#ld&s production: circa. 1864

[1864reruns]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤman reimaginedㅤ౨ৎㅤ3.9k

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ2024 ©1864RERUNS

synopsis. regardless of how zayne is worshipped in akso hospital— idolised as a man of unimaginable feats— he's no god; he's nothing but a man running on twisted desires. one, perhaps the only one, of those being you.

warning(s). nsfw, afab! reader, kinda violent imagery, oral (m! recieving), vague temperature play (not my fault, blame zayne), religious imagery, 1/4 proof read (as always :3), pet names: dear & darling, lmk if i shld add anything (oneshot so beastly, i think i dissociated as i wrote this)

from vyon. i can and will!! fight everyone on this characterisation of zayne!! idec, i don't wanna hear it!! look at his field of jasmine flowers and tell me that he's all alpha sigma in the bedroom without feeling shame and i'll still fight you actually... he actually came to me in a dream last night and told me that i needed to correct how he was written; made him into a little bit of a yapper but i can see him becoming a yapper during intimacy in my mind's eye so vividly that idc 🤗 took me a gruelling two weeks to finish this... i need to reconnect with my family now

do not repost / copy / translate.

Zayne has always been stern on the fact that the essence of his being was far removed from the basis of heaven; everything that he was made from stood against everything that heaven was known to be. He's long known that every life unwanted is breathed into him to prolong his punishment, if not to torture him like so, he'd be long dead to keep the world in balance. His bones were made by blacksmiths whose hammers have seen more blood than metal; his flesh stitched by the butchers who keep their carcasses hanging by the head; his organs arranged by surgeons who keep an ear close to the open chest on their table to hear the heart splutter dead; blood drawn from the disease riddled; cells made from the children that never made it into the world.

Still, he thinks if heaven had the capacity to ever come close to him, it'd never compare to this moment— never come close to the settling of your calloused hands over his slacks, your teary eyes looking up at his expression in search of validation. It surely wouldn't, he has no doubt about it. Zayne's hands settled on your cheek, a low grunt shudders from him through your body as he traced his fingers up, wiping your tears away with an elegance removed from the moment.

Zayne is no more than a man ruled by simple desires, every want in him fluctuated beneath a single layer of skin that erupts through his pores whenever you're close, it's why he managed to get himself cursed in the first place. Zayne knows that, he makes no effort to feign ignorance to himself. In another life, perhaps he'd be less man and anything else more and never allow you to your knees to serve him. In this life? He was chalked up of nothing but pure grieving desires; anything you offer to him, he'll take no questions asked. He would've followed the wisps of you back down to hell at Hades' feet and made a home beside you after light graced his face and gave him enough temporary assurance to turn back to see your shadowed features. It's wrong, it's unjustly cruel to have you on your knees for his mundane pleasure but his head swims with the warmth of your lips wrapped around him so he disregards the guilt that tells him no.

Days where he didn't have a shift at the hospital, either of his or others' he'd graciously offered to cover, used to come unsettling. His bare hands itched where ever he lay them, some gentle reprieve came from when he reached into his fridge and felt the cool air kiss upon his fingers like the cold metal of a scalpel; the towel draped over his shoulders after a needed shower came without the threat of twisting around his neck to strangle unlike his stethoscope— an unnerving flight of fight response kicked in whenever he tried to relax.

He'd made his peace with the gnawing discomfort when he was at home, flicking through patient reports and eyes always steady with his phone in view in case anything had happened to his patients, in case they needed his capabilities. Zayne would feel this way even in sleep. It's why he always finds himself in the hospital, picking up stray shifts for co–workers that he doesn't truly know; even then, he's a man of rational practices so he knows that even through the discomfort, the promise of null action is just as important for his body and mind.

Somewhere along the line of his stationary life, you entangled yourself into those lacklustre days. Creating a ragged incision down his chest and clawing your way to his beating heart, squeezing it in time with your deafening breaths and forcing him into your tempo; you've corrected his timid heart to beat in time with your soft steps across the wooden flood of his apartment and stitched him up so messily that it'll leave an inevitable scar. You uprooted all that he knew, made a home of.

The pillow underneath your knees will never truly recover from your weight, the feathers will always know how it felt to give you little measly comfort as you gagged around him. Zayne's head falls to the back of the couch, his scrunched up expression turned up to the ceiling as a pleasured sigh leaves him. His curt words of affirmation burning through your skin despite how far away they felt, your head heavy as your nose met the neatly clipped tuft of hair peeking out through his boxers. You feel your breath escaping you through your nose, face scrunched up as you forced a gag to settle back down.

You're unaware of Zayne's eyes on you until his hands are on your cheek, alleviating the burning heat of your cheeks and grounding you back into the moment, and guiding you back. "Breath."

Dizzying images of Zayne settled in your eyes, mirages of the concern in his otherwise blissed face collecting in the tears sat in your waterline as he pulled you to your feet. You stumbled, your legs feeling weak from kneeling. "You haven't cum yet," the clear oxygen runs heavy through your system.

"I'd rather you not pass out," he informed, an unamused look on his face as he guides you onto his lap. "Plus, this night is about you as much as it is about me."

There's a softness to the moment, one of his hands on your back and the other on your waist, that allows you to slump into his arms. "Give me a second then." The few seconds you take to catch your breath in an attempt to steady your mind feels impossibly tedious. Still, Zayne is meticulous in his ministrations, tying down all the nasty thoughts that cloud his head with refined touches.

