“You think people ever look at us and wonder why you would be with me?”
Rafayel had frozen in place, his hand mid paint stroke as he gazed down at you from his ladder. You’d been curled up on the couch, watching him comfortably while your thoughts took a depressing turn that was anything but comfortable.
“No,” he’d said, “absolutely not. No one in their right mind would think that.”
contains: afab reader, edging, rafayel making reader praise themselves, rafayel speaks in hindi, probably ooc and with grammatical errors sorry i wrote this all in like one hour at 10 PM and i was crying for half of it
it's been a while since my own insecurities have actually given me the creative kick to write something like this, so sucks to be insecure i guess, but yay fic!!!!
Insecurity. What a bitch.
It’s life-ruining, at its worst. It makes you look into the mirror and imagine even the reflection looking back and sneering at what it sees. It makes your heart pound as you walk in public, wondering how many people would smile once they get the privilege of losing sight of you. It makes you sob at night when you’re alone, mind knowing that there is no one in the world who is uniquely terrible, but your heart convinced that you’re the exception.
It makes you say something, accidentally, to your boyfriend.
“You think people ever look at us and wonder why you would be with me?”
Rafayel had frozen in place, his hand mid paint stroke as he gazed down at you from his ladder. You’d been curled up on the couch, watching him comfortably while your thoughts took a depressing turn that was anything but comfortable.
“No,” he’d said, “absolutely not. No one in their right mind would think that.”
If you’d been more acute in the moment, you might have heard the warning in his voice, the irk of a god who has just had his most precious jewel taunted.
But you’d continued instead. “They would. You’re so handsome, so gorgeous. Ethereal. Not to mention incredibly talented. And I love you, and I think we’re really compatible personality wise, but looks…you have to admit you could do a lot better.”
It was then you’d began to note how it felt much hotter in the studio than it had a few minutes ago. Like there was an unseen furnace, prickling with an angry fire about to grow into an inferno.
Rafayel’s voice had been, ironically, icy. “How could I do better than you?”
“C’mon, be real, Raf.” It had been hard to keep the pain out of your words, and impossible to keep the thoughts choking you inside. You’d started to plead, some part of you convinced that it would help if he would simply agree that your every insecurity was valid. “I’m not a supermodel. I’m not a genius. I’m not an angel, either. There’s nothing about me that’s extraordinary. Not like you are.”
And then he’d moved.
And now, you’re still on the couch, crying out brokenly with nothing to grip onto, as his hand holds your wrists above your head, and his cock thrusts in and out of you in the most maddening pace you’ve ever experienced.
He’s never been like this. When you plead, Rafayel gives in. He is weak to you, as he’s shown time and time again. But not today. No matter how much you beg with teary eyes for him to go faster, he shakes his head, slowing down even more. With a punishing growl, he pushes all the way in, and all the way out, leaving your drooling cunt clenching around nothing.
It’s torture. Pure and simple.
“What was it you said?” he breathes harshly, leaning down to press hot kisses on your neck that burn so perfectly you sob. “Ethereal? Talented? A supermodel?”
“Rafayel,” you gasp. He ignores it. His eyes are a violent shade of purple, the most dangerous you’ve ever seen them. There are scales blooming all over his body, as though denying you is the key to awake this dormant side of him, to make you submit.
“I’ll give you what you want,” he whispers, biting and leaving a fresh bruise planted on your skin. “Just tell me what I want to hear. Go on.”
He pulls out and you feel the tears running down your cheeks.
“Say, ‘I’m beautiful.’”
In.
“Say, ‘I’m gorgeous.’”
Out.
“Say, “I’m fucking ethereal.’”
You can taste salt from your own sobs, both from being denied, and from the unimaginable cruelty of having to praise yourself. It’s impossible. You want the reward so bad, but you can’t claw your way to it, because the rules are too imposing. The conditions, blinding.
“Be real,” he taunts, repeating your own words back to you, “come on, start easy. ‘I’m pretty.’ Go on.”
Heaving in a breath, you taste the bitter words on your tongue. “I-I’m pretty.”
Your back arches off the couch as he rewards you with his fingers on your clit, rubbing soft circles while he’s inside you. “Mmhm. You are. And?”
“Please, Rafayel.” You’re clenching so tight around him, and you can see from how he shudders that it pains him just as much as it pains you, this wait, this little game of keep-away. “Please don’t make me—“
You’re cut off by his hand cupping your cheeks, and his lips stealing a salty, breathless kiss. “Meri pyaari gurya,” he groans, kissing you again, “meri chand.” Kiss. “Meri humsafar.” Kiss. “Mine, mine, mine.” Kiss, kiss, kiss. "Do you think I keep anything that isn’t worthy of the Sea God?”
You shut your eyes, crying harder. The logic is loud, but your thoughts are louder. He’s only saying it to reassure you, he’s only saying it to be nice, he’s only saying it because he pities you…
“Meri dulhaniya,” he saves for last, because he knows it’ll break you, “I have nowhere to be. I’m fine staying buried inside you, all day and all night, while your sweet little pussy gushes for me. I’ll bring you to the brink, again and again, but I won’t let you cum, my pretty muse, because either you admit that you’re the most beautiful human in this world, or I’ll fuck it into you till you forget otherwise.”
Trembling, you open your eyes. There is nothing but conviction in his gaze. Conviction, and hunger.
And you realize two very important things. One, that your stamina is nothing compared to his, and you will never hold out against him, and two, that is not something one does out of pity, but out of unyielding, undying adoration.
“I’m,” you swallow, cheeks burning, “beautiful.”
A sharp thrust of his hips makes you moan his name, mouth falling open as he kisses you deeply, and you swear you can feel him hardening even more inside you.
“I’m gorgeous.”
“Yes,” Rafayel hisses, fingers rubbing your clit to match his thrusts.
Eyes rolling back, you cry out, “I-I’m…”
“Fucking ethereal,” he provides, and you think you can feel fire flicking from his lips on your cheeks.
“Fucking ethereal,” you whine, pulling him into a kiss this time.
His hips slam against yours and you cry out against his mouth as his tongue ravages yours. There is nothing Rafayel hates more than someone misunderstanding his art, least of all the art itself.
Your toes curl and your nerves are electrified, everything fading away except you and Rafayel, and his cock and his fingers and his lips, and the couch he’s pounding you into, and you tug at his hair and practically scream as you cum.
He’s still softly licking at your lips as you come down from your high, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. The air escaping you is light, and for the first time in a long time, there is nothing stuck in your chest, a soft fluttery feeling replacing the heaviness that you’ve been carrying what feels like your whole life.
Gazing back up your lover, you cradle his face, noticing that his lovely purple hues have morphed into an even lovelier pink, only a second before you notice he hasn’t cum yet.
“That’s a good start,” Rafayel whispers, capturing your lower lip between his teeth and tugging.
