Chante and shitpost

⋆₊⊹❅⋆ it was always you (and us) - 70k and WIP - slice of life, angst, fluff and smut - feat caleb - ao3 ⋆₊⊹❅⋆ suppressing desires - 30.2k - WIP - explicit, just a lil angst - ao3 ⋆₊⊹❅⋆ a duke's silence - 98k - fluff, smut, angst, regency era themed - ao3 ⋆₊⊹❅⋆ anatomy lesson - 3.4k - smut - ao3 ⋆₊⊹❅⋆ sweet like syrup - 3.9k - foodplay - smut - ao3 ⋆₊⊹❅⋆ lick it off me - 4.5k - birthday sex, foodplay - ao3 ⋆₊⊹❅⋆ angel - 4k - smut - ao3

𓆝⋆˚࿔ the bond remembers - 16.8k - canon-compliant, angst, a little fluff, smut - ao3 𓆝⋆˚࿔ hung like a masterpiece - 22.3k - smut - part 1 - part 2 - ao3 𓆝⋆˚࿔ a duke's promise - 78.1k - fluff, smut, angst, regency era themed - ao3 𓆝⋆˚࿔ creative block - 20k - smut, prefessor!raf - ao3 𓆝⋆˚࿔ office hours only - 5.5k - smut, prefessor!raf - ao3 𓆝⋆˚࿔ neck-kisses and centerpieces - 5.5k - canon-compliant, smut - ao3 𓆝⋆˚࿔ tipsy, hard and needing you - 7.3k - canon-compliant, smut, drunk!raf - ao3 𓆝⋆˚࿔ say it, professor - 22.4k - smut, student!raf - sequel - extra - ao3 𓆝⋆˚࿔ say it's me you want - 58k - fem!raf, angst, fluff, smut - part 1 - part 2 -part 3 - ao3 𓆝⋆˚࿔ moldable like clay - 20k - prefessor!raf, smut - part 1 - part 2 - ao3 𓆝⋆˚࿔ at my mercy - 5.6k - canon-compliant, smut, slight bdsm - ao3 𓆝⋆˚࿔ unspoken conduct - 22k - professor!raf x professor!reader, smut - part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - ao3 𓆝⋆˚࿔ language of flowers and tattoos - 44k - florist!rafayel x tattoo artist!mc - fluff, slice of life, smut - part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5 - sequel - ao3 𓆝⋆˚࿔ 7 minutes in heaven - 17.7k - academic rival!rafayel - smut - part 1 - part 2 - ao3 𓆝⋆˚࿔ comforting touch - 5.8k - period sex, canon-compliant - fluff and smut - ao3 𓆝⋆˚࿔ seasons of us - 17.7k - canon-compliant, fluff and smut - chapter 1 - chapter 2 - ao3 𓆝⋆˚࿔ the final fit - 2.6k - fashion prodigy!rafayel x ta!mc- smut - ao3 𓆝⋆˚࿔ a treasonous performance of desire - consort dancer!rafayel x princess!mc - 19.8k - chapter 1 - chapter 2 - chapter 3 - ao3 𓆝⋆˚࿔ all the ways we fall - WIP - ice skater prodigy!rafayel x former skater!mc - heavy angst, smut - chapter 1 - chapter 2 - chapter 3 - chapter 4 - chapter 5 - chapter 6 - ao3

.ೃ࿔ ✈︎ *:･ gravity instincts - 7.7k - smut -colonel caleb - sequel - ao3 .ೃ࿔ ✈︎ *:･ have you ever tried this one? - 3.7 - caleb x mc x gideon - smut - ao3 .ೃ࿔ ✈︎ *:･ oops...was that too loud? - 5k - jealous caleb - smut - ao3 .ೃ࿔ ✈︎ *:･ count with me - 4.5k - gym sex/marathon sex - smut - ao3 .ೃ࿔ ✈︎ *:･ what's your favorite scary movie? - 2k - ghostface!caleb - smut - ao3

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ in plain sight - 26.7k - smut, stripper!xavier - part 1 - part 2 - ao3 *ੈ✩‧₊˚ star pattern - 4.7k - smut, hurt/comfort *ੈ✩‧₊˚ hunt me down, claim your prize - 7.4k - coworkers with benefits, smut, scavenger hunt - ao3

— synopsis. in which the lads men are camboys and you’re their top donor

— a/n. late 4k special </3 i think every 1k i’ll do a series with all the lads men! also these are going to be written in the process so bear with me if I have a late post. fem!reader only.

if you wanna be tagged for a certain character lmk!! - CLOSED

DEC 11 — RENT A BOYFRIEND !

☆ 夏以昼 : He said he was in desperate need of money for his rent. Even after begging his friends, family, and even his hell of a neighbour who also happened to be his ex-girlfriend—no one would listen and give him anything. So, Caleb decided to go for his last resort which was showing himself on camera…catch is, the highest donor gets a special night with him. Not a bad deal, right? Nothing can go wrong…

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DEC 14 — MY MUSE ♡

☆ 祁煜 : You piqued his interest. Even if you never spoke to each other—Rafayel knew you were the one for him. However, there’s just one problem… he has no money for the right art products to draw you! And as much as he didn’t want to go back to his old ways, drawing you was important. Especially if it meant having a donor that’s willing to help in more ways than one.

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DEC 17 — MY SWEET TREAT ♡

☆ 黎深 : Every single day the same man comes in at the exact same time, ordering the exact same thing. You didn’t think much of it—mainly because he’d only order from you. But as time passed, there was something oddly familiar about him… something that you couldn’t pinpoint. He started talking to you more often, ordering different things, and walking in with different outfits that looked familiar…too familiar like he’s trying to get you to remember him…But from where exactly?

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DEC 20 — JEALOUS TYPE !

☆ 沈星回 : A private show. A private show was all your favorite camboy was willing to give you. He didn’t care if you were busy one night, he didn’t care if you weren’t in the mood—he needed to give that private show to prove he was more worthy than the other man you ‘unintentionally’ donated to.

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DEC 23 — CYBER SEX ★

☆ 秦彻 : He was mesmerizing. The way he moved with such precision, spoke at the perfect tone, perfect pace; he was impossible to resist. The more you watched him, the more addicted you were getting. But even after donating a bunch of money to him…he still wouldn’t catch your attention! The only solution you had was to request a private live stream with just the two of you. Maybe then, he’ll give you what you truly desire.

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its been 2 weeks .. ntm on me </3

"My favorite position? Don't you think that's a bit bold to ask?"

"It's— just answer... please?"

"Hm..." Sylus rested his finger on his chin and pondered the question for a moment, but you knew there wasn't any actual thinking going on in his mind. Because the answer was already there—even before you asked.

-

"This one is pleasant, but it isn't really effective."

Sylus had your face pressed against the plump pillow, watching you knock up and down at every cruel thrust he fed you—face down, ass up... did he like it? Of course he did. But he wouldn't say it was his favorite position.

"E-effective how?" You whimper, raising your head to catch your breath before getting face smacked back on the pillow again—making you swallow and gasp your pleading moans.

Sylus didn't answer immediately and let the question linger in the air for a moment.

"Don't know. Jus' feel like its missing something."

-

"This... This can't be your favorite? w-we've- ngh- never done this?!"

Sylus had you lying on your side, one leg raised in the air as he drove his cock in and out of you at a comfortable rhythm, already making you a stuttering mess to even bring yourself to ask another obvious question.

"You're right, we haven't done this." Sylus chuckled, adjusting himself before lifting himself up with you pressed against his body. "And you're right—again—this isn't my favorite position."

"I-it was a simple question! Why can't you answer it properly?!"

"Because you'll get my answer now."

"Wh-" before words could even spit out of your mouth, Sylus eventually had you pinned against the bed's headboard and he didn't waste a second. The pace of his thrusts started to quicken like a cheetah in a race—scratch that, he was way faster than one. He was going insane on you the moment he had you where he needed you to be.

Missionary.

I originally made this list as character notes for future stories — I love digging deep into their dynamics and really breaking them down. But honestly? I couldn’t not share. Would love to hear your thoughts too: what do you think drives them absolutely mad, and what turns them into helpless fluff puddles? 🖤

🍎 Top 10 Things That Make Caleb Absolutely, Irrevocably Mad

1 He doesn’t know where you are Even when it makes sense. Even when you’re safe. Even when he’s on the far side of a tunnel with no signal and too much time to think. The silence eats at him, turns every breath into a countdown. By the time he’s back, no one on the base dares talk to him until you’re in his line of sight again.

2 You come home with a bouquet of flowers from another man It’s not jealousy, really. It’s… fury dressed in olive green. You’re standing there, smiling, saying some poor man gave you flowers because you saved his life. Great. Fantastic. Caleb’s thrilled that his girlfriend is both competent and accidentally irresistible. But now he has to pretend this isn’t bothering him while mentally comparing the man's face to strategic punching surfaces.

3 You climb on unstable furniture to reach something You know, nothing fancy—just a stack of books on top of a chair that’s on top of a bench. And you? Balancing like a gremlin in fuzzy socks. He walks in and suddenly the war flashbacks begin. You think it’s funny. He thinks it’s a workplace hazard, and you are the HR violation.

4 You rearrange his model planes He adores you. Worships the ground you walk on. Would throw himself in front of an oncoming dropship for you. But if you dust his shelf and dare to reorder his starfighters and aircrafts by vibes instead of model number? He's already rewriting his will. In blood.

about ♱ losing your virginity to the experienced lads men!

pairing ♱ xavier ⌇zayne ⌇rafayel ⌇sylus ⌇caleb [ separate ] x f!r

content warning ♱ virginity loss, slight jealousy/insecurity, a bit of hurt comfort, mentions of blood, possessiveness, slight corruption, innocence kink, body worship, fingering, mentions of oral (f. receiving), heavy pet name usage, unprotected sex, creampie, unrealistic smut, established relationships (except caleb is readers bsf) lowkey plot heavy sorry — MINORS DNI 18+

kit says ♱ so i accidentally made zayne’s angsty … apologies. also this isn’t my best, but i'm still proud of it! i hope everyone enjoys! it’s my longest one so far yayy. feedback + comments & reblogs are greatly appreciated ⭑.ᐟ

沈星回 ⟢ #XAVIER

your relationship had always been soft—gentle kisses, intertwined hands, quiet nights spent tangled together beneath blankets. it was sweet, almost innocent. but beneath that sweetness, xavier’s been aching for more.

of course, he was patient with you, but in truth, xavier’s waited months for this. for the words to slip out of your mouth so coyly with pretty, innocent doe eyes. for you to look at him the way you are now and say,

“xavie… do you think we could… um,” you can barely say the words, a lump forming in your throat out of sheer mortification. “have sex?” you end on a whisper. 

synopsis. hot things he does while doing it

including. zayne, xavier, rafayel, sylus, caleb

warnings. fem! reader, oral (fem! receiving), fingering, cockwarming, dry humping, dirty talk, tit play, brat taming, petnames used: sweetheart, baby

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ zayne + holding your body like he owns it

from what you've gathered, zayne always starts obsessing over your mouth while being in you first— his thumb carefully resting on your lip, tilting your face up like he's examining something delicate, quite precious, his darling, his life.

naturally, your cheeks rise in temperature beneath his grip, your skin dewy with sweat and pheromones and the way he looks at you was just so steady it made your belly twist tight. yet zayne doesn't need to say a lot, in fact, he doesn't have to, he just keeps his eyes locked on yours forevermore, watching every flicker of your lashes, every shiver that rolls down your spine as his cock pushes in with slow, thick and dragging thrusts, making you feel the strong tremors in your thighs.

