.”

“Aah, ‘m—’m close,” he tries, voice cracking halfway through his sentence. “Close, mmmph, please…”

Your paint streaked hand leaves his abdomen and flies up to his neck. You instinctively avoid the base of his neck, not wanting to ruin the stark handprint already there. You curve your hand instead, your thumb coming up to press right against his Adam’s Apple, right where it throbs, right where you can feel every vibration from his throat when he speaks, and your palm cups the back of his neck. 

“Go on,” you croon, pressing down. You can hear the way his breath catches, catches—it cuts off, one last flurried, desperate inhale, before your name spills from his mouth with a hard jerk of his hips. 

His cock pulses in your grip, cum spurting from the tip. It flies all the way up his abdomen, sticky white cum dripping across the messy handprint your left on his stomach. You stroke him through it, eyes greedily searching his face for every minute reaction as you work him through his orgasm, right over the edge and into overstimulation. 

He doesn’t stop you. You hold him there, hand around his throat, hand around his cock, until you suddenly take your thumb off his Adam’s Apple. Rafayel’s entire body shudders violently, almost as if he’s experiencing a second orgasm as he sucks in a breath. His cock trembles, another weak rope of cum spilling onto your fingers. 

And you rub your thumb over the weeping slit of his cock, rubbing the sensitive head until he’s making these tiny, fucked out sounds. 

You work him until he’s shivering, and only then do you slowly slide your hand down to the base of his cock, holding him gently. 

“Open your eyes for me, Rafayel,” you say quietly. 

Rafayel exhales. He takes a while to catch his breath, chest heaving from exertion, and then he slowly, gradually, peels his eyes open. 

He looks up at you with wet eyes, lips trembling as he pants, and you’re tempted to push him straight into another orgasm. You could, if you wanted to. You could push him back and suck his cock, work him back up into hardness and pull one more orgasm out of him. 

Rafayel would let you. You know this like you know the back of your hand. 

“Good boy,” you repeat, eyes soft as you absentmindedly sweep your thumb along the column of his neck. “You did very well.”

Rafayel doesn’t do anything except stare at you for a while. He licks his lips again, sucking at the insides of his cheeks. 

“You…” Before he finishes his sentence, he takes a cursory glance down to your hand, eyes zeroing in on where you’re still holding the base of his cock. 

He also notices the messy streak of paint in the vague shape of a handprint over his abdomen. 

Rafayel squints. He tilts his head and catches sight of the handprint over his heart. The paint has slipped a little, mixing with the beads of sweat on his body to drip down his chest. 

Eventually, he tilts his head back up, leaning into your hand cupping the back of his neck. He’s so loose-limbed that it feels like your hand is the only thing holding him upright—if you let go, he’ll go falling to the floor in a sprawl. 

“Paint?” He asks, voice scratchy and hoarse. “This is the, ahem, big secret you didn’t want to tell me about?”

You blush, fingers constricting around his cock. It makes his breath hitch; Rafayel gives his cock a considering look, before reluctantly looking back up at you. 

“Nice color,” he comments, raising an eyebrow. “Did you like marking me up?”

You grip the back of his neck, shaking him a little, like a wolf scruffing her cubs. “I did, but…” you shrug, nodding at the messy handprints on his skin. “They’re a little smudged.”

Under the moonlight, his eyes glitter. “I’ll teach you how to do it. Did you know there’s a certain kind of paint that tints the skin and lasts for around two weeks?”

You blink at him. “You want… the marks to last two weeks?”

Rafayel smirks up at you. His brash confidence is tempered by the blatant affection pooling in his gaze. 

“I’d accept your marks even if they lasted forever,” he says casually, like your handprints aren’t drying on his skin and there isn’t cum streaked all over his abdomen. “Why shouldn’t the world know who I belong to?”

“You’re impossible,” you mutter, but Rafayel eyes the fond smile on your lips and laughs. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up. And you may want to disinfect the floor. I told you doing it in your atelier was a bit of a hazard—”

Rafayel tilts his head up. He acts like he didn’t hear anything you just said, eyes bright as he smiles up at you. “Kiss.”

You huff. He’s so… so aggravating that you want to wring your hands. 

But he looks up at you, expectant and waiting, and you can’t help but lean down to press your lips to his. 

His lips are warm. Your mouth opens on instinct, sighing into the kiss as he licks into your mouth. 

Then, there is a hand around your waist and a hand at the back of your head, winding into your hair. Rafayel leans back, abdomen tense and hard as he eases the both of you back onto the floor—not fast enough to hurt himself, but it takes you by surprise. 

“Raf—you have paint and cum on you, don’t—!”

“Body paint, yes?” Rafayel interrupts you with a grin. 

“Of course it’s body paint, we both know I can’t use your normal paints for this!”

Rafayel rolls the both of you over. “Then I think you’re a little overdressed, princess. I think it’s only fair if we both get to mark each other up, don’t you?” He sits up, glancing back briefly to locate the paint can before he hooks the handle with a finger and drags it over. “I’ll start with the back of your thighs.”

He slips one hand beneath the mouth of your sweatpants, fingers dancing lightly over your heated skin. 

“Take it off,” Rafayel coaxes, his other hand already dipping into the paint can. “We’ll clean up after.”

==

© rrrrinmaru 2024 | no unauthorised publication or reproduction allowed

[rrrrinmaru]

Wanna bet your heart? 🫶

[rrrrinmaru]

rin's side stories: 02 - where jenna forces xavier to do his paperwork

wc: 662 rating: G brief: it's always a struggle for jenna to get xavier to do his paperwork. notes: a little insight into the alpha team, gen fic, no romance, canon-compliant, can be read as pre-canon or during canon

“Xavier.”

No response. The body on the couch is so motionless that a civilian would have dialed the ambulance minutes ago. 

“Xavier.”

It’s almost impressive. If she were feeling more charitable, she would call it some kind of art form. There are very few people who can simply lie down and look like all the life has been sucked out from them. There is something to be said about how committed to playing dead the figure across the room from her is.

“Xavier.”

Her tone doesn’t brook any disobedience. It forces the body on the sofa to finally shift, fingers clutching the pillow over his face to shift down slightly. Xavier peers at her from under the cushion, blinking blearily at her as if she forced him out a particularly sweet dream. 

As if he’s not currently on the clock. 

“When you requisitioned the sofa, I didn’t expect you to put it to such use,” Jenna comments, raising an eyebrow at him. “We should put a timer on it. A timer and a repelling collar on you that sends you flying from the sofa when you’ve spent over fifteen minutes on it.”

Xavier pulls the pillow further down, tucking it under his chin. “You would do that to the best Hunter on your team?”

“Who better to serve as a role model for the rest of the team than yourself?”

“Always so cruel,” Xavier sighs, sitting up properly. “The paperwork never ends.”

Jenna eyes the amount of paperwork piled up on his desk, the towering stacks of paper that bury the metal surface of his table. “It never ends because you never do them, Xavier. Get to it.”

“You’re the one in command. You do it.” Xavier gives her a look that is probably the closest thing to earnest, but Jenna’s fallen for it before and she’ll be damned if she falls for it again. 

“They’re your missions. The longer you put it off, the more paperwork there will be. All it needs is a simple mission summary—Data Analytics will handle the majority of the information. Look at what Ning wrote: ‘Tuesday morning, Wanderers at Chica’s Pizza, one Wanderer. Pizzeria was full of civilians, maybe thirty in total, full evacuation before engaging. No Protocore. Mission success.’ A total of twenty-five words.”

Xavier sighs. He stands, reluctance written all over his face and weighing his muscles down as he walks over to his desk. “What about something like, ‘I came, I saw, I conquered’?”

Jenna feels a headache come on. Xavier isn’t usually the main cause for her headaches—no, that position is saved for select people, like Nero, the serial escapist, or Andrew, the pain in her ass—but when Xavier gives her a headache, he gives her one that’s sharp and lingers. For ages. Because that’s how long he takes to complete his paperwork. 

“No. Captain’s orders. I know you have an excellent memory, Xavier. Once you put your mind to it, you’ll finish your work in no time.” She pauses, then, deciding to strike fear into his heart, adds, “be grateful I haven’t assigned you to liaise with Data Analytics on sifting through the data you bring back from your missions. I could make you list down all the Protocores you obtain from each mission, down to the specificity of each Protocurve. I could make you list the type of Wanderers you face, down to the category and details like how many limbs they had.”

The sound of pen on paper stops. When Jenna looks up, Xavier’s looking at her in shock. 

“You wouldn’t,” he says. He sounds hesitant even to her.

Jenna shrugs. This appears to be a surprisingly effective threat against him. She mentally files it away for a rainy day. “Maybe I would. I have the paperwork done up. All I need to do is have my hand slip.”

Xavier shakes his head. “Incredible,” he mutters, pen scratching away on the smooth surface of his documents. “You’re terrifying, Captain.”

==

© rrrrinmaru 2024 | no unauthorised publication or reproduction allowed

[rrrrinmaru]

liveblog of 04 - under twilight

DAMN caleb is tall he's almost hitting the doorway!!! my god he has such serious eyebags

not gonna lie i think they gave grandma a voice too old for her face, or a face too young for her voice - her voice sounds like she's in her 80s but her face looks like early greying at 70s

grandma self-discharged from the hospital... the disregard for health runs in the family i see

why is mc eating on an empty plate while grandma and caleb both have rice... where is mc's rice... i'm hungry...

oh wow the writing in lnds is really good... you can really tell how mc presents herself as this capable, independent hunter when interacting with xavier, zayne and rafayel, and how quickly her guard is let down when it comes to caleb in comparison because he's her older brother figure she's known for ages. there is a very stark difference in their interactions, and it's clear she reverts back to a more childish, reliant self when caleb is around...

oh my god caleb is IN LOVE with mc. jesus they were not kidding around oh my god!!!!

