v.

"Thomas."

"—I will owe you forever, I will name my firstborn after you, I will—"

"I'll go."

So here you are. The door is unlocked, which means he knows you are coming or he has simply stopped caring about basic security, and with Rafayel it could be either. You let yourself in and the smell hits you first—turpentine, salt air, and a metallic undertone that clings to the house when he has been working for days without opening a window. The curtains are half drawn. Canvases everywhere. Leaning against the walls, stacked in the corner, one propped against the leg of the kitchen table for reasons you cannot begin to guess. A few look finished. Most do not. One near the window still has wet paint on it, deep blues bleeding into reds at the center, colors so saturated they look heavy.

You find him on the couch.

He is half sprawled across it with one arm thrown over the backrest and the other resting across his stomach, still in the same white shirt he had on two days ago when you dropped off food he has probably forgotten to eat. It is unbuttoned too far, sleeves shoved up, the fabric wrinkled past saving. His hair is a disaster. There is a faint sheen at his temples.

He doesn't look up when you come in.

You drop your bag on the nearest clear surface, which takes a moment to locate, and walk over.

“Rafayel.”

Nothing.

You move until you're standing directly in his eyeline."Thomas is losing his mind because you won't answer your phone, and apparently that's now my problem too. He called me four times. Four, Rafayel. I am not your secretary."

He blinks. Slow, like the signal has to travel a long distance before it arrives. His eyes finally move up to yours and the color in them is slightly off from usual. There is too much color on his face too. High on his cheekbones, a flush that had no business being there in the middle of the afternoon.

"You look terrible," you say to him.

The corner of his mouth makes an attempt at something"That's not a very nice thing to say."

"What's going on? Are you sick?"

"I'm fine." his voice is rougher than it should be "The paintings will be ready. Tell Thomas to calm down."

But his face does something when he finishes the sentence—the flush deepens fast, color rushing up his neck—and he turns his head away and brings his arm up over his eyes like the light has suddenly gotten worse. Or like he has decided you have seen enough of his face.

You watch him for a moment.

"Rafayel."

"I'm fiiiiiine," he says again, quieter. Still behind his arm. The tips of his ears now pink. "You can go. Really. I just need another hour."

He doesn't sound like he needs an hour. He sounds like he needs a week and possibly an IV drip, and the arm covering his face is now pressing slightly harder.

You pull the low table out of the way and sit on the edge of the couch near his legs. The apartment holds its quiet around you.

"How long have you been like this?"

Nothing.

"Was it like this yesterday?"

Still nothing.

"Rafayel, I'm going to start guessing and I'm going to keep guessing out loud until you answer me. I have a lot of time and nowhere to be."

You reach out and wrap your fingers around his wrist to check his pulse and the second you touch him, he sucks in a breath and goes stiff beneath your hand. It wasn't surprise. You'd touched him before. This was different.

He pulls his arm back. The flush on his face has gone from concerning to alarming, deep red climbing all the way to the tips of his ears.

"Don't," he presses his arm back over his eyes "Please don't touch me right now."

"What do you mean? You just flinched like I burned you." you lean closer, trying to get a look at his face, which he is now actively shielding. "Rafayel. What is wrong with you? Is this an Evol thing? Did something happen? Do I need to call a doctor?"

"No." flat and immediate."No doctors."

"You are burning up!"

"It's not a normal fever." He curls slightly away from you, toward the back of the couch, and on a normal day it would be funny but his voice has gone rough enough that nothing about it is funny right now. "It'll pass. It always does."

"Raf" You keep your voice even. "Tell me what's happening."

He peeks at you from between his fingers. One eye, glassy and annoyed. “I’m an artist. We’re supposed to look tragic. It’s part of the look.”

“You’re part of the ‘about to pass out on your own couch and give me a heart attack’ look.”

He drops his hand with a dramatic sigh and flops further into the cushions like the weight of your existence is personally offending him. “You’re cruel. Coming into a man’s home, insulting his artistic suffering, and for what? So Thomas can sleep better at night?"

You crouch down beside the couch so you’re closer to eye level. Up close the heat rolling off him is worse. His skin looks damp at the hairline. You reach out without thinking and press the back of your hand to his forehead.

For a few seconds the apartment is quiet enough that you can hear the distant crash of waves through the open doors. Then he makes a soft, offended sound in the back of his throat and tips his head away, but not before you feel how warm he really is.

