hi, i’m leaf. i write about the fictional characters i simp over. i take requests for headcanons or little drabbles (please send some and give me more ideas to formulate in my little goblin brain)
currently my brain is being consumed by love and deep space (i’m a raf girlie and sylus has me in a chokehold dont send help), pokemon za (corbeau is my beloved stress relief), and stardew valley (god help me i will date the entire town).
at any given time i could be thinking about one of the following in addition to my current hyper fixation
azriel from acotar and how much i think he just deserves a good nights rest and a long stress free vacation.
riuji from persona 5, and how i kinda wanna beat his ass but in a cuteness aggression way? lemmie kiss your booboo’s better.
cal kestis. thats it, that's the sentence. iykyk.
here is my menu of fandoms , kins, fanfic recommendations and my masterlist
again, my name is leaf and i’ll be here serving whatever my chaotic brain cooks up✨
Inspired by my immense desire to adopt a cat. . . and Rafayel has to put up with it.
A vicious beast had invaded his home and stolen his lover beneath his very nose.
He was only away for an exhibition for two days to return to Linkon to witness utter betrayal.
How could his own beloved stab him in the back like this? Has their time together meant nothing? Did the ring he put on her finger just a week prior hold no importance?
“Oh please Raffie, she needed a home.” You pleaded, holding the tiny bundle of fur in your arms as he held you at arm’s length, refusing to even look at you.
“Is this a ploy to escape our engagement?”
“Rafayel. . .” You sigh, you knew he was gonna overreact but what were you meant to do? When you saw the little cute kitten left abandoned around the corner there was no other choice but to bring them home. I mean, how heartless would it be to leave the little kitten to perish? “It was shivering and left abandoned in a box.”
“Did you ever think it was because it may have attempted to murder them with those vicious claws?”
“Don’t be silly! These little paws couldn’t hurt anyone.” You held the little mewing kitten’s paw up to emphasize your point, causing your fiance to only flinch back further with a glare.
“Stay back! Those things are dangerous to my kind!”
“Did you not say nothing was sharper than a lumerian’s scales?”
“Except for a monster’s claws.”
“Oh please, just one week. It’s not like you're allergic either.”
“I know you cutie. You say just a week now. But you’ll be begging for more after and before I know it I’m stuck with a full grown beast tearing up my studio.”
“Your studio is so messy you wouldn’t even notice who’s the real culprit. I mean we just paid off hospital bills after you tripped on a brush again!”
“And now it’ll be doubled as torn.”
“What will it take to change your mind? I’m willing to do anything, anything at all.”
“Get rid of it.”
“Be serious!”
He looked at you as you held your ground, giving your best puppy eyes hoping to weaken his resolve to stay stubborn. You knew he couldn’t possibly keep this charade forever. At the end of the day, he’d do anything to keep you happy. He just needs to be dramatic first.
“. . . Fine.”
“Oh thank you thank you! You will not regret this!”
“I know I will.”
“I’ll take care of everything so you won’t be bothered. And I’ll give you extra love so you won’t ever feel neglected I promise.”
“It’s never allowed in our room, or it's out!”
“Deal!”
Rafayel sighed, watching you coo at the kitten, murmuring about what to name it as you wander off, likely in search of your laptop to order things for the kitten. As much as he’s displeased, seeing you glow in joy is worth putting up with hundreds of cats invading his home.
⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅ synopsis: on 'ex on the beach', singles arrive in a tropical paradise, only to be surprised when their exes show up 𖤓 ｡𖦹°‧ ⋆☀︎. 'WHOSE EX IS NEXT?'
⋆☀︎｡ the villa welcomes, newest contestant: RAFAYEL MO
» previously on: 'lads (ex) on he beach'
ex!bf!Rafayel who intently looks at the ocean. his eyes glued, fixated over the faint outline of your figure. his hands terribly shaking, his heart dangerously ramming - like a gone wild bull - inside his chest, as your body slowly emerges from the depth of the crystalline water. droplets of pure liquid torture glide and stride down your flesh, making every curve, every soft, round mound of your body, glisten and heavenly glimmer beneath the pallid morning light.
"holy shit," he curses under his breath. shielding his bluish, pink eyes from the sun, in a desperate, futile attempt to finally unmask the burry lineaments of your silhouette. "it's her"
he literally runs to you. scooping your body up into his arms, eagerly engulfing you deep within his chest. "it's you," he smiles into your neck. his hands steady over your body, as he softly swings you both around - laughing and nuzzling closer to you, like a fucking movie scene. "fuck, it's really you" your legs tightly wrap around him, pulling and guiding his waist closer to yours. your hands like the sweetest of pressure against his trembling flesh, as they profoundly tangle within his fluffy, purplish locks. "hi cutie"
ex!bf!Rafayel who almost needs to be held back by security the moment he hears the fate that trashy, useless TV chose for you. his gaze lingering over your body - watching, as unstoppable jealousy boils beneath his skin, as you nonchalantly stroll away on your little, heartbreaking date with another man.
ex!bf!Rafayel who feels your presence abide in the air - forcefully stealing his breath away. his footsteps deft, stealth on the ground as he saunters through the enormous villa, following the path design by his precarious heartbeat, who nonetheless leads him straight to you. his contempt smile mildly falters over his sculpted features, leaving behind only the shadow of a brief, intangible happiness. his eyes, now, hostages - utterly lost, chained to you. his jaw ticks - barbarically locking in place at the villainous imagery of your 'marked' body. the harsh, rustic contrast of the gritty, dried paint feels foreign - unforgivable on your smooth, candied flesh. alien, colourful handprints bully their way over your body. telling a treacherous, horrendous tail rafayel is not quite ready to accept.
he lets you talk - he lets you narrate whatever little, nonsensical story your meaningless date had to offer. his patience as thin as his remaining self restraint.
the massive bathroom mirror fogged up - blushing like a shy virgin, as rafayel's arms tightly wrapped around you. his movements careful, controlled. desperately trying to shun the nasty paint stains, heavily tattooed over your flesh. "what's this, mh?" his fingers hefty on your tummy. the cherry accents of your skin, tenderly kissed by the wroth afternoon sun, now, faintly fading beneath the pressure of his torturous touches. "it's called 'body paint'" his head dipped lower. his soft, silky hair ghostly brushing the crook of your neck. his full lips feeble against the constant, unmistakable pounding of your heart. "don't play," his digits travelled over your skin. his soft fingers clasping against the slim circumference of your wrist. "don't push me" his pearly, white teeth sinked into the tender skin of your wrist. his tongue gently lolling out of his hatched lips, to soothe the raging pain now shooting within your nervous system. "don't talk to me like I don't fucking know what this is" his pinkish, blue eyes met yours in the mirror. the faint ghost of smirk still lingering over his stretched lips. "like I wasn't the one, whose handprints stained your perfect body for days" he growled - the vibrations of his anger sultry ramming against the exposed skin your back. "like our 'first time' isn't still hanging in my goddam living room"
angry droplets of water rolled down your body. his unforgivable hands working relentlessly over your flesh - scrubbing, scratching every single residue of his worst nightmare away from you. his body impossibly close to yours. his torso hungrily squished against yours, as he shielded your glistening, naked body away from the eager gaze of the cameras.