"you feel that, you feel me?" he asks huskily, but not gentle, you notice there was something seething beneath it, something tight, like it took him insane effort not to filthily fuck into you, "that shake in your legs, fuck, you can take it all like that for me? thats not fair, is it?" as you shake your head frantically at him, skin flustered when he smirks at you.

"that's your body giving in, you know?" and then he starts, thrusts after thrusts, hard and deep all the way in, hips sharp and pelvis grinding against your overstimulated clit with every goddamn drag— and in this situation, all you could really do was sob and twitch as zayne catches your noises with his palm on your mouth, still holding your face, making you look at him.

You’re sprawled across the tangled sheets, body sunk into the warmth still lingering from the laughter moments ago. Rafayel’s beside you, eyes half-lidded and face flushed, one arm tucked lazily under his head, the other tracing idle shapes into the side of your waist. His skin sticks softly to yours in places—warm, a little sweaty—his bare chest rising slow and steady beneath your touch.

The nightdress you’re wearing barely qualifies as one anymore, light as mist and gathered at your hips, translucent in the low, golden light. He hasn’t even commented on it, not directly, but the way his eyes keep drifting… the way his fingertips keep brushing just beneath the hem says enough.

Rafayel X Reader

Summary: Joining Rafayel's tour as his new partner dancer was something you thought would be beyond your wildest dreams, but it turned into your worst nightmare. Can you and Rafayel work out your personal issues? Or maybe you two could put your hatred on one another somewhere else entirely.

Tags: Idol Rafayel X Fem Dancer Reader, enemies to lovers, hatefucking, cunnilingus, dry humping, stimulation through clothing, riding his face, deepthroating, 69ing, use of mirror, slightly dubious consent, use of a camera phone, thigh job, nipple play, praise but some of it is backhanded, some degradation, Reader has a praise kink, brat switch x brat switch, except the end is just dom Raf, sex on a bus, sex against a window, doggy style, aftercare. Also sooo much word play in this fic, maybe a little much but I was feelin clever.

Word Count: 11.4k

Author's Note: Wooo Rafayel Solo, y'all fish girlies can't stop winning!!

This is an extended cut of "I fucking hate you, but I don't hate fucking you".

Also read the Ao3 version if you like.

They say never meet your idols, and perhaps this is a word of advice you should’ve let sink into your pores and permeate your bones instead of brushing it right off like dirt on your shoulder. It’s a contemplation you’ve ruminated over for the past 8 months, a thought increasing with tenacity from the moment you submitted your video audition for new backup dancers for the infamous bad boy idol sensation, Rafayel Qi, a conflicting collection of thoughts that lull through your head when you feel the simmering heat of stage lights and the ghosting of intricately trained hands over your skin, your body moving in perfectly practiced steps across an LED dance floor. Would you give this up to also give back what you learned about the cost of fame? It’s been 8 months of uncertainty riddled throughout your limbs, every one of which is trained to not even make the slightest mistaken quiver despite it, and despite the fact that the man who pushed all these feelings onto you moves in time with you, step by step, breath by breath, his fingers grasping into your waist like he owned it, for the whole world to see. 

Dancing with Rafayel was, to every reasonable outsider looking in, the honor of a lifetime, and to characterize that as false would be disingenuous, but it falters from the truth all the same. What people didn’t see in a near flawless choreography, the push and pull between your bodies under hues of fluorescently colored lights, were the tears that saturated your pillows when you finally found your bed after letting self-doubt brim and build at every nitpick, every snide remark that a man you once admired would carelessly hurl at you in rehearsals in the early days. They didn’t see the screaming matches that happened between you and their beloved idol in a backstage dressing room, and they didn’t know how you’d sworn up and down to one another that detestation was the only true feeling between the pair of you, regardless of how familiarly and intimately you two danced on his stage every night. No one who wasn’t on Rafayel’s payroll knew that. 

The hardest song and dance you’d ever done came after the stage, though. While you’re body had been pushed to its breaking points on several occasions while training for this, at the end of the day, dance was so intrinsically intertwined in your DNA that your routine was second nature. The true performance began when you stepped in front of a line of paparazzi, cameras flashing in your face in blinding succession, microphones jutted toward your lips, and you could do nothing but force a smile at their callousness. Still, for them, too, you’d grown accustomed to their audacity. No, your showmanship was tested the moment a familiar question floated toward you from the array of blending shouts. 

“How do you feel about working with the Rafayel Qi?” 

Your true answer always seems to build like bile in your throat, threatening to exude from you like something truly putrid before you swallow it back down. What was it like? The question was maddeningly rooted in true ignorance, and ignorance you once shared in alongside their bliss. Working with Rafayel was like constantly dancing on eggshells and being asked to never let a single one crack; it was as smooth as sandpaper and as much an honor as being selected for jury duty. Still, those thoughts you swallow like shards of glass, scratching in your throat like protrusions that were so painful they could bleed right out of you, but you make it look like a warm glass of milk. You answer in placating niceties, face smearing in a label-approved smile as you ramble out false sentiments of your thanks, how “grateful you are for the opportunity”, how it changed your life. That last statement runs true, but not in the way it's perceived by these hounds and will be later spun on blogs and tabloids. 

The rigid tension from your dishonesty only fortifies when you feel a familiar, irritating yet perfectly toned arm wrap around your shoulders, Rafayel's body weight bullying into you like it was his right. “And I couldn’t have asked for a better dance partner,” he beams, a sentiment you know is just as forced as anything you've said thus far, his voice running so syrupy sweet you could practically choke on the thick lie. 

Against every instinct, you lean into his touch for the cameras, an adoring shimmer glossing over your eyes as you meet his, hiding your disdain beneath it. You offer him a “shy” smile, a subtlety he matches by leaning his face closer to yours, his tout lips just a single reckless movement away, too close for comfort but not enough to truly meet. It was always just enough to tantalize the media, to let them weave their own conclusions. 

“I’m sure the fans adore her just as much as I do,” he rambles for the microphones, eyes never leaving yours with that knowing glint. “How could they not, after all? I mean, look at her. She’s such a cutie, isn’t she?” 

Your ears burn at the nickname, knowing the underlying condescension it holds as the pads of his fingers smush into your cheeks, gripping your jaw and turning you to face the cameras like a doll. To an outside viewer, this act might be viewed as endearing banter, but to you, you know it's his mockery, his show of power that he can treat you like his little plaything for the paparazzi, and all you can do is smile and laugh and go along with his every whim. It makes your skin crawl beneath his touch, itch with rage. 

When he finally walks you two away from the array of cameras, you grumble a whispered chastisement into his ear as the lights grow dim behind you, curtains falling to shield you two as you reconvene with the crew backstage to pack up the set. "You were off time, today, for the record," you tell him through gritted teeth. "Are you trying to make a fool of yourself, because you can do that in your solo performances without dragging me down." 

Rafayel scoffs in response as his manager finally shoos away the last of the camera fiends, his hands flying off your body like he might catch a disease if they linger there longer. "I wasn't off time; I took creative liberties. Nobody wants to watch the exact same performance over and over again, cutie." 

"Actually, that's exactly what people want. You're an idol. They expect perfection," you retort. 

"Then maybe you should follow my lead instead of expecting me to follow yours," he shoots back with an eyeroll. "After all, they're here to see Rafayel Qi, not his backup dancer."

"I believe my official job title is dance partner, and your fans love me," you challenge him, face cocked to the side as your chest huffs below his. "If you're so dissatisfied with my performance, then fire me. See how your precious fans react then."

"If you want me to fire you so bad, then why don't you just quit?" he argues back as he statures above you.

As you two snarl in each other's faces, you're separated by a clipboard that flings between you like a knife cutting the winded thread of tension between you and him. "That's enough, you two," Thomas, Rafayel's manager, berates the pair of you. "Get on the bus and stop arguing like school children. We’ve got places to be. We certainly don’t have time for your antics.” 

With a reluctant sigh, you concede your defiance against him, trudging away from Thomas and Rafayel toward the backstage exit. You swear you can feel a pair of searing eyes following you out, gazing from a distance as you walk through a large garage door hung wide open for the crew to move out large set pieces off and back onto their trucks. That feeling of being watched, being stared at, sends a stark chill down your spine, but you don’t turn back. You hop onto the tour bus and let the double doors shut behind you as the driver lets you on, saying nothing as you pass. 

From the backstage wings, Rafayel watches your figure disappear behind those double doors, eyes carelessly tracing up and down your body as it sways with every step. Time slows to a near halt from his perspective as he catches the wind carry through your loose strands of hair and graze across the hem of your skirt in rippling cadences. 

Thomas taps Rafayel on the head with his clipboard impatiently. I wish you two would drop this act. It's exhausting," he hisses, waving down a tech crew member to strip Rafayel of his mic. 

Rafayel’s hands raise in the air as the mousy intern scrambles around him, pulling his mic back from his back pocket and carefully unthreading the wire running up his shirt. “Wasn’t it you and the board execs who decided we needed this shameless publicity stunt to begin with?” he grumbles. “Now, personally, I’d love nothing more than to drop this lovey-dovey crap, but she’s right. The fans love her. It’s too late to back out now.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it,” Thomas replies with a skeptical glance, taking the mic pack from the intern as they finish removing the tape from Rafayel’s and freeing it from his body before scurrying back off. “We all know this back-and-forth bickering is a charade. Anyone with eyes, including your fans, knows what you two really are."

Rafayel's arms fold across his chest as his gaze jutts away from Thomas, his lips forming a dramatic pout. "What you're implying right now... It's obscene and outrageous."

"Outrageous, you say?" Thomas argues back. "Is that why she just walked onto your bus for the tenth stop in a row?" 

As red hues cascade over Rafayel's facial features, his chin dipping down toward his chest as his lips purse almost pathetically, Thomas knows he doesn't need to push for a further response. He glares at his manager anyway. "You don't get to boss me around. You're on my payroll, so we're clear," Rafayel reminds his manager dryly. "That said, I do what I want, and what I want to get on my bus and get on the road... for no particular reason. Good day." 

And he stomps away toward his bus, jerking his head away as his sticks his nose out proudly and perfectly-styled violet hair ruffles in the wind that tunnels in from that garage door. 

Thomas just sighs, knowing all too well what's about to happen.

-

Rafayel, for as long as you’d known him, had been nothing more to you than a demanding, ungrateful, scatterbrained mess. If Rafayel said jump, you're expected response was "how high", and if you did it, he'd tell you it still wasn't high enough. Often, such arrogance led you to question day after day how such an entitled and intolerable person became so revered among the idol industry, so unconditionally adored, and yet there was a time when that question was pointless and the answer was obvious. 

It wasn’t terribly long ago that you were a fresh-faced dancer coming out of 2 years at a prestigious conservatory, submitting a long-shot video audition to an open call website listing for backup dancers to dance alongside Rafayel Qi in his upcoming tour. Though you gave it your all, you’d consigned yourself to the odds and already accepted rejection when you received the email, the congratulations, the offer letter with a generous salary estimate, and the date and time of your first rehearsal, and you kicked your feet and clutched your phone to your chest like the little fangirl you once were, the one who couldn’t be prouder of you. Dancing for the world was your dream, and dancing alongside Rafayel, the famously alluring and wildly attractive idol, was beyond your wildest dreams, but it was happening. You'd be lying if you claimed that you didn't feel the stirring of butterflies in your stomach and chest at the idea, or that you didn't wonder if those stark blue and red-hued eyes were truly that shimmery in real life (they are). You had a crush. So what? So did half the world, and you wouldn’t let it interfere with the opportunity. 