Zayne— plastered in the heat of the world, stubborn frigid in all that he wants— offers you an out. "We can stop here if it's too much." His voice is gentle, a husky promise that denies the desirous part of him that beats loudly against his ribs, the him you've created with your fingertips makes an attempt to rip through his skin.

He isn't aware of his heavy, irregular breath on your shoulder until you shake your head against his chest. His otherwise ironed shirt crumpled in your fist as you say, "no, it's okay, I can keep going for you."

The next breath he takes feels as though he's squeezing out all the oxygen that's ever been available to him, it shudders through his entire being as your words ring in his head. This moment, you've stated, was for his pleasure. Zayne wants to confirm that you're sure, you've no doubts about it despite having slept with him so many times over the course of your relationship but he hears 'for you' again distantly and it feels as though you're not close enough even though every part of you that could stick to him undoubtedly is.

The world turns on its head, screeching to a halt as the clock continues ticking on the wall of Zayne's bedroom; he hovers over you in the new position, a hand stabilising himself by your head as he ducked his head down. It's nothing to be questioned as his lips met yours in a fervour that you've never imagined possible to come from the man but you respond anyways merely because it's Zayne. In its desperate need, improbable heat— as he manages to pry open your mouth and ease in his loving intrusion— it's Zayne at its brutal core. You've barely had a chance to reciprocate even a quarter of the searing vehemence of his tongue licking over the plaque of your teeth before he's moving down, kissing and sucking on your skin of your neck.

His teeth scrape over your skin as you gasped, licking over your teeth to chase after his taste, pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth so it doesn't feel so empty without Zayne. Nimble and methodical fingers have already managed to work through the buttons of your shirt and despite the moment, you find yourself embarrassed when he brings his head back to study you.

You see a blurry image of yourself reflected in the field of green of his irises, each unclear feature swarmed with the fluttering of adoration. "You're staring," you pointed out, bringing up your hand to cover his face, his eyes so you couldn't see yourself in them anymore.

Zayne's face is foreign to you as his lips crack up into something resembling an amused smile, a crackling of chuckle lights your palm on fire as he hold his hand over yours. You give him an aggrieved look as he keeps your hand against his cheek, "aren't I allowed to stare?" His eyes are invasive, flickering from the slope of your collarbones, hooking onto your wet lips, clawing into your every ministration, features and softness laid bare. "Aren't I?" He asks again, his eyebrows raising slightly.

You don't answer but you must have given something away— you know you have because his amusement smooths out into unadulterated affection as he turns his head to press a kiss onto your palm. An itch settles beneath your skin where his lips meet, one you know you'll never be able to soothe even if you hammered through the spot with a nail. You struggle to know how Zayne will move as the moment softens throughout the room, turning into something malleable. He's nothing but slow, full of pliable details ebbing silky as he lowers his head back down.

His hair tickles as he ducks his head into the fold of your shoulder and neck, each otherwise perfectly laid strand creasing as they dust over the skin of your jaw. Squirming a little, you find your hands on his shoulders, the usual attentiveness in his actions running a little deeper than they always do. Zayne sucks at the skin of your neck, his teeth scraping along the expanse of unmarked flesh as he brings a knee between your leg. A sturdy arm comes over your front, a hand settling on your shoulder, arm running down the stretch of skin between your chest, and elbow down on your rib. "Don't move," a mere whisper that etches deep to your bones, "you're running from me."

"Running?" Your eyebrows crease and you squirm again, the heels of your feet digging into the mattress as you feel yourself move up the bed, weight shifting as your head hits the bottom of a pillow. "Oh," falls out your mouth dumbly as you realise you have been inching away from him. "Sorry." You allow your hands to fall from Zayne's shoulders, fisting the bed cover into your hands.

"Don't apologise," his soothing voice calls. When you turn your head back to look at him, his eyebrows are furrowed and his lips pressed thin, "you don't have to apologise." Zayne takes one of your hands and moves them back to their place on his shoulders. "Just let me care for you, keep still, hm?" You're more astutely aware of the aether core pounding in your heart now, its vibrant light pouring through your skin and how often Zayne has had the chest piece against your bare skin, how his eyes narrowed from behind rectangular frames as you shuddered from the cool metal.

You think that your heart has managed to resonate with his evol without your knowledge— with how often he's got his hands on you, professionally or otherwise, it wouldn't be too surprising. After a moment, you realise that Zayne is still waiting for an answer so you nod your head, opening your hand to press your palm against his shoulder blade. "Staying still."

Zayne gives you something close enough to a smile and lowers his head back down.

It's haunting how you recognise his moves enough to predict what he'll do and respond in kind, your head inches off the bed as you meet his lips again, legs parting under him as he slides a hand over the inside of your thigh. Intimacy with Zayne is staggering purely due to how cold he runs— you think it's all natural how his fingers run like ice over quivering flesh despite how warm his chest is when he's got you pinned underneath him. He's burnt where you've touched him, charred into muscle and cartilage are your fingerprints, your teeth, every mark of your nails that flame impossibly red. You're nothing short of heaven.