FUCK IM SORRY THE EXPLOSION WAS FUNNIER THAN EXPECTED IT WAS SO OUT OF LEFT FIELD AND SO CLOSE UP!!!! MC SHOULD NEED FACIAL RECONSTRUCTIVE SURGERY FROM HOW CLOSE SHE WAS TO THE BLAST GODDAMN!!!!

i love how they still use dog tags in this society. and i love how the only surviving thing she could hold on to was the dog tag. truly dog tag survives all disasters. iconic

metaflux fluctuations can cause explosions???? also with i think the hindsight of spoilers, i'm quite sure the fandom consensus (and maybe plot?) is that mc was lured out by the man triggering the metaflux fluctuations so that the bomb could be detonated later on - not sure who orchestrated it, particularly since it's revealed it's not an onychinus special, but it's certainly interesting to note. is mc's evol the first of it's kind? surely not, because the hunter's association knows enough to classify it (?) as a resonance evol. it might just be a very strong evol that people want to get hold of / to study? if mc's evol can be distilled into something like a protocore (?) and use it as an amplifier for all types of evol, it would be Very Dangerous and i see the appeal in doing that. but i don't see why they would need to take out grandma and caleb like that... some kind of ploy to destroy all ties around her and drive her into a narrow spot? make her suicidal because of the lack of familial ties and make it easier to kidnap her on a mission? thoughts...

ok it seems that the metaflux - wanderer connection does go both ways; wanderer appearing = metaflux levels increasing / metaflux levels increasing = wanderer appears. interesting. is metaflux some kind of contamination from the wormhole?

honestly i feel like it should be protocol that if such a devastating event happens to an active member of a field-combat team, they should be automatically put on off-duty work and/or forced leave. which i suppose is what's happening to mc since she's reading through reports instead of being on the field?

wow i incredibly respect the writing for not making zayne drop everything at the sight of you when he has an operation waiting on him... incredible. i appreciate the work ethic.

oh my gosh mc is so whiny with caleb.... i think caleb is the true endgame...

wait MC gave him the dogtag??? HELP not me thinking it was military issued

the question is did zayne carry her in or did he call for a stretcher to move her in

i like how he just has sweets stored in his drawer at work. boy me too. only way to keep me alive.

so a flux stabliser can prevent metaflux fluctuations, thereby preventing wanderer attacks? interesting - how do they work? if there is an increase in metaflux fluctuations, can they somehow dissipate the metaflux energies in the vicinity? like force them to redirect somewhere else to keep the levels low?

also zayne is definitely elsa the jokes were not kidding. how is he being hurt by his own evol. this is why you shouldn't anyhow fight wanderers...

are there evol specific doctors??? i hope there is but i wonder if there aren't... meaning people are just rawdogging any evol specific injury???? maybe rafayel and zayne should hold hands

THIRD PERSON POV????

sky awash with red-orange clouds looking like the aftermath of a nuclear explosion, like plumes of smoke decorating the sky and covering the heavens, until all you see is buildings set in a deep glow, almost alight under the setting sun... call that golden hour!

[rrrrinmaru]

been busy lately but wanted to sketch 🐡

[rrrrinmaru]

liveblog of 03 - talented hunter

as an opening i should highlight that it was not immediately clear to me that order no. 85 was not related to the wanderers that appeared outside the train - i didn't know the wanderers at the train had been completely eradicated by mc in the two in-game battles. the transition from the end of ch 2 to the start of ch 3 was not the clearest

however. knowing now that xavier really just saw mc running on the top of the train dome to fight the wanderers while drinking his little vending machine drink and then fucking off on a zip line is so hilarious to me. he really said i'm not on the clock for these wanderers. happy for you that you're fighting them but that's not my business. chin up girl and then he flew off on a zip line. i can't believe he disappeared into the setting sun of the horizon on a zip line. where is the end of the zip line. where did he zip to. my god the man that you are

mc: is he... comforting the wanderer? xavier: proceeds to blitz the wanderer into shards of light and smoke

also why is the moon so huge. are we that close to the moon in this universe?

why did the collar light up red when he crushed the protocore...

either xavier is under some kind of mind confusion or he genuinely thinks it's funny as hell to hold us at sword point and string us up by one foot to make mc stammer out her recollection of their first meeting while knowing full well who she is.

again with the weapons disappearing into nowhere - i do wonder how they're kept (some kind of space skill?) and why can rafayel just arm himself with what looks like a pretty long and sharp dagger at will? linkon city lawless land?

xavier: i'm surprised you came in here alone mc: i had no choice, my partner disappeared. xavier, the partner in question:

i'm starting to think he strung mc up intentionally to injure her so he has a valid reason to force her out of the no hunt zone...

tenebrae (黑猎) - black market hunters? tea

naur has the forest been tainted by the metaflux fluctuations? or is xavier trying to pull a fast one on us...

hate to see you go love to watch you leave... that ass xavier that ass...

i love how xavier is like you're pretty close to the edge of the forest just walk out yourself and mc already got lost in the forest at least once

no signal? in a society this technologically advanced? there must truly be some shit in this forest - no wonder it's a no hunt zone

XAVIER IS LOST TOO? i knew he was as directionless as zoro. i knew it in my heart.

XAVIER I LOVE YOU YOU ARE SO FUNNY JUST SAY YOU GOT LOST THREE TIMES HELP ME he is so funny jesus

i wonder what the uniform is made out of... who makes them... are they metaflux resistant? bulletproof? must be lightweight to accommodate all the movement... and it clearly must be sexy too

"how's your ankle" the wound that you caused?

wanderers can RECONSTRUCT themselves if they absorb enough metaflux??? bruh

breaking a flux nexus can give a protocore? damn

and the moon is suddenly far away again? how does this work exactly

ARE YOU SUPERHUMAN? HOW DID YOU DO THAT.... XAVIER HOW DID YOU JUST JUMP UP AND MOVE AWAY!!!

why are we giving the special golden protocore to xavier, known protocore destroyer...

omg sylus mention!!! the modified protocores is their business.... what a profitable business. OMG MEPHISTO CAMEO?

PLEASE NOT XAVIER JUST SAYING I DON'T REALLY HAVE DREAMS you are so funny what the hell AND THEN SAYING I'M THE ONLY ONE LEFT IN MY FAMILY.... BROTHER

i can't believe mc said beg me for help and xavier immediately begged. what the fuck. xavier you can't do this to me...

if we can't analyse the original protocurves at all... are onychinus creating their own protocores? manufacturing? or are there new protocores created through (i assume) wanderer evolution? whack

wow imagine working for one night and then having two days off. i would like to join the hunter's association...

xavier eats dry and PLAIN bread? my man...

COULD YOU CHOOSE ME AS YOUR PARTNER im stunned. im

XAVIER HAS A 0.7% MISSION COMPLETION EFFICIENCY???

he was so pleased when mc said i choose you (pokemon voice) and then the way his smile dropped when mc said i want your teleport skill... i want to squish his cheeks...

[rrrrinmaru]

calculated risk (but boy am i bad at math) (sylus x mc) (nsfw) pt 3 - finale

wc: 2.2k rating: E warnings: NSFW content, dirty talk, pussy eating, vaginal fingering, thigh fucking (intercrural), orgasm denial, penis in vagina sex, dom!sylus sub!mc, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, rough sex, use of Evol, light choking, mating press, doggy, full nelson, creampie brief: you lose a bet to sylus and you have to do whatever he wants for 24 hours // recommended to read part 1 here and part 2 here for context

It feels like years. Sylus wakes you up with a mouth on your cunt, licking wetly at your pussy and sucking your clit into his mouth, eyes glittering with smugness as he stares up at you from between your thighs. He moves back the moment you arch your back, fingers winding into his hair in a weak attempt to hold him in place—he doesn’t let you cum.

In the shower, he slides his cock between your soaped up thighs and fucks you like that, the head of his cock slamming into your swollen clit with every swing of his hips. You’re gasping, hands scrabbling for purchase on the tiles while he brings the showerhead down to spray at your clit. Sylus’s other hand is squeezing your tit, fingers pulling sharply at your nipple and making you cry out. You’re close, fuck, you’re close. 

At the dining table, you’re on his lap. His cock is trapped under your panties, sitting against your wet cunt like a pulsing rod of heat. It slides against the seam of your pussy every time he leans forward to scoop something off the plate. Sylus feeds you, laughing lowly when you can barely stomach more than a few mouthfuls. You’re more focused on other things, like the heat coiling in your gut like a snake about to lunge at its prey. The lips of your cunt are spread around his cock, your hole clenching desperately against the base of his cock. 

Again, and again, Sylus brings you to the brink. He holds you there, like he has a hand on your throat, choking the orgasm off right at the tip. He keeps you right on edge, until your body is so overworked and so sensitive that even a brush of his shoulder against yours is enough to make you jump, pussy tightening at the slightest touch no matter how much you try to remind yourself that Sylus won’t let you cum. 

It makes you irritable. You want the high, the suffocating heat of something buried in your sweet cunt, something thick for your pussy to grip onto as you shudder through your orgasm, but Sylus dangles it just out of reach. You end up glaring at him more often than not, turning away to huff at the mere sight of him. 

But Sylus just laughs, one hand reaching out to reel you in, and proceeds to make you lose your mind before letting you go. 

“Sy–lus,” you choke out, fingers clutching weakly at the bedsheets. The fabric is completely crumpled beneath your grip and the pillow below your abdomen is soaked with sweat. Your legs feel numb, knees bent with your ass up as Sylus fucks into you with four fingers. He sets a harsh pace, licking at your clit as he slams his fingers into your cunt, hitting your g-spot with devastating accuracy. 

You’re going to tip over the edge. His tongue laps at your clit, lips closing around the swollen bud to suck on it harshly with a particularly vicious thrust of his fingers—it forces you up along the bed, hips jerking back to sit on his fingers before jolting away, as if your body can’t decide whether it wants to chase that pleasure or escape from it. 

“G’na cum,” you pant, barely getting the words out with how breathless you are. It’s a warning in every sense of the word—you think you might actually kill him if he stops halfway, but at the same time, something deep inside you wants to let him know you’re close. To let him know that if he’s going to stop, he needs to stop now or your mind will go blank from the way he’s sucking on your clit. 

