𑣲⋆heat lingers in purple sky⋆

this person likes purple. the very first reason why she fell inlove with rafayel lol | rafayel main but cheats with the other lads men. heh | this blog is for 18+, minors dni. focus on studying. 

𑣲. Rafayel

Prettiest Canvas (oneshot, nsfw, 18+)

‎𑣲. Sylus

A Kitten's Cure (oneshot, nsfw, 18+)

Only Way Out (oneshot, nsfw, 18+)

‎𑣲. Xavier

Helping Hand (oneshot, nsfw, 18+)

pairings: sylus x reader

warnings: nsfw 18+, contains explicit sexual content. public sex, sex on his bigbike, oh we all have that dream, unprotected sex and a lot more (just read and see how wild it is) minors dni.

synosis: you came to the N109 zone looking for Sylus, only to step into the middle of a brutal hunting tournament by accident. Sylus, who had zero interest in the game, was forced to join just to pull you out of the mess. With gunfire chasing the roar of his bike through the ruins, there was only one way out. something wild. something you never imagined choosing. cornered in a narrow alley with nowhere left to run, you and Sylus end up doing it on the seat of his bigbike. By the time the system finally released you both, the reason you had come looking for him had already burned away.

You came from Linkon City with a clear purpose. Find Sylus and ask him something important.

The N109 Zone had always been chaotic the last time you came here. No rules. No order. Just raw survival and whatever power could enforce it.

But today was even worse.

The air reeked of blood and gunpowder. Gunshots cracked through the night without pause. Energy weapons lit up the ruins in sharp flashes. People in shadows moved like predators between the broken buildings. You tried to stay low, stepping carefully, until a stray shot whistled past your head and forced you to move.

That one panicked step carried you across an invisible line.

And then a loud mechanical voice followed, booming from every direction.

Unauthorized individual has entered the hunting grounds. Registration complete. Welcome to the tournament.

You froze, confused. Flying cameras swarmed you at once, their red lights blinking as they locked onto your face. You stared at the nearest one, heart slamming against your ribs, still not fully understanding what had just happened.

Deeper in the zone Sylus sat astride his massive black motorcycle, watching the tournament monitors out of boredom more than interest. Your face flashed across the main screen. For a second he simply stared. Then a slow dark smile curved his mouth. He had not expected this. The engine roared to life. He cut through the chaos like he owned every street, weaving between gunfire and hunters until the heavy bike skidded to a stop right in front of you.

You barely had time to catch your breath when you saw a familiar figure on a bike heading toward you.

“Sylus?" you gasped, voice tight. "What the hell is happening?” A sigh of relief escaped your lips at the sight of the one person you desperately wanted to see.

Sylus took off his helmet and looked you over, crimson eyes unreadable. “You just stepped into the hunting grounds.”

Confusion cut through the shock. “A hunting grounds? What do you mean?”

“A survival game,” he said flatly. “Participants kill each other until only one remains. That last person gets to the final arena and a huge amount of money waiting on the other side.” His mouth curved in a sharp, sarcastic smile. “Congratulations. You just joined.”

The words landed like a second blow. You stared at him. “I came at the wrong time.”

“You did.” He rested one gloved hand on the handlebar. “And you leave me no choice but to enter too.”

Before you could answer, another announcement rolled across the zone.

Sylus, leader of the Onychinus, has entered the hunting grounds. Registration complete.

You swore you heard distant cheers rise up from the dark.

“Every hunter in this zone just gained a new target, kitten.”

You swallowed. “There has to be a way out.”

He exhaled. “Well, there’s three ways. One: you die. Two: you survive until the final arena, kill everyone left, and claim the prize. Three…” His crimson eyes flicked to the cameras hovering above you. “You give in to temptation. Publicly. The cameras have to catch it. Then you’re out. Game over.”

“Gave in to the temptation? You mean…?”

“Yes, sex.” He replied plainly, as if the weight of it meant nothing.

“Y-You’re kidding, right?” Your voice cracked, eyes wide as the cameras continued to circle. Heat rushed to your face at the sheer absurdity of it.

“No, I’m not. Let’s get moving before hunters could swarm us here.”

He pulled you onto the back of the bike and started riding. Between the gunfights and the blood you began to see them. Bodies pressed against walls. Man and woman on the ground. People bent over wrecked cars. Some looked desperate. Some looked resigned. A few did not even try to hide their faces. Flying cameras circled them the same way they still circled you. Heat climbed up your neck. You looked away, embarrassed, but the images stayed burned behind your eyes.

Sylus caught your expression in the side mirror and let out a low teasing chuckle.

“Embarrassed already? They have no choice. Some of them stepped in by accident, just like you. Once you are registered the only clean exits are death, victory, or getting fucked on camera until the system marks you out.”

You were still processing that when the first bullet sparked off the bike’s armor. Then another. Then a full spray of them.

Hunters had found you. The gravity of it slammed into you all at once. This was not a game you could walk away from. Real weapons. Real intent to kill. Sylus leaned the bike hard and accelerated. You clung to him with one arm while your other hand drew your gun.

He fired first, precise shots dropping two hunters who had taken cover behind a wrecked vehicle. You twisted in the seat and returned fire, the recoil jarring up your arm as another figure went down. Sparks flew when rounds struck the frame. Your pulse roared in your ears. One wrong move and either of you would be dead.

“They want the win badly,” Sylus shouted over the wind and the shots. “Especially now that I am in. Every participant is on edge. Taking me down first would jump their rank higher than anything else. You just became the easiest way to draw me out.”

By the time he finally skidded into a narrow shadowed alley and killed the engine, your legs were shaking and your heart felt ready to burst. Distant gunfire still echoed, but the alley offered a thin pocket of quiet.

You looked at him, breathless. “The third option. We do that. So we can leave.”

Sylus turned fully toward you on the bike. His eyes narrowed. “You sure?”

The air between you thickened. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lower, to the open collar of your top and the rapid rise and fall of your chest. You could still feel the heat of his body from the ride, the way his back had flexed under your hands, the solid strength of him. Desire curled low in your stomach, sharp and sudden, mixing with the leftover adrenaline.

He leaned in just a fraction, close enough that you caught the scent of leather and metal and him. His voice dropped lower.

“Be certain. Once we start, the cameras will not look away.”

Option one is a big no, and option two is a hasstle. So with resolve, you answered by closing the distance and kissing him hard.

Your hands slid up to his neck, fingers curling against warm skin. He made a low sound against your lips and cupped your ass with both hands, pulling you tighter against him as the kiss deepened. The way he kissed was expert, controlled and hungry at the same time, tongue sliding against yours with deliberate pressure that left you dizzy. The cameras adjusted their angles at once, red lights blinking faster.

He then unbuttoned your top with deliberate fingers, pushing the fabric open so the cool night air hit your bare skin. His gloved hand closed over one breast, thumb brushing the nipple until it hardened. Then he leaned down and took it into his mouth, sucking slowly, tongue circling while you arched into him. The other breast received the same treatment, wet heat and sharp little bites that made your hips twitch.

You bit your lip when Sylus gazed up at you, still licking and sucking your nipples. Soft moans slipped out as you called his name. “Sylus… ah…”

By the time he pulled back both of you were breathing harder. He lifted you easily, settling you on the wide fuel tank of the bike so your back rested against the handlebars.

