Thank you twitter for giving me the inspiration for this. Caleb getting drunk and finally losing control 🥹
Content: Smut but like not in detail, alcohol, fem!reader, impliedish pseudocest but could also be interpreted as childhood friends, p in v, lots of making out
Caleb never gets drunk. It's a fact of life.
Not once in your years of knowing him have you ever seen him drunk. Not in highschool, when he was dragged to parties. Not in college, when he went from bar to bar with his friends. Not when you were old enough to drink, and drunk yourself into a stupor with him frustratingly composed beside you. Not when he came back after a year of being dead. Not ever.
It's intentional on his part—everything is when it comes to you. He knows that he wouldn't be able to resist if he was drunk. He's denied himself the holy fruit since he was a child, and he'll be damned if he lets the alcohol ruin his act of resistance towards the temptation that is you.
But he knew he wouldn't be able to resist forever. He's a greedy man, and you, a greedier woman. You've been pushing him for years—since you were old enough to realize what you wanted, and he's been eternally, infuriatingly unshakable.
Until tonight.
His coworkers, insolent and infuriating creatures driven by their own selfishness, dragged him out to a bar tonight. He told himself he would be fine—he has a high tolerance, always has. And he was. Until one of those idiots asked about you. He asked who the girl was who always visited him, who made the colonel soften his edges. He called you "hot," "sexy," like you were a creature for him to lust over, rather than the heavenly ambrosia that you truly were.
He lost it, but he didn't snap. He drank. He drank to the fact that men drooled over you, unknowing that you were his. To the fact that he could lose you to one of the beasts that would ravish you and leave you empty and aching for him to pick up the pieces. To the fact that he's left you waiting for so long, and might do it forever. He drinks and drinks, until his cheeks are flushed the same red as the apple he refuses to bite into, until his eyes are hazy and he swears he sees you in every woman in the bar.
And now he's here, slumped against the wall in front of the door to your apartment, watching the numbers blur and unblur. He shouldn't knock. He knows he shouldn't. He's too drunk to hold himself back. To resist you the way he has for years. He knows that if you open that door, he'll toss aside all restraint and finally take. You're too pure for his greed, so he can't.
Until he can, and does. He knocks softly on the door, as if maybe some part of him hopes that you won't hear it. But you do, of course. You open the door in an oversized t-shirt—his t-shirt—with your hair messy and eyes cloudy with sleep, and something in him breaks. Something that's been hanging by a thread for years.
He rushes forward, taking your face into his hands with all the gentleness of someone cradling something precious, and kisses you like an animal. He kicks the door shut behind him, one hand on your jaw and the other around your waist, and the feeling is akin to the heavens opening up to allow the sun to shine through. Finally, his darkness is driven away, only to be replaced by a different kind. One that yearns to ravish you.
A sound escapes you, something between a whimper and a breath, and he swallows it, savors it, like the apple of eden that you've fed to him. "Caleb..." you manage to whisper, breaking away for a breath and immediately being chased by him. He's not letting you go now.
He leads you back, stumbling slightly, until your knees hit the couch and suddenly he's above you, his knee on the cushion and his hand on the back of the couch and his lips still on yours. You don't resist. Of course you don't. You've wanted this for years.
He shifts, and now you're on his lap. His arms are around you and his lips are on yours and he's stealing the oxygen from your lungs and he doesn't think he's ever felt anything so perfect. He'll never be able to resist again, and both of you know it.
You break away for air, and he chases you with a noise of protest. "Please," he whispers—the first word he's spoken to you since he showed up at your door—and you lean in to kiss him again. Wordless permission.
The moment you grant him that unspoken indulgence, the world tilts and you're laid on the couch, his body heavy over yours. He tangles his fingers with yours, fumbling from the effects of the alcohol, and pins your hand to the cushion. His knee finds its way between your legs, and his world tilts on its axis when you grind against him.
He moves between your legs, his hips against yours and his other hand now on your waist. Heavy breaths mingle between you two as you devour eachother, lips colliding like two stars finally succumbing to the pull of eachothers gravity. You roll your hips against his, and a broken noise escapes him. He's been hard since before he ever walked through the door, but it hits him full force now.
He tugs at your waistband, and you lift your hips to grant him access. Your shorts and panties come off in one pull, leaving you dripping and waiting for everything he's resisted giving you for so many years. Your shirt is next, and his own follows. You're creatures driven only by impulse now, by the desire that's been building for years. He kicks off his slacks, leaving only his boxers covering him.
He grinds against you, swallowing every soft moan that escapes you. Your hands have tangled in his hair, and a shudder ripples through him when you tug on the strands. One more roll of his hips against yours and he's spurting into his boxers, a weak groan escaping him. He tugs the sticky fabric off—leaving only him and his desire.
"Please let me," he groans, and your nod is all he needs. His tip notches against you, and its better than anything he's ever felt before. He bottoms out in one push, absorbing your cry before his lips trail down your jaw and to your pulse. He doesn't hold back, his hips find yours and he pounds into you like a dog in heat. You meet his thrusts eagerly, moans and cries ringing out between you.
His body trembles, and you realize through your haze that he's crying, sobbing out apologies while his hips meet yours. You're too incoherent to do anything but take what he's giving you, letting him push you to your peak.
White bursts behind your eyelids, and in this moment you are a supernova. The world reduces to sensation, to the warmth of his body against yours and the flood of his cum inside you. You don't hear your own moans, or the cry of his name, or his own groans against you. You just feel.
When the high fades into a glow, you once again register the sound of him sobbing against you. His cock is softening inside you and his tears are dripping onto your shoulder. He apologizes over and over, begging for your forgiveness between cries and shuddering breaths.
"Caleb," you murmur, your fingers tangling in his hair, and he curls tighter around you and cradles you to his chest like the most precious thing in the world. His heaviness sinks onto you, and you realize that he's fallen asleep, his tears still wet on your skin.
You don't try to move him, just pull a pillow underneath your head and drift off beneath him, feeling the warmth of two halves of a whole finally meeting.
A/n: this was written in a fit of inspiration at 2 am so I hope it was comprehensible
You wake to the smell of pancakes. The particular rhythmic scrape of a spatula against a nonstick pan means Caleb’s been up for at least twenty minutes.
Of course he has.
It’s his fucking birthday, June 13th, and Caleb Xia Yi Zhou has never in his life allowed anyone else to cook breakfast for him on his birthday.
Not you, not Gran when she was still alive, not even that time you threatened to superglue his hands to the bedframe the night before. The man is pathologically incapable of receiving without giving first, and honestly, you’ve given up fighting it.
You stretch, feeling the pleasant ache in muscles that haven’t quite forgiven you for the condom extravaganza three days ago. Your pussy gives a sympathetic throb at the memory, Caleb pounding into you with that ultra-thin condom stretched tight over his cock, your legs locked behind your head, his cum contained in that sad little latex balloon you had to keep in your mouth.
The guy came three times and still had the audacity to ask if you could handle more. You’re going to need to start doing pelvic floor exercises just to keep up.
You pad barefoot into the kitchen, and there he is.
Shirtless, because the kitchen is approximately the temperature of the sun’s core and Caleb runs hot anyway. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, that delicious V-cut leading your eyes down to where the fabric tents slightly. He hasn’t noticed you yet, too focused on flipping a pancake.
“You know most people let other people cook for them on their birthday,” you say, leaning against the doorframe.
Caleb doesn’t jump. He never jumps. He just turns, spatula in hand, and his face does that thing where his eyes crinkle at the corners and his mouth pulls into a smile that’s half amusement.
“Most people aren’t dating someone who puts hot sauce in scrambled eggs,” he says. “Happy birthday to me.”
You cross the kitchen and wrap your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades. His skin is warm and smells like vanilla soap and apples. “Happy birthday, ge ge.”
He hums, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your cheek. One of his hands covers yours where they rest on his stomach, his thumb rubbing small circles against your knuckles. “You’re up early.”
“Your pancakes are loud. They woke me up with their screaming.”
“My pancakes are perfectly behaved,” he says, and flips another one with a flourish that sends a drop of batter sailing onto the stovetop. “Unlike certain people.”
You bite the curve of his shoulder, not hard, just enough to make him hiss. “I’m a delight and you know it.”
“You’re a nuisance,” he corrects, but he’s smiling, you can hear it in his voice. He plates the pancakes, a stack of three, golden brown and suspiciously perfect, and slides scrambled eggs beside them. The eggs are fluffy and yellow and dotted with what looks like chives. Show-off.
“Sit,” you command, pulling out a chair.
“I was going to—”
“Sit. It’s your birthday. I’m feeding you.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Really?”
“For realsies.” You push him into the chair and straddle his lap before he can protest, because that’s how you eat breakfast now, apparently.
Caleb’s hands settle on your hips like they belong there, which they do, and his cock stirs against your ass in a way that’s becoming as familiar as his smile.
You cut a piece of pancake, spearing it with your fork, and hold it up to his mouth. “Open.”
“Pips, I can feed myself—”
“Open or I’ll shove it up your nose.”
He opens. You slide the fork between his lips, and his eyes flutter closed as he chews. Something about watching Caleb eat is unfairly hot. The way his jaw works, the slight parting of his lips, the tiny appreciative noise he makes in the back of his throat. You’re staring, and you know it, and you don’t care.
“Your turn,” he says, and cuts a piece of egg. He holds it up, and you lean forward to take it from the fork, deliberately letting your lips brush his fingers.
“Mmm,” you say around the mouthful. “Good eggs.”
“Good chef.”
“Arrogant chef.”
He grins, that infuriating, beautiful grin, and feeds you another bite. This time his thumb traces your lower lip as the fork pulls away, and your tongue darts out to catch the tip of it. His eyes darken.
“Behave,” he murmurs.
“Make me.”
His hand slides from your hip to the small of your back, pressing you more firmly against his lap. You can feel him hardening beneath you, the ridge of his cock pressing against your ass through two layers of fabric. You rock forward, just slightly, and he inhales sharply.
“Pips.”
“Caleb.”
“If you keep doing that, breakfast is going to get cold.”
You consider this. “Worth it.”
He laughs, the sound warm and rich and so fucking Caleb it makes your chest hurt. His forehead drops to rest against yours, and for a moment you just breathe together, sharing the same air, his pancakes and your eggs forgotten on the table beside you.
“I have presents for you,” you say, pulling back slightly.
Caleb’s expression shifts, that little furrow appearing between his brows. “Pips, you didn’t have to—”
“I know I didn’t have to. I wanted to.” You press a finger to his lips. “Stay. Right here. Eyes closed. Don’t peek.”
“Pips—”
“Eyes. Closed.”
He sighs, but his mouth is twitching. “Yes, ma’am.”
You slide off his lap, and his hands linger on your waist like he’s reluctant to let you go. You plant a quick kiss on his forehead and then you’re skipping down the hallway to your room, your heart doing something stupid and fluttery in your chest.
Behind you, you hear Caleb’s voice, soft and fond. “She’s going to be the death of me.”
You come back with the letter clutched in one hand and the box balanced carefully in the other. The box is nothing fancy. Just a cardboard thing you covered in wrapping paper that has tiny airplanes on it, because you are nothing if not committed to the bit. You spent approximately three hours folding paper stars and cranes until your fingers ached, sprinkling them into the box like confetti made of hope and mild carpal tunnel.
Caleb is still sitting exactly where you left him, eyes closed, hands resting on the table. His face is calm, but there’s a slight upward curve to his mouth that says he’s been smiling the whole time you were gone.
“Okay,” you say. “Open your eyes, but keep your hands where I can see them.”
His eyes open. They find you immediately, warm and amused, and then drop to the letter you’re holding out.
“For me?” he asks, like an idiot.
“No, it’s for the other hot guy with purple eyes who cooks me pancakes. Yes, for you, dumbass.”
He takes the letter. His fingers brush yours, and even that tiny contact sends a spark up your arm. You set the box on the table in front of him and perch on the edge of your chair, knees bouncing, watching his face.
The letter is… well. It’s a letter.
You wrote it at 2 AM after three glasses of wine, which explains the passages about his ass (“like two planets colliding in slow motion”) and the paragraph where you compared his dick to the Space Needle (“tall, impressive, and I want to climb it”).
But there are other parts too.
The parts about how he made you feel safe when you were eight and had chicken pox. Or even when you were sixteen and crying over a boy who didn’t deserve your tears. The parts about his hands, always steady, always there. The parts about how you fell in love with him slowly, then all at once, like a plane taking off, hesitant at first, then suddenly, gloriously airborne.
Caleb reads it all. You watch his face move through the emotions like weather. There was a snort of laughter at the Space Needle bit, his cheeks flushing slightly at the ass planets. Then his expression softens, his thumb tracing the edge of the paper where you’d signed it with a heart and your initials. His eyes flick up to yours, and the look in them is so raw, so unbearably tender, that you have to glance away.
“Pips,” he says, and his voice is rough.
“Don’t you dare make me cry,” you warn. “I don’t want puffy eyes today.”
He sets the letter down carefully, like it’s made of something fragile, and then his arms are around you and he’s pulling you into his lap and kissing you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. His hands frame your face, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones, and when he finally breaks the kiss he doesn’t go far. He just rests his forehead against yours, his breath warm on your lips.
“Thank you,” he murmurs.
“You haven’t even seen the box yet.”
“I don’t need to. The letter is—”
“Open the fucking box, Caleb.”
He laughs, that rich, warm sound that does things to your insides, and reaches for the box. The lid comes off, and the paper stars spill out a little, drifting across the table like tiny origami meteors. Caleb’s expression shifts. Surprise, then something softer, his fingers sifting through the trinkets you’ve collected.
There’s a keychain from that terrible roadside attraction you stopped at last summer, the one with the world’s largest ball of twine. A dried flower pressed between two pieces of clear tape—a daisy he gave you once, for no reason, just because. A small wooden airplane, hand-carved and slightly lopsided, that you found at a flea market and knew he would love.
And then his fingers hit fabric.
He pulls out the boxers slowly.
They’re black, cotton, completely ordinary except for the fact that your face is printed directly on the crotch. Not a tasteful, artsy photo, no. You went full unhinged. It’s a close-up of your face, mouth open mid-laugh, eyes crinkled, slightly out of focus because Gideon took the photo while you were trying to swat the phone out of his hand.
Caleb holds the boxers up. Stares at them. His mouth opens, closes, opens again.
Then he fucking loses it. He throws his head back and laughs, loud and genuine, the sound filling the kitchen and bouncing off the walls. His shoulders shake, his free hand braced on the table, and you’re laughing too, helplessly, because his reaction is everything you hoped for and somehow better.
“You’re crazy,” he says, wiping his eyes. “Completely, certifiably insane.”
“Do you like it?”
“I do. God help me, I do.” He turns the boxers around, examining your face on the crotch. “I’m never taking these off.”
“Please wash them occasionally.”
“No promises.”
Beneath the boxers are the vouchers. You made them on cardstock, little tickets decorated with airplane stickers. One for a kiss (“Redeemable anytime, anywhere, no questions asked”). One for a hug (“Minimum thirty seconds, Caleb, I know you’ll try to cheat”). One for a back rub, one for breakfast in bed, one that just says “SEX?” in glitter pen.
Caleb flips through them, his smile growing with each one. “These are very… specific.”
“I know what I’m about.”
Next, the bottles. Three glass ones, corked, filled with tiny scrolls. You labeled them simply: OPEN WHEN YOU MISS ME. OPEN WHEN YOU’RE STRESSED. OPEN WHEN YOU NEED TO LAUGH.
“For the fleet,” you explain, suddenly shy. “When I can’t answer your calls. So you know I’m thinking about you, even when I’m not there.”
Caleb picks up one of the bottles, holding it to the light. The scrolls inside are colored, blue, green, orange. Each one containing something you wrote. A joke. A memory. A promise. His thumb traces the glass, and when he looks up at you, his eyes are suspiciously bright.
“Pips,” he says, and there’s that roughness in his voice again.
“Don’t start,” you warn. “There’s more.”
At the bottom of the box, beneath a layer of paper cranes, are the tickets. Two of them, printed on heavy cardstock, embossed with the logo of the Pacific Northwest Aviation Museum.
T-93 EXPERIENCE: FLY THE LAST AIRWORTHY T-93 JET. 60 MINUTES. PILOT AND CO-PILOT.
Caleb goes very, very still.
The T-93.
The jet he’s been talking about since he was twelve years old, building model versions of it that hung from his bedroom ceiling. The jet that started his obsession with flying, that led him to the DAA, that made him the man he is.
The last flyable T-93 in existence, and you got tickets for two.
“I called in every favor,” you say quietly. “Gideon knows a guy who knows a guy who volunteers at the museum. It took three months and I had to promise Gideon I’d find him a girlfriend, but…” You shrug, trying for casual and missing by a mile. “Happy birthday.”
Caleb picks up one of the tickets. His fingers are trembling, just slightly. He reads it once, twice, like he’s making sure it’s real.
“The other ticket is for Gideon,” you explain. “I thought you two could—”
“No.” The word comes out sharp, decisive. Caleb sets the ticket down and looks at you, his expression fierce. “You’re coming with me.”
“But I thought—”
“I don’t care what you thought.” His hand finds yours across the table, squeezing. “Gideon can come. He can stand on the ground and hold our bags and take pictures. But the person in that co-pilot seat is going to be you.”
Something warm and liquid fills your chest, spreading outward until your fingertips tingle with it. “Caleb…”
“You gave me this,” he says, his voice low and intense. “You. So you’re going to be there when I fly it. That’s not negotiable.”
You look at him, really look at him, and the force of what you feel hits you like a physical thing, a pressure behind your ribs that makes it hard to breathe.
