Mc is enjoying Raf's obsession with her .She understands that the biblo he gave her has a camera; she easily found the tracker he put on her before she leave for the mission .Actually, that made her laugh,cause she really thought he would be more careful, so she took a picture of it and sent it with a text that read “be more careful next time”. She would not let any man do these things, but he's different cause “he knew his place”.If she shows significant discomfort or pushes him away, he wouldn't pressure her. He would wait, wait for her to continue their game. She knows that it's not healthy this relationship of love twisted by obsession but she got addicted to rush of it and the feeling of ultimately being wanted
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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tamino!rafayel x fem!reader | 1.6k | 18+ smut. not really catch-22 au compliant. primal play. predator x prey. con dubcon (?). raf hunts reader. unprotected p in v. public sēx (woods/forest in rain). hate sēx. he just wanna fck reader. mention of cannibalism. write at a whim!! note me if i miss anything. just ugly smut, no proofread ✍🏻
primal play with tamino!rafayel after he succumbs into the frenzy state and gives you like one day heads up to run away the next day when he releases you from the cage.
he'll prey on you and all is fair play by your rules of course! no weapon because he'd demand to wield one too if you do. so it's best to out the option altogether before he appears in front of you with a fucking crossbow.
you aren't exactly sure what to expect of this sick play of his. obviously there's no literal way of escaping the sss class praedator with so little time without a proper escape plan for a one hour chase.
20 minutes into the game, you manage to destroy every cctv in sight, hopeful it will slow him down from tracking you. though you aren't ruling out the possibility that fucker installing some tracker in your garments. walking out of the facility, the city is tenth time worse in the heavy rain. pure destruction everywhere— nowhere to hide without luring the roaming lesser class of praedator.
it takes you another 10 minutes to skip several blocks and find a narrow alley that no one would notice if they aren't running for their life. at the end of its claustrophobic path, it connects you straight into the woods.
there's no second guessing with this twisted fate in your dynamic with rafayel. right now all of you feel him close to your heartbeat. it's deeply intertwined within you, addiction so akin to madness.
you welcome the torrential rain pelting down your skin despite the erratic adrenaline coursing your veins. it washes out a pathetic portion of your fear as the water wipes out your footprints in the soil. the ground is wet. you struggle to find a stable purchase. ahead of you where the area is thickened with streaks of trees and dense fog would be your temporary terminus.
25 minutes left. just a little more.
"if you win, i will let you go." he casually revealed over dinner.
"if you win?"
"i will do you as i please. you're the prize after all."
that memory alone fuels your determination to win. the rain ceases once you climb up an incline successfully, providing you a vantage view of your misty surroundings. there's not much to see except the endless lines of tall spruces with luscious thick bushes.
your heart leaps to your throat when there's still so much time left. no way you're staying here until the hunt ends. the smell of earth and rain bottle in your lungs as you drop to your haunches to afford a quick fresh oxygen.
maybe that's one mistake you should've never done when you're being chased by someone whose abilities and senses no longer measure up to average humans. you never stop running for your life. so when you stand up and ready to bolt for one last race, you're met with a hard force of a slab of stone.
a flash of lavender registers a loud alarm in your brain. rafayel is distracted as he catches your falling body, you kick him hard in the leg and he curses loudly. his heavy limbs crash forward, dragging you down too, trapping you between him and the damp earth.
still putting up a fight, you jostle harshly just because he's got you doesn't mean you're admitting defeat. you'll use every last bit of tricks to get away. but rafayel is simply not like any other human anymore.
he has your ankle yanked back, caging you under his frame. he flips you on your chest, effectively restricting your movements. strong thighs pin your legs in place then roughly gathers your wrists in one hand while the other shoves your head into the soil.
the sharp textures of broken twigs prick at your exposed skin but you couldn't care less when there's a literal praedator on your back wanting to devour you alive or fuck the life out of you.
"i win," he whispers darkly. his cold fingers curl the base of your throat and lift your head high. his ragged breathing is warm against your cheek, proving that he pours equal hard labor to chase you.
"no," you hiss stubbornly. "there's still time and i will not surrender to you, rafayel." it's laughable with his hard person completely anchors you in place. you can't fucking move no matter how hard you try to buck your upper body to throw him off. still, he appears to indulge in your belief that you can break away from the nightmare he creates.
the grip on your wrists and throat loosen as he chuckles, amused. "would love nothing more to see you fail. so by the time this ends—" rafayel's eyes gleam when he watches you struggling hard beneath him "—it'll be clear in your little head why you've always been mine to be begin with."
"you're fucking sick." your words lack its venom when he pulls up your waist, your back arching and your hips flushed against his. the rain again does excellent job doing nothing to soothe the heat flaming every inch of your skin from feeling the hard print of his cock against your ass.
it takes every amount of frustration to hold yourself from breaking apart and not begging for more.