Your pants and underwear were shoved down your thighs. He spread your legs, one leg on his shoulder, gloves discarded now, and pushed two fingers inside you without warning. You gasped. He curled them, stroking that spot that made your thighs tremble, while his thumb rubbed tight circles over your clit.

Then he lowered his head.

Sylus ate you messily, tongue flat and greedy, lips sealed around your clit, fingers still working inside. Wet sounds filled the alley. You looked up and saw the flying cameras hovering closer, lenses trained on the exact place his mouth was buried between your legs. Embarrassment burned hot in your chest and then melted under the sheer heat of it. People would see this. The whole tournament feed would show Sylus between someone’s legs, tongue fucking you open. You should have cared. You did not. You only moaned louder and threaded your fingers into his silver hair, pulling him closer.

You came hard against his mouth, thighs clamping around his head, a broken cry leaving your throat. He did not stop until you were twitching and oversensitive. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and flipped you around.

You ended up bent over the bike, hands clutching the handlebars, ass presented. He unzipped his pants and freed his cock. Your eyes dropped to his length, thick, heavy, flushed dark, the head already glistening. It looked almost pretty in the low light. You failed to resist. You pushed him back a step, then dropped to your knees on the alley ground. You reached for his cock, wrapping your hand around the base. He grunted, both hands bracing on the seat of his bike as he watched you with those crimson eyes. You took him into your mouth, lips stretching around the thick head. He groaned harder when you started bobbing, messy and eager, saliva coating his shaft as you took him deeper each time. Your tongue worked the underside while your hand stroked what you could not fit. Spit dripped down to his balls. He fisted your hair and guided your pace.

“Fuck, look at that mouth,” he growled, voice rough. “Taking me so deep already. Cameras are getting a perfect view of how greedy you are for it.”

He only let you continue a little longer before he pulled you off with a wet pop.

“Enough.” His voice was rough. “I want to come inside you.”

He spun you back around, bent you over the bike again, and lined himself up. The thick head pressed against your entrance. He pushed in slow at first, inch after inch stretching you open until you were full, the burn and the pressure making your breath hitch. When he bottomed out he stayed there, hips flush against your ass, letting you feel every pulse of him.

Then he started moving.

Deep, hard thrusts that rocked the heavy bike beneath you. One hand stayed tangled in your hair, pulling your head back so your spine arched. The other slid under your open top, cupping and squeezing your breasts, fingers pinching your nipples in time with every snap of his hips. The wet slap of skin on skin echoed in the alley. Cameras circled tighter.

“Fuck. Look at you,” he growled against your ear. “Taking me so well while the whole zone watches. You’re dripping down my cock. They can all see how wet you got for this.”

You moaned his name, voice breaking every time he drove in particularly deep. “Sylus, fuck...Yes..Sylus..”

He fucked you harder, the bike’s suspension creaking under the force. His grip in your hair tightened. “That’s it. Let them hear you. Let them see who you belong to.”

He came with a low guttural sound, burying himself to the hilt and flooding you. Hot pulses spilled deep inside, overflowing around his cock as he kept grinding through it. You felt every throb, every warm thick spurt. But when he finally stilled, both of you breathing hard, you still felt the ache. Still needed more.

He pulled out only long enough to sit on the bike himself, back against the handlebars, and haul you into his lap facing him. Your knees braced on either side of his hips. He guided his cock back to your entrance, still slick and open from the first round, and pulled you down onto him in one smooth motion. You sank all the way, taking every thick inch until your hips met his. The new angle made him feel even deeper.

Sylus’s hands gripped your waist as he started rolling his hips up into you, meeting every downward grind you gave him. Your open top framed your bouncing breasts. He leaned forward and sucked one nipple into his mouth again, biting just hard enough to make you gasp while you rode him.

“Never planned on joining this damn tournament,” he muttered against your skin, voice rough with pleasure. “Had zero interest. Then you show up on the feed and suddenly I am right in the middle of it.” He thrust up harder, making you cry out. “And Luke and Kieran are probably watching this live feed right now. Hope they are enjoying the show.”

The idea that his subordinates might be seeing you like this, straddling their boss’s cock on his bike, breasts bare, taking him so deep, only made you clench tighter around him.

He bit the side of your neck and growled, “Look at the cameras. Let them watch how pretty you look taking me.”

You came hard around him again, walls pulsing, but he was not finished.

He lifted you off, and sat you on the edge of the bike seat facing him. He stood between your spread thighs, gripped your hips, and thrust back in deep. The new position let him drive into you hard and steady while he watched every expression on your face. Your hands braced behind you on the seat as he fucked you, the wet sound of it loud in the alley.

“Gonna fill you one more time,” he rasped. “Want every camera to catch how much of me is dripping out of you when we are done.”

“Ohh yes, Sylus...fuck me hard-”

You moaned his name brokenly as the final orgasm crashed through you. Sylus followed with a sharp deep thrust, cock pulsing hard as he shot a third load inside you, hot and thick, flooding you until it leaked out around his shaft and down your thighs onto the bike.

A mechanical voice suddenly rang out over the zone speakers.

Participants Sylus and Y/N. Game over. Registration voided. Exit permitted.

You embraced Sylus, panting, still full of him, staring up at the cameras as they finally began to drift away. A weak breathless laugh left you.

“Wow. You were not lying.”

Sylus huffed a low laugh of his own, still buried inside you, forehead resting against your shoulder. “Did not think I would actually have to prove it. You made me look like I just wanted an excuse to fuck you in the middle of a hunting zone.” His mouth curved, proud and dark.

He finally pulled out, watching the thick mix of both loads drip from you onto the black metal of the bike. He tucked himself away, helped you button your top just enough to be decent, though the evidence of what you had done was still obvious.

You shifted slightly, hand combing your messy hair. "I have a question..." Sylus hummed as a response. "Why is the third way sex though?”

He sat on his big bike, holding the handlebar and meet your eyes. “The organizer’s rule. Their logic is nonsense. If you give in to the temptation of sex during a hunt, you’re said to be weak.”

A small, teasing smile tugged at your lips. “Then people just witnessed the strongest man in the N109 zone being weak.”

Sylus huffed, the sound half amusement, half challenge. “I have a different mindset.” His hand slid down your side, gripping your hip. “We should find out who’s really weak once we get to my place. I’m not finished letting you feel how strong I am.”

You climbed on behind him, arms wrapping around his waist, the ache between your legs a constant reminder. The reason you had come all the way from Linkon slipped further from your mind. Heat still pulsed through you, and the promise in his voice made it easy to forget everything else.

“Alright,” you agreed, voice soft. “Take me there, then.”

Sylus’s satisfied laugh was the last thing you heard before the wind took over.

pairing: xavier x reader

warnings: nsfw 18+, multiple positions and orgasms, unprotected sex, fucks you where someone could see, oral sex, dirty talks and a lot more. minors dni.

synopsis: your next-door neighbor Xavier has always fixed whatever breaks in your place and you’ve repaid him with home-cooked meals he never asked for. You both tried to keep it neighborly, but the tension between you has been simmering for months...until the day a private package is accidentally delivered to him and he shows up at your door holding the already-opened box, the last of your restraint snaps. What starts as another “offer to help” ends with him fucking you in every spot he’s ever repaired.

word count: 3k+

Xavier lived right next door. Same floor, shared wall, the quiet neighbor you only ever spoke to when something broke.