“Okay,” you say softly. “I’ll be your co-pilot.”
His smile could power a small city. “Good. Because we leave in three hours, and I’m not taking no for an answer.”
The Pacific Northwest Aviation Museum is, frankly, a fucking dump.
It’s a Quonset hut with delusions of grandeur, perched on the edge of an airfield that’s seen better decades. The T-93 sits on the tarmac like a relic from another time.
Sleek, silver, its fuselage scarred with the patina of age but its lines still sharp enough to cut glass. You stand beside it with your neck craned back, trying not to look as intimidated as you feel, while Gideon takes your overnight bag with the enthusiasm of someone being handed a dead fish.
“I cannot believe,” he says, very slowly, like he’s speaking to a child, “that I am standing here holding your underwear while you two go joyriding in a museum piece.”
“It’s not joyriding if we have tickets,” you point out.
“It’s joyriding if Colonel Smiles-a-Lot over there looks like he’s about to have a religious experience.” Gideon nods toward Caleb, who is currently having what can only be described as a moment with the T-93. He’s running his hand along the wing with the reverence of a man touching his firstborn, his eyes bright, his mouth curved in a smile so genuine it makes your chest ache.
“Let him have this,” you say quietly.
Gideon sighs. “I am. That’s why I’m standing here with your bag instead of making snide comments about the structural integrity of a jet that was built when my grandfather was in diapers.” He shoves the bag at you. “There’s a change of clothes in there. And condoms. Because I know you two, and I am not cleaning cum out of a historic aircraft.”
You take the bag. “You’re a good friend, Gideon.”
“I’m a saint. Now go before Colonel Dreamy over there spontaneously combusts.”
The cockpit of the T-93 is smaller than you expected. Two seats, side by side, a console of dials and switches that look like they belong in a steampunk novel.
Caleb helps you into the co-pilot seat, his hand steady on your elbow, his voice low and patient as he explains which things you are absolutely NOT allowed to touch, and then he’s in the pilot’s seat, running through pre-flight checks.
“Ready?” he asks, and his eyes are alive with something you’ve never seen before. Pure, unfiltered joy of a pilot.
“As I’ll ever be.”
The engines roar to life beneath you. The vibration travels up through the seat, into your spine, into your teeth. Caleb taxis onto the runway with the easy confidence of someone born to do this, and then he’s pushing the throttle forward and the world drops away.
The g-force hits you like a wall. Your body is suddenly twice its weight, pressed into the seat as the T-93 climbs at an angle that feels physically impossible. Your stomach lurches, your vision narrows, and your hand flies out to grip Caleb’s thigh hard enough to leave marks.
He laughs. The bastard actually laughs, the sound bright and exhilarated above the scream of the engines.
“First time?” he shouts.
“Fuck you!” you shout back, but you’re grinning, because the fear is already transforming into something else. A wild, giddy euphoria as the ground falls away and the sky opens up around you. The T-93 banks sharply, and the horizon tilts, the world becoming a blue-and-green smear outside the canopy.
Caleb takes you through a loop. A real, honest-to-god loop, the kind where the sky becomes the ground and the ground becomes the sky and for one glorious, disorienting second you are weightless, suspended between earth and heaven with nothing but Caleb’s steady hands on the controls.
You scream. It’s not a scared scream. It’s the kind of scream that comes from somewhere deep in your chest, raw and unfiltered, the sound of pure joy being forcibly expelled from your lungs. Caleb’s laugh mixes with it, and for a moment you’re just two people making noise in a metal tube hurtling through the air, and it’s perfect.
Then Caleb’s expression changes.
You see it happen. The shift from playful to intense, his eyes narrowing, his jaw setting. He’s looking past you, out the canopy, and you follow his gaze to see two other jets cutting across the sky maybe half a mile away. Military trainers, by the look of them, their pilots running drills in formation.
Something possessive flashes across Caleb’s face. Something that says mine.
“Hold on,” he says, and it’s not the playful warning from before. It’s Colonel Xia Yi Zhou, and he means business.
The T-93 surges forward. The acceleration pins you to your seat, the g-force returning with a vengeance as Caleb pushes the jet to its limits. He climbs, steep, aggressive, the nose pointing toward the sun, and the other jets shrink beneath you, becoming specks against the blue.
“What are you doing?” you gasp, your hand white-knuckled on the armrest.
“Flying,” Caleb says, and there’s a smile in his voice that’s all sharp edges. “They want to show off? I’ll show them what a real pilot looks like.”
He takes you higher. The air thins, the sky darkens from blue to indigo, and then you’re punching through a layer of clouds. White, cotton-thick, the T-93 slicing through them like a knife through foam. For a moment you’re blind, surrounded by whiteness, and then you burst out above the cloud layer and the world opens up.
The sunset.
Holy shit, the sunset.
It’s not like any sunset you’ve ever seen from the ground.
Up here, the clouds are a sea of burning gold, stretching to the horizon in rolling waves of orange and pink and deep, bloody red. The sun hangs low and enormous, a disc of fire painting everything in its light.
The T-93 seems to hover at the edge of it all, suspended between earth and heaven, and the silence is absolute. Jjust the faint hum of the engines and the sound of your own heartbeat in your ears.
“Caleb,” you whisper, because speaking at full volume feels wrong, like you’ll break the spell.
He’s already looking at you. Not at the sunset, not at the controls. At you, his eyes reflecting the gold of the sky, his expression so tender it makes your throat tight.
“Beautiful,” he says, and you’re not sure if he means the sunset or you. (cliche i know)
Probably both. The man has always been an overachiever.
His hands move across the console, flipping switches, adjusting dials. The hum of the engines settles into a steady, constant drone. Autopilot engaged.
Then he unfastens his harness and gestures to his lap. “Come here.”
You don’t need to be told twice. You unbuckle, careful in the confined space, and slide from your seat into his. His thighs are solid beneath you, his arms coming around your waist to hold you secure. The position is awkward. The cockpit wasn’t designed for this, but Caleb makes it work, adjusting until you’re settled against his chest, your back to the sunset, his face lit gold by the dying light.
“Hi,” you say softly.
“Hi,” he answers, and then he’s kissing you, slow and deep, his hand cradling the back of your head like you’re something precious.
The sunset washes over you both, painting your skin in fire, and Caleb’s mouth is warm and sure against yours, tasting like the coffee he drank before the flight.
You break the kiss, just enough to rest your forehead against his.
“Thank you,” he murmurs.
“For what?”
“For this. For you. For knowing exactly what I needed.”
You smile, tracing the line of his jaw with your thumb. “Happy birthday, ge ge.”
His arms tighten around you, and you sit there in the cockpit of a sixty-year-old jet, above the clouds, watching the sun set on Caleb’s birthday, and you think, “I could stay here forever.”
Forever turns out to be approximately ninety seconds.
Caleb’s hand, which has been resting comfortably on the small of your back, decides to go exploring. It slides down, fingers tracing the curve of your spine, dipping beneath the waistband of your pants.
“What are you—”
“Admitting something,” Caleb says, his voice a low rumble against your chest. His hand continues its journey, palming the swell of your ass through your jeans. “I may have been showing off a little with those loops.”
“You think?”
“The g-force thing.” His thumb hooks into your belt loop, tugging gently. “You grab onto me when you’re scared. I like it when you grab onto me.”
You stare at him. The sunset is painting his face in shades of gold and amber, highlighting the sharp cut of his jaw, the slight quirk of his mouth that means he’s not even remotely sorry.
“You did aerial acrobatics,” you say slowly, “at several hundred miles per hour, in a sixty-year-old jet, because you wanted me to cling to your thigh?”
“Yes.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’ve been told.” His hand slides around to the front, fingers finding the button of your jeans. “Can I?”
You’re about to say something scathing about his priorities and the structural integrity of vintage aircraft, but then his fingertips brush against your clit through the fabric of your panties and whatever clever retort you had prepared dissolves into a stuttered exhale that is absolutely not a moan.
It’s a moan. It’s definitely a moan, and Caleb swallows it with his mouth, kissing you deeply as his fingers circle your clit through the cotton. The pressure is light, teasing, just enough to make your hips jerk forward involuntarily.
“Fuck,” you gasp against his lips.
“That’s the idea.” His free hand finds the lever on the side of the pilot’s seat, adjusting it to recline slightly.
Then he’s lifting you, effortlessly, because the man is built like he bench-presses small cars for fun, and setting you in the chair he just vacated. The leather is warm from his body, and you have approximately half a second to appreciate this fact before Caleb is on his knees between your spread legs, yanking your jeans down your thighs.
The cockpit is not designed for this. Your knees bump against the console, your ass is half off the seat, and Caleb has to duck to avoid hitting his head on the canopy, but none of that seems to deter him. He gets your jeans to your knees and then stops, his eyes dropping to your panties.
And he fucking loses it.
The laughter starts as a snort, then builds into a full-bodied roar that echoes in the confined space of the cockpit. Caleb’s head drops forward, his shoulders shaking, and for a moment you think he might be having some kind of seizure.
“What?” you demand. “What is so funny about my—”
Then you remember. The panties.
They’re plain black cotton, completely ordinary except for the fact that Caleb’s face is printed directly on the crotch. Not a tasteful photo, either. You went with the same unhinged energy as the boxers. It’s a close-up of his face, mid-laugh, his eyes crinkled, his mouth open.
Caleb is still laughing, wiping tears from his eyes. “You—you actually—”
“You have my face on your boxers!” you protest. “I’m matching!”
“I know, that’s what’s—” He dissolves into giggles again, the sound so unexpectedly boyish and delighted that you can’t help but join in. He reaches for the waistband of his pants, tugging it down just enough to reveal the boxers beneath, your face staring up at you from his crotch, slightly distorted by the bulge of his cock.
You look down at your panties. His face.
He looks down at his boxers. Your face.
You both burst into laughter at the same time, the sound bouncing off the canopy of the T-93 as the sunset burns gold around you.
Caleb’s forehead drops to rest on your thigh, his shoulders shaking, and you’re clutching the armrests of the pilot’s seat, wheezing with the kind of laughter that hurts your ribs and makes your eyes water.
It takes a full minute for the giggles to subside. They taper off gradually, leaving behind a warm, comfortable silence filled only by the distant hum of the autopilot and the sound of your breathing.
Caleb looks up at you. His eyes are bright, his smile soft at the edges. One of his hands rests on your bare thigh, his thumb tracing idle circles on your skin.
“I want this,” you say quietly. The words come out before you can stop them, unbidden and completely sincere. “Not just—this. The laughing. I want a house full of it. I want to wake up to you making stupid jokes and go to bed with your arms around me and have every day in between be…” You gesture vaguely, unable to find the right word.
“A fucking disaster?” Caleb suggests, but his voice is warm.
“A beautiful disaster,” you correct. “Our disaster. With laughter. And joy. And matching underwear, apparently.”
His hand slides up your thigh, his fingers tracing the waistband of the panties. His face pressed against your cunt, your face pressed against his cock.
“I want that too,” he says simply. “More than anything.”
You reach for him, cupping his face in your hands, and he leans into the touch like a flower turning toward the sun. His stubble is rough against your palms, his skin warm, and you can feel the steady thrum of his pulse beneath your fingertips.
For a moment, you just look at each other. The sunset is fading now, the gold bleeding into purple at the edges of the sky, and Caleb’s eyes are dark and endless in the dimming light.
Then his expression changes. Something shifts behind his eyes and his hand tightens on your thigh.
“Pips,” he says, and his voice has a new edge to it, low and intent. “Do you have any condoms on you?”
The question hangs in the air between you. Caleb’s eyes are dark, fixed on yours. He has the same look he gets before he does something reckless, something glorious, something that will change everything.
You reach into the inner pocket of your shirt jacket. Your fingers close around foil packets, three of them, because Gideon packed your bag and Gideon knows you two better than you know yourselves. You pull them out, holding them up like evidence.
Caleb takes them. His fingers brush yours, and the contact sends a jolt up your arm. He examines the condoms for a moment. And then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he tosses them out the partially open side window of the cockpit.
They disappear into the cloud layer below, three tiny foil meteors burning up on reentry into your former sex life.
You are on your feet before your brain has fully processed what just happened. The cockpit is small, so “on your feet” means mostly upright with your head ducked under the canopy, but the intent is clear. You are standing, and you are shocked, and your mouth is open in a perfect O of disbelief.
“Did you just—” you start.
Caleb doesn’t let you finish. His hand finds your waist and spins you, pushing you forward until your palms hit the console. The controls dig into your hands. Buttons, levers, switches that probably do important aviation things you absolutely should not be pressing with your tits. His hand is between your shoulder blades, pressing you down, and then you feel it.
His gravity evol. Holding you in place.
“Caleb,” you gasp, because you can move, but barely. Every limb feels like it’s filled with lead, your body pinned to the console by a force you can’t fight. “What are you—”
His answer is the sound of your panties being dragged down your thighs. The cotton catches on his face. His own face, printed on the fabric currently being shoved past your knees and he laughs, low and warm against the back of your thigh.
“These are coming home with me,” he murmurs, and then his mouth is on you.
His tongue drags along your slit from behind, slow and deliberate, and the moan that tears from your throat is embarrassingly loud in the confined space. Caleb works you open with his mouth like he’s memorizing the taste of you, his tongue flat against your cunt before focusing on your clit, circling it with a precision that makes your knees buckle.
Not that they can buckle. The gravity hold has your legs locked, spread, your ass lifted and presented for him like an offering. All you can do is take it, your forehead pressed to the cool plastic of the console, your fingers scrambling for purchase on whatever switches they can reach.
“Fuck,” you whimper. “Caleb, your mouth—”
“Shh,” he murmurs against your pussy, the vibration of his voice traveling through your clit and straight up your spine. “Let me taste you. So fucking sweet.” His tongue pushes inside you, curling, and your inner walls clench around nothing, desperate for more. “That’s it. Get wet for me. Soak my tongue.”
He’s talking to your pussy now, his lips pressed against your folds, his words muffled but unmistakable. “You gonna take my cock, pretty girl? You gonna let me fill you up?” His tongue flicks your clit, and you jerk against the gravity hold, a broken sound escaping you. “That’s what I thought. Dripping for me already.”
You are. God, you are.
You can feel it, slick and hot between your thighs, Caleb’s mouth working you into a state of desperate, aching need. His fingers join his tongue, two of them pushing into your cunt while his thumb circles your clit, and the stretch is perfect, exactly what you need but nowhere near enough.
“Ready?” he asks, pulling back. His chin is glistening with your wetness, his eyes black with want.
You nod frantically, beyond words.
The gravity hold releases suddenly, your body lightening so fast you almost pitch forward into the console. Caleb’s hands are on your hips, steadying you, and then you feel the hot, blunt pressure of his cockhead against your entrance.
He teases you. Just the tip, rubbing through your slick folds, catching on your clit with each pass. Your hips rock back, seeking more, and Caleb makes a sound that’s half laugh, half groan.
“Impatient,” he chides. “You want it? Take it.”
And then he shoves forward, one thrust, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth, devastating movement.
Your cunt stretches around him, your inner walls gripping his cock with a tightness that borders on painful, and Caleb makes a noise that doesn’t sound human. A ragged, broken groan that vibrates through both of you. His hips jerk involuntarily, and you feel the pulse of his cock inside you, the warm flood as he cums almost immediately, his release filling you in thick, urgent pulses.
“Fuck,” he gasps, his forehead dropping between your shoulder blades. “Fuck, Pips, I’m—I couldn’t—”
You’re about to tease him. You’re about to turn your head and say something devastating about his stamina, but the words die in your throat because Caleb isn’t stopping. His cock is still hard inside you, still pulsing with the aftershocks of his orgasm, and he’s already moving, pulling back and thrusting forward again with a rhythm that’s steadier than it has any right to be.
“One load,” he mumbles against your back, his voice wrecked. “One load isn’t enough. Not for what I want.” His hand slides around to your stomach, pressing flat against your lower abdomen. “You feel that? Feel how deep I am? That’s where I want to put a baby. My baby. Our baby.”
Your cunt clenches around him at the words, and Caleb groans, his pace increasing. The console creaks beneath your weight, buttons pressing under your palms with soft, electronic beeps that neither of you pay any attention to.
“Look at you,” he continues, and he’s babbling now, his words coming in a breathless stream as he fucks into you. “Taking my cum like you were made for it. This pretty pussy—” His hand slides between your legs, fingers finding your clit. “—this perfect, greedy pussy—you want more, don’t you? Tell me you want more.”
“Yes,” you gasp, because what else can you say? Your body is singing, every nerve alight, Caleb’s cock hitting spots inside you that make your vision blur. “Yes, please, more, I want—”
“Gonna fill you up,” he promises, his voice rough with want. “Gonna pump you so full you’ll feel me for days. My cum in your pussy, my baby in your belly—fuck, Pips, the way you take me—”
His rhythm falters, his hips stuttering, and you feel the second orgasm hit him deeper this time, his cock swelling inside you as he empties himself again. The wet sounds are obscene, the slap of his hips against your ass echoing in the cockpit, and your own climax crashes through you on the heels of his, your cunt milking his cock for every drop.
Caleb doesn’t stop. He can’t stop, or won’t, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he drives into you with a desperation that borders on frenzy. One of his hands finds your thigh, lifting your leg, bending it at the knee and pushing it up onto the console beside your hand.
The new angle is devastating. His cock drives deeper than before, the head catching on your cervix with each thrust, and the sensation walks the line between pleasure and pain so perfectly you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
Your hands are splayed across the console, fingers pressing buttons at random, lights flicker on the instrument panel, a soft alarm begins to beep somewhere to your left, and Caleb either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. His focus is singular, absolute. Your pussy, his cock, the place where your bodies join.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice thick. “Take it all. Every fucking drop. I want you dripping with me, Pips. I want you to feel me every time you move tomorrow.”
