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tikitakatia · 12 days ago

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Escape — A. Putellas x Reader

"Getting Caught In The Rain"

WC: 3.8k

Summary: Alexia’s trying again, but it only makes you realize that it’s been a long time since you felt like you were seen and understood.

Pt. 1

Alexia didn’t say anything when she got home. Just dropped her bag by the door, kicked her shoes off with the practiced heaviness of someone trying not to wake anyone up. Even though it was 5:42 p.m. and the hallway light was still on. You were in the kitchen, pretending to read, pretending to care about the last email from work, pretending you weren’t holding your breath for her footsteps.

She walked past you without a word, without eye contact, and you thought, same old story. The sting had dulled by now, like pressing on a bruise out of habit.

Until you heard her voice.

“You, uh… you moved the plant.”

You blinked at the book in your lap. Took a slow breath.

“Yeah.”

“It looks good there,” she added. You could hear the words straining. Trying to sound casual. Normal. Like conversation was still a thing that lived in this house.

You didn’t answer.

“I was thinking,” she tried again, stepping further into the room.

“Maybe we could get a new one for the windowsill? Something low-maintenance. Like… a cactus or whatever.”

A cactus.

You turned the page. “We already have one.”

“Oh,” she said, and you didn’t even need to look to know she was scratching the back of her neck. “Right.”

Silence stretched long and thin.

You looked up. She wasn’t looking at you, not directly, just sort of gesturing toward the counter with a weirdly shy motion.

“I saw this at the airport. Thought you might want it.”

That made your eyes flick up.

She stepped forward, sheepish. Like she didn’t quite know how to be here anymore. She held out a small paper bag, wrinkled from travel.

“It’s dumb. I just saw it and… yeah.”

You took it carefully, like it was a bomb that was about to explode in your face. Inside it was a snow globe.

Small. A little cheap. Inside, a tiny, glitter-dusted coastline and a red kayak.

You stared at it for a beat, then another, your fingers going loose around the base. It was the same coastline you’d kayaked on together four summers ago, the time she got sunburned and made you stop every ten minutes to reapply SPF like a paranoid grandma. The one trip you still couldn’t think about without smiling, even if everything after it had unraveled.

“I remembered it made you laugh,” she said, voice so quiet you almost missed it. “That trip.”

You ran your thumb over the plastic base. “You remember that?”

Alexia shrugged. “I think about it more than you’d think.”

Your chest twisted. Not in pain. Not relief either. Something more complicated, and heavy and unsure.

You didn’t say thank you. But you didn’t hand it back. And that was maybe the biggest thing you’d done all week.

That night, you left it on the kitchen counter. You didn’t know why. Maybe so she’d see you hadn’t ignored it. Maybe so you’d believe it was real.

And in the morning, she was gone again. Off to training. But there was a small plate waiting on the counter. French toast, your favorite marmalade, a halved orange with the rind scored for easy peeling. A mug of coffee with a splash of milk, and whipped cream in the shape of a heart like she used to do.

And a note, scribbled in her hurried handwriting:

Hope today’s kind to you, take care.

— A.

You stared at it for a long time.

Then sat down and ate the toast.

She was in Bilbao this time. Another away game. Another cold bed, another text that never came. The trinket still sat on the shelf, the whipped cream heart a fading memory. You didn’t know what you were supposed to feel. Grateful? Guilty? Hopeful?

So instead, you opened Chattr.

[go4goald2]: Important question: would you rather fight one horse-sized duck or a hundred duck-sized horses.

[lostinthecrowd]: It’s 11pm and this is how you start???

[go4goald2]: You say that like it’s not the most vital debate of our generation

[lostinthecrowd]: I’d take the duck. 1v1. Eye contact. No mercy.

[go4goald2]: Bold. Disrespectful to the mini horses. But bold.

You laughed into your blanket, curled up on your side like a kid at a sleepover.

[lostinthecrowd]: They have tiny hooves. I’m not getting stomped to death by a barbie pony.

[go4goald2]: Tiny hooves, BIG ambition. Don’t underestimate ponies. They´re evil.

[lostinthecrowd]: I feel like there's a story behind this. Also can’t believe this is how I’m spending my night.

[go4goald2]: I can. And it’s perfect. Admit it.

You grinned. Tucked your phone closer like it was a secret you wanted to protect.

The conversation spiraled into weird snack combos, irrational childhood fears (yours: mascots, theirs: escalators), and an intense five-minute tangent on the politics of sock-and-sandal combos.

Your cheeks actually hurt from smiling. And somewhere between their rant about pineapple pizza and your confession that you once tried to cook pasta in a kettle, something softened inside you.

You typed, slower now:

[lostinthecrowd]: My partner did something nice for me today. Out of nowhere.

[go4goald2]: Whoa, plot twist. What kind of nice?

[lostinthecrowd]: Just… a small gift. Not flashy. Thoughtful.

[go4goald2]: You’re being suspiciously vague and I’m incredibly nosy. Spill.

[lostinthecrowd]: It’s tied to a memory. Something small, but really specific to us. A moment we shared years ago.

[go4goald2]: Okay wow. That kind of gift hits like a freight train.

[lostinthecrowd]: Yeah, it really did. Caught me completely off guard, I didn’t know how to react.

[go4goald2]: Because it reminded you what it used to feel like to be known?

[lostinthecrowd]: Exactly that. Like someone woke a part of me I forgot was still there.

[go4goald2]: Do you think it was intentional? Like… a real attempt?

[lostinthecrowd]: I want to think so, but then it just made everything feel more fragile.

[go4goald2]: It’s weird how one small thing can make your whole chest ache.

[lostinthecrowd]: It made me remember how much I miss her, or who she used to be. Or maybe who I used to be when we were still okay.

[go4goald2]: You still deserve those moments even if they’re rare. Even if they confuse the hell out of you.

[go4goald2]: And for what it’s worth… I'm really glad you told me.

You let your phone rest against your chest, pulse kicking up a little. It felt too good. Too soft. Too dangerous.

Because it wasn’t just that they cared. It was that they cared in real-time. Gave you space to unravel and didn’t shy away when the threads got messy.

Your lips tilted into a smile. Tiny, involuntary, like a reflex from some version of you that hadn’t been used in months.

Alexia hadn’t texted once. Not even after the match. Not even a “night.”

But this stranger had stayed up with you.

Held space for you.

Made you feel like a person instead of a ghost someone used to love.

And that flutter came back. Not a rush, just a flicker. A warmth that settled behind your ribs like the beginning of something.

You didn’t push it away.

But god, the guilt that followed.

You weren’t doing anything wrong. You told yourself that. Over and over.

But the truth was, your smile hadn’t looked like this in months.

And your wife hadn’t been the one to cause it.

You didn’t expect anything when you unlocked the door. Maybe a quiet hallway. The faint hum of the fridge. Your own footsteps echoing against the tile. It had become a rhythm now. Come home, drop your bag, exist in silence. You had stopped hoping to be greeted. Stopped wondering what mood she’d be in.

So when the smell hit you: sharp, burnt and unmistakably wrong, it made you pause mid-step. There was a bitter tang in the air, like overcooked garlic and something else. Something sour. A hint of lemon buried under the scent of a meal gone wrong.

You followed it to the kitchen and stopped in the doorway.

