I randomly decided to reread all the light novels to refresh my memory since I'm writing a light novel centered around my OC and my best friend's OC. (it's actually going surprisingly well?)
But oh my GOD, I forgot how much I missed BSD. The nostalgia hit me like a truck-
(thinking about cockwarming Priest! Rafayel while he's hearing confessions and keeping you quiet).
like on the other side of the screen there's a parishioner droning on, or weeping over mundane sins entirely oblivious to the fact that father raf is currently occupied with a far more exquisite transgression ✊🏻😔.
he sits perfectly upright, his rigid posture is the only outward sign of the sheer willpower it takes to maintain his composure. yet beneath the heavy, dark folds of his cassock, you are settled firmly in his lap, warming his cock. every tiny shift of your weight sends a jolt of pleasure straight to his core, but rafayel doesn't move a muscle, in fact, he cannot.
when a sharp wave of pleasure hits you, your breath hitches and despite you, a soft, breathless whimper escapes your lips.
in which, rafayel's hand moves instantly. oh, his pretty long, elegant fingers, usually crossed neatly in his lap or tracing the beads of a rosary, clamp firmly over your mouth, and the heat of his palm suffocates the sound, pressing your head back against his chest.
through the mesh screen, his voice remains steady, so smooth that it contrasts wildly with the dark, possessive heat in his eyes.
"go on, my child," rafayel says aloud to the screen, "the lord is listening. continue your confession."
Tags: seductive, yandere, love and hate, possessive, toxic, obsessive, exhibitionism, stalking, control, marking, voyeurism, masturbation, rough, teasing and taunting, spit kink, light knife play, light blood play, enemies, dead dove, uniform kink, leather, punishment, dom/sub undertones, breath play, choking, angst no comfort, dubious consent, implied somnophilia, come-marking
Trope: "Who did this to you?"
Word Count: 2.6k
AN: Hey, so, welcome to my first attempt at a toxic and dark obsession. Mind the tags above, this isn't my usual style if you've read my other works. The things I have in store for y'all....
Next
“Who did this to you?”
His voice, laced with concern, was puzzling, doused by the echoes of nearby battles.
Your boot slid in the mud on your retreat, slick with dirt and blood. But you held your ground, grasping his wrist, removing the tip of his dagger from the tear in your shirt. You knew what he had seen.
The bruising, the indents of thick fingers, the ghost of a grip so tight, ink had consumed your vision.
In the pouring rain, surrounded by flickers of lightning, his silhouette towered, advancing with a silent declaration.
Lilac eyes embraced you, designed to hoard your being and consume you whole. Every moment of scrutiny provided intel he catalogued, features and habits you reckoned he obsessed over in the confines of his prison. Like now, when his eyes dipped to your sleeve, fixating on the marred skin of your wrist.
His eyes narrowed, eyebrows furrowing as his lips distorted into a crude line, frustration prevailing over his composure.
You had seen that look upon his face once, a few years prior.
A gala hosted by your clan, one he had attended with blatant intentions.
That night your eyes had never left his frame. He drank, he mingled, and he flirted.
Rafayel, when adorned in the veil of seduction, was devastating. He toyed with femininity, and lured masculinity, governing both as his own. As you stood on the opposite end of the room, concealed by the conversing filth of aristocracy, you shamelessly stared.
A man like that enticed like a sweet poison. One taste would be lethal.
You weren’t a fool like the others who flocked to him like a moth enraptured by light. You kept your distance, paralleling his parade, making your way from one table of confections to another. When men approached, intrigued by your glamour, their attention barely tickled your desires. None had that dangerous smile, that smirk that made you want to lick and bite, delectable like a forbidden slice of chilled cake. And like that candied cherry atop that chunk of sugary delight, his lips would color, rubbed raw from your kiss.
Not her kiss.
Whomever had caught his attention had won his lips. Brazen, Rafayel kissed his latest interest with closed eyes, an index finger beneath her jaw, surrounded by a room full of spectators.
He led her by his mouth alone, directing an act those around were captivated by.
Including you.
Jealousy scorched, catastrophic to the foundation built by your predecessors. It burned, and your hand found your chest, kneading the skin as if that itself might soothe the blaze.
His tongue flicked, lapping at her bottom lip as his thumb pawed at her chin, urging her mouth to open.
It did. A gasp escaped.
Whether it came from your chest, or another’s, you wouldn’t know.
His other arm wrapped around her waist, supporting her as her legs were robbed of strength, as feeble as the whipping cream you witnessed bakers in the kitchens beat and swirl. Baser instincts craved such a phenomenon, as no other had ever stripped you of your wits. While Rafayel had been privy to another man nibbling on various parts of your body, you had never made him yearn as intensively as he teased you.
Rafayel’s kiss was sacred, his taste solely intended for your palette. Whether you would partake was an entirely different matter. Let him seethe in disappointment as you denied him, taunting him with ambrosial gloss and pleading eyes.
Your fingers grasped a fluke of champagne, the sparkling concoction sizzling the roof of your mouth. A welcoming distraction, yet not strong enough, not when Rafayel’s current fling was grappling at his strands of hair, knocking the hood of his leather overcoat onto his broad shoulders.
Rafayel was sensitive there, you knew by how he would play with his own locks, tugging, eventually whimpering when his nails raked over his scalp. Alone, so desperate, fumbling to get his pants down his legs had been deemed absurd. The vent of his pants had been spread, his hand reaching deep to collect his length, poising it over the leathers across his abdomen.
The raven-black gloves encasing his hand contrasted against the flushing crown of his cock. One bead of arousal slithered over his fingers, white as a pearl, remnants at the slit caught by the pad of his thumb to aid the slide.
It was the same thumb that had pressed on your tongue earlier that day, hooking on your bottom row of teeth to yank your head to the side. You had bit down in return, indenting the leather.
His hiss had cleaved through the air between you.
“Was that supposed to hurt?” He had mocked, examining his hand with a tilt of his lips. Caged by the height of his frame, it was easy for him to rest the tip of his thumb against the crease of your mouth, wedging past your teeth to pet the valley of your tongue. “Why don’t we try that again, yeah?”
He waited, patient, a predator hunting its prey. Even as saliva accumulated, dripping to collect at the curve between his thumb and forefinger, you both delayed. Your eyes rummaged through his gaze, running wild, exploring whatever he would willingly offer. Very little, if anything at all.
The tip of his dagger threatened your ribs. With additional pressure, your posture stiffened, automatically rising in an attempt to evade the blade. But you refused to bite, to surrender to his whims. Victory was the last thing you would award him.
He tutted, amusement swirling in the pigment of his irises. His pupils dilated, trained on you, spellbound.
“Do you like this? Disobeying?” He pierced the leathers of your armor, not yet spilling blood. You flinched, an involuntary reaction you had hoped he’d never see. But as he had watched you since you could remember, your abandonment should be in his arms. “I said bite me, harder, I need to feel you till tomorrow.”
Your hand encircled the blade at your side, squeezing until scarlet welled, warming your palm. The pain sobered. Exertion tore a cry from your throat, muffled by the grip he maintained over your tongue. You pushed his weapon away, launching from the wall to force him back. The weight of his thumb, now absent from your mouth, was missed.
You swiped the back of your hand over your chin, clearing your face of any evidence.
Rafayel chuckled, humored by your offense. His stare scoured your body, lingering at your lips, then your hand.
His own tongue curled around his thumb, lips wrapping around the base, suckling until he reached the tip.
“Every time you look at that vicious cut on your hand, think of me.”
Then, he had disappeared, an expert in navigating the shadows and sins of night.
In his room, you understood, mesmerized by his hand working the base of his length, rotating his wrist so his palm rubbed the thick veins sheathed by molten skin. If he were to offer his hand, you’d soak his glove from wrist to fingertip, kissing the planes of his palm, coiling your tongue through his fingers. If he wanted to pinch the tip of your tongue, and escort your mouth to his cock, you’d oblige.
He hadn’t invited you to his bedroom, or this erotic display of sexuality. You had made yourself a participant via sly, nefarious means. Your hand was bandaged, throbbing where his blade had severed skin. You savored it, a souvenir provided by steel crafted for him.
Perched on his nightstand, the moonlight streaming through his window accentuated the dagger. It had been flung, landing at an angle, elevated by miscellaneous items scattered. Such lazy discarding told a story of torment, as if he couldn’t wait another second to alleviate his ache.
Laid diagonally across his bed, Rafayel was propped on a multitude of pillows, one leg bent at the knee, the other locked straight. His chest heaved with each pass of his hand. You recorded every reaction with intense eyes, hidden by an armoire. The perspective had been perfect, close enough you could note the sweat littering his face, yet far enough he would be unable to capture you.
His pace increased, heels sinking into the mattress. The arc of his spine as he arched seared into your mind, concrete, etched into your memory.
Rafayel whimpered, gasping as his hips bucked, ramming his length through his tight fist. He was teetering at the edge, if the greed in his movements was anything to go by. Words of encouragement dallied at the tip of your tongue, prepared to reason with his body, and inspire his release.
“Fuck,” he gasped, tensing, shivering as he spilled, staining the dark colors across his abdomen.
Languidly, he relaxed, chin dipping as he sighed. Glazed in lust, his eyes met yours, a satisfied smile gracing his mouth.
That look of his, smug and seductive, was worn by him once more as he kissed his suitor. Their positions switched, his nose brushing hers as he slanted his lips over her mouth. His eyes opened, ensnaring you, the woman caught in his trap oblivious to her purpose.
I know, he eyes relayed, that you’re watching.
Humiliation threatened to wind its way through your frame, but just as you had with his thumb pressed to your tongue, you met his strike. You sipped more of your champagne, bracing your rear against the table, folding your arms.
I’ll watch, you narrowed your eyes, challenging him, show me what you can do.
This game you two had engaged in was ceaseless, and you had provoked him on instinct, as if simply breathing. What you couldn’t ignore was that weakness within, the fragment of doubt that had ripened with age. As priorities shifted, and autonomy was gained, questions flitted through your consciousness.
Questions only one other would understand.
That person had his hand underneath a woman’s dress, her hem bunched at his wrist, black glove stark against her thigh. Her leg climbed, hooking on the swell of his waist, settling him into the crux of her body.
She clung to him, unabashed.
Rafayel latched on with a mouth to her neck. He had looked away, eyes closed as he focused on brandishing the woman with a hickey.
Her hand danced around the collar of his jacket, the edge of her finger sneaking its way beneath the leather.
Time slowed, the air seemingly thick and unfit for human lungs. You watched as her fingers swelled the garment, inching towards a location marked as your own.
He wouldn’t.
He would.
You knew when her fingers found the scar at his shoulder, the raised line, jagged and imperfect, long and aged. Curiosity might have wandered her thoughts if her senses weren’t being ravaged, stimulated by a talented tongue.
That was your only salvation - her lack of awareness.
Because she was unknowingly venturing into a past, one that was shared by two, engineered to instigate an infinite, ruthless, inviolable bond.
For sport, your parents had stood behind you, an array of weapons laid out on the butler’s cart. Rafayel had already chosen his, a dagger the length of his adolescent forearm. His parents were elated, unsettling smiles curling the ends of their mouths.
You didn’t want them near you. If they stepped anywhere within your vicinity, you’d be tarnished. The same could be said for your own parents.
Young and naive, you had equipped a sword, rationalizing the longer length would keep enemies at bay.
It was pure luck your blow had landed.
It was pure agony when Rafayel had screamed, his dagger clattering to the ground as his hand worked to staunch the bleeding at his shoulder.
His revenge would come the next year, when he would be praised for slipping past your defenses. In your bed his palm would muffle your lips, his dagger sliding over your shoulder, carving an exact replica of the mark on his body.
Your mother had chided you minutes after the attack, stitching your wound on a chair placed directly in front of the open window.
Your mistake, she had pointed out, something to ponder.
