Synopsis: After Rafayel lets a rumor about him and another girl spread just to test you, the tension between you snaps once more. Between biting arguments and desperate kisses, he pushes you to admit what you both already know—that this is more than rivalry, more than sex, and neither of you can keep pretending otherwise.
Content warnings: College AU, Rivals to lovers, Jealousy, Heavy Sexual tension, Kissing, Making out in the closet, Explicit sexual content, Rough sex, Possessiveness, Riding, Face fucking, Oral sex, Cunnilingus, Fingering, Overstimulation, Dirty talk, Manhandling, Marking/bruising, Jealousy-fueled intimacy, Consensual but rough dynamics, Rafayel gets jealous, mc wants to piss him off
Word count: 7.3k
Author's note: I'M BACK FROM MILAN GUYS arghhh i had this ready for posting but they nuked my acc so it just deleted itself from queue..........anywayyy here it is~ hope you enjoy, cuties MWAH
chapter 1 - chapter 2 - chapter 3 — ao3
Chapter 3 - Sex & Feelings
Admitting the truth to yourself was always the hardest pill to swallow, especially when it came to feelings for the most infuriating, insufferable person you knew. And yet, there it was, lingering in the quiet corners of your chest: you had them. Feelings. For Rafayel. The thought alone was enough to make you grit your teeth, because if anyone in the world knew how to make those feelings unbearable, it was him. He seemed determined to push every button you had, as if he could sense exactly how close you were to cracking.
The first time you slept with him had been easy enough to dismiss. A slip. A mistake. Something that could be brushed off, shoved into the shadows of a drunken night and ignored until it rotted away. Pretending it never happened was almost fun in its own right—watching the way it ticked him off when you acted indifferent, as though his touch hadn’t burned itself into your skin.
But then came the second time. And the second time destroyed any illusion that it was just coincidence. Because having sex with Rafayel wasn’t forgettable. It was maddening and breathtaking all at once, infuriating in how much you wanted him and devastating in how much he gave.
But desire and feelings weren’t the same thing. You told yourself that again and again.
For more than two years you had played this game with him—academic rivals, relentless competitors, sparring back and forth in a rhythm that had become second nature. He challenged you, frustrated you, lit you up in ways no one else ever could. And you clung to that dynamic with everything you had, because it was safe. Because as long as it was rivalry, as long as it was just sharp words and bickering tension, it wasn’t love.
To admit you’d fallen for Rafayel would be to admit defeat. And you weren’t ready to lose. Not to him. Not like that.
After the second time you slept together, Rafayel wasn’t the least bit surprised when you acted like it had never happened. You had been moaning for him, gripping him, trembling under his hands—silently begging in every way except the one he wanted. Because of course you wouldn’t beg him with words. Not when admitting it meant surrender, and surrender wasn’t in your vocabulary.
So you played dumb. You acted like your body hadn’t opened to him so sweetly, like you hadn’t clung to him with every shuddering breath. And when the sheets cooled and morning came, you slipped back into that insufferable indifference, brushing him off like nothing more than a headache you’d outgrown. And Rafayel, infuriatingly smug as he was, let you play.
Because he knew you too well. Knew how naturally combative you were, how hard you pushed back against anything that felt too close to vulnerability. If there was one thing he’d learned from you, it was that your stubbornness was less armor and more coping mechanism. You ran. Always. And right now, you were running from this.
He wasn’t above playing a little dirty. If you wanted to run, he would give you something to trip over.
It took almost nothing for him to find the perfect pawn. Aylin—campus darling, social butterfly, and walking rumor mill. All it required was a handful of casual comments, a carefully staged smile, his hand brushing hers just long enough to be noticed. She did the rest for him, as eager as ever to spread the story of Rafayel and her tangled in his sheets.
Normally, Rafayel would have shut down talk like that with a disinterested scoff, letting everyone know just how little he cared about gossip. But not this time. No, this time he let it breathe. Let it spread like wildfire through the hallways, whispered between classes, giggled about at lunch tables. He let it crawl through campus until he was certain it would reach your ears. Because if he knew you at all, he knew one thing for sure. Your reaction would tell him everything he needed to know.
He was almost excited at the thought of pushing your buttons, of watching you squirm the way you’d made him at that party. You’d let some guy press too close, his hands wandering where they didn’t belong, and Rafayel had stood there and watched—jaw tight, tongue bitten bloody behind a smirk. Hypocritical, maybe. He had no right to expect anything from you. But it didn’t stop the burn in his chest, the twist in his gut at how easily you’d let someone else into that space he had already claimed a hundred different ways.
So yes, maybe it was petty, letting this rumor spread. Maybe it was reckless. But he would be damned if he let you dismiss him, dismiss this , like it hadn’t happened at all. He wasn’t going to be some forgettable slip in the dark, a mistake you could erase with a laugh.
Whatever this thing between you was, it was messy and complicated, tangled in rivalry and sharp words, but it was there. It pulsed in every glance, snapped in every fight, and more often than not lately, it broke wide open until you were in his bed, your body saying everything your mouth refused to.
And if rumors were what it took to see just how much it mattered to you, then so be it.
The audacity of this man truly baffled you. It didn’t take long before the rumor reached your ears—Rafayel and Aylin, tangled in his sheets. Supposedly the night after that party. The same night after you and him had torn into each other with teeth and hands, jealousy thick in the air, your bodies devouring each other until the line between rivalry and ruin had blurred completely.
You nearly laughed at the absurdity. The sheer prick really had a death wish, didn’t he?
The thought followed you as you stormed across campus, your boots clipping hard against the pavement, intent only on caffeine before you lost your mind. The rumor shouldn’t have mattered. He could sleep with whoever he wanted—it wasn’t like you were exclusive, it wasn’t like you were even together. But Aylin? And the day after? After he’d snarled against your neck that he was jealous, after he’d admitted in that ragged, unguarded voice that he couldn’t stand seeing anyone else on you… only to turn around and give everyone the impression he’d happily taken someone else home?
Your blood boiled just thinking about it.
Petty. That’s what it was. Childishly, gloriously petty. And the worst part was you couldn’t even bring yourself to blame him. Because it was exactly the sort of thing you would have done if the roles were reversed.
Still, if Rafayel thought this stunt would have you chasing after him, begging for an explanation, he had another thing coming. All it did was harden your resolve. Whatever happened between you that night, no matter how good, no matter how maddeningly addictive—it meant nothing. And if he wanted to play games, then fine. You would play better.
You had your coffee clutched in hand, sitting in the shade near the building for your next class, scrolling absently through your phone. The caffeine did nothing to quiet the irritation still gnawing at you, the rumor running circles in your head like a song you couldn’t shut off. You muttered under your breath as you texted a friend about meeting later that night, the words slipping out sharper than you intended. “Cocky bastard.”
You didn’t even notice the shadow until a familiar voice cut through, infuriatingly smooth and smug, carrying that mix of boredom and amusement only he could manage. “Who, me?”
Your eyes closed for half a second, more to stop yourself from throwing the coffee right at his head than anything else. You looked up at him with an expression carefully blank, your voice dropping to a cold hum. “If the shoe fits.”
He only smiled, leaning down a fraction closer, the corner of his mouth curled in that insufferable way that said he knew exactly how to needle you.
“Aw, what’d I do now, cutie?” his tone was mock-sweet, like he was daring you to list the ways.
You gritted your teeth, the urge to upend your coffee over his perfectly styled hair almost irresistible. Instead, you forced a smile of your own, syrupy with sarcasm. “Opened your mouth, for one.”
He laughed, low and warm, tilting his head as if that was the answer he’d been expecting. You rolled your eyes, looking anywhere but him. Across the courtyard, you caught the stares already directed your way—students whispering, curious as always when the two of you ended up in the same orbit. It was like waiting for an explosion, and everyone wanted front-row seats.
You scoffed and took a sip of your coffee, pretending their stares, and his nearness, didn’t bother you in the slightest.
Rafayel slid into the seat beside you like he owned it, and your jaw immediately tightened. Of course he’d have the audacity to sit here, smug as ever, as if rumors weren’t already crawling across campus with his name attached. He didn’t even try to hide the amusement flickering in his eyes—if anything, he looked more pleased than usual, like your irritation was the highlight of his day.
You tried to ignore him, sipping your coffee, scrolling aimlessly through your phone, but his shoulder brushed yours deliberately, his voice low and casual in your ear.
“By the way,” he murmured, almost bored, “I think you left this at my place the other night.”
Something dangled in front of your face—a necklace, glittering slightly in the sunlight. Pretty, delicate. And definitely not yours.
Your eyes flicked to it, then back to him with a stare as flat as your voice. “Cute,” you said mock-sweetly, rising to your feet with a tight smile. “Must be your pretty little girlfriend’s .”
His smirk deepened, exactly as you knew it would, and he leaned back on the bench, twirling the chain around his finger like it was nothing. “Jealous, cutie?”
The laugh that escaped you was sharp, humorless, as you grabbed your bag. “Not in the slightest. You couldn’t pay me enough to deal with your ego outside of campus.”
Rafayel hummed, tilting his head, eyes glinting like he’d just heard the funniest thing all week. “Strange, considering how loudly you were dealing with me the other night.”
Heat flared at the memory—at his smirk, at the eyes already watching from across the courtyard—and you forced yourself to keep your expression icy. You took another sip of coffee just to keep from snapping, your voice low and clipped when you finally replied.
“Keep talking, Rafayel. Maybe someone will actually start to believe your little bedtime stories.”
You turned around and left him on that bench, because if you’d stayed a second longer you might have poured your coffee straight over his perfectly styled hair and wiped that smug little grin off his face yourself.
That night, you went out with friends, slipping into something casual—a dress soft and simple, elegant without meaning to be. The evening started warm and bright, laughter tumbling across the table of the restaurant as wine glasses clinked and your friends celebrated their engagement. Later, the night carried you further downtown, swept up with more familiar faces, drinks and games stacking on top of one another until everything blurred into giggles and flushed cheeks. You were tipsy, leaning against the billiards table with a triumphant grin after sinking the final ball. Your friend groaned in defeat, and you couldn’t stop laughing at the tiny victory.
It was nice. Simple. You’d be graduating soon, stepping out into that so-called adult world too, and maybe it was the wine—but a bittersweet ache wound through you at the thought that soon you wouldn’t have to see him anymore. No more sharp words across lecture halls, no more smug smirks needling into your skin, no more heat curling in your stomach when you should’ve been rolling your eyes. It should have felt like relief. Instead, it made you restless.
At some point you slipped away to the bathroom, splashing cool water against your wrists before leaning into the mirror. The flush of wine was still on your cheeks, but it was the kind that felt good, buoyant. You reapplied your lipstick—deep red, sharp as a blade—pressing your lips together until the color gleamed. A little armor, that was all it was.
When you stepped back into the hallway, the buzz of laughter and music hit first. Then your gaze slid instinctively toward the bar. Aylin. Your eyes narrowed before you could stop yourself. You didn’t dislike her, not really, but something about her always put your teeth on edge. Especially now. Especially with the person standing beside her.
Rafayel was angled close, head tilted just enough to catch whatever she whispered in his ear. The corner of his mouth curled upward, that familiar smirk playing across his lips like a secret meant to be seen. And you hated the way it twisted something in your stomach—sharp, hot, bitter.
You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste copper. This fucking bastard. He really took her out? Was he that dedicated to his little rumor, putting on a show just to rub it in your face? Or worse—was he actually into her? Into her enough to keep her close, maybe even into her enough to take her home. Again.
You didn’t let yourself look twice. Not a second longer. You turned on your heel, your spine stiff as you crossed back to your friends.
“Finally,” one of them teased, handing you a fresh drink. “We were about to play without you.”
You slipped back into your spot at the billiards table, taking the glass with a grin that felt sharp around the edges. “Like you could win without me,” you shot back, chalking your cue and lining up your shot.
They laughed, the conversation flowing easily, but your mind buzzed elsewhere, restless. You laughed louder than you needed to, sipped deeper than you should have, smiling until your cheeks ached. Anything to ignore the memory of that smirk. Anything to prove—to them, to him, to yourself—that you weren’t rattled at all.
You refused to let your eyes wander, refused to give yourself even the chance of catching sight of them again. If Rafayel wanted to sit at the bar with Aylin draped over him like some prize, fine. He could do that. You weren’t going to waste another second looking.
But a few more rounds in, with laughter ringing too loudly in your ears and your glass emptied one too many times, your stomach twisted—not just from the alcohol, though that was certainly part of it. No, this was sharper. More dangerous than any burn sliding down your throat.
You hated him. God, you hated him. Hated the smugness in his eyes when he got under your skin. Hated that you’d let him take you to his bed—twice. And most of all, you hated that it bothered you this much, seeing him with her tonight. After the whispers. After the rumor. After you had proof, seared into your skin, that he’d admitted to being jealous.
It wasn’t supposed to matter. He wasn’t supposed to matter. And yet, the thought of his hands on Aylin, his lips curving into that same smirk as she leaned into him—your blood ran hot with something ugly. Something you wanted to tear off him piece by piece, if only to prove he was still yours to provoke.
Your cue slipped in your hand, clattering lightly against the billiards table. Your friends laughed, brushing it off, already distracted by another joke, but your thoughts were elsewhere. Dangerous. Infuriating. Because if teaching Rafayel a lesson meant dragging him somewhere private, pressing him against the wall, kissing him until your lipstick smeared red across his smug mouth—tearing at his shirt until buttons scattered—then yes. You wanted to teach him a lesson. And you hated yourself for wanting it.
Your friends were already half-gone, flushed and laughing, leaning on each other as you all spilled out into the night. The cold hit instantly, a sharp bite against your flushed skin, goosebumps prickling across your arms. You wrapped yourself tighter in your jacket, giggling as you stumbled a little with them, exchanging sloppy goodbyes under the buzz of neon signs and streetlamps.
“Sure you don’t want me to wait with you?” one of them asked, eyes glassy with alcohol.