The fabrics of Zayne's adoration for you exists around him as a second skeleton, as your hips raise slightly for him to catch the waistband of your joggers and your hand falls next to his in an attempt to push them down without moving your lips from his. Pants and moans are transcribed into his tongue, he remembers the taste of every one, he'll think of them when he misses you, when he's forced away from his short instance of heaven as he wishes his hands ran a little warmer. The lingering salt of previous whines echo in his head, all from weeks and months ago flowing back to the cusp of his mind as your bare thighs finally grace his fingers. He wraps a hand around the meaty flesh, groaning into your mouth at the simple touch.

A shivering inhale from you makes Zayne's mouth turn cold as the oxygen is sucked all up, he takes the chance to move back down. He's got a hand sneaking up the half unbuttoned pyjama top you're wearing, another hand impossibly far away from your heat; you can't tell if it's too much or not enough. A gasp sounds in time with Zayne's hand over your chest, you feel a hardening nipple press up against his palm; the rest of the buttons trip over the loosening wear of the fabric and slide off your stomach. Your skin turns cold where he takes in a stuttering deep breath, his face hidden from you as he mouths at your other breast. "So," he murmurs, lips closing around your nipple. A lilting whine only acts to spurn him on, his hand dragging down your side and his nails light over the path that his palms works onto your skin, his teeth catch onto your nipple. "So— you drive me crazy." He confesses after cutting his own thought off prematurely, his saliva pooling around a stiff nub.

"You must know that right, dear?" Zayne continues talking, offering curt words in his impassive tone, slightly out of breath with his hair dishevelled. His cold hands are blistering upon your skin, lighting up nerves scathingly. Adding a little pressure between his teeth has you impossibly light–headed, one hand on your hip and the other close to your cunt. Zayne is nothing more than a drunken mouthpiece of his loving whenever he has you under him, all the words he's forced frozen in his throat over the course of years spilling out as your heat melted away the labyrinth he's had them locked in. "Do you do it all on purpose, knowing I'll never rid myself of it?"

You're moaning a 'please' before you know it when you feel a deft finger pushing against your slit through wet fabric. "If you're asking like that," he glances up at you, head tilting, "there's nothing else for me to do but oblige." The intrusion comes unpleasant first, walls tightening around a sole finger and quivering at the rigid temperature. Zayne lowers his torso closer to you, allowing you to wrap both arms around his shoulders; his eyes are still on you, studying each scrunched up wrinkle on your face with an almost apologetic look on his face. He leans down to press a kiss at the end of your eyebrow as his middle finger tactfully stills inside you.

"Keep going," you pant out, burrowing your face into the crook of his neck. "S'fine, you don't have to keep worrying."

Zayne wants to doubt your words, he'd never want any memorable pain tied back to his name when it comes to you, but he knows you've stubbornly pushed through worse. You're a shedding of God, one he doesn't really care for, a child of man that managed to cheat death nearly daily. "Don't keep quiet if you can't take it." He urges one final time.

You manage a breathless chuckle, "we both know I'd never take anything that hurts quietly, Zayne."

The response you're given makes you shatter, icicles spreading throughout your skin as Zayne shakes his head, a small smile on his face. Taken away from you are the next few moments to appreciate it as Zayne continues thrusting his finger inside you, managing to get in his ring finger, his palm kisses your wet folds with every decisive thrust. He bends his thumb upwards to work circles on your clit— that alone has you quivering, a hand going to grasp at his wrist but your arms are weak with his relentless work into making pleasure burst in your system.

The fables of heaven has never been described in any physical manner, nothing of soft clouds under foot, feasts that melt sweet on the tongue, wine that runs smooth down the throat; it exists only as the promise of eternal pleasure, therefore, is it a lie or an exaggerated truth if Zayne calls you his heaven? When he finally manages to pull that blissful cusp of orgasm over you, the response is delightful; your legs shake idly by your sides and you're clawing for something for to hold onto though you both know nothing will be solid enough in your grasp to keep you grounded to the moment.

His first thought is to offer you an apology, when he pulls three fingers out and watches you cry, shaking your head as your hips move back down in a search for him. The brief moment where he's away from you doesn't last too long as he aligns his aggrieved tip against your wet entrance, bringing his head down to press a chaste kiss on your lips. "I'm here," he comforts. "Right here, darling, relax for me."

You take in a breath from the heated room and keep it locked in your throat as the stretch burns through your body; nails digging into Zayne's shoulders. A broken whine eases through clenched teeth as Zayne pushes in slowly, miniscule inch by inch and keeps a hand on your face, brushing sweaty hair from your forehead and muttering idle love confessions. When a sigh smooths over your eyebrows, you know he's finally sunken all the way in. "Do you need another reminder to breath?" You hear his deep voice distantly, coloured in layers of amusement.

You huff, blowing away the trapped bit of oxygen in your throat.

"There you go," his words are nearly shy off being a sweet coo as his hand travels over your stomach, pressing down on the heated skin. "Feel me?"

His words causes a ricochet of mindless nods, "yeah, yeah— please Zayne." Your legs wrapped around his hips, feet filling into the dimples on his lower back. Zayne, with no other choice, gives you what you want. There's nothing that feels wrong about the moment, he's more certain of the fact than he'd ever been about anything that came previous to him. The pressure of the balls of your feet pressing into his skin, nails digging scars where he'd never allow anything else to draw blood, the weight of you brokenly calling his name like you were the one to have met your God. Each thrust back into you creates the stern foundation of Zayne's cruel and selfish humanity, it's like he's never known anything else— he's not sure he even wants to.