His pace increases, his cock pistoning into you with a force that rocks the entire seat, and you can feel him building toward a third climax. His breathing ragged, his fingers digging into your thigh, his cock pulsing inside you with each thrust.
“Cum with me,” he demands. “Cum on my cock. Let me feel you.”
Your orgasm rips through you with a violence that steals your breath, your cunt clamping down on his cock in rhythmic pulses, and Caleb follows you over the edge with a groan that sounds like it’s been torn from the depths of him.
His hips slam forward, holding deep, and you feel the warm rush of his cum flooding you for the third time, his release so abundant you can feel it leaking down your thighs almost immediately.
Your forehead is pressed to the console, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Caleb is draped over your back, his chest heaving against your spine, his cock still buried inside you, still pulsing with the occasional aftershock.
Then, very quietly, from somewhere below you: beep beep beep.
Caleb lifts his head. “Did we break something?”
You laugh. You can’t help it. The sound bubbles up from somewhere deep in your chest, slightly hysterical, slightly delirious, and Caleb joins in, his laughter vibrating through both of you where you’re still connected.
“Probably,” you manage. “Gideon’s going to kill us.”
“Worth it,” Caleb murmurs, and presses a kiss to the nape of your neck. His hand slides around to your stomach again, resting there with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. “So round 4?”
Meanwhile, down on the ground, Gideon is having a normal day in the control room. Which is to say he is slowly dying of boredom while monitoring a radar screen that shows one blip moving in leisurely circles above the cloud layer.
The control room is, like everything else in this museum, a relic. The equipment dates from approximately the Mesozoic era, the chairs squeak when you breathe wrong, and the coffee tastes like it was brewed in a sock. Gideon is slouched in the least squeaky chair, scrolling through his phone with one hand and sipping the sock-coffee with the other, while the two volunteers manning the other stations discuss the migratory patterns of Canadian geese.
Then the speakers crackle to life.
At first, it’s just static. The white noise of an open comm channel, the faint hum of engines. Gideon doesn’t look up. Probably just Colonel Dreamy checking in, or the autopilot doing whatever autopilots do.
Then he hears it.
A moan. Low, feminine, unmistakable.
Gideon freezes. His coffee cup halts halfway to his mouth.
The moan comes again, louder this time, followed by a gasp that has absolutely no business being broadcast through museum-grade speakers at a volume that makes the goose enthusiasts pause mid-sentence.
“—fuck, Caleb, your mouth—”
Gideon is on his feet so fast his chair rolls backward and slams into a filing cabinet. The coffee sloshes over his hand, burning, but he doesn’t feel it. What he feels is the cold, creeping horror of realization as Colonel Caleb Xia Yi Zhou’s voice comes through the speakers, low and rough and entirely too recognizable.
“—gonna take my cock, pretty girl? You gonna let me fill you up?”
One of the goose enthusiasts, a woman in her sixties with kind eyes and hearing aids, blinks. “Is that…?”
“DRILL!” Gideon shouts, with the desperate belief of a man who has just witnessed the first signs of the apocalypse. “EMERGENCY DRILL! EVERYBODY OUT!”
The volunteers stare at him.
“NOW!” Gideon claps his hands like a kindergarten teacher herding particularly stupid children. “Evacuation procedure! Remember the handbook! Chapter twelve! The part about—about—” His brain, racing at approximately Mach 3, grabs the first plausible excuse it can find. “—RADIOACTIVE GEESE!”
The speakers choose this moment to deliver a particularly obscene wet sound, followed by a moan that would make a porn star blush.
The kind-eyed woman’s hearing aids emit a faint squeal of feedback.
“OUT!” Gideon bellows, physically herding both volunteers toward the door. “GOOSE PROTOCOL! I’LL HANDLE THIS! SAVE YOURSELVES!”
He shoves them into the hallway, slams the door, and lunges for the comm panel. His fingers fumble with the switches, killing the feed with a click that plunges the control room into blessed, merciful silence.
Gideon stands there for a long moment, breathing hard, coffee dripping from his fingertips onto the linoleum. From the hallway, he can hear the confused murmurs of the volunteers.
“—radioactive geese?”
“—I don’t remember chapter twelve—”
Somehow the speakers come to life again.
Gideon presses the heels of his hands into his eyes so hard he sees stars.
“I am going to murder them,” he says to the empty room. “I am going to murder them both and hide the bodies in the ball of twine.”
Forty minutes later, the T-93 touches down on the tarmac with a grace that belies the fact that its pilot has just had at least five orgasms at eight thousand feet. The landing gear engages with a hydraulic whine, the engines spool down, and the canopy slides open to reveal two people who look, frankly, like they’ve been through something.
Caleb climbs out first, his hair standing in eighteen different directions, his shirt misbuttoned, a suspicious red mark visible on his neck. He turns to help you down, his hand steady on your elbow, and the way you move, slightly stiff, wincing, your thighs pressed together, tells Gideon everything he needs to know and several things he very much does not want to know.
You both look radiant. Disgustingly, obnoxiously radiant, like you’ve been dipped in glitter and sex and the glow of people who have just had multiple earth-shattering orgasms in a historic aircraft.
Gideon meets you at the bottom of the ladder. He is holding your overnight bag in one hand and an expression of profound, bone-deep exhaustion in the other.
“Here,” he says, and shoves the bag at Caleb with enough force to make him stagger. “Your bag. Which contains, among other things, the condoms you clearly did not use.”
Caleb catches the bag. “Gideon—”
“Do not,” Gideon says, very calmly, “speak to me. Do not look at me. Do not breathe in my direction.” He turns to you, his expression doing something complicated that lands somewhere between fond and homicidal. “You. You unbelievable disaster of a human being. There is cum on the console of a sixty-year-old jet. There is cum on the seat. There is cum on approximately seventeen buttons that I am fairly certain control the landing gear.”
You open your mouth.
“Don’t,” Gideon says. “Just—don’t. The control room heard everything. Everything. The moaning. The—the pussy talk. The part where Colonel Overachiever here came in approximately four seconds and then kept going like the fucking Energizer Bunny.” He runs a hand through his hair, which is already standing on end from his earlier panic. “I had to tell them there were radioactive geese.”
Caleb snorts. You bite your lip, hard, but the laugh escapes anyway. A choked, guilty sound that you try to smother behind your hand.
Gideon points a finger at you. “This is not funny. This is an offense. Possibly several federal offenses. The DAA has rules about—about ejaculating in cockpits, I’m sure of it, I just haven’t found the specific statute yet—”
“Gideon,” Caleb says, and his voice is warm, amused, utterly unrepentant. “Thank you.”
Gideon stops. Blinks. “For what?”
“For being here.” Caleb slings an arm around your shoulders, pulling you against his side. You fit there like you were made for it, your head resting on his chest, his hand warm on your waist. “For putting up with us. For the radioactive geese.”
Something in Gideon’s expression softens, just a fraction. He sighs, long and suffering, and shakes his head. “You two are the worst people I have ever met. And I once dated someone who collected toenail clippings.”
“We love you too,” you say, and mean it.
Gideon rolls his eyes, but he’s fighting a smile. “Go shower. Both of you. You smell like jet fuel and pussy juice.” He turns to walk away, then pauses, looking back over his shoulder. “And for the record? Happy birthday, Colonel. I hope it was worth almost getting me arrested.”
Caleb’s arm tightens around you. His lips press against the top of your head, and you can feel his smile against your hair.
Thinking about Rafayel in heat and fucking u in his Lemurian form ouhhhh 🤤🤤🤤
Content: Smut. Filthy, nasty, disgusting smut. Lemurian!Raf, heat cycles, sex in da ocean, outdoor sex, public sex ish, needy Raf, breeding heheh, blood kink? Kinda. Raf likes your blood, double penetration, Raf has two cocks, overstimulationish, reader says they don't want it but they really do, masturbation, cunnilingus, porn no plot.
Rafayel is sure Ebb Day is a curse directly from the heavens. Especially when his cutie isn't around to soothe him.
He's essentially banished you from his home during his ebb cycle—he's not sure if you'd be able to handle him during this time, no matter how filthy you two can get outside of his heat. You've been stubbornly trying to get close to him for the last few days, only to be locked out of his room and chased away.
He's been struggling himself with your absence. Every time he smells your delicious scent in his home, he struggles to control himself—tempted every time to unlock his door and ravish you. The only reason he's managed to restrain himself is by jerking off feverishly, a pair of your panties pressed to his nose as he spills cum onto his hand over and over.
His time outside of masturbation is spent soaking in his bath, the pool, or the ocean. His predatory instincts are increased practically tenfold in his Lemurian form, but hiding in the water is one of the only thing that gives some relief, so he bears it.
You've arrived at his house for what feels like the hundredth time now since his heat begun, but are surprised to find his house empty. You wander through his house, calling out his name in the silent home and finding no trace of your boyfriend. You figure he's soaking in the pool, but are surprised once more to find it empty of your purple-haired Lemurian.
You're a bit worried now—he wouldn't leave his home in a time like this. Not to anywhere public, that is.
You leave his house to walk down the beach, hoping he's maybe escaped to lay on the sand and complain about being a dried fishie. When you find it just as empty as everywhere else, however, anxiety blooms in your chest. You pinch your lip between your teeth, pacing back and forth on the warm sand.
There's only one other place he would be—the ocean.
You strip out of your clothes, shivering against the cool air, and dive into the familiar waters of Rafayel’s private beach. You swim out into deeper waters, occasionally going down to see if he's underwater, and coming up just as confused as before.
You feel something grasp your ankle, and you have a split second to register it before you're dragged under, bubbles escaping your lips in a silent scream. You thrash blindly, kicking and trying to swim back up to the surface until you're enveloped in a warm pair of arms.
Relief floods you when you open your eyes to meet Rafayel’s glowing blue ones, your chest heaving around breaths that are now growing less panicked. It feels like its been ages since you've seen him, and a shudder runs through his warm body when your hands grasp at his shoulders.
"Rafayel!" You exclaim, your voice seeming to echo in the deep water. Your hand rises to feel his temperature, frowning at the burning heat against your fingers, "Are you alright? Why are you all the way ou– mmph!"
You don't get to finish before you're yanked into a bruising kiss, his sharp fangs biting at your lower lip and drawing blood that he laps up eagerly. Your legs brush against the cool scales of his tail before wrapping around it, clinging to him in the weightlessness of the dark water.
"Rafayel," you gasp, pulling away to get air. You're met with a feral hunger that you rarely see from the playful artist, his own chest heaving against yours—which you're now reminded is mortifyingly bare.
"Don't pull away." He growls, his low voice echoing with an otherworldly hunger. "I need you. Now."
You have no choice but to obey when he drags you deeper, his powerful tail shifting in the water to pull you into the depths—away from the surface and its light—to where there's only you and his power, with nowhere to escape. A delightful thrill runs up your spine.
You gasp when you feel his firm scales against the apex of your thighs, and something noticeably more firm poking out against your thigh. Rafayel’s hands grip your waist when you squirm, feeling the appendage shift and move over your thigh as it slowly creeps its way out of his leaking slit, and you feel his talons dig just deep enough into your skin to draw droplets of blood.
He growls when your blood drifts into the water around you, his arms easily lifting you through the water to bring him eye-level with your tummy and hips. His fire has dimmed just enough for him to murmur a rough apology, his absurdly long tongue reaching to lap up the liquid where he held you just a bit too tight.
Your fingers tangle in soft hair, and he growls against your skin.
"You taste so good, my bride," he murmurs, voice muffled against the soft flesh of your thigh. His lips trail slowly up your skin, slowly teasing towards your pussy, which is now mortifyingly wet. He looks up to meet your eyes, and the raw hunger in his gaze makes you shudder with anticipation. "I want more..."
Your head falls back the moment his lips attach to your cunt, a weak cry escaping you while his hands once again dig into your hips, keeping you firmly in place against his mouth. He nips at your twitching clit when you squirm, his tail shifting beneath you to keep you both afloat while he eats you out like a man starved.
His own cocks are twitching and leaking—desperate for relief—but he'll be damned if he denies himself a taste of his bride's juices. He buries his face into the apex of your thighs, shaking his head back and forth like an animal as obscene slurps echo in the deep water. It doesn't take long for pleasure to coil in your gut, leaving you trembling and whining and teetering on the edge of relief.
"Rafayel, please..." you whisper, and he doesn't hesitate to oblige. One harsh suck on your clit and you're coming undone, crying out into the water as your hips jerk against his waiting mouth. He laps up every drop of your juices as though its the sweetest ambrosia, chuckling against your drooling hole when you whimper from the overstimulation. He finally lets you squirm away, his lips finding your thigh once again while he watches you catch your breath.
He has a persistent problem—or, problems—so unfortunately, your respite doesn't last very long. It's maybe a few minutes before he's begun creeping his way back up your body, his lips trailing up your sensitive skin bit by bit. You whine weakly, trying in your frail state to push him away from your oversensitive body when his tongue finds your peaked ripples.
"A– Ayel, too sensitive!" You whimper, attempting in vain to squirm away. He growls against the soft flesh of your breast, his talons digging into your thighs as he bites down on your nipple—a punishing nip with his sharp fangs. He makes a noise of animalistic satisfaction when you cry out, his tongue laving over the reddened flesh.
"You can take it, my bride," he murmurs, his twin cocks pressing insistently against your thigh, "you were made for this. To take my cocks." You shake your head in protest, feeling him creeping slowly up your trembling body like he himself the rising tide. You feel like prey in his grasp—and in moments like this you're reminded that Lemurians truly are predators by nature, sirens made to devour their captives.
His larger cock slots against your—traitorously damp—cunt when his mouth finally reaches your lips, and you let out a muffled noise of protest when his slightly smaller dick prods against your ass. Its clear he has no intentions of letting you away without thoroughly using you, and—as futile as you know it is—you continue to squirm to try to escape his grasp.
He kisses you, more of a claim than anything, and you can't help but gasp when his tongue finds yours. You lean into his touch—your body embarrassingly eager despite your attempts at resisting—and Rafayel hums with satisfaction at your submission. His touch grows more gentle, his lips pressing genly to your forehead as a reward for being so obedient, and you make a small noise of satisfaction at his silent praise.
"There's my girl," he murmurs against your skin, his hands gently squeezing your waist before they shift lower to push your legs apart. You look away shyly when his fingers drag though the wetness there, but he clearly isn't very pleased with that reaction. You yelp when he grips your face in his large hand, his damp fingers pushing their way into your mouth for you to taste yourself. "Don't look away. This is a blessing from the Sea God. Appreciate it."
Gone now is your sweet Rafayel. In his place is an ancient being, one whose power you have no right to refuse. The control he has over you is utterly thrilling, but even now you breathe out a weak sound of protest around the fingers stuffed in your mouth. You’re not exactly the image of defiance now—drool drips from your swollen lips, your pussy is leaking, juices mixing with the water around you, and your eyes have glazed with submission—and yet, you try your very hardest to resist.
His fingers push deeper into your mouth when his tip notches against your entrance, and you gag pathetically around them while his second cock dips just far enough into your ass to make you whimper.
"Say thank you," he commands, squishing your cheeks in his hand, "Thank your God for this privilege."
"Fank youh..." you manage to slur around his fingers, looking up at him with teary eyes at his merciless mockery. He seems content with your submission—or maybe he's displeased, you can't truly tell anymore—and in response slowly presses his way into your drooling cunt. His gentleness is only a momentary relief, because within moments his thrusts grow brutal.
Wet slaps ring out in the water as he pounds into you, his hand shifting to wrap itself around your throat while he uses his powerful tail to set an animalistic pace. The dual sensations in your ass and cunt have you drooling and gasping, your brain turning to mush as you claw at his shoulders and cry out into the empty ocean.
Nobody is around to save you. You have no choice but to take what he gives.
Your moans turn to broken little noises when you reach another peak, your silky walls clenching around him in a maddening sensation that he's determined to feel again. He doesn’t relent, just continues thrusting—chasing the feeling of your cunt clenching around him. Any pleas for relief you once had have been lost to the ocean—to the mind-numbing pleasure that demolishes any thought in your head.
You can't think, can't move, can't feel anything but the fires of ecstasy shooting through your veins. Your eyes roll back into your skull, mouth hanging open and body trembling when his thrusts lose their consistent pace. They turn uneven and stuttered, and if you were conscious enough to think, you would realize that it means he's dangerously close to his release.
Close he is. Within a few thrusts, he chokes out an animalistic groan, waves upon waves of sticky cum flooding your pussy. You're stuffed full, lost to the lingering shocks of pleasure when his forehead drops to yours, his lips parted around shaky gasps and his eyes screwed shut.
The brutal Sea God has disappeared once more, leaving your lover in his stead. Rafayel’s hands gently brush the tears off of your cheeks, his brows furrowing at the faraway look in your eyes. He scoops you into his arms before pushing off towards the surface, and within a few minutes the two of you have returned to dry land. He sets you down in the sand, his form shifting back to his human one and leaving an emptiness in your cunt that makes you whine weakly.
You're still out of it when he gently dresses you, when he scoops you up and carries you back to the house, and even when he pats you dry with a towel and dresses you in fresh clothes. You've only truly returned to your senses when you're set in his warm bed, the haze of submission making way for aching soreness and bone-deep exhaustion.
"'Yel..." You mumble sleepily, reaching for his warm body when he settles into bed beside you. He doesn't hesitate to cradle you in his arms, holding you close to his chest and pressing kisses to your forehead and hair as though apologizing for how rough he was—even if you didn't particularly dislike it.