Sylus gives one last kiss to your clit, teeth scraping briefly against the oversensitive nub before pulling away. It makes you yelp, the pleasure bordering on pain, but it’s so good, so fucking good that you can’t help but push your hips back in a bid to chase after his mouth. 

“Can’t have that happen, sweetie. Not yet,” he murmurs. But his fingers are still going, crooking inside your cunt and making you clench up every time they scrape against your walls. He’s fucking you like he intends to make you gush, like he’s ready to watch your slick drip out of your pussy, down his wrist, all the way to his forearm. Those clever fingers are punishing, demanding as they fuck into you, and your eyes roll into the back of your head when your pussy trembles once, twice—

Sylus withdraws his fingers in a flash. Your cunt clenches on nothing, hips squirming as you try to cling to his fingers even as he draws them out of you. There’s a loud, wailing sound in the room, and it takes you a good few seconds to realise it’s coming from your mouth. You’re sobbing, face buried in the sheets, gasping for your life at the orgasm that was ripped from your fingertips. 

It’s not fair. It’s not fair that he gets to tease you like this, to bring you to the edge so many times and leave you wanting—it’s not fair that he gets to play your body like a fiddle, making you sore and achy and so desperate for cock that you barely recognise your face in the mirror. It’s not fucking fair—

“Easy, dollface,” Sylus laughs, one hand scruffing you on the back of your neck, fingers and thumb wrapping around your throat like a necklace. “Open up.”

And he slides in, home, all the way until his cockhead pushes against the opening of your cervix. The slide is wet from how soaked you are, and you’re tight despite how he fingered you for what felt like hours. His cock sinks into you, and you distantly hear the low groan he lets out as he fucks in, in, in until his hips slam against your ass and he just stays there for a moment, luxuriating in the feel of your throbbing cunt closing around his dick. 

You don’t make a sound. Your mouth is open, chest tight as your eyes roll into the back of your head. Your limbs twitch, back arching as your hips move of their own accord, spasming around Sylus’ fat cock. It burns, like a fire eating you alive from the inside, so explosive it hurts. 

You cum from the feeling of his cock fully buried in your cunt, pussy gushing wetly and soaking the sheets. You shake apart, senses dulled as your entire world shrinks down to your cunt, your twitching clit, your pussy clinging desperately to the stiff cock inside you, stuffing you full. 

“Good girl,” Sylus says breathlessly from above you, fingers tightening around your throat. “I told you I’d make it good.”

The sound you make is indescribable. Sylus lets you ride it out on his cock, groaning whenever your cunt pulsates around his length. Right when your body is about to relax, to come down from it’s high, Sylus pulls out and slams back into you.

You shriek, entire body jolting from the electrifying burst of overstimulation that flashes white-hot through your body. 

Sylus doesn’t let up. He fucks you hard and dirty, like he’s putting all the pent-up energy from not being in your pussy for the past twenty-four hours to good use. He fucks like he’s desperate to bury himself in your cunt, to carve out a space for his cock that your pussy will remember for centuries even when he’s not inside you. 

The punishing pace shocks you right into your next orgasm. The pleasure never stops, just builds and builds until you’re pushed off the edge again, falling right into the throes of your second orgasm. 

“S-Sylus!” You cry out, voice hoarse from overuse. “Please, please—”

“I’ve got you,” Sylus growls. His voice is low, tight from exertion, but his hips don’t stop moving. His cock saws into you, the cockhead hitting your cervix and scrapping against your g-spot with such devastating accuracy that you can’t help how loud you get when you cum again, pussy squirting furiously around the hard cock inside you. “Again, sweetie.”

“C-can’t,” you gasp, desperately sucking in mouthfuls of air despite the grip on your neck. Sylus’s other hand is on your hip, holding you firmly in place as he fucks into your cunt, and you can hear him chuckle at the way your pussy drips slick. 

“What a messy girl,” he croons, slamming his cock deep into your pussy. It makes you shiver, overstimulation mixing with pleasure as it crawls all over your body, setting your nerve-endings aflame. “One more time.”

You exhale, body spasming as it obeys him. Your pussy clenches around him so tightly it makes him groan, and you feel like you’re coming apart at the seams when you cum again. 

This time, he fucks you slower, really letting you shake and shiver through the aftershocks of this orgasm. You’re a quiet, whining mess when he flips you over, cock still buried inside you, and you can barely force your eyes open to look him in the eye. 

“Cute,” he remarks, eyes glinting in the light as he reaches up to press a thumb against your parted lips. “Are you satisfied?”

You lie there, chest heaving as you try to gather your wits about yourself. Your cunt clenches weakly around his cock, clinging to the heat radiating off his length. If you could muster up the strength, you would maybe lift your legs in the air so he can get a better angle to fuck you with. 

But you don’t have the energy. You’re tired, vision blurry from sweat and tears, and you think you might need a few days to recover from this entire ordeal.

Sylus gives you a knowing look. His gaze rakes across your spread-out body, combing across every inch of you, and his gaze is so hungry that it makes you shiver and tighten up on his cock. 

He leans down, head dipping to position himself right at your ear. His hair brushes against your cheek and his breath blows against your neck. It’s too much. It’s not enough. You want to reach up and claw at his back but you don’t have the energy.

“I’m not satisfied,” Sylus whispers into your ear. His tongue darts out, tracing a wet trail along the shell of your ear. “I think you can give me a few more orgasms, sweetie.”

“Too—nngh, too much,” you breathe, voice stuttering when he rocks his hips into yours. “S-Sylus, I don’t—”

“You can,” he asserts, hands wandering down to grip you tightly by your hips. “Three more, and then I’ll kiss your pretty pink pussy until you soak my face. How about it?”

You moan, eyes fluttering shut at the mere thought of it. If Sylus says three more, he isn’t joking. He’ll fuck those orgasms out of you, whether you want to or not, and he’ll wring the pleasure out of your body until you’re a breathless, panting, limp body. Until your cunt aches and you can’t walk straight for a week.

Before you can answer, something pulls your legs up. Heat circles around your ankles, yanking your legs up and to your sides, knees coming to rest at your shoulders. Sylus pulls back just enough to hook the inside of his elbows around your knees, and he smirks down at you as he grinds into your cunt.

The slide is wet. So wet it’s absurd, so wet you can hear the squelching sounds from your dripping pussy. 

“Count for me,” Sylus murmurs, one eye shining a brilliant crimson. “I want to hear you scream my name.” 

He fucks you, over and over again, using his Evol to manhandle your body into different positions until you’re begging for mercy. You cum when he cums, at the hot sensation of his cum spilling into you, painting your insides white. You cum again when he holds you up, bouncing you on his cock with your tits pressed up against the window, clit rubbing against the glass, vision blurry as you look out onto the N109 zone. You cum one more time, slick dripping uselessly from your throbbing cunt when he fucks you while you’re on your side, one leg lifted into the air, his hand on your clit, the other hand groping your tit. 

Then he makes good on his promise, energy circling your ankles like cuffs as he holds your legs over your body, folding you in half so he can grip your ass and pull your cunt apart for him to lick into.

When you cum again, you think it’s a dry orgasm. Your pussy clenches and throbs, your clit pulsating weakly, but you don’t know if you produce any more slick or if your cunt is just filled with his spit and cum. You feel wrecked.

He mouths at your clit, carefully licking with the tip of his tongue while you shudder in his hands. When you come down from the orgasm, he pulls your legs back down and your body finally eases into the sheets. 

“Easy, sweetie,” Sylus repeats, but this time there’s a softness to his tone. His hands on you are gentle, tucking you into his chest as he lifts you from the bed. “I’ve got you.”

And despite all his sharp edges, all the snark, all the challenging—you think he does.

==

© rrrrinmaru 2024 | no unauthorised publication or reproduction allowed

[rrrrinmaru]

something hot coming this way soon....

[rrrrinmaru]

hello miss rin!!!! as promised coming back after re-reading your Sylus fic (a couple of times. at least one of them while keeping a cool head, because it wasn't easy)

sorry if it's weird and im rambling, english is not my first language and im never really sure how to interact with people writing rated things because im awkward and just want to scream, but oh god. the way you wrote this man. I want to PUT HIS HEAD THROUGH THE WALL. in a sexy way too but not necessarily. he's so ANNOYING and INFURIATING and you hit the spot with your characterization of him so damn well. it's such a delight to read. also, DOLLFACE?? I need to be sedated. I LOVE LOVE LOVE the way reader gets to be mouthy and direct, it's always a treat, especially when it comes to characters like Sylus by the gods I need him in a way concerning for feminism but at the same time want to put him in a microwave. thank you so much for your work, every single one of your fics is a literal gift!!

thank you for enjoying my sylus works!!!! hehehehe i'm really glad you like my characterisation of him, i envision him to be someone who mixes intimacy and violence in equal amounts and he's interested in someone who can mouth off at him and isn't afraid to give as good as she gets. also completely understand the desire to have him in a way that would put the feminist movement back a few decades... i want to be handled not with care and with a significant degree of disrespect by him amen.....

[rrrrinmaru]

rin's side stories: 01 - where rafayel debriefs the flammula

wc: 1.2k rating: G brief: after rafayel's first meeting with mc, he decides to debrief someone he can trust. someone who can't spill his secrets to anyone who can repeat them to mc. notes: gender neutral!mc, fluff, comedy, canon-compliant

“I was rather suave, wasn’t I?”

Silence answers him. The man doesn’t seem deterred—he flips over on his couch, back lying flat on the sofa as one leg crooks at the knee and dangles off the edge. 

“See, you might not have gotten a good view of the scene, but I appeared like a knight in shining armor, okay? Exactly like all those fairytales. Picture this, the setting sun, a golden glow sinking over the city like a blanket. The light dancing off the water surface, making everything look iridescent and magical. The soft splashes of you guys, adding to the ambience of the place. It’s quiet. It’s picturesque. Am I painting a good picture for you?”