ex!bf!Rafayel who helps you get ready for dinner. his fingers deeply entwined within the depth of your hair. your soft, glossy locks like the purest, most expensive of silks between the tender skin his digits. "this okay?" he guided the little, precise braid to faintly rest against the nude skin your shoulder. he followed the soft path of your curious gaze. his lips tenderly hovering above your back - leaving gentle, chaste kisses all over your shoulder blades. his plump lips stretched into a cheeky, taunting smile as he watched you absently nod into the mirror. his fingers tangled within your hair once more - this time with more force, more urgency. he pulled onto the ends of your braid, leading your head to slowly dip back. rafayel hummed. his hungry eyes shamelessly feasting, bathing in the imagery of your arched neck and parted glossy lips. his mouth brushed against yours. his tongue eager, uncontrollable, already gliding out of his lips. "uh-uh, I don't think so" your fingers buried in his purple locks, faintly pulling onto them, guiding him away from your face. "baby. ." he whimpered - utter submission prickling at his already glossy eyes. "please, let me kiss you" your fluttering eyes, gently slammed shut. your head lightly shaking, as the faint outline of your lips brushed against his. "mh, not yet," his hand squeezed the plush flesh of your thigh - hanging on for dear life, as his heart ached for your touch. "want you to suffer for a bit" his forehead leaned against yours. his mouth, utterly watering at the thought of you. "are you sufferin' baby?" he nodded against your flesh. soft, high pitch cries leaving his throat at his every motion. "fuck baby — shit, tremendously"
ex!bf!Rafayel who sleeps next to you - tugging you closer, guiding you deeper into his lean, muscular body. his arms tangled up by your sides. his hands swift, indecisive over your flesh. plastered on your hips, on your inner thigh, on the round, plump curvature of your ass, gently resting against your neck - almost, guiding and feeling your saliva slide down throat.
ex!bf!Rafayel whose lips are glued to the shell of your ear. his tone dripping with need - his actions mimicking his utter desire, as he whispers into the night: "need to talk to you," his hands faintly brushing against your nude collarbone, pushing your deeper, closer to his mouth. "c'mere, fuck. I missed the sound of 'us'. please cutie, let me talk to you"
ex!bf!Rafayel who ends up in the pool with you. soft, tepid waves of water coddling, cradling your body to melt, relax for him as his fingers plunged deep into your heavenly, weeping cunt. your back gravely arches against the light coloured tiles. your leg finds his way to him - obediently locking around his hip. "that's it, 'm here" his arm feebly moves in between your pressed up bodies. his fingers gently curling inside you - the pads of his digits hefty against your squishy, gushing walls. "got ya — yeah, oh fuuck — I've got you baby" an indecent, high-pitched moan forcefully escapes from your parted lips. "yeah? there? right there baby?" you desperately nod. your brows sultrily knotting together, as your face heavily contorts into a sinful expression. "fuckin' love when you're this responsive — shiiit, this vocal f'me" his mouth bullies its way onto yours. "but not here" his tongue forcefully slips into the darkest, deepest parts of your mouth. "don't let them hear you," his free, un working hand latches around your neck. his long, slender fingers tangling over the faint, black string of your microphone. "let me help, yeah?" rafayel swiftly unhooks the little mic away from your neck - discarding it as far as possible from your desperate, squirrelly state. "kiss me back — fuck, yeah please kiss me. I'll keep you nice 'n quiet, I swear — jus' don't let them hear how fuckin' perfect you sound"
ex!bf!Rafayel who dips his hand into the water. his damp, dripping fingers drawing tender, precise circles all over your nipples. allowing your perky flesh to perfectly hardens, under his knowing touches. "mh, how does it feel cutie? 's not too cold, right?" the icy cold temperature of the water sensually drifting down your chest, making a loud, shuddering gasp fill the heavy, windy late night air. "fuuuck, it is?" he coos - his tone dripping with utter mockery. "my poor, poor baby" his fingers slip deeper into your bra. his hands, now, flawlessly wrapping around the plush, round flesh of your breast. "want me to warm you up a little?" he doesn't even wait for you to answer him. his mouth too needy, too desperate to be stopped. his lips latching around your hard, little nipple, sucking it into the depth of his mouth. "mh, ah anything for you" his tongue swirls possessively around your hard, perky button. his hand still on you, desperate to cover what belongs to him.
ex!bf!Rafayel who lays on top of you - taking his rightful place in between your parted thighs. the muscles in his back flexing, coming to life as he eagerly turns his body into a safe shelter, for you to just disappear under. "missed you," he brokenly moans as his cock slips inside your throbbing, sopping entrance. "so — oh! fuckfuckfuuck — so much baby" your gummy walls precariously tremble around his length. his defeated, beaten whimpers driving you completely insane. making your hips jolts up - franticly pulling away from his thrusts, as overpowering overstimulation already coaxes the tight knot in your lower tummy to come undone. "no," he sobs. pushing his arms behind your back. his hands powerful as they reach for you lower back, pulling back into him. "fuck, don't run — please, mhfuck, oh shit — don't — ah-ah, nngh! — let go" he forces your hips upwards - leading them, commanding them to meet his sloppy, messy thrusts halfway. "there you go — this is us, fuuck yeah. 'm here baby"
ex!bf!Rafayel who fucks and talks you through every core crashing orgasms he demandingly steals from you. whispering devilish, nasty nothings into your ear: "no, don't move. you don't fuckin' need to, yeah? I know you. fuck, I know what you like — what you need" or "mh, that's right. you're my girl — look at you, shit baby" or "can't wait to take you home. wanna fuck you on every surface — there it is, there it fuckin' is — every corner of my — our house" or "yeah? you liked that? mh, beg me then. c'mon, beg me and I'll do it again f'you"
"What's your problem, huh?" he snaps, holding you down without much struggle even as you kick and thrash under him like a wild animal. "You don't listen. If you just behaved yourself, this could've gone so much better for you." you struggle to get a breath in, spluttering and choking helplessly as caleb squeezes your neck firmly. He's growing fascinated at the way blood rushes to your face and tinges it with color, while your pupils dilate. His cock twitches a bit in his pants, excited by the look of helplessness crossing your face.