You gave him a reassuring smile, lighthearted enough to hide the buzz still racing through your veins. “I’ve got this. Go home, sleep it off before you regret everything in the morning.”
He laughed, hugged you once more, and then you were alone, the sound of their voices fading as they disappeared down the block.
You made your way to the corner of the club, phone already in hand as you ordered an Uber. The cold seeped into you fast, a stark contrast to the heat of the bar, and you shifted on your feet, rubbing your arms as you waited. Your head buzzed, the alcohol humming through your bloodstream, making the streetlights seem a little brighter, the air a little sharper.
You just wanted to get home. To take a long shower, wash off the smell of smoke and liquor clinging to your hair, crawl into bed and—maybe—let yourself give in to the other ache humming low in your stomach. Alcohol always did that to you, loosening your guard until you were restless with it. And the fact that you’d seen Rafayel tonight—his smirk, his lips tilted close to someone else’s ear—it didn’t help. If anything, it only made it worse.
You huffed out a laugh to yourself, biting the inside of your cheek as you crossed your legs against the cold. God, you hated him. And still, his face was the one you couldn’t shake.
You nearly jumped when a hand pressed against the small of your back. Spinning on your heel, ready to slap whatever creep thought they could get away with touching you, you stopped short—of course, it was him.
Rafayel’s chuckle was low, lazy, the sound of someone thoroughly enjoying himself. His face was flushed with alcohol, his grin insufferably smug as he steadied you with that same offending hand.
“Whoa, princess,” he drawled, amethyst eyes glinting under the neon glow. “Although I like it rough, maybe spare the face, yeah?”
Your jaw tightened until it ached. You wriggled out of his hold, hissing under your breath, “Jesus, Rafayel.” a step back gave you breathing room, though not nearly enough. You bit out the words before you could stop yourself. “Why is it that you think you’re allowed to put your hands on me whenever you please?”
He only chuckled, unfazed, his arm sliding right back around your waist. You pushed at him again, but his grip tightened like iron, his voice still soft and smug but edged with something firmer. “Easy, cutie. You’re drunk, and clearly barely standing.”
“I can stand just fine, thanks,” you snapped, tilting your chin up at him, refusing to let him look down at you like that. Your eyes flicked around, sharp and unsubtle, searching for her. No sign of Aylin anywhere. Still, the irritation crawled through your tone like fire as you muttered, “Take care of your little girlfriend instead, why don’t you?”
The words tasted bitter on your tongue, and you hated how obvious it sounded. His smirk curved deeper, his amethyst eyes gleaming with something you didn’t want to name. He leaned in close enough that his breath brushed your mouth, laced with alcohol and heat, his whisper almost sing-song. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous—”
“As if.” you cut him off, sharp as glass, though the denial landed weak when your chest pressed against his with every shallow breath. His hair, normally so carefully styled, was mussed across his forehead, his cheeks flushed from drinking, and the sight of him looking just as reckless as you felt only made your blood boil hotter.
“Are you waiting for an Uber?” he asked casually, as if he hadn’t just cornered you with his hand still warm at your waist. The ease in his tone made you want to tear him off you—or drag him closer and kiss him until that smugness finally broke.
Instead, you shoved at his chest with more force this time, making him stumble a step back. Your voice came out raw, frayed with equal parts irritation and heat. “Clearly.”
“You’re more irritated than usual, cutie. Did something happen, or are you just very drunk?” his voice was smooth, smug as ever, but there was a spark beneath it—you knew he already had a damn good guess why you were acting this way.
You scoffed, eyes narrowing like daggers as you closed the distance again, too far gone to keep your composure. His face, his stupid grin—it made you want to slap him right here in the middle of the sidewalk.
“Why are you all up in my business instead of minding your own?” you shot back, finger jabbing against his chest with every word. Your chuckle came sharp, edged with venom. “Being all over me, baiting me, getting jealous when another guy puts his hands on me…” you dragged it out, each word harsher than the last, your voice dipping lower, tighter. “Only to fuck her the next day after I was in your bed.”
The words left your lips like spit, hitting their mark. His face flickered—first surprise, then a curl of something dark and delighted—and the mix only set your blood boiling hotter.
“For fuck’s sake, Rafayel.” your voice cracked sharp with irritation, and your palms shoved hard against his chest. He let you push him, step after step, until his back thudded against the brick wall of the club. The noise of the city blurred around you—cars honking, drunk laughter spilling from the door—but all you saw was him.
“You got pissed at me for brushing off what happened between us, pushed and pushed until you had me in your bed again—and for what, exactly?” your voice was ragged now, breathless with more than alcohol. “So you could put your hands all over her right after?”
Your chest heaved, every word tumbling out before you could stop yourself, your pulse racing as though your body was picking a fight your head wasn’t sober enough to finish. “Fine,” you spat, the word sharp as glass. “Then so be it.”
His eyes stayed fixed on you, unflinching even as you burned in front of him. Amethyst gleamed under the streetlight, something equal parts mocking and unreadable.
You were burning up—partly from the alcohol in your veins, but mostly from the rage knotted deep in your chest. Feelings for Rafayel were the one truth you refused to name, and now, knowing he’d been with her tonight, drinking in that bar, it made you want to claw the smug look off his face. Somehow, you always ended up like this with him—teeth bared, circling one another until the tension snapped.
This time, it snapped with his hand cupping your face, dragging you into a kiss so rough it stole your breath. You gasped into his mouth, clutching at his shirt as his body turned around and pinned yours to the wall. He hissed against your lips like the taste of you frustrated him as much as it thrilled him.
“You’re so damn stubborn, princess.” his words rasped between kisses, his voice roughened by liquor and something darker.
Your fingers fisted in his half-buttoned shirt, pulling him closer even as your mind screamed to push him away. His hand found your waist, grip punishing, forcing a gasp that let his tongue slip past your lips, hot and insistent. He tasted like whiskey and recklessness, and it infuriated you how fast your body melted against him.
You could already feel how damp your panties were, and you hated it, hated him, hated that this was the only way you seemed to release whatever was burning between you. His mouth trailed lower, biting at the column of your throat, leaving the kind of marks you couldn’t ignore in the morning.
A low chuckle rumbled against your skin. “You won’t admit you’re jealous if it killed you, would you?” his teeth grazed your neck, and your soft moan betrayed you.
“I’m not jealous,” you ground out, voice trembling despite the steel in your words.
“Mm,” he hummed, clearly unconvinced. His lips sucked another bruise into your skin, his fingers digging into the curve of your ass until you gasped.
“You’re infuriating,” he muttered, his mouth claiming yours again, swallowing your sharp inhale. The kiss was hot, bruising, all teeth and stubbornness, until he pulled back just far enough to breathe against your lips. “But that’s what I like about you.”
His thumb brushed along your lower lip, slow and deliberate, while his amethyst eyes drank in every flicker of irritation still painted across your face. His voice slid low, teasing, taunting, and edged with that cocky lilt that always drove you insane. “It’s not that fun the other way around, is it?” his tongue swept across his own lips, the gleam in his gaze daring you to chase after him.
You almost chased his mouth, but you caught yourself, gritting your teeth as the words hissed out instead. “Go to hell.” you spat, though the heat in your chest screamed for the opposite—screamed to pull him closer, to stop fighting, to admit that the taste of him was already addictive.
He smirked, darker now, like he could hear the truth tangled in your defiance. His mouth dropped to your throat, lips dragging across the sensitive skin until you shivered. Then came the sharp scrape of his teeth, his tongue soothing over the sting as your thighs betrayed you, pressing tighter around the solid muscle of his leg wedged between yours.
“Admit it,” he whispered, biting the shell of your ear, his voice a slow drag meant to unravel you. You moaned, weakly muffling the sound against his shoulder. His grin curved into your skin, smug and pleased, before his words spilled hot against your ear, “Admit you’re jealous… admit you want me.”
You refused to give him the satisfaction of an answer, your lips parting only in a ragged moan against his throat as his knee pressed higher between your thighs. The pressure made you shiver, your whole body aching to close the gap you swore you didn’t want. His mouth dragged down the column of your neck, biting and soothing until your pulse thrummed wildly beneath his lips. Fingers dug into your waist, sliding lower to grip your ass, urging you closer still, and you hated how easily you obeyed, arching into him, tipsy and dazed and craving more than you’d ever admit out loud.
Rafayel’s voice was low, rough with desire but still laced with that insufferable amusement. “Should I back off and let you get home?” he whispered into your skin, his breath hot where it ghosted over your collarbone.
You groaned, frustration and want tangling into one, your hand yanking at his hair hard enough to make him hiss. Your teeth clenched around the words, like forcing them out physically hurt. “We both know my bed is not where I’ll end up tonight,” you bit out, your eyes glassy with a mix of anger and hunger as you dragged him into a kiss that was all heat and defiance.
He chuckled into your mouth, smug even as his breath came ragged, kissing you back like he wanted to consume you whole. Between the clash of lips and the scrape of teeth, he murmured against your mouth, “Oh, I know.”
—
Rafayel had you stripped down to nothing but a lacy pink bra and panties before either of you had the sense to breathe. The delicate fabric clung damp to your skin, already ruined, as you straddled his hips with reckless urgency. Your mouth was on his throat, biting and sucking hard enough to leave your fury branded on his skin, your lips bruising as your hands tore at his shirt in impatient tugs, like the very idea of fabric separating you made you want to scream.
He only leaned back against the pillows, lips parted in a low groan as though relishing the way you tried to devour him. His head tipped back, exposing his throat, his amethyst eyes hooded with hunger as your hips rolled shamelessly against his thigh. The friction sent sparks through your body, drawing curses from your lips that you tried to swallow into his skin.
Your voice was ragged, slurred with alcohol and irritation, but he heard it for what it was—desire, laid bare. “I hate you,” you hissed, the words little more than a gasp as your hand palmed the bulge straining against his pants. He groaned, the sound rough, almost pleased, before his own voice slid back to you—silky and smug despite the tremor in it.
“Does hating me get you this wet, princess?” his fingers slipped under the damp lace, teasing you slowly from back to front, circling until your hips buckled helplessly against his hand. You bit your lower lip so hard it almost hurt, a whimper catching in your throat as he dragged the pads of his fingers through the slick heat of you.
He pulled you closer until your nose brushed his, voice rasping between your panting breaths, “Soaked, yet still denying you want me.” his grin curved smug and sharp, but there was heat beneath it—heat that burned through every deliberate stroke of his fingers, every groan he let you swallow when your lips found his again.
You bit down on the curve of his neck, teeth scraping against flushed skin before your hands dragged his pants and boxers down, letting him kick free with an impatient wiggle. In the next breath, your mouth was already wrapped around his leaking tip, tongue circling before you sank deeper, taking him in until your throat ached with the stretch.
His fingers instantly tangled in your hair, grip tightening as his hips bucked up into your mouth, rough and unrestrained. You moaned around him, the vibration making him groan, your frustration pouring into every drag of your lips down his length. You wanted to ruin him—wanted to wipe that smug grin clean off his face, even if it meant doing it like this, with your lips stretched around his cock and your pride nowhere in sight.
“F-fuck—princess…” he gasped, voice breaking into curses as his thighs trembled beneath your hands, his chest heaving. His hips stuttered and you knew he was close, twitching against your tongue, desperate to release inside you. But you didn’t give him the satisfaction of control. You sucked harder, hollowing your cheeks, dragging him to the edge again and again until he was unraveling completely, groaning your name like he couldn’t hold it back.
When he spilled hot down your throat, his head fell back against the pillows, a hoarse sound tearing from his chest. His grip in your hair trembled, tugging like he wasn’t sure whether to pull you off or keep you there. The taste coated your tongue, and instead of shame, all you felt was sharp, biting satisfaction—your panties soaking further as you swallowed him down, victorious in the way you had him trembling for once, his cock twitching helplessly against your tongue.
You didn’t even notice the shift until your back hit the mattress, his weight pressing down, pinning you there. One moment you were tasting his release, the next you were trembling under him, gasping as his fingers slid beneath the lace of your panties and slipped inside you without hesitation. The intrusion was sharp, wet, perfect, and you cursed as your body betrayed you, arching into his hand.
His lips were everywhere—dragging over your jaw, sucking hard at your neck until your skin burned—while his hair fell damp against your temple, sweat beading at his hairline. His voice was low, rough, frayed at the edges when it finally broke against your ear.
“We both know this is more than sex,” he rasped, curling his fingers just right, dragging across that spot that made you shudder and clench around him. His mouth grazed your ear as your hips bucked helplessly into his palm. “So admit it. Admit you want me, not just a warm body in your bed.”
There was no smirk in his tone this time, no smug satisfaction. It came out ragged, clouded in want, in something dangerously close to need.
Your pride twisted inside you, clawing for air. Vulnerability burned like fire under your skin, and you couldn’t bear the thought of laying yourself open to him, of giving him that win. Even when your body pulsed, trembling around his fingers, even when your breath hitched so sharp it broke into a whimper, you bit back hard, shaking your head against the pillow.
“F-fuck—why…” you gasped, teeth sinking into your lip until it almost hurt, “why do you keep pushing this?”
It sounded like a plea and you hated that. Hated how desperate you sounded when you wanted to sound strong. But he didn’t stop. If anything, the tension in his touch grew, his fingers stroking deeper, firmer, determined to unravel you until you had no choice but to admit something.
His mouth crushed yours again, swallowing the shaky moans spilling from your throat as his fingers curled deep inside you. The wet drag of his thumb found your clit, circling mercilessly until your hips bucked against his hand. He rasped against your lips, voice low and steady, each word brushing fire into your skin.
“I know you, cutie. You don’t want to ‘lose’ to me, whatever this is—” his mouth lingered, smirking against your parted lips as you trembled beneath him, “—am I right?”
Your moan cut into his words, body betraying you as you clenched hard around his fingers.