The raging storm of Ebb Day has faded for now, but tomorrow will only bring another thorough ravishing, whether you're ready for it or not.
A/n: its been a while since I've written an actually postable story, my bad. My motivation was super low with finals and testing and stuff coming up relatively soon but I tried my best with this one 🥹
Okay im rewatching the apothecary diaries and im having some thoughts
What if Jinshi and Basen were romantic partners at some point? Maybe not in the current story, but sometime in the past.
So I read in the light novels about how Jinshi tried to use Basen as "practice," how Basen is ridiculously overprotective of Jinshi, and considering how they grew up together, it kinda led me to think that maybeee they had something between them.
The thing that made me think this was "The Hunt," the episode where Jinshi and Maomao ended up in a cave together, and Jinshi mentioned how Basen knew about the place. It made me think about the situation that they must have ended up in to know about the place.
So, here are my headcanons.
• Jinshi and Basen, who grew up alongside eachother and never understood the feelings they had for eachother. They were just kids, how could they?
• Jinshi and Basen who were eachother's first kisses—the two boys hidden in a back room and meeting in a clumsy kiss. It lasted longer than either would admit, each of them learning the rhythm before separating. The two never spoke of it again, but for a long time they couldn't look at eachother without blushing.
• Young Jinshi who felt so much pressure as the brother of the Emperor, finally finding a friend he could trust. He never could explain the fluttering in his chest that he felt with him—he simply attributed it to friendship, dismissing the attachment he felt for the other young boy.
• This trust is likely the reason for the feelings in the first place—similar to Maomao, where he felt seen past his looks or his rank—and it eventually shifted back into a friendship as the two grew older.
• Jinshi and Basen who end up in the Shihoku Province, accompanying Gaoshun and the Emperor on a hunting trip, and somehow end up in the cave that Jinshi and Maomao ended up in. It was hours before they were found, and they got a little... carried away in the time. They were both probably scared and flustered, and those feelings ended up concentrating into another kiss that they never talk about.
• Ah-Duo likely found out about it at some point, maybe caught them leaning a little too close or staring a bit too long, and kept the information quietly to herself. Her suspicions were confirmed, however, when she walked into Jinshi on top of Basen, fingers on his lips in their "practice." She didn't know that it absolutely wasn't what she thought, but it solidified it in her mind regardless.
• Basen, who treats Maomao poorly at first out of jealousy. He doesn't mean to be so rude, but he ends up acting the way he does because he knows how Jinshi feels about her, and maybe some part of him thought that the man would be his for longer.
Just some thoughts since I couldn't find anything about it anywhere.
Thinking about Caleb being a tease and going on a run without a shirt on hehehehehehehehe
Content: smut, possessive reader, domesticity, caleb and reader are married, caleb is way too hot and knows it way too well
Eyes are on him, of course they are. How could they not be? The colonel is nothing short of ripped, and he knows it too. His thick muscles glisten in the sun, with tanned skin and sparkling violet eyes that could captivate anyone. Every woman in the neighborhood is drooling over him, jogging around the loop in shorts that show way too much thigh and his shirt abandoned to reveal pecs and abs that should be a sight reserved just for you. The only comfort you have is the band on his ring finger, a permanent claim over the man.
You're clearly in a mood when your husband gets back home, a scowl on your lips and fury in your eyes, and the sight only makes him chuckle. He loves when his pipsqueak gets jealous, and he knew exactly what the reaction would be when he made the choice to go out like that.
You can't deny the heat that curls in your abdomen when your husband walks in, sweat glistening on his flushed skin while soft pants escape his lips, but you're far too stubborn and annoyed to give into the forbidden fruit that is your husband and his godforsaken muscles. There's a smirk on his face when he walks into the kitchen to get water, deliberately walking past and giving you a full view of his exposed torso, and you glower at the man's infuriating cockiness.
You stubbornly turn your head away when he leans in to give you a kiss, an innocent smile on his face as though he isn't taunting you purely for the sake of riling you up. "Caleb, you're sweaty. Go take a shower."
"Aww, pips, what's wrong?" He coos, but even his feigned care can't hide the lilt of utter delight in his voice, "Ya jealous?"
"No. That's ridiculous." Comes your huff as you try to push him away. Unfortunately for you, the man is basically a wall of muscle, so your efforts are useless when he grabs you by the waist and pulls you in. You whine when he gives you a peck, pushing his head away with a stubborn scowl. "Caleb!"
"C'mon hon, you can tell me the truth." He grins, pressing his lips to your cheek as his stupidly hunky body envelops you, much to your dismay (delight). "My pipsqueak is jealous, isn't she?"
You don't give him the privilege of a response, only squirming to try to get out of his persistent hold. He's delighted by this, you can tell, and you'll be damned if you give in and feed his already ridiculously large ego.
"You're mad that all those girls were looking at me, aren't ya?" He whispers, his voice low and teasing against your ear. The sound makes something warm pool between your thighs, and you hate just how much of an effect this ridiculous man has on you, "You don't need to worry, baby, y'know I'm allll yours."
"Wan' me to prove it?" He coos, his hand sliding down the curve of your spine while his lips follow a similar path down your throat. You can feel his smirk against your throat, and you huff at how cocky he is, even though your body arches traitorously into the warmth of his touch. "C'mon sweetheart, lemme show you just how much I belong to you..."
Minutes later, your cheek is pressed into the sheets while your husband stuffs you full. You hate yourself for how easily you gave in, but you'd be lying if you said it wasn't worth it to feel Caleb splitting open your sopping cunt from behind. Drool leaks from the corner of your lips as your whole body trembles, fingers clawing at the sheets while he grips your waist like a lifeline. Caleb would be grinning right now if his lips weren't parted around broken groans.
"S– ahhh fuck– see pips? Told ya 'm all yours..." He groans, his thick arm wrapping around your throat to pull you up against him. His chest heaves around ragged breaths while he coos praises in your ear, his thick cock punching broken moans from your lips while his free hand presses on the bulge in your tummy. "None of those– those girls get my cock. Only you. Only you and your fuckin' perfect pussy."
He presses a quick kiss to your cheek, damp with thick tears, before lowering you back onto the bed, his hand pressing your spine into a delicious arch before they find your hips again. His speed increases with vigor at the sweet sounds that spill from your throat at the change in angle, a smirk curling on his lips at how perfect his wife looks below him. "Will ya admit that– fuck– that you were jealous now?"
"F– ah, Caleb! Fuckin– fine! I was jealous," You manage to punch out between moans and sobs and cries of his name, tilting your head to give him a glare over your shoulder, the effect minimized by the tears dripping down your cheeks. "All those women– you know– sssshit– y'know they were lookin' at you!"
He chuckles in response, much to your irritation, and leans down to press kisses along your shoulders, his hips still pistoning in and out of your pussy and drawing filthy squelches out of its wetness. "S-sure they were, but y'know I only want you..." His every word is accentuated by a brutal thrust, your adorable jealousy only spurring him on further.
His hands are rough as he pulls out of you and flips you over, ignoring your whine at the emptiness before pressing back into you once more. He needs to see you, and he looks almost entranced by the sight of your pleasure written all over your face. Your mouth is hanging open, tears dripping from your eyes that are squeezed shut, your brows furrowed in ecstasy while your hands fumble for anything to cling to. You’re getting close, he can tell, and he only goes faster in response.
It doesn't take long before you've reached your peak, your back arching as a beautiful cry escapes your lips. He just stares as you convulse beneath him, your cunt clenching around him like a vice before his hips stutter and he spills inside you with a ragged groan. His arms tremble before he collapses on top of you, his cock twitching inside you while your silky walls flutter around him—drawing little moans out of him against your ear.
"See? Told ya I'm a-all yours," He murmurs, chuckling when you smack his shoulder with a little huff. He curls his arms around you, clinging to you like he can't handle there being even an inch of space between the two of you. His warmth inside of you serves as just another reminder that he's only yours, and you're only his, and you can't help but smile as you let yourself forget about any insecurities you may have felt.
Content: fluff, slightly suggestive, rafayel loves u that's it
Part 1!
A few days after his episode, Thomas calls to thank you profusely for bringing Rafayel back to the real world. While Rafayel is still stubbornly refusing to answer Thomas's calls or messages, he at least confirmed that paintings are on the way and that he'll be ready for the upcoming exhibition. Thomas thinks you're a miracle worker, maybe some sort of angel sent from heaven to drag the artist from rock bottom to do his job. Whatever you may be, he's eternally grateful, and he makes sure to tell you. Repeatedly.
Since you know he's okay now, you decide to stop by Rafayel’s studio with some treats to check up on him and his progress. When you arrive to the studio, the sun shines through the windows, and the distant sound of waves against the shore is a familiar melody to the artist's work.
You're relieved that he's no longer wallowing, and you're not at all surprised to find the artist sitting before a canvas filled with color.
When you look a little longer, however, you're taken aback by the sight. It's a massive portrait of you. A bright smile lights up your face, your eyes twinkling with joy as the sun illuminates your features and makes it seem like you’re glowing. The wind blows your hair to the side, but the version of you in the painting doesn't seem to care. One hand is outstretched to the viewer while the other holds down the fabric of your dress that billows in the wind.
Similar to days before, you realize quickly that there are once again canvases surrounding the artist, each and every one filled rather than blank. Some are propped against the wall, some placed on easels, all varying in size. They all have one thing in common, though: you are the subject.
Some are domestic—your eyes fall on one of yourself, sitting on the couch across from him. Your glasses have slid to the end of your nose, you're wrapped in one of his hoodies, and an open book rests in your lap while your eyes glimmer with mirth and affection. A lopsided smile curls on your lips, and its undeniable that you look completely at home. In another, your hair is messy and your eyes sleepy—you seem to have just woken up, and one hand is raised to rub at your eye while you pout sleepily at the viewer.
Some are sweeter: one of you across from him at a café, a drink raised to your lips while you grin at the viewer over the rim of the mug. You look completely in love with whoever sits across from you, the sun shining on your skin through the window and making the moment seem like something out of a dream. Another pictures you in a park, wildflowers in bloom behind you while you laugh at something only the painter really knows. Cherry blossom petals fall around you, one resting in your slightly windblown hair. You can see one of yourself knee-deep in blue waters, waving to the viewer from afar. A smile breaks across your sun-reddened face, sunglasses pushing back your hair to reveal the affection in your gaze.
Others are intimate—dim lighting gives glimpses of softness, revealing hands on flesh and dark sheets against glistening skin. You can barely make out the silhouette of a body—your body—amid streaks of passionate reds and purples that portray the depths of his unrelenting passion. Others reveal blooming bruises, the vision of trembling limbs, intimate moments shared between lovers that would make any onlooker blush. They're not too revealing, not too lewd—he would never share that piece of you with anyone else—but you can tell exactly what they portray, the scenes they depict.
Every single painting in the room is of you. The room that was devoid of color and life mere days ago is flooded with your image—glimpses of moments and memories and scenes that all made him fall in love with you more and more.
And that night at his exhibition, every eye in the room is turned towards you—the muse and subject of every image in the gallery—but the only ones that matter are his. His gaze doesn't stray from you for even a moment the whole night.
He loves you more than anything, and he'll remind you of that every day. Whether with exhibitions in your name or quiet moments reserved just for his memories.
You'll always be his.
A/n: okay guys take two. this one wasn't written in a fit of inspiration like the og but I think I got most of it
Rafayel is uninspired and struggling, so you help raise his spirits
Content: comfort, slightly angst maybe if u squint, taking care of Rafayel bc he won't take care of himself
Part 2!
A/n: i accidentally deleted the second part of this fic excuse me while I cry and rewrite the whole thing
It's been weeks.
Weeks and weeks and weeks, and Rafayel has had zero inspiration.
Thomas is on his ass about deadlines, about exhibitions and public appearances and all of the unfortunate pains that come with being an artist. He knows he has to get something done, but he can't help it, his mind is blank.
He's hunched in his stool before a canvas, trying to think of anything to fill the blank slate that seems to mock him whenever he enters the room, a stubborn reminder that he's lacking. He'd never usually be so stressed about deadlines—it wasn't like he followed them anyways, but he knows you'll be upset if he bails on another event, and he'd rather cut his own tail off than disappoint you.
He's been losing sleep, barely eating, just sitting in front of blinding whiteness and trying to muster up something satisfactory.
After two days of silence from Rafayel and endless calls from Thomas to check up on the hermit, you find yourself at his door. You know how he can be when he gets absorbed in his work, how he secludes and neglects himself to produce something that he deems worthy. Luckily, you came prepared.
You have a small bag of things—the basics, just to get him taken care of at the very least. A home-cooked meal, still warm in its container, a box of his favorite treats, some seashells you thought he'd like, and of course, your open arms for the solace you're sure he needs right now.
You don't bother knocking, just turn the spare key in the lock and push open the door with a creak that makes you jump. The house is silent—you're sure he's either huddled in bed, trying to drown himself in his bath, or hunched over a canvas like the shrimp he could find back home in Lemuria. Whatever it is, you're already anticipating it. Several of his episodes have prepared you for this.
Just as you expected, he's in the living room, staring at his canvas. What you weren't expecting was for it to be blank—white as fresh snow—or for there to be several canvases, equally blank, scattered around him like the remains of a battle against his own mind. His house is a mess, of course—that, you were expecting—and something soft flickers across your expression at the fact that he's at least consistent in his depression habits, if nothing else.
"Hey there, Ayel..." Comes your soft greeting from behind him, your hand coming to rest on his hunched spine as he finally seems to snap out of his stupor and return to real life. His eyes snap to you, and relief floods his features in an instant—as if the mere sight of you is enough to cure him of whatever mental ailment he was suffering before.
"You're here." It sounds more like a sigh of relief than comprehensible words when he speaks, but it gets the message across just fine when he slides off of his stool and sinks into your open arms. He breathes in your scent like its the cleanest air he's gotten in weeks, and quite frankly it's probably not untrue. Unlike Rafayel, you wince when you smell him. As much as you love the man, he desperately needs a bath. You let him cling nonetheless—you know he needs it right now.
"I brought you some food. You can eat and take a bath, and we can take a nap after. How does that sound?" He melts at how gentle you are with him, how you care for him and never make him feel guilty for slipping into that headspace that he gets in when he's immersed in his art, and he's sure he could never ask for anything more. He mumbles something similar to "perfect" against your shoulder, but makes no move to release you quite yet. He just needs a little bit longer in your arms right now, then he can take care of himself properly.
Eventually you coax him to the kitchen and watch him eat the meal you made—which is probably the first meal he's had in days. You smile at his endless praises for your cooking as he seems to regain some of his usual energy, and its not long before his plate is clean and there's a small, dull smile on his face.
He leaves to take a bath while you set off to cleaning his disaster of a house, and after he's done cleaning himself he returns to a mostly clean home. It's not perfect, but its certainly an improvement. That doesn't matter to him though, all he cares about is collapsing into his bed and falling asleep in your arms—the house can be taken care of later.
And when he's finally curled up with you, your arms wrapped around him and the soft brush of your lips against his soft hair, he feels nothing but gratitude for the one who always pulls him back up from rock bottom.
"Thank you... so.. much..." Is his final murmur when sleep pulls him under, the weight of expectations finally falling away.
A/n: the whole second part... its gone... ☹️☹️☹️💔💔💔
A/n: this is very self-indulgent, im on my period rn and suffering
Content: fluff, comfort, periods
It's 2 am, and you're pretty sure the world is ending.
Endless curses fill your mind towards whatever god decided that this is the fate you must suffer.
Caleb is sound asleep beside you as you squirm and shift, trying to find some way to alleviate the pain pulsing in your lower abdomen. Unfortunately for you, nothing seems to work, and you grumble and groan and pray that the heavens will strike you down so you no longer have to suffer this.
Your period is evil. Its the only logical explanation.
You're trying to keep quiet, not wanting to rouse your boyfriend who is getting some—much needed—sleep. Caleb, however, has never been one to let you suffer alone. It's not long before his warmth envelops you from behind, his thick arms snaking around your waist while his chin slots against your shoulder.
"Wa's wrong, pips?" His voice is soft, hoarse with sleep and something warm reserved just for you. Without even needing an answer, his large hands come to rest on your abdomen, warmth seeping into your skin from his palms.
"Cramps." Is the only response you can muster, gritting your teeth and grumbling under your breath when another few pulses of pain ripple through you. He's still not fully conscious, but his hands move to gently massage your abdomen on instinct.
He's been here for your periods since the very first one, and helping you is now just muscle memory. He knows exactly what kind of tea you like when you're in pain, the brand of chocolate you crave whenever your period rolls around, the show you put on whenever you're in a bad mood, how warm you need your bath when your lower back hurts, and of course, exactly where to press to alleviate your cramps.
He's memorized you, every habit, every trait, and your period is not an exception.
He litters sweet kisses along your shoulder while his warm hands rub circles on your stomach, and you find yourself sighing blissfully as the pain slowly recedes, chased away by your lover's gentle care.
"Feelin' any better, sweet girl?" His voice is less gruff now, more alert, and its softened with an edge of concern. He knows firsthand how bad your cramps can get, and it makes something in his chest tighten with discomfort at the fact that he can't make this go away like he does everything else.
You nod, letting your eyes flutter shut and your body melt into his familiar warmth. Your abdomen still throbs dully, but even that can be forgotten with Caleb's help. Anything can.
His hands eventually slow to a stop, but they stay pressed against where he knows it hurts the most, his warmth soothing the ache that lingers there. It doesn't take long now for you to drift to sleep, your breathing slowly evening out in the comfort of your boyfriend's arms.
Caleb doesn't move—he wouldn't dare, he just lays with his forehead pressed to your shoulder, feeling your even breaths and listening to the steady beat of your heart. You're okay now, and the knowledge allows the tension in his own body to slowly drain.