The red flammula circles around its massive tank. The tank is perched on the reinforced glass table, large enough that it practically takes up all the space. There are small underwater plants swaying with the ripples sent up by the portable water filter attached to the side of the tank. Sand and gravel sit at the bottom, with a few coral stones tossed in to add color to the place. 

Inside, the flammula spits out a string of bubbles.

“You don’t get it. So there they were, helpless and shaking, like a seal pup in front of a great white. The setting sun set their hair alight, awash with that orange hue—I really need to paint this before I forget it—and they were just standing there. Their eyes darted around, begging for help, and there I was! Right in their line of sight; tall, handsome, elegant. Offering a comment about your tragic lifespans on land so they know I’m intelligent.”

The flammula hides behind a particularly big rock. On the couch, the figure splutters, sitting upright. 

“Dropping an information snippet about the lifespan of aquatic creatures is not boring. It caught their attention. And then I took the net from their loose grip, emboldened by the hopeful gaze in their eyes, and swooped you up in one quick snap of my wrist. Really, you need to be better at running away from nets in the water. Is this how you got caught the first time?”

A long string of bubbles. The flammula swims out just to brush its underbelly against the sand before swimming back up to where the plants are swaying with the ripples. 

“After catching you, I proceeded to tell her about your historic legend—”

The flammula winds itself around a long, dark green plant. It flops over, the plant wrapped around it, and pretends to go still.

A hand reaches over, one knuckle knocking in irritation at the side of the tank, right next to where the flammula is.

“A little respect would be deserved,” Rafayel huffs, throwing his head to the side. “I didn’t have to save you, you know. I could have let you live up to your exceedingly short lifespan with the rest of your brethren in that tiny pool, at the mercy of small land children with sticky fingers and unwashed hands.”

The flammula revives long enough to flap a fin at Rafayel and breathe out bubbles before it returns to playing dead. 

Rafayel rolls his eyes. “Anyway, they then told me that Hat Island was closed off because of Wanderer sightings. Not that it would have stopped me, if I had really wanted to go, but—hey! This means they were concerned about me, weren’t they?”

The flammula doesn’t respond. 

“I mean, I picked a random pamphlet out of that booth near the place just so I had something to do with my hands, but what a stroke of luck!”

Rafayel dips a hand in the water, far enough to gently poke the flammula with the tip of his index finger. “Look alive, comrade. I’m not done here.”

The flammula twists its body, slapping Rafayel’s index finger with its tail. 

“They didn’t say it just because I’m a civilian and they were doing their job,” Rafayel shoots back, sounding miffed. “Well, whatever. Let’s move past that to the next important installation of our interaction, wherein I, very handsomely, popped you into the small container they were holding on to.”

A flurry of bubbles rise in the tank. The flammula seems to have a lot to say, reviving once more just to swim accusingly around Rafayel’s hand and bump angrily into his open palm. 

“You were not going to die from air exposure. I barely held you out for less than a minute. I wasn’t going to just let you die like that. And you are really detracting from my entire experience, here. Regardless, after you were finally allowed to breathe again, they told me to go to Whitesand Bay. How cute,” Rafayel remarks, a smile pulling at his lips.

The flammula scrapes its body against Rafayel’s fingers, nipping at his fingertips. 

“This level of aggression is seriously uncalled for,” Rafayel complains, poking the flammula’s tail. “I’m just trying to tell you about our meeting, and you’re acting like I tossed you into the middle of an oil spill. They told me to go visit Whitesand Bay, you know?”

He points outside the windows lining his wall, tempered glass from ceiling to floor, gesturing at the miles of paper white sand that stretch out before him. “How cute. Maybe I should invite them to walk with me at Whitesand Bay sometime.”

The flammula swings its tail, hitting Rafayel’s fingers. Once it gets the last word in, the flammula swims in a harried manner to the stone cave attached to the side of the tank, clearly ready to hide in there until Rafayel stops bothering it.

“You are no fun,” he tells the flammula, fishing his hand out of the water. There’s a brief flash and fire creeps up his skin, starting from his fingertips and crawling up his palms, the back of his hand, his wrist, his forearm—the flames lick at his elbow, and Rafayel shakes his arm out. 

Just as quickly as it appeared, the flames disappear. Rafayel slips his dry palm into his pocket and stands, turning to eye the view from his window. The translucent curtains flutter in the seabreeze, carried in through one of the open windows, and Rafayel tilts his head back, slowly breathing it in. 

“I’ll pack the rest of them and send them to where they should be,” he says, eyes closed, face turned to soak in the moonlight filtering through the glass. “I’ll send you along with them, I suppose.”

Bubbles escape the stone cave. 

“I’m not in the business of raising dependents,” Rafayel comments, looking back to eye the tank speculatively. “If I do keep you around, historic part of Lemurian culture or not, know that I may or may not end up using you as a midnight snack if I’m feeling peckish.” 

No response. Another round of playing dead. 

“How interesting,” he murmurs, bending down to tap the glass. “Well, if I ever come up with a use for you, I’ll let you know. Maybe I can trick them into thinking we’re co-parenting you. Heaven knows you need to learn some manners, disobedient punk.”

The thought makes Rafayel smile. They wouldn’t get it; they would likely be confused at the concept of teaching a fish manners, but it’s as good an excuse as any to get them into Rafayel’s home.

==

© rrrrinmaru 2024 | no unauthorised publication or reproduction allowed

[rrrrinmaru]

liveblog of 02 - the first mission

in the entire linkon city, is there only one hunters headquarters? this twenty-storey building - it's convenient, but it also seems like incredibly poor security if it's just in the city exposed to the surroundings... one well-placed wanderer's ambush and all teams go down together... all that technological infrastructure...

the OTTO-CSE can even track my sleeping patterns... i know there are similar apps available these days that can do the same, but is this data being recorded and sent to mc's employer wwww

there are PILLS to combat tiredness????? say no to caffeine say yes to popping pills to fight off the tired effects... wonder what zayne will say about prolonged use of draumril

not the risk pay i'm dead...... yay for special insurance for higher risk of death! (sparkle)

alpha team is located right next to movere bridge so that mc can arrive anywhere in linkon city within a few seconds - teleportation??? < ah, normal transport, just super fast. is getting a driver's license included in a hunter training course? how comprehensive...

not mc thinking ah yes these old monitors must be used to block off eye contact and prevent small talk...

this braimago - brain image(o) i'm assuming? there's clearly some neuro linkage between the pen's "three green streaks of light" that enable it to connect with mc's mind and accurately replicate onto paper what mc can envision in her mind's eye. and evidently, braimagos are under tight security if one requires TSC security authentication code to be used. is it for images only or can the pen also write words? life would be easier if there was a pen that could just pull the words out my head and onto paper without me writing...

but i must say it's interesting - and this is very common among other futuristic settings, be it otome games or games / movies etc - that despite how advanced the technology looks in terms of translucent floating screens, holographs, watches that beam up images, touch screens, pens that can apparently link up to one's brain... there appears to still be a heavy reliance on hardcopy paper. mc described the room she entered as having a lot of "untouched paperwork". the braimago is used to draw on "paper" (although, i'm intrigued by how the braimago can be used to draw on paper if it operates via lights / energy (?) to penetrate the human body to have a neuro link with the brain. you're telling me there's also an ink cartridge or lead in the pen along with all this tech?). you would think that a society so advanced would have moved beyond needing physical paperwork - something that would make more sense in-universe would be multiple tablets stacked together, maybe. unless there's some concern that electronic devices can be misused and paperwork is still the best when it comes to certain official documents?

nero is 100% that guy from pacrim 2 who mindmelds with a kaiju and essentially is mindfucked by it for the entirety of pacrim 2. 100%.

ah he's from data analytics. yeah going back to my first point in 01, do these people ever have to go into the field? it doesn't exactly seem like nero will willingly go into the field wwww... maybe if he's dragged kicking and screaming with some tech held at gun point, he'll fulfil any required combat missions but otherwise...

advanced tech labs considers the missions and assigns them according to the specific HUNTER'S evol / capabilities / efficacy? not the team? so ATL assigns a mission DIRECTLY to mc and not, say, to alpha team who then reassigns it to whoever in the team based on their own analysis? this does not sound efficient at all... unless everything is just done by numbers and they rely on AI to do it for them, in which case, well i guess...

oh it's nice that you're still allowed to pick and choose missions, but i assume there is a minimum number of missions one has to complete per month / whatever timeframe they use when measuring work performance - else it would be too easy to just enter a team and only do urgent missions and completely reject all other missions, wouldn't it? or are urgent missions so common that undertaking the assigned urgent missions would be sufficient to hit whatever mission quota is assigned?

if brand new hunters are assigned solo b rank missions right out of graduation, who the hell are doing missions below b rank? maybe data analytics..... shit i crack myself up

MC DRIVES A MOTORBIKE? damn i didn't know the hunter academy made you get a motorbike license... pretty sick.

YOU PICK ZAYNE UP FROM THE ROADSIDE.... THIS IS THAT MEME WHERE THE GUY AT THE BACK IS LIKE "it's not manly being on the back..." SO YOU LET HIM SIT IN FRONT AND TRAP HIM WITH YOUR ARMS ON EITHER SIDE SO YOU CAN STILL REACH THE HANDLEBARS!!! SAY IT IS SO!!

buckle up? there are seatbelts for passengers in motorcycles? hold on let me google this < hm. maybe they've finally invented a way for seatbelts for both driver and passenger on motorcycles because right now there are no seatbelts available.

"keep arms and legs by your side" - legs i can kind of get, but arms? is he not holding your waist? girl what kind of motorcycle is this? where is he holding? is he just sitting upright and praying??

help he is so malewife the way he slams into your back when you brake because he jerked back from the force of you starting the bike TAT zayne is this your first time on a bike TAT you are so funny

it's truly giving childhood frenemies....

