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ravaged depths | rafayel
⤜ ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ - You remembered the first Ebb day—how he’d clung to you, delirious, burning up from the inside out. Lemurians didn’t just get fevers. When they went into heat, it was instinct and memory twisted into something raw and feral. He’d held onto you like you were the only tether keeping him grounded. Because you were. You always had been.
So when Thomas told you he’d vanished, that chill ran up your spine.
You knew what this was.
He was probably hiding it. Probably painting himself into madness with those blood-soaked corals he kept sealed in glass like trophies. Maybe he was hurting again. Maybe he didn’t want you to see him like that—vulnerable, a god stripped bare.
⤜ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ - rafayel x female reader
⤜ ɢᴇɴʀᴇ - smut
⤜ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ - 4.2k
⤜ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ (or tags) - nsfw, mdni, no use of y/n, use of pet names (cutie), dom!rafayel, depictions of heat or mating cycles, references to rafayel's bond story (ebb and flow), possessive behavior, oral sex (f! receiving), clit play, fingering, overstimulation, handjob, cum marking, multiple orgasms, penetration (p in v), dirty talk, unprotected sex, mating press, breeding kink, creampie, and mentions of ownership.
⤜ ɴᴏᴛᴇ- Well, this was just something that had been bothering me and I had to get it out of my system, lol. There's no plot here, just plain smut. Enjoy reading!


You got the call on a Tuesday.
Thomas’s voice came through sharp and tight over the line, like he was trying not to panic but already halfway there. “I haven’t heard from him in three days. He’s not answering his phone. Studio’s locked, not even a brushstroke done for the exhibit.”
You rubbed your temples. Of course it would happen now.
The thing with Rafayel was—he disappeared sometimes. Not in the ghosting kind of way. No, he always told you where he was going. Always made you promise to text when you were working late, made you promise to tell him if you weren’t coming over. Just so he knew. Just so he didn’t wait by the window like some fool, eyes flicking toward every passing headlight.
“You don’t have to tuck me in, cutie,” he’d joke, head resting in your lap like he belonged there. “Just tell me when to stop waiting.”
He played it off like he was teasing, like he wasn’t dead serious. That was the thing about Rafayel—two faces, same man. Around you, he was soft, dramatic, a little clingy, a little spoiled. He pouted, he flirted, he draped himself on your couch like he paid rent. But when he was with others? Cold as ice. Calculated. He had that detached artist thing down to an art form, and it wasn’t an act. You’d seen the real switch happen more than once—the light in his eyes shutting off like a storm rolling in.
You remembered the first Ebb day—how he’d clung to you, delirious, burning up from the inside out. Lemurians didn’t just get fevers. When they went into heat, it was instinct and memory twisted into something raw and feral. He’d held onto you like you were the only tether keeping him grounded. Because you were. You always had been.
So when Thomas told you he’d vanished, that chill ran up your spine.
You knew what this was.
He was probably hiding it. Probably painting himself into madness with those blood-soaked corals he kept sealed in glass like trophies. Maybe he was hurting again. Maybe he didn’t want you to see him like that—vulnerable, a god stripped bare.
You didn’t wait. You grabbed your gear, told Thomas you’d handle it, and headed straight to his studio.
It was no surprise to find yourself pinned pinned beneath his muscular frame on the couch in his studio, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he feasted on your dripping sex like a man starved. The room was filled with the obscene sounds of his lips smacking and sucking, his tongue delving deep into your folds again and again. You could feel his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs, holding you in place as he devoured you with wild abandon.
“Rafayel—!” you gasped.
You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging at the silky strands as the pleasure built to a fever pitch inside you. Rafayel’shands slid up to grip your thighs, pushing them further apart as he buried his face between your legs, his nose pressed against your clit as he tongue-fucked your entrance with deep, powerful strokes.
Fuck.
You could feel your juices coating his chin, dripping down onto the couch beneath you as he ate you out with single-minded focus. Your hips bucked and writhed against his mouth, trying to grind your aching sex against his face as the pressure inside you reached a breaking point. You were so close, teetering on the edge of ecstasy as Rafayel’s tongue circled your clit with devastating precision.
Your fingers clenched in his hair, holding him tight against you as you felt your orgasm building, the coil of tension in your core winding tighter and tighter. You were panting and moaning, your chest heaving with each ragged breath as Rafayel brought you closer and closer to the edge. You could feel your walls fluttering, clenching around his invading tongue as he pushed you ruthlessly towards your peak.
Just as you were about to come undone, Rafayel pulled back, his lips and chin glistening with your arousal. He looked up at you with dark, lust-filled eyes, a wicked grin spreading across his face.
“Not yet, cutie. Don’t come, okay?” he purred, his voice rough and low. “I’m not done with you yet.” And with that, he dove back in, sealing his mouth over your sex once more and continuing his relentless assault on your senses, determined to make you crazy.
He was succeeding, because you were in fact going crazy.