Much to her disappointment, your concern had fallen for a more trivial matter. Next to your pillow, your favorite stuffed animal sat, its button eyes unblinking. It was supposed to keep your nightmares in its belly, charmed by the local seamstress.
Or so you had heard.
Yet it had allowed one to come to life.
On Rafayel’s tenth birthday, you’d leave it as a gift.
You had to wonder if he thought back to such things when another touched his scar. You did, taking excessive measures so no other could come near it. Like the use of your sword, you had cast a bubble around it.
Which led you to exit the gala.
Another hand on his scar was like tar laid over your heart. Once hardened, it would render your thoughts, emotions, and logic useless. With Rafayel, it often resulted in your departure, the sight of him too difficult to bear.
Pace hurried, you rounded the corner, out of the reception hall. The owner of the mansion who hosted the event had riches beyond any royal’s imagination. It showed in the expensive paintings tacked onto the walls, the wreaths of flowers hung upon railings and arches, down to the plush fabric of the rugs lining the hallways and common rooms.
Art was a detour in your life you rarely took, mimicking actions of those you had stalked. Every once in a while you dressed the part, cooling yourself with a lace folding fan while bored eyes tracked brush strokes. Alone, you had no one to critique with. And even on your most desperate days, you refused to acknowledge Rafayel’s presence.
Often, he’d blend into the crowd, prickling the back of your neck with his stare.
As he was now.
You hadn’t even reached the end of counting a minute before he was pursuing you.
The phantom of his touch, how he might grab you, urged you forward. You had, after all, managed to upset him. Rafayel, throughout the years, angered when you didn’t provide the attention he chased. If you pushed far enough, his outbursts didn’t pertain to just you.
It prevented you from running - the silent threats he aroused.
His emotional surges belonged to you, and no one else. You would accept the burn of his blade, the grip of his fingers, the stern, frivolous look in his eyes.
You shivered, diverting to another hall. This one was lined with doors on one side, a railing on the other, overlooking the indoor garden. Details you hardly cared for.
Rafayel’s steps were obtuse, obvious to your ears. Such nuances were purposeful, he was as lithe as a cat, silent if he desired. This was a hunt, a type of play you both were raised to enjoy. Between the two of you, he excelled at prowling, natural in his way of observing. Some nights, you suspected he lounged in your room, watchful of your sleep.
Perhaps he was even the reason lustful dreams manifested throughout your evenings. Marks on your body upon waking up gave such suspicions credibility. The most recent being a blossom of crimson on your wrist, crafted by skilled lips and ruthless teeth.
You slowed your steps, heart rate erratic.
“What a naughty little thing you are.”
His snarl tempted, voice depraved.
The leather of his gloves gripped you, his chest firm.
Within his grasp, you ached.
“You’re mine.”
Open to a taglist if anyone is interested. Also thanks for taking a read, this has been truly a lovely challenge, playing with a side of Rafayel and my writing in general that I have never touched!
⚠️headcanon: titanic sized, shark-like Lemurian Sea God
The Lemurian Sea God, amused by the tiny invader intruding in His waters, contemplates whether to eat you or be merciful and keep you in the deep sea with him as His treasure.
synopsis. trying to win over your bully... watch out!
pairing. bully! rafayel qi x reader
content/mdni. DUBCON. COERCION. fem!reader, implied uni!au, goodie-two-shoes!reader, innocent!reader, virgin!reader, delinquent!rafayel, dom!rafayel, bully!rafayel, mean!rafayel, pervert!rafayel, manipulative!rafayel, possessive!rafayel, angry!rafayel, needy!reader, ashamed!reader, MANIPULATION, GRINDING, spanking, groping, rim job (kinda), hair pulling, finger sucking (m receiving), DACRYPHILIA, begging (m receiving), SPIT PLAY, fingering (f receiving), teasing, slight praise, slight degradation, pet names (princess, good girl, whore, slut, a lot of names), TW: forced raw sex, CREAMPIE, allusion to caleb x reader and sylus x reader, mention of anal sex and pierced cocks, WILD.
word count. 5.4k
a/n. it's too late at night for proofreading sorry! please tell me your thoughts! feedback and reblogs are deeply appreciated!
the days after that accursed encounter in the abandoned humanities building passed like runny honey — slow, sticky, and suffocating.
you told yourself you were relieved.
your bully had stopped bothering you: no more taunting whispers in the hallway, no more cruel hands finding your waist and hips when no one was looking. no more of those dark, knowing smirks that made your stomach twist into knots you couldn’t untangle even after doing breathing exercises.
you should have been grateful.
but instead, you found yourself scanning every crowded corridor for him.
your eyes would catch on the back of someone’s head — purplish shade between the sea of students — and your heart would thump, only to freeze when the guy turned around and it wasn’t him.
rafayel was always surrounded by people, just like before. unlike you, he was always with people. his new friends, his old friends, people who laughed at his jokes and touched his shoulder and existed in his surroundings like it was the easiest thing in the world.
meanwhile, you couldn’t even catch his gaze across the cafeteria.
it was driving you insane.
and the worst part — the truly humiliating part — was how aware you have become of your own body.
every brush of fabric against your skin reminded you of his hands. every time you crossed your legs in class, you felt the phantom press of his fingers against your thighs. at night, tangled in your sheets, you’d squeeze your eyes shut as you rutted against your blanket, hating yourself for remembering the way his voice dropped when he said your pet name.
you needed him to pester you again, you needed him to touch you again.
you hated that you needed it, you really did. who, in their right mind, would cry after their bully? who, in their right mind, would regret being freed from such a torturous situation?
but the craving had infiltrated your skin deep, and no amount of logic or self-loathing could pry it loose.
as such, you decided to find him on your own.
and you knew exactly where to search for him.
•••
the humanities building sat at the union between two new constructions, a crumbling relic that administration kept in hopes of restoration. but everyone knew what was happening there and that no restoration was in sight.
the delinquents, the smokers, the kids who sold things they shouldn’t have. they were moving around the building like insects, swarming any chance of retribution.
you, a goodie-two-shoes that minds her business, never had a reason to set foot inside before last week.
and now… today.
you walked its shadowed corridors with your arms wrapped around yourself, university uniform thin against the cold of non-habitation, shivering now and then despite the humidity.
the air smelled like old books and burnt cigarettes. graffiti crawled up the walls in violent, colorful streaks, standing like warnings for people that shouldn’t be there. every sound seemed too loud — the scuff of your shoes, the distant drip of water from a leaky pipe, your own nervous breathing.
but you were almost there.
you remembered the door, the one rafayel was leaning against when he encountered you. third floor, end of the hall, the one with the broken chairs and a long wooden table in the hallway.
you knocked before you could turn around and abandon your mission, before all your arousal-fueled courage ran out.
and, to your joyous surprise, the door swung open.
but the man who filled the frame was not rafayel.
he was taller, broader, with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. dark ink curled up both arms, veins intertwining with intricate designs that fell beneath the rolled sleeves of his shirt. his eyes, a crimson red, raked over you like he was assessing merchandise, slow and unimpressed.
definitely not rafayel.
“what.” he said as he let out a puff from his cigarette, fumes splashing in your face.
it was not a question, but a demand.
you swallowed, suddenly feeling more intimidated than you usually feel with rafayel around. his eyes were pinning you down just by simply looking, earning him a tremble in your weak knees. “i’m– i’m looking for rafayel.”
the white-haired man — definitely heavily bleached — let out a short laugh that was more smoke than sound. you were once more washed by the cigarette fume, but he didn’t bother stopping.
“rafayel’s not here. and even if he was, i doubt he has anything to do with… you.”
that you almost sounded like a slur, drawing a clear line between delinquents like them and obedient, sweet girls like yourself. he didn’t wait for you to explain yourself, dragging once from his cigarette, and reached out a tatted arm to close the door.
“w–wait–”
he wasn’t gonna hear you out because there was nothing you could’ve said that would make him trust you. there was no point in wasting time with you.
but someone else’s voice floated from inside, surprisingly honey-sweet and curious. “sylus, don’t be ruuude.”
the door stopped moving. sylus’s mouth twitched in annoyance, cigarette almost dropping, but he stepped back from the doorway.
allowing the second man to come into view.
this one was different.
where sylus was all sharp edges and disinterest, this man was… soft — soft brown hair falling across his forehead, soft smile curling his lips, soft amethyst eyes that crinkled at the corners like he’d just seen something that delighted him.
he was handsome in an approachable way, and you felt your entire body relax at his easy-going demeanor.
you didn’t realize he was looking at you the way a cat looks at a bird that’s flown straight into a window.
“caleb.” sylus muttered, brows knitted in rebuttal. “don’t.”
“whaat? i’m not doing anything.” caleb pushed the door open wider, his smile never wavering as he passed by sylus. “i’m just being friendly. isn’t that right, sweetheart?”
the endearment landed strange on your cheeks, like a whip inciting the hidden heat beneath your skin.
“can you–” your voice came out smaller than you wanted, still wary of sylus and his sharp, bloody gaze. “do you know where i can find him? rafayel?”
caleb tilted his head, eyes widening with a sudden realization. behind him, sylus rolled his eyes and disappeared back into the room, muttering something about consequences.
“mhm, rafayel.” caleb repeated, like he was testing the waters, a knowing smile gracing his lips. “that’s who you’re after?”
you nodded slowly, cheeks heating up at the implication that you were looking for a man.
at that, he stepped closer. not quite into the hallway, but near enough that the distance between you shrank. his cologne smelled like vanilla and smoke — maybe from sylus, maybe from his own cigarettes... it made your head feel fuzzy.
“he’s not here today.” caleb said. “were you hoping he’d show up? open the door for you?” his voice was gentle, almost sympathetic. “poor thing.”
almost.
your throat tightened, embarrassment creeping up your neck. “i just… need to talk to him.”
“i’m sure you do.” caleb leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms, almost mirroring the way rafayel stood last week.
his gaze dropped — just for a second — down to your chest and legs, then back to your face. so quick you almost thought you imagined it. “you’re cute. really cute. but you’re going about this all wrong.”
“huh? i– i don’t understand.”
“it’s obvious what you want.” he laughed, but it wasn’t mean. it was almost kind. almost pitying you. “look, i’ll help you out. for free. because i’m nice like that.”
you should have left. every instinct you had was telling you to walk away, to find another way, to not stand here letting this stranger dissect you with his soft eyes and softer voice.
but you didn’t move.
even worse, you were dragged by his gentle tone inside the room.
“the way you’re dressed now.” caleb continued, gesturing vaguely at your long skirt and oversized shirt. “you look like every other girl on campus. invisible. forgettable. rafayel’s not going to notice you if you blend in with the wallpaper.”
your cheeks burned at his mentioning of your skirt, memories of your last encounter flooding your senses. “but it’s the uniform. i just respect i–”
“pff, of course you are.” he pushed off the bookcase he was leaning against, and suddenly he was closer, close enough that you could see the shine in his purple eyes. “but you came all the way to this building. you knocked on this door. you asked for him by name.”
“don’t pretend you don’t know what you want.”
you opened your mouth to protest. nothing came out.
caleb smiled, softer now, as if he hadn’t just accused you of seeking pleasure, and reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. his fingers brushed your cheek, feather-light, then cupped your chin.
you flinched, but he didn’t pull away.
“here’s what you do.” he said, voice low, like he was letting you in on a secret. “short skirt. something that shows off your legs. and cuter underwear– doesn’t matter if no one sees it, you’ll feel different. wear something lacy for him. then come back here, on friday afternoon.”
“and rafayel will–”
“rafayel will be on you in two seconds max.” caleb’s hand dropped back to his side, sliding in his pocket. “guys like him can’t resist a sweet girl like you. especially if you show how much you want it.”
he said it so easily. so confidently. and you were so desperate, so hungry for any scrap of advice, any wat that might lead you back to those hands, that voice, the way rafayel made you feel like you were falling apart and being put back together at the same time.
his words were partially registered, as if your brain purposefully avoided the strangeness in them.
