RafayelsFlamelily

Description: Rafayel fakes being sick just to get your attention, pulling his most dramatic act yet. A playful scheme quickly turns into a tender moment, revealing his deeper need for closeness even if he has to pretend to be on his deathbed to get it.

Teasing romance , Fluff, Soft Moments , Dramatic Male lead

You sighed as you stepped into Rafayel’s spacious studio. The lights were dimmer than usual, the mood oddly quiet for someone who thrived on teasing chaos. You had just finished a long shoot and only came because he’d sent you a vague message:

“I think I might be dying… Come say goodbye Cutie,” You’d rolled your eyes so hard it nearly gave you a headache. But something told you to check on him anyway.

“Rafayel?” you called.

No answer.

You walked further in and there he was, dramatically sprawled across the sleek leather sofa, a blanket half-draped over him, shirt slightly unbuttoned, his skin pale under the golden light.

He opened one eye lazily. “Ah… you came,” he murmured, voice hoarse like he’d rehearsed it in front of a mirror. “I wasn’t sure I’d make it through the night…”

Your brow lifted. “You look fine.”

He coughed dramatically, of course and turned his head away, lips quivering like he was holding in a smirk. “I haven’t eaten all day. I could barely move… and no one, no one, thought to check on me… except you.”

You crossed your arms. “Because you told me to.”

His eyes finally met yours playful, intense, pulling you in. “Still. You came. That means something.”

You rolled your eyes again and turned toward the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water and a snack bar. “Here. Eat this before I call an actual doctor.”

Rafayel sat up, a triumphant gleam in his eyes as he took the water but ignored the snack. “You’re not going to feed me?” he pouted, voice dipping into mock sadness.

You squinted at him. “You’re not sick, are you?”

He grinned, finally dropping the act. “Maybe not in the body…”

You stared.

“But definitely in the heart,” he said, placing a hand over his chest, then reaching out to pull you into him. “Lovesick. For you.”

You shoved his shoulder, heat rising to your cheeks, but he only laughed that low, velvet laugh that made your heart skip.

“Next time,” you muttered, “actually get sick if you want attention.”

“Next time,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple, “just admit you like taking care of me.”

Rafayel sits on the edge of the couch, regal and far too stiff, while the remote rests in your hand as you lazily flip through the channels, each click punctuated by the flick of your thumb.

Click. A historical drama.

Click. Some overacted reality show.

Click. A nature documentary with whales singing mournfully through the deep.

Then click.

The screen lights up with the soft clatter of pots and pans. A chef expertly plates a dish, steam curling into the air.

“Hmm,” you murmur, setting the remote down. “Now this… this is art.”

Rafayel glances at the screen, then at you, his brow lifting just slightly. “You find this entertaining?”

“Well, yeah. In the human world, men who can cook are kind of a big deal these days.” You point to the chef on TV. “That man is the most popular. He won all the ladies’ hearts with just the way he sprinkles salt.”

You squeal, teasing. “My gosh, look at those arms!”

He leans back slightly, folding his arms with the faintest pout. “Puh-lease. Are you really that impressed? I can whip up a feast just say the word, cutie.”

He flashes his signature grin.

You snort. “An artist’s hands are delicate. Are you sure yours are up to the task?”

He turns his head toward you, smirking, eyes gleaming. “Do you doubt me?”

[Cut to later in the kitchen.]

You stand in the doorway, arms crossed, watching as Rafayel moves through your small kitchen like he owns it. The air is filled with rich scents butter, garlic, something sizzling to golden perfection.

He plates it with maddening precision, wipes the edge of the dish with a cloth, and sets it before you with a dramatic flourish.

“Well, Ms. Bodyguard~?” he says, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Prepare to be humbled.”

You take a bite. Pause. Blink.

“…Damn. This is—damn.” You go in for another bite, eyes wide.

He grins, smug and satisfied. “I already know. No need for compliments~”

By the time you finish the entire plate, you look up at him and say seriously, “I will never doubt your cooking again.”

You bat your lashes sweetly, trying to win him over with affection.

He ruffles your hair with a fond smile. “Then, from now on… I’m the only chef you’re allowed to watch.”

You didn’t hear the sound of the door opening.

his coat hit the floor , his quiet footsteps across the apartment. The only sound filling the room was your own soft moans, echoing into the dim light of his bedroom. You were tangled in his sheets, wearing his shirt—long enough to cover your thighs, but not nearly enough to hide what you were doing underneath it.

It had been six days. Six long nights without him.

So you played with the toy you secretly used whenever he was away.

Until a gentle voice broke through the haze.

“You missed me that much,huh? Ms.Bodyguard~,”

Your eyes flew open.

Rafayel stood at the edge of the bed, hair slightly tousled, a slow smile tugging at his lips. His eyes weren’t angry—just warm, playful, and achingly fond.

“I—I didn’t think you’d be back tonight,” you stammered, trying to pull the sheets up, but he stopped you with a soft touch.