Your hands remained fisted in his hair, holding him tight as he ate you out with wild, unbridled hunger, your body trembling and shaking with the force of your impending release. The room filled with the filthy sounds of your coupling, the wet squelches and slurps of Rafayel’s mouth on your sex echoing off the walls as he brought you closer and closer to the edge of oblivion.
You whined, “I can’t—I can’t…. I need to—ah!”
You felt two of his long—thick fingers push deep inside your dripping core. Your back arched off the couch, a sharp cry of pleasure tearing from your throat as he began to finger fuck you with deep, powerful strokes. His fingers curled and twisted inside you, stroking along your inner walls and brushing against that sensitive spot that made your toes curl.
Rafayel’s fingers pumped in and out of your tight heat, matching the rhythm of his licks and sucks on your clit. The dual stimulation was almost too much to bear, and you could feel your walls clenching and fluttering around his invading digits—trying to draw them deeper inside you.
Suddenly, Rafayel added a third finger, stretching you wider, filling you fuller and the new sensation pushed you over the precipice.
You can’t hold it anymore.
You can’t.
You came with a scream, “Rafayel-!”
Your body convulsed and shook as wave after wave of intense pleasure crashed over you. Your sex clenched and spasmedaround his fingers, gushing and dripping with your release as Rafayel worked you through your orgasm, his fingers pumping and curling inside you, drawing out your pleasure.
You hiccuped, “S-Stop-! I can’t—"
Rafayel never let up his assault on your clit—licking and sucking the sensitive nub as you rode out the aftershocks of your intense orgasm. Your fingers remained fisted in his hair, holding him tight against you as you gasped and shuddered, your body still tingling with the lingering effects of your mind-blowing release.
Rafayel’s fingers slowly stilled inside you, but he kept them buried deep, plugging you up, as he licked your sex clean of your juices, savoring the taste of your pleasure on his tongue.
You sighed and peered through your half-closed eyelids, Rafayel hovered above you like the tide itself—inevitable, consuming.
His eyes glowed with reddish pink melting into violet, a storm of color that shimmered like sunset trapped beneath the waves. They pulsed with something older, wilder, the kind of magic that belonged to deep-sea gods and forgotten lullabies. Looking into them felt like falling. They held you still, like gravity didn’t belong to the earth anymore, only to him.
Specks of violet and blue shimmered across his cheeks and down the line of his throat—scales, iridescent and fine as dust, catching the light like stars scattered over his skin. They pulsed faintly with his breath, shifting as if alive, as if tasting the air around you.
You wanted to touch them. Trace them. Memorize the way they glowed like stars scattered across a sea that only he belonged to. But your hands stayed still, curled into the couch cushions, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and the part of you that ached for him.
His skin was damp, slick with heat—his own and yours—and glistened where it met the light, his chest heaving, breath labored but steady. Not desperate. Controlled.
A god at the edge of surrender.
Sweat trickled down his temple, sliding over the curve of his jaw like it belonged there. His lips—parted, glossy, wet—obviously bitten raw and red from his assaults on your sex. You could smell salt on his skin. Not the kind from the sea. The kind born of fever.
Of need. Of heat.
And still, the way he looked at you—fuck—it was reverent.
As if your body beneath him was sacred. As if you were the anchor keeping him from drifting into madness. His hand was firm on your hip, fingers splayed, possessive, keeping you pinned in place—not to dominate, but to keep himself from floating away. Like the warmth of you was the only thing tethering him to his shape.
“Rafayel,” you whispered, or maybe you just thought it. But his eyes flickered, focused sharper, like the sound of his name from your lips was enough to bring him back from wherever he was drifting.
He leaned in close enough that the scent of salt and skin filled your senses.
His weight pressed down gently, never fully—like he was afraid of breaking you. Or maybe afraid of breaking himself if he let go. There was heat rolling off him in waves, dampening your skin where it met his, slick with sweat, pulse jumping in time with yours. You could feel the tremor in his muscles, the restraint, the feral edge buried just beneath the surface.
You weren’t even sure when you stopped breathing. Maybe it was the moment his hands slid up your trembling thighs, his fingers leaving trails of fire in their wake. Maybe it was when his lips hovered a breath above your breasts, his lips latching onto your t-shirt covered nipples.
He sucked and nibbled at the hardened peaks through the thin fabric, the rough texture of the cotton rubbing deliciously against your sensitive skin. You could feel your nipples straining against the shirt, aching for the direct touch of his mouth, but he teased you mercilessly, refusing to give you the satisfaction of skin on skin contact.
“Please, Rafayel…”
He smiled, and finally his hands slid up your quivering stomach, his fingers splaying across your skin as he pushed your shirt up inch by torturous inch. You lifted your arms, allowing him to peel the garment off your body and toss it carelessly to the side. The cool air hit your newly exposed skin, your nipples pebbling instantly from the change in temperature and the intensity of your arousal.