“thank you.” you whispered back, nodding briefly.
caleb’s smile widened, pleased at your compliance. “of course. it’s my pleasure, sweetheart.”
he reached past you to open the door, and his chest brushed your shoulder — accidentally, you told yourself. but the contact lingered longer than it should have, warm through the fabric of your shirt.
“friday.” he said. “be here for your prince.”
then the door clicked shut, and you were alone in the hallway, heart pounding, skin buzzing. already planning where to buy a shorter skirt.
you didn’t see the way caleb’s smile twisted after the door closed. you didn’t hear sylus’s scoff from inside.
“you’re disgusting, you know that?”
or the easy shrug in caleb’s reply.
“i’m just being helpful. if she’s going to give herself to someone, it might as well be me. raf already abandoned her, no?”
you didn’t hear any of it.
you were already gone.
•••
friday came faster than you expected.
or maybe you just couldn’t stop thinking about it, going through your week without much thought for anything else.
the skirt was shorter than anything you’d ever worn — a pale gray thing that barely reached mid-thigh, shorter even than your mandatory university white shirt. you’d bought it that wednesday, hands shaking as you handed your card to the cashier, convinced everyone in the store could see exactly what you were planning to do with it.
the underwear… a thong fashioned from a pinkish lace. you’d never worn one before, so that was also purchased together with the skirt.
and when you put it on, it felt like nothing and everything all at once; barely there, but somehow more distracting than any pair of underwear you’d ever owned. every step you took reminded you that you were wearing it. every time you sat down, you felt the whisper of skirt fabric against bare skin.
you felt exposed.
maybe powerful.
definitely terrified.
the walk from the school bathrooms — where you changed your modest outfit — to the humanities building was a mission in itself. you kept your head down, arms crossed over your front, trying to shield your skirt from the afternoon breeze.
thankfully, the campus was mostly empty. on friday afternoons, most students had already escaped to their dorms or the pubs downtown.
yet, you hurried, not wishing to catch attention with your promiscuous outfit.
the building loomed ahead, gray and indifferent to your turbulent mind. you were almost there, passing fast through the floors. just a few more steps, past a pile of old books, past empty cans of graffiti, past–
someone grabbed you.
an arm closed around your waist, iron-tight, and yanked you sideways. you stumbled, barely catching yourself, and then you were being pulled through a doorway you hadn’t even noticed, into a room that smelled like dust and old, inked papers.
and, most importantly, like him.
“rafayel?”
he slammed the door behind you.
the powerful sound echoed through the small space. it was some kind of private office, you realized from a small glance, quite well-furnished and maintained. but you couldn’t explore more of your surroundings, couldn’t wander your eyes around the desks and shelves around you.
you couldn’t focus on anything except the figure caging you against the wall, blocking you in with his body, his face inches from yours.
his eyes, those mischievous purples and pinks, were blazing.
“rafayel.” you tried again, this time avoiding any questioning tone. he was here, as planned! you could talk to him and maybe reconcile. yes, yes– “i was looking for–”
“i know who you were looking for, princess” his voice was low, rough, tinged with something that sounded like anger. “caleb. you were going to see caleb.”
huh?
“what? no– he said you would be–”
“oh, i know what he said.” rafayel’s arm was still around your waist, his grip too tight around your mid, while his other hand came up to smash against the wall beside your head. he was taller than you remembered. broader. covering your entire body by just pushing you against the wall.
the light from the grimy window threw half his face into shadow, sharpening his jaw, his cheekbones, the dark fury in his expression.
“caleb told me aaaaaall about your little conversation. how you came looking for me like a needy puppy. how he generously offered to help you.”
your stomach dropped, cheeks burning up at the derogatory term he used. “h–he told you?”
“of course, he told me. he wanted me to know. he wanted to watch me squirm.” rafayel leaned closer, his nose almost brushing yours. his lips almost touching your own quivering ones. “but you know what he didn’t tell me? his instructions...”
his instructions? wha–? oh.
your skirt. your underwear. the whole pathetic, desperate outfit you’d put together just for–
“is this what he ordered?” rafayel’s gaze dropped, tracing down your body with an intensity that made your skin prickle. “walking across campus in a miniskirt, your little legs bare. out for everyone to see?”
“you’ve been ignoring me.” you managed, and your voice came out wounded, accusatory. “you wouldn’t look at me. you wouldn’t–”
“because i was trying to be nice, princess” he said between his teeth, hand thumping against the wall behind you to punctuate his words.
the word nice sounded like a curse in his mouth.
“i told you i’d stop bothering you.” he continued, and his arm finally released your waist… only to grip your hip instead, fingers digging into the slimsy fabric of your skirt. “give you a chance to go back to being a good little girl who doesn’t know what her own body wants.”
“but i don’t–”
“don’t lie to me.” his voice cut you off, hitting like a whip. “i felt you. you were soooo soaked for me. you wanted me to keep going, and you loathed that you wanted it.”
he was right. he was so right, and you hated him for it. hated yourself for it, hated the way your thighs were pressing together even now, responding to his proximity and dominance like a reflex.
“you want to know why i’ve been avoiding you?” rafayel’s hand slid from your hip to your thigh, snaking beneath your pleated skirt, pushing up the hem for more skin to show. his fingers finally touched you bare, and a whine escaped your lips.
“because i knew if i got close to you again, i wouldn’t stop. i knew i’d take you apart just the way i wanted. i’d leave you exhausted, cheeks stained with tears...”
your breath hitched, air suddenly refusing to enter your lungs. his palm, needy with desire, burnt hot against your bare skin as it ventured towards your inner thigh — brain suddenly refusing to work.
“… pussy swollen and filled with cum.”
“but then you went to him.” his fingers pressed into your thigh, almost painful. “you went to caleb. you let him sway that little brain of yours. you let him tell you what to wear, how to act, like i’m some dog that can be trained...”
rafayel was mad. and if his words weren’t a clear indicator of that, his facial expression made sure his point was made: furrowed brows, darkened eyes, gritted teeth.
he was infuriated by caleb getting to you.
“i didn’t know–”
“you wore this for me.” he said it like an accusation, showing how you did comply with what that fucker told you. “this short fucking skirt. it’s–” his hand slid higher across your inner thigh, but he suddenly stopped. froze.
his eyes widened visibly, pupils blown out of proportion, as his fingers brushed against lace instead of cotton against naked skin instead of fuller underwear. “fuck– is that a thong?”
your face was on fire, the shock in his voice accentuating your embarrassment.
but he disregarded your own emotions.
rafayel made a sound — part laugh, part growl — and his hand pressed harder, now cupping your cunt through the lace. feeling the heat that had been building since the moment he pulled you into this room.
“you really are desperate.” he murmured, and his voice had dropped an octave, gone dark and honeyed with cruelty. “coming here like this. dressed like a slut for a delinquent.”
“please, i–” it was hard to voice your thoughts, especially when rafayel had his hands right on your clothed pussy.
“shut up.” he bit back, trailing his other hand lower, down to your skirt, and effectively pinning the hem up. giving himself a clear view of your crotch.
goddamn, seeing that pink lace against your innocent skin made his dick jump in his pants, slowly but surely bulging against the zipper.
“if you wanna be treated like a slut, princess, i will do it.”
you should have pushed him away. should have run. should have done anything except stand there trembling while his fingers explored the edge of your thong, while his breath ghosted hot against your neck.
“you know...” rafayel said. “he was gonna take advantage of you?”
you gasped as you felt his fingers dipping towards the back of your thighs, inching closer and closer to your exposed ass. his warning words about caleb meant nothing now — it was too late.
“y–you do too.”
“that’s right.” his lips brushed the shell of your ear, softly biting down on the cartilage. “but you want me to. you craved this all along, like a nasty, deranged slut.”
“raf–fayel.”
he finally found the plush meat of your ass, both hands engulfing the fat in a strong, possessive grip. you jolted in his grasp, feet going on their toes for a few seconds from the increasing pleasure surging in you.
“say it.”
his digits moved lower, just barely, just enough to make your hips buck forward involuntarily. just enough to feel how close he was to your sopping hole.
“say you want me.” he whispered, looking to satisfy his egoistic desires, not to check for consent. “say it, or i’ll leave you here in this room with your little lace panties and your short skirt. i’ll let caleb find you instead.”
“let him have what you’re so desperate to give.”
no. no, no, no– there was no way you’d let it all go to ruin, not when you were so close to obtaining what you want. not when you could feel his boner puncturing your thighs, feel his fingers digging crescents so close to your core.
“please…”
so you opened your mouth, and you said the words he wanted to hear. between gasps and wines, between trembling vowels and shy articulations of syllables, you finally told him how much you want him to take you.
and when his smirk turned satisfied, triumphant, when his hands increased their grip on your ass to carry you away from the door and onto the desk of the abandoned office—
you knew you’d made a terrible, wonderful mistake.
“fuck, princess, i’m gonna fucking ruin you.”
and his gorgeous, twisted face was the last thing you saw before he spinned you around, slamming your upper body flat on the desk. you left out a grunt, tits forcibly pressing onto the wooden surface, arms jumping forward to grasp the opposite edge for support.
your lower body was dangling over the margin of the table, supported by the soles of your feet that pushed into the old, creaky floorboards of the abandoned office.
you could no longer see rafayel, but he could see you — all of you.
he could see the delicious tremble in your legs, the subtle sway of your hips that were urging him to go along with his plans. and with an honorary push, folding the pleats of your skirt up, on your lower back, he could see your underwear.
that innocent yet sultry pink lace that barely covered your core, collapsing somewhere in the middle from your abundant arousal and taking the shape of your pussy lips. your swollen clit greeted him too, a little peak that was hard to ignore.
and, fuck, the cherry on top — the string of the thong was swallowed by your ass cheeks, all plump and jiggly as his calloused hands started to knead the flesh earnestly.
“ugh– ah– r–raffffff–” you let out when his hands began to abuse your butt, gripping the meatiness of your ass and pulling it apart to observe the thin string of your panties.
“oh, to think you hid all this from me! all this time… your cruelty knows no bounds, princess!”
“i– i’m s–sorry, ngh–”
your whiny apology was cut short by a stinging slap, rafayel’s right hand freeing your ass only to come back down for a burning smack. and you moaned, sharp and unashamed, body jittering forth against the table from the impact.
“this…” slap. “naughty…” another slap. “ass.” and another.
and with each slap, your voice pitched higher and higher, turning from grunts to pathetic whines — a convolution of pleasure and pain you’ve just discovered.
“to think caleb could’ve gotten this, nuh huh.” rafayel groaned, leaning over your upper body to whisper in your ear, hand ceasing its abuse over your reddened skin. “you know what would’ve happened to you, stupid girl?”
“h–huh?”
“he would’ve taken advantage of your desperation…” he stated through gritted teeth, angered by what could’ve happened to you if he didn’t intervene. “taken your body…”
straightening his posture, his hands returned on your ass. but this time, his fingers ventured beneath the string — latching his digits around it and pulling it up without notice. your legs shot up, following his movement, but couldn’t mirror it fully.
as such, the gusset of your panties were dragged forcefully between your pussy lips, grinding against your puffy clit and taking a strong yelp from your lips. the string was now freed from between your ass cheeks, allowing rafayel to pull at your skin.
and show off your perky asshole.
“would’ve wrecked your tight little hole like you’d never imagine.”
“ughn– w–what?”
“haaa, that bastard would’ve had a field trip with you, pounding your ass until you’d forgotten your name.” rafayel muttered, utterly displeased by caleb’s intentions with you. displeased because he would’ve fucked what’s his, like the dog he was.
“but…” and with the clearing of his throat, he gathered enough saliva in his mouth to spit on your twitchy hole, foamy liquid wetting your ass and dripping down towards your cunt. “you’re mine. my toy.”