“It’s just… residual inspiration. Very intense residual inspiration.” He waves a vague hand at the half finished canvases. “I was in the middle of a breakthrough and then life decided to be rude. Happens to the best of us.”

You stay crouched there, unimpressed. “When was the last time you ate something that wasn’t coffee or paint water?”

“I had some grapes. Possibly yesterday.”

You straighten up and plant your hands on your hips. “Get up.”

He stares at you like you just suggested he set his favorite brushes on fire. “Excuse me?”

“Get up. We’re going for a walk.”

“A walk.” He repeats the word slowly, making sure you understand the gravity of what you've suggested. "When every bone in my body is requesting a soft death on this expensive couch. You want me to walk?”

“Yes. Fresh air. Ocean. Moving your legs like a person"

He throws an arm over his eyes again. “I should have never given you that spare key.”

“You didn’t give me a spare key. I stole it last month when you refused to answer the door for a week.”

“…That tracks,” he mutters.

You lean down, catch his wrist, and tug. Just enough to make it clear you’re not leaving without him. He resists for show, then lets himself be hauled into a sitting position with a long groan that would have been more convincing if he didn’t immediately lean into your space like the proximity was the only thing keeping him upright.

“Shoes. Now. Or I call Thomas and tell him you’re dying.”

That gets his attention. He looks up at you, eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Rafayel stares at you, weighing the threat.

“Fine. But if I collapse on the sand, you’re carrying me home. Bridal style.”

“Deal.”

Getting him vertical takes longer than it should. He sways once, catches your shoulder, and mutters something about gravity being a personal enemy today. You wait him out, steady, until he seems relatively solid on his feet. He shoves his feet into a pair of scuffed loafers without bothering to tie them properly, grabs a light jacket from the back of a chair, and follows you toward the door with the air of a man being led to his own execution.

Outside the air is cooler, the walk down toward the shore is quiet at first. You keep half a step behind him in case he decides to run for it. He doesn’t. He just walks with his hands shoved in his pockets, head tipped back like he’s trying to convince the sky to take pity on him.

After a few minutes the silence starts to feel intentional.

“You’re hovering,” he says without looking at you.

“I’m making sure you don’t faceplant into the ground.”

“I’m fine.”

“You said that earlier while looking like a Victorian orphan with consumption.”

He shoots you a sideways glance, the corner of his mouth twitching “You’ve been spending too much time with Thomas. You’re starting to sound like him. Next you’ll be scheduling my meals and color coding my paint tubes.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

The path curves and the beach opens up ahead of you, all pale sand and clear water. The tide is low. The air smells cleaner out here. Rafayel slows as soon as his shoes hit the sand.

“I hate sand,” he complains. “It gets everywhere. Inside my shoes and between my toes"

“You live by the ocean.”

“I live by the view. The view does not require contact with the sand.”

You keep walking. He follows, grumbling under his breath the whole way, but the color in his face looks a little less alarming now that he’s upright and moving. The sea breeze seems to help. Or maybe it’s just the distraction of having someone to complain at.

You end up near the waterline where the sand is firmer. Rafayel stops, kicks off his loafers with unnecessary drama, and digs his toes into the wet sand and you do the same. The water feels cold when it reaches your ankles. He hisses.

“Its cold, the ocean is being rude today.”

“Everything is rude today according to you.”

“You didn’t have to come, you know. Thomas worries too much. I would have eventually crawled out of the couch and finished the paintings. Maybe.”

You bump his shoulder lightly with yours. “Next time just answer your phone so I don’t have to play rescue mission.”

He is quiet for a moment. The waves keep rolling in, soft and steady. Then he says, almost too low to catch“Maybe I like it when you show up.”

You glance at him. He’s looking out at the water, expression carefully neutral, but the tips of his ears have gone pink again.

Before you can decide what to do with that, something catches the light near the edge of the tide line.

A pale shape, half buried in the wet sand a few meters ahead. Not a shell or glass.

You frown and walk toward it. Rafayel trails after you, curiosity overriding whatever lethargy is left.

“What is it?” he asks.

You crouch and dig it free carefully. It’s a protocore, small and pure white. Not the usual colors you’ve seen before. This one looks almost unfinished, like someone carved a piece of moonlight and left it on the beach for the tide to find.

It pulses once against your palm.

Rafayel goes still beside you.

“That’s…” He trails off, eyes fixed on the white glow in your hand. “I’ve never seen one like that.”

Neither have you.