It bounces back into place for him to kiss softly, before he continues, “Now, let’s try ‘most beautiful human in the world.’ If you get there, I might consider letting you have a break.”
AU for 1x09: The Gate. Steve gets all the kids out of the tunnel, and Max and Dustin can't stop panicking over their selected brother. Not a deathfic. Oneshot.
“Dustin! Come on!”
His friends’ voices were ringing his ear and the demodogs were so close, so close. They were almost upon him and Steve and he barely registered the teen’s arms wrapping around him and hoisting him up. He grabbed the rope, swallowing. He was going to get out of this and they were all going to be okay and it was so hot -
Mike’s sweaty hand grabbed his own and hoisted him up right as he felt movement underneath, his hands shaking as his mind registered that they weren’t all out.
“STEVE!”
It was when Max screamed that he knew, before looking. Lucas shouted desperately, trying to dive in the tunnels with his arm stretched.
Dustin turned around and, with a horrified expression, saw the older boy falling, with the demodogs jumping on him, at least one of them digging its claws into his skin.
“NO!” Lucas shouted as Mike grabbed him around the waist before he could fall in.
Dustin was panicking. His breaths were coming out short and he felt like he was choking as he watched, everything happening in slow motion.
Mike’s face was looking beyond horrified; all of a sudden there was tears streaming down his cheeks, or was it just Dustin? Maybe it was him, he didn’t know, he just knew he had to get down there because those dogs were trampling all over Steve and he was down there alone and he had lifted him up at the last second.
Max was looking sick. She was the only one who had continued to stare down as the dogs went, not closing her eyes or looking away. She was screaming hysterically, shrieking, “Help him! Oh God, help him!”
Could they help him if he wasn’t there anymore?
“They’re gone!” Mike shouted but Dustin couldn’t look again. Had Steve yelled? He must have, but it might have gotten mixed with their own screams.
If he had yelled, it wouldn’t have been out of surprise, right? Just out of pain, because he knew - he must have known - that once he hiked Dustin up there’d be no time for him too. And the thought made him nauseous and so relieved at the same time. It could have been him if Steve decided to just leave it and climb up himself.
And he wanted to throw up and he was disgusted that he felt relieved. He didn’t want to feel that, he just wanted to help the older boy and - oh, this had been such a terrible idea, and he’d tried to stop them.
This time, Dustin knew he was crying.
“Help me get him out of there!” Lucas was yelling, with a tight grip on the rope.
“Lucas, you can’t! How are we going to hoist him up?” Mike shouted, even though he was crying too.
“WE’RE NOT LEAVING HIM THERE!” Max screamed, her face pale and sick. “He could still be breathing! Get him out, I’ll get him out!”
She knew she was close to throwing up. She could feel it. But the only thing going through her mind was that the guy who had stood up to her brother for her and Lucas was now lying with his eyes closed and blood soaking his shirt.
She didn’t want this. She would take her home life and a never ending cycle of Billy’s abuse over this. She didn’t want to see someone die. Just minutes ago, she’d been feeling so grown-up, having stood up to Billy and driving a car, and now, she was fully registering that her and Lucas and Dustin and Mike were all kids, and that this stuff wasn’t cool, none of it was…
“I’ll go down and push him up,” she said shakily, “then you guys can pull me out. Please. Please.”
Dustin finally said something, his voice barely understandable as he blubbered the words out. “I - we - we’ll b-both go, Lucas, Mike, you pull him up.”
Thank God someone else was on her side. Now it didn’t matter if the other two disagreed, not that they looked like they did. Her and Dustin jumped down and Dustin dropped to his knees.
“Shit, shit, shit, come on, man, shit,” Dustin let out a stream of curses as they both picked up the teen. This wasn’t going to be easy, he was heavy and if he wasn’t - wasn’t dead, then they could injure him more if they dropped him.
But he’d been trampled on, Max thought, tasting her own tears, how could he not be dead?
“Come on, lift up his legs.”
Dustin did as she said while she slid her arms under Steve’s, and together, they lifted him up. Mike and Lucas both had their arms outstretched, and Max first raised him enough for them to grab Steve’s arms before she held his legs and pushed him all the way.
“Does he have a p-pulse?” Dustin shouted.
There wasn’t a response right away, so Max screamed.
“DOES HE HAVE A PULSE OR NOT, SHITHEADS?”
Mike gasped out loud before shouting, “He’s got a pulse!”
She felt as though she was going to fall over from the relief that went through her head, and, looking at Dustin, she knew he felt the same. The nausea was replaced by dizziness in almost an instant.
Before she knew it, they were out of the tunnels and they were getting Steve into the car. Max had a dull buzz in her head, saying that if she didn’t drive fast enough, he would die of blood loss.
She drove like a crazy person. Zoomer, she kept telling herself, she was a zoomer and she was going to get Steve back to one of the adults.
And she did get there. With Lucas screaming directions and Mike and Dustin screaming for her to slow down so that they could cover up Steve’s injuries, and then her own self inwardly screaming that they couldn’t afford to slow down.
Dustin panicked when he saw that no one was back yet - in fact, he was close to hyperventilating until he squeezed Steve’s arm again and felt a pulse. Him and Mike had used their bandanas and found a girl’s dress in the back of the car that they ripped up, all to cover any places the teen was bleeding from.
His face was looking even worse now. The dogs had definitely run over it.
If someone were to give Dustin the nail bat right then, he might go after the dogs and beat the shit out of them, one by one.
“Look!”
A car was pulling up - Jonathan’s car. All of them leaped out of Billy’s car, screaming and running towards them as they got out, Will in Jonathan’s arms.
“He’s okay!” Mrs. Byers said with a teary smile, misunderstanding their panic.
Mike was the one who grabbed her arm, tugging on her and shouting as her expression slowly grew into one of panic.
“It’s Steve!” Dustin screamed, trying to get her to hear, to understand, that Steve needed help, right away.
He didn’t know if Mrs. Byers heard him properly. But she was frantically running towards the car anyway, and she let out a soft cry when she saw the boy, yelling out for Jonathan to help her.
“Hurry!” Lucas shouted, as Jonathan gave Will to Nancy, who was looking rather worse for wear herself. They all did.
With Jonathan helping, him and Mrs. Byers carried Steve out, taking him to the house. Nancy gasped, turning to Mike. “What did you do? Where did you go?”
“Doesn’t matter!” he shouted (and Dustin knew it wasn’t because he was trying to avoid getting in trouble, he was just sick with worry for everyone at this point). “Get him inside!”
As Mike, Lucas, and Max tried to explain Billy’s unconscious form, Dustin stared at Steve. He...it had started to seem like they were developing a brotherly relationship. And he would be an awesome older brother. He was awesome. He was cool, and brave...and…
He was way too brave, for sure.
Nancy had laid Will down in Mrs. Byers’ room before rushing back, helping Jonathan and his mom as they took out the first aid kid.