When you walked into that rehearsal that first day, you’d already run scenarios through your head to the point where you’d built a vivid image of your first meeting with a real celebrity. Rafayel had a particularly striking personality in the eyes of the public, a reputation for being a true charmer. You expected to be greeted with his signature, heart-melting smile, perhaps even the subtle flirtation he was often controversially known for, and the gracefulness of a swan that he carried himself with from the dance floor to the red carpets. Instead, you were met with a cold demeanor, eyes that stared right through you as if you’d suddenly turned transparent. 

“You’re the new hire?” he asks, eyes fanning down you like an assessment.

You nod rigidly, his loveless gaze making a churning feeling form in your chest, but you reach out a shaky hand anyway, its tremors growing by the second. “I am,” you force out, face speckled in bright red. “My name is- it's-”

Rafayel forms something between a laugh and a scoff before responding. “I don’t need your name,” he interrupts before you can finish your stammering. “Maybe I’ll learn it when you convince me you’re actually going to last here. Until then…”  

He waves you off with a lazy flick of his wrist, brushing straight past you without a second glance. 

It stung, but you held your ground through that first rehearsal. You signed papers, you greeted executives who didn’t seem eager to accept your presence, and you hit the dance floor after performing some routine stretches on your own time and in your own space. You learned the contract you signed was not for just any backup dancer position, and in your excitement, you missed the specificity of your role as Rafayel’s dance partner, the true counterpart to the centerpiece he was on stage. You quickly learned that even the other backup dancers, most of whom had already been on Rafayel’s previous tours, already did not like you either, whispers following behind you about your lack of experience, bets about how long it would take you to quit. Every glance that glazed over you was cold enough to bite at your skin, and reality hit you quickly. The rose-colored glasses you wore when you imagined show business shattered violently that first day. 

When you stepped beside Rafayel that first time, you found your lips screwed tensely shut, eyes pinned to the choreographer as you attentively listened and watched every instruction. Despite how your heart sank into your stomach when Rafayel looked at you at your introduction, you felt it jump back into your chest the first time his hands grazed your hips. That feeling too faded with every snide remark he’d mutter under his breath about your timing, your lack of fluidity, until every time his fingers traced along your jawline, dragging your gaze to his, you felt nothing but tears welling in your eyes and the burning that came from holding them back, tongue bitten and swollen in your cheek for every hour that passed until you were dismissed. 

You went home, opened dozens of messages from close friends and family, all of whom you’d beamed to when you first received the email, asking how it went. You texted them about how amazing it was, how much you learned, a burning hot lie as your fingers rigidly pressed into the keyboard. This was the first time you swallowed your pride and buried the truth, because despite the overflow of tears that ran down your cheeks, you were determined not to be chased away so easily. You knew exactly who you were: you were a kickass dancer who was going to prove everyone wrong. 

Only a month after you’d signed your contract, Rafayel unveiled his new partner choreography and you, his “fresh discovery” of a dance partner, to the world at a music festival. When you stepped on stage to join him, there was an eruption of applause and cheers that reverberated through you like thunder, the feeling of something truly gravitational drawing you to the stage and to Rafayel’s side as the music began. Despite a month of merciless criticism from him, your bodies melded together like it was the most natural thing in the world, falling in perfectly practiced time as you glided across the stage with him, his hands ghosting over your body as you two fell in sync with one another. It was sharp and polished yet came off as authentic all the same, driven by sweat and underlying lust. On stage, Rafayel was exactly who you’d always known him to be, even before you knew him: charismatic, magnetic, beautiful. When you two shared the stage, it was the first time you believed he truly looked at you, the first time you coveted that sparkle in his eyes that had enchanted millions, and you played right into it. 

The performance was an unprecedented success, blowing up on social media shortly after your debut, spurring on fan edits, magazine articles, and quickly progressing dating rumors that had you and Rafayel called into a secret board meeting with the executives who seemed to resent your presence in their space only a month prior.

The offer was simple: become a part of Rafayel’s marketing campaign, go on his press tour, fan the flames of those dating rumors but never confirm them, and you’d be graced with a sizable pay increase and opportunities to build your own reputation and connections. It was all laid out in contract form right before you, a paper between you and Rafayel, who sat close beside you. You had no real reason to refuse. 

Rafayel, however, had plenty of reason, and you expected nothing less than to turn to him beside you and catch a familiar look of disgust, rejecting the idea with full offense to you. Instead, he shrugged. “I think it’s brilliant, actually,” he announces agreeably to the room, an array of relieved faces following. “We give them just enough to chew on but never enough to satisfy their appetites, and they’ll keep coming back for more. It’s foolproof, so long as my co–star can play the role that is.” 

You groan at the familiar cadence of his skepticism. “Pretending to like you for the press will be no different than pretending to like you on that stage,” you assure him, face full of confidence as you meet his gaze before quickly jutting back to Thomas. “Where do I sign?” you ask. 

You can feel his eyes watching you as you pick up the pen, Rafayel’s cheek casually pressed up against his palm and propped by an elbow on the desk as he watches you sign, and you feel the palpable shift of energy in the room when he takes the paper from you, branding the bottom with his own signature.

“I look forward to working with you,” Rafayel says as he dots the i at the end of his surname, his eyes flickering back to the bottom of the paper and reading over your handwriting before your name evades his lips. It hits you that it indeed has been a whole month, and he never once addressed you by name, eyes widening at the realization. He shakes his head when he catches the glimmer in your eyes. “I told you I’d only bother learning your name if you actually stuck around,” he says, picking up the paper with a flourishing whoosh before holding it up to you. “And now I’m contractually stuck with you.”

You look down at the paper, your chicken scratch next to Rafayel’s precisely penned signature. “Funny,” you mutter. “You didn’t want to bother learning my name, and now it’s the very thing that legally binds us. Certainly, you won’t forget it now.”

An assured smile rushes across his lips as he sets the paper back down and slides it across the table to the awaiting execs, settling back into his palm as he leans up against the table. “Oh, I certainly won’t,” he says, eyes full of fire and your reflection. 

You both trade the first of many forced smiles. 

-

While being Rafayel’s pretend secret girlfriend had its many drawbacks, mainly the sheer Rafayel of it all, it wasn’t without its inherent advantages. Of all the benefits you received with your new contract, from your own dressing room to access to Rafayel’s team of assistants, the one thing that truly made it worth it for you was something that wasn’t in the contract at all, but it was your right nonetheless. The new terms gave you back the right to your voice. With your job security guaranteed, there was no longer anything to lose from griping back at Rafayel when he’d inevitably bark at you about your hand placement or your posture, and instead of your routine of biting your tongue hard enough to bleed every time he’d snap at you, you’d spit that bad blood right back at him.

Practices often ended in fits of fury between you two, voices raising to a shrill pitch until someone was forced to remind the pair of you that Rafayel has to protect his pipes, and you both stomp off away from each other, the sound of slammed doors echoing through the building when he reaches his dressing room, and before you can match the motion and his intensity, your door is caught firmly in Thomas’ hand. 

You turn to him with gritted teeth and eyes that seethe with the stinging urge to tear up. It hits you internally all at once, another 2 weeks of press tour stops, interviews, practices upon practices, and he still didn’t respect you in the slightest. “How have you managed to put up with that creature all these years?” you ask Thomas. 

Thomas sighs loftily in response, a sympathetic but tired look in his eyes as he meets yours. “How do I deal with working for high-maintenance celebrities with big mouths and even bigger egos?” he rephrases back to you, the tilt of his brow telling you he’s not exclusively talking about Rafayel. “I take it on the chin and remind myself that the only thing more difficult than being bossed around by an idol… is being an idol,” he explains. “Having the whole world watch your every move is an incomprehensible feeling for anyone who hasn’t done it themselves. I personally consider myself lucky that I get to hide behind the likes of you and him. Clearly, it’s enough to drive the two of you insane.”

You shake your head disagreeably at Thomas. “No, he’s enough to drive me insane. The paparazzi are nothing compared to him.” 

“He’s only hard on you because he wants you to push you to your true limits,” Thomas says in an attempt at comfort. 

You scoff. “Well, he’s certainly succeeded at that,” you reply. “I am at my limit, Thomas. I have been at my limit!” 

“What I mean is,” Thomas intervenes before you can raise your voice to a harsh yell. “He pushes you to be the best you can be, because he knows you can be the best. He won’t admit it, but he knows you’re good at what you do.” 

You shake your head in response, exasperated and disbelieving. “Or it’s because he thinks I suck,” you mutter. “I’ve proved everyone in this building wrong about me, and he still can’t treat me like I deserve to be here! I already fought for my place here, and I’m tired of still fighting him,” you explain, your voice trembling nearly to the point of tears. 

Thomas’ eyes flicker away from you briefly, sympathy and consideration carried in his gaze as he pulls out his phone from his back pocket, unlocking it and scrolling through its contents to your disdain. You think he’s begun to ignore you, to answer some business email as you cross your hands in front of your chest and tap your foot loudly and impatiently before him, a sharply challenging look in your eye as you watch him. Your sternness is interrupted when you hear your own phone go off, reaching for it as Thomas looks back up at you, and you pass him a confused look when you see he’s forwarded you an email from 8 months ago.

He lets out an elongated sigh. “I shouldn’t be sharing this with you. It’s supposed to be confidential, only for a couple of board members who missed the meeting, but… I think you need to see this. Just don’t tell anyone, and don’t share it,” he says, voice stern and warning as he stuffs his phone back in his pocket. “In fact, delete it when you're done watching, just to be safe.”

Your eyes flitter between your phone and Thomas perplexedly, but you let out an eager nod regardless, curiously swirling in your stomach as he makes his leave. Thomas swivels on his foot and walks away, leaving you alone in your dressing room to ruminate. You close the door behind him, pulling unlocking your phone to open the email he sent you. You find a video attached. 

*Casting call for Rafayel dance partner final decision.mp4* 

When you click it, you quickly take in the room of executives lined around a long table, some of whom you recognize from your earlier practices, and others you’ve never even seen, with Rafayel at the table’s head, front and center just like he is on stage. Behind him, a projector screen plays your audition video, something you’ve grown to question even yourself at this point. It repeats in the background as executives discuss, comments being made without a moment's hesitation about everything from what you could control to what you couldn’t. There were a couple of comments about a lack of technique and a rather empty resume, but they were drowned out by a sea of comments about more minuscule matters, like how you chose to do your makeup, the shape of your body, and even the length of your legs was debated back and forth for a moment, and as your stomach twisted and churned with every little comment you felt the self-doubt of your first day seep back into your bones, until every last comment is cut short by Rafayel’s voice, chiming in to cut through all the negativity and noise. 

“Hire her,” he says bluntly, voice more serious and candid than you’d ever witnessed personally.  

All eyes turn to Rafayel, the room erupting with comment after comment about your inexperience, your visual lacking, how you wouldn’t fit the carefully cultivated aesthetic of his tour, and would clash with his image. Before anyone can make any headway with their reasoning, he gets up from his chair and turns to leave. 