Moreover, the way you're squirming under him and rubbing your body unintentionally against his dick isn't helping him settle, let alone keep his depraved thoughts at bay. He's too sensitive for you to keep bucking against him like this. You made his cock all tender from hitting it with your knee earlier, and his hypersensitivity is just goading him to do something to you.
"Oh fuck..." He murmurs, loosening his grip just enough for you to get a big gulp of air, before he puts the same pressure on your neck once more.
"I'm not... afraid of you," you hiss into his face boldly, a contrast to the nervous flutters in your stomach. Caleb's eyes narrow, and he leans in closer until his face is mere inches from yours.
“Aren’t you?” He mocks you, no longer caring about your feelings after your earlier deception. Your lips press together in a scowl.
You try to shift your body up to attack him, maybe bite him, but he slams you back down with his grip around your neck. Your vision sparkles around the corners, and you pant, gasping weakly for air. Again, he lets go just before you pass out, tormenting you by controlling your air supply. "Let... me go." You wheeze, inhaling unsteadily.
Caleb leans closer, about to say more...
You suddenly shove your lips against his. It's not a good strategy, and you hate doing it, but it's a last resort, and you needed to catch him off guard and get him winded so you could regain the upper hand.
But to your disbelief, he moans, his grip on you loosening so he can lean down and kiss you deeply. He's pleasantly surprised, to say the least.
He's had these odd feelings for you for quite some time, and with the soft taste of strawberries that linger on your soft mouth, he cant find it in himself to be complaining. He squeezes your face in his hands, rubbing his tongue over your lips to try and coax your mouth to open. You grit your teeth, annoyed by how enjoyable this is.
Caleb's lips are silky smooth, and he slots his mouth perfectly around yours, searching for the best angle. However, you try to stay present enough to try and find the right moment to throw him off you. He's not even focused on discipling you anymore. You've knocked him completely off kilter, as you'd planned.
He's managed to get his tongue in your mouth, and he groans at your taste, one hand going to stroke your hair softly as he rolls his tongue over yours slowly and sloppily, almost savoring the feeling.
You grunt, squirming a bit as his long tongue pushes deeper in your mouth. He's getting way too excited for someone who was just trying to suffocate you, and you start to worry that you made a mistake by riling him up like this. Your suspicions are confirmed when you feel something hard and thick poke your thighs, and he lets out a full-blown moan into your mouth, his hips beginning to rut against you. You've had enough. With as much effort you can muster, you bite his lip hard enough for it to be uncomfortable, and he lets out a yelp, smoothing his tongue over his now bleeding lip.
You desperately try to push him off you. His eyes are wide and shiny, like a puppy aching for a treat, and he pants a bit, before frowning. "I want more," He complains softly, upset by your denial. He leans down, wanting to kiss you again, but you hook your legs around him and flip him over, using the element of surprise, once again, to your advantage.
He tries his best to try and buck you off, but once you get his hands pinned beside his head, he stops struggling, staring up at you with wide, glassy eyes, his breath coming out in tiny gasps.
"W-wha..." He starts weakly, but you tug his hair to shut him up. He doesn't oblige, moaning at the feeling and returning to thrashing underneath you, his hips thrusting up against your ass as you straddle him.
"Stop it," You hiss angrily. "You're acting like a fucking dog, Xia. Have some shame."
He doesn't listen, his hands clenching into fists as he aches with the need to touch. "F-fuck me..." he breathes out, and you try to put your hand over his mouth to shut him up, but you can still hear his loud groans as he ruts against you through his pants. "Fuck me, please." He insists. You squeeze his wrists with frustration, pissed off by his excessive neediness, still, you can't help but to start undoing his uniform to indulge him. he sounds so cute, maybe playing with him for just a little wouldn't hurt...
your hair tickles his cheek as you lean down. You unbutton his jacket and his white button up until his bare chest is visible, reveling in the sight of his soft, creamy white skin, and plush pink nipples. He shivers as the cool air of the room hits his skin, and you slowly start to drag your fingers up his chest.
The gentle motions of your fingertips on his skin, paired with the constant feeling of his clothed cock rubbing against the fat of your ass causes him to still. He tears his hands out of your grip with little to no effort, places them on each of your ass cheeks, and rocks you back and forth against his hard length until his hips stutter, and he squeezes you tight. "Oh G-god... mmh, pips, 'm cumming!"
You can feel him throbbing against you as the sticky liquid of his cum stains his pants. You look down at him as he slumps down with his chest heaving, loud gasps leaving his swollen lips as he tries to catch his breath.
You look down at him in shock, scowling. "You dirty little..."
He doesn't let you finish your words, flipping you over. Panting harshly, he looms over you, large hands roamed feverishly over your curves, grasping and squeezing at the fabric of your guard uniform as if trying to rip them away from your body. "Please... I need... I need to feel you, all of you..." he babbles.
He thrusts his pelvis in between your legs, his bulge making direct contact with your clothed cunt. You can feel how quickly he's recovering from his recent orgasm, his cock swelling up once more and pushing firm against you, seeking some measure of relief from the throbbing ache consuming him. "I'm need you so bad, pips. You'll let me have you, right?" he pleads, his hands finally succeeding in baring your breasts.
With a dip of his head, he peppers your newly exposed skin with desperate, open-mouthed kisses and sharp nips. You moan, squirming under him at the unfamiliar yet desirable sensation. He's worshipping your body shamelessly, completely focused on delivering rapt attention to each plane, curve, and soft slope of your frame.
"Tell me... tell me you want it too..." he urges breathlessly between kisses, his hands roaming lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your pants, your panties. "Tell me you need my cock... as much as I need to be inside you." His desperation is palpable, his body trembles with the force of his desire as he awaits your response, silently praying you would give him the green light to have his way with you. Impatient to hear an answer, he passes the time by ridding himself of his remaining clothing. Caleb shoves his pants down, his slick cock which is tender from his recent orgasm, hitting his stomach and drooling pearly precum onto his skin.
"Fuck, you bastard, get off," You try to protest, to hide how bad you want it despite the risk of you losing your job or being punished for doing something so reckless and idiotic. But your pussy can't hide how you crave to have his cock deep inside you.
His mouth waters at the intoxicating scent of your arousal, ripe and heady and consuming. He lavishes your breasts with desperate, open-mouthed kisses, his tongue swirling around one stiff peak, lapping and suckling greedily, before switching to its twin, determined to taste every inch of your succulent flesh. You cry out, keening dumbly. You hate how good it feels.
