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mephisto-reporting · 4 months ago

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Hearbreak Anniversary with Rafayel

Summary: It was your anniversary with Rafayel. One year of togetherness. But what if he does not show up when you expect him to? What if he was spending it with MC? Pairing: Non MC! Reader x Rafayel Note: MC in this fic goes by the name Lina (my name... so if you are angry, you can be angry at me :3). This oneshot was based on this request. I will write this for the other LADS men too. Content Warning: Fear of abandonment, self worth issues, angst, hurt and slight comfort, Rafayel grovelling, Rafayel POV

Rafayel version | Zayne version | Sylus version

The soft glow of the sunset filtered through the gauzy curtains of Rafayel’s studio, painting the space in warm hues of gold and orange. The place smelled faintly of him—a mix of turpentine, salt, and the faint trace of his cologne. You had spent hours here today, your hands busy arranging the decorations you’d so carefully prepared for this special occasion. Sea shells, shimmering like iridescent pearls, lined the edges of the room, their opalescent beauty a nod to the ocean he once called home. Candles flickered softly on every surface, their flames dancing to an unseen rhythm. You’d even managed to find strands of silken seaweed and glass ornaments, hoping to evoke the beauty of his heritage, the beauty of him.

Every corner of his art studio had been dusted, tidied, and then transformed with touches of magic, warmth, and care. You even placed the tiny trinkets and mementos you had kept from your shared moments—little souvenirs from your adventures together, knickknacks that held meaning between the two of you. You wanted him to feel at home, to feel the same sense of belonging that you had with him. You even wore your best clothes, the ones he had once complimented.

Today was your first anniversary. The thought alone sent your heart fluttering, and you’d poured all that love into this space, into this moment.

A few months ago he had told you this was just another day for him. A god’s sense of time was different, fleeting, perhaps even insignificant. But to you, it meant everything. It was a celebration of love that had somehow defied the odds—of a mortal heart tangled with one belonging to something far greater. So you ignored the whispering doubts that crept into the back of your mind, choosing instead to focus on trust. Rafayel had chosen you, not her. No matter how many stories tied them together, no matter the whispered inevitability of their connection, he had assured you. It was you he loved now.

But as the hours passed, that fragile trust began to tremble.

You sat in the chair by the window, smoothing down the dress you’d picked especially for today. Time crawled. The soft golden light of day gave way to a dark, yawning sky, and still, Rafayel didn’t come home. The anniversary dinner, meticulously prepared and carefully plated, sat untouched on the table. Each tick of the clock became a cruel reminder of his absence.

Worry gnawed at you. What if something had happened to him? Perhaps the art sale ran late, or he was caught up with his patrons. But he always came back home, right?

Your heart twisted as you reached for your phone, dialing a number you didn’t want to use but needed to.

“Thomas?” you asked hesitantly, your voice trembling.

“Oh, hey,” Rafayel’s manager greeted casually. “Everything okay?”

“Is Rafayel still at the sale?” You tried to keep the panic from seeping into your tone, but the silence on the other end was damning.

“Uh… no, he left hours ago. Said he was going to grab dinner. Lina was with him.”

Your grip tightened on the phone, your knuckles turning white.

Lina.

The name struck like a knife.

“Thanks, Thomas,” you whispered, hanging up before he could ask anything more.

You sat there, staring at the flickering candles, their light casting long shadows across the studio walls. He was with Lina. On your anniversary. You had trusted him, convinced yourself that you were enough despite the insecurities that had clawed at your heart since the day you met him.

But now, they came roaring to life.

You had known, of course, who Lina was. She was the one linked to the sea god, his past, his history—his heart. You tried not to let it affect you, tried to bury the insecurities that rose whenever she came up in conversation. Rafayel always assured you there was nothing between them. But then why was he with her, of all people, on your anniversary?

Tears blurred your vision as your chest tightened painfully. Lina.

She was everything you were not. Strong, beautiful, a part of Rafayel’s past, his first love. How could you compete with that? How could you compete with someone who had shared so much more with him, someone whose bond with him was carved in the very fabric of his existence? She was a part of him, woven into the his story, while you were… just someone who had stumbled into his life, someone insignificant in comparison.

Lina... The woman who was forever tied to his past. The sea god's bride. The one he’d loved for so long, the one who had always been there, time after time. You had told yourself, time and time again, that it was nothing. That Rafayel was different with you. He had assured you that there was nothing between them anymore.

But if it’s nothing, why is he with her now? On our day.

Your fingers trembled as you held the phone to your ear, but you couldn’t even bring yourself to ask any more questions. The answers were irrelevant now. His absence, her presence, they were all you needed to know.

Tears pooled at the edges of your vision before spilling over, streaking your face like tiny rivers tracing paths through dusted cheeks. It wasn’t fair. Nothing felt fair. He had promised you. He had promised. But promises were like ocean tides, weren’t they? Sweeping away whatever they could, leaving only bits of broken shells behind.

Lina was everything you could never be. She was strong, beautiful, powerful—everything that Rafayel deserved. She had the sea god’s heart, had always had it, and here you were, just a fleeting ripple on the surface, barely a mark to him. She was woven into the fabric of his past, his future. What are you to him? What have you ever been?

The memories of your relationship, the quiet moments of closeness, the laughter shared under the soft, flickering light of his candles, all those moments seemed so... fragile now. Fragile and fleeting. You were nobody. Just a distraction, a place holder. Nothing more.

You stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor like the scratch of claws on stone. The studio, his studio, filled with remnants of him, was suffocating. His scent lingered in the air, the faint trace of his cologne mixing with the oils and paints scattered everywhere. His taste still clung to your lips from the last time you’d kissed him, the memories of his touch branded into your skin. It was all too much. Too much. The studio, so full of him, was now a suffocating reminder of what you had lost. You didn’t want to stay. You couldn’t.

You tried to hold the tears back, but it was useless. Every doubt, every fear you’d bottled up over the months came crashing down, drowning you in their suffocating weight.

This wasn’t love. This was a cruel game, one you couldn’t win.

You couldn’t breathe. You had to get out.

Your legs moved before your mind could catch up, carrying you toward the door. The wind hit your face the moment you stepped outside, cool and biting, but it wasn’t enough to quell the storm raging inside you.

You ran.

The streets blurred into one indistinct smear of light and shadow as you ran aimlessly, your feet pounding against the pavement, carrying you farther and farther from that studio. From him.

Eventually, the pavement gave way to sand, and the sharp tang of the ocean filled the air. The moon hung high above, casting a silver glow over the beach. Your chest heaved, your lungs burning as you collapsed onto the sand, letting the waves crash against the shore in a soothing rhythm that mocked your turmoil. You kept running, further and further away from whitesand bay, along the beach.

You stumbled, falling to your knees in the sand, clutching your arms around yourself. Your chest heaved as the tears fell freely, the sound of the ocean mixing with your sobs. Lina. You could picture them together, her hand in his, the same way they had been for so many years before you. The seagulls cried above you, indifferent to your pain. And in that moment, you realized that the world didn’t stop for you. It never had. You stared out at the endless sea, the dark horizon stretching in front of you.

How could I have been so blind?

The waves crashed against the shore, each one louder than the last. You are nothing to him. The thought echoed in your mind over and over, relentless, until you could barely breathe under the weight of it.

And just when you thought the world couldn’t get any colder, the tears started again. They fell freely now, salt mixing with the salt of the sea.

You had wanted to be enough. But maybe that was a joke after all. But even as your body trembled with the weight of the heartbreak, you knew one thing: You could never go back. Not to him, not to that studio, not to any of it. You were just a wave, crashing onto the shore, and he was the sea god.

The night wrapped itself around you like a suffocating blanket. The cold air bit into your skin, but it wasn’t enough to numb the ache clawing at your chest. Each crashing wave seemed to echo the bitter truth you couldn’t escape: you were never going to be enough for him. You curled tighter into yourself, trembling as the tears continued to flow. The sand clung to your dress, to your damp hands, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. The world had narrowed to the storm raging inside you—a tempest of betrayal, doubt, and misery.

The sharp chill of the ocean breeze whipped your hair against your tear-streaked face, but it was nothing compared to the icy grip of despair coiling around your heart. Every promise he’d made, every word of reassurance, felt like shards of glass now, cutting into the fragile hope you’d built. The waves surged closer, the cold spray dotting your skin. Your sobs mixed with the crashing tide, swallowed up by the vast, indifferent sea.

You hugged yourself tightly, your body shaking as the cold seeped deeper into your bones. Yet, you stayed there, rooted to the spot, as if the ocean could somehow wash away the ache inside you. But no wave could reach that far, no tide could touch the place where your heart ached. You wanted to scream, to shout at the world for the injustice of it all, but the air in your lungs wouldn’t let you. You were too small for this world, too insignificant for him. You would never be the sea. You were just a small wave, lost in the expanse of the tide.

Rafayel’s POV

The door to the studio swung open, and Rafayel stepped inside, laughter trailing after him. “You should’ve seen the look on that shopkeeper’s face when I said we’d take both cakes,” he said, his voice warm and light. He turned to Lina, who chuckled softly as she followed him, holding one of the carefully boxed pastries. “He probably thought we were insane.”

Rafayel kicked the door shut behind him, balancing his own box of confections, his grin still in place. “I can’t wait to see my cutie’s face when she tries these. She’s going to love them.”

But the moment his gaze swept across the room, his laughter faltered and then stopped entirely.

The studio was transformed. Soft candlelight flickered, casting golden hues across the walls. Seashells glimmered like scattered pearls, carefully arranged along the edges of the space. Strands of delicate seaweed draped like garlands, their green silkiness catching the light. Trinkets, small but unmistakably meaningful, dotted the surfaces—each one an ode to moments he had shared with you. The table was set with plates of untouched food, lovingly prepared, and the air held a faint, tantalizing aroma that now felt unbearably heavy.

He froze, the pastry box slipping slightly in his grip. His throat tightened as his eyes roved over every detail, taking in the love and care you had poured into the space. The decorations, the mementos, the effort—it was overwhelming.