He groaned into the sound, forehead pressed to yours, eyes burning down into your half-lidded gaze. “Fine. If you won’t say it, then I’ll say it for us.” his teeth grazed your lower lip, his thumb working harder, dragging circles that made your thighs quiver. “I want you. And yeah, sex with you is fucking insane…” he punctuated it with a curl of his fingers that made you choke on a gasp, the smug tilt of his mouth betraying his pleasure in your unraveling.
“…but I think you need to hear it spelled out. Straight to your petty, stubborn face. ” he bit hard at the column of your neck, sucking until your skin bloomed red, taking you right to the brink before his voice cracked raw into your ear. “I’m in love with you.”
The words slammed through you harder than his fingers, shattering every wall you tried to keep up. A ragged gasp tore from your throat, your nails clawing down his back as your body gave out, eyes rolling as he pressed you over the edge.
“Now come for me, baby,” he whispered, almost a growl, pumping faster, deeper, until your release spilled hard around his fingers. Your cry broke against his mouth, sweet and wrecked, the confession ringing in your ears as your body trembled under him, undone.
Your head spun, chest heaving, every nerve still pulsing from release. His fingers slowed their rhythm inside you, leaving you trembling, eyes fluttering shut as you tried to catch your breath. But even with your lashes pressed tight, his words clung to you, stubborn and impossible to ignore. I’m in love with you.
You could lie to yourself. Pretend, play stupid, shove it all back under the same reckless label you both used when you clawed at each other in dark corners and tangled in his sheets. You could have sex and then walk away, call it nothing, keep your pride intact. But your chest ached. And the longer you lay there beneath him, the harder it became to deny that he’d ripped a piece of armor off you, leaving you bare.
When you opened your eyes, Rafayel was already watching. Not smug, not infuriatingly cocky—but steady, unreadable, a faint smirk tugging at his lips like muscle memory he couldn’t suppress.
You almost rolled your eyes. Almost. Instead, a groan slipped out, your hands fumbling with your soaked panties, tugging them down your legs with sharp impatience. It was an answer in itself—messy, wordless, but enough. But when you reached for your bra, his hand stopped you, pinning your wrist with an easy strength that made you freeze. His mouth caught yours again—hungry, needy, the taste of him dizzying—but beneath it you felt the question, the pause, the weight of what he wanted from you.
You hated that you knew what it was. Hated more that he wouldn’t let it go.
“Would it hurt your pride if I told you I’m not in love with you?” you deflected, voice hoarse, breaking against the heat of his mouth. Your thighs hooked tighter around his waist when he pushed you back against the mattress, his chest pressing you into the sheets.
Rafayel didn’t answer at first. His hand slid to stroke himself, his cock flushed and leaking as he teased against your folds, making you shiver and arch impatiently. A whine almost broke loose, your body betraying you, pleading for him even as your mouth tried to keep the upper hand.
His smirk curved, softer this time, though it still burned with that familiar sting of arrogance. He pinned both your wrists above your head with one hand, his other guiding himself into you with one deep thrust that knocked the air right out of your lungs.
You gasped, back bowing, nails clawing at his grip as his hips sank flush to yours. His voice broke against your mouth, low and certain, “No… because I already know you are.”
And sex with Rafayel was always good—heated, rough, something that left you dizzy and aching—but sex with Rafayel when feelings were tangled in every kiss, every touch, was something else entirely. It was overwhelming. Addictive. Out of this world.
He kept you in his bed until morning, relentless in the way he took you apart and put you back together again. Under him, spread out and trembling, moaning his name until your throat went raw. Bent over, taken from behind as his hand pressed into your back, your body arching as he groaned your name. His mouth between your thighs until you were shaking, too sensitive, tears slipping down your temples as you begged—not for him to stop, but for him to keep going, to keep proving the point he never said out loud before but always left you feeling.
You got tangled in his sheets because neither of you could get enough, and then ended up in the shower, steam curling around your damp skin as he pinned you against the slick tiles. He kissed you through your gasps, made you come again with the water rushing down your bodies, laughing low when your knees buckled against his.
By morning, you thought the storm had calmed—but then you found him in the kitchen, shirtless, hair messy, sliding a tray of breakfast into your hands like it was the most natural thing in the world. You’d never seen him like that before. Rafayel, who usually greeted you with smug remarks and biting comments, was just… calm. Sweet, even. Especially to you.
It almost made you laugh, how easily you’d gone from throwing insults across lecture halls to sitting cross-legged in his bed, eating pancakes while he teased you for getting syrup on your lip.
And to top it off, you wanted nothing more than to wipe that smug grin off his face—because now, without the haze of alcohol or the heat of jealousy driving you both wild, there was no excuse. Last night, tangled in his sheets, you both admitted it, breathless and raw, that you were in love with each other.
Now the sun was streaming through his blinds, and he was sitting there smirking like he had won the war. You hated it. Hated how he always managed to look at you like he had figured you out first. You glared at him over the rim of your coffee mug, hoping he’d choke on his pancakes. Instead, he leaned back against the headboard with that insufferable little curve of his lips, watching you too closely.
“Don’t,” you muttered, setting your mug down a little too hard on his nightstand.
“Don’t what?” his tone was light, teasing, like you hadn’t dropped the single most vulnerable truth of your life just hours ago.
“Don’t look at me like I’m your trophy, Rafayel.” you crossed your arms, but it didn’t help how warm your cheeks felt.
His laugh was low, unbothered, infuriatingly fond. “Cutie, if you were my trophy, I’d keep you on display where everyone could see.” he tilted his head, gaze narrowing slightly. “But that’s not it, is it? You’re not a prize. You’re the only one who ever kept me on my toes.”
Your throat tightened at that, but you rolled your eyes to cover it, muttering, “You’re freaking impossible.”
“Yeah, yeah…” he tipped his head, eyes glinting, voice dropping into something softer that still held its playful edge, “but you’d rather have impossible me than no me at all.”
You groaned, dragging a pillow over your face as he laughed again, reaching to pull it away so he could see your expression. His hand lingered at your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek with a tenderness that made your stomach twist.
And that was when it hit you—through all the irritation, the sharp remarks, the smugness that drove you crazy—you’d rather never go without him. No matter how insufferable he was, no matter how much he pushed your buttons, Rafayel had wound himself so tightly into your life that the thought of being without him felt unbearable.
—
The smug look plastered across Rafayel’s face as he strolled through campus with his arm slung firmly around your waist was almost too much to stomach. He moved with that effortless arrogance he always carried, the kind that drew stares even without you tucked against him, but today it was worse—because his hand rested possessively on your hip like he’d won some unspoken war.
You wanted to wipe the grin off his face. Or maybe kiss it away until he was breathless, though you’d never admit that to his face right now.
Students were definitely watching—whispering, snickering, maybe even glaring—but Rafayel only seemed to revel in it, smugness radiating off him like sunlight. He glanced down at you, amethyst eyes glinting as he bent to steal a slow, unhurried kiss right there in front of everyone, making sure the sight left no room for rumor or doubt. The bastard was proud, so damn proud of having you like this, and he didn’t care who knew it.
When he finally pulled back, lips curved in victory, you couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at your own mouth, no matter how hard you tried. You rolled your eyes, shoving lightly at his chest, but he only smirked wider.
“Wipe that smug look off your face before I do it for you,” you muttered, trying for annoyance but sounding softer than you intended.
“By all means, cutie,” he teased, leaning closer as though daring you. “Preferably with another kiss. You seem to like shutting me up that way.”
Your jaw tightened, but the laugh that escaped gave you away. And he knew it, because his grin only grew sharper, triumphant as ever. And damn him for it—you hated how right he looked with you in his arms.
.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!
Synopsis: After your night of passion, you turn back to your old dynamic with Rafayel as if nothing has even happened between you. Except now you're in another guy's arms. And Rafayel has none of it.
Content warnings: College AU, Rivals to lovers, Jealousy, Heavy Sexual tension, Kissing, Making out in the closet, Explicit sexual content, Rough sex, Possessiveness, Riding, Face fucking, Oral sex, Cunnilingus, Fingering, Overstimulation, Dirty talk, Manhandling, Marking/bruising, Jealousy-fueled intimacy, Consensual but rough dynamics, Rafayel gets jealous, mc wants to piss him off
Word count: 5.2k
Author's note: i posted this part in ch 1 by mistake oopsies:/ we'll pretend i didn't okay.......
chapter 1 - chapter 2 - chapter 3 — ao3
Chapter 2 - Jealousy, Jealousy
Rafayel wasn’t the type to cling to jealousy or waste energy on expectations he never asked for. But watching you slip back into that same dynamic, as if nothing had happened between you, lit something sharp and ugly under his skin.
It was one thing to keep up the bickering, the constant push-and-pull you two seemed addicted to, but being so close to anyone else in this place? Laughing, leaning in, letting other people into your space the way you let him, even if just for one night? That ticked him off more than he wanted to admit.
He could lie to everyone else, but not to himself. He was jealous. Or at the very least, bothered—more than before, more than he had any right to be. Especially since you seemed intent on shoving it in his face, as though proving just how easily you could cozy up to other guys on campus might put him in his place.
Seeing you dance with that colleague tonight had made his jaw tighten, a scoff of disbelief escaping before he could bite it back. Because he knew better—he knew what you wanted. He’d felt it in every heated moment you’d given him, in the way your body melted under his hands, pliant no matter how sharp your words were. You could pretend, you could deny—but he’d already dragged the truth out of you in the dark, in the messy rhythm of tangled sheets and bitten lips. And tonight, all he could think about was how you’d come undone for him, over and over again, chasing release like a spark to a fuse you couldn’t stop lighting—and now you were cozying up with another man.
The dynamic between you hadn’t shifted in the slightest—you still scoffed, still snapped at him, every exchange bristling with the same defiance he had come to expect. Normally, Rafayel thrived on it; it was what made this little game so addictive. But tonight, with the taste of you still burned into his memory, he had hoped for something different—some flicker of change, even if you refused to admit it.
He caught you alone near the drinks table, slipping into your space without hesitation, his shadow falling across you as you tipped the bottle. You turned your head sharply, eyes narrowing, your scoff cutting through the din of music and chatter. “What do you want now, Rafayel?”
The tone—biting, impatient—made his jaw twitch. Normally it thrilled him, but the sharp edge tonight dug deeper. Did you really despise his presence that much? Even now, after everything?
He leaned one elbow against the counter as though he had all the time in the world, his amethyst eyes catching the low light and glinting with that practiced, playful spark. He slipped the mask on as easily as a second skin, the one he always wore with you. “Back to making me work for your attention, I see.”
You rolled your eyes, ignoring the weight of his gaze as you poured yourself a shot. The liquid burned down your throat, leaving your lips wet when you licked the taste away. His eyes tracked the movement without restraint, though you didn’t seem to notice.
“Sometimes I seriously wonder if you don’t have better things to do than pester me all day,” you muttered, as though the idea of his presence alone grated on you.
He nearly laughed, the sound curling up the back of his throat, but the bitterness still lingered like ash. He could hide it well—he always did—but something in his chest coiled tighter, a heaviness he couldn’t smirk his way out of.
He poured himself a shot like it was second nature, tossing it back with the same careless ease he wore like armor. Then he leaned in, closing the space between you with an unbothered smirk tugging at his lips.
“Gonna pretend it never happened, is that it, princess?” his eyes found yours in the low light, sharp against sharp, daring you to flinch first.
You leaned in too, your voice dropping to a hiss that barely carried over the music. “Stop calling me that.”
His laugh was low, warm, almost affectionate in its own infuriating way. “Funny,” he murmured, tilting his glass aside. “Had you in my bed, moaning for me, and the first thing you pick up after is that attitude.”
Your glare could have cut straight through him. You scoffed, turning your head deliberately, your gaze sweeping the room—for him, it wasn’t hard to guess who you were looking for. The guy you’d been dancing with earlier. His jaw tightened before he could stop it, the weight of his stare narrowing back on you.
His voice came out rougher now, laced with the edge of something he usually hid behind a smirk. “So that’s what it is. Maybe I should fuck you slow next time. Sweet, steady—see if that’d finally get you to acknowledge it.” his head tilted slightly, the words a challenge, a taunt, but his eyes searched yours like he wanted the truth more than the fight.
You laughed, the sound sharp as glass. Through your teeth, bitter but smiling just enough to sting, you shot back, “There’s no next time . And I’d rather you dropped the cocky act.” your gaze flicked up, unwavering. “Not everyone wants to end up in your bed, Rafayel.”
The smirk didn’t falter on his lips, but the burn of your words sank under his skin all the same. Oh, how he loved your attitude. The sharpness in your voice, the fire in your glare—it always turned him on, but tonight it scraped against something else too. Annoyance. You dismissed him so easily, brushed everything off as if it hadn’t mattered, as if you’d rather erase it than admit it was real.
But he couldn’t forget. He didn’t want to forget the sound of your moans, the way your nails dug into his skin, the bite of your teeth against his shoulder, your mouth desperate and hot on his. Every mark you’d left on him still burned under his skin.
His smirk came quick, practiced, though his jaw ticked in irritation he couldn’t quite swallow down. “Well, you wanted it,” he drawled, voice low enough to coil between you, “and you seemed pretty determined to show me just how badly.”
The proof lingered—your mark, blooming faint but undeniable on the side of his neck. He saw the flicker in your expression when your eyes caught it, the twitch of your jaw before your glare sharpened even further.
You spit your words back at him, close enough now that he could smell you. Sweet perfume, deliberate and light, clinging to your skin like temptation. The thought of you applying it for someone else—for that guy you’d been pressed against earlier—made his stomach knot in a way he refused to admit. His smirk stayed fixed, masking the flare of heat in his chest, but it didn’t quiet the urge that nearly consumed him—to press his face into your neck, breathe you in, and let himself get drunk on you.
“Seriously, what’s your fucking problem?” you snapped, each word sharp enough to cut. “Yeah, we fucked. So what? You expect me to drop at your feet now and suck you off or something?”