"says you," he grits impatiently— needy and angry, thrusting his hips forward into you. his chest rumbles with low chuckle when your hips push back for his dick, as opposed to your bitter scowl. "dirty girl. you're just as fucked up and twisted as i am." a loud smack to your ass resounds in the rain.
"c'mon, sweets. i know you want me fuck haah need me. i will treat you so good. like my perfect pet."
your mind wanders to the other times you've countlessly found yourself in this exact position. the exact order of how this always ends leave you hot and increasingly desperate.
a piece of meat served in his silver platter with how bare your legs and ass feel. your short skirt rode all the way up, his hand snakes around your waist to cup the heat of your wet pussy.
"it's the rain," immediately rolls off your tongue. it's not the rain and rafayel knows it.
"you fucking suck at lying." a choked moan leaves you when he pinches your clit tightly and continues to punish you by rubbing it harshly.
"just fuck me on the bed! oh my god you're so not fucking normal."
"nothing about this is normal from the start," he tells as a matter of fact. "including the way your pussy is dripping in the middle of the forest. fuuuck do you really enjoy this, cutie? the idea of being fucked here?"
he's sucking and claiming your neck. everything happens at once. his hot tongue laps away the cool raindrops on your skin— his fingers rips the thin material of your panties, the blunt pressure of his length low on your back. the dangerous bare of his bloodthirsty fangs grazing right where your pulse is.
in the midst of lust clouding your judgement, you dodge your neck away from his mouth. “only your dick inside me. not your stupid fangs,” your scolding pull a disappointed groan out of him. but he doesn’t protest and thrusts hard inside you.
the pleasure-pain stretch elicits joint pant from you and rafayel. he barely allows you to adjust, his grip moves to hook one of your legs higher so he can bury himself to the hilt in your vagina.
“rafayel, move ah– oh fuck just like that.”
eyes close, his brutal fucking sends sparks of dizzying fulfillment. as if ‘have sex with rafayel in forest’ is at the top of your wish list and you’re crossing it now. the dead leaves and dirt become your victim, clawing them desperately as you scramble to ground yourself under him.
his thick head rubs the right spot and he’s been bullying it relentlessly. his own body buzzes in satisfaction at the way you’re spiraling and shaking. so pliant and his. he’s tempted to push your limits further.
“wait, raf–” you’re a moaning mess, drooling onto the dirt as he picks up his pace. his strong arm holds your body in place. his other hand circles your sensitive clit. your sanity tethering at the brink of collapse as he chases your orgasm to its edge.
“rafayel,” you gasp his name, desperate and pleading. his rough manhandling falters hearing you calling his name.
a strange noise that you’re unable to decipher between a whimper or moan comes from him. he hauls your person upright against his hard chest as his thrusts grow sloppier. “fuck, sweets. you smell so sweet. are you close?” he nibbles your earlobe. the way he's able to smell when you're close messes with your head in a good way.
this position makes you realise how much colder the weather is, the rain steadily beats the both of you. the high of your orgasm combined sends chills creeping south.
rafayel appears a lot like his real self when he’s clinging to you and wanting to come inside you. he whines in raw pleasure as he spills his release between desperate thrusts. his limbs unable to hold both of you so he falls forward, pulling you down along. ignoring your angry noises at being in contact with the dirt again.
you wait until your heartbeat is in sync again when you part your lips to ask. “so just sex?”
rafayel hums distractedly so you jab your elbow into his ribs. “fucking you for the rest of my life sounds good. you’re proposing?”
“fuck, no. how do i know you aren't going to wake up one day and randomly decide to eat me?”
his pause is too long for your liking and you're about to elbow him again when he flips you around. facing his clammy, pale face where his usual unhinged look is absent.
the loud ring of your watch breaks the trance he's in and his lips curl upward into a smirk. "told you i'll make you come before the hunt ends."
"that's totally not what you said.." you trail off, looking up at him after turning off the timer. immediately you know you're fucked because the look on his face, pussydrunk and needy and his cock inside you is hard again. clearly his idea of eating you is one that involves no cannibalism at all.
Mc turns into a mermaid/lemurian cause of a wanderer attack and calls Raf for help. Raf comes to her place, gets mesmerized after seeing her tail/scales, and is slightly (?) turned on, so it ends up with him fingering her mer-slit.
INTERNAL AFFAIRS OF THE HEART- SANCTARCH RAFAYEL X DUCHESS MC/READER
Chapter 1: An Introduction of Scrutiny
Words: 6,476
Pairings: Rafayel x MC/Reader
Rating: M
Overall Tags: Fantasy AU, enemies to lovers, religious themes, angst, hurt/comfort, sexual tension, drama, she/her MC, eventual smut, carriage smut, P in V sex, eventual pregnancy (after chapter 2 is where that plot begins, but you can read chapters 1 and 2 if you don't like those tropes but want the smut just fine), MC/Reader goes by Duchess Sterling, MC is a child of an affair and Caleb is her half brother, Lemurian OCs
Summary: After inheriting the title of Duchess of Treasury and Internal Affairs from her estranged Grandmother, a raised commoner has large hopes that the holy religion of the Sanctide Court will be a breath of fresh air amongst complicated investigations into the bank accounts of the noble houses of Gaia, but instead begins unraveling a web of deceit and hidden truths. Between her and the secrets however stands the Sanctarch; An infuriating man of charm and wit that is as handsome as he is dangerous. Amidst the complications of financial investigation and hundreds of years of religion the unexpected happens: The tension between Rafayel and the Duchess melds with fierce attraction.