(with hindsight) it's quite clear the skeleton in the giant transparent tube belongs to a skeleton. problem is the skeleton looks massive, and i'm not just talking about the length inclusive of the tail. even the human torso itself looks huge, which would also make sense since it should be somewhat proportional to the size of the tail (for the most effective build for swimming and hunting). are lemurians all that big? did rafayel.... shrink when he turned human?? or is this like an ultra ancient lemurian skeleton like how the animals were all way more massive during the prehistoric era?

xander sciences - is zayne engaging in scientific / biomedical experimentation as well? on top of being a cardiovascular specialist? boy this man is busy

bruh what was the point of zayne coming here. just to check up on raymond because he asked, confirm the vital signs are all good, exchange some snarky words and then leave? i hope he was paid well for this home visit

... why are there faint scars on zayne's hands?

interesting, they've finally given a visual description for metaflux. "an almost imperceptible ripple appears in the air", creating a resonance trail that is coming from the collection room - instinctively i think this means the format is as follows: portal prepares to open, portal location has sharp increase in metaflux levels. metaflux levels spread in a radius (energy waves) and these are visible to the naked eye, kind of like how the sun makes the air shimmer in waves when it's too hot sometimes. i'm still not certain if a resonance trail is something mc has because of her resonance evol or if it comes from her hunter's watch - i'm assuming it's the former for now.

i understand gameplay wise that the boys need to fight with you to justify pulling for certain myth cards with new ways of fighting etc, but i do wonder in plot how it fits in. is everyone born with an evol? does one need a license to be able to use it in public / day-to-day? how is zayne so good at using his evol if he hasn't undergone hunter training? this is sounding a lot like the bnha quirk regulation system but they're serious questions. also not gonna lie if zayne can nail a wanderer with no training so easily then why did i bother going to hunter academy. and why do they issue guns to rookie hunters if an icicle (or other manifestation of an evol) will work just as well... ok i suppose at some point your internal mana runs out for evols

RAYMOND IS 35? WHY DOES HE SOUND 70

"had yet to form a protocore" - do they form them when they land on earth or do they form them before coming to earth? i assume a protocore is like the equivalent of the crystal nucleus in zombies in cn apocalypse literature / dantian in fantasy literature. if these are the inspirations, then yes protocores do take time to form in the wanderers, and they will be stronger the more advanced the wanderer is. still doesn't answer the question of when exactly the protocore forms though - i suppose if the wanderer that enters earth is weak (maybe b level), then the protocore hasn't been formed yet, and as the wanderer levels up, the protocore is slowly formed through the process. but if the wanderer comes in at s level immediately, is the protocore fully formed? interesting. maybe i should join data analytics.

bro if rafayel can paint paintings with above healthy levels of metaflux energy that can draw people INTO said paintings if they have the resonance evol (or a manufactured resonance evol, i'm sure society will evolve to innovate such things), he could be paid an obscene amount of money for this... being sucked into a painting is insane... the new and improved siren song (since no ocean to drown prey in) is to drown people in paintings.... serial killer rafayel here we come

zayne froze a WHOLE ass cup just to knock mc with it to rouse mc from their reverie... this is so funny zayne you are so insane

help this is so funny

tara: the painting's artist is rafayel mc: rafayel? tara: he's pretty famous, always on the news. probably why you've heard of him before.

i won't lie my first reaction when mc when said "rafayel?" is that mc did NOT know who tf rafayel is and was repeating the name to be like huh, who is that? and for tara to be like yeah he's pretty famous that's why you've heard of him is so funny to me. it's like saying oh hozier sang this song and i go hozier? (who?) and you go yeah he's pretty famous isn't he and i'm like who's hozier

the day of ebbing......... sounds a lot like all hallows eve but for sea creatures.... coming ashore for one night and disappearing with the morning tide, with every interaction dissipating like the thin spray of foam on the waves....

why can't the sea creatures see the sun though... just peek your head out from the ocean surface? the sun is right there? unless they want to see the sun like, on the horizon with land beneath their feet... i'd imagine it's quite impressive either way if you've never seen it. alternative theory is the deep sea creatures, when transformed into humans (?) can surface to the upper sea / land and tolerate the change in pressure, which allows them to see the sun. if they remain as deep sea creatures, they can only survive in the deep sea and cannot rise up to see the sun since they would suffer from the blobfish effect if they tried to surface and no longer had the pressure of the deep sea to keep them in form. or maybe, final answer, rafayel is being a drama queen.

not rafayel chasing the dream of finding the right shade of red to paint the color of the ocean because that's all he remembers from the time he surfaced. i see the angst potential i am taking down notes. a man entranced by the right shade of red to mimic the firelit ocean he saw one night is the perfect set up for a serial killer i won't lie.

NOT THOMAS SAYING THE GALLERY WAS FILLED WITH "BETTER" PAINTINGS THAN THE ONE RAYMOND BOUGHT - THOMAS CAN YOU REALLY SAY THIS AS THE GALLERY MANAGER!!!

well i hope rafayel has good security. what do you mean he doesn't lock his doors. jesus christ i know you're a superstar mermaid but still!!

it just occurred to me i haven't mentioned anything about my rafayel shrimp color vision headcanon. shrimps have 12 color cone photoreceptors, as opposed to humans' 3 - what i mean is, rafayel is painting on levels we cannot fully comprehend and appreciate as humans because he has the shrimp 12 color cone photoreceptors. in this essay i will-

it is truly such an embarrassing introduction for him to literally fall off his high stool and fall onto mc. like do you need a railing on that chair rafayel? is this a height risk? it looks pretty high up not gonna lie i think you could easily break a bone if you fell from that height and fell wrong. particularly with all your paint cans lying around... and the way mc can just dodge to the side and let him fall on his face is so hilarious. god he looks so pathetic just lying on his side on the floor and calling you heartless for dodging. sir you told me to dodge. he is so funny

NOT HIM BEING LIKE YOU'RE NOT HERE TO CHECK UP ON THE RED FISH RIGHT. WHAT IF I AM

rafayel uses mummy bandages to paint.... ok

gotta agree with rafayel on this one. why does him admitting he used the coral stone to refine paint for raymond's painting mean raymond's erratic behaviour is automatically linked to him? lowkey acab of mc to be jumping to conclusions like this www why is she so insistent that there's something wrong with him because he painted it? like yes he's suspicious but you're showing your cards a bit too early! goes to show she's still a green rookie who doesn't know how to play the field well enough to get an admission yet huh... to be fair this is like her second day on the job.

so he materialised a dagger out of his flames, cut his middle finger, dropped a drop of blood onto the coral stone and that triggered the illusions, which created the metaflux fluctuations and opened up the portal for the wanderer to arrive... i don't think this is the first time he's finding out about the properties of the coral stone and/or that it can create metaflux fluctuations...

when rafayel says thank god the paintings are still intact i feel it's more of a thank god thomas can still sell them and not a thank god the wanderers didn't destroy my art wwwwww maybe it's the latter but it would be so funny if it were the former...

what injury... the cut he self-inflicted?! my god you would be the king of the silver screen rafayel...

i'm surprised that mc can't go apply for clearance to seize the coral stone if it truly is producing metaflux fluctuations? like there is hard data that is being recorded into her hunter's watch about the fluctuations radiating off the coral stone, particularly after the addition of rafayel's blood - surely this is something the hunter's association will be interested in investigating?

rafayel truly has the most clown bgm... it's so funny

HELP PROPERTY VALUES WILL FALL DUE TO INCREASED WANDERER ATTACKS? FERB I KNOW WHAT WE'RE GOING TO DO TODAY!!!!!!!!!!!

i wonder what a stele is

ah how interesting, there is an energy fluctuation monitor within the station... but not within the train? what happens if there's a long stretch of road between one station and the next, and a wanderer appears in the train? interesting to think about...

i wonder if hunters are permitted to customise their hunter uniform after a while / reach a certain level of authority? captain jenna's outfit still looks a lot like tara's, and nero's outfit also bears strong resemblance to those two - so why is xavier rocking out in an all white fit? just because it's sexy? thank you lord

oh my god it's so clear to me now. mc is a shounen protagonist. good for her

[rrrrinmaru]

i wonder if there are any lnds discord servers out there... preferably with no character ai bots / ai art... i would like to join an lnds server...

[rrrrinmaru]

liveblog of 01 - to begin

first thoughts are that i really like the podcast-esque opening of the prologue with DPSC FM - it's giving wtnv vibes and the va does an excellent job of delivering his lines. i would actually enjoy hearing a full podcast version of the events of this game narrated through a radio station i think...

"traceback ii is about to pass the event horizon and enter the black hole" / "we are stuck in this loop, in this never ending journey" - pensive... is this related to the main storyline or is this foreshadowing about the multiple world theory?

"metaflux index" - it's fascinating that they've developed the technology to sense this metaflux index and identify problem spots in the city where wanderers are more likely to appear. they seem to be able to predict the rough locations where the wanderers will appear and likely can dispatch hunters to these areas on standby, but i wonder if they can narrow it down to the time itself?like "1400, wanderer attack down at the pizzeria", or if it's a shorter warning time, like the metaflux index spikes and it signals a wanderer attack in the next 20 minutes?

deepspace tunnel appearing leading to anomalous geomagnetic storms, which caused the wanderers to appear - i'm assuming the deepspace tunnel is something like a wormhole / space portal. does this mean the wanderers entered our planet through some portal / wormhole tearing a rift in space and time to deposit them directly on our planet (think loki and the first avengers movie when he brought the chitauri over with his spectre)? did someone create this portal or was it like some act of mother nature?

if you listen carefully during the 01 story, when tara is speaking to you, the president in the background says "but we only care about results. the ends justify the means." considering they view the wanderers as invasive aliens (zergs www), the standpoint makes sense, but it is quite funny to hear it be declared so self-righteously. does make me wonder how much you can get away with if you claim it's for the purpose of defeating the wanderers though... severe structural damage ala the avengers?

it seems that the new list of hunter graduates are released ahead of graduation and the leaders (?) of each hunting division / squad / team get to select the rookies they want to join their team - there doesn't seem to be any autonomy on the part of the graduates to indicate which team they want to join.

i do wonder why mc is the first rookie called up to receive the badge: from a gameplay perspective, it makes sense since it would be a chore to have to "sit through" other people before it reaches our turn. i don't think it's based on alphabetical order either since all the players' names are different, and it's likely that any numerical number (e.g. student number 12020) would be in order of name. from a plot perspective, are we like... hunter valedictorian???

tara being into tarot cards is so funny i won't lie. all this technological advancement and the venturing into space to see all the planets and having a wormhole tunnel appear in our planet and having to fight aliens and still bestie believes in fate. i mean so do i but it's still kinda funny wwww she's super cute though. i love her short bob.

interesting how mc uses a gun for the first mission - are they assigned guns only as beginner rookies? it's clear mc can use other weapons from the battle mechanics, so why gun - more importantly, have they invented auto aim in plot yet or does she still have to manually aim at people?

not sure if this is a gameplay thing or intentional plotwise - xavier's wounds were glowing with "metaflux" (suggests that wanderers' attacks use metaflux?) but the moment you touch him to try to wake him up, the glow disappears.