“Where is he most injured?”
“I - I don’t know,” Dustin said, feeling hopeless, “he’s bleeding from the stomach but they ran all…” He choked up lightly as the vivid image passed through his mind, but kept talking. “They ran all over him, he could have bruises everywhere.”
Nancy looked as ill as he felt. Jonathan had a steely, determined expression, while Mrs. Byers’s fingers were shaking as she raised the stitches.
He couldn’t watch. He couldn’t.
There was another rumble of a car and Dustin took the opportunity, running out the front door, where Hopper and El had just come back.
The gate was closed. It was over. But it wasn’t over.
“Hey, what happened? What’s wrong?” Hopper was frowning at him, walking closer with El pressed to his side. He was holding her to support her.
Dustin couldn’t answer - everything was wrong - but he didn’t have to. Hopper easily looked over his shoulder and hissed out, “Holy shit,” as he guided Eleven in, yelping when he saw Billy.
Max was staring, terrified, transfixed, as Will’s mom stitched Steve up. The chief has just come in with El but she didn’t break her gaze away from the teenage boy, his head to the side, his hair a mess.
Now that Mrs. Byers was stitching, his face started moving. He made pained expressions in his sleep, but even that, in some sick way, was relieving, because that meant he was alive.
She didn’t even realize how tightly she was gripping Lucas’s hand. There was a lump in her throat.
Her stepbrother was out cold because he was a dick, and this random boy she had just met had risked his life for her about three times today. Everything was so messed up.
“He’ll be okay,” Lucas mumbled softly, and she believed him, but she didn’t know if she herself would be okay after tonight.
Or if any of them would be.
When Steve woke up, Max was there. She had made sure she would be, refusing to leave his side the whole night. Same with Dustin.
The sun was rising. The two had been told told to go to sleep numerous times, but they didn’t. Mike and Lucas and even Eleven had tried to stay up, but they passed out soon enough.
But Max knew, even with her eyes feeling like they were going to fall off any second now, that it was so worth it.
Steve groaned and Dustin’s head snapped up. They both ran over to him (they were in Will’s room now) and peered over as he slowly blinked, and then gazed up at them, his eyes widening.
“Fucking...hell…” His words came out weak. “Where are we?”
“The Byers’ house,” she responded, feeling herself tear up again.
“Shit, everything hurts.” Steve groaned lightly as he blinked a couple of times. “Hey, what’s up with you two? Did...God, did Will…? Or that girl? Eleven?”
“No!” Dustin whisper shouted, before flinging his arms around the older boy. “You, you idiot! You!”
Steve looked completely baffled, and he turned to face Max for an explanation, but she only shook her head and went for his other side. She couldn’t think about anything except…
He was alive. He was awake. And she was so, so tired.
Despite clinging to him, Max knew both her and Dustin were being really gentle, otherwise they could make his injuries worse.
She pressed against his side, and as Steve’s arms hesitantly went up and around them, she knew that this was what an older brother should feel like. What she wanted it to feel like.
“It’s okay, guys. I’m okay. We’re okay. Have you two slept at all?” Steve was looking out at the bright light forcing its way into the room. “Jesus, go to sleep, dipshits. I’m not getting up any time soon.”
Dustin’s eyes were already closed in front of her, and Max didn’t know if he was asleep yet, but she was more than ready to follow suit.
Her decided brother’s arm draped over her back, she closed her eyes and drifted off, at peace for the first time since she had snuck out of her house yesterday.
Joyce would walk in half an hour later to see Dustin and Max, pressed up against Steve, his arms wrapped around them and then clinging to him in some way, with all three of them fast asleep.
I have a midterm tomorrow, but my dumbass writer’s instinct thought it would be a good idea to write 2100 words instead. It’s half an hour to midnight. I am deceased. Please review.
You shrug it off and offer it up to him, but instead of taking it, Rafayel only raises a brow.
“You can keep it.” He shrugs. “I have like five more in that same style.”
“No.” Your voice is firm, and your eyes are trained on him so that he knows you’re serious. Shaking the jacket a little aggressively, you insist. “Take it.”
Now thoroughly weirded out, he takes it from you, giving it a little brush over as though to examine for any evidence of tampering. When he realizes there’s nothing, he looks back at you dubiously.
“You’ve had this for maybe a month now. Why the sudden change of heart to give it back?”
“No reason,” you huff quietly, trying to avoid his gaze. There has to be a level of pride preserved with this man, and it won’t be preserved if you simply tell him everything.
Rafayel checks the pockets now, turning them inside out and face brightening when he finds a little chocolate. Without even asking you if you would like it (it was your chocolate in the first place!) he unwraps it and pops it in his mouth.
“Something’s up. I don’t really like the idea that you consider this out of fashion.” A pouty little frown forms on his face. “Nothing I own is ugly, just so you know.”
“You’re so dramatic. It’s not ugly. Just…y’know, take it back, wear it a bit, and maybe I’ll borrow it again later.”
“Huh?” His brows crinkle. “So you do want it? Then why even give it back? I’ll telling you you can have it.”
“Ugh—“ You cut yourself off with a quiet growl, glaring at him and his stupid questioning eyes. Pretty boys are such a dangerous breed; they truly can make you do anything.
“It doesn’t smell like you anymore, okay?”
There’s a pause after you finally confess, but as soon as the words register, Rafayel grins.
“Shut up shut up shut up—“
He tosses the jacket to the floor, then takes your hands and tugs you to him, cutting you off with a soft kiss. With a defeated but happy sigh, you run your hands from his shoulders down to his chest, melting under his touch. He’s so very gentle with you, it would make you angry if it didn’t make you smitten. He tastes like the chocolate he stole from you.
“Meri jaan,” he mumbles into the kiss, apparently unable to break it even to speak properly, “you don’t have to wait for me to wear it. You can have any of my jackets. Any of my clothes—any item in my house.” He keeps smiling against your lips, while his hands circle around you to hold you close. “Everything I own is yours, as am I.”
And well, you have to kiss him a little more after a statement like that. A little more, a little deeper, a little closer, though you could never get close enough.
By the time you leave the house, there’s not a single part of you that doesn’t have his scent. And as much as you’d like to have complaints with that, you find that you’re too happily snuggled up in your new cardigan to be able to come up with any.
A Scene Popped Into My Head But Instead Of Writing A Whole AU I’m Just Going To Write That One Scene <3
—> Scene Capture Fics Masterlist
—> Today’s Feature: Lawyer Levi!
—> a/n: yeah this is really happening
A small cup is placed onto the average-sized desk you occupy in your neat little cubicle. "Here," Levi scathes, "dinner."
With a winning beam, you take a sip of what's likely ten pounds of sugar mixed with milk. "Thank you kindly."
He sits down in one of the chairs in front of your desk, sipping his own tea (already transferred from a plastic container into his favorite mug that he keeps in his drawer so that no one can touch it). "Working overtime today?"