Nothing of his will ever want to know anything that's not you later on; rejection will the inevitable end of any attempt of a rebound that he'll try to introduce to his home. Zayne understands this notion, how would you expect him to go back to his previous norm when he's learnt how it feels to love at your feet? You could maybe remove yourself of him but Zayne is a stubbornly, almost idiotic, lover; he'll give chase after your scent in the wind and after the whisper of your laughter in the trees. 

The moment your legs shake, trembling back down onto the mattress as you squeeze around him so delightfully, Zayne finally knows the sinful taste of heaven. He knows what how it feels to be weightless, as his feet met with the opaque clouds that gave away to his unassuming strides, as light followed his every move, how angels would echo his every devious thought in their hymns until God catches on. How much would He resent Zayne? Nothing but mere man, of flesh and bones; no more and no less, singing the praises of another one of His creations and stripping the holy title from God to plaster onto a husk of bones and absolute divinity. Whatever heaven is, Zayne knows he'll never care for it.

There's no basis in its existence. You, on the other hand. You writing underneath him, you with your blunt nails that'll be stained in his blood, you as you found your high in his timely thrust, you calling his name, you turning boneless as you came with a moan. You, you, you. Pants stained his name, a hand dusts over his cheekbones, brushing hair back from his forehead. Zayne meets the gates of heaven with his last shaky thrust, sloppy in aim as his weight expels through his bones and he falls down onto your sweaty chest.

A laugh passes through your lips before you're aware of it, wiping away salty sweat caught on the bridge of his nose with your sleeve pulled over your palm. "You got so into it," you pointed out with a smile on your face. Zayne drags his face to look up at you, his chin hovering over your collarbone. "I didn't even think you heard me when I said I was going to cum."

Zayne gives you a thoughtful hum and you give him an exaggerated frown. "Were you thinking about work again—?"

"I was thinking of how much I adore you," he cuts you off with a pointed look, "but it seems as though I'll have to rethink how much exactly."

"Nooo," you reached out for his face. "I was kidding! Please tell me how much you adore me."

He gives you an unimpressed look but says nothing more as he straightened up, pulling himself away from you. Your face turns an unruly colour of red when his eyes linger on where he was previously so intimately joined to you, snapping your legs closed. Zayne raises an eyebrow at you, if he has anything verbal thoughts on it then he doesn't express it as he gets to his feet. "Shall I go over every feature I adore in detail in the shower?"

You think he's joking as his arm hooked under your legs and the other spanned across your back. It's why you pressed your lips into a straight line, giving a thoughtful nod, "yes, in excruciating detail too."

He manages to wash your body thrice, help you shave, exfoliate, and keeps you stewing in the hot water long enough for you to feel light–headed as he shared a detailed, Shakespearian bible passage for each of your features that had managed to catch his eye over the years you've known each other.

[1864reruns]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤyour poet, your painㅤ౨ৎㅤ4.7k

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ2024 ©1864RERUNS

synopsis. being mean to rafayel comes with cruel consequences, he makes sure to get you back always. (to my love, 5☆ rafayel card: your fragrance)

warning(s). nsfw, afab! reader, rafayel's characterisation being ?, does this count as a scent kink??? smth to do with smell... my rafayel babes get it, dirty talk, fingering, guided masturbation, orgasm denial, will he actually fuck?, answer is no, rafayel makes you finish what he started, not proof–read, petname: baby

from vyon. awkward.... so very awkward; first ever nsfw piece ever, be nice :3 i swear i've actually ingested a healthy amount of nsfw stuff but writing it has always been a different story and trust me, i've tried... but writing 'cock' in any sort of serious manner makes me giggle a little but rafayel has made this so serious for me, he's still a little silly at the end though. mmmgffff the want i have for him is carved into my bones and his name stirs an appetite in my teeth.

this was whipped up so quickly for no reason but it's definitely a style that i feel that took up its own life. it's so different from my usual prose and idk how i feel about it so take of that what you will. also!!!!!!!!! my requests for l&ds are open :3

do not repost / copy / translate.

Oh, he must think you're an idiot— your eyebrows furrowed, rolling your hand around the tie you've managed to wrap around his wrist; a little force and you've got him falling backwards onto his couch with a groan, pressing your knee between his thighs to keep him down. Rafayel winces, his head ducking down and his elbows withdrawn into his stomach. "You're being so rough," he complained, his eyes turning to look up through long lashes, "don't you know it's best to treat artists with care?"

Your lips tugged into a frown, unamused as your body hovered over his form, head tilted. "Come on, you can take a little rough handling, Rafayel." He's unmoving for a second, merely moving his eyes back down as his fingers laced together beside his head. The display makes you feel bad, like you were bullying a child or maybe a puppy; a sigh passes through your lips and you let go of one end of the tie. The material slips off his wrists, falling down his arms and catching in the bend of his elbow before you're pulling it back and Rafayel's moving his hands down to inspect his wrists.

Making a face at his sulk, you folded the tie up and brought your knee down as you watched him carefully massage his wrists with his fingers. Rafayel blows a soft breath on his left wrist, glancing up at you for a second like you'd wronged his family. "We both know it'd take a lot more than that to put an artist like you out of commission." You dryly retort, trying to shake off some of the sudden guilt that's beginning to stick to you.