Alexia was standing in the middle of it, barefoot, her hoodie sleeves rolled up, her hair pulled back in that messy twist she only did when she was stressed. There was a pan smoking on the stove. A cutting board covered in unevenly chopped herbs. The sink was full of pots. And her face, her face looked wrecked in the most human way.

She glanced up when she saw you, startled. “Shit. You’re home early.”

You weren’t.

You said nothing.

“I was trying to…” she gestured vaguely to the chaos around her.

“Dinner.”

You stepped further in. Looked at the pan. Something once resembling chicken was stuck to the bottom, blackened and curling at the edges like it was trying to leave the scene of the crime.

“It’s your favorite,” she added quickly. “That lemon-herb thing. The one I used to make after we went to the farmer’s market on Saturdays. Remember?”

You did. Back when the kitchen smelled like warm citrus and clean herbs, when she’d dance barefoot to whatever song was playing, bump your hip and kiss your neck while the chicken rested. That version of the dish smelled like comfort. This one smelled like frustration and something sour unraveling.

“Something went wrong with the sauce,” she mumbled. “Or maybe I forgot how to… I don’t know. I was trying.”

And god, she looked so small at that moment. Not physically, Alexia was never small, but emotionally. She looked like a little kid caught drawing on the walls, holding out sticky fingers and hoping it still counted for effort. It knocked something loose in your chest.

Your heart didn’t break. It cracked. Just a little.

You stepped in. Reached past her and turned off the burner before the fire alarm could make things worse.

“We can save it,” you said quietly, even though you knew it wasn’t true.

She stayed where she was, arms hanging a little helplessly at her sides while you opened the fridge and scanned for solutions. There was a half-used tub of ricotta, a jar of pesto, and some leftover stock. You pulled them out without speaking. It was easier this way, fixing things with your hands and not your voice.

“I thought it might be nice if you didn’t have to cook tonight,” she said softly, somewhere behind you. “You’ve been working so much, and I wanted to do something.”

You kept your back to her. “You could’ve just asked me to cook with you.”

“I didn’t want to make you do more work.”

“I don’t want to feel like a guest in my own kitchen.”

There was a long pause. Then the quiet sound of her setting down a spoon.

You poured a little cream into the pan, scraping at the burnt edges while the sauce hissed and fought you. You could feel her watching you closely and carefully. Like if she stared hard enough, she’d understand how to fix it all.

She moved to stand beside you. Too close. Her arm brushed yours lightly, and you flinched. Not because you were scared. Just because you weren’t used to being touched anymore. Not by her. Not kindly. Not like this.

She froze. You saw it from the corner of your eye. Her shoulders tensed. The guilt bloomed across her face. But you didn’t say anything. And she didn’t try again.

Instead, she grabbed plates and set the table while you boiled pasta and tried to coax the ruined sauce into something edible. It wasn’t good. But it was something.

By the time you sat down, the steam had mostly settled. She watched you take a bite, searching your face for any kind of reaction. You chewed. Swallowed. Didn’t make a face.

“It’s fine,” you said.

And she smiled, almost like that was a win.

Not a real smile. But something tired and tentative. Something that said thank you for not hating me tonight.

The two of you sat in that dim kitchen, eating a salvaged dinner that tasted like memory and ash. And for a moment you could almost remember what it was like to share a life that didn’t feel so quiet.

Even if you didn’t trust it just yet.

You didn’t go to bed after dinner.

Alexia did though. She didn’t say it directly, but you saw the way her shoulders slumped after the dishes were done, the way her fingers lingered awkwardly near your elbow like she might touch you and thought better of it. She murmured something like “I’m gonna lie down”, then disappeared down the hall with slow footsteps and a closed door that didn’t quite latch.

You couldn’t follow her. You weren’t ready to share a space that intimate. Not yet. Maybe not ever again.

So instead, you took a half-full bottle of wine from the fridge, grabbed a throw blanket off the back of the couch, and slipped outside. The balcony used to be your favorite spot together. Just two chairs, some tangled fairy lights strung along the railing, the soft hum of the city below. You used to sit out there for hours, her legs tangled with yours, music playing low from your phone while she pointed out constellations she made up on the spot. There was always laughter. Always warmth. That soft, lived-in kind of love.

Now it was just cold metal and silence. One chair is empty. The lights were still up but never turned on. Like the memory of joy had been boxed up and left to fade in the wind.

You curled into the blanket, set the wine between your knees, and stared out at the city that didn’t notice you anymore. This was your nest now. Quiet. Still. Full of grief that didn’t ask for attention, just stayed perched and waiting.

And then, like muscle memory, you opened Chattr.

There was already a message waiting.

[go4goald2]: I tried tonight. Made an effort and still fucked it up.

You exhaled, soft and surprised. A strange flutter of recognition sparked in your chest.

[lostinthecrowd]: That’s more than a lot of people do.

[go4goald2]: Doesn’t feel like enough.

[lostinthecrowd]: What happened?

[go4goald2]: I wanted to do something good, something small. I thought it would matter, but all I did was remind her how long it’s been since I got it right.

You rested your chin on your knee, letting the blanket shift around your shoulders. The night air was cool against your skin.

[lostinthecrowd]: The effort counts even if it’s awkward and late.

[go4goald2]: I don’t know. Sometimes I think it just makes things worse. Like I pop back up trying to play house and she’s already rewritten her life without me in it.

You hesitated before responding.

[lostinthecrowd]: What made you pull away in the first place?

The reply didn’t come fast. A full minute passed. Then two. You thought maybe they’d closed the app.

But then the typing bubble appeared.

[go4goald2]: I got busy. I know it's not an excuse, but it started with wanting to give her everything and to make things easier. Pay the bills, say yes to every work gig and be someone she could be proud of.

[go4goald2]: But then it became… noise. So many meetings, late nights planning the next steps at work, connecting with investors and people wanting things from me all the time. Every time I came home, I felt like a shell. But she was still there, always waiting patiently. I didn’t know how to face her.

[go4goald2]: So I stopped showing up. Told myself I'd come back when I was less tired and more present. But I kept putting it off until it became normal to be gone.

You swallowed hard. Something about the rhythm of it, and the way they said “be someone she could be proud of” twisted in your chest.

[go4goald2]: And now I don't know how to come back. Not without her seeing everything I let fall apart.

[go4goald2]: I'm ashamed.

You stared at the screen.

Because how do you comfort someone whose regret sounds so familiar it might as well live in your house?

[lostinthecrowd]: It’s not too late, not if you mean it. Not if you’re willing to rebuild instead of rewind.

Another pause.

[go4goald2]: What if she doesn’t believe me anymore? What if I waited too long?

[lostinthecrowd]: Then show up anyway, consistency is louder than promises.

A breeze caught your hair, lifting it off your forehead. You tilted your head back and closed your eyes, breathing through the weight in your ribs.

[go4goald2]: I want her to know I see her. Really see her. Not just when she’s upset, not just when she’s slipping away, but every day.

You didn’t respond right away.

Your thumbs hovered, useless, the words sitting heavy on your screen.

There was something about the way they phrased it, quiet and earnest. Like they meant it, even if they didn’t know how to say it out loud to the right person yet.

You sipped your wine and stared out over the city. The lights blurred softly against the dark, the breeze tugging gently at the frayed edges of the blanket in your lap.

You used to be seen like that. Or maybe you just liked to think you were.

You put your phone down for a second, face tipped to the sky, letting the silence settle where something like comfort should’ve been.