"Like you wouldn't believe." You crack your neck, and Levi shudders in displeasure at the sound. "Might still be here tomorrow."
"And you'll find all your logged hours have mysteriously disappeared."
"Levi," you say sweetly, turning away to go back to the motion you were working, "you're the case manager, not HR. Why are you trying to ruin my party?"
"Gotta keep up my reputation," he mumbles, hiding a smile in his cup.
That's true, Levi is known to be a little bit of a hardass. Little bit is probably understating it. You remember the dirty looks thrown his way when he'd told everyone that if they wanted to work from home, their monitors in the office had to be turned on so that their activity could be monitored.
You didn't mind too much. You're no slacker. It's why the case manager chooses your cubicle to drink his morning tea in while you munch on cereal from the office kitchen, it's why he simply strolls by at 12:30 and informs you, "Oi, we're going out for lunch today," and doesn't accept you paying him back afterwards, and it's why he gets you your sugary dinner every night you end up staying late.
Levi likes your work ethic. And maybe he likes other things too.
"By the way," he tosses out noncommittally, "we can set up my inbox to be shared with yours."
"Yeah?" You're paying attention as you type, brows raising in interest.
"Mmhm. The same way I have mine set up with Erwin's. You'd be able to see my inbox. That way, you don't need me to send you the code every time you sign into e-file anything."
Your fingers halt on the keyboard. Quietly, your eyes meet his, and your mouth opens, lips parted, trying to find the words to explain why you don't want that.
It's certainly a hassle. You know that. Needing someone else to give you a code means that A, it's a pain to have to message someone or walk to their office just to simply sign in, and B, the other person has to stay past their working hours if you do just in case you need to file something. Which is exactly what Levi does for you.
And that means late past working hours, it's just you and him at the office, both subject to your workaholic whims. And it's not like Levi doesn't have work too. He always ends up working on something. But you know that work could easily be done from home if you didn't need codes to input into text boxes that would expire in one minute. So maybe, maybe, you always had extra work to do. Maybe there were a few things that could be filed at 4 PM that you just had to re-edit and double check before sending them out at 5:30. Maybe the candle that Levi always lights up at 5:10 is just a nice job benefit, something sweet from the company besides your paycheck.
"Doesn't IT need to set that up?" is the argument you land on, even though there was definitely a dozen others that would probably work better. Whoever said being a lawyer made you good at coming up with reasons? (Uh.) "Should I put in a request with them? I know they can take weeks to—"
"No, I know how to do it." Levi takes another sip of his tea. His tie is loose, something else that only happens after hours. It always makes you swallow just a little too difficultly. "I can set it up right now."
Damn!
"Aren't there privacy concerns with me seeing your emails?" No, your Ethics professor from years ago chides, Rule 1.10, Imputation, a firm of lawyers is essentially one lawyer for purposes of the rules governing loyalty to the client. Levi raises a brow as though to mirror your thoughts.
"Yes, I wonder how many lawsuits we'll have if you have access to all the information that I upload to the firm shared drive anyway."
You chuckle weakly, trying not to squirm because of his teasing smirk. Dammit, with the black suit and loosened tie and tousled hair, Levi has no idea how good he looks. You can normally think better than this. One stern, sharp, handsome, witty case manager should not be capable of making your brain stutter.
"Do we need anyone's approval?" Last ditch effort.
"Mine. I say yes." Shut down. Case closed.
Rolling your chair back a little, you gesture for him to go ahead, nibbling on your lower lip in frustration. This is it, then, you think, as Levi stands to connect his inbox to yours. No more late nights, no more conversations with just the two of you, no more being walked to your car with a pat on your head telling you to drive safe, brat.
Levi is efficient as he navigates your email, and you take the time to observe him sadly. Aside from how hot he looks in your space like this, he's so meticulous, so put together even at the end of the day. His jawline is sharp, but relaxed. He smells like tea leaves and detergent. His clothes are fitted to him, the white button down only gently stretching against his chest (awooga) and the black suit and pants accentuate his hips so well...
God, you'll miss being privy to this up close.
"Done." Levi stands up straight. "Now you can have the damn code whenever you need it."
"Thanks," you mumble, trying your best to not sound dejected but failing miserably.
He pauses, and turns to you—and then does something he's never done in the months of overtime you've shared together. His hands come up and land on your armrests, and he leans in as you lean back, eyes wide. His steely eyes shimmer in amusement.
"Now that that's over with," he tilts his head further down and you don't back away this time, but your breath hitches, "how about we get some real dinner?"
Pause.
What?
"Are you..." You swallow, too scrambled by his proximity to think clearly. "Are you asking me..."
"To get dinner? On a date? To stop making excuses to spend time with me?" Levi snorts, his cheek brushing against yours as he whispers in your ear, "All of the above."
When he pulls away, your jaw is still slack, unable to believe that Levi Ackerman of all people had just told you to cut the shit and go out with him already. Whoever said being a lawyer meant you had to expect the unexpected? (Uh.)
The only thing you manage to sputter out is, "But...I have work to do."
"Come in early tomorrow morning." He puts his finger under your chin and closes your mouth, looking every bit as terrifying as he does in court. "I'm not logging your overtime either way."
me getting into a new character: how neurodivergent am i allowed to go
cw: fluff + a few mild horny thoughts
Rafayel has this little quirk where he's practically incapable of acting like a normal boyfriend. Or a normal person, honestly. Where other people would just take your hand walking down the street, he holds it out with a too-happy, beaming grin so that he can see you take it yourself. Where other people would just sit down at a fancy restaurant, he makes mock offended noises if you try to sit before he can make a big show of pulling your chair out for you.
Where other people would kiss you, he likes biting.
"I'm thinking," he muses, nibbling on your earlobe, "what about a diamond necklace?"
You sigh, burrowing yourself further into him, back against his chest. You're quite comfortable, and you could even fall asleep if it wasn't for his constant yammering. "No."
"Come on," he complains, sinking his teeth into your cheek this time. You let out a brief sound of exasperation, trying to bat at him, but he remains steadfast, tongue poking out to soothe the minor indent he leaves into your skin. "How'm I supposed to prove myself if you won't let me?"
"How would you buying me a diamond necklace prove anything?"
One of his hands slips under your shirt, resting right under your chest. His fingers knead whatever they get in contact with—it's not painful, actually it feels pretty good, not that you'd ever admit it to him. Though you suppose, turning around in his hold and silently indicating to him to pull you closer may just be admitting exactly that.
"It'd prove I'm not cheap, for one thing. I'd be able to tell everyone, whatever my girlfriend wants, she gets! You're so strange, not wanting anything. Do you even know how rich I am?"
"Tell you what," you mumble, burying your face in his neck and completely melting in his arms as soon as his comforting scent fills your senses, "you buy me a quesadilla tomorrow and I'll tell everyone you're practically my sugar daddy."