“I said hire her,” he repeated, more self-assured and resolved than before. His eyes shift back up to the projector screen, your amateur, self-choreographed dance repeating before him. 

The room dies to silence before someone dares to speak again, a sheepish “why” carrying throughout the room, barely audible in the recording. 

Rafayel’s reply is concise and certain. “She’s just got that spark,” he says. “Passion, guts, genuine emotion in every move she makes. I’ve watched hundreds of tapes, and I haven’t seen even a hint of that until now, until that girl. If she can captivate my attention, she can do it with our audiences as well. She’s the best, and I only accept the best. Now stop wasting my time and offer her the job,” he says right before he turns away and waltzes right out the door, echoing as it swings shut behind him, rendering the room to a shocked silence.

The video ends. 

You shut your phone off, your back sliding against your dressing room door as the phone presses into your chest, your heartbeat rapidly pounding against your chest as his words replay in your head like a broken record. 

-

Though you’d never admit it aloud and certainly not to him, learning how Rafayel himself was the one who ensured your place on his tour brought with it the validation you needed to push through a grueling final few weeks of back-bending rehearsals and Oscar-worthy performances for interviews you attended alongside him. It wasn’t much. It was hardly reassuring at all, in fact, given Rafayel’s onslaught of fresh criticisms didn’t seem to slow, no matter how close the tour drew, but somehow it was enough, enough for you to understand that you earned your spot there, and even he knew that. You persevered, day by day, maintaining your contract despite his outward judgments of you, and yet also in secret honor of the fact that he saw something in you he didn’t care to admit. It was a strange routine, but you handled it just as you did with every routine you learned for this tour and every dance you learned before: masterfully.

However, when the weeks left to the launch of Rafayel’s world tour shrunk to just days, concerns began to arise about how the pair of you only seemed to butt heads more as the tour neared. Your mutual disdain was starting to crack through and flood onto the stage, becoming a concern no one could choose to ignore any longer, especially Thomas. With the clock racing down and running out, he scrambled for solutions, but struggled to get either of you to agree to even just talk to one another outside of rehearsals, and eventually, his patience snapped like a worn thread, and he chose to resort to desperate measures. 

With the collusion of Rafayel’s personal security detail, Thomas devised a scenario that would effectively force the pair of you to work out your differences with a little exposure therapy, leading you both into the same dingy, remotely located hotel room to “suck it up and talk it out”. 

The ruse wasn’t immediately obvious to you when one of Rafayel’s chauffeurs drove you to that hotel, and Thomas led you right into that rather dated hotel room. He told you that there was someone important who wanted to meet you to discuss a brand deal, but that their privacy was a matter they didn’t trifle with. You blindly chose to believe this explanation. After all, Thomas was effectively just as much your manager at this point as he was Rafayel’s. If he said opportunity awaited you behind a squeaky, laminate door, you had no reason to doubt him, but when the door flung open, and instead of a well-dressed stranger, your eyes met Rafayel’s, your face shifting from anticipation to disappointment, you should’ve known. 

“Huh?” Rafayel interjects with a perplexed tilt of his cut jaw. “What the hell are you doing here?” 

You meet his confusion and match it, hopping up from the bed you’ve been patiently waiting on the edge of. “I could ask you the same thing. Thomas asked me to wait here. He mentioned nothing about you.”

Rafayel’s eyes flicker around the room skeptically. The TV’s been unplugged, and he grows weary when he realizes he just blindly handed Thomas his phone right before he entered. His head yanks back to the door, and it slams shut behind him, a burst of wind and a loud whoosh flooding the room and running right through Rafayel’s violet hair. He short-circuits only a moment before his fist begins slamming against the door’s surface in loud, consecutive bangs.

“Thomas!” he shouts through the door. “Let me out! I’ll have your head for this!” 

You approach him and the door from behind, catching up to Rafayel in your understanding of what just happened. “You mean let us out?” you chastise him, before sliding into the free space beside him, your own fist meeting the hardwood. “Let us outtt!! I’ll never yell at you again, just don’t leave me in here with him!” you plead. 

Rafayel’s hands drop to his side, his eyes veering at you and forming into a dull glare. “Seriously? Begging already? You’ve got no understanding of the art of negotiation. Get a grip,” he berates you coldly before turning back to the door. “Thomas! I am your boss! I demand you let us out this instant!”

“Ah, yes. I’m definitely in the presence of a master negotiator now,” you mutter. 

“Forget it!” Thomas calls back through the door. “You can have your freedom and your phones back after you work out your differences! Legally, I can’t lock you in, but this door will be guarded, so don’t even think about making a break for it.” 

“Thomas, this is insane!” you call out. “You can keep us here all night, and nothing is going to change! So why don’t you just let us out now and save yourself some time?” 

Only silence answers you back. 

Rafayel grumbles. “Thomas? Are you there? Thomas!” he shouts, and again, he receives no response. “Shit,” he mutters, turning to face away from the door as his back leans into it, his head knocking back before his eyes fan down to you, pitiless and irate. “Forget it. I have nothing to say to you,” he tells you harshly.

You scoff in response, arms folded over your chest and chin jutted out defiantly. “Funny,” you reply. “I was about to say the same thing.” You turn on your heel and walk straight toward the window at the back of the room, grabbing the rolling desk chair so you can prop yourself in the corner and distract yourself with the passing cars and idle movement outside. 

Rafayel surrenders his hopes of escape and reluctantly enters the room, eyes taking in the space with disgust. “This room is so… dingy. It’s humid, and it’s probably crawling with god knows what. How could Thomas think it's okay to put me in here with the likes of you?” he grumps.

"Maybe because the idea is to get us to work out our problems as soon as possible, and not to get comfortable. Dumbass," you chide. 

Rafayel lets out a boisterous, prideful laugh in response. "Well, too bad for him that would require me to actually talk to you, and I refuse, smartass." 

He plops himself down on the king bed, spreading like a starfish just to make it clear you were welcome nowhere near it. You roll your eyes in response, their gaze only briefly meeting his as he settles down, entirely disregarding his alleged cleanliness concerns. You turn back toward the window, shaking your head as you peer back down towards the street. 

Time goes by at a painstaking pace, dragging as Rafayel maps his eyes across the water stains on the ceiling, and you resort to reading license plates after thoroughly memorizing every street and business name in the visible vicinity. Even though the clock has been removed from the room, neither of you has any concept of time, but it seems to drag tortuously as you both stubbornly avoid one another. On occasion, your gaze shifts back to Rafayel, his eyes meeting yours for a fleeting second before his face jerks away, arms folded across his chest with a self-important “hmph”. It happens once, then twice, then begins to occur like clockwork, despite there being no clock in sight, until both your patience wears to something thin and transparent. You shoot him a piercing glare. 

"You're staring," you scold him. "Cut it out."

"Don't flatter yourself,” he shoots back. “There's nothing else to look at. The TV's busted. What else am I supposed to do?" 

You swivel in the desk chair to face him. "Why are you so adamant about tearing me down, huh? You don't think you do enough of that in practice?" 

"Oh, I know I do enough of it at practice," he agrees, but his tone is laced with combativeness. "You're too green for this industry. If you don't toughen up, your next gig will crush you like a bug." 

"And yet I'm still here," you argue back. 

Rafayel lets out an annoyed growl. "Lucky me..." he grumbles. 

Your fist slams into the desk beside you. "You know what? You are lucky," you insist, standing up from the corner of the room and approaching him on the bed until you hover over him, his palms pressed into the mattress as he looks up at you, sitting on the bed's edge. "I work my ass off, and it shows. It's why social media is raving every time I perform with you, and it's why I’m bringing in all this great publicity for your tour, but it would just kill you to say thanks just once, wouldn't it?" 

"You want me to thank you?" Rafayel repeats, voice low as he tilts a provocative brow at you. "Thank you for what exactly? Being argumentative, unprofessional, and getting personally offended at criticism? Sure, I'll thank you. I'll thank you when this tour is over, and I never have to see you again."

You throw your hands up in frustration, pacing across the room before pivoting back to him, fire sparking within your eyes. "If you hate me so much, why didn't you fire me after that first practice. It's clear you've despised me since, so what gives?" 

"Oh, I almost did. Believe me," he explains. "But imagine how that would've looked on my part after I-" and he quickly shuts his lips tight, turning away from you.  

In a fit of annoyance, you grab Rafayel by the chin and force his jaw to face you once again. "After what?" you ask proddingly. 

He sighs. "After I stuck my neck out for you," he answers quietly, jerking his head from your grasp. "I saw your audition tape. You had talent and charisma, but no discipline, and when you walked in that first day, it was obvious you needed to develop thick skin and quick. I am never going to apologize for being hard on you. Look at where it's gotten you: national headlines, fronts of magazine covers, brand deals..."

"Oh, are you saying I should give you all the credit then?" you question him. 

"No," he affirms. "Unlike some people, I don't need a thank you. I know I made the right decision, because when a bright-eyed, blushing girl walks into my studio claiming to be a dancer, I make sure to show them exactly what this industry is like, so either they leave in tears and never try again when they clearly weren't cut out for it, or... they roll with the punches. I just didn't know there was a third option: become obnoxious and arrogant."  

"Oh... you mean, exactly like you?" You chastise him. "I'm sorry to disappoint, Rafayel, but it seems I've been chosen in the court of public opinion. Just admit this tour wouldn't be half as successful as it is without me, and you know it." 

Rafayel scoffs in response. "See, this is why I haven't stopped being on your ass," he says. "First, you were too fresh-faced, too sensitive, and now your head's so big it's about to blow through the ceiling. That confidence may work on the stage, but it's a turn-off behind the scenes."

"You're such a hypocrite, Raf. You literally just described yourself," you shoot back.

"Except I've been an idol for years, and you've hardly got your foot in the door," he intervenes. "You're not at the level of stardom that you can afford to be difficult, and you'll never get there if you keep this up." 

"But... aren't I?" you ask him. "Rafayel... you can't get rid of me even if you wanted to. You can't fire me because your fanbase will implode on itself. You need me." 

Rafayel cracks a self-assured, deviant smile. "I've created a monster," he declares. "You're like one of those beasts from mythology, every time I try to cut off your head, you grow two more. There's no stopping you now." 

"Is that a compliment?" you ask, a slight hopeful glint slipping into your tone.

"No," he denies firmly. 

You grumble again, hands digging into your hairline as you throw your head back before raking them back down, face hot in anger as you stare down at Rafayel. "Why are you so afraid of throwing me a damn bone?" you shout. 

"Because clearly you don't need any praises from me!" he spat back. 

You roll your eyes at the assertion, knowing how utterly and completely wrong it is. He's the only person whose praises you truly want to hear, and not the fake ones he spews for paparazzi, the real stuff, the things he said in the room full of high-standing executives. "I'll tell you what. If you just admit that you need me, I'll call Thomas on the landline right now and tell him we're all good."

He skirts out a mocking laugh in response. "You're really that desperate for me to compliment you, cutie? I thought we got over all that after the first day." 

The pure anger that possesses you when you fist a ball of his shirt into his hand, tugging his smug face near yours. "Say it," you demand of him. "Say you need me." 

You expect that smirk of his to drop off his face, but it doesn't. Instead, his eyes dart around your facial features, between your keen eyes and your quivering lip. "Fine," he mumbles, before his voice grows soft and his eyes look up at you, cloaked in a glossy sheen. "I need you."