“o–oooh, rafayelll.”
“that’s right, princess.” he murmured as his thumb travelled along the spit, circling your asshole and pressing slightly against it. “he’d never have you. never.”
the stimulation was shooting straight through your whole body, prickling at your skin and making goosebumps arise all over. and, worst of all, it made your hips twitchy, pushing back against rafayel’s hands in an attempt to receive more friction.
onto your other hole.
“awww, does princess want me elsewhere?” he was taunting you like he always did, using that condescending tone of his to point out embarrassing stuff about you. “does she want her soppy cunt played with, hmm?”
“ah, ah, ah–”
“maybeeeee… even filled up with cock?” and he rutted into you, pressing the prominent bulge in his pants against your bare skin. “hm, what do you say, princess? do you think you deserve it after all you did?”
“ye–yes. yes, pl–eease.”
“nuh huh, wrong!”
“b–but, but…” and you tried to justify yourself, raising from the table slightly. only to be pushed back down, cheek slamming down onto the wood.
“don’t fucking move. you will take what i give you, slut!”
and what you deserved was immediately revealed to you. or rather, felt by you.
“oh, fuckkkkkkk.” rafayel groaned as he positioned his cock between your ass cheeks, trapped under the stretched-out string of your thong. “you’re– shit– so soft, princess!”
and with that, he started to rock against you, the length of his cock traversing back and forth against your asshole, weeping tip peeking out every now and then from between your mushed-together cheeks. the friction was less than you expected, so far away from your neglected pussy, but it was enough to draw out pathetic moans and whimpers from your lips.
“goooods, i should’ve done this a long time ago.” rafayel contemplated as his hips sped up, upper thighs slapping against your ass in fluid, measured strokes. “should’ve just goddamn– pinned you down between classes and humped you until your skirt got stained with cum.”
“p–please, please, ugh– ngh–”
“ahh, you would’ve loved that, wouldn’t you? nasty fucking whore.”
you definitely would’ve. knowing your mean, charming bully could’ve cum on your clothes between classes, rutting his long, thick cock against your modest skirts as you begged to be left alone. having to go back to class with your garments stained, knowing everyone could’ve seen the disgusting person rafayel turned you into…
it made your hole flutter, your legs quivering in rafayel’s hold.
“did you just clench up, princess? does that turn you on? make your pussy all drenched for me?”
“i–it did…” you answered honestly, no longer caring about your reputation.
your mind was full of lust, clouded by the need to be fucked by rafayel.
he moaned at your desperate honesty, cock suddenly drawing backwards between your asscheeks — his tip effectively stopping at the entrance of your cunt. “that makes me want to wreck this pussy into oblivion.”
“do it, please. i– i need it so bad.” you begged more explicitly, pushing your hips back until the head of his cock caught onto the stretchy skin of your hole. “d–do you have a condom?”
a pause then…
“condom?”
“yeah…”
...
shit, did you ruin it? did you ruin the moment by asking to have safe sex? as much as you wanted to be fucked by rafayel, you couldn’t risk getting knocked up. you couldn’t…
“of course, princess. help me out, will you?”
not only did he accept — to your utter surprise, but he also dropped four or five packets of condoms next to your head, inviting you to open one on your own.
“yes, ye– ughh–”
what he forgot to mention was how he’d finger you through the process, two nimble fingers pushing and prodding against your contracting walls as you tried your best to open the packet. try was the keyword here, as you were utterly and unavoidably failing at getting it out.
“hurry up, princess!” he sang from behind, words mixed with mischief like he expected something to go wrong. but you didn’t register that, not when a third finger was added into the mix, pumping alongside with the others.
making squelching sounds permeate the room.
“i c–can’t…” you whined, but couldn’t go on a rant about it.
because his fingers were instantly removed and replaced by his cock.
“ah, wait, rafayel. is that–?”
“can’t wait, princess. i need to make this pussy mine now.”
“oh my gods, i–its so–”
“big? of course it is.”
and with another glob of spit landing on your skin, falling between your cheeks to the almost-swallowed head of his cock, he pushed forth into you. your hole stretched to his size like it was expecting him, allowing rafayel to push every single inch into your virgin pussy.
“it hurts, ah– ah–”
“that’s how it usually goes, princess.” and he inhaled deeply as he finally sealed his hips shut with yours. “fuck– virgin cunt, so fucking tight and warm. sucking me in so greedily.”
tears bloomed along your waterline, the pain of the penetration making you let out sniffles against the table. but rafayel didn’t seem to care — rather, it convinced him to start moving, drawing his cock back out almost fully…
before slamming back into you.
making you topple over the table even more.
“raw is the only way to take you, ughh.”
his pace was definitely not friendly, aggressively rutting into you. his heavy balls, pent up from his self-inflicted break from you, slapped again and again against your clit.
all of it, pain and pleasure, made your head boom with dizziness and confusion.
“ah, rafayel– s–slow do–”
“slow down? but princess…” he chuckled between thrusts, leaning over you to reach your ear. “i’m soooo considerare. you could’ve had it worse…”
“worse?” you repeat back as you felt his teeth nibble your earlobe, grazing the skin.
“mhm, with that ass-fucker caleb…” he reminded you once more, cock plunging harder and deeper into you, almost kissing your cervix. “orrr… sylus.”
who was that again?
“s–sy–lush?” you babbled between moans, your ears barely registering the name, your mind barely remembering the man.
“bleached hair, tattoos…” rafayel described him as he pulled away from your ear, returning to his initial position in order to clutch your ass. and spread you once more before his eyes.
“he–” rafayel began as he observed the creamy ring around his cock and the way it moved in and out of your drooling cunt. “would’ve crushed your pussy with his pierced dick.”
you didn’t retort back at that, but you did clench harder around his cock. your grip on his cock was tight, pushing him closer to the edge. and he could feel you were too, by the way your legs trembled and your hips fucked back into him.
“you like that? should i get pierced too? get my dick alllll nice and pretty for you?”
“mhm, mhmhmmm…”
“ah, i think i’ve turned that brain to mush.” he tangled one hand in your hair, pulling you up from the table, forcing you to hold an arch for him to observe you.
your pupils were blown wide, your lips were open and stained with drool. and when he reached out to touch them, to stimulate a response, all you did was wrap them around his digits.
sucking on them.
“nasty fucking girl. my whore princess.” grunts after grunts, pet names after pet names, rafayel dropped you back on the table as he returned to pistoning your cunt with vigor.
adamant to make you finish this time.
“slutted out for me, pussy soon to be creamed.” he was blabbering now as well, ranting about your body and the way it felt against his.
his words were turning incomprehensible as the slapping of skin became deafening, taking over the entire room. it got louder and louder and louder…
until both of you reached climax.
“stay fucking still for me.” he ordered at last as he emptied his balls in you, shooting multiple ropes of cum deep inside you, successfully filling up your no-longer-virgin cunt.
“atta giiiirl, that’s it.” praises replaced the sounds of sex that previously dominated the room, so uncharacteristic for the relationship the two of you have.
but the image of your hole gaping out his cum, dripping down your slit, your thighs… staining the old floorboards.
it made rafayel lose all sense of reality.
…
at least for the moment.
“don’t fucking wear that in public. if i catch you like this again… i will fuck you with everyone else around, like the whore that you are.”
tags: @yuunileb, @xyzsbaobei, @loreleis-world, @demonicangelll, @dreamydaredevil, @glitterykingdomangel, @damianalily, @weirdothatwrites, @cherrytokkiz, @brailsthesmolgurl, @maplewood-valley, @happyshark2222, @velomira, @darkchococwoissant, @remnantsofgildedcages, @starswillseeus. if you see this and want to be added to the main taglist, please let me know!
Can you do a Chuuya x fem reader where her bra can be shown from her white shirt?
pov: you request a simple spicy lil fic from me, but my manic brain is physically incapable of not giving it an entire backstory and plot and making it at least 4k+ words (thank you so much for this idea tho, it was super fun to write! ღ)
* ˚ ✦ MDNI ✦˚ *
Sex, Money, Feelings, Die
*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ My first attempt at Chuuya smut (and goddamn, do I love that angry lil man ★~(◡‿◡✿). New to the city, you're coerced into working for the PM after a drunken night out. Scared and now in the heart of one of Japan's most notorious criminal organization's headquarters, you decide to reclaim some of your power by ~*teasing the absolute fuck out of Chuuya Nakahara~*. 4.8k words. Porn with a plot. I can't even lie, this shit had me giggling and kicking my feet while writing, lemme know whatcha think. luv u ღ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
When you'd first moved to Yokohama 2 months ago, you had promised your parents that you'd be safe. That you'd find yourself a decent office job to afford you a lofty apartment and that you'd be settled in relatively quickly. You'd pictured yourself walking amongst tall buildings on your days off. Exploring the city with your coworkers on the weekends. Living instead of just existing in your small hometown.
You thought you had your future all mapped out and maybe you did, but those dreams of normalcy were all but destroyed the night you crossed paths with Koyo Ozaki.
She had noticed you from across the bar, quietly observing the way you'd been drinking by yourself all night. It was odd to see a girl with your beauty and lack of abilities so confidently roaming downtown alone. She wasn't sure if you were brave or naive, but the moment you took a seat next to her to thank her for the whiskey and coke she had ordered you, she realized you were the perfect blend of both.
She'd spent the next hour chatting you up, effortlessly coaxing information out of you without you realizing it. She'd offered you an administrative assistant role for the group she worked for, describing it as a "lucrative" and "underground" organization. You were in no position to say no, especially after spending the last month relentlessly applying to jobs with little to no luck.
You woke up the next day musing about silly things like fate and serendipity as you raided your closet for the perfect first day outfit. You felt like this was your big break. The first stop on the roadmap of adulthood that you'd created for yourself. You ironed a pair all black slacks, pairing it with a white-button up quarter-sleeve shirt, and your favorite suede Mary-Janes. Optimism swirled through your head as you eyed yourself in your bedroom mirror that night. You were determined to be so good at this job.
You showed up freshly showered and prepared when you arrived at the sleek, high-rise building. Ozaki waited for you out front with a rather intimidating dark-haired man who introduced himself as Mori, head of the fucking Port Mafia.
Your anxiety rose with each step you took behind them, quickly realizing that this was not the run-of-the-mill clerical job you had envisioned while hazily chatting with Ozaki over whiskey-neats. This was an underground criminal organization full of some of the strongest ability users in the world. You had absolutely no idea why you were here. Why you'd been selected, let alone trusted, to work alongside these people.
You were given your own small office, equipped with a bare desk and landline phone. Mori told you to stay put, explaining that you were to stay out of sight until further notice. You were essentially there as a cover-up.
Apparently, they'd been scouting for girls like you. New to town and completely clueless. They wanted to bring in a handful of these 'administrative assistants' to help keep up the illusion that this was just another ordinary building in the business district of Yokohama and nothing more.
Mori left you with a curt warning about the temperament of the other Mafia members and a haunting, "Welcome to the team." as he closed the door to your office and disappeared down the long corridor. Your heart was slamming into your chest, your anxiety growing the longer you sat. You were angry. Disappointed in yourself for being such an easy target.
You sat for at least an hour staring at the wall in existential dread, wondering what you'd done to end up here. Wondering what you were going to have to do to get out now that you were here. Even if it wasn't necessarily a "job", it still didn't seem like something you could just casually walk away from.
You were in the middle of the Port Mafia's headquarters and you were rightfully, terrified.
The sound of two muffled voices pulled you away from your thoughts while you froze in your chair, realizing that they were right outside your door.
"You're fuckin' with me, right?"
"No, that's really where they're keeping her. She's going to be a fulltime member."
"A member?" it was the first man again, his voice full of shameless snark and volume as he laughed at the idea. "A Mafia member with no ability? C'mon, Akutagawa. Even Mori isn't that stupid."
