May i request angry sex with rafayel x non mc where you truly believes he hates you because you had to marry him in the place of your sister, mc, who got married to someone else. But then why does he look at you like you matter while he thrusts inside you? Why does he kiss you places that he shouldnt? So why does not he act like he hates you while hes deep inside you? (You tried suggest backshot since you dont wanna see his face but he refused)
hurts me to write non!mc but oh were we are again... buuuut thank you for the request! (p.s. not proofread so pls excuse the mistakes)
“Just… just fuck me from the back, Rafayel,” the words escape into a fractured whisper against his cheek. You turn your face away, pressing it into the damp linen. Your voice is a traitor, thick with unshed tears you refuse to let him see. “Please. It’s easier that way.”
You don’t have to explain why. The unspoken words hang between you, sharp as coral shards. Easier because I don’t have to see the contempt, or worse, the blank canvas where my sister’s face should be. Easier to pretend I am just a body, a duty you’re fulfilling, a debt you’re paying to a treaty signed in her name.
His movements, which had been a slow, almost punishing rhythm, cease entirely. The sudden stillness is more jarring than a shout. You feel him shift, his weight propping onto one elbow. A long, cool finger hooks under your chin, exerting a deceptively gentle pressure to turn your head back towards him. You resist, squeezing your eyes shut.
“Open your eyes and look at me.”
It’s not a request. His voice is that same melodic, teasing lilt you know so well, but now it’s stripped of its usual performative boredom. It’s low, carrying an undercurrent that vibrates deep in your chest, one that makes your throat tighten and your eyes screw shut tighter than they had been.
“No. Just do it this way, I’m telling you I—”
“And I’m telling you,” he cuts you off, thumb tracing the trembling corner of your mouth, “that a masterpiece is meant to be viewed, not hidden away in a dark vault. What kind of artist would I be if I turned my canvas to the wall at the most crucial moment?”
The absurdity of the metaphor, so utterly him, almost breaks the dam inside you. “I’m not your canvas. I’m a substitute. A- A stand-in. And you’re not an artist right now, you’re just…”
“Just what?” he breathes, hips shifting inside you. He doesn’t withdraw as you thought he would; instead, he sinks deeper, a slow and relentless intrusion that forces a gasp from your lips. Your eyes fly open in shock, meeting his directly for the first time. They aren’t cold. They’re a deep, bruised twilight, a roiling ocean under a gathering storm. “Just your husband, taking what’s his? Don’t. Don’t you dare look away from me when I’m inside you.”
A tear escapes at his words, betraying you completely, sliding from the corner of your eye into your hair.
“You hate me,” you choke out, the truth of the situation you’re both in acting as a raw, open wound. “You wished I was her. Every day, you look at me and you wish it was her, Rafayel. I—” your voice breaks, making you frown at how pathetic you must look right now. Naked under him, with his cock buried inside you and you soaking the sheets in your pathetic tears. “I can’t handle it anymore, so please…just...”
Something flashes in his blue-pink ombre eyes—a flicker of genuine, blazing anger. But it’s not directed at your words. It seems directed at you, for daring to believe them. With a harsh, frustrated sigh that ghosts across your lips, he grabs your thigh harsh. His long fingers dig into the soft flesh, guiding your leg up and around his narrow hip, pulling you impossibly closer to him.
“Oh, so you think this is hatred, then?” he frowns down at you, voice dangerously soft. He rolls his hips, an excruciatingly deep grind that makes you see stars. You arch against him involuntarily, a sob catching in your throat.
“You think I’d waste my time, my magnificent attention, on someone I despised? There are countless people in this world I find utterly boring, and I don’t give them a single, solitary thought. But you…” he thrusts again, harder this time, a punctuation mark on his sentence that jolts your entire body.
He captures your other thigh, wrapping it around him too, so you are completely open, utterly defenseless, folded into him as if he’s trying to press you back into his own body. Your hands, which were fisting the sheets, flail and find his shoulders, his back, the damp curls at the nape of his neck for something to hold on as to not drift away in your escapism.
“Why?” you sob softly, the question a fragile, desperate thing. The anger is gone from his face, replaced by a searing, soul-deep intensity you’ve never seen being directed at you before, one that terrifies and exhilarates you in equal measure. “Why do you do this… if you don’t hate me? Why do you kiss me like…”
He silences you with his mouth. It’s not a punishing kiss; it’s a drowning one. Slow, deep, and utterly consuming, his tongue sliding against yours with a languid, possessive heat that leaves no room for doubt. He kisses the corner of your mouth, the tears on your temple, the frantic pulse point hammering on your throat. Places a husband obligated to a stand-in wife would never think to go.
“Because, my obtuse little wife,” his breath ghosts against the shell of your ear, a rasp that matches the rhythm of his hips thrusting slow and deep into you, “I don’t paint forgeries. I don’t keep them. And I certainly don’t let them see me as I am.”
He pulls back just enough to look at your face, his gaze roaming your it as if memorizing how you look in this moment, every tear that escaped your puffy eyes, every flicker of bewildered hope. “You are not her. The very notion is an insult to the color of your soul. I married a shadow, I expected a pale imitation, a dull echo… and instead, I found you. Real, and defiant, and so brilliantly, achingly alive it’s a constant, maddening distraction to me.”
He rolls his hips again. A slow and powerful surge that has you crying out, your nails raking down his back. He answers with a guttural groan, his head dropping to the crook of your neck, planting a few kisses there that have you trembling.
His voice is a shattered, beautiful thing against your skin. “Don’t you understand yet? I’m not thinking of her. I can’t. You’ve driven every other thought from my head... you infuriating, beautiful catastrophe. The only thing I hate… is that you don’t already know you’re the one I’ve been waiting to drown in.”
The confession breaks over you as your climax does, a wave of pleasure and relief so acute it’s indistinguishable from pain. He follows you over the edge a heartbeat later. A long, shuddering sigh tearing from his lips as he buries himself as deep as he can go, spilling his warmth inside you.
He holds you like that for a long, silent moment, his face hidden into your neck, his lean body trembling slightly against yours, anchored and finally, completely still. And in that stillness, you don’t hear hatred.
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