The way he says it is far from what you meant, laced with sudden levels of indecent suggestion that have blood rushing to your face and sprinkling your cheeks in gushing red. You can see the glimmer in his eyes as they trace over your lips, the satisfied way he's settled against the mattress as his eyes tether to yours. 

"I need you... to not be so predictable," he says, dropping the admiring eyes with a roll. "Seriously, is it that easy to make you puddy in my hands? Maybe I haven't been hard enough on you." 

Your hand presses into his chest, shoving him down onto the mattress as his wrist catches your outstretched hand and pulls you in with him, tumbling on top of him in a manner you far from intended. Your eyes flicker to his briefly as your arms cage around his head, the familiar pang of excitement you felt before your first day resurfacing before you quickly snuff it out, lifting yourself up to leave before feeling a pair of strong hands snake around your neck, gentle tugs encouraging you to just fall right into him.

Despite a rational voice in the back of your head telling you to resist, to leave, to not entertain his implication by accepting his advances, every thought crumbles to dust. You lean into him, letting your lips encase his in a venereal kiss, pressed against his as your body falls in line, blanketing over his as one of his hands digs into the bramble of your hair, the other traveling down the expanse of your spine and shamelessly grabbing your ass, making you jump, pulling briefly away from him as your fervid gaze meets his. 

“You… you fucking pervert,” you crow, head nudging as his hands continue to fist in your hair and steer you around, a sly smile creeping across his face as he toys with you. “Maybe I haven’t been hard enough on you,” you mutter mimickingly, hips pressing down on his, feeling the throbbing bulge already formed below the belt. “Well, you’re certainly hard on me now, aren’t you?” 

He lets out a salacious, melodic moan as your hips roll against his, eyes full of fire, lust, and mockery. He tugs at your captured strands, pulling you down on the bed beside him and flipping on top of you, only releasing his eager grip to pin you by your waist. He laughs proudly. “Ya, I am, but you can handle it, right? Just like you always do,” he taunts, his hips rolling against yours as you stifle a moan. “Take it. Take it like a good girl for once.” 

His whole body melds into yours as it trundles down on you, his lips smashing back into yours once again, your voices trading in harmonies as your arms wrap around his back, gripping intensely at his shoulders and running down his back, feeling every defined muscle under your manicured nails. The aggressive push and pull of your lips on his, paired with the tantalizing friction that blossoms every time he runs his clothed shaft against your covered clit has you both moaning into one another. Every mean thought you’d ever had about Rafayel could slip away if he’d keep working his toned body, every ridged and firm muscle against you, but you feel him pull away from your intertwined lips, laugh crackling out of him as he does. “Well, well, cutie. I’ve seen you dance plenty, like a fish out of water, but now… wow, you’re singin’ for me. You never did get fully over that little crush, did you?” 

Your body simmers with heat, settling into your very bones as you roll your eyes away from his arrogant gaze. “Do you ever shut up?” you snarl. 

Rafayel tilts his head at you, his eyes furrowing down at you teasingly. “You do remember Thomas told us we couldn’t leave until we talked it out, right?” 

“I liked it better when you were sulking in silence,” you grumble. 

He scoffs under his breath. “Sure you did,” he replies skeptically, his hands sliding up your waist and dipping beneath your shirt, making your breath hitch and your voice break in a shrill upturned whine. “There she is again, that beautiful voice… such a nice sound when you’re not running your mouth.” 

You wriggle beneath him spastically, your hands traveling up to tangle in his lavender hair with a contentious pull at his locks. “You're one to talk!” you gripe, hands still yanking at his strands as his head forcefully jerks with every movement, upper lip tugged into a wince. You drag him back down onto the bed, climbing back on top of him, straddling his upper thigh as one hand remains buried in the top of his hair, the other sliding a pointed finger down the divots of his abdominal muscles through his shirt, a look of pure, coral red pleasure painting across Rafayel’s face when you venture further, delicate fingers cupping his hard bulge before massaging it, pressing your palm down in smooth but firm kneading motions. His head knocks back onto the pillow when you release his hair, opting to prop your free hand beside his head so you can put more weight behind your lower movements, stroking him through his denim while you grind against his thigh. He’s gone, voice cutting between the prettiest moans you’ve ever heard to whimpered out insults that are undermined by his own body’s innate enjoyment of your transgressions. 

“Harder,” he says through airy breath. “Don’t be shy, really get in there.” 

Rafayel’s hips grind right into your hand in a perfect wave, his hands dipping into the mattress plush for more leverage, deepening his own sensations against your hand and exaggerating your gliding inner thighs atop his. 

“Stop talking,” you say quietly, eyes full of intent and resolve as your hand continues its grasping and kneading. 

“Why?” he challenges. “I just want you to be the best at what you do, just like always,” he says, before your wrapped hand around his cock answers him with a warning squeeze, sending a pitiful whimper evading Rafayel’s lips and bouncing off the walls. 

“I think you actually just like bossing me around, toying with me,” you coo. “Doesn’t feel so good being under someone else’s thumb, does it?”

Your hand persists against Rafayel, his gaze hot on you, set ablaze by your every action and word. “I beg to differ,” he responds haughtily. “It feels sooo good. I bet you feel it too, riding my thigh like that. Don’t you, naughty girl?” 

You feel a shifty hand slip between your legs, Rafayel’s fingers applying circular pressure right up against your clothed clit with stark accuracy, given he’s not looking at your hand; he’s looking at you with that self-assured smile and hazy eyes. Your breath hitches at the contact, face powdered red in lust. “Shut up,” you shriek, though it escapes you with a whiny crack you don’t intend. 

He doesn’t let up, and neither do you, both of you riding the other’s snaking hand. “You’re enjoying this too much, cutie. Have you thought about this before? I bet you have, and you called me a pervert,” Rafayel croons.

“Shut up, Rafayel!” you yell, this time with more resolve as your facial features contort with pleasure and anger. 

He laughs lowly, some arcane in response. “Make me,” provokes you, chin turned up at you daringly. 

Somewhere in his instigation, you feel familiar anger rise back in you like scorching steam. Your uncertain gaze finds its certainty and shifts back down to him darkly. “Say that again,” you dare him.

Rafayel presses his free hand behind him, lifting his upper body toward yours so his face can become tantalizingly close, enough for your eyes to traverse the vexing smirk painted across his features, his raised brows, his calescent coral and ocean colored eyes. “Make me, cutie,” he says again, somehow more dastardly than before.

The frayed thread of patience and impulse control you had barely clung to snaps within you. What happens next is a blur of red vision and the thoughtless tearing off of your skirt, your safety shorts, and your underwear, faster than you can give it a second thought or Rafayel can even quip out any sly remark. When you’re free of your lower-body garments, you climb back onto him like a predator in pursuit, your hands digging right back into the thicket of his lavender strands, tugging him back onto the bed as your legs hike above his lips, his eyes wide as saucers as he looks up at your dripping cunt. 

You don’t lower yourself nicely onto Rafayel’s awaiting lips. The moment you see them quiver, some cunning provocation inevitable to follow, you don’t wait for false hope that he’ll ask you nicely for a taste. You sit with a weighted plop as your pussy lands right on his open mouth, fingers tangled and tugging him into your folds by his hair. You feel the reverberated hum of whatever comment he was formulating travel straight into your slick folds. All you see below you is your cunt sopping all over Rafayel’s lips and nose, his eyes glimmering up at you in pure bliss as his voice turns song-like, moaning into your folds as you feel his tongue drag up your slit. 

You quickly start babbling out insults like the air you breathe. “That’s right,” you taunt him. “Put that silver tongue of yours to good use for once.” 

He replies with an audible, tangible “mmhmm” into you, his hands looping behind you and grabbing at your ass, rocking you against his face. He laps at your puffy lips as you ride him, the steady roll of your hips on his chin driving him wild. 

“So glad I finally know how to shut you up,” you mutter through gritted teeth.

A resounding smack lands on your ass, Rafayel’s hand sending blossoming heat and pain through the fatty flesh. 

You wince at the pain, your hands tightening around his amethyst hair. “Fuck you,” you spat. 

He hums back into you, a sing-songy wordless taunt as he devours at your folds, licking up the building slick as his tongue starts to push into your ribbed walls. You abandon your insults, head dipping back as godless moans escape you, answering every prodding motion of his relentless tongue, steering yourself back into his mouth every time. It’s heaven and hell at the same time, his skilled mouth eating you, his million-dollar voice purring into your contracting muscles, pulsating whole wringing around his tongue as he sings your praises. When you finally begin to unravel under the sensations, feeling waves of pleasure crash down on you like tidal waves, you fail to notice Rafayel’s hands tightening their grip around your waist until you're hoisted off him with his iron grasp. 

“Raf!” you screech, feeling his hands twist your hips around to face away from him with expert precision. When you’re fully turned around, hands dropped onto the mattress as they prop beside his hips, you catch the sight of his freed length, bare and erect before you. Your head turns back to Rafayel, dressed in a sneaky smile and your essence as he holds you by your hips. “When did you-” 

“You should really pay better attention to your surroundings, cutie,” he interrupts, tilting to the side of your hips to address you. “You’re right about one thing, though. We don’t need to talk. You’ve got better uses for the big mouth of yours.” 

“Of all the times you’ve told me that I should ‘suck your dick,’ I didn’t think you meant literally,” you droned. 

“Well, if it counts for anything, I mean it now,” he says coyly. “C’mon… gimme head, cutie. Wrap those pretty lips around my cock and suck on it.”

You can’t hide the way your walls clench at the praise, not from Rafayel, not from yourself as you turn away from him, your hand wrapping around his dick, standing pretty and flushed pink, dribbling precum that you slick across it with a swipe of your thumb. It frustrates you in many ways that his cock is as pretty as the rest of him.

He hums in satisfaction when he feels your intricate fingers wrap around his length, his hands coaxing your hips back to his wanton tongue. “Hmph,” he hums knowingly.

“Shut up,” you mutter quietly, rolling your eyes as you take his globular tip and encase it into your mouth, tongue sliding down the slit before your lips slide down and coil around it, cheeks hollowing around him. His mouth crashes back into your folds, lurching for you with such greedy force it shoves inches of him down your throat, cockhead hitting the back of your throat as you gag. 

Rafayel coaxes at your hips, pulling you back slightly to both relieve you on his length a bit and to pull you further into his awaiting mouth as he returns to engulfing his mouth around your folds, tongue dipping down at your clit before flattening and dragging back toward your needy hole. You drop down on Rafayel’s cock, bobbing at it in time with how he rocks your hips against his mouth. The pair of you manage to find a comfortable rhythm, your mouth dipping down his shaft and coating him in your saliva with every pass as he trades between swiping across your slit and poking into your gummy walls, feeling the way they coil around him. You trade hums of pleasure that oscillate into your sensitive skin, meeting it with more pleasure, until you’re not even thinking about it. His pleasure equals your pleasure and vice versa, and in the dizzying blur of it all, that’s all you can think as you sink down on Rafayel’s tense cock while his tongue dives into your pussy. The sensation multiplies; every time you give him what he wants, he answers your unspoken prayers with a moan and a roughened tongue, until your eyes are rolling back and your body is building with that familiar winding feeling of pleasure, knotting in your body, your voice growing ragged and Rafayel’s too. You're near the point of sweet release when you hear a door slam shut.