He fixed things. Faucets that dripped, lights that flickered, the stubborn AC condenser on the balcony that leaked every summer. He never asked for payment. You started bringing him food instead. containers of leftovers, home-cooked meals, because the man lived on takeout and seemed to have zero interest in learning how to cook.

Over time the exchanges became routine. You relied on his hands; he relied on your kitchen. You both tried to keep it neighborly. But it never stayed that way because the two of you keep getting entangled in embarassing situations.

Awkward situations that surely builds tension between you.

One afternoon he replaced your kitchen light, the heat made him strip down to a thin white undershirt. Every time he reached overhead the fabric rode up, showing the hard ridges of his abs. You held the stepladder and stared. When he climbed down and caught you looking, he only said, “It’s done,” but the corner of his mouth twitched.

Another night you knocked on his door with a container of stew. He opened the door in nothing but dark boxers, hair still damp, chest gleaming from a shower. Your ears burned so hot you almost dropped the food. He took it with a quiet “thanks” and didn’t close the door until you’d already turned away.

Then the laundry room at the lower floor. You both reached for the same machine. Your lace underwear slipped from the basket and landed on his foot. He bent, picked it up and looked at it before giving it to you. It was embarassing that you mumbled thanks and immediately fled.

The worst was the night your friend got you half-drunk and dumped you at the building entrance. Xavier happened to be there. Your friend, loud and shameless, told him everything. how you gossiped about his abs, how you’d ogled him, how the quiet ones were always the freakiest.

Xavier guided you upstairs with an arm around your waist, and let you lean into him the whole way. Somewhere between the elevator and your door, you kept running your palm over his abs over his shirt, murmuring that they felt even better than they looked. He didn’t stop you. The next morning he said nothing about it, but every time he fixed something after that he’d murmur, mild and playful, “Don’t drink too much next time. You’ll end up in a very dangerous situation.”

You thought that was the peak of the embarrassment.

Not until the tracking update for your package notified you.

Delivered.

The photo of proof showed a pair of long legs in dark sweatpants. Xavier’s—accepting a package from the courier. No face, but you’d stared at that body enough times to know it by the way he stood.

Of all the things that could have been misdelivered to him...

It was a fucking dildo.

You stared at the screen, stomach dropping, and prayed he wouldn’t open it.

The doorbell rang less than ten minutes later.

You opened the door and found him standing there with the already-torn package in one hand. The cardboard was ripped enough that the unmistakable shape was visible.

“Sorry,” he said, voice low. "I opened it before I checked the name.” He held it out. “It's yours.”

You took it, ears burning. “Delivery mix-up. Happens.”

He didn’t leave. He just stood there in the doorway, quiet the way he always was, eyes steady on yours. The silence stretched until it felt charged.

“You need help with anything else tonight?” he asked, the same offer he’d made a hundred times for faucets and light fixtures. Only this time the corner of his mouth twitched, just barely, and you both knew exactly what he was offering.

Your throat worked. “I’ll… think about it.”

He nodded once and turned to go.

You closed the door, leaned against it, and exhaled shakily. The package sat on the counter like an accusation.

Later that night, you stared and decided to try the freakn' toy. It was slick, chasing you to the edge—but it wasn’t enough. Not when every stroke made you picture his hands, his abs, the way he’d looked standing in your doorway holding the damn thing.

You grabbed your phone and sent a message.

Xav, the toy you returned wasn’t enough.

You still offering to help?

The doorbell rang again before you could second-guess yourself.

You opened it and Xavier stepped in without a word, kicked the door shut behind him, and kissed you like he’d been waiting months for permission. His mouth was hot, insistent; one hand cupped the back of your neck while the other slid under your shirt, palm dragging up your spine. You moaned into the kiss and he answered with a low sound that vibrated against your tongue.

He walked you backward until your shoulders hit the wall, then broke the kiss just long enough to murmur against your mouth, “You sure you want my help?"

You nod in an instant, wrapping your arms on his neck. "You're the only one who can fix this itch. Screw me Xavier."

"Shit, I’m going to fuck you in every spot I’ve fixed in this place. Call it payment.”

You laughed breathlessly, already tugging at his shirt. “Quiet people are the freakiest. I knew it.”

“Yeah?” He pulled the shirt off in one motion, then yours. “You're not wrong."

He kissed down your throat, open-mouthed and wet, teeth scraping lightly over your collarbone. His tongue traced the line of your sternum, then lower, circling a nipple until you arched. “Been watching you watch me,” he said between licks. “Every time I reach up to change a bulb. Every time you bring food and stare at my chest. You wanted this.”

“I did...fuck, Xavier—”

He pushed you down onto the couch, hooked his fingers in your waistband, and dragged your shorts and underwear down together. The second the fabric cleared your thighs he leaned in and dragged his tongue through your folds in one long, messy stroke. You gasped his name. He did it again, slower, then sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked.

It was earnest and filthy. no teasing, just wet heat and the sound of him eating you like he’d been starving for it. His hands gripped your ass, pulling you tighter against his face while his tongue fucked into you in short, deep thrusts. You tangled your fingers in his hair and rolled your hips, moaning “Xavier.. oh fuck, eat me more, yes!” until your legs started to shake. He didn’t stop until you came on his tongue, thighs clamping around his head, your voice cracking on his name.

You barely recovered before you shoved him onto his back on the carpet, right under the light fixture he’d replaced last month. “Look at what you fixed,” you said, straddling his thighs and working his sweatpants down and removing it. His cock sprang free, thick and already leaking, admiring his veiny appetizing length. You wrapped your hand around him, stroked once, then took him into your mouth as deep as you could.

He cursed under his breath, one hand settling in your hair. “Fuck! look at you. Taking it like that under the light I put in. You’re so fucking wet still, I can see it.”

You hummed around him and he jerked. You sucked harder, hollowed your cheeks, let saliva drip down his shaft while your free hand cupped his balls. His hips twitched but he didn’t force anything; he just watched with dark eyes as you worked him. When he warned you he was close you stayed right there, and he came with a low groan, spilling across your tongue. You swallowed and kept licking until he pulled you up by the arms.

You climbed onto him properly, sinking down onto his still-hard cock in one slow slide. Both of you exhaled at the same time. For a moment you just sat there, feeling the stretch, the heat, the way his abs flexed under your palms. Then you started to move. slow rolls at first, grinding your clit against him, then rising and dropping faster. He gripped your hips and met every downward stroke with a thrust of his own.

“That’s it,” he gritted. “Ride me. Use me. Been thinking about this every time you brought me food and pretended you weren’t staring.”

“Xavier...Yes—fuck! Your dick is so much better than that toy, ohh...”

You bounced harder, nails digging into his chest, moaning his name every time he bottomed out. He came first this time, hips snapping up, flooding you while you kept riding through it until your own orgasm hit and you collapsed forward onto him, both of you breathing hard.