"Mmm... you taste... fuck, you taste incredible..." he praises between slurping kisses, sending vibrations tingling through your skin. Below, Caleb's aching cock jerked and throbbed against your soaked pussy. Each twitch of his sensitive flesh against your core drew a guttural groan from his throat, and a soft whine from you, his hips rutting instinctively, chasing more of that delicious friction.
"You're so pretty," he pants, the words tumbling out in a desperate, incoherent jumble. He could feel the heat radiating off your cunt, could sense your body's readiness, yet still you held back, trying to retain some semblance of control. He whimpers in frustration, his cock pulsing urgently against you as he gazes up at you with pleading, lust-glazed eyes. "Tell me... fuck, please j-just tell me you want it too..." he rasps, his voice breaking on the desperate words. "I can't... I can't hold back much longer..."
For a moment, you remain silent, your expression unreadable. But then, with a sharp inhale and a barely audible hiss of air through gritted teeth, you finally mumble the words he craved to hear. "Yes, I... I want it."
Relief crashes through him, and he releases a shuddering sigh, his body relaxing slightly as the tension drains from his muscles. He positions the dripping, weeping tip of his cock at the entrance to your pussy and begins to press forward and part your slick, swollen folds around him. a shaky gasp leaves you as your hands fly to cling onto his broad shoulders.
"Ohhh... fuck..." He groans loudly as he feels the soft, plushy walls of your pussy grip onto the flared tip of his cock as he pushes inside. He feels you suck in more and more of him, gripping onto him like a vise. The way your pussy stretches around his girth to accommodate him has him nearly cumming on the spot. His hands clench on your hips, fingers digging into the supple flesh hard enough to leave bruises. Sweat beads on his brow as he focused all his concentration on the slow, tortuous process of sinking into you.
Inch by excruciating inch, he pushes into you, feeling your slick, plush walls flutter and clench around his sensitive cock as if trying to draw him deeper. "You're sucking me in, see that?" Caleb groans, his breath coming in harsh, tortured pants as he finally bottoms out, his pelvis flush against yours, causing his heavy, full balls to nestle perfectly into the curve of your ass. "Your pussy wants me filling her up, pips. 'S like we're meant to be fuckin', not fighting..."
Caleb starts to withdraw, feeling your walls drag against him, before plunging back in, starting a deep, deliberate rhythm.
Unwillingly, your composure starts to waver, your cool demeanor cracking. Soft, breathy moans leave your lips insistently, making his cock twitch inside you. "Y-you sound so pretty, you know that?" He chokes out through moans, thrusting steadily into you. "So good. S-so good for me. I got you." His cock pumps into you in a slow, deep rhythm that has your body jerking and bouncing beneath him.
You could feel your mind starting to go fuzzy, your thoughts scattering as your pleasure mounted. "Fu-Fuck, 's so deep." you say, your words slurring together. Your fingers scrabbled at his back, nails digging into his sweat-slicked skin as you clung to him, anchoring yourself against him. Caleb could feel your body starting to tremble, could sense the desperation building in your touch and your breathy little cries. They spur him on, urging him to thrust harder and deeper.
"You can take it." he mumbles, his swollen head catching your soft inner walls and making you twitch and clamp down on him when it nudges too deep inside you. His mind could barely process the feeling of your pussy squeezing around his cock, watching the way he'd stretch you out with every thrust.
The obscene sound of your arousal filled his ears, each deep, powerful thrust eliciting a lewd schlick! noise as your dripping walls struggle to accommodate his girth. "Mmm, listen to her... listen to your greedy little pussy sucking me in. She doesn't want me to go anywhere, does she? Wants my cum to fill her right up." he bends down, panting hotly against your neck, his lips and teeth and tongue working over your sensitive skin and leaving a trail of marks and kisses.
He could feel you trembling and notices you trying to hide your face in the crook of your shoulder, no doubt an instinctive move to hide how good you feel, but he would not allow it. Caleb hooks his hand under your chin, tilting your face back towards him, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Don't you hide from me now," he cooed, his voice low and rough with desire. "I want to see your cute little face."
You whimper, a deep blush covering your cheeks. "I'm not... I'm not cute..." you protest weakly, even as your hips begin to move up to meet his, seeking more of that delicious friction.
"You're not?" he asks, punctuating his words with a sharp, deep thrust that had you seeing stars. "But look how pretty you look taking my cock like you were made for it... like your perfect little pussy was molded just for me..." His hand slid down, fingers splaying possessively over your lower belly, feeling it clench and quiver as he filled you so completely. "And the faces you make when you take me are so - fuck- perfect."
He could feel you starting to tense, your thighs beginning to quake around his hips. Your breathy moans and whimpers rose in pitch and volume, blending with his own noises. "Fuck, yes... that's it, baby... Come with me." he urges as he drank in the sight of you lost in pleasure. "I want to feel this greedy little cunt squeeze the cum out of my cock. You miss a drop, and we do it all over again, you hear me?" He delivers a sharp snap of his hips, a brutal thrust that buried him to the hilt in you, kissing your womb so sweetly.
You size up suddenly, letting out a cry as your pussy clenched down hard, rhythmically, milking his throbbing cock for all it was worth as you rode out the crest of your climax.
Caleb threw back his head with a groan, a feral sound, as he felt your velvety walls spasming around him, sucking him deeper, urging him to fill you with his cum. He slams into you one last time before his own release overtook him. His cock jerked and pulsed, erupting as he pumped you full of his hot, thick seed, painting your insides white.
You collapsed together in a tangle of sweat-slicked limbs and heaving chests, the aftershocks of their shared climax leaving you both breathless. You could only cling to him as he leaned down and pressed a gentle little kiss to your temple.
"Don't try and beat me up ever again."
"Fuck you."
"Just did, pips."
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𖹭.ᐟ | stoner!rafayel can get high from just about anything.. including you
not proofread
stoner!rafayel who is usually always high, no matter day or night.
stoner!rafayel who claims that he gets the most of his 'artistic abilities' when he's as high as a kite.
stoner!rafayel who will text you to come over in the most needy way, even if it's already past midnight, then proceed to deny it in the morning.
stoner!rafayel who, when he finally gets you to smoke with him, always gives you his joint instead of rolling a separate one up for you, claiming that he was just too comfortable to get up.
stoner!rafayel who gets hard whenever he sees you smoke because he imagines your pretty lips wrapped around his cock instead of the blunt. but when his imagination finally comes to life, he doesn't know what to do with himself.
-
would it be too pathetic to say he never wanted this moment to end? maybe, but he couldn't care less about how he looked right now.
his head was thrown back against the bed's pillow, hand covering his mouth in an attempt to mute the whoreish sounds escaping him, but it was no use when he was being this loud.