But that coolness was short-lived as Rafayel’s hot mouth descended upon your breasts, his lips wrapping around one aching, bare nipple and suckling—greedily. A sharp gasp escaped your lips, your head falling back against the couch as pleasure sparked through your nerve endings like electricity. Rafayel’s tongue swirled around the sensitive peak, flicking and teasing, before he drew it into his mouth and suckled harder, sending jolts of white-hot bliss straight to your core.
His other hand came up to knead and squeeze the soft flesh of your breast, his fingers sinking into your skin as he massaged the supple mound. He rolled and plucked at your other nipple, pinching and tugging the hardened bud between his thumb and forefinger, giving it the same attention his mouth lavished on its twin. You could feel the heat building between your legs, your sex clenching and fluttering around nothing, still sensitive from your previous release.
Rafayel’s lips moved to your other breast, his mouth covering your nipple and suckling just as greedily as before. He nipped and bit at the tender flesh, his teeth grazing your skin before he soothed the sting with his tongue. You could feel the wetness of his saliva coating your nipple, the sensation of his mouth on your bare skin is a different sensation entirely.
Your fingers tangled in his hair, holding him close as he worshipped your breasts with lips and tongue and teeth. You arched your back, pressing your chest further into his touch, silently begging for more. Rafayel obliged, his hand sliding up to grip the back of your neck, holding you in place as he feasted on your flesh like a starving man at a banquet.
Rafayel looked up at you, eyes glassy and wide, his pupils blown so wide they swallowed the pink and violet whole—like he couldn’t see anything but you.
He gasped, voice muffled against your nipple, his lips wet, “Cutie…”
You felt his hips nestle between your thighs, his thick, heavy cock resting against your sensitive sex, still dripping with the evidence of your release. You trembled, thighs shifting and parting slightly, and you felt Rafayel’s cock twitch against your sex, growing harder, more insistent.
He groaned, “I need…”
Understanding him, you reached down between your bodies, your fingers brushing against the hard, velvety tip of his erection. You could feel the moisture from your combined arousal coating his length, making it slick and smooth beneath your touch. You wrapped your fingers around his thick shaft, feeling it pulse and throb in your grip as you slowly stroked up and down, exploring the shape and size of him.
Rafayel let out a low, guttural groan, his hips rocking forward slightly as you touched him.
“Fuck, cutie… l-let me help you….” he purred.
His hand slid down to cover yours, his fingers curling around your own as he guided your movements, showing you how he liked to be touched, how to stroke and caress his aching flesh. You could feel the heat building between your thighs, the desire coiling tighter in your core as you felt Rafayel’s cock grow harder, more urgent against your touch.
Rafayel groaned, low and ragged, “More, please…”
His head dropped against your collarbone—his breath hot and uneven.
Your fingers danced over the tip, teasing the sensitive flesh, smearing the bead of moisture that leaked from the slit. Rafayel’s breath grew ragged, his chest heaving against your own as you continued to explore his length, marveling at the way it twitched and jumped beneath your touch. You could feel the power and the strength in his body, the raw, primal masculinity that both thrilled and terrified you. And as you stroked and caressed his cock, you knew that you were playing with fire—but you were more than ready to be consumed by the flames.
His flames.
As your fingers continued to tease and stroke Rafayel’s throbbing cock, you could feel the tension in his body building to a fever pitch. His hips began to rock and thrust against your hand, seeking more of that delicious friction, more of your touch. You could feel his heart pounding in his chest, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps as he chased his own release.
Suddenly, Rafayel’s body went rigid, his muscles tensing and flexing beneath his skin. A guttural, animalistic groan tore from his throat as his cock jerked and throbbed in your grip, pulsing with a life of its own. You felt the first hot, thick spurt of his seed erupt from the tip, coating your fingers and dripping down onto your sex.
His hips bucked and shuddered, his body trembling, “Oh gods…”
You continued to stroke his cock, working him through the aftershocks of his release as he collapsed against you, his weight pressing you into the couch. You could feel his heart racing, his skin flushed and damp with a sheen of sweat as he struggled to catch his breath. Your fingers remained wrapped around his softening length, gently caressing and soothing him as he came down from the high of his climax.
Rafayel’s hand slid up your body, cupping your cheek, tilting your face towards his own. He captured your lips in a searing kiss, pouring all of his desire and his gratitude into the heated embrace. You could taste the desperation on his tongue, the raw, primal hunger that only you seemed to bring out in him. And as you kissed him back just as fiercely, just as desperately, you knew that you would never be able to get enough of this man—of his touch, his passion, his all-consuming love.
You were his, just as he was yours, two souls entwined in a dance as old as time itself.
His breath ghosted hot against your cheek, shaky and humid, like the tide pulling too close to shore.
“Tell me I can,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked, lips brushing your skin. “Tell me I can have you…”
He pressed an open-mouthed kiss on your cheek, “Please… I need to feel more of you. All of you.”
“You don’t have to ask. I’m yours.” you whispered, as you reached up to caress his cheek.
He groaned, “You don’t know what you do to me—I’m holding back so much.”