Every syllable was a double-edged knife—turning him on even as it lit a flame of irritation low in his chest. Did you really think that’s what he wanted from you? While he’d never be opposed to the thought, that wasn’t it. Not even close. What he wanted was for you to stop pretending it meant nothing, to stop brushing it off like you hadn’t melted under him, clawed at him, begged for more until your voice broke.
His eyes lingered on yours, refusing to look away, holding the heat of your glare. You looked pissed, but he couldn’t tell if it was your usual game or if he’d really struck a nerve this time, dug under your skin deeper than you wanted him to.
“I wouldn’t be opposed to it,” he said smoothly, smirking like he hadn’t just swallowed down the words he really wanted to say—that you were driving him insane, that you’d taken root under his skin, that it wasn’t just your body he wanted. He tilted his head slightly, voice curling like smoke as he added, “Do you want me begging for it first?”
The faint shift in your expression—hesitation, surprise, something flickering behind your eyes—was gone almost as quickly as it appeared. You scoffed, your laugh short and bitter, already angling your body away like you’d had enough.
“I want you to leave me alone,” you shot back, each word bitten off like you meant to end it right there. Your smile was cutting, the kind meant to dismiss, to wound. “Enjoy the party, Rafayel.”
And before he could stop you, you turned toward the crowd—toward him, the other guy—and something inside him twisted sharp, the smirk still plastered on his face doing nothing to smother the frustration building in his chest.
————
Watching you dance, flirt, and laugh with that guy for hours ticked Rafayel off in ways he couldn’t keep buried—not with alcohol humming in his veins. His eyes followed the sway of your hips, the way sweat caught the low lights on your skin, turning you into something untouchable and magnetic. The guy had slipped away a few minutes ago, probably for another drink or a bathroom break—Rafayel couldn’t be bothered to care.
His focus was on you, only you. The words you’d thrown at him earlier replayed like a broken record in his mind, cutting sharper every time. He hadn’t expected you to cling to him, hadn’t even expected softness or anything close to it—but acting as if you hadn’t spent a night tangled together, bodies desperate, mouths bruised—it set something raw and restless burning in him.
He hated it. Hated how much it mattered. Hated the circumstances, hated that it made him feel like this—like he wanted to drag you away and make you admit every mark you left on his skin meant something more than just a mistake. And he knew it would probably end badly. But watching another man press into your space, lay hands on you—watching you let him, welcome him—it made his blood run hotter than the whiskey in his glass.
Rafayel wasn’t stupid enough to believe you were doing it on purpose just to rile him up. But still, the thought gnawed at him. The possibility that you knew exactly what effect you had on him—and chose to wield it—made his chest tighten in a way he couldn’t laugh off anymore.
Your hips swayed slow and unbothered to the rhythm, a lazy, carefree roll that pulled him in before he could stop himself. You hadn’t even realized who pressed up behind you—he could see it in the way you welcomed the touch too easily, as if you thought it was that other guy. That thought alone made his jaw clench, the bitter edge of alcohol still coating his tongue.
His hands settled on your waist, fingers splaying possessively over the curve, and you arched in response without hesitation. That simple movement—that you’d done it for someone else—made frustration coil low and sharp in his chest. His grip tightened, pulling you flush as he dipped his face into the slope of your neck. The scent of your perfume laced with heat and sweat filled his head, dizzying, intoxicating, far too easy to get drunk on.
“You smell so good,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low enough to sink right into your bones.
You stiffened instantly, the realization snapping through you. It was him, not the guy you thought. Your body shifted as if to turn, to throw him a glare or maybe shove him away, but his arms circled tighter around your waist, holding you still, pressing you into the steady rise of his chest. His nose brushed just beneath your ear, his mouth dragging close enough that his words threaded warmth into your skin.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” you asked, your voice pitched low, sharp but not steady—caught off guard, unsettled.
His lips ghosted another breath over your neck, dangerous and calm all at once, the lazy drawl of his voice cutting through the bass of the music. “Couldn’t keep watching that guy put his hands all over you.”
You scoffed, refusing to give him the satisfaction of stillness, your body swaying side to side with the beat as though he weren’t pressed so close. He took it for annoyance, maybe even defiance, and you threw your words like sparks over your shoulder. “Then don’t fucking look, Rafayel. It isn’t any of your business.”
His chest brushed against your back, solid and warm, crowding you until there was no space left to claim as your own. You rolled your hips again, half in spite, half because fighting him always ended like this—like gravity itself had shifted around him. His breath trembled against your neck, catching faintly on the perfume he couldn’t seem to stop drinking in.
“Are you drunk?” you muttered, sharp with irritation.
“No,” he rasped, voice rougher than usual, his hips sliding in sync with yours. The deliberate press made it impossible to ignore the unmistakable hardness straining against your ass. His fingers found your hips, not tentative but claiming, tightening when you didn’t shrug him off.
You scoffed under your breath, but your body betrayed you, still moving, still letting him. “Then why the hell are you all over me right now?”
He didn’t answer in words first. His lips ghosted along your neck, deliberate and lazy, before catching against your skin in a kiss that lingered too long to be innocent. He pulled your hips flush against his, making sure you felt exactly what you’d provoked, exactly how hard he was.
“It’s how it should be,” he murmured, his voice a low curl of smoke, the smirk etched against your skin as he leaned into your ear. “So do me a favor, cutie, and tell that guy to back off.”
Your laugh came sharp, edged with a bite. “I thought I told you to back off, Rafayel.” still, your hips betrayed the venom of your words, grinding against him like you couldn’t stop yourself. “I’m leaving home soon, anyway.”
That pushed him too far. His patience snapped into something darker, frustration coiled tight with want. His mouth brushed your ear, tone suddenly rougher, meaner, though still soaked in heat. “The next words out your mouth better not be that you’re leaving with him.”
His grip tightened at your waist, and the pressure sent a shiver down your spine no matter how hard you tried to fight it. You hated that your body still reacted, hated that even when you were frustrated—angry, even—it didn’t stop the rush of heat that pooled beneath your skin. His breath brushed your ear as he leaned in, the low bass of the music vibrating through the floor and through your bones, but all you could hear was him. The two of you swayed together, not to the rhythm, but to something far more reckless.
“Get your act together, Rafayel.” your voice cut sharp, laced with sarcasm as you turned to face him. The flashing lights caught the tension in your jaw, as tight and unyielding as his own, and for a moment it felt like you weren’t dancing so much as locked in combat.
His lips curved—not into a smile, not really—but into that insufferable smirk he wore whenever he wanted to rile you. “Mm, harsh. Though, to be fair, I’m not the one grinding against strangers for an audience.” his words came low, casual, but there was a rawness underneath, the kind that betrayed too much.
Your eyes narrowed, voice dripping with annoyance. “You’re either drunk out of your mind, or you’re jealous. Whichever it is—you have no right to say that.”
His hold only tightened, and the jealousy he refused to name aloud lingered in every breath he refused to let you take alone. His jaw ticked, a scoff breaking past his lips. It was supposed to sound amused, the way it usually did when he was poking at you, but the laugh carried a sharpness he couldn’t quite disguise. Jealousy bled through no matter how smooth he tried to make it. His eyes locked on yours, unblinking, the crowd and the music dissolving into a blur behind you.
“Don’t go home with him.” the words came out low, bitten off, heavier than he intended.
You scoffed, the sound sharp enough to cut, pushing against his chest to put some space between you. He barely gave, his body rooted in place, but you turned anyway, your voice tossed over your shoulder, drowned by the bass but still slicing through him all the same. “Unbelievable.”
The sway of your hips as you walked away was infuriating, deliberate, as if you knew exactly what you were doing to him. His jaw clenched tighter, watching you head straight toward the direction that bastard had gone. Before the thought could even settle, his hand shot out, catching your wrist.
You barely had time to gasp before he was dragging you through the crush of bodies, threading you through the mess of perfume and sweat and music until the two of you spilled into a darker corner, half-hidden near the bathroom hallway.
“What the fu—” the curse was barely past your lips before his mouth was on you.
It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t measured. It was a smash of lips and teeth and bottled-up want that burned through every ounce of restraint he had left. He couldn’t hear another word of you telling him to back off, couldn’t stand the thought of you storming away toward anyone but him.
And to his reckless satisfaction, you didn’t shove him off. Not right away. Instead your lips parted, your tongue chasing his with a heat that shocked him as much as it thrilled him. The back of your shoulders hit the wall with a thud, and he pinned you there, his hand curling around your jaw like he needed to hold you still, like he couldn’t risk you slipping through his fingers again.
He broke just enough space to breathe, his forehead nearly pressed to yours, breath ragged against your lips. His voice was hoarse, raw in a way you’d never heard. “I’m jealous.”
The confession scraped out of him like it cost something, but his eyes didn’t waver. They bore into you, dark, heated, a storm of frustration and something softer underneath. His cheeks were warm, but his gaze was sharp, almost accusing.
“Didn’t think your little act of indifference would get to me, and it didn’t at first,” he said, his tone clipped, defensive, as if he needed to convince himself more than you. His fingers dug harder into your hips, holding you where you were, his frustration bleeding through every touch. “Until I saw him all over you. And you—” his jaw tightened again, the words heavier, almost bitten through his teeth. “You couldn’t have welcomed him more sweetly.”
“Is that so?” you scoffed, though the sound came out thinner than you wanted, betraying the heat gathering in your chest. His eyes caught the flicker of yours dropping just once to his mouth before darting back up, a slip you couldn’t take back. You hated that he noticed, hated the way he thrived on it, as if your irritation was his favorite game.
“I don’t remember owing you anything, Rafayel,” you managed through a ragged breath, voice sharp but trembling at the edges.
His grip tightened at your waist, fingers digging into the fabric just enough to make you stumble the slightest step into him. The closeness burned. There were people all around you—laughing, drunk, tangled in the music—but the crowd blurred into nothing, leaving only the thrum of his pulse pressed against yours, the friction of your remarks colliding.
“It’s like you’re trying to piss me off on purpose,” he muttered, low and rough, the words curling warm against your ear before his mouth stole yours.
The kiss was hard, bruising—more a clash than a surrender—but your body betrayed you, answering with the same fever. Your fingers curled into the half-buttoned placket of his shirt, yanking him closer until the last breath of air between you vanished. He groaned against your lips, the sound half frustration, half need, his tongue meeting yours in a reckless tangle. The taste of him was dizzying—bitter with jealousy, sweet with desire—and it made your head spin worse than the alcohol.
When he tore back just enough to speak, his voice was ragged, every word bitten off as though it cost him something. “I’m jealous and pissed, and so fucking turned on.” his teeth grazed your skin as he caught the line of your jaw, then your throat, nipping at the place where your pulse fluttered out of control. His breath spilled hot over your perfume, a scent he knew wasn’t chosen for him—and that knowledge set his temper alight.
He inhaled against your neck, lips brushing dangerously close. “Tell me, cutie…” his tone dipped into mockery, sharp and soft all at once, “is that what you were aiming for?”
————
Shutting Rafayel up was easy enough if you played your cards right. And right now, with your thighs draped on each side of his head, his face buried between them, it was the most effective method you’d ever discovered. He’d pulled you straight out of that party—cocky grin, sharp remarks, his hand at the small of your back like he had every right to lead you wherever he pleased—and somehow, the two of you ended up here again, tangled in the mess of his sheets, tearing at each other’s clothes like you were starving.
He hadn’t wasted a second once the door shut. The moment he shoved you back onto his bed, Rafayel dragged you over his mouth, pinning you there with a kind of desperate arrogance, tongue lapping at your folds like he had something to prove.
Your thighs trembled with every stroke of him, the slick sound of his mouth against you filling the room. He groaned into you, the vibration making you jolt, fingers tightening around the headboard as you rocked against him.
“Fuck—Rafayel,” you gasped, the words breaking into a moan as his hands urged you down harder, forcing you to grind over his mouth like he wanted you to drown him.
You couldn’t help laughing breathlessly, the edge of smugness curling your lips. “Didn’t know you liked shutting up this much,” you panted, voice cracking as he sucked hard on your clit, pulling another shaky cry from you.
He hummed against you in response, and the casual defiance in it made your chest tighten with something more dangerous than lust. Still, you couldn’t resist taunting him, voice pitched with a mix of moan and tease. “Do you wanna make me cum, Rafayel? Hm? So eager to please me for once?”
That had his fingers digging into your thighs, bruising and possessive. He pushed his tongue deeper, fucking you with it, and you cursed, head falling back, vision hazing. But you weren’t done. You leaned into the crueler edge of the game, your smirk curling even as your words hitched mid-breath. “Maybe the other guy would’ve been just as eager… you know, the one who whispered all kind of things in my ear while grinding behind me—”
Your taunt cut off in a broken scream when he growled low into your pussy and sealed his mouth around your clit, sucking so hard your whole body jerked. The orgasm ripped through you with a violence that made your thighs quake against his grip, soaking his face as you cried out his name like you couldn’t hold it back. And the bastard didn’t even slow down.
“S-shit, ahh…” you gasped, the sound breaking out of you before you could bite it back. His mouth didn’t let up, not until you cried his name, your whole body trembling as your hips moved helplessly against his tongue, too sensitive to bear it yet too desperate to stop. A low growl rumbled in his throat at the sound of your curse, vibrating against you, and then suddenly—his grip clamped around your thighs, dragging a startled cry from your lips as he flipped you onto your back.
Before you could catch your breath, he was already over you, stealing your mouth in a kiss that left you dizzy, his hips grinding down into yours, the hard line of him pressing insistently through the fabric of his pants. His lips broke away only to trail down your throat, and then his teeth found you, sucking rough marks into your skin like he meant to brand you.
“You already got me so worked up…” his voice was rough, almost bitten out, “but then you go and say his name while I’m between your legs?” he sank his teeth lightly into your neck, the sting chased by the drag of his tongue.