~~~~~~~~~~~
The organist was playing a hymn that resonated through the ornate tiled floors of the Sanctide Court’s holy cathedral, and the newest Duchess of the Gaia Kingdom was able to feel the deeper notes in the soles of her feet where she sat near the front row where nobility was allowed.
The name her commoner father gave her did not matter here, as everyone called her by her Grandmother’s last name- Sterling- of who she had inherited the ducal title upon her passing six months ago. The Duchess had never met the woman, and was greatly surprised that she’d bothered to name her as heir; Though in retrospect and with greater knowledge of how the ruling class worked, she should have known such an important seat as the Duchess of Treasury and Internal Affairs could not be left empty.
It was her job, after all, to make sure there was no wealth hoarding or misappropriating of funds, and the noble houses of Gaia learned swiftly she was not to be underestimated; Growing up a commoner left her with a strong morality centered on holding nobility accountable for their crimes, and even stronger she believed that the hard earned money given from the commoners to the Crown should not be miss handled.
The large double doors closed behind the congregation, and a slight chill brought by the absence of the sun made the Duchess shift in her seat and draw her fashionable coat closer to her body. It did good enough to keep her warm outside in the crisp Spring wind, but here where the Sanctide Court rarely lit a fire it did not suffice to stop goosebumps sprouting on her arms.
As the final organ note echoed around the chamber, the Duchess of Sterling swept her gaze along the dais where church officials were seated behind the pulpit, yet there wasn’t any sign yet of the Holy Sanctarch.
Today was the day she would officially meet him as finally her request for appointment had been accepted, and as someone who had been dutifully raised in belief of the Tide she was brimming with honor and doubt she deserved to even have the chance. Her Father and his wife had been deeply religious, and every night he’d read her an excerpt from the Ocean and Covenants- an accepted doctrine of the Sanctide Court- and though after moving out her attendance had slipped in exchange for more working hours, she had always given extra income to it’s charity and the local priest of her village knew her by name.
The charity was in fact the point of the meeting, because the Crown specifically asked for everyone to be audited with her fine toothed comb, no exemptions for religion or charity.
Honestly, she was looking forward to an easy investigation after the countless months of tracking down tax receipts of local businesses to see if they added up to what the local government had reported, and than reviewing how much money was actually within their coffers, she had good faith to believe the Sanctide Court would be much more forthright and amicable to work with. She was praying for this to be so simple it’d be comparable to weeks off work.
The Sanctinal Amund rose to his feet once the note finally died off, and absolute silence fell as he made his way to the pulpit and began service.
During the opening prayer something caught the Duchess’ attention away- a quick tug at her gut that was gone as quickly as it came- and when she opened her eyes all there was to find was the Sanctarch in his seat relaxing as if he’d always been there. There hadn’t even been the sounds of a door opening or footsteps to tell he had arrived, yet there was no mystery to solve because the answer was simple: Magic.
Magic was a distant thing for commoners, a fantastical rumor that most never saw in their lifetimes if they did not have the honor of living near a church or noble that was gifted with miracles, but here in Aristocracy magic was as common as the sun filtering through leaves.
The sources of magic were Divine, Bloodline, and Miracles, and as the leader of the main religion of Gaia, Sanctarch Rafayel’s magic was Divine.
It took Duchess Sterling’s breath away to be able to witness such spectacular things up close, yet it was just another thing that set her apart from everyone else who had grown up with their own bloodline magic that they hardly thought about a world without it.
Though Rafayel did not need magic to leave someone breathless, as his looks were somehow even more captivating than the stories said. She watched for perhaps a moment longer than she should at the way a nearby candelabra made his nose and cheekbone glow a pink hue while the rest was lost in the shadow of his hood, and she felt more than saw the moment the Sanctarch looked in her direction.
Quickly averting her gaze back towards Sanctinal Amund, Duchess Sterling tried not to focus too much on her warming face at being caught staring. Though, that was perhaps something she and the noble women around her had in common, as she was not the only one taking occasional glances towards Rafayel’s handsome face. It was an advantageous thing for the Sanctarch to be so young in comparison to all his predecessors in this day and age where gossip and infatuation were currency in and of itself.
There were rumors about his charming personality that managed to get even the most frugal of elderly widows to part with a portion of their wealth, and though the method was questionable, the Duchess supposed that even if it was true, as long as the cause was worthwhile the ends justified the means.