You pull off Rafayel’s cock with a rousing pop, startled by the noise when you lift your head toward the door, Rafayel pulling away from you as well. You see a familiar silhouette hanging there to your horror.

Thomas stands with his hands dropped to his sides, glaring at the sight with a stark lack of surprise but disappointed nonetheless. “What the fuck,” he says. 

You quickly climb off Rafayel, both of you scrambling around the room for covering, a sense of decency, when all you can do is tug the loosened sheets over both of you, your skirt halfway across the room, and Rafayel’s still hard member refusing to shove back in his tight jeans. It’s a pitiful sight from Thomas’ end, watching these two celebrities toil about like teens caught by their parents. 

Thomas shakes his head vigorously, his fingers pressed into the bridge of his nose. “Y’know what? I give up!” he exasperates. “Get dressed, you two. Make yourselves presentable. You have five minutes! Understood?”

You both nod robustly in response, shame and redness riddled over both your faces. 

He leaves the room in an apparent and understandable rush, silence filling the air again as the door shuts behind him.

Rafayel turns to you with a suggestive glint in his eye, brow raised at you like the curl of his lips.

“What?” you ask, half-annoyed, half-genuine in your confusion.

He shrugs dastardly. “Five minutes is enough, don’t you think?”

You can’t help the smile that cracks across your face. “That’s the first agreeable thing you’ve said in a long time, Rafayel.”

-

Hopping onto Rafayel’s tour bus, you catch a knowing glance from the driver as you enter like it’s your right. He, just like Thomas, all the other backup dancers and tech crew know exactly why you’re on that bus, but with NDA’s flying left and right, they don’t dare call you on it. You’ve got half your wardrobe moved in there, most of your toiletries as well. What you and Rafayel are now is unspoken, but behind the scenes, it’s no secret. 

You make your way to the back, sitting yourself down at Rafayel’s extravagant vanity, your makeup scattered across the counter and mixed in with his. (Yes, you have mistaken worn his lip stain on stage, and yes, he got upset about it.) There’s a fresh box of makeup wipes in the corner, and you tear one from it’s packaging, swiping it over your face to remove the remnants of makeup that mix on your skin and sink into your pores with your sweat. You treat this process like a ritual, a grounding practice of physically removing the mental turmoil of the night with every pass over of that damp cloth, your way of reminding yourself that tomorrow is a new day. You should let tonight roll right off your shoulders, slide off your face like makeup on a moist wipe.  

Footsteps approach behind you, weighted and tired as Rafayel’s frame enters behind you from the reflection of the mirror. He, too, grabs a wipe, reaching to remove his more minimal, natural makeup, just enough to make him look dewy and radiant. The towel wipes over the ridges of his nose, his cheeks, his lips, and chin as he leans down just enough to see his own reflection while standing above. You ignore him while you continue your more vigorous routine, aside from silently passing him your moisturizer out of habit. When he finishes applying a little dollop, spreading the silky cream across the t-zones of his face with deliberate swipes, you take it back from him and perform the same action. It’s one of the only times you and Rafayel exist in one another’s silence. Every night feels more weighted than the last, and you’ve both come to understand the importance of that quiet presence with each other. 

It doesn’t last. You feel Rafayel’s firm hands wrap around your waist, sliding down your exposed midriff as he slots his chin between the crook of your shoulder, placing a languid kiss to the skin. He draws you close enough to flush against your back, his hands traveling across your stomach to encircle you fully, head still resting on your shoulder. “You said the timing was off tonight?” he asks, looking at you through the reflection of the mirror.

“Because it was,” you assert, forsaken by the excessive heave of your chest under him.

His head knocks into yours with a playful smile. “I don’t think the fans noticed,” he tells you. “I mean, you heard the way they roared. They love us. Isn’t that what matters?” 

You sigh in concession. “I suppose,” you tell him, your head crooning to the side as his lips lean into your neck, permitting him to trail soft kisses down its column, pressing into your pulse. You let out a sheepish whine when he finds your most sensitive skin, heat rushing to your face with a peppering of red embarrassment. 

“They love you,” he coos as he finishes sprinkling the curve of your shoulder. His rested hands on your waist slide up your sternum, caressing your freshly kissed collarbones and pulling down the sleeves of your top before his fingers crawl up to your jawline, pressing the pads of one set of fingers into your cheeks as the other wraps a firm arm across your chest, playing with your smooshed face like a doll, just as he did for the camera. “I wonder if they know what we do in here?” 

You scoff, embarrassment and arousal mixed in your tone. “That’s ridiculous,” you croak. “Thomas would have a stroke if your PR team and security detail allowed anyone to know that.” 

You jerk out of his touch, not admitting of your reluctance to do so. He cracks a boastful smirk. "Cutie... I don't think they need some paparazzi to sneak in and snap a picture to know," he says, hands pulling back and finding purchase on your top's back zipper. "I think they can feel it every time we perform together. It's why they can't get enough. I think they know."

Your whole body pulsates with something violent, a wave of uninvited pleasure at the sentiment, and to your disdain, Rafayel catches it, a tilted brow teasing at you in response.

"Oh?" his voice rings into your ear sinisterly. "Does that... turn you on? Does the idea that the whole world knows about us get you all hot and bothered? That's so cute," he says, the emphasis on cute laced in ridicule. 

"Shut up, Raf," you spit out, the only response you can muster as your body borders on combustion in its ferocious heat. 

He shakes his head at you slowly, eyes dark and lips curved as he removes the chair out from under you with his leg, pulling your body up against his so you can fully meld to him, catching a glimpse of the whole movement in the vanity mirror. You can feel his hard length press shamelessly into your backside as his hands trail up to your chest. "You know what I want them to see?" he asks suggestively, his hands tugging at the fabric of your loose top, pulling it down just enough to allow his hands to dip in, grabbing at the fleshy mounds and pulling them up so they hang atop the bunched fabric. "I want them to see you just like this: a perfect slut just for me."  

Your exposed breasts feel the chill of the bus air conditioning dance against them as Rafayel's hands snake back down the curve of your waist, yanking up the fabric of your skirt so they can tug at your spandex safety shorts, tugging them down to your knees to expose your already slick cunt to the reflection. Your breath hitches as the cold hits your slit, Rafayel lifting up your skirt to make sure both you and he can see your drippy pussy in the mirror. "In fact, I think the world deserves to see you just like this," he says, a free hand grabbing one of yours and guiding it to the skirt's rim. "Hold that," he mutters. 

You pathetically obey, your brain complete mush after only a couple of compliments, backhanded as they are.  Rafayel's hands disappear behind your back, the clanking of metal echoing through the room as he removes his belt, followed by the crackling sounds of his zipper. One hand of his wraps around your ribcage, pushing up your tits beneath his muscled arm, and the other guides his eager length between your thighs, his bulbous head teasing against your weeping hole as he coats himself in your slick. He rests his greedy, strained cock between your thighs, just so you can see his pink tip covered in a combination of your wetness and his precum dripping down onto your safety shorts. His hand releases his length to the comfort of your plush thighs, wrapping back around to your puffy cunt, fingers crawling down and pressing against your clit, making your voice cry out in a whimper.

His lips rest right up against your ear, though his eyes don't leave your salacious reflection in the mirror, his hands wrapped around you like a vice, one pushing up your pretty tits, the other rubbing slow but tenacious circles around your sensitive bud, making your voice break out in lascivious moans. Meanwhile, you compliantly hold up your skirt for him, your other hand snaking behind you to dig into his scalp, tugging at the strands as a small last act of defiance, but overall, the sight of the two of you is pornographic, more so as Rafayel's hips begin to rock against yours, his greedy cock disappearing in and out of your thighs as his fingers continue to spiral your clit. 

The hand that coils around your chest travels up slightly, his fingers finding your nipple as they pinch around the nub. "You're pretty like this, you know," he says. "Letting me use you like this. Someone should take a picture. The tabloids would love this." 

"Raf-" you shriek, knowing damn well he's crazy enough to actually pull his phone out and snap a picture, a plead that is quickly silenced by your lips falling open in a wanton moan as addictive friction begins to build between your legs, between Rafayel's pumping cock gliding against your folds and his fingers teasing against your sensitive bundle of nerves, his other hand screwing at your nipple unrelentingly. 

"Relax, I'm not going to actually take a picture," he tells you dismissively. "But... just imagine, the whole world seeing you just like this, my pretty little cocksleeve."

Your thighs press together instinctively as you feel a wave of pleasure rush between them, squeezing at Rafayel's length and sending out a rasped groan against your ear that breaks out into almost pathetic whimpers as you don't let up. His transgressions against your body continue, but his movements grow rigid under your grip, both your breaths becoming ragged and heavy. "You're gripping me for dear life, cutie," Rafayel comments, half-chastising, half-praising. "Are you close? want me to cum with you?" 

You nod shamelessly at the suggestion, your fingers digging at his hairline, at your skirt's hem. Your head dips back against his shoulder as you both start anticipating your releases, voices intensifying in eroticism and volume as his cock pistons between your legs and his fingers rub erratically at your sensitive spots. His movements are disoriented as he draws closer, and your body too begins to coil up with pleasure, a jolt of pleasure between your legs telling you you're close. His name escapes your lips, repetitions of "cutie" evading his as your whole body tremors, a persevering wave of bliss wracking down you as you orgasm onto his cock, coating him with your essence. He follows soon after, strings of viscous cum shooting onto the mirror. 

Rafayel pads around the counter aimlessly, grabbing onto his phone while you’re still too enraptured in ecstasy to protest. You see the flash of the camera in the mirror, snapping you from your daze. “Rafayel, what are you-”

He snaps another, catching the image of his length, growing viciously hard between you again, sticking out of your trickling thighs, the vulgar smear of his cum on the mirror, the makeup of yours he’ll pay to replace, your pretty pushed up tits, and your cherry red face in a blinding white flash, and you flutter above him, body completely betraying you as you both shudder and moan at the feeling. “That’s right, cutie,” he purrs. “You just love the attention, don’t you? Bask in it while the feeling's still fresh.” 

As he watches the way you totally lose yourself under him, face painted in a shameful crimson, you see an insidious look crawl up his face in the form of a crooked smile. His hands grip at your waist firmly. “You know what? I’ve got a better idea,” he beams breathily. He leads you further into the back of the bus, clothes tearing off you in blurs as he tugs off your top, pulls your shorts and underwear down your legs, as you obediently hike your legs up with stumbling steps as you travel back until you’re completely naked, while Rafayel remains clothed. You twirl around as Rafayel pulls you into a feverish kiss, your lips crashing against his as your back collides with a cold window, sending a shiver down your spine. You try and lift yourself off it, but the ferocity of Rafayel’s lips continues to push you back into that glass. 

“Rafayel- people will see us!” you warn him between breaths. 

He begins ripping off his shirt, tossing it behind him. “It’s completely opaque from the outside,” he assures you, his pants shimmying down his waist as a bright smile forms across his face. “No one can see, but-” when he’s finally free of his cloth restraints, bare as when he came into this world, his hands slide right back down on your hips, twirling you around to face the window. “Imagine they could. Imagine every passing car catches us pressed up against each other.” 

Rafayel pulls you into his body, his chest flustering against your back as he guides his length back between your folds, you answering him with a mewl. 