He wasn’t done.

He stood, still inside you, and carried you to the kitchen sink, the one whose faucet he’d fixed three weeks ago. He set you on the cold counter, pulled out almost all the way, then slammed back in. The angle was deeper here. You wrapped your legs around his waist and held on while he fucked you in short, powerful strokes, the sound of skin on skin loud in the quiet apartment.

“This sink,” he said against your ear. “I fixed the drip. Now I’m going to fill you up right here.”

You came again with a broken cry. He followed seconds later, burying himself to the hilt and grinding through it.

Still not finished, he carried you out to the small balcony where he’d repaired the leaking AC condenser last summer. The night air was cool against overheated skin. The city stretched out below. lights, distant traffic, the soft hum of other people’s lives. Anyone looking up from the right angle might see.

Xavier turned you around and bent you over the railing, one hand pressing between your shoulder blades until your chest met the cool metal. He dragged the head of his cock through the mess of cum already leaking down your thighs, then pushed in slow, letting you feel every inch.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re still so full of me and still this tight.”

You pushed back, taking him deeper. He started thrusting...long, deliberate strokes at first, the wet sound of his cock sliding through his own cum loud in the open air. One hand gripped your hip hard enough to bruise; the other reached around and found your clit, rubbing in firm circles timed with every thrust.

“Anyone could look up,” he said against your ear, voice rough. “See me fucking you right here.”

“Let them. I don’t care, ohh...your cock feels so good, yes! don't stop Xavier-fuck me harder..”

He did. Long, wet strokes at first, then harder, the slap of skin on skin sharp in the night air. Your moans spilled out unchecked. He pulled almost all the way out, then slammed back in to the hilt, grinding deep so you felt the thick base of him stretch you open. Cum from earlier dripped down your thighs with every thrust, mixing with fresh slick.

He pulled out suddenly, spun you around, your back feeling the railings. He hooked one of your leg over his arms, your other feet on the ground, spreading you wide, and drove back into you in one hard thrust. The new angle made you cry out, the head of his cock dragging over the spot that made your vision blur.

“Look at you,” he growled. “spread wide like this, taking every inch. Gonna fill you again. Want it?”

“Yes please, ohh Xavier, come inside me!”

He thrust harder, the wet sounds obscene. You could feel how messy you already were, how every stroke pushed more of his earlier cum out around his cock. He leaned in and bit the side of your neck, then licked the mark.

“Gonna cream this pussy again. Right here on the balcony. Where anyone could see.”

You came hard from the dirty talk, walls clenching, a broken moan of his name spilling into the open air. He didn’t stop. He kept fucking you through it, chasing his own release, until his rhythm broke. He slammed in deep one last time and held there, cock pulsing as he came. hot, thick pulses flooding you, more than before. You felt every spurt, the way it filled you until it started leaking out around him even while he was still buried to the hilt.

He stayed inside you for a long moment, breathing hard against your neck, still twitching with aftershocks. When he finally pulled out, a thick rope of cum followed, sliding down your inner thigh. He watched it with dark eyes, then pushed two fingers back into you, scooping some of it and pressing it deeper again.

“Stay full,” he murmured. “I want it leaking out of you the rest of the night.”

You were both wrecked by then. sweaty, shaking, skin marked and sticky. He carried you back inside and collapsed with you on the couch, your legs still trembling.

You traced lazy circles on his well-defined abs. “Thank you. For… all the fixing. And this.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “You should break something in the bedroom next. And the bathroom. Give me a reason to come back and fuck you there too.”

You grinned. “You don’t need a reason. You can come over whenever you want.”

He kissed the top of your head. “Same goes for my place. We help each other out.”

You stayed like that for a long time, the apartment quiet except for the soft sound of his breathing and the distant city noise, the air still thick with everything you’d just done in every room he’d ever repaired.

pairing: sylus x reader

warnings: nsfw 18+ includes explicit sexual content. multiple positions, raw sex, creampies, oral sex, pure filth. minors dni.

synopsis: You and Sylus have always clashed—two stubborn dominants locked in a constant battle of wills. Fed up with his games, you sneak out of the N109 zone without him knowing, only to be ambushed and injected with an experimental gene product that turns you into a cat.

Returning to his place on four paws, Sylus recognizes you by the necklace he gave you and the familiar scent beneath the fur. You soon learn the only way to reverse the transformation for good is through… mating? Pride makes you refuse to ask for his help… until the alternative becomes clear: stay a cat forever.

word count: 5k+

You and Sylus had always been oil and water with a match thrown in. Both of you liked being the one in control. He thrived on making you work for every scrap of information, dangling half-answers like treats just out of reach, eyes glittering with that particular brand of amused cruelty that made your blood boil and your pulse race at the same time. You hated how easily he could play you. So when he left for business and reminded you again not to leave the N109 zone alone, you waited exactly long enough for the door to close before slipping out the side exit.

The pub was the kind of place that looked ordinary until you knew where to look. Classified exchanges happened in the back rooms under the cover of clinking glasses and low conversation. You were three steps from the private entrance when the ambush hit.

A sharp sting at the side of your neck. Cold liquid flooding your veins. You spun, already drawing the compact gun you kept at your hip, but the world tilted. Two figures in dark coats moved in fast. You drove an elbow into the first one’s throat, felt cartilage give, then twisted and fired at the second’s shoulder. The shot cracked loud in the narrow space; blood sprayed. You were still fighting when the gene product finished its work. Bones shifted. Muscles contracted. Vision sharpened and the world dropped several feet lower. Fur erupted across your skin. By the time the remaining attackers closed in, you were already a ginger cat with a dark brown markings, necklace still looped around your throat like a collar. You darted between their legs, claws raking one ankle hard enough to draw a curse, and vanished into the alley.

You knew the roads back to Sylus’s place by heart. Even on four paws the route was burned into you.

The twins found you first.

Luke crouched, eyes wide. “Where the hell did this come from?”

Kieran reached down and scooped you up. You twisted, meowing urgently, trying to form words that came out only as sharp, frustrated sounds. You hissed when he tried to check for a tag. Both of them froze when Sylus’s shadow fell across the floor.

He paused, eyeing the cat in Kieran’s arms with mild confusion. “Where did you two pick up a cat?” The question was casual, almost bored, until his gaze caught on the necklace still looped around the small throat. The one he had fastened around your neck weeks ago with that low, possessive murmur. His expression shifted.

Recognition.

Then something darker. He stepped forward, plucked you from the twins’ hands without a word, and brought you close enough to scent. The familiar undercurrent of your skin still clung beneath the new fur. His mouth curved.

“Well,” he said smirking. “Look who returned home with a tail.”

You bared tiny fangs and swiped. He laughed, low and rich, catching your paw before the claws could connect.

“Still so snappy. Even like this.” His thumb stroked over the pad of your foot. “I heard the rumors. Experimental gene product. Turns people into animals. And here you are, ignoring every warning I gave you.” He clicked his tongue. “Stubborn little thing.”

That night he worked at his laptop, half-reclined against the headboard, bare-chested, the glow of the screen painting the sharp lines of his face. You had climbed onto his chest and curled there, face tucked under his chin. The steady beat of his heart under your ear was almost soothing. Almost. His fingers absently stroked down your spine while he scrolled.