“Rafayel?” Lina’s voice broke through the silence. She stepped forward, her brows knitting in concern. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” His voice cracked, and he set the box down on the nearest surface with trembling hands. “I fucked up,” he whispered, barely audible. His fingers grazed one of the seashells, its surface smooth and cool. He trailed his hand over a string of seaweed, the soft texture almost mocking him. “I fucked up bad.”

Lina’s concern deepened. “What are you talking about?”

Rafayel turned toward her, his expression stricken. “The anniversary. Our anniversary. It slipped my mind.” His voice was a low, shaky whisper as he glanced back at the table, the untouched plates, the flickering candles. “She did all of this… for me. For us.”

He called out your name, his voice echoing through the space. “Are you here? Cutie?” His steps quickened as he moved through the studio, searching. The bathroom. The bedroom. The small corner where you sometimes curled up to read. “Are you asleep?” he called, though he knew better. Each empty room was another blow to his gut.

Panic clawed at him as he returned to the main room, his gaze darting to the table again, the small trinkets, the soft glow of candles still burning. The room felt haunted, filled with the ghost of your hope and effort.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair, gripping it tightly. He grabbed his phone and immediately dialed Thomas.

“Thomas, did she—did she say anything to you? Did she mention where she might go?” Rafayel’s voice was taut with desperation.

Thomas hesitated. “She called me earlier. She asked if you were still at the sale. That’s all she said.”

The weight of Thomas’s words slammed into Rafayel like a wave. You’d called, searching for him, only to learn the truth he had tried to ignore. It had slipped his mind completely. He didn’t know you were setting all of this up. For him. For the both of you.

“Thanks,” Rafayel muttered, ending the call and immediately dialing your number. He paced the studio, his heart racing as the line rang once… twice… three times—

And then he heard it. The faint buzz of your phone, abandoned on the sofa near the window.

“Shit!” Rafayel cursed, grabbing the device and staring at the darkened screen as if it could offer him answers. “Shit, shit, shit!”

He collapsed onto the chair you had once sat in, his head in his hands. Where were you? His gaze drifted to the table again, the untouched dinner, the carefully arranged decorations.

How could he have been so blind? So careless? You had given him everything, and he… he had been too wrapped up in himself, too foolish to see what truly mattered.

Lina hesitated before taking a few careful steps toward Rafayel, watching his every move with growing concern. She’d never seen him like this before. His usual confident, almost cocky demeanor had vanished, leaving only raw distress in its place. He sat slumped in the chair, his phone clutched tightly in his hands, his chest rising and falling with each shaky breath.

"Rafayel..." she began softly, her voice gentle but concerned. "What’s going on? What happened?"

Her hand brushed against his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him, but the instant her fingers made contact with his skin, he flinched as though struck. His body jerked back, his eyes flashing with something wild—something dangerous. His eyes, usually a mischievous swirl of pink and blue, flared into a startling, unearthly bright blue before he clenched them shut, his jaw tightening.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice hoarse as he pulled away, his fists curling. “Lina, I—sorry. I didn’t mean to—” He forced himself to inhale deeply, reigning in his emotions as the scales receded and his eyes returned to their usual hue. “I’m fine,” he lied, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. “I just... I need to find her.”

Lina’s hand hovered uncertainly before falling back to her side. “Rafayel,” she began gently, “her phone’s here. Her purse. Even her car keys. Where could she have gone?”

“I don’t know,” he snapped, the sharpness in his voice born of self-directed frustration. “And that’s what’s driving me insane.” He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots as if the pain could ground him. “She’s out there somewhere, without her coat, without her phone... and it’s freezing tonight.”

Lina straightened, crossing her arms. “Then let me help—”

“No.” His interruption was immediate, his tone brooking no argument. He turned to her, his expression pained but resolute. “This is my fault. I need to fix this myself.”

“But—”

“Please, Lina,” he cut in, softer this time. “If she’s out there, you’ll hear from me. Just… if you see her, let me know. But I have to do this alone.”

After a long, hesitant pause, Lina relented, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Fine. But don’t do anything reckless. I’ll keep my eyes open and let you know if I find anything.”

Rafayel nodded, murmuring his thanks before grabbing his coat and storming out into the night.

The cold air bit at his face as he ran through the streets, his breath forming short puffs in the frigid night. He clutched his phone tightly, the screen glowing as he swiped to a recent photo of you, showing it to every passerby he stopped.

“Have you seen her?” he asked a bewildered man on the corner. “This woman? Please—it’s urgent.”

The man shook his head, muttering an apology before hurrying off. Rafayel grit his teeth, suppressing the wave of panic threatening to consume him. Where are you?

The thought repeated like a drumbeat as he made his way to the beach. The icy wind off the water made him shiver, but he pressed forward, searching desperately. He called your neighbor, pacing along the shoreline as he waited for an answer.

The voice on the other end was soft, a little worried. “No... the lights are off. The door’s locked. I haven’t seen her since this afternoon.”

His heart skipped a beat, the silence that followed pressing like a weight on his chest. Where were you? Where could you have gone? You were working so hard fore him, for the both of you since the afternoon and he wasn’t even there to experience it with you together. He could imagine it, the smile on your face as you placed those shells, the excitement in your movements as you cooked his favorite food. His eyes darted to the horizon, a dark line of water stretching out before him, and his legs moved faster, pushing him toward the shore, toward the place where you sometimes went to escape.

The beach was empty when he arrived, the wind biting at his skin, the waves crashing softly against the sand. He scanned the shoreline, dread filling him as he searched. There was no sign of you, but his heart refused to let go of the hope that you might be here.

He walked for what felt like hours, the weight of the cold creeping into his bones as the night deepened. The autumn air turned chillier, the first hints of winter brushing against his skin. You hadn’t taken your coat. You hadn’t taken anything. What was he thinking? You’d never leave without saying something. So why was he—

His breath hitched as his gaze landed on something ahead. A small lump on the sand.

His heart stopped, the world narrowing down to that single, fragile form crumpled against the cold ground.

“No!” he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. He ran towards you, his legs moving faster than they ever had before, fear propelling him forward. His feet barely touching the ground as he pushed forward, his every step frantic. He reached you within seconds, his pulse hammering in his ears. He knelt beside you, his hands trembling as he gently touched your shoulder.

“Cutie?” he called, his voice cracking. His knees hit the sand as he reached you, and his heart twisted painfully at the sight. You were curled in on yourself, your arms hugging your knees, your face hidden. Tear tracks glistened on your cheeks, even in the dim moonlight, and your body trembled from the cold.

“Shit,” Rafayel hissed, his voice barely a whisper as panic surged again. You were cold, so cold. Damp from the wet sand, your skin pale as if the very life had been drained from you. He pulled off his jacket, draping it around you as gently as he could, his hands still shaking.

Why didn’t I see it? Why didn’t I see how badly she needed me?

He slid his arms around you, his heart aching as he pulled you into his lap, cradling you as though you might break into a thousand pieces. He brushed the strands of hair from your face, his thumb gently caressing your cheek as he whispered your name over and over, praying that you would wake up. That you would hear him. “Fuck,” he breathed, feeling a wave of guilt crash over him. “What did I do? What the hell did I do…”

But he couldn’t. Not now. Now, all he could do was hold you, his arms wrapping around you protectively as he rocked gently, trying to warm you, trying to make everything okay.

“I’m here, okay? I’m here. I’m so sorry, cutie.” he whispered, his voice breaking. His mind raced, but nothing could erase the hollow ache in his chest. The thought of losing you, of failing you—he couldn’t bear it. He wouldn’t. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, the words tumbling from him like a confession he had never intended to make. “I’m so sorry. I fucked up. I messed this up, I—I’m here now.”

He clutched you tighter, trembling with the weight of his regret. The wind cut through the beach, but he barely noticed, too consumed by the sight of you—so still, so fragile, in his arms. His mind raced, scrambling for something, anything, to fix this

Your eyes fluttered open weakly, barely meeting his. You were too exhausted to respond, your body utterly spent.

“Hey,” he whispered, his voice unsteady as he gently tucked his coat tighter around you. “I’ve got you. I’m so sorry.” His thumb brushed the tear-streaked curve of your cheek, his chest aching at the evidence of your heartbreak. “You shouldn’t be out here. It’s too cold...not like this. Not alone,” Rafayel murmured, his voice thick with emotion. His hands trembled as he tried to warm you, his arms sheltering you from the relentless chill of the wind. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve—” He broke off, his throat tightening painfully. Words felt so useless now, but he couldn’t stop them. He needed you to know. “I’m the biggest idiot in the world. I forgot something so important, something that should’ve been at the center of my mind.” His arms slipped beneath you, lifting you effortlessly despite your protests—if there were any.

Your lips moved faintly, but the sound was lost in the cold wind. He leaned closer, his ear near your mouth. “What is it? I’m here. Please... say something.”

“I thought... maybe you'd care,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. The words struck him harder than any physical blow ever could. He felt the sting in his chest, his breath hitching as guilt twisted the knife deeper.

“I do care!” he exclaimed, his voice desperate. “More than anything. I was just... I was so caught up in everything else, and I—I didn’t realize how much you needed me. How much you’ve always been there for me. I messed up, cutie. I know I did.”

You shivered against him, and he shifted to shield you better from the biting wind. “Let me take you home,” he pleaded, his voice softer now. “We’ll fix this. I’ll fix this. I’ll make it right, I swear.”

For a long moment, you didn’t respond, and his heart hammered in his chest. Finally, you gave the faintest of nods, your head resting against his chest. You shivered in his arms, your eyes fluttering shut again, too drained to muster a response. Panic surged in Rafayel as he felt how cold your skin was against his. He shifted, standing with you carefully cradled in his arms, his coat wrapped tightly around you.

“Hey, hey, stay with me,” he pleaded, his voice urgent but soft. “I need you to hold on, okay? Just a little longer. Let’s get you somewhere warm.” He pressed his cheek to your temple for a moment, as though the simple touch might reassure you—and himself—that you were still here with him.