"There's going to be more, she's just the first to show up."
Tension crept along your spine when both voices came to a curious stop, one quietly scolding the other before the heavy wooden door began to creak open.
A pair of azure eyes stared back at you, disheveled shoulder-length red hair draping off of one shoulder as he mumbled, "Holy shit."
The taller of the two, draped in a long black coat, tried to pry him away, but he shrugged him off with an irritated. "Chill out, I just wanna introduce myself to her."
The dark-haired man scoffed and continued down the hallway while his ginger companion closed the door behind him, leaving just the two of you looking back at each other skeptically.
Despite his height, he had a powerful demeanor. A blend of apathy and cockiness that exuded off of him as he carefully made his way towards you. "So, you're the new girl, huh?"
Your eyebrows furrowed when you looked back at him, your words suddenly stuck in your throat as his foot made contact with your desk.
You managed a nod, remembering the way Mori had advised you not to engage with the other Mafia members, but what were you supposed to do when you were suddenly locked in a room with one?
"God, we really can't just have one normal day around here, can we?" He sighed, almost seeming embarrassed as his shoulders dropped and he leaned against your desk in the spot next to you. "Stealin' girls out of bars? Tch, the hell are they thinkin'?"
His opposition to his boss' plan made you relax a bit. It was the first time all day that you thought you might make it out of here okay.
He picked up on your apprehension rather quickly, taking his hat off and setting it down before extending a gloved hand out to you. "Chuuya." He said simply.
You stared at him for another moment or two before introducing yourself, trying but failing to mimic his nonchalant tone.
"Hey," He said, lightly nudging your foot with his, "You're gonna be alright. I'm sure this gig will only last for a couple of weeks until they move on to their next big, idiotic idea."
"You think so?" It was the first time all day that you felt like you could breathe.
"Trust me, Mori's plans are always changing. He'll probably cut you a fat check for hush money and then send you on your way sooner than later. Just lay low in the meantime, yeah?"
Your eyes were still locked as you nodded at him again, giving him a feeble, "Okay... Yeah, I can do that."
"Good." He smirked, pulling himself away from your desk.
You watched him pause just before exiting the room. He turned around to face you again, his gaze landing a bit lower than your eyes this time.
"And maybe uh -" If you didn't know any better, you'd swear that you saw a flash of red flare across his cheeks. "Maybe don't wear that bra with a white shirt next time."
Out of all of the anxiety and fear that you'd been drowning in over the last few hours, your choice of outfit had been the very last thing you'd considered worrying about until just now.
You looked down, noticing what he meant as you saw the dark, lacy fabric of your Victoria's not-so-secret peeking through the white of your blouse. Your tits were pushed perfectly together, nearly on full display through the sheerness of your shirt.
He flashed you another faint smirk before clicking the door shut, once again leaving you to your own crippling thoughts as your head dropped into your hands.
What an absolutely mortifying first day.
˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆
The next few shifts were a blur.
You'd clock in. Sit for what felt like an eternity in your bleak little office. Leave mid-day to grab lunch at a cafe across the street. And then head home 9 hours later despite the fact that you’d hardly done anything.
You'd learned to bring in books and cross-stich patterns to keep yourself busy throughout the day instead of rotting away at your desk. It wasn't an ideal situation, but if Chuuya was right and there really was a big check waiting for you around the corner, you'd decided that it was worth it to see this through. Because no matter how nervous you got each morning, the painful truth was that you couldn’t afford to turn down easy money.
By the end of the week, you found yourself doing more than just sneaking in romance mangas to make the job more bearable though. You were doing everything you could to gain back even a semblance of power.
If you had to be here, you had decided that you were going to make it everyone's problem.
With the ginger's words still fresh in your mind, you made it a point to wear darker bras. Tighter blouses. Shorter skirts that barely covered your ass. It had almost become an inside joke with yourself at what a distraction you'd become to the Port Mafia. Maybe couldn’t make these men fear you, but you could certainly make them trip all over themselves any time you entered the building.
You'd hardly been able to keep a straight face yesterday afternoon when Akutagawa's coffee fell from his hands and cascaded around him after he saw you walking down the hall in black knee-high stockings. You'd finally managed to make everyone here as uncomfortable as they'd made you and it felt good.
You were half-way through the iced matcha you'd picked up on lunch, sitting with your feet propped up on your desk as you continued to embroider the word "fuck" in pretty, cursive letters next to a pink and yellow flower when a knock arrived at your door.
You quickly stashed the circular cross-stitch pad in one of the desk drawers and straightened your back as Tachihara poked his head into your office. "Yo, new girl. Nakahara wants to see you."
Your brows knitted together as you looked back at him in quiet confusion.
No one had ever requested to see you in the time that you'd been here. Even in your attempts to disrupt their daily tasks, they'd still not bothered to learn your name. But now... you were expected to go see Chuuya... in his office?
"Why?" It was the only question you could think to ask.
"Dunno," Tachihara shrugged. "but I wouldn't keep him waiting. He's kind of an asshole." And with that, you were once again left alone and anxious.
You took a breath, standing up to smooth down the fabric of your skirt before venturing down the hallway.
You did your best to push Tachihara's warning out of your head, reminding yourself of the kindness Chuuya had shown you on your first day while your heels clicked across the marbled floor.
Maybe he wanted to tell you that he'd talked to Mori and that your time with Port Mafia was finally up. Maybe he wanted to hand deliver the check you'd so desperately been waiting for. Maybe he just wanted to see how you were doing. Whatever it was, you were holding onto hope that there wouldn't be any more bad news.
You let out a sharp exhale as you rounded the corner and found yourself standing in front of his office. You gave the door a light tap, fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve when he finally appeared.
His eyes traced over you slowly, his tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth as he counted not one, not two, but three undone buttons along your blouse that revealed the deep-purple push-up bra decorating your chest.
"Get in here."
His tone was clipped, dripping with what felt like vexation as he closed the door behind you.
His office was much bigger than yours, adorned with high-rise windows that overlooked the city and pristine black marble flooring that matched his leather furniture. The room was dark, just barely lit by a lamp on his desk. You wondered how it was possible for him to get any paperwork done in here but then promptly realized that with his ranking, paperwork was probably far beneath his paygrade.
Still not entirely sure how to approach the situation, you hesitantly took a seat on the over-sized armchair across from his desk.
"Quick question," he said, standing in front of you with his arms folded over his chest, his voice still riddled with irritation. "What does the phrase 'lay low' mean to you? Because I can tell you right now, this ain't fuckin' it."
Your pupils widened, his words hanging heavily in the space between you.
Your mouth opened and then closed again, too focused on the way he was staring at you to form a proper response.
"Is it -" you wavered, mustering up all the courage you had to try and play this off as innocent confusion rather than what it actually was: sarcasm. "Is it my outfit?"
If looks could kill, you would've been 6 feet under.
Chuuya's eyes darkened, a flustered hand rubbing feverishly over his face as he struggled to keep his composure. He wasn't sure if you were trying to piss him off or if you were just genuinely the dumbest girl he'd ever come in contact with.
"Yes," He said with all the restraint he could possibly manage, his teeth nearly grinding together with each syllable. “The outfits are getting out of hand. You've gotta stop."
You were playing a dangerous game, but you were slowly starting to realize that you were... winning.
"What's wrong with them?" you asked, pretending to cover your chest in embarrassment.
You wanted to hear him explain it. Hear him tell you in his own words that you couldn't wear short skirts anymore because it was causing too many unexpected erections around headquarters.
"I -" The poor redhead looked as though he was going to have an aneurysm if you kept this up much longer.
He snapped his eyes shut and let out a frustrated exhale, his hand now bawled into a fist at his side. "Listen, a lot of the guys around here have... noticed you, okay? And I can't take one more day of hearin' those fuckin' assholes talk about how they caught a glimpse of your ass in the break room. Got it? I'll buy you some new clothes if I have to. Just please, no more shirts like this, alright?"
He was actually bargaining with you. Entering the third stage of grief as he tried so hard to keep his cool. To keep his eyes locked with yours and nowhere else. To explain all of this in the nicest way he could.
It was in that moment that you realized where the real source of his trepidation was coming from.
Hearing his coworkers ogle over you was probably annoying for sure, but the more damning, infuriating fact of the matter was that he was ogling over you too. And he was fucking tired of not being able to get any work done when he knew that you were right down the hall. He was pissed that he had to come into his office every morning and lock the door just so he could jerk himself off to the idea of you.
He was in so many words begging you to stop because he wasn't sure how much longer he could take seeing so much of your body without being able bend you over his desk like he did in his mid-morning daydreams.
He was losing - both his resolve and this game at an alarming rate.
"Hmm," you hummed, toying with a pen you'd found wedged between the cushion of his chair. "Well, I'm sorry. I just like feeling pretty before I come in. I didn't know it was creating such a problem for everyone."
The wheels in Chuuya's head were spinning.
Emotions weren't his strong suit and doing these mental gymnastics with you was making him need a cigarette.
"It's -" he sighed, groaning as he forced himself to backpedal. "It's not your fault. I mean, you do look pretty, y'know. It's just... distracting, is all."
It was hard to hide your smirk.
You'd be lying if you said you didn't think he was a bit distracting himself, but he didn't need to know that. Not yet anyway.
"Okay, well," you conceded as you began to stand up. "I’ll wear a turtleneck or something tomorrow then.” You shot him a small smile as you got to your feet, "Promise."
He looked marginally relieved by your understanding. "Sounds good." He huffed, rubbing at the back of his neck while following behind you as you made your way out of his office.
But just before you reached the door, you accidentally dropped the pen you'd been fidgeting with. Bending over without warning so that your ass was right in front of him, peaking out of your skirt as he walked straight into you, his hips suddenly meeting yours.
You thought he might actually kill you this time with the guttural noise of frustration that escaped him.
He grabbed you by your shoulders the second you were upright again, spinning you around so that you were forced to face him.
“Okay, seriously." He said between gritted teeth. "Just what the fuck do you think you're doing?"
Your heart pounded in your chest, your breath hitching in your throat as you watched the unfettered anger flicker through his blue eyes.
It was a stupid move, you knew that before you did it, but you didn't expect it to draw this much of reaction out of him. His restraint was lost. Composure long gone while he waited for you to say something with his face mere inches away from yours.
"Sorry," You lied, "It slipped out of my hand so I -"
"Bullshit." He snarled. "Enough with this innocent act. What do you want out of this, huh? For every guy in Port Mafia to want to fuck you? Is that what you're gettin' at here?"
"No." Your head shook before you even had time to think about what you were about to say. "Not everyone..." Your eyes were still glued to his. "Just you."
You didn't know what you were doing anymore or where all of this recent shamelessness had come from, but there was something about being here that made you feel like you could do anything. Be anyone. You weren't sure if it was the power or the crime or the ungodly amount of money that Port Mafia was raking in, but the collective feeling of chaos that these walls housed was finally latching onto you too.
You didn't even flinch when you said it, instead continued to stare at him unapologetically, noting the way his grip had tightened around your shoulder the longer he looked back at you.
"What?"
If the wheels in his head had been spinning before, they were now fully off the ground, exploding into the air as his gaze drifted along your face. Searching intently to make sure you were actually being serious this time before he went any further.
"You really want me to fuck you that bad?" he asked, the warmth of his mouth now ghosting yours.
The question went straight to your center, wetness seeping between your legs as you nodded back at him.
Truth be told, your midmorning fantasies while cross-stitching the last few days hadn't been much different than his.
The gravity manipulator's fingers were suddenly tangled into your hair, his body forcing your back against the door while his lips collided with yours.
"Y'know you could've just asked instead of doin' all this bratty shit, right?"
His mouth was warm, his movements somehow urgent and careful at the same time as his hands wandered along your curves.