Rafayel scoffs. "Like anyone would ever believe you were a sugar baby. You don't have the constitution for it."
That might be a new lead in the top ten strangest insults you've ever heard from him. Shooting a small glare up his way, you bite back, "Are you going to let me sleep or are you gonna keep talking?"
"Keep talking," he answers without hesitation, then barrels forward before you can protest. "Hmm, maybe I should just fill my place up with amenities for you. Cheese plates in the kitchen. Exfoliators in the bathroom. A butler to take your coat."
The ridiculous idea of him hiring a butler just so someone could occasionally take your coat from you when you come over makes you laugh, which in turn puts a pleased smile on his face and accidentally encourages him to continue.
"What's that kids' movie you like? Twelve Dancing Princesses? What if I just repaint this room with the floor design from that?"
Now hang on. This one actually interests you, the idea of playing out your childhood fantasies out by dancing around in Rafayel's room. If you asked, you're sure he'd hire someone to replicate the same dress the main character from that movie wears too. "Wouldn't that be embarrassing? Anyone who comes here would see it."
"Yeah, something tells Thomas won't care. And if anyone else does come here, they'll probably write a boringly long article meant to flatter me. Renowned artist is super nice and generous to his childish girlfriend—"
"Says the guy who cried during Island Princess," you fire back, "also, it's nice to know you're only trying to spoil me for acclaim."
"Hello? Did you miss the part where I said boringly long? I'm trying to spoil you because I want you to spend my money."
"Why? It turns you on or something?"
"Maybe," he grins, pretending to lean in to kiss you, then sinking his teeth into your cheek once more the second you purse your lips to meet him halfway. With a quiet growl, you kick at his feet, and he only laughs against your skin. "Come oooon, I'm serious. Tell me at least one expensive thing I can get you."
Finally, you open your eyes, looking up at him with all your sincerest conviction. "Raf. If you wanna ruin your reputation and renovate your floor into the Twelve Dancing Princesses one just to prove a point, go for it. But I'm warning you, I'm gonna have to give you the best head of your life if you do that."
Rafayel groans, the hand that's not up your shirt tangling into your hair. "Don't tell me that, you're gonna force me to be selfless and turn it down. This isn't transactional. I give you my card and tell you to go wild, and then you just do it. Nothing in return."
Ah, yes, the Raf classic. Say the sweetest possible thing in the most irritating way he possibly can. Well, two can play at that game.
"If you give me your card and expect nothing in return, I'm going to strictly buy paint supplies in all your favorite brands, all your favorite colors—"
"I don't have favorite colors—"
Clamping a hand over his mouth, you press on. "And your weak attempt to spoil me will fall flat because not only will I only buy things you like, but I'll wire you the entire amount of what I spend the next day."
He lets out a dramatic half-whine, shaking you a little. "Man, you're so embarrassing!" Tugging you closer, he drowns out your complaints with his own protests. "So clingy, stop getting so close to me! Oh my god," he moans, holding your hand tighter the more you try to fight him and pull back, "get away from me, stalker. Let go!"
"Holy shit, you're so annoying—"
"And you're so obsessed with me, it's concerning."
For once, you're the one pouting at him. "I'm trying to sleep. You're really warm. Can you please push my limits later?"
An affectionate smile lights up his face. "Yeah, okay. As long as you agree tomebuyingyouapradabag."
"No."
Rafayel snorts, tucking his face into your hair. "And you think you could handle being a sugar baby."
oh my god, bakugo's kind of my friend! | k. bakugo x reader
----> summary: You'd never dare tell anyone that he was your friend. You'd never be so bold. Katsuki agrees. He's definitely not your friend.
----> warnings: quirkless university au, video game violence, fluff n feelings
----> a/n: title blatantly stolen from the office—"oh my god, dwight's kind of my friend!"
----> word count: 2k
God, no, you’re not friends with Katsuki Bakugo.
No one is.
Yeah, okay, that’s not totally true. He’s sort of friends with Ochako, that’s how you met him. He’s actually fairly close to Izuku and Eijiro, his roommates. He tolerates Shoto, might even begrudgingly respect him. And he’s got some weird mutual-depression pact going on with Kyoka.
But you’re not any of them. And you vehemently deny it when people ask, lest he, heaven forbid, think you’re going around telling people he likes you. You saw what happened to Neito last year when he, just once, said something about his friend Katsuki. You’re pretty sure it was the reason behind his switching majors, too, just to avoid being in the same classes with the terrifying blonde.
Sure, you’re in his apartment. Neito’s never stepped foot in here (aside from The Incident). And you’re well acquainted with the people he does clearly consider not-enemies. Earlier today, you and Momo had been out getting chips and soda for tonight. Just half an hour ago, you’d been playing blind karaoke with Eijiro, Izuku, and Ochako on Kyoka’s old laptop and mic that somehow both still had really good audio quality. Not to mention, you and Mina have had at least one class together every semester since you both started—she always races to slide into the chair next to you on every first day.
And you’re currently sitting on Katsuki’s couch, two feet away from Katsuki, playing a battle royale on Katsuki’s console.
“Behind the building,” he mutters, and you hum in acknowledgement, running to the spot he generously marked on the map.
It started a long while back. You and Denki had been playing some shitty racing game, and you’d very easily kicked his ass, leaving him groaning and flopping back onto Kyoka’s lap, where she offered no pity, rolling his head off with a light shove. As you were laughing at the display, Katsuki had taken Denki’s place on the floor, and all but demanded you pick up the controller once more.
(You’d won again. Terrified, you simply claimed that your controller must be broken before racing out of the room.
Imagine your surprise when, the next time you visited, he’d barked at you to assist him with a multiplayer, ordering a pouty Denki off the couch.)
You like playing, and you don’t have a console with as much storage back home, and you’re too broke to be buying multiple games anyways, so you don’t mind taking advantage of Katsuki’s appreciation for your skill. It’s usually a nice way to end the night, whether you and Ochako end up leaving or if you fall asleep right there on the couch.
Shivering, you bring your feet under the wool blanket you’d brought with you. You’re the only one who finds the apartment freezing. Everyone else typically sheds their extra layers, while you once hunted down Eijiro’s sock drawer to steal a pair of He-Man stockings for the night.
“Up in the window,” you warn, at the same time he says, “Oi.”
Both of you meet each other’s gaze for a second in bewilderment, before rapidly turning your attention back to the TV. He dodges the shot from the window, and then continues.
“You been tellin’ people I hate you?”
“What?” Your hands almost drop the controller, but you regain control just quick enough to roll out of the way of a grenade. “No.”
“Kirishima said Tetsutetsu told him that Kendo told him that Tokage told her that you told her I hated you.”
If you weren’t nervous, you’d tell Katsuki you were surprised he even knew all those names. “I didn’t say that. I just said we weren’t friends.”