“Then don’t hold back. I want all of it—all of you.” you reassured, “I trust you. Even like this, I’ll always trust you.”
His lips skimmed along your jaw, slick and trembling, like he was drinking you in one slow breath at a time.
“You’ll ruin me,” he whispered, voice hoarse with need. “But gods, I want you to.”
He pressed his forehead to yours, glowing eyes flickering.
“I’ll give you everything. Just—don’t look away when I do.”
His gaze were intense and filled with a hunger that made your heart race. Slowly, inch by inch, he began to push forward, the thick head of his erection parting your swollen lips and sinking into your tight, wet heat.
You gasped as you felt him enter you, your walls stretching and yielding to his size. “Rafayel—“
You felt him shudder when you whispered his name, like a wave breaking at last against the shore. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, a low groan escaping his lips as your silken walls enveloped him, gripping his shaft like a velvet vice. He began to push deeper, inch by excruciating inch, allowing you to feel every throb and pulse of his hard cock as it disappeared inside you.
He hissed, “You’re so tight. F-Fuck, c-cutie—” his voice cracked—soft, desperate—as if the need was clawing its way out of his chest.
Your fingers dug into his shoulders, your nails raking down his back as you struggled to adjust to his size. Rafayel’s hand slid down to your hip, gripping it tightly as he continued his slow, steady push forward, not stopping until he was buried to the hilt inside you. You could feel the heat of him, the weight of him, filling and stretching you in a way that was almost too much to bear.
For a long moment, Rafayel remained still, allowing you to feel the throb and twitch of his cock deep inside your core. His forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with your own as he savored the feeling of being one with you, joined in the most intimate way possible. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest, the strength and power in his body as he held himself above you, pinning you down with his weight and his presence.
Slowly, Rafayel began to move, withdrawing his hips until just the tip of his cock remained inside you. Then, with a deep, guttural groan, he thrust forward again, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth, powerful stroke. He set a steady rhythm, his hips rocking and rolling against your own as he began to make love to you with deep, purposeful thrusts that hit that secret spot inside you with every drive of his hips.
Your body responded instinctively, your hips lifting to meet his, taking him deeper, urging him on. The room filled with the obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin, of your mingled moans and cries of pleasure as Rafayel took you with a passion and a hunger that left you breathless and aching for more. You could feel the pleasure building inside you, the coil of tension in your core winding tighter and tighter with every thrust, every stroke of his hard, thick cock inside your dripping sex.
He moved like he was drowning in want, and beneath the glitter of scales and heat-slick skin, he was unraveling, and you were the only thing holding him together, like you were the only air left.
Rafayel suddenly hooked his arms under your knees, pulling your legs up and back as he pushed your knees towards your chest. He maneuvered your body with ease, his strength allowing him to bend and position you as he desired. As he did this, he pushed your thighs further apart, opening you wider to him. Your legs were now bent at an angle, your knees pressed against your chest, completely exposing your sex to his hungry gaze.
With this new position, Rafayel could drive his cock even deeper into your core. He gripped your hips tightly, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh of your ass as he began to piston in and out of you with long, powerful strokes. The new angle allowed him to reach even deeper inside you, his cock kissing your cervix with every thrust. You could feel every ridge and vein of his thick shaft dragging along your sensitive walls, igniting sparks of pleasure that raced up your spine.
“T-That’s it, cutie. Take it, yeah? Take it.” he moaned.
Rafayel’s hips slammed against yours, the force of his thrusts making your body jolt and shake. He was fucking you with wild abandon, his eyes dark and intense as he watched your face, watching the pleasure play out across your features. You could feel the heat building between your thighs, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your core as Rafayel’s cock pounded into you, driving you closer and closer to the edge of ecstasy.
Your fingers clawed at his back, your nails digging into his skin as you clung to him, anchoring yourself against the force of his thrusts. You could feel the sweat dripping down your body, your skin slick and flushed with the exertion of your lovemaking. Rafayel’s chest heaved above you, his muscles flexing and rippling with every movement, showcasing his raw, primal strength.
“Fuck, cutie,” Rafayel growled, his voice rough and low. “You feel so fucking good. So tight, so perfect.” He punctuated his words with a sharp thrust, grinding his hips against yours, stirring his cock deep inside you. “I can feel you squeezing me, cutie. You want to come on my cock, don’t you? Want to take every last drop of me?” His words were filthy, obscene, but they only served to turn you on more, to make you burn hotter for him.
You nod, frantically, eagerly. You gasped, “Yes, yes, yes—please, Rafayel!”
“Fuck, I want to breed this pussy—want to make you mine!” He growled, his voice cracking.
Rafayel’s fingers found your clit, rubbing the sensitive nub in tight, fast circles. The added stimulation was almost too much to bear, and you could feel your walls starting to flutter and clench around his pistoning cock. Your moans grew louder, more desperate, as Rafayel continued to pound into you with wild abandon, his hips slapping against yours, the obscene sound of skin on skin filling the room.
