saṃsāra | ao3 | I II III IV
恋与深空 I Love and Deepspace || Rafayel x MC/ Reader || Explicit
“Don’t stop.”
You never intended to, but the frantic look in his eyes makes you want to tease him. Tilting your head, you study him as if contemplating his request.
“…Say please.”
chapter IV
You swear his eyes are glowing in the dark— glittering flecks of azure— like the sparkling blue luminescence you once saw in the foam of crashing ocean waves.
“You,” —Rafayel presses a kiss to your palm— “can do anything you want.”
Your thoughts are a bit less overwhelming now; your head no longer feels like a piece of driftwood just being tossed around in the raging tides. The shaky exhale of his heavy breathing, the sensation of his body heat radiating off his body, the vibration of his shiver when your fingers ghost over his chest— the sights and sounds of him are quickly taking over all your senses. His shirt is now fully discarded— your eyes widen, greedily drinking up the vision he makes as he peers back at you through hooded eyes. His voice still echoes in your head, wrapping itself around you, crooning in your ears a tinkling mantra.
So beautiful so beautiful so beautiful so beautiful so beautiful so beautiful
“Anything?” You haven’t touched a drop of alcohol but liquid courage rushes to your head, your daring emboldened by his permission. You raise yourself up so that you’re hovering above him, your arms framing his body. “You mean that?”
“A-anything you want, princess.”
Maybe you’re a sadist because you like the way he stutters. Anticipation is a delectable tingle in your veins; the heat of him straining beneath you makes your heart pound loudly in your ears. Bending down, you reward him with kisses, one at his temple, another on the shell of his ear, and then down to nibble on his earlobe. Rafayel shivers again, his breath faltering, hands clenching on your hips. Your hips dip lower, brushing against the part of him that’s rising hot and heavy against your thigh, and he groans, the sound loud and desperate. He rocks his hips ever so slightly, grinding mindlessly against you, the length of him perfectly nestled in the cradle of your thighs. You feel yourself throb in response— the friction of his silk pants is delicious against your slick core— your breath hitches in your throat.
Ah, maybe your head isn’t as clear as you thought it was.
You shift back— just to get a better look at him— but he stops you, his hand heavy on your wrist.
“Don’t stop.”
You never intended to, but the frantic look in his eyes makes you want to tease him. Tilting your head, you study him as if contemplating his request.
“…Say please.”
He swallows hard, then quietly, after a beat of hesitation. “Please.”
Gloating internally, you slowly move closer to him, until you’re just a whisper’s distance apart, lips so close every breath feels like a caress. His eyes are almost closed as they watch you, the sliver of intensity in his eyes as scorching as the sun.
“I can’t hear you.”
His breath quickens. “P-Please. Touch me.” His eyelashes flutter against your cheek. “Do what you want with me.” He moves your hand to his chest, his heart jumping wildly under your palm. “Just please don’t stop.”
Greed is a wild, living embodiment inside you. You want to possess him. You want to own him. You want to swallow him whole.
You thread your fingers in his hair, tugging him forward with such force, the aftershocks of collision ring behind your eyes. Pulling him into yourself, trying to erase the distance between your bodies, you feel almost frantic with the need to melt into his embrace and taste him; he returns the urgency, tongue sliding against tongues, the wet pop of swollen lips and low hum of muted murmurs loud in the hush of the dark. He trembles as if there was a storm raging within him, his grip intermittently bruisingly tight and then painstakingly gentle, holding you against him like he’s afraid you would dissolve if he let go.
How is it that you crave him like this? As if every new taste of him only serves to make you more insatiable? Why does kissing him carry the comfort of a well-known melody, like the steps of a dance only your body still knows, and yet still tremble with the thrill of something forbidden?
His urgency melts into worship, his hands tracing your back and your hips as if committing your form to memory, as careful and devoted as a sculptor molding prized clay. Barely caring to breathe, he kisses you like you’re his lifeline, holding you even closer as he attempts to rise. You tsk in playful warning, pushing him back with a hand on his shoulder.
“No,” you whisper against his lips, “it’s your turn, remember?”
Rafayel blinks up at you, glazed ocean blue and coral pink depths, as if too enraptured by the movement of your lips to comprehend your words.
Cute, your mind coos. So cute.