Rafayel didn’t waste a second. He scooped you up gently, careful not to jostle you. The warmth of his jacket wrapped around your frame and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat seemed to soothe some of the tension in your body. He murmured quiet reassurances as he carried you, his voice a constant presence in the cold, empty night. His normally cocky demeanor had shattered into shards of raw vulnerability, replaced by a frantic urgency to get you home—his home. Your breathing was shallow, your limbs slack in his hold, and every uneven step he took felt like walking a tightrope with everything he valued most precariously balanced in his grasp. He adjusted his hold, cradling you tighter against his chest. “Look, I know I’m an idiot sometimes. Fine, most of the time,” he admitted, his words a jumble of nervous energy and shaky humor. “But this isn’t the time to prove me wrong, alright? Just hang on a little longer. I’m taking you home.”

By the time you reached the studio, the candlelight had dimmed, but the room still held the warmth of the love you had poured into it. Rafayel carried you inside. By the time he reached the threshold of his room, his shirt clung to him, drenched from sweat and your tears. He nudged the door open with his shoulder, careful not to jostle you, and hurried inside.

The room was cold and dimly lit, the heater long dormant. He set you down on the bed, fumbling with the blankets to cocoon you in their warmth. Your body trembled, and his chest constricted as he watched you stir faintly before slipping deeper into unconsciousness.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, barely audible at first, as if the walls themselves might condemn him. Then louder, more desperate, his voice cracking. “I’m so damn sorry. I was stupid—so, so stupid. I should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve kept you safe. Should’ve—” He stopped himself, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek to stifle the sob building in his throat. His eyes flickered between his usual hues and that unearthly blue every now and then.

His hands hovered over your face, fingers trembling as he brushed damp strands of hair from your skin. “You’re too good for me, you know that? Too good for someone who screws up as much as I do. But I promise—” His voice broke, the words spilling out in a frenzied rush. “I promise I’ll make it up to you. Il love you, cutie. I love you so much.” And then, because even in his rawest moments he couldn’t help himself, he added with a weak, self-deprecating chuckle, “I am lucky I’m this charming, or I don’t think you’d ever put up with me.”

He turned on the heater, pacing back and forth as he muttered under his breath, berating himself in every way he could think of, his brattiness peeking through as he cursed the broken world that had led to this moment. He glanced at you repeatedly, as if reassuring himself you hadn’t vanished, that you hadn’t slipped through his fingers.

When you stirred, your eyelids fluttering open, he froze mid-step. His usual confident smirk was gone, replaced by wide, guilt-stricken eyes. “You’re awake,” he blurted, his voice filled with relief but tinged with apprehension. “I know I screwed up,” he admitted quietly, his lips brushing against your temple. “But—seriously, who let you do this to yourself, huh? Oh wait, that’s me. Fantastic job, Rafayel. Bravo.” He huffed out a shaky laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, sitting at your bedside. The words spilled out before he could stop them, over and over again. “I’m so, so sorry. This—this isn’t how it was supposed to go. You’re supposed to be mad at me, not like this. Not…” His voice cracked, and he scrubbed a hand down his face, frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

Then, almost instinctively, the mask of bravado slipped back into place. “But, hey, look at you, stealing my bed like it’s your right. I mean, sure, I offered, but still.” His smirk faltered, his voice softening. “You better not make a habit of this, you know? Making me worry this much.”

You shifted, your eyelids fluttering completely open, and the sight of your weary gaze meeting his nearly unraveled him.

“Raf?” Your voice was weak, barely audible, but it was enough to snap him upright.

“Hey, you’re awake!” He forced a grin, though it couldn’t hide the guilt pooling in his eyes. “Good, because I was just about to start serenading you with an apology song. Don’t ask for a refund… the lyrics are terrible.”

You tried to sit up, but he was on you in an instant, gently pressing you back down. “Whoa, whoa, no sudden moves, alright? Just... stay put for once. Let me handle it for a change.”

"Handle what?" you asked, your voice edged with exhaustion and confusion.

His grin wavered, giving way to something more honest, more afraid. “Everything. All of it. I... I screwed up, okay? I’m the idiot who let you get like this, who didn’t see—who didn’t stop—” His words tangled, and he exhaled sharply. “I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry, and I’ll keep saying it until you believe me. Or, you know, until you tell me to shut up. Whichever comes first.”

Your lashes fluttered weakly again, and a barely audible sound escaped your lips. “...Rafayel...?”

His heart soared and broke all at once at the sound of your voice. “I’m here,” he said quickly, leaning closer so you could hear him clearly. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

Tears welled in his eyes as you looked up at him, your gaze heavy with exhaustion and something he couldn’t quite name—hurt, maybe, or disappointment. It cut him deeper than any blade ever could.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice a choked whisper. “I know that doesn’t fix this, but I swear, I’ll spend every moment making it up to you if you let me.”

For a moment, silence hung between you, broken only by the hum of the heater and the soft whistle of the wind outside. Finally, you whispered, your voice trembling, “I waited...”

“I know,” he whispered, his tears falling freely now. “You shouldn’t have had to. You deserve better than that, better than me—but I’m begging you, please give me another chance. Don’t give up on me yet.”

Finally, your voice, though weak, broke the quiet. “You forgot... something that meant so much to me.”

Rafayel’s throat tightened, but he nodded, accepting your words. “I know. And I’ll spend as long as it takes to make it up to you. I’ll show you how much you mean to me. I love you,” he whispered against your skin, the words soft but raw with sincerity. “More than anything. More than I can even say. I don’t deserve you, but… please, let me try. Let me make it up to you.”

“Don’t leave me,” he repeated, his voice a breathless whisper, “Not like this.” His voice cracked on the last word, and for a moment, you could see the mask slip—just for a second. Rafayel was scared. Scared of losing you. Scared of failing you. It was the one thing he had never let you see, the one thing he kept locked away in the deep recesses of his heart, but now, it was clear as day.

As you looked at him, something shifted between the two of you—an understanding, perhaps. You could see his desperation, the way he clung to the edges of his composure, trying to hide the vulnerability he never allowed anyone to witness.

I thought... I thought this was everything I could give. Everything I could be..." your own voice cracking.

He shook his head again, his grip never loosening. “You’re so much more than all of this. I’ve been blind, cutie. And now I can see it—see you.” He gently cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks as if to erase every doubt that had taken root there. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for making you feel invisible.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, the tears still staining your face, but the weight of his words was a strange kind of relief. He was here. He saw you now. The storm of emotions inside you hadn’t dissipated, but his presence, the raw sincerity in his voice, made you feel something close to safety.

Rafayel kissed your forehead softly, the gentle pressure of his lips a tender promise. “I’m here, cutie. And I’ll do everything I can to make this right. You won’t feel invisible again.”

You nodded slowly, the tears still flowing, but there was a flicker of hope, however faint. "Just... don't forget again," you whispered.

“I won’t,” he promised, his voice firm, but his eyes were full of vulnerability. "I won’t. Never again."

You didn’t respond immediately, your eyes closing as if you were too weary to respond. But when Rafayel reached for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours, a faint squeeze answered him. It wasn’t forgiveness, not yet, but it was enough—a thread of hope that he clung to with everything he had. For now, you didn’t pull away, and that was a start.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

Rafayel version | Zayne version | Sylus version

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ughbrie · 1 month ago

Text

anchored to you | rafayel

⤜ ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ- You rolled your eyes. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Am I?” he mused, his voice lilting, coaxing—so effortlessly familiar. “You wound me, Miss Bodyguard. Here I was, trying to paint a masterpiece, thinking of you after an agonizing week apart, only to check my notifications and find you, in the dead of night no less, liking another man’s post. Truly, a betrayal of the highest order.”

“Thomas is your agent.”

“Doesn’t change the facts.”

You sighed again, but this time, it was laced with amusement. “You know what? I’m coming over.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, sharper now— “What?”

(Or... at 3:30 AM, Rafayel calls about you liking Thomas’ post. You know him far too well to believe that’s all it is. So you go to him, finding him amidst half-finished paintings and restless emotions, teetering between wanting space and needing you too much.)

⤜ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ- rafayel x female reader

⤜ ɢᴇɴʀᴇ- smut & fluff

⤜ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ- 10.5k words

⤜ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ (or tags)- nsfw, mdni, no use of y/n, use of pet names (cutie & miss bodyguard), dom!rafayel, jealous!rafayel, themes of codependency and insecure feelings, references to rafayel's limited five star memory (intertidal zone) and bond story (nightly stroll), angst (slight-ish), possessive behavior, making out, clit play, mutual masturbation, cum marking, overstimulation, penetration (p in v), dirty talk, unprotected sex, marking (biting), creampie, mentions of ownership, and aftercare.

⤜ ɴᴏᴛᴇ- I've always wanted to write about that one time in the game when Rafayel called MC (us) early in the morning just because she (we) liked one of Thomas’ posts—but, of course, with a little more plot. Hope you enjoy!

The quiet hum of the city at 3:30 AM was a stark contrast to the sharp vibration of your phone on the nightstand. You blinked, momentarily disoriented, your screen casting a cool glow over your hands as you stared at the caller ID.

Rafayel.

Bringing the phone to your ear, you barely got a word out before Rafayel’s voice came through, low and unmistakably petulant.

“At 3:30 AM, four hours after you said goodnight to me, you liked Thomas’ post. Instead of, like, sending me a message.”

There was a slight pause, just long enough for you to picture the way he must look right now—sprawled out somewhere, his dusky purple hair a tousled mess, one hand probably still holding his paintbrush, the other curled around his phone. His voice was smooth, casual even, but you caught the edge beneath it, the restless undercurrent of something deeper.

“Rafayel—” you sighed, rubbing at your temple, but he cut in before you could finish.

You had only just liked a post. A simple tap of your finger on Thomas’ latest Moment, barely even thinking about it. But somehow, that was enough.