And when the tears came, they weren’t loud. Just slow. Private. The kind that don’t ask to be noticed. The kind you wipe away quickly, just in case someone walks out and asks if you’re okay.

But no one did.

The effort started showing up in little things.

Alexia folding the laundry before you got to it. Running to the store to pick up oat milk without being asked. Saying “Want to watch something?” instead of disappearing into the bedroom with her headphones and going on a call with her agent. She didn’t get it all right, she brought home the wrong brand of oat milk, folded the sheets inside out, and picked a movie you’d already seen twice. But she was trying. God, was she trying.

It wasn’t the kind of effort that made your heart swell. It made it ache. Because it felt like watching someone fumble through a routine they used to know by heart and now had to relearn from scratch.

On Wednesday night, she came home with takeout from that noodle place near your old apartment. The one you used to walk to in the middle of summer, sweaty and stupidly in love. She placed the bags on the counter like a peace offering and said, “Thought we could eat together tonight?”

You nodded. She brightened like it mattered.

She talked through most of dinner. Nothing serious. Just training, the new physio, the girl on the team who always forgot her cleats. You let her talk. Let her fill the space. She was trying to be light. Normal. Like maybe if she kept talking, she could talk you back into caring.

And for a second, you let her believe it was working.

After dinner, she hovered. You were rinsing dishes and she leaned against the counter, fingers tapping nervously against the edge. You knew that look. That “I want to say something but I’m scared of the words” look.

“I’ve been thinking…” she started, voice quiet. “About us. About how I’ve-”

Her phone buzzed. Loud. Jarring.

You saw the hesitation. The flicker of conflict.

But she answered it.

“Yeah?” she said, already walking toward the hallway. “No, it’s fine. I’ve got a minute.”

And just like that, the moment shattered.

You turned back to the sink, slowly rinsed out the last bowl. The water ran too hot, but you didn’t adjust it.

She didn’t come back in. You heard the bedroom door click closed a few minutes later.

The next night, she showed up with your favorite wine. The one you used to save for anniversaries or good news. She held it up like a trophy. “Got this on the way home. Figured we could split it and hang out a bit.”

You stared at the label. Something in your chest twisted.

“I can’t drink,” you said, keeping your voice even. “I’m on antibiotics.”

She blinked, thrown. “Oh. Since when?”

You shrugged. “Couple days. I’ve been sick.”

“Oh,” she said again.

She looked like she wanted to say more, but didn’t. Just set the bottle down and muttered something about putting it away for later.

You stood there for a moment after she walked off. Letting the silence settle over your shoulders like a too-heavy coat.

She hadn’t noticed.

You’d been in bed for two days. Tired, congested, barely eating. And she hadn’t noticed.

Not until you said it out loud.

Still. You weren’t made of stone.

There were moments where her effort chipped at something soft. The way she offered you tea that night without you asking. How she turned off the hallway light so it wouldn’t bother you when you tried to nap. How she lingered a little longer at the door when she left for training, like she wanted to say something.

But the thing that hurt most was how she still couldn’t say the one thing that mattered: I miss you.

She tried everything else. But not that.

Later, once the house had gone quiet and the wine sat untouched in the cabinet, you curled up on the couch with a blanket and opened Chattr.

[lostinthecrowd]: You ever feel like someone’s knocking, but it’s on the wrong door?

[go4goald2]: Jesus, yeah. All the time.

[go4goald2]: Weird coincidence… I always feel like I'm on the other side of that.

You smiled. A small one. Just for yourself. Sad. Quiet. The kind that doesn’t touch your mouth, only your chest.

[lostinthecrowd]: Someone brought me something today. Something they thought I'd love, but they didn’t realize I couldn't have it.

[go4goald2]: Ouch. That's… rough.

[lostinthecrowd]: Yeah, it’s like they remembered the old version of me. Not who I am now.

[go4goald2]: I get that. It's like when someone keeps reaching for the person they think you are, and you’re standing there, changed, wondering if they’ll ever notice.

[lostinthecrowd]: Exactly.

[go4goald2]: They probably meant well, doesn’t make it hurt less though.

[lostinthecrowd]: No. It doesn’t.

There was a beat of silence. Only the glow of your phone, the buzz of the city outside the balcony, and the heaviness in your chest that had nowhere else to go.

[go4goald2]: I think I want to want them again but I don't know if that’s the same thing as actually wanting them.

[lostinthecrowd]: I think that’s the loneliest kind of love.

The typing bubble appeared. Vanished. Appeared again.

[go4goald2]: What are you doing right now?

[lostinthecrowd]: Talking to you. Not sleeping. Being dramatic. The usual.

[go4goald2]: Good. Stay.

And so you did. Talking about nothing and everything. How certain smells always bring you back to childhood. How you hate the sound of ticking clocks. How lately, someone’s been trying to come back to you and you want to believe it matters. You really do. But there’s a part of you that keeps wondering if effort can still mean something after the silence has settled in too deep.

You didn’t mean to say that last part out loud. But you did. And they didn’t mind.

Alexia was down the hall. Lights off. Door closed.

You were somewhere else entirely.

Pt. 3

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hellinistical · 3 months ago

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in which the lemurian you work for is dealing with some things...good thing you can help him! happens after ebb and flow. Sub! Rafayel x afab. reader. mdni.

a/n: for @venomaniyah

tw: heat. piv. nipple play (sucking, teasing, pulling, ect.). oral (m. receiving). semi-plot. hand jobs. edging. teasing. "good boy". dacriphyllia. slight dub con. reader is kinda a bully. whiny rafayel. he's desperate to all hell.

wc: 8k

The apartment was small but inviting, with its warm, honey-colored hardwood floors that creaked in greeting with every step. Soft, natural light filtered through sheer white curtains, which swayed slightly in the breeze from a cracked-open window. A hand-me-down sofa, its cushions sagging just enough to show years of use but still firm and comfortable, sat against one wall. A colorful patchwork quilt, likely handmade, was draped over its back, adding a splash of personality to the otherwise neutral tones of the room.

The kitchenette was compact but functional, with a stove that looked older than the apartment itself and a tiny, round table tucked into the corner. A single vase holding fresh daisies served as the centerpiece, hinting at a quiet care for the space. Above the sink hung a row of mismatched mugs, each telling a different story—one from a tourist trap in Paris, another adorned with a faded cartoon character, and a plain one chipped at the rim.

Books lined a modest shelf in the corner, their spines worn but loved, while a few framed photos leaned casually against the wall, featuring smiling faces frozen in candid moments. The apartment had the faint smell of freshly brewed coffee, mixed with a hint of lavender from a diffuser on the table.

Though the space was humble, it lacked of nothing essential. Every detail, from the carefully folded throw on the armchair to the small cactus perched on the windowsill, spoke of a life not defined by abundance, but by contentment and care.

And yet, even though it was well into the day and there were sure to be other things to do, you found yourself staring. Staring at just how pretty he was, dozing off on your couch.

Rafayel’s face was softer in sleep, the usual sharpness of his features dulled by the even rise and fall of his chest. His lavender hair fanned out across the pillow you’d wedged beneath his head, catching the light in a way that made it seem almost otherworldly. His nose twitched every now and then, and his lips parted slightly with each breath, almost as if he were mid-thought, even in dreams.

Yeah, maybe it was creepy. Okay, definitely creepy.