You can’t help but briefly kiss him again, taking in his quiet sighs and grunts as your lips move down his body, gently kissing the scratches you made across his shoulders. His muscles jump under your touch, his subdued moans escaping through swollen lips. Where your lips and tongue don’t reach, your hands appreciate in their place; you hum with approval as you run your hands across the firm expanse of his chest and down his v line of his torso.
Finally, you reach his thighs, the evidence of his arousal straining against his pants; the sight of a damp patch on the material makes you take in a deep breath, your mouth watering in anticipation. You tentatively touch the tip; it twitches as you hear a sharp exhale. You glance up and he looks completely mesmerized, breath fleeting and shallow. Not breaking eye contact, you slowly—achingly slow—press a kiss to the clothed length of him, marveling at the emanating warmth.
“Oh, fuck.” he whimpers, looking away, his hand over his eyes. A long, colorful stream of foreign words follow, peppered with just enough expletives in your language for you to stifle your laugh at the gist.
“Rafayel?” You rub the smooth fabric of his pants between your fingers. “Take these off?”
He moves fast; he discards his remaining clothes almost faster than you can follow and you have to reign in your urge to giggle at how eager he is. Both of you are now completely bare to each other’s gaze, and he shyly pulls you close again, tugging your hand to rest on his chest and the other to cup his cheek.
I adore you I adore you I adore you I adore you I adore you I adore you
“Touch me?” His throat bobs, and then he adds, as if he remembers last minute. “Please?”
The way he pleads is awakening a monster inside you; your skin is crawling with heated anticipation. The moon is full tonight and the storm has lessened to a drizzle, the shadows of falling raindrops chasing across his face, the silver glow just enough light for you to drink all of him in.
Pretty.
So pretty.
Rafayel is so very pretty with the blush that dusts his cheeks and blooms down to his upper chest, matching the rosy flush on his shaft. He’s glistening at the tip, and you reach down, rubbing the precum across the silky soft head. He twitches, as if this part of him has its own heartbeat, his lips parting as you continue to tease— a sharp inhale when you wrap your fingers around him, a low tortured moan when you gently run your fingers up his length. His eyes are squeezed shut, head thrown slightly back, chest rising and falling in erratic bursts; a perfect picture of a man near ruin.
How beautiful.
Running your fingers up and down his shaft, you keep your grip frustratingly light— just enough pressure but never enough to build to the bliss he’s looking for— until his whole body quivers, desperate moans falling from his lips.
“So pretty,” you breathe, and his cock jumps. More precum drips from his slit, its sheen darkening dusky pink to flushed crimson.
“Y-you’re so cruel,” he groans, peering at you between his fingers. ”A natural bully. Teasing me like—ngh!” he chokes when you tighten your grip without warning, spreading his slick down his cock.
You build him up, only to break him back down, easing your grip when you feel him go rigid in your hand, again and again until you almost lose count. If you could permanently etch the picture he makes to mind’s eye, you would; driven half-delirious, damp hair clinging to his forehead, his hands fisting in the sheets. Blindly, he reaches for you, his uncoordinated movement silently begging your hand to pump him faster, to hold him tighter— nearly frantic for any reprieve. When your grip turns lax once more, he whines, his expression almost pained.
“P-Please,” he pants, as if he’s out of breath. “No—” he shudders, “no more teasing.”
The sight of him like this is an intoxicating thrill; the knowledge of what you can do to him, of the mess you’re making of his state of mind, thrums through you like a heady drug. You love it— how every little thing you do triggers such a delightful reaction.
“Why?” you ask slyly, brushing his hand away with your other, interlocking fingers in the sheets. You stroke him again, a little firmer.
“Because,” he chokes, his hips involuntarily thrusting forward into your hand. “Y-you’re going to make me lose my mind.”
“And what if,” you murmur, nuzzling your cheek against his, “I want you to lose your mind?”
Rafayel gives a wry, shaky huff of laughter that stutters into a moan when you stroke him again.
“Then, silly girl—” he rasps; you’re slightly startled when his fingers curl around the base of your neck, locking you in place. Meeting his gaze, you’re sure of it now— his eyes are glowing.
“—you’d better be ready for the consequences.”