IS XAVIER COLLARED? COLLARED? COLLARED? HOW HAS NO ONE SPOKEN ABOUT THE COLLAR? WHAT THE FUCK? HE HAS A COLLAR?

"it activated its protofield" - are there any repercussions to like... just ignoring the protofield? like you see it manifest in front of you and you know a wanderer's lurking inside and you just decide no thanks and walk away? obviously you cordon off the area so the public can't wander in and stuff, but apart from that are there any... space time repercussions? like the protofield gets bigger the longer it goes ignored, or the wanderer can just dismiss the protofield and come back out to walk the earth?

protocores are crushable??????

erm very bold of xavier to just take my wrist and drag me along but ermmmmmmmm hehe hehe...... let's just say i'm agreeable.

hm i'm a bit confused. luminivores eat light - xavier's evol is light - they eat the light he produces (??) - therefore the warehouse full of luminivores is likely a trap for him. i think xavier mentions that the luminivores will respawn with the light if they don't defeat the luminivores quickly enough, meaning the luminivores consume the light and use it as refuel / to respawn with health. but when mc and xavier resonate, the combined power of the resonated light evol is "so bright" it seems to dissolve all the luminivores? does this mean it's like a speed / intensity thing? shine a bright enough /damaging enough light on the luminivores to hurt them faster than they can devour the light and it's enough to destroy them? maybe part of the hunter gear should include really, really, really high powered industry grade flashlights

protocores seem a lot weaker than i imagined... can they really be destroyed so easily? xavier crushed them in his palm and they were disintegrated by the power of the resonated light evol? regardless, protocores can be broken into protocore fragments - can they be pieced together to form a new protocore?

i do wonder - they can sense metaflux energy levels, and a high enough metaflux energy level typically means that wanderers will be appearing / have appeared in the area. is the reverse true, whereby a metaflux "explosion" (maybe in the research of metaflux energy and somehow the scientists accidentally create an explosion), will it draw wanderers to appear at that location like a beacon?

tara was about to try every method possible to contact mc, both scientific AND mystical? i would give money to see tara conduct a seance in the abandoned warehouse to try to triangulate my location. maybe pull out an ouija board. speak with any lingering spirits to figure out if i'm having a little tete-a-tete with a hot single silver-haired injured man in my area.

do teams like data analysis go into the field as well? that is so funny... imagine joining the hunter academy (?) because you've always been fascinated by metaflux and want to help develop technology / weapons to better sense and identify and hunt wanderers, and you suck it up throughout all the combat fitness and field training because you just want to be Where The Scientists Are and when you finally get assigned to data analysis you find out you still have compulsory field assignments. like i would end it all

mini drones with 360 degree eyes and infrared sensors designed to monitor wanderer activity patrol the sky - oh so we are in the Surveillance Society that all the sci-fi books predicted. got it

if jenna saved tara 14 years ago during the wanderer attack, and assuming jenna was like employed with some kind of law enforcement at the time, putting her at maybe 20-22 (at least), she should be about >= 34 years old? sexy... ok i am seeing the tara/jenna vision...

i wonder if they have flying cars....

fucking funny how rafayel just catches the fish and. lets it flop on the net pathetically for however long he talks, SUFFOCATING, before he plops it in your water container. he was really ready to just chat with you while he let his friend (fish are friends not food) die

HE JUST WALKS OFF OH MY GOD ok lilydally i see what you see in him. the bitch energy is hilarious

mc says she hasn't met zayne for over a decade and only recently met him 6 months ago for a follow-up checkup for her heart, but their families are friends and meet occasionally for meals - did they just stop meeting post wanderer attack? actually, did mc's grandma take mc in before or after the wanderer attack? if mc met zayne when she was 8 (and assuming this was pre-wanderer attack), she's at least 22 years old

not gonna lie if my ex-childhood friend turned out to be my primary care physician i might ask for someone else to be my physician... unless they were the best at their job and irreplaceable (which i assume zayne is?)

damn this office is fancy as hell... what kind of doctor's office has a whole ass couch inside? with a long table? with multiple couch cushions??

i like how low caleb's bar is. what matters is that you're alive. thank you chief.

military flights go INTO the deepspace tunnel?! by military she meant SPACE EXPLORATION? < with hindsight i now know by military, caleb is in the deepspace aviation administration. it's funny how they still call it aviation. the sky is vastly different from space, methinks........

you can find wanderers IN the deepspace tunnel? like are they floating? are they in their own spaceship of some kind? how do their bodies adapt to the change in pressure from space and on earth? if it's revealed wanderers are capable of flying spaceships too that would be so funny.... forget hand to hand combat on solid ground. let's have a laser battle in space in the deepspace portal. we'll see whose nuclear shields hold up better

caleb doesn't like cilantro... i will remember this

[rrrrinmaru]

calculated risk (but boy am i bad at math) (sylus x mc) (nsfw) pt 2

wc: 4.8k rating: E warnings: NSFW content, dirty talk, handjobs, pussy eating, vaginal fingering, thigh fucking (intercrural), orgasm denial, penis in vagina sex (just the tip), dom!sylus sub!mc, male-centric pleasure because mc is being denied brief: you lose a bet to sylus and you have to do whatever he wants for 24 hours // recommended to read part 1 here for context // part 3 finale here

Being unable to refuse Sylus for twenty-four hours is not one of your smarter decisions.

To be fair, you didn’t decide much of anything. You lost a bet—rigged, you would argue, if he would care to listen—and he chose his reward. 

You would put up more of a fight if he weren’t so intent on ruining you.

“Sylus,” you gasp, the sound weak and shaky. It’s more an exhale than a word at this point. Your lungs feel like they’re collapsing in on themselves and your knees are going to give out if he keeps trying to mouth wetly at your clit—

He kisses your pert clit, laughing at the way it makes you clench around nothing. “What an excellent view,” he murmurs, lips brushing teasingly along your cunt, the tip of his tongue darting out to slide along the slick wetness dripping down your thighs. You cry out, legs shaking as you rock forward on your toes. You’re not sure if you want to move away from his mouth or sit back down on his face to chase that clever tongue. “Hips up, sweetie.”

“I hate you,” you whine weakly. Your entire body is trembling from the effort of holding yourself up, thighs tensed as you try to prop yourself up higher. Your forearms are braced against the desk in his study, palms wet with sweat as you try to sweep away any stray papers. Sylus probably doesn’t care, but you don’t want to hear the smugness in his voice when he holds up a piece of paper with ink streaks all over the surface and accuses you of messing with his work. 

You tried to hold yourself up at first, propped up on your elbows enough to look back and see a head of silver hair. Fingers on your bare ass, skirt hiked up to your waist and pooling on the table—you could see the way his fingers dug into your skin, kneading the plush fat of your ass as he spread you the way he liked. Wide open and dripping, cunt hole twitching sporadically the longer you went without any stimulation.

If he wasn’t touching you, then he was looking at you. 

Then he put his mouth on your pussy, that hungry tongue digging into your cunt as if he truly wanted to eat you alive. The sucking sounds from your cunt were obscene and they made you drop your head to the silver surface of the table in an attempt to cool your flaming cheeks with the chilled metal. 

It didn’t work. Not when Sylus groaned after a while, fingers flexing against your ass to push you up higher so he can get a better angle to work at your pussy.

“Just let me cum,” you try pleading with him. Sylus hums, the vibrations going straight to your throbbing pussy and making the ache worse. 

“I don’t think you get to call the shots here.” There’s a thread of amusement in his voice—it’s a thread you want to grip between your fingers and snap. “Twenty-four hours, right?”

You’re not above setting your pride aside if it means you can cum. You’d be the first to fling it out the window when he’s got you on a high wire like this, so close to tripping over the edge you swear you can taste it. 

“Please, Sylus,” you moan, breath hitching when he latches back onto your clit midway through your words. You want to say something else, like I’m begging you, please just let me cum, I’m so fucking close, but he gives your swelling clit a particularly hard suck and your entire mind goes blank. It’s just straight pleasure, a fire rushing up your spine and making your eyes roll back on instinct. 

Your knees involuntarily go limp. You can’t hold yourself up, not when your upper body is balanced uselessly against the desk and your legs aren’t listening to you. In the split second where your toes slip against the floor, you’ve resigned yourself to tumbling to the ground and getting a bruise on your hip in the process.

But Sylus laughs, pulling back just enough to press an open-mouthed kiss to the hungry hole of your pussy, and slips his hands down to cup your ass. He pushes you up, forcing you to slide up on the desk—your hands flail weakly, scrabbling for some sort of purchase and finding none. You must hit something because there’s a brief snap of pain against your knuckles, and you think something tumbles to the ground. 

You don’t know what it is, though, because Sylus is suddenly hunched over your back, his chest pressed up tightly against you with both hands coming around to the front of your thighs to pull your legs further apart. 

“You’re so cute when you’re like this,” he pants into your ear. His voice is a low, rolling sound that goes straight to your clit. You try to close your legs to put some pressure on your pussy, and that makes him chuckle. He forces your thighs apart with ease. You’re not putting up much of a fight, not with how weak your muscles are and how the only thing you can focus on is that you’re this close to cumming.