He presses one last lingering kiss to the skin of your shoulder, breathing in the smell of your shampoo and skin. He can relax now that you're alright, now that nothing can hurt you.
"Sweet dreams, pipsqueak," he murmurs, squeezing you closer and following you into a warm, peaceful sleep.
He'll always be here to soothe your pain, no matter what.
A/n: this is my first like official writing on here, im still kinda figuring out how to even write on this godforsaken app so sorry if my format isn't perfect ┐('～`;)┌
Hai uhm I think I may start posting some writings? I couldn't find enough about Jinshi x Reader so I figured i would just write my own stuff idk? I'm also super into love and deepspace (though there's a surplus of lads writings) so I'll I prob maybe write for both fandoms. Maybe? Idk man
♯ summary: Rafayel swings by after work in his newly repaired sports car, offering you a much-needed joyride. You also happen to have on your person a box of chocolates your coworker gave you “to lift your spirits during your break,” whatever she meant by that. Naturally, you share them with him.
How much trouble could a few chocolates possibly cause?
♯ content warning(s): aphrodisiacs, consensual but not safe or sane, car sex, exhibitionism, oral sex (both f and m), unprotected sex, and my favorite -- nosebleed
♯ author's note: on this exact day last year i published my first raf fic (which was another card adaptation) "fish in a birdcage" on my deleted tumblr blog @/mandalhoerian. now in this new blog, history repeats itself 😭😭 you might have read this on ao3 already, but SHUSH. tate mcrae's "sports car" carried this whole writing process. i hope you enjoy!
♯ [read on ao3]
“Where did you get these?”
Rafayel’s gooseflesh-inducing vocal fry is right at your ear, a little lazy, a little stretchy, as his fingers tap the corner of the box balanced on your lap. The lid lifts with a papery sigh. Cold lamplight spills across the remaining couple of chocolates, turning their glossy shells into tiny planets.
You tip your head back against his shoulder so you can see his face. From this angle his jaw shadows the night sky, the stars and the city blur together past him, a smear of light beyond the glass railing.
“Nicole,” you say. “Break-room fairy godmother. She dumped them on my desk and told me to ‘enjoy my time off.’”
“Mmh.” He plucks one from its paper cup. Dark chocolate swirled with gold.
He examines it, tilting it so the dome light ricochets off the metallic flakes, making them dance and shimmer like fish scales beneath a choppy surface, but makes no attempt to eat it. You wonder if he must be thirsty after finishing half the box, but neither of you has moved to get water.
The car is as still as a sleeping animal beneath you. Engine off, handbrake up, only the occasional cooling tick comes from somewhere under the hood. With the roof folded away the cabin feels almost outdoors, the night air washing over in soft drafts that smell of green mountain, wet leaves, and a little bit of hot metal. Above the windshield, the lamppost throws a warm cone of light over the red paint, over the ring of pale paving stones, over the flowerbeds crowding the edge of the overlook. Hydrangeas, you think, the heads of them bowed and bluish in the dark.
You’ve claimed the passenger seat, slick red leather tilted back just enough that you can see the sky without craning your neck. Raf is mostly in the same seat; “mostly” because the car really was designed for one person at a time to be dramatic, not two people trying to share each other’s oxygen. His right leg runs along the cushion under you, solid and warm beneath your thighs. His left knee is jammed up against the center console, foot wedged awkwardly in the passenger footwell. The curve of the door digs into your back in a familiar way, shoulder resting just under the seatbelt anchor, the plastic edge nudges gently against your collarbone every time you breathe.
He’d slid the driver’s seat all the way back before he climbed over, but the steering wheel still stands in its proper place on the other side, turned straight, a mute witness. The dash glows faintly — speedometer needles at zero, infotainment screen dimmed to a soft, slow-moving waveform. Somewhere far below, down past the glass railing and the slope and the tangled trees huddled together, the city spreads around the bay in layers of light. Clusters of skyscrapers that look the part of glowsticks in size and luminescence, ferris wheel, strings of traffic like loose jewelry in the arteries of the city, a carpet of spilled diamonds thrown over a dark mirror.
(Rafayel mentioned he’d once seen a piece built on a scene like this, painted only through light reflection: black paint on a black canvas. The whole image depended on the direction of the brushstrokes. Vertical strokes caught almost no light and sank into darkness. Horizontal strokes caught the most and turned bright. With a single color, the artist had re-constructed the entire concept of constellations taking shape.
You told him, fascinated, that you’d love to see it someday. He looked strangely dissatisfied with that answer.)
You hear the faint click of him setting the gold-dusted chocolate back in its cup, and you feel the movement more than you see it. His chest shifts against your back, the tendons of his arm sliding under the fabric of his sleeve where it brushes your upper arm.
“Did you at least read the label before you let me inhale half the box on the way up here?” he asks.
“Does Mr. Qi not eat chocolate other than seventy-five percent cacao, single-origin, sourced from some obscure mountain?”
“No, I’m just thinking Nicole might be more of a practical joker than a benefactor.”
His right arm is looped around your waist, palm resting flat and heavy just under your ribs, thumb idly rubbing the same small arc in the fabric of your shirt. You shift a little, trying to ease the pinch of the door against your shoulder blade, and you feel his body tighten underneath you in a way that has nothing to do with the cramped seat. His arm reflexively tightens, holding you in place.
You haven’t eaten any of the chocolates. You didn’t feel like it, not with your stomach still knotted from the day. So you spent the whole ride watching the roads blur past in the magical haze of the golden hour as Rafayel took the hairpin turns like calligraphic sweeps, while your fingers did the darting in and out — reaching into the box on your lap to make your selection, then lifting it to his lips between gearshifts and controlled slides. His hands stayed where they belonged: one on the burning red steering wheel, the other occasionally dropping to the shifter with motion that matched the car’s apex-kissing exactitude around each curve. You’d time it perfectly, waiting for a straight stretch or a moment when his attention could spare a second, watching the chocolates disappear past his smiling lips, his jaw working to break through the shell.
It had been a good excuse as to why you kept your focus on the bizarre sexiness of his driving instead of watching the sunset scenery streaming pase, openly drinking in the apricot pink glow of his peacock preening and feeling like a female bird. Less a good memory now, with him sounding… off.
“Why?” you ask. “You feeling sick?”
“Sick?” He rolls the word around like he’s tasting it. “Nah.”
He shifts, the leather squeaking softly as he braces one foot against the floor and straightens up slightly, pulling you more fully against him with the arm around your waist.
You press the back of your hand to his forehead. The skin is a bit damp with sweat, definitely warmer than usual, a subtle heat radiating from him that could have been reasonable if the car heating was on. It’s not.
You twist enough to look up at him properly, and Rafayel just happens to turn away and be interested in something in the distance. His ears are faintly pink. That never bodes well — for him, anyway. For you it usually means something entertaining.
That entertaining thing ends up being a folded, slim cream card he holds up in between his index and middle finger right in front of your face, acting as a barrier between him and your inquisitive staring. He waves it slightly, the cardstock making a soft whistling sound as it cuts through the air.
You squint at the elegant text, and then take it from him to read properly. The font in the front is a loopy, romantic cursive printed in gold foil.
LUNE NOIRE · INTIMACY COLLECTION
DARK CHOCOLATE APHRODISIAC TRUFFLES
Crafted with 72% single-origin cocoa and a blend of botanicals traditionally used to enhance desire and physical pleasure.
ACTIVE BOTANICALS
Maca root · Damiana · Muira puama · Ginseng · L-arginine
INTENDED EFFECTS
When consumed in a relaxed setting, these chocolates may:
Increase sexual arousal and responsiveness
Heighten skin and nerve sensitivity
Promote genital blood flow and natural lubrication
Intensify orgasm and post-orgasm afterglow
Onset typically occurs within 20–40 minutes and may last up to 3 hours. Effects vary by individual.
DIRECTIONS FOR USE
Enjoy 1–2 pieces per person, preferably with someone you trust and want.
Do not exceed 3 pieces per person in 24 hours.
WARNINGS
Not recommended for individuals sensitive to stimulants or with cardiovascular conditions.
May cause flushing, elevated heart rate, and persistent erection or arousal.
For consenting adults only.
Do not consume before driving or operating machinery.
Lune Noire assumes no responsibility for clothes, furniture, or reputations affected by improper use.
“Nicole!” you scream at the top of your lungs, face on fire as you shove the little card at him. It bounces off his chest and lands somewhere in the footwell. “NOOOO! Oh my god, oh my god!”
The half-empty chocolate box on your lap suddenly feels like a box of grenades with the pins already pulled. You get jostled around on the lap of the victim himself when he laughs heartily. And it’s nails on a chalkboard of your mortification instead of the musical thing it usually is. There’s nothing remotely funny about any of this.
Do not exceed 3 pieces per person in 24 hours.
A sharp gasp tears from your lungs. You’d fed him at least four, maybe five, while he was busy playing Mario Kart with an actual millions-of-dollars sports car, the speedometer needle tap-dancing way past the “you’re going to jail” zone. Your mind flashes back to the journey: the winding roads, blurry panorama of the golden-blushed Linkon, him maneuvering the steering wheel as he took each curve with the same mastery he had over his brush, all while casually consuming what now felt like a dose of pure, concentrated trouble. You feel slightly ill.
Rafayel does not appear so. He’s still staring out the windshield, but a smile is playing at the corners of his lips.
You, on the other hand, are about two seconds from cardiac arrest.
Your hand dives blindly down the side of the seat and finds your phone by touch, wedged between leather and door panel. You almost fling it into the footwell, secure it on the second try, and fumble it upright. The screen explodes into your face, harsh blue-white that makes your eyes sting. It also lights the whole cabin, ghosting a second, paler Rafayel in the glass of the windshield.
Your thumbs fly. Aphrodisiac chocolate oversose. Yes, with the typo. Enter.
The signal here is good; the results load fast. A wall of text appears: polite serif font, tasteful logo, clinical language wrapped around words like arousal and blood flow. You skim with the manic speed of someone hunting for the word death and trying to avoid it at the same time.
May cause increased sexual arousal and sensitivity, flushing, headache, rapid heartbeat, difficulty sleeping…
Your gaze skids and stops on rapid heartbeat. There’s a solid thud against your back. It doesn’t sound fragile. It does sound fast.
You scroll.
Overconsumption may lead to uncomfortable levels of arousal, persistent erection, pronounced flushing, pounding heartbeat, anxiety, and in rare cases fainting due to changes in blood pressure. Very high doses of certain botanical ingredients have been associated with agitation and convulsions.
Your stomach drops clean through the floor of the car.
Fainting. Convulsions.
The words flare in your mind in giant red letters, drowning out everything else on the page. Your grip tightens around the phone until the case creaks.
You stab the search bar again, type with even less grace this time: aphrodisiac chocolate overdose reddit.
A cluster of thread titles pops up. Phrases like thought I was going to die and never again immediately jump up, and you slam your thumb on the home button before your lungs can decide between laughing and screaming.
This is about to become an ER-worthy situation about to have you squirming before an overworked and underpaid nurse who has seen all kinds of furniture shoved up people’s asses.
“Okay, enough,” Rafayel’s hand closes over yours, plucking the phone from your grip with the lazy grace of a cat nabbing a passing fly. He drops it into the center console with a decisive clink. “I’m not sharing your attention with a phone of all things after being apart for so long.”
“You’ve eaten like half the box, Rafayel!” you blurt, twisting around as far as the cramped space allows. “What if you have a heart attack? We’re miles from anything!”
“I’m fi-iiiine,” he sings back, all too happy for reasons unknown, drawing the word out, the leather creaking with the movement. In contrast with how light he speaks, the sea-glass pink and blue of his irises are are a couple shades darker, having shrunk hoop-earring thin around his pupils. “It was one or two over the recommended portion, not the entire box. If I was going to have a heart attack, I would have done it already.”
You cover your face with your hands, a strangled sound escaping your throat. “God, ı'm so sorry, I didn’t know! I thought they were just fancy chocolates! What do we do, should I drive you to the ER? I can probably figure out how to—”
“Hey.” The word is soft, but the grip he has on your waist is anything but. “Look at me.”
You slowly peel your fingers apart. His gaze is locked onto you, head slightly tilted like a curious cat. The glow of the city lights dances across the sheen of his lower lip, highlighting its softness and inviting allure.
“I’m not having a medical emergency,” he says, enunciating the last two words like they’re a particularly funny joke. “But I reckon I don’t have long left until my brain turns into mush, so we have to figure out what to do about this actual one.”
He gestures to his crotch, which — you don’t want to look, okay, since this was supposed to be a cute joyride date with adrenaline giggles and it was ruined because of you, but how can you not, when he’s such a peacock about it? — is tenting his black jeans in a way that has to be impossible. Because those jeans are thick. Heavy, rigid denim. Slim fit. And the line of the zipper looks ready to pop like a soda can. Sitting on his right leg the entire time, taken by the scenery and the stars was how you were completely unaware of this developing situation until now.
You look away, your cheeks so hot they feel sunburned.
“Rafayel, this is not funny,” you manage, your voice thin.
“I’m not laughing,” he says, but he is, you can hear it in the shaky exhale that follows, the slight wobble in the arm holding you. “I’m suffering. This is a crisis. I’m in danger of popping a seam and then what would I tell my tailor? That it was a ‘Is there a gun in your pocket or are you happy to see me?’ situation gone wrong?.”
At the mental image of a gun going off in some man’s jeans has unwanted and inappropriate chuckles start escaping you despite the hand you have over your mouth, brittle, half-mad snort-squeaks only make it worse. What even is this situation? On a dark, isolated viewpoint in a sports car, sitting on top of a ridiculously beautiful man who has started sporting a chemical-induced erection the size of a cruise missile.
The sheer absurdity of it all is so overwhelming you feel a bubble of hysteria rising in your chest. Your shoulders start shaking.
“See? You think it’s funny too,” Rafayel accuses, but there’s no heat in it.
“I’m so sorry, Rafayel,” you get out sincerely between wheezes. “It’s not — oh god, I’m a terrible person.”
“Yeah, a little,” he teases unseriously to fluster you further, “This is the second time you’re trapping me with unknown substances, you know. In public, too. You’re getting too bold. I should be screaming.”
“Hey! I was just being a good girlfriend sharing my treats with you. You ate every single one I offered like a baby bird!—”
“Easy, easy,” he says, then winces.
That sobers you right up. You had a tendency to flail around when you got heated, and even though you are nowhere near the main event and still perched on his leg it must’ve jostled him. Nerve endings going off like pop rocks, right. You stop wriggling and lean back, a gesture of apology, a full-body contact that backfires spectacularly when he twitches under you, and lets out a pained grunt.
“Okay,” you say, your voice suddenly business-like as you scramble to come up with a solution. “Okay. Let’s just — let’s get you home. I’ll drive. You just sit there and — and think of… dead fish. Or something. It’s fine. We’ll be fine.”
“I don’t wanna leave,” he whines. He holds you with both arms, pulling you flush against him until there’s no space left for anything but the heat of his body and the ridiculous, press-hard problem in his pants. “We just got here. I finally have you to myself. Don’t...”
He has that spaced out, lowered, siren-like delivery you recognize from Ebb Day and The Perfume Incident, and that does not bode well at all. Your skin prickles and a hot stream that has your head blanking out pours out inside from head to toe. You really want to kiss him, and the fact that you’re already leaning forward registers until you’re a breath away from him, blinking in confusion. What the hell are you doing?
When you pull back, his bottom lip juts out in a sulky, disappointed curve that makes him look much younger than he is. You ignore that, and try to lean over his legs and scoot towards the driver’s seat to take matters into your own hands.
And are instantly caught, his fingers digging painfully into your hips, yanking you back. The force sends you sliding along his lap. His clothed cock catches in the valley of your ass, a burning hot presence that can’t be ignored, not at this proximity. He chokes on whatever he was about to say, the sound breaking off into a hiss, nails biting crescents into the material around the opposite dips of your pelvis.
“This’s — so bad,” he groans raggedly with an involuntary, shaky grind against you. “Saw white from just that. This is so bad.”
Then, before you can react, he seizes your chin from the underside, tilting your head to meet him. Then his lips slot over yours.
His mouth is a furnace, a fever, a reckless surge that steals the ground from under you. It chases the breath from your lungs, sends your knees jerking up, feet curling tight, demanding you bend to the fit of his hold until you fit into the crook of his elbow. Your neck rests on the bicep, your back arches involuntarily into the press of his body, and Rafayel licks into your mouth like he’s starving. There is none of his usual teasing slow-burn preamble. He is all-consuming. A force of nature.
Rafayel licks a thick, hot stripe across your lower lip and then bites down, not hard enough to break skin but with enough possessive pressure that has your hips hitching forward, your core clenching down on nothing. He swallows your gasp. The kiss deepens into a tangled, messy and desperate thing.
His other arm wraps around your waist, yanking you fully onto him, a movement so forceful and sudden it sends the half-empty chocolate box tipping over the side of your lap, its contents spilling across the red leather and onto the floor mat with a series of dull, insignificant thuds. He bats the few pieces from the seat and breaks the kiss momentarily to slide you off his lap, trapping you in the corner between the car door and passenger seat. Your back hits the plush leather and bounces off a little from the force of the impatient manhandling, lips tingling from friction, the world slightly tilted.