Your protest melted into a groan as his fingers slid inside you, stretching you with merciless precision. He moaned low when your release slicked against his touch, making each movement faster, deeper, your body clenching around him in desperate pulses. His other hand spread over your ass, holding you open for him as his mouth closed around your breast, sucking hard, leaving your nipple aching under the wet heat of his tongue.
When his eyes lifted, messy hair falling into his flushed face, the burn in them was enough to make your stomach twist. Jealousy and hunger sharpened the edges of his gaze, the sound of his voice rough and almost mocking. “If you wanted it rough, cutie, you could’ve just asked. No need to piss me off, pulling shit like this on me.”
Your laugh came out broken, shaky, your voice trembling on each gasp. Still, you managed, “Where’s the fun in that?”
He kissed you then like he was trying to win something, all heat and defiance, his mouth clashing against yours in a mess of teeth and breath. You answered with equal force, your hands already curling tighter in his hair, dragging him closer until you broke the kiss just to flip him beneath you. The motion was sharp, your thighs locking around his hips as you shoved him down onto the mattress, stealing a groan out of him that sounded far too satisfying.
“You’re so easy to trigger, aren’t you?” you taunted, breathless as you pressed your mouth to his throat, nipping at the skin until he tilted his head back with a curse. Your fingers fumbled at his belt, deliberately slow, grazing him in ways that made his jaw clench. “Maybe it’s time someone puts you in your place. Because clearly…” you scoffed, dragging your nails lightly over his stomach as you marked his neck, “…you don’t know where you stand.”
His hips twitched under the drag of your palm, his breathing uneven now—finally losing that insufferable composure that always drove you mad. His pants and boxers were gone in what felt like seconds, and you perched just above him, teasing, stroking him in slow, deliberate movements that had his eyes darkening, his chest rising sharp with every breath.
When your mouth wrapped around him at last, he swore violently, a hand flying to your hair, gripping hard enough to make your scalp sting. The sound that tore out of him was raw, unguarded, his back arching off the sheets.
“S-shit, fuck…” he hissed, the word breaking, and you almost laughed around him, because the victory was already rushing through your veins, warm and heady. The Rafayel who always had a sharp retort, always stayed a step ahead, was now groaning under your mouth, bucking helplessly into you, fingers threaded tight in your hair as if he’d lose himself without the anchor.
He looked almost beautiful like this—breathless, undone, stripped of every cocky remark he usually wielded like a weapon. You could admit it now, he was dangerous when quiet, his charm sharper in the silence between gasps.
“Cutie shit—just like that,” his voice cracked, raw and heavy as his hand tightened in your hair. “I’m not gonna last.”
The ragged sound of his breathing filled the space, and just when you felt him twitch against your tongue, he pulled you away with a guttural growl. His mouth caught yours in a kiss that was messy, desperate, teeth clashing as if he couldn’t stand the distance for even a second longer.
“Not yet,” he rasped against your lips, his grip bruising your hips as he dragged you up into his lap. “Not until I fuck you so good you forget whatever guy you were entertaining earlier.”
You barely had time to roll your eyes before he flipped you over with startling ease, pressing you down and sliding into you in one rough, unrelenting thrust. The breath tore out of you in a broken moan, nails sinking into his shoulders as your body stretched around him.
“You’re tight, princess,” he groaned into your ear, hips snapping forward, the sound spilling out of him low and guttural. “Fuck, you take me just as good as last time.”
Whatever sharp retort you might’ve had died the moment he set a brutal rhythm, pounding into you with a pace that stole the ground from under your thoughts. Pleasure tore through you too fast, too much—until you were trembling around him, clenching hard as your release crashed over you.
“So sweet when you come for me,” he rasped, voice unraveling as your walls squeezed him tighter. “Squeezing me so goddamn t-tight…”
He pulled out only to drag you forward, manhandling you face-down, ass high, the mattress dipping under his weight as he shoved back inside without warning. The thrust punched a scream out of you, raw and unguarded, and he chuckled darkly at the sound, his fingers digging deep into your hips as if to brand you there.
“You wanted rough, didn’t you?” His tone was half-growl, half-smirk, sharp with the kind of heat that left no space to breathe. He snapped his hips hard against you, deeper, faster, each movement sharp enough to leave you reeling. “Wanted to make me jealous, huh? Then take it.”
Your mouth hung open, words failing as he pushed you past every edge, the drag of his jealousy turning him feral, reckless—eager to ruin you until there was nothing left in your head but him. And in truth, you loved every second of it. Because this version of Rafayel—the one who burned with want, who touched like he was starving, who let his jealousy unravel into raw need—was utterly, devastatingly irresistible.
.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!
Synopsis: Seven minutes in heaven with your college Rival Rafayell couldn't have been more insufferable—except it didn’t end in seven minutes. One kiss turned into another, and somehow the game bled into the night, your rivalry burning hotter in the sheets. Weeks later, you act like nothing happened between you, but Rafayel doesn’t take it lightly. Jealousy flickers sharp whenever he sees you laugh with someone else, as if you plan on pissing him off.
Content warnings: College AU, Rivals to lovers, Jealousy, Heavy Sexual tension, Kissing, Making out in the closet, Explicit sexual content, Rough sex, Possessiveness, Riding, Face fucking, Oral sex, Cunnilingus, Fingering, Overstimulation, Dirty talk, Manhandling, Marking/bruising, Jealousy-fueled intimacy, Consensual but rough dynamics, Rafayel gets jealous, mc wants to piss him off
Word count: 10k
chapter 1 - chapter 2 - chapter 3 — ao3
Chapter 1 - Push and Pull
You despised Rafayel Qi more than you ever wanted to admit, and nothing in this life would have satisfied you more than wiping that smug, infuriating smirk off his face. He was the kind of insufferable you could spot from across a lecture hall, lounging in his seat like the world existed for his amusement, tossing out comments that were always just sharp enough to get under your skin.
For the past two years, he’d been your personal plague, an ever-present thorn in your side. And somewhere, deep down in the place you didn’t like to acknowledge, you almost admired his persistence—how one man could make you want to strangle him in every single encounter.
He never knew when to shut up. Always poking, always pushing, like testing the limits of your patience was his chosen sport. And oh, how you’d made it your mission to give it right back, to make his life just as miserable in return. That was the thing about the two of you, a perfect disaster of cause and effect. The light and the fuse. People didn’t even bother asking how your latest spat had started—they just assumed it had, because it always did.
On campus, your names had become inseparable in the worst possible way, whispered together with knowing grins or exasperated sighs. Group projects? A nightmare. Debate class? Civil war. Even casual conversations in the cafeteria would somehow pivot to, “Did you hear what Rafayel said to her this time?”
You hated it, hated that your name was tethered to his like some cosmic joke.
You could still hear his voice from that afternoon in the library, casual and smooth as ever, leaning over the table with that lazy smile. “Relax, cutie,” he’d said, sliding your textbook toward himself without asking. “If you keep glaring at me with that expression, people are going to think that you fancy me.”
You had snatched the book back, teeth clenched. “The only thing I fancy is the idea of never having to see your face again.”
He’d only laughed, low and infuriating. “Harsh. Guess I’ll just have to make sure you keep seeing it, then.”
You couldn’t begin to fathom what crime you had committed—whether in this life or some unfortunate past one—to deserve being stuck with him every few weeks. Yet here you were, standing on the soft, beer-stained carpet, surrounded by a cloud of cheap perfume, laughter, and the low thrum of bass shaking the floorboards. Alcohol hummed in your veins, warm and distracting, while the partygoers whooped and hollered around the circle.
A chipped glass bottle spun on the floor, wobbling to a stop as if it had been conspiring against you all night. You stared at it like it had just declared war on you, because, of course, the neck was pointing directly at Rafayel.
For a fleeting, wicked moment, you considered grabbing it and cracking it over his annoyingly perfect head. Seven minutes in heaven. With him.
The crowd erupted—half in mock horror, half in the kind of delight that came from watching a train wreck you couldn’t look away from. Simone and Tara exchanged a wide-eyed glance that said they were both surprised and already placing mental bets.
You narrowed your eyes at them, but before you could say a word, movement caught your attention. Rafayel was already walking toward the closet—no hesitation, no acknowledgment of the chaos he left in his wake. He didn’t even look back at you, as if it was a foregone conclusion you’d follow.
That arrogant prick.
You scoffed under your breath and stood, brushing imaginary lint off your jeans, mostly to keep from flipping him off in front of everyone. Simone and Tara nudged each other like middle schoolers about to watch a fight, grinning as though they hadn’t just sold you out to the devil himself.
“Don’t wait up,” you muttered at them, your voice sharp enough to cut.
A guy from somewhere in the back yelled, “My money’s on murder!”
Another chimed in, “Nah, they’re either gonna make out or burn the place down.”
You ignored them all, though your jaw tightened. Seven whole minutes trapped in a cramped, dark space with Rafayel—his cologne, his smug smirk, his constant need to one-up you. And as you reached the door, he glanced over his shoulder at last, that infuriating grin playing on his lips.
“Don’t look so thrilled, cutie,” he drawled, holding the closet door open just wide enough for you to pass. “I promise to make it worth your while.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle you could still see. “You wish.”
His smirk deepened, lazy and sure of himself. “I do,” he said lightly, stepping in after you. “But it’s more fun when you do too.”
The door clicked shut, sealing you into seven minutes of hell. You pressed yourself into the farthest corner as the door shut, sealing out the noise of the party. Darkness swallowed the cramped space, save for a sliver of light leaking through the crack between the door and frame. Your breath caught—not from nerves, you told yourself, but from the sudden proximity.
His cologne lingered in the air, warm and heady, with some other undertone—salted, oceanic—that clung stubbornly in your head. The realization annoyed you more than his actual presence. It was unfair, you thought, that someone so irritating could smell that good.
A faint brush against your arm made you flinch. You turned your head sharply, catching the faint outline of his profile in the gloom.
“Keep to your own space, yeah?” you muttered, your voice low but sharp. You tried to shift farther away, but the closet was far too small, and you hated the way every movement brought you back within reach of him.
His laugh came quiet but deep, curling at the edges with smugness. “My bad, princess,” he murmured, leaning just close enough for the warmth of his words to ghost over your cheek. “Didn’t realize I’d already stepped on your toes tonight.”
You shot him a glare, even if you knew he probably couldn’t see much of it in the dark. His arm was still brushing yours, his casual lean making it clear he had no intention of shifting away.
“I will step on yours if you don’t move,” you warned, crossing your arms tight over your chest and turning your body slightly to shield yourself.
Instead of taking the hint, he tilted his head lazily. “So aggressive tonight,” he said softly, mock sweetness dripping from the words. “Acting like this isn’t the highlight of your night.”
You huffed, the sound sharp in the close air. “In what universe would this be my highlight?”
“In mine,” he answered smoothly, without missing a beat.
You scoffed, the sound sharp in the thick air between you. “You’re so full of yourself, Rafayel.” the words left your mouth like you were flicking a match, each syllable meant to cut.
He only hummed in response, low and lazy, and you hated how close the sound came—how it brushed over your ear like the faintest touch. The closet was warm, the air stale, and you could barely make out anything in the dark. But the sliver of light from the doorframe caught just enough of his face to make his expression clear—amused, entertained, like this was his own private game.
You scoffed again, softer this time, if only to keep from saying something that would sound too much like admitting defeat. He chuckled quietly, that smug undercurrent in every note, and then his arm brushed yours again. You stiffened, your jaw tightening on instinct, but he didn’t shift away. Instead, he leaned in just slightly, tilting his head toward you until you could feel the faint stir of his breath. One hand came up to brace himself on the wall behind you, close enough that you could feel the subtle press of his body against yours.
Your pulse ticked up despite yourself. This was absurd. Infuriating. And yet your chest felt tighter than it should.
“Stop touching me,” you hissed, shifting back as far as the wall would allow.
He gave a quiet laugh, as though you’d just said something endearing. “Where exactly do you want me to go, cutie?” he murmured, voice low enough that you almost missed it. “Closet’s only so big.”
The worst part was that he was right. There wasn’t an inch of space left between you. You rolled your eyes, even though you knew he could probably see the movement in the faint light. “Try harder.”
“Oh, I am,” he replied smoothly, the corner of his mouth lifting in a grin you could hear in his voice.
Seven minutes had never felt longer.
He smirked, leaning in just enough to test your patience, his voice dropping to that infuriatingly casual tone he always used when he knew he was getting under your skin.
“Kind of convenient, isn’t it?” he murmured, the words brushing against you like a challenge. “Whole party out there, and somehow you end up locked in here with me. Almost like you rigged it. Guess you really can’t stay away, cutie.” his next words ignited the fire in you even harder, “Especially since you can’t beat me when it actually counts.”
Your teeth clenched, heat prickling at the back of your neck. Before you could think better of it, your hand shot out, gripping the front of his shirt and tugging him just enough to close the already minuscule space between you.
“You’re delusional,” your voice was low and pointed, every word pressed like a blade. “Your ego must be eating what’s left of your brain, because you’re lying to yourself if you think I’d choose this. I’d rather be anywhere else.”
You held his gaze, and now you were close enough to make out the sharp line of his jaw, the faint curve of his mouth, and—annoyingly—just how clear his eyes looked in the thin strip of light. He stared back at you with the same infuriating calm, only a slow tug of a smirk breaking the stillness.
“Funny,” he whispered, leaning in just enough for his breath to mingle with yours. “You’re the one hanging on to my clothes like you’re about to tear them off.”
Your own smile curled, deceptively sweet. “I’d rather tear your head off.”
The space between you tightened, silent except for the shallow drag of your breaths. You hated that the air felt heavier now, that the warmth radiating from him made your skin hum in awareness. Neither of you moved back, both locked in the same unspoken dare you’d been passing between each other since the day you met.
He smirked, and you felt your jaw tighten in sync with the way your fingers curled, bunching the front of his shirt in a hard grip. He was too close, close enough that your breath caught against his, every inhale shared in the warm, cramped dark. Your pulse spiked, not that you’d admit it, not even to yourself.
You hated this. Absolutely hated him.