But you told yourself you were just watching over him, making sure he stayed warm and comfortable while he recovered from his fever. The faint pink flush on his cheeks wasn’t entirely gone yet, and his brows furrowed every so often, like even in sleep he was trying to work something out.

The quilt you’d draped over him rose and fell with his breathing, and you noticed he’d unconsciously grabbed hold of one corner, clutching it like a lifeline. It was such a small, uncharacteristic thing for someone who always seemed so composed, so larger-than-life, and it made your chest ache in a way you weren’t sure how to describe.

You wanted to do something—anything—to keep that fevered look from returning. To see his eyes open and find them clear again, their usual sharp, captivating hue instead of the dull, glassy sheen they’d had when he’d stumbled through your door. For now, though, he just needed rest, and maybe you needed this moment, too. “Your scales are so pretty…” you murmur softly, trailing your fingers against the ones on his cheekbones, down his jaw, almost about to linger on his plush bottom lip. And they were. The most beautiful blue you ever did see.

You press a kiss to the one under his right eye. “Get better, Rafayel.”

It had started slowly. The occasional sharp inhale, the restless shifting, the way his breath had begun coming in shallow pants. At first, you’d thought his fever was just worsening, maybe a bad dream, maybe some kind of delirium. You’d knelt beside him, brushing damp strands of hair away from his forehead, whispering reassurances you weren’t even sure he could hear.

Then he had grabbed your wrist.

His grip had been desperate, trembling, but strong. When his eyes cracked open—hazy, dazed, pupils blown wide—you’d barely had a second to process before he had shuddered, body arching slightly, and let out a soft, wrecked sound that sent heat pooling in your stomach.

He was awake.

You turn, eyes wide when you meet his own blue-pink gaze. “You mean it?” Pearly tears pricked at his eyes, dripping down the sun-bleached ends of his lower lashes, accompanying them to grace his skin with butterfly kisses.

His cheeks were rosy, ears tinged with embarrassment and bashfulness.

“How long were you awake?”

“That- that doesn’t matter. Did you mean it?”

***

That was hours ago. Now? Now Rafayel- and you- are a mess.

A mess of sweat, drool, tears, and soon enough, exhaustion.

The fever had been a warning, a quiet tremor before the storm. But you hadn’t known. How could you have?

Now? Now, Rafayel was sprawled beneath you, a mess of sweat, trembling limbs, and ragged breaths. His skin was hot—too hot—his usual pale flush now a feverish pink, iridescent blue scales glistening with sweat. His hands, usually so careful, so hesitant, clutched at the fabric of your shirt like a lifeline, fingers tightening every time a wave of whatever-this-was crashed over him.

You had no idea what to do.

That was hours ago.

Now, the apartment was thick with it—heat, tension, the scent of sweat and something else, something uniquely him, something that curled into your lungs and refused to let go. It was sickeningly sweet.

"Rafayel," you rasped, trying to keep your voice steady. "You—you're burning up. You need to—"

A whimper, a needy, helpless sound, cut you off. His grip on you tightened, nails digging in just enough to make you shiver. His demeanor normally so elegant and fluid, was curled awkwardly against the couch, scales twitching in an unfocused rhythm.

He was shaking.

Your heart pounded.

It was sudden.

His hands fisted in your shirt, pulling you down so suddenly you barely had time to gasp before his lips crashed against yours. It was messy—desperate, awkward, like he didn’t know what he was doing, only that he needed to do it. His feverish body pressed against yours, trembling with something too raw to name, and his breath hitched as his lips moved clumsily over yours, needy and unpracticed.

Your teeth knocked together, the kiss more heat than finesse, but Rafayel didn’t care. He made a small, helpless sound—something between a whimper and a growl—as if frustrated he couldn’t get closer, couldn’t melt into you completely. His fingers were shaking, gripping you like you might disappear, like letting go wasn’t an option.

“Rafayel—” you barely managed, voice muffled against his mouth, but he only made another needy noise, tilting his head and kissing you deeper, more insistent, as if silence was the only answer he’d accept. His breath came in ragged gasps, and you could feel the heat radiating off him, seeping into you, making your skin prickle with warmth.

He was burning up.

His lips dragged against yours, wet and desperate, his sharp canines scraping at your bottom lip like he didn’t know how to be gentle—like he couldn’t. His body trembled under you, fevered and vulnerable in a way you’d never seen before, in a way that made your chest tighten with something dangerously close to want.

You swallowed thickly, hands bracing against the couch as you tried to steady yourself, tried to think past the heat curling through your veins. But Rafayel only whined softly, frustrated, needy, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

You had no idea what to do.

But Rafayel needed you.

And gods help you—part of you wanted to give in.

Your head was spinning, your breath uneven, but no. No.

If Rafayel needed you this badly, then he was going to have to play by your rules.

You pushed against his chest—firm, but not cruel—breaking the messy kiss with a wet gasp. He let out a desperate, frustrated whimper, eyes fluttering open, unfocused and glassy. His pupils were wide, swallowing the sea-blue and pink of his irises, his flushed lips slightly parted as he panted.

“Rafayel,” you warned, voice low, steady.

His hands twitched where they still clung to your shirt, fingers flexing like he wanted to pull you back down, like he couldn’t stand even the inches of space you’d put between you. But you stayed firm, watching the way his legs curled tighter, his whole body shuddering.

“Please,” he breathed, voice wrecked, needy. His nails dragged lightly against your skin, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you that he was still desperate, still burning, still aching.

But you weren’t going to let him lose himself like this. Not without control. Not without you in control.

You exhaled slowly, tilting his chin up with your fingers, forcing him to meet your gaze. “If you need me so bad,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over the fevered heat of his skin, “then you’re gonna have to listen.”

His breath hitched.

“You’re gonna have to be good for me.”

A shiver ran down his spine, his lashes fluttering. You could feel his legs twitch against the cushions, restless, a telltale sign of his struggle. His lips parted as if he wanted to argue, to protest, but instead, he nodded, slow, hesitant—obedient.

A smirk tugged at the corner of your lips.

“Good.”

Now this was how you played the game.

His breath was uneven, hot against your throat, and his grip on you was tight—like if he let go, he’d lose himself completely. It was honestly a strange situation. Here you were, perched on the crappy couch you hadn’t even fully paid off yet, straddling him—this Lemurian, this siren of a man who, by all accounts, should have been the one in control.

And yet, it was you he was desperate for.

You swallowed, watching the way his lavender hair clung to his forehead, damp from fever and sweat. It curled just slightly at the ends, framing his face like seafoam against the tide. He was beautiful, infuriatingly so—his features sharp and delicate at the same time, otherworldly in a way that made your stomach twist. The iridescent sheen of his scales caught the dim light of the apartment, casting soft glimmers across his fever-flushed skin.

He shuddered beneath you, fingers twitching at your waist, like he wasn’t sure whether he was allowed to pull you closer. He looked up at you through heavy lids, his slit pupils dilated, his expression raw and vulnerable in a way that made your chest tighten.

It was intoxicating, having him like this—this creature who could command the ocean itself, who carried an air of danger, of mystery, reduced to a trembling mess beneath you. And it was you he was reaching for.

A sharp exhale left his lips, and he swallowed thickly. “Miss body guard…you’re… cruel,” he rasped, his voice wrecked, hushed.

"Cruel?" Your brow furrowed, lips parting slightly as you studied him.