He locks his lips with yours just as the noise in the back of your mind reaches a new crescendo, glimpses of emotion— endless affection, meticulous obsession, devastating despair— washing over you like the ocean waves bubbling over heated sand, your skin prickling from the intensity of the sensations. You make a sound at the back of your throat as you taste him— your grip tightens, sliding down slick— and he shudders, breaking the kiss, forehead resting gently against yours.
“I’m— ngh, fuck, I’m g-going to—”
He freezes, a barely perceptible catch in his breath and then throbs hard in your hand, hot and dripping. His brows are subtly creased, and you think for a second how colossally unfair it is that he even looks devastatingly beautiful when he cums.
He lets out a strangled hiss when your sticky fingers caress him again; he’s still sensitive and twitching. His lips seek yours once more, and his kiss is so achingly soft, you sigh into his touch. This kiss is different from the others; the thrum of desperation— you’re getting familiar with it now— still present, but a background hum to the swelling notes of adoration. He’s gentle when he tilts your head, taking his time savoring you, fingers sweeping down the nape of your neck.
My bride my bride my bride my bride my bride my bride my bride
It’s so jarring; you think you can still hear a whisper of his voice in your head. Are you hallucinating? You move back, breaking the kiss, hesitating; he notices right away.
“How are you feeling?” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple.
“I feel…” Your legs feel weak, your heart is still pounding in your chest. Rafayel is still looking at you like he absolutely adores you, the unabashed intensity of it is embarrassing, so you look away; the gravity of what happened is still settling into your brain. “I… we…”
He presses another kiss to your cheek— “We should clean up,” —another kiss to your hand.
“We should…” you trail off, and then blush when you see him still standing at attention. “Y-you’re still— you’re not done?”
He sighs, dropping lazy kisses on your skin everywhere within his reach. “Ignore it.”
“It’s pretty hard to ignore,” you deadpan, eyes flitting away. “And we,” —you think your face might implode— “we don’t have… any condoms…”
Rafayel laughs. “We’re not going there yet, cutie.”
Yup, you’re officially set to combust into a flaming ball of mortification. Were you the more depraved one out of the two of you?
“At least not tonight,” he continues to say, nuzzling his cheek against yours. “I have something different in mind for that occasion…”
Something different in mind? What did that even mean? Has he thought of doing this with you before—?
You don’t exactly mean to stare, but he twitches and you blink rapidly in realization, nearly jumping out of your skin when he groans. A firm touch on your chin forces you to look back at Rafayel’s playfully stern gaze.
“You’re going to be my very undoing,” he says fondly, brushing the pad of his thumb against your lower lip. “Let’s wash up now before we end up not sleeping at all, alright?”
“L-let’s?” you echo.
“Yes, let’s.” he says with a slow grin. “Since you took such wild liberties with my body while I was sleeping and defenseless, I’m having you take full responsibility.”
“What are you—? I-I never did that!” you protest, swinging your legs around to the side of the bed.
“Well, someone was muttering in their sleep and tossing their arms about,” he declares, shaking his head and smiling so smugly, you’re tempted to reach over and smack it off his face. “And when I was kind enough to try and herd you back to your side of the bed, you shamelessly dragged me into a kiss!”
“I-I…” you trail off, lost for words, cheeks still burning. Hilarious really that you could still feel embarrassed, given that both of you were already naked. “For all I know, I could have been kissing a fish!”
“A fish?”
He sputters and it amuses you for a split second— serves him right— but then you attempt standing on the carpeted floor; your legs shake so much, you almost fold and tumble down right there. Rafayel must have seen it too, because he’s already there— hands under your knees and arms supporting your upper back— before you have time to even yelp; you grip his shoulders as he hoists you into his arms.
“R-Rafayel!”
“Well, this fish left you weak in your knees, didn’t he?”
In a few strides, he’s already through the doorframe to the bathroom— you forget fast he can move sometimes— and you slap him on the shoulder, hissing.
“Put me down!”
“Patience is a virtue, my little muse,” he singsongs, the smile still apparent in his voice.
But he soon lets you down, placing you gingerly on the raised marble that surrounds the bathtub rim, lips lingering on the back of your hand as if he can’t bear to leave your side. You look away, your cheeks glowing— you’re not used to this blatant intent or the profane amount of skin he's freely exposing to you at all. He’s still playing with your fingers, interlacing his with yours, as he uses his other hand to turn on the bathtub faucet, letting it run.