===
“Your Grace, thank you for your patience!” A tall woman with a kind smile said as she greeted the young Duchess, dressed in the dark blues and tans of those who’ve devoted their lives to the Tide. “I am Naiad, a member of the Pool of Remembrance which is the hall in which the Sanctide keeps all our records, and I am grateful for the opportunity to work with you today.”
“It is me who should be grateful,” The Duchess said as she rose to her feet, though she had been waiting longer than expected in a room she’d been led to by a young nervous boy. “I thank you for taking the time at all to meet with me.”
“Not a trouble at all, Your Grace! Please, follow me.”
She was lead through hallways lit by torches that shifted from blues, to pinks, to purples in differing saturations of light; Passing by groups of people dressed in the same blues and tans as Naiad all conversing to themselves in low whispers, yet they all greeted her kindly with a nod or smile. When at last Naiad stopped, she opened a door to an office and gestured for the Duchess to come inside.
“Would you like some tea?” Naiad asked, and the Duchess was glad to be welcomed by a wall of warmth emanating from a fireplace with a tiled mosiac of the stars moving like waves on a beach in the corner.
“Thank you, yes.” Sitting down, The Duchess looked around the office. There were bookshelves lining every wall, and each was filled with tomes and textbooks, as well as scrolls carefully rolled and placed within so that there was room to stack them.
After sending word to fetch tea, Naiad sat down across from Duchess Sterling, pulling on tortoise patterned glasses that sat at the brim of her nose, and it made the Duchess miss her own pair, but she’d been reprimanded multiple times that wearing them in public was unbecoming of a Duchess, so she did not take them out unless very necessary.
“Unfortunately a matter has occurred that requires the Sanctarch’s full attention, so he will not be joining us. But I can assure that I will provide as much information to Your Grace as is possible!”
That was disappointing, but the Duchess only nodded with an understanding smile.
“He’s a busy man, I’m sure; Perhaps another time. Well, forgive me but I’d like to begin right away if that’s the case.” Duchess Sterling retrieved her notebook from her purse as she confessed, and at the offer borrowed the ink from Naiad for her pen. “I must admit the distributions of tithes and donations has been a long curiosity of mine since I was a child, so I may ask a little more questions than I usually would; Apologies for that in advance.”
“You grew up a Tide Follower?” Naiad asked, and when the Duchess confirmed she seemed very pleased, the apples of her cheeks glowing as she retrieved the first stack of documents they would go through. “That reassures me than that we are in dutiful hands.”
For two full hours Naiad and Duchess Sterling went through the amount of funds given to an individual church, which of that funds was donations and what amount was tithe, the split of the tithe to upkeep church grounds and supplies for the attendants and Priest, and the dividing of donations between local aid and going to greater charity across Gaia. They got through numerous towns, villages, and at least one major city before the town of Muse was brought up, which was the Duchess’ home. There had been no plan to comment on that, however, but as Naiad kept reciting the numbers as she had been, the Duchess slowed in her writing so long that a blot formed beneath the metal tip.
“I’m sorry, this is from the town of Muse, you said?” She asked.
“Yes.” Naiad confirmed, which only made the Duchess sit back in her seat. “The one in the northeast by the mountains.”
“Than… No, that cannot be right.” Duchess Sterling held out a hand, and puzzled Naiad passed the paper she’d been reading from to her.
“I assure Your Grace our records our well kept and precise.” Naiad reassured with a tone that bordered how you’d patiently talk to a child.
The Duchess’ mind was working too fast to bother being offended.
“… Sister Naiad, I grew up in Muse,” Duchess Sterling spoke after a few minutes of complete silence, looking up at Naiad with a confused brow. “Every month since I was twelve years old I donated the entirety of the allowance the previous Duchess gave me to the church, which was ten thousand exactly every time.” The paper was laid now on the table, and the Duchess pushed it back towards her. “That alone exceeds the yearly amount you have written here.”
The smile was still on Naiad’s face, and her hands were clasped atop the table as if this was a pleasant conversation about birds, yet there was a ever so slight tension in her shoulders and the smile was too unchanging to be natural.
“What a beautiful place to be raised in.” She commented, reaching out to pull the paper back towards her. “I am sure there is merely some transcribing error happening here where something has gotten mislabeled. I shall look into it and send word of the correction at once, Your Grace.”
“That would be appreciated, thank you.” The Duchess said, but now she could not help but look towards the stack of documents they had already gone through and feel a nagging concern that there was other clerical errors she had missed. But, her heart could not believe what her brain was telling her that perhaps it was no error, and so she did not push further. “Shall we continue on?”
Duchess Sterling was looking over everything provided to her with a more fine tooth now, because as much as she was raised to wholeheartedly trust in the judgment of the Sanctide Court, her practicality needed to be reassured.
She missed Naiad slipping a note beneath an empty teacup before having the same nervous boy from before come take the tray away, she was so absorbed in jotting down the number amounts into her notebook, and she might have stayed there all night if not for a knock at the door another two hours later.