“Come on, cutie,” Rafayel growled, his fingers moving faster, pressing harder against your clit. “Come all over my cock. I want to feel you come apart for me.” His words were rough, demanding, pushing you closer to the edge of oblivion.
Your body tensed, your back arching off the couch as you felt your orgasm building to a crescendo. Rafayel’s cock was hitting that perfect spot inside you with every thrust, sending jolts of electricity through your veins. You could feel the pressure in your core winding tighter and tighter, your walls clenching and squeezing around Rafayel’s shaft, trying to pull him deeper, to keep him inside you.
With a scream of Rafayel’s name, you came undone, your body convulsing and shaking as wave after wave of intense pleasure crashed over you. Your sex clenched and spasmed around Rafayel’s cock, gushing and dripping with your release as he fucked you through your climax, drawing out your pleasure.
Feeling your walls clamp down around him, Rafayel let out a guttural roar, his body going rigid as he found his own release. His cock jerked and throbbed inside you, pulsing as he spilled his hot release deep into your core. You could feel the warmth of it, the thickness of it, painting your insides.
He was draped over you in an instant like a weighted blanket, limbs tangled, cheek pressed to your chest, his breath ragged. His skin was damp, faintly glowing, but his body had softened, all the tension melted into your touch.
“Mmh…” he mumbled, voice low and lazy, lips brushing your collarbone. “That felt so good, cutie.”
You laughed, well, tried to. “Are you feeling better now?”
He shook his head, “Still burning. But I’m choosing not to die about it right now.”
You huffed a laugh, fingers carding gently through his sweat-damp hair. “Choosing?”
“Mmhm,” he hummed. “Choosing rest. Choosing you. Very brave of me.”
He tilted his head up just enough to look at you, eyes heavy-lidded but still glowing faintly, pupils still too wide. “Don’t move, cutie,” he said, dramatically nuzzling back into your skin. “If you leave, I’ll literally melt. You’ll come back to nothing but glitter and salt.”
You didn’t move. Of course you didn’t.
“Good,” he whispered, already half-asleep. “Knew you had a soft spot for me.”

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#love and deepspace#love and deepspace smut#love and deepspace angst#lads#lads smut#l&ds#l&ds smut#rafayel smut#lads rafayel#l&ds rafayel#love and deepspace rafayel#rafayel x reader#rafayel x mc#qi yu#rafayel lore#rafayel angst#love and deepspace rafayel x reader#love and deepspace fanfic#rafayel love and deepspace#love and deepspace x reader#love and deep space#love and deepspace rafayel x mc#rafayel fluff#divider by cafekitsune
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Cumplane where Airplane, in a fit of either bravery or insanity or positive or negative self-esteem (he's not totally sure) decides to cosplay as Luo Binghe and post the pictures online.
Of course, he doesn't do it as "Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky", he knows he has some questionable fans and doesn't really want to hand them a picture of his face. So he posts the images under one of the pseudonyms he uses for lurking around the comment section and social media tags. It's just a handful of images of him looking like the protagonist in his head, attempting to strike cool poses in a wig and some period clothes (he rented both).
The reception is... mixed. Airplane does not have abs, after all, nor a flawless complexion or much skill with makeup. He is fat, freckled, and awkward. The PIDW readership is not known for being particularly supportive either. In fact they're mostly a crab bucket of negativity and masculine posturing, so he gets a lot of mean-spirited commentary.
It's fine. Nothing he hadn't expected. Really solidifies for him that posting was a fit of madness, actually! What did he even expect? He's bracing himself for the worst when he sees that Peerless Cucumber, notorious hate-reader and defender of Luo Binghe's honor, has commented. Ah, shit. He's probably going to rip into Airplane for daring to sully his precious Binghe's reputation by dressing up like that, isn't he?
The comment is long, too. Fuck. Airplane's not sure if his self-esteem can take a comprehensive beating from the champion hater himself, but he's too curious not to look.
Shen Yuan, in the meanwhile, is just pleased that there has FINALLY been a Luo Binghe cosplayer who looks the part. Of course Luo Binghe wouldn't have exaggerated muscles, those are just a product of dehydration. Binghe spent most of his disciple years running around chopping wood and hauling laundry, and then later doing whatever he could to pack on the calories in order to make it through the Abyss. A hefty workman's build would only make sense for him, anything else would be nonsense. Airplane also described Luo Binghe as having a beautiful face, which Shen Yuan won't blame most cosplayers for not being able to just make happen, but a beautiful face doesn't mean "covered in so much makeup it looks like an anime character"! When would Luo Binghe have the time or inclination to put on makeup? A natural beauty with some inevitable blemishes would make more sense and be much more appealing, and this "Airplane Crashing to the Ground" (funny play on the author's name, Shen Yuan approves) has very pretty features! Everyone hating on this cosplay is just an idiot, the only actual problem is that his wig is poorly fitted.
So in true Peerless Cucumber fashion, he lays this all out.