“Just think about those passing cars looking up, seeing you all slutty and perfect under me,” he chimes. “They can all bear witness for all I care, but… only I get to touch. They just get to watch, just like on that stage.” 

You lean back against him as he presses you up against the window, tits smooshed against the glass as the night's cold hits them through it, the light of passing cars flashing before you as you watch them pass one by one with a shaky breath. “You’re… crazy if you really want that,” you tell him.

Rafayel guides his frenzied length to prod at your weeping hole, pressing just the tip in. “Is it really that crazy that I want the whole world to know your… mine?” he says, shoving his length up into you with a forceful but smooth thrust, your release making it all too easy to envelope him as you shove up into the glass.

“I’m not yours, Rafayel,” you protest through whines. “You don’t own me.” 

“I do,” he firmly disagrees as he slides out of you, following with another thrust of his intrusive cock. “I get to have you every night. What else do you call that?” 

You cry out something decadent and sinful before the rasp of defiance returns to you. “I don’t know, a mutual agreement?” you retort.

“Right, but you’re still mine,” he explains as he retreats from you once again, your walls pulsating around the parts he leaves empty in his wake. “It just happens… I’m also yours.” 

His hips rutt into you sharply again, the force ripples through the flesh of your ass that echoes a loud smack through the back of the bus. You see stars, unsure whether it's from the spring of his hips against yours or the casual assertion that he’s yours. Perhaps both or neither. Maybe it’s the passing cars and their blinding headlights flaring into your eyes, your body clasping up around him in nerves and arousal. His name slips from your lips in a delicious moan. 

He nods against you in response, his hips finding a rhythm as they begin rocking against you steadily, pressing against your G-spot with familiar ease. “I think the world deserves to know what we are to each other,” he says, babbling as he works against you, totally weak and whining between his comments at the warm wetness of your palpitating walls around him. “We should tell the press, or I can leak that photo… let it spread all over social media before our PR team can get the evidence destroyed. Think about it.” 

You whine, your walls contracting around him, the only response he needs as he prods into you.

“You want that?” he asks. “You want me to show the world what we do back here? Want them to know all our dirty secrets? We can do an exclusive. Become sex symbols together? Huh?” 

“Raf,” you croon tiredly, still propped against the glass. “Don’t stop.”

He ruts into you steadily. “I won’t,” he assures you, grabbing your chin and pulling you into a lazy kiss that nearly misses. It’s sloppy and careless, but you feel his adoration as his length dives into you once again. He rocks you against that window, your body imprinting on its surface as it fogs in your combined heat. His free hand glides down to your folds, rotating around your clit with shocking precision, your body falling loose but held up as Rafayel continues to press into you, his voice boisterous and melodic as he moans into your lips and beats his shaft into you like a madman, thrust after thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure down your conjoined bodies until you feel the heat simmer and coil in your bosom, swirling around like a whirlpool of euphoria and tension. “Close?” he asks, barely able to form words.

You hum out a girlish “mmhmm” to him with a nod. He continues his ministrations, cock pistoning into you and fingers rolling around your sensitive bud with perfect rhythm while your body builds up its winding release. It’s sublime how your body responds, intense pressure building as white floods your vision from both pleasure and blinding headlights. Your voice heightens when you feel it all snap, crying out as you cum on his prodding cock, the warmth encapsulating his length and sending him too over the edge, his rops of hot cum shooting into you as your legs wobble, and he hooks his hands around your waist, holding you firm as your head spins from pleasure until it finally drops with the rest of your body. 

He takes a couple of steps back, still sheathed in you as your bodies collapse onto a bed, arms holding you close to him as he presses exhausted kisses into the nape of your neck, as you both catch your breaths. 

You rest in his grasp for a moment, not a thought running through your head as he finally pulls out, his seed spilling out of you and pooling onto the bed as he hops up, the shifting of the bed's weight and loss of his heat making you whine. 

The sound of running water rings in your ears until footsteps approach you again, and the bed conforms to the reintroduction of him, your body rolling toward his. He slides a wet towel between your legs, holding up one of them just enough to clean your sticky inner thighs. 

“You did great tonight, by the way,” he says quietly. 

You groan in response. “I’d hope so,” you reply. “Thomas is gonna be pissed having to get me another replacement costume. You tore my strap sleeve.”

He laughs lowly, still running the towel down your trickling legs. “If I broke your top that easily, it was shoddily made, and I will take that up with our seamstress,” he assures you. “But that’s not what I was talking about.”

Your gaze turns to him with a tired daze, your head barely lifting to meet him.

He smiles. “You were… radiant on that stage,” he says. “I was thinking about it all night. That’s why I was out of time. You distracted me with your astonishing stage presence.’

You scoff, shaking your head in response dismissively. “You’re just saying that because we’re fucking, Rafayel,” you tell him. “You don’t need to earn this pussy. You said it yourself. I’m yours, and Rafayel…”

“Gets whatever he wants,” he finishes your sentence. “Cutie, I thought you knew by now… I only accept the best. You’re the best. That’s why you’re here.”

“Ya, at sex,” you grumble.

“At dancing, and capturing the hearts of our fans,” he corrects you, a warm blanket dragging over you as Rafayel covers you both. “You still don’t get it.”

You shift over in the bed toward him, your head flopping to the side to face him. “What?” you question him shortly and tiredly. 

His eyes flit away briefly before flickering back to yours. “You’re here, on this tour, because you are talented and an incredible dancer, and it happens that I’m incredibly turned on by such talent,” he explains. “I’m sure you’ve worried I had ulterior motives in requesting your hiring, but… if I just wanted to fuck you, I would’ve sent you a dm, not a job offer. You’ve become exactly what I hoped for you, and that’s not a fuckbuddy. That’s just a bonus.”

“And what exactly is it you wanted me to become?” 

Rafayel cracks a warm, adoring smile. “Better than I ever was,” he answers in an airy whisper. “You’re gonna be the next big idol, cutie.”    

You shove at his shoulder playfully, full of disbelief and denial. “You are so full of shit. I never even said I wanted to be-”

“You didn’t need to,” he interrupts, smile still plastering his face as purple locs curl across his face, some strands caught in the hand he rests his head against. “You’re gonna be a big star, and for the record… I did that,” he says proudly. “Just like I did that,” he grins, fingers pointed down between your legs.

You feel familiar feelings of annoyance overtake you as you shriek his name, pointed fingers prodding into his flesh and tickling the skin, precise little stabs, each answered by a playful swat from Rafayel or a little “ow, ow, ow,” as he jerks left and right, cracking up in laughter. He throws his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright!” he implores you. “No more corny dirty jokes. It’s out of my system. Promise.”

You pull your hands away. “You really mean that?” you ask sheepishly, face a rosy blush.

“I know so,” he resolves. “In fact, I want to talk to Thomas tomorrow about your next steps and… maybe us going public, if that’s okay with you. I want the world to know I have an awesome partner, not just a dance partner.” 

You feel his hands capture one of yours, a serious, awaiting look in his eyes as you process. Your eyes widen, heart thrumming against your chest so hard you think he might hear its steady beat, your breath catching. You gulp down a bundle of nerves as you nod. “Sure,” you tell him. 

He smiles brighter than you’ve ever seen him, his eyes glittering brilliantly. Of years of watching him and months by his side, you’ve truly never seen a look to match it, not on the red carpet, not when he’s lost in pleasure between your legs, not when he’s gone to accept trophies at prestigious music awards, cameras surrounding him to catch every angle of his reaction. He was happy then, but you see that gleam in his eyes, the conviction that in this moment, he won. 

Roommate Zayne, who agrees to let you move in, because you promise to stay out of his hair so he can complete his final year of med school without "distractions", but he'll soon figure out you're the best kind of distraction.

Roommate Zayne, who, despite insisting you two would practically never cross paths, entertains late-night small talk where you rant about your college courses, and he can think about someone else's problems for once. Also, he knows the social interaction is healthy for him.

Roommate Zayne, who grows secretly kind of fond of you, because you're considerate enough to grab an extra sweet any time you go to that bakery he likes but never gets to go to anymore. He only gets home well after it's closed, so it's a pleasant surprise when a dessert is sitting on the kitchen counter waiting for him.

Roommate Zayne, who might be even fonder of a different kind of treat, one where you trudge into the living room after hearing him enter late at night, and all you're wearing is one of his t-shirts and some cotton underwear that's barely peaking out, but instead of telling you any of that, he says he expects his shirt returned to him cleaned, a little too casually for you to take the demand as a serious concern.

Roommate Zayne, who you ask about literally anything, no matter how embarrassing, because why should this future doctor get flustered when you start to ask him questions like "how do you know when you've had an orgasm?" And he can only tell you with the straightest face he can muster that if you have to ask, you haven't had one.

Roommate Zayne, who has, in fact, heard you fumbling around with your vibrator in your room through the thin walls of your shared apartment many times, but tries his best to ignore his own urges, ignores the thought that he could make those failed attempts at pleasuring yourself stop being failed attempts.

Roommate Zayne, who can't take it anymore, and in a combination of his own pent-up frustration from his med school horrors, thinking your inability to finish is bordering on pitiful, and a strained, furious tent in his pants, makes the hard decision to knock on your door.

You wince when you hear the light tapping through your shut door, setting the vibrator aside on your nightstand. "What, Zayne?" you call out through the door in frustrated grumbling. "Could I come in?" he asks, lowly, a little sheepishly, but all the same, quite resolved.

You perplex from beneath your bed sheets. It's 2am, and he never asks to enter your spaces. "Um... I don't think it's a good time for that!" "I beg to differ," he retorts. "It could be a really good time... if you want it."

Roommate Zayne, who is painstakingly slow with you and a little blunt when he tells you you're too impatient for your own good, as he runs a languid hand up your thigh, and his eyes transfix on yours as his fingers slip in your wet folds. When your head dips back, flushing red in embarrassment, he tells you to look at him without a hint of impatience, just firm and quiet, and of course, you listen to him, along with his every instruction.

Roommate Zayne was right. You never think you have an orgasm; you just have an orgasm... or four, as his slender, precise digits plunge into you and hit that sweet spot so effortlessly you see stars you've never seen before, your body erupts in waves of hot bliss as you cum on his fingers until you're tired enough to fall asleep in his arms.

Roommate Zayne, who realizes making you cum is the best he's felt in weeks. Maybe it's because it's the one thing he's certain he can do right. At school, he's fucking up again and again, but with you, you spill out on his fingers, his tongue, his cock, and you literally say thank you when you finish. He should be thanking you, really.

Roommate Zayne, who refuses to admit the two of you are in a bit of a situationship now, because he thinks he's above such things. That is, until he's above you, telling you to say his name as he pounds inside you, cradling your head against his shoulder with one hand and pulling you flush with the rest of his body, pressed firmly into the small of your back with the other. He ruts into you like an animal in heat. He fucks you so hard that he's creating a dent in the wall as the headboard bangs into it. You joke that he's trying to dig a hole from your room to his. He promises he'll pay for the damages when you move out.

Roommate Zayne, who tests your patience, because how can he act like everything's normal between you two on a day-to-day basis when you two are running through condoms like you're trying to set a world record in the night?

Roommate Zayne, who is aware enough of his feelings to know he likes you, mindblowing sex aside, but is too overwhelmed with med school to even think to do something about it, and instead of spending those secret nights with you, he watches you walk out the door in stunning dresses as he gets home from a late night of studying, but not before your eyes meet when you both turn back around to catch the sight of one another several paces after passing.