The pulse happens again. Stronger this time. The air around the two of you tightens, like the moment before a storm breaks.

You look up at him.

He’s already looking at you.

The second his fingers brush the white protocore everything changes.

A sudden pull that yanks the air out of your lungs and folds the beach in on itself. All of it collapses inward like someone is sucking the world through a straw. You feel Rafayel’s hand close hard around your wrist a split second before the ground disappears.

Then you’re falling.

You hit something green and scratchy with enough force to knock the breath out of you. Leaves slap your face and twigs dig into your back. Somewhere to your left Rafayel makes a noise that is half groan, half pure offense.

“Ouch—my hand—”

You push yourself up on your elbows, leaves stuck in your hair, heart hammering against your ribs. The protocore is still clutched in your hand, warm and faintly pulsing like a second heartbeat. Rafayel is sprawled half on his side in the same bush, one arm flung out, the other cradled against his chest. He looks personally betrayed by the existence of shrubbery.

“What the hell was that?”

He sits up with a wince, shaking leaves out of his hair. “I barely touched it and the universe decided to throw us into a hedge. Rude. Extremely rude.” He flexes his fingers, scowling. “I think I scraped my palm on a leaf."

You scramble to your feet, brushing dirt off your clothes, and look around.

The beach is gone.

Instead of open sand and ocean you are standing at the edge of a garden that looks like it belongs on the cover of an architecture magazine.

You are inside a mansion.

A full, sprawling mansion of pale stone, all clean lines and floor to ceiling glass, the kind of place that makes expensive sound like an understatement. Balconies wrap around the upper floors. Somewhere behind the structure you can hear the faint splash of water.

Rafayel stares.

Then he says, very quietly, “Oh no.”

“What?”

He is already moving, shoving through the bushes with far less grace than usual, heading for an open side door a few meters away. You follow because what else are you supposed to do. The protocore is still in your fist.

Inside is cool and quiet and smells faintly of citrus. The entryway alone is bigger than most people’s apartments. Polished floors. A vase of white flowers on a console table. Everything is spotless, lived in but somehow still perfect.

Rafayel walks straight to a side table near the door like he knows exactly where everything is. He picks up a folded newspaper that has been left there, glances at the front page and freezes.

You step closer. “What is it?”

He doesn’t answer. He just turns the paper so you can see the date printed in bold black letters at the top.

Two years ahead.

Exactly two years.

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on.

“That’s not possible,” you say “Protocores don’t— they don’t do that.”

He flips the paper open, scans the headlines like he’s hoping the date will change if he looks hard enough.

“This is one of my properties. I bought it last year as an investment. It wasn’t even finished yet. The pool wasn’t installed. The gardens weren’t—” He stops, swallows. “This isn’t supposed to exist yet.”

You look down at the white protocore still glowing faintly in your hand.

His eyes track the movement and he reaches for it again, fingers outstretched—

A sound cuts through the quiet, coming from the back of the house. Something that might be water. Or someone moving.

Both of you go still.

“That should be the pool,” he says after a second"Or where the pool apparently already is.”

You glance at him. “We should leave.”

“We should.” the newspaper is still clenched in his other hand. “But if this is actually… if we really are two years ahead…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to. Curiosity already written across his face.

You move together, quiet, following the sound through the open plan living space and out through a set of wide glass doors that lead to the rear terrace. The pool is exactly where the sound suggested— huge, water so clear it looks like glass.

And there, on a sunbathing chair is Rafayel.

Not the one standing beside you.

Another one.

He is half reclined, one leg bent, the other stretched out. A large sketchbook rests against his thigh. Charcoal smudges his fingers. He is wearing only a pair of dark swim shorts that sit low on his hips, and his skin is flushed a deep, uneven red across his chest, shoulders and the high points of his cheekbones, like he has been sitting in the sun for too long, or like something under the surface is running too hot. His hair is slightly damp, pushed back from his face. He is completely focused on the page in front of him, his fingers moving in long strokes.

Present Rafayel makes a sound beside you but can’t look away.

The drawing is… not subtle. Even from this distance you can see the curve of a bare hip, the arch of a spine, the suggestion of breasts. A woman. Naked. Rendered with intimate details that make your stomach twist. Future Rafayel’s hand moves again, refining the line of a thigh, and the flush on his skin seems to deepen.

Present Rafayel’s fingers close around your upper arm, hard.