“Is this what you do when you can’t sleep, cutie? Scroll through posts and ignore me?” His words were lighthearted, teasing, but that wasn’t all there was to it.

You knew him well enough by now—there was a reason he called, and it wasn’t just to complain about a liked post. It was the same reason he always asked you to update him, the same reason his messages came at odd hours, checking in without outright saying he needed to. He wouldn’t ask for reassurance, not directly. Instead, he’d do this—wrap himself in playful irritation, hide behind his usual theatrics, and hope you’d read between the lines.

And you did.

But it had been a week since you last saw him—because he asked you not to visit, claiming you were too distracting. “Cutie, if you’re here, how am I supposed to suffer properly for my art?” he’d said, all dramatic sighs and faux despair. “What if I forget to be miserable and start painting you instead?”

You had laughed, indulged him, and then you had listened. Given him the space he asked for. But now, with his name flashing across your screen at 3:30 AM, his silence stretching between you like a thread pulled too thin, you wondered if that had been the right choice.

Shaking your head, you drew in a slow breath and let a small smile tug at your lips, even though he couldn’t see it. “I didn’t think you’d still be awake.”

“I was trying to paint,” Rafayel admitted, his voice carrying the faintest hint of exasperation. “But then my phone buzzed, and—what do you know? Turns out I am capable of being abandoned and creatively drained at the same time. Tragic, isn’t it?”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Thomas is your agent.”

“Doesn’t change the facts.”

You sighed again, but this time, it was laced with amusement. “You know what? I’m coming over.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, sharper now— “What?”

“You’re still in your studio, aren’t you?”

“That’s not the point. It’s late.”

“Exactly. And now you’ve got me wide awake.” You sat up, already reaching for your sweater. “Besides, if you’re going to whine about being abandoned, I might as well do something about it.”

“Cutie.” His tone was suddenly more serious. “It’s dangerous.”

“I’m a Hunter, Rafayel. I deal with Wanderers. I can handle myself.”

“That’s not—” He exhaled, as if weighing whether to argue, but he must’ve known it wouldn’t change anything.

“Cutie, you’re being reckless,” Rafayel muttered, exasperation slipping into his voice.

“And you’re being difficult,” you shot back. “I’d much rather talk to you in person.”

He let out a sharp breath, like he was running a hand through his hair. “I’ll get angry.��

You smirked, already slipping on your jacket. “Try not to get too angry when I’m there, then.”

A pause. Then, quieter— “You’re impossible.”

But he didn’t tell you not to come.

You pulled a sweater over your head, the soft fabric settling over your shoulders as you slung a small bag across your body. Extra clothes—because you knew this wouldn’t be a short visit. Because you knew, deep down, that appeasing him would take time.

As you grabbed your phone and house keys, it vibrated once. Then again. And again.

Rafayel.

You ignored it for now, slipping out of your apartment and making your way down the quiet hallway. The city outside was still alive, neon lights flickering in puddles from the earlier rain. You stepped through the building’s gate, raising a hand to hail a cab.

Only when you were safely in the backseat, the soft hum of the engine filling the silence, did you finally check your phone.

The next message was just a long, broken string of typed-out ellipses.

Rafayel: dun come

Rafayel: ill get mad

Rafayel: cutie cutie listen to me i mean it

Rafayel: ur so stubborn its insane who raised u like this

Rafayel: if u show up i swear to god ill

You could picture him—pacing in his studio, running a hand through his hair, chewing on his bottom lip as he typed and deleted messages, trying so hard to pretend he didn’t want you there.

Rafayel: fine but im not opening the door

Rafayel: i mean it

Rafayel: its locked

Rafayel: double locked

Rafayel: barricading it rn

You typed back.

Rafayel: go to sleep like a normal person

Rafayel: cutie go home dont test me

Rafayel: actually u know what im turning my phone off

Rafayel: fr

Rafayel: im pressing the button

Rafayel: last chance to stop being reckless

Rafayel: …

Rafayel: wait what r u doing why r u not answering

Rafayel: hello???

Rafayel: ur not actually coming right

Rafayel: right

Rafayel: CUTIE

Try not to trip over all that furniture when you let me in.

The little “typing…” bubble popped up immediately. Then disappeared. Then popped up again.

You smiled.

Rafayel: ????????

Rafayel: EXCUSE ME

Rafayel: who said ur getting in

Rafayel: who said im letting u in

Rafayel: who said ur not gonna get stuck outside FOREVER

A few minutes passed, you were near his studio and once the cab turned onto his street, there he was.

Rafayel stood outside the gate of his studio, arms crossed over his chest, his sharp silhouette carved against the dim glow of the streetlights. His tousled hair, usually a careful kind of mess, was more unkempt tonight—like he’d run his hands through it too many times while pacing. Even from a distance, you could see the way his jaw tensed, the slight furrow of his brows. He looked intimidating. Unapproachable. Like someone who hadn’t just been blowing up your phone with ridiculous messages.

And yet.

Here he was. Outside. Waiting for you.

The cab slowed to a stop in front of the gate, the tires rolling over the uneven pavement with a soft crunch. Before you could even reach for the door handle, Rafayel was already there.

His fingers curled around the handle of the passenger seat, yanking it with a sharp pull—only for it to stay locked. A fleeting scowl crossed his face, irritation flickering in his eyes—like a storm brewing in a sky streaked with rose-colored clouds as he rapped his knuckles against the window, then motioned for the driver to unlock it.

The driver hesitated.

You could see it in the way his grip tightened on the wheel, his gaze shifting to you in the rearview mirror, uncertain. Concerned. And maybe, if you weren’t you—if you didn’t know Rafayel, if you hadn’t memorized the way he carried himself like an unspoken warning, all sharp edges and simmering intensity—you might have felt that hesitation, too.

But you only sighed, already reaching for your bag. “It’s fine,” you reassured the driver, voice steady. “I know him.”

It was only after you placed the bills into his hand that the lock clicked open.

The moment you pushed the door open, you barely had time to step out before Rafayel’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you into a tight embrace. His entire demeanor shifted like a switch had been flipped—gone was the intimidating figure who had been standing outside, waiting with crossed arms and a brooding scowl. Instead, the Rafayel in front of you was warm, playful, the same one who had sent you all those ridiculous messages. His hold on you was firm, pressing you flush against him, his chin resting atop your head like he had been waiting for this the entire time.

“You’re so stubborn,” he muttered, his voice laced with something between exasperation and relief.

You huffed a laugh against his chest. “I thought I was staying outside forever since you barricaded the door?”

Rafayel stilled for a fraction of a second before exhaling sharply, his grip on you tightening just the slightest bit. “Yeah, well,” he drawled, his tone slipping back into something teasing, “I figured you’d just break in anyway.”

You sigh into his arms before he’s leading you towards the entrance of his studio.

Inside, the studio was dimly lit, the scent of paint and turpentine clinging to the air. You had barely stepped in before Rafayel was already leading you deeper into the space, steering you toward the large canvas propped up on an easel. He didn’t give you a chance to bring up the real reason you had come—not his cryptic messages, not the weight in his voice, not the way he had been waiting for you outside despite claiming he wouldn’t let you in.

No, instead, he gestured at the painting, his voice smooth, light, deliberately avoiding whatever had been simmering beneath the surface. “What do you think?”

Your gaze drifted over the painting, but before you could answer, something else caught your eye—the mess surrounding it. Crumpled papers littered the floor, discarded sketches with deep, frustrated lines slashing across them. Streaks of paint smeared over the nearby desk, some dried, some still tacky, as if he had gone through so many iterations, chasing something he couldn’t quite reach.

It wasn’t hard to understand why.

The painting in front of you was unmistakably his—a swirl of haunting beauty, a dreamscape teetering on the edge of something sorrowful. And in the center, hidden within layers of colors that bled into one another, were streaks of red coral. Not just any red coral. The same shade, the same intricate, fractured formations that you had seen in all his works.

Rafayel’s work had always been laced with something more than artistry. It was a requiem, a quiet, painstaking tribute to a world long buried beneath the sand. His people. His home. The Lemurians, slaughtered and scattered, their blood mixing with the ocean until all that remained were these paintings, these desperate fragments of a civilization that humanity had tried to erase.

And yet, standing here, seeing the evidence of his struggle—all those discarded attempts, the restless, feverish way he had chased this image—you knew this one was different.

This wasn’t just another piece to be sold to the highest bidder, another silent form of vengeance wrapped in beauty.

This painting—this one meant something to him.

You exhaled softly, still taking it in. “It’s beautiful.”

The words left you before you even had time to second-guess them. And they weren’t just words—you meant it. This painting was raw in a way that went beyond his usual work, and knowing what he had gone through to reach this version of it only made it more striking.

But as soon as you said it, you felt his gaze on you. Heavy. Unwavering.

You turned to him, and your breath caught at the sight.

His eyes—those pools of blue and pink—were darkened, pupils blown wide, swallowing up the usual sharpness of his gaze. There was a strange kind of intensity there, something unspoken, something restless. Like he was waiting. Like he was memorizing the way you looked as you said those words.

You’d seen him like this before, but it never failed to leave a lingering warmth in your chest, a quiet awareness curling at the edges of your thoughts.

You cleared your throat, trying to steady yourself against the weight of his stare. “So… about that phone call.”

Rafayel blinked once, slow and deliberate, before tilting his head, watching you beneath thick lashes. The studio light caught the pink in his irises, making them gleam like crushed petals under glass. For a moment, he didn’t react, didn’t move, and then—like a tide pulling back—his expression changed.

His lips curled into something languid, lazy. A smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He ran a hand through his already-messy hair, tousling the dusky purple strands even further. “Tch. Here we go.”

You ignored his theatrics, crossing your arms as you leaned against the closest surface. The room still smelled like oil paint and damp canvas. “You sounded—” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “Like you needed me.”

His fingers twitched at his sides.

For just a second, you saw it—the way his breath hitched, the way his eyes flickered, something raw flashing across his face. But then, as quickly as it came, it was gone. His shoulders rolled back, his stance shifting into something looser, deliberately careless. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, cutie. All I remember is telling you not to come and you showing up anyway.”