“Your Quintessence!” Naiad exclaimed with reverent delight upon opening the door, and that did shake Duchess Sterling from her intense focus and bring her to her feet. “What honor brings you to us on this busy day?”
The Sanctarch entered the room with the ease of a man with enough confidence to enter a lions den and be welcomed, and the first thing Duchess Sterling noticed about him was he was taller than she expected, having to crane her neck back ever so slightly to meet his eyes after she gave a polite curtsy.
“It’s an honor to meet you, Your Quintessence.” Duchess Sterling said honestly, trying to blink the stars from her eyes and recenter herself to the business at hand, though it was almost as awe inspiring an experience as when she first met the King and Queen.
Family had done their fair share of criticism of the royal family, yet no one had ever spoken ill of any Sanctarch; Rafayel nor his predecessor.
“The honor is all mine, Your Grace.” Though it was not offered, Rafayel took her hand that had risen to smooth down any fly away hairs and kissed the back of it, causing butterflies to erupt in the Duchess’ stomach like she was a young girl again. “I’ve heard much about Gaia’s newest noble who no one suspected to be such a vibrant flower, yet I did not think time would allow for us to meet today. It was quite a surprise to find out you’re still here well after most have left to have supper. There hasn not been an issue that is causing Your Grace doubts about the honesty of the Sanctide Court, I hope?”
Seeing the look of honest concern on his face- the inside of the eyebrows raised and eyes that held the suns reflection on deep water a little wide- Duchess Sterling quickly shook her head.
“No! Of course I would never accuse the holiest of orders of anything, especially with no evidence.” She hurried to assure, yet than she looked sideways towards the desk where that slip of paper with the offending falsehoods on it sat. “However, I… must raise some concerns I have about the thoroughness of the records kept here. There is a rather troubling miss identification of funds from my home town that I personally can vouch for as being false.”
“Oh?” Rafayel tilted his head ever so slightly to the side, and picked up the paper she’d been looking at, and she saw the slight movement of his eyes as he read through it. “Might I inquire what specifically causes you to say this?”
Retrieving her notebook, since it would be improper to get close enough to him to point out the numbers on the sheet he was reading, the Duchess flipped back to the page she’d dog eared to come back later.
“None of the donations I ever made are accounted for, as well as off the top of my head I can recall specific years where a family gathered together a more significant amount of money than normal, and about two of those were not documented as well.” Looking at Rafayel, Duchess Sterling tried to convey how earnestly concerned she was through her eyes as well as her words. “It may not be my place, however I have seen wrong calculated funds of similar disparity in other cases were someone was misappropriating the funds for their own personal gain.”
“Are you accusing the Sanctide Crt of allowing a thief to be among us?!” Sister Naiad bristled. “That is prepos-“
“It’s alright Sister Naiad,” Rafayel raised a hand and stopped her indignation, giving Duchess Sterling an appreciative smile. “Her Grace is giving us good faith that it is one bad fish that found it’s way into our current and not accusing the whole of being rotten.”
“Of course it is not all of you,” Duchess laughed, because the idea was preposterous. “I was raised attending and have full trust in those who I know in the local church, and they would not make such a large error nor lie. However, I have learned much about those who seek only personal opportunity, and they find ways into positions where they might leech coin for themselves, and with such a good organization as the Sanctide Court it makes sense to me that someone would take advantage somewhere.”
“I agree.” With a single motion, Rafayel collected the few things Duchess Sterling had left on the desk. “There has been an epidemic of ne’re-do-well’s who grow their pockets by taking advantage of the trust placed upon them by others, and one of our core beliefs is forgiveness of even those who have committed great crimes; Yet it does not mandate that we cannot ever judge them once more.” Placing her pen back into her hands, Rafayel held them for a second longer than necessary. “You have my word that we will find out the truth of what happened, and all will be well.”
Looking into his face, how could the Duchess feel anything but reassured?
That night, Duchess Sterling left feeling greatly comforted by Sanctarch Rafayel’s words, and her heart was appeased that all would be fixed.
====
All was not fixed, because for the sake of diligence Duchess Sterling reached out to everyone she knew from Muse (including her own family) and asked them personally the amounts they’ve donated to the church, and by the time she was called back to the Cathedral to sit before Naiad once more, she had a good estimate for the past year (which had included her own donations before inheriting) and as she looked down at the fresh amounts given to her by Naiad, her heart sank.
“I cannot accept this either, Sister Naiad.” Duchess Sterling confessed, shaking her head and feeling the perched hat on top wobble a bit. “My own research has presented different results, and I’m afraid I will need further investigation done.”
“I do not know what else we can do, Your Grace.” Sister Naiad laughed in disbelief, throwing her hands in the air. “We have done a thorough internal research and that is what we found. I have full confidence that what is before you is the truth.”