There’s an awfully long pause. You can still hear the sounds from the game, and the chatter of everyone else in the apartment—Hanta’s trying to rap?—but not a word from your couch partner. If it weren’t for the screen in front of you, you’d be nervously biting your nails or just full on escaping, honestly. Not that you’re scared of Katsuki, at least not more than one should be, but…
Well, the truth is you did see him as a friend. Or, screw it, as more than that, if those little arrhythmias you observed in yourself every time he would raise his hand in greeting when he passed you on campus were any indication. And you know it’s going to hurt—it already does—to hear him confirm the same thing that you told everyone when they asked. That you meant very little to him, in the long term.
“We’re not friends, huh?” he finally says, as more of an inquiry than you’d expected it to sound.
Your mouth feels dry, but you don’t stop staring straight ahead, spamming X to whack someone over the head with a bat. “Um. Are we?”
“Isn’t this your favorite game?” he shoots back, as though that answers your question.
“Yes? So?”
Another pause. You climb up to the roof of some building and emote pointlessly before hopping down and ducking behind a bush to heal. Katsuki lets out a mix of a sigh and a grunt, dashing across an abandoned minefield.
“So,” he snarks, “I only bought it after you told me it was your favorite.”
Faintly, you feel the tips of your ears grow hot. Is that true? That can’t be true, can it? The timing does line up. You think it was back in the first week of October that you mentioned it, and then by Halloween you’d already played several rounds. Between that and losing to Momo in several games of pool, finals month had flown by.
But…
“I didn’t even tell you that.” Your voice comes out meek, and even though you’re in a safe space now, you’re still too nervous to turn your head and look at him. “I was talking to Shoto.” You’d even been half sure that Shoto wasn’t really registering what you were saying, with Ochako an inch away from him shrieking starships were meant to fly-y-y-y-y directly into his ear.
Katsuki grunts. “I was there, wasn’t I?”
If you wrack your memory, you can sort of remember it. He was…on Ochako’s other side? When she got drunk, she usually wanted to whack something, and Katsuki’s arm had been her victim that day, her palm smacking against his elbow at every other sung word.
The heat from your ears travels down to your neck. Over the singing and over everyone else’s conversations, was he paying attention to…you?
“I appreciate it,” you squeak quickly, wincing when you’re shot in the leg, “I mean, that was nice. Thank you. I just—I didn’t think you wanted me telling people we were friends, after what happened to—”
“If you bring up Monoma, I’ll take away your blanket,” he threatens; it makes you chuckle weakly. “You’re not that shithead. He pisses me off. You’re…you know.” You don’t know, actually. “You.”
Yeah, you’re you. You play games with him. You know his friends. You’re the only one who can try to outdance Eijiro to Rasputin in Just Dance. What does any of that have to do with…
“Do you think I ever fuckin’ carried that dick’s bag to class?”
“I don’t—”
“Do you think I had his stupid long ice cream order memorized? Pistachios, on the sides only,” he mimics, and you huff in an affronted sort of way, defensive of your topping choices. “Telling people to shut up so that I could hear what he was saying? Turning up the heat and burning up everyone in the apartment just to keep him warm? Was I inviting him to my place every two weeks just to fuckin’ watch him play Kingdom Hearts 3?”
And so, you finally look to the side. Katsuki’s cheeks are red, and his gaze is still on the television. His thumbs move furiously against the controller, and you have to bite your lip to prevent a quiet you’re really cute, you know that? from carelessly slipping from your mouth.
“But, to be fair,” you attempt, still confused, “you don’t exactly do all of that for your other friends either, Katsuki.”
At your words, he slouches into his seat more, the creases on his forehead deepening as an uncharacteristic frown—a frown, not a scowl—forms on his face. One would think you’d just told him you hated his guts.
“Yeah.“ His glare flickers over to you for a moment. “Exactly.”
There’s a blast from the TV and a realization that hits you at the same time.
You’re not his friend. He doesn’t see you as a friend.
The heat finally reaches your cheeks, and your mouth falls open slightly.
Then, realizing something else, your head immediately snaps back to the screen to see that blast sound had actually been your character getting blown up.
Your mouth falls open. You’d looked away for a few seconds at best. Which aces are in the lobby tonight?
“I lost,” you tell him, crestfallen.
Katsuki snorts. “I didn’t.”
He keeps playing, and your cheeks don’t take any time to cool down. Instead, you stare at him while he’s distracted trying to escape the same vicious bastards who hunted you down, and you note that his face doesn’t look any less heated either. For once, it’s clearly not because he’s just getting into the game.
You wonder if that was ever the case at all, or if he just felt the same striking little jolt you did everytime you two accidentally bumped into each other while playing on this exact couch.
“I think I’m done for tonight.” The announcement comes out a bit louder than you expected. “I’ll probably head back.”
“I don’t think so.” Without breaking his eyes away from the TV, he nudges his head in the direction of the bedrooms. “Uraraka’s dead on her feet, and you’re not walkin’ back alone.”
Has he always purposely caused the fluttering in your chest? “Okay, well. Izuku’s still awake, I’ll just take his bed for now.”
Katsuki’s tongue clicks in a fuck-around-and-find-out kind of way. “Alright. Put the controller back before you go.”
“Fine. Where’s the, uh…” You turn your head this way and that, looking for the little box that they all go in.
“On my right,” he offers casually, not a hint on his face that he essentially just confessed to you.
Feeling a little spiteful, you reach to the side, blanket and all, instead of just standing up and going behind the couch like you would any other day. Purposefully blocking his view of the screen as you reach over him to toss the controller into the box, you smirk slightly when another blast signals that he’s died as well.
Only to yelp when a firm arm shoves you down against his chest.
“Would you look at that,” he murmurs, red eyes glittering in amusement as he watches you struggle on his lap, “I lost too.”
Tokage is going to hear a very different story tomorrow. “And how’s that my problem?”
His grip tightens, fingers gently digging into the thick cloth of the blanket that’s draped over you. “I wanna play again. And I’m cold.”
There’s a small, dumb grin on his face that you’d consider kissing off if it wasn’t mirrored by an equally dumb one of yours. You’re pretty sure Katsuki’s never ever complained about the cold in his apartment. But then, he’s never complained about the heat either. If he wants to be a sauna under you, who are you to deny him? Besides, you’re feeling cold too, you might as well just take advantage of the free insulation.
From the table, in the midst of pouring something that looks like cookie batter into a bowl, Kyoka raises her brow at the sight of you, then pats Tenya’s arm and points.
He mouths something like, “Finally.”