"f-feels so.. so good!"
his whole face was flushed red and glistening with sweat, he didn't know if it was from the weed or you, probably both.
your tongue lapped at his tip, swirling before taking him back fully in your mouth, relishing in the way his hand on your head held you there, muffled moans and hisses finding their way to your ears.
rafayel's hand that was resting on your head seemed to grow a mind of its own as he suddenly pushed your head down on his cock, causing you to gag on it unexpectedly, earning rafayel a glare which only made him get off more.
suddenly, you pulled off with a wet pwah! earning a startled whine from rafayel's end and his eyes shooting open from the unexpected loss of your warm throat.
"hey! w..what—mmph!"
you cut off his protests with two fingers in his mouth, your other hand still lazily stroking his leaking cock, which caused his eyes to flutter deliciously and moan around your digits.
"poor you.. maybe if you stay paitent i'll keep going for you, got it?"
that was all rafayel needed to hear before he was nodding feverishly, tears threatened to build up in his eyes from how much he needed you back on him, his hips bucking into your grasp.
scoffing, you took your fingers out his mouth, glistening with his spit, before trailing them down and circling his nipple, causing him to yelp before you leaned back down and licked a stripe up his cock before enveloping him back in your mouth.
rafayel's head fell forward, strands of hair sticking messily to his forehead from his sweat. a whimper followed from the dual sensation, yet he didn't want it to stop.
neither of you knew he was going to cum so unexpectedly, the only warning was in the way his hand suddenly flew back to your hair, grabbing a fistful of your hair to steady himself, but not to control your movement as he came down your throat.
an erotic pop! filled the room as you pulled off from him, wiping the cum that ran down your chin with the back of your hand as you took in the sight before you.
rafayel's head was buzzing, his hair a messy and sweaty halo as his eyes fought to stay open, not from exhaustion, just from how much pleasure rushed through him, and how much he wanted more.
his hand fumbled onto the nightstand next to the bed, blindly feeling for the unfinished roll-up of weed, and fingers trembling with the aftershocks as he clumsily tried to light it.
he was so focused that he didn't notice what you were doing until you suddenly sank down on his still hard cock right as the flame flickered and caught on the paper.
"shit!—'stoomuch!-"
stuttering, he tried his hardest to force the word 'sensitive' out, but it was no use, especially when you plucked the joint out of his fingers and took a hit, your fingers wrapping around his chin, catching his lips in a desperate kiss, all while passing the smoke to him.
he wasn't ready for you to ride him, after all, the most you usually both got to were high makeout sessions, but the sensations were so shocking from the mix of weed and lust that he didn't mind you trying something new.
with shaky fingers, you moved the blunt back to his lips, almost giggling at the way he simply just took it, it was second nature just by how he could smoke, even if it was while he was getting his brain turned into mush.
planting your hands on his chest, your own moans and pants slipped out, hips alternating from rocking and moving up and down just to bring you both closer to the edge.
rafayel nearly choked on the smoke as you shifted your hips in a way that both caused you to falter, your moans mixing together in a pornographic symphony. which is all it took for you to come undone on his cock.
"fuck! 'm cumming, raf!"
your cunt gushed over his cock, soaking it in a way that only made everything much more hotter, and rafayel found himself erratically bucking his hips back up into you, chasing your high to meet his.
his whole body froze before shaking, finally emptying his load again, a sound caught between a moan and a gasp finding its way out. all the sensations heightened from the weed.
rafayel buried his face in your neck, whimpers still following as his cock twitched inside of your heat, eyes squeezed shut from the overwhelming pleasure.
eventually, you pushed yourself off, your thighs quaking before falling limp on the side of his chest, a dopey smile on both of your faces from the two types of high you were both experiencing.
"wanna…"
rafayel's voice was soft and raspy, something that usually happened after he smoked, and you guessed he was going to say 'wanna sleep' or 'wanna smoke', but you weren't expecting what he said.
"wanna go again."
right. you forgot that for whatever reason, getting high also made his stamina unnervingly high.
xavier trying on your girly underwear for shits and giggles thinking it'll make you laugh, and he parades around the house in front of you in your lacy bra and panties, teasing you about him looking better in them than you do... and all you do is stare at him in silence and he takes that as you being angry goes "oh no i'm sorry, i might be stretching them out, i'll take them off"... and before he can go back into the bedroom, you all but tackle him to the ground and growl, "absolutely not. they stay on."
I so sorry I’m not an anon and I rarely ever put in requests so forgive me but what do we think about gender swap mc and the lads men but the men(now women obv) are on their period
I feel like Rafayel would be really bratty and rude 😭 she’s so agitated and tired
That’s all I can come up with in my sleepy mind though
don't apologise!!! non anons are always welcome, i love seeing you guys 🥰
i'm thinking heavily on this idea and i can agree with you on rafayel being bratty and rude. she'd hate her cramps soooooo much and i can see her having very bad ones. the type that leave you curled up in bed with a hot water bottle. while she is very rude and can say some break-up worthy type shit, you know she never means it and she's always apologetic. you don't take it to heart because you understand that periods are the devil.
xavier gets immense cravings when on her period. her cramps aren't usually that bad, she's able to handle them without a painkiller. but her cravings are strong so during her week, you both are out eating a lot of hot pot. her cupboard are also stacked with snacks because she's the type to snack during the night...as if she doesn't do that already.
zayne has strong cramps so she keeps strong painkillers around to help her throughout the work day. she also has a hot water bottle in her office so she can use it while she works at her desk. her sweet tooth, somehow, gets WORSE so her favourite bakery sees her often through that week. she's also prone to mood swings so one moment she's fine then she's cold as ice, her snarkiness getting to the point where it's hurtful. but just like rafayel, you know she doesn't mean it.
lumping sylus and caleb together because my idea for them is similar. they're both the type to power through highly painful cramps due to their high pain tolerance. both have done intense missions with heavy flows and stabbing pains without a flinch or a grimace. they're also the type to say no to a painkiller if the cramps get bad enough for it show on their faces. it can actually get annoying, especially when you see how much it hurts them.
sylus doesn't crave much, she only wants sleep and often wants to sleep with her head on your lap.
Summary: One innocent username, one dangerously low camera angle, and suddenly you’re giving orders to a colonel who looks way too good following them. It starts playful. It gets competitive. It gets… heated.
You weren’t even sure why you were still scrolling.
The site felt louder than it should have. Too many exaggerated thumbnails. Too many forced smirks. Men leaning too close to their cameras with artificial confidence, trying too hard to look dominant, too eager to be wanted.
One flexed aggressively in neon lighting. Another winked every five seconds. Someone else kept talking in a rehearsed whisper that sounded more awkward than seductive.
It all felt… fake.
You sighed, half ready to close the tab.
Then you saw it.