A sharp scoff escaped you before you planted a hand against his chest, shoving him back just enough to reclaim a sliver of space. But before you could take another step away, his arm moved and slid down from the wall behind you until his hand brushed against your waist, steadying himself.
The light contact made your pulse trip over itself. You grit your teeth, biting back the words that wanted to snarl at him to stop touching you—though you weren’t sure if you meant it entirely.
“You don’t seem in a rush for me to let go,” his voice was carrying that lazy taunt that made every nerve in you itch. His hand stayed exactly where it was, with more purpose now, his fingers settling with a certain confidence at your waist.
Your glare could have cut glass. “What kind of delusional state gives you the nerve to think you can touch me?”
You shoved at his chest again, harder this time, but his grip only tightened, pulling you forward with the movement so that your body collided with his. Your breath left you in a startled grunt, the solid heat of him impossible to ignore.
You looked up at him, startled and seething, yet heat coiled traitorously low in your stomach at the new position. Every sharp exchange, every smug remark he lobbed your way had wound itself into something you refused to name, and you’d sooner die than admit Rafayel could have that kind of effect on you.
His smirk curved lower, slower this time, his voice brushing over you like the edge of a dare. “I like it when you bite back,” he murmured, leaning just enough that the air between you thinned. “Makes me wonder what you’d do if I touched you… on purpose.”
His gaze flicked down briefly, then back to yours, full of quiet challenge. “My guess? Not much. You can’t really one-up me.”
The air felt heavy, your breaths matching his in a quick, uneven rhythm. Tension held you both still, tethered in the narrow space between his chest and yours.
“Cocky bastard,” you whispered, every word sharpened between clenched teeth. “You’ll get more than you bargained for.” you tilted your chin up, closing the space by a fraction, your lips nearly grazing his. “So either move your hand… or I’ll make you.”
His smile didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened infuriatingly slow, like he was savoring the moment.
“Yeah?” his voice dipped just enough to brush against something inside you. “And how exactly would you make me?”
His fingers tightened on your waist, not painfully, but with the kind of deliberate pressure that felt like he was testing how far he could push before you snapped. Heat surged under your skin, your muscles tensing as your breath came shallow, matching his.
You couldn’t even say who moved first—only that suddenly his mouth was on yours, hot and unyielding, all teeth and heat and reckless challenge. He kissed like he expected you to fight him, so you did, matching the push of his lips with your own bite until the taste of him left you dizzy.
Your whole body pressed into him, seeking leverage you didn’t want to admit you needed. His grip on your waist anchored you, pulling you closer until there was no space left to guard. Your teeth caught his lower lip, hard enough to pull a groan from his chest, low and rough.
The cramped heat of the closet wrapped around you both, the world reduced to the tangle of limbs and breath and the sharp scent of him. Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging as his bent knee slid between yours, shifting your weight until your back met the wall again with a muted thud.
He didn’t stop. Your mouths were a frenzy—hot, rough, and desperate in a way neither of you would ever admit aloud. Your hands clutched at him, fisting the fabric of his shirt, not to pull him closer—though it felt that way—but to keep yourself from stumbling under the force of it all.
The taste of him lingered on your tongue, sharp and consuming, each kiss a challenge neither of you wanted to lose.
You bit at his lower lip, he returned the favor, and your tongues tangled in a battle for dominance that left both of you breathing ragged. Teeth grazed swollen lips and the sensitive skin just beneath, his mouth dragging down to your neck. His lips were warm, his breath hotter, and when he sucked a mark there, his smirk was felt more than seen.
“Someone’s enjoying themselves,” he rasped against your skin, his voice low enough to scrape over your nerves.
“Shut up,” you bit back, shoving at his shoulder, though your body betrayed you, arching into him when his hands—bolder now—slipped beneath the hem of your shirt.
Your mouth found his again, urgent and unrestrained, and you yanked hard on his hair, pulling a groan from deep in his chest. The sound vibrated against your lips, and heat pooled low in your stomach.
You were both panting now, breaths coming fast and shallow, and then you felt his bulge—hard against your hip, impossible to ignore. His thigh pressed between yours, and without thinking, you grinded down against it, the friction dizzying.
He groaned again, but this time it was laced with that infuriating amusement. “Cute,” he drawled, his tone deliberately light, even as his grip on you tightened. “Almost desperate. Must be all that pent-up frustration from wanting to fuck me this whole time.”
Your nails dragged slow beneath his shirt, scratching from his ribs down to his stomach before sliding back up again. The movement earned a low, unrestrained groan from him, his breath hitching just enough to make you smirk—though you didn’t get long to savor the victory.
His hands were already on you, firm and unapologetic as they cupped your ass, pulling you down against the solid line of his thigh. The friction sent a jolt through you both, making your bodies lurch together, grunts and gasps spilling into the heat between your mouths.
Even breathless, neither of you could resist the game.
“Feel that?” he smirked, the words curling against your ear in a delicious rasp as he shifted his leg just right, making you gasp. “You’re soaking through, cutie. Didn’t know you could get this wet just from grinding on me.”
You hissed through your teeth, catching his smirk in your peripheral, and refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing you falter.
“Yeah? Then maybe you should be more worried about yourself,” you shot back, your voice low and edged with heat. Your fingers slipped lower, brushing the waistband of his jeans. “You’re so hard, Rafayel. I bet if I touched you just a little, you’d cum in seconds.”
His grip tightened at that, a subtle, wordless admission he wouldn’t dare voice.
What you don’t expect is his low, rough voice brushing against the shell of your ear like he knows exactly what it does to you.
“Go on,” he murmurs, the words warm and wicked, “be a good girl… touch me. We could help each other out.” The tease is casual, almost lazy, but the weight of it coils heat deep in your stomach.
Before you can throw a retort, his fingers are already at your waistband, dragging the zipper down in a slow, deliberate pull. Then his hand slips inside, the heat of his palm startling against your skin. His breath hitches in something like satisfaction, and a soft grunt escapes him, carrying both a praise and a taunt.
“Slippery already,” he drawls, his tone dipping just enough to make it sound like a secret. “Must’ve been desperate for me, huh? Can’t help yourself… even just being close to me gets you like this.”
You grit your teeth, trying to swallow the sound building in your throat, but it escapes anyway—a low, unsteady moan—as his fingers slide inside you. He doesn’t ease in; his pace starts steady, controlled, and just dizzying enough to steal your breath.
You’re too far gone to argue, too caught between his touch and the heat thrumming through you to remember whatever insult you’d been ready to throw. Instead, you crush your mouth to his, the kiss greedy and unrestrained, tasting of defiance. His fingers work inside you in a steady, deliberate rhythm, just enough to make your knees threaten to give.
You don’t let him have all the satisfaction. Your hand drifts lower, finding the hard outline pressing against his jeans, rubbing in the same measured pace he’s set for you. The sound he makes is low and rough, pulled from somewhere deep, and you drink it in like victory.
Your mouths stay locked, swallowing each other’s shallow pants and quiet moans, the kiss breaking only for sharp gasps before crashing together again. Teeth catch lips, fingers dig into clothes and skin, both of you pushing harder, faster—daring the other to give in first.
The tension snaps for you in a shiver, your body tightening around his fingers as heat floods through you. He swallows your moan like it’s his, kissing you harder, deeper, until you’re dizzy. A moment later, his hips jerk, a muted groan breaking against your mouth as he follows, the heat between you spilling over into something ragged and messy.
Still, neither of you pull away. You kiss until your lips are bruised, until breath comes in broken pulls, until it’s impossible to tell if you’re clinging from want or because neither of you can stand without the other holding you up.
“Pretty sure that was more than seven minutes,” he murmured against your neck, his tone dripping with satisfaction before his teeth sank into your skin in playful retaliation.
A sharp sound slipped from you—half moan, half hiss—your body still humming from the high, even as irritation flickered hot in your chest.
“Who knew all it would take was a couple of my fingers to strip some of that attitude away, cutie?” he added, the bait curling lazily from his lips like he already knew you’d take it.
Your response was wordless at first—a firm grip on the half-hard length straining against his jeans, followed by a hiss against his neck as your other hand tangled in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him suck in a breath.
“How about,” your voice was low and edged with challenge, “you get me out of here and fuck me until it’s all gone, hm?”
His mouth crashed onto yours before you could blink, the kiss bruising and impatient. His hands gripped your ass and hips with a possessive force, pulling you flush against him as his smirk ghosted over your lips.
“Gladly,” he breathed, smug as ever.
“Bastard,” you muttered against his mouth, earning nothing more than a quiet laugh before he hauled you out of the cramped closet.
The hallway erupted in whistles and amused voices from classmates, but Rafayel didn’t so much as glance at them—his only focus fixed entirely, and unapologetically, on you.
—
Your hands roamed over him in desperate, greedy paths, grabbing at whatever skin you could reach—his back, his shoulders, the flex of his arms—as he drove into you with slow, delicious thrusts that somehow felt both sweet and merciless. His body hovered above yours, holding you caged between his hips and the mattress, each movement pulling ragged moans from your throat.
The air between you was hot, tangled with the sound of panting breaths and the wet heat of messy, biting kisses that kept breaking and reforming like neither of you could stay away for long.
“I can bet,” he moaned between thrusts, his voice rough but edged with that familiar smirk, “you were this wet every time you argued back at me… isn’t that right?”
His flushed face hovered over yours, his gaze locked on you as his palm slid over your breast, kneading and teasing your nipple until it peaked under his touch.
You answered with a scoffing moan, biting back the urge to roll your eyes even as pleasure shot through you when he angled his hips just right, hitting deep enough to make your stomach clench. You lifted your hips to meet his thrusts, still unwilling to give him the full satisfaction of your surrender.
“Why don’t you quit being insufferable,” you grunted, your voice breaking when his teeth grazed your neck, “and fuck me properly instead?”
His fingers found your clit mid-sentence, circling in maddening, precise strokes that made your breath stutter. “Make me cum again, I’m close.”
“Who am I to refuse you, princess?” he mocked in a low, wicked whisper, his tone all heat and challenge.
Your back arched helplessly into him as release tore through you, your body tightening around his cock in pulsing waves. His hips jerked with the rhythm of your climax, your moans mixing with his as you dragged him into a heated kiss, swallowing each other’s sounds. His grip on your hip tightened hard enough to leave faint, perfect marks you’d find later, a wordless claim in the shape of his fingers.
Your palms pressed firmly to his chest, the heat of his skin slick under your fingers as your nails dug in for balance. You rode him in a steady, unrelenting rhythm, each movement pulling a groan from deep in his throat.
Your head tipped back, lips parted, the sound of your panting filling the room as your breasts bounced with every rise and fall. His mouth caught one nipple, sucking greedily before his teeth grazed the sensitive peak just enough to make your muscles tighten around him.
“This must be new to you, right?” he asked, though the lift of his brows and the smug curve of his mouth made it sound more like confirmation than curiosity. His tone was breathless, feigning innocence, which only made it worse.
Too lost in the way his cock filled you, you could only grunt between gasps, “What are you talking about?”
His hands tightened on your waist, guiding you down harder onto him. He murmured against your chest, his lips brushing your skin before closing around your nipple again, biting until a moan escaped you.
“Being on top,” he rasped with a smirk you could hear, his gaze flicking up to meet yours. “Considering you’re never above me in anything.”
The taunt was punctuated by a sharp thrust upward, his hips grinding into you as a low grunt rumbled from his chest. “How do you like it, princess?”
You bent forward, bracing a hand against his jaw, then sliding it to the back of his neck as his eyes locked on yours—amethyst and heat-drunk, his lips wet and kiss-bruised. Through a breathless moan, you rasped out your answer, your nails biting into his skin.
“Would like it better,” you panted, “if you didn’t run your mouth.”
He only smirked, that maddening curve of his lips catching the dim light before he ducked down to suck another mark into your neck—one of many already burning along your skin. His smugness was infuriating, but it was harder to focus on that when you felt him twitch inside you, his cock hitting deep enough to blur your vision.
“Oh, but you do like when I run my mouth, don’t ya?” his voice was low, curling with amusement before he caught your lips in a kiss that was all heat and teeth and unspent tension. You kept moving on him, chasing the high with relentless rhythm, your breath breaking against his. “Seemed to love it a few minutes ago,” he murmured between kisses, “when it was between your legs.”
A sharp moan tore from you when his thumb found your clit, already slick and swollen from the previous orgasm he pulled from you. The touch was almost too much, your body clenching around him in a shiver that drew a low, unrestrained groan from his chest. He chuckled against your skin, his fingers digging into the soft curve of your ass as if he meant to keep you exactly where you were.
“I even recall you moaning my name so nicely when you came around my tongue…” his voice rasped against your ear, warm enough to send a shiver down your spine.
Your head tipped back, eyes squeezing shut as you bounced harder, your mouth falling open on a broken gasp. You were so close you could taste it.
“Never heard my name sound that sweet from your mouth before,” he taunted, his words smug but tangled with his own uneven breaths, knowing it must turn you on.
The sound of his grunts matched the rhythm of your moans, your bodies locked in a pace that was more a challenge than surrender, both of you teetering at the edge.
You blocked out the smug noise spilling from his lips, focusing instead on keeping your rhythm steady despite the burn in your thighs. Your voice came out shaky but biting, laced with challenge. “You better not cum before I do, asshole.”
Your teeth sank into your lower lip hard enough to sting, and his answering thrust made your head tip back. He met your pace with deep, upward drives of his hips, each one threatening to push you over. His fingers dug into the flesh of your ass, guiding you, controlling the motion as if he owned the moment and you.
“Don’t worry that pretty head, cutie,” he chuckled between low, rough grunts, the sound vibrating against your chest when he leaned in. His eyes drank you in—your slack jaw, your unfocused gaze, the way pleasure had stolen the sharp edges of your expression. “I wouldn’t miss the chance to watch you cum around my cock… so freaking beautiful like this…”
His lips brushed your neck in a fleeting kiss just before your body seized around him. Heat and pleasure tore through you, your thighs trembling violently as you came with a broken, shaky moan. You felt the wet rush coat him, spill between you, soak into the sheets beneath.