You smiled against his lips, letting out a breathy, "I'm sorry." as his palm began to graze the inside of your thigh.
"No, you're not." He smirked, sucking your bottom lip in between his teeth before biting down with just the right amount of pressure. "But you will be."
You let out a small whimper as he placed his free hand under your chin, moving your head to the side so that he could continue his descendent down your neck.
His leg wedged itself between yours, brushing against your clit while his mouth worked along your collarbone.
You were too lost in the feeling of it all to realize that he'd been leaving a trail of meticulously placed bites down the nape of your neck. Bruises in the shape of his mouth that he knew everyone would see.
"Chuuya -" you tried to protest, but it was more of a moan than an objection. "You - fuck, you can't -" You grinded helplessly against the firmness of his leg. Hips rocking back and forth, desperately trying to gain friction while he kept on nipping away at you.
"What's wrong, babe?" he purred against your sensitive skin. "You're wearin' a turtleneck tomorrow anyway, remember?" his breath fanned across your chest as he ripped the remaining buttons off of your shirt. A gloved hand palming at your chest, sliding your bra down so that your tits were fully exposed for him before you felt his tongue glide across your nipple.
Tachihara was right, he was kind of an asshole. But for some terrible reason, you were living for it. Almost embarrassed by how bad you wanted him. Wriggling against him and riding his leg. Whining while you let him leave visible marks on you and destroy the only clothing you had.
"C'mere." He pulled his head away from your chest, swiftly grabbing you by the arm and leading you back to his desk. He picked you up with ease, shoving a binder aside to sit you down in front of him.
"Spread your legs for me." His voice was heady, eyes glossed over with lust as you complied with his demands.
He held his hand up to his mouth, removing his black glove with his teeth before pushing your skirt up and sliding your underwear to the side. He bent over slightly, running two rough fingers along your clit as he watched your nails dig into the edge of his desk.
"Fuck," he groaned, still not taking his eyes off of you. He'd barely done anything and you were already soaked, your pussy practically throbbing for him. “You really do want me that bad, huh?"
“T - told you.” You whimpered, your head tilting back as he drew slow, blissful circles around you.
He kept up the same pace, basking in the way you were so easily falling apart for him.
“Chuuya, please.”
A smirk tugged viciously at the corner of his mouth, slipping a finger into you this time as your walls swallowed him. "Please what, baby?"
You may have had him in the first half, but you were now on the losing end of this game. Forgetting how to speak altogether as you watched him part your legs even further, bending all the way down to rest his head between your thighs.
You moaned at the feeling of his tongue pressing against you. The heavenly lines he was drawing uppp and downnn your center with his middle finger still sliding in and out of you. He was generous in the way he handled you, making sure he didn't miss a single spot. Lapping and slurping up every bit of cum he could as he added in another finger. Groaning against you the louder you got for him.
The only word you seemed to be able to remember was his name, repeating it over and over while your nails lodged deeper into his mahogany desk and your body shamelessly grinded against the warmth of his mouth.
You were in a delirious daze, losing yourself completely to the way he was devouring you.
He could feel you getting close too, noting the frantic rhythm of your hips. The gorgeous, fucked-out noises you were making for him. The death grip your walls suddenly had on him. He knew you were right there, right where he wanted you.
"Chuuya, 'm - I -"
Your legs were locking around his head, shaking uncontrollably as your hand ran through his hair.
He'd never admit it, but he almost could've came at the sounds you were making alone. The pouty way that you called out his name each time his fingers plunged into you was almost enough to drive him over the edge. You were so pathetic and adorable and he was determined to make everyone in Port Mafia hear just how needy you were for him.
As much as he wanted to edge you for what you'd done to him, as much as he wanted to make you beg and plead for him to let you cum, he couldn't fucking pull himself away from you. He was just as lost as you were, drowning in your cunt and not at all wanting to be saved.
His tongue didn’t leave you until he was absolutely sure that you'd ridden out every last wave of your orgasm, still pumping his digits in and out of you until you couldn’t take it anymore.
He came up for air with an exhausted smile, wordlessly coaxing your lips apart with his thumb before bringing the two fingers he had fucked you with into your mouth. Letting you clean off the blend of slick and salvia the two of you had created together.
"See how fucking good you taste?" he panted. "I think this is gonna be a real problem for both of us."
An enamored shade of pink brushed across your cheeks as he dropped down onto the chair across from you, running a tired hand through his hair.
"At least I won't be here much longer, right?" You said, playfully kicking his leg with your foot.
"Oh yeah," he smirked. "That actually reminds me..." Your eyes widened as he shifted around to dig an envelope out of his pocket. "Mori wanted me to give this to you."
Your hands trembled, opening it as delicately as you could to make sure you didn't rip anything when a check for 1,490,200 yen fell into your lap.
"Think that'll be enough to buy yourself a shirt that fits?"
Your eyes snapped towards him in disbelief, your pulse ringing through your ears as you tried to process that you'd somehow made this amount of money in a little over a week.
"Is this -" You stammered, thinking back to what he had told you when you first met. "Is this like a severance check then? ...Hush money or whatever?"
"Tragically, no. Mori wants you to stay."
Your hand instinctively flew up to your neck, covering the love-bites that the redhead had left you with, horrified at the realization that everyone was going to see them. Even more horrified at the fact that they had probably heard how you’d gotten them.
"What?"
"Yeah, he said somethin' about you how you've been 'boosting the morale' around here."
Your head felt like it was going to explode.
You had not only been marked by Chuuya Nakahara, but you were now being asked to stay in Port Mafia.
You couldn't decide which was worse.
"So... that means..."
"Yep. We'll be seein' a lot more of each other." He confirmed while checking his watch. "But hey, you better get outta here, Rando and I have a meeting in 10 minutes."
You looked down at your lack of clothing, the spit and cum that was still stuck to your skirt, the obscenely noticeable bruises that he'd so proudly gifted you with.
"Give me your shirt." you demanded.
"Nah."
The grin he shot you was so cocky, so vile, so... hot.
"Chuuya." You whisper-shouted, biting back your own stupid smile. "Be so fucking for real right now, I can’t go out there like this.”
“Shoulda thought about that before you put on that skimpy-ass outfit I guess.” He shrugged.
You hopped off his desk, straddling him in his chair as you forcefully began to undo the buttons along his collar.
The room filled with suppressed laughter, neither one of you able to contain it anymore as he finally conceded, wrestling you off of him. "Alright, alright, chill. I have extras in here, hang on."
You both stood up, your eyes locked on him while he walked over to an expensive looking armoire in the corner of the room.
He pulled a white shirt that resembled the one you were wearing earlier off of a hanger and brought it over to you, guiding your arms up so that he could put it on.
His movements were calculated, almost thoughtful as he dressed you, adjusting it so that it covered up most of the damage he'd done.
"There." He said, double-checking his work. "Now get out of here before I decide to rip that one off of you too.”
xavier: would buy a lifesized cutout of lumiere and keep placing it in strategic places around the house to scare you
zayne: would come home with an insulated bag that says "biohazard: live human organ" and would start eating food from it in front of you
rafayel: would change your ringtone to a farting noise and you only realize when you're at work and someone texts you and your phone lets out this long whining fart
sylus: would install an app on your phone that would make every image you see when scrolling social media be a photo of his face
caleb: would wear a very convincing bald cap to greet you in the morning, tell you that he just wanted a new look for the new month, before disappearing to work for the rest of the day
┈┈˖ ࣪⊹ notes: domestic fluff in the form of shopping for sex toys, crack but i'm dead serious about it, anal play, pegging heavily discussed but woefully never depicted, rafayel is a little shit
┈┈˖ ࣪⊹ summary: rafayel has strong opinions about the color of your strap. read on ao3
You should’ve known that if you were going to peg Rafayel, you’d have to work for it. He did ask for it, not that it matters much. Considering how finicky he is about being on the bottom in general, it was inevitable that he was going to be a bit of a brat. It’s just the nature of the complaint that catches you by surprise.
“What are you wearing?"
You stop mid-step. You’re standing beside the bed tits out, pussy dripping. It’s painfully obvious what you’re wearing. Even the slightest movement reminds you of the swaying weight of your strap. You think he’s making some weird joke at first, but then you see the concerned look on his face.
“Is it too big?” You ask meekly, reaching down to grip it and measure its heft. You thought it’d be fine. You’re pretty sure it’s a little smaller than him, even but—
Just like that, all your worry screeches to a halt.
The color’s cute, so you thought. It’s a perfectly presentable teal. You even went out of your way to get a harness with matching accents and frankly, you thought Rafayel would appreciate your attention to detail. Instead, he looks almost offended by the aesthetic, asking a bit desperately: “Do you have anything else?”
After a brief pause, you offer, “I have a red one back at my apartment—”
Rafayel’s expression promptly curdles. “Eugh.”
Eugh?
“That’s all?” He whines. “You don’t even have, like, a classic black?”
“Is this really your most pressing concern right now?” You ask, pointedly glancing at his flagging erection and the shine of lube on his ass.
“I just—” Rafayel wilts slightly under your glare, then airily concedes, “No, no. You’re right.”
You eye him, making sure he’s going to stay quiet before joining him on the bed. His frown eases ever so slightly as you settle between his legs and wrap your hand around his cock. One stroke and a hum of pleasure escapes him. Judging by the encroaching haze in his eyes, it was an involuntary sound.
You smirk at him in victory. Pump him to a slow, lazy rhythm as you use your other hand to cup his balls. “Relax for me,” you purr, massaging him a bit before delving lower, gathering what remains of the lube you’ve used to prep him so far and sliding it across the crack of his ass.
He shakily sighs as your fingers slip into him. They enter easily enough. You’ll definitely need to apply a bit more before fucking him but for now, you focus on getting him achingly, mind-numbingly hard.
Your strokes draw out little moans from him. Pretty sounds, gradually dropping in depth. When you find his prostate, rubbing into it gently but firmly, he jerks in response. His eyes flutter as he begins to rock his hips into your grip.
“That…” he chokes out, “That’s good.”
You snort none too modestly. “Of course it is.”
You don’t even get a glare for your cockiness—a sure sign that he’s telling the truth.
You hear him approaching the brink as much as you can see it: the wet sound of your hand moving over him as his cock weeps profusely from the tip. His moans turn broken, eyes screwed shut as he mouths curses that never quite come to fruition. Uncharitably, you can’t help but think he looks a bit like… well. A fish.
You come to an abrupt stop when you see the first quake in his legs. You don’t care that it’s a little mean. Rafayel goes limp over the mattress, panting like he’s just run a mile and oh, now he’s glaring.
“You’ll be thanking me in a minute,” you promise. Or begging, you silently note, before reaching for the lube.
Rafayel watches as you pour a fair bit into your hand. As you reach between your legs, his gaze follows, dimly watching as you run it carefully across your shaft. His expression is a bit funny when you look back at him. It looks like he’s thinking quite hard about something. Like the proverbial cat’s got his tongue.
You chalk it up to nerves.
“Are you ready?” you ask kindly. There’s a brief pause before he nods. “Don’t worry,” you assure him as you line yourself up. “I’ll be gentle. You just have to… relax.”
He gasps softly as you press into him. He tightens against the intrusion, but that makes sense. You didn’t exactly discuss how much experience he has in this realm but either way it must be an adjustment, taking you like this.
You withdraw before pressing in again, patiently easing yourself deeper. The barest point of the tip has just disappeared into him when he scoots back up the mattress.
“Nope!” Rafayel declares with an emphatic shake of the head. “I can’t.”
You sit there, frozen. Smothering your disappointment, you make an attempt to soothe him. “That’s okay. We can always try again another ti—what are you doing?”
He’s swiped his shirt up from where it lay tangled among the covers. You watch, utterly dumbfounded, as he shrugs it on. “Come on,” he says, buttoning his shirt at a clip. “Get dressed.”
“I…? For what?”
“We’re going shopping.”