Rafayel let out a shaky breath, his fingers flexing at your waist, as if torn between pushing and pulling. His expression was something raw, something caught between desperation and frustration, his flushed skin practically glowing in the dim light.

“You are,” he murmured, voice uneven, a touch hoarse. His eyes, blown wide and glossy, flickered over your face like he was searching for something—permission, relief, control. “You sit here, watching me like this, knowing I—” He swallowed hard, the words catching in his throat. His breath hitched as your fingers ghosted over the faint ridges of scales along his ribs. “And you do nothing.”

Your lips curled at the accusation, at the way his voice wavered. You tilted your head, fingers trailing upward, just barely brushing against the curve of his throat. Rafayel swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. His lashes fluttered, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips, torn between frustration and yearning. His fingers twitched at your waist, grip tightening just slightly—like he wanted to pull you closer but knew better than to push his luck.

“You tease me. You—” He exhaled sharply, his head tipping back against the couch, exposing the pale column of his throat. “You make me wait.”

You huffed, tilting your head. “And you hate that?”

His lips parted, hesitation flickering across his face—his pride at war with his need. His legs curled against the cushions, restless, his body tense beneath you.

“… No,” he admitted finally, voice softer, raw. “I—” His breath hitched, and his fingers flexed against your hips. “I like it.”

“Rafayel.”

He shivered at the way you said his name, and gods, the sight of him—half-lidded, lips parted, body tense beneath you—sent a thrill through your veins. He was trying so hard to keep it together, to keep some semblance of control. But you saw the way his hands twitched, the way his grip tightened, the way his breath hitched every time you so much as shifted against him.

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, it looked like he wanted to argue, to snap at you. But all that came out was a soft, needy sound—one that sent heat curling low in your stomach.

Rafayel’s eyes flickered down to your hands as they rested on his chest, then back to your face, his breath still coming in shallow, erratic bursts. His lips parted as if to say something, but then he hesitated, shifting beneath you in frustration. The usual smoothness of his voice was gone, replaced with something rougher, more desperate.

“I don’t…” He swallowed, shaking his head as though trying to gather his thoughts. “I don’t know how to handle this,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. His hands twitched again, but he didn’t make a move to touch you, his fingers almost trembling with the effort to resist. “I’ve never felt—like this—before. You—” He exhaled sharply, almost like a growl. “You make me weak.”

You paused, staring at him, the words sinking in. It was strange, hearing him say it out loud. This creature, who’d seen things you couldn’t even imagine, who lived a life full of power and mystery, confessing that you—you—had somehow unraveled him.

For a moment, you almost forgot the tension, the power play, the strange game you were playing. You were staring at him, really staring, noticing the vulnerability in his gaze, in the way his body shook beneath yours.

You wanted to say something, anything that could make sense of this situation. But for once, you were at a loss for words.

“Be good for me,” you murmured, lips ghosting just over his,

You pressed a kiss to his lips, soft, inviting—just a hint of warmth, just a taste of what might come. His breath caught as your lips brushed against his, a feather-light kiss that could’ve easily been pulled away from, that could’ve left him hanging. It was your test, your way of gauging whether he could control himself for even a moment.

But the moment he felt it, the moment he sensed your willingness, Rafayel tried to take a mile when you only gave him an inch. His hand shot up, gripping your face as his lips crashed against yours, frantic and desperate, demanding. He pushed, hard, pulling you closer until your bodies pressed together, until the kiss was no longer gentle, no longer soft.

You pulled back, a sharp breath slipping past your lips, but Rafayel, still holding you tightly, tried to pull you right back into the kiss, his lips urgent and needy against yours.

“Rafayel,” you breathed, voice low and almost scolding. But you weren’t sure if you could be mad at him, not when he was so completely consumed by whatever feverish, wild desire had taken hold of him. His desperation was palpable, the heat between you two thickening with every second.

The desperation in his voice sent a shiver down your spine. He was so far gone, lost in the intensity of whatever feverish longing had taken hold of him. His eyes were half-lidded, pupils dark and blown wide, his breath ragged as his hands twisted at the fabric of your shirt, fingers trembling with the need to rid you of it.

“Please—just—take these damned clothes off,” he begged, his voice hoarse and raw, full of frustration. His breath came in jagged gasps, chest heaving, and you could see just how far he was willing to push for whatever he needed in this moment.

You couldn’t ignore the way his body pressed against yours, his skin fevered and hot under your hands, every part of him calling out for something more.

“I…” You sighed, faltering for just a moment, the heat of the situation almost overwhelming. You had to maintain control, but the way he was looking at you, the desperation on his face, it was starting to make your resolve slip. You could feel your own breath quicken, the tension rising, but just as you opened your mouth to say something, Rafayel made his move.

With a sudden shift, his hands were at your shirt, undoing it with a speed you weren’t prepared for. His fingers were sure, eager—almost frantic—as he peeled the fabric from your body. Before you could even react, his own shirt was gone too, his chest exposed, the scales on his skin shimmering under the dim light.

He was bare now, his body trembling slightly from the fever, but his expression was anything but weak. It was raw, hungry—unashamed. His chest rose and fell rapidly, a desperate fire in his eyes as he leaned in, hands roaming over you, pulling you in closer.

The moment was slipping away from you, and for a heartbeat, you let yourself feel it—the heat, the pull between you both, the need so palpable it was almost suffocating.

But just as quickly, your mind sharpened again. You had to pull back. You had to stay in control.

“Rafayel…” you breathed, voice shaking slightly, but firm. "Not yet."

But as you tried to regain that distance, his hands slid down your sides, pulling you closer as he groaned low, his lips already at your neck. “Please,” he whispered, his voice trembling, raw, like he couldn’t hold back anymore. "I need you..."

“I know—I know, baby, just…” You half-joked, the words leaving your lips breathlessly as you pulled away just slightly, feeling the tension between you rise and fall like an unsteady wave. “We can’t do much on this couch.”

You blew a weak, cool breath toward his face, hoping to ease the heat radiating off of him, but the air was barely enough to touch his flushed skin. His eyes fluttered for a moment, a tremor running through his body as he leaned in closer, not satisfied by the brief space between you. His hands were still gripping at you, searching for more—more of your skin, more of your touch, more of anything to soothe the ache.

His lips parted, breath warm against your cheek as he groaned. “Then let’s move,” he muttered, more demand than suggestion.

You could feel the tug of temptation, the pull of his need, but you held onto that sliver of control. "Easy, Rafayel," you warned softly, your hand pressing lightly against his chest to hold him back just a fraction, just enough to catch your breath. "We need to take it slow, alright?"

He groaned, head tilting back in frustration, his legs twitching with impatience. "You're killing me," he rasped, the fire in his eyes still burning bright, but there was a flicker of understanding there too. He wasn’t ready to let go, but he was starting to grasp that you weren’t going to make it easy on him.

“I’ll be good,” he promised, voice hoarse, still desperate, but laced with that same vulnerability you’d seen earlier. "Just—just please."

Fuck.

You heard the frustration in his voice, and despite the resolve you had to keep the reins in your hands, something about the way he said “just—just please” got to you. The vulnerability, the desperation—it was hard to resist. He had let his guard down, just for a moment, and you could see it.

"Fine," you breathed out in exasperation, your voice a mix of teasing and concession.