“Well I am not comfortable presenting this- nor anything that you have presented to me, if I am to be honest- to the King and Queen as facts.” Duchess Sterling sat up straighter. “Once is forgivable, but twice is concerning. Surely you can understand that, Sister Naiad. If I am allowed to supply a man to do their own investigation and the results are the same, than I will concede that my sources must be wrong. However as of right now I have complete certainty in them.”
There was no fire in the hearth today, and the chill only grew as Sister Naiad leaned closer, hands clasped so tightly atop the desk her knuckles were white.
“You trust common word above the truth given before you by the Tide? A foolhardy decision that I will excuse as a mistake made by someone so young.”
Duchess Sterling bristled at that, eyes narrowing in the dimming light. She was well into adulthood and was by no means a young girl who should be getting admonished like this, but Sister Naiad was not done.
“Those who oppose the tide get swept away by the riptide, and even those with good intentions are not exempt.” The paper was slid back across the table in slow offering. “All the crown needs to hear is what is before you today, with not even a inclination to the previous error. It’d be in your best interest, Your Grace, to align yourself as fresh as you are with an ally as spectacular as us.”
For a few seconds, the Duchess considered it; The weight of obedience a heavy stone in her gut, but around that stone was sparks that quickly caught and grew into a righteous ember as the Duchess realized if she did not pursue this to find out the truth, than the poor mother with six children who always made sure to scrounge together enough coin to put in the donation dish might have gone without a meal for the sake of something unjust. Or the elderly couple who grounds keeped the local church in Muse, who had raspberry bushes in their front yard and always encouraged the Duchess to pick as many as she liked, passed away not knowing if what they spent their life dedicated to was a facade of good atop a bone yard of disease.
“What you walk around saying speaks louder than if you’d admit it outright, which is all you needed to do because I am not here to make any enemies, yet if the Sanctide Court wishes to not disclose the simplest of things- such as what is being done with the copious amounts of wealth donated to you- than I suppose we are not on the same side.” The Duchess started slowly yet reached a strong pace at the end of it, pulling her gloves back on. “I do not know what type of women my Grandmother was, nor what sort of business she kept with the Sanctide Court, however I know who I am and where my allegiance lies is to the people of Gaia.”
Standing up, she looked down towards the holy women.
“In four days I see the Crown, and I will do my duty to them and the citizens who pay for the bed you sleep in at night and the making of the robes you wear which are finer than anything most of them will ever touch. I will not stand to see good people have their faith taken advantage of, and though I hope I do not find anything unsavory, I will upturn every grain of sand in the ocean if I must to make absolutely sure!”
With a sweep of her pink coat draped over her arm, Duchess Sterling marched towards the door, and while standing in the threshold she turned and gave one last withering glare towards Sister Naiad.
“I am also insulted you think me a person who’d bow down to a threat!” There was a few startled stares as the Duchess marched down the halls, but all of them averted their eyes and unlike before there was not even a peep of discussion as she yelled one final word back over her shoulder. “The nerve!”
No one interrupted her as she retraced her steps to the courtyard of the cathedral, and she wasted no time in going towards her carriage with the Sterling family crest of Marigolds on the door.
Caleb, who had been leaning against the side of it twirling a clover in his fingers saw her approaching and elbowed a napping Gideon so hard he jolted and sent the hat covering his eyes flying. He only just caught it before it was taken by the seasonal wind.
“Hey, how’d it-“ Caleb started, yet he took in the look on her face and stopped. “Woah, you look angry enough to scare a cat with a look.”
“The nerve of them!” Duchess Sterling repeated, entering into the carriage, her momentum so strong she slide a few inches after sitting down. “Well, the nerve of one of them, but still!”
“This is a lot more emotion than I suspected, it must have been pretty bad.” Caleb joined her in the carriage, technically improper since he was her guard, yet his status as her half brother trumped all. “Tell me what happened?”
Duchess Sterling waited till they got moving and collected her thoughts, trying to calm herself down from the adrenaline spike of the confrontation with Sister Naiad.
“I can no longer in good faith trust that they are being forthcoming.” She finally said, reaching up and pulling out the hat pin because the weight of it was starting to give her a headache. “At least not the woman I’d been mainly speaking to. I did not want to think it, but they’re hiding something, Caleb, and whatever it is they don’t want me to find out.”
He let the seriousness of that hang between them, keeping an eye out the window.
“Ever since your first meeting I’ve been asking around, and I’ve heard some unsettling stories.” Caleb admitted, voice low, and he leaned forward to go even lower. “I thought entering this life would be safer, but there’s just as many tangled threads as there was back in Port Noino, and this time they have centuries of namesake to fall behind. Even an ancient religion like that is bound to have skeletons in the closet, and I have to ask again are you sure about this?”
As peaceful of a farm life their father was still having in Muse, Caleb’s mother’s side of the family was much more fraught, and a debt had fallen on his shoulders after she died that had introduced the two of them to the dark side of poaching and black market trading.
It was mostly his to pay back, but as his sister who felt horribly responsible for his parents marriage failing since she’d been a result of an affair, she’d dedicated a lot of her own income to it as well up till the sudden inheriting of the title.