You arched a brow, tilting your chin. “Oh? So you didn’t mean it when you said you’d get mad?”

He scoffed, casting his gaze aside, suddenly engrossed in the streaks of dried paint staining his fingers. “I was gonna get mad.”

You stepped closer—close enough to catch the faint flush creeping up his ears, close enough to see the way his jaw tensed, just barely. “Then why were you waiting outside for me?”

Silence.

A long, stretching silence.

His tongue swiped over his lips—slow, deliberate, stalling. Then, finally, his eyes lifted to meet yours. Something swam beneath the blue and pink, something unreadable, something fragile.

He exhaled—a breath caught between a sigh and surrender.

“Because you were coming.”

Then, as if realizing the weight of his own admission, he turned away, raking a hand through his hair, mussing it further. “So you came all this way just to nag me? So unromantic, cutie.” His voice was all drawl, all lazy amusement, but beneath it, beneath the teasing, there was something else—something raw, something he didn’t want you to see.

You crossed your arms, unimpressed. “You were the one who called me first.”

“And you were the one who liked some other guy’s post at 3:30 AM.” He shot back without missing a beat, eyes flickering toward you, sharp even in his supposed nonchalance.

You rolled your eyes. “Thomas is not ‘some other guy.’”

“Don’t care.” Rafayel flopped down onto the couch with dramatic flair, draping himself over the cushions like an exhausted cat, arm thrown over his forehead. “What’s done is done. You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

You sighed, gaze drifting past him to the painting still propped on its easel. In the dim studio light, it looked almost alive—the deep reds and ink-dark blues swirling like something dredged up from the ocean’s depths. The scattered, crumpled drafts around it told you everything you needed to know.

“Rafayel.” Your voice was quieter this time, careful.

He didn’t look at you, but his fingers twitched against the couch cushion.

“You don’t have to pretend everything’s fine,” you continued. “I know why you called me. I know why you’re like this.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and weighted. Then, finally, he let out a slow exhale, tilting his head back against the couch, eyes meeting yours.

“Yeah? And what am I like, cutie?” His voice was light, teasing, but you could hear the thread of something else beneath it—something taut, something fraying at the edges. A quiet challenge.

Your gaze didn’t waver. “You’re scared.”

That got him.

His lips parted slightly, breath catching—just for a second—before he covered it up with a slow, lopsided smirk. “Scared? Of what? You?”

“Of me leaving.”

His smirk lingered, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Rafayel didn’t answer right away. His fingers curled into the fabric of the couch, grip tightening for the briefest moment before he forced them to relax. The smirk on his lips wavered—just a fraction—but enough for you to catch it.

Then, with a scoff, he turned his head away, staring somewhere past you, toward the half-finished painting standing in the dim light. “Don’t say stuff like that,” he muttered.

You took a step closer, voice softer now. “It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

His jaw tightened, his throat bobbing in a swallow. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But you could see it—woven into the way his body tensed, the way his hands refused to stay still, fingers tapping restlessly against the couch. You knew him. You knew how he was when he got like this. When he tried to pretend things didn’t bother him, when he played the fool because it was easier than admitting the weight pressing against his ribs.

You sat down beside him, close but not quite touching. “Rafayel.”

Nothing.

You let out a slow breath. “I’m here. You don’t have to act like I’m not.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then, suddenly, he let his body slump sideways, his head dropping against your shoulder in a heavy, boneless motion. His hair tickled your cheek, and his warmth seeped through the fabric of your sweater.

“I don’t like it,” he muttered. His voice was low, muffled against you.

“Don’t like what?”

“You being far.”

Your heart squeezed in your chest. Slowly, carefully, you reached up, brushing your fingers through his hair. He didn’t stop you. If anything, he melted further, like a thread pulled loose.

“I’m not far,” you murmured. “I’m right here.”

He huffed, but it wasn’t his usual theatrical sound of complaint—it was something quieter, something raw. “Still don’t like it.”

His arms moved before you could react, looping around your waist, pulling you in, pulling you against him like you’d disappear the second he let go. His grip wasn’t desperate—but it was firm, certain, stubborn.

You exhaled, smoothing your fingers over the fabric of his shirt, feeling the warmth of him pressed against you. “For the past week, I gave you space,” you murmured. “You said you’d be painting something for an exhibit. That having me around was… distracting.”

Rafayel let out a soft scoff against your shoulder, his grip tightening—like he knew exactly where you were going with this and didn’t like it one bit.

“So I listened,” you continued. “I gave you space. And yet—” you pulled back slightly, just enough to tilt your head and look at him, “—you’re acting like I vanished off the face of the earth.”

His eyes flickered over your face, something restless, unreadable, shifting beneath the surface. Then, with a dramatic sigh, he pulled away, flopping back against the couch.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, cutie,” he drawled, throwing an arm over his eyes like he was shielding himself from a particularly blinding light. “I was doing just fine.”

You raised an eyebrow, gaze flicking pointedly to the chaotic mess of crumpled papers and paint-streaked cloth littering the room. “Yeah. Clearly.”

A pause.

Then—his fingers twitched. A tell.

You caught it—the way his fingers curled slightly, a fraction too tense, like a stray thread barely holding everything together. It was the smallest thing, but with Rafayel, the smallest things always spoke the loudest.

Your gaze softened. “Rafayel.”

His arm remained over his eyes, but his lips twitched—just a little, like he was debating whether to smirk or frown. In the end, he did neither.

Instead, his other hand lifted, reaching blindly for you, fingers curling loosely around your wrist. He didn’t pull you closer. Didn’t say anything. Just held on.

Your chest ached.

“You were doing fine, huh?” you said quietly, shifting so you could properly look at him. “Then why does this look like the aftermath of a war zone?”

Rafayel groaned, finally dragging his arm away from his face to glare at you. “It’s called the creative process, cutie. Not all of us can be effortless masterpieces.”

You snorted, unconvinced. “Right. Creative process. Is that why you sent me a hundred messages at three in the morning?”

He clicked his tongue, clearly about to dodge the question with something absurd, but you squeezed his wrist before he could. The reaction was immediate—his mouth shut, his eyes flickering toward your touch.

For a second, just a second, you saw it again—that restlessness, that hesitation, the war between wanting you close and pretending he didn’t.

Then, quieter, you asked, “You really didn’t want me here?”

His jaw shifted. He looked away, fingers tightening around yours, voice dropping lower. “That’s not—” He exhaled sharply, as if physically forcing himself to swallow down whatever instinct had been his first response. “Don’t twist my words, cutie. You know what I meant.”

You tilted your head, watching him carefully. “You could have just asked me to come by, you know.”

Rafayel’s gaze snapped back to yours, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

“For the past week,” you continued, voice steady, “even when you told me I’d be a distraction… if you really wanted me here, you could have just said so.”

His fingers twitched again, his grip flexing slightly around your wrist. “That’s—” He clicked his tongue, his expression shifting like he was trying to rearrange his thoughts faster than he could say them. “That’s not how it works, cutie.”

You raised an eyebrow. “No? Then how does it work?”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his tousled hair before letting his head loll back against the couch. “I don’t know.” His voice was quieter now, like he hated admitting it. “I don’t know how to want something and not ruin it at the same time.”

Your chest tightened.

It was the closest he had come to saying it outright—that he didn’t just want you here. He needed you here.

And it terrified him.

You sighed, shifting closer, your hand settling over his where it rested on the couch. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t look at you either. His fingers flexed beneath yours, restless.

“I don’t want you to shut me out,” you said, gentle but firm. “Even if I know what you want by now—I still respected what you asked of me. I didn’t come by, I gave you space, because I thought that’s what you needed.” You hesitated, then softer, “Was I wrong?”

A muscle in Rafayel’s jaw twitched. His lips pressed together, something pensive behind his gaze.

Then, with an exhale, he finally looked at you.

“You weren’t wrong,” he murmured. “I thought I needed it too.” He huffed a soft laugh, humorless. “Turns out, I’m just an idiot.”

You smiled faintly. “I wouldn’t say you’re an idiot.”

“Then what would you say?”

You squeezed his hand lightly. “Stubborn. A little dramatic.”

His lips twitched like he wanted to smile, but instead, he only turned his hand over, fingers curling around yours. His thumb brushed idly over your knuckles, contemplative.

“You should’ve just ignored me,” he said after a moment.

You raised an eyebrow. “And let you suffer in silence?”

“I would’ve survived.”

You gave him a look.

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Okay, fine. Maybe I wouldn’t have.” He peeked at you from between his fingers, voice quieter now, more uncertain. “But you still listened to me, didn’t you?”

Something in the way he said it made your stomach twist—not with relief, but with something heavier. Like it hurt him in a way he didn’t know how to put into words. Like it would’ve been easier if you hadn’t.

You held his gaze, steady, unwavering. “I did,” you admitted. “But I would’ve come—if only you asked.”

You exhaled, your fingers tightening around his. “And now I did come, because I knew this wasn’t just about me liking Thomas’ post.”

Rafayel stilled. Just slightly. His hand in yours remained lax, but his grip on your other hand faltered for half a second—like you had struck something he wasn’t prepared for.

Then he scoffed, leaning his head back against the couch, gaze flicking elsewhere. “Obviously. You think I care that much about some dumb post?”

You gave him a pointed look. “You called me over it.”

His mouth opened—then closed. His expression twisted into something begrudging.

“Okay, maybe I cared a little.”

You rolled your eyes. “Rafayel.”

He sighed, rubbing his temple, before finally—finally—meeting your gaze. But he didn’t look teasing now. Didn’t look like the Rafayel who had whined about your stubbornness through text messages or tried to act put out when you showed up at his door.

There was something raw there. A flicker of hesitation, of want, of something he had trouble admitting even now.

“Fine,” he muttered. “It wasn’t just about the post.” His eyes searched yours, voice quiet. “It was about you.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just looked at you. His lips parted like he wanted to speak, but the words hesitated—lingering somewhere between thought and voice.