His eyes flashed with that dangerous, hungry gleam again, and before you knew it, he was pulling you back into him, more assertive now. His lips found yours, urgent and demanding, and there was no more hesitation, no more games. The heat between you was undeniable, and you could feel the way he melted into the kiss, pressing into you like he had to, like he couldn’t wait any longer. You pushed him down further into the couch, your hands sliding over his shoulders, feeling the heat of his skin under your touch. The shift in position only heightened the tension, your body pressing into his, the sensation of him beneath you intoxicating. There was no room for restraint now—only the raw, unspoken need that hung in the air.

Breaking the kiss, you trailed your lips to his neck, tasting the salty warmth of his skin. His breath hitched as your mouth brushed against the sensitive spot just below his ear, and he groaned, his hands tightening around you, pulling you even closer as if he couldn’t get enough.

"Gods…" His voice was barely above a whisper, thick with need. His chest rose and fell with each breath, his body arching into yours as you continued to explore the curve of his neck with your lips.

You grasp his chin with your index and thumb, tilting his head to give him a quick peck before grasping his arm. Your fingers traced the heat of his skin, gliding up his arm with slow, deliberate intent before finding his hand. His grip was tight, almost instinctual, like he was afraid you'd slip away if he didn’t hold on. But instead of pulling, instead of giving in to the urgency that burned between you both, you laced your fingers with his, grounding him.

Lifting his hand, you pressed a soft kiss to the back of his palm. It was a contrast to the heat of everything else—gentle, reverent, like you were reminding him that he was yours, that he didn't have to chase or beg for what you were already giving.

Rafayel let out a shaky breath, his body shuddering beneath you. His free hand curled around your waist, squeezing as if he could hold onto the moment, as if he needed something solid to keep himself from unraveling completely. His eyes, hazy and desperate, searched yours.

"You’re so unfair," he murmured, voice hoarse, breathless.

You only smirked, pressing another kiss to his knuckles before whispering, “I never said this would be easy, baby.”

You let go of his hand, watching the way his fingers twitched in the empty space where yours had been. Then, slowly, deliberately, you adjusted yourself, shifting your weight until you were fully straddling his hips. His breath hitched as your hands found his chest, palms pressing against the warmth of his skin, feeling the rapid rise and fall beneath your fingertips.

Rafayel looked up at you, lips parted, his iridescent eyes blown wide with something between frustration and helpless want. His legs curled against the couch, twitching, betraying just how much restraint he was holding onto—if he was holding onto any at all.

You tilted your head, dragging your thumbs over his collarbones, watching the way his body responded to even the smallest touch. “You’re burning up,” you murmured, voice teasing, though there was genuine concern beneath it.

He swallowed hard, hands twitching at his sides like he wanted to reach for you, but he was waiting—waiting to see what you would allow. “Then help me,” he pleaded, voice thick, almost desperate.

You leaned in, just enough so your lips hovered above his, just enough for him to feel your breath against his skin. “Patience, baby.” You dragged your nails lightly down his chest, reveling in the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch.

A frustrated groan rumbled from his throat, his head pressing back into the couch. “You’re torturing me,” he muttered.

You chuckled, the sound light and teasing as you watched his scowl deepen. “Always so dramatic, fish-for-brains.”

His grip tightened on the zipper of your hoodie, yanking it down with more force than necessary. “I’m not dramatic,” he grumbled, though the slight flush creeping up his neck betrayed him.

You arched a brow, amused. “Really? Because you sound like you’re one second away from throwing a tantrum.”

He huffed, pushing the hoodie off your shoulders with an impatient tug, his hands lingering against your arms, warm and just a little unsteady. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You smirked, tilting your head. “A little bit.”

Rafayel rolled his eyes, but you caught the way his breath stuttered when your hands slid back up his chest, nails grazing his skin. He was trying so hard to play it cool, but you could feel the tension in his body, see the way his tail flicked against the couch in restless anticipation.

You leaned in, brushing your lips against his jaw, barely touching, just enough to make him chase the contact. “You’re cute when you pout,” you murmured.

His hands tightened on your waist, his voice lower now, almost a growl. “Keep testing me.”

You giggled at his half-hearted threat, feeling the way his hands slipped beneath the fabric of your clothes, warm and greedy. He wasted no time, fingers splaying against your sides, tracing up your back, like he needed to touch everything at once. Pushing him down harder, guiding his body to really settle into the couch, feeling the weight of him beneath you, the heat from his skin searing through the thin barrier of clothing between you. Your hands slid over his shoulders, feeling the taut muscles beneath the smoothness of his skin, pressing yourself into him now, just as desperate.

Rafayel’s hands immediately found their place against your back, pulling you closer, fingers digging into your flesh, but you held control.

You trailed your lips down his jawline, then to his neck, tasting the salt of his skin, the warmth, feeling the flutter of his pulse beneath your lips. You could hear the hitch in his breath, the subtle shiver that ran through him as you nipped gently at the sensitive skin of his neck. His hands gripped your hips harder, trying to pull you even closer, but you refused to give him that.

“Someone’s impatient,” you teased, shifting slightly in his lap just to hear the sharp inhale he tried—and failed—to suppress.

Rafayel’s grip tightened, his nails lightly dragging against your skin. “You started this,” he muttered, pressing his forehead against your shoulder as if that would hide the way he was practically trembling beneath you.

You hummed, your fingers threading through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. “Mmm, did I?” He groaned, frustrated, before nipping playfully at your shoulder in retaliation. “You know you did.” You laughed, letting him tug your hoodie the rest of the way off, his touch growing more eager, more desperate, as he worked on whatever layers remained between you.

Sliding his hands under your shirt, his fingers worked with practiced ease, undoing the clasps of your bra beneath your shirt as if he’d done it a hundred times before. But just as he started to slide the straps down, you caught his wrists, stopping him in his tracks.

Rafayel blinked up at you, startled, his pupils blown wide with need. “What—” His voice was rough, breathless.

You released his wrists, the subtle tension easing as you slowly took off your hoodie, then your shirt, letting the fabric fall to the floor. The movement was deliberate, giving him just enough time to fully appreciate the shift before you leaned back in, watching him watch you, your gaze daring him to speak, to move.

Rafayel’s breath caught, his eyes flicking between you and the space where his hands had been moments ago. He didn't say anything, just a low, desperate sound escaping him as his gaze heated further, taking in every inch of you like he couldn't quite believe it.

You gave him the smallest, teasing smile. "Easier for you now."

The sound that escaped him—low and almost reverent—made your pulse quicken. His hands came to rest against your chest, flat and careful, like he was in awe of the way you felt under his touch. The tension between you, that delicate balance of wanting and restraint, hummed in the air.

"Gods…" His voice was soft, a little shaky, as if he couldn't quite believe this moment. His thumbs gently brushed over your skin, tracing the lines of your chest with a reverence that sent a shiver down your spine.

You held his gaze, a smirk pulling at the corner of your lips, teasing him, but inside, there was a soft warmth that you couldn’t quite ignore.

"Careful," you warned softly, your breath catching slightly. "I might get used to you looking at me like that."

His hands faltered. "N-no, no, I want you to get used to it- please, if you’ll let me,"

His words were desperate, trembling with an intensity that made your chest tighten. The raw vulnerability in his voice, the way he looked at you like he was begging for permission to do more, hit you in a way you weren't expecting.