Face burning once more, you bury your face in Katsuki’s neck, and relax in his hold while he presses X to replay.
the floor between you and xavier is thin. you are beautiful. and xavier is tortured.
cw: afab reader, masturbation, nonconsensual auditory voyeurism 😭, xavier being a pervert
i have a midterm in two hours and i spent the last two hours writing all of this. dammit.
inspired by this brilliant post (original poster is @skynapple) thank you for giving me permission to write this lolz
once a habit forms, it is incredibly difficult to break. he knows that. he has known that. xavier has had years and years and years to make habits and to subsequently break them.
those twenty-something years he was a nail biter. the tugging of his hair whenever he was tired for around thirty-two decades. six hundred years strong and he still can’t keep a straight face whenever he smells something his nose doesn’t agree with.
some habits he’s fine with not breaking.
but this one.
oh, he needs to break this one as soon as possible.
and yet, every friday evening he tells himself that this time will be the last time. when friday morning arrives, he wakes up refreshed and confident that it will not happen again. by the time the clock hits 3 pm, he can already feel his palms become clammy; if he was a cartoon he’d think an ironic bead of sweat would form on his temple. and by the time the sun is going down and the rain has soaked his hair completely, xavier is shoving his too practical key into the too practical lock of his apartment door, and the dread in his chest has already settled with the weight of what he knows he’s going to do.
he could leave. he could go.
he doesn’t.
xavier takes his time changing out of his uniform and showering. the water burns even when he sets it at a lower temperature. his entire space feels too hot. sweat is actually building on his forehead now.
it’s been a long week, he thinks, as he rolls onto his bed, opting to wear nothing but boxers (and even that’s useless). he tries to remember all the missions he’s been on since monday, and more importantly all the missions you’ve been on. you’re a bit of a braggart, so he hears all about them, and he never minds, because he could listen to you brag about yourself for centuries on end and the whole time he’d only nod along and agree.
the more missions there’s been, though, the more exhausted you are at the end of the week. and the more exhausted you are, the more orgasms you try to pull from your fingers every friday night.
when tara’s over, your music is never loud. your laughs rarely carry over. and your volume has never been disruptive (not that he would consider hearing you to be disruptive at all). it’s as if you know that the walls are thin and you’re trying to be as polite as possible.
then why is it that when you touch yourself, you’re so loud?
are you trying to make sure he can hear you?
or, and this is what already has him hardening at the thought, are you just so sensitive that you can’t help it?
your first whimper blesses his ears, and xavier shuts his eyes, lying flat with his head against his pillow. closing his eyes helps. it makes him feel less like a stalker who’s crossed through time and space for you, and more like he’s just someone you care for, because this way he can imagine you’re in front of him, on top of him, letting out those first few sweet sounds at his touch.
“mmh,” your voice carries over, and goosebumps litter his arms as he swallows, teasing the line of his boxers with the tips of his fingers. there isn’t a rush. usually, he has just enough restraint to make sure he comes with you.
the next thing he hears is a sharp gasp, and xavier groans lowly, trying to be quiet, or at least more quiet than you. already he’s building tonight’s fantasy up, spurred on by the sound of the rain beating against the window. the last time you and he had spent the night in the rain…
“just stay until tomorrow morning,” you’d urged him, lashes fluttering innocently, not knowing the key that he’d supposedly forgotten was heavy in his pocket. even though he was the one who’d lied, he’d still argued against it, because now that the invitation was out in the open you were too close for his rapidly beating heart, your eyes too inviting and your hands too soft.
xavier imagines he didn’t argue that night. he imagines he’d agreed instead, and had accepted the change of clothes from your closet. the acid in his chest that hisses knowing you even have another man’s clothes in your closet is quickly silenced when you don’t wait for him to leave the room, and instead lift your own shirt right above your head.
he’s never seen you like that. but his imagination is more than ready to supply him with what you’d look like, evidence gathered from how your uniform would cling to you while you fought, or even from how your robes would slip up a little when you were sparring him some hundred years ago—
his hand wraps around his cock without him even realizing it, and he lets out a small, choked moan.
your hands are softer than this. they’d feel better. in the corner of his mind he sees you, topless, pushing him back onto the bed and crawling above him, caressing his face with those soft hands before running them down his chest. your touch does so love to wander. and his body is yours to explore. he’s never belonged to someone else.
he whispers your name and almost as if in response, you let out a cute little squeal, and xavier curses under his breath as he pictures you making that sound while he fingers you. he’d start off with one, just because you seem sensitive. but then he’d add another. and another, and then he’d watch you ride them.
slowly, he rubs his hand up and down his length, remembering the last time you’d held this hand to resonate with his evol. last week, for a particularly tough wanderer. your palm had been smooth against it, and now the next time you do it he’ll remember that he touched himself to the thought of you with that same hand.
“mmh, don’t tease me…”
oh, you’re speaking today. pleading with an invisible voice, or maybe you really do know that he’s just below you, hanging on to your every word. and he’s disinclined to acquiesce to your request—he’d do nothing but tease you. once he’d make you come once with his fingers, he’d toss your legs over his shoulders and drag his tongue along your folds, bring you to the brink before pulling away. he’d watch the way your lips pout and the way your eyes flare up whenever you’re emotional, and he wouldn’t give you time to complain before diving in again.
“sorry, sweetheart, you know i can’t help it.”
xavier’s eyes fly open with a gasp at the sudden other voice—there’s someone with you. there’s someone in your room, on your bed, with their hands on you.
there’s a pause, and then he hears you again, letting out a small, “y-you’re so…haah, mean…”
one of his hands curl into the sheets below, clutching them so tightly in his fist that he wouldn’t be surprised if they came off.
someone is touching you. someone is making you—incredible, wonderful, beautiful you—whine like that, close enough to hear you, far closer than xavier has ever been.
“i’m not mean,” the man who is invading your bedroom right now says, “you can’t look like that and expect me not to edge you. you’re the most beautiful when you’re begging, you know?”
“i could say the same about you,” is your not-so-hushed response, and during the next pause he can barely hear anything but he knows you must be kissing him. him, whoever he is. a date, your boyfriend, the devil—you’re kissing him, those soft, gorgeous lips of yours are against someone else’s when all xavier has done in his time with you is try to tear his eyes off those lips, wondering what they would like against him.
“c’mon,” your voice pleads again, “i need you. i’ve needed you all day.”
the man groans, and xavier hears the kiss this time, one fierce and stolen in the heat of the moment.