With the illuminated city’s scenery to his back, Rafayel looks taller and menacing despite the awkward twisting of his body to hover over you in the confined space. His arms cord tight, hands splayed into claws, white-knuckled against the window ledge and the expensive red leathering of your seat. It’s only now that you can actually see the state he’s in: The sweat. The glassy, wet shine of his eyes, the thin ring of blue-pink rimmed sharp as a penknife. The visible, eerie to witness pulses at his turtleneck-covered throat. He’s panting, a thousand-yard stare hovering just south of your collarbones, cheeks flushed a beautiful, brilliant shade of pink that makes his features impossibly vivid in the shadows of the night, more beautiful.
Rafayel’s hands aren’t idle; first, he straightens your shirt, only to then fist it at the clavicle, tugging the collar wide so his mouth can go straight for the soft skin there, his exhale positively scorching. There’s a desperation to the way he inhales against your throat, as if he’s drinking you in, printing the taste of salt and skin onto brain matter he currently has very little control over. You brace hard against the door, knowing you physically can’t help him when the car is this tight but somehow needing to try, especially as his kisses go south, teeth scraping a worried path along your pulse.
“Raf—” you squeak, and he hushes you instantly, the hand at your hip dragging you forward the inch or so he could try pressing your bodies together, the hand at your collar shifting its territory to frame your jaw.
“You are. So,” he fights with language for a second, jaw ticking, “…cruel,” he finishes, though he says it like a blessing. “You get your hook in me, have me at your mercy, and act shocked when I want you to pull. I want you to pull so hard it hurts,” Rafayel slurs, his hips rutting against your thigh because he can’t get in between your legs properly from this angle. “Fuck, it hurts. Everything hurts. So good.” He grunts again, shoving his face into your neck and latching on to your earlobe, biting down hard.
You flinch hard and cry out from the sudden, sharp pain. But the sting of the bite is followed almost immediately by the hot, slow stroke of his tongue, a deliberate apology that has your head falling back against the door, your body going lax with a complicated rush of endorphins.
“Can’t take this,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, and with a grunt of pure, unadulterated frustration, he shoves you back against the seat and pushes himself up.
He half-stands, one foot on the floor mat, one knee on the seat cushion next to your hip, crouching over you in the open-topped car like some mythical beast that’s crawled out of the sea and into a metal shell. The dome light catches the sweat on his temples, the dark, wet sheen of his hair where it’s fallen into his face. Your stomach does a strange little flip. One more leg up and he’d be straddling you.
“Can you—” He breaks off, shaking his head, a brow-furrowed, choking laugh escaping. “I can’t even future tense my thoughts right now. All my blood is gone.”
Somewhere, you know, you should be a little worried. The chocolate’s effects are working entirely as advertised: he’s not high, just wound so tight it’s like a wind-up toy ready to pop an axle. The physical discomfort is a baking hotness radiating from him. The real problem is how the same heat is building in you too, a slow, creeping rising that shamefully isn’t a product of any aphrodisiac.
“We’re doing this here? Like this?” You manage, your own breathing unsteady. “Rafayel, someone might see. Anyone could drive up. We’re on a—”
“Let them,” he cuts in, and it’s the Rafayel of canvas and pigment, the one who creates worlds and breaks them on a whim. “I’ll paint them a masterpiece. Catafalque for a Peeping Tom.”
You don’t think he’s thinking straight at all and hasn’t been for a while, but he clearly wasn’t joking about that part. The threat is more intoxicating than any aphrodisiac. He sees it in your face and lunges.
There’s no elegant way to make out heavily in a two-seater, so the two of you make absolute fools of yourselves. Someone’s knee gets jammed into the dashboard, someone’s head knocks hard against the seatbelt anchor, you drop the gearshift into neutral with and scramble behind you to wedge it back where it belongs without being able to look because you’re busy getting kissed stupid. Your hair gets caught in the leather, and Rafayel’s fingers immediately follow after, delicately untangling each snared lock with clumsy but attentive fingers, as if even now the fine-motor task is second nature to him even though the rest of him is being reduced to a twitching, rutting, single-minded mess.
He tries to talk, but it comes out as bitten vowels and shaky little purrs, punctuated by a desperate, “Don’t want to go back, not yet… let’s stay, please, let’s just—” but he need in his eyes is perfect, crystalline. It’s too pathetic to be pretty, too feral not to love. For whatever reason, the previous conversation about going back home is being brought up again, and it’s as if that fear is what’s fueling his fervency. Like his mind has been gnawing on the gristle of it the entire time. You can hardly believe his previous coherency and confidence has flown away after one clumsy make-out session.
He’s trying to get closer, but the angle and the limited space aren’t allowing it. It’s either the dashboard digging into his behind or the console in the middle tripping him up. You laugh a little, mostly out of nerves, and shift awkwardly so your back digs into the leather. His hand is ghosting up and down your thigh, not quite begging but practically vibrating with every pulse from his chest to your own.
“Raf, you’re going to break something,” you say, half-laughing.
He grumbles and grabs your collar, tugging you until your teeth clack together. He kisses you like it’s the only thing left in the world, mouth open and raw. His tongue is slick and greedy, lip trembling against yours. It’s nothing like the measured, teasing make-outs you’ve weathered up till now; sloppier, hotter, fierce enough that you realize with a jolt that he’s not faking any of the desperation. He can’t get a grip, not on his breath or his body.
“Not fair,” he whines, digging his forehead into yours, sweat misting his hairline getting on you. “Inside of me is on fire. How — why do people use this stuff?”
“Do you want to take a minute? I can—”
He shakes his head, violently, nearly headbutting you. “No. No. If I stop, it gets worse. I want—” He closes his eyes, shakes again, inhales sharp enough that it whistles. “I want you.”
He looks at you with that barely-contained hunger hiding beneath, the sort that makes you think if you don’t move first, he’ll shatter and scatter like paintwater tilting off the edge of the page. Whatever the aphrodisiac is, it’s stripped him of his usual reserve and left only an aching openness; he’s wearing his want like an unfamiliar shirt, not bothering to hide the way it fits.
Your hand finds his thigh, traces upwards, higher, until you fit your palm over the rigid line straining against his pants, and he makes a sharp, half-strangled sound. “Yes. Yeah.” The syllables tumble over each other, nearly melting into a thick, trembling groan as you work him through the fabric with a steady pressure that soothes and embarrasses in equal measure. It’s clumsy, almost, how he responds to you, all overexcited puppyish eagerness barely shaped into whimpers that light up along your nerves.
He tries to rally, to pull you closer by your wrist, but you’ve stolen all advantage and use it ruthlessly, dragging your palm from base to tip with purpose. He stiffens, thighs quaking under your grasp, his mouth parted and hungry but too overwhelmed to close the distance, left panting in that small, helpless ‘o’. You tease him, not unkind but playful, just enough pressure to coax out a sound from him you thought impossible: delicate, almost heartbreakingly high-pitched, more a whine than an outright moan.
That’s when patience finally fails him altogether.
He lurches forward, both hands scrabbling to undo the button of your jeans, words tangled in the rush: “Can’t—” His fingers, usually so precise, fumble now, the little metal disc slipping again and again as the effort defeats him.
“Raf, okay, okay, stop, stop for now, please,” you find yourself saying, soft but urgent, because the raw edge in his frustration is too much to bear.
To his credit, Rafayel listens. He stops with all the force it takes to resist a canvas half-finished, pressing his forehead to your shoulder instead. His breathing is heavy and hot, soaking right through your shirt, and you feel him there in the trembling, in the heat, in the long pause between want and surrender.
“There isn’t even space for me to take this off,” you supply, a comforting hand rubbing slow circles on the back of his head. He flinches at the contact, then immediately leans into it, a soft sigh escaping him. His entire body is one drawn string. He might actually shatter if you pluck him too hard. Or even a little.
The guilt is a sour knot in your throat. You did this. You fed him the chocolates.
“But it’s fine, listen to me,” you say, the resolve in your own voice surprising you. “I’m going to get you off either way, okay? But not like this. We can’t get anywhere if you keep trying to wrestle me in this car.”
You slide your fingers into the hair at his nape, and he makes a low, wounded sound at the back of his throat. He nuzzles closer, like a giant cat seeking comfort, and for a fleeting second, you almost forget the problem straining the seams of his jeans.
“How do you wanna do this? I want to make you feel better,” you ask gently, turning your head enough to press a soft kiss against his temple. He tastes of salt and a faint, almost sweet tang.
Midway through inhaling, you make the error of glancing down — and there, his hand has claimed you, fingers sprawled wide and sinking deep into the slope of your thigh, folding the muscle in his grasp. The fabric of your jeans drags taut beneath his palm, and the blue veins on the back of his hand run bold as rivers, feeding out from the simple, gleaming band circling his wrist. His sleeve is shoved up, the shadows of tendon and vein tracing his arm like roads beneath stretched skin.
It hits you, then, a sharp, stunning lurch in your gut, the kind that burns low and spreads, hungry, rippling outward from the knot in your belly. It hollows out everything else. Suddenly your own jeans are too tight, the seam biting in with a kind of pointed promise; the pressure is focused, precise, a line of friction that’s impossible to ignore.
But he lets go, pulling back with effort. He looks at the steering wheel, then back at you, then over your seat where the road curves down towards the city. A slow, lazy smile spreads across his face, the kind that divines trouble and makes you want to sprint straight toward it.
“Rafayel, no.”
“You know me so well.” He leans in, his breath fanning across your cheek, then stands up straight in the car. Makes no attempt to move.
You’re face to face with his crotch, the denim pulled taut over the hard line of him. Your own breath wobbles. The city lights blur in your periphery.
Looming over you with one hand braced against your seat’s headrest for balance, Rafayel works at his own belt buckle with the other, jean chains jangling around with the force of it. The leather whispers as it threads free. The button popping is loud in the quiet air, followed by the sharp rasp of his zipper lowering, like it lets out a relieved sigh in Rafayel’s place.
“What do I need to do for you to sit down for this? Do you want everyone who decides to take the scenic route at night to get a private showing of Catafalque for a Very Horny Artist?”
You say that, but your eyes are glued to the revealing vee of his jeans, at the dark fabric of his boxers and the rude and immediate shape beneath, the patch of dampness darkening the material where the head presses against the constriction.
He answers by hooking both thumbs into the waistband of his underwear and shoving them down with the pants in one fluid motion. The night air must be cold against his overheated skin because he makes a sharp noise, a clipped-off gasp that is entirely swallowed by the view. The subsequent bob, slap, and bounce of him springing free is so indecent that your mouth waters. The noise is heavy. He’s flushed an angry, deep red that almost matches the color of the sports car, swollen enough that the skin looks tight, a glossy bead of fluid already welling at the tip. It’s a mesmerizing, vulgar thing against the frame of glittering cityscape and dark silhouette of mountains.
“Will you open for me?” he asks, raw, no playfulness left in the request. It’s a beg and a command at once. “All I can think about is... Wanna be in that smart mouth and.... Mess you up like I...”
He’s mumbling to himself.
A thrill, bright and sharp, goes through you. You glance up, meeting his hooded, colorless gaze. Rafayel is trying so valiantly to keep his composure, even as he’s one massive, shivering bundle of ‘I’m going to die if you don’t do something right fucking now.’ An index finger comes up to tilt your head up, and your bottom lip slips from the top row of your teeth. His eyes follow the movement, a fresh flush rising to his cheeks, his lower body shifting in an abortive jerk.
His thumb tip runs the curve of your lips. You part them, and his whole body twitches. His cock is an inch from your nose. And there’s a sudden smell of him, a hint of his expensive soap and the sharp, clean scent of sweat, along with a muskier undertone that sends a bolt of pure heat shooting through you. You can see the muscles in his bare forearm contract, breathing ragged, hand shaking where it grips the headrest.
“Pretty, pretty, pretty,” he mutters, feverishly, like a mantra. “So unfair.”
Your tongue darts out, swiping at the wet pad of his thumb, and he exhales, shaky. The taste is salt and the lingering trace of chocolate, a chemical sweetness. You bite down lightly, and he lets his hand fall. His cock bobs in front of you, and the urge to reach out and grab him is a physical ache. It feels wrong to just stare at it. Especially the way it curves upward, straining, the veins stark under his skin and a clear droplet of precum threatening to roll down his shaft.
“Gonna paint your mouth,” he murmurs, palm coming down to smooth your hair. His grip on your scalp is the only steady thing about him, grounding himself with you while the rest of him threatens to leave orbit.
You give him a firm, ungloved touch and the downright panicked sound he makes at the back of his throat is worth every second of potential public humiliation. He slaps a hand over his mouth to stifle the rest, eyes wide open and brows drawn together, chest rising and falling rapidly. His hips twitch, an aborted thrust. You grip him, feeling the hot, silky-smooth skin glide under the circle of your fingers. Even the lightest squeeze is rewarded with a glistening pearl of moisture. You hear the leather creak and bend from the white-knuckled grip, a groan muffled by the meat of his palm. A tiny, pleading noise escapes him, soft and weak, and he shifts, pushing forward just a little.
All this from a single, chaste stroke. No wonder he’s on the verge of losing his mind. You’re amazed he hasn’t gone full feral. Yet.
“Fuck, what is this, what is...” He bites it back, a ragged noise that turns into his usual showy laugh, but the edge is gone and now he is just trembling, head tilted and chin down, every muscle lit up with electricity. He looks a bit drunk, glazed, like the world is tilting a little. “That’s good. That’s — that’s good. Feel like... I can just... Please, can you—”
“I got you, I got you, don’t worry, come on, feed it to me, baby,” you murmur, a soft reassurance, and you hold him steady while he lines up, and slides home.
The stretch is obscene, a thick and heavy weight on your tongue. He arches so violently the seat shakes, his moan echoing off the glass and the windshield. His other hand finds purchase on the lip of the window, the knuckles white, nails scraping the paint job.
Meanwhile, you have to adjust. The half-delirious man above you is throbbing, the vein pulsating under your fingertips and his cock doing the same in your mouth, the flesh inside hard, the skin outside soft. He can’t fit all at once, of course, and the angle is awkward, your neck craned to accommodate his height. So, you wrap a fist around him and bob shallowly.
What surprises you is him losing all strength in his legs and crumpling in half over the speedster bump behind the passenger seat, his hands slipping to clutch at the buttress. The sudden shift shoves his head all the way in, the blunt tip hitting the back of your throat, and you gag, sandwiched between the back of the seat and the trembling wall that is his body. At the same time Rafayel sobs, his whole body seizing.
“Ffffuck, sorry, ‘m sorry, I can’t, my knees, I can’t, I can’t,” he cries, the last word cracking on the high note. “I’m so sorry, cutie, I’m— please, keep moving, I’ll, yes, fuck, yes, thank you, thank you, thank you—”
But fully flattened against the seat, you have no space to move. It’s him doing all the moving.
You can only close your eyes, hold on to him and try to catch a breath, his thighs and stomach quivering as he fucks your mouth in a series of hesitating, slow, stuttering and shallow jerks that contradicts his desire. It must be painful, you think. All you can do is flatten your tongue, relax, and let him go. Let him use you. Take what he needs. Let him have it.
It’s filthy, the smothered noises and hisses he’s making and the sounds that are coming from you. The wet, obscene slurp of spit, the squelch of his movements, the slips of his hands sliding on the buttress where he’s draped over like a limp, broken doll.
He tries to speak, to say anything, but his words are breaking apart, and the only syllable that stays intact is the hisses and low moans your name, over and over and over, until—
You swallow around him, and his rhythm stutters. He makes a strangled, shocked noise. And your mouth is suddenly flooded, the taste of his release coating the insides of your cheeks and your tongue, thick and salty and a little bitter, and then he’s pulling away, his cock leaving your mouth with a slick pop and a loud cry. You swallow. His upper back hits the windshield header and even bends a bit backwards, his head thrown back and his face blissed out of his skull, and he strokes himself to a second crest the rest of the way, painting his hot pink shirt in thick spurts of white.
You’re both panting. Your jaw is sore, and you’re leaning forward, still holding onto his thigh, blinking at the thick mess of him making its way down in a snail’s pace. Your heart is racing, a frenzied bird in your chest, and you’re strangely aware of the cool night air, the dark sky and the quietness of the mountain.
Rafayel drapes a forearm over his eyes, his other arm bracing his torso against the dashboard, his entire form sagging as the tension ebbs, the harsh lines of his shoulders and collarbones smoothing out. His Adam’s apple bobs.
“That was fast,” you manage. Because it was. Barely minutes. But also, not. It had felt like forever. You’re not sure. You’re also a little dazed. “Feeling better?”
He laughs. It’s an utterly ruined sound, a choked, wheezing derision. He drops his hand and looks down at you, and his resentful smile is crooked, punch-drunk, his lower lashes clumped together. Sweat shines at his chin and the sides of his face and you briefly glimpse the wet patch on his sleeve.
And you have to admit, the aftershocks are hilarious. Rafayel, minus two thirds of his mortal dignity, is giggly in the way of a migraine patient just after the pain breaks and the world is suddenly hilarious, every sight or sensation knocking him off-kilter. He slides into your lap in the passenger seat, purrs like a huge, wrung-out feline, and just lets you take off his ruined shirt and use it as sort of a cleaning rag on him. He’s left with yet another pink dress shirt with its buttoned up collar rimmed a darker shade due to sweat, and somehow, throughout all that, his tie stayed perfectly in place.
After it’s done, you fold the overshirt that probably costs more than your salary carefully and put it away on the dashboard, run your fingers through the roots of his lavender hair, and kiss his temple until he’s coiled around you practically boneless.
You were very wrong about that last line.
Because not even five minutes later he has you bent like a pretzel the hood of the car, saying something about how in these models the motor is in the back, so it doesn’t get hot at all.
You honestly don’t know how both of you got here.
One moment you were enjoying stargazing and watching the city beyond the glass railings, cuddled together on the sloped front of the vehicle; and the next thing you know Rafayel is on you. Maybe you underestimated how long-lasting the aphrodisiacs were going to be and should have driven him back home instead of giving into his pestering to stay and continue the date, who knows.