“We need to go,” he's trying to tug you back "Right now. This is— this is private. This is extremely private and we are not supposed to be here"

You dig your heels in. “That’s you.”

“I am aware it is me. That is the problem.” his voice is louder“We are leaving before—”

A splash of water cuts him off.

Someone is climbing out of the pool.

She— you— rises from the water in one smooth motion, water streaming down bare skin. A pink swimsuit clings to every curve, soaked through and heavy. She pushes her wet hair back from her face, water droplets catching the light as they slide down her throat, between her breasts, lower. She look relaxed. Comfortable. Like she belong here. Like this is ordinary.

She walks toward his sunbathing chair and Rafayel’s grip on your arm turns bruising.

“Don’t look,” he whispers, almost desperate. “Please don't look. We are going to pretend none of this happened and—”

You look anyway.

And that is when you see what he has been trying to pull you away from.

One of future Rafayel’s hands is not longer resting on the sketchbook.

His palm is pressed firmly over the front of his shorts. The fabric is stretched tight. The outline of his cock is unmistakable. He is hard, and he is not even trying to hide it. His eyes are still on the page, on the naked figure he is drawing, but his hand starts moving in a lazy, self indulgent rhythm like the two things are connected.

Your mouth goes dry.

He is half naked in the sunlight and it is impossible not to notice everything at once. The breadth of his shoulders. The clean lines of muscle across his chest and stomach, still faintly damp from earlier swimming or from the heat rolling off his skin. The way his abs tighten when his hand presses harder. He looks like a sculpted god.

Present Rafayel sounds like he is being slowly murdered.

“Stop staring,” his ears are scarlet. His whole face is scarlet. “I cannot believe he has the audacity to— in broad daylight— with a sketchbook— I am going to have words with myself. Harsh words."

Future you reaches his chair and future Rafayel finally looks up.

He smiles at her like the sun just came out and the flush on his skin darkens another shade.

You cannot look away from the version of him stretched out in the chair, hard, watching her while he strokes his cock.

“Seriously, stop looking.”

“You stop looking.”

“I’m looking at myself!”

“So am I!”

“That is not the same thing and you know it. Looking at me looking like that is a crime against my dignity. Stop.”

You do not stop and he doesn't either.

Future Rafayel sets the sketchbook aside and leans back, one hand still pressed over the front of his shorts, and watches the wet version of you like he has been counting every second.

“Took you long enough, I was starting to think you’d decided to let me suffer out here alone.”

She moves and stops between his knees, water still running down her skin in slow tracks. She tips her head, droplets falling onto his thighs. “You looked busy. I didn’t want to interrupt the masterpiece.” her eyes drop to the thick outline under his palm. “Although it seems you are having a hard time staying focused.”

He lets out a breath that is half laugh when she reaches down and presses her fingers over his, forcing him to grind harder against his own hand. “You’re evil.”

She leans in until her wet hair brushes his chest and her mouth is close to his ear. “How long have you been out here touching yourself to a drawing of me?”

“I’m starting to regret every time I told you I liked it when you teased.”

“You love it when I tease.” her voice drops lower, soft and filthy. “You like it when I make you draw me while you're hard. When I sit there and tell you in detail what I'm going to do to your cock later and watch you try to keep your hand steady." she drags one finger down his chest."You've gotten close just from that. Just from my voice. Haven't you?"

His hips jerk under her hand. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Let me come. I’ve been good. I waited. I drew every line exactly the way you wanted—look at it, it’s—”

She picks up the sketchbook, glances at the page, and sets it back down with a small, considering hum. “That’s good enough.”

She moves back to settle on her knees between his thighs. Takes her time about it.

Rafayel’s fingers dig into your arm. “Is she—"

Her hands move to his hips. Thumbs hooked under the waistband of the dark shorts. He lifts enough to help. The fabric drags down, catching for a second on the fat head of his dick before it springs free.

It's a really pretty cock.

Long, slightly curved, thick enough that her fingers look almost delicate wrapped around the base. The head is dark pink and shiny, already wet from how long he has been touching himself. A thick vein runs along the underside. A clear bead or precum gathers at the tip and threatens to spill.

“I did not need to see that. I did not need to see my future—”

She doesn't take him into her mouth right away. She leans in and licks a slow stripe over the head, catching that bead of pre on her tongue and humming like it was exactly what she wanted. His hand flies to her wet hair, holding on“Fuck—don’t tease, not after everything—”

She drags her tongue up the underside slowly, base to tip, and his thigh jumps against her shoulder.