His hands remained on you, tender yet needy, like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go. “I want you to get used to it,” he repeated, his voice rough, pleading. “Please, if you’ll let me…”

You could feel the heat radiating off him, the intensity of everything building as his eyes locked onto yours, as though this moment was something more—something deeper—than just the heat between you.

There was no teasing, no games now. Just a raw, open honesty that left you breathless.

“You’re not as good at hiding what you want as you think,” you murmured, voice soft but laced with the heat of the moment.

His words were soft, but there was a tremor in them—vulnerable, unguarded, like he was afraid of the answer. His gaze searched yours, intense and almost desperate for reassurance.

“Wasn’t tryin’ to hide nothin’.” His voice had a quiet edge, a mix of frustration and something deeper. “You... you said I was beautiful… did you mean it?”

You could see the way his throat worked, the way his body seemed to hold itself back, waiting for your response. His question felt so much more than just a passing curiosity—it felt like he was seeking something from you. For a moment, you just looked at him, taking in the way he trembled beneath you, the earnestness in his voice. The way he needed to hear it again, needed to feel validated in a way that went beyond just the physical.

You let your fingers brush gently across his cheek, tracing the sharp line of his jaw as you gazed into his eyes. “I meant it,” you whispered, your voice soft, but full of the sincerity he needed to hear. “You’re gorgeous, Rafayel.”

His breath hitched at your words, his eyes darkening, but there was something different this time. The need had shifted, the hunger now mingled with something deeper—something more emotional.

***

The cool air from the A.C. blasted over your skin, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from both of you. The scene was almost surreal—the hum of the air, the mess of tangled sheets, and the feeling of Rafayel beneath you, his body taut with anticipation, but still yielding, soft to your touch.

You weren’t sure exactly how you got here. It was all a blur of sensations—his hands on you, the heat of his body, his desperate kisses—and now you found yourself in your bed, his breath ragged as your teeth sank into the soft skin of his neck. His back arched up to meet you, responding to your touch with an almost frantic need.

You could feel the pulse of his heart beneath your lips, the way he shuddered every time your teeth made contact, leaving behind dark, angry love bites that were sure to last. He moaned, a low, guttural sound, as if he couldn’t get close enough, as if he needed more.

His legs were tangled with yours, bodies pressed so close that it was impossible to tell where one of you ended and the other began. You were so absorbed in him—his scent, his warmth, the way he writhed beneath you

Rafayel groaned, the sound deep and guttural, as your tongue traced over the sensitive mark you'd left on his neck, his hips bucking upward in response. His skin was hot, slick with sweat, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath your hands as your fingers splayed across his bare chest.

You could feel his heart racing beneath your fingertips, the tension in his body only building as you met his hips with yours, the sensation of him pressing up into you sending a jolt through your own body. His eyes were half-lidded, mouth parted as he gasped for air, his grip on the sheets tight as though he was trying to ground himself in the moment.

Rafayel's breath hitched at the nickname, the teasing tone in your voice cutting through the haze of heat that clouded his mind. His body twitched beneath yours, his chest rising as your hands kneaded his skin with gentle insistence.

"Careful now, fishie baby," you murmured, lips pressing to the bite you had left on his neck, a soft kiss that made him shudder in response. He closed his eyes, a soft groan slipping from his throat as your hands worked over his chest.

“Don’t,” he panted, his fingers curling into the sheets beside him, but his voice was soft, almost pleading. “You know I can’t... I can’t control—”

He stopped mid-sentence as your hips rocked against his, making him forget whatever he was about to say. Instead, his breath hitched, and his back arched up again, trying to meet your movements.

“You can control it,” you whispered, lips curving against his skin as you kissed him again. The teasing, the soft touches, the way you knew just what buttons to press—it was intoxicating. “But you just don’t want to.”

His hands gripped your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh with urgency, as if trying to pull you closer, desperate for more. The heat between you both was almost unbearable, and you could feel the tension in his body, the way he ached for you.

You hummed in approval, your lips brushing his as your hands moved to trace the line of his jaw, feeling the rapid beat of his pulse under your fingertips. The way he was holding you, the way his body responded to every small movement, made the air feel thick with anticipation.

He was right on the edge, barely hanging on, and you could feel the way his muscles tensed, his breath hitching with each passing second. "I know you want more," you whispered, your voice low and teasing, knowing how badly he needed you to push him further.

But you held back just long enough to let the tension build, feeling his frustration mix with the desire in the air, until he couldn't take it any longer.

You kissed down his body, the sensation of your lips trailing over his skin sending a shiver through him. Each kiss, each gentle brush of your lips, left him breathless, his body taut beneath you. When you reached his chest, you paused for a moment, taking in the way his muscles twitched under your touch, the way his breath quickened.

He moaned softly as your lips pressed to the sensitive skin there, your hands sliding along his ribs, feeling the heat radiating off of him. His fingers found your hair, tangling in it as he pulled you closer, desperate for more of that touch, that connection.

The air was thick with the unspoken tension between you both, and as your lips moved lower, he let out a strangled gasp, his back arching into you again, searching for the next wave of sensation. He was completely undone, lost in the feeling of your touch, and you couldn’t help but smile at the power you had over him.

Rafayel’s nipples were a pretty shade of pink, his areolas and the buds formerly puffy- you had made sure of that with your teasing groping and kneading, taking them between your fingers and teasing them. You take a nipple into your mouth, tongue flicking over it as it stiffens impossibly more, peeking against your wet muscle, your free hand going to play with his other nipple, giving both attention., Biting it softly, you tug on it before sucking it. He mewls, throwing an arm over his eyes. The sound of his whine, soft and desperate, sent a shiver through you, making your heart race. His body tensed beneath you, every nerve alive with anticipation, and the vulnerability in his voice made it impossible to ignore how much he needed you.

“S’good- ah, Miss Bodyguard, mm,” Rafayel’s voice was shaky, lip quivering in want.

You paused for a moment, looking up at him through your lashes, your lips still hovering just above his skin. His chest rose and fell quickly, eyes locked on you after he lifted his arm with a mix of longing and something deeper—something more desperate.

"What's wrong?" you teased softly, your voice low and almost playful as you brushed your fingers over his skin, just enough to make him ache, but not enough to give him what he wanted. His whine only grew louder, more pleading.

He shifted beneath you, hands tugging at your hair again, trying to pull you closer, his breath ragged. "Please," he gasped, voice cracking slightly. "Please, don't tease... not now."

“Mmm….but what about what I want?”

His breath stuttered at your words, the weight of them settling over him like a slow burn. He lifted his head, eyes dark with need, lips parted in a silent plea for you to understand. His hands grab at you, and they tighten around your wrists, pulling you just a little closer but not enough to get what he wants. His body, still so tense and aching beneath you, was desperate to meet yours in every way, and yet, he couldn't quite push forward.

"Anything," he whispered, voice raw. "I’ll do anything, just—" He cut himself off, unable to finish the sentence, the frustration evident in his eyes.

"You'll do anything?" you whispered, your voice teasing, almost mocking. "What if I want you to wait?"

His plea came out in a rush, his voice thick with frustration and need, like a confession he couldn't keep in any longer. His hands clenched tighter around your wrists, pulling you even closer, his body pressing up against yours as though he couldn’t wait another second. The vulnerability in his eyes, the desperation in his voice—it was almost too much to resist.