“if you insist. you know i can’t resist you, sweetheart.”
there’s some shuffling and xavier thinks his heart is going to beat out of his chest. he feels…he feels everything, sick and jealous and almost angry, and he can feel himself trembling with every inch of him screaming to get up and confront whoever thinks they can touch your skin and draw those noises from your throat—
but when you let out a high-pitched, muffled cry, xavier’s hand goes back down, and he starts stroking himself with more urgency.
you’ve never been this loud before. and xavier used to enjoy that, thinking of it as a challenge, that if he ever got to have you, he’d make sure you were louder with him than you were with anyone else. he’s brought himself to orgasm at just the idea. but now it’s torture, hearing your voice go up several octaves for someone who isn’t him, for whoever’s hips are roughly colliding against your own, filling his ears with a muted plap, plap, plap…
“fu-u-ck, baby, how are you this tight?” the interloper groans, “gonna make me come, m’gonna come inside you…”
xavier’s skin crawls at the needy moan you let out in response.
the fantasy in his head is ruined. there is no more vision of a seductive version of you having your wicked way with him, but instead he is imagining exactly what is happening, a dirty picture of him in a corner watching someone else enjoy you to the fullest extent. wrecking your beautiful body the way you deserve.
your moans are building, higher and higher, and his back is arching off the bed as he fucks his fist, still trying to pretend like he’s yours and you’re his, that he’s the one burying himself inside your wet heat, that your nails are digging into his back, leaving lines on his skin, drawing blood if that’s what you wanted—
“raf!” you wail, and your voice breaks, and xavier’s eyes roll back, and he spills into his hand.
there’s still a ringing in his ears as he pants, breathing heavily while the sound of skin slapping becomes more desperate, as the intruder—raf— speeds up to try and reach his own end too.
his hand moves on its own. with barely an intention formed in his mind, he presses it to his heart, and he feels a surge of energy run through his chest, no time left to regret anything.
the sounds stop completely.
after a minute, his phone lights up with a notification.
starlight: hey did your lights go out too???
starlight: my room just blacked out
starlight: i had a friend over i’m so embarrassed lol
with his chest heaving as he lays back against the pillows, and his right hand sticky, xavier texts you back with his left, a soft, tired sigh escaping him.
When he stumbles into the room, you're on your feet immediately, staring furiously.
"Rafayel."
"Hey, no, you can't be mad." He points in the direction of your voice, and he's slightly off, which only makes you angrier. "If you think about it, this is your fault."
"Rafayel!"
"You sound so pretty when you say my name like that. Say it again?"
It had been on the tip of your tongue, but at his words you swallow the third utterance, merely glaring with a look that would make him shudder if he could see it.
If he didn't, y'know, blind himself again.
"Hmm, does the opposite effect work on you? Let's see. Don't kiss me. Don't get me food because I'm not hungry. Don't take me to bed and lay me down and push my shirt up and ogle me, I'd hate that."
"You're not funny," you snap at him, walking up and snatching his palm. Despite your obvious anger, Rafayel lets out a soft breath of relief at your touch, and doesn't protest a bit as you guide him to sit on the couch. When he'd told you he'd meet you here, you didn't suspect anything. When he said Thomas would be dropping him off, a bead of nervousness had build up inside you. And when Thomas texted you a simple apology text, you'd feared the worst.
He always does this. This is the third time it's happened since you've known him. Each time he cheerily tells you that the doctor has warned him it could be permanent if he keeps being so reckless. And each time, Rafayel ignores that advice completely and stays up another forty-eight hours to paint.
When he's seated, he sighs happily, tugging you close and tucking himself into your chest. "You smell good."
"Shut up. Do you even register how dangerous this is?"
"Mmhm." You see his lips curve into a smile. "Maybe this'll be the time it sticks."
Placing your fingers against his forehead, you push him back and he whines, slouching with a pout on his face. You don't dignify his hypothetical with an answer, stomping away—loud enough that he can hear your displeasure—to take a wrapped sandwich from the picnic basket you'd brought over.
Rafayel's brows furrow when you drop it in his hands, and he has to fiddle a bit before he can take the foil off. Cautiously, he takes a bite, knowing better than to ask you before eating if you're trying to poison him or not (your answer will always be a deadpan yes), and moans a little when the flavor hits.
"This is so good. Did you make this?"
You sit down a foot away from him, crossing one leg over the other and staring stoically at the wall in front of you. "I did. For a date."
Out of the corner of your eye, you see his eyes widen, as though he's finally realizing how much trouble he's in. Abandoning the sandwich on the couch, he extends his hand out for you, finding your face first before he wraps his hand around your arm.
"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. You put all this effort in and I—"
"Completely ruined our plans by showing up without your eyesight? Yes. You did."
"I'm sorry," he says again, pulling at you a little. You acquiesce, if only because the sight of him reaching for you makes you feel slightly bad. He pulls you into his chest this time, hiding his face in your hair as he murmur out apologies.
That's the thing with Rafayel. He can tease and poke and prod all he wants, but the second he actually feels something, he makes it blatantly clear. The guilt is practically dripping off him in waves.
"I'm not mad." You hold both his hands in yours, kissing his knuckles like they're precious—because to you, they are. "At least, not about the date. I am mad that you keep doing this to yourself even though it's bad for you."
His hands squeeze yours, and his blank eyes fill with an emotion you're not even sure he realizes he's expressing. "I told you, s'your fault. I was up three nights in a row working on something you inspired."
"Right." Shifting so that you can kiss the top of his head, you mumble, "So what I'm hearing is I should break up with you and then you'll be absolutely fine."
For a few seconds, Rafayel doesn't say anything, and you become concerned he thinks you're serious. But then he presses into you more, lips grazing against your collarbone.
"That'd be even worse."
"Oh, really?" You run a hand through his hair. "How so?"
"Heartbreak is amazing for creativity. I wouldn't sleep for weeks. Even after my eyesight was gone, I'd just keep paining...and painting...and painting..."
"Okay, okay, I get it." Kicking your feet out, you lay down, pulling him down on top of you. Rafayel sighs, one arm sliding around you as he tucks his face into your neck.
"You really do smell good."
"Please stop doing this to yourself. I'm genuinely asking you, Raf, I'm begging you to just let the inspiration stew—call me if you can't settle and I'll help. But stop it with these all nighters."
His fingers find yours, and he holds your hand against his chest tightly. "Okay," he whispers, "okay."
You don't push it further. If he's agreed, then he'll stick to his word, you know that. You'd feel guilty, at how much he bends to your every request despite the complaints, but it's not like you're trying to get him to buy you a diamond ring (and Rafayel would, should you so much as glance at one). You're making him promise for his own benefit.
"Even if I did lose my eyesight, I'd still remember how you look, y'know." He brushes his lips against a nearly faded hickey on your neck, pressing a soft kiss there. It's incredibly impressive that even without seeing, he knows exactly where his marks on you are. "Wouldn't stop calling you beautiful—promise."
A gentle hum escapes you. "I know. Believe it or not, my ego isn't what I'm worried about."
He laughs quietly, reaching down to kiss your chest before pressing closer to you, listening to your heartbeat with his eyes closed. "Yeah, you're worried about me. That's so embarrassing, you have a crush on me?"
"I'm in love with you," you respond, and predictably, his ears turn scarlet at your open words and he groans, fingers clutching your shirt as he wallows. "Don't dish out what you can't take, honey."
"You're so mean," Rafayel whispers, "stay with me?"
What a pain in the ass. But he's your pain in the ass, and you wouldn't have it any other way. "M'not going anywhere."