Then, with a heavy breath, he raked a hand through his tousled hair and dropped his head back against the couch, exhaling sharply through his nose. “You really wanna talk about this, huh?” His voice was light, almost teasing, but there was something else beneath it. Something strained.

You didn’t answer right away. You just held his gaze, waiting.

Rafayel let out a soft, humorless laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “Shit,” he muttered. “I don’t know where to start.”

“Wherever you want,” you said gently.

He was silent for a while. Then, finally, he sat up properly, elbows resting on his knees, fingers lacing together like he was grounding himself. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. Not soft—Rafayel never did soft—but honest.

“I don’t like being alone.” The words came slow, deliberate. His thumb ran idly over his knuckles, a nervous habit you rarely saw from him. “Not really. Not when it’s—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “Whatever. You get it.”

You did.

He exhaled, tilting his head, gaze flickering toward the painting propped up on the easel—the one he had clearly agonized over. “I told you I needed space. That I had to focus, that I—” He scoffed, pressing his fingers to his temple. “But the second you gave it to me, it was like—like something was missing.” His eyes flicked to you, laced with something almost accusing, almost vulnerable. “It was unbearable.”

You swallowed, watching the way his fingers curled, the way his expression twisted between frustration and something he wasn’t sure he wanted to name.

“I kept telling myself it was fine,” he continued, voice rough, like he hated the confession even as it left his lips. “That it was good, even. That I could work without distraction. But every time I tried to paint—every time—I just ended up staring at the damn canvas, thinking about you instead.” He let out a breath, shaking his head. “I hate that.”

You frowned. “Hate what?”

Rafayel clenched his jaw. “Hate that I need you this much.”

Your breath hitched. His words, raw and unguarded, settled between you like something heavy.

He laughed, short and sharp. “God, it’s pathetic, isn’t it?” His fingers curled against his knee. “I used to paint because I had to. Because it was mine. And now—now I feel like I’m dragging you into it too.” His expression darkened, something bitter curling at the edges. “Like I’m taking from you.”

You knew what he meant. Rafayel had always taken from the world. From pain, from suffering, from the ghosts of things that could never be restored. His art had always come from that—extraction. And now, you could see the fear in his eyes. That he had started doing the same with you. That his love for you, his need, had become something he feared he would drain dry.

But you didn’t move away. Didn’t recoil. Instead, you reached out, your fingers brushing over his, grounding him back.

“You’re not taking from me,” you said, firm but gentle. “I’m here because I want to be.”

He stared at you for a long moment. Then his fingers curled over yours, his grip tight—desperate, almost.

“…Yeah,” he muttered. But you could hear the waver in his voice. The uncertainty.

Like he wanted to believe you. Like he didn’t know if he could.

Rafayel’s fingers tightened over yours, his grip feverish, like he was anchoring himself to something—someone—before he could spiral too far. His eyes flickered, restless, torn between frustration and something else, something raw.

“It doesn’t help,” he muttered, almost like he was talking to himself. “That you’re always here. That you’re not—” His jaw clenched, and he looked away, shaking his head. “That you’re not pushing me away.”

You frowned, squeezing his hand. “Why would I?”

His laugh was sharp, almost bitter. “Because you should.”

You inhaled, steadying yourself. “Rafayel—”

“No, listen.” He pulled back slightly, though his fingers still lingered over yours, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to let go. “You don’t turn me down. Not when I act like a pain in the ass. Not when I pull you into my mess. Not when I—” He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “You don’t even get mad when I tell you to stay away, then act like an idiot when you actually do.”

You swallowed, watching the way his expression shifted—tight, conflicted, like the words hurt to say.

“You don’t leave,” he said finally, quieter this time, almost accusing. “And it just—it just makes it worse.”

Your breath hitched. “Worse?”

His eyes flickered to yours, something turbulent beneath the surface.

“I keep thinking,” he murmured, voice rough. “That if you did—if you pushed me away, even just a little—maybe I could stop needing you this much.”

The air between you felt heavy, thick with something unsaid.

He huffed out a humorless laugh, tilting his head back against the couch. “But you won’t, will you?” His eyes, shadowed and tired, flicked to yours. “You never do.”

You didn’t hesitate. “No.”

Rafayel exhaled, shutting his eyes briefly before opening them again, something tired—something helpless—settling behind his gaze.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s what I thought.”

Rafayel let out a slow breath, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. His fingers raked through his tousled hair, shoulders tense, like he was holding something back—like he was bracing himself.

“I don’t trust it,” he admitted finally, voice low, rough around the edges.

You frowned. “Trust what?”

His lips twisted, like he was trying to find the right words. “This. You.” A pause, then he huffed out a quiet laugh, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “Not because of anything you’ve done. You’re—you’re too good to me, cutie.”

The way he said it—like it was an accusation—made your heart ache.

Rafayel’s hands flexed against his knees before curling into fists. “It’s just that…I know what it’s like. To have someone be everything. To be convinced that no matter what, they won’t leave.” His fingers twitched. “And then one day, they do.”

Your chest tightened. “Rafayel—”

“You can say it won’t happen,” he cut in, looking at you now, eyes dark with something heavy. “You can promise all you want. But I’ve heard it before.” He let out a shaky breath. “I’ve believed it before.”

Your heart pounded.

“And that’s why I—” He broke off, shaking his head. “That’s why I don’t know what the hell I want. One second, I need you here, and the next, I think maybe—maybe it’d be easier if you weren’t.”

Your breath caught.

“Because if I let myself have this—if I let myself need you—” He swallowed, voice barely above a whisper. “Then what happens when you leave?”

There it was. The real fear.

Not anger. Not frustration.

Just the quiet, aching certainty that he would be left behind. Again.

Your throat tightened. Slowly, carefully, you reached for his hand. His fingers were still curled into a fist, knuckles white, but you pried them open, threading your fingers through his. Warm. Calloused. Shaking.

“Then I won’t,” you said simply.

His breath hitched. His gaze snapped to yours, searching, uncertain. “You don’t—you can’t know that.”

“I do.” You squeezed his hand. “Rafayel, I’m not going anywhere.”

He let out a ragged breath, and you held his hand tighter. “No matter what happens, no matter what you do, how much space you need, or how much you push and pull—I’m here.” Your voice was steady, certain, because you meant it. “I’ll always be here.”

Rafayel exhaled sharply, as if the weight of your words had knocked the air from his lungs. He looked away, jaw tight, throat working like he was trying to swallow something down.

“You say that now,” he muttered, voice rough, “but—”

“But nothing,” you cut in gently, tugging his hand just enough to make him look at you again. “You’re not just some phase in my life, Rafayel. You matter to me.” Your thumb brushed over his knuckles. “I’m not leaving. Not now. Not ever.”

His breath shuddered out of him, his fingers tightening around yours like he was afraid to let go. And for the first time since you’d arrived, you saw it—that tiny flicker of hope beneath all the doubt.

Your lips curled into a small smile. “You know… you’re not the only one who needs someone, Rafayel.”

He huffed, shaking his head. “That so?”

“Mmhm.” You squeezed his hand, tilting your head playfully. “I just happen to be better at hiding it. Comes with the job, you know. Can’t have my client thinking his bodyguard is just as much of a mess as he is.”

That earned you a scoff, though there was the faintest trace of amusement in it. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

You shrugged. “I mean, think about it. If I didn’t need you, why the hell would I be here at three in the morning?”

Rafayel stilled. His grip on your hand faltered for half a second before tightening again. You saw his throat bob, his lips part slightly—like he wanted to argue, to throw something back at you. But he didn’t. Because you were right.

His gaze flickered, searching yours, as if trying to find a crack in your resolve, some sign that you were just saying this to make him feel better. But there was none. You meant it.

A breath left him, shakier than he probably wanted it to be. Then, quietly, he muttered, “…Idiot.”

You grinned. “Takes one to know one.”

You suddenly sighed dramatically, stretching your arms above your head before letting them drop. “You know, you didwake me up in the middle of the night. And I did drag myself all the way here, just for you.”

Rafayel arched a brow, skepticism flickering over his face. “You just said you came for me.”

Before he could go any further, you reached out, cupping his jaw with one hand and pressing his cheeks together, effectively smushing his lips into a ridiculous pout. “Shhh.”

His brows furrowed, a muffled noise of protest escaping him.

You smirked. “See? Much better.”

His eyes burned into you, but the effect was entirely ruined by the way his lips were puckered like a sulking child. You had to bite back a laugh.

Rafayel made another unintelligible sound, hands coming up to pry yours away, but you held firm, tilting your head. “Now, are you gonna make it up to me or what?”

Without letting go, you leaned in, pressing the softest, most fleeting kiss against his ridiculously pouted lips.

The reaction was instantaneous.

Rafayel tensed, his entire body going rigid beneath your touch. And then—

His face erupted in color. A deep, searing red that bloomed across his cheeks, climbed to the tips of his ears, and even dusted down the length of his neck. His eyes widened, pupils dilating, mouth parting slightly as if his brain had short-circuited entirely.

You pulled back just enough to see the full effect, utterly pleased with yourself.

His hands, which had been trying to pry yours off a second ago, twitched uselessly before dropping altogether.

“Wha—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, glaring at you as best he could while still blushing furiously. “What the hell was that?”

You grinned, finally releasing his jaw, tapping his cheek lightly. “You looked too cute not to.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowing. But the red across his face refused to fade. If anything, it darkened.

“I hate you,” he muttered, voice thick with embarrassment.

You hummed, utterly unbothered. “No, you don’t.”

He didn’t respond—because he couldn’t. Not when his body betrayed him so obviously.

Before he could recover, you leaned in again, this time pressing a soft, lingering kiss against his flushed cheek.

Rafayel froze.

A sharp inhale, his fingers twitching against your waist as if debating whether to push you away or pull you closer. The warmth of his skin burned beneath your lips, the heat radiating from him palpable.

And then—

A strangled noise. Half a scoff, half something else entirely. “You—” He cut himself off, exhaling sharply, tilting his head away as if that could somehow hide the deepening red overtaking his face.