“How hot do you like it?” he asks, but he’s already turning the knob all the way to the end— as if he already knows the answer.
“I-I can do it myself.”
“I know you can, cutie,” he brushes yet another kiss on the back of your hand. “I just want to do it for you.”
At this rate, your poor face will be burning all night. Rafayel doesn’t seem at all inclined to put a stop to it either; if anything, he seems to be endlessly amused by your embarrassment.
“The water’s ready.”
You let yourself sink in, sighing with pleasure as the hot water envelops you up to your shoulders. Yes, you didn’t even know until now, but this is exactly what you were looking for. Your eyes snap open when you hear another gentle splash, just in time to see him lower himself in the water at the opposite end of the tub.
“W-what are you doing?”
He grins that cheshire cat grin again. “Washing up, like I said, remember?”
Rafayel sinks in with a sigh, and you glare at him suspiciously, prompting him to laugh.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be good.” He peers at you through his long lashes, blinking pleading doe eyes. “Indulge me again, mon cœur?”
There’s something undeniably intimate about sharing a bath together; for some reason, you feel even more exposed than when you were in bed. But after a beat of hesitation, you give a stiff nod. As long as you stayed at your respective end, and he in his—
You hear the splash before you feel the tug on your arm, more water splashing out the tub and against the bathroom tile as he whirls you around, pulling your back flush against his chest.
“You!”
“Heh,” he practically giggles, tucking his head into the crook of your neck. “You look just like an angry pufferfish right now. I think you’re even the same shade of red…”
You’re a bit too distracted by the solid warmth of him against your back, a whole different kind of heat crawling up your cheeks. “R-Rafayel, I swear, you better b-behave or else!”
“Hm?” he hums against the nape of your neck and it sends a tingle down your spine. “Or else what?”
You glance back at him, and the silent challenge in his eyes is crystal clear. For a long second, you know without an inkling of a doubt, if you answered the implicit invitation in his heated gaze, neither of you would be sleeping tonight. You whip your head back around, skin buzzing with the heady knowledge.
“Mon—mon cor?” you mouth the words, the unfamiliar syllables strange on your tongue. “What does it mean? You’ve been calling me that for a while now.”
He chuckles, a low sound of warm amusement, and you feel a light touch rake across your arm— he’s holding a washcloth in his right hand. Guess he wasn’t kidding about helping you wash up.
“My heart,” he murmurs, the phrase echoing curiously in the steamy chambers of the bathroom, as if it was reverberating from a deeper place in your head. “Princess… cutie… sweetheart…” Each endearment is followed with a kiss to your skin, his hand skimming the cloth up and down your body. “I’ve just been saying the same things in different ways.” His gaze is just as searing as his touch. “I wanted to see which one would bring the deepest shade of crimson to your cheeks…”
You feel hot. So hot. You’re about to hit your limit to— to everything really. Pet names, butterfly kisses, his heated looks— everything was so overwhelmingly new but also so achingly familiar, a persistent deja vu haunting every kiss and touch. Reality that echo dreams, a cooing voice in your head— there’s something, something important that you’re missing and if you didn’t start making sense of things soon, you feel like it might slip through your fingers, something you can’t bear to lose again—
Something hot and wet— his tongue— laves at your neck.
“You said—!” You gasp, jumping away, but not successfully getting very far in the cage of his arms. “You said you’d just help me wash—!”
“Sorry, sorry.” Rafayel doesn’t sound sorry at all, but he retreats. “... I couldn’t help myself. But I’ll behave now, I swear. ”
He moves to place an apologetic kiss to your cheek, but you place your hand over his mouth, glaring.
“No more kisses,” you say sternly. “Not until you answer some questions.”
You can feel him smirk underneath your palm, his eyes shrinking into half moons as he wordlessly coaxes your hand to move to his cheek.
“Then does that mean for every question I answer, I get a kiss?”
“That’s…” His eyes are dangerous; you look away, silently tugging back your hand. He reluctantly relinquishes it. “That’s not what I meant.”
“No?” he sighs dramatically. “But how will I ever find the proper motivation?”