“Please,” you beg, words escaping you. There isn’t anything else to say—your mind is a blur, clit and pussy twitching from the heat of Sylus’ hands just centimeters away. You want those hands on you, in you. You want him to bully your clit between his fingers, pinching and rolling your swollen clit while fucking two other fingers into you. Three fingers into you. Fuck, you’re wet enough that you think he could make four fit, just slide them in without any preamble and make you cry out from the stretch. 

Even the thought of it is enough to make you shiver. You moan, eyelashes fluttering as you weakly attempt to rock back into his hips. The line of his cock is hard against your skin, the metal zipper pressing into your ass. 

“Look at how desperate you are,” Sylus whispers. You can feel the shadow of his smile against the shell of your ear—his upturned lips rub against your heated skin, his breath burning a brand into the space where your ear meets your jaw. “Like a needy kitten in heat for a thick cock to fuck her stupid. Your clit is swollen, dollface.”

As if to prove a point, he presses against the underside of your clit with his thumb. It’s sensitive there, and he’s brought you to the edge and left you wanting so many times that this small movement is enough to make you jolt, a cry escaping your lips before you can even think to force it back. Your hips shudder, rutting against his thumb without any real thought or purpose, and he lets out an amused huff. 

“So twitchy. Is this pink pussy all for me?”

His other hand slips down, fingertips tracing the seam of your pussy. You’re so drenched you can hear the wet sounds of your pussy—the sticky sound when he dips one finger into your cunt and pulls it out, so quickly that you barely manage to clench around it for the slightest hint of pressure before it’s gone again. 

“Again, again—Sylus!”

A warm tongue runs along your neck. “Patience, sweetie. One finger isn’t enough for you?”

You are going to burst, and you swear you’ll take him with you. “More, please, I’m so fucking close—”

Two fingers fuck into you. They’re crooked at the knuckle, slamming up against the sensitive spot inside of you and you shriek, legs shaking so hard that Sylus has to lift you up again to press you against the table. 

“Please, please, please,” you babble mindlessly, vision blurry. “I’m—fuck, Sylus, nnngh—close, I’m—”

Your cunt tightens, clit twitching on Sylus’ thumb, and the heat enveloping you abruptly disappears. Your cunt is empty again, clinging onto nothing, and your clit is left with nothing to rub against, and there is nothing holding you up and you’re sliding off the desk. 

Strong arms come around your waist, scooping you up and onto a familiar lap. Sylus must have pulled his chair over, but you’re not concerned about that. You’re not concerned at all about the finer logistics of how he got you onto his lap. 

You’re concerned about how your pussy isn’t filled, how your thighs are still spasming from the brute force of an orgasm ripped away from your grasp like that.

You had it in your fingers. You were this close to cumming. One more slam of his fingers into your cunt and you would have tipped over and it would have been so good. 

“You can take it,” Sylus tells you, eyes gleaming. “You’ll be good for me, won’t you?”

You stare at him. Is there a knife in the vicinity? Hell, a gun?

“Look at that expression. Are you upset?” He asks with a gleeful, knowing look in his eyes. “It’s just one orgasm, sweetie. Be patient.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out for a while. “Twenty-four hours?” You ask eventually, voice hoarse from crying out just seconds before, when you thought you were en route for cumming your mind out. 

Sylus shrugs, eyes closing briefly as he rolls his shoulders in that lazy manner of his. “You’ll cum soon enough.” His crimson gaze lands on you. Half-lidded and smug, like he’s pleased at how distraught you are from being denied an orgasm twice over. “If you can’t wait, I could tell you about how I plan to have you for the rest of my time. A little preview, if you’d like.”

“I don’t want a preview. I want this—” you reach down, fingers wrapping challengingly around Sylus’ stiff cock through the fabric of his pants. His breath catches, eyebrows rising as he looks down, admiring the way your fingers look against his outline of his cock, then he drags his gaze back up to you. 

His fingers thrum lightly against the sensitive skin at your waist. “And what will you do with it once you have it, dollface?”

You squeeze it, mollified by how it makes him tilt his head back and inhale sharply. It’s unfair how sexy he is, how good pleasure looks on him. He looks hedonistic like this, with his eyes closed as he lets the pleasure roll throughout his body, stemming from the hard cock beneath your fingers. You can feel the heat of it spilling through the fabric, and you’re tempted to pull his zipper down and sneak his cock out to sit on it. 

“Fuck myself on it,” you admit frankly. Your pussy clenches at the thought, and you dig your thumb into the head of his cock, hard enough for him to let out a pleased grunt. 

“Nngh, naughty girl. That wasn’t very nice of you,” he pants, opening one eye to look at you. But he doesn’t do anything to stop you. All he does is sit there, head lolling back far enough to expose his Adam’s Apple and the dip of his clavicle. As if waiting to see what you’ll do next.

You have half a mind to hop off his lap and leave him to settle it by himself. He deserves it, you think petulantly. If you can’t cum, then he shouldn’t get to soak in the syrupy pleasure of cumming either.

But you think about the heft of his cock. The way it feels in your palm, thick and heavy. The pearls of precum beading at the tip, the visceral proof of how aroused he can get at your touch. The way he flinches when you pull at his cock too tightly—the instinctive flinch, and then the gradual relaxation as he revels in the sensation. 

“Oh? Are you going to make it up to me?” He murmurs, feigned surprise in his voice as you pull the zipper down. He lifts his hips up helpfully, just enough for you to fish his cock out. 

You don’t bother replying to him. Instead, you steady his cock and suck on the insides of your mouth for a while. 

Then, you open your mouth, tongue out and resting on your lower lip as a trail of saliva drips from your mouth and onto Sylus’ cock. 

You see the way his cock jerks, precum spilling furiously from the tip. And when your saliva pools on Sylus cock, dripping into the slit and mixing with his precum—

“Fuck,” Sylus curses lowly. “Fuck, sweetie, you—”

You look up. Sylus’ pupils are blown wide open, dilated beyond belief as he stares at your mouth. His cock twitches, throbbing beneath your fingers and you slowly start to stroke, the slide made smooth by your saliva and his precum. You rub the pad of your thumb at his slit, playing with the sensitive head of his cock until he jerks, hips snapping up as he growls and tightens his grip on your waist. 

“You’re going to give a man ideas,” he groans, looking at you through half-lidded eyes. His gaze is hazy with arousal, and he looks at you with the confidence of a man who knows that you know he’s about to cum. His lips are crooked up in a taunting smile. 

You lick your lips. He looks good enough to eat. You had this cock in your mouth just hours ago, bruising the back of your throat, but you feel like sucking it again. You feel like running your tongue over the thick length of this cock. 

“I should edge you too.”

Sylus tilts his head. “You could,” he says agreeably. “Until I ordered you to make me cum. With your mouth. Your tits. Your fingers.”

His eyes drag down along the line of your body, pausing meaningfully at each location he mentions. “Your thighs,” he continues, looking straight at the sticky and damp patch between your thighs, tracking all the way up to your pussy. 

You shiver, clit pulsing at the thought of him rutting between your thighs. 

“Oh? You liked that, didn’t you?” He smirks, a pleased air settling on his shoulders as he looks you over. “Put your fingers to work, sweetie. I know you know how to use them.”

Some part of you really wants to resist on principle. But the horny part of you prevails, and you watch with satisfaction as you pull Sylus to the brink in a handful of minutes—he groans, a deep and hoarse sound as his muscles roll with the effort of keeping still so you’re balanced on his lap. His cock throbs heavily in your hand, betraying how he’s barely hanging on to his self-control, and you watch with bated breath as sticky cum spurts out in your palm.

You cup his swollen cockhead, catching the streaks of white cum on your fingers so it doesn’t stain his sweater. He makes a delicious sound when you rub the head of his cock against your palm while he’s still cumming—the overstimulation makes him twitch, fingers clenching at your waist over and over again as if to ground himself with the touch of your skin. 

“You made a mess,” you note idly, stroking him through the aftershocks. “Are you going to clean up after yourself?”

Sylus huffs, still breathing heavily with every pass of your hand, hips rutting up instinctively. “Decide where you want me to lick it off,” he grunts, free hand pulling your dress all the way up to your collar to expose your breasts. He licks his lips, giving you a pointed look as he blatantly stares at your tits, and you can feel the way your nipples harden under his gaze. 

“Go on,” he murmurs, breath catching when you rub at the underside of his cockhead. “Tits or cunt, sweetie? I’m feeling generous enough to let you choose.”

You want his mouth on your cunt again, but if he brings you to the brink one more time before ruining the orgasm, you might actually kill him. In these trying circumstances, having him lick the remnants of his cum off your breasts might be a better idea. 

Having come to a decision, you take your hands off his cock. Your palms are sticky with his cum, long strands of cum stretching between your fingers, and you reach up to cup your tits. 

Sylus watches intently, eyes glued to the way you pinch your nipples between your fingers. The way you spread his cum all over your tits, leaving white streaks on your skin as you go. His lips are slightly parted, tongue darting out occasionally to swipe across his lower lip as he watches, as if he can’t wait to put his mouth on you. 

His mouth on your chest, you think deliriously. Teeth worrying at your nipples, sucking at your skin until he leaves a ring of bruises across your skin. Tongue flicking those pretty buds until you’re begging for more, for fingers in your cunt—or his tongue flat, letting you rub your tits all over his mouth. 

You can’t decide which is better. So you press your arms together, pushing your cum covered tits up, and offer them to Sylus. 

“Clean them up,” you murmur, and Sylus chuckles.

“How demanding. Even when you have no power to order me around.” His tongue swipes against your left nipple, a fleeting sensation that sends sparks down your spine. “Lucky for you, I am feeling rather hungry.”

==

The torture continues. He corners you on the couch when you’re trying to watch something to get your mind off the hot arousal pooling in your gut for the past few hours. He puts you on his lap, back pressed up to your chest, feet up and planted on either side of his thighs on the sofa. Your hands under your knees just to hold yourself open for his taking as he plays idly with your cunt while watching the show you put on.