His ears. His ears were burning.

You smiled against his skin. “You’re really easy to fluster, you know that?”

His hand curled into the fabric of your sweater. “Shut up.”

You kissed his other cheek just to spite him.

Another sharp inhale. Another full-body flinch.

“Cutie.” His voice was strained, and when you finally pulled back to look at him, his eyes were dark, unreadable, something perilously close to desperate lurking beneath the surface.

It sent a shiver down your spine.

You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of how close you were. The way his breath fanned against your skin. The way his grip on you had tightened, like he was afraid you’d slip through his fingers if he let go.

And then, quieter and lower—almost hesitant—he spoke.

“…You’re doing this on purpose.”

You barely had a second to process the way his eyes darkened before he moved.

A sharp tug—your breath hitched—then suddenly, the world tilted.

Before you could react, you found yourself toppled onto the couch, your back pressed against the cushions, Rafayelhovering above you. His grip on your waist was firm, his body heat overwhelming, and his beautiful eyes—flushed with something you couldn’t quite name—devoured you.

You blinked. “Raf—”

And then he kissed you.

No hesitation. No teasing remark. Just desperation, raw and unfiltered, poured into the space between you. His lips found yours in a feverish press, warm, insistent—taking.

Your fingers curled into his shirt instinctively, anchoring yourself as he deepened the kiss, as if trying to chase away something neither of you had spoken aloud. His weight caged you in, a solid, unrelenting presence above you, his hand sliding from your waist to cradle your cheek.

It was different from before—this wasn’t just his usual playful antics, wasn’t just him indulging in his own flirtation.

This was real.

A shuddering breath left him as he pulled back just an inch, enough for your lips to part but not enough to create space. His forehead rested against yours, his own breath uneven.

“…You came for me,” he murmured, almost like he still couldn’t believe it.

You smoothed your hands over his back, feeling the tension in his frame, the way he was holding himself back. “I did.”

His lips brushed against yours again, softer this time. “Say it again.”

You smiled, breathless. “I came for you.”

His exhale was shaky, his hold on you tightening. Then, he kissed you—slower, more lingering, like he was memorizing every second.

For a moment, it was like that.

His lips pressed against yours again—harder this time, more forceful, less patient. The teasing, the usual playful give-and-take between you, was gone.

This was different.

His weight pressed you down into the couch, his hand sliding from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, keeping you exactly where he wanted. His other hand curled around your hip, firm, possessive—demanding.

You barely had time to breathe before he was kissing you again and again—deeper, slower, like he was trying to carve the feeling of you into himself. There was heat, unmistakable and consuming, but also a quiet desperation simmering just beneath the surface.

His lips left yours only to trail along your jaw, then lower—lower—pressing against the sensitive skin beneath your ear.

“You always do this,” he murmured, voice rough, breath warm against your throat.

You shivered. “Do what?”

He pulled back just enough for you to see his face, still flushed, ears burning, but his gaze? That wasn’t the usual playful Rafayel staring down at you. It was something deeper. Darker. Unrestrained.

“Make me want more,” he said, his thumb tracing slow, maddening circles against your hip. “And you don’t even try.”

Your breath hitched as his lips found yours again, more insistent, more relentless. His grip tightened, keeping you right there, letting you feel every bit of his warmth against you.

Your breath was unsteady as you tilted your head back against the couch, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt. His lips ghosted over your jaw again, trailing lower, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to make you feel him.

“What…” Your voice came out weaker than you intended, a soft, breathless thing. “What are you doing?”

Rafayel huffed a quiet laugh against your skin, his lips brushing against the hollow of your throat. When he pulled back just enough for you to see his face, his smirk was smug, but his eyes—half-lidded, dark with heat—betrayed something else.

“Making it up to you,” he murmured. “Like you asked.”

Then his lips were back on you—pressing, dragging their way down the curve of your neck, slow and deliberate. His hands, warm and steady, slid along your sides, mapping out the shape of you through your clothes.

You barely had time to breathe before his kisses wandered lower—just beneath your collarbone, just above the fabric of your sweater—his fingers toying with the hem as if debating how much further he could push.

He wanted to push.

You could feel it in the way his grip flexed against your waist, the way his breath came out uneven, like he was barely holding himself together.

But he was waiting.

Waiting for you to stop him.

Waiting for you to tell him no.

And when you didn’t—when you stayed still beneath him, your own breath shaky, your fingers curling into his shirt like you needed him there—his smirk faltered for just a second.

Rafayel barely gave you a second to register what was happening before his arms wrapped around you, strong and unwavering. A startled gasp left your lips as he lifted you, pressing you flush against him as he rose to his feet.

Your arms instinctively tightened around his shoulders, legs curling slightly, but he carried you with ease—his grip firm, his body heat seeping into yours through the fabric of your clothes.

He didn’t stop kissing you.

Even as he moved, his lips barely left yours, stealing breath after breath, deepening the kiss with each slow, deliberate step. His pace was unhurried, almost lazy, like he was indulging in every second it took to drag you both toward the bedroom.

His fingers flexed against your thighs, pressing you closer, and you could feel the way his heart pounded—just as wild, just as reckless as yours.

Somewhere between the hallway and the door, you tried to murmur his name, but he swallowed the sound with another kiss, tilting his head, teasing you, taking you apart one stolen breath at a time.

By the time your back met the soft sheets, Rafayel was hovering over you, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, his lips swollen, his breath uneven. His tousled hair framed his face, a few strands falling over his forehead, and his cheeks—his ears—were still red.

But his expression was different now. Not the usual playful teasing. Not the embarrassed flustered mess you were used to. Something deeper.

And he was still looking at you like he was starving.

You felt yourself shrinking under his gaze.

But he doesn’t let you.

Instead, his fingers trail up your skin, his touch searing, possessive. “Don’t hide from me,” he murmurs, voice low, thick with something you can’t quite name “You said I had to make it up to you. What, getting shy now?”

You barely have time to react before his fingers curl into the fabric of your sweater, tugging it up with slow, deliberate intent. The air kisses your skin as he drags the material higher, his fingertips brushing along your sides—light, teasing, making you shiver.

His gaze never wavers. Heavy-lidded, sharp with intent, the dusky pink in his eyes darkening like the sky before a storm. He drinks in every inch of you as more of your skin is revealed, his breath coming a little heavier, his lips parting just slightly.

“See?” His voice is low, almost coaxing, though there’s an edge of something darker beneath it. Hungrier. “Nothing to be shy about, cutie.”

The sweater slips over your head in one smooth motion, and before you can even process the loss of warmth, his hands are on you again—this time against the curve of your waist.

His hands move with unhurried precision, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your pajama pants. The fabric bunches under his touch as he drags it down, knuckles grazing the curve of your hips, the dip of your thighs—his touch light, but purposeful.

He doesn’t look away, doesn’t give you the chance to hide. His eyes drink you in, dark with something unreadable, something smoldering beneath the surface.

“Still with me?” His voice is lower now, rougher, as if he’s feeling the weight of this just as much as you are.

You nodded.

The fabric pools at your ankles, and his hands return to your skin, smoothing over newly exposed warmth. His thumbs press gently into your hips, grounding, as if savoring every second. As if making sure you’re not going anywhere.

“You’re perfect—so perfect.” he mumbled.

“Raf—” you murmured, skin flushing at his words.

His lips curved, fingers tracing slow, reverent lines over your skin, as if memorizing every inch. He leaned in, pressing a kiss just above your knee, then another, his breath warm against your skin.

“You don’t even know, do you?” His voice was quiet, almost in awe. His hands skimmed higher, thumbs grazing your hip bones, his touch a slow burn. “How impossible it is not to want you. Not to need you.”

Your breath hitched. He was everywhere—his warmth, his presence, the way his eyes pinned you beneath the weight of his gaze.

“Rafayel—” You swallowed, trying to steady yourself, but he only hummed, the sound deep, pleased.

“I know,” he murmured, pressing another lingering kiss to your skin. “You don’t have to say anything.”

His fingers curled against your thighs, his grip tightening just enough to make you shiver. His touch was deliberate, lingering—like he wanted to take his time. Like he had no intention of letting you go.

You shuddered as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties. With a slow, deliberate tug, he began to drag them down, inch by excruciating inch, his knuckles grazing against your sensitive skin.

You could feel your heartbeat pounding between your legs as he finally eased your panties off completely, leaving you bare and exposed before him. His gaze was intense, almost reverent, as he took in the sight of you, his eyes darkening with desire.

Without saying a word, he parted your folds with his fingers, exposing your glistening, needy flesh to his hungry gaze. You felt a rush of heat flood your cheeks at the intimacy of the moment, your body trembling slightly under his touch.

Rafayel traced a single finger along your slit, not quite penetrating, but teasing you mercilessly. He gathered the moisture that had already begun to gather at your opening and brought his coated finger to his lips, his tongue darting out to taste you.

His eyes fluttered closed briefly at the flavor, a soft groan escaping his lips. “God, you taste so good, cutie.” he murmured, his voice rough and low.

A whine bubbled at your throat, “Rafayel, y-you…”

He dipped his finger between your folds once more, gathering more of your essence, before smearing it along your sensitive flesh. He didn’t push inside, didn’t give you the satisfaction of penetration just yet. Instead, he simply smeared your arousal along your slit and around your clit, teasing you with the lightest touch.

Rafayel reached for your hand, his fingers curling around yours as he guided it between your legs. He pressed your palm against your slick, heated flesh, urging you to start touching yourself.

“Touch yourself,” he commanded, his voice low and rough with desire. “I want to watch you pleasure yourself while I undress for you.”

With his other hand, he began to unbutton his shirt, his fingers working slowly, almost teasingly. He shrugged the garment off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor as he revealed his toned, pale chest.

His eyes never left yours as he reached for his belt, unbuckling it with deliberate slowness. The clinking of the metal made your heart race, your breathing growing more ragged as anticipation built.

“I want to see you touch yourself, cutie. Come on…” he murmured, his voice a low rumble.