Point is: a horny, demanding artist has a hold on the backs of your knees and has them pushed all the way to the underside of your breasts. Your shirt has become some sort of cardigan open in the front, showing your chest littered with lovebites. Your ass is exposed to the night, jeans and underwear tugged to your knees — which act as fucking restraints, if anything. A single shoe has come off, hanging precariously from your foot. His mouth is pressed to your core, and the world has shrunk to the warm, silky-wet drag of his tongue and the heat of his breath, your own breath fogging the gleaming red. But you’re in no danger of falling, not with the bulk of him pushing you up like that.
(“Rafayel, there’s no lube, it’s not going to—”
“You make a great point. Let me get to it.”)
There’s no sound from the distant highway, only the wind in the grass, and the rustle of leaves, and the faint, almost meditative hums from Rafayel, the slick sounds his mouth is making, and your own breath, hitching and hiccupping. Your fingers scrabble at the smooth metal. You’re on fire, feverishly aroused, the cool of the occasionally blowing wind is doing nothing to ease the burning need inside.
You want to see Rafayel, want to paw at his hair, but your smushed position is one that has him completely hidden behind the wall that is your legs. Looking anywhere else is a slap on the face on he’s got you laid out like this out in the fucking open, on top of a flashy, expensive car, the city lights spread beneath you and the starry heavens above. You can’t believe you’re getting off on this, or that you willingly went along, or that —
His teeth scrape lightly at the nub of nerve endings and your thoughts disintegrate.
“Yeah, stay with me, pretty girl, I got you, gonna make a mess of you,” comes his low, sing-song warning from between your thighs. The vibrations add to the sensation. It’s a lot.
He’s relentless. Alternating between broad, flat-tongue licks and a pointed tip to poke and prod at your hole. The obscene noises his mouth produces are loud enough to fill the whole clearing. When his nose bumps against the apex of your cleft, and his tongue slips in, the sharp bolt of pleasure-pain that goes through you has you seeing stars. Literal, real-life, actual constellations, in the backdrop of the Milky Way. Or the tears in your eyes have decided to take that shape.
“Oh, shit, oh shit, oh shit. Please, please, don’t stop, keep going, please, please, please, I’m so close, fuck, fuck, right there, oh, god, that’s good, so good, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes—” you babble, your whole body tight and tense, the coil of your orgasm ready to snap.
You’re at the edge, feet flailing a bit from the knees, and the knowledge that anyone could see this if they happened to drive by is only spurring the pressure to build and build and build, and then, and then—
Rafayel wraps an entire arm around your pressed thighs, an iron bandtrapping you in and pulling you impossibly closer to his face, his nails giving the soft skin crescent dimples. He gives a particularly sharp, electrifying suck on your clit, and you’re slingshotted out of your body. A shattered cry echoes off the trees, and you’re shaking, and thrashing. He has to push down with the same arm to pin your hips to the car while his mouth keeps working on you, prolonging the pleasure, dragging it out of you, until finally, finally, you’re slumped on the car, gasping, and his grip loosens, and his mouth pulls away.
The post-climax daze lasts exactly half a second, because when you look down, his head is visible from the side, and the sight is... He is flushed and beautiful, the glow of the overhead lamppost and the moonlight glistening the sheen of his lips and his chin. His hair is a tousled, sexed up mess, the tips of his ears and the tops of his cheeks a brilliant pink.
Rafayel carefully helps you let down your shaking legs, and, at that point, you are just a puddle of a person too exhausted to give a damn about anything else.
“I’ve never heard you curse so much. Must’ve been good, huh?” he teases, his voice deep and rougher than normal, the usual sultry, melodic tones replaced by gravel and the rumble of an oncoming storm. “You’re into the threat of being caught? Didn’t think my cutie had that in her. What other dirty little secrets are you keeping from me?”
He’s standing, stroking up and down your trembling upper thighs, the tender touch the complete opposite of what his words imply. He leans in to press a damp kiss on your sternum, and the contrast of the chill and the warmth raises goosebumps in your flesh.
“I think I’m leaking on the paint job, Rafayel, can we get in the car now?”
It was a niggling feeling before, but now you think about it again, he looks too in-control for someone under the effects of the chocolates, his gaze not as hazy, his grin not as wide and dopey. Before, his entire body was a live wire. You’re not sure what this is or if you should be worried.
Despite needing a wipe first, you reach down to pull your pants up and attempt standing up at the same time, but get a bit of a shock when the world flips around and find yourself on your belly over the hood, arms pinned at the small of your back, held in the clamp of his fingers. As if you’re being arrested.
Your yelp is a mix of indignation and surprise, and a hint of arousal, and that has him laughing, the noise darkly delighted. “Caught in the act avoiding the question. How are you gonna plead?”
“Rafa—” you protest, but then his hand is between the layers of fabric, finding that spot and circling it with the same firm, gentle movements that had already brought you to climax not moments ago. Your breath is knocked out of you in a shuddering exhale, the suddenness of the stimulation taking the reins from you, and your cheek slides against the glossy red. “Oh, fffuck, please, we pushed our luck enough, come on, let’s go home—”
He slips two fingers in so easily. “You were begging so sweetly for me to keep going, where’s that spirit now?”
You are, once again, at his mercy. That hand around your wrist might as well be a zip cuff. The realization sends a bolt of pure, unadulterated lust shooting straight down to the pit of your stomach, and it’s a relief that the car is the one bearing most of the weight, otherwise your knees might have buckled. “I’m — I’m sensitive, can you— slow, slow, please, Raf—”
“Of course, baby,” he says, and the tempo of his movement eases. Gentle. Soothing. It’s still too much. Too intense. You feel raw, exposed, and you try to shy away from him. But the hand that has a grip on your wrists won’t budge. And the fingers inside of you are curling and coaxing, an implacable force. They’re not thrusting. Just. Rubbing. Stroking. A languid massage. “Better? Am I doing okay?”
You nod, forehead sliding across the metal, a high whine escaping from the back of your throat, stifled against the car. It feels like every nerve ending has been scraped clean and reconnected to a single circuit board. Like the synapses in your brain have been rewired.
“You’re squeezing so tightly, pretty. You want to cum again, don’t you? Want to show the entire city how pretty you sound when you fall apart?”
A flush of heat creeps through you, and it’s almost mortifying how quickly your body is responding. He’s hardly moved, yet your legs tremble with anticipation, and a pulsing throb radiates from your clit. The warmth in your belly twists tighter, a knot of desire that seems to draw you closer to the edge. The heel of his palm presses against your slick folds, sending waves of sensation crashing over you, and you can’t help but gasp, a breathy moan escaping your lips, trembling with the intensity of it all.
“You’re so cute. So, so, cute.”
You can’t help the way you grind back, chasing the friction, the pressure, the fullness of him. Your eyes are screwed shut, and your mouth is open, panting. Rafayel leans forward, then, chin hooking over your shoulder and nosing at the hinge of your jaw. His breath is hot on your neck, and his hair brushes your cheek. It’s ticklish. Intimate. Overwhelming. You tilt your head, pressing your temple against his. The hard length of his bare erection, which you have no idea when he took out, presses insistently against your backside, the only giveaway against the iron control he’s showcasing. How little the chocolates have worn off despite his brief respite.
“Tell me,” he whispers. “Did you really like being eaten out in a public place that much?”
You’re a little past the point of shame. “Yes, fuck, yes, I liked it. I loved it.”
“Let me make it better for you.” His tongue is wet and hot against the shell of your ear, tracing the delicate whorls with an intimacy that feels dirtier than anything he’s done so far, the obscene slick of saliva as his breath catches is so loud from the proximity. The wet rasp of him licking. Your whole body breaks out in a shiver that has nothing to do with the chill of the night air. “Show me how much you want it. How good you can be, hm? Be a sweetheart, and say ‘thank you, Rafayel.’ Use those manners.”
“Thank you, Rafayel,” you parrot, and the words are an easy submission. An automatic reaction to the command. You’re not even thinking. Not anymore. Just reacting. Obeying. Letting him have his way. Because, god, does his praise feel good. Even the ones that sound more like a taunt.
He rewards you with a third finger, and the stretch is incredible. He works them in and out, a lazy, slow pump that has you trying to rock backward, desperate for more. For something to clench around. To fill you up.
“What’s that? Can’t have them knowing I’m some kind of a bully, or that you’re here against your will. Say it nice and proper. Tell everyone that I’m not coercing you to spread your legs. Come on, cutie. Louder. Let your voice rise and sweeten the night. Tell the stars what you’re begging for. Don’t be shy, now.”
“Please, please, I need it, please, I’ll do whatever you want, just—”
“Yeah, like that, so, so good,” he coos. “So, so, good. Look at you, opening up for me, letting me in. Such a needy girl. My needy, sweet, pretty girl. You’re aching, aren’t you?”
You nod. A frantic, feverish motion. Your hips are rolling in time with his thrusts, a mindless, instinctual movement. The world is blurry and fuzzy and bright.
“I could just eat you all up. Or have you on display in a museum, have people stare at the piece of art that’s making the prettiest sounds. Would you like that?”
The laughter in his voice is unmistakable, a note bright with provocation, a glint of challenge. He is fully aware of the absurdity curling off his tongue, and still, you’re clamping tighter around him, the tension spiraling deeper, tighter, heedless. Some heady impulse tilts your chin back, makes you meet his gaze; there he stands above you, haloed by the moon, intent, unyielding, his eyes pinning you in place, cheeks fever-bright, teeth carving into his lower lip, stray beads of sweat glimmering silver at his temples where the moonlight finds them and refuses to let go. The sight emboldens you. It brings a wildness to your words as you ask, “Would you?” Your voice trembles between daring and desire. “Would you put me on a pedestal, let the world look at me, marvel at me? Or would you secret me away, locked behind glass, kept just for you — a private gallery where no one else is ever allowed?”
There’s a slip in his composure — a ripple flickering over his face, impossible to name before it’s gone. “Ha!”
In an instant, his fingers slide out of you, leaving a shadowed ache in their wake; the grip on your wrists dissolves, only to reform as his hand circles the base of your nape, loose, warm, possessive. Rafayel rises, steadies himself, and then he’s inside you in a single, heavy shove, blunt and perfect in its inevitability. The relief is nearly religious, and the sigh that escapes you is a surrender, an admission: yes, fuck, finally.
He fills you completely, bottoms out, and the pressure of his hand tightens, a collar, an anchor. For a moment, you wonder, dazed, whether he’s always been this impossibly big.
There’s the stretching ache, the delicious burn, peaking on the edge of pain but never quite falling, the sharpness swept away by the satisfaction of being filled so utterly, down to the last inch. Buried, claimed, every nerve alive to him and only him.
“You can’t say things like that,” he chides. His voice is shaky. Raw. Like the words are being dragged forth from somewhere deep in his chest. “Or I’ll never ever let you go. I’ll take you home, lock you in, and hide the key, and have you every day, in my bed, on the kitchen floor, the living room, in the pool, in the bathroom, in the studio, the balcony, on the beach, against my canvases.”
He gives an experimental roll of his hips, a shallow grind that punches the air from your lungs. And keeps at it. “I’d sell those, too, the paintings. Every single piece will have a bit of you in the grain, on the brushstrokes, on the colors. And maybe those will be the last the world sees of you. Does that excite you? For the entire world to have a little piece of you to admire and covet forever? But they won’t have this, will they?”
And then he’s moving, setting a brutal pace, pounding into you so hard that the clearing becomes an open theater of the graphic sex scene in a movie. The slap of flesh on flesh, the metallic creak of the chassis, the whole car shaking, the choked-off, punched-out noises coming from you, the lewd, filthy wet suck and shove of him entering you, the sticky, messy shlick, shlick, shlick of his length as it pistons in and out. All of it, echoing off the trees. Your hands are splayed on the hood, palms pressed flat, trying to find purchase. Anything to hold on to. You’re bouncing on the balls of your feet, bare tits dragging across the metal, the fabric of your pants caught around the knees still.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, oh, yes, yes, yes,” is all that spills from you, flooding the quiet cab with your desperation, sweat slickening your skin, drool tracing warm lines beneath your chin and dripping to the front of the vehicle. How you ache for him to fist your hair, yank you back until you bend for him, force you to look at the winding road leading up to the viewpoint beyond the car. Force you to see the possibility of someone walking in on this. Someone seeing you. Seeing him. Seeing the both of you, like this.
And when he does exactly that, you’re so lost in the sauce that you don’t even question how in sync the two of you are. He curls one arm around your waist, yanking you in so close you can barely breathe, while the other winds cruelly into your hair, clutches at the roots, tugs until tears spring in the corners of your eyes and the muscles of your abdomen are straining. You have to balance yourself on your forearms, nails scratching the paint job.
“There you go cutie, is that — hhh, better? Mmm, yeah, it is. Making a mess of my car, breaking it in, overwriting everything, that’s right, that’s—” his breathing is labored, and he sounds a touch delirious, a slight break in the cadence of his dirty talk a telltale of his approaching orgasm, but he’s still not slowing, the tempo of his thrusts only growing faster, more frantic. “Want you to mark every part of this thing—”
The angle is different now, and his cock grazes a spot that has you seeing stars. “Oh, shit, oh shit, I’m gonna cum, please, Raf, ‘m close, ‘m close, keep going, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes—”
Rafayel stops.
“What—”
“Shh.”
His grip releases its hold on your hair, the warmth of his arm sliding away from your waist.He pulls out of you with a slick, audible pop. You are left cold and bereft for not even a second before he pivots and hoists you over his shoulder with effortless strength, and you hear the chirp-chirp of the key fob unlocking the car. You twist to look behind as he’s walking and see the door on the driver’s side scissor open. Between one breath and the next, you’ve somehow ended up facing the steering wheel, caged between his thighs while the whirring of the roof and windows rolling up purrs through cabin, noises of the outside replaced by the low hum of the air conditioning kicking in.
It takes your addled brain a bit to process what just happened.
“People,” Rafayel says, answering the question in your head.
“Oh.” That is the most eloquent response you can formulate at the moment. Your brain is still stuck in the gutter, and your libido is screaming at the abrupt yanking of the rug from underneath its feet. “Did they see us?”
“No. But I think they’re about to come over here.”
You dart your gaze from the vibrant red leather of the square steering wheel to the trio of analog gauges gleaming behind it, then to the sleek touchscreen nestled in the center console. Anxiety grips you, making you reluctant to glance around for any signs of onlookers creeping closer, a knot of tension tightening in your stomach.
“You think?”
“Well,” he drawls. You feel the movement of his shoulders on the back of yours and a tap of something at the edge of your vision, and turn to see a finger adjusting the rearview mirror. The belated realization that Rafayel picked up on their approach long before they were anywhere near the viewpoint is a sharp jab to your pride. It’s a touch humiliating, even with the Lemurian factor considered. He’s the one under the influence of aphrodisiacs, not the other way around.
Shame hot in your cheeks, you take in that small window of opportunity to say, “I’m really ruining your upholstery, I need to, like, pull up my panties or something. Can’t sit like this.”
Rafayel doesn’t answer at first. When he does, it’s through the tips of his boots having a battle with your feet to kick your shoes off.
“What are you doing?” you laugh.
“Giving you a seat. You’ve yet to ride, riiiight?”
You don’t see it coming, how suddenly your pants (and the panties with them) are swept from your legs, the two of you forced to lean in, awkward, close to get them free. Rafayel tosses the heap onto the passenger seat with the same indifference as a priest clearing an altar. You feel relief crest through you, legs unshackled at last, the urge to stretch and move nearly overwhelming. You flex your toes, bracing as sensation courses through your limbs.
Rafayel pats both his thighs like he’s inviting a pet to hop onto his lap. “Up and at ‘em. This is the best seat in the house.”
You fight back a chuckle, not wanting to give him the satisfaction, and shift your weight, careful not to knee him too hard in the process. It’s graceless, messy, yet somehow you find him, straddling his lap. Your shirt’s a rumpled halo around your shoulders, barely concealing anything. His cock juts up, urgent and insistent, hot against your belly. The head gleams with precum, and everywhere he touches leaves an echo across your skin. Your body responds before you can marshal it, clenching tight around nothing at all, need building by the second.
“You’re like this even though—”
“You know whose fault it is,” Rafayel quips. His palms are warm and slightly rough, stroking up and down the valley of your back, a soothing and electrifying massage at once.
You swivel your head as the unmistakable sound of male laughter drifts toward the car. Two of them.
“Dude, I knew my eyes weren’t fooling me, check that out!”
“Is that a Spider?”
“Nahh, Maserati for sure. Look at the shape on her, the headlights, the curves, the tail. What a beast. She’s gorgeous.”
A shadow looms at the driver’s side, and you freeze, your breath hitching in your throat. The tinted windows offer a false sense of security, cloaking the interior in darkness. He can’t possibly see you like this. Yet, staring directly into the eyes of someone who doesn’t see you prickles at your nerves, and your heart races, thumping wildly against your ribcage.
He bends a little, peering in, and then straightens, looking at the convertible roof. His attention goes to the windshield. “D’you think the owners are nearby?”
Rafayel’s hands glide to your waist, urging you down until his cock nestles against your folds, sending a jolt through your hips.
The man’s companion is inspecting the front. “No idea. Maybe someone’s getting lucky in the bushes.”
Rafayel’s lips trail along the sensitive curve of your jaw, his teeth grazing the tender skin with a teasing bite. A shiver cascades through you, igniting a wave of goosebumps that ripple across your body. He deftly encourages your hips to sway against him, and a breath catches in your throat, leaving your mouth parted in a silent gasp as his shaft glides over the sweet spot nestled at the apex of your sex.