COLONEL STRIKER – PRIVATE TRAINING OPEN
The thumbnail was simple.
No flashy neon.
No exaggerated pose.
Just a man mid–pushup, the camera positioned low beneath him. Shirtless. Grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips. A black mask covering the lower half of his face.
Your cursor stilled.
Dark brown hair falling slightly into his eyes.
And those eyes purple and vivid. Sharp and focused. Intense in a way that didn’t look performative at all.
You clicked before you could think too hard about it.
The stream loaded.
The first thing you heard was breath. Heavy breathing that sounded les like a work out and more suggestive.
The camera angle was placed almost on the floor, tilted upward. It framed him from the waist down to his chest and face, capturing the flex of his shoulders as he lowered himself slowly into another pushup.
One.
His arms bent, muscles tightening beneath smooth skin.
His chest hovered inches from the camera.
Two.
His abdominal muscles flexed as he pushed himself back up, every line defined by the soft overhead lighting.
The grey sweatpants clung to his hips, the fabric shifting with each movement. The low angle left very little to the imagination deliberate and unapologetic.
Three.
A quiet, rough exhale escaped him. The sound of effort. Of strain. Of control.
You felt your throat go dry.
The chat was moving quickly — hearts, comments, requests — but he wasn’t looking at them.
He was focused.
Pushup after pushup, his body moving with precision. His biceps tightening, veins faintly visible along his forearms. His shoulders broad and powerful, back muscles shifting under his skin when he rose.
The mask covered his mouth, but you could see the subtle tension in his jaw beneath it.
A low, controlled groan slipped out as he pushed up.
It wasn’t exaggerated. It sounded like he wasn’t trying to be heard. Which somehow made it worse.
You leaned closer to your laptop without realizing it.
He paused at the bottom this time, holding himself just above the floor. Arms trembling slightly under sustained tension.
His purple eyes flicked to the camera for the first time.
And stayed there.
The look wasn’t playful. It wasn’t soft. It was assessing. Focused directly through the lens like he could see you.
Your pulse jumped.
He held the position longer than necessary. Muscles tightening further. Sweat forming faintly along his collarbone and sliding downward. Then he pushed up in one smooth, controlled motion. His dark brown hair was damp at the temples, strands falling slightly over his forehead. Sweat traced down the side of his neck.
When he reached the top this time, he didn’t immediately start another repetition.
Instead, he shifted. Sat back on his knees, still breathing hard.
The camera now framed him from lower chest to hips more clearly. His abdomen rose and fell steadily, defined muscles catching the soft overhead light.
His purple eyes lifted slowly to the camera.
And held.
The chat was flying now. Donations chiming.
Messages begging him to take the mask off. To stand, to turn around, to strip, to do more.
He reached up and dragged a hand through his hair instead, fingers combing it back. His other hand rested casually on his thigh, relaxed, but possessive in its stillness.
Your throat feels dry.
The chat scrolls wildly.
“Faster.”
“Take it off.”
“Spread wider.”
“Show us your plane, Colonel.”
He ignores most of them. He pushes up again.
Another exhale.
That sound — low, strained, controlled — makes something tighten in your stomach.
Without thinking, you type.
Your username sits in the corner: HoneyApple
Soft. Innocent. Almost ridiculous in this environment.
You add a small tip.
HoneyApple: Slow down. Hold at the bottom longer.
The donation notification chimes.
His eyes flick to the screen mid-rep. He reads it.
You can see it in the way his gaze softens slightly. He lowers himself again.
This time slower, much slower. The descent is almost agonizing. Muscles trembling slightly under sustained tension. He hovers inches from the floor.
And holds.
His arms quiver faintly. Sweat gathers at his collarbone and slides downward. His breathing deepens to something louder and heavier.
You swallow.
HoneyApple: Stay there.
Another tip.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink for a second. His eyes lock onto the camera as if he’s looking through it. Through you.
His shoulders strain. His chest trembles. A low sound vibrates from him — restrained effort barely contained.
It’s not a moan. But it’s close enough.
You feel heat pool low in your stomach.
HoneyApple: Push up. One count.
He obeys.
But he makes it slow. Slower than necessary.
Every muscle visible as he presses upward in a single controlled motion. The tension in his abdomen tightens beautifully before releasing at the top.
He doesn’t break eye contact. Not even once.
He shifts slightly, spreading his stance a fraction.
Not because the chat told him to. Because you did.
HoneyApple: Spread your knees more.
This time there’s a pause. His eyes darken. Then he adjusts.
Just enough. The angle changes everything. The grey fabric pulls tighter across his hips. The motion of his body becomes heavier. More grounded.
His breathing is thicker now. Rougher around the edges.
When he pushes up this time, there’s a faint groan caught behind the mask.
You feel it in your spine.
He finishes the rep and instead of dropping for another, he shifts onto his knees. Sits back on his heels.
The camera angle still low, emphasizing the broadness of him. The powerful lines of his body. Sweat catching in the hollow of his throat.
He stares at the screen.
At your username.
“HoneyApple,” he says for the first time.
His voice is deep. Gravelly from exertion. He says it slowly. Tastes it.
His voice is rough from exertion, but there’s something else beneath it now. Something amused. Something sharp.
He shifts slightly on his knees and that’s when you notice it.
The grey sweatpants don’t hang as loosely as before. The fabric at the front is undeniably tented.
The low camera angle makes it impossible to ignore, the outline visible through the soft material, rising with every heavy breath he takes.
He notices that too.
Those purple eyes flick downward for the briefest second, acknowledging it, before returning to the camera.
“To think,” he says, voice calm but edged with something darker, “a username like HoneyApple would be the bold one.”
The chat explodes again.
He ignores them.
His focus is still locked on you.
“You’re comfortable giving orders,” he continues, tilting his head slightly. “To a colonel.”
The choice of words is deliberate. “You understand what that implies?”
He shifts his weight forward slightly, one hand bracing on the floor, the other resting casually on his thigh, dangerously close to the visible strain in his sweatpants.
“Command me again,” he says softly.
It doesn’t sound submissive. It sounds like a challenge.
Your throat feels dry.
Your body reacts before your mind catches up. Heat pools low in your stomach, spreading outward in slow waves.
You type.
HoneyApple: Do ten more. Slower.
A tip follows.
His eyes flick to the notification. A corner of his eye creases slightly, almost a smirk beneath the mask.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says lightly.
But there’s something possessive in the way he says it.
He drops back into position.
Your thighs press together instinctively.
Heat curls low in your stomach, the sight of him, powerful, controlled, visibly aroused and still composed, doing something dangerous to your thoughts.
“You’re watching closely, aren’t you, HoneyApple?” He grunts as he is midway through the set.