The curtains of Rafayel's room are pulled close, the light soaked up by the swollen fabric, pooling at his wooden floor from the ceiling. Hues draped in red oozed onto his face, bubbles of shadows washing over every hurt feature as Rafayel rubbed circles over his wrist, stopping at intervals to blow a warm breath onto the skin. You shift awkwardly, eyebrows furrowed. "Rafayel," you try again, "put the tie on and let's go to the exhibition. Thomas is waiting."

"Help me," he demands, lips still stuck in that aggrieved pout as his hands fall into his lap. Rafayel's finger wrapped around his wrist as he straightened up, his shoulders falling as his eyes moved to the tie you held in your hand. "My hands are sore so intricate work like tying a tie will be tough."

Exasperation settled on your face as you studied him, eyes flickering from details of his expression, the suit you'd managed to encourage him to change into, his posture against the couch, what you think is the reddened skin of his wrists— which is probably from his endless massaging anyways, you didn't even tighten it that hard. A hissing intake of breath passes through your teeth, eyebrows falling as you begrudgingly draped the tie around his neck.

Fixing the length of the two ends under the collar of his white dress shirt, you allowed his weakened hands to fall onto your waist. You leaned forward to straighten out the back of his collar for a second, bumping his hand off your hip; you miss Rafayel's face scrunching up, seriousness tainting his feature as his head turns after your hand to chase that subtle scent again. Unaware of his predicament, you brushed the collar out and tucked the tie underneath the folded fabric before you're bringing your hand back.

Rafayel's fingers catch your wrist as it passes his face, bringing it back to him as he presses his nose into your flesh. "Rafayel?" You asked, attempting to pull your wrist from his gentle grip.

He groaned, tightening his hold almost immediately and tugging your hand further back. Rafayel's eyes closed, his head ducking down and his other hand going to pull at the neck of his shirt. A sort of troubled hum sounds deep from his throat, "this," he started, hesitantly, "it's familiar."

"My skin?" You laughed, amused at his words and his behavior. His nose tickled your palm, the tip tracing the many lines that could foretell your fate; a fluid movement you've seen made by dancers runs its course through Rafayel's head as he turned to trail his nose over your wrist. Something settled in your spine, shivering its way up and shouting danger through crevices of your brain as your eyes fell over the curve of his eyelids, closed over his eyes. You could only imagine what emotion could possibly be hidden behind the sensitive layer of skin, you feared the stutter that'd arise if he'd open his eyes to drown you in that tantalising coral sea. "Rafay—"

His eyebrows furrowed, head flinching away from the sound of your face. "The scent." He corrected, easily pulling you closer, your knees hit against the side of the couch as your front falls forward. "It's," he muttered, trailing off slightly as he fixed his other arm around you to settle you on one of his thighs. "Where'd you get it?"

"It was in one of the back offices, a sample." You scrambled out. You make a feeble attempt to pull any part of yourself away from him. Exhibition, Thomas, perfume, get Rafayel there— you remembered. The stretch of memory all fall apart when you feel the digging of Rafayel's fangs on the meaty palm under your thumb, he pulled away gently when you hissed, only leaving the tips of his canines on the skin and dragging his teeth across.

Rafayel's eyes leveled on you, the usual light colours of his iris unsaturated under the shadows of his lashes. "I don't like it," he moved himself forward after a second, bringing a hand to your chin to tilt your head to the side. He gives your neck the same attentiveness, each inhale leaves your neck cold; the threat of him sinking his teeth into your neck remains cruelly true, his lips brushed against your collarbone. "I hate it, are you trying to trick me?"

The confusion that Rafayel comes with, a roughening whiplash, you've accepted it as a part of his demeanour. Troubled artists, who really knows about the crazy lot? But. Rafayel moved even closer, as if trying to bury his nose into the cells of your body that the molecules of perfume stubbornly clung onto; his lips tugged down into a frown and eyebrows following the curve down; lashes tickled your skin and you squirm. You repeated his name again, it's a shredded truth of the matter, how Rafayel falls from between saliva soaked tastebuds, hungry teeth, wet lips like a plead, a beg.

"It won't happen," Rafayel mumbled, going off onto his own tangent. His eyes meet yours, mirroring a speckle of the delirium held at your waterline and his head tilted— confusion settled between the furrow of his brows, skin scrunched together.

Your hand makes the next move, the back of your fingers pressing against his neck as your index finger bent upwards to catch on his jaw. "Rafayel." The artist's head follows your hand, trailing after the lingering shed of perfume; you pinch the rim of his ears, massaging the cartilage until you're down to the lobe. "Ra'yel," your eyes flickered down to his face for a beat, curious of his expression. It's distant from you, features locked in a beat that seemed to be out of grasp— his eyes are hazy and unfocused, cheeks heated as you run the pad of your thumb over the line of his angular cheekbone.

Rafayel blinks slowly, his lips parted and you watched a hue of red light catch between his two front teeth, dripping down into his bottom lip menacingly as he leaned forward. A hand you haven't been paying attention to moved up from behind you, grabbing your collar and pulling it the side so he could sink his teeth into your collarbone. You squeezed your eyes shut, a hiss coming from between your teeth. "Smells so strong," he muttered against your skin, he scrunched his nose up and huffing slightly.