“Huh?”
He grabs his phone, his fingers flying over the screen. “There’s a sex shop not far from here. I’m pretty sure any respectable establishment wouldn’t close before, like, eleven. Right?”
And you think you know what’s happening. You just can’t believe it’s actually happening. “Is this about the color?”
Rafayel rips his gaze up from his phone and looks at you like you’re some kind of alien. “Of course it is! Just… look at it!”
He gestures dramatically at the cock jutting out from between your hips. The thing is, you’re sane, so looking at it illuminates nothing. Zero. Zip.
“You won’t even see it!”
“But I’ll know,” Rafayel insists. “I’ll feel it!”
“No?!” You exclaim, though who’s to say whether Lemurians have special, color-sensitive assholes. “No, I’m pretty sure you won’t!”
Rafayel’s head drops to the side as he assesses you. “You know, you’re not exactly providing the conditions for my enthusiastic consent right now.”
“Enthusiastic conse—”
You want to kill him. Is that so wrong?
“The quicker you get dressed, the quicker we get back,” he lightly points out.
You glare at him before reaching down to remove your harness. “Fine.”
Just fine.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
You really don’t get it. Teal’s a perfectly reasonable color. Common even, as the shelves around you will attest. The same shade is basically a staple among sex toys, and besides.
“I thought you’d like blue.”
“Why?” Rafayel shoots back a bit testily. “Because I’m a fishie?”
The pet name is even more absurd than usual, given the context. “Well,” you reply wearily, “yeah.”
He gives you a scathing look. “We’ve been together how long? I’m disappointed in you, cutie. I thought you’d know that not all blues are created equal by now. I mean, I do get what they’re going for. I really do. But like, they never quite get there, you know?”
You’re going to regret asking this. “And what are they going for, exactly?”
“Haven’t you noticed that they always end up calling it some nonsense? “Tropical” something or other,” Rafayel points out. He idly picks up a purple dildo, running a thumb over the ridges on the shaft before making a face. “They’re trying to capture the color of a clear sea. That… special kind of turquoise you can only see off the sunlit shore of a white sand beach. But no matter their good intentions, they’re always way off the mark.”
You’re pretty sure the romantic image he’s painted has very little to do with sex toy design, but you keep that to yourself. Picking a teal clit vibrator off the shelf, you mutter, “It looks fine to me.”
Rafayel glances over and frowns. Like, a deep, deep frown. “Does that really look like the same color to you?”
Right. Lemurian eyes.
You set the vibrator down and gesture to a display at the far end of the store. “Okay, so, let’s match it to my skin tone then. Look. That sign says that company’s known for being especially accurate.”
That deep, deep frown turns even more puzzled. “Why would we want to do that?”
“Well…” You pause, thinking carefully about how to speak his language. Expedite the purchase. Get him out the door. “The craftsmanship is impressive. They’re the first company to have such a wide color spectrum. And just look at how sculpted they are.”
Sculpted is the word. The dildos are so precise it’s a little eerie. The heads are attentively shaped and the detail is kind of incredible, down to texture and the shading around the slit. The shaft is decorated with thick veins. You can even order custom replicas of your partner’s cock apparently, an opportunity you decide to revisit once you’ve gotten through this particular circle of hell.
With a bit of genuine awe, you say, “They look so real.”
“See, that’s your problem. Why would you limit yourself to the bounds of realism?” Rafayel bemoans. He turns to you, gesticulating with a “classic black” dildo in hand to make his point. “Don’t you understand how precious this opportunity is? Use your imagination! You can pick whatever size, shape, or color you want! I mean, it’s not like I had a choice.”
A thought occurs to you.
You make sure he sees your eyes flicker to the crux of his legs and back again. “What color is it then?”
Rafayel stares a moment before his ears flare a vibrant red. The same red as the dick at your apartment, in fact.
He mutters, “I’m pretty sure you know—”
“Oh, you know that’s not what I mean.” He takes a nervous step back and throws up his hands in defense as you press closer, cornering him against the shelves. “Green? Dark blue? You know. When you’re all… scaly. Is that what this is really about? You have some kind of complex or something?”
“What?! No, they’re—” His blush rapidly spills over onto his cheeks. With a shifty glance at your surroundings (there’s just one distracted staff member at the register and a couple customers milling about, no threats to Lemuria here), he hisses a hushed reply. “Do you really want me to answer that? Don’t you want to preserve the element of surprise?”
Except he’s been “preserving the element of surprise” for about a year now. You get why he’s shy about it. It’s not every day that you introduce your human partner to your aquatic cock. But you’ve made it very clear that you’ve been ready to put the “ridable_fish” in “rafayel_ridable_fish_dinner” for a long while—
Hold up.
“They’re?”
There’s the slightest of pauses before Rafayel swiftly snaps his fingers in front of your face. “Enough of that. Would you focus? Come over here and look at this.”
You do it because you’re stupid. Because you truly, madly, fucked-up-ed-ly cannot resist being swept away by this man. He takes a baby pink dildo off the shelf and presents it to you. It’s about six inches, and other than a vague approximation of a mushroom tip, the rest of the silicone shaft is smooth.
“What do you think?”
You think you want to fuck him. Roughly. Vengefully. Thinking back to what preceded all this, you regret not making him suck your cock.
“Rafayel, I really don’t—”
“Actually,” he demurs, bringing his hand to his chin as he examines it. “The shade isn’t quite right. Maybe… Do you think they have something that's a bit more cool-toned?”
You bite back a frustrated whine. You can’t remember the last time you had such a strong urge to throw a tantrum, stomping your feet and all. You’re ovulating and you’re horny and you’re pretty sure he knows it. He’s asked about your cycle more than once.
With a tight smile, you pluck a fuchsia dildo off the shelf.
“What about this? This is cool-toned, right?”
Rafayel turns to you and freezes. His eyes slide from your face to the dildo and back. You allow yourself to hope for one brief moment, thinking maybe you’re seeing a eureka moment in action, before he lowly responds, “Are you serious?”
He snatches it from you before you can form a reply. He turns it over in his hand, examining it like one of the specimens he’s fished out of the tidepools. His expression looks pained. “Is this the color that comes to mind when you think about us? Am I not conveying my feelings correctly?”
“I—” You stare at him blankly. “Your… feelings?”
After a moment Rafayel sets it on the shelf and soberly holds your gaze. “I know I can be rough sometimes but… I always thought our sex was… softer than this. More meaningful.” After a beat, he lifts your hand to his cheek and presses an earnest kiss to your palm. “You’d tell me if I wasn’t satisfying you, right?”
You struggle to compute. Finally, you draw your hand back. Throwing it up in surrender, you announce, “You know what? I’m done.”
Rafayel’s eyes go wide and worried and fuck, he’s cute, you might actually hate him, he’s so cute. “Are you mad at me?”
“Nope. Not mad. Always satisfied,” you say blithely. “Just deferring to your expertise.”
“But you seem—”
You grab his face and kiss him.
He goes quiet, thankfully. He even seems a bit dazed when you pull away. Very firmly, more in a reminder to yourself than for him, you say, “I love you. Sooooo much.”
Those eyes—those prismatic mythical ethereal dumbass eyes—sparkle like a fucking cartoon, god, you hate him. “You swear?”
You pass your gritted teeth off as a smile as you assure him, “I swear.”
And the pretty bastard has the audacity to melt into your hands.
You watch him preen for a moment before taking a step back. “Go ahead,” you say gruffly. “Pick whatever you want. I trust your taste.”
“You mean it?”
You groan, “Rafayel.” As another frown flickers across his face, you sigh. “Yes. I mean it. Just… hurry up. Okay?”
He tilts his head in an attempt to read you. Finally, he flashes a sheepish smile. “Okay.”
“You promise?”
“I promise,” Rafayel swears. “I’ll make it quick.”
He does not.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
You return to his studio with three new cocks and one receipt for a custom order. You don’t make it past the living room before Rafayel’s called you over for an impromptu unboxing—even though you really DO NOT CARE what color the dicks are as long as you can stick them inside of him. Even though you were basically standing next to him the whole time.
There’s a five-inch option that vibrates, colored a Rafayel-approved blue. (Periwinkle, he insisted.) A burgundy eight-incher that “abstracts the male form” with bulbous swells along the shaft. The custom order, he explains, will have “the slightest hint of translucency," colored in a gradient that mimics the sunsets of the Azurie Islands: a soft pink that fades into an even gentler shade of peach. Then, “the pièce de résistance,” a—
“Rafayel,” you cut in. “Which one do you want me to use?”
He flashes you a dour look. “I was getting to that.”
The last dildo he draws out from the bag is, somehow, a surprise to you. He must have thrown it into the basket during a moment when you, in all your surly boredom, stepped away. It’s a shade of lilac that, you must begrudgingly admit, is gorgeous. The silicone is almost elegantly molded, with a smooth swell of a tip and three modest ridges partway down the shaft.
“Well?” Rafayel encourages you, almost proudly.
You admire it for a moment before scowling at him and swiping it out of his hand. “I’ll be right back.”
You get (un)dressed in the bathroom, if only to deprive him of a small share of satisfaction. You sway a bit to behold yourself in his full-length mirror, assessing how your new toy looks on you.
It’s… nice.
That pisses you off. Say what you will about your ridiculous boyfriend, but the fishie has taste. The problem is he’s painfully aware. And yeah, you’re still horny, but when you walk out and find him beautiful and nude, waiting to be ravaged like a damsel left on a dais for a spoiled god, your need and irritation condenses into an emotion that could only be called… petty.
You cross your arms over your chest. “I don’t want to play anymore.”
“What?” Rafayel sits straight up, so crestfallen it’s comical. “Are you serious? But we went through all that trouble—”
“Because of you!” Your beautiful cock bobs as you yell at him. “I could’ve fucked you twice by now! All the trouble we went through was because of you!”
As you whine, there’s a shift in his expression, dangerous yet subtle. Amusement and the satisfaction you were so desperately trying to rob him of quickly replaces his concern. Rafayel’s eyes narrow over a faint smirk as you huff and puff, pointing at him as if he’s stolen the last cookie from the cookie jar.
He leaves you standing there for a moment, letting you steep in how ridiculous you look before purring, “Oh, I see.” As he rises from the bed, you try to ignore how mesmerizingly limber he is. The speck of a mole dotting the ivory expanse of his abdomen. The shifting muscle in his thigh.
His fingers are on your chin, firmly holding you in place as if he still has a right to after dragging you around all night. “I didn’t realize you were so impatient.”
You glare up at him, trying to ignore how intoxicating he smells. A bit of sweat and a spray of orange. The salt in a sea breeze.
“I’m not.”
You are.
Rafayel’s lips crack around a grin before he leans down and kisses you. His hand is a steady presence on the nape of your neck, holding you as he coaxes your lips apart. His tongue is warm and there’s a sharp nip in your exchange of breath—the faint taste of the nightcap you shared after dinner: a buttery, obscenely expensive chardonnay.
He pulls back just enough to speak. Close enough that you can feel his lips still brushing against yours with every word. “So there’s nothing I can do to change your mind?”
You dig your heels in, ignoring the hand sliding down your torso. “Nothing,” you hiss.
His fingers trace over your lower abdomen. You glance down, failing to swallow the little gasp that comes when he wraps his hand around your strap.
Rafayel grins, knowing he’s got you. Pulls you closer by the cock. “Yeah?” He teases, then he’s kissing you again, idly stroking the silicone, sending irrational flutters to the pit of your stomach as you kiss him back.
He breaks away, gently cupping your skull in his hand as his mouth trails lower. You twitch as he finds the sensitive spot on the crook of your neck. He kisses there, hot and open-mouthed, and chuckles as your hips buck forward, silicone sliding within his grip. You’re still dazed, buzzing when he lowers himself to his knees.
“Nothing at all?” Rafayel asks again, batting his lashes over his despicable doe eyes.