“Pheromones,” he murmured after a long stretch of silence. “Apparently that’s the key. Specific ones.” He hummed, the sound vibrating through his chest into your body. Whether he already knew or was simply deciding how much to tell you was anyone’s guess. With Sylus it was always a game.

He closed the laptop and set it aside. His hand came up, two fingers sliding under your chin, tipping your head. The touch felt obscenely good. You rubbed against his knuckles without meaning to. His laugh was quiet, almost fond.

“Cute.”

Then he leaned down and kissed you. soft at first, lips brushing the top of your head, then lower, finding the small muzzle. The moment his mouth settled properly, the change hit like a wave. Fur receded. Limbs lengthened. You were suddenly human again, naked and sprawled across his chest, the necklace still warm against your collarbone.

You shoved him hard enough that he nearly tipped off the edge of the bed. He caught himself with a low chuckle while you scrambled for the comforter, yanking it around your body.

“You knew,” you accused, voice rough.

“I suspected.” He propped himself on one elbow, watching you with open amusement. “Mating pheromones. That’s what the research pointed to. Direct contact. Intimate.” His gaze dropped deliberately to the way the comforter clung to your bare shoulders. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“No thanks,” you snapped. “I’m back. That’s enough.” You stood, still wrapped tight, and headed for the door.

His voice followed, silky and certain. “Come find me if it happens again, kitten.”

___

Daytime come and he was right.

You woke with a tail coiled against your leg and ears that flicked at every sound. Frustration burned hot enough to taste. You didn’t want to go to him. You could already picture the smirk. But the clock was ticking. Linkon wasn’t going to wait forever and you refused to stay like this.

You padded to his door and scratched. Meowed once, sharp.

The door opened. Sylus stood there in an open black robe, towel in one hand, hair still damp from the shower. He looked past you at first, then down. The smirk arrived right on schedule.

“I told you, kitten.”

He scooped you up without ceremony, carried you to the bed, and set you down on the sheets. For a moment he only looked at you. really looked, while the towel still hung from one hand and water beaded along the sharp line of his collarbone. Then he leaned in.

Another kiss and the shift reversed. The second you were human he tugged the comforter over you again, giving you the dignity of cover while your pulse hammered.

You stared at him for a long time.

“Fine,” you said, voice lower than you meant it to be. “If that’s the only way.”

A slow, dark smile curved his mouth. He braced one hand on the mattress beside your hip, leaning in until the scent of his skin filled the space between you. soap, heat, and something sharper that made your stomach tighten.

“You sure?” The question was soft. Almost gentle. It didn’t match the way his eyes dropped to your lips, then lower, to the pulse fluttering at your throat. “Because once I start, kitten… I’m not stopping until I’m certain it sticks.”

You held his gaze. The air between you felt thick. Charged. Every instinct that usually made you push back against him was tangled up with the heat pooling low in your belly.

You nodded once.

Sylus’s smile widened, slow and predatory, and he reached for the edge of the comforter.

He then pulled it away without ceremony and kissed you.

It started slow and turned filthy fast. His mouth claimed yours like he had been waiting for permission. Tongue sliding deep, tasting, taking. He was a devastatingly good kisser—controlled pressure, the occasional scrape of teeth, the way he angled your head exactly how he wanted. You lost the thread of resistance somewhere between the first slide of his tongue and the low sound he made when you kissed back harder. Heat pooled low in your belly. You made a small, needy noise against his lips and felt him smile into the kiss.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Ask properly.”

You hated that you did. “Please—”

He kissed down your throat, open-mouthed and wet, then lower. Across your collarbones. Over the soft swells of your breasts. He took one nipple into his mouth and sucked, teeth grazing just enough to make your back arch. His hand drifted between your legs, two long fingers stroking through the slick already gathering there. He rubbed slow circles over your clit, then pushed one finger inside. The stretch was perfect. You moaned his name, hips rolling to take him deeper.

“Already this wet for me,” he said against your skin. “And you still try to pretend you don’t need this.”

A second finger joined the first. He curled them, finding the spot that made your thighs tremble, and worked you with ruthless patience until you were gasping. When he added a third the pressure was almost too much…almost. You clenched around him and he groaned approval.

You reached for the belt of his robe and shoved it open. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, the head already flushed and wet. You wrapped your hand around him, stroking from base to tip, feeling the way he twitched in your grip. The weight of him, the heat, the way a bead of precome slicked your palm. You admired it openly before tightening your fist and working him in steady pulls. Sylus’s head tipped back, a rough sound leaving his throat.

“Fuck, kitten…”

He flipped you onto all fours with sudden ease. Your cheek pressed into the mattress as he spread your knees wider.

Then his mouth was on you from behind.

Tongue dragging through your folds, messy and relentless. He licked into you like he was starving, nose pressed against your ass, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room. Two fingers pushed back inside while he sucked on your clit. You came hard, moaning into the sheets, legs shaking.

He didn’t give you time to recover. The blunt head of his cock nudged your entrance. He gave your ass a sharp smack that echoed, then another.

“Hard-headed,” he growled. “Always doing whatever the fuck you want. Look at you now, on all fours like a proper little cat.” He squeezed one cheek hard enough to leave marks. “Taking what I give you.”

He pushed in.

The stretch burned perfect. He sank deep in one slow, deliberate thrust until his hips met your ass, then held there, letting you feel every inch.

Your eyes rolled. The fullness was overwhelming.

When he started to move it was slow at first, long, dragging strokes that made you feel every ridge. then harder, faster, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room. You pushed back to meet him, begging without shame now.

“More…Sylus, please—”

He fucked you like he meant to ruin the memory of anyone else. One hand cupped your breast, pinching the nipple between finger and thumb while the other stayed locked on your hip, yanking you back onto his cock. He leaned over you, mouth open against your shoulder, then turned your head for a messy, open-mouthed kiss that was more shared breath and tongue than anything neat. Every thrust drove a broken sound from your throat. You had always known he liked it rough. You had never expected to love it this much.

He came with a low snarl, flooding you deep. Heat spilled inside. He didn’t pull out.

“Again,” he said, voice rough. “We’re making damn sure you don’t shift back.”

You agreed without hesitation.

He let you push him to sit against the headboard. You stood up on the bed, aligning your pussy on his face, grabbing a fistful of his silver-white hair, and straddled his face. His tongue flicked out immediately. You ground down, riding his mouth, asserting the control he always tried to keep from you. He huffed a laugh against your clit. half disbelief, half pure hunger, before sucking hard. You moved against him until your thighs shook, then slid down and sank onto his cock in one smooth motion.

Riding him was different. You set the pace, slow rolls of your hips that made your breasts bounce, then harder, taking him deep every time. He watched you with dark eyes, hands on your waist, then leaned in to lick and suck your nipples while you moved. Another orgasm built fast. When he came again you didn’t stop. You kept riding through the overstimulation, feeling him twitch and curse under you, fresh come spilling out around his cock and down his balls.

“Fuck! kitten…”

“Just making sure,” you panted, and kept going until he flipped you again.