This gets him embroiled in arguments with several other fans, who even accuse him of actually being the guy in the photos, claiming that there's no other reason why he would defend them. Shen Yuan doesn't care if people think that's him, because that's still the best Luo Binghe cosplay he's ever seen, but he doesn't want them doubting the sincerity of his arguments. So, he decides that the only reasonable thing to do is dress himself up in cosplay as well and then post the actual photos of himself.
While he'd like to dress up as one of Luo Binghe's allies like Mobei Jun, or maybe someone cool like Yue Qingyuan, he is too pedantic to think he could pull that off. Those guys are all strong warrior types, and Shen Yuan is a scrawny pale rich kid who looks like he'd probably lose a fight with a wet paper towel. The only characters he could plausibly pull off would be some of the more consumptive members of Binghe's harem and maybe, maybe, one of the weaker villains like Shen Qingqiu.
Shen Yuan is NOT posting pictures of himself crossplaying to the central nexus of toxic masculinity itself, so... Shen Qingqiu it is!
Poor Airplane has to go sit and stare at a while for a while. Peerless Cucumber likes his cosplay. Peerless Cucumber, ardent defender of Shang Qinghua's sellout crappy main character mary-sue, thinks Airplane is good-looking enough to cosplay as him. And said so. Repeatedly. And then posted borderline thirst-trap villain cosplay of himself, inadvertently revealing in the process that he is hot.
What the. What. What?!
Anyway, Shen Yuan suggests that they attend the next convention both cosplaying together because Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky is supposed to be doing a meet & greet at that one, and wouldn't it be fun to go as a pair? And Airplane agrees before his brain catches up and he realizes that might present a problem.
#cumplane#svsss#scum villain#scum villain's self saving system#airplane: surely I can pull off a deception as simple as not letting on that I'm the author of the novel?#airplane five seconds later: *accidentally drops some of the deep lore in response to one of shen yuan's tirades*#shen yuan: ??!!?? how could you know that???#airplane: shit shit shit I'm busted#shen yuan: could it be... that you're actually the real luo binghe? reverse transmigration???#airplane: ..........................................................................yes
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something about caleb spoiling you. it’s a habit he’s built since you both were young, and it’s certainly shaped your mannerisms and attitudes as you grew older. like a dove inside a gilded cage.
he’s indulgent with you. you snap and snarl; throw water cups and utensils; shove and push. and despite it all, he only ever accepts it. catches your wrist if your punches grow too violent, but not out of desire to stifle you — only to correct the way you fold your thumb into your fist.
you’ve grown to be quite spoiled at his hands. your first instinct is to look for your gege at any point, knowing he’ll give you answers where you have doubts, knowing he’ll console you when you’re upset, knowing he’ll soothe the ills of any displeasing situation.
when caleb’s own actions shift, take on darker intentions, your mind struggles to keep pace. his hold on gravity weighs your leg down as his hands cup your ankle, slide up your calf, slip under your thigh. his grip on your wrist tightens as his voice, once boyish now leering, croons promises of a garden — one structured like an inescapable maze.
you can’t reconcile this frightening visage with the memory of your indulgent gege. his hands are too rough; his words too cruel.
you struggle. you’re spoiled; and he’s spoiling you still.
he always will. he’s always been so fond of you, hasn’t he? even when his actions were misguided, leading to your tears in a locked attic, his intentions were always honed in on you.
“you. it’s always you,” he coos, brushing raindrops off your cheeks as he gazes down at you with the fondness born of a lifetime together.
the storm outside fills the room with shadows. the occasional flash of lightning eclipses him. his violet eyes look black, pupils swallowed by the night as he absorbs you so intently. your face, your body, your being. you.
your gege has always spoiled you. it’s made it quite difficult, you realize in hindsight, to find the will to fight him when that title loses its lustre.
#cheshire.writes#Indulgence at its finest amiright#caleb x you#caleb x reader#caleb x mc#caleb#lads caleb#love and deepspace caleb#lnds caleb#caleb lads#lnd caleb#lnds#lnds x reader#lads x reader#lads#love and deep space#love and deepspace#l&ds#l&ds caleb#caleb lnds#caleb lore#caleb l&ds#caleb x y/n#l&ds x reader#l&ds x you#l&ds x mc#lnds x mc#lnds x you#lads x you
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I love the pale garden and how it's like a parallel to dark forests. I love how the two divert expectations.
Dark forests, despite their name, are saturated and full of life. Even compared to regular forests, there's a lot more biodiversity than many of the "basic" biomes. There's three whole different trees found there, giant mushrooms, and plenty of flowers. They're one of the biomes capable of spawning a lush cave underneath it. It has its dangers just like any other overworld biome, obviously, but it's nothing overly more than anywhere else. Traversing it can be tricky sometimes and illagers may take residence in the biome's woodland mansions, but it's ultimately a very colorful and lively environment.