His groan was deep and rough, the sound dragging low in his chest as his hips faltered. You didn’t need to see his face to know he was seconds away; you could feel it in the iron grip of his hands on your hips, in the heat radiating from his skin, in the breath he caught like he was holding back the inevitable.
Leaning down, you caught the warm line of his neck between your teeth, biting hard enough to draw another groan from him. Your lips found the sweet spot just beneath his ear, sucking until his muscles tensed under you.
That was all it took—he jerked inside you, twitching hard as heat spilled into you in thick, pulsing waves, coating your sensitive walls until you could feel it drip. His head tipped back, breath ragged, and you felt the faintest chuckle rumble in his chest, even through the haze of release.
“Can’t ever say you hate me now,” he rasped, his voice still rough with the edge of release, “not after letting me mark you like this, cutie.”
Before you could snap back, his hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you down into a kiss that stole the rest of your breath. It was searing and messy, all heat and teeth, his lips moving against yours like he had no intention of letting you go any time soon. Your bodies were still pressed tight, the aftershocks thrumming between you, and every pull of his mouth tasted faintly of victory.
—
Rafayel wasn’t the type to cling to jealousy or waste energy on expectations he never asked for—but watching you slip back into that same dynamic, as if nothing had happened between you, lit something sharp and ugly under his skin. It was one thing to keep up the bickering, the constant push-and-pull you two seemed addicted to, but being so close to anyone else in this place? Laughing, leaning in, letting other people into your space the way you let him, even if just for one night? That ticked him off more than he wanted to admit.
He could lie to everyone else, but not to himself. He was jealous. Or at the very least, bothered—more than before, more than he had any right to be. Especially since you seemed intent on shoving it in his face, as though proving just how easily you could cozy up to other guys on campus might put him in his place.
Seeing you dance with that colleague tonight had made his jaw tighten, a scoff of disbelief escaping before he could bite it back. Because he knew better—he knew what you wanted. He’d felt it in every heated moment you’d given him, in the way your body melted under his hands, pliant no matter how sharp your words were.
You could pretend, you could deny—but he’d already dragged the truth out of you in the dark, in the messy rhythm of tangled sheets and bitten lips. And tonight, all he could think about was how you’d come undone for him, over and over again, chasing release like a spark to a fuse you couldn’t stop lighting—and now you were cozying up with another man.
The dynamic between you hadn’t shifted in the slightest—you still scoffed, still snapped at him, every exchange bristling with the same defiance he had come to expect. Normally, Rafayel thrived on it; it was what made this little game so addictive. But tonight, with the taste of you still burned into his memory, he had hoped for something different—some flicker of change, even if you refused to admit it.
He caught you alone near the drinks table, slipping into your space without hesitation, his shadow falling across you as you tipped the bottle. You turned your head sharply, eyes narrowing, your scoff cutting through the din of music and chatter. “What do you want now, Rafayel?”
The tone—biting, impatient—made his jaw twitch. Normally it thrilled him, but the sharp edge tonight dug deeper. Did you really despise his presence that much? Even now, after everything?
He leaned one elbow against the counter as though he had all the time in the world, his amethyst eyes catching the low light and glinting with that practiced, playful spark. He slipped the mask on as easily as a second skin, the one he always wore with you. “Back to making me work for your attention, I see.”
You rolled your eyes, ignoring the weight of his gaze as you poured yourself a shot. The liquid burned down your throat, leaving your lips wet when you licked the taste away. His eyes tracked the movement without restraint, though you didn’t seem to notice.
“Sometimes I seriously wonder if you don’t have better things to do than pester me all day,” you muttered, as though the idea of his presence alone grated on you.
He nearly laughed, the sound curling up the back of his throat, but the bitterness still lingered like ash. He could hide it well—he always did—but something in his chest coiled tighter, a heaviness he couldn’t smirk his way out of.
He poured himself a shot like it was second nature, tossing it back with the same careless ease he wore like armor. Then he leaned in, closing the space between you with an unbothered smirk tugging at his lips.
“Gonna pretend it never happened, is that it, princess?” his eyes found yours in the low light, sharp against sharp, daring you to flinch first.
You leaned in too, your voice dropping to a hiss that barely carried over the music. “Stop calling me that.”
His laugh was low, warm, almost affectionate in its own infuriating way. “Funny,” he murmured, tilting his glass aside. “Had you in my bed, moaning for me, and the first thing you pick up after is that attitude.”
Your glare could have cut straight through him. You scoffed, turning your head deliberately, your gaze sweeping the room—for him, it wasn’t hard to guess who you were looking for. The guy you’d been dancing with earlier. His jaw tightened before he could stop it, the weight of his stare narrowing back on you.
His voice came out rougher now, laced with the edge of something he usually hid behind a smirk. “So that’s what it is. Maybe I should fuck you slow next time. Sweet, steady—see if that’d finally get you to acknowledge it.” his head tilted slightly, the words a challenge, a taunt, but his eyes searched yours like he wanted the truth more than the fight.
You laughed, the sound sharp as glass. Through your teeth, bitter but smiling just enough to sting, you shot back, “There’s no next time. And I’d rather you dropped the cocky act.” your gaze flicked up, unwavering. “Not everyone wants to end up in your bed, Rafayel.”
The smirk didn’t falter on his lips, but the burn of your words sank under his skin all the same. Oh, how he loved your attitude. The sharpness in your voice, the fire in your glare—it always turned him on, but tonight it scraped against something else too. Annoyance. You dismissed him so easily, brushed everything off as if it hadn’t mattered, as if you’d rather erase it than admit it was real.
But he couldn’t forget. He didn’t want to forget the sound of your moans, the way your nails dug into his skin, the bite of your teeth against his shoulder, your mouth desperate and hot on his. Every mark you’d left on him still burned under his skin.
His smirk came quick, practiced, though his jaw ticked in irritation he couldn’t quite swallow down. “Well, you wanted it,” he drawled, voice low enough to coil between you, “and you seemed pretty determined to show me just how badly.”
The proof lingered—your mark, blooming faint but undeniable on the side of his neck. He saw the flicker in your expression when your eyes caught it, the twitch of your jaw before your glare sharpened even further.
You spit your words back at him, close enough now that he could smell you. Sweet perfume, deliberate and light, clinging to your skin like temptation. The thought of you applying it for someone else—for that guy you’d been pressed against earlier—made his stomach knot in a way he refused to admit. His smirk stayed fixed, masking the flare of heat in his chest, but it didn’t quiet the urge that nearly consumed him—to press his face into your neck, breathe you in, and let himself get drunk on you.
“Seriously, what’s your fucking problem?” you snapped, each word sharp enough to cut. “Yeah, we fucked. So what? You expect me to drop at your feet now and suck you off or something?”
Every syllable was a double-edged knife—turning him on even as it lit a flame of irritation low in his chest. Did you really think that’s what he wanted from you? While he’d never be opposed to the thought, that wasn’t it. Not even close. What he wanted was for you to stop pretending it meant nothing, to stop brushing it off like you hadn’t melted under him, clawed at him, begged for more until your voice broke.
His eyes lingered on yours, refusing to look away, holding the heat of your glare. You looked pissed, but he couldn’t tell if it was your usual game or if he’d really struck a nerve this time, dug under your skin deeper than you wanted him to.
“I wouldn’t be opposed to it,” he said smoothly, smirking like he hadn’t just swallowed down the words he really wanted to say—that you were driving him insane, that you’d taken root under his skin, that it wasn’t just your body he wanted. He tilted his head slightly, voice curling like smoke as he added, “Do you want me begging for it first?”
The faint shift in your expression—hesitation, surprise, something flickering behind your eyes—was gone almost as quickly as it appeared. You scoffed, your laugh short and bitter, already angling your body away like you’d had enough.
“I want you to leave me alone,” you shot back, each word bitten off like you meant to end it right there. Your smile was cutting, the kind meant to dismiss, to wound. “Enjoy the party, Rafayel.”
And before he could stop you, you turned toward the crowd—toward him, the other guy—and something inside him twisted sharp, the smirk still plastered on his face doing nothing to smother the frustration building in his chest.
Watching you dance, flirt, and laugh with that guy for hours ticked Rafayel off in ways he couldn’t keep buried—not with alcohol humming in his veins. His eyes followed the sway of your hips, the way sweat caught the low lights on your skin, turning you into something untouchable and magnetic. The guy had slipped away a few minutes ago, probably for another drink or a bathroom break—Rafayel couldn’t be bothered to care.
His focus was on you, only you. The words you’d thrown at him earlier replayed like a broken record in his mind, cutting sharper every time. He hadn’t expected you to cling to him, hadn’t even expected softness or anything close to it—but acting as if you hadn’t spent a night tangled together, bodies desperate, mouths bruised—it set something raw and restless burning in him.
He hated it. Hated how much it mattered. Hated the circumstances, hated that it made him feel like this—like he wanted to drag you away and make you admit every mark you left on his skin meant something more than just a mistake. And he knew it would probably end badly. But watching another man press into your space, lay hands on you—watching you let him, welcome him—it made his blood run hotter than the whiskey in his glass.
Rafayel wasn’t stupid enough to believe you were doing it on purpose just to rile him up. But still, the thought gnawed at him. The possibility that you knew exactly what effect you had on him—and chose to wield it—made his chest tighten in a way he couldn’t laugh off anymore.
Your hips swayed slow and unbothered to the rhythm, a lazy, carefree roll that pulled him in before he could stop himself. You hadn’t even realized who pressed up behind you—he could see it in the way you welcomed the touch too easily, as if you thought it was that other guy. That thought alone made his jaw clench, the bitter edge of alcohol still coating his tongue.
His hands settled on your waist, fingers splaying possessively over the curve, and you arched in response without hesitation. That simple movement—that you’d done it for someone else—made frustration coil low and sharp in his chest. His grip tightened, pulling you flush as he dipped his face into the slope of your neck. The scent of your perfume laced with heat and sweat filled his head, dizzying, intoxicating, far too easy to get drunk on.
“You smell so good,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low enough to sink right into your bones.
You stiffened instantly, the realization snapping through you. It was him, not the guy you thought. Your body shifted as if to turn, to throw him a glare or maybe shove him away, but his arms circled tighter around your waist, holding you still, pressing you into the steady rise of his chest. His nose brushed just beneath your ear, his mouth dragging close enough that his words threaded warmth into your skin.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” you asked, your voice pitched low, sharp but not steady—caught off guard, unsettled.
His lips ghosted another breath over your neck, dangerous and calm all at once, the lazy drawl of his voice cutting through the bass of the music. “Couldn’t keep watching that guy put his hands all over you.”
You scoffed, refusing to give him the satisfaction of stillness, your body swaying side to side with the beat as though he weren’t pressed so close. He took it for annoyance, maybe even defiance, and you threw your words like sparks over your shoulder. “Then don’t fucking look, Rafayel. It isn’t any of your business.”
His chest brushed against your back, solid and warm, crowding you until there was no space left to claim as your own. You rolled your hips again, half in spite, half because fighting him always ended like this—like gravity itself had shifted around him. His breath trembled against your neck, catching faintly on the perfume he couldn’t seem to stop drinking in.
“Are you drunk?” you muttered, sharp with irritation.
“No,” he rasped, voice rougher than usual, his hips sliding in sync with yours. The deliberate press made it impossible to ignore the unmistakable hardness straining against your ass. His fingers found your hips, not tentative but claiming, tightening when you didn’t shrug him off.
You scoffed under your breath, but your body betrayed you, still moving, still letting him. “Then why the hell are you all over me right now?”
He didn’t answer in words first. His lips ghosted along your neck, deliberate and lazy, before catching against your skin in a kiss that lingered too long to be innocent. He pulled your hips flush against his, making sure you felt exactly what you’d provoked, exactly how hard he was.
“It’s how it should be,” he murmured, his voice a low curl of smoke, the smirk etched against your skin as he leaned into your ear. “So do me a favor, cutie, and tell that guy to back off.”
Your laugh came sharp, edged with a bite. “I thought I told you to back off, Rafayel.” still, your hips betrayed the venom of your words, grinding against him like you couldn’t stop yourself. “I’m leaving home soon, anyway.”
That pushed him too far. His patience snapped into something darker, frustration coiled tight with want. His mouth brushed your ear, tone suddenly rougher, meaner, though still soaked in heat. “The next words out your mouth better not be that you’re leaving with him.”
His grip tightened at your waist, and the pressure sent a shiver down your spine no matter how hard you tried to fight it. You hated that your body still reacted, hated that even when you were frustrated—angry, even—it didn’t stop the rush of heat that pooled beneath your skin.
His breath brushed your ear as he leaned in, the low bass of the music vibrating through the floor and through your bones, but all you could hear was him. The two of you swayed together, not to the rhythm, but to something far more reckless.
“Get your act together, Rafayel.” your voice cut sharp, laced with sarcasm as you turned to face him. The flashing lights caught the tension in your jaw, as tight and unyielding as his own, and for a moment it felt like you weren’t dancing so much as locked in combat.
His lips curved—not into a smile, not really—but into that insufferable smirk he wore whenever he wanted to rile you. “Mm, harsh. Though, to be fair, I’m not the one grinding against strangers for an audience.” his words came low, casual, but there was a rawness underneath, the kind that betrayed too much.
Your eyes narrowed, voice dripping with annoyance. “You’re either drunk out of your mind, or you’re jealous. Whichever it is—you have no right to say that.”
His hold only tightened, and the jealousy he refused to name aloud lingered in every breath he refused to let you take alone. His jaw ticked, a scoff breaking past his lips. It was supposed to sound amused, the way it usually did when he was poking at you, but the laugh carried a sharpness he couldn’t quite disguise. Jealousy bled through no matter how smooth he tried to make it. His eyes locked on yours, unblinking, the crowd and the music dissolving into a blur behind you.