Then she circles the head, the flat of her tongue pressing in, taking her time with the ridge of it, the specific place that makes his breath change, and she stays there until his breathing has gone uneven enough that she can hear it clearly over everything else.

She licks the tip once and his hips move forward and then stop, the effort of keeping still visible in every muscle of his thighs.

She licks it again. Slower.

His thighs are shaking now, a fine tremor he's trying to control and can't. She watches him and waits until it gets worse.

Then she opens her mouth and sinks down.

All the way.

Her throat works around him. He groans, head falling back against the chair as she starts to move, she pulls almost all the way off so her tongue can swirl over the head before she slides back down until her nose brushes the flushed skin of his stomach.

Present Rafayel is now quiet beside you. Heat rolls off him in waves. When you glance sideways his face is the same feverish red it was on the couch. He has angled himself carefully so the front of his pants stays hidden, but the tension in his shoulders and the way his throat works when he swallows tell you everything. Future him is deep in it. Present him is feeling every second.

You look back.

She keeps teasing—pulling off to lick long, wet stripes up the underside, sucking just the head while her hand strokes the rest in tight twists, then taking him deep again until his hips keep making small thrusts he is clearly fighting. His voice has gone wrecked and pleading.

“Please— I’ve been so patient— you said if I waited you’d let me— fuck, your mouth is so wet— don’t stop—”

She hums around him. The vibration makes his whole body jolt. Her free hand slides between his legs, cupping and rolling his balls while she sucks harder, faster, the wet sounds turning filthy. Spit slicks down his shaft. Her lips stay stretched around him. Every time she takes him to the root he makes a broken little sound like he cannot believe it's still happening.

He comes with a punched out groan, hips lifting off the chair, one hand fisted tight in her wet hair. She stays on him through it, swallowing, throat working visibly around every pulse until he finally sags back, panting, still twitching on her tongue.

Something in the air shifts.

The flush on future Rafayel’s skin deepens and when he opens his eyes they are no longer the same color. They glow in a bright, electric blue, completely different from the man who was begging a moment ago. The sea god is looking out through them now. You can feel it in the way the temperature of the air seems to drop, in the way the water in the pool goes unnaturally still for half a second.

He moves fast.

One second he is still half sprawled in the chair. The next he has hauled her up into his arms like she weights nothing, takes two long strides, and jumps.

Water explodes outward as they hit the pool together.

Present Rafayel’s breath leaves him in a rush. “Oh no. Oh no, no, no—"

They surface together and his mouth finds hers before she's finished catching her breath.

It's not a gentle kiss. It's wet and open and his tongue slides against hers like he's been thinking about doing this for hours.

He moves her back through the water.

She lets him. Her hands are at his shoulders, the water is chest high and he moves through it like it's nothing, one arm around her waist, the other already at the strings of her bikini top, pulling at the knot at her back while his mouth stays on hers and the tiled edge of the pool finds her spine.

He pulls back half an inch just to look at her, water running down her face, her hair slicked back, both of them breathing hard and then his hand finds the knot at her neck and tugs.

Her breasts spill free, wet and flushed, nipples tight from the cool air and the sudden attention. He makes a low, approving sound and ducks his head, taking one into his mouth. He bites—hard enough to make her gasp sharply—then soothes the sting with a wide stroke of his tongue before sucking hard enough that the sound carries clearly across the water. His other hand cups the second breast, thumb dragging roughly over the nipple until it is just as tight and sensitive.

Heat pools between your legs, soaking into the fabric of your panties. You can feel every pulse of your clit.

“We have to look away” you say, voice thinner than it should be.

Rafayel’s head snaps toward you. His eyes are glassy. The flush on his face has spread down his throat. “I wasn’t—”

“You were.”

He doesn't deny it again. He just stares at you, breathing too fast, while the sounds from the pool keep going.

Future Rafayel has one hand between her legs under the water. You can tell by the way her hips roll, by the way one hand clutches the edge of the pool hard enough that the tendons stand out in her wrist. They are face to face, breathing the same air, mouths almost touching.

His voice has dropped into something deeper, colder, older—nothing like the playful tone from before.

“You're shaking already and I’ve barely touched you. All that teasing earlier, all that swimming past me with your eyes on my cock, and now you can barely breathe. Pathetic.” He pushes two fingers in without warning and her head falls back with a broken sound. “You spent hours winding me up and the second I take over you turn into this?”