Your stomach flips at how easily he says that.
“You like control,” he continues, voice lowering slightly. “But you don’t look like someone who’s used to having it.”
You feel exposed and inexplicably more aroused because of it.
He finishes the set and looks at the camera, amused. As if waiting for another demand.
HoneyApple: Hands on your thighs. Don’t move.
He considers it.
Just long enough to make you question whether he will obey. Then he places both hands flat on his thighs. Muscles flexing subtly under the skin. The tension in his sweatpants remains visible.
His breathing is heavier now, slower but deeper.
“Like this?” he asks softly.
The chat explodes again. You barely see it.
HoneyApple: Spread your legs more.
A pause.
His gaze sharpens.
But he does it.
Knees widening slowly, deliberately. The fabric stretches tighter. The outline becomes more pronounced under the overhead light.
The sharp, colonel-like edge in his posture softens just slightly. His head tilts, not calculating this time, but curious. Almost playful.
Those vivid purple eyes narrow just a fraction in mischief.
“Mm,” he hums behind the mask, the sound low and warm. “HoneyApple…”
He tilts his head further to the side.
It’s disarming. Almost puppy-like.
A dangerous contrast to the disciplined control from moments ago.
“You’re not going to leave me doing all the work, are you?” he asks, voice dropping into something lighter. His shoulders relax just enough to make him look less like a commanding officer and more like a man enjoying the attention.
“I won’t be the only one training tonight,” he continues, leaning slightly closer to the camera. “You’ll keep me company… riiiiiight?”
He raises one brow subtly. “Or are you just going to sit there and watch, HoneyApple. Won’t you join me?”
The chat goes wild again — heart emojis, frantic messages, begging him to take off his pants.
“You’re bold enough to command a colonel,” he says softly. “So you can handle joining in.”
Your pulse jumps.
Heat spreads low in your stomach, warmer now. He sounds amused but there’s something deliberate underneath the playfulness. Like he’s testing how far you’ll go.
“Go on,” he murmurs. “Match me.”
The suggestion lands heavy.
You swallow.
Your thighs press together instinctively before you separate them slightly, mirroring his earlier stance. Your hands on your thighs.
He watches.
Not the chat.
Not the donations.
You. As if he could somehow see you through the camera.
“See?” he adds, tone lighter now. “You’re not as innocent as your name, HoneyApple.”
The way he says it makes your skin heat.
HoneyApple.
Soft. Sweet. Harmless.
He leans back slightly on his heels again, shoulders broad, chest still rising with controlled breaths. “Are you joining me?”
Your fingers hover over the keyboard.
You type.
HoneyApple: Only if you follow instructions.
His eyes flick down.
Then back up.
The playful tilt disappears just enough for something sharper to return.
“Of course,” he says lightly. “You’re the one in charge, right?”
You shift slightly on your bed without thinking. You were getting bolder. To see how far he would listen to you while ignored the others.
HoneyApple: Palm it.
The room feels hotter.
He glances down at himself briefly, then back at the camera.
“Direct contact?” he asks, mock-innocent. “You escalate quickly.”
But he obeys.
His hand lifts from his thigh and settles over the front of his sweatpants. The fabric compresses under his palm. A low breath escapes him and he shudders. He doesn’t move at first. Just holds it there.Letting you see the effect.
“Like this?” he asks, head tilting slightly again that playful expression returning.
Your pulse spikes as you mimic his actions.
HoneyApple: Press harder.
He inhales slowly. His hand tightens. The outline beneath the fabric shifts visibly as his fingers flex. His shoulders tense. A faint sound slips from him. Half breath, half restrained groan.
“You’re watching very closely,” he murmurs.
You are.
Your body responds instantly, warmth pooling low, breath shallow.
He rubs once. The twitch of his erection is subtle but unmistakable beneath the grey fabric. His purple eyes never leave the lens.
Never leave you.
“You’re joining me, right?” he asks softly. “You’re not just making me suffer alone.” The playful tone lingers, but there’s hunger under it now.
You swallow.
Your hand mirrors his instinctively, pressing over your own apex the way he does. The warmth beneath your palm is immediate. Your breath catches and this time you don’t bother trying to steady it.
A quiet sound slips from you, unintended.
His palm presses again over the front of his sweatpants. Firmer this time. The fabric pulls tight, the outline unmistakable. A faint darkened patch begins to form where his hand lingers too long.
Your breath hitches as you notice it. The grey fabric isn’t as uniform anymore.
There’s a dampness spreading slowly beneath his palm.
His eyes flick down briefly then back up.
“You see that?” he asks quietly. The question isn’t embarrassed.
Your stomach flips.
HoneyApple: Lower the pants.
But this time he doesn’t comply immediately.
He leans back slightly instead, one hand still resting over the tension at the front of his pants. His head tilts again — playful, yes — but now there’s something almost possessive in the way he studies the camera.
“You escalate fast, HoneyApple…” he says softly.
He slides his palm slowly downward along the fabric instead of pulling anything yet. The movement is slow and teasing.
“It’s a little unfair, don’cha think?” he adds.
His voice lowers.
“I can’t see you.”
The words land heavier than they should.
“But I’m sure,” he continues, eyes narrowing slightly, “you’re following my lead.”
Your breath stutters.
His gaze sharpens as if he can feel it through the screen.
“You’re not just sitting there politely, giving out orders…” he murmurs.
His fingers hook lightly at the waistband of his sweatpants now but he doesn’t pull yet. Just rests there.
“I bet,” he continues quietly, “you’re just as affected.”
There’s a faint edge of challenge in his tone.
“Probably more.”
Your thighs press together instinctively.
“You’re wet too, aren’t you?” he says softly.
The damp patch beneath his hand has spread slightly more now. His breathing is heavier, chest rising deeper with each inhale.
He tugs the waistband down just an inch. Enough to hint. Enough to make the chat lose its mind. But not enough to fully reveal anything.
He pauses there.
Looking at you.
“Join me properly,” he says. “Match the rhythm.”
His hand resumes a slow, deliberate motion over the fabric, controlled, steady, emphasizing the tension rather than rushing toward release.
You follow.
Your breathing grows heavier. A soft sound slips from your throat without permission.
“You like bossing around,” he says quietly. “But you like being bossed too.”
Your pulse pounds.
The tease about fairness lingers between you.
He gives another small tug at the waistband lowering it just enough to show a sliver of skin above the fabric beneath.
The chat absolutely loses control.
But he doesn’t.
His eyes remain locked on the camera.
On you.
On HoneyApple.
And on the other side of the screen, your hand has long since slid from your thigh. It’s no longer just resting there. Your fingers move slowly, pressing through the thin fabric, feeling the heat pooling beneath your touch. You’re soaked more than you expected to be. The damp warmth against your fingertips makes your breath hitch again.