Roommate Zayne, who starts to suspect you're not serious about dating when he realizes you've been on over a dozen first dates, but never a second with anyone. He doesn't say anything about it, though, enjoying the prospect of you going through the effort for his attention.

Roommate Zayne, who attentively straightens himself out on the couch when you walk in with a shopping bag and tell him you need an opinion on what to wear for your next date. When you pull two lingerie sets from your bag, he sees through your game.

"I'm afraid I can't quite see the full picture with you just holding it up like that," he shrugs. "You should try them on for me." Your breath hitches slightly in your lungs when you see the way his emerald, wanting eyes trace down your figure. Still, you compose yourself. "Alright," you respond quietly, before swiveling on your heel and taking a couple of steps toward your room that are cut short by Zayne's voice. "No need to go all the way back there. Just change here," he says casually, his gaze still pinned on you, bearing into you with that impenetrable stare and that low tone with the slight rasp. You drop the bag from your hand and begin tearing off your clothes in the middle of the living room while he watches intently, knowing you're always helpless to refuse his suggestions, shimmying out of your jeans and sliding your arms out of their sleeves before lifting it off your chest. Your undergarments fall in line before you dig back into the shopping back, face red hot as your eyes meet back at his, pulling out the two sets. "Which one do you want me to try on first?" you ask. He smiles that crooked, subtly devious smile. "Whichever one you want to show me first, I suppose." Without a second thought, you're wriggling into navy blue lace, bottom lip stuck between your upper row of teeth as you do, because what's the point in even trying these on when you won't be able to return them. You're dripping between your thighs. The tag is useless now. "What do you think?" you ask, legs smooshing together as you meet his keen gaze again. For a moment, his eyes simply pervade into you attentively, trailing up and down your body eagerly before meeting back with your gaze. He stands up from the couch with no sense of urgency but every ounce of intention as he takes deliberate steps to close the distance between you until he's hunched over you. "I think you know my tastes quite well, and that you're not going on any date tonight," he says firmly. "In fact, you're not going on any more dates ever again, so you can drop your little charade. How does that sound?" "... Is that a confession?" you ask quietly beneath him. "It's a promise," he answers with zero hesitation.

Roommate Zayne, who you know, saw right through you and fell victim to your antics anyway, hoisting you into his arms and tossing you onto your bed so he can remind you exactly why no one can replace him, making you cum for him like it's the easiest thing he's ever done, again and again.

A/N: I know, I know, I'm awesome for pitching a bunch of ideas just to write something else completely and work on none of my unfinished projects. Whoops.

🔞 cw: creampie, overstimulation, multiple orgasms

Caleb holds you close, his chest rising and falling against yours as the last waves of his release pulse through him. He stays buried deep inside you, not moving an inch, feeling the warmth of his cum filling you up.

He doesn’t want to pull out yet. Hell, he doesn’t want to pull out at all. Your walls clench around him softly in the aftermath, and it sends a quiet shiver up his spine.

He looks down at you, your face flushed and eyes half closed, lips parted as you catch your breath.

Fuck it, you look perfect like this, all spent and still wrapped around him.

He brushes a strand of hair from your forehead with his thumb, his other hand resting on your hip, keeping you steady.

“You good, pips? Or did I break you already?” he teases, his voice low and rough, smirk tugging at his lips even as he checks you over.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you murmur back, your voice a little breathless, and he catches the way your eyes flicker up to meet his, a small smile playing there.

He feels a rush from that, your words pulling him in deeper. He’s not ready to let this end. Not when being this close to you feels like the only thing that makes sense in his messed up world.

The way your body holds onto him, warm and slick with both of you mixed together…it’s addictive to him.

He leans down, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, tasting the salt on your skin. Minutes pass like that, just him staying put, his arms caging you in as he nuzzles into your neck.

He can feel himself starting to harden again already, the sensitivity turning into something sharper, more insistent. It’s your fault, really. The little sounds you make, the way you breathe, how you fit him so damn well...

He groans quietly, shifting his hips just enough to test it, and yeah, he’s getting there.

“You feel that, baby?” he growls against your ear, his breath hot and demanding. He rocks into you slowly, not full thrusts yet, just enough to stir things up.

His cum is still there, making everything slicker, and it pushes a low moan out of him. “That’s allll you…got me hard again already. You’re gonna take more for me, aren’t ya’?”

“Caleb…” you whisper, your hands gripping his shoulders tighter, and he hears the mix of surprise and want in your tone, fueling him on.

He starts moving then, much more assertive now that he's got you fucked out of your mind, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs and hold you open for him.

Each push fills you more, his previous release mixing with the new friction, and he watches your face, taking in every gasp and pleasured expression. It builds fast—too fast, maybe—but he doesn’t care. He thrusts deeper, feeling himself spill again, adding to what’s already there, until you’re overflowing with him.

“Stay with me, yeah? We’re not done,” he commands softly, his forehead pressed to yours. He keeps going, slower now, savoring how full you feel, how you’re his in this moment.

“More?” you gasp out, your voice breaking on a soft laugh, and he can’t help but grin at that, loving how you’re right there with him.

“Oh, yeah, more,” he replies with a low chuckle, his hips picking up pace again as he feels himself hardening fully inside you once more.

He can tell you’re getting fuller, the way everything slides easier but tighter at the same time, his cum from before making it so much messier. He thrusts steadily, building toward the high again, and he feels you clench around him harder now, your breaths coming quicker.

You let out a small whimper, your fingers digging into his back. “C-Caleb, it’s… a lot,” you choke out, but there’s no real protest in your voice, just a hint of overwhelm he loves hearing.

“Too much? Nah, you can handle it, baby. Look at ya’, takin’ it all inside,” he teases back, his voice firm as he pushes deeper, feeling another wave of release build in him.

He spills again, adding even more cum to your already full and sticky pussy, and he notices how your body trembles a bit now, your walls fluttering in a way that’s half pleasure, half too much. He slows his hips but doesn’t stop, grinding in close to keep it all inside.

You arch slightly under him, a soft cry escaping your lips. “I’m s-so full, Caleb…mmmh sensitive,” you mewl, your eyes squeezing shut for a second as you adjust, but your hands pull him closer anyway.

He groans at that, loving the way you sound, the way you feel overflowing with him.

“That’s the point. Gonna fill you ‘till you can’t take anymore,” he says roughly, his thrusts turning shallow but insistent, pushing you right to the overwhelming edge.

He feels you shudder so hard under him, your sensitivity making every movement sharper for both of you.

He holds you steady under his sweaty body, not letting up until he’s sure you’re done in the best way, filled to the brim with his cum.

© zaynessbeloved 2025. please don’t copy, repost or translate my works. thank you!

Contents: all around suggestive content involving bloodsucking, bloodplay, Sylus going down on you, and lots of teasing. (18+ MINORS DNI)

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• Sylus will do this form of foreplay where he’ll drink your blood in a more messy manner. Purposefully letting it drip down and smear against the skin of your neck and chest. It’s an excuse to drag his tongue against you until your bloody mess is all cleaned up, relentlessly teasing you as he gets his fill. He’s a sucker for bloodplay, but the only wounds he’d inflict on you are from biting. He just can’t help himself when your delicious blood is anywhere on your bare skin.

You groan and squirm against Sylus as your blood trickles onto your bare chest. The stinging pain of his fangs piercing your neck begins to sizzle into burning desire as he sucks on the wound, causing yet another crimson stream of yours to flow down your body. You cling to him and pull him closer, making him chuckle while he plants bloody kisses against your neck. “Enjoying this, my dearest wife?” One of his hands clad in white gloves cups your breast, shamelessly staining the snowy fabric while smearing your blood against your chest. “You are the concept of temptation. The sight of you, the scent of your red essence… you’re utterly intoxicating,” He states before dragging his tongue up the trail of blood on your skin, leaving streaks of red in its wake. He lets out a shaky huff after getting a proper taste of you. “I want to get drunk off you,” He whispers softly into your ear.

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• Sylus’ fangs get larger while he goes through intense emotions. They extend from his gums more to annunciate his more feral behavior, and it’s definitely apparent when he’s lustful towards you.

You’d be lying if you said that Sylus’ fangs being larger than usual didn’t make you jump the first time you saw it. It happened while he was going down on you, kissing down your body as his hands kneaded your hips. He let out a hot huff against your bare cunt once his eyes locked eyes with it. You shivered at the feeling, making him lick his fangs in anticipation. You couldn’t help but jolt at the sight of how enlarged his fangs had gotten, something you weren’t used to in an intimate setting. Both fear and lust had caused you to press your knees together, catching him off guard. He searches your eyes with a concerned gaze as he wondered what made you shut him out, but he quickly realized what was going through your mind as your face grew redder and redder. “Oh? Was it my fangs that gave you a jolt of excitement my dear?“ You sheepishly nod as you spread your legs again, your entrance wetter than before. “That’s quite naughty of you,” He teases as he scoops up your arousal with his fingers. You twitch at the feeling and shudder at the sight of him licking it up. “My feast shall be more delicious now.”

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• Sylus is very clingy when he’s allowed to be. You being so close to him drives him absolutely wild. Your warmth and scent is so enticing to him, truly nothing will make him more needy than the feeling of you being fully up against him for long periods of time.

You’re half awake as you and Sylus lay together. About an hour and half of cuddling and holding each other as close as possible. As you’re trying to take your mind off of the world around you, Sylus is growing more and more aware of how your body feels against his. You feel him starting to shift around, his breathing getting heavier as his face is buried into your hair. You’re about to inquire on what has him so worked up until you feel a familiar bulge of his against your thigh. You get a grumbled response after you whisper his name, letting him know you’re aware of his situation. “I can’t help myself, my lady. You feel as if you’re made to be this close to me. But I’m feeling greedy, I wish to feel you closer.” His hands grip your hips while he lets out a hot huff of breath against the side of your head. “Won’t you let me? May I feel you from the inside, my love?”

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• He lives to see your reactions to his affection. In fact, he’s quite abnormal about it. The thing about your archfiend is that even his sweetest affectionate actions tend to carry a strange intensity. It riles you up more than you’d like to admit, and Sylus loves it. Sometimes a single kiss ends up leaving you breathless, a supple suck or gentle bite against your neck has you melting, ever so gentle caresses cause you to arch into his touch. It’s maddening.

Sylus grinned against your skin after hearing you let out a soft moan. He absolutely loves the fact that it doesn’t take much to mess with you. All he had done was playfully nip at your neck and suck on where he had bit you, but apparently that was enough to get you a little hot and bothered. You blushed and turned your head away, not wanting to address your sudden display of pleasure. “I’m not quite sure what that was, would you like to share what just happened?” he teases while brushing his hand against your side. You shake your head, but your body betrays your attempt at ignorance. He chuckles as you arch your side into his touch, and uses his other hand to make you look up at him. His thumb brushes against your bottom lip as he addresses you, “That’s fine, don’t speak. Your body is doing the talking anyway.” He locks his lips with yours before you can even open your mouth to defend yourself, leaving you breathless after he pulls away from the kiss. Your reaction makes him raise an eyebrow before he calls out your behavior, “Hah, you’re only making it harder for me to resist toying with you all night.” You look a little dazed as Sylus caresses your cheek. “I wonder just how much it would take for you to become a writhing mess in my grasp.”

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These are just some extras before we continue with Part 3. 💕

Part 2 here