“Yes. More now than ever!” The Duchess sat back, replaying the meeting through her mind. “The people have no say in how the rich use their money, but I can give them a voice because money talks and they have that in droves when united. As well, with the Sanctide in particular, I have to admit I feel personally offended. I gave any coin the last Duchess gave me to the church because I thought they were doing something good with it, but if I had not I could have used it to make actionable choices around the village!”
“I don’t know what else you’re talking about, but you’d have not been allowed to aid with anything on the farm.” Caleb reasoned. “It was Mother’s caveat, remember? You always said you’d have used the money to help the family if you could, and we all knew it.”
She remembered very well. It had been a list of conditions for her to be allowed to stay on the land; Not sleeping in the house of course, but in the barn once she got old enough that she did not need to be bottle fed.
One such condition was that nothing else related to the Duchess’ mother would be allowed on the land, and that had included the money. Another was that she had to move out as soon as she was old enough, and leaving home at sixteen was a large factor of why the Duchess was managing to meld into this life of nobility as well as she was. To be a child having to hold yourself in such a way that adults take you seriously is not so different from being a commoner having to hold her chin high and act as if there’s no doubt that she belongs among nobles.
“I know.” Duchess Sterling looked out the window at the city street bustling by, following the trailing wings of a butterfly as it floated past the retreating view of the Sanctide Cathedral. “I know.”
===
Once home at the Marigold Estate, Duchess Sterling set herself down at her desk and after an hour or so of consideration, began writing out a plan of attack- for lack of a better word- and sorting through her potential options.
Already she’d been planning on sending out informative surveys to get an idea from the citizens themselves what income they bring in and how much taxes they give to the crown, but now she was going to add an addendum to how much they’d given to Religious worship as well. The Sanctide Court was not the only religion of Gaia, yet it was the most prominent and the information she’d get from that survey would be necessary to compare to the records she’d been given so far by the Sanctide.
It was unfortunate that she’d not gotten to see more than she had that first day, but she’ll work with what she has, and it was a good enough sample size to see just how much they were changing their numbers.
But, all of this would take time. Months, even, and that put her in a complicated situation because so far all she has to bring to the crown is one instance of them lying, which might be enough to allow her to investigate more, but also… the Sanctide Court is going to suspect that, and how does she play their game with her own house rules?
It was a condendrum that kept her late into the night, and when her lady maid Natasha entered the office she thought it was to tell her off for being up, but instead she held out a silver envelope.
“An acolyte just dropped this off, Your Grace.”
Inside was an invitation to meet with the Sanctarch in the morning, and the longer she stared at the words, the more compelled Duchess Sterling felt to go, clashing with an insistent tug at her gut warning that something was off.
Tearing her eyes away, she wasted no time in tossing the odd feeling letter into the fire, that great sense of unease not settling till the parchment had rolled and twisted into ash.
===
The reception she got this time when entering the Cathedral was much more frigid, yet there was no outright hostility as a new woman in crimson robes that matched her hair came to meet her.
“I am Selina, Your Grace, a member of the Pool of Remembrance. I have only just been made aware of your interactions with my aunt last night, and I apologize if she offended, but the Sanctarch will meet with you shortly and shall clear up any misunderstandings she caused.”
The waiting room to meet the Sanctarch was much better furnished than the one she’d first been put in, and Duchess Sterling could not help but take note that meant she was never supposed to meet the Sanctarch that first day, it had all been a ploy to string her along.
“I hope so, I had to move a meeting for this.” Duchess sat down and made herself comfortable because that was a way to portray ease that she was not actually feeling. Every small noise made her eyes flick over to it, and she could not help but stare at the ticking clock. With every minute that passed, she worried this was a power play; Taking small moments of control to make her do what they want shielded beneath simple things such as waiting for an appointment.
“If our meeting does begin within twenty minutes,” The Duchess turned to Selina, who was standing and waiting patiently by the door. “Than I will take my leave.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Selina left to assumedly pass on the message, and the Duchess took the opportunity to fidget in her seat. Caleb’s mother rolled in her grave whenever she did anything, yet for her to be here about to potentially argue with the Sanctarch would surely make the woman spin around so rapidly a hole would be drilled into the bottom of the casket. After the betrayel of her husband, Caleb’s mother sought comfort in religion.
She’d hate it, but part of why Duchess Sterling felt so strong about setting this right was for her sake.
As expected, at seventeen minutes is when Sanctinal Amund entered the waiting room and beckoned her in with a nod. Very aware of Selina walking in behind her, Duchess Sterling entered the grand office of the Sanctarch.
Dark wood shelves lined the walls, yet the room was so large it did not feel cramped, and the desk at the back had a fully copper front molded to look like waves crashing beneath the marbled top, and the years had turned the copper a patina blue.