She is breathless. He adds a third finger and his mouth stays right against hers as he speaks, mean and relentless.

“Your pussy is needy today. Every time I curl my fingers you clench like you’re trying to keep them inside. You’re not keeping anything. I'll take them out when I want to take them out. You’re just a hole that gets wet when I stop being kind. Tell me what you are.”

“Yours—”

“Not good enough. Try again.”

“Your hole— fuck— your wet little hole—”

“Better.” the word is sharp, almost amused. “You pushed and pushed and now you get the consequences. He curls his fingers and holds.

"I'm going to make you come like this first." His mouth at her jaw. Just his lips against her skin, speaking directly into it. "Then I'm going to put my mouth on you and do it again. While you cry." his thumb circles her clit "Because you're going to cry. We both know that."

She opens her mouth.

"Don't even think about it" he says.

She closes it.

"After that—" his fingers pull back slowly and push forward and she clenches and he makes a quiet sound of acknowledgment that is worse than anything else he's done so far, "—if I decide you've earned it, you get my cock." He pulls back just enough to look at her face "Understand?"

She can only nod, trembling.

His thumb circles her clit again.

Once.

Her thighs try to close but his hand is in the way.

Twice.

She grabs at his arm. Not pushing, just needing something to hold onto. He lets her. His fingers curl inside her at the same time, in an angle he's already learned, and the combination of it makes her vision blur at the edges.

"Stay with me,"

Three times.

She clenches hard around his fingers and makes a sound that is embarrassingly close to a sob and he groans in response, satisfied, his mouth dropping to the side of her neck.

"There it is."

Four times.

She comes apart so fast it surprises her, her orgasm hitting before she's braced for it, her whole body seizing around his fingers. He keeps his thumb exactly where it is, keeps the pressure steady, works her through every wave of it without speeding up or slowing down, just that same circle while she shakes against him and grabs at whatever she can reach.

He doesn't stop until she goes still.

Then he pulls his fingers out slowly and she feels the loss of them immediately.

He looks at his hand.

"One"

Heat throbs hard between your legs. You realize you are panting, mouth open, and that present Rafayel is close and his eyes keep dropping to your mouth and then to your future selves like he cannot decide which is more dangerous.

In the pool, Rafayel ducks under the water without another word.

Her hands slap against the edge, gripping so hard her knuckles go white. Her back arches. The moan that tears out of her is loud enough that anyone walking by would think she is dying. He stays under, the water moving in small waves.

She grabs the pool edge and tries to pull herself out. He pulls her back down.

She cums with a cry that cracks in the middle and leaves her trembling.

He surfaces slowly, eyes still that bright, unnatural blue. "Two"

He doesnt give her time to recover.

He hooks her knees over his elbows, lines himself up, and pushes in with one hard thrust that punches another broken sound out of her. He fucks her like he is trying to leave bruises on the inside, his mouth staying close to her ear the whole time, voice still mean and devastatingly effective.

“Dont look away, watch me use you.” He snaps his hips harder “You're already trying to milk me. Greedy. You’ve always been a greedy girl"

She can barely form words.

“You’re going to come on my cock and when you do, you’re going to say thank you like you mean it. If you don’t, I’ll stop and leave you empty. Clear?”

“Yes— clear— please don’t stop—”

“I wasn’t asking you to beg. I was telling you the rules.” He fucks her deeper, the water splashing over the edge with every thrust. “So the next time you decide to tease me for hours, remember how it ends. Remember how the sea god fucks the attitude out of you until all that’s left is this—open legs and a mouth that only knows how to thank me.”

The heat is now unbearable. You turn away because the combination of the wet filth of it and the way Rafayel is breathing beside you makes it hard to pull air into your lungs. Your thighs are pressed tightly together. You can feel how soaked you are, how every mean word from the pool seems to land directly between your legs.

A hand brushes yours.

You look down.

Rafayel is right there—close enough that the heat of his body sinks into your skin, close enough that the flush on his cheekbones is impossible to ignore. His eyes are fixed on your face. The lewd sounds from the pool keep washing over both of you—water, skin, broken moans, the low mean murmur of future him still talking, still fucking into her with the same rhythm, still telling her exactly who she is and how he is going to keep using her.

His fingers slide against yours, until the tips brush the edge of the white protocore still clutched in your hand.

Gravity disappears. You feel his hand tighten around yours and the two of you are pulled hard into a sudden, familiar freefall.