Your legs ended up over his shoulders. He drove into you hard and deep, the new angle forcing broken cries from your throat. His red eyes burn with something wicked, something that promises he’s not stopping until he’s wrung every last sound from your throat.

You reach up, fingers splaying across the hard ridges of his abs, feeling them flex and tighten with every powerful drive of his hips. The contact makes his rhythm falter for a split second before he slams back in harder, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the room. His cock, thick, veiny, glistening with the mess of two previous rounds, pushes deep, stretching you open again and again.

You glance down between your bodies, watching the obscene sight: his shaft, coated in white, sliding in and out of your soaked pussy, pushing his own cum deeper with every thrust. The sound is filthy, wet and obscene, each plunge forcing more of it to leak out around his girth.

His hand leaves your thigh to cup your face, thumb pressing into your cheek before his fingers squeeze, forcing your lips to part. He traces the open seam with the pad of his thumb, eyes darkening as he watches your tongue flick against it instinctively. "Look at you," he rasps, voice rough. "Taking every drop like you were made for it."

His other hand finds your breast, squeezing the soft flesh hard enough to make you gasp, thumb rolling over your nipple until it pebbles under his touch. Your body jolts with each thrust, the bounce of your chest drawing his gaze like a magnet. He leans down, forehead pressed to yours, red eyes half-lidded and blazing as he grinds in deep, the head of his cock kissing your cervix with every roll of his hips.

The wet sounds grow louder, messier, until he buries himself to the hilt with a guttural groan, forehead pressed to yours as he comes for the third time. Hot pulses flood you, thick and heavy, pushing more of his cum out around his cock to drip down your ass in messy trails.

Later, tangled in the sheets, sweat cooling on your skin, he traced idle patterns on your stomach where his come still marked you.

“If you turn back into a cat,” he said, voice low and amused, “mating clearly wasn’t enough. We’ll have to do more.”

You stretched, deliberate and smug. “If I don’t turn back, you’d better be ready. Next time I’m the one putting a tail and a collar on you while you’re naked.”

His laugh was dark and delighted.

“Looking forward to it, kitten.”

pairing: rafayel x reader

synopsis: You’ve been quietly drawn to the reserved purple-haired fine arts major, Rafayel. Using a commission as your excuse, you invite him over for private painting sessions. What starts as artistic poses quickly turns heated, until the quiet artist finally stops holding back—and you end up becoming his favorite canvas.

warnings: nsfw 18+ this is pure filth. includes multiple positions, raw sex, creampies, oral sex and a lot more. minors dni.

word count: 5k+

You can feel some eyes on you. It’s understandable. A cheerleader who’s supposed to be in the gym after class is instead perched on a stool in the Fine Arts studio, chin resting on her palm, watching a room full of students paint in complete silence.

To anyone else, it'd probably be mind-numbingly boring. To you? Not even close.

Mostly because you're not actually looking at the paintings.

Your eyes keep wandering back to the same person.

Dark-purple hair falls over his forehead as he leans over the canvas, one hand steadying the frame while the other moves a paintbrush with effortless precision. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, a streak of blue paint decorating the side of his wrist.

So handsome.

There’s a balance to his looks, boyish and pretty at once, soft enough that you keep finding reasons to glance over.

Definitely your type.

Good thing your cousin is a Fine Arts major.

Otherwise, you'd have absolutely no excuse for showing up here every other afternoon pretending you're interested in oil paintings.

When your cousin finally sets down his brush and walks over, you ask, “So have you told him already?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why ask other people when I can just do it for you?”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not interested in the painting. I’m interested in the painter.”

He shakes his head at your shamelessness, though the corner of his mouth twitches. “Fortunately, he does commissions. He was asking what dates work for you and I already gave him your number.”

“Perfect!” You squeal and smack his back hard enough to make him yelp, then promise him free lunch later as thanks.

Rafayel. The first time you saw him as a new student lining up with the rest of the Fine Art Department, he stole every scrap of your attention. You’ve seen plenty of handsome guys on the court during practice, and you’re popular enough that plenty of them notice you back. But you never cared.

His beauty was different though. Your cousin told you that some girls also come by the studio all the time just to watch him paint, just like you. But Rafayel never seems to notice. Or maybe he does. He just doesn't care. He’s always focused on the canvas.

You’ve crossed paths, met eyes, even asked him once where your cousin was. He answered the question and nothing more. That only made you want him harder.

So when you heard that fine-art majors sometimes take commissions, you jumped at the chance, asking your cousin to tell Rafayel that you like to commisioned him. Three paintings, framed as a birthday gift for yourself, hoping the soft-sounding reason would make him agree. Three sessions on purpose.

You hope it’s enough.

That night an unknown number messaged you.

Hi Y/N, this is Rafayel. Just wanted to ask the dates you set for the sessions.

You replied instantly, locking in the weekends. He agrees. You spend the rest of the week counting the days.

____

You make sure you look deliberate: a white dress that skims without clinging, light perfume, apartment spotless. When the doorbell rings you open it to find him in a black long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows and light pants. He smiles, polite, a little shy and the sight of it does something warm and stupid in your chest.

“Hi,” you say, stepping aside to let him in.

“Hi.” His voice is quiet, almost careful. He glances around the living room once, then back at you. “You have good light in here.”

You guide him toward the spot you’ve already cleared near the window. “That’s why I picked this side of the room. I figured you’d want natural light.”

He nods, setting down his bag and beginning to unfold the easel. You watch him work for a moment, the way his hands move, steady and practiced before speaking again.

“So… how long have you been painting?”

He looks up briefly. “Since I was a kid. My mom used to leave me with sketchbooks whenever she was busy.”

“Must’ve been nice,” you say, smiling. “I was always stuck in the gym or running drills. Never had something quiet like that.”

A small, almost amused sound leaves him. “Quiet is good. Most people don’t get that.”

You take the red ribbon from the table and begin wrapping it around your body, letting the ends trail loosely like a gift still unwrapped. When you finish, you settle into the pose and look at him.

“Today’s theme is treating myself as a gift,” you tell him, voice soft but deliberate. “I think… knowing what you want and allowing yourself to have it is important. Most people spend so much time denying themselves the things they crave. But if you never give in, even a little, doesn’t that mean you’re never really living?”

You let the words hang there, carefully chosen, just deep enough to sound thoughtful, but you just actually want to reel him in.

“Hmm?” He studies the way the bold red ribbon sits against the white dress, pure fabric made daring by the way it clings and the length that leaves little to the imagination. After a moment, he nods once and picks up his brush. The first strokes are soft, careful. For a while the only sounds are the faint drag of bristles across canvas and the quiet shift of your breathing.

You break the silence first. “You always look so focused in the studio. Like nothing else exists.”

His hand slows, but doesn’t stop. “It’s easier that way. Fewer distractions.”

You tilt your head slightly, watching him. “Is that why you’re so quiet with people? Or do you just not like talking?”

This time the brush stills completely. He glances up, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “You think I’m a snob?”

“A little,” you admit, letting out a chuckle. “You never really talk to anyone. Sometimes it feels like you look right through people.”

A quiet, almost embarrassed laugh escapes him. He dips the brush again, eyes returning to the canvas. “That’s a misunderstanding. I just… get lost in the work. It’s not intentional.” You nod and he let out a few more stroke before he speaks again, “Why commissioned me instead of your cousin? He’s good.”