Each word he makes sounds as though he's squeezing it out of his throat, soaked in some unfortunate degree of effort.

The same hand slivered its attention downwards, fingers dancing over the fabric of your shirt, stabilises for a second; it becomes stern in its existence as it rubbed over the stitching of your shirt, which you both know isn't enough until his pinky dips under the hem of your shirt and the rest of his hand follows. Between the soft groaning, sucking sounds near your ear and the feeling of his nails lighting new paths for demons on your skin, you're not to sure what to focus on. Your mind stays on one thing. "Rafayel."

"I know, don't nag," he mumbled, his lips pressed just behind the lobe of your ear. "You're not so good at defending yourself, huh?" His teeth catch on the lobe at the same time his fingers knead down on the meat of your hips, he tugs on your ear and manages to worm his pinky past the waistband of both your trousers and underwear.

"Why would I try defending myself against this?" You strained out, a hum vibrating through your ribs, following the curve and paths of the bones and passed to your fingertips. Rafayel trailed the lowered hand to your front, fiddling messily with the button of your bottoms; his lips leave your skin in a flicker of annoyance after a few seconds, tugging out into that wronged pout. You shook your head, amused smile on your face as he refocuses his attention on the button.

"It seems as though your defence is up though."

You sighed, taking it upon yourself to unbutton your pants. "No, I think you're just weak."

"That's an unfair observation," he groaned. There was something charming about his troubled artist demeanour— how in these moments, desperation flooded his veins; you've seen it tainted in the curve of his back a few times, as he's mixing pigments, trying to figure out composition. A hand brushes through your hair, softly tilting your head backwards. "Are you really thinking of other things right now?" Hurt eyes meet yours, his chin tucking close to his neck as he curled his fingers in your hair. Neatly clipped nails glided across your scalp, splitting a line down to the nape of your neck, the movement warrants a shiver. You see it now. As he takes it upon himself to redirect your wandering attention, how Rafayel wants you clinging to every ministration, to make feeble attempts to swallow his words as he spits them.

His hands settled under your thigh, slipping over your ass with a gentle squeeze as he urged you to your knees. Settling your arms onto his shoulders, your legs part to settle beside his thighs as he pushed down the waistband of your pants. He pauses for a second, a sliver of your underwear showing as he glanced up. A flicker of amusement in his eyes, his head tilted in an almost trying way. "Didn't you say," he starts slow. "Nevermind," amusement and pleasure blurred on his face.

"Huh?"

Rafayel shook his head, continuing on like he hadn't said anything; he leaned forward and catches the lace hugging your stomach with his teeth, pulls his head back and lets it go. It snaps back against your skin and he chases to press a kiss over it. The material of your trousers makes it awkward to take off in the position you're in, you slide back to plant your feet onto the floor, kicking off your shoes and the pants not a beat later. Rafayel leaned forward, pressing a few kisses over the front of your panties. "Smells better here," he kept an arm wrapped around your thighs as he tilted his head up.

Your face heated up, eyes widening as you struggled to push his head back from you. "Don't just say that—!" You struggle to find a common ground between the sheer embarrassment and throbbing need that burns through layers of skin at Rafayel's lips through the thin fabric. His nose pressed up against the elastic as your lips dipped into a subtle pout— what a bad habit he's got, playing with his food; it's nothing foreign to you but this soft tenderness has you staggered, breathless.

Rafayel merely settled you down onto his lap, shifting himself forward a little to lean back and spreaded his legs so yours followed. Your bare thighs brushed against the smooth leather of the couch, you gave a small shudder and Rafayel plants a firm hand on the side of your thigh, his fingers pressing into the flesh and kneading. He leaned in, his lips landing tenderly on yours. Everything that was your voice died on the dried friction of his lips against yours, new nerves light up through your skin; his teeth nip at your bottom lip, pulling back a little before he's surging forward again, his tongue directing.

Your stomach dipped with a gasp, hands falling on Rafayel's shoulders for some sense of stability; your fingers dug up from the nape of his neck to his roots, catching darkened strands in curves and tilting his head back as you shifted to your knees to dip your head further down. You take one of Rafayel's groan as your own, passing it through your system as oxygen and tugging for more.

His hands pressed against the curve of your side, pulling back from the kiss. "I'm not going anywhere," he offered, his voice soft and indulgent. You narrowed your eyes at him, but that's it. Eager fingers unfurl, patting down strands of messy hair that stuck out defiantly until they settled back onto his shoulders; you leaned back down onto his lap— the spreading of his legs forcing you to be practically hovering. Rafayel leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours. In the lighting of his bedroom, his hair isn't purple at all— a few shades too dark to discern the pretty hue it shines under the sun; his hair sticks between your forehead and stabs onto your eyelid, making you wince. "Better." He moved his chin forward, tilting his head as he goes to press another kiss against your lips.