He climbed onto the bed, slowly, his palm pressing against your cheek.

“I wanted to surprise you,” he murmured, brushing your hair back. “But it seems I got a little surprise myself~.” “Really , you used the rose toy?” He smirked as he questioned the toy.

You flushed. “You were away, and I know you are busy,” you paused “I missed you.”

He smiled, leaning in, his lips brushing yours with a kiss that was soft and slow. Familiar. Safe.

“I missed you too,” he whispered.

His hand slipped under the of his you wore on you, his delicate fingertips gliding up your thigh. You trembled and the sensation.

“I missed seeing you like this,” he murmured against your neck, planting kisses as he moved down. “Covered in my scent, lying in my bed , doing naughty things while im away.”

You whimpered as his hand reached your clit, teasing you gently.

He started moving slowly—kissing every inch of skin he’d been dreaming about for six nights. His touch was gentle, but never unsure. Every stroke of his fingers, every flick of his tongue, every soft word in your ear was worship.

“I’m just getting started,” he whispered.” “you’re gonna wet the bed if keep squirming like that” He teased. He flicked your bean and fingered you

“You don’t need that toy when I can keep you’re body wet and screaming,” he murmured as he slid inside you. “Remember that when I’m deep up inside you.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair as your back arched, body trembling beneath his. His name fell from your lips like prayer. He then positioned himself between your legs and started pounding hard and fast. The bed rocking from the activity. He made sure you wouldn’t even consider using any thing or anyone but him. Long 5 hours passionate intensity passed and you cummed for the 8th time. You shuttered from the heavy climax.

Afterwards he pulled you close, still tangled in his shirt, still wrapped in his scent.

“You’re dripping for me already,” he murmured against your stomach. “What did I do to you? his gaze lowered “Everything.” With one swift motion, he dropped to his knees. His tongue slid through your folds like he was savoring the taste of defiance, groaning as if he were dying for it. His hand splayed against your stomach, keeping you pinned while his mouth devoured you, tongue circling your clit, lips sucking, teeth grazing just enough to make you cry out. “Call my name, cutie,” his eyes darkened. “Rafayel—!” He stood, eyes burning, and turned you around, pushing you forward until your hands braced against the studio’s paint-streaked table. “I want to take any doubt out of you,” he hissed, unzipping and pulling himself free—thick, veined, and already soaked at the tip. “Do it please,” you gasped.

He finally hit you with what felt good the most—deep, punishing, merciless—and you broke on the first thrust.“You feel that?” he groaned into your shoulder. “This, all of you is mine. No one else gets this. No one else gets you.”His pace was so brutal, relentless, with each thrust almost rocking over the table, sending bottles crashing to the floor. The slap of skin against skin mixed with the symphony of your moans, his ragged breathing, and the storm outside. But beneath the ferocity, you felt it—his desperation, his fear of losing you. “I’m going to ruin you,” he said, voice cracked, even deeper. “Because if you ever leave, I won’t survive it.” “Then I’ll stay,” you cried, your climax spiraling up hard and fast. “I’ll stay, I swear—”You didn’t get to finish the sentence. He pushed in to the hilt and held you there, body shaking as he came inside you with a broken sound, teeth biting into your shoulder to quiet his own whiny moan. You came seconds after, your body pulsing around him, legs trembling. He didn’t move, didn’t speak—just wrapped his arms around your waist, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, panting. And for a moment, in the stillness after the storm, he whispered: “Stay with me. Even if I fall apart.”

The storm clawed at Whitesand Bay like a beast in heat-violent, moaning, desperate. Inside his studio, the air was thick with oil, sweat, and the scent of you. Rafayel's hands clenching the brush. Then his eyes locked on you was like a blade pressed to a throat."You don't get it," he muttered, his voice rough, low, like gravel scraped across silk. "You walk in here like I'm some man you can tame. I'm not." He said it like a warning. You took a step closer like it was a promise. "Then hurt me," you whispered, chest rising. "But don't shut me out." The look in his eyes cracked-rage, hunger, pain-then he snapped. He shoved his canvas to the floor with a crash, grabbed your wrists, and spun you into the wall with a groan that sounded like it came from deep in his bones.

His breath was fire against your ear. "Don't beg for the fire unless you want to burn."

"Then burn me, I want you too." That was all it took. He kissed you like he hated the space between you-like he could starve on it. His tongue slid deep into your mouth, teeth dragging your bottom lip until it throbbed. His hands were everywhere at once-gripping, kneading, pulling your hips against the hard line of his 8 inch cock through his pants. You could feel the tremble in him, the restraint snapping thread by thread. "You ruin me," he whispered hoarsely, tearing your shirt over your head, "and I still can't stop needing you." The cold air bit your skin, only to be swallowed by his heat. His mouth found your neck, then your chest, leaving bruises like signatures. You arched into him when his fingers slipped beneath your waistband—rough and knowing. "You're dripping for me already," he murmured against your stomach. "What did I do to you?"