He shoved his pants down his hips, his hard, thick length springing free, already visibly aroused, slick forming at the tip. He wrapped a hand around himself, giving a single, slow stroke from base to tip.

“Touch yourself,” he ordered again, his voice leaving no room for hesitation. “Show me how much you need me.”

With trembling fingers, you began to touch yourself, tracing your slick folds and circling your aching clit. Soft mewling sounds escaped your lips as you pleasured yourself, your hips rolling instinctively into your touch.

Rafayel loomed over you, kneeling between your spread thighs, his gaze riveted to your face. He stroked himself slowly, his eyes dark and intense as he watched your every expression, every flicker of pleasure that crossed your features.

His other hand gripped your thigh, spreading your leg further, opening you more to his hungry gaze. “That’s it….” he murmured, his voice a low, approving rumble. “Touch yourself just like that.”

You could feel the heat of his body, the way his skin seemed to burn against yours. Your breath came in short, sharp gasps as you circled your clit faster, your fingers slick with your arousal.

Rafayel’s strokes grew more purposeful, his grip tightening around his thick length as he watched you. The sight of him touching himself while he stared at you with such raw, unbridled lust sent a surge of heat through your core.

“Rafayel,” you gasped, your back arching off the bed as you felt the first flutters of your impending release. Your fingers moved frantically over your clit, your body tensing, your thighs trembling.

“Don’t stop,” he commanded, his voice a low growl. “I want to watch you come undone. I want to see your face, cutie.”

His words, his intense gaze, the feeling of your fingers on your clit—it all pushed you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed through you, your body shaking and convulsing as waves of intense pleasure consumed you.

Through it all, Rafayel watched you, his strokes growing more urgent, more desperate as he chased his own release. The sight of your pleasure seemed to drive him wild, his chest heaving, his grip on himself almost punishing.

As your orgasm subsided, leaving you trembling and gasping, Rafayel let out a guttural groan. His strokes became erratic, his grip tightening around his throbbing length as he found his own release.

“Look at me. Just m-me.” he moaned, his voice cracking.

Your eyes locked, and almost immediately, thick ropes of his hot seed spilled from the tip of his cock, painting your stomach and thighs with his essence. The sight of his pleasure, the feeling of his warmth coating your skin, sent a fresh surge of desire coursing through you.

Before the last waves of his climax had even subsided, Rafayel pressed the swollen head of his cock against your sensitive, dripping folds. He coated himself in your arousal, mixing your fluids together as he teasingly parted your lower lips.

“Rafayel,” you whimpered, still sensitive from your own intense orgasm. The feeling of his hard, hot length pressing against your core made you clench and quiver with anticipation.

He didn’t push inside, not yet. Instead, he simply rubbed the head of his cock along your slit, up and down, coating himself fully in your slick heat. His eyes, dark and intense, stayed locked with yours, watching your every reaction.

“Tell me you want it,” he murmured, his voice rough and low. “Tell me you need my cock inside you…”

His words, the feeling of his hard length stroking your most intimate place, made your heart race and your breath come in short, sharp gasps. You could feel the heat of him, the way his skin seemed to burn against yours.

“I need it,” you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper. “Please, Rafayel. I need you inside me.”

Rafayel cursed under his breath, “Fuck. You’re driving me insane.”

Agonizingly, he pushed the head of his cock inside you, a low groan rumbling in his chest at the feeling of your tight, wet heat enveloping just the tip. He paused there, his hips pressed against your inner thighs, as he savored the sensation.

Your back arched off the bed slightly, your hands fisting in the sheets below you. The stretch of you around him was delicious, the way your walls fluttered and clenched around just that small part of him.

“You feel incredible,” Rafayel breathed, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. His fingers dug into your hips, his grip tightening as he fought the urge to surge forward and bury himself fully inside you.

He rolled his hips forward just slightly, the head of his cock pushing in a little deeper, stretching you just a fraction more. The movement made you gasp, your fingers scrabbling at the sheets as a jolt of pleasure shot through you.

Rafayel’s eyes were glued to your face, watching every flicker of emotion and sensation cross your features.

He let out a breathy chuckle, his lips curving into a smirk even as his cheeks and ears burned red. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice laced with amusement and something darker, more indulgent. “Clinging to me like this, and I’ve barely even started.”

You glared at him, your body trembling, “S-Shut up…”

His breath hitched, the smirk on his lips faltering for just a second before he leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours. “Can’t,” he rasped, his voice unsteady, tinged with something raw. “Not when you feel this good… not when you’re making it so damn hard to hold back.”

Rafayel couldn’t hold back any longer. With a low, guttural groan, he surged forward, burying his hard, thick length deep inside your tight, wet heat. He didn’t stop until he had pushed in to the hilt, his hips pressed flush against yours, his heavy balls nestling against your skin.

“See?” he murmured, voice rough, uneven. “Told you… I need you. Don’t ever—” His lips found your temple, your cheek, anywhere he could reach. “Don’t ever leave me…”

You bit your lower lip, before gasping, “I-I won’t Raf—”

Slowly, almost torturously so, Rafayel began to move. He withdrew until just the tip of his cock remained inside you, before thrusting forward again, burying himself to the hilt. He set a deep, powerful rhythm, each thrust pushing you further up the mattress.

His hands gripped your hips, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he held you in place. “If I ever tell you to leave me alone for a week again…” He let out a shaky laugh, pressing his forehead against yours. “Smack some sense into me, alright? Because that’s not me—never me.”

He angled your hips to take him even deeper, his cock kissing your cervix with every driving thrust. The room filled with the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin, punctuated by your gasps and his grunts of pleasure.

His lips brushed against your ear, voice raw, pleading. “Let me hear you, c-cutie—oh!” A pause, a sharp inhale as he held you closer. “Don’t hold back.”

Your breath hitched, fingers clutching at him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. “I—I’m not… just—” Your voice wavered, breaking into a gasp as heat curled in your spine. “Rafayel—”

His breath was hot against your skin, ragged and uneven. Then—sharp. A gasp tore from your lips as his teeth sank into your shoulder, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make you shiver.

“Mine,” he mumbled against your skin, lips brushing over the fresh mark before he soothed it with his tongue. His grip on your waist tightened, like he wanted to pull you even closer—like even now, even here, it wasn’t enough.

He pressed another bite just below the first, this time lingering, as if engraving himself into you. Then he pulled back, gaze hooded, cheeks flushed, lips red. “There. Now you really can’t leave me alone for a week.”

Rafayel drew back, breathless, his lips hovering just above your skin. His eyes were heavy-lidded, dazed, his flushed cheeks still burning with heat—but then you saw it.

The mark.

Faint at first, but unmistakable, glowing softly against his chest, just above his heart, near his collarbone. It pulsed in rhythm with his ragged breaths, a delicate yet unyielding reminder of something ancient, something that had endured beyond time itself.

Your fingers lifted before you could think, you’ve always been drawn to it. Even more so now. The moment you touched it, Rafayel shuddered—a full-body tremor, like you had reached inside and wrapped your hand around his very soul. His breath hitched, eyes snapping to yours, wide with something raw.

“Cutie—” His voice was hoarse, almost pleading, but he didn’t move away. He couldn’t.

It’s like something in him snapped. Suddenly, Rafayel gripped your hips tightly, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh hard enough to leave bruises. He used the leverage to pull you towards him, meeting each of his powerful thrusts and pressing you even closer.

Your own body moved with the force of his actions, your breasts bouncing with every slam of his hips against yours. You could feel the coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter in your core, your walls beginning to flutter and clench around his pistoning length.

“That’s it, c-cutie,” Rafayel grunted, his voice thick with desire and impending release. “Take it. Fuck, I can’t—you’re too much.”

He drove into you harder, faster, the bed creaking beneath the force of his thrusts. His balls slapped against your skin, the obscene sound spurring on his lust.

Suddenly, with a roar of your name, Rafayel slammed into you one last time. His cock jerked and throbbed as he found his release, thick ropes of his hot seed painting your insides. He ground his hips against yours, pressing as deep as he could go, making sure every last drop of his essence was buried inside you.

“Cutie—!” he bellowed, his body shuddering and convulsing above you.

You could feel the heat of his release flooding your core, filling you up. Your own body responded in kind, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. You cried out, your voice joining his in a symphony of pleasure as you came undone around him.

You both stayed like that for a while, the sound of your breaths mingling.

As Rafayel finally pulled away, you shuddered at the sudden loss of warmth, your body still thrumming from him. He huffed out a breath, his forehead dropping against yours as if gathering himself—his flushed cheeks and dazed eyes making him look almost boyish, despite everything he’d just done.

Then, in true Rafayel fashion, he smirked. “Tired, cutie?” His voice was hoarse, but smug.

You scoffed, swatting weakly at his shoulder. “You’re seriously asking me that?”

He chuckled, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple. “Just checking. Wouldn’t want my bodyguard passing out on duty.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t protest when he eased you onto your back, his hands already reaching for the discarded sheets to pull over you both. His fingers were surprisingly gentle as they traced over your skin, smoothing over every mark he’d left.

A comfortable silence settled between you as he ran his hands over your arms, your waist—touches more soothing than teasing now. Then, quietly, “You okay?”

You softened at that, at the way his usual bravado slipped just enough for you to see the raw concern underneath.

“I’m fine,” you reassured, brushing your knuckles over his cheek. “Though I think you owe me a week’s worth of massages for all that.”

He let out an exaggerated sigh, flopping dramatically beside you. “Demanding, aren’t you? First, you drag me out of my self-imposed exile, now you want labor?”

You smirked, shifting to drape yourself over his chest. “Shouldn’t have woken me up at 3 AM, then.”

Rafayel clicked his tongue but didn’t push you off. Instead, his arms curled around you, holding you so close it was almost suffocating—but in the best way. His lips ghosted over the crown of your head, lingering there.

“Not gonna make that mistake again,” he muttered. “Next time, just smack me back to my senses.”

You laughed softly, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “Deal.”

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