Rafayel's unwavering desire to control the timing and pace of your intimate moments is anything but annoying in the second; his fingers are warm, calloused across odd scars on your body and textured flesh. A flicker of unfamiliarity settles in your mouth, Rafayel's tongue, calm and slow; he's unusually methodical— like you had all the time in the world. "Wait—" You pushed yourself off of him, the realisation dawning on you. "You sneaky bastard, we need to—"

Rafayel blinks at you as your body practically stuttered back against him and a helpless whine passes through softened lips, "need to?" He repeated calmly, waiting for you to clarify like he hadn't just ran his nail right over your clit. You furrowed your eyebrows, forehead leaning on his shoulder; Rafayel noted the troubled expression on your face and pressed the pad of his middle finger over your darkened underwear, dragging a line down the slit. "You know you work for me right, baby?" He hummed, his other hand wrapping around your side to slide the joint of his fingers over the curved bone of your back. "There's no need to listen to what other men want you do to."

Your fingers scrambled for something to hold onto, falling back onto the couch just until he's repeating the movement with two fingers, adding a new motion to the beat as he rubbed circles over your sensitive clit. Then your hands returned to his shoulders, fingers falling to catch his sleeve as your teeth caught onto your lip. A flickering of annoyance comes drowned with pleasure, his words echo in your mind, blossoming a whole new phrase: there's no need for it when you're mine. The reminder's wholy unnecessary, you've known that for a while. Every crevice you've kept hidden from prying eyes had spurned some deluded hour of sudden inspiration; the colour of your eyes sparkling wet with tears when you're on your knees, he's spent hours trying to replicate with coral and seashells; the signature of his work pressed into the ribs that hide beneath your breast; the stability of your entire being hammered out with keys made to stretch the canvas. It's all there, stained with his fingerprints.

Your thighs make a sudden jump to snap close when Rafayel circled his fingers back down, his thumb pushing the wet fabric aside and inspecting his work. He makes a dissatisfied hum, keeping your legs open with his legs; the fabric of his slacks run warm against your bare thighs. No sense of guilt or shame traceable in his strokes, Rafayel pushed down on your cunt with his middle finger; you wondered if he worked on his paintings in the same way, without the smallest sense of hesitation? In the same way that Rafayel saw his paintings as something he didn't truly own, he saw you, undeniably, as his. Why wouldn't you be? Every detail, every crack, crevice, flaw, perfection that was sculpted together was his to be claimed— you snapping your hips closer to his fingers was all the evidence.

The delicious, burning, stretch that comes with him pressing two fingers into your cunt is welcomed with a high–pitched whine.

"You're unusually quiet," Rafayel commented, curling his hand to press the butt of his palm up so you could grind your clit against his hand. "How was work, any more of my paintings nearly kill you?"

"Are you seriously—" He pushes the remaining length of his fingers in, your words break apart into a whimper as your head leaned back. Rafayel's free hand is idle around your waist, helping you keep yourself balanced. "Don't make— fuck," you breathed out, "small talk, Rafayel."

"Yeah cause you're already talking enough for both of us." He pointed out with a hum. His fingers keep at you steadily, sometimes pausing when his digits were settled nicely into your walls so you could roll your clit against his palm.

You feel his fingers spread out inside you slightly, "haven't even said anything." You raised your hips, meeting his thrusts as you turned to settle your forehead against Rafayel's shoulder.

"Your cunt." Rafayel corrected himself after hearing you, "you're so wet." He allowed for a moment of silence, beneath the sound of heavy panting, fabric and material rubbing against each other, you do hear the wet sound of him sinking his fingers into you. "It's been drowning out the sound of your phone ringing for a while, you think Thomas is going to come?"

Any chance of you offering back a coherent reply dies, awakening a strangled cry from the depths as Rafayel fastened his pace. You straightened in his lap, throwing your arms around him to fist the back of his cotton jacket into your hands, "Ra'yel, so good—" You hear distantly like it wasn't your own voice as his thumb snapped awake to precisely rub against your clit.

A pool collects in the curve of Rafayel's hand— a scent he's much more familiar with, a consistency that has his senses dulling as his tongue swiped across his lips. Rafayel's eyes flickered to you, hanging from him like seaweed wrapped around his body before it turned to your phone, left haphazardly in the pocket of your pants on the floor. Your moans turn a degree higher, octave after octave; he sees summer in how you called out some messy variation of his name. "'M gonna cum, gonn—" You squeezed your arms around him.

He tucked his face into your shoulder, a fleeting kiss on your collarbone as he brings his fingers out. Your pre–cum clings to his fingers as he moved back, begging him to come back as you whined and a sob nearly falls from your lips as he denies you of that high. "No, no, Rafayel, please." You're frantic, pushing yourself back from his chest and chasing his fingers with your hips. "Please, was so close."

"Sorry, baby," he gives you what looks like an apologetic look through your blurry eyes, his clean hand falls onto your cheek to wipe away a stray tear. "My wrist still really hurts from what you did."

Your face falls, grieved. You hold his hand against your cheek, keeping it there as you turned your face to press a kiss onto his wrist. "No, 'm sorry," you urged. "Please, Rafayel, need you so bad."

A beat of nothing and a lifetime settled with the space built between you two, your hips uselessly rutting against air. The feel of lukewarm slick that he drags against your thigh, as if trying to massage it in, so close to where you really need him. So, so close to where your cunt has been restored to be his. Nothing is audible but the sound of your pleaing, trying to coax him back to where you needed him.