Look at him acting all innocent, as if he isn’t nuzzling at your strap with his cheek.
A muscle in your jaw twitches as you glare down at him. Fuck it, you think.
“Suck it,” you demand.
For what is perhaps the first time all night, Rafayel obeys.
The blue in his eyes fades as he wraps his lips around the tip. They’re replaced by a shade that would probably look kaleidoscopic to any other Lemurian. To you, it’s an all-consuming violet red. His gaze flashes with mischief as he opens his mouth wider to show you—as if to prove a point—how pretty the lilac looks on the pink of his tongue.
As he leans forward, taking the length to the back of his throat, you feel it again—that phantom pleasure at the pit of your stomach. The suggestion of his weight introduces a sensation rooted in reality, a subtle pressure against your clit.
You have half a mind to cup the back of his skull and keep him there. Rock your hips and thrust into his mouth, like he’s so often done to you. Instead you grip his hair and roughly yank him off.
Rafayel’s eyes are wide and pleased as he gasps up at you. His throat is arched in offering to your canines, blunted as they are. His delicate lips are red and glistening with spittle around his panting, their corners upturned as if he’s won the battle.
Because he has.
You admit your defeat with a scoff. Grip his hair tighter just to watch his cock twitch in his lap. “How’d it taste?” You taunt.
“A lot better than teal,” he replies, quick enough that you suspect he’s had that one locked and loaded for hours.
“Asshole.” You release him, directing him to the bed with a vague sweep of your hand. “You want it that bad? Fine. But you’re going to be the one bouncing on it.”
“Yeah?” Rafayel replies in an octave that has your pussy clenching. And that’s when you see it: the scene that he’s painted. Bare want in shades of lilac, purple, and ruby pink. “I can live with that.”
daddy!rafayel and his crippling worries for his 3 years old son with comical sweet tooth
fluff. the son is named. this is like some sort of writing warm up after so long..
between you and rafayel as parents, people would think your husband is more lenient with your child than you are. but the truth is, oftentimes your three years old son displays how much more terrifying daddy is than mummy.
both of you equally spoil your baby but somewhere along the year, kashiel qi develops a veryyy sweet tooth. you especially have been indulging in his even sweeter pleas to devour every fluffy, sugary treat in sight.
how can you not when each time he goes all big sparkly eyes, lovely 'thank you, mummy!' whenever you relent to buy one scoop of cookies and cream, another of lemon cheesecake ice creams from the parlor down the beach. despite rafayel's nagging voice from previous week, lecturing on how you should consider kashiel's sugar intake.
it becomes a problem when kashiel begins to refuse lunch because he had a donut, few donuts earlier. then, he's unable to sleep at night too. his little body runs high on saccharine. turning what's supposed to be a cozy movie night between you and rafayel into an extended mission to tire out your son.
that's how your husband has enough and sets strict limits and rules. each stern refusal from daddy during a car ride to stop at a bakery and buy the goods, kashiel now knows to turn away and pout at your direction instead. surely his angel of a mummy will say–
"no can do, baby. daddy already says no donuts before lunch."
your heart is made of steel! rafayel is right in wanting to control your son's diet during this crucial development phase for kids.
"but mummy.." you can hear the sullen, sunken expression on his face. you hum encouragingly to have your baby accept his denied request. "okay no donuts. but tomorrow? donuts tomorrow, mummy? please!"
glancing at your silent husband who's driving and purposely ignoring the tension over donuts. you kind of hoping his big heart will say yes to your dearest son.
"you hear the baby. how about tomorrow, daddy? can we get the donuts with strawberry icing?"
mummy, no! kash frowns, his little heart twisting in betrayal when you spin the question back at daddy who will 90% reject his precious donuts tomorrow :(
through the rearview mirror rafayel can see the downturn of kashiel's lips. as if accepting his forbidden fate with donuts now.
"only if you promise to eat your lunch and dinner and sleep early."
"I PROMISH!"
that was last week's donuts chronicle. and kashiel is off sweet treats again until yesterday. because yesterday uncle thomas brought a bag of cookies varieties for the qi's from an acquaintance that had just opened a new bakery.
rafayel can't exactly ignore the triple choc chip cookie with a fluffy patch of marshmallow on the coffee table. staring at his toddler, promising gooeyness that'd last an impression for days in kash's sweetest dreams.
his baby has gotten bored halfway when the adults talk with words he barely understands. he's stuck with daddy since mummy's working too.
now the only thing that tackles his interest again is the cookie. kashiel really really wants that triple choc chip cookie. when he peers up to look at daddy, daddy's already looking at him with amusement.
i see you.
hmph!
daddy's warm lips brushing kash's temple as the toddler blinks with unconcealed hunger for the cookie.
"you want the cookie?"
an eager nod.
"promise you'll eat lunch later with daddy?"
"promish! i want haaalf cookie daddy! i no full, so i eat lunch with you." kash beams proudly, feeling like a responsible toddler who succeeds in negotiating with his daddy without tears and hiccups.
chuckling in adoration, rafayel leans forward, caging his son in place as he takes the plastic wrapped cookie. breaking it in half per kash request and holds it out in his palm like a makeshift plate.
that should be kashiel's fill of treats for few days to come. except their visitors have a knack for celebrating whatever unknown reason it is in their house that compels its guests to bring desserts every time they come over!
talia pays a visit right after she landed in linkon after her last tour stop, claiming to miss you and her precious grandson. it's only been hours since kash had his last triple choc chip cookie and now rafayel's aunt is walking past the door with a bright colourful pastel box, 12 special donuts exclusively for one small boy.
"kash! look what i bring for you, dear!"
"donuts?!"
purple hair zooms past rafayel who's scowling, hands on his hips as he watches his mini me tiptoeing to look inside the big box on the table.
kashiel is already in his whale printed pajamas, and had even promised to be daddy's company in the kitchen later to cook his favourite shrimp fried rice together. only for their father-son bonding time to be interrupted so unexpectedly.
look, rafayel is not angry at all, he's just internally questioning why, why his most welcomed guests always arrive with ridiculous sugar hazards that will send his kid into crazy glucose spike overnight.
maybe he should consider banning these sweet treats altogether, he thought with a frown as he sits on the sofa. glaring at the innocent open box and his even more innocent child while talia has gone off to somewhere with you.
kashiel tried asking you before you were gone if he can have the donut but you recall the boys plan to cook dinner together. so really, it's up to rafayel.
"fine. you can have one donut. just one," daddy speaks with a sigh. slumping in his seat as he switches on the tv. though irritated, he's not really in the mood to upset his baby tonight.
yeah of course he can do four story times before bed with 10 different voice impressions later.
kashiel should already be making an important decision for his choice of donut for the night.. but he remembers his promise to make daddy's seafood fried rice together..
tearing away his gaze from the 12 tempting donuts, kash looks up at daddy.
"daddy?"
...
"..daddy."
all the boy receives is a slow, unimpressed hum. daddy's eyes fixed on the screen.
suddenly, the three-year-old is in front of rafayel, tugging his daddy's sleeve at the wrists resting on his thighs. no reaction. and that's all kashiel needs to know that daddy is sulking!
uh oh.
"daddyyy!" he's slumping against daddy's legs now. almost kneeling on the plush carpet beneath him, small palms cupping rafayel's knees as the daddy looks so focused on the boring tv. "i wanna eat seafood rice."
at that, rafayel raises his brow and spares his pouty son a look. "you will not eat your seafood fried rice when you eat your donut, baby. daddy knows you like the back of my hand."
rafayel gently taps kash's button nose. his little face immediately scrunches up cutely as he tilts his head. kashiel knows daddy makes perfect sense. he knows he's always full after eating donuts. and he already ate one cookie instead of half during the day too.
"i not know."
"don't know what?"
"seafood fry rice or donut. what to pick." kashiel mumbles quietly, resting his chin comfortably on daddy's lap. "this so harddd, daddy!"
it's like seeing a toddler going through a midlife crisis over what to eat for dinner. ruffling his son's hair affectionately, rafayel finally breaks into a soft grin. "well. daddy did let you eat donut, didn't i?"
"but you promish seafood rice," kashiel mutters, eyes fluttering as daddy plays with his hair.
"that's how life is, baby," rafayel chuckles before lightly pinching kashiel's cheeks. his irritation easily melts away.
the baby thinks so wisely. while donut is his favorite, shrimp fried rice is his favorite too. his gluttony would say both but daddy will definitely say no to have both. he steals another look at the colourful, sprinkly donuts.. also reliving the memory of eating daddy's special and delicious shrimp fried rice..
finally making up his mind, kashiel leans back, squeezing daddy's hand to have daddy's attention. "okay, okay.. if i no eat donut tonight, daddy cook shrimp fry rice?"
"as much shrimp as my baby wants." he promises, tucking kashiel's messy lavender hair behind the ears.
kashiel instantly brightens up as he leans his weight forward. "really?? promish?"
"pinkie." rafayel thrusts his pinky finger up to seal the promise. his toddler excitedly links his own smaller pinky with daddy's too.
"okie dokie i eat fry rice."
a rather very satisfied rafayel grabs the boy under the arms, pulling him high into his chest as he stands now to proceed with their masterchef plan. picking along the box of donuts to store in the fridge. with lingering gaze towards the box, kash chatters off which four donuts he'll eat first tomorrow.
that if he's so lucky with getting daddy to say yes to four donuts.
"put maaany shrimps, daddy." little legs dangling back and forth on the kitchen counter as kashiel watches his tall daddy expertly taking out all the ingredients needed.
"maaany shrimps it is, mister." rafayel pops a sliced mango in kashiel's mouth before handing the bowl full of them into kashiel's trusty hands to keep him occupied while daddy cooks.
two huh's and two lavender heads turn at you. the grin you try so hard to conceal spreads wide anyway. those same sunset eyes and same confused expressions. the smaller guy rests in your lap while the other guy is sitting beside you on the comfort of your couch.
"what that mean, mummy?" kashiel blinks. rafayel nods along too.
"i mean, why your face," you cup kashiel's face, "your eyes, your hair, and oh! your nose too," you gently pinch his little nose, "all the same as daddy?"
"'course i look like daddy! i daddy baby." it's the obvious, sure. bless your baby for his mummy about to bully him.
"and you're not mummy's baby?" you ask, putting a very hurt, sad face. your son's proud face washes away as he panics seeing you pout.
"wha–!! i mummy baby too." determined little thing as he kneels in your lap, facing you with hands on your shoulders to prevent himself from unstable footing. "why you say i no mummy baby?"
"you tell me, kashiel." it's fun to tease kashiel. he's so smart and mischievous. always have something to come up with in any situation. you wonder how this one will turn out.
your husband at the same time has snuggled up at your side. head tilted back on the couch as he watches his wife and son having a conversation. his most favorite thing in the world.
"uh.." kashiel turns to look at daddy for help. rafayel stuck his tongue out instead. never mind!
"uhm.. mummy.. i.." the gears in his brain are working overtime to prove he's just as much as mummy's like he is daddy's. "i kind! mummy kind! that why i mummy baby too."
kashiel carefully observes your face. please mummy smile, please mummy smile and say he's mummy's baby chanting internally.
"oh so daddy's not kind, kashiel?" a voice that's not mummy chirps and intervenes.
kashiel huffs and loops his little arms around mummy's neck, seeking your hug and attention. melting like a puddle when you laugh and kiss his hairline.
"daddy no kind! you eat my donuts."
"excuse you, you already had so many donuts that day and they were going to spoil, mister. someone had to finish it, we don't waste food." rafayel eyes the way kashiel's clinging to you like a damn barnacle. your husband has yet to have his own fill of cuddles today!
"i no care. i mummy baby."
"you are mummy's baby indeed. tomorrow we buy some donuts, okay?" you agree easily, revelling at how your husband turns sulky now. another big baby to deal with here.