“Don’t go home with him.” the words came out low, bitten off, heavier than he intended.
You scoffed, the sound sharp enough to cut, pushing against his chest to put some space between you. He barely gave, his body rooted in place, but you turned anyway, your voice tossed over your shoulder, drowned by the bass but still slicing through him all the same. “Unbelievable.”
The sway of your hips as you walked away was infuriating, deliberate, as if you knew exactly what you were doing to him. His jaw clenched tighter, watching you head straight toward the direction that bastard had gone. Before the thought could even settle, his hand shot out, catching your wrist.
You barely had time to gasp before he was dragging you through the crush of bodies, threading you through the mess of perfume and sweat and music until the two of you spilled into a darker corner, half-hidden near the bathroom hallway.
“What the fu—” the curse was barely past your lips before his mouth was on you.
It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t measured. It was a smash of lips and teeth and bottled-up want that burned through every ounce of restraint he had left. He couldn’t hear another word of you telling him to back off, couldn’t stand the thought of you storming away toward anyone but him.
And to his reckless satisfaction, you didn’t shove him off. Not right away. Instead your lips parted, your tongue chasing his with a heat that shocked him as much as it thrilled him. The back of your shoulders hit the wall with a thud, and he pinned you there, his hand curling around your jaw like he needed to hold you still, like he couldn’t risk you slipping through his fingers again.
He broke just enough space to breathe, his forehead nearly pressed to yours, breath ragged against your lips. His voice was hoarse, raw in a way you’d never heard. “I’m jealous.”
The confession scraped out of him like it cost something, but his eyes didn’t waver. They bore into you, dark, heated, a storm of frustration and something softer underneath. His cheeks were warm, but his gaze was sharp, almost accusing.
“Didn’t think your little act of indifference would get to me, and it didn’t at first,” he said, his tone clipped, defensive, as if he needed to convince himself more than you. His fingers dug harder into your hips, holding you where you were, his frustration bleeding through every touch.
“Until I saw him all over you. And you—” his jaw tightened again, the words heavier, almost bitten through his teeth. “You couldn’t have welcomed him more sweetly.”
“Is that so?” you scoffed, though the sound came out thinner than you wanted, betraying the heat gathering in your chest. His eyes caught the flicker of yours dropping just once to his mouth before darting back up, a slip you couldn’t take back. You hated that he noticed, hated the way he thrived on it, as if your irritation was his favorite game.
“I don’t remember owing you anything, Rafayel,” you managed through a ragged breath, voice sharp but trembling at the edges.
His grip tightened at your waist, fingers digging into the fabric just enough to make you stumble the slightest step into him. The closeness burned. There were people all around you—laughing, drunk, tangled in the music—but the crowd blurred into nothing, leaving only the thrum of his pulse pressed against yours, the friction of your remarks colliding.
“It’s like you’re trying to piss me off on purpose,” he muttered, low and rough, the words curling warm against your ear before his mouth stole yours.
The kiss was hard, bruising—more a clash than a surrender—but your body betrayed you, answering with the same fever. Your fingers curled into the half-buttoned placket of his shirt, yanking him closer until the last breath of air between you vanished. He groaned against your lips, the sound half frustration, half need, his tongue meeting yours in a reckless tangle. The taste of him was dizzying—bitter with jealousy, sweet with desire—and it made your head spin worse than the alcohol.
When he tore back just enough to speak, his voice was ragged, every word bitten off as though it cost him something.
“I’m jealous and pissed, and so fucking turned on.” his teeth grazed your skin as he caught the line of your jaw, then your throat, nipping at the place where your pulse fluttered out of control.
His breath spilled hot over your perfume, a scent he knew wasn’t chosen for him—and that knowledge set his temper alight.
He inhaled against your neck, lips brushing dangerously close. “Tell me, cutie…” his tone dipped into mockery, sharp and soft all at once, “is that what you were aiming for?”
—
Shutting Rafayel up was easy enough if you played your cards right. And right now, with your thighs draped on each side of his head, his face buried between them, it was the most effective method you’d ever discovered.
He’d pulled you straight out of that party—cocky grin, sharp remarks, his hand at the small of your back like he had every right to lead you wherever he pleased—and somehow, the two of you ended up here again, tangled in the mess of his sheets, tearing at each other’s clothes like you were starving.
He hadn’t wasted a second once the door shut. The moment he shoved you back onto his bed, Rafayel dragged you over his mouth, pinning you there with a kind of desperate arrogance, tongue lapping at your folds like he had something to prove.
Your thighs trembled with every stroke of him, the slick sound of his mouth against you filling the room. He groaned into you, the vibration making you jolt, fingers tightening around the headboard as you rocked against him.
“Fuck—Rafayel,” you gasped, the words breaking into a moan as his hands urged you down harder, forcing you to grind over his mouth like he wanted you to drown him.
You couldn’t help laughing breathlessly, the edge of smugness curling your lips. “Didn’t know you liked shutting up this much,” you panted, voice cracking as he sucked hard on your clit, pulling another shaky cry from you.
He hummed against you in response, and the casual defiance in it made your chest tighten with something more dangerous than lust. Still, you couldn’t resist taunting him, voice pitched with a mix of moan and tease. “Do you wanna make me cum, Rafayel? Hm? So eager to please me for once?”
That had his fingers digging into your thighs, bruising and possessive. He pushed his tongue deeper, fucking you with it, and you cursed, head falling back, vision hazing. But you weren’t done. You leaned into the crueler edge of the game, your smirk curling even as your words hitched mid-breath.
“Maybe the other guy would’ve been just as eager… you know, the one who whispered all kind of things in my ear while grinding behind me—”
Your taunt cut off in a broken scream when he growled low into your pussy and sealed his mouth around your clit, sucking so hard your whole body jerked. The orgasm ripped through you with a violence that made your thighs quake against his grip, soaking his face as you cried out his name like you couldn’t hold it back. And the bastard didn’t even slow down.
“S-shit, ahh…” you gasped, the sound breaking out of you before you could bite it back. His mouth didn’t let up, not until you cried his name, your whole body trembling as your hips moved helplessly against his tongue, too sensitive to bear it yet too desperate to stop. A low growl rumbled in his throat at the sound of your curse, vibrating against you, and then suddenly—his grip clamped around your thighs, dragging a startled cry from your lips as he flipped you onto your back.
Before you could catch your breath, he was already over you, stealing your mouth in a kiss that left you dizzy, his hips grinding down into yours, the hard line of him pressing insistently through the fabric of his pants. His lips broke away only to trail down your throat, and then his teeth found you, sucking rough marks into your skin like he meant to brand you.
“You already got me so worked up…” his voice was rough, almost bitten out, “but then you go and say his name while I’m between your legs?” he sank his teeth lightly into your neck, the sting chased by the drag of his tongue.
Your protest melted into a groan as his fingers slid inside you, stretching you with merciless precision. He moaned low when your release slicked against his touch, making each movement faster, deeper, your body clenching around him in desperate pulses. His other hand spread over your ass, holding you open for him as his mouth closed around your breast, sucking hard, leaving your nipple aching under the wet heat of his tongue.
When his eyes lifted, messy hair falling into his flushed face, the burn in them was enough to make your stomach twist. Jealousy and hunger sharpened the edges of his gaze, the sound of his voice rough and almost mocking. “If you wanted it rough, cutie, you could’ve just asked. No need to piss me off, pulling shit like this on me.”
Your laugh came out broken, shaky, your voice trembling on each gasp. Still, you managed, “Where’s the fun in that?”
He kissed you then like he was trying to win something, all heat and defiance, his mouth clashing against yours in a mess of teeth and breath. You answered with equal force, your hands already curling tighter in his hair, dragging him closer until you broke the kiss just to flip him beneath you.
The motion was sharp, your thighs locking around his hips as you shoved him down onto the mattress, stealing a groan out of him that sounded far too satisfying.
“You’re so easy to trigger, aren’t you?” you taunted, breathless as you pressed your mouth to his throat, nipping at the skin until he tilted his head back with a curse. Your fingers fumbled at his belt, deliberately slow, grazing him in ways that made his jaw clench.
“Maybe it’s time someone puts you in your place. Because clearly…” you scoffed, dragging your nails lightly over his stomach as you marked his neck, “…you don’t know where you stand.”
His hips twitched under the drag of your palm, his breathing uneven now—finally losing that insufferable composure that always drove you mad. His pants and boxers were gone in what felt like seconds, and you perched just above him, teasing, stroking him in slow, deliberate movements that had his eyes darkening, his chest rising sharp with every breath.
When your mouth wrapped around him at last, he swore violently, a hand flying to your hair, gripping hard enough to make your scalp sting. The sound that tore out of him was raw, unguarded, his back arching off the sheets.
“S-shit, fuck…” he hissed, the word breaking, and you almost laughed around him, because the victory was already rushing through your veins, warm and heady. The Rafayel who always had a sharp retort, always stayed a step ahead, was now groaning under your mouth, bucking helplessly into you, fingers threaded tight in your hair as if he’d lose himself without the anchor.
He looked almost beautiful like this—breathless, undone, stripped of every cocky remark he usually wielded like a weapon. You could admit it now, he was dangerous when quiet, his charm sharper in the silence between gasps.
“Cutie shit—just like that,” his voice cracked, raw and heavy as his hand tightened in your hair. “I’m not gonna last.”
The ragged sound of his breathing filled the space, and just when you felt him twitch against your tongue, he pulled you away with a guttural growl. His mouth caught yours in a kiss that was messy, desperate, teeth clashing as if he couldn’t stand the distance for even a second longer.
“Not yet,” he rasped against your lips, his grip bruising your hips as he dragged you up into his lap. “Not until I fuck you so good you forget whatever guy you were entertaining earlier.”
You barely had time to roll your eyes before he flipped you over with startling ease, pressing you down and sliding into you in one rough, unrelenting thrust. The breath tore out of you in a broken moan, nails sinking into his shoulders as your body stretched around him.
“You’re tight, princess,” he groaned into your ear, hips snapping forward, the sound spilling out of him low and guttural. “Fuck, you take me just as good as last time.”
Whatever sharp retort you might’ve had died the moment he set a brutal rhythm, pounding into you with a pace that stole the ground from under your thoughts. Pleasure tore through you too fast, too much—until you were trembling around him, clenching hard as your release crashed over you.
“So sweet when you come for me,” he rasped, voice unraveling as your walls squeezed him tighter. “Squeezing me so goddamn t-tight…”
He pulled out only to drag you forward, manhandling you face-down, ass high, the mattress dipping under his weight as he shoved back inside without warning. The thrust punched a scream out of you, raw and unguarded, and he chuckled darkly at the sound, his fingers digging deep into your hips as if to brand you there.
“You wanted rough, didn’t you?” His tone was half-growl, half-smirk, sharp with the kind of heat that left no space to breathe. He snapped his hips hard against you, deeper, faster, each movement sharp enough to leave you reeling. “Wanted to make me jealous, huh? Then take it.”
Your mouth hung open, words failing as he pushed you past every edge, the drag of his jealousy turning him feral, reckless—eager to ruin you until there was nothing left in your head but him. And in truth, you loved every second of it. Because this version of Rafayel—the one who burned with want, who touched like he was starving, who let his jealousy unravel into raw need—was utterly, devastatingly irresistible.
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i pulled in to nazareth just feelin bout half past dead i just need to find a place where i might lay my head hey mister can you tell me where a man might find a bed he just grinned and shook my hand no was all he said take a load off fanny take a load for free take a load off fanny and and and you put the load (put the load) right on me i picked up my bags and went looking for a place to hide when i carmen and the he devil walking side by side i said hey carmen come on let’s go downtown she said well i gotta go but my friend can stick around take a load off fanny take a load for free take a load off fanny and and and you put the load (put the load) right on me go down moses there’s nothing that you can say it’s just ol luke and luke’s a waitin on a judgement day well luke my friend what about young anna lee he said do me a favor son won’t you stay and keep young anna lee company take a load off fanny take a load for free take a load off fanny and and and you put the load (put the load) right on me crazy chester followed me yes he caught me in the fog he said i will fix your rack if you take old jack my dog i said wait a minute chester you know i’m a peaceful man he said that’s okay boy won’t you feed him when you can take a load off fanny take a load for free take a load off fanny and and and you put the load (put the load) right on me catch a cannonball now to take me down the line my bag is sinkin low and i do believe that it’s time to get back to miss fanny you know that she’s the only one she sent me here with her regards for everyone take a load off fanny take a load for free take a load off fanny and and and you put the load (put the load) right on me
older/milf reader x rafayel him breaking his back day and night trying to impress reader and reader's just unbothered. just him whining and whimpering for that pussy when he fucks reader for the first time 🤤
(thinking about cockwarming Priest! Rafayel while he's hearing confessions and keeping you quiet).
like on the other side of the screen there's a parishioner droning on, or weeping over mundane sins entirely oblivious to the fact that father raf is currently occupied with a far more exquisite transgression ✊🏻😔.
he sits perfectly upright, his rigid posture is the only outward sign of the sheer willpower it takes to maintain his composure. yet beneath the heavy, dark folds of his cassock, you are settled firmly in his lap, warming his cock. every tiny shift of your weight sends a jolt of pleasure straight to his core, but rafayel doesn't move a muscle, in fact, he cannot.
when a sharp wave of pleasure hits you, your breath hitches and despite you, a soft, breathless whimper escapes your lips.
in which, rafayel's hand moves instantly. oh, his pretty long, elegant fingers, usually crossed neatly in his lap or tracing the beads of a rosary, clamp firmly over your mouth, and the heat of his palm suffocates the sound, pressing your head back against his chest.
through the mesh screen, his voice remains steady, so smooth that it contrasts wildly with the dark, possessive heat in his eyes.
"go on, my child," rafayel says aloud to the screen, "the lord is listening. continue your confession."
snowghoul
vaporwave
origamiaround
kianamaiart
prguitarman
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