After a moment, his eyes flickered back to you, the tainted hues all swimming together as they looked on in amusement. "D'you mind showing me?" His eyebrows raised up, his eyes bordering cruel and his lips twitching upwards into a subtle smile. You meet his suggestion with a frown, shaking your head as your mouth opened to reject the idea and work on another pathetic beg. "Just try it," he pressed, giving your cheek a gentle stroke. "Take care of yourself for a moment, baby."

A breath bursts from you, it's all oxygen you need gone and your lungs fill with the useless waste product as his wet hand tangled with yours. Your thigh burns cold where he parts with it but the heat from his palm against yours spreads flames down to soothe the loss; he taps his finger against the back on your hand and then turns it to press a kiss against the back. Then he unlaces your fingers, your own juices create a web between your two palms, momentarily connecting your life lines before the threads snaps and he's gently holding the back of your hand.

Each of Rafayel's finger is bent over yours as he guides you down the path he took to shatter you. It makes you cringe to feel his wet fingers against yours, your fingers twitched as he brings you down right down to the source; the same substance sticking to the tips of your fingers as he helps you start. "You like it when I brush just under your clit, here." Rafayel offhandedly offers as he pulls your hand up, your finger pressed against slick skin. He watches your face as you reached the point he was speaking of and satisfaction blossoms on his face when your mouth falls open, choking on a breath.

Your thigh twitches from the simple touch, your head rolling over to your own shoulder for some support. His grip loosens a little, his fingers trailling up your arm. "You can take it from here right baby?" The tease behind his voice isn't meant to be ignored as he leaned back, head tilted down to keep his eyes on your shaky hand. "I pushed my wrist too far with that."

Your hand feels out of place for some reason, pierced through as it hung between your thighs. Sensing hesitation, Rafayel lands his hand on your knee, his thumb brushing over the skin and you can see his long middle finger just in the corner of your eyes. You pushed a finger into yourself, face scrunching up at the change in length and girth. "S'not enough," another finger pushed in and still, still the length is missing. Your knee is squeezed, urging you to continue.

You try to make up the lacking aspects of your own fingers compared to Rafayel's with some focus onto your clit but Rafayel swats your other hand away, holding it at your hip. "No, keep going like this for me." There's no other choice in the matter, your lip catches between teeth, falling whenever a gasp or moan wanted to pass through. It's agony, it's the unrelenting ache in your back, it's the jacket caught onto your doorknob, it's your toe to a corner; burning pain that shocks you to a degree of anger, annoyance. You work through it regardless— the world doesn't stop despite how it feels like it stutters.

Rafayel is a mere few inches away from you, his hands are on you but he wasn't touching you in the way you wanted; the world is still turning. With you struggling to work yourself up to the point that Rafayel got you to before, his hands rubbing up and down your thigh, and his soft praises in your ear— the world is, cruelly, still in its orbit. "I can't do this," you breathed out, pushing your fingers in, your knuckles sit flush against your entrance. "Rafayel," a mere mumble has him sucking in a sharp breath; the next sentence shatters the anatomy of his being and he feels foreign to land and sea. "I can't do this without you."

It falls from your lips with a whimper, multiple breath catches in Rafayel's throat, your eyebrows are furrowed and lips slightly parted as you panted slowly, wetting your dried lips and pressing them close to swallow some saliva. "Ra'yel, please don't make me finish without you." You knew just how to catch him, how enticing your words were to smell from upstream.

Without missing another beat, he has his hand cupped over yours near your entrance and pushes another finger in between yours. The satisfied moan you pass through your lips is then swallowed as Rafayel brings you into a open mouth kiss, threatening to swallow each and every breath you take as to not waste anything that was any bit of you. It takes him a few moments to adjust to having an obstruction in his way but he manages to set a pace like before and you follow, chanting his name stupidly. "I'm right here," Rafayel groaned back, "sorry I made you wait."

"S'okay," the syllables are tainted with saliva and some slur, any words that weren't 'Rafayel' uncomfortable to sit on tongue even for a moment before they passed on.

You snapped forward, a cry breaking through you as he used the butt of his palm to work your palm onto your clit. "You can't make me wait either," he muttered, leaning his head down to kiss your neck. "You're close, keep squeezing me and I'll lose my finger."

When it comes to you, he's never wrong. The air thickens, a mixture of panting, squelching, kissing messily bouncing around Rafayel's room; his finger takes a different course from your fingers, suddenly curling and his nail lightly scratches against your silk walls. You curled onto yourself, fingers pulling out of your entrance that Rafayel plugged up with another digit; he shushes your cries, working it through your high with his thrusts slow.

Your head leans on his shoulder, chest falling and rising as Rafayel used his feet to pick up your trousers on the floor so he could wipe his fingers. You watched this with judgement but couldn't find it in yourself to say anything as your eyes fluttered shut.

"Are you tired?" Slightly sticky hands massaged your hips, Rafayel's voice a slow humming that allows the tension to shed from you. You give him a nod, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

"Will you clean me up?" You're not sure if you're pushing your luck at this point. Nothing is said for a moment but then he's fixing his arms underneath your ass as he hoists you up.

"I'm tired," he speaks, that comforting aspect of his voice from before gone as he moved to his bathroom. "And you really did hurt my wrists, what if you forced me to over–exert them and now they're sprained?" You furrowed your eyebrows, you should have just thrown him over your shoulder instead of trying to tie his hands up. "How will you take responsibility if my hands are ruined?"