You snort, rolling your eyes. He brushes the washcloth one last time over the length of your body before leaning in close, breath ghosting against your ear.
“Help me wash up too, my prickly little muse?”
You scrutinize him but he only returns your mistrustful gaze with wide, slow blinking eyes. Normally, you could’ve refused but it didn’t seem fair when he had already done it for you, however begrudgingly you went along with the process. Sighing, you give in, taking the washcloth.
“Just washing up?” You point at him with the cloth as if brandishing a weapon.
“Just washing up,” he solemnly promises, a twinkle of mischief belying his serious tone.
You tentatively place the cloth on his chest, wiping down just as far as you dare before jerking your hand back up. You think you hear a snort but when you whip your head up to look at him, his face has an innocently nonchalant smile.
“You’re doing a great job, cutie,” he praises softly. “Keep going.”
Somehow you feel like he’s mocking you, but you can’t pinpoint how. Narrowing your eyes, you contemplate throwing the washcloth at his face, but knowing how easily it would turn from teasing to teasing, you hold back, face burning for the umpteenth time.
“T-turn around.”
He silently obeys for once and you’re a bit thankful he doesn’t have another playful quip at his disposal. You wipe down his back as quickly as you can, trying to ignore his muted sighs, sounds that were a bit too familiar to the ones you heard earlier tonight. There are quite a lot of things you’re actively trying to ignore right now— the firmness of the muscles underneath your hand, the smoothness of his skin made slippery with water—
“Sweetheart—”
He’s turned back around to face you, his hand covering yours, looking positively tickled.
“—it’s time to get out of the bath. At this rate, I won’t be able to tell the difference between you and a boiled lobster…”
He only laughs when you scowl at him, chortling harder as you push past his arms to the other end of the tub. He’s still chuckling when he stands and you immediately avert your eyes, blinking rapidly into the steaming water as you hear the slosh of water on tile as he steps out. He grabs a few towels off the rack and wraps one around his waist— you quickly look away before he can realize that your gaze has been following him— and then he comes back, the other towel in hand.
“I-I can do it myself.”
“I know,” he smiles. “I know you can.”
Suddenly, you realize why it’s so hard to look him in the eye. He hasn’t stopped— looking at you like you’re his everything, like you’re a treasure and everything about you is precious— with such transparent and undying devotion that you’re not sure how to conduct yourself. Usually, they’re stolen glances, tucked away as soon as the moment is over, easy for you to dismiss. But now, he’s no longer bothering to hide it—
You’re enveloped in a fluffy towel the moment you’re out of the tub, and you feel him start to rub you down. Immediately, you squeak in mortification, hands clutching at his arm.
“Rafayel!”
“Alright, alright.” He’s laughing again, pressing a quick peck to your knuckles before you can react. “I’ll let you do it. I’ll leave my shirt here and wait for you in bed.”
The way he looks up at you through his lashes makes your pulse jump.
“But don’t make me wait too long,” he whispers against your skin, letting go of your hand.
When he walks out of the bathroom, you sink to the floor, sitting on the towel for a long second.
Oh, my god.
Your head is a jumble of emotions and thoughts, some of which you’re not even sure belong to you. Which already sounds insane, but with every other new development you’ve been having lately in your life— really, ever since you’ve recognized the significance of the Aether core in your chest— maybe it doesn’t sound so crazy after all.
The dreams— the bigger than life, saturated with color, vivid dreams of Rafayel— that’s a clue. There’s a voice— you’re positive it’s his, warbling melodic praises— in your head as well, though it’s not speaking at the present moment. You don’t think your eyes were playing tricks on you when you saw his eyes glow either. All signs are pointing to—
Who is Rafayel?
Your first encounter with him, who had approached who?
Your second meeting— you had thought it was odd that a supposed elusive and aloof artist had been so talkative— was there an underlying reason?
The meta flux from his painting that led to a murder— was it truly an accident?
The only thing you know is real is the way he looks at you. The fervor in his gaze isn’t pretense— he wants you— even when he has you in his arms, he’s desperate for you. The intensity of it is something you’re having a hard time understanding, and what’s even more confusing is that there’s something in you that echoes his desperation as well.