He keeps up a loose commentary about the show, laughing lightly when the male lead appears shirtless in the shower. “Is this what you watch in your free time?” Sylus asks, three fingers deep in your pussy while rubbing insistently at your clit. “Naked men in the shower?”

“Mmmph!” You moan, eyes rolling back at the electricity sparking in your veins. His fingers are thick and clever, pushing up against the bundle of nerves inside your pussy with such damning precision that your entire body is shaking from the effort of not cumming. And it’s like Sylus knows that, with how he shifts you easily in his lap, pulling you tighter against him and fucking rougher into you with his fingers. 

Like he’s trying to push you all the way to the brink. Like he takes pleasure in the way you deny yourself just to be obedient to him. 

“You’re missing the good parts,” Sylus continues, murmuring quietly in your ear. His voice isn’t loud, but your entire world seems to have shrunk to focus solely on him. His fingers, his heat, the puff of his breath against your ear. You’re looking straight ahead, eyes half-lidded, but you’re not seeing much of anything on the screen.

“Sylus,” you whine, pussy clenching tightly around his fingers. “Please, please, it’s been hours—”

He bites the shell of your ear, hard enough to sting, then runs his tongue wetly over the mark. “Patience,” he coaxes, even as his fingers pull at your clit hard enough to make you cry out, hips jerking forward uncontrollably. 

You’ve kind of had it with patience, but when Sylus lets go of you, third orgasm ruined, you take a deep breath and hold yourself back from strangling him. You do need his cock hard and alive to fuck yourself stupid on, when he’s stopped being so unhelpful. 

You go to bed early, nerves tense and temper high. If you punch the pillows around a bit before settling down and yanking the covers up to your chin, that’s between you and the bed. And Mephisto, who is likely reporting everything back to Sylus the moment you fall asleep. 

It takes ages, and a lot of tossing and turning in bed, but you must have fallen asleep at some point because you wake up to your legs in the air, held together by one hand wrapped around both ankles, and an unbearable heat between your thighs, pushing insistently against your clit.

You gasp, still dizzy from sleep and distracted by the wet slide of something against your pussy, hot and demanding. It drags along your slit, bumping the underside of your swollen pearl on every upstroke. It’s a slow, tenacious fire that builds in your gut, stoking the dying embers and coaxing the flames to roar up your spine once again. 

“Awake?” The voice is low, closer to a growl than anything else. “Go back to sleep, sweetie. All I need are your thighs and this sweet little cunt.”

His hips roll against yours, driving his cock further along your pussy. He fucks your thighs slowly, so fucking patient as he chases his orgasm—patience that you don’t have. You would try to coax him to fuck you harder if you weren’t still half-awake, vision bleary as you weakly clutch at the bedsheets. 

You’re not even sure what’s happening. All you know is that your pussy is aching, throbbing so badly for something, anything to be stuffed inside. His cock saws between your thighs, the slide made smooth by the copious amount of slick you’re dripping, and you moan when the head of his cock bumps against your clit. 

“More,” you gasp, the word rattling in your throat. “Sylus, please—”

“Shhh. Go back to sleep.”

You shake your head as best you can. Your back arches, trying to roll your hips up into his to get a better angle. To put more pressure on your clit. You’ve been denied for so long that you’re tiptoeing on the jagged knife’s edge—you just need a bit more, a little more of something, and you know you’ll cum.

But Sylus keeps up this devastatingly slow pace, like he’s taking his time, like he’s savoring the experience of you writhing beneath him. 

“Please,” you beg, eyes fluttering shut. There’s a moment where your voice breaks in two, and you think you might cry if he denies you again. It’s a steady build up, a long trek up a mountain with a payoff you can see, just barely out of reach. 

“Not yet,” Sylus replies softly. There is another hand on your hip, thumb rubbing gently over the skin there. It���s almost a reassurance, an attempt to cool the flames licking over your body, but then he moves your legs over one shoulder so his other hand can join your legs, squeezing your thighs together to create a tighter crevice for him to fuck into. “You can take it, sweetie.”

You’re not sure you can. The back of your thighs are pressed up against Sylus’ chest, the jut of his broad shoulder leaning into your calves. He holds you in place like you’re nothing more than a sex toy he’s using in the middle of the night to try and rub one off. He rocks his cock against your pussy, the full length of it scraping past your slit and peeking through your thighs at the end.

Your clit feels battered and bruised and far too sensitive for the consistent grinding of his cock. When he pulls back, far enough that the head of his cock is positioned right at the mouth of your pussy, you can hear the way you start to whine. 

You can feel it. The briefest touch of pressure, his cockhead nudging at your cunt, teasing your hungry pussy. Like he’s going to sink in and fill you up so full you can feel it in your throat, if you just ask nicely.

But he won’t. He teases your cunt just enough to make you shake, then he continues the slide to make the head of his cock kiss your clit. 

“You’re so mean,” you cry out, voice trembling as your pussy mouths hungrily at the touch of his cockhead. “Please, Sylus, I’m begging, please, please—”

Sylus grunts. His grip on your thighs gets tight, and you imagine you can see the veins in his forearm bulge. You imagine the way he’s frowning, brows taut as he grits his teeth and stares down at you like he wants to eat you alive. 

Restraint looks so ugly on him, you want to say, but the pressure against your pussy grows and your mouth drops open. It feels like some higher power is perched above the two of you, drawing the air from your lungs out, wisp by wisp, as your cunt opens up for the head of Sylus’ cock. 

“You don’t know how fucking good you look like this,” Sylus forces out, gripping you hard enough that it aches, that you know you’ll wake up with handprints on your outer thighs tomorrow. “Good enough to eat, sweetie. Just look at you.”

You open your eyes, hazily looking up. Sylus’ eye is glowing, glinting crimson through the dark, and there’s a ravenous look in his gaze. He looks down at you, searching your body, watching the bounce of your tits every time he fucks into you, the fat head of his cock slipping in just barely.

It’s not enough. There’s a gaping hole inside your pussy, so deep inside you that only Sylus’ full length can reach it to pummel it into submission. Even as you clench around the tip, your cunt mouthing hungrily at Sylus’ cockhead, it’s not enough.

“Just the tip,” Sylus groans, voice tight as he grinds the head of his cock into your pussy. “That’s all you’ll get for tonight.”

You arch your hips up, trying to force him to slip further into you. “More, I want more—”

He laughs breathlessly, hips stuttering when you tighten desperately around his cock. “Soon,” he promises, carefully fucking into you. Sylus keeps his word, feeding you just the tip and nothing else.

“You feel divine,” he murmurs, breathing heavily. The rhythm of his hips falter, a telltale sign that he’s losing control. He’s close, you think deliriously, and flex your pussy around his cock to pull him along at a faster rate. 

“Inside,” you moan, fingers blindly tracing down your body to find his hands, gripping his wrists. “Inside, inside, inside me,” you chant desperately.

“Want me to paint your pussy white?” Sylus coos, hips speeding up. The head of his cock pops in and out of your pussy, bullying its way past your throbbing hole to open you up just enough before he pulls back. It’s a horrible tease, and sometimes he moves too fast, too eager to sink his cockhead into the wet heat of your cunt and he misses. 

It makes him curse, eyes skimming down your body to fixate on your thighs. He watches you with the hungry intensity of a predator on a hunt—the shaking in your thighs, the way his slick cockhead peeks out from between your thighs, the way your chest squeezes tightly every time he grinds flatly along the swollen bump of your clit—

He slides back in your cunt, fucks in harshly, deeper than before, deep enough to make it feel like your breath’s been punched out of you.

Sylus’ cock throbs, pulses hotly inside you, and you can feel the spurts of cum against the walls of your cunt. 

The pooling heat of cum inside you is almost enough to make you tip over the edge. But your clit throbs insistently, demanding attention that Sylus refuses to give you. Your pussy clenches and unclenches tightly around Sylus’ cock, coaxing his orgasm out as he groans from the sensation. 

He holds himself tightly above you, refusing to fuck deeper or pull out. Sylus pants, the sound of his heavy breathing filling up the space around you as you try to catch your breath yourself, fingers still holding on to Sylus’ wrists. 

When he finally collects himself, his cock giving one last jerk inside your pussy, he leans down. Sylus’ face is right above yours, in painful clarity despite how dark the room is, and you look up at him with your heart thudding in your chest.

His gaze searches your face for a moment, then he smiles. 

“Good girl,” Sylus croons, and one of his hands leave your thighs. “Be obedient for a little bit more, and you’ll be rewarded at the end.”

“Twenty-four hours is way too lo—” your voice cracks, going high at the sudden touch of a thumb, wet with slickness, on your stiff clit. 

“Easy,” he murmurs, crimson gaze fixated on you. “Easy does it, sweetie. I’ll give you what you want.”

He brings you to the brink again, and again, and again, until you drift off to sleep from how worn out your body is.

==

© rrrrinmaru 2024 | no unauthorised publication or reproduction allowed

[rrrrinmaru]

scheduled for 10pm gmt+8 posting.... stay hard fellas you will come soon <3 in the meantime i'll go play xavier's animation for the eighth time

[rrrrinmaru]

I’m new to ur page and Iv read some of your love and deep space docs AND THEY ARE SO FUCKING GOOD SO WELL WRITTEN but u always end just before anything… sexy freaky happens. Do you not write smut? And that’s ok if you don’t I was just like clawing my eyes out cuz OOFT so fuckn good but ended too soon

thank you so much for enjoying my works!! also about the smut question - i do! also just to clarify, i think smut = anything nsfw, which i have been writing. if you specifically mean p in v sex, i am planning to write it soon for some of the lnds boys! i just think foreplay is very hot and i have a big thing for oral teehee

[rrrrinmaru]

hello rin!!! do you ever plan on writing for zayne maybe?? i admit personally I found him a little dull at first but myths and cards broke me, this little guy can fit soooo much yearning and I'm really curious to see your interpretation of him..... nothing specific in mind but boy does the thought of a breaking point for the man of such patientce and restraint do something horrible with my brain chemistry

i will!!! not gonna lie he didn't really do it for me at first but after watching the most recent card (the shaving one) i get it... oh my god i get the appeal....