Opposing it is the new pale garden. Usually white and light colors are seen as pristine and good, but the pale garden takes it the opposite direction and goes right into uncanny valley territory. It has none of the color of dark forests, none of the biodiversity, none of the liveliness. It has trees and moss that look familiar, but something is off. It has a signature mob, but even the creaking is just a puppet of the trees, not really sentient, not really even plotting against anything. There's "life", but, once again, it's wrong.
I think the pale garden is a wonderful addition to Minecraft's world building as it is, but the deliberate parallel to dark forests? Delicious.
#mineblr#minecraft live#minecraft live spoilers#<<(just in case!)#I've seen some people saying the pale garden is lazy or too modded looking but there honestly looks like so much thought went into it#Reblogged a post before this where the person mentioned how it almost feels like a callback to the emptiness of early versions of the game#Which I think is a wonderful observation because it does encapsulate that stillness that's not quite foreboding but still very noticeable#Another parallel to be found could be between the pale garden and the deep dark#Which could be a whole post on its own lmao#But there's so much depth and parallels in this drop that are relatively easy to overlook at first but once noticed are so intriguing imo#Lore enthusiasts are eating GOOD#graee yaps#minecraft
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GERALT AND JASKIER ARE BACK BABY!!!!!!!
#and we have jaskier lore!!!!!!#I'm so freaking hyped#their time spent at camp had never been shown before but it's exactly like the fanfics#other than the fact that jask has a tent#the witcher#twn#the witcher sirens of the deep#tw3#the witcher 3#(bc geralt here had the same va#geraskier#geralt of rivia#jaskier#julian alfred pankratz#essi daven#video#doug cockle#joey batey#crispy
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Uhh, Mason
#ok yes ford knows his name in lost legends/journal 3. dont look that deep into it it's just a silly comic idea not meant to be lore accurate#what did dipper do?...#gravity falls#stanley pines#stan pines#stanford pines#ford pines#dipper pines#mason pines#art#fanart#digital art#man digital art is not my thing...#comic
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LEWIS' MOVIE ABT RIVALS IN ONE TEAM IS BEING RELEASED ON NICO'S 40TH BIRTHDAY.
WHICH COULD MEAN NOTHING.
#what message is he trying to send??#their lore is so deep#brocedes#lewis hamilton#nico rosberg#formula one#formula 1#f1#sebastian vettel#lando norris#oscar piastri#max verstappen#charles leclerc#lestappen
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class swap design masterpost for convenience (from top to bottom: bard!riz, cleric!gorgug, sorcerer!kristen, barbarian!fig, artificer!adaine, and rogue!fabian)
#dimension 20#fantasy high#fhfy#fhsy#fhjy#riz gukgak#gorgug thistlespring#kristen applebees#figueroth faeth#adaine abernant#fabian seacaster#my class swap stuff! oh yeah I think I got a tag for that I'll call that#fh class quangle#gna slowly go back and get that tag on relevant posts too. for organization's sake#even tho I didnt really intend this blog to be that kinda blog lmao. we were all just gonna be out here dealin with that at our own pace#anyways uh! they! u know all the lore for the designs already I put em in tags. but otherwise this also collects like the#color keys kind of for these. mostly the things that change between designs#doing this did make me realise half of these are a Lot more consistent in color keys than the other half lol#like kristen's palette stays pretty much the same. and fabian's. the hit's mostly in the construction#a lot of this is overall like an exercise in remembering what high schoolers would actually wear and how to work in Costume pieces#on this point at least I straight up have No relevant recollection lmao all the basic education establishments I went to have uniforms#and outside of school I was. well kind of a shorts and tee guy. so#on that topic I feel like fabian's is the furthest stretch lmao. like if a guy in high school wears the same bright yellow raincoat#to school every day that's like. people would Not like that guy. fabian really is saved by being cute and a rogue#he will still have stans when he's deep in his fishing arc in junior year he's the manic pixie dream bf#anyways uh. things to do! stuff to get done. sleep first tho. have a good night lads#I have not caught new nsbu yet! seems I mostly catch them like two to three days late nowadays.#so please uhh. don't reply on my posts with nsbu spoilers? we are all excited and having fun but that's rude#ok thank u. signing off for the day have a good night#!!
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ALEX! YOU CAN'T JUST DROP MAJOR LOST GRAVITY FALLS MEDIA LORE ON ME LIKE THIS AND GET AWAY WITH IT?! 😭
Link to Alex's tweet...

He also asked fans to record their own version of the Stan lines here and also gave advice on how to do it, lmao


#gravity falls#alex hirsch#gravity falls fandom#grunkle stan#lost media#GIDEON GET OUT OF MY CHAIR KID#gideon Gleeful#Alex why must you curse us with this knowledge#4chan is still down so not even some salty DTVA employee can dump this on /co/ right now#that gf fan#ThatGFFAN#The Deep End#Gravity Falls Lore#Gravity Falls is real and it will never die#dipper and mabel#dipper pines#mabel pines#dipper#mabel#Stan Pines#Stanley Pines
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#my art#undertale#undertale yellow#undertale fanart#idk what is the point of this comic#ig i just wanted to see them interacting#i was going to end on some deep shit like#“well ig despite it all we were somewhat friends” but did not knew what the conclusion to that would be so i just ended with a funny#the context for this is after the asriel dreemurr fight#where they find out abt the whole lore of flowey#and clover is just super perplexed that they were interacting with a royal LOl
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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.”