He knows more than he lets on— you’re sure of it. For what purpose he’s drawing closer to you, you can’t be sure. You wouldn’t even be surprised if it had something to do with the damned Aether core in your heart— after all, everything else seemed to center around it. But even if Rafayel has his own ulterior motives, you weren’t sure you had the willpower to resist his schemes any longer.
You feel eerily like a pawn in a game of chess.
How long will you be grappling in the dark for the right path, blind to the other moving pieces on the board?
It’s twilight when you finally finish drying off, putting down your hair and donning his sleep shirt, venturing hesitantly back into the room. The sky is incrementally lighter to indicate the coming day, and the rain has stopped. The drip of water down the stormdrain is a steady staccato in the stillness of predawn hours. Rafayel’s eyes are closed, chin leaning on his hand as he sits up in bed— he hasn’t bothered putting back on his shirt— a portrait of drowsy vigil. Half swathed in shadow and sheets, the glow of twilight gleaming on his skin, he’s never looked more ethereal— a magical creature stumbled out of a fairy tale. His eyes slide open when he hears your footsteps, the colors of nightfall reflected in his glittering gaze.
“Mon cœur.”
You make your way to him like a moth to a flame, as if mesmerized, unable to tear your eyes away.
My heart my heart my heart my heart my heart my heart
The mattress dips as you climb on, and with eager hands, he pulls you into the sheets before you’re even halfway in. You yelp at the sudden moment of vertigo, stiffening as he tucks you right up against his body.
“There you are,” he sighs into your hair. “Took you so long, I thought you forgot about me…”
“I-I didn’t,” you protest, squirming. He only tightens his grip. “Rafayel!”
“Yes?” He seems to have figured out that you’re weak against his face; his eyes are all wide and doe eyed. “Do you… not like it?” he asks tentatively, and it’s such a drastic change in tone that you can’t help but feel you’re being conned.
“That’s not—” you had points, and they were valid; if only you could muster the brain power to remember them. “That’s not it.”
“Then what is it?” His voice drops to the husky timbre that you’re starting to associate with certain tingles in your brain. “You have to spell it out for me.”
“I…” —why is everything so embarrassing?— “I like it!” you blurt out. “I like it, okay? Are you happy now?”
“Good,” he purrs, his fingers curving along the line of your jaw. “I like it too.” He brushes through a lock of hair, bringing it up to his lips. “And I like you. Only you.”
Your heart stutters, and you have to stifle your urge to duck your head as that would only lead to a face full of Rafayel’s warm skin; nothing that would help your flushed face or your already decidedly questionable intellect.
“So? Do you like m—mmph?”
“Hey, hey.” You capture his chin between your fingers, squeezing his cheeks. “I’m the one with the questions, remember?”
“Questions? As in plural?” He gently moves your hand aside, interlocking his fingers with yours as he glances out the window. “It’s nearly five in the morning, princess. Do you plan on walking around town tomorrow with huge bags under your eyes?”
“I’m—”
“Go to sleep. I promise to answer your questions tomorrow.”
“But—”
Sleep, my little muse.
The shadows seem to lengthen, the world around you softening around the edges. You blink and it nearly becomes your last; your eyelids feel so heavy, struggling against the urge to close. Was there something you wanted to do? Something moves at the periphery of your vision, and you lock onto purple hair and tender eyes— Rafayel, you remember now. You smile giddily at him.
“Raf…?”
“Sleep,” he murmurs.
There’s a vague niggling sense in the back of your mind that you need to say something, but you’re not quite sure what it was anymore. Your lips move instinctively.
“Can I… can I trust you?”
He seems to stop breathing, his hand tightening around yours.
“If I said no…” In a world blurring into shades of ashy purples and soft blues, his eyes are like a beacon, the chasm of heartbreak as dark and yawning as the ocean abyss; you wonder how long you would free fall in its depths. “Would you hold it against me?”
It’s funny, but the moment you even asked the question, you feel like you already knew the answer. Some part of you had already accepted Rafayel into your circle of trust, even if logic was warning you otherwise. You giggle, though it only comes out as a snort in your sleep heavy body.
“Silly… no…. not you…”
Sleep’s cozy embrace is too tempting for you to resist anymore. Your eyes close, your mind drifting into darkness; his sigh follows you, weaving into the tapestry of your next dream.
“Silly…? Who’s the real silly one here?”