"Please," he repeated, his words shaky, his breath shallow. "I can't take it... not like this." His lips parted, the tension in his body making every word sound almost like a plea for mercy.

You really couldn’t deny him. Not when he looked at you like that—eyes blown wide, lips parted, body trembling beneath you as he clung to your wrists like they were the only thing keeping him grounded.

A shaky breath left your lips as you finally, finally gave in, pressing yourself flush against him, your fingers threading into his hair. His whole body shuddered, his grip on you tightening as if afraid you might pull away again.

"Alright, fishie baby," you murmured against his lips, the teasing lilt in your voice softened by the warmth in your gaze. "I'll give you what you want."

And with that, you closed the space between you, letting him have everything.

So you sit up- just a little over him now, and look at his aching dick.

Because fuck. Even his dick was pretty. You’d have to take a mental note to really admire it later. A grower, but still. It wasn’t like it was hard to get him up. Lining him up with you was easy enough, but sinking down on him?

His tip was flushed, crying. A pearl of pre building up, like he was just seconds away from just coming undone and you hadn’t even done anything except tease him and make out.

It was adorable, really.

So you don’t put it in.

Because fuck that.

Scooting down albeit a little awkwardly, you lay on his thighs, looking at him cheekily. Rafayel’s eyes meet yours, and he swallows thickly.

“Silly Rafayel- I think we’re on a first-name basis by now, wouldn’t you agree?” “I…”

You kiss his tip, and he gasps, arching his back off of the couch. “F-uck!”

And how cruel of you, to just grin, pressing your hand down on the soft of his stomach, forcing him to lay down, to hold back his twitching as you tease his dick with your licks and kisses.

He lets out a sharp gasp, his head knocking back against the pillow as your palm presses firm against his stomach, grounding him. His body jerks, instinctively trying to follow every sensation, but you don’t allow it.

“Stay still,” you murmur, voice low and commanding, watching the way he shivers beneath you. His breath is ragged, his chest rising and falling in frantic, uneven movements as he stares down at you with wide, desperate eyes.

“I—I’m trying,” he whimpers, his fingers twitching against the sheets, like he doesn’t know whether to grab onto you or tear them apart.

You smirk, dragging your nails lightly down his stomach, watching as his muscles jump under your touch. “Trying isn’t doing, fishie.”

Rafayel whines, head tilting to the side, but he obeys—barely. His tail thrashes behind him, his fingers gripping the sheets so hard his knuckles pale, his whole body trembling with the effort of not moving, of letting you take control.

“Good boy,” you praise, and the way he shudders—gods, it’s almost enough to make you lose your patience. Almost.

Taking him into your mouth, you hollow your cheeks, letting out a moan as your spit all but covers his shaft.

“F-fuck, fuck, fuck- I’m, o-oh!”

You had started to pump him in your hand as you worshiped his tip, the sounds of squelching skin too much for his red ears to bear.

“Y/n- oh, g-Y/n, mm-ah!”

A mess. A nasty, lewd, beautiful mess.

Rafayel was trembling, panting, his skin glistening with sweat, his body writhing despite his best efforts to obey. His hands fisted in the sheets, his knuckles turning white as he tried, tried so hard to stay still like you told him. But the pleasure was too much—too overwhelming, too intoxicating—and he was losing himself to it, drowning in sensation.

His chest heaved with every ragged breath, his lips parted, wet and swollen from all his whimpering and moaning. His lavender hair stuck to his forehead in damp strands, his legs twitching and thrumming, seeking something to hold onto, anything to ground him.

"P-please," he choked out, his voice cracking, desperate, needy. His body arched again, barely able to contain himself, his fingers twitching like they wanted to grab you, to pull you closer, to make you move faster.

But you pull off of his dick completely, your lips connected to him with a string of spit before you wipe it off with the back of your hand. You grab his tip again, pressing your thumb into the pretty slit as you look at him. “God, I just wanna eat you up when you’re like this. Can I? Can you beg f’me pretty boy? C’mon, beg f’me.”

And now the Lemurian is just reduced to nothing but his own spit and tears, his cock pitifully hard and angry as he helplessly tried to get some kind of friction. But Rafayel wouldn’t beg anymore, oh no. He had said ‘please’ far too many times for his tastes.

But when he reached to grab his length to give himself some semblance of relief, he cried out; you had swatted his hand away.

“Gods- what the he- mmph!”

You were quick to fix yourself over him, delighting in the way his breath hitched.

The plummet was a slow one.

Whether to tease him or to enjoy yourself, you didn’t know. Maybe both. His angry tip kissed your folds, and that alone had him squirming- as if he wasn’t already, though.

“Steady, Raf’. Be a good boy, yeah?” “I- y-yeah, yeah, I’m a good boy,”

He of course, would never in the right state of mind call himself that, but god did he need it. So you sink down, gasping as he fills you up, the odd ridges of his cock against your walls making you nearly melt. Because how.

It’s like the fish-for-brain’s dick was designed to fill you. What could you compare it to….

It wasn’t fat or anything, not super super long..-

A knot? Yeah. But not exactly.

As soon as you bottomed out, he threw his head back, gasping like it was too much. Okay, it was too much. But you’re helping him!

“Fuck- are all Lemurians like this, pretty boy?”

He doesn’t answer, his grip on the fat of your hips almost bruising. You start to move, rolling your hips to really get that motion

Up and down, up and down, up and down. His eyes were bleary, pretty and swollen from his tears, the pink almost matching his sore nipples. He’s grabbing onto you anywhere he could- your thighs, your tummy, your chest, your hips or waist… he just couldn’t ground himself!

“Y/n, oh gods, please, please- more-” You don’t answer, suddenly too focused on reaching a high, pretty lips forming a cute lil ‘o’ in surprise.

Your surprise gives way to him finally able to take some semblance of control, hips bucking up into you like a wild animal. He kinda was a wild animal.

“I-i need to- I’m sorry, ‘m sorry cutie, ‘m sorry miss body guard, ‘m sorry Y/-”

Your lips slam onto his again in a teeth-clashing kiss, letting him chase his high too as it suddenly dawned on you that you weren’t gonna last like you thought you would. The sound of skin slapping on skin, the lewd squelches, and fuck, the taste of him- it was simply too much!

Sucking his tongue, he mewls into your mouth, and you swallow his pretty moans.

And you both come early. There was no warning, or no warning you paid attention to, when he suddenly started bucking his hips faster, his cock dragging and kissin’, dragging and kissin’ all along your pretty pussy walls and shooting straight to your womb.

“Rafayel- mmph!”

It happens fast, how he flips you over to be the one laying on your back, hovering over you while he cries pathetically about how sorry he was for finishing inside, kissing your forehead, gasping for breath before ultimately falling over you, collapsing.

***

The room is quiet now, save for the low hum of the A.C. and the steady rhythm of Rafayel’s breathing. His body is slack against the sheets, his chest rising and falling in the aftermath, completely spent. His lavender hair is a tousled mess against the pillow, damp strands sticking to his flushed skin.

You huff out a breath, watching him. He’s knocked out, utterly exhausted—but at least his ache has been alleviated. Finally.

Rolling onto your side, you brush a few strands of hair away from his face. He looks peaceful now, the tension that had wracked his body completely melted away.

You let out a soft chuckle, pressing a fleeting kiss to his temple before stretching out with a satisfied sigh.

You’d let him sleep.

Gods know he needed it.

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