The Sanctarch, Rafayel, was standing on the left side of the office where a bay of windows looked out over the great expanse of a gigantic lake the cathedral was built on the cliffside of; A miniature ocean that is a pivotal part of the Sanctide religion. The early morning sun reflected the pink hues of the water as gentle waves lapped at the feet of those choosing to walk it’s shores.
Much of the capital city was along the banks of lake Coralis, an example of how entwined the religion was with the daily life of its citizens.
Rafayel turned with good showing of pleasant surprise.
“Ah, Duchess Sterling, I hope you were not waiting long.” In a few strides, he made it across the room and offered out his hand. She took it, yet retracted it back to her side after giving it a cordial enough handshake.
“Three minutes more and it would have been, yet I’m grateful we get the chance to talk.” That was true enough, and she took the seat she was directed to.
Behind her, she faintly heard Selina say “His Quintessence said I could stay, Grandfather.” Before Amund was moving to stand behind Rafayel as he sat in the finely carved copper chair with pink cushioning. Selina stood on the right side of desk, facing towards the windows with her hands behind her back.
“Firstly, Your Grace, I offer an apology.” Rafayel sighed, shaking his head and his dark purple hair shifted around his eyes, the movement reflected in the silver mask on his face shined to pristine reflection. “I understand Sister Naiad had poor choices of words, and it reflected badly on the Sanctide Court, and as such your opinion of us.”
“It is certainly something to be told that the riptide will take even those with good intentions when all I asked was to be told the truth.” Duchess Sterling said, and Amund clicked his tongue in irritation, yet Rafayel spoke over as much of it as he could.
“As I said, a poor choice of words.” Lifting his left leg to rest over his right, Rafayel slid open a drawer. “However, it is our intent today to make things right and reassure you that it was merely her being difficult without our knowledge.”
A silver folder was handed to Selina from Rafayel, who presented it to Duchess Sterling.
Opening it revealed a lined document that at last contained a detailed accounting of the charity given in Muse the last year, the next page was for the tithe, and behind that was dates and names of those who handled the money from Father Khalid in Muse to an assumed middle man who traveled with it, and at the very bottom a Sanctinal Nora’s signature validated it’s arrival at the Cathedral.
There was even a paper dedicated to notes of when correspondents happened on the matter, with the storage system numbering taped over that would tell where these letters were being kept in the archives.
“Might I ask where this was hiding?” Duchess Sterling inquired as she lowered the small folder. “Nothing Sister Naiad presented to me was this thorough.”
“It was in Selina’s office.” Rafayel tilted his head towards the woman. “No hiding, just an assumption that an aunt would not be so prideful that it’d make her incapable to ask her niece for help.”
Amund’s jaw was moving in irritation, and Duchess Sterling was understanding now that Naiad was a spoiled woman by nature of her father being a Sanctinal- the ranking in the church just below Sanctarch.
“She seems a trustworthy woman, why was I not directed to her first?” The Duchess asked, referring to the other woman in the room.
“Naiad is usually more pleasant to talk to,” Rafayel said conversationally, leaning back in his seat and shrugging his shoulders. “Selina can be quite taciturn, yet clearly this was a duty well above Naiad’s head. I can transfer all correspondence on this matter to her at once, and I can assure you Selina will be up to the expected standard the Sanctide Court operates in.”
It only took two seconds of mulling the thought over before the Duchess set the folder down on the table.
“With all due respect to Sister Selina, I’d prefer to keep in touch with you, Your Quintessence.” That, made Rafayel pause, and Amund did not hide his look of affront. Yet Duchess Sterling did not break eye contact with Rafayel. “This still does not tell me what these funds are used for nor whether they are being kept together or divided into different banks.”
“Is it not common practice for the Duchess of Treasury and Internal Affairs to work with the accountants and record keepers of those being audited?”
“Common, yes, but commonality relies on abundance, Your Quintessence. You are not garnering taxes for landownership, you are gaining funds by the virtue of hearts dedicated to the Sanctide Court.” Rafayel broke eye contact first to look at the number she pointed at, first on the divided line. “To you, this is six thousand a year; To me, this is Hanna whose house always smells of baked apple pies.” Her finger slid down to the next line. “Margery and Edward have a rooster that chases children and they are ever so apologetic about it.” once more, her finger slide down and hovered over the line that was her Father, but she moved one down and avoided it. “Anthony and Greg. They’ve adopted three children, and put all their hearts into raising them with love- well, not all of their hearts, because a portion is dedicated to you.”
There was no reading what was behind those eyes as they lifted to regard her, but there was an intensity that cut through the already fast beating of her heart in her ears.
“Surely you take the weight of these offerings as seriously as I do, being the one they put all their faith in.”
An unsuspecting smile curled Rafayel’s lips, and this one made his lower eyelid lift ever so slightly.
“Very well. All inquires of this matter can be directed to me, and any future meetings I will be in attendance.” Rafayel leaned forward, and the slight tip of pointed canine revealed itself as he said his dismissal; “I look forward to further spreading the Sanctide Court’s good name together, Your Grace.”
2087
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