It ends the same way it started, without warning.

You hit something warm and solid at the same time Rafayel does. The impact knocks the air out of both of you. But you are not side by side.

You are on top of him.

Your knees bracket his hips. Your hands have landed on either side of his head. His are on your waist, fingers spread like he grabbed for you mid fall and never let go. The white protocore slips from your hand and dissolves into the air. His chest rises and falls hard under yours. His eyes are wide and dark and too close.

The flush on his face from earlier has not faded. If anything it has gotten worse. Up close you can see the way his pupils are blown, the way his throat works when he swallows. You can feel every place you are touching. The press of his stomach against yours. The unmistakable hardness that is currently pressed against the inside of your leg.

He notices the exact second you notice.

The ocean keeps making its usual sounds like nothing has happened, like the two of you did not just watch his future self get his soul sucked out through his dick.

“Raf—”

“Don’t.” He closes his eyes like that will help. “Don't say anything. Dont move. I am hanging on by a thread"

You can feel the thread, currently throbbing against your thigh.

“You’re hard,” you say, because someone has to acknowledge the extremely obvious.

“Yes. Thank you for the live commentary. I was hoping we could both pretend the last twenty minutes did not happen and that I am not currently one deep breath away from doing something we will both have to live with for the rest of our lives.”

“We just watched—”

“I am aware of what we watched.” His eyes open again. They are fixed on your mouth. “Future me is a menace. Future you on her knees is a menace. The entire afternoon has been a coordinated attack on my ability to act like a functional person.”

You shift slightly and the movement drags you directly over the hard line of his cock. His fingers dig into your waist hard enough that you feel the shape of every single one.

His eyes keep dropping to your mouth and then forcing themselves back up.

“This is your fault,” he mutters. “You and your ‘let’s go for a walk’. I was having a relaxing day on my couch and now I have the memory of my own co—”

He cuts himself off.

“Rafayel.”

“What.”

“You’re still holding me.”

You can feel the damp spot between your legs, still lingering from everything you watched. Every inhale presses your chests together. Every exhale makes the space between your mouths smaller.

“If you kiss me right now I am going to let you. And then I am going to hate both of us for doing it on a public beach with sand in places sand should never be. So please, for the love of every unfinished painting in my studio. Do not.”

You don't kiss him but you also don't move off him.

His eyes are so dark they look almost black. You can feel the exact shape of his cock now and the way it jumps when you move your weight even a fraction.

A shadow falls over both of you.

Someone clears their throat.

“Am I interrupting?” Thomas asks, voice flat with exhaustion that only comes from managing Rafayel for years, “or is this the new method for meeting deadlines?"

He stands a few feet away with a folder under one arm. He looks from Rafayel's face to yours and then back to him again.

“You weren’t answering your phone. Again. The gallery has three collectors asking about the new pieces and I was informed—by you, last week—that they would be finished by today.” Thomas’s eyes drop briefly to where your knees are still bracketing Rafayel’s hips.

“I have been having a medical event,” Rafayel says through his teeth. “A very private medical event that is currently being made less private by the second.”

“You’re on the beach. On top of each other. In public. Do either of you need a hand up, or should I come back in ten minutes with a a plausible deniability statement for the local press?”

Rafayel’s hands finally leave your waist like they have been burned. You scramble off him, heart still hammering, face hot. He sits up slowly, carefully angling his body so the evidence of the last few minutes stays hidden behind one bent knee. His hair is a disaster. There is sand on his cheek. The flush is still there.

Thomas looks between you both one more time, then pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I’m going to pretend I saw nothing” he turns and starts walking back to Rafayel's home without waiting for an answer.

Rafayel stares after him for a long second. Then he drops his face into his hands and lets out a muffled sound.

You sit there in the sand beside him, trying very hard not to think about the way his voice sounded when he told you not to kiss him.

He stands up carefully, brushing sand off his pants and offers you a hand without quite meeting your eyes.

“Come on. Before Thomas comes back”

You take his hand.

It is warm.

He does not let go right away.

When he realizes he is still holding it he drops it and starts walking, deciding the only way to survive this afternoon is to pretend, pretend none of it happened and that he doesn't need a very cold shower.

You follow him and watch the back of his neck stay pink the entire way.

THE LAST PART FOR THIS SERIES IS VALKO, BUT FIRST NERD! ZAYNE (SYLUS) 😈😈😏

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