“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?”
“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.”

likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated <3
if you want to check out more of my writings, head on to here — masterlist.
#love and deepspace#love and deepspace smut#love and deepspace angst#lads#lads smut#l&ds#l&ds smut#rafayel smut#lads rafayel#l&ds rafayel#love and deepspace rafayel#rafayel x reader#rafayel x mc#qi yu#rafayel lore#rafayel angst#love and deepspace rafayel x reader#love and deepspace fanfic#rafayel love and deepspace#love and deepspace x reader#love and deep space#love and deepspace rafayel x mc#rafayel fluff#divider by cafekitsune
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these two are so interesting to me
characters belong to @canisalbus
#clenches fists. im so sosososo normal about them. i think about them a normal amount (lying)#actually the 2nd image is based on some sort of anime couple pose template(?????) that i saw a while back and wanted to draw them in it#but i swear to god i CANNOT FUCKING FIND IT. i was literally knee deep in yuri and yaoi fanart for hours trying to find that god damn photo#but i dont even know who the characters were and pinterest just shows me bakugou and deku making out sloppy style whenever i try#so i gave up an tried drawing it from memory and cried the whole time. i hate anatomy.. but they look so happy so its fine#god whenever i see Lore or sweet little tidbits for these two i want to tear into something with my teeth and throw something /pos#i genuinely want to study these gay little renaissance dogs under a microscope#what fucks me up is the fact that we all know it ends horribly but u cant help loving them anyway.. they are so. incoherent hand gestures#my art#myart#others ocs#vasco#machete#vaschete#furry art#fur#anthro
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Please elaborate on your twst Pokémon headcannons I’m very interested
I had planned on drawing everyone for this (I made a LIST!) but it. hasn't been going well. 💀 soooo here's what I have so far!
Riddle - Roserade (I was going with 'no legendaries', otherwise I would've given him a Shaymin) (and I don't think Togedemaru is actually a hedgehog or I would've given him one of those too) (...they kind of do fit though. hmm.)
Trey - Alcremie (clover/mint cream + strawberry/ruby cream)
Cater - DITTO SQUAD! DITTO SQUAD! DITTO SQUAD!
Ace - Impidimp (I feel like there's probably a better one for him, but I can't think of it)
Deuce - Scraggy (meanwhile I KNOW deep in my heart that this is true)
Leona - Pyroar (but like. a nasty Pyroar. just a grizzly old Pyroar with the shittiest attitude imaginable. they pretend to hate each other but secretly they are a bonded pair, do not separate)
#art#twisted wonderland#pokemon#poketwst#i'm trying not to pressure myself too much art-wise right now#but i would like to do more of the characters!#(especially considering this started with my insistence that malleus would have a dragapult)#gotta draw something i don't immediately hate first ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ#ANYWAY enough art angst!#i'm not aiming for full teams or delving too deep into lore or anything#just one or two per character that i think fit!#i was pretty torn on leona for a while because pyroar is at once the obvious choice but also. not really?#(i did consider luxray and ultimately decided it doesn't really fit either)#but i kind of love Nasty Lionboy's Nasty Pyroar#i think there's probably some. like. ~royal tradition~ that they all bond with this one specific breeding line or whatever#and leona deliberately chose just the absolute worst one#took one look at this shitty rude pokemon and immediately went 'that one'#falena was like 'are...are you SURE' and leona cops an attitude like 'i'm choosing my OWN pokemon you're not my DAD'#as pyroar is actively attempting to eat him#actually it probably tried to eat kifaji first and that's when leona decided he liked it#me: this is just for funsies i'm not doing lore (writes a whole fanfic in the tags)
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I have been soo nezha pilled so have many nezhas i have doodles over the past week
(feat. 2003 ver and 2019/25 ver :))





(Original comic format by @/deydenier)
#nezha#nezha 2003#nezha 2#the legend of nezha#oubing#if you want#or bingzha idc#哪吒之魔童闹海#哪吒传奇#my art#doodle#doodles#why has nezha always been a dragonliker the lore is deep
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Au where Grian was on the QSMP and Xelqua was his egg
xelqua egg... !!!!!! ok i made a design for qsmp Grian......
#ask#i stopped watching qsmp pretty early so i dont know the lore well#my art#grian#sketching#kidxelqua#him and phil coulda been bird dad neighbours...#''birds'' (actually angels)#this is giving me a deep ache in my chest i need grian on the qsmp#he would never but. i need him with an egg !!!!!!!!!!!!
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happy valentine’s day…?
#thistle#thistle dungeon meshi#dungeon meshi#my art#please pour one out for the random who tried to confess to him.#deep lore: this takes place in the generic school au that the dunmeshi merch designers made
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