Rafayel’s gaze lifts to yours and holds. The air between you feels a little heavier.

“I like you,” you mumbled. A beat later, smoother, “I mean, like the way you paint. I'm sorry if someone you don't really know asked to commissioned you.”

He studies you for a long second, something unreadable passing through his expression, before he looks back at the canvas. “I know who you are. I see you around the studio almost every day.”

Your pulse kicks hard. All those trips weren’t wasted. He noticed even when you never caught him looking.

“I don’t take many commissions,” he says, and the glance he gives you is heavier than the words. “But I said yes to this one.”

You almost forget how to breathe for a second. Meaningful remarks…from him. The same quiet, distant Rafayel who barely spoke more than a handful of words to you before today. You can’t quite believe he’s giving them to you now, soft and deliberate like this.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you smile.

Hours later the portrait is finished. The conversation on the way to the door is no longer awkward. You close the door slowly, the apartment feels quieter without him in it, but the air still carries the faint scent of turpentine and whatever clean soap he uses.

You smile to yourself.

The bait is set.

___

Next weekend, you open the door in nothing but an oversized white button-down that stops mid-thigh. His eyes flick down before he can stop them, lingering a beat too long on the bare stretch of your legs, then climb slowly back up. A hint of surprise crosses his face, quickly replaced by a warmer smile than last week but something darker sits just underneath it.

“Hey,” you greet, voice soft.

“Hey.” He steps inside. The door closes behind him with a quiet click. You catch the way his gaze drops again for half a second when you turn to lead him into the living room, the hem of the shirt riding higher with every step.

He sets up the easel in silence. You take the same ribbon from last time, but this time you only drape it loosely around your waist and deliberately leave the top half of the shirt unbuttoned. The fabric gapes open just enough to show the soft inner curves of your breasts when you move. When you settle onto the couch, you catch the lopsided curve of his mouth like he expected exactly this, and is trying very hard not to show how much it affects him.

“Today’s theme is unwrapping the present,” you tell him.

He chuckles, low and a little rough. “Alright.”

You pose the way you practiced: leaning back so the hem rides higher up your thighs, one leg drawn up so the fabric threatens to slip and reveal more, back arched just enough that the open neckline shows the shadowed valley between your breasts. The air in the room feels thicker almost immediately.

Every time he glances up, his gaze lingers longer. First on the line of your thigh. Then on the place where the shirt has ridden up enough to hint at the curve of your hip. Then on the soft rise and fall of your chest, the way your lips part slightly when you breathe. His hand never stops moving across the canvas, but the strokes grow slower, more deliberate, as if he’s forcing himself to keep working.

You shift once, letting the shirt slip another inch. His brush hesitates for a fraction of a second. You watch his throat work as he swallows.

Almost no conversation this time. Just the quiet scrape of bristles on canvas, the soft sound of your breathing, and the heavy, unspoken awareness that neither of you is looking at the other the way an artist looks at a model. His eyes keep returning to places that have nothing to do with composition. the soft inner skin of your thigh, the shadowed space between your breasts, the way your lower lip looks when you bite it without thinking.

You can feel the tension coiling low in your stomach. Heat gathers between your legs simply from the weight of his gaze. You wonder if he can tell. From the way his jaw tightens every time your eyes meet, you think he might.

When he finally sets the brush down, the light in the room has shifted. He studies the canvas for a long moment, then looks at you again. This time he doesn’t look away.

“I think we’re done for today,” he says, voice lower than before.

You stand slowly. The shirt falls back into place, but not before he gets one last unobstructed view of your upper thighs. You walk him to the door. The space between your bodies feels charged, too small. When your arms brush as you reach for the handle, the contact sends a sharp, electric spark across both your skins. You both still for a second.

“Same time?” he asks. His voice is rougher now, almost quiet.

“Same time.”

“I look forward to it.”

You hold his gaze a beat longer than necessary, letting the meaning sit heavy between you, then thank him softly. The door closes.

You lean against it, pulse still racing, the ghost of his eyes still warm on your skin.

The hook is reeled in.

___

You spend the morning preparing carefully, long shower until your skin is soft and warm, hair left loose around your shoulders, the short silk robe that barely reaches mid-thigh tied loosely at the waist. Nothing underneath. Every time the fabric shifts against your bare skin you feel a low, anticipatory heat settle between your legs.

This will be your last session. And you will do your best today.

When the doorbell rings, your pulse jumps.

Rafayel stands on the other side looking unfairly handsome. His purple hair is still slightly damp from a shower, soft strands falling over the thin frames of his glasses. He’s wearing a dark tailored coat over a black shirt and a deep red turtleneck, In one hand he holds a rolled canvas. He smells like clean soap and the faint ghost of turpentine as he gives you that small, polite smile but his eyes drop almost immediately to the thin silk and the amount of leg it leaves exposed. He doesn’t look away as quickly as he used to.

“Hey,” he says, voice quiet. “Light’s good today.”

You step aside to let him in. The door closes. The air between you already feels different…thicker, heavier.

You watch him set up in silence: stretching the fresh canvas, laying out paints, adjusting the easel. His movements are controlled, but you notice the way his gaze keeps flicking toward you when he thinks you’re not looking. The tension from last week hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s sharpened.

Once he’s ready, you untie the robe and let it slip from your shoulders.

It pools at your feet in a soft whisper of fabric.

Rafayel’s eyes follow the silk down, then travel slowly back up the length of your bare body. You watch his throat work as he swallows. His fingers tighten once around the edge of the easel.

“The present is completely unwrapped,” you say, voice soft.

A short, almost breathless laugh leaves him. “Am I the one having the birthday? Why do I feel like I’m the one receiving the present?”

You smile and walk to the couch without covering yourself. No shame left. You sit, lift one foot onto the low stool in front of you, and deliberately spread your thighs. The pose leaves nothing hidden…pink, already glistening folds open to the soft afternoon light.

Rafayel curses under his breath.

He still picks up the brush.

But the tension in the room is almost unbearable now. His eyes are heavier, darker, lingering far longer. Every few strokes he glances up, and each time your gazes lock you feel the heat between your legs pulse harder. You bite your lower lip slowly, deliberately, and watch the way his jaw tightens in response.

You can feel yourself getting wetter just from the weight of his stare. The air feels charged, thick enough to taste. Your breathing has already gone shallow.

After several long minutes the need becomes too sharp to ignore.

Your hand drifts down your own body. Two fingers part your folds and find your clit, already slick. You circle it once, twice. A soft, needy sound slips out of your throat before you can stop it.

“Rafayel…”

The brush freezes mid-stroke.

He sets it down carefully on the palette table, movements controlled but tense. When he looks at you again, his eyes are almost black.

“Yes?” His voice is rough.

You keep stroking yourself, slow and open, eyes locked on his. “Please…”

“Please what, Y/N?”

The words come out quieter, almost strained.

“Please fuck me.”

Something in him finally snaps.