You hadn’t planned to participate this much.
You hadn’t planned to react like this.
But the way he looks at you, like he knows exactly what you’re doing, makes it impossible to stay still.
Your other hand grips the edge of your laptop.
“Are you really keeping up with me?” he asks quietly.
Your fingers slide more deliberately now, matching the slow rhythm he’s set. You can feel how wet you are, how sensitive. Every small movement sends a ripple up your spine.
He inhales slowly, chest expanding.
“Tell me,” he says, voice low and steady. “Do you really want me to take them off?”
There’s no bravado in the question.
Your pulse pounds so loudly you can hear it in your ears.
You type quickly — too quickly.
HoneyApple: Yes, stake them off.
The typo hangs there in the chat. Stake…
For a split second you freeze.
The chat explodes with laughing emojis.
His eyes flick down.
Then back up.
“Take them off?” he repeats softly.
There’s a faint laugh under his breath. “Careful, HoneyApple. Your typing’s slipping.”
The way he says it makes heat rush up your neck.
“You must be distracted.” He drags the word out slightly.
Your thighs press together instinctively again.
He hums. Then, finally, his fingers hook more firmly into the waistband. He rises just enough on his knees to push the grey fabric lower. The waistband slides over his hips, revealing more skin, the subtle flex of muscle beneath the soft light. He pauses halfway down.
Looks up at the camera again.
“You’re sure?” he asks one last time.
Not because he doubts you.
Because he likes hearing it.
HoneyApple: Yes.
His eyes darken at the certainty in it.
Then he lowers the sweatpants further, pushing them down while keeping the angle teasing. The reveal is slow. Intentional. Enough to make the chat combust again.
He settles back onto his heels, breathing heavier now. His erection standing proudly, staring right into the camera.
“There,” he says quietly. His gaze lifts back to the camera. “You asked for it.”
On the other side of the screen, your hand presses more firmly now. You can feel how slick you are, how sensitive. Your breathing has lost all pretense of calm.
He adjusts the camera now. He reaches down and tilts it just a fraction lower, angling it upward more deliberately. The shot shifts to capture his erection while still capturing his face, still catching those vivid purple eyes, but now the perspective is more intimate. More direct. A low, almost first-person angle that makes it feel like you’re right there in front of him.
His chat was going fast, losing it over him.
His hand moves again. A steady rhythm that makes his jaw tighten slightly. His head tips back just enough for a soft sound to escape him, not loud, not exaggerated, but real.
You mirror him instinctively.
Your own movements slow, matching his pace. The pressure of your fingers intensifies, dragging in time with him. The sensation is overwhelming now, heat coiling low, building steadily.
Your other hand grips the bedsheet.
He exhales sharply.
“You’re not holding back anymore, are you, my HoneyApple?” he murmurs.
You aren’t.
The rhythm between you synchronizes without needing more instruction. When he slows, you slow. When his breath hitches, yours does too.
For a moment, it feels like the rest of the world has disappeared.
No chat.
No donations.
His hand tightens slightly.
Your hips lift involuntarily.
A soft whimper escapes you.
“You’re with me, right?” he breathes. “HoneyApple...”
And this time, the word is almost a whimper from him too.
The control he held earlier is thinning.
His shoulders tense. His chest rises faster. His movements lose a fraction of their discipline.
You feel it building — in him, in you.
His free hand braces against the floor as he leans slightly closer to the camera, the low angle making the shot even more intimate.
“You’re with me.” he says softly.
Not a question. A claim.
Your fingers move faster without meaning to.
So do his.
The synchronized rhythm turns desperate around the edges.
A sharp inhale tears from him.
Your body tightens.
Another whimper, from him this time, low and almost involuntary. And the sound sends a shock straight through you.
And even through a screen, it feels dangerously close. Like he’s not just performing anymore. Like he’s right there. Matching you.
And that’s when it snaps.
The rhythm between you stops being controlled. Stops being deliberate. It turns uneven, desperate at the edges breaths overlapping, movements losing their careful restraint.
His hand tightens.
Your hips lift sharply from the mattress.
A broken sound tears from his throat. Your own breath fractures into a soft cry you can’t swallow back.
He leans closer to the camera, bracing himself as everything unravels at once. His head tips back, jaw clenched, shoulders flexing hard under strain. The rhythm falters — then surges — then breaks completely.
His release isn’t elegant. It’s messy. It’s real. His breath stutters out in uneven bursts, chest heaving as he rides it through. The low angle of the camera captures the intensity in his expression, the way his purple eyes squeeze shut for a second before snapping back open.
And in that split second of loss of control, there’s no Colonel Striker.
No teasing dominance between either of you.
Just him.
You.
And the shared crash.
On your side of the screen, your body arches fully. The sensation hits in waves, hot and overwhelming, leaving your fingers shaking and your breath wrecked. Your hand slows, then stills, chest rising and falling too fast.
For several seconds, neither of you speaks while the chat goes haywire.
He huffs out a breath that turns into a low chuckle. “…Damn.”
He leans forward slightly, squinting at the lens.
And then he laughs under his breath again. “Got some on the camera.”
The chat absolutely loses its mind.
He reaches forward and wipes at the lens with a cloth, his movements slower now, , body still catching up from the high.
“Hold on,” he mutters, amused. “Can’t have you watching through a blur.”
He wipes carefully, polishing the lens until it’s clear again.
“There,” he says softly.
Then, with that playful tilt of his head returning, he adds, “Feels like I’m cleaning you up too.”
Your heart stutters again at that.
He studies the camera for a moment longer, calmer now, but still flushed. Still glowing faintly from exertion.
“That was intense,” he says, voice rough but steadier.
He pulls the sweatpants back up slowly, adjusting himself with composed movements, though the earlier sharp control has softened into something more relaxed.
“Next time,” he says lightly, “maybe we skip the crowd, HoneyApple.”
His gaze sharpens again. “One-on-one training session.”
The words hang between you.
“Private workout.” A faint smirk tugs at his eyes. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Before you can type anything back, he leans toward the camera once more. “Rest up, HoneyApple.”
And then the stream cuts to black.
The silence in your room feels louder than the stream ever did. Your breathing slowly steadies. Your body still warm.
You’re just about to close the tab when a notification pops up.
A message from Colonel Striker.
His message is short.
So, HoneyApple.
When are we scheduling our next private training session?
Your breath catches again as your stomach flips.
The cursor blinks beneath it.
Waiting.
And somehow, that feels even more thrilling than the stream ever did.
AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!
If you enjoy my writing and want to support me, you can buy me a Ko-fi! ☕