“Rafayel, we have to stop, we’re gonna—”
But he’s not listening. His mouth traces their own answer up the tender column of your neck; his tongue, seeking, dips into the hollow at your throat’s base. He presses closer, pushing the crown of his erection against the slick, wet entrance of your core.
“Look at these tires.”
“You think the engine is the original?”
“I mean they must have—”
He’s using the leverage of his body to control the motion of yours, forcing you to grind on his cock, the friction of the veiny, smooth flesh dragging across the sensitive nub and the twitch of him in return sending a jolt of pleasure-pain lancing through you. Your nipples are stiff, aching peaks, begging to be touched. He latches on to the right one, sucking it into his mouth and swirling his tongue around the bud, his thumb finding the other and rolling, pinching, plucking, his index and middle finger squeezing the soft flesh around the nub.
“Bro, what do you think the top speed on this baby is?”
“It’s not a muscle car, but it’s at least 180, 200, somewhere in that range. If not more. They’re not exactly the same. Lemme have a better look at the badges and the trim...”
The first moan that comes out of you is soft and muffled, swallowed by the thick, humid air of the car. The scent of sex is heavy in the enclosed space. You’re acutely aware of the two men talking and circling the vehicle. It’s so wrong. This is so wrong. But you can’t bring yourself to care. Not when Rafayel is working you over like an instrument, playing you like a maestro.
“...fuck, that sounds amazing. Wish I had one of those.”
“Really? I thought you liked the old ones more, the vintage classics. Like that Impala from that ghost hunting show, or whatever.”
“Nah, not that much. Those are nice, but kinda overrated, in my opinion. Besides, the maintenance costs on that shit is a killer. And the fuel. My bank account would cry if I tried to restore a 69 Mustang or something.”
He huffs against your nipple, all irritation, a hot, petulant rush over your skin. Rafayel’s head thumps back to the seat, jaw set, and then, with no warning at all, the flex of his arms closes around you, a vise, hefting you up so the world slips from under you. When he brings you down, it’s pure, impatient force, lining himself up and then spearing you onto his cock in a single, brutal stroke.
You lurch forward, face driving into the place where his shoulder meets his throat, biting down your voice. Your arms lock around him; your fingers sink into his biceps, nails carving into hard muscle as you try to keep your breath steady, to let yourself adjust to the bright sting of being split open, filled to the edge of agony. Rafayel doesn’t move. He holds you there, stone-still. The reason flickers through you, sudden and wicked: you’re not the only one straining to bear it.
You’d almost forgotten about the chocolates.
“It’s so hot,” he rasps. The words scrape out of his chest, his whole body shivering under your palms, skin a furnace that burns, his pulse racing wild enough to tremor through you.
Rafayel, then, pushes you away with a shuddering breath. A sharp yank of the knot loosens his tie, which ends up joining your discarded clothes in the passenger seat. You help him with the buttons and throw that away, too, leaving him in the turtleneck compression shirt that makes his frame seem broader, and reveals all the ridges of his musculature and the taper of his waist.
“You think the owners are gonna be pissed if we took some photos?”
“Just don’t get the plate.”
“Duh, I’m not an idiot. Let’s get a few shots from different angles. The lighting is pretty sick, the city and the moon, the trees and stuff—”
There’s a sudden avalanche of noise, a tangle of yelps and curses tumbling through the hilltop, sharp as shattered glass. All at once you’re whirling, pulse stuttering, and catching the scene: the two men have dropped their phones, fumbled them like live coals snatched barehanded from the stove, and now they’re dancing in place, hands flapping, horror twisted across their faces.
“Ouch, ouch, what the fuck!?”
“What the hell, man, what the fuck was that!”
“Are you okay, dude!? Shit, did you get burnt too—”
“That phone was brand new!”
“Did this car just electrocute us!?”
Rafayel snickers, and you glance over your shoulder, half caught between bewilderment and that sweet, mean delight that always finds you at the antics of him. He answers in the language of bodies: a slow, circling tilt of his hips, that deliberate, indolent grind, coaxing you into the back-and-forth of it, a slow rock that makes you ache and open, that has him moving inside you like the tide and his breath turning ragged at the corners. His gaze doesn’t meet yours, it’s dropped, heavy-lidded, lips parted, eyes trained on the place where he fills you, where there’s nothing separating you from each other except the shiver and clench of your body around him. Something inside you tightens, involuntary, seizing around him, and he groans. His lashes tremble and a new sheen of sweat stand out at his temples.
“Let’s just get the heck outta here, this is some freaky shit.”
“Oh my god, it’s melted. There’s no fucking way, look at yours too—”
“Ugh, it is, holy hell, it’s completely fried, that’s fucked, what in the world...”
You notice at the very last second that leaning a little back to get the angle right would make you collide directly with the steering wheel. But it’s too late.
The honk the car emits is deafening. An echoing, ear-splitting blare that pierces the night. You jerk back right up, a helpless squeak escaping you, both hands flying to clamp over your mouth.
“Shit, let’s go, now, run, run, RUN—”
“Wait for me, wait, I lost a shoe, FUCK—”
You don’t get to see where the two scurry off to — the thought barely has time to spark before Rafayel is surging up, cupping your face with both hands, drawing you down to him with a hunger that blots out everything but the present and the heat between you, swallowing the tail end of your laughter in a savage, breath-stealing kiss. There’s no patience to it: his tongue pushes between your lips, insistent, demanding, as his fingers tangle tight in your hair, right at the base of your scalp. The other arm cinches you closer, curled hard around your waist.
His hips buck as if powered by a force that doesn’t belong to the world above water. One motion, and his cock plunges deeper, a brutal thrust that sends you scrambling to anchor yourself, knees digging into the seat so you don’t slide right off of him. A gasp slips out, breaking the kiss, but Rafayel gives you no quarter; he chases, ravenous, crushing your mouth beneath his again. His hand abandons your hair only to clamp around the nape of your neck, pulling you back onto him, relentless.
You recognize the source of that impossible strength — the same core and hips made for cleaving through ocean currents, now turned on you, working with inhuman perfection to drive into you, fast as a riptide. The whole car shudders, frame creaking, every thrust rocking you in his lap; there’s no keeping pace with him, no room for resistance. He’s governing every movement, and you’re left clinging to his shoulders, a ragdoll on his cock.
And he keeps devouring you. His lips are welded to yours, ravenous, his tongue plunging deep over and over, tasting, scouring, staking a claim until your breath is a fading echo inside your chest. He swallows your air, shoves the world to the narrow point of his mouth and heat and teeth, and suddenly there’s no oxygen, nothing but slick, dizzying darkness scrabbling at the edge of your vision. You have to tear free, break the seal, gasp, gulp down the air he stole from you and—
That flavor. Metallic, sharp. Pennies. No, not just pennies—
Blood.
You yank at Rafayel’s hair the way you’d pull a body from quicksand, and he comes with you, teeth flashing sharp and bright against your bottom lip. The scene he paints when you force him to look at you is obscene, unearthly: blood streams in a red ribbon from his nose, splits and stains along the line of his upper lip and chin, spills crooked down one cheek, and beads, a single lazy drop, slow and heavy, on the edge of his chin.
His eyes: blown wide, black and burning, hunger barely sheathed. That reckless, fever-bright sort of wildness. The slash of crimson on his skin and the darkness crowding his gaze could almost be a warning, but he only drags his tongue across his upper lip, painting it redder. He grins at you, not a hint of shame, white teeth and blood all at once, the image carnality incarnate, so wicked it’s almost beautiful.
“Shit, are you okay—” the rest of your words die on a moan as he hits a spot that has you seeing stars.
“You look so good painted with my blood.” He says it quiet, but the words are a lash, a shiver. His thumb glides across your lip, pressing just enough to part your mouth, and he traces the warmth where he’s marked you, smearing red at the curve of your mouth, leaving behind that dark, perfect print. He’s still smiling. Feral, ecstatic, a wicked joy that sits bright and raw under his skin. Ruined, undone by something only you can see, but so clear; hyperfocused. He watches every intake of breath, everything you do with that mouth. He lingers, thumb holding you wide open, as if he’s daring you to taste the streak of his blood. So far gone, and yet: more present than you’ve ever known him.
“Fuck,” is all you manage, an incredulous whisper. Your heart is hammering, and not just because of the pleasure. “I think we should— oh, fuck,” that last word pitches high, ending on a whine, and it’s a wonder that you can still form words at all, given how badly the car is rocking, how hard he’s pounding into you.
“I think you should,” he says, “Cum on my cock already. You did this to me, so it’s only fair, yeah? Won’t you give it to me? Come on. I know you’re close. Let go for me, cutie. Cum, cum, cum, cum—”
Denial behind you, need sharp and sudden as a knife to the ribs, you reel beneath his shepherding. He’s inside again, the memory of it still raw, and the thrill of near-discovery — their voices and footsteps, the dirty words he ground out against your ear, his fingers bruising your skin. It’s a riot of sensation, a merciless battering. There’s nothing you can do but arch up into it, helpless on the cresting wave.
He never lets up. Not one heartbeat’s worth of mercy. He drags you along the ragged edge, pistoning his hips, driving you to the edge of madness, past pride, past language. One more thrust, perfectly brutal, and the tension in your belly explodes, unstoppable, a coil snapping, heat and white noise blooming behind your eyes. Your hand slaps against the fogged glass, sliding, desperate for purchase, the other digging in hard at his shoulder as you come apart around him. You can’t breathe, can’t think, except to cling, to let the rush tear through you until your mind goes bright and empty and blank.
It feels as though your assent grants Rafayel some silent permission, a license to abandon every trace of restraint. You can’t say when his climax wracks him, whether it precedes yours or crests in tandem, only that it is a force, elemental, inescapable. With you in his arms, he flies off the seat, his whole body straining; tendons cord the length of his throat and jaw, the dark beads of blood weaving fresh lines over his chin, the hollow of his neck. His mouth opens, slack with the violence of it, and the cry he makes fractures against your skin, rough and beautiful, a breaking chord. He spills inside you, pulses of heat unleashed in rhythm, a tide battering, flooding, refusing to abate — a torrent that feels as if it could outlast you, outlast the moment, shuddering through you both.
The interior of the car is a disaster.
The driver’s seat is a mess of bodily fluids and the passenger seat’s floormat has crushed chocolate everywhere. His overshirt is a thorougly soiled rag on the dashboard having been used to clean the both of you, blood and all. The stink of sex is slowly fading thanks to the convertible’s roof being open again. And you are a boneless heap of jelly on top of Rafayel. Your pants and panties are a sad, damp, pile on the opposite side. Your button-up is half on. The zipper of his slacks is undone, his belt unbuckled still. He has an arm loosely wrapped around your waist, his breath tickling the hairs at the crown of your head. The rise and fall of his chest has evened out, his heartrate a steady, calm thump under your ear.
“I feel like we’ve disappointed Wade somehow,” you murmur. It’s a half joke. Half honest thought. Because the poor man had put in the effort to fix the damage and restore this poor car to its former glory, and now it’s gotten christened in the most depraved of ways.
Rafayel chuckles, and his free hand finds one of yours. He traces the shape of your knuckles. Slips his index finger between the webbing of yours. Twines the two of you together. Palm to palm. Fingers interlocked. “We certainly didn’t disappoint your friend.”
You turn your head to press your embarrassment to his sternum.
“You’re missing the scenery sitting like that by the way,” he says, patting your back repeatedly.
He helps you turn around in his lap, scooching towards the console so you can share the seat together. You lean on his shoulder, and his cheek rubs against the part of your head, the arm around you going a bit higher to hold you closer. After the frenzy that was earlier, the air of peace that has settled over the both of you is a welcome respite.
It’s a bit ridiculous to think about, also.
“Do you know in Lemurian the word for ‘moon’ and ‘liar’ are the same?”
Your gaze shifts from the twinkling heavens above to the pale, round disc that hangs there.
“It comes from the myth about the lovers, the Moon and the Sea. How the moon is unreliable, ever-changing and always hiding half of her in the darkness, and the sea is the lover, who is pulled at the whims of her tides.”
Things can’t be awkward enough for him to pull Philomena Cunk’s ‘The Egyptians believed the most significant thing you could do in your life was die,’ line, you think. But also, he might be speaking in riddles again. Or maybe not. Who knows. The moment is too fragile to risk breaking with a question. “That’s a bit sad.”
“It is. But the story goes on to say that no matter how many times the Moon changes, the Sea will always rise to her pull, no one else’s. Will always find her again no matter how many times she disappears.”
The melancholy that has seeped into the moment unsettles you. You want to chase it away, to fill the air with something brighter. With a playful lilt, you decide to break the tension, saying, “Before you explained I thought, like, liar must be because the light the moon reflects doesn’t belong to it, therefore, it’s lying. Not all that glitters is gold and all that jazz. Like those chocolates. Your explanation is prettier, though,” you offer, and his content smile is warm water on the flowerbed of your soul. “The moon isn’t going out anytime soon, and the ocean won’t dry up out of nowhere, either. There’s a certainty in that. They’ll figure it out. Eventually.”
His laugh is soft and airy.
“What? You want to talk about stories, let’s talk about stories. I’m pretty sure they’re gonna be fine, don’t they still meet up all the time? And who called the Moon a liar in the first place? So what if she likes her alone time, huh? Even the sun has its break every day. It goes away for six months in some places in the world. She’s entitled to her vacation days. Maybe the Sea needs to learn to take a hint. Besides, he’s not entirely innocent, since he’s the one throwing tantrums all the time? Tsunamis and floods and storms and stuff...”
Rafayel gets pretty restless and fidgety soon enough.
It's not that the acrobatics inside and around the car had worn you out to the point you were praying this aphrodisiac thing was over. Babbling on about anything and everything so no silence fell between you two was mostly selfish wishful thinking and guilt-stemmed ignorance on your part, despite telling yourself it was to distract him. But you don't keep it up for too long, as Rafayel also doing the exact same thing through clenched teeth ends up staking you in the heart.
You can't let him stay out here in the open painfully rock hard and beet red about it to make this date good for you, so, with a heavy conscience about having ruined this day for him, you drive a pouting Rafayel who wanted to stay a bit more (and was in no shape to operate a vehicle) back home.
Good thing you have an indefinite amount of time off from work, because he takes the remaining aphrodisiac in his system out on you until the morning, and then some.
Well. You can't exactly complain, and neither can he. All your stress is gone, you sleep like a log after, and the cheeky fish gets what he wanted from the very start since you're too sore to leave his house.
Concerningly, instead of being even a little bit upset with you for, you know, drugging him, unintentional or not, his only takeaway from all this ends up being a cheerful, “I meaaan, I trust my darling Miss Bodyguard with everything. She's always taken such good care of me, yeah? There's nothing to apologize for other than her tendency to take candy from strangers without a second thought... What if she ate them when I wasn't around? She's lucky it was me and not her...” followed by his trademark impish laugh, “I'm open to the idea of her owing me one, though. Let's see... How would she feel about leveling out the playing field and try out those chocolates on herself?”
A frosty chill washes over you. So he is angry, but for all the wrong reasons! There's so much to unpack about that and you don't even know where to start.
A week later, just when you think Rafayel’s whole legal mess with the auction house is about to be sewn up, a new painting of his appears in the storage room that’s grown to swallow your house. At first you convince yourself: this can’t be right. You stare at the delivery slip, doubting. The canvas is blank. White as surrender.
But then you’re tugging it inside — and your hand hits a line, a ridge. You freeze. Something in the texture. Because suddenly you’re compelled, dragging your fingers back and forth, tracing the invisible geography of it, finding out the entire surface is literally a raised-relief map in white.
You set the piece down in the living room, and fall to the floor beside it. You lie there, cheek to the carpet, staring up at the painting from every angle, rolling onto your back, flipping yourself over, seeing it from below and sideways, upside down. You can already hear Rafayel’s pouting. But you get nothing from it, nothing at all, until you finally give up, and message him.
He just says, what a fish brain
Your eye-rolling can probably be heard from the other side of the phone, because a follow-up comes after, wanst it you who said you wanted to see that painting i literally made it for you and this is what i get
Oh! The black on black painting!
You made it for me?
You keep what’s actually in your mind to yourself: Why is it white, though?
if i sent it to you then it obviously means its for my aunt
yes silly it’s for you
You really shouldn’t have. You’re busy enough.
i know that’s why i did it
you were supposed to say ‘thank u’
‘rafa ur so kind and thoughtful <3’ would’ve worked too
Thank you, Rafayel...
Does it use the same trick? Should I shine a light on it?
opposite principle actually
i used the shadows
but yea try the light
or you could wait for the moon tonight
i highly recommend the latter
because i used moonlight alone to complete this
He tells you the exact place in your house he envisioned the painting to hang on, which apparently parallels the direction the canvas in his house was pointing to, and instructs to position yourself at the center when you want to look at it. It takes some time for you to get it right, you don’t quite manage it at first, and he ends up having to guide you, bit by bit, by voice, until the painting finally settles into its proper place. Until the moon, through the window, spills its light onto the wall, and the raised map’s shadows come alive: the thing he calls ‘mångata’ flickers to the surface, moon reflected over ocean. He tells you, then, that the correct orientation is upside down, the moon has to be situated at the bottom edge of the canvas. The ocean almost touches it, a conversation, a secret shared in proximity, the moon’s own image caught in the eye of the sea. The rippling water stretches itself horizon-ward, and the moonbeams ride out with it, a silver path like a bridge, a guide, a ribbon lighting the way between them.
The title is, fittingly, The Lovers, visible during a specific slice of time in moonlit nights from a specific angle, like a secret created for your eyes alone.