He crosses the space in three long strides, cups your face in both hands, and kisses you like he’s been holding himself back for weeks. The kiss is hungry, deep, almost desperate. his tongue sliding against yours while a low, rough sound vibrates in his chest. His hands leave your face only to map every inch of bare skin: down your sides, up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over the peaks until you arch into his touch with a soft, needy gasp.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to speak against your mouth, voice low and rough.

“I’ve noticed you every single day you came to the studio. The second your cousin said you wanted a commission I said yes. I thought I’d get to paint that pretty face. I never expected I’d get to paint the rest of this fucking body too.”

“Rafayel—” you breathe, already sounding wrecked.

He kisses you again, harder, then trails lower, lips and tongue tracing your collarbone, the curve of one breast, then the other. He takes a nipple into his mouth and sucks slowly, teeth grazing just enough to make you cry out.

“Ah—fuck—”

“Look at these,” he mutters against your skin, voice thick. “Pretty little tits just waiting to be marked up. You’ve been teasing me for weeks, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” you moan, fingers sliding into his hair. “Wanted you to notice…wanted this…”

Then he’s on his knees between your spread thighs, pushing them wider with firm hands. He looks up at you once. Dark eyes, parted lips, before he leans in. The first long, wet stripe of his tongue from entrance to clit makes your hips jerk hard and a loud, broken moan spill out of you.

“Fuck! Rafayel—”

He doesn’t rush. He licks you again, slower this time, flat tongue dragging through your folds like he’s tasting every bit of you. Then he focuses on your clit, circling it with the tip of his tongue, flicking, then sealing his lips around it and sucking in steady, filthy rhythms. One finger slides inside you, then a second, then a third, curling upward against that sensitive spot while his mouth keeps working.

“That’s it,” he breathes against your soaked skin. “Grind on my face. Use my tongue. Show me how badly you’ve wanted this.”

“Oh yes! Just like that…” you moan, rolling your hips against his mouth without shame, fingers buried deep in his purple hair. “Don’t stop…please don’t stop! feels so good, your tongue—”

He keeps going, relentless. Every time your thighs start to shake he only holds them open wider and sucks harder, fingers thrusting deeper. You come with a sharp cry of his name, body tightening around his fingers, but he doesn’t pull away. He keeps licking and sucking through every pulse, swallowing everything you give him, until you’re shaking and oversensitive, soft broken whimpers still leaving your throat.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice rough and satisfied as he finally lifts his head, mouth shiny.

You push him back onto the couch, climb after him, and free his cock. It’s thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip. You stroke him slowly from base to head, feeling the heavy heat of him, then lean down and take him into your mouth with a soft, hungry moan. You work him wet and messy, sliding down until he hits the back of your throat, then pulling up with a thick string of spit connecting your lips to his cock. You hollow your cheeks, swirl your tongue under the head, then sink down again, soft wet sounds and your muffled whimpers filling the quiet apartment.

“Shit... look at you,” he pants, one hand gently fisting your hair.

You moan around him, eyes fluttering up to meet his, and keep going, bobbing steadily, spit running down his shaft and over your fingers as you stroke what you can’t fit. His hips start to stutter after a long while. He pulls you off with a rough, almost pained sound, a thick string of spit still connecting your lips to the head of his cock.

“Not yet. I want to come inside you first.”

“Then do it,” you breathe, voice already hoarse. “Please…I need it—”

You crawl up, straddle his lap, and sink down slowly, inch by inch. The stretch is perfect; the moment you’re fully seated a long, shaky moan leaves both of you.

“Fuck! so tight,” he groans, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “Taking every inch like you were made for it.”

You stay still for a moment, just feeling how full you are, then start to move. slow rolls of your hips at first, then rising almost all the way off before dropping back down. He meets every thrust from below, hands steady on your waist.

“You feel so good,” you whimper, picking up speed. “So deep… Rafayel…ahh!”

After a while he grips your waist and guides you to turn around without pulling out. You end up in reverse cowgirl, hands braced on his thighs, back arched as you start bouncing again. The new angle makes both of you groan louder.

“Look at that,” he mutters, watching where you’re stretched around him. “Taking me so fucking deep like this. Keep going...just like that—”

You ride him harder, soft wet sounds filling the room, until he comes with a low, broken groan and floods you deep. He’s still hard. He pushes you forward onto your hands and knees, drives back into you from behind in one smooth thrust, and starts fucking you steady and hard.

You cry out at the intensity, fingers curling into the cushions.

“Still so wet even after I filled you,” he growls, one hand holding your cheek so he can turn your face for a messy, open-mouthed kiss, the other sliding under you to palm a breast and pinch the nipple in time with his thrusts.

“Yes! yes, fuck! don’t stop..” you moan against his mouth, voice breaking with every deep thrust. “Harder! please…”

He gives you exactly that for a long stretch, then suddenly presses you flat onto your stomach, covering your body with his. The position makes every thrust feel deeper, heavier. He threads one hand into your hair and keeps fucking you into the cushions, hips rolling hard and steady.

“Even better like this,” he pants against your ear. “Can’t run from it. Just take it.”

“Rafayel…ahh! feels so good” you moan into the fabric, completely open for him.

When he comes again he stays buried to the hilt, pulsing hard inside you, forehead pressed to the back of your neck as he groans your name.

He only gives you a few seconds before he turns you onto your back, hooks your legs over his arms, and sinks into you one more time. The stretch is easy, cheer practice and all those splits have made bending you in half effortless for him. He folds you deeper, nearly pressing your knees to your shoulders, and drives in hard.

The first deep thrust punches a broken moan out of you. He doesn’t stay slow this time. He rams into you with long, heavy strokes, the wet sound of his cock sliding through your soaked cunt loud and filthy in the quiet apartment. Every thrust hits so deep your eyes nearly roll back, toes curling, hands scrambling for anything to hold onto.

“Fuck! Rafayel…ohhh”

You can’t believe it. The same quiet guy you’ve been watching from across the studio, the one who barely spoke more than a few words, is now fucking you like this. wild, relentless, completely unrestrained. Your seduction paid off better than you ever planned.

He keeps going, hips snapping forward, the slick wet drag of him pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. The sound is obscene. skin meeting skin, the wet squelch of how dripping you are around him, your high, continuous moans mixing with his rough breathing.

“One more,” he mutters against your mouth, voice wrecked. “Gonna paint you properly this time.”

“Do it,” you gasp, already trembling, eyes half-lidded from how hard he’s taking you. “Please come on me…I want it..”

He fucks you through another wave of pleasure until your thighs are shaking in his arms, then pulls out at the last second. His last orgasm paints you thick and heavy: ropes across your tongue, your cheeks, your breasts, some of it dripping down your stomach. You moan as you swallow what lands in your mouth and smear the rest over your skin with two fingers while he watches, chest heaving, eyes dark with satisfaction.

“Fuck… look at you,” he breathes. “Covered in me.”

When he can finally speak again, he brushes a streak of cum from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. The smile he gives you is soft, a little wrecked, and completely possessive.

“Prettiest canvas I’ve ever painted on,” he says, voice still rough. “I’m going to need a lot more sessions.”

You laugh breathlessly, pull him down into a slow, lingering kiss that tastes like both of you, and feel the last of your plan settle into place. perfect, complete, and so much better than you imagined.

The catch was captured successfully.